"Sir! The chopper is on the way in."
"All right," Brannigan said. He took up his binoculars and scanned the western horizon. Within minutes the bright red of the Petroleo Colmo Dauphin helicopter came into view, flying directly toward the site. It approached rapidly, then slowed as it began to descend. When it was directly over the detachment, Senior Chief Buford Dawkins signaled it in for a landing. It came down to gentle contact with the grass.
The cargo door slid open, and Alfredo jumped out. "Goodies!"
The SEALS went to the aircraft, and Paul Cinzento and Wes Ferguson jumped in and immediately began passing out the bundles of supplies to the others. Ammunition and rations made up the bulk of the cargo, but one unidentified bundle tightly wrapped was also included. Alfredo noticed everyone looking at it. "Camouflage coverings," he said, identifying it. "I figured you guys would need extra if you were going to be hiding stuff all over the OA. There're also some individual capes you can throw over yourselves to hide in the grass. They're just the right motley color to allow you to blend in with your surroundings. I brought enough for everyone:'
Brannigan unbuckled the straps and opened it up. He pulled one of the coverings out and checked it over. "Lightweight and compact," he remarked approvingly as he rolled it into a tight bundle to see how it would fit into a rucksack.
"I figured you would need 'ern," Alfredo said. "The concealment on this savannah is as scarce as tenderness in a sergeant major's heart:'
Brannigan laughed. "I've been wondering about you, Alfredo. I don't want to stick my nose where it doesn't belong, but you've had military service, haven't you?"
"I'm ex--Army Special Forces," Alfredo said, relenting. "Actually I was one of those mean sergeant majors before I retired."
"My confidence in you has blossomed, ex--Sergeant Major," Brannigan said.
"I have faith in you guys too," Alfredo said, moving toward the chopper. "Well! If you need anything else, let me know. You call. I haul. That's all." He waved as he got aboard the aircraft. The rotors kicked up, then the helicopter lifted skyward, turning back in the direction it came from.
Brannigan gestured to the section commanders. "Let's break this stuff out and distribute it. Put the leftovers in the boats. We'll cache it later."
Each man's load was increased by three days of MREs and four thirty-round magazines of 5.56-millimeter ammo. The SAW gunners' burdens were enlarged by a dozen magazines each, but some of these were distributed among the riflemen for portage purposes. Within ten minutes the job was done. Brannigan sent the men out to check the local area while he had a confab with the section and team leaders.
The senior members of the detachment settled down, lit cigarettes, chewed gum or bit into energy bars, while Brannigan strode to their front with his hands in his pockets, looking like a man about to take a peaceful walk through his neighborhood back home. He gazed at his men for a moment, then announced. "I'm ready to start a war."
"Aw, hell!" Connie Concord said, grinning. "I was fixing to put in for a thirty-day leave."
Chief Matt Gunnarson picked up a rock and lobbed it at him. "You'll get a leave all right, but it'll be restricted to the OA. Have fun. Don't forget your old buddies if you find any good-looking women:'
"Okay, guys," Brannigan said. "The Second Assault Section is going to run a combo reconnaissance and combat patrol due north from here. Redhawk and Murchison will act as scouts. I want the area scoped out, but if an opportunity presents itself to make contact with the enemy, do so." He looked at Senior Chief Dawkins, the section commander. "But only if you have a distinct advantage in the situation. I'm talking about a win-win scenario, understood? This is not the time to take chances."
"Aye, sir," Dawkins said. "Understood. What time do we depart?"
"I was kind of hoping you were already gone," Brannigan said with a wink.
The senior chief got to his feet, tapping Milly Mills and Gutsy Olson. "You heard the Skipper." He gestured to Red-hawk and Chad. "C' mon! Let's went!"
.
1315 HOURS LOCAL
GARTH Redhawk and Chad Murchison had set up an OP a hundred meters ahead of the section. The newly acquired camouflage capes allowed them to blend in perfectly with the surroundings. They used their binoculars to maintain a sharp lookout over the grassy plain that spread out all around them. They and the section were feeling the effects of the heavy, wet heat after long hours of hiking through the grass, and Dawkins had wisely called a break in their movement.
"Psst!" Chad said. "Take look out at two o'clock." Redhawk swung his gaze in that direction. "Patrol. Four-man. I can't see any more."
"Neither can I," Chad said. He observed them for a few additional moments. "Look! They're displaying that Falangist insignia on their sleeves. We definitely have the enemy in sight."
Redhawk pulled out the AN/PRC-126 radio handset. "Brigand Two, this is scout. We've got a four-man enemy patrol about a hundred and fifty meters ahead, moving west to east. Over."
"Are they alone or part of a larger group?" replied Dawkins. "Over?'
"They're definitely alone," Redhawk reported. "Over."
"We need an EPW," Dawkins said. "It'll be up to you guys. I can't get a fire team out there quick enough. What do you think about going after them? Can do? Over."
"Can do," Redhawk replied. "We're on our way. Out." He put away the handset, looking at Chad. "The senior chief wants an EPW."
"In my opinion, that is not an insurmountable undertaking," Chad said. "They're moving on a direct azimuth of two hundred and seventy degrees. If we stay low, we can hurry in a half-circuitous route and get ahead of them."
"They call that an end around in Oklahoma football," Redhawk said. "Let's do it!"
The scouts moved slightly south, then turned straight west, keeping as low on the horizon as possible. After ten minutes, they moved toward the target patrol, noting that the group continued in the same direction.
"Y' know," Redhawk remarked, "I think that patrol leader was told to follow a westward course. And that's exactly what he's doing. Two hundred and seventy degrees by the compass and straight as an arrow."
Chad grinned. "He isn't allowing for declension. Thus, it would appear that our antagonist is a young officer. Possibly the equivalent of an ensign."
For the next half hour the two SEALs dogged the enemy patrol, gradually moving ahead of them as the trek continued due west. When they had gone twenty meters ahead of the Falangists, the scouts turned inward until they reached a point where the bad guys would be well within rifle range when they moved across their front. Redhawk and Chad went to the ground, their camouflage capes over them with CAR-15s ready.
"There they are!" Chad exclaimed.
"It looks like the second guy is the one in charge," Red-hawk said. As the senior ranking man of the pair, he would literally call the shots. "I'll take the point man while you hit the rear guy. Then we'll both go for the man right behind the leader. On my command?'
He waited as the four Falangists pressed onward. They moved steadily, each one watching his field of fire, but unable to spot the hidden SEALs waiting in ambush.
Redhawk's voice was matter-of-fact when he spoke. "Fire."
The first round hit the lead man, who staggered sideways under the impact of the bullet before crumpling to the ground. At the same instant the last guy spun and dropped to the grass. A quick salvo got the third Falangist, and he buckled when two slugs jolted him. The patrol leader was on the ground by then, firing blindly in the direction of the incoming shots.
"Oiga!" Chad called out loudly in Spanish. "Nosotros le mandamos a entregar!"
"What'd you say?" Redhawk asked.
"I told him that we order him to surrender," Chad said. "Well, tell him there's a hundred of us, and he's alone," Redhawk said. "Tell him to surrender or die."