Gordo Pullini, in the middle of the front rank, glanced around at his gang, noting their expressions of uncertainty as they continued toward the objective. Some now carried the rifles in a way to push the clinging jungle plants aside that grasped at their clothing with nettles and vines.
Navajaso Coletti looked over at the gang chief. Nava was not a happy man. "This is some bad shit we've gotten into, jefe," he growled under his breath.
Capitan Pablo Gonzales, with a half-dozen men, followed the prisoners, keeping a close eye on them. Strict orders had been issued that any hesitancy or refusal to move would result in warning shots being fired over their heads. If that failed, offending men would be shot down without further comment. No more warnings, urgings or cursing; shoot to kill without mercy.
The higher the convicts climbed, the thicker the vegetation became until the two skirmish lines broke up as they labored through the briars and thorny jungle plants. Gonzales and his men were also having it tough, and the convicts disappeared and reappeared from sight as the assault continued through the trees and brush.
U P on the north side, the Second Echelon under Comandante Javier Toledo and Capitan Francisco Silber were also ascending the mountain toward the norteamericanos. The Falangists had stopped referring to their foe as bandidos. After the fight on the Rio Ancho, these Latin Americans recognized the enemy were also professional soldiers, and they were well equipped and armed. In spite of what the generalisimo said, this coming battle was going to be a tough fight with plenty of risk. There was no youthful arrogance among the noncommissioned officers.
The equipo comando, made up of Coronel Jeronimo Busch, Punzarron, Chaubere and Muller, was between the convicts and the Second Echelon, working their way into position from where they could launch independent raids on the enemy.
the mountain, heading for their attack position over on the west side. They were trailed by the Fire Support Echelon of mortars and machine guns commanded by Capitan. Tomas Platas. Platas and his men would drop out of the column at the midpoint of the march to set up the three mortars to shell the norteamericanos on the apex of the hill. The machine guns would be placed higher up to employ regulated grazing salvos into the enemy positions when the fighting started.
Back at the rear of the march, Suboficial Ignacio Perez worked hard to keep up with the column. His feet were already sore from so much unaccustomed walking in his boots, and the rucksack with its extra load of documents and floppy disks, pulled down on his shoulders with such weight that his arms had begun to fall asleep. He had to double-time for a few meters every few minutes, and the out-of-shape little headquarters weenie breathed hard as heavy rivulets of sweat seeped out from his cap and ran down his face.
.
0600 HOURS LOCAL
THE Fire Support Element reached its step-off point and split from the Third Echelon. The latter continued on its way to the eastern side of the mountains to launch its assault up that side.
Capitan Platas showed his men some mercy by allowing them a short break. After lugging machine guns, tripods, mortar tubes, base plates and ammunition, they were in bad need of a breather. Fifteen minutes later, at the time that Ignacio Perez finally caught up with them, the mortar crews began fixing up their firing position prior to hauling out the aiming stakes to get the heavy weapons all on the same azimuth for shelling the enemy.
Ignacio, his uniform soaked in sweat and his face beet red from exertion, let his rucksack fall to the ground before he sank to his knees. Platas gazed at him with amusement.
"You should have stayed back at Fuerte Franco with the sick, lame and lazy, Ignacio. You'd be a lot better off."
Before Ignacio replied, he took a mouthful of water from his canteen, held it, then swallowed the refreshing liquid, "I wish to see some action, mi capitan."
"Most commendable," Platas said. "You will be able to take it easy back here with the mortars."
"Aren't the machine guns staying here too?" Ignacio asked.
Platas shook his head. "They must go farther up the mountain in order to be within range for enfilading and harassing fire on the norteamericanos."
Ignacio forced himself to his feet. "I will go with the machine guns, mi capitan."
"Then you better put on that mcksack," Platas advised him. "They're about to head out." He turned toward the machine gun squad. "You gunners! You've rested long enough. Move up into position. Ahora! Now!"
Ignacio grabbed his rucksack and stumbled after the machine gun crews who even now were lugging their weapons upward through the steep jungle terrain.
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SEAL OP EASTERN SLOPE
THE OP was well-concealed but uncomfortable as hell. Wes Ferguson and Gutsy Olson were crowded into the stand of palm brush that abounded with sharp needles on the leaves. Both had already received nasty cuts on their bare arms.
"We ought to get Purple Hearts for this," Wes complained in a whisper, dabbing at the deep scratches with a sanitary gauze pad.
"You better watch what you say," Gutsy cautioned him in a low voice. "You might end up really qualified for that medal before this is all over and done with."
"I suppose you're right," Wes said. "O' course most decorations earned on these secret missions ain't awarded until months or years after the fact." He sank into deep thought for a few moments before speaking again. "Have you ever thought about what you'll be doing after you retire from the SEALs?"
"Yeah," Gutsy said. "I've given it some thought. Krista and I both really like the San Diego area. After I retire we plan on staying there. Maybe I could get a civil service job at North Island or down in National City." He grinned. "Y'know what I mean? I'd be a double-dipper with a Navy pension and salary too:'
"That sounds like a pretty good deal," Wes said. "As for me, I don't know yet if I'm going to make a career of the Navy. I keep thinking about going back to Wichita and going out to State to get a college degree. Then law school. I've always been interested in being a lawyer. My girlfriend is a receptionist in an attorney's office."
Gutsy chuckled. "Shit, Wes. You're gonna ship over. You got that crazy look in your eye. You couldn't make it on the outside:'
Wes grinned. "You're prob'ly right. But the fact that we're going to be surrounded eventually is making civilian life look pretty godamn good right now."
"Hell!" Gutsy scoffed. "This ain't nothing. During our first mission in Afghanistan we was in a worse situation than this without long-range commo to the outside. The platoon was completely cut off, and we'd reached a point where it looked like we was gonna make a final stand and fight to the last man."
"Jesus!" Wes exclaimed. "I heard a little bit about that, but I didn't know it was that bad."
"Yeah," Gutsy said. "A chance patrol of Air Force F-16s picked up the automatic beacon from Frank's radio. They made commo and got us some air support."
A sharp crackling of a dead branch broke through the brush.
Wes grabbed the handset of the AN/PRC-126 and contacted Frank Gomez. "Brigand, this is the Oscar Papa East. It sounds like visitors are headed this way."
"Roger, Oscar Papa East," Frank replied. "Wait." A moment of radio silence followed before he spoke again. "Get your asses back to the perimeter. Out."
Gutsy and Wes eased out of the OP and began the short climb back up to the line.
.
THE SEAL PERIMETER
0610 HOURS
ALL positions along the perimeter were manned with every swinging dick on full alert. The SAW gunners Bruno Puglisi and Joe Miskoski were locked, loaded and ready to respond to any part of the line where extra automatic firepower would be needed.
Within the Command Element, Brannigan walked over to James Bradley's bucolic dispensary, noting that Connie Concord was heavily sedated and barely conscious. The Skipper knelt down and got a grin from the woozy petty officer. Brannigan grinned back and winked at him. "How're you doing, Connie?"