Lieutenant Jimmy Bodine was at the helm of the first jet, and his friend from flight school, Tim Bundick, was flying the second. They flew alone, not needing a navigator for the short flight to Arkansas.
Bodine flicked his com switch. “Raven One to Raven Two, you copy?”
Bundick answered back, “Raven Two, I copy.”
“We’re thirty minutes out. You take the housing units, and I’ll target the officers’ buildings. Over.”
“Roger that, Raven One. Good hunting, Jimmy.”
“You, too, Timmy.”
An alert air radar warning operator at Fort Chaffe Army Base in Fort Smith, Arkansas, saw the twin blips on his radar when they were two hundred miles out, the maximum range of his unit.
Bill Young glanced at his watch: 0500. Damn, thirty minutes before reveille. The lieutenant is gonna kill me if I wake him up an’ this is nothin’ but a ghost echo, Young thought.
He shook his head, remembering his training. “Damn, gotta do it,” he mumbled to himself as he picked up the phone.
Lieutenant Carl Aycock fumbled sleepily for the phone, stifling a yawn as he answered, “Yeah?”
“Lieutenant, it’s me, Bill Young over at radar.”
Aycock looked at his alarm clock. “This better be important, Young,” he snarled.
“It is, sir. I got two spooks on radar, about a hundred and fifty miles out and approaching at three hundred fifty miles an hour.”
Aycock sat up straight in bed. “No ID beacon or radio call advising us of friendlies in the neighborhood?”
“No, sir.”
“Sound the alarm, Young. I want a full alert and I want it yesterday!”
“Yes, sir!”
As the two jets dived at the base, coming in low out of the morning sun, men were running toward AA batteries and machine-gun emplacements, some still pulling up pants and buttoning shirts while the large Klaxon horns around the base blared their warnings.
Lieutenant Aycock had just run from the door when the first bomb hit the Officers’ Quarters. The explosion lifted him off his feet and flung him forward as if a giant had flicked him with a finger. He rolled frantically on the tarmac to put out the flames on the back of his shirt. As he sat up, a leg landed next to him and bounced once before settling on his lap, slowly leaking blood onto his khakis.
Aycock’s eyes widened. Then he leaned to the side and vomited on the cement.
After sounding the alarm, Bill Young got on the radio and began to send out a Mayday under-attack signal. “This is Fort Chaffe radar control. We are under attack by unidentified aircraft . . . repeat, we are under attack by unidentified aircraft.”
Before he got an answer, a bomb exploded in the Operations Building and Bill Young was engulfed in flames a split second before he was blown through the wall and out onto the ground. He had time for one quick breath before the flames melted his lungs and seared his eyes shut forever.
By the time the T-34’s had made two bombing runs, the AA guns were going full force and the air was full of flak and smoke.
“Raven One to Raven Two, ti`me to boogie, partner. The dance floor’s gettin’ too crowded.”
“Roger that, Raven One, meet you on the other side,” Tim Bundick answered as he jerked the nose of his jet around and pointed it at the sun.
Lieutenant Jackie Johnson glanced at his copilot, Blackie West, in the P51-E they were flying over Louisiana when the radio crackled to life. “Eagle One, this is base calling Eagle One.”
Johnson flicked the mike switch. “Eagle One here.”
“We got two bogeys attacking Fort Chaffe. They need assistance.”
“Roger, Base. Any ID on the bogeys?”
“All we know is they’re tail burners,” the base contact said, meaning the attackers were jets.
“Shit!” Blackie muttered. He knew they stood little chance against jets in the P51-Es, but being Marines, they were going to try anyway.
“Eagle Two and Eagle Three, you copy that?” Johnson said, keying in the frequency to his wing men on either side of his craft.
“Eagle Two, I copy.”
“Eagle Three, I copy.”
“We’ll circle around to the east and try to come at them out of the sun,” Johnson said, not adding that that was about the only chance they had if the jet pilots were any good at all.
As they approached Fort Chaffe, Johnson got another call. “Eagle One, be advised bogeys headed east at three hundred and fifty knots and ten thousand feet.”
Johnson looked at West. “Only three hundred and fifty knots? Either they’re small jets or they’re trying to conserve fuel for a long trip back.”
Blackie nodded, his teeth showing in a grin. The P51’s could cruise at 380 miles an hour and hit almost five hundred in an attack dive. “Either way, that means we got a chance,” he said as he reached over and armed the air-to-air missiles under the P51’s wings. “Let’s go huntin’, podna.”
Within thirty minutes, the three Eagle patrol planes had the twin jets in sight below them. Johnson had his patrol flying at twenty thousand feet to conserve fuel and to come at the bogeys from an angle they wouldn’t expect.
He saw a puff of black smoke from the tail burners below as they accelerated. “They’ve seen us. I’ll take the one on the left, Eagle Two, take the one on the right, Eagle Three, you’re backup in case one gets away.”
“Roger that, good luck.”
Johnson pushed the throttles to the maximum forward position as he pushed the nose over the top and they fell like a rocket toward the jets in the distance.
Blackie West leaned forward, his eyes glued to the radar-missile tracking screen, his fingers on the button, ready to fire as soon as the radar locked onto the jet’s hot exhaust gasses.
Eagle One was still two miles back when the radar gave a shrill screech. “We got lock!” West said as he punched the button.
The P51 shuddered as if in orgasm as the missile shot from its wing, arching down in a curving path toward the jet below.
The jet, as if sensing its doom, wiggled its wings and jutted back and forth like a kite in the wind as the ATA missile bore down on it.
Seconds later, the jet was engulfed in a giant fireball and Johnson had to veer off to keep from flying through the debris.
Eagle Two wasn’t as lucky, and its missile passed by the second jet as it made a sharp upward turn and hit the afterburners.
The jet completed the loop and came out of it on the tail of Eagle Two, its 20mm cannons spitting bullets at the P51.
Eagle One was out of position to help, but Eagle Three was ready and dived at the pair, its engines screaming at full throttle.
Just as the wing of the P51 known as Eagle Two shredded and came apart, the missile from Eagle Three entered the tailpipe of the jet and blew it out of the sky.
Eagle Two pinwheeled down like a duck with a broken wing, two parachutes blooming as the pilot and copilot ejected safely.
“Eagle One to base. Send a whirlybird, we got two down on the ground at . . .” he hesitated and then read off their coordinates.
“Roger that, Eagle One. Medevac is on the way. Good shooting, guys.”
THIRTY-ONE
Perro Loco took the phone from Arnoldo Mendoza when he indicated Claire Osterman was on the line.
“Buenos dias, Madame President,” he said, struggling to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“Good morning, and congratulations, Comandante Perro Loco. I hear you’re now the head of the Nicaraguan government.”
“Actually, I’m the head of the Nicaraguan military, but in my country it amounts to the same thing,” he answered. “I am now in a position to begin my part of our bargain, Mrs. Osterman. My Nicaraguan troops are already joined with those of Honduras and Guatemala and are making their way toward the southern border of Mexico. We plan to cross the border within two days.”
“Do you anticipate any heavy opposition from the Mexican military?”
“No, not at first. The Mexic
an Army is very sparse and ill-equipped in the southern portions of the country. The provinces of Chiapas and Oaxaca and Guerro will be easy to take. I don’t think we will face any serious opposition until we near Veracruz and Mexico City.”
“Will they be able to hold you without asking Ben Raines and the SUSA for help?”
“I doubt it. It is my plan to pick up both material and men as I cross Mexico. The military there is not as loyal as it should be, and will tend to fight for whoever will pay them the most money, especially the generals.”
“My intelligence sources tell me Ben Raines has ordered several of his battalions to gather along the border with Mexico, but until Presidente Martinez asks for his help, he is powerless to act.”
Loco shrugged, though Osterman couldn’t see him. “It is of no importance. I have studied this Ben Raines and feel that if he dares to join the fight, I will be able to defeat him.”
There was a pause. Then Osterman said in a low voice, “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating Ben Raines, comandante. He may be a son of a bitch, but he’s a damn good commander, and he’s never yet been defeated in battle.”
“There is a first time for everything, Madame President,” Loco answered curtly. “Now, when can I expect you to make your move against Raines from the north?”
“I’ll need at least two more weeks before my forces are strong enough to forcibly retake my rightful position as head of my country. Immediately after that, I will resume my war against the SUSA and Ben Raines.”
“That is good,” Loco said. “It will take me that long to make my way up Mexico to Mexico City. At that time, Martinez will surely ask Raines for help . . . He will have no choice if he wishes to remain in power.”
“Until then, Comandante Perro Loco. Good luck.”
“You also, Madame President.”
Perro Loco was as good as his word. His forces from Belize under the command of General Juan Dominguez crossed the border, and immediately took control of the province of Quintana Roo and the Yucatan Peninsula before heading northward toward Campeche and the Laguna de Terminos.
General Jaime Pena, whom Loco had appointed as supreme commander of the combined Guatemalan and Honduran and Nicaraguan forces, crossed the Guatemalan border at Piedras Negras and began his march across Chiapas toward Villahermosa where he planned to join forces with Dominguez and his group.
Their plans of action were markedly similar, and very effective. They would move to surround the isolated Army and air bases, and then give the commanding officers the choice of annihilation or joining their forces. Once the officers contacted Mexico City and were informed there would be no last-minute rescues, in most cases, the generals and captains turned their men over to Pena and Dominguez.
The soldiers were told they would be well paid and their families would be left alone if they fought with the Nicaraguans. If they chose to resist, they and everyone in their villages and towns would be murdered. Left with little choice, and feeling abandoned by their own leaders, the soldiers readily switched allegiance and Perro Loco’s armies swelled in both numbers and amounts of equipment and material while sustaining virtually no losses themselves.
Villahermosa was to be the first real test, and the soldiers there were backed up by the Naval force in the province of Tabasco at the port city of Paraiso. President Martinez had ordered the only serviceable aircraft carrier in the Mexican Navy to stand offshore in the Bay of Campeche and give air support to the beleaguered Army base at Villahermosa on the banks of the Gryalva River.
Since Villahermosa was only thirty miles inland, the planes would have no trouble making the trip to defend the Army base from the air.
While still twenty-five miles away, Pena and Dominguez met to decide their strategy in the upcoming fight for Villahermosa.
Pena, who was the senior officer, spoke first. “Juan, our most pressing problem is going to be the air support from the carrier in the Bay of Campeche,” he said as both men leaned over a table in the command tent with a map of the region on it.
“I agree, Jaime.”
“Do we know what kind of planes the Mexicans have?”
Dominguez opened a notebook and leafed through several pages of intel reports before finding the correct one. “Here it says they are for the most part surplus S-2’s from the United States World War II fleet.”
“S-2’s?’
“Yes. Two-seater trainers used for carrier landings, twin props, limited ordnance other than 20mm canons on the wings and perhaps a few small bombs. No missile capabilities I am aware of.”
“So our tanks will be safe unless they suffer a direct hit from the bombs?”
“That is correct, but on the other hand, with no jet engines, it will be hard for our Stinger handheld missiles to bring them down also.”
Pena nodded. “Yes, that is true. So, let’s send in the tanks and jeeps with the fifty-caliber machine guns as our advance guard, telling the gunners to concentrate on the airplanes while the ground troops take care of the base defenses.”
“That is a good plan, Jaime,” Dominguez said, wagging his head. “We may lose a few infantry, but after all,” he said, grinning and spreading his arms, “they are much easier to replace than tanks and helicopters.”
The battle was joined just after sunup, the tanks having moved into place during the predawn darkness when they were safe from the S-2’s which had no night-vision capabilities.
The Army base at Villahermosa was completely surrounded by the Pena/Dominguez forces, with tanks and jeeps with machine guns occupying the high ground on all sides of the base. As the infantry moved in under cover of the tanks’ big guns, the machine-gunners concentrated their fire on the propeller-driven planes from the carrier in the Bay of Campeche.
Out of seventy-five S-2’s that assaulted the ground troops, less than twenty made it back to the carrier. The rest were brought down by a combination of withering fire from the machine guns and the inexperience of the Mexican pilots, some of whom flew into the ground while trying to strafe the infantry. One flew low enough to be shot out of the sky by a soldier with an AK-47, an unheard-of event.
By midafternoon, the soldiers on the base ceased firing and a jeep with a white flag flying pulled out onto the main road. The commander of the base, General Boliver Munoz, was standing next to the driver as it approached General Pena’s command tank.
“General Pena, I wish to surrender my command,” Munoz said without preamble as the jeep rolled to a stop in front of the tank.
Pena stuck his head out of the turret. “An unconditional surrender?” he asked.
Munoz hung Ms head. “Sí. I only ask that my men be treated as prisoners of war and accorded the rights they deserve.”
“General Munoz,” Pena said, his lips pursed. “Here are my terms. Your men will agree to fight with my army and pledge their loyalty to me and to Nicaragua, or I will order the torching of every home in every village within fifteen miles of the Army base.”
Munoz sputtered. “But . . . but that’s preposterous!”
Pena glanced into the tank beneath him and nodded once. The fifty-caliber machine gun slicking out of the front of the tank chattered to life, cutting Munoz’s body to shreds and blowing him off the back of the jeep to land in a pool of blood and guts in the dirt of the road.
Pena addressed the driver, whose face was blanched pale and whose eyes were wide with fright. “Go back to the base and present my demands to whomever is second in command to General Munoz. Tell them you have one hour to decide. Then I will level the base and kill everyone within fifteen miles of this place. Do you understand?”
The driver, too frightened to speak, nodded rapidly as he ground the gears of the jeep and whirled it around with spinning tires and headed back toward the base.
“Radio the troops and tell them to stand down for one hour. I have a feeling this battle is over,” Pena said as he ducked back into the interior of the tank.
It didn’t take the troops an hour to decide
. In less than thirty minutes, they began to march off the base, their hands on their heads, their officers leading them.
A colonel with a name badge reading Villareal was at the front of the line.
“I see you have more good sense than General Munoz had,” Pena said to him from the top of his tank.
Villareal nodded. “Yes, sir. My men are ready to follow your orders, for the sake of their families and the people of the province of Tabasco.”
Pena smiled. “Now, let there be no mistake, Colonel. If even one of your men betrays our trust and fails to fight for us, I will be forced to send a contingent of men and helicopters back here and carry out my promise to destroy every living thing in this province. Do I make myself clear?”
Villareal nodded, his jaw muscles bulging as he clamped his teeth together.
“Tell your men, Colonel. The lives of everyone they leave behind depends on them. Just one traitor among them will mean the deaths of thousands of civilians.”
Perro Loco meanwhile had sent his helicopter and air force planes to the area over Chiapas, since the jungle there was not amenable to ground troop activity and the roads were too poor for easy movement of tanks, half-tracks, and troop-transport trucks.
“My plan,” he explained to Strunk and Valdez, “is to form a pincer movement up through southern Mexico. The ground forces, led by Dominguez and Pena, will move the heavy armor and artillery up along the eastern part of the country, which has better roads and less jungle, while the western, more wild and mountainous jungle areas will be cleared by helicopter and air force units.”
Strunk shook his head doubtfully. “But, comandante, air-power alone has never been enough to subjugate a population unless it was followed up by infantry.”
“That is normally correct, Jaime,” Loco said, a bland smile on his face, “but this situation is somewhat different. All we need to do is to cut off the supply routes from the main Army headquarters in Mexico City to the western bases, and the soldiers there will have nothing to fight with and no one to shoot at with their rifles. That is the mistake the Americans made in Vietnam. Instead of going for the head of the country, Hanoi, they wasted time and men on the outer provinces. I do not intend to make the same mistake. Once I take Mexico City, the outer provinces will fall into line or they will have to learn to eat dirt.”
Tyranny in the Ashes Page 21