The boy fussed a little in his sleep when James inserted the ear thermometer. The temperature had dropped to ninety-nine degrees, but it was still much too high for a youngster. The hospital corpsman checked the physical appearance of the child, noting that he had shown no response to the saline solution. It would be better to catheterize him to make an accurate observation of his urine output, but James did not have a catheter in his medical kit. A noise from the door caught his attention, and James turned to see the entire Charlie Fire Team tiptoeing into the hut.
"How's the little feller doing?" Milly asked.
"So-so," James replied.
Pech Pecheur, a Cajun from Louisiana, peered down at the sleeping youngster. "He don't look too good, James."
"I have to tell you," James said, "I'm not too confident of a recovery. God only knows how long he's really been sick before anybody around here took note of it."
Wes Ferguson from Wichita, Kansas, had participated in Reverend Borden's prayer vigil. Although not outwardly religious, this private individual attended chapel regularly back in Coronado. "He's in God's hands, James. Just do your best to help things along."
The quartet of tough SEALs stood in silence, gazing down at the little boy who clung to life by that proverbial thread.
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OA, SOUTHWEST SECTION
0500 HOURS LOCAL
the small bivouac, then walked over to Senior Chief Buford Dawkins and nudged him. Dawkins sat up immediately, wide-awake and ready to go. Guy continued on to the other SEALs, roughly shaking them awake.
"Drop your cocks and grab your socks," he growled at the group. He was a little cranky from having to listen to them peacefully sleep while he stood the last two hours of watch.
Chow that morning was granola energy bars and water from the canteens. Dawkins got on the AN/PRC-126 and raised Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan. The contact was expected, and Frank Gomez informed the senior chief that his orders for the day were to continue his patrol's mission until midafternoon before turning back.
Dawkins got to his feet as he shoved the handset back into its carrier. "All right, people. Off and on."
.
VILLAGE OF CARIDAD
0730 HOURS LOCAL
HOSPITAL Corpsman James Bradley learned that his small patient's name was Joselito and that he had been born and raised in the poorest slum of La Paz, Bolivia. The boy was now awake and fussing softly, showing a healthy displeasure about everything that was going on. The mother and father watched anxiously as James took his temperature one more time. The smile on the SEAL's face after reading the digital readout showed it was normal.
By the time Reverend Borden came in for his morning visit, James had determined that Joselito was recovering nicely from the dehydration. Spittle had formed around his mouth, and his tongue was bright pink and moist. James poured a little water from his canteen into a plastic cup given him by the boy's mother. Joselito took a couple of small gulps and easily swallowed them. The liquid did not come back up. Then he demonstrated one of the most solid evidences of being rehydrated; he suddenly peed a beautiful stream of clear liquid. It wasn't much, but it meant he was well on his way back to normal.
James glanced up at Borden. "Tell the parents that Joselito will be fine by tomorrow."
When Borden gave them the good news, the mother rushed forward and grabbed James's hand. She kissed him, weeping and exclaiming her unending gratitude in Spanish. The father embraced him, crying uncontrollably as he expressed how much he appreciated the African-American's kindness. James didn't understand a word, but he caught the meaning clearly and fully. He was actually embarrassed by their worshipful and emotional appreciation. As far as he was concerned, he had simply logically and properly administered a treatment according to what he had been taught in premed and corpsman's school.
He smiled awkwardly and cleared his throat, speaking to Reverend Borden. "Tell them to give the little guy small sips of water about every fifteen minutes for the rest of the day." Then he added, "But not too much at a time. He could get very sick if he drank a lot. If he gets hungry, he can have some soup. But no solid food for at least a couple of days. Okay?"
James quickly packed up his medical kit before he had to endure any more parental thankfulness for saving the toddler's life.
.
OA, SOUTHWEST SECTION
0900 HOURS LOCAL
GUY Deveraux was on point, moving steadily through the thick grass of the savannah, when he spotted the seven men in column a couple of hundred meters away. They were moving at an angle toward him. He suddenly dropped to his knees, whispering into his LASH, "Unknown formation.
Two hundred meters at two o'clock. Moving toward eight o clock?'
"Roger," came back Senior Chief Dawkins's voice. "Check 'em out careful. They might be Bolivian. We sure as hell don't want to piss off the local government by shooting up some of their soldiers."
Guy raised his binoculars to his eyes, immediately catching sight of the red, black, red insignia on their sleeves. "These are bad guys. They got that Falangist doodad sewn on their uniforms:'
"Can you figure out a good point of contact?" Buford asked.
"Yeah," the point man answered. "I'll pull back and get with you guys."
He stayed down, turning to crawl back through what cover the grass offered.
.
FALANGIST PATROL
SUBOFICIAL Adolfo Punzarron still stayed on point like he had done the day before. He wanted to be the one to spot any potential enemies so that he could quickly organize an attack. The patrol followed a small creek that went less than a meter deep, running in a straight line across the grasslands. It would be a handy place to use for cover in case of attack.
The patrol moved at a steady pace, each man carefully maintaining vigilance in the direction of his field of fire. If this had been a couple of weeks earlier, they would have been panting and stumbling, but now they trekked on easily, sweating more from the heat than fatigue.
Suddenly incoming fire raked the formation, and one of the Falangists jerked violently before toppling to the ground.
"Ponense a cubierto!" Punzarron bellowed.
The men jumped down into the creek, using the banks for cover as they returned fire toward the source of the attack.
.
THE FIREFIGHT
JOE Miskoski, working the SAW, pumped out heavy fire with instinctively regulated pulls on the trigger while Guy Deveraux and Andy Malachenko leaped up and charged toward the enemy. Bullets from the Falangists clipped the air around them, and they dove to the ground. The pair now fired three-round automatic bursts as the rest of the SEALs got to their feet and rapidly advanced forward to join them.
.
PUNZARRON and his men were able to stand up in the knee-deep water, leaning forward on the creek bank. They fired overlapping patterns of salvos at the enemy who appeared, disappeared and reappeared as they closed in.
"Los hijos de chingadas are using fire-and-maneuver!" Punzarron bellowed over the sound of the shooting, knowing the attackers were at a disadvantage because of being on open ground. "As soon as any. show themselves, turn your fire on them!"
.
THE SEALs made two more attempts to close in, but the incoming . was so heavy they were quickly pinned down. Dawkins growled into his LASH, "Press your bellies to the dirt! Any casualties?"
"Negative, Senior Chief!" Gutsy Olson, the fire team leader, reported.
"All right!" Dawkins said. "Now hear this! Don't fire, and don't make any sound. They'll think we all have been hit or hauled ass:'