Countdown: The Liberators-ARC

by Tom Kratman

  "Yah bais, yah unnastan wah meh ah seh?"

  "I understand you, old man," Victor Babcock-Moore answered. "I don't speak it very well anymore, but I understand it."

  "Where yah gwhan fum here?"

  That was close enough for Trim to catch it. He did, and at the same time caught Vic's eye. Quite unnecessarily, he gave his sergeant the look, Tell him nothing.

  Vic gave a look back, How can I tell what I don't know? To Drake he said, "Oh, we're going to the Pegasus for now, catch up on sleep. Then we're thinking of doing some fishing and maybe a little camping. We'll be leaving in a few days. Maybe as long as a week."

  "Where yah learn speak so guh?"

  "Public school," Babcock-Moore answered.

  "Nuh public school hay teach lahk dah."

  "Neither do most of those back home," said Vic resignedly.

  Drake nodded. He wasn't stupid and had a suspicion that education was failing around the world even if he wasn't sure quite why. Then again, theoretically better minds with higher class backgrounds and more education than his couldn't agree on why Johnny couldn't read. He looked over the black man and had a sudden, not entirely unpleasant, thought.

  "Mah daughter, she speak lahk dah. Mosly. Teach herself. Try kuurect meh ass ever day. Yah bais come dinner tonight?"

  The sergeant looked hopefully at his captain. Trim had apparently understood. He signaled agreement with a couple of curt nods. Vic answered, "We'd be pleased to, sir."

  "Meh pick yah up de hotel. Faive."

  Trim would have been late to the lobby without his sergeant to provide- "Sir, I haven't had cooking like home since I left bloody Jamaica and if you don't move your aristocratic ass"-motivation. It didn't matter much; Drake was half an hour late anyway. This bothered Vic rather more than it did Trim, who didn't expect much from the Third World, to include Her Majesty's former possessions, anyway.

  Somewhat surprisingly, at least to Trim, Drake had changed out of his sweat-stained customs uniform and looked really quite presentable in loafers, lightweight slacks, and an embroidered, short-sleeve shirt. He was still driving his government-issue car.

  The drive was long and Trim quickly found himself getting used to Drake's patois, enough so that it sounded merely different, about as different as northern Scouse-flavored English, perhaps, or perhaps a bit more so, rather than utterly foreign.

  Past the low built city of Georgetown, the car broke into mostly open farmland. Guyana didn't have a lot going for it and many of the people practiced subsistence agriculture.

  Still, "What's that?" Babcock-Moore asked, pointing at a gate blocking a road leading into a swamp. The gate had a sign on it: "CGX."

  Drake sneered. "Oh, dah de government. Dey sells hunert seventy-five t'ousand acres for four hunert dollars each to an oil company. Never use. Back for sale, Ah t'ink."

  Trim did some quick and rough mental calculations, U.S. dollars to pounds, sterling. "That's bloody cheap, Sergeant, even for swamp, roughly two hundred pounds an acre."

  "Nah," corrected Drake who, again, wasn't stupid. "Yah don' unnastand. Dat's Guyanan dollars. Maybe four-hunert to de pound."

  "Two U.S. dollars an acre?" Vic exclaimed. "A pound?"

  "Bout dat," Drake agreed. "What you expect?" he asked with a shrug. "Like man say: ‘Country got no secure border have to sell for what it can.' For us, dat about two U.S. dollar an acre." Drake pointed generally to the west. "See, Venezuela just over dat border and dem folks, dey got plans."

  Trim immediately raised an eyebrow. "What the hell are you thinking, sir?" Vic asked.

  "Oh, just musing. I wonder if there isn't someone, somewhere, who could provide a secure border."

  "Ah."

  "Yah dreamin'," said Drake. "Nobody cares enough about us for dat."

  Which, Vic reflected, is probably all too true.

  Babcock-Moore thought Drake's daughter, Elizabeth, was dream enough. She showed her father's mixed heritage, with a touch more African from her mother, long deceased.

  Still, thought Trim, she's pretty enough for any taste. My sergeant could do worse. And, he mentally added, after spearing a bit of mutton from the stew, she's not a bad cook. And best of all, when her father pries . . .

  "Father," the girl had said, "these are our guests. Cease, at once."

  Which absolutely endeared her to Victor.

  D-83, en route to Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil

  "Well didn't you at least get the girl's number, Sergeant?" Trim asked, over the roar of the Porter's single engine.

  The two Brits were the only passengers on this flight. Still, the compartment was crowded. At this point, with the personnel mostly transferred and too much food required to buy it all in Manaus without raising suspicions, Air Gordo was having to fly in a ton and a quarter of comestibles daily. Thus Trim and Babcock found themselves sitting, approximately, upon several sides of beef, a good-sized crate of canned vegetables, and who knew what else.

  "She's obviously not that kind of girl, sir," Babcock-Moore replied.

  "How do you know if you didn't ask for her number?"

  "A gentleman just knows, sir."

  Trim looked very intently at his sergeant. "You're actually taken with her, aren't you?"

  Vic sighed. "She seems very nice," he admitted, and wouldn't say more on the subject.

  The two stiffened as they felt the plane shudder slightly and veer left.

  "Base camp coming up on the left," the pilot announced over one shoulder.

  D-83, Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil

  The drone of an airplane filtered through the thick jungle cover above. Beneath it, one hundred and twenty-nine men, including some of the attachments and minus a couple on duty or sick call, marched on rather less than twice that number of good knees. Reilly, personally, was marching on two bad ones.

  I'd forgotten, he mentally groaned, just how goddamned painful this is. And I never really considered how much worse it would be at my age now. Fuck me to tears. I thought I had all the character building anyone could ever need.

  Behind him, in two long lines snaking through the trees, with leaders spaced out between them, marched Alpha Company. Sergeant Major Joshua took up the rear, just behind the stretcher-borne mortars, with First Sergeant George beside him. On one shoulder the sergeant major carried a machine gun that he'd borrowed for the occasion from the armory. He just liked the heft of the thing.

  The heavy guns had been rotated among the platoons several times by now and were now back with the mortar section. The men lugging them groaned-and not just mentally-with the effort. Nor were they the only ones with some cause for complaint.

  "Quit bitching, George," Joshua said, sotto voce.

  "I wasn't bitching, Sergeant Major," George replied. "I was observing that we are all pretty much getting too old for this shit. My knees are killing me. And it's hot."

  "Stop quibbling, George. And stop bitching."

  "Doesn't that asshole officer know it's hot?" complained one of the larger former tankers, Adkinson by name. He was tall enough that there'd been some question as to whether he'd fit inside the turrets of the armored cars. The man made an effort to look intelligent, though there was some question about that, too. "And besides, what the hell purpose is there in us marching? We fight from vehicles. Typical, dumb as shit officer! If he'd ever been enlisted he'd have more sense."

  Adkinson marched at the tail end of the armored gun platoon. Just behind him a small infantryman named Schiebel carefully stepped on the tanker's heel, causing him to twist his ankle and fall to the jungle floor.

  "Sorry, Adkinson," Schiebel said. He didn't sound very sorry. As he stepped over Adkinson's prostrate form, he added, "And just FYI, the CO was enlisted for four years."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Eros mocks Mars.

  -Brian Mitchell, Weak Link

  D-82, Camp Stephenson,

  Cheddi Jagan International Airport, Guyana

  Gordo poured sweat as from a fou
ntain. It didn't do anything too very good for his disposition, either.

  It was sweltering in the hangar housing two of the five Guyanan Short Skyvans and one large container holding three partially disassembled armored car turrets on cradles. For various reasons, looming large among them the fact that Gordo thought the chief pilot, Samuel Perreira, to be a pure weasel, he had brought along Major Konstantin and two of his sergeants, Musin and Litvinov, for a little added muscle. True, the Russians (and Tatar) were unarmed. They gave the impression of men who didn't need to be armed to execute murder and mayhem.

  Because he was fat, and often looked altogether too jolly, people sometimes underestimated Harry Gordon's innate ruthlessness. They likewise tended to overestimate his need to be liked.

  "Yes, Major," Gordo said to Perreira, in a very unjolly tone, "we are both ‘officers and gentlemen.' Notwithstanding that, you get not a penny from the escrow account until these three items are safely landed at the location I've given you."

  "But how do I know-"

  "How do you know you'll be paid?" Gordo interrupted. "Because the money is safely in escrow and I can't get it back for myself, even if I try. I can only keep you from getting at it and that I would have no interest in doing unless you piss me off. Which you will, unless my . . . machinery is loaded on your planes and moved to where I want it before daybreak."

  "But . . . "

  Gordo turned around, huffily. "Konstantin, get the container back on the flatbed. We're taking it back to the ship."

  "I didn't say I wouldn't fly it!" the pilot shouted. "I'm just concerned about payment."

  "You will be paid. If being an ‘officer and gentlemen' actually matters to you, then you would understand that."

  "But you don't understand," the Guyanan said, putting his hands up, placatingly. "Okay, I can accept that I'll be paid, eventually. So can my copilot. But my men"-his hands spread out to take in the waiting ground crew- "are also taking risks and ‘officer and gentleman' means less than nothing to them."

  Gordo thought about that for a moment. Yes, he did understand the problem. So, "How much to get them-and them alone-working?"

  "Seven hundred U.S. dollars," Perreira answered, with just enough hesitation to indicate he'd had to calculate what he thought he could gouge. "A hundred per man and a double share for the chief."

  "Travelers' checks work?"

  "Yes."

  "Then get them to loading. I can handle that out of personal cash." Inside, Gordo fumed, I should have just bought the two Skyvans that were for sale. But then we'd have had to find more pilots . . .

  I wish I could have flown them in Cruz's Russki helicopters, and I could have . . . except that the max ferry range for those requires so much fuel there's almost no redundant cargo capacity. Oh, well.

  D-81, MV Merciful, off the coast of French Guiana

  It was a calm, if hot and humid, day. The engines thrummed below, with a comfortably reliable sound. On the bridge, the air conditioning hummed as well, though it was clearly straining.

  "That's Devil's Island-rather those three islands are what we've come to call Devil's Island-passing to starboard," Kosciusko told Cruz, pointing. "It's been closed for decades, though the Euros use it for part of their space program."

  "You suppose they'll reopen it just for us if we fail?" Cruz asked.

  The question was a joke. Kosciusko considered it seriously anyway, before answering, "No, they'll just shoot us."

  Cruz scowled. "Why is it you Navy types so rarely have a sense of humor?"

  "Oh, I've got a sense of humor," Ed countered, "except when it's about my getting shot. Besides, I'm a former Marine, so there."

  "Speaking of having a sense of humor and getting shot," said Chin as he entered the bridge, "Skipper, have you come down to look at the patrol boat? We've just about got the hull and superstructure fixed, despite the four hundred thousand screws involved, a good portion of which had to be removed and reseated. But, and it's a big but, we're stuck until we know what kind of armament you're planning on mounting."

  Cruz scowled again. Kosciusko waved his hand dismissively. "The Chinese have a pretty good idea of what we're about, Mike. They just don't know where." Turning to Chin, Ed said, "We don't know yet what kind of armament we're putting on. Oh, sure, machine guns and such don't matter, fifty caliber, sixty, or even 20mm; those the mounts can take. But the main gun is the question. Our . . . supplier . . . is still working on something suitable."

  "It shouldn't be that big a problem, Skipper," Chin said. "It took a 40mm Bofors, once."

  Kosciusko sighed. There been a long series of e-mails between himself, Harry Gordon, Stauer, and Victor, none satisfactorily resolved. "If we had a 40mm Bofors that would be fine. We don't and our supplier can't get one. He's offered us the turret, basket, and a frame cut from a BMP-3F. Unfortunately, the 100mm main gun on that has twice the recoil force of the 40mm Bofors that the boat used to mount. Might rip the deck right off. Might split the hull. He can also get us a BMP-2 turret except there's no navalized version and the thing would rust away before our eyes. At the very least the electronics couldn't take the salt air and spray.

  "It's a problem. We've also been offered a Nudelman 37mm, which the deck could take . . . if we had a mount. But we don't; it's an aircraft gun. Same story with the 30mm GAST gun-you know, that dual contra-recoiling fucker? No mount and no time to develop and build one. And the tail of an Ilyushin 76 would be a hard fit."

  Chin had a sudden vision of a patrol boat sprouting an airplane's tail at the bow and laughed aloud. "Well we've got to have a decision soon, Skipper. My men and women are about done until we know what kind of gun goes forward. If we delay the repairs much longer then we might not be ready in time."

  Kosciusko nodded. "I know. What do you suggest?"

  Chin, though a sailor, had been a member of the People's Liberation Army Navy. Thus, he was more up to speed on ground systems than most sailors would have been. "Take the BMP-3F turret. We don't, after all, absolutely have to use the main gun. It's still got the 30mm cannon and the missiles. And if we have to use the main gun, probably just the once, it would only be in life or death circumstances. In that case, who cares about the boat?"

  "I think he's right, Ed," Cruz said.

  Kosciusko thought about it, thought about the pressing time schedule, and said, "All right. I'll send the requisition to Victor and Gordo, and tell Stauer. He left the decision up to us, anyway, but he might like to know."

  "I'll need precise dimensions on that turret," Chin said, just before turning to leave. "With those, I can do the necessary mods even before we get it."

  At the ladder leading down, Chin turned around again. "I started on patrol boats, you know, Skipper. I commanded a P-6 before they gave mine away to Tanzania. Love the things."

  Kosciusko raised one eyebrow, thinking, Note to Stauer . . .

  D-80, Maintenance Area-Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil

  "I love it when a plan comes together," Stauer said, watching the turret of an Eland as it was gently lowered down onto the body under the supervision of the two South Africans, Viljoen and Dumisani. Reilly likewise watched, one of the Israelis by his side. The rest of the Israeli crew was still anchored at Manaus, doing last minute touch ups while awaiting the arrival of Merciful so they could transfer over the cars that were not to land here. Reilly was speaking to the Israeli, the woman, Lana, softly enough that Stauer couldn't make out what was said. One thing I'm sure of, though; hot as the woman may be, Reilly wants her for one thing and one thing only, training his troops on the armored cars. Single minded, fanatical bastard!

  Stauer then gave a rueful grin, noticed by no one, as he considered, And what have you done with Phillie, then, that's so very different?

  No, that was different, he corrected himself. I pushed Phillie aside-temporarily!-because I couldn't be seen having favorites or having access to a woman when none of the other boys did. To Reilly, though, that Israeli girl doesn't even exist as a woman a
s long as she has a "higher and better use," namely prepping his troops to fight. Stauer looked over at Lana again and mentally added, The man is sick!

  But then, in shape she's a lot like Phillie . . . except Phillie has a better rack. And-Stauer mentally sighed-I find that I'm missing her. Maybe I need a chat with the Doc . . . a prescription or something.

  Contrary to Stauer's opinion, Reilly was by no means unaware of the feminine charms of the tall, slender Israeli standing next to him. He simply compartmentalized well, even while he made an entry in his personal memory bank: Israeli girl with high cheekbones and cute, if not large, tits; to lay, as soon as possible after the mission.

  Even while he made that little entry in his mind, his mouth was asking, "What will the laser rangefinder do for effective range?"

  Lana had taken an instant liking to the man and she knew exactly why. Not that she didn't know, in the way all women know, that he'd just made a mental note: Israeli girl with high cheekbones and cute, if not large, tits; to lay . . .

  But she was obviously something more to Reilly, that thing she'd been mostly denied when she'd been with the Israeli Army. He thinks of me first and foremost as a soldier! How great is that?

  She chewed at her lower lip a moment before answering, "Depends, sir. It's a low velocity gun any way you look at it, firing a high cross-section, fin-stabilized shell. High crossing winds . . . moving target . . . anything like that and it's a matter of luck and training more than the gun or the fire control."