“Good idea, Paco. That way he’ll have plenty of time to calm down before we get back to camp.”
“You, my friend, had better use the time to come up with a plan for capturing these americanos before they do more damage to our forces, or no matter what excuses we come up with, Loco will have our heads.”
SIXTEEN
Ben and his team looked like something out of a space movie as they gathered near the door of the C-130 transport plane. They were dressed all in black, with faces enclosed in Plexiglas helmets to give them oxygen until they fell far enough to be able to breathe on their own. Harley had said they would be at terminal velocity, 120 miles per hour, for several minutes prior to their chutes opening.
“It’s almost impossible to breathe at that speed, so leave your helmets hooked up until your chute opens. After that, if the shock of the sudden deceleration doesn’t knock you out, you can jettison your helmets and get your weapons ready to fire. We don’t know what we’re gonna find when we land.”
“What if we get hung up in the jungle canopy too far to drop from our chutes?” Ben asked.
Harley pointed to Ben’s chest. “That’s what that nylon cord on the front of your HALO suit is for. Just attach it to your harness, hit the release button, and climb down the rope to the ground.”
“And if the rope doesn’t reach the ground?” Corrie asked.
“Then you’re SOL,” Harley replied with a grin.
“SOL?” she asked.
“Shit outta luck,” he replied, and turned to watch the lights at the front of the transport, waiting for the jump light to turn from red to green.
* * *
Perro Loco paced the main room of his hacienda cursing and asking God why He had forsaken him on his glorious quest to save the poor working peasants from the overlords of capitalism. Paco Valdez and Jim Strunk sat across the room watching him. Both were thinking the same thing. Horseshit!
Finally, when Perro had exhausted his vocabulary of curse words, he stalked over and sat at his desk. He pulled a Cuban cigar out of a humidor, lit it, and he leaned back with his feet on the corner of the desk.
Pointing the cigar like a pistol, he asked Valdez, “Paco, have you got our commanders in Nicaragua and Costa Rica moving toward Mexico?”
“Sí, mi comandante,” Valdez answered. “All of our battalions are massing on the border as we speak. The Mexican presidente has protested strongly to the United Nations, but we have told them it is merely military exercises.”
“By the time the Secretary General of the U.N., Jean-François Chapelle, gathers the courage to act, we will be well on our way to Mexico City,” Strunk said, grinning.
“And have you figured out a plausible excuse for the attack on Mexico?” asked Valdez, peering at them through blue clouds of aromatic cigar smoke.
Strunk laughed out loud. “That’s the best part. One of our squads has stolen a Mexican Army helicopter. When you give the order, we’ll have one of our own men pilot it and attack the Presidential Palace in Nicaragua, giving us the perfect reason to join the oppressed people of Nicaragua when they arise and retaliate against the Mexican aggressors.”
Perro Loco nodded, smiling for the first time since he heard about the loss of the aircraft fuel. “Good. Very good. And one of the first orders of business for our troops will be to capture the fuel dumps south of Mexico City. Without that aircraft fuel, our attack will be short-lived. We need our attack helicopters to lead the way to Mexico City.”
Valdez cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair. “Comandante, I know the United Nations will fail to act—they always do—but what about this Ben Raines of the SUSA? When he hears we are advancing on Mexico City, he will surely come to their aid.”
“That is why I am going to accept Osterman’s offer of an alliance. She says she can keep Raines busy by resuming an attack on the SUSA from the north while I move from the south.” He shrugged. “Even if she only delays his actions a few weeks, it will be enough. We will be in Mexico City and will have declared ourselves the rightful government by the time he finishes her off and turns his attention to us.”
“And once we have Mexico, it is but a short step to the United States,” Strunk added, rubbing his hands together.
“Sí. Now, bring me the americano who has the scrambler codes in his head. I wish to speak to Presidente Osterman at once.”
SEVENTEEN
“Goddamnit, Harlan, quit sniveling,” Claire growled at Harlan Millard as she finished her twenty-fifth sirup. She was proud of her “new body” and in her enthusiasm for fitness, had decreed that all of her new cabinet members would also get in shape.
Harlan, after only ten sirups, was holding his groin and moaning. “I swear, Claire, I have a hernia and this exercise is aggravating it,” he cried.
Herb Knoff, in the other corner, was doing pushup after pushup and barely working up a sweat. Claire noticed the way his arm muscles were bulging, and had to force her mind back to business and off his magnificent body, and the things he did to her with it.
Claire grabbed a towel off the counter and sat behind her desk. “All right, gentlemen, let’s have a status report.”
Harlan breathed a silent sigh of relief and crawled to his feet, wincing as he stretched muscles tight and sore from the exercise. He collapsed into a chair across from Claire and Herb sat next to him.
“Mr. Secretary of State,” she said to Harlan, “what progress are we making in our negotiations with the UN.?”
“Jean-François Chapelle has agreed to take the matter up with the Security Council, but he did state that he felt the answer would be not to interfere in the governmental process of a sovereign nation.”
“That’s bullshit!” Claire said, slamming her hand down on her desk. “Those bastards tried to assassinate me and then they took over my country.”
Harlan nodded. “You’re right, of course, Madame President, but if we can’t get Chapelle to push it for us, we stand little chance of any help from the UN.”
Claire turned angry eyes on Herb Knoff. “Mr. Vice President?”
In a confident voice, Herb said, “I don’t think it’s gonna matter, Claire. We’re getting stronger every day. More and more of the old Blackshirt and FPPS squads are joining us, and even a lot of the regular troops that hate the prospect of losing their jobs with the new peace proposals,”
“What about equipment and supplies?” she asked.
“Also no problem. Every man that comes has to bring something with him to get in. We now have over ten helicopters, five battle tanks, and even a couple of older-model jet fighters.”
“Are we strong enough to go up against Otis Warner and his Army yet?”
“No, but if we can survive another month, I think it’ll be possible.”
Harlan cleared his throat. “Uh, Herb, why haven’t they tried to attack us here at our home base? They must know what we’re doing by now.”
“Oh, they know, all right, and I’ll bet it’s got them plenty worried. Their problem is they don’t know where we are. I’ve kept the original men who were stationed here on the communications gear, so as far as they know, all is well here. Warner and his crowd know we’re out here, and they know we’re actively recruiting and stealing men and equipment. They just don’t have a clue as to where we are.”
“All right, men, I think it’s time we upped the ante in this game. Herb, I want you to work with General Bradley Stevens and have him send out some teams to begin a campaign of sabotage against the bases still controlled by Warner. Nothing too severe—I don’t want to cripple too much equipment we might need when we go up against Raines and the SUSA later—but concentrate more on killing key personnel—officers and men who have shown their disloyalty to me.”
“Got you,” Herb said. “It shouldn’t be too difficult since we can forge passes for the assassination teams that will allow them to pass freely through the countryside.”
“I also want a team of your very best men to see if they
can get close enough to Warner to take him or General Winter out,” she added. “If Warner were to be executed, it would make it that much easier for me to resume my previous position as head of the government.”
Herb frowned. “That’s gonna be awfully difficult. Since he’s become aware of your survival, my intel tells me he’s doubled his normal security and no one is allowed even near his quarters unless they’re known to be loyal to him.”
She nodded. “I’m well aware it won’t be easy, Herb, but see what you can do. He’s got to stick his head up sooner or later if he’s going to meet with Raines and Cecil Jeffreys to discuss the peace protocol. He’ll be most vulnerable when he’s traveling.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Before she could continue, General Stevens knocked and entered the office, a look of excitement on his face.
“Claire, Perro Loco’s on the horn, calling from Belize.”
“Is it scrambled?” she asked.
“Yes. He’s using the codes our men gave him.”
“Put him on.”
Stevens flipped a switch on the phone on Claire’s desk, putting the call on a speaker-phone.
“Perro Loco, this is President Claire Osterman speaking. How are you?”
“I am fine, Madame President I have received your offer of an alliance and wish to discuss the terms.”
Claire was a bit surprised at how well the bandido spoke English. She had figured him for some South American clown who was barely literate, and now could barely discern an accent to his speech.
“Well, Perro Loco, the terms are simple. If you agree to attack Mexico immediately, I will agree to let you keep everything south of the Rio Grande River as your country.”
“But Madame President, I will already have that without your assistance. What are you offering to do for me?”
Claire cocked an eyebrow at Stevens. This jungle idiot was smarter than she thought. “In the first place, Perro Loco, under the present status quo, you won’t stand a chance of succeeding by yourself. If the USA and the SUSA are not at war, Ben Raines and his Army will be free to help Mexico, and with Raines on their side, Mexico will kick your butt all the way back to Nicaragua.”
There was a pause, and Claire wondered if she’d gone too far. She knew these Latin types were very proud and wouldn’t accept a slur on their macho manhood.
Finally, he came back on the line. “That may well be true. Mexico aligned with the SUSA would be a formidable opponent. Do you think you are in a strong enough position to keep that from happening, considering your . . . ah, recent problems?”
Claire had to bite her lip to keep from shouting back at the arrogant bastard. “Don’t you worry about that, Perro Loco. Even now we are in the process of planning attacks against SUSA which will stop the peace process in its tracks. Once Raines has to worry about a possible resurgence of the hostilities between the USA and the SUSA, he will be forced to keep a large portion of his troops stationed on the borders up here and won’t be able to send them against you.”
“That is comforting, Madame President. If that turns out to be the case, then I am sure we can come to a mutually agreeable arrangement later. For now, on my part, I will agree to move my troops against Mexico immediately. If you can manage to keep Ben Raines out of the fight, then we have an agreement.”
“Thank you, Perro Loco. I will be in touch.”
After General Stevens pushed the button terminating the call, Claire growled, “That arrogant bastard. Who does he think he is to give ultimatums to me?”
Stevens took a seat across from Claire. “He’s right on one point, Claire. We may not be strong enough at the present to keep Raines from helping Mexico.”
“Bullshit!” She turned to Knoff. “Herb, you said we had a couple of fighter jets?”
“Yeah.”
“I want them loaded to the gills with as much armament as possible and I want them to attack someplace in the SUSA. If they can manage to get past Raines’s defenses now that they’re not expecting an attack, it should get his attention.”
“He’s got a couple of battalions in Arkansas,” Stevens said. “They’re mostly infantry and won’t have a lot of air defenses set up now that they think peace is at hand. We might be able to do a quick hit-and-run there.”
“Then let’s do it,” she said. “It’ll serve two purposes. Raines won’t know for certain if Warner ordered it or I did, and Perro Loco will see that we can do our part to freeze Raines’s troops in their present positions.”
Stevens stood up. “I’ll get right on it, Madame President.”
“Herb,” she said, pointing her finger at him, “I want those assassination teams on their way by the end of the week. Okay?”
“You got it, Claire.”
EIGHTEEN
Several thousand miles away, Perro Loco leaned forward and pushed the disconnect button on his phone. He took a deep drag on his Cuban cigar, blew dark smoke toward the ceiling, then looked at his companions across his desk.
“Paco, what do you think?”
Paco Valdez shrugged. “I think the lady may have some trouble doing all that she says she can. My information is that she is barely hanging on to her present position. She may sometime be able to take her government back, but not for a while yet.”
“Mr. Strunk?”
“I agree,” Jim Strunk said. “Even if she does manage to create some tensions between the SUSA and the USA, and Raines is forced to keep his troops on the border, that still leaves him with several battalions in Texas he can send against us. I think we’d better figure on having to fight both Mexico and Ben Raines.”
“What do we know about him and his tactics?” Perro asked.
Strunk leaned over and pulled a thick sheaf of papers from a briefcase on the floor. “That American you killed, the one sent by Osterman, had these in his knapsack. They’re copies of some journals kept by Raines during his African campaign, along with some article written by a newspaper correspondent who accompanied him during his fight down there. They seem to give some good insight into how he thinks and the strategy he employs in certain situations.”
Loco held out his hand and took the papers from Strunk. “Good. I will study Mr. Ben Raines. I have learned, the more one knows of one’s enemies, the easier to defeat them.”
“Comandante,” Valdez said, “do you want to begin the attack on Mexico?”
Loco nodded. “Yes. It is time to unleash our troops against our neighbors to the north. Send some air strikes to disable their radar and begin to move our men forward on all fronts. Meanwhile, I will read about Ben Raines to learn how he thinks and to see how he can be beaten.”
The Apache helicopter gunship hugged the desert terrain of southern Mexico, flying at less than a thousand feet across the Guatemalan border near San Felipe where a Mexican radar installation swept the skies.
Captain Raul Rosales kept both hands on the controls, the yoke and the collectives, his feet applying just the right amount of pressure on the rotor pedals to keep the ship stable at low altitudes.
Captain Roque Vela sat in the gunner’s position in front of the pilot.
“I have the radar signal on my HUT,” Vela said, reporting what he could see on his Heads Up Targeting, a projection of a target signal that appeared to be displayed on the windshield of the gunship.
“Wait a moment longer,” Rosales replied. “Comandante Perro Loco insists that this radar site must be taken out before the campaign to move northward across Mexico begins. San Felipe is the only radar installation the Mexicans have in this sector of the Yucatan.”
“If they have missiles, we can’t wait much longer,” Vela said into his headset. “If we are to be sure of our safety, I should fire a missile soon.”
“We have no missiles to waste, Roque. Wait until you are certain of your target.”
“They may be tracking us on radar at his very moment,” Vela replied. “It could be dangerous to wait much longer. They may be able to shoot us down from here. I
say we should fire one missile and let it track the radar beam.”
“This gunship is more important than the missiles we carry,” Rosales said, dropping lower, to eight hundred feet, when his altimeter sounded an alarm. “This is a dangerous mission, Roque. We cannot fail . . . We must not fail. The radar installation at San Felipe has to be taken out.”
“I understand, Captain.”
“What do you see on your HUT?”
“Only the radar beams.”
“We have to get closer. We must be sure.”
The rhythmic chum of the rotor blades filled a moment of silence.
“What do you see now?” Rosales asked again.
“Only the signal, and it is weak.”
“Do nothing,” Rosales said. “We are below their targeting . . . even if the stupid Mexicans are awake so early in the morning to see that we are coming.”
The altimeter read 750 feet as they flew across the southern fork of the Rio Candelaria, a dry riverbed this time of year. Below, there was nothing but rolling desert hills and flats. The Mexican military outpost at San Felipe was only a few miles away.
“I see something,” Vela said.
“What is it?”
“I do not know. A spot on the display. It is moving toward us.”
“A SAM,” Rosales whispered into the microphone. “Find the target and fire a rocket. I’ll drop down to five hundred feet and we’ll see what happens. It won’t be able to track us at low altitude.”
Rosales slowed the rotor and tail turbine, losing altitude as beads of sweat began to form on his brow. This was the tricky part . . . shooting down an enemy missile while avoiding a rocket fired from the ground. The older American-made Apaches were all but invisible to many radar screens. Only a few Soviet radar posts had the capability of seeing an incoming Apache above a thousand feet.
“I do not know how they spotted us,” Vela said, fixing his targeting display.
Tyranny in the Ashes Page 11