did was go to each one and remove the muzzle cov the last one was off, he took a thermite grenade off his vest, pulled the pin and dropped it down the tube. He quickly went to the next two, performing the same action in a swift, sure manner. With that done, he left the clearing, slipping back into the jungle for the trek back to the perimeter.
Inside the tubes the grenades' thermite fillers began their forty-second burns. The resulting temperature of 4,300 degrees Fahrenheit changed the filler into molten iron that flowed from the canister. The innards of the mortar tubes ignited and fused, turning into liquid metal.
.
CA PITA N Tomas Platas slept soundly in his tent. He dreamed of his hometown of Trinidad in Bolivia, and he was walking down the street going to his parents' house. As he plodded along La Avenida de la Revolucion, he heard a strange hissing sound. It began to grow louder and louder until he suddenly woke up.
He sat up, noticing an acrid smell, then saw a glow so bright it showed through the canvas of the tent. The officer crawled out into the open and stood up. The bright light, now casting a daylight quality over the area, was coming from the mortars. By now others were climbing from their shelters to see what the hell was happening.
Everyone rushed to the weapons to see them slumping down like melting candle wax. One doubled over and fell on its base plate. The two parts were immediately welded together.
Platas turned to the senior sargento, screaming at him. 'What did you do? Why are our mortars on fire?'
The sargento could only shrug. 'I have no idea what is going on, mi capitan!'
An older cabo, who had been broken in rank in the Argentine Army for getting drunk and driving a truck into the front of the officers' club, sniffed the air. 'That is thermite, mi capitan.'
'How the hell did thermite get down in those chingaderas mortars?' Platas roared.
'We don't even have white phosphorous shells in our inventory,' the sargento pointed out. 'I cannot see how anything untoward like this could have happened.'
No one said anything for a moment as they all realized that one or more of the phantom norteamericanos had entered their bivouac while all were asleep. Platas hung his head in abject misery.
'I must radio the generalisimo and tell him we have no more mortar support.'
.
BETWEEN THE LINES
0430 HOURS LOCAL
A mountain seems twice as steep going up it than comning down, and Redhawk's thigh muscles burned with the effort as he ascended the slope back toward the detachment perimeter. He moved diagonally across the high ground, changing to the opposite direction now and then as he planted his feet firmly before stepping upward.
Then, as before, another rustling of vegetation caught his attention. He wondered if it was the little guy he had seen earlier. This disturbance however, was not quite so loud. It was more like a whisk sound of somebody brushing up against a low-hanging branch of a tree. He ducked down and waited. Within moments four Falangists, stripped down for action, appeared to his direct front. They moved efficiently through the undergrowth, showing no signs of fatigue.
Redhawk could see them well. They were hard-core dudes toting submachine guns. He surmised they were a small patrol that could either be out for reconnaissance or combat purposes. The badass quartet looked like they could do some serious damage if they set their minds to it.
The SEAL waited until they passed, then he moved on.
.
THE SEAL PERIMETER
0450 HOURS LOCAL
THE dawn of the long summer day was beginning to turn the night's blackness into a misty grayness when Red-hawk approached the south side of the perimeter. He spoke *in a whisper into his LASH. 'Hey, you Second Section guys, this is Redhawk. I'm approaching the perimeter.'
Gutsy Olson's voice came over the system. 'Okay, Red-hawk. Did you bring any coffee and doughnuts with you?'
'Sorry,' Redhawk said, moving toward the perimeter. 'The take-out places around here suck.' He reached the apex of the mountain and walked between the positions manned by Gutsy and Wes Ferguson. 'You don't have to sweat the mortars anymore.'
'Thank God for small favors,' Wes said.
Redhawk crossed the middle of the defensive area going straight to Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan's CP. The Skipper was cooking some MRE chili con carne in an FRH as the Brigand walked up. Redhawk pulled the leftover thermite grenade off his vest and set it down. 'I got one left over.'
'Your efficiency boggles the mind,' Brannigan remarked.
'There was only three of 'em, sir,' Redhawk said. 'I didn't stick around to do any more damage, although it was a piece of cake. They didn't even have a sentry posted. I could've put this final grenade in the ammo, but the explosions would have alerted anyone within a hundred kilometers. Anyhow, it was certain them guys weren't expecting any unwanted visitors.'
'Complacency will always fuck you up in a combat situation,' Brannigan said. He dug his spoon into the chili. 'Did you see anything interesting while you were out and about?'
'Yes, sir,' Redhawk answered. 'On the way down I saw this little bitty guy carrying a big rucksack. He was a Falangist for sure, but I can't quite figure out what he was doing wandering around in the jungle in the dead of night.
On the way back there was a four-man patrol that crossed my path. These guys looked like they knew what they were doing. But they weren't moving toward the perimeter. Instead, they headed to the west.'
'Probably a recon patrol,' Brannigan surmised. 'Did you find the enemy machine guns?'
'Negative, sir. They must be farther up the mountain somewhere.'
'No doubt,' Brannigan said. 'Okay, Redhawk. Well done. You can report back to Chief Gunnarson.'
'Is it okay if I look in on Pech, sir?'
'Sure.'
It began to rain as Redhawk walked toward James Bradley's treatment area.
.
0600 HOURS LOCAL
THE rain fell heavily, splattering off leaves and dripping down toward the ground as Coronel Jeronimo Busch led his equipo comando through the brush. All four men were soaking wet, more from the water on the trees and brush than from the downpour, as they slowly worked their way upward toward the enemy position in the southwest portion of the battlefield.
The unexpected storm gave them a perfect opportunity to launch a quick daylight surprise attack without having problems with sound. After inflicting casualties on the enemy's line, they could quickly withdraw farther down the mountain before turning to set up an impromptu defense.
The Falangists were in a close-packed skirmish line with Chaubere in the lead. He suddenly came to a halt, whispering a warning over the LASH to the others. He had caught a fleeting glimpse of one of the Yanquis through the brush ahead. Busch quickly worked his way over to take a look. 'Escuchen--listen!' he said. 'Close in on Chaubere and me. Hurry!'
Punzarron and Muller quickly complied, crowding together with the other two. Busch pointed ahead. They all glanced in that direction for a moment, then saw the Yanqui appear momentarily. He disappeared from view, but it was obvious he had not moved from the position.
'Fire on my command,' the coronel said. 'One long burst each.'
Now four submachine guns were aimed at the exact spot they had sighted the norteamericano.
'Tiren--Fire!'
.
WES Ferguson shook under the impact of the automatic fire, twisting in his fighting position before slumping to the ground. Guy Devereaux and Joe Miskoski quickly returned a salvo in the direction of the incoming. After a couple of beats it was obvious the attackers had headed back down the mountain in the rain.
Guy hurried over to Wes, rolling him over for an examination. Most of his face was shot away, and his right
