Guerilla Warfare (2006) (4 page)

One of the trucking companies was an innocuous outfit set off in a far corner of the shipping yard. This was Estrella Roja Transportes, S. A., which had no more than an office with a small warehouse located behind it. At that moment Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan, Lieutenant (J. G.) Jim Cruiser and Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins lounged on worn vinyl furniture off on one side of the establishment's single room. A middle-aged lady named Rita sat at a battered desk that bore no more than a nondescript personal computer, printer and telephone. At that moment she was printing out a manifest for a shipment of goods to be taken to the small city of Los Blancos to the north. Alfredo, the CIA asset, waited patiently for the documents to be spewed out. As soon as the last emerged, he gathered them up and walked over to join the three SEALs.

Alfredo sat down in a battered chair that had seen better days. "These papers will be presented to the authorities at checkpoints along the way," he explained. "Everything has been arranged to ensure they will be accepted by the customs inspectors."

Brannigan, sipping a can of Diet Coke purchased from a vending machine outside the door, asked, "What is this `everything' that has been arranged?"

"Bribes and other payoffs," Alfredo answered matter-of-factly. "These preparations are not unusual in this part of the world. Normal business could not be conducted efficiently without the payments of what Latin Americans call la mordida--the bite--which is a colloquialism for bribes. This is the way official permits are issued in a timely fashion. To follow proper procedures would take days and days. Thus, what we are doing will not attract undue attention:'

The phone rang, and Rita picked it up, speaking softly in Spanish. When she hung up, she turned to Alfredo. "El autobas esta a la puerta."

"Ah!" Alfredo said. "The bus has arrived at the gate. It should be here shortly."

The SEALs exchanged glances of relief. This meant the Command Element and First Assault Section were now in Argentina. They walked to the front window to look for the vehicle to appear through the bustle of the depot. A couple of minutes passed before an ancient bus coughed its way into view, coming to a squeaking halt in front of the office.

Eleven obviously disgruntled travelers disembarked, carrying cheap luggage. They were dressed in clothing that would give the impression they were itinerant laborers going from one low-skilled job to another. From all appearances, they had purchased their garments in flea markets or secondhand stores.

Alfredo opened the door, and they trooped in. The Odd Couple--Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz--led the way. As the detachment scouts, this was their customary place in any formation. Everyone showed the fatigue of a long, boring trip. They had left San Diego, California, at various times, taking a multitude of airlines through Mexico, Panama, Colombia and Brazil before finally getting together in Montevideo, Uruguay, for the last leg of the trip to Buenos Aires.

"Listen up!" Senior Chief Dawkins said. "We ain't gonna be here long, so don't try to make yourselves too comfortable."

"It don't look like we could if we wanted to," Bruno Puglisi growled as he surveyed the dingy interior of the office.

"Yeah," Connie Concord agreed. "I can't wait to get out into that swamp."

Dawkins snorted a sardonic laugh. "I'll remind you of what you just said after you been out there for a few weeks up to your ass in quicksand. There's a vending machine with soda pop outside. If you need change, see Rita at the desk. But first Alfredo is gonna brief us as to our movement out to the OA."

Alfredo stepped up. "You'll be loading into a couple of semitrailers at the warehouse docks to the rear of this building. All the weapons and your personal equipment have already been put aboard, so you will have whatever comfort items you've packed for yourselves. But we don't want you to change into your BDUs until Lieutenant Brannigan gives you the word."

Frank Gomez searched his pockets for coins to use in the vending machine. "Is my commo gear in there?"

"Affirmative," Alfredo said. "As well as three rigid raider and piragua boats. I'm afraid you're going to be even more disenchanted with this phase of your infiltration. You're going to have to endure a nonstop one thousand two hundred kilometer trip from here to a place called Los Blancos. That's where you'll marry up with your Second Assault Section."

"You say this is nonstop?" Chief Matt Gunnarson remarked. "What about heads?"

Brannigan interjected, "There are Porta Pottis aboard the trailers along with drinking water and MREs. It'll be bleak and harsh as hell, but you guys can tough it out."

"Ah, well," Chad Murchison said. "I suppose we can pass the time reading."

"There're no lights:' Brannigan said. "You'll be in the dark, and I don't want you using any batteries up in your flashlights. We don't know how reliable our resupply is going to be until we get a chance to really test it."

"I'll be going to Los Blancos with you," Alfredo said. "When your entire detachment is together, I'll bring you up to date on all the happenings in the OA. I haven't gotten the word from there myself yet. I'll be staying with the Petroleo Colmo Oil Company, so we'll be in contact with you. Any questions? No? In that case, gentlemen, go get yourselves some soda pop, and we'll get into our luxury accommodations for the big journey."

Half the SEALs went to Rita for change while the others hurried outside to the vending machine.

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HEADQUARTERS OF BANDERA 1

EL EJERCITO FALANGISTA

2045 HOURS LOCAL

THE camp was so new that it had not yet been named. The commanding officer, Comandante Javier Toledo, had only about three dozen men in a unit that would normally have numbered between six hundred and seven hundred troops. This, in actuality, was a cadre waiting for an influx of additional noncommissioned officers and soldiers to flesh out the rosters.

The camp itself was crude, as could be expected, but the buildings were well-constructed and weatherproof. The barracks were airy with plenty of space between the bunks. This was where the noncommissioned officers slept and ate. A small parade ground dominated the center of the garrison, while over on the north side was a headquarters hut--actually a CP--that included the living and mess quarters for the outfit's four officers. A flagpole bearing the DFF banner with three broad stripes of red, black and red of the Falangist movement stood in front of the thatched building. But instead of the traditional yoke and arrow symbol of the Catholic royalty, an insignia of a medieval sword with wings dominated the center of the black area. This represented the warrior archangel Michael, who was the spiritual inspiration for these twenty-first-century fascists.

Comandante Toledo was a ruggedly handsome Spaniard whose deportment and appearance gave strong evidence of having led a tough and demanding life. His physical prowess was backed up by a keen intellect developed through a robust, disciplined lifestyle.

At that moment, he and his immediate subordinates were enjoying their only luxuries of Cuban cigars and Italian brandy. Their meal had consisted of French Army rations de campagne. These were preferred over American MREs because of the canned bread, cheese, pate and powdered soup. Now, after partaking of the cuisine militaire francaise, Capitanes Francisco Silber of Chile, Roberto Argento of Argentina and Tomas Platas of Bolivia turned their full attention to the liquor and stogies. All looked forward to the day when they would have a proper officers' mess with silverware, plates, cups and other items needed for fine dining.

Toledo lit his cigar and exhaled contentedly before reaching for his brandy. After a slow, appreciative sip, he sighed. "Well! It was simple fare, but filling, verdad, caballeros?"

"I think we should appreciate what we have under these conditions," Capitan Silber said. "At any rate, a year from now, we will be dining with beautiful women at a four-star restaurant in a big city."

"Indeed," Toledo said. "And at much higher ranks. By the way, we may have had a close call yesterday." He glanced over at Argento. "Tell us about it, Capitan."

"My men on patrol learned of a Bolivian Army unit on the periphery of the Gran Chaco," Argento said. "The people of the village called Novida said they had spotted them while out herding cattle. The Bolivianos were obviously making a reconnaissance, but evidently it was a very timid one."

Toledo laughed. "I think the various loyalists sense there will be big changes around here, no?"

"The villagers fully realize that prospect," Silber remarked. "Those gifts of rice and beans we gave them have obviously impressed them quite favorably where our movement is concerned. They are struggling peasants illegally occupying land that is not theirs."

"The Red Chinese figured out how to take advantage of such situations early on," Toledo remarked. "If you have an impoverished populace within your theater of war, they will be easily won over even by the most basic necessities of life."

"That is how the Nazis failed in the Ukraine in World War II," Silber said. "My grandfather told me about it. He was in the Waffen-SS at the time and talked about how the excesses of the rear-echelon Allgemeine-SS drove many potential supporters to the Soviet partisan units."

"That will not happen here!" Toledo exclaimed. "Our men are all well-indoctrinated in the aims and goals of the DFF."

"They are also well-trained," Plata added.

"Por su puesto," Argento agreed. "They are professional soldiers of noncommissioned rank. Unfortunately, some are not in the best physical fitness because of years in staff duties."

"Suboficial Punzarron will take care of that," Platas said with a laugh.

"Eventually they will form a superlative nucleus for the Falangist Army," Argento said.

Toledo raised his brandy in toast. "Viva el Ejercito Falangista!"

The four snifters were clicked together.

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COMANDANTE Javier Toledo was a former officer of the Spanish Foreign. Legion, having served for ten years under the generalisimo of the Falangists, Jose Maria de Castillo y Plato when he commanded a regiment of the Legion.

This fanatic outfit was made up of soldiers who called themselves the Bridegrooms of Death. Although a "foreign" legion, over 90 percent of the men in the ranks were native-born Spaniards. The basic training of volunteers was short and brutal. Any misconduct or even an honest mistake would result in a severe beating. When the recruit graduated into one of the tercios (regiments). he was not much more than an automaton, having to rely on his officers for such things as land navigation, map reading and communications. His weapons training was also rudimentary and far behind that of other modern military units. Harsh discipline would continue through the legionnaire's enlistment, providing a pliant soldiery easily bullied and manipulated by sadistic officers and noncommissioned officers. This leadership cadre was able to get away with cruelties that would not be tolerated in regular Spanish Army units.

Life in the Legion Extranjera was lonely for the officers. They were isolated from the enlisted men b and regulation, forcing them to withdraw into an exclusive little group that ventured out only on rare occasions when the regiment drilled or trained as a whole. They lived in genteel poverty--even those from wealthy families had little on which to spend their money--but were waited on by orderlies and stewards in feudal military grandeur. These servants escaped the barbarism in . The ranks because of having the right appearance and mannerisms to serve their masters in the monastic atmosphere of the garrisons. This better treatment was also afforded to those rare individuals who had administrative capabilities such as typing along with an ability to read and write better that the average legionnaire.

The officers spent evenings in their mess, which was decorated with flags, photographs and other mementos of the bygone days of Spain's former glory when she was a colonial power. They drank heavily, getting drunk almost nightly as they expounded on their personal philosophies and attitudes.

Javier Toledo fell under the influence of Coronel Jose Maria de Castillo y Plato during those discussions. Castillo was the commanding officer of their tercio, and the younger Toledo listened and learned as the coronel told of his dream of power that could only be realized by a strong fascist leader with a dedicated following. According to Castillo, the present remnants of Falangists out in the civilian world were out of touch, out of date and out of luck, but if the movement were fine-tuned to meet the contemporary political scene, they would eventually rule the world.

Toledo picked up five main points from Castillo's preaching:

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Spain was destined to regain her former glory.

The conflict between the decadent West and the anachronistic Muslims was exactly what the fascists were waiting for.

As the West unwisely spent much of its money, building up enormous deficits, and the Islamics squandered the lives of their people, a vacuum would be created in which a strong fascist nation could move in and conquer all.

The discouraged and disgusted populace of the West would be willing to give up the weaknesses of democracy for a strong leadership that would rid the world forever of Islam and other inferior societies and cultures.

The establishment of the Dictadura Fascista de Falangia would bring about all the above.

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Countless hours of discussion brought not only Toledo but other officers into Castillo's elaborate design to reshape the world. When el coronel proclaimed himself the generalisimo and revealed that he had gained strong financial support from industrialists in Europe and South America, Toledo and his brother officers knew that the establishment of the DFF was only a matter of time.