Countdown: M Day

by Tom Kratman

  Von Ahlenfeld crouched low and walked backwards, trusting that the tail rotor was too high to touch him. As he walked, he scanned, firing a burst at any movement he saw through the trees and looking especially keenly for the machine gun.

  He never saw it. Fortunately, the door gunner in Two did. Following the door gun’s tracers, von Ahlenfeld was gratified to see a three-man machine gun crew doing the “Spandau Ballet” atop Avenida Sucre.

  “Get on the fucking helicopter, ya damned idjit!” Cruz shouted from the ramp. “We’re taking off!”

  Von Ahlenfeld turned and sprinted, launching himself from the ground to land belly first on the slowly lifting ramp. His fingers scrambled for purchase on the metal ridges, holding on for dear life until Cruz managed to grab his harness and drag him aboard.

  “Everybody,” von Ahlenfeld ordered, once he was sitting up in the cargo area, “fucking split!”

  El Libertador Air Base (AKA Palo Negro Airport),

  Maracay, Venezuela

  Operations on the base was in complete and utter confusion, as pilots on crew rest were ordered rousted out, planes set for ground attack missions in Guyana were disarmed and then rearmed with air to air munitions, some others were called back about a third of the way to Georgetown, and everyone worried about what the hell the reports of an attack on Caracas actually meant.

  General Ortiz had no idea what was happening, except that someone had attacked Caracas, possibly focusing on Miraflores Palace. Even there, the reports were conflicting and there was no word from Hugo. He thought the attack had begun within the last ten minutes, but it was possible it had begun an hour ago and he had just gotten the word late.

  I don’t know if the United States attacked, if we’re having a coup d’etat, or if it’s the mercenaries based in Guyana.

  What’s the worst case? That’s a no brainer; the worst case is that it’s the gringos playing the “regime change” game and there are two carrier battle groups fifty miles north of here ready to shoot down anything I send up. My whole air force—even if it weren’t the maintenance nightmare it’s become since we invaded Guyana—couldn’t take on one carrier.

  Okay, what’s the next worst case? A coup, a golpe de estado. That’s next worst …maybe even worst …because I don’t know who’s behind it and I don’t know how successful it’s been or will be, and so I don’t know which way to jump. At the very least, I don’t want to happen what happened back in 1992, with air force fighting air force.

  As for the mercenaries, is that even a possibility? I know …or at least intelligence tells me …that we smashed most of their air squadron on the ground. How could they be behind this?

  On the other hand, how could they have been behind the mining of our ports, the destruction of our oil refining complex, the capture of one of our largest cities, or the smashing of our parachute brigade, an infantry brigade, and the support areas we set up for the invasion? And those we know they did. So it might have been the mercenaries.

  Is there anything I can do that covers all possibilities? No. If I send up planes in pursuit of the raiders, and it turns out it was the gringos, I’ve lost those planes. If it turns out it was a coup, then I end up with air force fighting air force. If it was the mercenaries …

  One of the officers on duty, a major, handed Ortiz a phone, saying, “It’s the Army Chief of Staff.”

  Maybe he’ll know something, Ortiz thought, picking up the phone and holding it to his ear.

  “General Ortiz.”

  The voice on the other end sounded remarkably calm and satisfied. “Ortiz, Quintero. I am at Miraflores Palace, or what’s left of it. Hugo’s dead …Yes, there’s no doubt he’s dead; I’ve seen the body …Who did it? There’s really no way to tell. They came in by helicopter, MI-17’s. But gringo special forces use those, too, I’m told …No, we recovered no bodies; it was a very professional job …Yes, that smells like the gringos to me, too. And the survivors of the palace insist they were herded out like cattle before the place was torched. Given what they did at Punto Fijo, I doubt the mercenaries would be so considerate.”

  “So what now, General?” Ortiz asked.

  “That depends a lot on where the air force stands,” said Quintero. “Frankly, without Hugo, and with Hugo’s palace guard having taken appalling casualties; with the failure in Guyana—let’s try not to fool ourselves; even now the mercenaries are investing Georgetown to starve the Marines into surrender—with the economic ruin caused by the war and by Bolivarism in general …I think it’s time for a change. I also think we owe a debt to whoever did this, not that the burden doesn’t rest quite lightly on my shoulders.”

  Ortiz went silent for the moment, thinking furiously. Unanimity is critical in these things. “What says the Navy?”

  Quintero laughed over the phone. “The navy says, ‘Junta,’ and the navy says, ‘Peace.’ So, for that matter, do I. The navy also says, and I join them in this wholeheartedly, ‘Enough of this silly experiment in economic ruin through oil socialism.’ Where does the air force stand?”

  Hip Number Four, Fifty-one Kilometers

  Northwest of Caracas

  Von Ahlenfeld felt ill from the severe, merciless bucking induced in the helicopter by Wing in Ground effect and as simple turbulence coming off the waves, cresting half a rotor’s diameter below.

  But at least we’re still alive to be made ill, he thought. Beats the crap out of the alternative.

  Bucking or not, it didn’t feel to Lava as if the helicopter was moving all that quickly. He crawled forward, over the bodies of wounded and dead and between the shins of the wounded and exhausted, all the way to the engineer, still manning a door mounted machine gun.

  “Why so slow?” Lava shouted to the engineer.

  “Fuel leak!” the engineer shouted back. He passed von Ahlenfeld a set of headphones to talk directly to the pilots.

  “We took a hit, it seems,” the pilot explained, much more calmly than a man should have been able to. Then again, the pilot, Artur Borsakov, a Russian, was ancient and had seen more crap flying a similar helicopter in Afghanistan than he generally cared to remember. “Fuel tank. What with all the shit flying around, I didn’t notice it until we crested the mountains north of Caracas. We can still make it but we have to conserve power to conserve fuel to do it. That means flying low and slow.”

  “Any word on the others?” von Ahlenfeld asked.

  “About ten and twenty kilometers ahead of us, near as I can tell,” the Russian replied. “They’re not losing fuel or having to fly so low and slow so the gap is growing.”

  Anybody we get alive out of this is a victory, Lava thought. Getting me out, of course, is a greater victory.

  Su-30, just crossing Venezuela’s northern coast

  Lieutenant Juan Rodriguez was, frankly, pissed “We’re a third of the way to Georgetown when they call. ‘Oh, come back, Juan; we need help.’ Right. ‘Help.’ We’re carrying freakin’ bombs people, and two cannon pods with a grand total of three hundred rounds and that are not zeroed to an aerial engagement, anyway. I’ve got no air-to-air missiles, and why should I have when neither Guyana nor the mercenaries have a single high performance fighter? Our radar’s gotten finicky because you haven’t been able to maintain it. And I am by no means convinced that our ejection seats will work, either. But you ‘need help.’ Fine. I’ll fucking try.

  “And just what the fuck am I supposed to be looking for? ‘Helicopters,’ they say. That helps a lot; we have helicopters, too. ‘Russian Hips,’ they say. Oh, jeez, where was the last time I saw a Hip? Oh, I remember; it was on our own fucking base, carrying our own fucking troops. ‘Use your IFF,’ they say. Assholes! Half our birds’ IFFs have stopped working! I’m not even sure they’re still updating the codes.

  “Moreover …”

  “Juan, look left,” said the weapons officer, Pedro Barrai, seated behind.

  “What?! I was just getting warmed up! Whe …oh, there.”

  “It’s a Hip, I think,”
Barrai said. “Out where we shouldn’t have any Hips.”

  “It’s a lot lower than I’m comfortable flying this pig,” Rodriguez said, as he veered the aircraft to port. “And it’s just fast enough to be a hard target, and too slow for us to match speed.”

  “You fly the plane, Juan. I get to shoot the guns. Them’s the rules, remember?”

  “Yeah. Shit. All right. Get ready. I’m going to try for a quartering shot from above. Hope to fuck I can pull out before we make a hole in the sea.”

  Barrai started to say, “You have my every—” He stopped himself, changing the message to, “Please don’t.”

  Hip Number Four, Seventy-two Kilometers

  Northwest of Caracas, Venezuela

  “How’s the fuel holding up?” von Ahlenfeld asked Borsakov, over the intercom.

  “I still think we’ll make it,” the Russian replied, “but I passed on to the Spetznaz team in the boat to make way northwest, just in case I’m wrong.”

  Northwest or southeast? Lava wondered. We’ve got wounded, more than that one itty bitty life raft will hold, and I’m not sure we can keep them afloat if we have to ditch. So ditching unnecessarily, while safer for the rest of us, would be very unsafe for the wounded. Hence, last option. Hence, good call, Borsakov. I think.

  “Roger,” he said.

  “How many wounded have we got back there?” Borsakov asked. “Wounded too badly to swim, I mean.”

  “Five and a couple of maybes,” Lava answered.

  “Shit. I was an All-Soviet Champion swimmer in my youth, but that was a fuck of a long time ago.”

  “Right …for all of us, everything was a fuck of a long time ago. We’re buckling the wounded into life vests already.”

  “Yeah …good idea …even …Christ!”

  As close to the cockpit as he was, von Ahlenfeld could see the fist-sized tracers flashing ahead before turning into explosions on the sea’s rough surface. He was half-tossed to starboard as Borsakov pushed the Hip into a violent shift to port.

  It was automatic, that port move, conditioned by decades of training and experience. It was also just a bit too violent. The blades of the rotor skimmed the water, tossing the Hip into the beginnings of a sharp counterclockwise spin. Borsakov worked the foot pedals hard, recovering before he lost complete control of the aircraft. Even so, the transmission began to whine as if damaged from the shock, and the helicopter itself shuddered as if the blades were starting to shred.

  “Oh, fuck!” Borsakov exclaimed. “We are not, repeat not going to make it to the Netherland’s Antilles. Break, break …Baluyev? Borsakov.”

  “Baluyev here.”

  “Turn around. Don’t spare the horses. We’re dunking.”

  El Libertador Air Base (AKA Palo Negro Airport),

  Maracay, Venezuela

  “All right,” Ortiz agreed, “the air force is in.” It’s either that, or we find ourselves very much on the outs.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “In the first place,” Quintero said, “the navy wants its Marines back. Suspicious bastards seem to think that without a ground combat force they’ll find themselves cut out of the political process.”

  And so they would be, though Ortiz.

  “Okay, so?”

  “So suspend combat operations. All combat operations. We need to make peace with Guyana, which is to say with the mercenaries. The fewer of them we kill, and the sooner we stop trying, the sooner and better that peace will be.”

  “All right.” Ortiz held his hand over the receiver and ordered, “Cease offensive operations. Ground all planes,” to the operations crew.

  “Consider that done,” he told Quintero.

  Su-30, One Hundred and Nine Kilometers

  North-northeast of Caracas, Venezuela

  “Did you hit it?” Rodriguez asked.

  “Not a chance,” answered Barrai. “Maybe got close.”

  Rodriguez snarled. “This thing turns like a hippopotamus in ballet slippers. I’ll swing around for another …”

  The radio crackled. “Victor Five One, this is base.”

  “Five one,” Barrai replied.

  “You’re mission is aborted. Come on home.”

  “Roger.” How grand. This hot rodder will not now have a chance to drive me into the sea. “Juan, orders. Head home. We’re done.”

  Hip Number Four, Seventy-nine Kilometers

  Northwest of Caracas

  “Colonel,” Borsakov said via the intercom, “I can hold this thing steady for a few minutes. You’ve got to get the raft inflated and your people out, fast.”

  “What about your folks?” Lava asked.

  “I’m sending my co-pilot and engineer out with you. For me, I’ll ride the thing a couple of hundred meters off then ditch it.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry about me. All-Soviet Champion, remember? So what if it was fifty years ago? I’ll be fine.”

  “Roger,” Lava agreed.

  “Good. The ramp’s going down. Start unassing the helicopter, now. Break, break. Baluyev, turn around …”

  I knew this was too fucking good to be true, thought von Ahlenfeld. “Konstantin, get our people off!”

  Betram Sport Fisher, Eighty-one Kilometers

  Northwest of Caracas, Venezuela

  Baluyev started, unaccountably, to laugh. The laughter grew, even over the muted roar of the boat’s engine.

  “What’s so funny?” Litvinov asked.

  “You can’t hear it?”

  “I can’t hear shit but the motor.”

  “Wait a few minutes then,” the praporschik advised. “You will.”

  Litvinov did as told, as the boat proceeded to the southeast. At first he couldn’t quite believe his ears. As the boat progressed, he couldn’t deny them. Somewhere, maybe a half mile away, a group of people, twenty or thirty of them, were singing:

  “Always look on the bright side of life …”

  Providence, Guyana

  From somewhere to the north, the loudspeakers were playing. The music could be heard, distantly and dimly, even this far back: “ …This is the end …beautiful friend …This is the end …my only friend …”

  Sunlight filtered through the trees and down on Lana’s jungle-shrouded and camouflage-netted command post. And it was her command post. She had First Battalion now. She’d tried to turn it over to the XO, after cajoling and shaming the troops out of their proto-mutiny. That worthy had demurred, insisting, “When it came down to it, Lana, the boys wouldn’t listen to me. They would listen to you. The one who should be in command is the one who can command, the one with the mana. Always.” Stauer had ratified the XO’s call, making a special effort to find her at First Battalion’s command post, south of the town, and pin on her collar her husband’s old rank.

  Already fighting had broken out in the capital between Guyanans and the Marines, as the regiment sealed the place off and the Marines were forced to give up their internal security duties to defend the perimeter.

  Lana was in the CP now, hot and bloated and miserable. She was sick, too, with the loss of her husband, and not a little upset that the most they’d been able to do for his body was pack it in ice, drive it around the companies to let the men get a last view, and then put it in a nylon body bag and into the regimental cemetery before it began to swell and stink.

  Wiping away a sudden flood of tears, Lana vowed to herself that they’d give him a proper service as soon as they could, as soon as the war was finally over Through the sniffles, she promised softly, “We’ll exhume you and do a proper pyre, Seamus. You deserve that … .the boys deserve that …oh, God, why …”

  Schiebel popped his head into the CP, affecting not to notice Lana’s sodden face. “We got a call from a forward outpost, Lana,” he said. It was an Israeli thing, perhaps, but she preferred to be called by her given name, rank be damned. “They’ve got a white flag and a party of three, approaching our position.”

  Lana didn’t have the
rank or the position—or the information and insight, for that matter, she thought—for this one. The Venezuelans had been blindfolded and told to wait. Wait they had, for four hours while Stauer was rounded up.

  “No,” Stauer had insisted, to the Venezuelan Marine, de Castro. “No, I’m not letting you go, scot free. You want to eat, you surrender. You’ll get repatriated when Venezuela pays for every goddamned twig and building wrecked and every round of ammunition expended to defeat your wanton aggression. You don’t like that, fine. Stay where you are and die.

  “On the other hand, my people, in Ciudad Guyana, get repatriated on chartered flights and your people don’t interfere in the slightest.”

  De Castro, deeply ashamed, though only at the defeat, not at the aggression, replied, “I’ll have to consult with higher authority.”

  “The junta that’s replaced Chavez?” Stauer asked.

  The Marine nodded, shallowly. “Yes, them.”

  “Inform them that weapons are cheap and replaceable; trained men quite expensive and hard to replace. Especially when you’re facing a probable civil war in your own country. And, by the way, we’re keeping your arms. Don’t try wrecking them if you ever want to see home.”

  De Castro sighed. He’d expected no better but his superiors and Caracas had insisted he try. “What about the civilians here who supported us?”

  Stauer shook his head. “They stay, so they can be duly arrested, tried and shot for treason. Do this place a world of good, too. More important, it will make anyone who thinks about supporting you the next time you try this think twice, while denying you a cadre of people to use to keep fucking with Guayana. Live with it.”

  “Vae victis,” muttered de Castro.