in the base camp, listening to the deluge splattering heavily on the hootch roofs. Out in the countryside, the caches concealed in the grassy terrain of the Gran Chaco's savannah were ready and waiting when needed.
The reason for the reunification was that Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan was anxious to wrap up Operation Falangist Fury, and he wanted to launch a fresh campaign to destroy the Falangist enemy. At that moment, the Skipper was in his hootch, busy working out an OPLAN with Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins and Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson. Arrangements had already been made to have the Petroleo Colmo helicopters available for transport and resupply in the coming activities.
Out on the OP, James Bradley and Chad Murchison gazed into the drizzling darkness, feeling a bit sentimental and sad because of the Christmas season. They concentrated on talking about anything but hearth and home as the lonely hours on watch slowly passed. After a period of subdued conversation, they had reached a point where neither had much to say, and they sank into a morose silence. James finally eased out of the doldrums, asking, 'What do you think of Garth Redhawk? That guy's something else, isn't he?'
'Assuredly,' Chad said. 'He killed three of the enemy in a very short time, employing stealth in an area with little cover. It would seem the genes of his warrior progenitors have evidently been passed down to him intact.'
'Right,' James agreed. 'He's the quintessential warrior.'
'And even more dangerous than his forebears,' Chad said. 'Along with the natural skills and endowment as a fighting man, he has acquired modern military discipline. He is also highly intelligent. The combination of all that is bodacious.'
James laughed. 'That's the word! Bodacious! Redhawk is like a natural boxer who instinctively dodges punches thrown at him while seeing openings for his own attacks without having to think about it. He just does it, y' know, and it's the absolute correct thing to do at the times he unconsciously reacts.'
'You've described his attributes accurately,' Chad said. 'In all veracity, I must say that I am glad to be teamed with him on reconnaissance. I experience an intense feeling of security knowing that Garth Redhawk is at my side.'
'I can't blame you for that,' James said.
As the two SEALs passed the time on the OP, Brannigan, Dawkins and Matt studied the map of the Gran Chaco by flashlight within the confines of the hootch. Brannigan took a sip of coffee. 'The main thing we have to take under consideration is the location of the new Falangist position. It was discovered yesterday by one of the Petroleo Colmo choppers. They got a fix and a good look. It appears to be an earthen fort with fighting positions, trenches and bunkers. Godamn formidable.'
Dawkins growled deep in his throat. 'A hard nut to crack, sir.'
'Yeah,' Brannigan said. 'We'd never be able to take it by a frontal assault unless we get a lot of reinforcements.'
'Which ain't gonna happen,' Matt observed sourly. 'I wish we could at least be issued a good satellite photograph of that place. Could you put in a request, sir?'
'Hell no,' Brannigan said. 'Haven't you figured it out yet, Chief? We're not really down here.'
'Then if we ain't here, let's go over to the Fouled Anchor and have a beer with Salty,' Dawkins said.
'Don't play with reality, Senior Chief,' Brannigan advised. 'It'll drive you crazy.'
'I'm already halfway there, sir,' Dawkins said, 'And this fucking rain ain't helping anything.'
'The only way we're going to get clear of this operation is to kick Falangist butt,' Brannigan said. 'And the only way we're going to be able to do that is to find their patrols or units out in the open away from the protection of that fortified area.'
'You'll have to split us up again, sir,' Dawkins argued. 'We'll be right back to what we been doing all along.'
'I'm taking a different approach,' Brannigan said. 'The idea is to have the Petroleo Colmo do our recon for us. As soon as one of 'em spots some Falangists, he'll alert us by broadcasting those famous words of Sherlock Holmes: `The game is afoot.' Then he'll come straight here while the other chopper joins up. The whole detachment jumps aboard, and away we go to send the bastards to that great Nazi party meeting in the sky.'
'I like that idea,' Dawkins said. 'We can come in from two different directions.'
'Yeah,' Matt said. 'When it's feasible. But we still got this fucking savannah that's flat as a tablecloth and has no concealment or cover?'
'It sucks,' Brannigan agreed, 'but at the moment it's the only battlefield we've got.'
.
27 DECEMBER
0930 HOURS LOCAL
FRAN K Gomez sprayed some insect repellent into his hand and rubbed it on his face. The rain had stopped, and although the mosquitoes were not yet out, some mysterious little gnats had made an appearance on the Gran Chaco. They didn't actually land on anybody, but they buzzed around faces, eyes and ears, annoying the hell out of the SEALs. Thankfully, the bug spray seemed to repel the little bastards.
The Shadowfire radio came to life, getting Frank's mind off the bugs. 'Brigand, this is Petroleo. Over?'
'Petroleo, this is Brigand. Over,' Frank replied.
'Brigand, the game is afoot. Both choppers will be in for a pickup alpha-sierra-alpha-papa. Senior observer has the details. Out.'
Frank crawled out of the commo hootch and raced over to Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan's earthen domicile. 'The game is afoot, sir,' the radio operator announced. 'Choppers are on their way. They'll give you the poop when they get here.'
The Skipper quickly broadcast the word to the section and team leaders via his AN/PRC-126. Then he grabbed his combat vest, CAR-15 and ammo, leaving the CP to stride over to the assembly area.
Within two minutes the entire detachment stood armed, equipped and ready for the coming mission. The silhouettes of the two helicopters appeared in the distance, and they closed in fast. As soon as they landed, the SEALs quickly got aboard in a prearranged order without a lot of fuss. The Command Element and the First Assault Section took the Dauphin, while the Second Assault Section crammed themselves into the limited space of the Gazelle. Takeoff was immediate, and the pilots quickly whirled the aircraft in the direction of the target.
Brannigan slipped the intercom headset on his head and went forward to confer with the senior observer who sat in the copilot's seat. It turned out to be Alfredo. 'Hey, Bill,' the CIA operative said. 'Good target for you today.' He pulled out a map to use as reference. 'There is a Falangist patrol of eight men traveling on an azimuth of approximately two-eight-zero.'
'Right,' Brannigan said, checking the lay of the land as indicated on the chart. 'Here's what I want you to do.' He glanced over to make sure the pilot was listening in. 'Fly directly over them on the line of march, and go far enough that you can set down over the horizon, out of their sight.'
'Roger,' the pilot said.
Brannigan stayed in the cockpit. Ten minutes later he could see the patrol column below. Alfredo leaned over toward him. 'They don't pay us much mind. I guess they're used to these garish red helicopters buzzing around.'
'I wonder how long we're going to have this advantage,' Brannigan remarked.
Alfredo shrugged. 'It's kind of like sex. Nothing good lasts forever.'
.
OA, NORTH CENTRAL SECTION
0950 HOURS LOCAL
THE choppers came in slow, barely creeping a meter or so above the ground as the SEALs unassed them with the rapidity of a parachute jump. As soon as the last man was out, the aircraft quickly soared higher, turning toward their home base.
'All right, people! Everybody gather round the Skipper!' Senior Chief Buford Dawkins said in the LASH.
'We're going to be a reception committee this morning,' Brannigan said, taking out his compass, checking the angle of azimuth one-zero-zero. This was the exact opposite of the track followed by the Falangist patrol. 'The Second Assault Section will set up in the grass to the direct front with Delta Fire Team on the left. Understood?'
'Aye, sir,' Chief Matt Gunnarson replied.
