Guerilla Warfare (2006) (6 page)

It had all been laboriously spelled out in his neat, precise handwriting, and when it came time to have it entered into a word processor, he knew who to turn to. One of the clerk-typists in his tercio was a small, clever fellow by the name of Ignacio Perez, who had been convicted of forgery and embezzlement. The judge had given him a choice of fifteen years in the penitentiary or three years in the Foreign Legion, and he had chosen the military option. Unfortunately, Perez was not good soldier material and had been beaten half to death by the noncommissioned officers for his physical ineptness until it was discovered that he had certain office and administrative skills. Such individuals were rare in the Legion Extranjera, and the fellow was rescued to an assignment in headquarters, where his expertise in typing and filing could be put to good use. Most legionnaires were pathetic brutes who could barely read and write. Eventually, Castillo pulled Perez from headquarters and put him to work full-time entering his political writings into a word processor.

Castillo's philosophies were more than just a little different from that of the original Falange. He had no devotion to the Catholic Church, considering the modern version of the religion in Spain as too liberal and leftist. Instead, he looked to the archangel Michael for divine guidance and inspiration. After all, Arcangel Miguel was the warrior angel who had cast Satan down into hell. Castillo wrote a carefully crafted pamphlet explaining how Archangel Michael would give his followers spiritual guidance if they meditated properly, seeking a mystical rapport with him by drawing off by themselves and concentrating deep enough to turn off external stimuli and distractions.

Castillo designed an insignia of a medieval knight's sword with wings to represent the archangel, placing it on the center of the original Falangist flag design. He further decreed that the DFF would be run from a Center of Supreme Command and Dictates, using corporations to administer the running of the dictatorship. There would be separate corporations for Power (nuclear rather than fossil fuel), Transport (sea, land and air), Medical (including euthanasia of the hopelessly ill as well as the insane and feebleminded), Public Safety (to include the Secret Police), Sports and Recreation, Merchandising, and others as needed. The armed forces, of course, would be kept separate and run personally by the generalisimo and his handpicked staff.

Castillo sincerely felt that this organization would be welcomed by the weary, disappointed populaces of Western democracies who would appreciate a strong leader to take them away from the decadent, disorganized and corrupt society they lived in. Only people of European ancestry would be allowed in the ruling class of the DFF. The darker races would be the laborers and factory workers while Orientals would be employed in the sciences under strict supervision of the Europeans. Semitic people--both Jewish and Arabic would be eradicated in a carefully applied program of genocide. They would be joined by Gypsies and homosexuals as the new Falangists finished the job the Nazis started in World War II.

When Ignacio Perez finished entering the manifesto in the word processor and printed it out, Castillo took a thirty-day leave to distribute the document. His family members were wealthy industrialists with heavy investments and ownership in manufacturing, and he used these kinsmen to establish contacts not only in Spain but also France, Portugal and Germany to expound on his goals. In almost all cases he met with enthusiastic approval by these people who would be at the top of the heap if this philosophy became an established government. The present political climate in Europe forced them to exercise great clandestineness in their support. However, they were most generous with their secret donations hidden within the enigmatic ledgers where one plus one equaled whatever sum pleased the accountant. Within a short period of time it became apparent there would be absolutely no problem in funding the operation.

The South American side of the great scheme came into being from a Chilean military attache in that nation's embassy in Madrid. Teniente-Colonel Jeronimo Busch was not only fanatic about becoming a follower but had contacts in the right-wing elements of his own army and also those of Argentina and Bolivia. Disaffected officers in all three countries were looking for a way to rid their homelands of what they considered effete, leftist governments.

Thus, like the proverbial snowball rolling down the mountain, the Falangist movement picked up speed, steadily gaining momentum and strength.

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HEADQUARTERS, BANDERA 1

0930 HOURS

THE forty men of the bandera were drawn up in four ranks facing the landing strip that ran along the north side of the garrison. Comandante Javier Toledo stood to the direct front, while directly behind him, Capitanes Silber, Argento and Platas were spaced evenly across the formation. Not all the sweat that was soaking the creases out of the uniforms was because of the humidity left behind by the recent rains. All were nervous at this auspicious arrival by the generalisimo in his move into the theater of war.

The distant sound of a jet aircraft was discerned a few moments before a dot appeared in the western sky. It gradually grew larger until 'the Piaggio could be clearly seen. The jet banked gracefully and came in for a landing. As soon as the wheels touched down, the four officers marched smartly over to where it would come to a halt. At that point the subalterns and warrant officers took charge of the formations.

When the aircraft braked to a halt, the engines were immediately cut. The door opened, and a crewman stepped out, lowering the steps that slid out from the fuselage. The first man to exit was the generalisimo, followed by Busch and Perez.

Toledo stepped forward and saluted sharply. "Mi generalisimo! Comandante Toledo of Bandera 1 reporting for inspection and review."

Castillo returned the salute and looked around, obviously disappointed. "You know, Toledo," he said with a frown, "we really must get a proper band out here for these occasions?'

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VILLAGE OF NOVIDA

1100 HOURS LOCAL

THE First Assault Section, with Alpha Fire Team in the lead, walked across the field toward the village. The Odd Couple had already discovered the community and after an hour's observation, had determined it was safe to approach.

The first people to notice them was a small group of women drawing water from the well. They smiled and waved as the SEALS drew closer. Garth Redhawk was on the point, and he grinned and nodded to them, surprised and pleased by their amiable display. A couple of older men appeared on the scene, and they, too, were friendly. As the section walked into the village square, even more people, including some children, came out of their hut chores to join the small group. The women were barefoot, wearing blouses and skirts, while the men wore shirts, trousers and broad-brimmed hats. Several wore boots and carried short whips. It was at that time the SEALs noticed communal stables with horses.

A short, stocky man who seemed to be in his fifties stepped forward and spoke loudly, issuing sincerely happy salutations. Lieutenant Cruiser couldn't understand what he said, so he called for Chad Murchison to come forward. Chad had been a language major before enlisting in the Navy, and spoke French, German, Spanish and Italian fluently. He hurried to the front and offered his hand to the man.

"Buenos dial, senor," Chad said. "Como esta usted?"

The villager smiled and shook his head to indicate he couldn't understand. "Bom dia," the man said. "Muito prazer em conheca-lo."

Chad looked back at Cruiser. "Sir, he's not speaking Spanish. I'm not sure, but I think it's Portuguese:'

"Portuguese?" Cruiser said. "Why the hell would he be speaking in Portuguese? This is Bolivia. They speak Spanish here."

"Maybe he and these people came over here from Brazil," Chad suggested. "They speak Portuguese there."

"Shit!" Cruiser said. He turned to the section. "Do any of you guys speak Portuguese?"

Paulo Cinzento, one of the new men, stepped forward. "I speak Portuguese, sir."

"Oh, yeah?" Cruiser said, pleased. "How the hell did you learn to speak Portuguese?"

"I'm from San Diego, sir," Paulo replied. "My people came from Portugal and worked the tuna boats out of there for about three generations. I grew up with the language."

"Great," Cruiser said. "Go talk to the old guy there. Introduce us but don't mention that we're Americans. Just tell him we're patrolling this area and want to know how these nice folks are getting along."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

Paulo went over to the old man and began speaking. Within a moment they were going at it like they were long-lost brothers. A full ten minutes of conversation went by before the SEAL returned to the section commander. "There's a puzzling situation here, sir."

"What's going on?" Cruiser asked.

"Well, he thanked us for some rice and beans and said they came in handy," Paulo explained. "He asked about some guy by the name of Punzarrao, and I told him he was fine. He also said to give greetings to the other soldiers. Then he said no Bolivian troops have been around since the last time some weeks ago."

"Other soldiers and Bolivians, huh?" Cruiser mused. "Who is the old guy?"

"He's the chefe--the chief--and his name is Joao Cabecinho," Paulo said. "It seems they're illegal squatters from Brazil, and they're raising cattle here. Old Joao said everyone was afraid of getting run out, but evidently the same guys who gave them the food also promised they would protect them from Bolivian police and soldiers."

"Okay," Cruiser said. "I get it. These are some of the people Alfredo was talking about. The Falangists have already gained a strong influence over them. Go tell the old guy that we have to go now. Tell him we hope to be back soon."

Paulo made the good-byes, and all the villagers waved as the SEALs formed up and headed back toward the creek where the boats were hidden. Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson hurried forward along the column to walk with Lieutenant Cruiser. The chief was pessimistic. "What do you think, sir?"

"I think it's pretty obvious the Falangists have won the hearts and minds of those villagers," Cruiser said. "That means they've probably done the same thing to other civilians in the OA."

"That's bad news, sir," Gunnarson commented. "That means we'll be fighting on two fronts. We'll have to watch our backs."

"I'm afraid you're right," Cruiser said bitterly.

The column continued across the grasslands back toward the creek as it began to rain again.

Chapter 4

THE LOZANO GRASSLANDS

2 DECEMBER

0930 HOURS LOCAL

CAPITAN Tomas Platas led his nine-man column across the savannah, moving at a steady pace as they followed their assigned patrol route. He was concerned about the physical conditioning of the men, and glanced back, noting that several walked along with heads bent, obviously struggling as they went through the grim, ancient military practice of putting one foot ahead of the other. These sweating Falangists had abandoned staff positions to join the revolution, and none had the stamina of younger soldiers. Many had not served in line outfits for years.

They were divided into two rifle teams and a machine gun crew, and all were veteran noncommissioned officers from the Chilean, Bolivian and Argentine armies. They were in full field gear, carrying rifles while the automatic weapons crew was further burdened with an Amali light machine gun. The second-in-command of the patrol was a scowling Portuguese who had served in the Spanish Foreign Legion for a decade. Suboficial Adolfo Punzarr name Spanishized from the original Punzarrao of his native country--was in excellent physical condition. This large, muscular man with a shaven head had an enormous mustache that curled out from beneath a nose battered flat in innumerous brawls. Punzarron had fled into the Legion to avoid a murder charge in Portugal.

The suboficial, with the staying power of a bull unable to sense pain, scowled openly at the others in the patrol. He had nothing but contempt for the headquarters types. At least half of them were not truly devoted to the Falange. They had fled into the sanctuary of the revolution because of pending disciplinary actions, serious indebtedness, shrewish wives, or other personal problems. Those were the ones who found it so hard to readapt to field soldiering.

Here on the patrol, any slowing down or even a misstep earned the faltering man a heavy slap across the back of the head from the Portuguese's large hand. It didn't matter if he was a sargento or sargento-mayor, Punzarron treated the weakling like one of the pathetic wretches sent to his regiment from recruiting stations to be brutalized into effectiveness for the ranks of the Foreign Legion.

Capitan Platas didn't like the man, but Comandante Toledo, who had served with the suboficial, gave implicit orders that none of the lieutenants or captains were to interfere with his methods. No one denied that Punzarron was a brute, but he got instant results using his fists and boots.

The forty-year-old sargento carrying the thirteen-kilo machine gun was having a particularly tough time of it. The crew had been passing it among themselves to share the load, but Punzarron quickly put a stop to that. Custom dictated that the gunner was responsible for the weapon, and by God, that meant he and he alone carried it! The sargento-gunner had been supervising an ordnance repair shop before leaving the Argentine armed forces, and it had beeny ears since he had served in a line combat outfit. He finally stumbled and collapsed to the thick grass, near exhaustion as the weapon fell to the ground.