"Since the two helicopters give us the capability of setting up ambushes and sneak attacks, I think we should form up a special equipo comando--commando team," Busch said.
Once more Castillo approved. "And who are you considering for the team?"
"It's is a suggestion I made once before," Busch said. "Suboficial Punzarron, Sargento-Mayor Chaubere, and Sargento Muller."
Ignacio spoke up. "That has already been done, mi generalisimo!"
.
STATE DEPARTMENTWASHINGTON, D. C.
16 DECEMBER
1045 H0URS LOCAL
THE cab pulled up in front of the State Department building, just outside the cement barricades put up to thwart suicide bomber vehicles. The passenger got out, turning to pay his fare, then walked up toward the building. After presenting an I. D. card at the door, he was admitted into the lobby. A quick exchange at the security desk between the man and the duty officer resulted in a phone call.
Moments later a balding young man in a white shirt, tan slacks and loafers appeared. He and the visitor recognized each other and shook hands, then the pair walked across the chamber to an empty elevator and got in. Eight seconds later they reached the third floor, stepping out into a hallway that led down to the office of Carl Joplin, PhD, Undersecretary of State. They walked into the reception area, and the young man turned the visitor over to the receptionist.
She smiled at him. "How are you today, Mr. Sanchez?"
"I am fine, thank you," Arturo Sanchez, special envoy from the government of Bolivia, replied. "I received a message to call on Dr. Joplin as quickly as possible."
"I'll let him know you're here," the receptionist said. She picked up her phone. "Mr. Sanchez has arrived, sir." She hung up. "You may go in."
Sanchez stepped through an unmarked door to find Joplin sitting at his desk. They shook hands, and the Chilean took an offered chair. Sanchez had a great deal of respect for the African-American undersecretary, and he waited patiently for him to initiate whatever proceedings he had in mind for the visit.
Joplin, as was his habit, cut to the chase. "There is a village of illegal alien Brazilians in Bolivia. They are engaged in raising cattle in the Gran Chaco area."
"I am not aware of them, Dr. Joplin, but I have no doubt that your information is correct," Sanchez said. "Would they have become involved in the unhappy circumstances in that part of my country?"
"They are not involved in the fighting," Joplin replied, "but they aid the Falangist movement as observers. They pass on information to them."
"That is intolerable," Sanchez stated, using a calm, diplomatic tone when speaking the angry words.
"Novida--that is their name for the village where they live--makes our men's mission down there more difficult," Joplin explained. "These are black people who view the local authorities with a marked amount of fear and mistrust. I have most reliable information that the fascists have offered them protection in exchange for serving them. Gifts of food are also involved in the exchanges."
"I can see that these villagers are dealt with right away," Sanchez said. "They are cooperating with enemies of the state."
"I would like to emphasize that these are decent people," Joplin cautioned him. "They are not involved in criminal activity, and they can't be blamed for accepting whatever help they can get. As undocumented foreigners, they have no place to turn when things go bad for them. Therefore, the United States government would prefer that they be peacefully and respectfully deported back to Brazil."
"I will see that the matter is handled with courtesy and consideration," Sanchez assured him.
"The United States government also requests that none of their belongings or money be taken from them," Joplin said. "And that includes their cattle. They are poor people."
"I cannot promise that," Sanchez said. "We have laws and procedures that must be followed. However, I will see what can be done. Is there anything else?"
"Not a this time, thank you," Joplin said. He visibly relaxed and smiled. "Now, Arturo, with our business taken care of, my wife and I would be pleased if you and Mrs. Sanchez came by for dinner tonight. Eight o'clock. It will be an intimate affair; just us four."
"I would be delighted, Carl," Sanchez said, standing up. "I must get back to my office and get this Novida village thing put in the pipeline. Until tonight at eight. Good afternoon, my friend."
"Buenas tardes, amigo mio," Joplin responded in Spanish.
.
OA, WESTERN SECTION
17 DECEMBER
1515 HOURS
out the area to the east of Cache Lisa. Garth Redhawk was on point, moving with the self-assuredness and silence of a Kiowa warrior. The camouflage paint on his face was applied in the old tribal manner, and his medicine bag was around his neck held by a rawhide thong. Back to the rear of the small column, Chad Murchison kept an eye to each side of their trek as well as the rear. Brannigan, Frank Gomez and James Bradley moved along between the two, covering the middle of the column.
Redhawk sighted the Falangist at the exact moment the man sighted him. They quickly exchanged shots, the reports of the CAR-15 and the CETME assault rifle cracking simultaneously. "Enemy front!" Redhawk said over the LASH. "Unknown number."
Brannigan immediately reacted to the situation and formed the element into a skirmish line with James and Chad going to Redhawk's left, while he and Frank went to the right. Everyone immediately went to the ground, since the encounter took place on an open, flat area with no cover other than the tall grass. The Falangists had wisely done the same, and now neither side could see the other.
"Redhawk," Brannigan said over the LASH, "move forward and check out the situation. If they haven't moved back, they could be just waiting for one of us to show ourselves. Be damn careful!"
"Aye, sir," Redhawk calmly replied in a whisper.
This descendant of the Kiowa and Comanche tribes eased silently toward the enemy, being careful to be as quiet as possible without causing undue movement of the grass. Being in combat took him deep into the culture of his people, and he felt that he was in his element. At that exact moment, Redhawk was performing the one thing he was on the earth to do; to kill as a warrior kills. It made no difference whether it was to close in on game such as elk or buffalo or to seek out the enemy of his people to slay them. He was a fighter, a hunter, and a plunderer. All his personal honor and purposes in life were wrapped up in those three endeavors. It was as if he had been pulled into a time warp.
Redhawk peered through the dense, waving vegetation, suddenly catching sight of an older man with gray hair. He was middle-aged but obviously in good physical condition. The Oklahoman aimed carefully, then slowly squeezed the trigger. The Falangist's head jerked violently as his skull exploded in a red shower of brains and blood.
Redhawk crawled off, turning in another direction for no other reason than he felt some sort of vibrations in that area. After going ten meters he discovered he had eased into a position behind another enemy soldier. A quick aim, and a pull on the trigger. The strike of the bullet hit the back of the man's head so hard that his face was slammed into the ground.
The SEAL now moved at a right angle, easing down into a shallow dip in the ground. When he reached the other side of the depression he was suddenly looking into the face of a wide-eyed Falangist. Redhawk, in an instinctive reflex, let off an unaimed round, and the guy's features caved inward with the bullet strike.
A gruff command was shouted in Spanish, and a sudden salvo of bullets whipped above The SEAL's head. He went as flat as he could as several volleys came so close he could feel the shock waves from the bullets as they whipped over him. Then the shooting stopped as quickly as it began. Redhawk remained plastered to the ground in the silence. Not even an insect buzzed.