Countdown: M Day

by Tom Kratman

  “I missed you,” she said, once the formalities were completed. Her English had gotten markedly better in the last four years since the regiment, in the person of Welch, had liberated her from slavery.

  “Honey, you have no idea,” he replied, then pressed her to himself in case she misunderstood. She took his breath away. Indeed, rather than becoming less in his eyes, she’d grown with the years.

  “You bathe first,” she insisted. “I love you, nasty stink and all, but …better you bathe. Then eat; you too skinny. Then make love. Or anything you want.”

  “I won’t argue with those orders,” Welch answered. “But I’ll be leaving in two days and …”

  That changed priorities. “Screw stink,” she said, definitively, taking his hand to lead him off . “I turn off stove. We make love now. I wash sheets later.”

  When the regiment had been in the process of building the camps and their accompanying dependent housing, they’d had an advantage more long established armed forces could never have had. It was a highly temporary advantage, to be sure, since people would move and would die. Still, in the process of building housing, they’d allowed the slated occupants to pay for any of a number of custom features at their own expense.

  Given the—to say the least—rigorous life the regiment offered, especially considering that the bulk of them were quite getting on in years, the very most popular custom modification to civil housing had been large, one-or-two person, whirlpool baths.

  In one of those—a two-person job with padded footrests; white acrylic, and steaming—with the sound of the washing machine droning distantly on the other side of the wall, Welch lounged while the water jets massages away not only an impressive degree of funk but also the little—and not so little—aches and pains that accompanied any military service that was worth having or doing.

  Unlike most of the regiment’s cadre, aged and crotchety types that they were, Terry was young enough not to actually need the tub. Normally. Still, it had advantages.

  Sighing contentedly and closing his eyes, Terry never noticed, over the sound of washer and water jet, when his woman padded in on quiet, bare feet. She bore a light dinner—Horn of Africa finger foods, really—on a tray. Rather, he didn’t notice until he smelled the food. Then it was: “Ahhh …tibs. Yummy.”

  Ayanna didn’t pass Terry the food immediately. Instead, she set it down on a small folding towel bench just out of his reach. Then she turned her back away from him and, undoing a couple of buttons, let her dress slide off her shoulders to gather in a swirl at the floor. Only then did she pick up the tray and, still careful to keep her back away from him, step nimbly into the tub.

  “After make love,” she said, “I stink, too. I join you.”

  She keeps her back from me because the pattern of thin scars from the beatings she’s received embarrass her. I wish she could identify what village she got them in, before she was sold off to the village I liberated her from. I’d destroy it and every free man in it to punish the bastard who did that.

  If Ayanna couldn’t read his mind, she did a damned good imitation of being able to. “I not embarrassed. Just not want remind you, or me, about past life and time. Forget. Nothing to be done now. Besides, bastard-motherfucker-piece-of-shit not know any better.”

  “It’s still on my to-do list, love,” Welch answered. “I just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get to it.”

  She shook her head. “Just forget. Help me forget.”

  He sighed. “All right; I’ll try.” No, I won’t. I just don’t know when I’ll be able to get to it. But I’ll feel a whole lot better when the men who hurt and abused you are six feet under …and preferably still alive while we fill in the holes.

  Wineperu, Guyana

  There was a ferry that connected the west bank of the Essequibo River with Rockstone. For any number of reasons, the regiment was loath to use it. Instead, Terry, one team, a portion of his company headquarters, and three Eland drivers from Cazz’s battalion would take LCM’s from the naval squadron’s small base at Wineperu, down the Essequibo to the sea, then east to Georgetown. From there, some would fly to other major airports in the region, while others would take the long drive down Brazil 401 and Brazil 174 to Manaus, thence to spread out to another half dozen airports, while still others would be taking a regimental Pilatus P-6, marked “AirVenture,” to Port of Spain, in Trinidad. All but the Eland crew would spread out in twos and threes from there before taking flights, eventually, to Manila. They were going unarmed, although their principle had promised to have a package of suitable small arms and other ancillary equipment to them within a couple of days of arrival in the Philippines. Field uniforms and equipment would come on the ship, currently the other freighter suitable for assault landings, the MV Richard Bland.

  In all, if the flight schedules worked out, they’d be assembled in Manila within roughly ninety-six hours.

  The LCM’s couldn’t be disguised, though their cargoes could. They were crowded, despite the small load of personnel, with two Eland armored cars, in one case, and one plus a Land Rover, in the other. The top of the Land Rover was there to be seen—for anybody with either night vision equipment or the eyesight of a wolf—but all three Elands had been covered with tarps, with boxes and bits of lumber between vehicles and canvas to hide the shape of the things. Terry’s men and their limited personal baggage, were loosely piled in, on, and around those.

  “We’re loaded, Skipper,” the senior of the two chiefs of the boats said.

  Terry nodded. “Take us out.”

  Here on the river the sweet smell of the jungle, half flowers and half decay, was strong enough to be noticed even by men who spent most of their time in the jungle. This was especially true as the landing craft kept as far in toward the banks, and under the protective umbrella of the trees there, as prudence permitted. Once, at least, the boats passed under some red howler monkeys, whose caterwauling announced the boats’ presence, even as the monkeys pelted the crews and passengers with feces.

  At a mere seven knots, rather less than top speed due to the light available, the towns—Hipaia, Monkey Jump, Saint Mary’s—passed by slowly to port and starboard, often with no more to mark them than a dim candle light shining through an unscreened window. Only Bartica looked civilized as they passed it, showing street lights and the occasional auto. The men slept or stared into the jungle or the water as the mood took them. Most slept.

  Terry did not sleep; there’d be altogether too much time for that on his flight to Manila.

  For all his nonchalance in the meeting, and his apparent enthusiasm for the mission, Terry had his doubts.

  Sure, if I can find the guy, the force we’re bringing is enough to free him, given the quality of the opposition. But finding him? That’s going to be a bitch, a pure bitch, despite Stauer’s permission to use any means of persuasion that might be useful.

  Assuming I have the stomach for that, of course, which I’m not sure I do He thought briefly of Ayanna’s former owners and amended, At least, I’m not sure I do for this. I could make exceptions.

  He’d only been separated from his woman for a few hours, and already he missed her. That feeling would only grow, he knew, at the days passed and the miles lengthened.

  Never had anybody really devoted to me before. I like it. No, that’s not honest. I need it, and her. Wish I could be sure it’s really love on her part, rather than just gratitude for her liberation. Then again, if it isn’t love, she puts on a hell of a simulation.

  For just a moment Terry laughed at himself. If someone had told me, ten or fifteen years ago, that I’d be in thrall to a tall, skinny, more or less black girl from the Third World, I’d have laughed in their faces.

  Then again, ten or fifteen years ago who would have believed that the world would be in the shape it’s in? Who would have believed that the only forces available—employable, anyway—to defend civilization would be private? Who would have believed …

  Georgetown, Guyan
a

  Meh believe to hear de sound of landin’ craf’, strainin’ again de tide, thought Mr. Drake.

  Probably the best way to characterize the customs inspector, Drake, was as a friend and retainer of the regiment. The “friend” part had been a little iffy. Then Drake’s daughter, Elizabeth, had married the senior noncom of the engineer company of the Fifth Combat Support Battalion, Victor Babcock-Moore, a Jamaican émigré to the United Kingdom, thence a sapper with the Royal Army, and thence to the regiment with his captain, Gary Trim. Following the wedding, though, and eager to make his sole child’s life a happy one, Drake had become a true friend.

  Dat de regimen’ punish dem arrogant motherfuckers from Suriname no hurt any, either. Drake considered some rumors floating around the capital as well. And, all t’ings considered, it be good dey here if t’ings blow up again. We ain’t nevah quite got rid dem red muthafuckers used to run dis place.

  The “retainer” part was, And, well, my retiremen’ fund done pretty damned good from helping dese boys out. Used to do some better, of course, before they became all legal and such. Still, every little bit help.

  Drake was of indeterminate race, which is to say of pretty much every ethnic group in Guyana. If he’d bothered to trace it, he’d have found among his ancestry green-eyed Irish and blond Scots, black slaves and brown indentured servants, round eyed folk and others with yellow folds narrowing their eyes, and more than a couple of reds …of both varieties. His own skin was brown and weathered, though that was as much a function of his job as his genetics.

  He was up rather earlier than usual, and had only managed to catch a little cat nap between seeing that the patrol boat that had come down a bit earlier was stashed under cover and heading out again to meet the landing craft.

  The regiment had given Drake a set of night vision goggles long since. He’d asked for a rifle, too, once, and they’d given him that. The rifle he kept hidden in the small house he shared with nobody anymore, unless Elizabeth brought the children down. For the goggles, even when he had to work at night, he usually didn’t wear them. He found the things beastly uncomfortable in Guyana’s muggy clime.

  He had the goggles around his neck now, though, hanging by their head straps. Keeping one hand on the wheelhouse for steadiness, he used the other to pull the goggles to his eyes. Scanning left and right he caught first one ramp, standing almost upright above the tide, and then the other. He rapped knuckles on the wooden wheelhouse and ordered his pilot to set a course and speed to intercept the boats.

  Wish meh be a younger man, thought Drake. Wouldn’t mind being able to go where dese folks go and doin’ what dey do. Nothin’ much excitin’ evah happen here. Course, lot o’ dem, dey older’n me. But different, somehow.

  Drake normally thought in the local patois but, between his daughter’s nagging, his son-in-law’s example, and frequent close contact with the regiment, generally, over the last four years he’d learned to slough off the local lingo at need and speak something fairly close to the Queen’s English.

  His cell phone rang in his pocket. De “far recognition signal,” dey calls dat.

  “Drake here.”

  “Mark yourself.”

  Drake bent an infrared light stick—he had a crate of them, also provided by the regiment—breaking a small glass vial inside. He shook the stick, waited a moment for the thing to mix properly and begin to react, then waved it overhead, from side to side, slowly.

  “I see one waving infrared lightstick.”

  “Dat be me.”

  “We’re coming along. Lead us to the covered docks.”

  * * *

  Under the covered space reaching over the water—well lit inside, since it was shielded from outside view—were both a short dock and a ramp, as well as more than a dozen containers, several of them already open on one end, that formed the back wall. Some of those who had come on the patrol boat busied themselves with setting up something like a field mess inside. Still others assembled cots that they placed around the edges of a few of the containers.

  The patrol boat, temporarily under one of the Chinese members of the regiment, Chief Petty Officer Chong, was already tied up and its crew lolling about, waiting for a job to do. They weren’t going on this trip, but, being faster, had been used to get the early-required support down for those who were. One of the LCM’s nosed up to the shore beside the dock, holding itself in place by a very minor effort of the engines. Terry’s people formed a line that extended up the ramp and began passing over the baggage. This began to form a neat pile at the end of the line.

  The other LCM—the one carrying the Land Rover—pulled up to the concrete ramp and dropped its own steel ramp down. After starting with a muted cough, the Land Rover pulled forward, its wheels initially spinning and whining on the dampened deck before catching and moving forward with a lurch. It bounded up, bouncing over the steel cleats of the deck, before settling down, once on dry land.

  While that was going on, the three Eland drivers stripped off the tarp, lumber, and boxes covering their combat cars. This took a bit longer than unloading the Land Rover had. Terry fumed impatiently until, at last, the first Eland, too, roared to life and began to move over the cleated steel deck under the positive control of one of the drivers, walking a few meters ahead.

  The ground-guiding driver led that Eland forward to one of the open containers. He made the thing back up and re-aim itself several times before, satisfied, he got out of the way and let the driver ease it inside. Buckling and bracing the thing for movement could wait—after all the freighter wouldn’t be here for a couple of days yet. The driver emerged from his compartment, then crawled over the hull and around the turret. Then he and the ground guide left the container and went to join the other driver, even now stripping off the coverings from one of the other two Elands.

  Terry Welch looked around the area, muttering, “So far, so good.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Agitate the enemy and ascertain the pattern of his

  movement. Determine his dispositions and so ascertain

  the field of battle. Probe him and learn where his

  strength is abundant and where deficient.

  —Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” (SCIF), Camp Fulton, Guyana

  Boxer had permission to launch reconnaissance into Venezuela. He intended to do a lot more of it than Stauer had perhaps had in mind. Moreover, he, Victor, and Gordo intended to make a few, or a few thousand, purchases. That, however, required a little coordination with the comptroller, now seated in Boxer’s office.

  “We really don’t have time to finish the operations plan before we start buying things,” Victor said to Boxer and Meredith, the comptroller. “Some of what’s needed we probably can’t even get unless we steal it.”

  “Fair enough,” Boxer agreed. “Let’s consider what we do need.” He stood and walked to a map of Venezuela and Guyana on one wall.

  “We want to be able to hurt them economically. That means fucking with imports, especially of food, and exports, especially of oil. Even if the price is depressed, that’s still Chavez’s biggest source of income. We probably also want to attack their transportation net and power grid.”

  His finger tapped the map near a large body of water by the western edge of the country. “Most of the oil flows out of Maracaibo and Punto Fijo, to the northeast. That can be considered one target and it’s a toughie. We either block Punto Fijo and both channels into Lake Maracaibo, or we try to block the entrance into the sea. Three targets or one, but the one is wide. Even if I had a way to get into it, it would take too many.”

  “Maybe not,” Victor said. “That channel to the north is what, sixty or sixty-five kilometers?”

  “About that.”

  “How many mines can we introduce there?”

  “Depends on what kind you can get and how much they weigh,” Boxer replied. “I’m thinking forty or fifty.”

  “That would be barely enou
gh for the two channels into the lake and the one port to the northeast,” Victor said, shaking his head. “For something that wide—sixty or more kilometers—that’s nothing.”

  Gordo scratched at his nose for a moment, then said, “Real mines are probably beyond us, or at least sophisticated ones are. The fusing is just way out of our league. But we could make a very large number of dummies here. Would that help?”

  Boxer shook his head. “Not so much as you think. If we could get dummies planted we could get real ones planted, assuming about the same size and weight. But we’re limited on getting anything laid.”

  “Why assume the same size and weight?” Gordo asked. “A twelve to eighteen inch in diameter steel plate, maybe an eighth of an inch thick, will probably give the same sonar reading as a mine, and only weigh …ummm …call it …eight or nine pounds. That’s a lot of dummies for the weight of a single mine.”

  “That’s a fair point,” Boxer conceded. “I suppose you can task the welding shop to start cutting up plates.”

  “Use some of our freighters to lay them?” Victor suggested.

  “S-3 thought of that. The problem is we’ve got four—rather, five –major targets, the Maracaibo area, the big naval port at Puerto Cabello, two other ports along the northern coast, and the River Orinoco.

  “Between Chavez’s air defense group and the new Sukhois he’s got based to the east of there, we can’t use aircraft on Puerto Cabello or the northern coast between there and Trinidad. That means we’ll have to use a ship on one or both. The more ships we try to introduce the greater the chance one of them is discovered and the greater the chance we lose surprise and so lose them all. So one freighter and one only, and that has to go to Puerto Cabello. It may also be able to drop mine barrages outside the northern coastal ports. Waggoner and Kosciusko seem to think it can. I think that’s risky and iffy.