Guerilla Warfare (2006) (13 page)

"Reporting from patrol duty, mi capita," Sargento Muller said, saluting.

"How did it go, Muller?" Tippelskirch asked, looking up from his paperwork.

"Nothing special to inform you about, sir," Muller said. "But there was a lot of flying about by those red helicopters:'

Tippelskirch nodded. "Those are the ones belonging to that petroleum exploration firm. They've been in the Gran Chaco for quite some time:'

"Their activity seems to be increasing," Muller said. "I am used to seeing them from time to time, but I caught sight of them a total of four times today during our reconnaissance."

Tippelskirch was interested. "What were they doing?"

"Flying rapidly from place to place and landing," Muller said. "They would be out of sight over the far horizon for a short period of time, then suddenly take off and go to another location."

Tippelskirch shrugged. "Perhaps they've finally discovered oil. Since this area will soon be the DFF, the financial benefits will be most useful to our cause. At any rate, I will make a report about the activity at this evening's staff meeting. Anything else, Willer?"

"No, mi capitan."

The sargento saluted, made an about-face that would have done him credit on any parade ground, then marched smartly off to shower and change for mess call.

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SEAL CACHE LISA

OA, WESTERN SECTION 11 DECEMBER

0745 HOURS LOCAL

GARTH Redhawk used hand signals to direct the Dauphin helicopter to the proper place for landing. As soon as its wheels touched down, all five men of the Command Element rushed forward to grab the bundles being handed out by the aircraft's two-man crew.

The equipment, 5.56-millimeter ammo and MREs, was to be stashed in the nearby_cache dug the night before. This earthen storage area had been dubbed Lisa after Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan's wife. He had gotten the idea from studying the Battle of Dien Bien Phu, when the French made their last stand in their war in Vietnam. All the strongpoints in the fortified area had been nam honor of the wives of several of the French officers. Brannigan decided to name this one after his spouse, giving permission to the assault teams to name their own caches after wives and sweethearts also.

When the unloading chore was done, the chopper took off without further delay, heading to another location with more cargo. Now, laboring in the growing heat of the morning, the entire Command Element began stacking the goods in the excavation. Brannigan helped with the fetching and carrying, carefully putting ammo boxes and MRE cartons on the tarpaulins laid down for them. As soon as everything was ready, more canvas covering was put over the goods.

At that point everyone scrambled out to begin the muscle-cramping task of shoveling dirt into the hole. As soon as that was finished, the careful camouflaging and masking of the location would be taken care of.

Frank Gomez, dirty and sweating, worked his shovel like an automaton, throwing earth into the shallow chasm. He looked up at Chad Murchison, who labored like a coolie at the task.

Chad winked at Frank. "I wonder what the poor people are doing today?"

.

OA, NORTHERN SECTION

0945 HOURS LOCAL

CHARLIE Fire Team--Milly Mills, Wes Ferguson and Pech Pecheur--moved cautiously across the savannah in a skirmish line as they approached a small village a hundred meters ahead. The bucolic community had been spotted during a flyover by the Dauphin chopper, and Senior Chief Buford Dawkins had detailed the Charlies to check the place out.

As they drew closer, the SEALs noted the site was made up of a half-dozen grass-thatched huts and one long one that appeared to be a dining or meeting center. A few plowed areas appearing to be vegetable gardens were located on the west side of the site. A closer look showed the cultivated areas weren't producing much in the way of food.

Some people came out of the larger building, indicating that a meal or meeting had been in progress. A tall, spindly, bearded man made his way through the small crowd. He stopped for a moment to gaze at the SEALs, then walked toward them in long strides. After going a few yards he stopped, waiting for them to come to him.

Milly warily eyed the other people, speaking to his men out of the corner of his mouth. "You guys get ready. If as much as a single weapon appears, open fire and start moving back."

However, the group of villagers did nothing more than watch them. When the SEALs walked up to the tall man, Milly nodded to him.

"Buenos dias," the stranger said. "Como puedo servirles?"

Milly reached in his pocket for his Spanish phrase book. He pulled it out, thumbing through the pages.

The man noticed the book, his puzzlement evident by the expression on his face. "I speak English."

"Oh?" Milly said. "Good! How do you do?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"You're an American, ain't you?" Milly commented.

"And evidently so are you," the man said pleasantly. "I am Reverend Walter Borden of the Christian Outreach Ministry. What can I do for you, sir? I assure you that we are on this land legally. I can produce all the permits and documentation issued us by the Bolivian government."

"I see," Milly said. "My name is Mills. I--that is my men and me--dropped by to, well, to see how things was going with you folks."

"What are you doing here?" Reverend Borden asked in unabashed curiosity.

"I can't discuss that right now," Milly said. "And I don't want to be impolite, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you that same question. And I want an answer?'

"You have the guns, sir," Borden said. "So I shall comply."

"Let me add the magic word to my question," Milly said, grinning slightly. "Please tell me what you're doing here:'

"I am part of an international ministry of outreach to the poor," Borden said. "We are based in Dallas, Texas, and send missions out to various parts of the world to preach the Gospel and save souls. I had been working in the slums of La Paz. My work had gotten very frustrating, and I obtained permission from our church to move my flock away from the distractions of big city evil to the countryside. We have established this little village as a place to live and worship as Christians. We call it Caridad. That means charity in Spanish."

Milly looked past the man at the community. "Excuse me for saying so, Reverend, but you folks look a little worse for wear."

"We are having difficulties at this time," Borden admitted. "Our efforts in raising our own food have fallen far short of our hopes and expectations. These are people from the city, after all. We were just discussing the situation when you appeared in the distance:'

"I can help you out," Milly said. "Foodstuffs like flour, rice and beans can be here within a couple of hours."

"We have no money, sir."

"You don't need none," Milly assured him. "The eats will be supplied for free. That includes tools and even medicine. Or medical treatment, if you need it."

"What would you require of us?" Borden asked suspiciously.

"There's some bad men around here," Milly said. "Soldiers that call theirselves Falangists. We came here to get rid of 'em. We would appreciate your help in what we're trying to do. I'm not talking about taking up arms. Just keep an eye out and give us information if you happen to see any of 'em. That's all we ask."

Borden shook his head. "I regret that I must refuse your kind offer of assistance after all, sir. We did not leave the turmoil of slum life to become embroiled in war."

"All right, sir," Milly said. He had already been fully briefed in the procedures for establishing friendly rapport with any indigenous people in the Gran Chaco. "We don't ask nothing of you then. But we still would like to help. I bet we could even get you some new seed for your crops."

"Your kindness seems like a sign from the Almighty," Borden said. "But I must reiterate that we will not become obligated to you in any way."

"Not to worry, sir," Milly said.

Borden swung his eyes to Wes Ferguson and Pech Pecheur. They seemed like a couple of tough guys, but there was an air of decency about them. He sighed and relented. "I must accept your help, sir. Frankly, we are desperate."

"Happy to oblige, sir," Milly said, reaching for the handset of the AN/PRC-126 radio.

Chapter 8

STATE DEPARTMENT WASHINGTON, D. C.

13 DECEMBER

0915 HOURS LOCAL

WHEN Carl Joplin, PhD, an undersecretary of state, left his office that morning, he carried no briefcase with him. He sauntered down the corridors of the building with his hands in his pockets, appearing like a man headed for the cafeteria to partake of a late breakfast. Wherever he might be going, he didn't seem to be in much of a hurry.

And that was the exact impression he wished to make.

Joplin was on his way to the bailiwick of no less a personage than United States Secretary of State Benjamin Bellingham. No prior arrangements had been made for the visit, and the undersecretary knew his unexpected arrival would not be met with pleasure by the boss man. The visit violated protocol in at least a dozen ways, but Joplin damned convention in order to take care of some vital business that morning.

Now, perusing a copy of the Washington Post, Joplin sat in Bellingham's anteroom in front of the receptionist. Even an undersecretary would have to cool his heels if he walked in unannounced "from the street." Twenty minutes passed before the receptionist's phone rang. She answered softly and hung up, glancing at the unanticipated visitor.

"The secretary will see you now, Dr. Joplin."

"Thank you!" he said brightly, laying the newspaper aside.

Joplin went through the door into the inner sanctum, walked down a short hallway to a massive portal and knocked on it. He entered after a gruff invitation was growled from inside.

"What the hell's going on, Carl?" the secretary of state asked irritably. He was a bear of a man with a thick shadow of beard across his jowls in spite of having been shaved by his barber less than an hour previously.

Joplin, completely at ease, walked up to the desk and plopped down in a handy chair. "I've a situation I need to speak to you about, Ben. It involves a little affair going on in the Gran Chaco area of Bolivia."

"Oh, yes," Bellingham said. "A packet came across my desk only yesterday. Just a moment." He reached into a box marked FILE, pulling out a red folder. He quickly perused the contents, then set it in front of him. "All right. A SEAL outfit is involved."

"It is no more than a slightly reinforced platoon," Joplin said. "They are badly in need of additional personnel." Then he quickly added, "Fighting personnel, that is."

Bellingham shrugged. "The information I have is that they're up against a right-wing guerrilla outfit not much more numerous than themselves. I wouldn't think that would be much of a problem for Navy SEALs. Besides, why isn't the local military doing anything about this?"

"The information you received must be rather sketchy," Joplin said. "The situation is a hell of a lot more complicated than that:'

"Then please feel free to enlighten me, Carl."

"The Falangists have infiltrated the armed forces of Bolivia, Chile and Argentina," Joplin explained have moles in key areas that have not yet been identified. This is one of those well-known secrets that exist in these situations. The spies and informers are undoubtedly making up lists of names of those who'll be eliminated when and if their revolution is successful."

"Blacklists are common among all conspirators," Bellingham pointed out. "Most shallow-minded zealots operate under the principle that other people are either with them or against them. There are no shades of gray in extremist political or religious movements."

"You must keep in mind that the Latin American military are not in close harmony with the populations of their countries," Joplin said. "Besides, many of the officers are uneasy because of the possibility this is the beginning of the biggest revolution in the history of South America. They don't want to be on the outside looking in if a continental fascist dictatorship is established. Such a government would dominate the southern portion of the continent very quickly, then eventually conquer the rest of it. Any participants would be guaranteed high rank in the resultant gigantic army, navy and air forces. Their strength and influence would rival that of the United States. An American Falangist movement would undoubtedly emerge as well. All this in perhaps less than a decade."

Bellingham shook his head, patting the folder. "My intelligence sources assure me this is a minor disturbance. In fact, it seems there's a CIA operative on the scene."

"The Falangists have won the hearts and minds of some of the locals," Joplin pointed out. "They now have a helicopter and heavy support weaponry. This is just a start of what could be a flood of aircraft, arms and personnel."

"What is the amount of this influx?"

"It can't be determined at this point," Joplin admitted. "I need your permission to go to the Department of Defense and request a buildup of our force down there. Initially, our special operations capabilities in the situation should be tripled."

"I don't feel that is necessary, Carl."

"Then let's save some American lives and abandon the project."