was a small group of women drawing water from the well. They smiled and waved as the SEALS drew closer. Garth Redhawk was on the point, and he grinned and nodded to them, surprised and pleased by their amiable display. A couple of older men appeared on the scene, and they, too, were friendly. As the section walked into the village square, even more people, including some children, came out of their hut chores to join the small group. The women were barefoot, wearing blouses and skirts, while the men wore shirts, trousers and broad-brimmed hats. Several wore boots and carried short whips. It was at that time the SEALs noticed communal stables with horses.
A short, stocky man who seemed to be in his fifties stepped forward and spoke loudly, issuing sincerely happy salutations. Lieutenant Cruiser couldn't understand what he said, so he called for Chad Murchison to come forward. Chad had been a language major before enlisting in the Navy, and spoke French, German, Spanish and Italian fluently. He hurried to the front and offered his hand to the man.
"Buenos dial, senor," Chad said. "Como esta usted?"
The villager smiled and shook his head to indicate he couldn't understand. "Bom dia," the man said. "Muito prazer em conheca-lo."
Chad looked back at Cruiser. "Sir, he's not speaking Spanish. I'm not sure, but I think it's Portuguese:'
"Portuguese?" Cruiser said. "Why the hell would he be speaking in Portuguese? This is Bolivia. They speak Spanish here."
"Maybe he and these people came over here from Brazil," Chad suggested. "They speak Portuguese there."
"Shit!" Cruiser said. He turned to the section. "Do any of you guys speak Portuguese?"
Paulo Cinzento, one of the new men, stepped forward. "I speak Portuguese, sir."
"Oh, yeah?" Cruiser said, pleased. "How the hell did you learn to speak Portuguese?"
"I'm from San Diego, sir," Paulo replied. "My people came from Portugal and worked the tuna boats out of there for about three generations. I grew up with the language."
"Great," Cruiser said. "Go talk to the old guy there. Introduce us but don't mention that we're Americans. Just tell him we're patrolling this area and want to know how these nice folks are getting along."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Paulo went over to the old man and began speaking. Within a moment they were going at it like they were long-lost brothers. A full ten minutes of conversation went by before the SEAL returned to the section commander. "There's a puzzling situation here, sir."
"What's going on?" Cruiser asked.
"Well, he thanked us for some rice and beans and said they came in handy," Paulo explained. "He asked about some guy by the name of Punzarrao, and I told him he was fine. He also said to give greetings to the other soldiers. Then he said no Bolivian troops have been around since the last time some weeks ago."
"Other soldiers and Bolivians, huh?" Cruiser mused. "Who is the old guy?"
"He's the chefe--the chief--and his name is Joao Cabecinho," Paulo said. "It seems they're illegal squatters from Brazil, and they're raising cattle here. Old Joao said everyone was afraid of getting run out, but evidently the same guys who gave them the food also promised they would protect them from Bolivian police and soldiers."
"Okay," Cruiser said. "I get it. These are some of the people Alfredo was talking about. The Falangists have already gained a strong influence over them. Go tell the old guy that we have to go now. Tell him we hope to be back soon."
Paulo made the good-byes, and all the villagers waved as the SEALs formed up and headed back toward the creek where the boats were hidden. Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson hurried forward along the column to walk with Lieutenant Cruiser. The chief was pessimistic. "What do you think, sir?"
"I think it's pretty obvious the Falangists have won the hearts and minds of those villagers," Cruiser said. "That means they've probably done the same thing to other civilians in the OA."
"That's bad news, sir,"
A short, stocky man who seemed to be in his fifties stepped forward and spoke loudly, issuing sincerely happy salutations. Lieutenant Cruiser couldn't understand what he said, so he called for Chad Murchison to come forward. Chad had been a language major before enlisting in the Navy, and spoke French, German, Spanish and Italian fluently. He hurried to the front and offered his hand to the man.
"Buenos dial, senor," Chad said. "Como esta usted?"
The villager smiled and shook his head to indicate he couldn't understand. "Bom dia," the man said. "Muito prazer em conheca-lo."
Chad looked back at Cruiser. "Sir, he's not speaking Spanish. I'm not sure, but I think it's Portuguese:'
"Portuguese?" Cruiser said. "Why the hell would he be speaking in Portuguese? This is Bolivia. They speak Spanish here."
"Maybe he and these people came over here from Brazil," Chad suggested. "They speak Portuguese there."
"Shit!" Cruiser said. He turned to the section. "Do any of you guys speak Portuguese?"
Paulo Cinzento, one of the new men, stepped forward. "I speak Portuguese, sir."
"Oh, yeah?" Cruiser said, pleased. "How the hell did you learn to speak Portuguese?"
"I'm from San Diego, sir," Paulo replied. "My people came from Portugal and worked the tuna boats out of there for about three generations. I grew up with the language."
"Great," Cruiser said. "Go talk to the old guy there. Introduce us but don't mention that we're Americans. Just tell him we're patrolling this area and want to know how these nice folks are getting along."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Paulo went over to the old man and began speaking. Within a moment they were going at it like they were long-lost brothers. A full ten minutes of conversation went by before the SEAL returned to the section commander. "There's a puzzling situation here, sir."
"What's going on?" Cruiser asked.
"Well, he thanked us for some rice and beans and said they came in handy," Paulo explained. "He asked about some guy by the name of Punzarrao, and I told him he was fine. He also said to give greetings to the other soldiers. Then he said no Bolivian troops have been around since the last time some weeks ago."
"Other soldiers and Bolivians, huh?" Cruiser mused. "Who is the old guy?"
"He's the chefe--the chief--and his name is Joao Cabecinho," Paulo said. "It seems they're illegal squatters from Brazil, and they're raising cattle here. Old Joao said everyone was afraid of getting run out, but evidently the same guys who gave them the food also promised they would protect them from Bolivian police and soldiers."
"Okay," Cruiser said. "I get it. These are some of the people Alfredo was talking about. The Falangists have already gained a strong influence over them. Go tell the old guy that we have to go now. Tell him we hope to be back soon."
Paulo made the good-byes, and all the villagers waved as the SEALs formed up and headed back toward the creek where the boats were hidden. Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson hurried forward along the column to walk with Lieutenant Cruiser. The chief was pessimistic. "What do you think, sir?"
"I think it's pretty obvious the Falangists have won the hearts and minds of those villagers," Cruiser said. "That means they've probably done the same thing to other civilians in the OA."
"That's bad news, sir,"
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