by Tom Kratman
“Now isn’t that a thought? Eeyore, I want you to figure out a way to turn one or more of those mortar shells into a limpet mine. They’re heavy, so it won’t be all that easy. We’re not so far from Georgetown that we couldn’t maybe get a freighter at dock or in the harbor. Or maybe even knock off a coast guard boat at the mouth of the Orinoco, if we can find one there.”
MV Maria Walewska, Puerto Cabello, Venezuela
The ship rode higher at anchor than it had coming into the harbor. Most of the cargo had been unloaded, leaving the mines considerably less deeply hidden, but much easier to get to.
“Just hear on terevision,” Liu told Ed Kosciusko, who was generally hiding below as the more inherently suspicious of the two to Venezuelan internal security. “War begin. Stupid pseudo-commie bastard dictator say ‘to bling peace to our neighbor …to avenge death of sordiers on border …to lecraim rost plovince.’ Is burrshit.”
“You’ve been understudying your wife,” Kosciusko accused
“Is not clime,” Liu answered, lifting his chin with great, righteous dignity.
“Do we have any orders?” Ed asked. Liu handed over a decoded message, from a source similar to the one Naughtius’s crew had used, containing similar thoughts, but with emphasis on losses at Wineperu. Kosciusko read it and handed it back for destruction.
“So we develop engine trouble now, rather than later,” he said.
“I go see to sabotage engines,” Liu answered. “Nothing we no can fix quick.”
The Drunken Bastard, off Riohacha, Colombia
They’d waited until it was not only dark, but darker than “three feet up a well digger’s ass at midnight,” to pull into a position a mile or so from shore and drop anchor. Five rubber boats were tied up along the starboard side of the Bastard, the side away from shore. Into those Ryan and the other nine members of his team, present, afloat, assisted by Chin’s crew, piled and secured a mix of food, arms, ammunition, explosives, the few limpet mines Victor had had remaining in his stockpile, radios, uniforms, civilian clothes, detonators, fuse, fuse igniters, scuba gear, money, and pretty much anything else they thought they might need, consistent with not sinking the boats. The two men Ryan had left behind in Colombia were waiting ashore with a couple of rental trucks.
Ryan and Chin had much the same messages as Thornton and Kosciusko, at core: “Wait. Hide. Do no harm.”
“Good luck, Sergeant,” Chin said, thrusting out a hand.
Ryan took it, shook, and said, “You, too, sir,” before easing himself over the side to start the journey in through the surf. Just before casting off, Ryan asked, “Where are you going to hole up?”
Chin smiled, unseen in the darkness. “That would telling,” he replied. We’re heading near to el Porvenir, in Panama. Big enough to get food at, unknown and remote enough that we can hide the boat from the casual glance. Until we get the call.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Breathe deep the gathering gloom.
—The Moody Blues, “Nights in White Satin”
Camp Fulton, Guyana
It had been two and a half days since the attack began. Not much to affect the regiment had happened since, though the steady airstream suggested that Venezuela was building up around Georgetown.
The Venezuelan Air Force still came over intermittently. With better than half the barracks charred cinders and chewed walls, and the troops scattered about in various hides, they didn’t stay long or do much while they visited. The dependents, and a limited number of vehicles, were already legging it for Lethem, on the Brazilian border. They were mostly afoot, though, hence slow. The point of the column had as of yet barely reached past the intersection of the Issaro and Bartica Roads.
The staggering line of refugees the Venezuelans had overflown a couple of times, just enough to make sure. They didn’t attack it, perhaps because it was so obviously civilian. Even the trucks had had their normal green canvas tarps covered with white sheets to make the point. And the Venezuelan Air Force was not made up of barbarians. The dependents were safe enough, with the surreptitious arms of Second Battalion’s Delta Company to guard them from bandits. Most of the whores and parentless children from Honey Camp, following Tatiana’s man, Arun, followed at the tail end of the column, their limited baggage stowed in one of the four ramshackle trucks the place had boasted.
With the sun going down now on the third day of the war, Stauer waited by a single CH-750A. Doc McCaverty was pilot.
The light aircraft sat tucked in to the edge of the jungle, its motor still. Farther away, on and around the airfield itself, stood grim, still smoking proof of the efficacy of the Venezuelan attack. There was a ruined MI-17 helicopter, its engine compartment open and empty, as if awaiting a replacement. Here was a Pilatus P-12, split in two, with a hundred yards between the sundered sections. There, two CH’s, an 801 and a 750, had burned in their hangar. Here were two more Hips, sagging under the weight of a hangar roof that had collapsed upon them. Over there another Pilatus, a P-6, sat at an angle to the runway, one wing off and the other hanging. And over there …over there teams of stretcher bearers were still collecting bodies and parts of bodies, for hasty burial until more formal arrangements could be made.
“They fucked us hard,” Stauer said quietly.
“No grease,” McCaverty agreed. “And not kissed afterwards. But they’re still afraid to look us in the face in the morning.” Despite the brave words, the doctor-pilot’s voice sounded highly demoralized.
Stauer shrugged. “Boxer’s pretty much sold me; they think we’re all still here or nearby. So no, instead they’re trying to box us in so we can’t get away.
“But cheer up, Doc, we’ve got ’em surrounded and the bastards can’t get away now.”
“How far have their helicopter leaps gotten them?” the doctor asked. The joke, if joke it had been, had fallen flat.
“In the north, they’ve occupied as far as the airstrip at Charity, we think. But it’s got to be a thin occupation. In the south, even thinner, though I expect them to occupy in strength between the Watamung and Iwokrama Mountains. To cut off our escape, you know?”
McCaverty, who, though of an air force background had picked up a lot about ground pounding in his time with the regiment, nodded, then said, “But they don’t know about Reilly. How’s he doing, by the way?”
“Splinted and pissed about it. Can’t shoot. Can’t man the machine gun on his command vehicle. Really pissed about that. He and his battalion, with some reinforcements, start exfiltrating out tonight, following the path of our dependents, then hiding before day. Odds are fair no one will even notice.”
McCaverty grinned, finally, but then said, “Let’s hope nobody notices me, either, on my little mission of mercy.”
“Yeah,” Stauer agreed. “What’s your route?”
“From here, east to the Essequibo. From there I’ll follow that, skimming the waves and ducking the falls …”
“Stay away from the Essequibo north of Wineperu,” Stauer advised. “Thor got one two days ago, with the Dvora, that we know of, and might be trying to improve his score. And he’s escorting one of the remaining LCM’s to try to pick up Little Joe and his remaining boys.”
“Good to know. Okay, I’ll cut a little east after Bribaru Falls, then north to Urisirima. Little Joe’s supposed to have the cargo there and a suitable landing strip marked out with IR chem lights. Fair amount of open farm and field, that area, so it shouldn’t be a problem. There’s already an airstrip nearby, but why take the risk of it being occupied?”
“Return route?”
McCaverty shook his head. “I don’t want to take the same route both ways. I’m planning on coming back up the Mazaruni. It’s got it down sides but …safer, overall, I think.”
Wineperu, Guyana
Simmons and Morales sat by the dock of the base, legs hanging over, staring down at the Namu. Rather, they stared down dumbly at the muddy, darkening water which overlay it. The minisub, itself, despite having not o
ne apparent scratch, had somehow sprung a leak from the earlier attack. One minute, a few hours after the attack, Simmons had turned and walked away to bring back some distilled water for the batteries. A few minutes later, when he’d returned, water was pouring into the open hatch as the thing began to settle to the bottom.
“What are we gonna do?” Simmons asked of Morales, hopelessly. “We’re fucked as far as the sub goes.”
“I dunno,” Morales answered with disgust. “Let me think on it.”
Karapu Mountain, Guyana
Sergeant Ahern, born and bred in New Amsterdam, Guyana, was one of those city boys who had a natural feel for living and scouting in the field. They were rare, in anyone’s army, but, when found, often brought the best of both worlds, the creativeness in mind and action that comes from solving the everyday problems of city life, plus a country boy’s ability to go anywhere, blend in with anything, and find whatever he was looking for.
He’d always wanted to be a soldier, Ahern had, from his earliest days. Though black, he’d never had the political connections to find a spot in the largely black-dominated Guyana Defense Force. When the regiment had shown up, he’d jumped on it with both feet. Doing well in his training, and also in the Jaeger course he’d taken a year after that, hadn’t hurt any. He was on the fast track to being able to buy into the regiment. Ahern liked that idea just fine. He also wanted to earn it …and to speed it up, if possible. He had his eye on a girl and she wouldn’t keep forever.
Having made good time from the camp very nearly to Sakaika Falls, Ahern had been rather surprised to find the airfield empty, with not so much as a civilian caretaker on duty.
So if dey ain’ be here, where dey be? he’d asked himself Colonel Cazz, he gon’ wanna know dat.
Taking his life, to say nothing of his future plans for a career, in hand, Ahern had pushed on, and on, past Karapu’s mountain peak to the military crest on the far side. There he’d almost seen what was going on. He had seen a piece of the puzzle, and that would help.
What Ahern had seen, far off in the distance, but brought much closer by his 20x50 Bushnells, was an irregular stream of helicopters, to his west-southwest, moving generally northwest to southeast. He watched for a long time through those glasses, judging the dip and the rise and choppers headed hither and yon. He also looked north, since he was already up there. That was harder to make out in detail. Still, he saw helicopters, moving generally east and west. Interestingly, too, there were light and even some medium planes landing at or taking off from the airstrip—or just possibly airstrips, to his northwest, around the ferry near San Martin de Turumban.
A check of his GPS and map told him, somewhere about San Miguel de Betania, maybe even la Rosa, dats where dey be basin’ from. Mak’ sense. Got a good road. Same t’ing to de nort’. Bochinche, there meh t’ink. An’ dere’s a road to de ferry. Buuut …—Ahern checked his map—dat be two bases. Dey not gonna split support. So la Rosa …or Bochinche …dey be PZ only. Base at Tumeremo, like Colonel Cazz, he figure.
By sunset, Ahern had seen enough. He told his team, two plantation boys, an Indian, and a river rat, “Come on, boyos. We go back an’ see de colonel now.”
With weary grunts, Ahern’s team shouldered packs, gripped their rifles, and began the trek back, the declining sun at their receding backs.
Camp Fulton, Guyana
Stauer had left, saying he had to see to the president’s reception. In his absence, Doc McCaverty’s eyes had followed the lengthening shadows until the shadows had been swallowed down by the darkness.
“About time, señor,” said Luis Acosta. Acosta was standing by, to assist if required. It was about all he could do to avenge his men who’d been caught on the airfield when the Venezuelans attacked. Certainly, he had few aircraft left; one P-6 and a couple of CH’s.
McCaverty nodded, turned, and climbed into his airplane. Once seated and buckled, he swung the bubbled out Plexiglas door down behind him, then locked it in place. He was nervous. It was no small thing to be taking an unarmed scout plane up in the air when the enemy had complete air supremacy.
“Manuel,” Acosta said, as the CH-750’s engine sputtered to life, “go out to the middle of the field and see if there are any enemy aircraft hanging around.”
“Move out and draw fire?” Manuel asked.
“Something like that.”
Manuel pulled a flashlight from a pocket. “I’ll give you three flashes if it’s clear,” he shouted, over the droning engine of the light plane. Both Acosta and McCaverty nodded.
Manuel stopped at a point in the middle of the airfield complex, just listening for a while. He heard a plane, propeller-driven, somewhere off in the distance. Certain beyond a reasonable doubt that it couldn’t be one of theirs—the wreckage of those was everywhere, while the few remaining serviceable ones were being hoarded—he waited until the prop faded. Then, holding his light wand overhead, he flicked it on once …twice …the third time.
A couple of hundred feet away, a light engine surged. He couldn’t see the plane for beans in the dark, but scooted generally out of the line anyway.
McCaverty crossed himself, as soon as he saw Manuel’s three flashes. Though he wasn’t normally all that religious, the habits of a lifetime were hard to break, even if he’d wanted to. Which, for that matter, I don’t.
After adjusting his night vision goggles to his face, he played with the throttle, gave her the gas, and began rolling forward, picking up speed with every foot. The grassy strip between the actual airfield and the taxiway was slightly humped, as an aid to drainage and a combat to vector-borne disease. Thus, McCaverty was rolling slightly uphill. Between the ridiculously short take off run required for a barely laden CH-750A, and the slight upward incline, McCaverty’s wheel lifted off the ground well before reaching the summit of the hump. His rear end pressed down into the seat as the plane’s wings got the bite of the air.
Don’t, repeat don’t, wanna get too high. McCaverty leveled out, reducing throttle. A quick glance around, again more force of habit that something required under the circumstances, and he moved the centrally mounted, Y-shaped yoke, to move the ailerons, while pushing the right pedal to swing the rudder. The CH-750, as nimble as a hummingbird, responded beautifully. In short seconds it was heading due east for the Essequibo, though to be sure of that McCaverty had to flip up his NVGs to check his bearings. He flipped them down again and picked a familiar constellation. It wasn’t a fixed one but for such a short hop it didn’t need to be.
Then he settled down to just barely missing the treetops, while using every spare second to hunt through the sky for the night-equipped fighter that would end his life, if it could.
Five Miles Southeast of Urisirima, Guyana
A stream flowed generally northeast, about a hundred meters from where Venegas and his team waited for the presidential flight. The two remaining Land Rovers sat off to one side, in some high grass bordering the farmer’s field he’d selected as a landing spot. It hadn’t taken more than four hours for the remnants of the team to get here from the Demerara Harbour Bridge, and that was with having to duck a Venezuelan Tucano whose pilot had had an altogether too well-developed sense of curiosity. Nor another hour to determine that, yes, here was a place one of the regiment’s light, STOL craft could use. Oh, no, what had kept them here was that all of their long-range, secure commo gear had—by one of those flukes of war that one can never really foresee, in precisely the way it’s fated to happen—gone into the river with Land Rover Number Three and its crew.
The two and a half days since had been spent scrounging up enough wire to make a decent half rhombic antenna, so that their request for pickup could be sent to regiment, secure from interception and with range enough to reach. That, in turn, had been made worse by having to hump the equipment ten miles to the south, because, had they sent a message from where their current spot was, its back message would have gone straight to occupied Georgetown, in the clear and with full power.
/> But life’s fair, thought Venegas, bitterly. It still rankled to have lost a third of his team without the chance to strike back. Someday, motherfuckers …someday. And payback is gonna be a bitch.
Fair, too, that he, the stinking child molester, gets out by plane while we, the weasel’s saviors, have to wait for a boat. But Boxer was clear; we are not going to get on a plane because they don’t have them to spare and we are going to get on an LCM because they need our vehicles back.
Helluva sense of priorities.
Sergeant Coursus, lying on the ground with the president between Venegas and himself announced, “Chief, plane coming. It sounds like one of ours.”
Venegas nodded, slapped absently at a mosquito, and, using the very short-ranged radios they all still carried—no real chance of interception on those—ordered, “Far recognition signal. Mark the field.”
Two men on each side and one each at bottom and top began crushing, bending, and tossing infrared chemical lights along a predetermined path. The team couldn’t see it, except those who had NVGs. But it should be clear as a bell to a pilot who had them.
Tucano Number 0040, Venezuelan Air Force,
north of Bartica, Guyana
Venezuela had bought a total of thirty-one Embraer 312 Tucanos, back when they were new. Of those, a number had been shot down in a coup attempt back in 1992. Several more had been lost to crashes. Until a couple of days ago, there had been nineteen still operational. They’d lost two, the first day of the liberation. One of those was believed to have crashed all on its own, while the other, piloted by Lieutenant Oropeza, with Lieutenant Lorenzo as copilot, was known to have been shot down from behind, over the Essequibo, while on their first combat mission. Neither lieutenant had survived.