Guerilla Warfare (2006) (2 page)

"Hey!" she called out. "You two hold up and grab these pitchers. They're for your buddies in the back."

"Sorry, Dixie," Dawkins said. "We ain't here to drink. We got important business to conduct."

"Are you collecting bets, or is it Navy doings?" Dixie asked. She was a heavyset woman, built solid like her robust Irish female ancestors.

"Navy," Gunnarson said.

"What the hell am I gonna do with these pitchers?" Dixie asked, exasperated.

"Give 'em to Salty," Buford suggested. "He'll knock 'em all back within five minutes."

"Oh yeah!" Dixie said. "That's just what that old bastard needs: more beer."

The two chief petty officers walked through the other tables of drinkers until reaching the place where the Brigands sat. They all looked up, surprised at the sudden appearance of the senior enlisted men of the platoon. But any happy drunken greetings were squelched by the serious expressions on Dawkins's and Matt's wind-burned faces. This arrival was obviously going to have serious consequences.

Bruno Puglisi, a petty officer second class, winced. "Hey, Chiefs," he greeted them. Then he hopefully added, "What's the good word?"

"Isolation," Dawkins said. "Now."

Salty Donovan, a holder of the Navy Cross won during his third tour in Vietnam, had been happily drunk, not only from the beer but from the enjoyment of being with some of his favorite people. This group had lost two men KIA on their last operation, and now it appeared they were about to go out on yet another. He set his mug down and leaned back in the chair, glancing at the young faces around him. The old vet wished he could go with them. Others in the room also noted what was going on at the rear table and realized something urgent was in the works.

Matt walked over to an old-fashioned pinball machine where PO2C Mike Assad was working flippers as he batted the steel ball under the glass cover. Mike's best pal PO2C Dave Leibowitz, sipping from a mug, silently cheered his buddy on. When he noticed Matt's presence, he nodded a greeting.

Matt nudged Mike, saying, "I hope you ain't winning." Mike frowned. "Why the hell not, Chief?"

"Because you ain't gonna be able to play any extra games. The platoon has been alerted. Let's go. Immediately if not sooner!"

The two young SEALs looked around and saw Dawkins with Salty and the others. Dave grimaced. "Oh, shit!"

"Yeah," Matt remarked. "Oh, shit." He walked to a table where PO3C Chad Murchison was playing chess with a SEAL from another team. The chief announced, "Checkmate!"

Chad looked up. "Not yet."

"Then stalemate," Matt said. "Move out, Murchison. We've been alerted."

Chad frowned. "How incommodious!"

"Whatever," Matt commented. "Move!"

Brannigan's Brigands walked toward the door a group without making any comments. They nodded to Dixie on their way out the tavern, and she gave them a proud smile. Dawkins and Gunnarson followed them through the door into the cool night air.

An impromptu convoy formed as four POVs followed the senior chief's car out of the parking lot and into the street for the short ride down to the base.

.

NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE ISOLATION AREA

21 NOVEMBER

0530 HOURS LOCAL

THE sun was on the eastern side of the Laguna Mountains, hidden down near the desert floor, and none of its illumination showed yet on the distant horizon. It would be some time before it rose high enough to light the sundown side of the mountain range. Over near the Isolation Area entrance, a Navy Humvee appeared out of the darkness and came to a stop. Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan and his 21C Lieutenant (J. G.) Jim Cruiser quickly exited the vehicle to walk into the illumination of the light at the gate. The Marine guard on duty knew them both by sight, but he checked their I. D.'s per regulations before he allowed them to enter the compound.

They quickly crossed the short distance to the entrance of the squat building to their direct front. When the two officers entered, they found Brannigan's Brigands just beginning to stir to greet the new duty day. A few were in the head going through their morning toilette while others were sluggishly dressing. They still hadn't gotten the word on why they had been so unceremoniously pulled out of the Fouled Anchor the night before.

The appearance of their two officers snapped them out of the early morning doldrums. Senior Chief Buford Dawkins walked in from the head. He immediately bellowe to attention. Now the men moved smartly, snapping into the traditional position.

"Good morning, sir!" Dawkins said with a salute as he reported.

"Good morning, Senior Chief," Brannigan said. "Gather the guys around. I've got a couple of items to pass on to them."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

It took Dawkins one more bellow to have the entire platoon assembled within five seconds. Brannigan gave the SEALs permission to make themselves comfortable, and they sat down on racks and footlockers, waiting to learn what the hell was going on.

"The first thing I want to say is that I'm sorry about everybody's plans for the holidays fizzling out. But I'm afraid it couldn't be helped."

Frank Gomez, sitting on a footlocker beside his buddy James Bradley, grinned. "You've probably saved the lives of about two dozen turkeys, sir. The humane society should give you an award."

"It wasn't my idea, believe me," Brannigan said. "Lieutenant Cruiser and I received a preliminary briefing last night. None of it was etched in stone, so we won't get the final word until the N2 and N3 show up with an asset. But right now I have good news, and I have bad news."

Joe Miskoski stood with a towel around his waist, his face still covered with shaving soap. "Give us the good news first, sir."

"Sure," Brannigan said. "The good news is that this mission will be carried out with one foot in the water. In other words, it's an old-fashioned SEAL operation with boats. There're evidently some rivers and creeks involved."

"Excellent!" Connie Concord said. He suddenly sobered. "What's the bad news, sir?"

"It appears we're going to be in the OA for quite a spell," Brannigan said. "Possibly for much longer than the last operation." On their last mission, the platoon had deployed on what was supposed to have been a quick linkup with a defector in Afghanistan, but the situation quickly deteriorated to the point that they were on the mission a bit over five weeks. Two of the Brigands had been killed in action during the ensuing combat. "And one more very important item. Because of the nature of this upcoming little happening, I'm adding seven more guys to the roster. Two are to replace Kevin Albee and Adam Clifford, of course. The other five are going to flesh out the assault sections."

"Assault sections?" Gutsy Olson asked. "What's that all about, sir?"

"It will all be explained later," Brannigan replied. He checked his watch. "All right! Go ahead and finish getting dressed. The briefing is scheduled to start at oh-seven-thirty hours." He nodded to Dawkins. "Take over, Senior Chief."

"Let's go, people!" Dawkins yelled. "We're gonna have company!"

The SEALs turned back to dressing. Thanksgiving and Christmas were completely forgotten with this latest news of going back into harm's way. Most wondered where on the globe they would be headed to put their asses on the line this time.

.

0730 HOURS LOCAL

THE Brigands were already occupying the seat/desks in the briefing area when the visitors arrived. There were more than just the usual three-man briefing team; seven SEALs, complete with their personal field gear, also came through the front door. These were the replacements and reinforcements Brannigan had mentioned earlier. Chief Matt Gunnarson directed them to the rear of the briefing area where chairs had been arranged for them. All were known by Brannigan's Brigands from other activities within the SEAL teams at the base. Reacquaintances were accomplished with nods and waves.

Commander Thomas Carey, the N3, took the floor, positioning himself behind a battered podium that had held many an OPLAN in the past. "Good morning," he said. "I see that Brannigan's Brigands are ready to go." He gestured to his two companions. "You know Commander Berringer, of course:'

Lieutenant Commander Ernest Berringer, the N2, stood up and nodded to the assembled SEALs.

"And this other gentleman with us is our asset," Carey continued. "He'll be known as Alfredo for the time being." A husky, balding Latino sitting next to Berringer made no reaction to being introduced. Cary took a few seconds to arrange his notes on the podium. "Well! Shall we begin the briefing? The first item is the situation. A right-wing organization of rebel military officers of the Chilean, Argentine and Bolivian armed forces has occupied an area of southeastern Bolivia known as the Gran Chaco."

The Brigands began taking notes as Carey explained about the Spanish generalisimo Jose Maria de Castillo y Plato and his Falangist political movement. A question and answer period followed the situation briefing, lasting until all the Brigands were thoroughly familiar with the latest information on their potential enemy.

"I do want to emphasize one very important characteristic of these Falangists," Carey said. "These are not haughty Nazis as you would see in old World War II movies. The leader Castillo is a tried and proven officer in the Spanish Foreign Legion. This is an organization noted for brutal discipline. Castillo is also a modern right-wing fascist who has learned one very important lesson from the Communists. He quickly establishes rapport with the common people in the areas he wishes to control."

Chad Murchison, in civilian life a wealthy preppy with intellectual leanings, folded his arms across his chest as he thoughtfully scratched his chin. "Is it possible for us to neutralize this relationship he has established with the indigenous people? I am suggesting that this could e managed if we are provided with the means and commodities to launch our own program of goodwill, i. E., food, clothing, medical support and even outright donatives."

Puglisi looked over at Chad. "Just what the fuck are do-natives?"

"Gifts," Chad answered.

Brannigan interrupted, saying, "I've already got that potential under consideration, Murchison. We'll have to play it by ear until we discover the extent of these Falangists' activities in that area."

"This Castillo fellow," Carey continued, "is in fact striving to establish a nation within the Gran Chaco. This country is to be called the Dictadura Fascista de Falangia. That translates as the Fascist Dictatorship of Falangia. It's evident that he's making no pretense of forming a democratic government. And, by the way, the nation is referred to by its Spanish acronym DFF."

Joe Miskoski was skeptical. "This all sounds like a bad movie."

Brannigan again interjected, "It's all real, and you had better take it seriously."

"Now the mission," Carey said. "You are to enter the OA and locate the Falangists, engage them in battle, and defeat them. By 'defeat' I do not mean driving them from the Gran Chaco. That will not do--I say again--that will not do! They must be killed or captured to break the back of this revolution. If you fail, the result will be one of the bloodiest uprisings in the history of South America. And that's saying a lot:'

Brannigan looked up from his notes. "Since the three armies of the affected nations cannot be trusted, who will be our backups?"

"All your support will come through American military and intelligence channels," Carey answered. "And the situation in Iraq puts you on low priority. However, actual deliveries will be made through CIA arrangements. But I'm edging over into Commander Berringer's bailiwick. So I'll turn the intelligence portion of the briefing over to him."

Berringer, a morose man who spoke in a near monotone, replaced Carey at the podium. "The enemy you face is called the Falangist Army. It is made up of units called banderas that are similar to battalions in our armed forces. These banderas are further divided into three to six destacamentos or companies. Each destacamento consists of four secciones each with four equipos. Naturally these are all conventional in that they have infantry, heavy weapons support, artillery and all the normal organization of military units."

Brannigan got to his feet. "Hold on! You're talking about battalions here that could have as many as a thousand men each. Take a look around you, Commander. If you count us, you'll see that we number twenty-one. How the hell are we supposed to take on a field army or army corps?"

"As of this time," Berringer explained," the Falangists are only the cadre of such a unit; that is to say no more than the nucleus or core. The commanders and staff are all that make up these banderas. Without the rank and file the average of these units will be equal to your detachment's strength. You'll find lieutenants and sergeants acting as riflemen in squads led by captains and majors."

"That's good news," Brannigan acknowledged. "But how many banderas are we going up against?"

"We don't know," Berringer replied.

"This is getting more and more interesting with each passing moment," Brannigan growled as he sat back down.

"Sorry I can't give you more information," Berringer said. "But quite frankly there just isn't that much known about this revolutionary army. However, as a side note of interest, in most cases you can tell the nationalities of the hostile force by their last names. Argentines seem to have more Italian names, the Chileans are predominantly German, and Bolivians Spanish."