1600 HOURS LOCAL
SARGENT Antonio Muller led his three men through the defensive perimeter around the garrison into its interior. They had just completed a daylong reconnaissance patrol and showed the fatigue brought on by physical exertion combined with high temperatures and humidity.
Their boots were caked with mud, and their camouflage uniforms were sweat-soaked, but they marched smartly into the cantonment area.
Muller brought the small column to a halt. Two of them were sargentos and the other a cabo who had been broken down from sargento-mayor for beating up an insubordinate soldier while serving in the Argentine Army. That was his basic motivation for deserting and joining the Falangist insurgency.
'Good job today,' Muller told them. 'Your physical conditioning is now tops. When the new recruits arrive you will be ready to give them hell. After you're dismissed you're free to clean up and get ready for mess call. Rompan filas!'
The men made about-faces, then broke ranks and ambled toward their barracks. Muller walked across the parade ground to headquarters, going in to report to the intelligence officer. This was Capita Diego Tippelskirch, who had served in the same parachute infantry battalion in the Chilean Army with the sargento. He had been sent TDY from his battalion to a posting in a supersecret organization during President Antonio Penechet's notorious reign. Like many such officers, the law was closing in on Tippelskirch, and this was the basic reason why he opted for the Falange. Generalisimo Castillo was glad to welcome him into the movement because of his many valuable contacts in the military and naval intelligence services of several South American countries.
'Reporting from patrol duty, mi capita,' Sargento Muller said, saluting.
'How did it go, Muller?' Tippelskirch asked, looking up from his paperwork.
'Nothing special to inform you about, sir,' Muller said. 'But there was a lot of flying about by those red helicopters:'
Tippelskirch nodded. 'Those are the ones belonging to that petroleum exploration firm. They've been in the Gran Chaco for quite some time:'
'Their activity seems to be increasing,' Muller said. 'I am used to seeing them from time to time, but I caught sight of them a total of four times today during our reconnaissance.'
Tippelskirch was interested. 'What were they doing?'
'Flying rapidly from place to place and landing,' Muller said. 'They would be out of sight over the far horizon for a short period of time, then suddenly take off and go to another location.'
Tippelskirch shrugged. 'Perhaps they've finally discovered oil. Since this area will soon be the DFF, the financial benefits will be most useful to our cause. At any rate, I will make a report about the activity at this evening's staff meeting. Anything else, Willer?'
'No, mi capitan.'
The sargento saluted, made an about-face that would have done him credit on any parade ground, then marched smartly off to shower and change for mess call.
.
SEAL CACHE LISA
OA, WESTERN SECTION 11 DECEMBER
0745 HOURS LOCAL
GARTH Redhawk used hand signals to direct the Dauphin helicopter to the proper place for landing. As soon as its wheels touched down, all five men of the Command Element rushed forward to grab the bundles being handed out by the aircraft's two-man crew.
The equipment, 5.56-millimeter ammo and MREs, was to be stashed in the nearby_cache dug the night before. This earthen storage area had been dubbed Lisa after Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan's wife. He had gotten the idea from studying the Battle of Dien Bien Phu, when the French made their last stand in their war in Vietnam. All the strongpoints in the fortified area had been nam honor of the wives of several of the French officers. Brannigan decided to name this one after his spouse, giving permission to the assault teams to name their own caches after wives and sweethearts also.
When the unloading chore was done, the chopper took off without further delay, heading to another location with more cargo. Now, laboring in the growing heat of the morning, the entire Command Element began stacking the goods in the excavation. Brannigan helped with the fetching and carrying, carefully putting ammo boxes and MRE cartons on the tarpaulins laid down for them. As soon as everything was ready, more canvas covering was put over the goods.
At that point everyone scrambled out to begin the muscle-cramping task of shoveling dirt into the hole. As soon as that was finished, the careful camouflaging and masking of the location would be taken care of.
Frank Gomez, dirty and sweating, worked his shovel like an automaton, throwing earth into the shallow chasm. He looked up at Chad Murchison, who labored like a coolie at the task.
Chad winked at Frank. 'I wonder what the poor people are doing today?'
.
OA, NORTHERN SECTION
0945 HOURS LOCAL
CHARLIE Fire Team--Milly Mills, Wes Ferguson and Pech Pecheur--moved cautiously across the savannah in a skirmish line as they approached a small village a hundred meters ahead. The bucolic community had been spotted during a flyover by the Dauphin chopper, and Senior Chief Buford Dawkins had detailed the Charlies to check the place out.
As they drew closer, the SEALs noted the site was made up of a half-dozen grass-thatched huts and one long one that appeared to be a dining or meeting center. A few plowed areas appearing to be vegetable gardens were located on the west side of the site. A closer look showed the cultivated areas weren't producing much in the way of food.
Some people came out of the larger building, indicating that a meal or meeting had been in progress. A tall, spindly, bearded man made his way through the small crowd. He stopped for a moment to gaze at the SEALs, then walked toward them in long strides. After going a few yards he stopped, waiting for them to come to him.
Milly warily eyed the other people, speaking to his men out of the corner of his mouth. 'You guys get ready. If as much as a single weapon appears, open fire and start moving back.'
However, the group of villagers did nothing more than watch them. When the SEALs walked up to the tall man, Milly nodded to him.
'Buenos dias,' the stranger said. 'Como puedo servirles?'
Milly reached in his pocket for his Spanish phrase book. He pulled it out, thumbing through the pages.
The man noticed the book, his puzzlement evident by the expression on his face. 'I speak English.'
'Oh?' Milly said. 'Good! How do you do?'
'I'm fine, thank you.'
'You're an American, ain't you?' Milly commented.
'And evidently so are you,' the man said pleasantly. 'I am Reverend Walter Borden of the Christian Outreach Ministry. What can I do for you, sir? I assure you that we are on this land legally. I can produce all the permits and documentation issued us by the Bolivian government.'
'I see,' Milly said. 'My name is Mills. I--that is my men and me--dropped by to, well, to see how things was going with you folks.'
'What are you doing here?' Reverend Borden asked in unabashed curiosity.
'I can't discuss that right now,' Milly said. 'And I don't want to be impolite, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you that same question. And I want an answer?'
'You have the guns, sir,' Borden said. 'So I shall comply.'
'Let me add the magic word to my question,' Milly said, grinning slightly. 'Please tell me what you're doing here:'
'I am part of an international ministry of outreach to the poor,' Borden said. 'We are based in Dallas, Texas, and send missions out to various parts of the world to preach the Gospel and save souls. I had been working in the slums of La Paz. My work had gotten very frustrating, and I obtained permission from our church to move my flock away from the distractions of big city evil to the countryside. We have established this little village as a place to live and worship as Christians. We call it Caridad. That means charity in Spanish.'
