Jack Terral - Guerilla Warfare (2006)

"Esta es su ultima oportunidad para entregar!" Chad hollered. He spoke out of the side of his mouth to his companion. "I just told him this is his last chance to surrender."

"Tell the son of a bitch to stand up. Now!"

"Levantarse! Ahora!"

A moment later a figure emerged into sight from the grass. He raised his hands and waited. The two SEALs cautiously got to their feet and approached him. The Falangist appeared to be in his early twenties; he was slim and good-looking, with an aristocratic air about him.

"Keep an eye on him," Redhawk said. "I'll check out the casualties to make sure they're dead:' He went from man to man, rolling them over before going through their pockets to search for identification or documents. He found nothing and went back to join Chad and their prisoner. "Tell him not to try any funny stuff."

"I speak English," the Falangist said. He was trying to put on a show of bravado, but the violent, unexpected deaths of his companions had obviously shaken him. "Who are you?"

"Hey!" Redhawk snapped. "We're the capturers and you're the capturee, understand? We ask the questions." He grabbed the man by the sleeve and pushed him toward the south. "Any smart-ass shit on your part, and you're as dead as your buddies. Got it? Let's go!"

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SEAL BIVOUAC

RIO ANCHO

1715 HOURS LOCAL

THE EPW sat on the ground with his hands held behind his back in a plastic retainer. All the SEALs had been able to learn from him was that his name was Enrico Melendez and that his rank was subalterno. He refused to give his nationality, but Chad Murchison quickly cleared that up for Lieutenant Bill Brannigan.

"He's a Bolivian, sir."

"How can you tell, Murchison?"

"Those cloth wings sewn above his pocket are Bolivian:' Chad said. "I collect parachutist badges for a hobby and have an extensive assortment. He is definitely a Bolivian paratrooper."

"Brannigan looked down at the prisoner. "All right, so you're a Bolivian. What is your position in this Falangist Revolution?"

"Under the rules of the Geneva Convention I am not required to answer any questions other than name, rank and service number," Melendez said defiantly.

"Don't give me that shit, kid:' Brannigan said. "I think maybe you're a bandit. A goddamn felon. I'll just shoot you as a criminal."

"Bah!" Melendez said. "And you are American mercenaries! You will be the ones who are put against a wall and shot."

Frank Gomez came up on the bank from the boat where he kept the Shadowfire radio. "I transmitted the information on the EPW, sir. Alfredo is coming out personal to have a look at the guy."

"Well," Brannigan said, "then he can sort this shit out with his own interrogation methods?'

Melendez winced and took a deep breath of resignation.

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1830 HOURS LOCAL

SEAL security was particularly tight when the Petroleo Colmo chopper came in for a landing. Brannigan was worried about the bright red aircraft attracting unwanted attention if a bunch of pissed-off Falangists were out looking for whoever had shot up their patrol and captured its leader.

Alfredo stepped out of the passenger door and shook hands with Brannigan. He nodded to Frank Gomez, Chad Murchison and Garth Redhawk, who were the only SEALs in the immediate vicinity. He and the Skipper walked to where Melendez still sat with his hands behind his back.

Alfredo studied the young EPW for a few moments before speaking. "Your name is Enrico Melendez, eh?"

"I have already answered all the questions I intend to," Melendez said. "And I demand to have my hands released from these bonds."

"Your name is Enrico Melendez, and you are a teniente in the Bolivian Army."

"I demand my rights under the Geneva convention."

"You are listed as a deserter by the Bolivian Army and are wanted by the law," Alfredo said. "Your father's name is Bolivar Melendez, and he is the president of the Banco Mercado in La Paz. He lives with your mother Beatriz and your younger sister Mercedes at 12 Avenida de la Libertad in the exclusive suburb of Lujado."

Melendez's face paled.

"Do you wish for us to turn you over to the Bolivian federal authorities?" Alfredo asked. "Even your wealthy father and his political friends in the Chamber of Senators would be unable to save you. This situation with the Falangistas is serious enough that you will be shot as an example to other young turks in the Bolivian military." He paused long enough to light a cigarillo. After exhaling the smoke of the first drag, he said, "I am in a position to help you get out of this mess and back home. But you will have to cooperate with me."

The young prisoner moaned softly. "Dios me ayudaGod help me!"

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2300 HOURS LOCAL

ALFREDO had brought in a couple of cases of French beer along with an assortment of sandwiches from the Petroleo Colmo mess kitchen. It was a cold camp for security reasons, and though the weather wasn't cool by any stretch of the imagination, it would have been nice if they could have had some smoky fires to keep the mosquitoes away. But at least they had their insect repellent.

Bill Brannigan and Alfredo sat on the riverbank eating ham-and-turkey sandwiches while knocking back cans of the imported beer. They were disappointed in the results of the interrogation of the young Subalterno Melendez. The young man couldn't tell them much except that both banderas in the OA had been brought together to concentrate their efforts against the invaders. The addition of the mortars to the machine guns as infantry support weapons was not good news, nor was the intelligence about additional troops scheduled to arrive, The stolen Argentine helicopter in the enemy's possession was also ominous. This all meant that as the Falangists grew stronger and more fluid, their combat effectiveness could reach alarming proportions.

Alfredo finished off his Kronenbourg beer. Under normal conditions out in a desolate wilderness he would have tossed the small bottle into the river. But security dictated that all the empty bottles and wrappers from the refreshments be taken back to the oil company for disposal. He belched contentedly, then took another bite of his sandwich. "The main thing we've learned from sweating out that EPW was that it's going to be a hell of a lot harder to defeat this Falangist rebellion than originally thought."

"I need more men," Brannigan flatly stated.

"We considered that from the get-go," Alfredo said. "Washington says that's a no-no. And the UN can't help unless Bolivia asks for aid. If the three countries involved were willing to do that, you guys wouldn't be here in the first place."

"Shit! This is a no-win situation."

"You've got permission to cut and run anytime you want to," Alfredo said. "Nobody is going to hold it against you." He reached for another beer. "We can have you out of here within twelve hours. What do you say?"

Brannigan gave the ex--Special Forces NCO the coldest stare he'd ever been given in his life.

"I thought not," Alfredo said, belching again.

Chapter 7

HEADQUARTERS, GRUPO DE BATALLA CAMPAMENTO ASTRAY

10 DECEMBER

1020 HOURS LOCAL

IGNACIO Perez sat on the chair in his small room in the far corner of the headquarters building, smoking nervously. The ashtray on the desk next to him was filled with cigarette butts. Beside it was a half-full bottle of cognac that had been opened less than an hour before. The little bald man was frightened out of his wits but not to the extent of trembling with fear or heavy, nervous sweating. His trepidation was the smothering type that weighed on his consciousness with a relentless pressure without bringing on noticeable physical reactions other than smoking and drinking too much.

One of the patrols sent out a couple of days before had gone missing, then was located earlier that morning. A reconnaissance party had radioed in that three men had been discovered dead, and a fourth was missing in action. This was the young subalterno named Enrico Melend had not be found anywhere in the vicinity. It was assumed he had been captured.