by Tom Kratman
And, thought Catherine, her band clustered around her, the chants are better than a song, since almost none of these know the right songs. “Rise up ye victims of privation …”
Intersection, Sheriff Street-Dennis Street,
Georgetown, Guyana
Neither riots nor demonstrations were particularly uncommon here in Georgetown. Nor were the police ill-equipped or ill-trained for dealing with either. They did lack for certain items of major equipment, mobile water cannons were hard to come by, for example, and sundry high tech items that were just being fielded in Europe and the United States were just a dream at this point. Still, they were individually well equipped, and pretty well drilled, enough to deal with either demonstration or riot. Best of all, they had tear gas.
The trick, though, thought police Sergeant James Cumberbatch, standing behind his thin line of riot-equipped constables, is preventing the one from turning into the other.
Cumberbatch—like most of his men, tall and dark and rather thin—watched the approaching mass and tried to guess their numbers by the number of revolutionary flags they carried.
Too many, too thick, to count. Not good. Not at all good. Still, they’re orderly enough so far.
As the mass neared, and their chanting grew louder, both of Cumberbatch’s immediate subordinates, Corporal Singh and Lance Corporal Corbin, turned to glance his way, looking for a sign of confidence. The sergeant didn’t disappoint; his return smile said, “Routine, boys, just routine.”
Cumberbatch had set his line back about twenty meters from the intersection, just about where Dennis Street changed name to Lamaha Street. This was far enough back to provide a little reaction time, should the mob get unruly, but not so far back that the thin line of riot troops would fail to intimidate.
The sergeant breathed a deep sigh of relief when the point of the column turned south, along Sheriff, toward the Botanical Gardens. This was precisely where the marchers had said they were going—For more pointless speeches, no doubt, right at Revolution Square—and also precisely where the government wanted them to go. He relaxed still further when many among the mob waved or called out friendly greetings as they passed.
Moving at less than two miles per hour, the long and ragged column continued to pass. It slowed at one point; Sergeant Cumberbatch assumed because the point had reached Revolution Square, causing a backup. Still, his experienced ear didn’t pick up any of the changes in tone that would indicate a crowd’s mood growing ugly. Better still, the volume of the crowd’s chants dropped as the tail of the mass neared Cumberbatch’s station. Not that the chanting was any less enthusiastic; it was only that there were fewer mouths pointed in the sergeant’s direction.
Even better, the forest of flags had thinned to where Cumberbatch could actually see through their staffs to clear sky beyond. He turned around to address the men.
“Relax, boys,” the sergeant announced. “It’s almost ove …”
The sergeant’s words were cut off by a very large, very fast moving rock, that struck him on the back of his helmet, stunning him and knocking him to his hands and knees.
Square of the Revolution, Georgetown, Guyana
The square was doubly misnamed. It was not, in the first place, a square, but more of a spot, with a hideous monument to the failed 1763 slave rebellion, topped by a grotesque statute of its leader, “Cuffy,” stuck in the curve of Vlissengen Road, at the western end of a long park. Secondly, Guyana had never really had a revolution, being just one of those places that formerly imperial powers had decided weren’t even worth their time and sweat, let alone their blood, to keep direct control over.
Whether those decisions—perhaps better said, refusals to make decisions—had been correct was an arguable point. Indeed, the nascent nationalism Harold MacMillan had sensed across the Empire, though especially in colonized Africa, and which had given rise to his “Wind of Change” speech before South Africa’s parliament, in 1960, had proven ephemeral. If there had been any real Wind of Change it was not in the colonies, but in the hearts and minds of those in the West who no longer had the will to keep them “Wind of Change” would have been better and more honestly phrased as “Vacuum of Will.”
If there had been little or no true nationalism, antiimperialism there had been, of course. Still, once the imperialists had departed so went all the meat of it, barring only pointless rhetoric, as old colonies reverted to rule by tribes and clans, and the faux-Marxist ethnic dictators who depended on those.
Guyana, at least, had so far been spared the worst of that.
Catherine Persons positioned herself and the flag she carried to place the latter between herself and the sun, about halfway down its arc, to the west. Others did likewise. She, like the other banner bearers, remained standing while the mass took seats on the grass around the square. Here and there local news types, and at least one team from one of the international agencies, stood under hastily erected canopies, with cameras on tripods.
A thin line of riot-equipped police arced around the square, on the far side of Vlissengen Road. They seemed relaxed enough, if no more comfortable than Catherine was, standing mostly in the sun.
The speakers from the university portion of the demonstration were going to be recycled to speak again, here, by Cuffy’s statue. It wouldn’t do to have them speak to only half a crowd, however. While the tail closed up and found seats, entertainment was being provided by one of Georgetown’s local bands. Catherine was a little amused to see the riot police tapping feet and swaying in time to the band’s music.
If she’d been amused, she was very surprised when the swaying and tapping stopped, and the police stiffened to attention and dressed their ranks. She was more surprised still when they began a cadenced advance, clear riot shields in front of them and batons poking past those. A few men behind the skirmish line held canisters in their hands she assumed were tear gas.
“This is bullshit,” Catherine said aloud. “We’re peaceful, not a riot.”
She cursed herself for a fool. Why didn’t I bring my goddamned gas mask?
Inspector Isaacson stood relaxed, leaning against a patrol car parked on the north side of Brickdam Street, listening to the radio reports. It was all wonderfully and relaxingly routine until he heard:
“This is Corporal Singh …” In the background were screams punctuated by several shots, probably pistol shots. “Sergeant Cumberbatch and Lance Corbin are down …we’re under attack by the mob. They attacked out of nowhere …no reason …none at all. For God’s sake; help us!”
A few moments later came a call from a patrol car, giving its location as, “Vlissengen and Lamaha. The mob is armed and heading north. We are under fire.”
North? thought Isaacson. Defense Force Headquarters. And arms. Shit.
From the west came the sounds of police sirens. Isaacson followed those by ear until he was sure enough that they, too, recognized the threat and were going to secure the GDF headquarters. But the major threat—the major potential threat, anyway—is here, where the mass is.
We need to move them away from the center of town. If they want to run riot at the university, that’s their problem. But if I let the shops on Regent Street and Stabroek Market be looted, it’s mine.
With a rueful shake of his head, the inspector left the patrol car behind him, walking east to where he could give orders to the riot police to move the demonstrators out.
“Lawyers, Guns, and Money” (SCIF), Camp Fulton, Guyana
“How interesting,” Boxer said aloud, though he was the only one in the conference room watching the plasma screen on one wall. The screen showed scenes from Georgetown, to the north. Those scenes—riot and blood and arson—were live.
“What’s interesting?” Stauer asked, walking into the conference room and taking a seat.
Boxer didn’t turn his eyes from the screen, but just nodded in that direction. “Riot isn’t so unusual here. Riot on that scale is. And we didn’t have any warning. Apparently nobody in
the government expected this.”
“It’s a pretty poor place,” Stauer answered. “Lots of discrepancy between the haves and the have-nots.”
“Yeah, sure,” Boxer agreed. “And that accounts for the demonstration and even some of the rioting. But as near as I can piece together, this is a different order of magnitude. Those people have guns, some of them, modern rifles. Where did those come from? In the numbers the police are seeing, anyway?”
“Got me. Where do you think?”
Boxer shook his head. “If I knew, we’d have tipped off the government. And they could have been bought locally, of course, but, if so, where did the money come from? No, I don’t know the answer to that, either. Bridges and his people are working the question. Still, the timing is suspicious, given everything else happening hereabouts.”
Stauer smiled. “You’re suspicious of everything.”
“It’s part of my job …or at least my training.”
“Fair enough,” Stauer conceded. “So what’s the purpose?”
Miraflores Palace, Caracas, Venezuela.
Hugo Chavez smiled at the screen. His was considerably larger and more expensive than the one in the Camp Fulton SCIF conference room.
Beautiful, he thought, at the images of fire and destruction, just beautiful. Now the gringos will cancel the visit of their own battalion to that mercenary group on our soil. That eliminates the chance of killing official gringos when we liberate the place. Better still, as long as we can keep the violence up, and there’s no reason we can’t, when we invade we can claim to the world that we’re there to restore peace. Definitely good public relations there. Best of all, we might even be able to get the idiots in their government to invite us in. Wouldn’t that be just lovely?
Chavez watched the screen with satisfaction for a few more minutes. Finally certain that that part of the plan was coming together nicely, he pressed a button on his intercom and said, “Marielena, there’s no real hurry on this, but fence some time in my schedule to visit the troops around Ciudad Bolivar and make the travel and security arrangements once you do. Don’t tell anybody anything they don’t need to know. No, not even your cousin, Mao.”
Time for a little follow up, I think.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
To sit back hoping that someday, some way, someone
will make things right is to go on feeding the crocodile,
hoping he will eat you last—but eat you he will.
—Ronald Reagan
Room 227, Hotel Venezia, Puerto Cabello, Venezuela
The advantages, Lada thought, of playing a whore rather than just a horny girlfriend are immense. For one thing, the whore comes in contact with a great many more men, and thus information. More importantly, though, men will talk to a whore—and the fools always need to talk to someone—more openly because whores don’t matter.
Dressed again, and freshly showered, she bent over the slumbering form on the bed, gave it a chaste kiss, and then stood, turned, and left the room, silently. Her “customer” hadn’t paid for, nor expected, an all night event, in any case.
Taking the stairs down, she passed through a fire door and turned toward the main entrance. Nobody seemed to spare her a second thought.
Over the clicking of her heels on the sidewalk, Lada sensed someone trailing her as she turned right on Calle 13 Miranda for the walk back to the hotel she shared with Morales. She had a small roll of medium denomination bills tucked between her breasts, her payment from the Russian shipfitter desperate for a little taste of home. Next to the cash was a small, thin, but very sharp switchblade. Well, a working girl—even a fake one—had to watch out for herself, didn’t she?
At an intersection, she carefully looked left and right before crossing. She looked especially carefully to the left, making sure that there was, in fact, someone following her and, more importantly, making sure he didn’t notice that she did.
As her feet carried her quickly across the street, she wondered, Criminal or cop? And does it make any difference? He looked fit, from what I could see. I doubt I can outrun him. And, even if I could, if he’s a cop he can call in backup. I dare not lead him to my hotel; then Morales and I will both be up for a slow interrogation and a quick bullet.
Lada’s eyes glanced left and right as she walked, looking for some suitable ambush position or, at least, some kind of refuge.
Okay, so worst case; it’s a cop. What turned him on to me? I’m hardly the only Russian selling her ass in Venezuela. Was the room bugged? Did they hear—hmmm, what was that shipfitter’s name? Ah, yes, Dmitri. Did they hear Dmitri telling me when the job would be finished? Seems too likely.
Again, she stopped to check for traffic before crossing an intersection. Again she saw that her tail was still there. She also saw a narrow alley, to her left front.
That’s where it will have to be.
Lada crossed the street at a normal pace, then began to run just as she reached the far side. She ran only so far as the alley she had seen. Bending, she took off her high heeled shoes and threw them as far as she could up the street. Then she ducked into the alley, her nose wrinkling at the stink of long uncollected garbage. She placed two fingers into the cleft of her breasts and pulled out her knife. Holding one palm to the device as she pressed the button, Lada then moved that palm and the gripping hand apart slowly enough to muffle both of the switchblade’s characteristic clicks.
Finally she pressed her back to the alley wall nearest the direction from which she’d come and waited, listening carefully to the rising sound of footsteps.
Lada’s heart began to beat rapidly as the footsteps neared. She ruthlessly suppressed it; forcing herself to an unnatural calm. She bent her knees, ready to spring, and waited those last few tension-filled seconds for her pursuer to appear.
And then he was there, walking swiftly with his head and eyes turned up the street. Her face a mask of pure defensive rage, on bare feet Lada pattered behind him. He seemed for a moment to hesitate, as if he sensed that he were now the quarry. If he did sense it, it was too late as Lada’s left arm snaked around his neck and the right hand drove her knife deep, deep into his abdominal cavity. She twisted the thing, searching out the kidney and ensuring her victim’s pain would be too great even for him to cry out.
His body spasmed in unimaginable agony. Still with the searching knife stuck in his back she pulled with her left arm, then pushed slightly forward, easing him down to the ground. As he sank she withdrew her blade, then stuck it into his throat, sawing her way forward until rewarded with a splash of blood, gushing away.
Posada Santa Margarita, Puerto Cabello, Venezuela
Morales’ eyes were fixed on scenes of rioting back near to what he’d come to think of as home. He was alone in the room, since Lada was out doing what she did best, trading her looks, and sometimes her body, for information.
He heard the lock being worked quickly. Immediately he reached one hand down into the cushion and wrapped it around the knife he’d secreted there. He hadn’t had the local “ins” to safely buy a decent firearm and, so, knives for himself and Lada had had to do. About the time his fingers began to curl the door opened and Lada stepped in.
“I was followed,” she said, as calmly as she might have observed that it was going to rain.
“How do you know it wasn’t just a rapist stalking a hot blond?” Morales asked, not quite so calmly. After all, there were some substantial red spots on her clothing.
She huffed, “Because when I killed him and searched him he had an ID that said ‘Dirección de los Servicios de Inteligencia y Prevención,’ that’s how. I pulled the body into an alley fairly overrun with garbage. It shouldn’t be found before morning, if then.”
“Works for me,” Morales agreed. We can discuss the need to kill him later. “Time to bug out.”
Lada reached into her handbag and pulled out a pistol, a Glock, in a shoulder holster with the straps wrapped around it. This she tossed to Morales. “Figured we could
use this. I kept the wallet and ID, too.”
“Good girl,” Morales answered. “But get moving.”
“Do we have enough information?” she asked.
“Of what we were sent to get, yes,” he replied. “Precise early warning that the invasion is en route …someone else will have to provide.”
“Good enough,” she said, tearing off a blond wig and racing across the suite to pull out her “run like hell” clothes. If Morales’ presence caused any reluctance on her part to strip down to panties, it was tolerably hard to see.
Gulf of Venezuela, Colombian side (barely)
By the strobe-like light of Lake Maracaibo’s distant, natural lighthouse, the Relámpago del Catatumbo, Ryan and Rohrer helped Bronto ease himself over the side of their small, gently rocking rental craft. His Cayago SeaBob already floated in the water nearby. Just past that a neutrally buoyant lump of metal and air mattress, about the size of a small naval mine, was attached by a rope to a D-ring clipped to a belt at Bronto’s waist.
Though the frequent flashes, even at this distance, could, in theory, make the boat more visible, as a practical matter Ryan was sure that it would do more to ruin night vision than to aid normal vision.
“This is box-o-rocks stupid, you know,” Bronto said, still hanging on to the boat’s gunwale. His night vision equipped mask was perched back on his forehead. “We’ve already determined that there is no fucking way in hell for us to get from Colombia to Puerto Fijo to mine any of the ships there. Not without a sub, we can’t.”
“Yeah,” Ryan agreed, “but I want to see how far you can get on one of those things on half a charge to see if we can’t reseed the mines—assuming anybody comes up with some—that a passing merchant ship might blow. So go out as far as you can on half a charge, surface, get a GPS reading, then come back. It’s simple. And stop bitching about it.”