Countdown: M Day (56 page)

As soon as the copilot counted twenty-seven men and bodies aboard, he stopped the procession and ordered the helicopter off. It lifted in a choking swirl of dust then swung around to the south and west to cover the withdrawal as Four came in to load After that, it would turn approximately east and go far enough to leave some doubt in Venezuelan minds as to its ultimate direction before switching to northwest and a course for the Netherlands Antilles.

“Three, you’re up next,” Cruz ordered.

“Roger. Twenty seconds.”

“Faster if …” Cruz stopped speaking, shocked by a fiery explosion blossoming out to the northeast, briefly lighting the plaza with its flames.

“Five, Cruz? Five? Five?”
Goddammit!

“Hurry up, Three!”

Seeing the aerial explosion, Hampson mentally checked off,
Well, that’s three of eighty-seven we won’t have to worry about loading. I wonder what that’s going to do to the load plan. Nothing good, I’m sure.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes

To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies.

—Thomas Gray, “Luna Habitabilis” (1737)

At Sea, Ninety-seven Kilometers Northwest of Caracas, Venezuela

Praporschik Baluyev still hadn’t ordered the really amazingly large quantity of explosives the Bertram yacht carried to be dumped over the side.

Maybe I should have,
he thought, scanning the green-tinged skies to the southeast,
but it’s easier to dump it at the last minute, if we ever must, than to try to shit it out of our asses if we need it but have already dumped it.

The boat was pointed generally toward the Netherlands Antilles, with Kravchenko at the wheel. Litvinov sat beside Baluyev, in the other of the two fishing chairs, likewise scanning the horizon. Timur and Lada were down below, in the radio room. In theory they were listening on Second Battalion’s push, but in practice still trying to work out their problems. At this range, Second Battalion didn’t have much to say, anyway.

Or maybe they already have,
Baluyev mused,
and are very quietly screwing. Very quietly.

He pulled his eye from the scope and thought,
Nah, there is no solution to their problems. Not given Tim’s nature and hers. He can’t understand why she won’t settle down with him. She can’t understand why it matters to him, what difference another dick or fifty make. Poor bastards.

Baluyev couldn’t see a blessed thing, of course. No more could Litvinov. The curvature of the Earth blocked the Venezuelan coast at this range, while ships had been giving that coast a wide berth ever since the mines had gone in.

“One good thing,” Litvinov said.

“What’s that?”

“With nothing on the horizon, the Hips should stand out in the thermals once they pop over.”

“True enough.”

Bicentennial Plaza, Caracas, Venezuela

Three, once loaded, picked up and moved to a spot a bit to the east of Five’s smoking wreckage. It had no rockets left, and little ammunition in its gun pod. What it had, it contributed to the general effort as Four broke off from its action to set down on the plaza. When that was gone, and it soon was, the Hip swung around to give its engineer, playing door gunner, a chance to use his machine gun. The other helicopter still in play had done the same.

Even with those two door guns, and reinforced with the seismically fused Russian Claymore clones, the Honor Guard was across the road and creeping through the park and the ball field. The flash and boom of the cloned mines did a fair job of marking their progress.

Von Ahlenfeld, Konstantin, and Hampson—his wounded man having been tossed aboard Three—formed a tight little perimeter at the western edge of the plaza, while Cruz hustled the last lift aboard. Venezuelan tracers sparked green, passing mostly overhead.

In his radio’s earpiece, von Ahlenfeld heard Cruz say, “The next bus won’t be along for a couple of years, Lava. So if you guys don’t want to be late for your next appointment …”

Von Ahlenfeld turned and, by the light of the now merrily flaming palace, saw Cruz standing on the ramp of the last Hip, beckoning them on.

“Let’s get the fuck out of Dodge! Top, go!”

Hampson sprang to his feet and began churning across the plaza to the waiting Hip. Behind him went Konstantin. Von Ahlenfeld leapt up next, just in time to see Hampson caught in a burst of machine gun fire that cut his legs from under him and spun him head over heels, backwards.

Konstantin reached him first, going to one knee to examine the sergeant major as best he could under the flaring light.

“He’s alive!” the Russian shouted to von Ahlenfeld. “But I don’t know by how much.”

Lava, judging the position of the machine gun that had cut down his sergeant major turned and donated a spray in that general direction. He sincerely doubted that he hit anything but,
Might ruin their aim for the next burst.

“Can you carry him?”

Without answering, Konstantin pulled Hampson up into a fireman’s carry. Then, staggering under the weight, the Russian made a slow trot for the Hip’s ramp. There, Cruz met him and helped him onto the helicopter, before assisting in lowering Hampson to the deck.

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.