Countdown: The Liberators-ARC

by Tom Kratman

  "That's not exactly right, baas," Dumisani corrected. "It's working with about two thirds of them, some, anyway. Others are neutral. But there's a smaller number, maybe half a dozen, who are listening to one of them-"

  "Adkinson," Viljoen said. "I've seen the type before; chip on his shoulder, big head, tiny brain. Not competent to be in charge of anything big and resentful as hell of someone who is. Nasty toxic bastard. He's even starting to infect your infantry and most of those guys are devoted to you personally. Why the hell did you take him on, anyway? Leave aside that he loathes Dumi and me because we're gay . . . or maybe because we're foreign . . . or maybe both. You never should have hired him."

  Reilly glanced quickly and guiltily at George, who said, "His record was clean and even pretty good. And he was available. There wasn't any obvious reason for the boss not to take him on. And, yes, I knew he's been a source-okay, okay, the source-of trouble for the last few days."

  "Well," Viljoen said, "you would have been better off if he'd been unavailable."

  "What's his beef?" Reilly asked.

  Viljoen shook his head, not with confusion or doubt but with disgust. "He'll claim he's only concerned about the tanks and the implicit violation of the contract here. It's bullshit; if it hadn't been tanks, it would have been something else. He's just that type."

  "Dani is understating the man's abilities," Dumisani said. "He's actually not stupid. He wouldn't be so dangerous if he were. He's fairly clever, in fact, clever enough to hide what he's doing behind care and concern and a sort of bizarre notion of professionalism."

  Reilly looked at George. "Why hasn't the sergeants' mess taken care of it?"

  The first sergeant chewed at his lip a moment before answering. Rocking his head from side to side, he said, "They're waiting to hear from you. Frankly, they're scared, Boss, scared enough that they're not sure whether to beat Adkinson's ass or join him in a mutiny. You have to talk to them."

  Reilly sighed, then brushed fingers through somewhat thinning hair. "Among my many other military failings, Top," he admitted, "is a vast inability to bullshit people. I haven't talked to them about it because I don't have an answer to the problem yet." His finger indicated the map. "None of the options are good. The more I think about them the less good they seem.

  "Suppose we hit the tank compound first. Okay we can probably wreck that tank formation. But the more I think about it, the more certain I am that everyone in that village will scatter to the bush and we'll fail the mission. They're going to hear the shooting, after all; the compound's not that far from the village.

  "Stauer's already said we can't just take the town and evac everybody by air. He doesn't think we can do it in time even if he gave us the air. Again, the more I think about it, the more I'm inclined to agree.

  "I don't think a few light aircraft can do it alone and I don't think I can afford to split our force up either, even if we have air support.

  "So I'm stuck. I wish to hell that Stauer had ordered the high velocity 60's."

  "Oh, sure," Lana said. "Those can penetrate a T-55 right through the front glacis. At pretty fair range, too."

  "Mmm . . . yeah." Reilly made it almost a curse. "But we don't have them. What we've got is 90mm soft recoil guns that can-"

  "They can kill a T-55," Viljoen said. "I've done it . . . well, with help. But it helps if you can get them from the flanks. I remember the first time we ran into them . . . "

  Reilly, Mendes, George, and the rest all stood bent closely over the map. Trim watched, too, but it wasn't really an engineering problem. Babcock-Moore seemed distant and distracted, staring up at the tent ceiling when he wasn't staring at the door flap.

  Reilly's right index finger drummed the map at a particular spot. "I'll have to clear it with Stauer," he said. "It's a major change to his plan. Major."

  "But you can believe in this?" George asked.

  "Yes," Reilly answered.

  "Then tell the troops."

  "As soon as I talk to Stauer." He thought for a moment, then said, "Formation on the airfield, tomorrow morning. Call it eleven hundred hours. And pass the word to Gordo that I want at least two of his Porters waiting on the airfield at that time. Plus I need him to make a deal with his Guyanan contacts to hold a few people more or less indefinitely.

  "Also, Top?"

  "Yessir?"

  "Identify the dozen or fifteen of the most reliable non-coms and troops we have. Issue them arms and ammunition. Also give me a list of the least reliable people we have."

  "Schiebel in charge?" George asked.

  "Good choice, yes," Reilly replied.

  Trim gave a tight smile and added, "And there I was going to volunteer my sergeant."

  Reilly raised an eyebrow and asked, "Why's that?"

  D-72, Assembly Area Alpha-Airfield, Amazonia, Brazil

  Stauer and Phillie stood off to one side, along with the Sergeant Major. Stauer looked, if anything, jolly, in stark contrast to Joshua's scowl. Phillie was beginning to believe that the sergeant major had been scowling so long it had become his natural facial expression.

  On the other side of the field two Pilatus Porters thrummed softly, their engines idling. Behind the Porters Reilly stood, centered on the airstrip's perforated steel surface. Mendes stood beside Reilly, along with the two South Africans, and what looked to be about a dozen armed men, close behind.

  Stauer asked of Joshua, "Is he fucking her, do you think?"

  Phillie blushed, just slightly. The Sergeant Major's scowl simply deepened. "Nope," he said, shaking his head. "He might have, before she signed on with us. Now? Not a chance."

  Stauer nodded and agreed, "Yeah, you're most likely right."

  "It's not like she wouldn't say ‘yes' in a heartbeat," Phillie said, softly.

  "What's that?" Stauer asked.

  "Oh . . . it's written all over her face. She wants him bad. A woman can tell these things, you know."

  "But he wears a wedding ring," Stauer objected.

  "You might be surprised how little that can matter," Phillie said. She didn't offer to elaborate.

  Before Stauer could enquire-which is to say, pry-further, they heard George's voice through the trees, counting off the simple cadence: "One, two, three, four . . . left, right, left . . . left, right, a-left." Some of the troops began to sing the company song before the first sergeant cut them off with, "Shut the fuck up, goddammit. It's not a singing occasion."

  "Is he going to shoot somebody?" Phillie asked. "I mean he's got those armed men . . . " Her voice trailed off. It was pretty horrible even to think about.

  "Only if necessary," Joshua answered, completely tonelessly. Phillie looked over at his face and saw that, remarkably, his scowl had disappeared, replaced by something that was almost a smile. She asked about that.

  "I love to see a master at work," Joshua answered. The sergeant major went quiet then, watching through narrowed eyes as George gave the commands to maneuver the company into a position centered on Reilly. He was no more capable of failing to evaluate even the simplest military evolution than a politician was capable of keeping his word or speaking the truth when a lie would serve better.

  Phillie noticed that the engines of the Porters began to cut out as the company approached the runway. She asked about that.

  "He considers it ‘poor art' to actually have to raise his voice to a shout," Joshua explained.

  "Do you know what the problem is?" Stauer asked Phillie. "I mean the real problem?"

  She just shook her head.

  "In any company, in any army in the world," he began to explain, "there are about, oh, anywhere from half a dozen to at most a dozen people who really make things work. I mean the real go getters, the ones you can completely rely on. Those guys, and girls sometimes, make up the real chain of command."

  "The difference between a good company and a bad one is often how closely that real chain of command mirrors the legal and official chain of command. If all the real movers and shakers are, s
ay, privates or junior noncoms, it can put a company into a state of unofficial civil war in a heartbeat.

  "I've seen a company where the real commander, the man everyone turned to for guidance, was a staff sergeant on crutches."

  "Yes," Joshua said, "but Sergeant Ortiz made that company."

  "Oh, I agree, Top. No argument. He was even able to mitigate the damage that red headed bastard, McPherson, did. But he could have just as easily unmade that company."

  Stauer sighed, realizing even as he did that I find myself doing a lot of that, lately. "Our problem, and Reilly's problem, is that we don't have half a dozen to a dozen really great guys per company. We've got about three dozen in each company."

  "Post!" Reilly ordered. Unusual for the command, not only did George walk around to the back, along with the platoon sergeants, while the officers moved to stand in front, but the armed men behind Reilly also fanned out to both sides, half boxing the company in.

  Reilly smiled, looking directly at Adkinson and saying, "I understand that some of you are a little unhappy over the opposition we'll allegedly be facing . . . "

  "But that should be a good thing, shouldn't it?" Phillie asked.

  "No, Ma'am," Joshua said, shaking his head. "When you've got that many superb people there just isn't enough to keep them all busy doing great things."

  "With some folks, it doesn't matter," Stauer continued. "They'll do the job they're assigned, even if it's beneath them, and await opportunities. Some people, however, can't do that. Some, too, are natural troublemakers whom you could get good use from if you had the time to plan how keep them busy, but otherwise, they just create discord."

  "But Reilly doesn't have the time," the sergeant major said. "He'd really prefer, deep down, to win people like that over. I imagine it hurts him inside that, in this case, he can't."

  Adkinson wasn't sure why Reilly looked directly at him. Sure, he'd been complaining about the prospect of taking on tanks in armored cars, but that was professional, the obligation, as he saw it, of a noncom to keep officers from doing stupid things. He also didn't understand why the planes were standing by, still less the armed guards. In all, he didn't like the look of any of it.

  Still, certain of his own rectitude, and acutely conscious that few NCOs and virtually no officers met his standards, he stood calmly enough, listening attentively to the usual officers' bullshit.

  "I'm a little disappointed," Reilly said, with a seemingly friendly nod, "at your lack of faith. But it's only a little, because I wasn't sure myself how we were going to take them out until quite recently. I'm a lot more disappointed that those of you with, shall we say, troubled hearts didn't come to me.

  "That was the time I would have explained things. Now? Too late." Reilly jerked his thumb at the waiting Porters. "You want out? Git! I'd rather go in with a dozen men that were willing than ten times that who aren't."

  The ranks shuddered, but no one moved. Whatever Adkinson was thinking-Reilly glanced at him again-his thoughts never reached his face. Hypocrite. The faces that belonged to the other two names given by George, Slade and Montgomerie, looked worried. You should have thought of that before joining in with the malcontent, Reilly thought.

  The Israeli-and Lana had taken the effort to look particularly good for the event-and the two gay South Africans walked forward and said, loudly enough for all to hear, "We'll go with you, sir. We'd make a better noddy car crew than any you have, anyway."

  Reilly nodded, thoughtfully, just as if he were deeply touched and just as if they hadn't rehearsed that part.

  Sergeant Epolito, standing being his platoon, gave the order, "Third Platoon . . . take . . . seats." He then looked at Reilly and announced, "Sir, the Third Herd isn't going anywhere." He then sat himself and folded his arms across his chest.

  That part they hadn't rehearsed. But some things you can just count on, Reilly thought. I knew Epolito would never desert me or let anyone else do so.

  Peters, with the mortars, followed. Then Schetrompf, a very Marty Feldmanesque little guy, gave the order, "Seats." Headquarters came right after that, with the "armor" platoon seating themselves at Abdan's command.

  Reilly nodded again, this time thoughtfully. "So you want to see it through?" he asked.

  "Yessir . . . Yes, sir . . . sir . . . "

  "Okay . . . we can go ahead. But there are a few of you I wouldn't trust with the lives of the rest of you." Reilly looked very pointedly at Adkinson again and said, "You all signed contracts giving us right and privilege of arrest, of summary punishment, and dismissal. Corporal Schiebel!"

  "Sir," answered one of the armed men standing around the company.

  "Please place Adkinson, Slade, and Montgomerie under arrest. They are stripped of their rank within the organization. Their pay is forfeit and will be placed in the unit fund. Bind them, and toss their asses on the first of the Porters. Take two guards to escort them to where they're going."

  "Sir!"

  "Sergeant Babcock-Moore?"

  "Sir!"

  "Your officer informs me you have some business in Guyana. Accompany the prisoners, oversee Corporal Schiebel until they're safely deposited, and return in no less than three days."

  "But . . . "

  "No buts."

  "Sir!"

  Reilly turned away to hide a slight smile. So I'm making a little downpayment on loyalty? So what? Cheap at the price.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Justice renders to everyone his due.

  -Cicero

  There is no such thing as justice-in or out of court.

  -Clarence Darrow

  D-72, Camp Stephenson, Cheddi Jagan International Airport, Guyana

  The hangar, while quite large, was crowded. Along one wall lay nine containers, side by side and ends toward the wall. Dark-skinned men, none of them in uniform, removed various sections from eight of the containers, assembling them into small airplanes on the hangar's concrete floor. The metal sliding doors were just open, and no more than required to ventilate the oven. Beyond that could be seen a single Pilatus Porter, its engine apparently still running. From the Porter four men took turns carrying in three squirming, struggling, blanket-wrapped bundles.

  Gordo ignored the cursing and grunting as Schiebel and his crew dropped the last of the three tightly wrapped blankets-with-legs-sticking-out to the concrete. One of the bundles didn't squirm much, and the legs twitched only feebly. Sergeant Babcock was sporting a sore shin where one of the prisoners had managed to kick him during the flight. He hadn't kicked the prisoner-Montgomerie, it was-back. Instead, the black Brit had taken it in stride while Schiebel knelt beside the man, gripped his head through the blanket, and hammered it to the Porter's uncarpeted deck until Montgomerie had gone unconscious.

  "Be easier," Schiebel said, wiping sweat from his brow, "to have just dumped them over the ocean from way fucking high up. The boss always was too soft hearted."

  Harry Gordon ignored that, except to think, If Reilly or Stauer had thought it necessary, that's just what they'd have had you do, Corporal.

  Both Drake and Perreira, the Guyanese pilot, were there, as well. Perreira had no real further personal business with the group assembled in Brazil, nor with Gordo specifically, since he'd already moved the turrets to Camp Alpha. Still, he had useful contacts and Gordo, while still thinking the man a weasel, had decided that he was probably a mostly honest weasel. Drake did have business still, notably arranging through his police contacts for the three Americans wrapped in blankets to be held incommunicado for some months in a jail far, far to the west. It had cost a little extra to find and employ a small country jail house where not one of the jailers except the sergeant in charge spoke a word of even Guyanese Creole, let alone English. Unless Adkinson, Slade, and Montgomerie could converse in Akawaio they were going to be pretty much out of communication.

  "What are they being charged with?" Gordo asked of Drake.

  "De bais ah in violayshun de immigrashun," the Guyanan answered, def
initively.

  Somehow, Vic thought, it just sounds better with that accent.

  "Works for me," Gordon agreed, not thinking it worthwhile to mention any number of extraordinarily undocumented persons in Guyana at the time, not least among them a number of Mexican aircraft assemblers and mechanics. "After all, they are here, in Guyana, without visas."

  "Exactly," Drake said. He said it so well that Gordon took a double take.

  "Meh gyal, she teach meh. Speakin' o' dah, you kam dinner, boyo?" he asked of Babcock-Moore.

  Before the sergeant could agree or Gordo could comment, McCaverty, better known as "Cree," sauntered up. "We'll be assembled and ready to go by about nineteen hundred, tomorrow night."

  "Roger," Gordo replied. "You'll space out at half hour intervals. My sergeant will meet you on the road six miles east of the bridge over the Takutu river. He'll have a pod of fuel and will mark the landing zone with infrared chemlights. You'll refuel there and then continue on to base. You guys have any problem with a rough strip landing, at night?"

  "None," Cree assured. "What about my Mexicans?"

  Gordo pointed with his chin at the Porter that had brought in the three prisoners. "They start leaving on that, just after you do. Most of them will beat you there. The rest go tomorrow."

  "They don't speak a lot of English," Cree advised.

  "No matter," Gordon said. "A lot of people at camp speak Spanish. Morales from the SEALs will be going with them, along with Antoniewicz, now that they're out of hospital. They'll be taken care of."

  "Fair enough."

  D-71, Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil

  Phillie was a San Antonio girl, and part Mexican to boot. Of course she spoke Spanish. Lox spoke Spanish, too, along with Tagalog, German, French, Italian and a smidgeon of Arabic. Konstantin had sent down Sergeant Musin, who shared Russian with at least one of the Romanian girls, and English which was the organization's lingua franca. Nobody in the camp spoke Romanian. Still, they had reason to believe between all those languages that they'd be able to get their point across enough to teach the girls to serve as back up scut work medical personnel.