the point man while you hit the rear guy. Then we'll both go for the man right behind the leader. On my command?'
He waited as the four Falangists pressed onward. They moved steadily, each one watching his field of fire, but unable to spot the hidden SEALs waiting in ambush.
Redhawk's voice was matter-of-fact when he spoke. "Fire."
The first round hit the lead man, who staggered sideways under the impact of the bullet before crumpling to the ground. At the same instant the last guy spun and dropped to the grass. A quick salvo got the third Falangist, and he buckled when two slugs jolted him. The patrol leader was on the ground by then, firing blindly in the direction of the incoming shots.
"Oiga!" Chad called out loudly in Spanish. "Nosotros le mandamos a entregar!"
"What'd you say?" Redhawk asked.
"I told him that we order him to surrender," Chad said. "Well, tell him there's a hundred of us, and he's alone," Redhawk said. "Tell him to surrender or die."
Chad yelled, "Estamos cien y usted esta solo. Entrege o muere!"
The Falangist stayed down without replying. Redhawk and Chad cut loose with some fire bursts that were low to the ground, obviously cracking the air just over the man's head.
"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!"
.
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.
.
1830 HOURS LOCAL
SEAL security
He waited as the four Falangists pressed onward. They moved steadily, each one watching his field of fire, but unable to spot the hidden SEALs waiting in ambush.
Redhawk's voice was matter-of-fact when he spoke. "Fire."
The first round hit the lead man, who staggered sideways under the impact of the bullet before crumpling to the ground. At the same instant the last guy spun and dropped to the grass. A quick salvo got the third Falangist, and he buckled when two slugs jolted him. The patrol leader was on the ground by then, firing blindly in the direction of the incoming shots.
"Oiga!" Chad called out loudly in Spanish. "Nosotros le mandamos a entregar!"
"What'd you say?" Redhawk asked.
"I told him that we order him to surrender," Chad said. "Well, tell him there's a hundred of us, and he's alone," Redhawk said. "Tell him to surrender or die."
Chad yelled, "Estamos cien y usted esta solo. Entrege o muere!"
The Falangist stayed down without replying. Redhawk and Chad cut loose with some fire bursts that were low to the ground, obviously cracking the air just over the man's head.
"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!"
.
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.
.
1830 HOURS LOCAL
SEAL security
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