One of the trucking companies was an innocuous outfit set off in a far corner of the shipping yard. This was Estrella Roja Transportes, S. A., which had no more than an office with a small warehouse located behind it. At that moment Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan, Lieutenant (J. G.) Jim Cruiser and Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins lounged on worn vinyl furniture off on one side of the establishment's single room. A middle-aged lady named Rita sat at a battered desk that bore no more than a nondescript personal computer, printer and telephone. At that moment she was printing out a manifest for a shipment of goods to be taken to the small city of Los Blancos to the north. Alfredo, the CIA asset, waited patiently for the documents to be spewed out. As soon as the last emerged, he gathered them up and walked over to join the three SEALs.
Alfredo sat down in a battered chair that had seen better days. "These papers will be presented to the authorities at checkpoints along the way," he explained. "Everything has been arranged to ensure they will be accepted by the customs inspectors."
Brannigan, sipping a can of Diet Coke purchased from a vending machine outside the door, asked, "What is this `everything' that has been arranged?"
"Bribes and other payoffs," Alfredo answered matter-of-factly. "These preparations are not unusual in this part of the world. Normal business could not be conducted efficiently without the payments of what Latin Americans call la mordida--the bite--which is a colloquialism for bribes. This is the way official permits are issued in a timely fashion. To follow proper procedures would take days and days. Thus, what we are doing will not attract undue attention:'
The phone rang, and Rita picked it up, speaking softly in Spanish. When she hung up, she turned to Alfredo. "El autobas esta a la puerta."
"Ah!" Alfredo said. "The bus has arrived at the gate. It should be here shortly."
The SEALs exchanged glances of relief. This meant the Command Element and First Assault Section were now in Argentina. They walked to the front window to look for the vehicle to appear through the bustle of the depot. A couple of minutes passed before an ancient bus coughed its way into view, coming to a squeaking halt in front of the office.
Eleven obviously disgruntled travelers disembarked, carrying cheap luggage. They were dressed in clothing that would give the impression they were itinerant laborers going from one low-skilled job to another. From all appearances, they had purchased their garments in flea markets or secondhand stores.
Alfredo opened the door, and they trooped in. The Odd Couple--Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz--led the way. As the detachment scouts, this was their customary place in any formation. Everyone showed the fatigue of a long, boring trip. They had left San Diego, California, at various times, taking a multitude of airlines through Mexico, Panama, Colombia and Brazil before finally getting together in Montevideo, Uruguay, for the last leg of the trip to Buenos Aires.
"Listen up!" Senior Chief Dawkins said. "We ain't gonna be here long, so don't try to make yourselves too comfortable."
"It don't look like we could if we wanted to," Bruno Puglisi growled as he surveyed the dingy interior of the office.
"Yeah," Connie Concord agreed. "I can't wait to get out into that swamp."
Dawkins snorted a sardonic laugh. "I'll remind you of what you just said after you been out there for a few weeks up to your ass in quicksand. There's a vending machine with soda pop outside. If you need change, see Rita at the desk. But first Alfredo is gonna brief us as to our movement out to the OA."
Alfredo stepped up. "You'll be loading into a couple of semitrailers at the warehouse docks to the rear of this building. All the weapons and your personal equipment have already been put aboard, so you will have whatever comfort items you've packed for yourselves. But we don't want you to change into your BDUs until Lieutenant Brannigan gives you the word."
Frank Gomez searched his pockets for coins to use in the vending machine. "Is my commo gear in there?"
"Affirmative," Alfredo said. "As well as three rigid raider and piragua boats. I'm afraid you're going to be even more disenchanted with this phase of your infiltration. You're going to have to endure a nonstop one thousand two hundred kilometer trip from here to a place called Los Blancos. That's where you'll marry up with your Second Assault Section."
"You say this is nonstop?" Chief Matt Gunnarson remarked. "What about heads?"
Brannigan interjected, "There are Porta Pottis aboard the trailers along with drinking water and MREs. It'll be bleak and harsh as hell, but you guys can tough it out."
"Ah, well," Chad Murchison said. "I suppose we can pass the time reading."
"There're no lights:' Brannigan said. "You'll be in the dark, and I don't want you using any batteries up in your flashlights. We don't know how reliable our resupply is going to be until we get a chance to really test it."
"I'll be going to Los Blancos with you," Alfredo said. "When your entire detachment is together, I'll bring you up to date on all the happenings in the OA. I haven't gotten the word from there myself yet. I'll be staying with the Petroleo Colmo Oil Company, so we'll be in contact with you. Any questions? No? In that case, gentlemen, go get yourselves some soda pop, and we'll get into our luxury accommodations for the big journey."
Half the SEALs went to Rita for change while the others hurried outside to the vending machine.
.
HEADQUARTERS OF BANDERA 1
EL EJERCITO FALANGISTA
2045 HOURS LOCAL
THE camp was so new that it had not yet been named. The commanding officer, Comandante Javier Toledo, had only about three dozen men in a unit that would normally have numbered between six hundred and seven hundred troops. This, in actuality, was a cadre waiting for an influx of additional noncommissioned officers and soldiers to flesh out the rosters.
The camp itself was crude, as could be expected, but the buildings were well-constructed and weatherproof. The barracks were airy with plenty of space between the bunks. This was where the noncommissioned officers slept and ate. A small parade ground dominated the center of the garrison, while over on the north side was a headquarters hut--actually a CP--that included the living and mess quarters for the outfit's four officers. A flagpole bearing the DFF banner with three broad stripes of red, black and red of the Falangist movement stood in front of the thatched building. But instead of the traditional yoke and arrow symbol of the Catholic royalty, an insignia of a medieval sword with wings dominated the center of the black area. This represented the warrior archangel Michael, who was the spiritual inspiration for these twenty-first-century fascists.
Comandante Toledo was a ruggedly handsome Spaniard whose deportment and appearance gave strong evidence of having led a tough and demanding life. His physical prowess was backed up by a keen intellect developed through a robust, disciplined lifestyle.
At that moment, he and his immediate subordinates were enjoying their only luxuries of Cuban cigars and Italian brandy. Their meal had consisted of French Army rations de campagne. These were preferred over American MREs because of the canned bread, cheese, pate and powdered soup. Now, after partaking of the cuisine militaire francaise, Capitanes Francisco Silber of Chile, Roberto Argento of Argentina and Tomas Platas of Bolivia turned their full attention to the liquor and stogies. All looked forward to the day when they would have a proper officers' mess with silverware, plates, cups and other items needed for fine dining.
Toledo lit his cigar and exhaled contentedly before reaching for his brandy. After a slow, appreciative sip, he sighed. "Well! It was simple fare, but filling, verdad, caballeros?"