Guerilla Warfare (2006) (29 page)

Gutsy and Wes eased out of the OP and began the short climb back up to the line.

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THE SEAL PERIMETER

0610 HOURS

ALL positions along the perimeter were manned with every swinging dick on full alert. The SAW gunners Bruno Puglisi and Joe Miskoski were locked, loaded and ready to respond to any part of the line where extra automatic firepower would be needed.

Within the Command Element, Brannigan walked over to James Bradley's bucolic dispensary, noting that Connie Concord was heavily sedated and barely conscious. The Skipper knelt down and got a grin from the woozy petty officer. Brannigan grinned back and winked at him. "How're you doing, Connie?"

"Huh?"

"That's okay," Brannigan said. "You're doing fine."

James nodded his head. "He's out of danger now, sir. I'm still a little worried about shock, but he's beginning to heal nicely, and I don't think there's any serious danger of infection at this point."

"Right," Brannigan said. He patted Connie lightly on the shoulder. "We'll have you out of here before you know it, tiger."

"Huh?"

Brannigan walked back to Frank Gomez and his radio. "Get over to the Second Assault Section," the Skipper said. "The senior chief needs an extra hand."

"Aye, sir," Frank said. He grabbed his CAR-15 and hurried to the southeast side of the perimeter.

Brannigan slipped down into a sitting position, leaning against the Shadowfire radio. "Well, shit," he said aloud to himself. "Here we fucking go again."

.

THE SEAL PERIMETER

WESTERN SIDE

0630 HOURS LOCAL

THE loud sound of people crashing through the brush caught the combined attention of Andy Malachenko, Pech Pecheur and Guy Devereaux. Somebody was obviously charging toward them with little regard to noise discipline.

"Who the hell is that?" Pech asked. "The New Orleans Saints' defensive line?"

Guy laughed. "It sounds more like cattle stampede to me."

Figures suddenly appeared through the brush, obviously having a hell of a hard time making it up the hill. The three SEALs squeezed off a few three-round automatic fire bursts that kicked over a couple of the attackers. The others melted back out sight into the thick jungle growth.

Senior Chief Dawkins's voice came over the LASH. "It sounds like you guys are taking fire over there. Do you need any SAW support?"

Andy, as the senior man, responded. "Negative, Senior Chief. We received a half-dozen single shots, tops. We fired back and broke up the attack."

"That's odd as hell," Dawkins said. "Maybe they was snipers."

"If they are, they're the worst in the world," Andy said. "All their shots were high and wide."

"Okay," Dawkins said. "If things go bad over there, give me a holler."

THE Falangists' First Assault Echelon of the convicts was battered badly by the defenders' fire. Four of them were cut down in the fusillades that swept through the first rank. The rest of the prisoners instinctively turned and ran away from the murderous swarms of bullets smacking through the air around them.

Capitan Pablo Gonzales was infuriated when he perceived the former inmates charging through the trees toward him. "Fire at those hijos de chingadas!" he screamed at his men. "Give them some bursts over their heads!"

As soon as the bullets hit the tree trunks, sending down leaves and hunks of bark, the convicts came to a stop. They were in that very unique and unpleasant position of being damned if they do, and damned if they don't. The confused men looked at Gordo Pullini. He hesitated a moment, then another salvo splattered the trees above them. He knew the next one would be lower.

"All right, guys!" he yelled. "Turn around and go back up the hill!"

Now more frightened of the threat to their rear than the front, the convicts stumbled around and once again pushed through the brush toward the mountaintop. The angry, frightened men staggered fifteen meters before Pullini yelled at them again. "Halt! Halt! Start shooting at those guys ahead of us."

They worked triggers and bolts, sending a pitifully weak spattering of shots toward the defenders.

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IGNACIO Perez sucked hot, humid air into his lungs as he toiled after the machine gunners ascending the mountain to his direct front. The rucksack crammed with documents and floppy disks of the intelligence information he had stolen felt like it was trying to pull him to level ground. He had a pistol for protection but gave it no thought in the overwhelming exhaustion and pain that made his legs feel as if they weighed a ton each.

The training and discipline he acquired in the Spanish Foreign Legion was proving helpful in the way he was being careful with his water. He took only occasional sips, holding them in his mouth a few moments before swallowing them. But his body, unaccustomed to hard physical activity after months in headquarters work, was beginning to rebel against the unkind treatment it was receiving. Cramps rippled through his legs, and his feet felt as if they were on fire in the heavy military leather boots.

Up ahead, the gunners were having their own troubles. The six-kilo weight of machine guns and the ten in the ammunition boxes of linked belts, made each step a separate agony, but they continued moving to higher ground to have the weapons within effective range of the enemy.

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A Falangist skirmish line came into contact with the First Assault Section when the SEALs perceived movement a scant few meters to their front. Firing immediately broke out between the two groups, but no casualties were suffered by either side. After a few minutes of exchanging shots, the Falangists suddenly advanced forward, putting out a curtain of slugs from their CETME rifles on full automatic.

Bruno Puglisi increased the bursts from his SAW, swinging the bore from one end of the attack formation to other. Twigs, leaves and bark from trees were scattered by the intense salvos. The Odd Couple, coordinating their actions through ESP as usual, tossed out a couple M-67 hand grenades. They threw the explosives just above the brush but below the limbs of the trees. The detonations rocked the immediate area, and the Falangists broke off their attack.

From that point on, all the combatants stayed low, exchanging fire in a skirmish that had turned into a stalemate.

* * *

CORONEL Jeronimo Busch was in his element as he moved through the brush with the efficiency of a hunting tiger. His companions Punzarron, Chaubere and Muller were slightly to his rear in a V formation. The equipo comando counted on furtiveness and concealment more than speed as they made their way toward the norteamericanos' position to make contact on their own terms. They were on the northwest side of the battle, taking the precaution of stopping from time to time to simply listen to what was going on around them.

The next time they halted and sank down to kneeling positions, they perceived heavy firing on the north side and sporadic shots to the west. Punzarron chuckled and whispered into his LASH. "It would seem the convicts and their rifles are not making much of a show, eh?"

"They're out there simply to draw fire:' Busch replied. Muller wiped at the sweat on his face. "Bueno, they are making a damn good job of it."

"We are close to the front lines now," Busch said. "Chaubere and Muller, move to my right. Punzarron, take the left." He waited for them to get into position. "Now we go upward and make contact. The moment you sight the enemy, give them heavy bursts, and we will pull back. Ya vamanos--let's go!"

The quartet of veterans now eased forward, alert and ready with the knowledge they would find the Yanquis within a very short time. The brush was dense enough in the area that they could move without crouching over. After a couple of minutes, Sargento-Mayor Armand Chaubere sighted a figure in a camouflage uniform just to his right. The man was only partially visible, but the Frenchman saw enough to react.

He pumped a long burst, a short burst and a long burst from his submachine gun.

* * *

LAMAR Taylor took a hit in the shoulder, two in the chest, and fourth that plowed into his face, exiting out the back of his head in a spray of brains, bone fragments and blood.

Paulo Cinzento and Chad Murchison immediately shifted their fire toward the source of the incoming, pouring interlocking streams of bullets. When there was no return fire, Chad crawled rapidly toward Lamar to check him out. When he reached his buddy, he winced at the extent of the damage. At least Lamar died instantaneously without having to go through the hell of settling into shock before expiring. Chad's voice was low with grief when he spoke to Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson over the LASH. "Lamar's KIA, Chief."

"Shit," Matt said. He grabbed the radio handset. "Brigand, this is Brigand One. Taylor is KIA."

A stab of anguish went through the Skipper's heart, but he maintained a tight lid on his emotions. "Brigand Two, this is Brigand. Send Gomez over to the First Section."

Senior Chief Buford Dawkins quickly obeyed, passing the word to the detachment's commo man. Frank left his firing position to sprint across the middle of the perimeter and report in to Matt for assignment.

"Taylor bought the farm," the chief petty officer said. "You can take his place with Murchison and Cinzento."

Frank wordlessly moved over to the position, finding Chad beside Lamar's body. Chad looked up at the new arrival. "Let's pull him back a ways, Frank. He's in the way here."

"Sure."

They each grabbed an arm and dragged Lamar five meters back into the brush, then Frank went up to the position the dead SEAL had occupied at the time of his death. The leaves of the nearby brush were splattered with blood.

* * *

CAPITAN Tomas Platas studied the sketch map given him by the helicopter pilot Subalterno Ernesto Pizzaro. The young officer had assured him that the azimuths and distances shown were accurate. Platas took the trouble to make one more inspection of the three machine guns' positions, then he got on his RMAM radio. The Falangist commo net was simple enough. Each element commander was linked directly to Generalisimo Castillo, who used the call sign Mando.

"Mando," Platas said. "This is Fuego. The machine guns are in position now. The mortars are also ready. A usted."

Castillo came back with short but explicit instructions. "Tire--fire!"

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A sudden influx of incoming automatic fire swept across the south side of the SEAL perimeter. The heavy grazing salvos forced Milly Mills, Gutsy Olson and Wes Ferguson to hunker down in their fighting holes. The sweeping volleys crisscrossed as they pounded into the position.

"What the hell's going on over there?" Dawkins asked via the LASH.

"There's a machine gun squad down the mountain somewhere," Milly Mills replied. "They're sweeping the area with grazing fire. We're pinned down but good."

"Any assault?"

"Negative, Senior Chief," Milly said. "Just heavy incoming?'

"Keep your heads down," Dawkins said. He got on the radio and informed Brannigan of the situation.

Brannigan quickly mulled over what was going on; lots of shooting but no assault. "They may not have enough manpower to launch an attack on that side," he said to Dawkins. "But we can't tell for sure at this point. Telly our guys to stay undercover. Out."

Brannigan had no sooner replaced the handset in its carrier than the first mortar rounds rained down on the east side of the perimeter.

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FALANGIST FIELD HEADQUARTERS

1900 HOURS LOCAL

THE battle had ground down to a struggle of attrition.

Whoever outlasted the other would win, and Generalisimo Castillo was confident the victor would be him and his Falangist forces. The enemy was both contained and outnumbered, and that always counted as 90 percent of a victory. The only thing he had to do from this point on was keep up the pressure without sustaining too many casualties.

Although the helicopter FLIR patrols confirmed the enemy strength at some nineteen men or so, and he outnumbered them by at least a four-to-one advantage, he had to fight a conservative and cautious battle. If he had more men he would damn the losses and overwhelm the Yanquis with one massive attack. But reinforcements were trickling in too slowly to risk losing men that might be needed in the near future.

The mortars were now zeroed in perfectly on the top of the mountain. Although the battery didn't have a plethora of ammunition, there were enough 60-millimeter shells that even with slow, steady barrages the enemy positions would be obliterated eventually.

That would force the comandante Yanqui to either be blown to hell, make an impossible attempt to break out, or wisely surrender.

Castillo wondered what choice his adversary would make.

Chapter 17

THE SELVA VERDE MOUNTAINS

FALANGIST FIRE SUPPORT ECHELON

14 JANUARY

2200 HOURS LOCAL

THE fighting had died down, and only occasional shots could be heard across the mountain battlefield. Each side showed patience and restraint, preferring to wait for the other guy to make a move, then respond to it. As is normal in such cases, a tension permeated the area in invisible vibrations that each combatant picked up. It was a time of nervousness and a strong sense of apprehension. Pessimism was a clear winner over optimism.