CHARLIE Fire Team--Milly Mills, Wes Ferguson and Pech Pecheur--moved cautiously across the savannah in a skirmish line as they approached a small village a hundred meters ahead. The bucolic community had been spotted during a flyover by the Dauphin chopper, and Senior Chief Buford Dawkins had detailed the Charlies to check the place out.
As they drew closer, the SEALs noted the site was made up of a half-dozen grass-thatched huts and one long one that appeared to be a dining or meeting center. A few plowed areas appearing to be vegetable gardens were located on the west side of the site. A closer look showed the cultivated areas weren't producing much in the way of food.
Some people came out of the larger building, indicating that a meal or meeting had been in progress. A tall, spindly, bearded man made his way through the small crowd. He stopped for a moment to gaze at the SEALs, then walked toward them in long strides. After going a few yards he stopped, waiting for them to come to him.
Milly warily eyed the other people, speaking to his men out of the corner of his mouth. "You guys get ready. If as much as a single weapon appears, open fire and start moving back."
However, the group of villagers did nothing more than watch them. When the SEALs walked up to the tall man, Milly nodded to him.
"Buenos dias," the stranger said. "Como puedo servirles?"
Milly reached in his pocket for his Spanish phrase book. He pulled it out, thumbing through the pages.
The man noticed the book, his puzzlement evident by the expression on his face. "I speak English."
"Oh?" Milly said. "Good! How do you do?"
"I'm fine, thank you."
"You're an American, ain't you?" Milly commented.
"And evidently so are you," the man said pleasantly. "I am Reverend Walter Borden of the Christian Outreach Ministry. What can I do for you, sir? I assure you that we are on this land legally. I can produce all the permits and documentation issued us by the Bolivian government."
"I see," Milly said. "My name is Mills. I--that is my men and me--dropped by to, well, to see how things was going with you folks."
"What are you doing here?" Reverend Borden asked in unabashed curiosity.
"I can't discuss that right now," Milly said. "And I don't want to be impolite, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you that same question. And I want an answer?'
"You have the guns, sir," Borden said. "So I shall comply."
"Let me add the magic word to my question," Milly said, grinning slightly. "Please tell me what you're doing here:'
"I am part of an international ministry of outreach to the poor," Borden said. "We are based in Dallas, Texas, and send missions out to various parts of the world to preach the Gospel and save souls. I had been working in the slums of La Paz. My work had gotten very frustrating, and I obtained permission from our church to move my flock away from the distractions of big city evil to the countryside. We have established this little village as a place to live and worship as Christians. We call it Caridad. That means charity in Spanish."
Milly looked past the man at the community. "Excuse me for saying so, Reverend, but you folks look a little worse for wear."
"We are having difficulties at this time," Borden admitted. "Our efforts in raising our own food have fallen far short of our hopes and expectations. These are people from the city, after all. We were just discussing the situation when you appeared in the distance:'
"I can help you out," Milly said. "Foodstuffs like flour, rice and beans can be here within a couple of hours."
"We have no money, sir."
"You don't need none," Milly assured him. "The eats will be supplied for free. That includes tools and even medicine. Or medical treatment, if you need it."
"What would you require of us?" Borden asked suspiciously.
"There's some bad men around here," Milly said. "Soldiers that call theirselves Falangists. We came here to get rid of 'em. We would appreciate your help in what we're trying to do. I'm not talking about taking up arms. Just keep an eye out and give us information if you happen to see any of 'em. That's all we ask."
Borden shook his head. "I regret that I must refuse your kind offer of assistance after all, sir. We did not leave the turmoil of slum life to become embroiled in war."
"All right, sir," Milly said. He had already been fully briefed in the procedures for establishing friendly rapport with any indigenous people in the Gran Chaco. "We don't ask nothing of you then. But we still would like to help. I bet we could even get you some new seed for your crops."
"Your kindness seems like a sign from the Almighty," Borden said. "But I must reiterate that we will not become obligated to you in any way."
"Not to worry, sir," Milly said.
Borden swung his eyes to Wes Ferguson and Pech Pecheur. They seemed like a couple of tough guys, but there was an air of decency about them. He sighed and relented. "I must accept your help, sir. Frankly, we are desperate."
"Happy to oblige, sir," Milly said, reaching for the handset of the AN/PRC-126 radio.
Chapter 8
STATE DEPARTMENT WASHINGTON, D. C.
13 DECEMBER
0915 HOURS LOCAL
WHEN Carl Joplin, PhD, an undersecretary of state, left his office that morning, he carried no briefcase with him. He sauntered down the corridors of the building with his hands in his pockets, appearing like a man headed for the cafeteria to partake of a late breakfast. Wherever he might be going, he didn't seem to be in much of a hurry.
And that was the exact impression he wished to make.
Joplin was on his way to the bailiwick of no less a personage than United States Secretary of State Benjamin Bellingham. No prior arrangements had been made for the visit, and the undersecretary knew his unexpected arrival would not be met with pleasure by the boss man. The visit violated protocol in at least a dozen ways, but Joplin damned convention in order to take care of some vital business that morning.
Now, perusing a copy of the Washington Post, Joplin sat in Bellingham's anteroom in front of the receptionist. Even an undersecretary would have to cool his heels if he walked in unannounced "from the street." Twenty minutes passed before the receptionist's phone rang. She answered softly and hung up, glancing at the unanticipated visitor.
"The secretary will see you now, Dr. Joplin."
"Thank you!" he said brightly, laying the newspaper aside.
Joplin went through the door into the inner sanctum, walked down a short hallway to a massive portal and knocked on it. He entered after a gruff invitation was growled from inside.
"What the hell's going on, Carl?" the secretary of state asked irritably. He was a bear of a man with a thick shadow of beard across his jowls in spite of having been shaved by his barber less than an hour previously.
Joplin, completely at ease, walked up to the desk and plopped down in a handy chair. "I've a situation I need to speak to you about, Ben. It involves a little affair going on in the Gran Chaco area of Bolivia."
"Oh, yes," Bellingham said. "A packet came across my desk only yesterday. Just a moment." He reached into a box marked FILE, pulling out a red folder. He quickly perused the contents, then set it in front of him. "All right. A SEAL outfit is involved."
"It is no more than a slightly reinforced platoon," Joplin said. "They are badly in need of additional personnel." Then he quickly added, "Fighting personnel, that is."
Bellingham shrugged. "The information I have is that they're up against a right-wing guerrilla outfit not much more numerous than themselves. I wouldn't think that would be much of a problem for Navy SEALs. Besides, why isn't the local military doing anything about this?"
"The information you received must be rather sketchy," Joplin said. "The situation is a hell of a lot more complicated than that:'
"Then please feel free to enlighten me, Carl."