Thus the piraguas were the boats of choice for the river trip across the savannah to the jungles of the Selva Verde Mountains.
Not all the caches had been excavated. Those that contained items not absolutely necessary for the mission such as extra clothing, web equipment, camouflage capes and netting were left in their earthen concealments. However, all of James Bradley's medical supplies and Frank Gomez's commo gear, including extra batteries, were placed in the little wooden boats.
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2311 HOURS LOCAL
THE detachment stood in two ranks, observing section and team integrity. All were fully equipped for combat, including their night vision equipment. The knowledge that they were about to embark on an extremely dangerous trek through the heart of the enemy was foremost on everyone's mind, but none spoke any concerns aloud. This was a job to do--a rather hairy one--but still it was just another task in the dangerous lives they had volunteered for.
Brannigan went to the front of the formation and studied the detachment. It was at times like this that he missed Lieutenant (J. G.) Jim Cruiser. There was a quality of calm efficiency about him that gave Brannigan not only confidence in his men but in himself as well. At least it was comforting to have Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins and Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson around. Those old salts had smarts that could only be developed and nurtured over long years of military service.
Brannigan cleared his throat, speaking only loud enough to be heard. "Listen up," the Skipper said. "First thing. The Odd Couple is going to alternate point and reconnaissance duties with Redhawk and Murchison. Devereaux is going to be pulled from the Second Assault Section and go with the Command Element. That way we'll have six men, while the assault sections will have seven each. During the run down the river we'll rotate three jobs in two-hour shifts. You will alternate poling the piraguas, acting as flankers on both sides of the river, and resting."
"Sir," Connie Concord said, raising his hand. "How in hell are we supposed to rest?"
"You'll just have to arrange yourselves as conveniently as possible among the three piraguas," Brannigan said. "Don't worry about being uncomfortable. Hell, you'll only be resting for a couple of hours anyway. But try to get as much sleep as possible. This is going to be a long trip."
Andy Malachenko asked, "Just how much time is it gonna take, sir?"
"If things go well; Brannigan said, "we'll be able to travel relatively fast--for a walking speed--and should reach our destination within forty-eight hours. When we get to our debarkation point, the boats will be hidden along the banks of the river, and we'll move from there up to the high ground and set up positions."
Bruno Puglisi frowned in puzzlement. "Then what, sir?"
"Then we'll await either further orders from home or organized assaults from the enemy," Brannigan said. "Whichever comes first. Any more questions? Good. Now hear this! First Section begins as flankers, the Second Section poles the boats, and the Command Element will ride and rest."
Cries of derision rose from the assault sections, directed toward the Command Element. "Headquarters pukes! Staff weenies!"
Brannigan chuckled. "All right! Move out, you magnificent sons of bitches!"
Chapter 14
ON THE RIO ANCHO
7 JANUARY
0700 HOURS LOCAL
THE SEALs had managed to move twenty-six kilometers after eight hours of continuous travel from the base camp. Poling the piraguas down the river was the most difficult part of the journey. The men manning the boats were continuously working with their arms and shoulders, first placing the twenty-foot poles into the water until reaching bottom, then giving a hard push. That was bad enough, but it had to be done in cadence or the first boat would hardly move while those behind it banged into each other. This problem was eventually solved by having the man on the head boat speak softly over the LASH, saying, "Up! Down! Push! Up! Down! Push!" The first and third men poled on the starboard side while the second did his chores on the port side, all this done in time to the cadence. It was very monotonous and tiring. Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan took special note of the situation, and in the rotation of jobs, the SEALs went directly from poling to resting before going back to flanker duty.
It wasn't so bad to be a flanker. They simply walked along the riverbank, having to deal with uneven ground now and then as they strode down the Rio Ancho. The guys could gaze out over the panorama of deep grass around them, feeling the hot breeze off the savannah as they strolled rather slowly to keep from getting too far ahead of the piraguas. The only downside was that if the column was attacked, they would be the first casualties. Still, it was actually a rather pleasant walk in the country, though the heat was bothersome.
The guys resting after their poling duties were like any well-trained military men. A rookie might be restless and finicky about taking a nap, but all seasoned veterans have evolved into champion sleepers. Any experienced campaigner could sit down or lie down and fall asleep in an instant. In some cases, they would find no difficulty sleeping on their feet. They could even doze off for one or two minutes and come out of it a bit more refreshed than before they closed their eyes. The soft sounds of the first boat guy's voice were like a lullaby to those SEAL veterans as they recovered from their own muscle-cramping stints on the poles.
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0830 HOURS LOCAL
"CHOPPER!"
Bruno Puglisi's voice alerted everyone, even those dozing in the bottoms of the piraguas. All eyes snapped northward to catch sight of a helicopter rapidly approaching. It was obvious the fliers had caught sight of them by the way the aircraft was rapidly climbing and swinging out to make a quick run past them.
Brannigan put his binoculars to his eyes, studying the growing image of the approaching helicopter. "Hold your fire! It has the light blue roundels of Argentina on the fuselage. We don't need to create an international incident here. There's already enough butt-wipes shooting at us."
"Shit, sir!" Puglisi said, hefting his SAW in his usual shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later attitude. "Nobody told us what kind of aircraft markings them Falangists have. If any."
"Patience, Puglisi," Brannigan counseled him.
The helicopter came boldly on, flying directly over them. Chad Murchison spoke over his LASH. "It's a Eurocopter EC-635. That's a twenty-millimeter cannon sticking out its nose, fellows. It's an efficacious aircraft employed by several nations for its qualities and attributes."
Joe Miskoski growled, "I don't have the slightest fucking idea of what you just said."
"Jesus, Chad!" Frank Gomez added. "Couldn't you just say it's a damn good chopper?"
The helicopter made one circle around them, then straightened up and sped off in the direction from where it had come.
Puglisi groused over his LASH, "I still think we shoulda shot the motherfucker down."
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FUERTE FRANCO
0855 HOURS LOCAL
SUBALTERNO Ernesto Pizzaro was the first helicopter pilot to desert his country's armed forces to become a permanent, active member of the Ejercito Falangista. Before cutting out, he had been doing the same as all the renegade pilots, going back and forth between his Argentine Air Force helicopter squadron and the Falangists when the opportunities presented themselves. His absences were misrepresented by his unit's adjutant, a Falangist sympathizer, who covered his ass by listing him as TDY when he wasn't present for duty. But now Pizzaro wanted to stay permanently at Fuerte Franco for the action and adventure when flying in the service of the generalisimo.