Countdown: M Day

by Tom Kratman

  One of the guards pulled a set of heavy torso armor over the president then tossed him head first into the vehicle. The other one then stepped right on top of his almost naked, flabby form to man the gun on the roof. The gunner shouted back, “But you said ‘now,’ chief! No pleasing you, is there?”

  “Ah, fuckit. Move out; take a left and head north, toward Lamaha Street.”

  As the first Rover inched out into the narrow private alley that divided the block into east and west, a burst of fire, two of them tracers, passed in front. Venegas yanked the gun around and returned fire in long, steady, but not terribly effective bursts. He thought he heard someone on the receiving end cry out something in Spanish, but couldn’t be sure. He ceased fire when Number Two, carrying Paul, blocked his line of sight. That gun picked up the fire as Venegas swiveled his own around to the front.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen yet,” he fumed.

  Camp Ayanganna, Guyana

  The camp was basically quadrangular, bounded by Vlissengen Road on the east, Thomas Road along the south, Wireless Road to the west, and Carifesta Ave to the north. West of Wireless was Thomas Lands National Park, while past Carifesta, at a distance of anywhere between about thirty meters and two hundred, was open area. Beyond that was the sea.

  The post contained perhaps three score buildings, greater or lesser. Some were single story; others were higher. There wasn’t a single useful defensive position to the entire roughly forty-five acres of the installation.

  The Venezuelan Marine company commander had posted one of his platoon along Thomas, with a brace of machine guns oriented up Vlissingen. Those machine guns had fired a long burst east up the road, just to remind anyone inside the camp that, no, they weren’t allowed to leave in that direction. The remaining two platoons were massed to the west, in Thomas Lands, with their mortar section behind them, between the YMCA and the Burrowee School of Art.

  Those hundred and fifty-odd nervous Marines waited for their attached loudspeaker team to do its business. Maybe they wouldn’t have to fight after all. Still, there had been scattered firing from behind them, coming from throughout the city.

  The Chief of Staff of the Guyanan Defense Force waited with his staff for what he fully expected to be the end. It was so sudden, so totally unexpected, that they were, every man and woman, in a state of shock. Relatively few of them were in a full state of dress.

  A brace of F-5’s skimmed over the tops of the barracks, rattling buildings and their windows, but more importantly rattling the nerves of those inside. The fighters screamed into a turn and began to climb, even as a second pair repeated the intimidating maneuver of the first.

  A loudspeaker from somewhere outside the camp’s walls and fences began to blare in heavily accented, but understandable, English. The message contained a great many protestations of international amity and brotherhood, three references to liberation, one to “future comrades in arms,” and more than a few to Simon Bolivar. None of those, in themselves, made much impression on the men and women of the Guyana Defense Force. What did make an impression was the understated, but jet fighter-punctuated, command, “Surrender now or be destroyed.”

  While that message was being sent with a jet-powered exclamation point, at a greater but still audible distance, other aircraft were busy turning Guyana’s GDFS Essequibo, which had been built as an armed minesweeper, along with the other vessels of the Guyanan Coast Guard, into scrap. Those sounds had a particular …resonance.

  “What do we do?” asked the Chief of Staff, of nobody in particular.

  “Jesu Cristo, sir, where the hell do we put them all?” the commander of the Marine company surrounding the GDF’s main base asked of Conde. His voice was a mix of wonder, and shock, with overtones of disbelief. “There must be …hell, I dunno. Ten times as many as I have? Fifteen?”

  “Fifteen times, I think, Captain,” Conde answered. “And the first thing is to treat them with dignity. They’re our new fellow citizens, even if few of them can speak Spanish yet.” He scanned the weary and demoralized faces of the half dressed men and women pouring in a steady stream into Thomas Lands. “I didn’t expect them to give up this easily. It’s a good sign. Put one platoon to guarding them just to the west of here. Send your men in to search the buildings for weapons …take the officers with you for that. Once you’ve collected up anything dangerous, move them back in and set a guard around the perimeter.”

  Conde, accompanied by the captain, crossed over into Ayanganna. He looked around with a certain satisfaction and added, “And don’t damage anything! This is a nice little camp and it may just be that we’ll end up stationed here more or less permanently.”

  Though, unless we can arrest the president of this pseudo-republic, I, at least will not be stationed here, but in Yare Prison. Well …at least we got the prime minister and his family. Maybe I’ll get a nice cell. With a view.

  Holding Base Snake (SF and MI-17’s),

  Twenty-two miles south of Jonestown, Guyana

  The five working HIPs sat in an old slash and burn area, not far from the banks of the Barama River. The helicopters were snug in against the jungle’s edge, more or less in a circle around the open area. Camouflage screens, tied fast to those perimeter trees, sloped out and covered them all the way down to the charred stubble with green shoots peeking through.

  All their shiny parts, windows, especially, had been covered with dull green canvas. Farther into the jungle were the men of what hadn’t been otherwise committed of von Ahlenfeld’s Second Battalion. That, less Welch’s company in or en route to the Philippines and most of D Company, reinforced by the Hip crews, air and ground, both, amounted to under two hundred soldiers. They had small tents, more nets, and a bare minimum of support.

  Overhead, coming from and heading to both directions, were the sounds of steady streams of hostile aircraft.

  “Meanwhile, back at the ranch,” said Sergeant Major Hampson, aka “Rattus,” looking up at the sheltering jungle canopy.

  Hilton, commander for B Company piped in, “Grandma was beatin’ off the Indians.”

  “And they still kept coming,” finished von Ahlenfeld.

  “Well,” said Rattus, “at least they haven’t figured out we’re here. We know this because, in fact, we’re still here, rather than, say, trying to explain to Saint Peter that we really didn’t know she was only fifteen.”

  “True,” agreed the battalion commander. “But I really didn’t. I swear.”

  Ten minutes out from Cheddi Jagan International Airport, Timehri, Guyana

  Well, the flyboys didn’t lie about that, thought Larralde, as a wave of vomit washed over his boots. I’ve got thirty-one jumps in my log, and I’ve never experienced a flight quite like this one. I wish to hell …

  The thought was cut off by the urgent need to add a little more of the remaining contents of his own stomach to the general pool. Larralde bent over and hurled onto the deck at his feet. It didn’t relieve his misery in the slightest.

  I could have dealt with the four hour rollercoaster. It’s the stench that gets me …and most of us, I think.

  Eyes swimming from the fumes, Larralde looked across the dimly lit cargo compartment. Half the people there were bent over. The rest seemed to be getting ready to hurl or just recovering from a spasm. The only except was: that bastard Villareal. He must have the stomach of a buzzard.

  Carlos really didn’t understand. Sure, the place stank. And he’d never imagined that the fumes from the gastric juices would be enough to make his eyes water. But was it worse than the uncollected garbage back in the barrio? He didn’t think so. In any case, while he’d had to gulp down his rising bile a couple of times, that hadn’t been all that hard to do. And natural tearing took good enough care of the eyes.

  Ah, but poor Lily, he thought, rubbing the bent-over girl’s back for whatever little comfort that might provide her.

  Capitano Sebastian, in control of the lead C-130, looked left. Yes, there was Number Two, s
o tight onto his own plane’s wing that the two would appear as one, as indeed the three had appeared as one, when he’d been queried by the control tower at Cheddi Jagan, an hour previously.

  “CAL Flight 483, Miami to Georgetown,” he’d replied, in good but accented English. Not that an Hispanic accent in a flight originating in Miami was likely to draw notice.

  “You’re early, 483,” the control tower had answered.

  “Grace of God,” Sebastian had told them, which seemed as good an explanation as any.

  Now, however, the illusion had to end. Not only were the jets due to strike Camp Stephenson, housing the whole Guyanan—Sebastian struggled not to laugh—Air Force, but also their much more serious artillery park and command, but the flight of three had to split up simply to allow one to land.

  He gave the word, received confirmation, then glanced again to his left to ensure Number Two was veering off. Then he began a rocky descent to the airfield.

  “If the control tower calls,” he said, “ignore them. Unless they turn off the lights. In that case, tell them to turn them on again, quick, or we’ll hang them with their own guts.”

  If the trip down had been sickening, the sudden lurch and violent right turn, followed by a way-too-hard impact on the airstrip was positively terrifying. Larralde didn’t cry out, though more than a few of his troops did. Some of that was pain from restraining belts cutting into laps and legs as the plane bounced. As much was fear of the wild swaying of the light tank strapped down near the loading ramp. More was simply: ohmyGodwe’regonnacrash;we’reDOOMED!

  Just as the bouncing reduced to something tolerable, the plane’s four stout engines kicked into reverse. The rear duly rose. Now the AMX-13 really strained at its leash. Larralde looked and, as far as he could see, almost no portion of the tread was resting on the deck. Fuckfuckfuck.

  Of course, the sudden rapid slowing of the plane had forced his torso forward, so naturally the big chunk of metal was foremost in his field of view. Fuckfuckfuck.

  And then the plane was actually and noticeably slowing …slowing …slowing …and gently turning.

  The plane rumbled along to the east, then virtually stopped as it swung its ass far around. The engines picked up again, moving it forward. It stopped again, swung right, and then came to a complete stop. The rear of the plane began to whine. A growing sliver of artificial light began to creep in over the loading ramp.

  Larralde, never so grateful for a flight to be over in his life, unbuckled himself and stood. “On your feet! Unleash the cargo!” He felt a sudden pride swelling in his chest. By God, we’re really going to do this!

  Unsteadily, slipping in puke, the men and woman of Task Force Larralde stood. Some staggered to the tank, others to the Tiuna. A couple slipped and fell into the thin but chunky, yellow sea.

  At the vehicles muscle memory took over. The vehicleswere undone almost as soon as the crews had mounted. The AMX-13’s engine cranked …coughed …cranked and then started, adding diesel to the already noxious fumes of puke and airplane fuel. The commander of the AMX-13 looked around to make sure all the unbucklers were clear, then squatted low in his turret, with only the top of his head and his eyes showing. The was, after all, no sense in having one’s torso nipped off by the top of the cargo door. He flicked a switch on his hastily donned helmet and gave a command. Then, slowly, the tank lurched forward and began to descend the loading ramp.

  As the tank treaded off, it shook the plane. The plane shook still more as the first concussive waves from the aerial attack on the adjacent Camp Stephenson reached it.

  Beginning to recover now, with approximately fresh air washing the interior space clear of the smell of vomit, or at least diluting it, the men and women of the port side trundled forward, peeling off to the left at they reached the edge of the ramp. Their mission was to secure the control tower. Fortunately, that was less than five hundred feet away, northeast across the grassy strip between it and the taxiway.

  Wineperu, Guyana

  Several things were acting in concert to trash the regiment’s small naval base outside this nothing much town on the Essequibo. First, the place hadn’t had its warning sirens installed yet. It was a case of “on the to-do list.” Second, with Chin running The Drunken Bastard, and Kosciusko with Maria Walewska, along with any number of the Sixth Naval Squadron’s more senior people, there had been no one there to push for a higher priority. Third, the senior naval officer left present on the base, a recent former Federal German Navy acquisition by the name of Thorsten von der Kehre (nickname, “Thor”), hadn’t had either the political clout nor the inside contacts and insights to get the base moved up to a higher priority. Fourth, the charge of quarters had been making the rounds, a matter of some twenty minutes effort, while, fifth, his runner had a sudden overwhelming urge to visit the latrine, all at about the time the staff duty officer at Camp Fulton remembered them. This, sadly, also happened about the time the first two Venezuelan F-5’s showed up, a couple of miles up the river, screaming into a northward-aimed turn.

  The one thing that the regiment owned that could have given them more warning was a radar. Sadly, this was on the Dvora, and quite masked by buildings, riverbanks, and trees.

  Under glaring lights set up on deck, Kehre, stripped to the waist and with grease up to his armpits, emerged from the Dvora’s engine compartment with a look of immense satisfaction. His glasses were streaked with grease, likewise his sun-lightened hair. Broad shouldered, tall, at over six feet, and fairly beefy at one hundred and ninety pounds, squeezing out of the compartment was as tight a maneuver as squeezing in had been.

  Three days the bitch’s engine’s been down. Three unbefuckingglaublich days! He’d made a pretty fair estimate of how long it would take to fix her, and had the ammunition and stores brought aboard the previous night. The landing craft were likewise loaded and armed, awaiting the order to scatter to their preplanned hide positions.

  Kehre made a thumbs up-finger pointing motion at the helmsman, standing by the wheel. The seamen nodded and turned away. A few seconds later, the engine coughed to ragged life before settling down to a steady thrummm.

  That steady thrummm would have been considerably more satisfying had it not been drowned out by the screech of the approaching aircraft. Kehre heard them, gave a single look, and lunged across the deck and up a short ladder for the only siren Wineperu Base had available, the Dvora’s own.

  Ahwooogaaa! Ahwooogaaa! Ahwooogaaa!

  Scheisse. Fight or flight? No question: Flight. Wait for the crew or run now? We’ve got many men, but only one Dvora. We run.

  “Take her out!” Kehre screamed over the wail of the alarm, to the helmsman, next to him. Then: The forward mounted 30mm? No use. Good for surface, not so much for air. At least I’ve not seen it tried for air defense. The twenty, then.

  Back down the ladder Kehre went, then took at a run the thirty odd feet to the rear mounted, already loaded Oerlikon 20mm, tossing his shoulders into the semi-circular shoulder supports. Several more cylindrical magazines for the gun were secured to the deck at his feet.

  With a grunt and a curse, Kehre pulled the bolt back until the sear engaged it. Then, with the boat gaining speed under him, he stepped around the deck and twisted the gun to the south.

  It is worth noting that, from 1942 to 1944, roughly a third of all Japanese aircraft downed by the United States Navy fell to the Oerlikon Twenty. Notwithstanding this admirable history, with the boat pulling away from the dock, the plane coming in at about over hundred knots, the cross angle, and the fact that the target was just too close to track well, Kehre’s magazine of sixty rounds was emptied, in seven and a half seconds, without a hit. If the fire streaking by the pilot’s nose had done any good, it was tolerably hard to see; two of his wing-carried rockets slammed into the first LCM on the boat line, shattering it and sending the just-mounting crew into the river and onto the bank, some of them in pieces. Another one pierced the shed which lay over Naughtius’ defunct twin. Wherev
er it actually hit, the empty hull went up in a flash and a bang, pieces of its steel flying into the air.

  Namu, sheltered behind the LCM, was not obviously damaged. The rest of the rockets in the salvo mostly went into the river or onto the fast emptying base. The other attacking plane aimed its ordnance at the workshops and huts of the base. Some of these went up in fireballs; others were left unscathed.

  Kehre saw that the remaining LCM’s were beginning to make headway. He let go of the gun and went back to the helm. Pointing at the falls to the south, he shouted to the helmsman, “Get us close up under the falls, bring her parallel, and set the ship to hold position. Then get on the weapon station for the forward gun. Might not help, but can’t hurt. I want to be able to cover the landing craft until they can scatter to their hides. Shoot at what I shoot at.”

  There wasn’t long to wait. Within a few minutes, two propeller-driven craft—Tucanos, Kehre thought—swarmed over the falls. They immediately aimed themselves for the struggling LCM’s, ahead and below. Kehre opened up, once they were well past, firing ahead of the foremost and letting it fly into his fire. The Oerlikon pumped shells out at its usual slow rate, yet the Tucano was itself a slow flyer. The 30mm joined it, but wasn’t particularly on target. In any case, one, at least, of the 20mm shells hit something explosive. Before the plane could fire a rocket or drop a bomb, it exploded in a very satisfying fireball. The other one, in a fair simulation of panic, flew off, wings wagging, and with its ordnance unspent.

  “Motherfuckers! Try to sink my boats, eh?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Long years ago when men were men