Countdown: The Liberators-ARC

by Tom Kratman

  The answer came back in about half a second. "To excavate thirty-two hundred cubic meters of dirt and build a wall with the spoil would take, if we had the entire complement here, by shovel, approximately a day and a half, sir. Another day for the logs, though that would delay the engineers building the strip. Do you want a fossa and agger, sir? I wouldn't recommend it; breed lots of bugs, it would, sir."

  "Negative, Sergeant Major. Just curious. By the way, how many shitters and pissers do we need?"

  "Thirty-four shitters, sir, twenty-one pissers, assuming the naval contingent never billets here and the air contingent only does so intermittently. Those can be dug out in rather less time and are easier to control for bugs."

  "Ahem," Stauer said to the doctor.

  "Well if he's so smart and capable why wasn't he an officer?" Joseph asked.

  Stauer shook his head. "Lots of bright people don't want to be officers. And of those that are, some are simply happier, for purely emotional and instinctive reasons, at lower levels. Let me give you an example: Reilly."

  Joseph had only met the current adjutant and-so Stauer had finally determined-future mech force commander, a couple of days prior. "What about him?"

  "He is, without doubt, one of the smartest men I ever met. He is tactically and operationally deft . . . no, deft isn't a strong enough term. He's fucking great. He trains troops better than anyone I've ever met, too. Any kind of troops, combat, combat support, or REMF. He should have been a four star. You know why he isn't? He doesn't know. At least, I don't think he does."

  Joseph shook his head no.

  "Because emotionally he is only really happy commanding a company, a group that is small enough for everyone to know everyone. He can deal with a battalion, well enough, but he's not really as happy there. See, he needs the fight, close up and personal. Without those things-"

  Stauer was interrupted by a German accent, speaking breathlessly. That was the voice of Matthias Nagy, the leader of what would become the engineer section. Nagy was a half Hungarian, half German investment banker with a background in the German Army's Airborne Engineers. He'd been quite happy as a soldier but hadn't liked the direction his army had taken following the fall of Communism. When given a chance to be a real soldier again, he'd taken four months built up leave and jumped on it. His English was approximately as good as his German, with hardly even a noticeable accent.

  Sweat poured off Nagy, as if he'd been running through the jungle searching for the area to put in the landing strip, and then run back again to report that he had. Stauer had no doubt he'd done precisely that. Nagy had been one of Reilly's acquisitions and came very highly recommended.

  "I found a spot where I can put in a small airstrip, boss," Nagy said. "It will take maybe twelve days, including putting in the PSP. That assumes, of course, that my baby dozer, my grader, and my mini-excavator don't break and that everyone will collaborate in putting in the PSP . . . doctors included."

  "Will they? Break, I mean?"

  Off in the distance could be heard Joshua's, for the nonce harsh, voice, shouting, "No, you stupid bastards! The tent pins go straight in, not at an angle away from the tent. Yes, I know it's counter-intuitive, but otherwise, when the canvas gets wet and shrinks, the leverage pulls the pins too much, loosens ‘em, and causes the tent to collapse. Jesus, do I have to teach you people everything?"

  Nagy shook his squarish head. "Good man, your sergeant major," he said. "Anyway, sir, the excavator's a brand new Volvo, and the dozer is a brand new John Deere, and the grader's by Caterpillar. Doubt if I could break them if I tried."

  "How are you getting them off the boat?" Stauer asked. "The bank's pretty steep and just dirt."

  Nagy looked only mildly concerned. "We're going to cut some trees and lay the logs down. Then I'll land the John Deere and use it to get the Volvo ashore, and the two of them to get the Caterpillar out. I've got the cables. Later we'll be building a dock and off-loading ramp."

  "And how big does the strip have to be?"

  "Cruz said that given the heat and high water vapor content in the air," Nagy said, "I'd better cut out a strip of twenty-four meters by about five hundred. A bit under eleven thousand pieces of PSP, three hundred tons and change. Course, I think he's being overly cautious. The planes are coming in laden, true, but they'll be leaving empty except for crew and fuel. Personally, I think we could get by with a field a half as long and two thirds as wide. Then again, the trees could pose a problem with a field that short."

  "And how many rubber and other trees are you going to kill to do that?"

  "Few hundred, no more," Nagy answered, with an indifferent shrug. Combat engineers loved knocking down trees. It was almost as much fun as dropping buildings and bridges. "Well, a few hundred for the field itself. More for some of the other things. And to disguise the shape of the strip."

  "All right, then," Stauer agreed, satisfied. "Gordo Gordon has about two weeks to assemble what we need and begin flying it in here."

  D-110, Meridien Pegasus Hotel, Georgetown, Guyana

  They didn't call Harry Gordon "Gordo" just because it was the first five letters of his last name. In fact, he was fat. He'd always been fat and always had to struggle in the Army to keep within the strictures of Army Regulation 600-9. This was a shame, everyone agreed, since Gordo was one of the two or three finest logistic minds around. Then again, what could be expected of a regulation dedicated to the elevation of form over substance?

  Still, he was fat and, as such, had a relatively high body mass to radiating surface. The short version of that was:

  "God damn, this place is fucking hot! Reilly should be down here; he likes this kind of heat."

  "He's got his job up there, boss," answered Gordo's assistant, retired Master Sergeant Warren. "We've got ours down here. And it isn't"-Warren cast his dark eyes around meaningfully at the hotel, the Meridien Pegasus, with its view over the town and the Demerara River-"it isn't as if this is exactly hardship duty."

  As if to punctuate the point, a very womanly form in hotel livery swayed up, bearing a tray of drinks. Two of these she set on the table between Warren and Gordo.

  Black women weren't usually to Gordo's taste. This one, however, looked to be a mix of black, East Indian, local Indian, and white and she was to anyone's taste.

  "Forget it, boss," Warren said. "Tonight, she's going out with me."

  "No problem," Gordo answered. "The first of the Pilatus PC-6s is due in this evening and I want to meet the flight crew at the airport when they arrive. And speaking of arrival-"

  "Four hundred and ninety sets, body armor, various sizes, due in, in four days," Warren answered. "And you have no idea what a bitch it was to track that number down from enough different suppliers to not be noticeable and have it sent to Reilly in San Antonio. Twenty-one hundred sets, battle dress, old style, three color desert, due in, in six days. I lucked out with that one, and found a lot of them through DRMO"-Defense Re-utilization and Marketing Office-"at Fort Stewart. Just, and I mean just, beat Third Special Forces Group to them. Hats, too. LCE"-Load Carrying Equipment-"I ordered from Israel; that's coming in by air in a week. Reilly's been budgeted fifty thousand bucks for boots for the boys as they show up. Belts, underwear and socks; they're on their own. I did order a couple of rolls of webbing and some generic buckles in case we have to make belts for anyone. The advance party's got enough food for three weeks and their field water purification equipment will do until we can send them the Zenon Mini-ROWPU"-Reverse Osmosis Water Purification Unit-"and, before you ask, that's coming in by air, too, scheduled for ten days from now, with the last of the PC-6s."

  Gordo sighed with contentment. Good supply sergeants were such a sheer treasure. "Sergeant Warren, I wish you all the luck in the world with the girl this evening."

  "The real bitch is going to be getting enough of the armored cars up the river for the boys to train with," Warren said.

  "Not a problem, actually," Gordo said. "The basic chassis will come in
kinda openly, minus turrets or arms, as ‘all terrain exploration support vehicles.' The turrets we'll fly in.."

  "They'll fit a Pilatus Porter?"

  Gordo howled with laughter on that one. When he'd recovered sufficiently, he said, "Sure, with both doors open and the main gun sticking out the floor hatch and tied to the fuselage. Nah. No way. But the local ‘air force' operates five light cargo aircraft, Short Skyvans. I'm taking the senior pilot of that crew out for drinks and a girl this evening. I imagine he can be bribed to make a couple of extraneous training flights. Of course, that presupposes Victor can come up with enough of the armored cars."

  D-109, Menachem Begin Road, Tel Aviv, Israel

  Traffic passing down the centrally located major thoroughfare made it all but impossible for anyone not seated at the same table to hear what the Israeli had to say to the Russian. The table was flush against the railing around the outdoor café portion of the establishment.

  "You need what?" asked the Israeli who went by the name of Dov. Both the men spoke Russian, though both also shared English. While Dov looked essentially western in feature and dress, Victor was done up like a Hassid, curls and all.

  "Nine Panhard AML-90s, or the Eland clone," Victor answered, "best possible upgrades. Plus three AML-60s and twenty-four M-3 armored personnel carriers. Of those, I need one in three available for movement by sea soonest. And of the M-3s, I need -"

  Dov held up one hand. "Stop right there, Victor. The current government is actually trying to stay within the law for arms sales. Knowing you, and I do, there is not the slightest chance you are within anybody's law. Moreover, M-3s just aren't possible. We have none in stock that aren't already committed."

  "They've never been that common, I suppose," Victor said. "Not like the 90 and 60 versions."

  "No, they haven't," Dov said. "But for that matter, it would be perfectly possible to take a 60 or 90 version and remove the main turret. That would leave enough space inside for maybe five or six infantrymen, plus a two man crew. Extending them is also possible, but harder."

  "Maybe," Victor said, while wondering, Will my rescuers be willing to go with those instead of the real thing? They just haven't told me enough.

  "Never mind, in any case, Victor. I can't sell you any. No, not even for a really big bribe."

  "That's okay," Inning said, his head nodding which made his fake curls swish back and forth. He found that extremely annoying. "I predicted this. I don't want you to sell me any. I want you to rebuild the ones I need from some I will get. And I need them rebuilt overseas or aboard a ship. Maybe both. Now does your government have a really big problem with that? You don't need a legitimate end user certificate for mere services rendered and some dual use parts provided, or if you do, you can fudge it. You don't need an end user certificate for giving me the name of the contact there that, I have no doubt, provides you with derelicts in remarkably good shape to rebuild. Because we both know South Africa doesn't use a lot of anti-armor ammunition to train with."

  Dov chewed at the inside of his cheek for a while, his head occasionally rocking from side to side. "End user certificate? Mmm…maybe not. Done at sea, you say? Or right in South Africa? Or both. And just how big a bribe are you offering? And how much for the name of my contact?"

  "That's all negotiable," Victor said. "It will be large enough. Now tell me what is possible in upgrades."

  Dov shrugged. "It's a pretty extensive rebuild: New steering-hydraulic, new disc brake system for all four wheels, new diesel engine-a Toyota, and new wiring. We can put in air conditioning . . . day-night fire control . . . laser range finder . . . armor upgrade for standoff protection from HEAT warheads. Non-explosive reactive is also possible. There's also an option to upgrade the gun to the new high velocity 60mm, basically the same thing we did for the Chilean Shermans. Nice gun, by the way, but we have to modify the turret hugely."

  A slender, delicate hand with painted but chipped nails grasped one of the unoccupied chairs and pulled it from the table. Into the chair sat an extraordinarily attractive, slender, wave-haired, and olive-skinned woman. She was dressed in mechanic's coveralls that completely succeeded in failing to hide her figure.

  "Hello, Lana," Dov said, with a frown. "Victor, let me introduce . . ." Dove stopped speaking for a moment when he realized Victor was simply paying him no mind at all.

  "They say of many women," Victor said, as if from very far away, "that her hair ‘cascades.' I think you are the first one I have ever seen of which the compliment is true. I-"

  Victor stopped speaking when he realized than a group of Hassidim had begun to pass, except for one of them who was standing by the railing looking directly at him and chiding him with a waving finger. Victor hunched his head down as if in shame until the finger stopped wagging and the genuine Hassid had walked on with his group.

  "Forget it, Victor," Dov advised. "Lana's a dyke."

  "Not at all," the woman said, adding, matter of factly, "Tried it; didn't much like it. I've just met very few men I thought worth the trouble and Dov here is bitter that he wasn't one of them. Lana Mendes," she announced, offering her hand.

  "You're very beautiful, Lana Mendes," Victor said.

  "Don't tell her that," Dov advised. "Tell her she's a great armored vehicle optics mechanic. Tell her she's a first class tank gunner. Tell her she's a fine officer. But never, never, never tell Ms. Mendes she's beautiful."

  Lana sighed with exasperation. "As a matter of fact, I used to teach tank gunnery, and now I work as an optics mechanic. And I am a first class reserve officer. But try and prove that in a place like this." She looked around in such a way as to indicate the entire country, not just the local environment. "Dov's right, by the way, you should take the upgrade to 60mm high velocity."

  "I don't know about the gun," Victor replied. "I just don't have the authority. I'll check, though. And everything else sounds about right. Now, how mobile and accommodating can you be?"

  "We can work anywhere." Dov said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Certainly there is no hunting like the hunting

  of man and those who have hunted armed men long

  enough and liked it, never really care

  for anything else thereafter.

  -Ernest Hemingway, "On the Blue Water"

  D-108, Londonderry Port, UK

  It was already dark when the boat finally entered Lough Foyle, in the only place where the South, the Republic of Ireland, was north, and the north, the Six Counties, was south.

  Biggus Dickus appreciated the darkness. It's just as well, he thought. Even a disarmed and civilian painted ELCO eighty-one foot patrol torpedo boat is inherently suspicious. If it hadn't been so fast and so cheap, I'd probably have turned it down.

  "Biggus Dickus" had booked a berth for the Bastard at one of the marinas dotting the sides of Lough Foyle. This did not prevent the boat from taking a slow spin around the Lough, through darkened gray-brown waters that were almost without any natural waves.

  "There she is," said Eeyore, pointing leftward with his chin. Eeyore laughed softly.

  "I see her," agreed Biggus standing at the wheel of the boat. "And what's so funny?"

  "I looked it up. George Galloway is a Brit politician. He's probably an atheist, himself, but he latched onto the Islamics there to launch and support his political career. He even married one of them, a really hot Palestinian girl, though I think she divorced him. He is, in any case, a defensive mouthpiece for Islamic terrorism and an offensive, in both senses, speaker for the gradual subordination of Great Britain to Islam. No wonder they named a boat after him. And naming a boat after him suggests very strongly that that is no innocent ship."

  "I always presumed that," Biggus said. "Simmons?"

  "Here, Chief," answered the former boatswain standing by what once would have been a mount for a .50 caliber machine gun . . . and would soon be again.

  "When we berth, you and Morales go ashore. Get a rental and scout out that ship."

&
nbsp; "Wilco, Chief."

  "And remember to drive on the wrong side of the road."

  "Forty-one . . . forty-two . . . forty-three . . . forty-four," Simmons counted aloud as the last group boarded the Galloway. "Your count agree with that, Morales?"

  The Puerto Rican former SEAL nodded, then added, "There's no way that ship needs a crew that size. That's twice as many as they need, maybe more."

  "Which smells like trouble even if they're perfectly innocent," Simmons agreed. "But where else have you seen young men who looked just like that lot?"

  Morales laughed. "Well, besides Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Sudan . . ."

  "Exactly. Those aren't sailors and they aren't mostly illegal immigrants. Those are fighters. We need to bring this back to the chief. But first some measurements. I make it as twelve feet from waterline to top of the hull near the bow."

  "A little less," Morales corrected. "No more than ten and a half."

  "Nah; it's twelve. Look at the containers. In any case, we can two-man-lift a boarder over it. She carries, max, seven hundred TEU."

  "Agreed."

  Simmons did some mental gymnastics. "I make her as roughly four hundred feet in length and maybe sixty-five in beam."

  "About right," Morales said. "She's Antigua registered. Any issues with that?"

  Simmons shrugged. "None I can think of. Maybe Oprah Winfrey or Eric Clapton would object to our taking it. But fuck them."

  "Not Oprah," Morales said. "I think she's supposed to become Secretary of Cloying Sweetness under the current administration."

  "Sweet," said Biggus, though his tone of voice didn't suggest he found anything too sweet in the news. "I'd thought to get two of us aboard, then wait for the Galloway to get out into the sea lanes. Those two could have taken the radio room and bridge, then the rest of us would have intercepted and boarded. With forty-four men aboard, half of them with no likely jobs, the odds of even one man being found are just too good."