"Argentina," Bonicelli interjected, "offers access to the Atlantic Ocean, and thus is included in Castillo's ambitions."
Joplin shrugged. "Please, gentlemen, this is all pretty far-fetched, is it not? The whole concept is preposterous."
Sanchez shook his head. "I beg to strongly disagree, sir! Castillo has taken dissident officers and noncommissioned officers of the armed forces of the three countries into his movement. They have looted entire garrisons to get the materiel and weaponry they need. They are now well-equipped, armed and have begun making raids against isolated military posts in the area. These Falangistas have hidden camps in the Gran Chaco. As you know, that is an isolated section of South America abounding with swamps and grasslands. There are no roads or rail transportation. Rivers offer the most efficient means of travel. Thus the populations living there are under the Falangists' command and controclass="underline" '
"I would think," Joplin said, "that if you sent the armies of your nations against these rebels, you could easily crush them."
Ludendorff looked at his two companions, then turned a sad expression on Joplin. "The Latin American military has always been fond of political adventuring. Consequently, we do not know who to trust in our armed forces. We require outsiders to rid us of this problem."
"To be more precise:' Bonicelli said, "the situation requires fuerzas especiales--special forces--to defeat the Falangistas."
"Let's speak plainly, gentlemen:' Joplin said. "You are requesting American military assistance in battling and destroying these fascist revolutionaries, are you not?
"Precisely," Ludendorff said.
"Then we should get to the specifics and requirements of the situation," Joplin insisted. "Without a detailed analysis of our adversaries, I cannot forward your request to my government."
"As of the moment," Ludendorff said, "the Falangists are no more than a detachment or two."
"A detachment is an ambiguous military term," Joplin said. "It is impossible to determine the makeup of such an organization."
Sanchez sighed. "We do not know their exact numbers, Dr. Joplin. But they have the potential of growing stronger macho mcis fuerte!"
"I see," Joplin said, "In that case, I must insist that you pass on to me all the intelligence you have on these fascists. I cannot possibly bring this matter up with the American secretary of state with no more than sketchy details."
All three South Americans reached under the table for their briefcases crammed with data. Now they could get down to business.
Chapter 1
THE FOULED ANCHOR TAVERN CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
20 NOVEMBER
2130 HOURS LOCAL
SCPO Buford Dawkins turned off Orange Avenue and into the bar's parking lot. He whipped into a space, braked and cut the engine. His companion, CPO Matt Gunnarson, glanced over at him from the front passenger seat. "Looks like some Thanksgiving and Christmas plans are gonna go completely to hell, huh?"
"Yeah," Dawkins said. "There'll be at least a dozen leaves canceled."
"Well," Matt commented dryly, "it's like they say in the Russian Navy: toughski shitski."
"Tell me about it," Dawkins grumbled.
The two veteran sailors got out of the Accord to stride across the lot toward the entrance to the tavern. Dawkins led the way inside with Matt right on his heels. The Fouled Anchor was a SEAL hangout, and the noisy crowd inside was passing the evening in the riotous good spirits of being with their own kind. The deep camarader young men getting happily and carelessly drunk had developed through the sharing of ideals, commitment and experiences. These were the three traits that develop elan and discipline among professional fighting men, and outsiders were not be tolerated in their midst.
Senior Chief Dawkins and Chief Gunnarson nodded to a couple of acquaintances while glancing around the room. Moments later they spotted their quarry at the rear of the tavern deep into an evening of serious drinking. Several members of the SEAL platoon known as Brannigan's Brigands sat at a table happily knocking back pitchers of beers with the establishment's owner Salty Donovan, who was a retired SEAL. Salty's wife Dixie was behind the bar drawing some beer into a couple of pitchers when she noticed Dawkins and Gunnarson heading for the back of the tavern.
"Hey!" she called out. "You two hold up and grab these pitchers. They're for your buddies in the back."
"Sorry, Dixie," Dawkins said. "We ain't here to drink. We got important business to conduct."
"Are you collecting bets, or is it Navy doings?" Dixie asked. She was a heavyset woman, built solid like her robust Irish female ancestors.
"Navy," Gunnarson said.
"What the hell am I gonna do with these pitchers?" Dixie asked, exasperated.
"Give 'em to Salty," Buford suggested. "He'll knock 'em all back within five minutes."
"Oh yeah!" Dixie said. "That's just what that old bastard needs: more beer."
The two chief petty officers walked through the other tables of drinkers until reaching the place where the Brigands sat. They all looked up, surprised at the sudden appearance of the senior enlisted men of the platoon. But any happy drunken greetings were squelched by the serious expressions on Dawkins's and Matt's wind-burned faces. This arrival was obviously going to have serious consequences.
Bruno Puglisi, a petty officer second class, winced. "Hey, Chiefs," he greeted them. Then he hopefully added, "What's the good word?"
"Isolation," Dawkins said. "Now."
Salty Donovan, a holder of the Navy Cross won during his third tour in Vietnam, had been happily drunk, not only from the beer but from the enjoyment of being with some of his favorite people. This group had lost two men KIA on their last operation, and now it appeared they were about to go out on yet another. He set his mug down and leaned back in the chair, glancing at the young faces around him. The old vet wished he could go with them. Others in the room also noted what was going on at the rear table and realized something urgent was in the works.
Matt walked over to an old-fashioned pinball machine where PO2C Mike Assad was working flippers as he batted the steel ball under the glass cover. Mike's best pal PO2C Dave Leibowitz, sipping from a mug, silently cheered his buddy on. When he noticed Matt's presence, he nodded a greeting.
Matt nudged Mike, saying, "I hope you ain't winning." Mike frowned. "Why the hell not, Chief?"
"Because you ain't gonna be able to play any extra games. The platoon has been alerted. Let's go. Immediately if not sooner!"
The two young SEALs looked around and saw Dawkins with Salty and the others. Dave grimaced. "Oh, shit!"
"Yeah," Matt remarked. "Oh, shit." He walked to a table where PO3C Chad Murchison was playing chess with a SEAL from another team. The chief announced, "Checkmate!"
Chad looked up. "Not yet."
"Then stalemate," Matt said. "Move out, Murchison. We've been alerted."
Chad frowned. "How incommodious!"
"Whatever," Matt commented. "Move!"
Brannigan's Brigands walked toward the door a group without making any comments. They nodded to Dixie on their way out the tavern, and she gave them a proud smile. Dawkins and Gunnarson followed them through the door into the cool night air.
An impromptu convoy formed as four POVs followed the senior chief's car out of the parking lot and into the street for the short ride down to the base.
.
NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE ISOLATION AREA
21 NOVEMBER
0530 HOURS LOCAL
THE sun was on the eastern side of the Laguna Mountains, hidden down near the desert floor, and none of its illumination showed yet on the distant horizon. It would be some time before it rose high enough to light the sundown side of the mountain range. Over near the Isolation Area entrance, a Navy Humvee appeared out of the darkness and came to a stop. Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan and his 21C Lieutenant (J. G.) Jim Cruiser quickly exited the vehicle to walk into the illumination of the light at the gate. The Marine guard on duty knew them both by sight, but he checked their I. D.'s per regulations before he allowed them to enter the compound.