intense interrogation.'
Muller walked over and sat down on the bunk. 'Hello, amigo,' he said. 'We can have you flown to an army hospital just over the Argentine border. They will have you on your feet in no time.' As he spoke, he pulled his Beretta automatic pistol from its holster on his web belt. He gently placed the muzzle against the delirious man's temple. A pull on the trigger sent brains and blood splattering over the cell wall. Muller got to his feet. 'Let's go, companeros!'
The trio went back into the dormitory. When they walked in they saw that an uninjured man had been found under one of the bunks. He stood in his shorts and T-shirt with his hands in the air. Busch stood in front of him, scowling. 'Y to nombre?'
'Me Ilamo Roberto Torres-Martinez,' Alfredo said, using a cover name. 'Soy de Puerto Rico.'
'A Puerto Rican, eh?' Busch remarked. 'That means you're an American citizen, does it not?'
'Wait a minute!' Muller exclaimed. 'I've seen this fellow before!' He walked over and studied Alfredo's face. 'Segura! He was on the helicopter that landed after that patrol was ambushed. I found a good place for concealment in the grass.' He laughed loudly. 'The bastards were looking all over for me.'
The Chilean ex-marine confirmed it. 'That is true. He was there when they captured us.'
Busch punched Alfredo once, causing him to stumble backward. He hit him hard again, then a third time that sent the CIA man to the floor. Chaubere walked over and picked him up. He clipped him too, and Alfredo wisely went down, feigning that he was badly dazed.
The punch-up was interrupted when Punzarron came in from another side room. 'There is a radio in there, and somebody is calling over it.'
Muller picked Alfredo up and frog-marched him into the commo room with Busch and Chaubere following. A voice came over the speaker. 'Petrol, this is Brigand. Over. I say again. Petrol, this is Brigand. Over.'
Busch looked at Chaubere. 'You speak English, do you not?'
'Yes, sir,' the Frenchman answered. 'But I am afraid it is like my Spanish. Heavily accented.'
Busch reached out and yanked Alfredo from Muller's grasp. 'I know damn well that you speak English, puertorriqueno'
'Yes,' Alfredo said in English. 'I speak the language fluently.'
'Then answer that transmission!' Busch ordered.
Alfredo picked up the microphone and waited. As soon as the call was repeated, he pressed the TRANSMIT button. 'Brigand, this is Petrol. We are compromised. I say again. We are compromised! We are--'
Chaubere knocked the microphone from Alfredo's hand. The ex-Special Forces sergeant major reached over and pulled Muller's pistol from the holster with the flap still unfastened. But before he could fire, Busch swung up his submachine gun and squeezed off a long burst.
Alfredo toppled to the floor, althost cut in half.
Busch looked from the mangled corpse over to his men. 'Which of you brought the plastic explosives?'
'It is I, mi coronel,' one answered as he snapped to attention.
'Take care of those damn red helicopters out there,' Busch said. 'I don't want to see another one of those in the sky over the Gran Chaco.'
'Si, mi coronel!'
The Falangist pulled the white blocks of C4 from his haversack as he walked from the building to destroy the Petroleo Colmo aircraft.
.
SEAL BASE CAMP COMMO HOOTCH
0545 HOURS LOCAL
FRANK Gomez looked up at Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan, who stood beside him. 'That was Alfredo, sir.'
'Shit!' Brannigan exclaimed. 'What the hell could have happened?'
'He said he was compromised, sir.'
'Godamn it, Gomez!' Brannigan snapped. 'I know what he said. I'm wondering what went wrong.'
'Yes, sir.'
'This is a lost fucking cause,' Brannigan said. 'Our local support is completely wiped out. Get the SOI to see what we do in a case like this.'
'Aye, sir.' Frank reached over to a niche hacked in the dirt wall. The SOI, sealed in plastic with an AN-M14 incendiary thermite grenade standing on it, sat in the small excavation. He pulled it out, ripped off the covering, then handed it to the Skipper. Brannigan went through it, finding the information he was looking for. He showed it to Frank.
Frank tuned to the correct frequency, then began transmitting. 'Matrix, this is Brigand. Over.'
'This is Matrix,' came an immediate reply. 'Authentication kilo-papa-zulu-echo-tango. I say again. Authentication kilo-papa-zulu-echo-tango.'
'This is Brigand,' Frank replied. 'Wait.' He turned to the proper section of the SOI, reading through columns and rows of five-letter groups. 'This is Brigand. Authentication follows. Uniform-whiskey-victor-zulu-mike.' Then he added the day and month. 'Zero-six-zero-one. Over.'
'This is Matrix. Authentication verified. Over.'
Frank handed the microphone to Brannigan. The Skipper spoke directly and plainly as he passed on the word of the disaster at the oil company's field office. 'Petrol is compromised. Over.'
A short pause followed before a reply was transmitted. 'This is Matrix. You will move to map coordinates six zero--five one--two four--two two--three five--zero niner. I say again. Six zero--five one--two four--two two--three five zero finer. Out.'
Frank had copied down the coordinates. He ripped the page out of the pad and handed it to Brannigan. 'There you are, sir.'
'Yeah,' Brannigan said, taking the piece of paper. 'That's it. End of transmission. Period.'
'They don't want to talk to us no more, sir,' Frank said. 'That's SOP.'
'Yeah,' Brannigan grumbled. He reached into his side trouser pocket and pulled out his map. He opened it up and read the grid lines right and up. 'Well, hell! We've got a good ways to go:'
'Where're we headed, sir? Frank asked.
'The Selva Verde Mountains,' Brannigan replied. 'That range is completely covered by jungle. The Rio Ancho will take us there, which means we can go by boat. But the contour lines on this fucking map are so close together a gnat couldn't piss between 'em. That means a steep, difficult climb up to our objective.'
'Jesus,' Frank said. He had already missed Thanksgiving and Christmas with his family. Now it looked like it would still be a long time before he got. home--if he made it. 'What the hell are we do up there?'
'Our best to fucking survive.'
.
FUERTO FRANCO
HEADQUARTERS BUNKER
1430 HOURS LOCAL
GENERALISIMO Castillo called a conference with his senior field commander and intelligence officer. Coronel Jeronimo Busch and Comandante Diego Tippelskirch sat in the bunker with Suboficial Ignacio Perez off to one side at his little desk to take notes of the meeting.
Busch was in a good mood. 'The bandidos are now without CIA assistance via the Petroleo Colmo Company. And we are the only ones with air support.'
Castillo had a concern. 'But what if another CIA cover unit moves into the area? Surely they would bring aircraft with them, no?
'That would create no difficulties for us, mi generalisimo,' Busch said. 'If we see other aircraft in the Gran Chaco, we will shoot them down. Do not forget that the EC-635 has a twenty-millimeter cannon in the nose.'
'You're right,' Castillo said, relieved. 'Well, in the meantime, I have been studying the map and putting myself in the place of the chief of the bandidos. As far as I can determine, he has but two choices. He can either give up the fight and withdraw from the Gran Chaco or carry out his campaign with a new source of support.'
'I am not worried,' Comandante Tippelskirch said. 'Our intelligence net grows stronger at almost a daily rate. Nothing can be moved into the Gran Chaco without our operatives discovering it before it's done. We will be
