Cold Shot: A Novel

by Henshaw, Mark

  He looked past his desk at the far window. Light smoke was wafting up past the gates and for a minute he wondered whether the mushroom cloud from Morón hadn’t reached Caracas. Idiot, he called himself. He had enough reasons to worry without making up stupidities like that. The mobs were clashing outside, held back only by each other and the army now. He’d given the order to open fire on the masses if they came over the fence to Miraflores, but he didn’t know whether the soldiers outside would obey. Other men in his position had learned that military loyalty had its limits and Avila realized that he didn’t know exactly what those limits were. He had never been a soldier, not like Comandante Chávez or Bolívar himself. Avila didn’t know how these soldiers thought, not really, but he did know that every coup in his country’s history had come from the army. He couldn’t trust his protectors any more than he could trust the rioters outside. His only consolation was that the army wouldn’t execute him on sight. If they turned, they would need him to make public statements to preserve order once the government fell. Avila was the government. His closer associates were just functionaries whose loyalty he was sure extended only so far as the benefits he could provide them. That had been a mistake, to surround himself with so many bootlickers. Dissent was not to be tolerated in the end, but letting his subordinates actually speak their minds on occasion might have earned him a bit of real loyalty to be tapped when he needed it.

  Too late now for it. God was cruel that way sometimes, letting His favored children learn lessons only after those lessons would have been useful. Avila poured another shot and set the glass on the desk.

  The door to the office opened and his secretary stepped inside. “Señor Presidente, there is a call for you—” the aide started.

  “I’m not taking any calls!” Avila yelled.

  “I think you should take this one, sir,” the aide persisted.

  Avila looked up at the functionary, surprised at the young man’s insistence. He was unused to his subordinates countering anything he had to say. “And why is that?”

  The aide looked terrified, whether of Avila’s response or the caller’s identity, the presidente couldn’t tell. “It’s the president of the United States.”

  Avila gaped at the man for a moment. His hand snaked out from under the desk, hesitated, then he touched the speaker button. “This is Presidente Diego Avila of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela,” he announced.

  “President Avila, this is President Daniel Rostow of the United States of America,” came the reply. Some unseen translator on the other end repeated the words in Spanish.

  Pleasantries seemed pointless. “You have committed an act of war against my country, President Rostow—” Avila started.

  “True,” Rostow replied, which left the Venezuelan surprised. “But the Almirante Brión fired on the USS Vicksburg before that. And you violated the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty and the Treaty for the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons in Latin America and the Caribbean before that. So why don’t we just forgo any little games of trying to prove who provoked who, shall we?”

  “What do you want, Mr. President?” Avila replied, trying to control his tone. The alcohol was making it difficult not to slur his words.

  “As you are aware, I ordered the destruction of the explosives factory at CAVIM. I am also prepared to order the destruction of the other sites involved in your proliferation program at Ciudad Bolívar, at Aragua, and Monagas. B-2 bombers carrying similar ordnance that you cannot detect with your air-defense network are already en route to those sites with orders to attack if I don’t recall them in the next few hours.” Avila hoped that was an outright lie but had no way of knowing. “We also know that the warhead you’ve been developing is en route to Caracas as we speak. I’m prepared to destroy it by any means necessary in the next few minutes if you don’t agree to terms.”

  “You estadounidenses have dictated terms to South America long enough!” Avila yelled into the phone. “You will not give me orders like a dog sitting at your table—”

  “Listen to me very carefully, sir.” Rostow cut him off again. “There is no scenario in which you keep your nuclear facilities and that warhead. You are close enough to my country that the U.S. Navy can continue the blockade of your country indefinitely and I have the United Nations’ blessing to do so. Your neighbors have sealed their borders. If this continues, I will seek sanctions against your economy. The only thing that will enter your ports will be food and medicine. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, will be allowed to come back out. We will strangle you. North Korea will look like an open freeway compared to how much cargo will be allowed to transit your country. Your own people are rioting against you. I doubt they’ll love you more when your economy implodes and your country has a history of coups and revolutions. Do you really think that you’re immune?”

  Rostow stopped for a moment and let the threat sink in before continuing. “But you can avoid all of that. Agree to terms and none of that will happen. I won’t try to topple your government. You could probably even blame this mess on your predecessors and I might be persuaded to say a few good words about how cooperative you’ve been in coming clean about the illegal programs that started before you came to office.”

  Avila took several deep breaths, then fell back in his chair, considering Rostow’s words. He sipped at the rum, thinking, then shifted the phone, pressing it against his shoulder with his head as he took up the bottle and began to screw the cap back on. “And what are your terms?” he asked carefully.

  “I have only three,” Rostow told him. “First, you open up your nuclear sites to the International Atomic Energy Agency for inspection and dismantling. Second, you deliver the warhead in the next three hours to a site that I will designate and give it up to a U.S. Special Forces team.”

  “And number three?”

  Rostow told him.

  Avila set the rum on the desk and pushed it away a few inches. “I do these things and you end your blockade immediately?”

  “Your coasts will be cleared within twenty-four hours.”

  Avila frowned. “My friends will not like this.”

  “You’ll still be in Miraflores to hear their complaints. Are we agreed?”

  “Sí.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Señor Presidente,” Rostow said. “I look forward to an amicable resolution of this matter. And if you choose to deviate from this plan in the least degree, I promise you will regret it.” The line went dead.

  Avila hung up the phone, stared at the last dregs in his glass, and swallowed them. Perhaps Comandante Chávez was still pleading his case in heaven after all. He looked up. The secretary was still there, almost trying to hide behind the door. “Please bring me a radio. I need to talk to Señor Ahmadi.”

  White House Situation Room

  Rostow cradled the phone. “That felt good,” he said.

  “Nice job,” the DNI agreed. “Your voice had just the right tone of nasty.”

  “Cooke’s idea plays to my strengths,” Rostow said.

  Maracay, Aragua, Venezuela

  130 kilometers southwest of Caracas

  “Is he with you?” Avila asked without preamble.

  “Sí,” Carreño said.

  “Where are you?!” Avila demanded.

  Carreño shifted the radio handset away from his ear slightly to save his hearing. “We have just passed north of Maracay. We will be in Caracas in ninety minutes, maybe less if you can clear the roads.”

  “And you are with the cargo?”

  “No,” Carreño admitted. His driver had been killing the jeep trying to catch up with the convoy after the fiasco in Morón and still hadn’t managed to close the distance. “The truck driver reports that his convoy is just east of La Victoria. I’ve told them not to stop and expect to rejoin them within the hour.” He looked out of the passenger window at Maracay. The sun was setting behind
the jeep and darkness had settled over the city enough that he could see fires burning in the centros. They’re rioting here too, he realized. Was there any part of the country that this madness hadn’t touched?

  “Good. I want you to take the cargo and our friends directly to the airport,” Avila said. “If they ask any questions, tell them that we will be flying them out of the country after they arrive.”

  Carreño rocked back in his seat at that news. What are you playing at? Fly them where? he thought. The Americans had established a no-fly zone, cutting off the north and east. The Colombians were denying overflight to the west, the Brazilians to the south. Guyana? he thought. “You’re certain that’s wise?” he asked carefully.

  “You understand what we must do?”

  “I’m not certain what options you are considering,” Carreño said after a moment’s thought. He pressed the handset against his ear to keep Avila’s voice from leaking out. Ahmadi and Elham were in the backseat and he was sure he didn’t want them to hear whatever the presidente was about to say. He wasn’t certain how much Spanish they understood.

  “I received a call from the American president. They know everything, Diego,” Avila said. “They know where the warhead is now—”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, but they do. The security of this operation has been destroyed and we cannot allow a war with the United States. They would topple us and give the country back to the capitalists. It would destroy the Bolivarian revolution,” Avila said.

  “I can’t disagree with that. We have always been playing a dangerous game,” Carreño agreed.

  “I had hoped that if you could catch the American spies that we could trade them for our survival. But now they’re gone, we are left with two choices, and using the warhead would mean war. You understand this?”

  Carreño had to force himself not to look to the backseat. “Yes.”

  “Good. You are with Señor Ahmadi?”

  “Sí.”

  “Let me talk to him,” Avila ordered.

  • • •

  Ahmadi saw Carreño swivel in his seat and offer the handset. He frowned, took it, and held it to his ear. “What?”

  “I’m very pleased to hear that you are unharmed, my friend,” Avila said.

  Anger erupted from inside him and Ahmadi made no attempt to contain it. “We were very nearly killed, my friend,” he said, the sarcasm in his voice countering the title. “Our facility at Morón is gone—”

  “I am aware,” Avila replied, trying to calm him down. “Diego told me everything earlier. It is a great loss for both our countries, but that is a problem to be solved in the future. At this minute, we must deal with our immediate problems as they stand. Once we do that, we can find a new way forward. You and the cargo are the two most important assets that remain, so what matters now is your safety,” Avila assured him. “We have your aircraft waiting for you at the airport with a full tank of fuel and I have arranged for a secure destination. I don’t want to share its location on this line, but you will be safe. You have my word before God Himself.”

  Something is wrong, Ahmadi thought. “And you will meet us at the airport?” is what he finally said.

  “I don’t think that would be wise. Without question, the Americans are trying to track my movements. I wouldn’t want to lead them to you and endanger your safety any further.”

  He won’t come, Ahmadi thought. “Very well. Be well until I see you again. Asr be kheyr.” Good night.

  He passed the phone back to Carreño. “They are setting us up, I think,” he said to Elham in quiet Farsi. He was sure that the SEBIN director couldn’t understand their native tongue.

  “Why do you say that?” Elham replied, following the civilian’s lead in the choice of language and keeping his own voice low.

  “Avila has always been an obsequious twit but this is different. He has always flattered me to get what he wanted. Now he flatters me to get me to do what he wants. There is a difference,” Ahmadi said.

  You would know, Elham thought. You understand flattery from both sides, don’t you? “What are you thinking?”

  “I am thinking that we are pariahs now. These men want to give us up to the Americans for their own benefit.”

  We? You are the pariah. The Americans probably have no idea who I am. “It’s possible,” Elham conceded. “They lost all of their cards to play when the American spies escaped. Now we two and the warhead are their cards.”

  “What can we do?”

  Now you listen to counsel? Elham wanted to scoff. You plunge the world into chaos and then expect others to save you from your own stupidity. Still, Ahmadi was an important man with secrets that could hurt their homeland if they ever came to light. The government might not be excited to have him come back at the moment, but neither could the soldier just let the Americans have him.

  Elham considered the options, then he spoke. “You must start thinking like a soldier . . . think of strategy and tactics. We do nothing for now,” he told Ahmadi. “We have no leverage as long as we are separated from the warhead. That is our only asset. The Venezuelans won’t use it on their own soil and the Americans know it. We have no such inhibitions, so once we load it on the plane, what the Venezuelans think won’t matter and the Americans will bargain directly with us. They will perceive us to be very dangerous people. So we do nothing until we reach the plane, and then we act.”

  “Very good, I agree,” Ahmadi told him.

  You would have agreed with anything, I told you, wouldn’t you? Elham thought. Ahmadi was intelligent, devious in his own way, but he was not cunning. That failing was going to be the end of him, Elham was sure, and maybe sooner rather than later, depending on the next few hours.

  USS Vicksburg

  11°22' North 67°49' West

  75 miles north of the Venezuelan coast

  “This is stupid,” Jon said, holding out the cable from Langley. Kyra had watched him as he’d read it through, which had taken him three tries. Her partner was distracted.

  Kyra took the paper and read it. “They seriously think the Venezuelans are going to cooperate?” she asked.

  “Kathy says we’ve got their word,” Jon responded.

  “Because we’ve been able to trust that so much for the last twenty years,” Kyra scoffed. “This is not a good idea.”

  “It’s that or the president starts bombing things again. And orders are orders,” Jon said. “How long until we move out, Master Chief?”

  “We’re at Ready Fifteen, right now,” Master Chief LeJeune responded. “Captain has already called for flight quarters and the pilots have a ‘green deck’ as soon as the Seahawk gets topped off.”

  “How’s our station chief?” Kyra asked.

  “She’s in surgery,” LeJeune responded. “Doc Winter is good but we’re not exactly a full-service hospital, if you get me. She’s critical. He’s trying to keep her stabilized so we can evac her out to Harry Truman on the other Seahawk.”

  “Jon, I can take care of this if you want to stay with her,” Kyra offered.

  “No,” he replied, anger in his voice. “We’ll need to visit your armory,” he said to the sailor. “A Barrett’s no good at close range and we’ll need something bigger than Glock 17s.”

  “I’ll ask the captain, but I’m sure we can accommodate,” LeJeune advised.

  “Jon, go down there,” Kyra said. “She needs you—”

  “She’s unconscious. There’s nothing I can do for her,” he said. “And we have our orders.” He walked out, leaving Kyra staring at him as he went.

  Simón Bolívar International Airport

  Maiquetía, Venezuela

  Carreño’s driver turned the jeep onto the airport access road and pulled through the gates that led to the hangars beyond the landing strips. The convoy of cargo trucks pulled aside to park, one excepted
, that continued on behind the SEBIN director’s jeep.

  It was full dark now, the moon hanging low in the sky just above the flat Atlantic horizon. Ahmadi saw no aircraft on the runways, which he supposed was the fault of the Americans and their no-fly zone. It was a perverse irony that it actually helped the Iranians now. No flights meant passengers and airport workers had no reason to be here, leaving the airport and the tarmacs empty.

  “There.” Carreño pointed at one of the hangars. A group of soldiers, at least a small company, stood in a formation in front of the metal building. “The building is secured, as promised.”

  Ahmadi grunted, felt Elham poke him gently in the ribs. He looked down. The soldier passed him a pistol in the dark, below the level where Carreño’s driver could see the exchange in his rearview mirror. Ahmadi took the small gun and slipped it into his coat pocket.

  The Venezuelan soldiers started to roll the hangar doors open. The interior lights were on and he could see a Boeing 727-200 parked inside. But the engines were silent, he realized, and the exterior lights unlit. He could see that from the tarmac more than a hundred yards away. The nav lights, the taxi lights, the strobes . . . all were dark.

  Where’s the pilot? Ahmadi thought, panicked. He should’ve been aboard. The SEBIN were supposed to be guarding the plane but he’d hoped the pilot would’ve had the good sense to get aboard—

  They didn’t bring the pilot, Ahmadi thought, angry. Or had the SEBIN detained him? The Iranian’s mind was racing now and he couldn’t slow it down. He tried to think about nothing, to calm his shaking hands. Focus on the plane. Elham was right. If they could make it to the plane—

  But the SEBIN cordon stood between him and the Boeing . . . at least three dozen uniformed soldiers, every man armed with an assault rifle, any one with enough firepower to butcher him like a pig, to do to him what he’d told Elham to do to those Somali pirates.