Guerilla Warfare (2006) (27 page)

Castillo was also following in his idol Adolf Hitler's footsteps by writing a combination autobiography and manifesto he had titled Mi Lucha. This was based on Hitler's well-known publication, Mein Kampf. The Spanish and German names of these books translated into English as My Struggle, and Castillo thought the name of the book appropriate. Ignacio was expected to put the handwritten manuscript into the computer's Word 97 processing system as the work progressed.

The little man also received extra work from the intelligence officer, Comandante Tippelskirch. The Chilean's activities seemed to grow more complex with each passing week. Additional informants, operatives, reports and activities had begun to flood Tippelskirch's office in an unexpected abundance. He decided to take advantage of the word processing and copying capabilities now available in Ignacio's bailiwick. The diminutive accountant dutifully made all the necessary copies plus extras. These additional documents, of which Tippelskirch was unaware, went into a rucksack Ignacio kept concealed under his desk.

THE SEAL DEFENSIVE POSITION

SELVA VERDE MOUNTAINS

10 JANUARY

LIEUTENANT Wild Bill Brannigan had taken great care in the selection of the SEALs' mountaintop defensive perimeter. He had studied both maps and satellite photographs before leaving the base camp, determining that the best area to defend was at the apex of a small but steep mountain that rose nine hundred feet above the Lozano Grasslands. Thick jungle growth stretched from the top in a heavily treed forest that ran all the way into the lush savannah. After they hid the piraguas in the thick brush along the banks of the Rio Ancho, he led the detachment in a difficult forced march up the slopes to the chosen spot. No time was allowed for a breather to recover from the climb, as the SEALs immediately went to work setting up a compact defensive circle. The concealment and defensive capabilities of the site were superlative. This was the most important reasoning behind Brannigan's choice, since he realistically expected to come under attack by a numerically superior enemy.

When the perimeter was laid out properly, the Skipper reconfigured the detachment for the deadly task ahead. He decided to keep only James Bradley and Frank Gomez with him in the Command Element. All the riflemen would be needed on the defensive line.

James was tasked with organizing a central place to treat casualties as well as to take care of the patient he already had. Connie Concord's wound was bad enough that he was considered hors de combat, and needed to be monitored closely and often. Frank was close by where he could tend the AN/PSC-5 Shadowfire radio that kept them in touch with Special Operations Command through the CIA relay station in Colombia. However, in the event a sector of the perimeter became particularly har during an attack, Frank would be sent to help out in that area.

All the fire teams were dissolved, and each Assault Section was reinstituted as one compact unit under the direct leadership of its commander. Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson maintained control of the First, while the Second would continue operation under the leadership of Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins. Garth Redhawk and Chad Murchison were sent to join Matt's outfit. The reorganization gave each section commander a SAW gunner and six riflemen. The First Section took the north and west sides of the perimeter, while the Second took the south and east. As soon as all this was announced, the men were personally assigned by Brannigan to their particular places in the line. The importance of excellent camouflage was prioritized in the defensive scheme.

The SAW gunners would stick close to the commanders to go to any part of the position where additional automatic fire was needed. Brannigan also picked out a couple of OP sites, giving each section the responsibility for manning one. These had to be placed in locations that allowed the occupants the ability to make a quick withdrawal back to the perimeter in the case of attack.

When all the shifting and settling in was finished, the detachment hunkered down. Bruno Puglisi and Joe Miskoski took the time to evenly divide the squad automatic weapon magazines between themselves. Puglisi slipped the bandoleers over his beefy shoulders and walked back through the thick brush and trees to join Chief Matt Gunnarson. As he sat down beside his section commander, the Italian-American from Philadelphia quipped, "Why do I keep thinking that we're fucked, forgotten and forsaken?"

Matt smiled wryly. "Don't forget dumped, deserted and desperate."

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ABOVE THE SELVA VERDE MOUNTAINS

12 JANUARY

0115 HOURS LOCAL

SUBALTERNO Ernesto Pizzaro manned the controls of the EC-635 helicopter during the flight through the darkness over the mountain range. His copilot, Suboficial Manuel Obregon, monitored the newly acquired FLIR scope that had been installed during the last maintenance flight back to Argentina. The two aviators had been pals back in their old squadron of the Fuerza Aerea Argentina, and in spite of their wildly diverse family and social backgrounds, had developed a deep comradeship. Both were young and craved action, and this was their main motivation for joining the Falangist Revolution. The reconnaissance duty they performed that night was categorically not to their liking. There would be no strafing or rocketing involved.

The senior officers back at Fuerte Franco had concluded that the bandidos had escaped into the thick jungle that covered the Selva Verde Mountains and could hide there indefinitely without being found. The enemy needed to be accurately located to ascertain their location as well as to find out if they had linked up with any other forces. Now, with this newly acquired FLIR, a pattern search could be mounted at night to give the entire range a careful search. This was the second night of the monotonous activity, and the mission had worked a few kilometers farther south from the point of its beginning. Neither pilot talked as they continued the flight of going back and forth above the trees.

"Hay estdn!" Obregon suddenly cried out. "There they are!"

Pizzaro leaned over slightly to take a quick look at the scope. He could make out what appeared to be close to two dozen warm images arranged in a circular pattern. If this was not a defensive perimeter, then putas did not fuck. To make the situation even better, there was no sign of a larger force in the vicinity.

The young officer swung the chopper toward the northwest to head back to Fuerte Franco.

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THE RIO ANCHO

0600 HOURS LOCAL

SARGENTO Antonio Muller leaped from the fuselage of the SA-330 helicopter to be quickly followed by the half-dozen men he had brought with him. Everyone wore basic webbing with ammo pouches and canteens. They carried Star 9-millimeter submachine guns. The morning's mission had come about from the previous night's FLIR reconnaissance in which the exact location of the bandidos had been determined. Muller and his men were charged with locating the enemy's boats and destroying them. That way, if the bandidos made another run for safety, they would go cross-country. No more boating on the river.

Logic dictated the piraguas had to be hidden somewhere in a direct line from the bandidos' defensive position down to the river. They obviously would have been unable to lug them all the way to the top of the mountain.

When they reached the river, two previously selected men from the Argentine Infanteria de Marina quickly stripped down, then dove into the water to begin a search within the vegetation that grew thickly along the banks. The coolness felt good to the marines as they swam slowly in the Rio Ancho. They searched the far side, since that would be the most convenient place to conceal the small craft before ascending the jungle mountain. Muller and his men stood in the shadeless area, baked hard by the sun as the searchers swam from place to place, going into the brush hanging over in the water.

A half hour passed before a shout came from the Argentines. "Tres piraguas! Three!"

Muller was glad the task hadn't taken long. One of the generators back at Fuerte Franco was running the new ice machine. Cans of beer had already been set aside to cool down even before the detail left on the mission. By the time they got back, there would be plenty of cold beer.

"Push them out away from the bank," the sargento instructed, "then swim out of the way."

The order was quickly obeyed. The three piraguas were shoved into the middle of the slow-moving river, then the pair of marines paddled a few meters away. The rest of the detail joined Muller with their submachine guns. As soon as the sargento began firing, they joined in. Large splashes and chunks of wood flew upward as the slugs were sprayed at the boats. Within moments the craft were shot to pieces, the chunks floating on the water.

"Ya bastante! " Muller yelled. "That's enough!"

The swimmers came ashore to dress. As soon as they were ready to leave, the patrol headed to the helicopter for the quick flight back to Fuerte Franco for the cold beer. Back on the river, the pieces and splinters of the boats were already moving eastward on the sluggish current.

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FUERTE FRANCO

1300 HOURS LOCAL

THE guard at the gate to the convicts' camp opened up the barbed wire portal to admit Gordo Pullini. He stepped inside and walked toward his gang, who stood in a group looking expectantly at him. An hour before he had been called to report directly to Coronel Jeronimo Busch. The fact that Pullini had been gone that much time was strong indication that something special was in the offing.

A tub of iced beer had been sent in earlier, and Pullini went directly to it and got a can. As the gang leader, he could expect that a lion's share would have been left for him. He popped it open, took a couple of deep swallows, then gestured to the others. "Agruparsen alrededor de mi, tipos," he said. "Gather around me, guys:'

The men moved closer, arranging themselves in their pecking order that had been established years before through fistfights, stabbings and bluffing. Those closest in sat down, while those less skilled in fighting and defending themselves in brawls had to stand in the rear.

"Compel Busch has told me that they have the bandidos trapped on a mountaintop in the Selva Verde range," Pullini said. He glanced over at a man named Cortador Marconi. "You know that area well, verdad, Cortador?"

"Right, jefe," the convict answered. "I was born and raised just south of there. Me and my compinches used to go there to lay low when things got too hot for us in Argentina:'

Pullini smiled happily. "Then when we get there, we'll know exactly where we are."

Another convict, Cicatriz Bagni, raised his hand. "Why are we going there, jefe? Do they want us to fight the bandidos?"

"The guys they're calling bandidos are actually norteamericanos," Pullini explained. "And, yes! They want us to fight them. Busch told me this is a chance for us to prove ourselves and become full-fledged citizens of a country these Falangists are going to establish here after they win their revolution:'

Navajaso Coletti laughed. "We'll just eventually end up in another prison system."

"You are right," Pullini said. "So what we are going to do is go along with the game, see? Then, when the time is right, we'll make a run for it. Cortador can lead us out of there, and we can reach Colombia with all our money to buy into a drug cartel."

"Hold it!" a pessimistic gang member named Pancho DiPietro called out. "Do they expect us to fight those guys with our bare hands?"

"They are going to give us weapons," Pullini said, noting the instant expressions of happy surprise on his men's faces. "We will have Spanish Mauser rifles that hold five bullets."

"No es bueno!" Coletti said. "That isn't good! I am familiar with those Mausers. Those are real old rifles that are seven-millimeter. They are bolt action, and that means you got to work the bolt for each shot you make. And five bullets are not very many."

"Beggars can't be choosers," Pullini pronounced. "And they'll be good for providing food and protection on our way out of this cursed place."

A shrill warning whistle came from one of the lookouts. Everyone shut up and glanced toward the gate. A group of Falangists pushing a cart had just arrived. They had a crate with a small cardboard box sitting on top of it. The sargento yelled for six men to come forward. Pullini instantly picked out a half-dozen men who trotted over to see what was wanted. It took only a moment for the crate and box to be transferred from the cart to their hands. They carried them back, placing the load down in front of the gang leader.

One of the men, who had a stolen claw hammer, went to his tent to get it. Pullini opened the cardboard box on top, noting it had canvas bundles in it. When he unwrapped one of them, he found a rifle-cleaning kit complete with solvent, patches, oil and a ramrod. By that time the owner of the hammer was back. He immediately began taking off the top of the wooden container. Pullini looked inside and saw two dozen old rifles covered with a thick coating of Cosmoline.

"Are there any bullets in there, jefe?" Bagni asked. Pullini shook his head. "No. But we're going to have a hell of a job cleaning up those rifles for use."

Coletti looked toward the gate. "I notice we're still locked down."

under his desk and retrieved the rucksack he kept hidden there. He opened the main flap and pulled out the carefully arranged manila folders holding the documents he had sorted so precisely. He even had them neatly titled in his precise handwriting. All the floppy disks were stored in side pockets, concealed within socks and underwear.