Countdown: M Day

by Tom Kratman

  It had been a matter of some debate, back in the Estado Mayor, which combat aircraft should be the first to be shifted forward to Cheddi Jagan, once it was secure. The deciding factor had been that the Tucanos could make do with one of the airport’s taxiways, thus leaving the runways free for the landing of reinforcements and supplies by heavier cargo aircraft. The army, of course, had put in to have its Russian-built gunships take priority. Sadly, they couldn’t really refute that, in a time when every ounce of supply, every increment of service support, moved would be critical, a helicopter simply required more in the way of spare parts than a simply prop-driven craft did. Thus, the MI-35’s, along with the other choppers, remained based at Tumeremo.

  Of Lieutenant Colonel Perez’s seventeen remaining operational aircraft, four had developed maintenance problems. That was to be expected; they just weren’t new anymore. He’d waited until half the remainder—six, minus his own—had shifted forward to Cheddi Jagan, then taken the next slot for himself. Naturally, since he was going somewhere where ordnance was limited, he carried what he could on his own, two five hundred pound bombs, a rocket pod, and a single .50 caliber machine gun pod. He wanted to get closer to the action because, I am still pissed about Oropeza and Lorenzo. And somebody’s going to pay for killing my boys. Doctrine had required that he wait until the bulk, if just that, of his squadron was forward.

  “Hey, sir?” asked Captain Pedro Radjeskas, a Lithuanian-descended citizen of Venezuela. The captain was copilot for the flight and also his operations officer. He wore NVGs and acted as more an observer than copilot.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “No straight lines in nature, right?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning what looks like a pretty small rectangle just lit up on our starboard side, and there was no mention of us having any troops in this area yet, when we left. It only shows up in the goggles, by the way, sir.”

  “Hang on!” shouted Perez, putting his Tucano into a ninety-degree right hand turn.

  McCaverty bounced to a bone-jolting stop. That was a bad’un, he thought, still panting from fear. He looked behind and to his right. There, three men, two of them more or less hauling the third, raced out onto the field. They reached the plane, and, while one lifted the bubble door, the other more or less threw the third in bodily, just before the Plexiglas slammed down shut again.

  “Strap in, Mr. President!” McCaverty shouted. Then he noticed an engine sound, just slightly louder than his own. His head snapped forward in time to see bright flames blossoming in the sky. He thought he saw those flames outlining a very predatory shape.

  “Oh, shit.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  And on each end of the rifle,

  we’re the same.

  —John McCutcheon, “Christmas in the Trenches”

  Five miles southeast of Urisirima, Guyana

  It took three things, working in concert, to save McCaverty’s and President Paul’s bacon. One was that light moves faster than rocket. Two was that his engine was still running. The third, much aided by the first, was that he had, as both doctor and pilot, a remarkable set of reflexes. As soon as he saw the flash from above, he was gunning the engine, rolling down the ad hoc runway, and lifting off.

  One rocket hit just behind where the plane had been sitting when Paul was tossed aboard.

  Venegas didn’t have to give the command. It was a well-drilled response, when under air attack, to simply throw shit up in front of the plane and let it fly through the storm, in the hope of either frightening it off, wrecking its aim, or at least causing it some damage that would have to be repaired when it returned home. Actually shooting one down with small arms was, of course, the stuff of miracles.

  Seven rockets in total landed close together and in a more or less ragged line. Venegas hadn’t seen them land, exactly, though the flashing explosions had certainly announced their arrival even while totally screwing up his NVGs. For a few seconds, the blasts silenced his eardrums, when that cleared, at least a little, he heard a high pitched scream coming from the field.

  Venegas ripped the NVGs off and tossed them to the ground. Fuck it, survey my ass for them. He ran toward the scream. He didn’t quite get there, though, before stumbling face first to the dirt. And I was sure the field had been smooth. Shifting around while still prone, he felt the ground for the obstruction. He found it. He found it in two pieces …two wet pieces.

  But that wasn’t the screaming, which was growing louder. Getting up first to all fours and then to his feet, he moved on. He didn’t trip over anything this time; the heart-rending shrieks told him when he should stop.

  It was Coursus. “Joe …Joe …help me …God, it hurts, Joe …please …Joe.”

  “Medic!”

  The president was screaming and wailing like a lost little girl.

  Doc McCaverty twisted the plane to port as soon as he was airborne. His left wing almost plowed the field. It did manage to stroke the tops of a couple of tree as he gained altitude.

  No more than I need to get over—“Shut the fuck up, asshole!”—the trees.

  Then, still skimming trees, McCaverty gave it full throttle and raced for the nearest potential cover, the Essequibo River.

  No way I can make it to the Mazaruni if that bastard’s following me.

  “Did we get him?” Perez asked heatedly.

  Unseen in the back seat, Radjeskas answered, “No, sir. Close, maybe, but I think he got away.”

  “Chingada! Keep looking. I’m turning around for another pass.”

  “I think maybe we’re a little too fast for him.”

  God, I wish this bitch would go faster. There was no more juice to give it, though; McCaverty made the best speed he could for Sloth Island, a little lump of nothing much in the Essequibo. If he could make it, he could stay close to it, close enough to be very damned hard to see, at least from half the possible angles. If …

  A bright stream of tracers passed by to the starboard side. A minor nudge suggested to the pilot that at least one round had found at least one wing. That meant a possible fuel leak.

  “I suppose self-sealing tanks would have been just too hard. Shit.”

  * * *

  “Goddammit, I missed!’

  “Goddammit, sir, you missed,” echoed the Three.

  “Well, train to standard, not to time. I’m going after the son of a bitch again.”

  Dvora, Essequibo River, Guyana

  Thor had found his crew on the LCM’s that had escaped the first attack. Now, besides the black gang and signal rats, down below, he had the helmsman, someone on radar, a lookout with NVG’s, both fifties manned, a two man crew on the rear Oerlikon, and was watching over the operators shoulder the screen for the forward thirty’s weapon station, himself. Everyone was wearing a set of headphones that went to and through the boat’s intercom.

  While waiting, hidden in a small inlet from the Essequibo, he’d done some thinking, done some pencil drilling, and run a large number of simulations. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he might have a chance with the thirty against an aircraft.

  The Dvora paralleled the left bank of the river. To the right, on the opposite side, was an LCM that had likewise survived by hiding. Their speed was limited to that of the LCM, about nine knots, or a bit less, what with the potential for obstacles at the banks.

  “Captain,” radar announced, “I’ve got an …no, I’ve got two aircraft heading this way. Straight up the river they’re coming. Right down nearly skimming the water.”

  “IFF?” von der Kehre asked.

  “Neither respond. Our code’s probably out of date already.”

  “All right …all stop. Hold station. Advice the LCM to snuggle into the bank.” Dvora’s engines went very quiet, more felt through the deck now than actually heard.

  “First or second one, Skipper?” the 30mm weapon station operator asked.

  “First one,” Thor answered.

  “Roger.” The 30mm operator
picked a spot over the middle of the river, just above the water, and set his stabilized gun to fix on that. Similarly, the Oerlikon swung around to fire in the same general direction. The starboard side .50 took its cue from those.

  “Now wait, everybody, until I give the command. I want to throw up a wall of lead in front of him and let him fly right through it. Wait …wait …it’ll be the first one …wait.”

  Perez had dropped his speed down as low as he dared, especially this close to the water. If he hit it, at any real speed, it might as well have been concrete.

  Problem is, he thought, that not only was this thing never designed to be an air-to-air platform, but my freaking gun is all the way out on one wing and my sight’s all wrong for an aerial target.

  Even so, you’re mine, you bitch, for my lost lieutenants.

  He squeezed the trigger, again, and was rewarded with a lot of vibration, a certain amount of torque, but no obvious kill.

  “Second plane!” Thor shouted. It wouldn’t have fired if the first one were friendly to him. That makes it neutral or friendly to us.

  “Wait …wait …FIRE!”

  The muddy waters of the Essequibo were lit by flashes at the rate of several thousand per minute.

  “Oh, shit!” Perez said, when he saw the water become a strobe and caught a glimpse of the source. “Ambush!”

  He pulled back on his stick, as far as it would go. Still, he was too close, moving too fast even at this reduced speed. He flew through the deadly hail.

  Behind him, he heard Radjeskas scream in pain and terror.

  “Pedro, are you all right?” Perez asked. He rarely used first names with his subordinates but this was a special occasion.

  The captain’s answering voice was weak and strained. “Hit …pretty bad, sir.”

  “Right. Fuck this shit; we’re heading for Cheddi Jagan and the doctors. You hang on, son. You’ll be fine.”

  McCaverty, in his own, later, words, “like to shit myself,” at the fire that erupted barely behind him. He immediately cut half right, rising over the town of Hippaia Then he set course straight for Camp Fulton.

  “Goddammit, Skipper, we missed,” said the helm.

  Thor smiled. “Ja …but we sure scared the Scheisse out of him, boys. Tell the LCM to proceed. We’ll continue cover.”

  Airfield, Camp Fulton, Guyana

  Stauer was standing by as the plane touched down roughly. Manuel used his flashlight to lead it to the jungle-shrouded hide position from whence it had taken off.

  With the regimental commander were two beefy guards, both heavily armed and armored, plus Sergeant Major Joshua. As soon as the engine cut off, he led the guards to the copilot’s side of the aircraft. Stauer unlatched the door, and lifted it straight up. He smelled puke and, just possibly, shit. He didn’t think it came from McCaverty.

  With a grimace, he said, “Mr. President, these men will take you to a secure facility where you will meet with my Chief of Staff. I believe you two know each other. There you will be cleaned up, put in a fresh but unmarked uniform, and be given an opportunity to speak to the world. Don’t worry about a script; we’ve already taken care of that in both English and Creole. Sergeant Major, take him away.”

  “Sir!”

  While Paul, still in an obvious state of shock, was marched off, Stauer went around the rear of the aircraft and came up upon McCaverty, who was just dismounting.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  McCaverty sat down, bonelessly, to the ground. Staring off into space, he answered, “Oh, routine …just routine …fug. I am so too old for this shit.”

  Cheddi Jagan Airport, Guyana

  Perez had radioed ahead to have an ambulance standing by. It was; he could see it, sitting by the control tower with lights flashing, as he taxied off the main field and went into the zigzag turn to get a near as possible to it. As soon as he’d stopped, the ambulance started up, reaching a point just in front of his aircraft in seconds. Perez immediately popped open his canopy, turned around to glance at his Three, then jumped to get out of the way of the medics.

  The first of the medics, having remarkable indifference to the health of the airframe, and much concern with the human being inside, leapt onto the wing. While the others pulled out a gurney, he checked for vital signs. Just about the time the gurney made it to a point under and behind the wing, the medic turned away and made a “no need to hurry” sign with his hand.

  “Hey, Colonel,” he said to Perez. “I’m really sorry, sir, but your man’s dead.”

  Perez, who had been anxiously looking upward at the medic, put one arm against the side of the Tucano, then rested his head against it. There was no sense in letting them see him cry.

  Shit; what am I going to say to his wife?

  Three Miles South of Urisirima, Guyana

  With three of his remaining men guarding what passed for a perimeter, or a half of one, and two more sitting behind the wheels of the remaining Land Rovers, Venegas met and guided in the LCM, himself. He could barely sense the presence of the Dvora, sitting farther out, like a mother hen guarding her chicks.

  “I’ll take care of guiding them in,” the chief of the boat told the warrant, once the ramp had dropped onto the not very steep portion of the bank Venegas had selected. “Just relax. For a change.”

  One by one, the Land Rovers rolled down, then across the ramp into the spacious cargo area. At least it was spacious when carrying only a couple of Land Rovers. More of the boat’s crew lashed the vehicles down.

  When that was done, the sailor told Venegas, “Chief, you can call in your men now.” The ramp was already whining upwards.

  Venegas did. One by one, each turning to take a last chance at sighting a possible threat, then, leapt to the top of the ramp and climbed down.

  “What’s with those two in the back?”

  Venegas looked at the still forms, resting upright, in the last of the Rover’s back seat. It was hard, very hard, to keep his voice from breaking as he answered, “Them? A couple of good men.” Then his voice did break; these had been his men and his friends. “They’re dead.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Be polite; write diplomatically; even in a declaration of

  war one observes the rules of politeness.

  —Otto von Bismark

  “Lawyers, Guns, and Money” (SCIF), Camp Fulton, Guyana

  Though Sergeant Major Joshua looked Guyanan enough, he was not, of course. Corporal Hosein looked just what he was, a Bihari-descended Indian, but he was Guyanan. Origin, however, didn’t really matter. The two—uniformed and armed—flanked the similarly uniformed president, just behind him and just in front of a Guyanan flag, hung on the wall, for local color. Similarly, Lahela Corrigan, she whose smiles lights up the jungle, sat just to one side. Corrigan wasn’t Guyanan or Guyanan-looking, in any sense. She was, however, quite tiny and very, very cute. Boxer expected her to help trip the “save the women and children” reflex, around the world, with both categories in one person.

  Joshua rolled his eyes—this being a stage prop gets old, quick—when Boxer ordered, “One more time, please, Mr. President, and this time, put a little anger into it; a little righteous anger, if you can muster it.”

  “I can’t,” President Paul insisted. His voice taking on a note of hysteria, he added, “I’m just too exhausted and I have been through too much. You people have put me through too much.”

  Us people, huh? Joshua thought. And there I could have sworn it was Venezuela. The RSM bent down and whispered something in Paul’s ear that apparently shocked him enough to make him turn pale and gulp, nervously. As the tall, black RSM straightened up again and faced the camera, the President of Guyana said, “I think I can go on. But could I have a drink for the nerves?”

  Boxer nodded and said to Hosein, “There’s a bottle of scotch and a couple of glasses in my desk. Could you bring them, please, Corporal?”

  Scotch, apparently, had amazing medicinal virtues. Two drinks, just enou
gh to calm him, not enough to translate to a glazed look on his face, had done wonders for Paul’s composure, and no little bit to grease his tongue.

  “. . . and, so,” President Paul summed up, “I call on every loyal and true Guyanan, our resident foreign friends and neighbors, our corporations, our brothers overseas, our friends in America, Asia, Africa, and Europe, to resist this vicious, illegal, trumped up, imperialist, and cowardly land grab, with every means at their and our disposal, until the invader is driven from our dear country with his tail between his legs.

  “I instruct our embassies overseas to issue letters of marque to any legitimate, commercial shipping firm that applies, authorizing them to attack Venezuelan commerce. I further declare a blockade of Guyana’s ports. Neutral shipping has seventy-two hours to vacate, after which those ports may be considered blockaded.

  “I order the regular and reserve forces of the Cooperative Republic of Guyana to make the invader’s life here a living hell. Deny them the use of our roads. Deny them the use of our ports. Deny them the use of our airports.

  “I command our people to give the enemy no aid, no comfort, no sanctuary.

  “And, finally, I call upon our mother country, the United Kingdom, and the Queen to whom we pay joint homage, to relieve us in this, our hour of distress.”

  Not bad delivery, thought Boxer.

  “What did you say to him, Sergeant Major?” Boxer asked, later, after the president had finally been allowed to go to a dark office and sleep on a couch.