"Huh?"
"That's okay," Brannigan said. "You're doing fine."
James nodded his head. "He's out of danger now, sir. I'm still a little worried about shock, but he's beginning to heal nicely, and I don't think there's any serious danger of infection at this point."
"Right," Brannigan said. He patted Connie lightly on the shoulder. "We'll have you out of here before you know it, tiger."
"Huh?"
Brannigan walked back to Frank Gomez and his radio. "Get over to the Second Assault Section," the Skipper said. "The senior chief needs an extra hand."
"Aye, sir," Frank said. He grabbed his CAR-15 and hurried to the southeast side of the perimeter.
Brannigan slipped down into a sitting position, leaning against the Shadowfire radio. "Well, shit," he said aloud to himself. "Here we fucking go again."
.
THE SEAL PERIMETER
WESTERN SIDE
0630 HOURS LOCAL
THE loud sound of people crashing through the brush caught the combined attention of Andy Malachenko, Pech Pecheur and Guy Devereaux. Somebody was obviously charging toward them with little regard to noise discipline.
"Who the hell is that?" Pech asked. "The New Orleans Saints' defensive line?"
Guy laughed. "It sounds more like cattle stampede to me."
Figures suddenly appeared through the brush, obviously having a hell of a hard time making it up the hill. The three SEALs squeezed off a few three-round automatic fire bursts that kicked over a couple of the attackers. The others melted back out sight into the thick jungle growth.
Senior Chief Dawkins's voice came over the LASH. "It sounds like you guys are taking fire over there. Do you need any SAW support?"
Andy, as the senior man, responded. "Negative, Senior Chief. We received a half-dozen single shots, tops. We fired back and broke up the attack."
"That's odd as hell," Dawkins said. "Maybe they was snipers."
"If they are, they're the worst in the world," Andy said. "All their shots were high and wide."
"Okay," Dawkins said. "If things go bad over there, give me a holler."
THE Falangists' First Assault Echelon of the convicts was battered badly by the defenders' fire. Four of them were cut down in the fusillades that swept through the first rank. The rest of the prisoners instinctively turned and ran away from the murderous swarms of bullets smacking through the air around them.
Capitan Pablo Gonzales was infuriated when he perceived the former inmates charging through the trees toward him. "Fire at those hijos de chingadas!" he screamed at his men. "Give them some bursts over their heads!"
As soon as the bullets hit the tree trunks, sending down leaves and hunks of bark, the convicts came to a stop. They were in that very unique and unpleasant position of being damned if they do, and damned if they don't. The confused men looked at Gordo Pullini. He hesitated a moment, then another salvo splattered the trees above them. He knew the next one would be lower.
"All right, guys!" he yelled. "Turn around and go back up the hill!"
Now more frightened of the threat to their rear than the front, the convicts stumbled around and once again pushed through the brush toward the mountaintop. The angry, frightened men staggered fifteen meters before Pullini yelled at them again. "Halt! Halt! Start shooting at those guys ahead of us."
They worked triggers and bolts, sending a pitifully weak spattering of shots toward the defenders.
.
IGNACIO Perez sucked hot, humid air into his lungs as he toiled after the machine gunners ascending the mountain to his direct front. The rucksack crammed with documents and floppy disks of the intelligence information he had stolen felt like it was trying to pull him to level ground. He had a pistol for protection but gave it no thought in the overwhelming exhaustion and pain that made his legs feel as if they weighed a ton each.
The training and discipline he acquired in the Spanish Foreign Legion was proving helpful in the way he was being careful with his water. He took only occasional sips, holding them in his mouth a few moments before swallowing them. But his body, unaccustomed to hard physical activity after months in headquarters work, was beginning to rebel against the unkind treatment it was receiving. Cramps rippled through his legs, and his feet felt as if they were on fire in the heavy military leather boots.
Up ahead, the gunners were having their own troubles. The six-kilo weight of machine guns and the ten in the ammunition boxes of linked belts, made each step a separate agony, but they continued moving to higher ground to have the weapons within effective range of the enemy.
.
A Falangist skirmish line came into contact with the First Assault Section when the SEALs perceived movement a scant few meters to their front. Firing immediately broke out between the two groups, but no casualties were suffered by either side. After a few minutes of exchanging shots, the Falangists suddenly advanced forward, putting out a curtain of slugs from their CETME rifles on full automatic.
Bruno Puglisi increased the bursts from his SAW, swinging the bore from one end of the attack formation to other. Twigs, leaves and bark from trees were scattered by the intense salvos. The Odd Couple, coordinating their actions through ESP as usual, tossed out a couple M-67 hand grenades. They threw the explosives just above the brush but below the limbs of the trees. The detonations rocked the immediate area, and the Falangists broke off their attack.
From that point on, all the combatants stayed low, exchanging fire in a skirmish that had turned into a stalemate.
* * *
CORONEL Jeronimo Busch was in his element as he moved through the brush with the efficiency of a hunting tiger. His companions Punzarron, Chaubere and Muller were slightly to his rear in a V formation. The equipo comando counted on furtiveness and concealment more than speed as they made their way toward the norteamericanos' position to make contact on their own terms. They were on the northwest side of the battle, taking the precaution of stopping from time to time to simply listen to what was going on around them.
The next time they halted and sank down to kneeling positions, they perceived heavy firing on the north side and sporadic shots to the west. Punzarron chuckled and whispered into his LASH. "It would seem the convicts and their rifles are not making much of a show, eh?"
"They're out there simply to draw fire:' Busch replied. Muller wiped at the sweat on his face. "Bueno, they are making a damn good job of it."
"We are close to the front lines now," Busch said. "Chaubere and Muller, move to my right. Punzarron, take the left." He waited for them to get into position. "Now we go upward and make contact. The moment you sight the enemy, give them heavy bursts, and we will pull back. Ya vamanos--let's go!"
The quartet of veterans now eased forward, alert and ready with the knowledge they would find the Yanquis within a very short time. The brush was dense enough in the area that they could move without crouching over. After a couple of minutes, Sargento-Mayor Armand Chaubere sighted a figure in a camouflage uniform just to his right. The man was only partially visible, but the Frenchman saw enough to react.
He pumped a long burst, a short burst and a long burst from his submachine gun.
* * *
LAMAR Taylor took a hit in the shoulder, two in the chest, and fourth that plowed into his face, exiting out the back of his head in a spray of brains, bone fragments and blood.
Paulo Cinzento and Chad Murchison immediately shifted their fire toward the source of the incoming, pouring interlocking streams of bullets. When there was no return fire, Chad crawled rapidly toward Lamar to check him out. When he reached his buddy, he winced at the extent of the damage. At least Lamar died instantaneously without having to go through the hell of settling into shock before expiring. Chad's voice was low with grief when he spoke to Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson over the LASH. "Lamar's KIA, Chief."