Guerilla Warfare (2006) (32 page)

"I quit. No more fight:'

"Shit!" Brannigan said. He spoke into the LASH. "Chief Gunnarson, send Gomez back here to the Command Element."

Frank Gomez came trotting up less than a minute later. He started to report to Brannigan but caught sight of the prisoner. "Who the hell is he?"

"He's somebody that Olson captured," Brannigan said. "He doesn't speak English, so ask him who the hell he is and where he comes from. I also want to know about the stuff in his rucksack."

"Aye, sir," Frank said. He knelt down beside the EPW and began talking to him. After an exchange that went on for five minutes, Frank stood up. "Sir, he says his name is Ignacio Perez, and he's a warrant officer in the Falangist Army. The guy wants to defect and says that he worked as the adjutant for the generalisimo."

"That must be that Castillo guy they told us about in Isolation," Brannigan said.

"Yes, sir," Frank replied. "And he says the papers and computer disks in his rucksack are secret intelligence and operational documents of the Falangists. They include the names of special contacts those guys have in the Bolivian, Argentine and Chilean armies."

"Jesus!" Brannigan exclaimed, having trouble believing that such good luck had occurred. "Find out why he defected."

After another conversation with Ignacio, Frank said, "He wants to get the hell away from the Falangists. He was hijacked out of the Spanish Foreign Legion where he was serving in lieu of a prison sentence. He is hoping he will be allowed to go to America."

"Give one of those documents a read and tell me what it says:' Brannigan ordered.

Frank reached in Ignacio's rucksack and pulled out a folder. He flipped it open and read the top page. "This one here lists the names of Chilean intelligence officers that are either sympathetic or belong to the Falangist movement."

"Gomez," Brannigan said in a steady voice in spite of his excitement, "get on that fucking Shadowfire radio and raise Matrix. Tell them what's come stumbling up the mountains to us."

"Aye, sir!"

Frank went to the radio and flipped it on. After getting Matrix and going through the authentication procedure, he informed the CIA operator of what had unexpectedly transpired in the Selva Verde Mountains.

Ignacio, now sure that things were going his way, smiled.

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FALANGIST LINES

EASTERN SIDE

1830 HOURS L0CAL

THE original convict contingent from the penitentiary in Patagonia were now down to thirteen from the original twenty-four. The poorly armed men had made constant attacks with submachine guns at their backs and were now so desperate some considered simply getting it over with quicker by refusing to move up the mountain again. It seemed better to die without further fear and exhaustion.

Capitan Pablo Gonzales recognized that they were almost at a breaking point. It would do nothing for the Falangist cause to shoot them down below the mountaintop rather than forcing them to die at the enemy's line of defense. He ordered a stand down, pulling them farther back and giving them a chance to rest, eat and get their emotions under control. The convicts were taken to a glade and allowed to get off their feet. Their wardens, however, still kept the muzzles of their submachine guns on them. Several of the prisoners thought they would be s this point but saw no hope in resistance. They simply sank to the soft jungle ground to wait whatever fate had destined for them.

Gordo Pullini recognized the fatalistic attitude that was fast developing among his gang. It was now time for him to take over and get them back under his personal control. The one thing that Capitan Gonzales didn't know about convicts was that after long years behind walls, they had developed efficient albeit simple ways of communication. These could be codes tapped on cell walls, passing notes via twine and paper clip hooks, or speaking in secret ways to convey special meanings or instructions.

As the gang leader sat in the clearing, his leading lieutenants gathered around him, looking as if they had settled down in the locale casually, without any special purpose. Cortador Marconi, Cicatriz Bagni, Pancho DiPietro and Navajaso Coletti seemed to be daydreaming as Pullini spoke softly in a patois of prison slang. Although gthgir gazes and attention seemed to be directed elsewhere, each man received and completely understood the instructions. When Pullini stopped speaking, the subchiefs casually got to their feet and stretched, then walked around the group, stopping to get a light for a cigarette or exchange a word or two. The guards with the submachine guns did not notice anything unusual, unaware that each of the wandering convicts had passed on orders to two men each.

The guards, now wanting to eat and grab siestas, moved away to organize themselves into three shifts to watch over their charges. Capital? Gonzales was lying on his back, fast asleep.

Each convict slowly worked the bolt of his rifle, chambering one round. Pullini watched, then stood up and walked over to the side like he had to urinate. His men watched him carefully for a few moments. He suddenly turned, and his gang leaped to their feet and aimed at the individual submachine gunners they had been assigned to kill.

Thirteen Mauser rifles barked and spat death.

Now the convicts looked back to Pullini. "Get the submachine guns and bullets," he said. "Take all the rations they carry."

As soon as the task was completed, the convicts hurried from the clearing, entering the jungle to begin a trek upward into the mountains, leaving the corpses of Gonzales and his men to rot in the high jungle terrain.

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CAMPO DE AVIAGAO CABRAL

ARREDORES, BRAZIL

17 JANUARY

THE preliminary examinations of the intelligence turned over by Ignacio Perez proved to be absolutely accurate. The problem was having to wade through all the names in the documents to eliminate trusted officers who had not joined the Falangists. Because of that, it was still too risky to call in the armed forces of Argentina, Bolivia or Chile to fight against the generalisimo's men. This left Wild Bill Brannigan and his SEALs twisting in the wind.

It was the time for dirty tricks to be played, and nobody knew that game better that a United States undersecretary of state by the name of Dr. Carl Joplin.

He made contact with his counterpart Bernardo Spinola from the Brazilian embassy in Washington, and the pair met in an upscale restaurant in Silver Springs, Maryland. The two statesmen spoke low over the wine and dinners with Joplin doing most of the talking. He glibly informed Spinola that there was irrefutable proof that the massacre of the Brazilian settlers in the Gran Chaco had been done by the Falangists. Spinola listened intently as Joplin explained why the armed forces of Argentina, Bolivia and Chile could not be brought in to deal a death blow to the murderers, even though they were now contained in the Selva Verde Mountains. It would be helpful if Brazil could furnish gun helicopters to make an aerial assault to back up the Americans who even now were locked in battle with the fascists. This, of course, was top secret and not for public consumption, but it would be sweet revenge for the Brazilians.

Now, in that airfield in Brazil, four Defender 500 Scout multi-mission helicopters of the Forca Airea do Brasil were warming up for a combat mission. These small aircraft were armed with 40-millimeter grenade launchers that spewed out the little explosive devices in deadly salvos. Although they would have been at a disadvantage against heavily armed troops with anti-aircraft capabilities, they would do fine against the Falangists.

At a signal from the operations officer, the choppers' rotors were engaged, and they took off, turning in a westward direction for the fifty-kilometer flight to the Selva Verde Mountains of Bolivia.

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THE SEAL POSITION

SELVA VERDE MOUNTAINS

BRANNIGAN had received specific orders via the CIA communications station Matrix. He pulled in his perimeter so tight that all sides were in visible contact with each other. They were to hunker down and keep low because of a helicopter assault that would be coming in from the east. Although the nationality of the aircraft were not identified over the net, the SEALs were told they were on his side and would not be fired on under any circumstances. If friendly fire had to be inadvertently endured, then endure it. When the aerial attack was over, Brannigan would then contact Matrix for further instructions.

The Skipper used the pause in operations to take stock of his casualties; sadly, he had two KIA and four WIA on that godamned mountaintop. He hoped like hell the attacking choppers wouldn't add to that count.

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FALANGIST FORCE

EASTERN SIDE

0520 HOURS LOCAL

COMANDANTE Gustavo Cappuzzo knelt down just behind the third skirmish line of his attack force. He had turned them out early to be ready when the order came from the generalisimo to once again storm the enemy positions above them.

Capitan Roberto Argent() walked up after relieving himself behind a stand of razor palms. He joined the comandante, standing beside him to wait for the orders to renew combat. The battle had drained everyone's energy, badly sapping their morale and determination to carry on the fight. The norteamericanos showed no signs of crumbling under the numerous attacks.

"Que es eso--what is that?" Argento asked. "Listen, mi comandante."

Cappuzzo stood up, then heard the sound of several aircraft engines gradually approaching. "Ah!" he exclaimed happily. "Reinforcements!"

Argento looked around. "Too bad they can't land near here. There are no suitable spots to set down."

"They will land down by the generalisimo's field headquarters," Cappuzzo said. "The new men will be sent up; don't worry. Perhaps the generalisimo will delay the battle to reorganize our lines."

Now a quartet of helicopters suddenly appeared, coming in low and fast. Immediately small, deadly detonations sprang up in rows along the ground to their front, working their way through the ranks of the Falangist troops. A half dozen were ripped apart in the explosives, while shrapnel slapped through the trees, cutting down vegetation and blowing holes into more men who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

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SOUTHERN SIDE

0525 HOURS LOCAL

THE Falangist machine gun crews had heard what sounded like an aerial attack, rejoicing that they now had support from helicopter gunships. This would make their job of providing covering fire much easier. But when the aircraft appeared, they were not headed toward the enemy positions up on the hill. Instead they came straight down on them.

Knee-high explosions swept through the area, blowing the machine guns over while pummeling the gunners and ammo bearers into hunks of meat.

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FALANGIST FIELD HEADQUARTERS

0530 HOURS LOCAL

GENERALISIMO Castillo responded to the call from Comandante Cappuzzo. Cappuzzo's voice was wild with fear and shock. "We are under aerial attack, mi generalisimo! Helicopters have strafed us with small air-toground missiles! I have sixty-five percent casualties. We have been rendered incapable of continuing the attack!"

Castillo flipped to another frequency and raised Comandante Diego Tippelskirch, who was in the Centro de Inteligencia bunker back at Fuerte Franco. "Tippelskirch!" Castillo yelled. "We are under helicopter attack! Who the hell is it?"

"I know nothing of about enemy aerial potential," Tippelskirch replied, the panic in his voice evident over the handset. "I have received no warning of such a possibility from my contacts."

"This is not a possibility!" Castillo bellowed in rage. "It is a reality that is inflicting heavy casualties on us. Check this out immediately." He switched back to the tactical frequency in time to receive a call from Co me Javier Toledo on the north side. He reported 50 percent casualties. Castillo had to calm himself as the truth of the catastrophe swept over him. There was nothing left to do but request their own helicopters to come to the Selva Verde Mountains and evacuate them back to Fuerte Franco. But first he would give the word to his combat elements to make their way back to field headquarters as best they could.

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WESTERN SIDE

0550 HOURS LOCAL

GORDO Pullini and his convict gang had drawn off deep into the jungle to remain out of sight of any Falangists who might come hunting them down. Now they had submachine guns and could reasonably expect to put up a spirited defense in case they were attacked by vengeful men of the hated generalisimo.

The strain of what they had been through after being forced to attack an enemy who possessed modern automatic weapons while they lugged along antiquated bolt-action rifles had finally caught up with them. The full realization of their situation now pulled their emotions into a tumble, leaving them confused, with a feeling of spiritual exhaustion.

"What the hell is that, Chief?" someone asked as the noise of heavy firing and aircraft reached them.

"Ay Dios de me vida!" one man moaned. "They are sending airplanes to bomb us now."

Nimble Pancho DiPietro suddenly leaped up and scampered to a tree. He worked his way up to the top branches, then peered in the direction of the noise. "Helicopters!" he shouted down to his buddies. "And they are diving down on the Falangists!"

Everyone cheered and laughed, but Pullini was in no mood to celebrate. "Let's move farther away, guys! They may come this way:'