"Shit," Matt said. He grabbed the radio handset. "Brigand, this is Brigand One. Taylor is KIA."
A stab of anguish went through the Skipper's heart, but he maintained a tight lid on his emotions. "Brigand Two, this is Brigand. Send Gomez over to the First Section."
Senior Chief Buford Dawkins quickly obeyed, passing the word to the detachment's commo man. Frank left his firing position to sprint across the middle of the perimeter and report in to Matt for assignment.
"Taylor bought the farm," the chief petty officer said. "You can take his place with Murchison and Cinzento."
Frank wordlessly moved over to the position, finding Chad beside Lamar's body. Chad looked up at the new arrival. "Let's pull him back a ways, Frank. He's in the way here."
"Sure."
They each grabbed an arm and dragged Lamar five meters back into the brush, then Frank went up to the position the dead SEAL had occupied at the time of his death. The leaves of the nearby brush were splattered with blood.
* * *
CAPITAN Tomas Platas studied the sketch map given him by the helicopter pilot Subalterno Ernesto Pizzaro. The young officer had assured him that the azimuths and distances shown were accurate. Platas took the trouble to make one more inspection of the three machine guns' positions, then he got on his RMAM radio. The Falangist commo net was simple enough. Each element commander was linked directly to Generalisimo Castillo, who used the call sign Mando.
"Mando," Platas said. "This is Fuego. The machine guns are in position now. The mortars are also ready. A usted."
Castillo came back with short but explicit instructions. "Tire--fire!"
.
A sudden influx of incoming automatic fire swept across the south side of the SEAL perimeter. The heavy grazing salvos forced Milly Mills, Gutsy Olson and Wes Ferguson to hunker down in their fighting holes. The sweeping volleys crisscrossed as they pounded into the position.
"What the hell's going on over there?" Dawkins asked via the LASH.
"There's a machine gun squad down the mountain somewhere," Milly Mills replied. "They're sweeping the area with grazing fire. We're pinned down but good."
"Any assault?"
"Negative, Senior Chief," Milly said. "Just heavy incoming?'
"Keep your heads down," Dawkins said. He got on the radio and informed Brannigan of the situation.
Brannigan quickly mulled over what was going on; lots of shooting but no assault. "They may not have enough manpower to launch an attack on that side," he said to Dawkins. "But we can't tell for sure at this point. Telly our guys to stay undercover. Out."
Brannigan had no sooner replaced the handset in its carrier than the first mortar rounds rained down on the east side of the perimeter.
.
FALANGIST FIELD HEADQUARTERS
1900 HOURS LOCAL
THE battle had ground down to a struggle of attrition.
Whoever outlasted the other would win, and Generalisimo Castillo was confident the victor would be him and his Falangist forces. The enemy was both contained and outnumbered, and that always counted as 90 percent of a victory. The only thing he had to do from this point on was keep up the pressure without sustaining too many casualties.
Although the helicopter FLIR patrols confirmed the enemy strength at some nineteen men or so, and he outnumbered them by at least a four-to-one advantage, he had to fight a conservative and cautious battle. If he had more men he would damn the losses and overwhelm the Yanquis with one massive attack. But reinforcements were trickling in too slowly to risk losing men that might be needed in the near future.
The mortars were now zeroed in perfectly on the top of the mountain. Although the battery didn't have a plethora of ammunition, there were enough 60-millimeter shells that even with slow, steady barrages the enemy positions would be obliterated eventually.
That would force the comandante Yanqui to either be blown to hell, make an impossible attempt to break out, or wisely surrender.
Castillo wondered what choice his adversary would make.
Chapter 17
THE SELVA VERDE MOUNTAINS
FALANGIST FIRE SUPPORT ECHELON
14 JANUARY
2200 HOURS LOCAL
THE fighting had died down, and only occasional shots could be heard across the mountain battlefield. Each side showed patience and restraint, preferring to wait for the other guy to make a move, then respond to it. As is normal in such cases, a tension permeated the area in invisible vibrations that each combatant picked up. It was a time of nervousness and a strong sense of apprehension. Pessimism was a clear winner over optimism.
Suboficial Ignacio Perez had quietly moved off to a secluded spot east of the mortars. He had grown to like his bunker office at Fuerte Franco, and now he missed it. The heavy, fortified ceiling and the thick walls gave him a feeling of safety and security. Now he sat in a small clearing surrounded by thick brush. It was a poor substitute for the earthen protection he had in the Centro de Administracion.
He had grown hungry and fixed a hurried meal of onion soup dissolved in cold water in his canteen cup. He drank the mixture slowly, not minding that it wasn't hot as he enjoyed the tangy taste. The food was from his French ration de campagne, and he thought it typical of that country to have special flavoring in food that was to be consumed in the primitive conditions of field operations.
Ignacio could hear the gunners talking, though he was too far away to discern what they were actually saying. The generalisimo seemed confident of a victory over the enemy he referred to as bandidos. Ignacio noted that the other Falangists were not so convinced of administering a nasty defeat, even though they outnumbered the norteamericanos. The experience on the Rio Ancho when the enemy made the escape during the rainstorm had shaken the morale of the troops. The enemy had gone right through their lines carrying boats! It was thought they might have other tricks up their sleeves. Perhaps they expected strong reinforcements at any time or air support from an aircraft carrier. Maybe an entire battalion of paratroopers would come in from the sky to help them in the battle.
Ignacio may have been an accountant by profession, but now he had been around the military long enough to be sure the Americans would not be defeated. The reports he had read and filed of the various ambushes they sprang on the Falangists showed an extremely skillful enemy who seemed to move at will anywhere they wished to go. For his own safety and well-being in life, he must somehow figure out a way to reach them. He knew it would be dangerous in this combat situation, but he had no choice; there was no opportunity for him to return to a peaceful life in his native land of Spain. His sentencing to the Foreign Legion in lieu of a prison sentence, then deserting to the Falangist cause, was a guarantee of never finding mercy or forgiveness within that justice system. He was sure the information he had in his rucksack would earn him a reward, perhaps permission to immigrate to the United States. He could speak a little English from studying the language during his school days. If he could-
The sudden firing of a barrage by the mortar battery interrupted his thoughts.
.
THE SEAL PERIMETER
THE incoming HE shells burst mostly in the trees, sending shrapnel and large steel splinters whirling downward toward the fighting positions. Now and then one of the 60-millimeter rounds would slip through small branches and hit the ground, throwing up dirt clods, smoke and chunks of white-hot metal. Each separate detonation let out a single brilliant flash of light that disappeared in an instant.