.
1000 HOURS LOCAL
THE sargento on the RMAL radio took down the transmission that came across in five-letter word groups. He recognized the "fist" of the other man through the dit and dah pattern of the transmission. The sender was an old pal from the Infanteria de Marina where the two had served together for some ten years.
As soon as the other operator signed off, the sargento ripped the message from from the pad. He swiveled his chair to face Capitan Tippelskirch's desk just behind him. "Mensaje apremiante, mi capitan," the sargento said. "An urgent message."
Tippelskirch took it, then worked the dial on the field safe at his feet. After pulling out his code book, he set about deciphering the garbled missive. It took ten minutes to decode it, and when it was in plain Spanish he smiled to himself. It was just as he suspected. The intelligence officer slipped on his field cap and left the Communications Center.
He walked directly over to the Centro de Mando where a quartet of convicts worked at pulling a camouflage net over the top. Tippelskirch went down to the entrance and stepped inside, saluting the Falangist leader Castillo.
"I have received a most meaningful message, mi generalisimo," Tippelskirch reported.
"Congratulations," the generalisimo said. "It would appear your Intelligence Bunker is already up to speed."
"Indeed," Tippelskirch said proudly. "It comes through a mole I have inside the national security office in Santiago. He informs me he has solid proof that the Petroleo Colmo Company here on the Gran Chaco has strong American ties. Some messages to and from them have been relayed to a known CIA facility in Colombia."
"That is a most significant and useful thing to know," the generalisimo said. "I think there are many ways we can work this to our advantage."
"I smell the Yanqui influence all over this," Tippelskirch said. "No doubt of it!"
"Now we know for sure our bandido foe is an American force," the generalisimo said. "The more knowledge one has of the enemy, the more advantageous, no?"
"Such intelligence is worth a thousand men, mi generalisimo."
.
1600 HOURS LOCAL
THE helicopter landing pad was no more than a quickly cleared area of land twenty meters north of the headquarters bunkers. The pilot could easily d unevenness of the ground, and he lowered the aircraft slowly until its wheels gently touch down. The first man off was Capitan Roberto Argento. He turned to his sargento, shouting over the noise of the engine. "Get over to the Centro de Inteligencia and tell capitan Tippelskirch to meet me at headquarters immediately!"
As the noncommissioned officer rushed off, the five men who made up the rest of the patrol disembarked, walking rapidly away from the helicopter. Casual observers could see that something was wrong from the way they stuck together, talking softly among themselves as they made their way to their unit bunker.
Within a couple of minutes Tippelskirch joined Argento at the entrance to the headquarters, and both went into the fortification to speak with Castillo. The generalisimo was concerned by the expression on Argento's face.
"Mi generalisimo," Argento said, saluting. "We have come back from a visit to the village of Novida. We found all the people dead. Men, women and children. All shot by automatic fire. Some who had survived the preliminary bursts had been dispatched by single shots to the head from pistols."
Castillo was so shocked he quickly stood up, almost bumping his head on the low bunker ceiling. "Who could have done such a thing?"
Tippelskirch smiled. "I think perhaps the CIA."
"We could see where three helicopters had landed," Argento said. "The killers must have surrounded the place."
Castillo sat back down, looking at Tippelskirch. "So! You think the CIA did it, eh?"
Tippelskirch shook his head. "Actually I doubt it," he admitted. "The villagers were illegal squatters. I imagine Bolivian police killed everyone, knowing nobody would really care." He boldly leaned on the generalisimo's desk in his enthusiasm. "But we could make it look like Americans did it. Or at least say that they did it. Of course, it would just be our word against anyone who wished to contradict us."
Argento was puzzled. "What is all this about norteamericanos?"
"We have solid information," Tippelskirch said, "that the Petroleo Colmo Company is in league with the Americans. I think they are CIA operating in South America like their Air America did in Southeast Asia."
"Of course!" Castillo exclaimed. "It all fits."
"We need to get some photographs," Tippelskirch said. "Lots of photographs. I have a journalist friend who works for a right-wing newspaper here in Bolivia. He would be more than happy to write up articles favoring the Falangist movement and its aims. Especially when he can say that Americans massacred a village of innocents."
"I'll leave that up to you, Capitan Tippelskirch," Castillo said. "Meanwhile, I'm going to turn the problem of Petroleo Colmo over to Coronel Busch. He will know how to hunt down and destroy those damn helicopters of theirs."
"We are closing in on victory," Tippelskirch said confidently.
"I have more good news," Castillo said. "We are getting in twelve more men as reinforcements. It is still just a trickle, but when the time is right, it will become a flood."
Tippelskirch turned to Argento. "I'm getting a camera. Round up your patrol for a return trip. to Novida:'
.
STATE BEPARTMENT WASHINGTON, D. C.
21 DECEMBER
0130 HOURS LOCAL
UNDERSECRETARY Carl Joplin yawned irritably as he strode down the hall. He was a creature of habit, and the early phone call that had gotten him out of bed an hour and a half early had already upset his day. He had received curt instructions to report ASAP to Secretary of State Benjamin Bellingham's office.
When he stepped into the receptionist's station, the lady generally on duty was not there. Instead Durwood Cooper, Bellingham's always uptight chief administrative assistant, was waiting for him.
"The secretary is inside," Cooper said, using the same brusque manner of the earlier phone call. He turned to lead Joplin back to the interior office.
When Joplin was ushered into Bellingham's presence, he was surprised to see the White House Chief of Staff Arlene Entienne also there. This Cajun-African-American was a beautiful green-eyed woman with dark brown hair. The features of both ethnicities blended well, giving her an exotic appearance. It was said that 90 percent of the men in Washington were love with her, while the other 10 percent were gays who nevertheless admired both her loveliness and taste in clothing.
Joplin gave her smile. "Hello, Arlene. I didn't expect to see you today. But it's a real pleasure, believe me." "Always the diplomat, hey, Carl?"
Bellingham was impatient. "Sit down, Carl. We have a real bad situation down there in that South American operation you organized."
Joplin knew it meant big trouble when the current state of affairs was dropped in his lap. When things were going well, Bellingham claimed all responsibilities. They were his projects and his alone.
Bellingham continued. "The population of a small village of illegal Brazilian immigrants was massacred by persons unknown. The crime was discovered by Bolivian Federal Police. Their intelligence-gathering apparatus has informed them that these people were sympathetic toward the Falangists." He paused, giving Joplin a meaningful look. "Those are the antagonists of the special operations group you sent down there, are they not? What do you know about it?"
"Nothing," Joplin replied, disturbed. "This is the first I've heard of it."
Entienne interjected, "The White House has not been fully informed on this particular mission. Does it involve Army Special Forces?"
"They are a small Navy SEAL detachment," Joplin explained. "A total of twenty-one men. One of them was wounded in the fighting and is now in the Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego."