Countdown: M Day (12 page)

His cell phone rang in his pocket.
De “far recognition signal,” dey calls dat.

“Drake here.”

“Mark yourself.”

Drake bent an infrared light stick—he had a crate of them, also provided by the regiment—breaking a small glass vial inside. He shook the stick, waited a moment for the thing to mix properly and begin to react, then waved it overhead, from side to side, slowly.

“I see one waving infrared lightstick.”

“Dat be me.”

“We’re coming along. Lead us to the covered docks.”

   *   *   *   

Under the covered space reaching over the water—well lit inside, since it was shielded from outside view—were both a short dock and a ramp, as well as more than a dozen containers, several of them already open on one end, that formed the back wall. Some of those who had come on the patrol boat busied themselves with setting up something like a field mess inside. Still others assembled cots that they placed around the edges of a few of the containers.

The patrol boat, temporarily under one of the Chinese members of the regiment, Chief Petty Officer Chong, was already tied up and its crew lolling about, waiting for a job to do. They weren’t going on this trip, but, being faster, had been used to get the early-required support down for those who were. One of the LCM’s nosed up to the shore beside the dock, holding itself in place by a very minor effort of the engines. Terry’s people formed a line that extended up the ramp and began passing over the baggage. This began to form a neat pile at the end of the line.

The other LCM—the one carrying the Land Rover—pulled up to the concrete ramp and dropped its own steel ramp down. After starting with a muted cough, the Land Rover pulled forward, its wheels initially spinning and whining on the dampened deck before catching and moving forward with a lurch. It bounded up, bouncing over the steel cleats of the deck, before settling down, once on dry land.

While that was going on, the three Eland drivers stripped off the tarp, lumber, and boxes covering their combat cars. This took a bit longer than unloading the Land Rover had. Terry fumed impatiently until, at last, the first Eland, too, roared to life and began to move over the cleated steel deck under the positive control of one of the drivers, walking a few meters ahead.

The ground-guiding driver led that Eland forward to one of the open containers. He made the thing back up and re-aim itself several times before, satisfied, he got out of the way and let the driver ease it inside. Buckling and bracing the thing for movement could wait—after all the freighter wouldn’t be here for a couple of days yet. The driver emerged from his compartment, then crawled over the hull and around the turret. Then he and the ground guide left the container and went to join the other driver, even now stripping off the coverings from one of the other two Elands.

Terry Welch looked around the area, muttering, “So far, so good.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Agitate the enemy and ascertain the pattern of his

movement. Determine his dispositions and so ascertain

the field of battle. Probe him and learn where his

strength is abundant and where deficient.

—Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

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

Boxer had permission to launch reconnaissance into Venezuela. He intended to do a lot more of it than Stauer had perhaps had in mind. Moreover, he, Victor, and Gordo intended to make a few, or a few thousand, purchases. That, however, required a little coordination with the comptroller, now seated in Boxer’s office.

“We really don’t have time to finish the operations plan before we start buying things,” Victor said to Boxer and Meredith, the comptroller. “Some of what’s needed we probably can’t even get unless we steal it.”

“Fair enough,” Boxer agreed. “Let’s consider what we do need.” He stood and walked to a map of Venezuela and Guyana on one wall.

“We want to be able to hurt them economically. That means fucking with imports, especially of food, and exports, especially of oil. Even if the price is depressed, that’s still Chavez’s biggest source of income. We probably also want to attack their transportation net and power grid.”

His finger tapped the map near a large body of water by the western edge of the country. “Most of the oil flows out of Maracaibo and Punto Fijo, to the northeast. That can be considered one target and it’s a toughie. We either block Punto Fijo and both channels into Lake Maracaibo, or we try to block the entrance into the sea. Three targets or one, but the one is wide. Even if I had a way to get into it, it would take too many.”

“Maybe not,” Victor said. “That channel to the north is what, sixty or sixty-five kilometers?”

“About that.”

“How many mines can we introduce there?”

“Depends on what kind you can get and how much they weigh,” Boxer replied. “I’m thinking forty or fifty.”

“That would be barely enough for the two channels into the lake and the one port to the northeast,” Victor said, shaking his head. “For something that wide—sixty or more kilometers—that’s nothing.”

Gordo scratched at his nose for a moment, then said, “Real mines are probably beyond us, or at least sophisticated ones are. The fusing is just way out of our league. But we could make a very large number of dummies here. Would that help?”

Boxer shook his head. “Not so much as you think. If we could get dummies planted we could get real ones planted, assuming about the same size and weight. But we’re limited on getting
anything
laid.”

“Why assume the same size and weight?” Gordo asked. “A twelve to eighteen inch in diameter steel plate, maybe an eighth of an inch thick, will probably give the same sonar reading as a mine, and only weigh …ummm …call it …eight or nine pounds. That’s a lot of dummies for the weight of a single mine.”

“That’s a fair point,” Boxer conceded. “I suppose you can task the welding shop to start cutting up plates.”

“Use some of our freighters to lay them?” Victor suggested.

“S-3 thought of that. The problem is we’ve got four—rather, five –major targets, the Maracaibo area, the big naval port at Puerto Cabello, two other ports along the northern coast, and the River Orinoco.

“Between Chavez’s air defense group and the new Sukhois he’s got based to the east of there, we
can’t
use aircraft on Puerto Cabello or the northern coast between there and Trinidad. That means we’ll have to use a ship on one or both. The more ships we try to introduce the greater the chance one of them is discovered and the greater the chance we lose surprise and so lose them all. So one freighter and one only, and that
has
to go to Puerto Cabello. It may also be able to drop mine barrages outside the northern coastal ports. Waggoner and Kosciusko seem to think it can. I think that’s risky and iffy.

“So the aircraft will have to take care of Maracaibo. And they’re only going to get one bite at the apple unless Colombia joins the war on our side. But that’s a distant hope, which is not a plan. All we can plan on is one sortie from each of two Antonovs, before they land themselves—probably in Colombia—for internment.

“We’ve also got the
Naughtius
, once it comes out of routine servicing, that we can use to either make a mine barrage somewhere—probably damned slowly—or to reseed anything they clear. The problem with the
Naughtius
is it has to be based out of somewhere. It’s slow and short ranged. We can’t count on using any settled part of Guyana. Columbia would, for the same reasons as the aircraft, be touchy, the Dutch hate our guts over Suriname, so Aruba and the Netherlands Antilles are right out. That leaves either Trinidad and Tobago as a base or we could use a ship. And using another ship is also touchy, for much the same reasons. Or we have to set up a base for Naughtius somewhere not too far from the middle of nowhere.

“That last is probably what we’ll have to do.”

Meredith said, “I wouldn’t be too worried about the Orinoco River; it’s within easy range of even our small craft. For that matter, we could fly the helicopters in, nap-of-the-earth, and mine it that way. Hell, we could fly them into the hinterland where nobody but a few Indians live and float them downstream on timers.”

“Not helicopters,” Boxer disagreed. “We’re likely to need them for something else.”

Gordo asked, “What’s the fifth target? That was only four.”

“We need to be able to shut down sea transportation to here, too,” Boxer answered. “And we need to be able to do it in a way that doesn’t have to be made known to the Guyanan government because, if they knew, Chavez would certainly find out, and if he found that out, he’d start thinking about where else we might mine.”

“That’s all well and good,” Victor said, “but until I know what you need I can’t do much.”

Boxer smiled without a trace of mirth. “Yeah. Let’s try this approach; start tracking down anything you can get your hands on, any way you get your hands on it that doesn’t lead back to us.

“And, in the interim, I’ll be sending some folks to try to figure out what we really do need. The S-3 and I will give you a better picture when we’ve figured it out.”

And I need to get an e-mail off to
Wicked Lasers,
to see if they can fill a need. Or get something for us from Norinco.

River Orinoco, Venezuela

There were any number of ways to introduce a reconnaissance team into hostile territory, some sophisticated, some simple, some safe and some quite dangerous. The regiment’s theory on the matter could be summed up as, “We’re old and fragile. Simple and safe will do, wherever it will do.”

“Well enough,” muttered
Praporschik
Baluyev, as the fishing boat turned generally south to enter the river’s mouth. Shortly, they would turn east, toward Curiapo and from there probably as far as
Ciudad
Guyana and, if their luck held, as far as
Ciudad
Bolivar. Sailing a Bertram fishing boat, albeit at some fifty feet a fairly large and noticeable one, along the coast from Georgetown and up the river had the advantages of simplicity and safety. That suited Baluyev just fine.

Other recon teams would be going in other ways. Morales and Lada were flying commercial to Caracas, for example, thence to set up housekeeping in Puerto Cabello to keep an eye on the major part of the Venezuelan Navy. Another team, of twelve, from Second Battalion, was also flying commercial, but to Ernesto Cortissoz Airport, near Barranquilla, Colombia.

Nobody was going in by parachute, hang glider, submarine, or tunneling, swimming, or overland. Not yet anyway. There was a team preparing to HALO—High Altitude Low Opening—insert by parachute near the major training areas for Venezuela’s Fifth Division. Likewise, a few individuals and a couple of groups of two or three from Second Battalion and Biggus Dickus Thornton’s platoon of former SEALs would be looking at other targets: airfields, small ports, bridges, oil platforms, and the like.

That, however, was for the future. They weren’t going in—nobody was going in—unless the regiment also had a way to get them out again. And for Baluyev’s crew, for now, there was a river to navigate, currents to measure, depths and hazards to confirm, open areas by the banks to scout, and ship traffic to analyze. There were also crocodiles, watching from the banks and from the very surface of the stream, to be avoided.

“Pull in to Curiapo,” Baluyev ordered. “Let’s see what we can pick up from the rumor mills. And I’m told you can get a good meal at the Hotel Orchidea.”

“Got to beat Kravchenko’s cooking,” observed Timer Musin, sourly.

“What’s eating you, Tim?” Baluyev asked.

Puerto Cabello, Venezuela

The COPA flight from Tocumen, east of Panama City, had been reasonably pleasant. The taxi ride from Arturo Michelina International Airport, in Valencia, had been unreasonably not. Still, Morales and Lada had arrived. Eventually.

“Odd,” he’d said to her, “that a place this economically depressed still has more cars on the road than, say, San Antonio.”

“Not zo ztrange,” she’d answered. “Zey haven’t yet gotten around to tryink to mandate a particular government design of auto here. And gas is cheaper zan drinking vater.”

“I suppose,” he’d agreed.

There’d been any number of quite decent, even luxurious, hotels in Valencia or to the east, in Maracay. None were close enough to conveniently accomplish the mission.

Puerto Cabello, on the other hand, had nothing in the way of high rise luxury, inn-wise. Instead, it had a few lower end establishments, suitable perhaps for merchant sailors in port, military or naval types on temporary duty, whores, and mid-level businessmen and party bosses taking their secretaries for a little afternoon dictation.

Lada, bearing a parasol, had taken one look at each of the available establishments and announced to Morales, “Zey’re being vatched by local zecurity vorces.”

“Damn,” he answered, “and the Venezia was in a perfect spot to keep track of the port.”

“Zat’s
vhy
zey’re being vatched by local zecurity vorces,” she replied.

Morales nodded. He may have been a highly trained pinniped, but she was an
operator,
quite probably of world class, from an intelligence service justifiably famous for its thoroughness and paranoia. If she said the place was unsuitable, that was good enough for him.

“Plan B?” he asked. “The bed and breakfast with the tower?”

“Let’s see how it looks.”

The inn, the Posada Santa Margarita, looked pretty good, actually, if a bit garish. The façade was painted blue, with a white, studded double door framed by gold. Lada was fairly indifferent to the aesthetics of the thing, though, aesthetics having no bearing on mission accomplishment. She more or less sniffed and said, “Good. No zecurity here,” she said, in English.

“Probably also no internet,” Morales countered.

She shrugged, then switched to Spanish, saying, “We didn’t expect to be able to use the net locally. Chavez has long since pulled most of his electronic warfare people to internal security work. We need to get the room with the tower above it. I don’t fancy our chances of getting the SatCom to work unless we have uninterrupted line of sight.”

Morales nodded. “Supposedly, we have reservations.”

“Indeed,” she agreed. “And since our reservations are for a married couple …”—she transferred her parasol to her left shoulder, sidestepped over to him and put one arm around his waist—“we had better look the part.”

Ernesto Cortissoz Airport, Barranquilla, Colombia

There was really no disguising the dozen men who landed at Barranquilla, despite coming in on three separate flights, taking rental on three separate autos, and intended to rooms in at least two different hotels in a city to the east, Santa Marta. They might have been, indeed were, much older on average than the special operations norm. Yet a lion still looks the part, even in his winter.

“Exactly twelve of them I saw go through here,” said the customs agent, a second sergeant, to his boss, the captain.

“Twelve what?”

“Twelve guys, gringos—oh, most of them were about as dark as us but they were gringos all the same. Almost all older, with arms the size of my legs and legs that don’t bear thinking about, short hair, stick-up-their butts postures, and an aura that said ‘do not fuck with me.’ That’s what.”

Something about the number twelve bothered the captain. “Diplomatic passports?” he asked.

“No, all normal, private documents, with civilian visas.”

“Did they say why they came?”

“One group said they wanted to do some scuba diving. Another that they came for the whores. The third I never got the chance to ask anything.”

“So what do you think, then?” the captain asked. “Drugs? Personal security for some rich bastard? Training our army? Training FARC or ELN? Wait a minute …twelve, you said?”

“
Si,
twelve.”

“Ah,” the captain said, with sudden understanding, “a U.S. Army special forces team. They’re not here to run drugs or help the rebels. What that leaves is …” The captain thought furiously for a moment before continuing. “What that leaves is you didn’t see a damned thing.”

“But—”

“You saw nothing, Pedro. Clear?”

Neptune Dive Shop and Resort, Taganga, Colombia

The dogs began barking and wagging their tails joyfully as soon as the team leader, Sergeant Ryan, stepped through the door. The three men who followed him in just increased the dogs’ frenzy.

“Sepp! Franz! Quiet!” said Ryan to the pooches. They stopped barking and sat, tongues lolling, as if expecting a treat.

“Buy you both dinner later, boys,” Ryan said to the dogs. They seemed content with the promise.

The woman at the desk, shapely if a bit coarse-featured, stood with a delighted squeal, then stepped around her desk and launched herself at Ryan, wrapping well muscled arms around his waist. “Mike, you
bastardo!
You never call. You never write. You never even e-mail! Where the fuck have you been?”