"Was he speaking Portuguese?" Wallenger asked.
"No," Punzarron said, shaking his head. "He spoke in Spanish. Joao Cabecinho translated for us. And we obeyed the orders. As soon as we were gathered where they wanted us, the commander yelled something aloud. It sounded like an order to his men. They started shooting. Everybody was falling down, so I dove to the ground, and a couple of fellows fell on top of me. I lay still, acting as if I was dead. Then they walked among us, and if anyone twitched or moaned, they shot him in the head. They killed everybody. They killed men and women and little children. Everybody."
"Were these criminals soldiers?" Wallenger asked.
"Yes," Punzarron said. "They wore the type of uniforms that are spotted with different colors. And they wore green berets. But they did not speak Spanish among themselves. In fact the only one who spoke Spanish was the commander. And I heard words I recognized in English when the others talked. Like 'yes' and 'hurry' and 'kill babies.' And now I remember the leader said 'fire' before they shot us. All that I remember. I will never forget it as long as I live. It was horrible."
"Are you sure they weren't Bolivians?" Hennicke asked.
"Yes, I am sure," Punzarron said. "Some of them had blond hair and were very fair. There were some black men too, but most looked like American white men."
"Who are these Falangistas you spoke of before?" Hennicke asked.
"They are good men who are soldiers," Punzarron explained. "But they never hurt us. They brought us food and medical supplies. They visited our village many times and told us how they were the saviors of South America. They were fighting the men in the green berets, but they were not sure who they were." Punzarron paused for dramatic effect, then said, "I hope the Falangist liberators kill all those horrible Americans?'
Wallenger signaled for the cameraman to stop shooting. He glanced at Hennicke. "What do you think, Miguel?"
"Who else could it be but Americans?" the Chilean said. "There are bandits in the area, but they are Bolivians with lots of Indians among them. None look like Europeans. And why would bandits use up a lot of bullets to kill people for no good reason? Most of those gangs are miserably poor. They even steal clothing. Let us also consider the helicopters. Those bastards were from an organized military force."
Wallenger turned to Punzarron. "Tell me, Mr. Castanho, did the killers steal anything? Did they loot the village?"
"No," Punzarron said. "After they were sure everybody was dead, they got back on their helicopters and flew away."
"May we have these photographs?" Hennicke asked.
"Yes, sir," Punzarron said. "I have other copies in my bag. There are plenty for both of you." He went back to the suitcase and pulled out another packet, handing it to Wallenger. "Do you have any more questions, sirs?"
"I don't:' Wallenger replied. "At least not for the time being."
"Nor I," Hennicke said. "My friend and I will go now. We would like to see you again if possible."
"I will be here for three more days," Punzarron said. "Then the Falangists are going to help me get back to Brazil." He showed what he hoped was a sad expression on his brutal face. "I never want to see the Gran Chaco again. I lost my wife and four children in that horrible criminal atrocity."
As the journalists, translator and cameraman left, Capitan Diego Tippelskirch in the room next door took the earphones off. They were attached to the recorder he had used to listen in on the conversation in Punzarron's room.
Un exito grande de propaganda!
.
THE GRAN CHACO SEAL BASE CAMP
24 DECEMBER
2200 HOURS LOCAL
BRANNIGAN'S Brigands were back together again, and it was Christmas Eve, but the detachment was not celebrating. A heavy rain fell, literally dampening the already subdued holiday spirits. Everyone was hunkered down in the base camp, listening to the deluge splattering heavily on the hootch roofs. Out in the countryside, the caches concealed in the grassy terrain of the Gran Chaco's savannah were ready and waiting when needed.
The reason for the reunification was that Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan was anxious to wrap up Operation Falangist Fury, and he wanted to launch a fresh campaign to destroy the Falangist enemy. At that moment, the Skipper was in his hootch, busy working out an OPLAN with Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins and Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson. Arrangements had already been made to have the Petroleo Colmo helicopters available for transport and resupply in the coming activities.
Out on the OP, James Bradley and Chad Murchison gazed into the drizzling darkness, feeling a bit sentimental and sad because of the Christmas season. They concentrated on talking about anything but hearth and home as the lonely hours on watch slowly passed. After a period of subdued conversation, they had reached a point where neither had much to say, and they sank into a morose silence. James finally eased out of the doldrums, asking, "What do you think of Garth Redhawk? That guy's something else, isn't he?"
"Assuredly," Chad said. "He killed three of the enemy in a very short time, employing stealth in an area with little cover. It would seem the genes of his warrior progenitors have evidently been passed down to him intact."
"Right," James agreed. "He's the quintessential warrior."
"And even more dangerous than his forebears," Chad said. "Along with the natural skills and endowment as a fighting man, he has acquired modern military discipline. He is also highly intelligent. The combination of all that is bodacious."
James laughed. "That's the word! Bodacious! Redhawk is like a natural boxer who instinctively dodges punches thrown at him while seeing openings for his own attacks without having to think about it. He just does it, y' know, and it's the absolute correct thing to do at the times he unconsciously reacts."
"You've described his attributes accurately," Chad said. "In all veracity, I must say that I am glad to be teamed with him on reconnaissance. I experience an intense feeling of security knowing that Garth Redhawk is at my side."
"I can't blame you for that," James said.
As the two SEALs passed the time on the OP, Brannigan, Dawkins and Matt studied the map of the Gran Chaco by flashlight within the confines of the hootch. Brannigan took a sip of coffee. "The main thing we have to take under consideration is the location of the new Falangist position. It was discovered yesterday by one of the Petroleo Colmo choppers. They got a fix and a good look. It appears to be an earthen fort with fighting positions, trenches and bunkers. Godamn formidable."
Dawkins growled deep in his throat. "A hard nut to crack, sir."
"Yeah," Brannigan said. "We'd never be able to take it by a frontal assault unless we get a lot of reinforcements."
"Which ain't gonna happen," Matt observed sourly. "I wish we could at least be issued a good satellite photograph of that place. Could you put in a request, sir?"
"Hell no," Brannigan said. "Haven't you figured it out yet, Chief? We're not really down here."
"Then if we ain't here, let's go over to the Fouled Anchor and have a beer with Salty," Dawkins said.
"Don't play with reality, Senior Chief," Brannigan advised. "It'll drive you crazy."
"I'm already halfway there, sir," Dawkins said, "And this fucking rain ain't helping anything."
"The only way we're going to get clear of this operation is to kick Falangist butt," Brannigan said. "And the only way we're going to be able to do that is to find their patrols or units out in the open away from the protection of that fortified area."
"You'll have to split us up again, sir," Dawkins argued. "We'll be right back to what we been doing all along."
"I'm taking a different approach," Brannigan said. "The idea is to have the Petroleo Colmo do our recon for us. As soon as one of 'em spots some Falangists, he'll alert us by broadcasting those famous words of Sherlock Holmes: `The game is afoot.' Then he'll come straight here while the other chopper joins up. The whole detachment jumps aboard, and away we go to send the bastards to that great Nazi party meeting in the sky."