Milly looked past the man at the community. 'Excuse me for saying so, Reverend, but you folks look a little worse for wear.'
'We are having difficulties at this time,' Borden admitted. 'Our efforts in raising our own food have fallen far short of our hopes and expectations. These are people from the city, after all. We were just discussing the situation when you appeared in the distance:'
'I can help you out,' Milly said. 'Foodstuffs like flour, rice and beans can be here within a couple of hours.'
'We have no money, sir.'
'You don't need none,' Milly assured him. 'The eats will be supplied for free. That includes tools and even medicine. Or medical treatment, if you need it.'
'What would you require of us?' Borden asked suspiciously.
'There's some bad men around here,' Milly said. 'Soldiers that call theirselves Falangists. We came here to get rid of 'em. We would appreciate your help in what we're trying to do. I'm not talking about taking up arms. Just keep an eye out and give us information if you happen to see any of 'em. That's all we ask.'
Borden shook his head. 'I regret that I must refuse your kind offer of assistance after all, sir. We did not leave the turmoil of slum life to become embroiled in war.'
'All right, sir,' Milly said. He had already been fully briefed in the procedures for establishing friendly rapport with any indigenous people in the Gran Chaco. 'We don't ask nothing of you then. But we still would like to help. I bet we could even get you some new seed for your crops.'
'Your kindness seems like a sign from the Almighty,' Borden said. 'But I must reiterate that we will not become obligated to you in any way.'
'Not to worry, sir,' Milly said.
Borden swung his eyes to Wes Ferguson and Pech Pecheur. They seemed like a couple of tough guys, but there was an air of decency about them. He sighed and relented. 'I must accept your help, sir. Frankly, we are desperate.'
'Happy to oblige, sir,' Milly said, reaching for the handset of the AN/PRC-126 radio.
Chapter 8
STATE DEPARTMENT WASHINGTON, D. C.
13 DECEMBER
0915 HOURS LOCAL
WHEN Carl Joplin, PhD, an undersecretary of state, left his office that morning, he carried no briefcase with him. He sauntered down the corridors of the building with his hands in his pockets, appearing like a man headed for the cafeteria to partake of a late breakfast. Wherever he might be going, he didn't seem to be in much of a hurry.
And that was the exact impression he wished to make.
Joplin was on his way to the bailiwick of no less a personage than United States Secretary of State Benjamin Bellingham. No prior arrangements had been made for the visit, and the undersecretary knew his unexpected arrival would not be met with pleasure by the boss man. The visit violated protocol in at least a dozen ways, but Joplin damned convention in order to take care of some vital business that morning.
Now, perusing a copy of the Washington Post, Joplin sat in Bellingham's anteroom in front of the receptionist. Even an undersecretary would have to cool his heels if he walked in unannounced 'from the street.' Twenty minutes passed before the receptionist's phone rang. She answered softly and hung up, glancing at the unanticipated visitor.
'The secretary will see you now, Dr. Joplin.'
'Thank you!' he said brightly, laying the newspaper aside.
Joplin went through the door into the inner sanctum, walked down a short hallway to a massive portal and knocked on it. He entered after a gruff invitation was growled from inside.
'What the hell's going on, Carl?' the secretary of state asked irritably. He was a bear of a man with a thick shadow of beard across his jowls in spite of having been shaved by his barber less than an hour previously.
Joplin, completely at ease, walked up to the desk and plopped down in a handy chair. 'I've a situation I need to speak to you about, Ben. It involves a little affair going on in the Gran Chaco area of Bolivia.'
'Oh, yes,' Bellingham said. 'A packet came across my desk only yesterday. Just a moment.' He reached into a box marked FILE, pulling out a red folder. He quickly perused the contents, then set it in front of him. 'All right. A SEAL outfit is involved.'
'It is no more than a slightly reinforced platoon,' Joplin said. 'They are badly in need of additional personnel.' Then he quickly added, 'Fighting personnel, that is.'
Bellingham shrugged. 'The information I have is that they're up against a right-wing guerrilla outfit not much more numerous than themselves. I wouldn't think that would be much of a problem for Navy SEALs. Besides, why isn't the local military doing anything about this?'
'The information you received must be rather sketchy,' Joplin said. 'The situation is a hell of a lot more complicated than that:'
'Then please feel free to enlighten me, Carl.'
'The Falangists have infiltrated the armed forces of Bolivia, Chile and Argentina,' Joplin explained have moles in key areas that have not yet been identified. This is one of those well-known secrets that exist in these situations. The spies and informers are undoubtedly making up lists of names of those who'll be eliminated when and if their revolution is successful.'
'Blacklists are common among all conspirators,' Bellingham pointed out. 'Most shallow-minded zealots operate under the principle that other people are either with them or against them. There are no shades of gray in extremist political or religious movements.'
'You must keep in mind that the Latin American military are not in close harmony with the populations of their countries,' Joplin said. 'Besides, many of the officers are uneasy because of the possibility this is the beginning of the biggest revolution in the history of South America. They don't want to be on the outside looking in if a continental fascist dictatorship is established. Such a government would dominate the southern portion of the continent very quickly, then eventually conquer the rest of it. Any participants would be guaranteed high rank in the resultant gigantic army, navy and air forces. Their strength and influence would rival that of the United States. An American Falangist movement would undoubtedly emerge as well. All this in perhaps less than a decade.'
Bellingham shook his head, patting the folder. 'My intelligence sources assure me this is a minor disturbance. In fact, it seems there's a CIA operative on the scene.'
'The Falangists have won the hearts and minds of some of the locals,' Joplin pointed out. 'They now have a helicopter and heavy support weaponry. This is just a start of what could be a flood of aircraft, arms and personnel.'
'What is the amount of this influx?'
'It can't be determined at this point,' Joplin admitted. 'I need your permission to go to the Department of Defense and request a buildup of our force down there. Initially, our special operations capabilities in the situation should be tripled.'
'I don't feel that is necessary, Carl.'
'Then let's save some American lives and abandon the project.'
Bellingham frowned. 'You know we can't do that! An agreement has already been made. It would be embarrassing if we pulled out. Hell! You were the one that worked out the deal.'
'The SEALs stand a good chance of being wiped out, Ben!' Joplin snapped.
'I don't think so,' Bellingham said. 'Get back to me if there are any meaningful updates that radically change the situation.'
'If that happens it will happen fast,' Joplin warned him. 'And it will be too late for our people involved in the mission?'
'I appreciate your concern, really,' Bellingham said. 'But--'
'Thanks for your time, Ben,' Carl said, standing up. 'Just remember, this is a situation that could blow apart on us. Big time!' He walked to the door, his shoulders slumped.
.
