they be peacefully and respectfully deported back to Brazil.'
'I will see that the matter is handled with courtesy and consideration,' Sanchez assured him.
'The United States government also requests that none of their belongings or money be taken from them,' Joplin said. 'And that includes their cattle. They are poor people.'
'I cannot promise that,' Sanchez said. 'We have laws and procedures that must be followed. However, I will see what can be done. Is there anything else?'
'Not a this time, thank you,' Joplin said. He visibly relaxed and smiled. 'Now, Arturo, with our business taken care of, my wife and I would be pleased if you and Mrs. Sanchez came by for dinner tonight. Eight o'clock. It will be an intimate affair; just us four.'
'I would be delighted, Carl,' Sanchez said, standing up. 'I must get back to my office and get this Novida village thing put in the pipeline. Until tonight at eight. Good afternoon, my friend.'
'Buenas tardes, amigo mio,' Joplin responded in Spanish.
.
OA, WESTERN SECTION
17 DECEMBER
1515 HOURS
out the area to the east of Cache Lisa. Garth Redhawk was on point, moving with the self-assuredness and silence of a Kiowa warrior. The camouflage paint on his face was applied in the old tribal manner, and his medicine bag was around his neck held by a rawhide thong. Back to the rear of the small column, Chad Murchison kept an eye to each side of their trek as well as the rear. Brannigan, Frank Gomez and James Bradley moved along between the two, covering the middle of the column.
Redhawk sighted the Falangist at the exact moment the man sighted him. They quickly exchanged shots, the reports of the CAR-15 and the CETME assault rifle cracking simultaneously. 'Enemy front!' Redhawk said over the LASH. 'Unknown number.'
Brannigan immediately reacted to the situation and formed the element into a skirmish line with James and Chad going to Redhawk's left, while he and Frank went to the right. Everyone immediately went to the ground, since the encounter took place on an open, flat area with no cover other than the tall grass. The Falangists had wisely done the same, and now neither side could see the other.
'Redhawk,' Brannigan said over the LASH, 'move forward and check out the situation. If they haven't moved back, they could be just waiting for one of us to show ourselves. Be damn careful!'
'Aye, sir,' Redhawk calmly replied in a whisper.
This descendant of the Kiowa and Comanche tribes eased silently toward the enemy, being careful to be as quiet as possible without causing undue movement of the grass. Being in combat took him deep into the culture of his people, and he felt that he was in his element. At that exact moment, Redhawk was performing the one thing he was on the earth to do; to kill as a warrior kills. It made no difference whether it was to close in on game such as elk or buffalo or to seek out the enemy of his people to slay them. He was a fighter, a hunter, and a plunderer. All his personal honor and purposes in life were wrapped up in those three endeavors. It was as if he had been pulled into a time warp.
Redhawk peered through the dense, waving vegetation, suddenly catching sight of an older man with gray hair. He was middle-aged but obviously in good physical condition. The Oklahoman aimed carefully, then slowly squeezed the trigger. The Falangist's head jerked violently as his skull exploded in a red shower of brains and blood.
Redhawk crawled off, turning in another direction for no other reason than he felt some sort of vibrations in that area. After going ten meters he discovered he had eased into a position behind another enemy soldier. A quick aim, and a pull on the trigger. The strike of the bullet hit the back of the man's head so hard that his face was slammed into the ground.
The SEAL now moved at a right angle, easing down into a shallow dip in the ground. When he reached the other side of the depression he was suddenly looking into the face of a wide-eyed Falangist. Redhawk, in an instinctive reflex, let off an unaimed round, and the guy's features caved inward with the bullet strike.
A gruff command was shouted in Spanish, and a sudden salvo of bullets whipped above The SEAL's head. He went as flat as he could as several volleys came so close he could feel the shock waves from the bullets as they whipped over him. Then the shooting stopped as quickly as it began. Redhawk remained plastered to the ground in the silence. Not even an insect buzzed.
Brannigan's voice came over the LASH. 'They've pulled out. On your feet!'
The SEALs gathered together, going to each of the three corpses to check them for possible intelligence. But none bore documents of any kind, not even I. D. cards or tags.
Chad Murchison looked carefully at the second man Redhawk had killed. 'I say! This fellow is rather mature, is he not?'
'All three of 'em are,' Frank Gomez said. 'Do you remember what they told us in Isolation? These guys are all noncommissioned officers and officers. They're veterans.'
Brannigan checked the eastern horizon with his binoculars. 'There could be more of them coming this way.' He lowered the viewing device. 'Redhawk, we'll head back to the cache. Follow a different azimuth than the one we used to get out here.'
'Aye, sir!'
The patrol fell back into its march formation as the Native American took the lead.
.
ABOVE THE SAVANNAH
18 DECEMBER
0500 HOURS LOCAL
CORON EL Francisco Martinez sat in the copilot's seat of the old H-34 transport helicopter. He was the commander of the western sector of the Policia Fronterizathe Border Police--and his men had nicknamed him El Garron--the Big Claw--after a well-known Bolivian wrestler who was always the bad guy in his matches.
Two more helicopters followed the colonel's, and both were filled with eight heavily armed policemen. They had traveled from their usual post on the Bolivian-Brazilian border to take care of a matter involving some squatters. The orders had come down outside of normal police-channels, and as far as Coronel Martinez was concerned, that was a carte blanche to handle the situation any way he wanted.
And El Garron hated people of African ancestry.
When the choppers came in, each took a side of the village in a triangular formation. The well-trained policemen quickly leaped from the aircraft and formed up in skirmish lines, their Uzi 9-millimeter submachine guns h fully loaded thirty-round magazines. Each agent also had four more attached to his shoulder harness.
El Garron knew the noise of the incoming helicopters would have awakened all the residents of the tiny community, and he strode toward the thatched huts to find the headman.
Joao Cabecinho walked out into the countryside from the village. His people, who had stumbled out of their residences, stood around in a collective feeling of dread. The sight of armed police was a sure sign of immediate misery and disappointment in their lives.
El Garron stood with legs spread and his arms folded across his chest as he waited for the village chief to come up to him. The police officer sneered down at the small black man. 'Born dia, preto,' he said in Portuguese.
Cabecinho knew there was nothing to gain with defiance. He noted the three stars on the rank patch held to the Bolivian's jacket by Velcro. 'Good morning, Coronel. How may I serve you?'
'You may serve me by directing everyone who lives in your village to go out on the opposite side from here,' El Garron said. 'One of my men will be waiting to direct you to the exact spot.'
Cabecinho, with no choice but to obey, turned to his people, passing on the instructions in a low, sad tone of voice. This was the one thing they dreaded would happen from the first day they arrived on the Gran Chaco. All hope was gone now. The people moved slowly and hesitantly until the policemen charged in, shouting and gesturing angrily.
Ten minutes later the entire population of a hundred men, women and children stood close together some twenty meters from the village limits. The disappointment and frustration showed plainly on their faces as the knowledge their plans and hard work for starting a new life in the Gran Chaco had come to an end.
