Guerilla Warfare (2006) (15 page)

0230 HOURS LOCAL

JAMES Bradley got up off the floor of the but and walked over to examine his little patient in the lantern light. The boy's parents slept on cots on the far side of the dwelling. Both were exhausted from worry over their only child, and James had to gently demand that the woman get some rest after long periods of giving her son alcohol baths.

The boy fussed a little in his sleep when James inserted the ear thermometer. The temperature had dropped to ninety-nine degrees, but it was still much too high for a youngster. The hospital corpsman checked the physical appearance of the child, noting that he had shown no response to the saline solution. It would be better to catheterize him to make an accurate observation of his urine output, but James did not have a catheter in his medical kit. A noise from the door caught his attention, and James turned to see the entire Charlie Fire Team tiptoeing into the hut.

"How's the little feller doing?" Milly asked.

"So-so," James replied.

Pech Pecheur, a Cajun from Louisiana, peered down at the sleeping youngster. "He don't look too good, James."

"I have to tell you," James said, "I'm not too confident of a recovery. God only knows how long he's really been sick before anybody around here took note of it."

Wes Ferguson from Wichita, Kansas, had participated in Reverend Borden's prayer vigil. Although not outwardly religious, this private individual attended chapel regularly back in Coronado. "He's in God's hands, James. Just do your best to help things along."

The quartet of tough SEALs stood in silence, gazing down at the little boy who clung to life by that proverbial thread.

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OA, SOUTHWEST SECTION

0500 HOURS LOCAL

the small bivouac, then walked over to Senior Chief Buford Dawkins and nudged him. Dawkins sat up immediately, wide-awake and ready to go. Guy continued on to the other SEALs, roughly shaking them awake.

"Drop your cocks and grab your socks," he growled at the group. He was a little cranky from having to listen to them peacefully sleep while he stood the last two hours of watch.

Chow that morning was granola energy bars and water from the canteens. Dawkins got on the AN/PRC-126 and raised Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan. The contact was expected, and Frank Gomez informed the senior chief that his orders for the day were to continue his patrol's mission until midafternoon before turning back.

Dawkins got to his feet as he shoved the handset back into its carrier. "All right, people. Off and on."

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VILLAGE OF CARIDAD

0730 HOURS LOCAL

HOSPITAL Corpsman James Bradley learned that his small patient's name was Joselito and that he had been born and raised in the poorest slum of La Paz, Bolivia. The boy was now awake and fussing softly, showing a healthy displeasure about everything that was going on. The mother and father watched anxiously as James took his temperature one more time. The smile on the SEAL's face after reading the digital readout showed it was normal.

By the time Reverend Borden came in for his morning visit, James had determined that Joselito was recovering nicely from the dehydration. Spittle had formed around his mouth, and his tongue was bright pink and moist. James poured a little water from his canteen into a plastic cup given him by the boy's mother. Joselito took a couple of small gulps and easily swallowed them. The liquid did not come back up. Then he demonstrated one of the most solid evidences of being rehydrated; he suddenly peed a beautiful stream of clear liquid. It wasn't much, but it meant he was well on his way back to normal.

James glanced up at Borden. "Tell the parents that Joselito will be fine by tomorrow."

When Borden gave them the good news, the mother rushed forward and grabbed James's hand. She kissed him, weeping and exclaiming her unending gratitude in Spanish. The father embraced him, crying uncontrollably as he expressed how much he appreciated the African-American's kindness. James didn't understand a word, but he caught the meaning clearly and fully. He was actually embarrassed by their worshipful and emotional appreciation. As far as he was concerned, he had simply logically and properly administered a treatment according to what he had been taught in premed and corpsman's school.

He smiled awkwardly and cleared his throat, speaking to Reverend Borden. "Tell them to give the little guy small sips of water about every fifteen minutes for the rest of the day." Then he added, "But not too much at a time. He could get very sick if he drank a lot. If he gets hungry, he can have some soup. But no solid food for at least a couple of days. Okay?"

James quickly packed up his medical kit before he had to endure any more parental thankfulness for saving the toddler's life.

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OA, SOUTHWEST SECTION

0900 HOURS LOCAL

GUY Deveraux was on point, moving steadily through the thick grass of the savannah, when he spotted the seven men in column a couple of hundred meters away. They were moving at an angle toward him. He suddenly dropped to his knees, whispering into his LASH, "Unknown formation.

Two hundred meters at two o'clock. Moving toward eight o clock?'

"Roger," came back Senior Chief Dawkins's voice. "Check 'em out careful. They might be Bolivian. We sure as hell don't want to piss off the local government by shooting up some of their soldiers."

Guy raised his binoculars to his eyes, immediately catching sight of the red, black, red insignia on their sleeves. "These are bad guys. They got that Falangist doodad sewn on their uniforms:'

"Can you figure out a good point of contact?" Buford asked.

"Yeah," the point man answered. "I'll pull back and get with you guys."

He stayed down, turning to crawl back through what cover the grass offered.

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FALANGIST PATROL

SUBOFICIAL Adolfo Punzarron still stayed on point like he had done the day before. He wanted to be the one to spot any potential enemies so that he could quickly organize an attack. The patrol followed a small creek that went less than a meter deep, running in a straight line across the grasslands. It would be a handy place to use for cover in case of attack.

The patrol moved at a steady pace, each man carefully maintaining vigilance in the direction of his field of fire. If this had been a couple of weeks earlier, they would have been panting and stumbling, but now they trekked on easily, sweating more from the heat than fatigue.

Suddenly incoming fire raked the formation, and one of the Falangists jerked violently before toppling to the ground.

"Ponense a cubierto!" Punzarron bellowed.

The men jumped down into the creek, using the banks for cover as they returned fire toward the source of the attack.

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THE FIREFIGHT

JOE Miskoski, working the SAW, pumped out heavy fire with instinctively regulated pulls on the trigger while Guy Deveraux and Andy Malachenko leaped up and charged toward the enemy. Bullets from the Falangists clipped the air around them, and they dove to the ground. The pair now fired three-round automatic bursts as the rest of the SEALs got to their feet and rapidly advanced forward to join them.

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PUNZARRON and his men were able to stand up in the knee-deep water, leaning forward on the creek bank. They fired overlapping patterns of salvos at the enemy who appeared, disappeared and reappeared as they closed in.

"Los hijos de chingadas are using fire-and-maneuver!" Punzarron bellowed over the sound of the shooting, knowing the attackers were at a disadvantage because of being on open ground. "As soon as any. show themselves, turn your fire on them!"

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THE SEALs made two more attempts to close in, but the incoming . was so heavy they were quickly pinned down. Dawkins growled into his LASH, "Press your bellies to the dirt! Any casualties?"

"Negative, Senior Chief!" Gutsy Olson, the fire team leader, reported.

"All right!" Dawkins said. "Now hear this! Don't fire, and don't make any sound. They'll think we all have been hit or hauled ass:'

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VILLAGE OF CARIDAD

1330 HOURS LOCAL

THE entire population of the small community watched the bright red Petroleo Colmo Gazelle helicopter come in for a landing. James Bradley, holding onto his medical kit, had now endured the everlasting gratitude of everybody in the village. He had never gotten so many friendly embraces in his life. He didn't mind the women so much, but the crushing bear hugs of the men were beginning to tell after he'd endured several dozen.

Little Joselito was in his mother's arms, completely bewildered by all the hullabaloo. He didn't realize he had even been sick, much less at death's door; all he knew was that he felt a lot better now than he had for the past few days. He also was unaware that the man everyone was giving so much attention to had saved his life.

When the chopper touched down, Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan stepped out. He walked up and took Milly Mills's salute, then was introduced to the Reverend Walter Borden. The minister gripped Brannigan's hand, shaking it with great feeling.

"You and your men are truly a blessing bestowed on us by the Good Lord above!" he cried. "You have brought us food and clothing and medicine, but above all, you brought us that most precious commodity: hope! The good doctor James saved a life, and all these grateful people look upon it as a sign that we will do more than simply survive. We shall grow and prosper in this community we have built for ourselves."

"I'm glad we could lend a hand," Brannigan said, having been apprised of James's good deed over the AN/PRC126.

"We were in very bad shape," Borden admitted. "And we are all city folks, so none of us are expert in living off the land. Now, thanks to the seed you sent us, our gardens shall blossom properly and provide even more food for us."

"I'm real happy things are starting to pick up for you," Brannigan said, feeling awkward in the barrage of gratitude.

"We are more than happy to help you in your struggle," Borden said. "I abhor war, but you are such good men, I know your cause must be worthy and blessed by God."

"We appreciate your offer of help," Brannigan said. He turned to Milly. "Take your fire team off and do some patrolling. All around this village. Get back here within an hour, and we'll take you back to your assault section." He grabbed James's arm, pulling him toward the chopper. "Let's get the hell out of here."

The villagers cheered as the two climbed into the chopper, glad to escape all the disconcerting love being showered on them.

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FIREFIGHT

1400 HOURS LOCAL

THE Falangist patrol had been waiting, silent and sweating, for four hours with no movement to their front. Punzarron, as patient in battle as he used to be when setting up an armed robbery in his native Portugal, had kept his men quiet. Now, although there had been no sign or sound of movement to the front, he was convinced the attackers were gone.

"We are going to advance," he called out to his five surviving men. "The skulking bastards have crawled away on their bellies like the cobardes--the cowards--that they are."

At his command, the patrol pulled themselves out of the creek and stood up on the bank. Bursts of fire swept across them, and two men tumbled to the grass. Cursing and snarling, the Falangists leaped back into the cover of the narrow waterway. Of the pair of casualties, one lay still in death while the other moaned softly with a belly wound.

* * *

"NOW hear this," Senior Chief Buford Dawkins whispered over the LASH. "Start easing back, but stay alert. I don't expect them to chance exposing themselves again, but they're prob'ly really pissed off at us."

Dawkins would have liked to stay and bring the fight to a more satisfying conclusion, but there was a strong possibility that the Falangists might have called for reinforcements. That was a luxury the Americans did not have.

The SEALs surreptitiously, quietly, slowly and stealthily hauled ass.

Chapter 9

SEAL CACHE MAYBELLE OA, SOUTHERN SECTION

15 DECEMBER

0915 HOURS LOCAL

CHIEF Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson, leader of the First Assault Section, walked through a pouring rain around the recently constructed cache that had been named after Connie Concord's wife. The earthen evacuation, now covered by carefully dug-up sod, was practically invisible, even to someone standing directly on top of it.

The assault section, recently reorganized since Lieutenant (J. G.) Jim Cruiser had been wounded nine days earlier, had already adapted to the new one-man command structure. Matt was an experienced leader, quickly able to turn things around to his own methods of leadership.

Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz considered their assignment to the group as a sort of vacation after days of acting as the detachment's point men and scouts. They were well acquainted with the other old sweats in the section, having served with them in the platoon's first mission in Afghanistan. On the other hand, Petty Officer Second Class Lamar Taylor and Petty Officer Third Class Paulo Cinzento were fresh assignees the original members were just beginning to know.

Lamar was a twenty-one-year-old African-American from Cincinnati, Ohio. This married man with two kids was at the beginning of his second four-year hitch after shipping over. His entrance into the SEALs had been through the inspiration of a high school teacher who had served in the outfit in Vietnam. Lamar still exchanged letters with the social studies instructor who had wielded such a positive influence in his life.