Rising, p.8
Dawn of Conflict: An epic world battle begins... (The Global War Military Thriller Series Book 1), page 8
“Just about to come and find you, Captain,” said Chavez. “Davis is heating up some of the old C rations. Anything you want?”
“The pound cake.”
“Oh no, sir. Since I found them, I get the pound cake.”
“Fine. What’s he preparing?”
“Sort of a military goulash. Dumped a lot of the stuff into a pot, added some spices, and is heating it.”
Martinez shook his head. “I think we could get something better brought in. Good, hot food and not just heated C rats.”
“Yes, sir,” said Chavez. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
Martinez nodded and sat at one of the card tables. Three other chairs surrounded it. There was another table with chairs, a couch pushed against one wall, a refrigerator on another, a TV set, radio, and a rack holding paperback novels and magazines. There was a bank of windows that allowed them to look out into the compound. He could see the top of the fence and beyond that the vegetation-covered slopes.
Davis moved toward him and said, “Where’s your plate, sir?”
Martinez pushed his chair back but Chavez said, “I’ve got one here, sir.”
Martinez took the paper plate and waited. Davis scooped a spoonful of the meal and dropped it on the plate. Martinez studied it for a moment. “What is this?”
“Combination of spaghetti, beans and franks, boned chicken, and ketchup.”
“Good God!”
“No, sir, it’s very good, really. Just think of it as barbecue.”
Martinez used the plastic fork Chavez had supplied to stir the steaming mass. He had to admit that it smelled good. He lifted a bit to his mouth and tried it. Davis stood there watching and waiting.
“Okay,” said Martinez. “It’s good.”
“It’s a question of knowing what to do with the stuff and how much of each ingredient to put in. Can’t just slop it into the pot wholesale. You have to be careful.”
“You’re an artist,” said Martinez.
He ate quickly. Chavez passed out Cokes pulled from the refrigerator. As he set a can in front of Martinez he said, “We’re going to need a PX run, Captain.”
“We’re supposed to be in isolation.”
“Yes, sir. But there are some items we need in here, including a couple cases of Cokes.”
“And we’ve got to zero the weapons,” said Davis as he slopped more of the goulash on a plate.
Martinez put his fork down and closed his eyes. “Two men to the PX this afternoon. In civilian clothes. With lists of what we’ll want there. I don’t want to have to do this again.”
“Yes, sir,” said Chavez. “I’ll draw up a duty roster.”
Martinez looked over at Davis. “We’ll get the weapons zeroed in the next couple of days.” He turned his attention to Espinoza. “You been briefed on the radio gear?”
“Yes, sir.” Staff Sergeant José Espinoza was the youngest man on the team, selected because of his talent with radio gear. He could cobble together a working radio from spare parts, bits of wire, and a two-year-old Eveready battery. He’d been fascinated with radios from the moment he learned that messages could be intercepted from the air around him. A short, stocky man with black hair and brown eyes, Espinoza looked as if he had escaped from high school only a few days before. When he was out of uniform, no one suspected that he was Special Forces.
Martinez turned his attention to Jones. “Medical briefing to include the hazards of the environment this afternoon?”
“Sixteen hundred, sir?”
“That’ll be fine.”
Martinez finished his food and pushed the plate away. To Davis he said, “I’ll admit that it wasn’t bad, but I think I’d prefer a thick steak.”
“You get one, sir, and I’ll broil it.”
Martinez sat quietly for a moment, watching the members of the team. When nearly everyone had finished eating, he asked, “Everyone have a chance to review the material in the mission packages?”
There were mumbled answers and a few men nodded. Martinez continued, “We need to get a planning session going on this. Lieutenant Alvarez and Master Sergeant Chavez, will you join me in my office?”
“Yes, sir,” said Alvarez.
“The rest of you,” said Martinez, “take a look at your specific mission requirements and let me know what you’ll need this afternoon. I want a detailed plan established by nineteen hundred.”
Martinez sat off to one side of the conference room while Espinoza briefed the men on the communications equipment he would be carrying into the field. He had two of the radios out on top of the table and was explaining, in detail, the techniques of preparing the tapes for a burst transmission. This would allow them to send twenty to thirty minutes of material in less than two seconds. The short duration of the transmission made triangulation by enemy forces almost impossible.
When Espinoza finished, he asked, “Any questions?”
“Which units are you going to take with you?”
“Depends,” said Espinoza, “if we’ll be sending information back or if we’ll just be contacting net control for check-in and then extraction.”
“There going to be any problems with the commo?” asked Alvarez.
“No, sir,” said Espinoza. “Not with the satellite links available to us. We don’t need line of sight.”
Martinez turned to Davis to check on the backup. Each man had two jobs on the team. “What frequencies are we going to be operating on and what are the normal checkin times with net control?”
Davis answered without hesitation. Martinez nodded. He looked at his watch and said, “Jones, you ready for the medical briefing.”
“Ready, sir.”
“Then have at it.”
Jones grinned. “The first problem I want to talk about is poisonous snakes. There are coral snakes and rattlesnakes in Colombia. They are related to those we have in the United States. Coral snakes have to chew through the skin, so boots and heavy clothing defeat them. Besides, they’re timid and flee when they have the chance.”
Jones fell silent, glanced at his audience, and then grinned again. “But there are other snakes that are very deadly. The bushmaster can grow to eleven feet and lives at low altitudes. It likes the forests and often hides in animal burrows. Sometimes it conceals itself along trails, but will remain motionless unless touched, and then it probably will try to flee. Bites from the bushmaster are rare and usually not fatal.
“My personal favorite is the fer-de-lance, but only because of their bright colors — greens, reds, or yellows. One source claims that the fer-de-lance is only found on Martinique, but I saw a bright yellow one near Panama City a couple of years ago. Their venom attacks the blood and nerves, and the indications are that the mortality rate is high.”
“Antivenin?”
“There are antivenins available, but not all antivenins are effective against all the snakes. I mean, you need one antivenin for the rattlers and another for the coral snakes. Some of the antivenins don’t travel well and there is discussion whether the so-called antivenins work on the neurotoxin.”
“Terrific,” said Martinez.
“The British, however,” said Jones, “have come up with something that might work if we can get our hands on it. It’s a small black box that puts a current, four hundred volts, into the snakebite area. Apparently the current breaks down the structure of the poison, so that it is no longer toxic. It also keeps the skin around the wound from putrefying. It’s the latest in snakebite treatment.”
He stopped and waited, looking at Martinez. The captain merely nodded. Jones continued, “There are ants, wasps, and spiders in the area. The bites of most are not fatal unless you happen to be allergic to them.”
Martinez asked, “Anyone have a problem there?”
“We’re all good,” said Chavez. It was a ritual they went through every time.
Jones then began to describe the edible plants in the jungle environment. He told them what to avoid. The list was long and took twenty minutes to work through. Finished with the exotic, the cattail, the wild mulberry, and the coconut, Jones told them that twenty-six percent of the land was farmed. They could eat the grains and vegetables grown there. Domestic animals were widely distributed, and they could always shoot a cow for meat.
“There’s the steaks you wanted, Captain,” said Chavez.
Ignoring him, Martinez asked, “Diseases?”
“The things that you would expect. Malaria, dengue fever, yellow fever, and encephalitis are real problems and are all carried by mosquitoes. We’ll have to watch out for dysentery, sand flea fever, and typhus. Any cut could become infected. There are leeches and flatworms that can cause sickness.”
Martinez interrupted him. “Ortega, take over.”
Ortega stood up and asked, “You want me to continue with the diseases?”
“No. Give me the preventative measures.”
“Yes, sir.” He hesitated and then said, “To prevent malaria each man should be taking the pill.” He laughed. “Even if it gives you the shits. If shots are up-to-date, there should be no problems with yellow fever, typhus, and dysentery. In the field we need to camp on the high ground away from swamps, use mosquito netting or smear mud on the face, and keep all clothing fastened down so mosquitoes can’t get in to bite. That’ll help prevent most of the diseases.”
Chavez interrupted this time. “Captain, we’re getting close to suppertime.”
Martinez looked at his watch and nodded. “Okay, Ortega, you’re off the hook now. Let’s break for food.”
With dinner out of the way, Martinez moved the men back into the conference room. He pulled out a chair at the head of the table, put his foot into the seat, and leaned forward, elbow on knee. To Alvarez he said, “Let’s have a look at the mission profile.”
Alvarez stood up and flipped the cover off the map sitting on the easel. He pulled a pointer from his pocket and opened it.
“The target zone has been determined for us.” He snapped the pointer against the map. “In the designated area, there are four good drop zones.”
“Infiltration by air?” Martinez asked.
“Only way to do it,” said Alvarez. “We’re too far from the coast to use it. We’d spend two, three weeks walking in and then have to be resupplied by air if we were going to remain on station very long.”
“Go ahead,” said Martinez.
“Drop just before dawn so that we have the cover of darkness for the drop but then a whole day to get off the DZ and into the jungle.”
“No problems there,” said Martinez.
Alvarez then described the construction of their base, the use of the terrain to conceal their presence, and the patrolling by the men. Always six men at the camp with two- or three-man teams operating in the jungle. They would stay out two or three days, depending on the circumstances.
“Exfiltration,” said Martinez.
“That’s the major problem. There are a dozen areas that could take helicopters. There are farmers’ fields where they could land as well.”
Martinez nodded and Alvarez grinned. He pulled an aerial photograph and set it on the easel. “There’s an airfield here where a C-130 could land if we wanted it to.”
“What’s the air force say about that?”
“They say they could make it. The problem is the DEA and the Colombians. Obviously this is a drug dealer’s strip. Indications are that it hasn’t been used in six months. The real problem is being intercepted by Colombian fighters once we come up off it.”
Chavez chimed in. “Colombia doesn’t have any fighters to launch against us. By the time we cross the coast and American fighters pick us up, the IFF will tell them who we are. That’s a nonissue.”
“You still haven’t addressed the question of exfiltration. How are you going to do it?”
“I think the C-130 is the best bet,” said Alvarez. “Puts us back into Panama in an hour or two. We have diplomatic overflight clearances. If the plane sinks below radar coverage for five or six minutes, no one’s going to scream too loud.”
Martinez stood and walked to the map. He studied it and then picked up the aerial recon photo. “Strip doesn’t look too good here.”
“No, sir, but that’s why it’s good. If the drug runners were still using it, it would be in good shape. Since it’s abandoned, it’ll be good for us.”
“We’ll need to check this out more closely,” said Martinez. “I see a couple of shadows on the runway. Those could be potholes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Martinez returned to his chair, pulled a couple of documents, and read them quickly. “I think that’s got it.”
“Sir?” said Chavez.
“I’ll want to look at refinements for the plan and I’ll want detailed plans for the FOB and the patrolling activities, but in general, I think we’ve got it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Alvarez. “Does that mean I pass out the beer?”
“It means that we’ll call it an evening. Davis, I want a schedule for zeroing the weapons.” He stopped to think. “Anything I’m overlooking?”
“No, sir,” said Chavez.
For two days they worked on refining the basic plan, on studying the environment they would encounter, on learning the idiosyncrasies of the radios and other equipment. They worked carefully, each man learning the roles of the others. If disaster struck, they would all have the knowledge needed to extract them from the problem. In Special Forces there was no special knowledge limited to one man. Each could take the role of anyone else if it became necessary.
On Friday morning at ten, it was time for the briefback. Martinez had the conference room set up to accommodate the four men from the SFOB headquarters, who were coming in to listen to the plan the team had devised. If they thought the plan would work, if they believed that all options had been covered, they would give the go-ahead. If it was a no-go, Martinez and his men would be given the opportunity to reconstruct the plan, or they would be taken out of isolation. Another team would then take the mission.
Martinez had tried reading in his office but failed. He had tried pacing, but the office was too small. He had tried to forget that the briefback was coming, but it was always in his mind ready to leap up at him. Finally he gave up and walked out into the hallway.
Chavez appeared. “Not long now, sir.”
“Not long.” He looked at the master sergeant. “It is a good plan, isn’t it?”
“It’s a fine plan, Captain. Hell, there’s not much we can do for this since the mission is to gather information. No bridges to attack, no military targets to eliminate. We just sneak in, keep low, and sneak out.”
“This is the worst part,” said Martinez. “A test in school, except to fail here is as bad as it gets.”
“No, sir. To fail in the field is as bad as it gets.”
“You know what I mean,” said Martinez. “Very few teams have ever received a no-go.”
“How many other teams are in isolation on this?” asked Chavez.
“I don’t know. I suspect they’ve got a dozen teams set to go into a dozen different locations, each operating independently.”
Ortega appeared and said, “Guards report that the cars have cleared the gate.”
Martinez took a deep breath. “Here we go.”
When Martinez saw the delegation coming down the hallway, he wanted to scream. Along with the general, his aide, and two Special Forces officers, was Victoria Ord.
The general moved toward Martinez. “You ready, Captain?”
“Yes, sir.” He hesitated and then asked, “Should the civilian be here?”
“The civilian is authorized to see everything that goes on in here.”
Martinez wanted to challenge that but knew from the tone of the general’s voice that no more discussion would be tolerated. Ord was going to sit in on the briefback whether he liked it or not.
“We’re set up in the conference room, General,” said Chavez. “If you’d like coffee?”
The general looked at Ord pointedly. “Victoria, would you care for coffee?”
“Yes, General, I believe I would.”
“Sergeant, two cups of coffee.”
“Yes, sir.”
They reached the conference room and Martinez opened the door. “Gentlemen, General Keaton.”
The men got to their feet as the general and his staff entered. Keaton moved toward the front and pulled a chair to the side. “Victoria?”
She sat down and crossed her legs slowly. “Thank you, General.”
Martinez moved to the front of the room where a blackboard had been set up. Next to it was an easel holding a series of maps and charts. Off to one side, on one of the card tables brought from the dayroom, were the radios, some of the rifles, and a display of other equipment.
Keaton waited for the others and then sat down. He pointed at Martinez and said, “You may begin, Captain.”
“Yes, General.” He turned and looked directly at Ord.
Smiling at him, she nodded. “I have the proper clearances, Captain.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Let’s get on with it,” said Keaton.
“General, pardon me for being obtuse, but this should be confined to a need-to-know basis.”
“You may proceed, Captain.”
Martinez focused his attention on Ord. She grinned broadly at him but made no move to leave. She folded her arms across her chest.
“Captain,” said Keaton. “Begin.”
Now Martinez looked at the two Special Forces officers who were sitting in the front row with Keaton and Ord. They had to understand his feelings, but neither said a word. They just sat there waiting.
Martinez rubbed his face. He was suddenly hot and felt the sweat bead on his face and begin to drip down his sides. He felt trapped, unable to speak, unable to move. The situation was one that he didn’t understand and one that he didn’t like.
“Captain,” said the general, “is there some problem?”
Martinez shot another glance at Ord. She was a good-looking woman, and he would have liked to know her better if the situation had been different. But she seemed to be as ruthless as any of the men he knew, and because he didn’t know her well, he didn’t trust her. Not when his life and the lives of his men hung in the balance.
