Countdown: M Day

by Tom Kratman

  “Thus, all that is available for the liberation of our Province of Guyana is Fifth Infantry Division, the Parachute Brigade, reinforced by a certain portion of our commando strength—whatever can be spared from the confrontation with Colombia—every helicopter we can muster, and the Marine Corps, and a small portion of Novena. We can probably muster and move two companies of Scorpion 90 light tanks, and another of AMX-13’s. And of the Marines, the most we can expect to be able to lift, given the age and condition of our LST’s, is perhaps one brigade, in three to four lifts. Even for that, we’ll have to find some auxiliary shipping, and get a certain portion of the Navy in proper condition for active service to escort the amphibious ships.”

  An admiral of the grandiosely titled “Bolivarian Armada,” seated down one end of the conference table, exhaled loudly. “We’re in no condition now,” he said. “There were reasons why Russia was never really a naval power, despite putting on a good show during the Cold War with the gringos.” So, of course, we had to buy Russian ships, didn’t we? Well …to be fair the LSTs, at least, are Korean. No thanks to you, since the slant eyes built them for us back in the 1980s.

  The general turned his attention to the admiral, asking, “How long to get the fleet in shape?” Hopefully never, or this neckless and reckless maniac will have us at war.

  Shrugging, the sailor answered, “Three months, bare minimum. If the money is made available now.” Which, with luck, it won’t be.

  Turning back to the president, the general said, “That’s pretty close to how long we believe it will take to get Fifth Division and the paras ready for combat, too. They’re only at about fifty percent strength. The commandos are, of course, already ready since they’ve had a priority on personnel, training funds and ammunition. But most of them are needed elsewhere.” And because you’ve been so dead set on aiding those murdering bastards from FARC.

  “And about the same for the Marines …for half the Marines,” the admiral agreed. “It would take longer if we couldn’t use half of them to get the other half ready.” Please, please, Chavez, you pig of a peasant, come up with some good reason why we can’t use half of them to prepare the other half.

  Chavez was no fool. No one who rises to the level he had could be an outright fool. I know perfectly well what you overbred oppressors of the masses are thinking. And I’m afraid you’re doomed to be disappointed.

  He turned his large square head to his left, toward a woman, right on the cusp between mildly attractive and rather un-. “Blanca,” he asked, “how long to whip up some patriotic fervor to reclaim our stolen province?”

  “We never really stopped,” the woman answered, nostrils widening in a somewhat piggish nose. “Even under previous regimes. But if you want something more serious?”

  “As serious as can be,” Chavez said.

  “Well …if I can borrow some of the Army to arrange a couple of border incidents, that would be a help. Do we have any antisocial elements locked up in Yare”—this was a prison southeast of Caracas—“that could be used to provide a few bodies?”

  Seeing that the president’s face showed no objection to sacrificing a few enemies of the people on the people’s behalf, she finished, “The ninety days the general and admiral have claimed should be sufficient.”

  A man, looking for all the world like a close cousin of the late Saddam Hussein, right down to the mustache and slicked-back hair, harrumphed from Chavez’s right.

  “You have an objection, Nicholas?” Chavez asked of his foreign minister.

  The minister spoke with calm and reserve, belying his youthful days as a radical. He was one of a very few in a good enough political position, as well as a position of trust, to be able to speak freely to the president. “Not an objection, so much, Hugo,” he said, “as a series of concerns. You do realize that the Colombian army is seven or eight times bigger than ours? That it has thirty combat brigades it manages to keep at full strength? That FARC can’t tie down more than a small portion of it? That our present fifth column in Guyana is only a few hundred, and those committed more to the stipend we pay them than to the revolution? That the English may not take the occupation of their old colony lying down? That the Gringos, despite having a regime at the moment in sympathy with us, tend to support the English? Ask Argentina what that means.” In short, when’s the last time someone got away with what you’re planning?

  The general raised his pointer again, tapping it onto a section of the map in the western portion of Guyana. “There’s another factor, too, Mr. President. There are a number, a fairly large number, of gringo mercenaries with local auxiliaries here. It’s the same group that trounced Suriname. The United States might not take well to their nationals being killed.”

  “Fuck the United States!” Chavez shouted, his demeanor changing from calm and serious to frothing and furious in an instant. He slammed a fist to the table, knocking over several cups of coffee with the force of his blow. “Fuck those little boy buggerers! And fuck their mercenaries who are illegally in our province.”

  Chavez forced himself to a calm he didn’t feel. God, I fucking hate gringos.

  “General?” Chavez looked directly at the Army’s senior officer.

  The general at the map gulped and went pale. “Yes, Mr. President?” he asked, meekly.

  “When we retake our stolen province, I want every gringo in it dead, as an object lesson to interlopers.” Chavez gave a little mirthless chuckle. “Think of it,” he added, “as disposing of the garbage.”

  The admiral’s face remained blank even as he thought, Isn’t that a fascinating thought; getting rid of the garbage. I’ll have to think on that one.

  Castillo san Filipe, Puerto Cabello, Venezuela

  The air was filled with the smell of the sea and the sound of a port. Ship’s engines thrummed; horns blared; cranes and gantries squealed and squeaked. Overhead and at the shoreline, white and gray birds’ cries arose as they hovered and hunted for bits of floating and beached garbage.

  “What would you say, old man,” asked the white-uniformed admiral. Fernandez, of the bronze, bow-tied bust of Francisco de Miranda, el Precursor, “what would you say today if you saw what our country has become? Not that it was your country, of course …merely your dream.”

  “His dream,” said the general, Quintero, standing ahead of the admiral on a ramp that led from the courtyard of the fortress up to the crumbling battlements. “His dream,” he repeated, sneering. “Our nightmare.”

  “Maybe not,” Fernandez countered, somewhat cryptically. “Or maybe it’s a way to wake up from the nightmare.”

  Quintero made a “give forth” gesture.

  “Well,” the admiral began, “I was against this whole scheme at first. But the more I think upon it the more I like it. After all, what’s the worst that can happen?”

  Quintero guffawed. “We piss off the gringos and they decide to visit us to teach us a sharp lesson.” He turned to walk up the ramp.

  “Right,” said the admiral, following behind. “You survive that. I survive that. But who doesn’t survive that?”

  “My troops? Your sailors?”

  “And so?” Fernandez shrugged.

  “Good point,” the general conceded.

  “And who else is unlikely to survive the experience?”

  That brought a smile to the general’s face. “Better point,” he said. “Much better.”

  “And what’s the best thing that can happen?” the admiral asked.

  The general considered this while continuing to walk. He reached the crenellations and stood there for a moment, watching a midsized freighter pass into the harbor through its narrow mouth. “If this mad scheme works, we actually take Guyana.”

  “Right again,” said Fernandez, also watching the passing ship. “And for that best to happen, what must also happen?”

  “Money.”

  “Indeed. Money for my ships. Money for your tanks and infantry and artillery. Money to become combat effective again.
And why don’t we have and haven’t we had any money?”

  “Because the bastard doesn’t trust us.”The general’s head rocked from side to side several times. “As he has good reason not to,” he admitted.

  “Exactly. And if we have the money, and you—especially you—become combat effective again?”

  “We toss the peasant piece of shit into Yare prison and throw away the key?”

  “Better to just shoot him,” said the admiral, with a sneer.

  The general considered that. “Firing squad, all formal, or just a bullet the back of the head, do you think?”

  “We’ll have to consider that later,” said Fernandez. “There are advantages to both methods. And leaving aside the best and the worst, what’s the middle case?”

  The general thought upon that for several moments, quietly. A slight smile creased his face. “We don’t get the money; we fail and …”

  “And his attempt to turn the people’s minds away from their own and the nation’s problems backfires. In that case, I think we should go formal, really formal.”

  “What? A silk rope?”

  “Silk?” The admiral shrugged. “Whatever seems best to you. Personally, I think good old fashioned hemp would do. I’d be glad to provide it from the Navy’s own stores.”

  “Something else also seems best to me,” Quintero said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The Fifth Division is possibly the least combat effective formation we have, though at least they’re spared the humiliation of tank turrets that won’t turn. I think it might be a good thing if we ask Chavez to fill it and the paras up with volunteers from his youngest and most fanatical Bolivarian supporters.”

  The admiral thought on that for a moment or two, then said, “He’d like that. Then he can claim more of a personal victory.”

  “Exactly,” said the general. “And, if we lose, then we’re rid of them. Of course, we’ll have to be truly serious about at least getting them to Guyana to have any good effect. To say nothing of not being carted off to Yare ourselves.”

  The admiral sighed, then smiled broadly. “Who says soldiers are stupid?”

  Miraflores Palace, Caracas, Venezuela

  Stupid fucking generals and admirals, Chavez thought, sipping a cool fruit juice at a patio table, in the shade of a palm tree growing from the palace’s central courtyard. Though he indulged in occasional tobacco, always in private, Chavez never drank alcohol, hated the stuff, indeed hated the very fact of the existence of the stuff.

  He refused to make money available for the import of whiskey. He taxed the hell out of both alcohol and tobacco. He’d forbidden sales directly from beer trucks in neighborhoods. He’d even forbidden the sale of alcoholic beverages during Holy Week.

  Of course, he also nagged the nation to avoid hot sauce, to drive within speed limits, to not buy Barbie dolls for their daughters, to avoid breast augmentation, and to not eat high cholesterol foods.

  In a different universe and a different time, and provided they didn’t know of his addiction to women, Cotton Mather and any given surgeon general of the United States would have loved the man. For the matter, the current surgeon general did love him, but on ideological rather than health grounds.

  “They’re stupid, you know, Martinez,” Chavez said to an aide, standing by with a pack of cigarettes and lighter to hand. The president’s finger pointed at an open folder on the table in front of him.

  “Mr. President?”

  “The generals, the admirals, the Army, the Navy, and the Air Force. They’re all box of rocks stupid. You couldn’t find an appreciation for the defense needs of the nation among them. Or any other needs, for that matter. Their thinking on the subject is so wrongheaded, so completely out of tune with the facts, that even chance wouldn’t, couldn’t produce an intelligent opinion if you queried them all. Under torture.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the military, Mr. President,” the aide answered. “Or torture.”

  “Just as well,” Chavez said, stubbing out his cigarette and holding out his hand for another. He was something of a binge smoker, too. Martinez passed over the cigarette and lighter, rather than stooping to light the thing himself. The president, even in private, was too much a man of the people to permit such slavish decadence. His self image would never permit it.

  Chavez took a deep drag, both enjoying the sensation and hating the fact that he did enjoy it. “Martinez, go home to your wife or something. If you stick around, I’ll smoke the whole damned pack. Anyway, leave me alone; I need to think.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  As the aide walked off, Chavez, left alone, turned his thoughts to his and his country’s problems. In his mind, these often blurred. Then again, of whom in his position would this not have been true? He turned his attention back to the folder, and especially the operations matrix it contained.

  The basic plan is reasonable, I suppose, Chavez thought, no matter what I told Martinez. It begins with a propaganda campaign both inside Guyana and here. Here, our people are reminded of their historic rights and their obligations to the future. There, our revolutionary fifth column demonstrates for liberation. Our money—while it lasts—swells the ranks of those demonstrating even as it ensures a fair amount of press coverage in favor of re-annexation. Then there’ll be a riot or two. A border incident in which some people in Guyanan uniforms are killed on our soil, as will be a dozen or so—however many enemies of the people Yare may have to spare at the time—‘innocent civilians.’ Maybe. Fake civilians might be overdoing it. Blanca always was too dramatic.

  Chavez felt a minor twinge of conscience, brushing it aside with thoughts of omelets, eggs, and the price demanded by the future.

  Meanwhile, the forces required expand and train: Marines, Fifth Infantry Division, the Parachute Brigade, a couple of companies of commandos, one battalion’s worth of light tanks and an extra of artillery, the Navy, and the Air Force.

  Marines …one battalion’s worth …hey, I like that. Who would have thought they’d be so clever? The rest, via ship, leave Puerto la Cruz, Puerto Cabello and land directly at Georgetown, then push south toward the airport, clearing the road so we can resupply by sea. The LST’s ferry in the remainder of that brigade. The paras jump into and take control over Cheddi Jagan airport from Ciudad Bolivar. A forward refueling point goes in well beforehand, just off of Highway Ten, near Tumeremo, for the helicopters that don’t have the range to make the round trip between Guyana and Ciudad Bolivar. Fifth Division stages out of Ciudad Bolivar and Tumeremo, moving on helicopters, mostly, since the smaller Guyanan fields can’t take either the Boeings or the Airbus.

  The Air Force, of course, pastes the Guyana armed forces, such as they are, in their barracks, before the first helicopter or plane touches down. Assuming that the ass-fuckers can find their targets, of course. This is not something I can guarantee.

  Unfortunately, we can’t have them paste the gringo mercenaries. Or at least we can’t count on having them do it. There’s usually a regular battalion or two of gringos training there. Too risky to take a chance bombing them, even if the current regime in Washington is in sympathy with us.

  Note to self: work really hard on getting the United States to not send anybody to train there during the time we’ll be operating. The planned riots should help there, a bit. If so, we can bomb the mercenaries.

  Chavez exhaled in what was almost a sigh. It’s a simple enough plan, really, despite having a lot a moving parts to it. I wouldn’t trust any of them to do anything too very complex. Not that the generals and admirals aren’t devious; they are. But they’re politically devious without being, at the same time, militarily all that clever.

  Politically, they’re thinking that with the expansion of the ground forces, they can get rid of me. Too clever by half. Little do they suspect that that expansion is going to come entirely from my most fanatical young supporters. Let them try a coup when their force is my force. Assholes. Idio
ts.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Many intelligence reports in war are contradictory;

  even more are false, and most are uncertain.

  —Karl von Clausewitz, On War

  SCIF, Camp Fulton, Guyana

  There was a framed poster on the wall of Boxer’s officer. The picture was a copy of the very famous painting by Leutze, “Washington Crossing the Delaware.” The caption underneath said, “Americans. We will cross an icy river to kill you in your sleep. On Christmas.”

  “Sir, however much they might like to occupy this place—and, based on what we saw on the streets, Chavez has some serious domestic political and economic problems he’d probably like to take peoples’ minds off of—I just don’t see the assholes being capable of doing much of anything,” Eeyore Antoniewicz told the regimental Chief of Staff, Boxer. Both Morales and the Russian woman, Lada, emphatically nodded their heads in agreement, Lada more so than Morales. All three of the operatives were in the regiment’s field uniform, as was Boxer, himself. On Lada, pixilated tiger stripes actually looked cute.

  Boxer was a few years older than Stauer, grayer, and of about the same height though not in such good shape. He’d been an Air Force two star working intelligence for the Joint Chiefs of Staff when he’d finally balked over the sending of one too many overly optimistic, in fact doctored, intelligence summaries to the White House. He’d been with the regiment from within a few hours of its being proposed. His rank in the regiment was colonel, and he was, inarguably, the second ranking man in the organization.

  The building in which Boxer made his main office, and in which he was being briefed on the team’s findings from their trip to Venezuela, was officially called “the SCIF,” the Special Compartmentalized Information Facility. This was a matter of sheer habit. In fact, it never had seen and in all probability never would see anything officially classified as “Special Compartmentalized Information,” since the regiment and corporation didn’t use the designation. On the other hand, the building was thick concrete, half buried under ground and covered with jungle growth. It was impervious to electronic penetration. It was surrounded by barbed wire. It was permanently guarded with both an interior and an exterior guard. And not just anybody was allowed into it. Thus, “SCIF” was accurate enough.