Countdown: M Day (13 page)

“Been busy, Kati,” he answered, picking her up and giving her a couple of spins for old time’s sake. He set her down, then asked, “Is Max in?”

“No,” she answered. “He’s out with a group of students. Don’t expect him back for maybe two …three more hours.” Just then Kati, the secretary, noticed the three other men with Ryan.

He noticed that she noticed. “Oh, sorry, Kati. These are my …friends. I told them about this place and they insisted on coming here for some diving.”

Ryan pointed in turn at them, announcing a name with each. His finger first went to a tiny little guy, seemingly as broad in the shoulders as he was tall. “This one goes by ‘Bronto,’ on account of his being so big.” The finger moved to a more normally sized sort, slightly olive-tinged, with something of an intellectual look about him. “This is Bob Fail. He gets touchy if we call him ‘Failure’ so we call him ‘Loser,’ instead.” Again the finger shifted, this time to an older man, with a narrow hatchet of a nose. “The last is Ted Rohrer. He doesn’t have a nickname, yet. We’re working on it.” The finger dropped. “Guys, meet Kati, the woman responsible for keeping the establishment in business.”

“Don’t you say that to Max,” she warned. “He’s touchy, you know. Typical Boer.”

“Kati,” Ryan said, “Max is the only Boer you’ve ever met.”

She cocked her head as if puzzled. “Which makes him completely typical in my experience then, doesn’t it?”

Ryan sighed. There was no arguing with logic like that

“You should get some lunch,” Kati advised. “Los Baguettes is always good.”

“You get a kickback or something, Kati?” Ryan asked.

She shook her head. “No, but Max says to always recommend Los Baguettes de Maria. He says his home boy, Arthur, is the only one he can speak Afrikaans with, so he needs to watch out for him.”

Ryan shook his head. He’d met Arthur, a black South African, married to a white Colombian, and found it immensely funny that half Arthur’s business referrals came from a Boer.
But then, maybe culture and country trump race, the more so as you’re surrounded by people different in all three.

“You need a place to stay?” Katia asked.

“Nah. We booked rooms at the White House.”

“Beats the Blue Whale,” she admitted, her nose curling into a sneer, “but you should have stayed here. Or at Maria’s.”

“I’ve got eight more friends coming, Katia. Can you make arrangements …”

“For how long?” she asked.

“Here? Just a few days,” Ryan answered. “In the medium term, we’re better finding an apartment or two to rent.”

“Consider it done,” she answered. “Half here, half to Maria’s. Now go get lunch while you wait for Max. I’ll send him over when he gets here.”

“And my stuff?” Ryan asked.

“Max has it; still locked up for you. What is all that stuff anyway?” Katia asked.

“Oh, just some specialized diving gear. No big deal.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

If the general remains silent while the statesman

commits a nation to war with insufficient means, he

shares culpability for the results.

—LTC Paul Yingling

Bolivar State, Venezuela

“Mao, would you
please
knock it off?” Larralde asked.

“Knock what off, sir?” the second sergeant major queried as his legs pumped, keeping himself running in place.

Larralde sighed from where he sat, releasing the foot he’d been inspecting to point at his subordinate’s thumping feet. “Knock
that
off; there’s no reason to show off.”

“But I’m not …oh, all right, sir.” Arrivillaga stopped his running and went to sit next to his captain. From where they sat both could see the long, line of the new privates, to where it straggled off in the distance. The sergeant major looked, shook his head, then let his chin sink to his chest.

“We’re so fucked,” he muttered. “There’s no chance we’ll ever get these people jump qualified in time. Zero, zip, zilch, none,
nada.
This wasn’t even that long a road march and look at them. Just
look
at them.

“This is stupid, you know,” Arrivillaga continued. “Brigade set us to do this march not because they’re going to have to march much, but because they can’t prioritize. Dumb asses.”

Sighing again, Larralde agreed, “Even if we could—and I agree that we can’t, not with all the time lost to the inoculations—I shudder to think what would be left of them after the training and the qualification jumps. We’d be pushing people down the ramp in wheelchairs. Half of them would be hopping to the doors on one leg with a pair of crutches strapped to the other.”

“Do we
have
to jump, sir? Really? Surely there’s a better way, one that might give us half a chance to use the extra three weeks to make soldiers of them.”

Larralde stayed silent for a few moments, as he pulled a sticky sock back on, then reseated and laced up a boot. As he began unlacing the other, he said, “I’ve been thinking about that. I’m not convinced that the general staff wants us to jump in for any better reason than that it just looks ever so cool. We really don’t have to. We could airland. Hell, we could maybe even airland in the regularly scheduled civilian flight.”

Arrivillaga thought about that for all of thirty second before saying, “So why don’t you bring that idea to Hugo?”

Larralde scoffed. “Me? Go direct to Chavez? I’d find myself assigned as an assistant division vector control officer, counting flies on flypaper, before I got two feet inside the palace. I don’t know anyone—”

“I do,” the sergeant major interrupted.

The captain looked incredulous. “
You
do?”

“Yeah,” Arrivillaga insisted. “
I
do. Hugo fucks my cousin Marielena sometimes. And I’m
her
favorite cousin. I could get you an appointment. Or …she could.”

Larralde’s eyes squinched shut as his mouth half opened. His head tilted and shook, slightly. “And
why
is this the first I’m hearing about this?”

It was the sergeant major’s turn to shrug. “It’s not like it’s something to brag about, sir.”

“Well …put that way …I suppose not,” Larralde agreed. “Even so, I’m just a lousy captain and—”

Again, the sergeant major interrupted. “In the first place, no, you’re not a ‘lousy’ captain. I’ll deny it if you ever say I said this, but you’re one of the better ones. Besides, Hugo
likes
junior officers. He’s really one, at heart, himself. It’s generals he can’t stand. Or our generals, anyway.”

“Shit, I don’t know, Mao.”

“I’m not saying it’s a sure thing. You’ll have to have your ducks in order. But if you go to Hugo with a better plan than the one the
Estado Mayor
came up with—and how hard is that likely to be?—Hugo will give you a fair hearing.

“It’s
gotta
beat jumping with crutches and pushing people in wheelchairs down the ramp of an Antonov, sir. So shall I give my cousin a call?”

Again, Larralde went silent, as he and Arrivillaga watched the still mostly civilian-at-heart rabble they were supposed to transform into soldiers stagger past in little driblets of twos and threes.

Larralde chewed his lower lip, thinking,
Hell, most of these kids ought to be on bedrest still. And
still
they’re at least trying. I owe them more than to let them be sacrificed to a shitty plan that’s doomed to failure already. What was it the gringo lieutenants used to say in Ranger School? Oh, yeah: “Bet your bar time.” Wonderful phrase. Sooo …

“Sergeant Major Arrivillaga”—sigh—“Call your cousin”—sigh—“Set it up”—sigh—“and I’ll do the best I can.”

“See?” Arrivillaga said. “I told you that you were one of the better ones. Though I’ll still deny in public that I ever said anything remotely like that.”

“No doubt,” Larralde agreed, as he laced up his boot. “And now, since you have so much energy, let’s run in place while we wait for the rest of the company to catch up.”

“Dirty bastards,” a still pale Lily Vargas muttered under her breath as she strained forward and upward under the weight of a heavy pack.

“What’s that, Lily?” Carlos Villareal asked, his head slumped down facing the dirt of the road they both trod.

“Up there, on the hill,” she answered, pointing with her chin. “That son of a bitch, Larralde, and that asshole, Arrivillaga, are mocking us. Don’t they know how damned sick and weak we still are?”

Miraflores Palace, Caracas, Venezuela

It was a week before Larralde thought he had “his ducks in order” enough to risk trying to persuade Chavez. He’d taken a short pass and flown to Caracas from Ciudad Bolivar, just in time to shower up, change into dress uniform, and catch a taxi to the Palace. He was met there by a tall woman, who bore no visible relationship to his second sergeant major.

“You’re Mao Arrivillaga’s cousin?” Larralde asked, wide-eyed and incredulous. “But …”

“He took after one of our grandfathers,” answered Marielena Arrivillaga—tall, shapely, and very, very pretty, with large eyes, high cheekbones, and an essentially perfect nose. She shrugged and added, “I took after one of our grandmothers. Why, what were you expecting?”

Larralde shook his head, dumbly, while thinking,
I was
not
expecting a potential contender for Miss Venezuela. Then again, I suppose Hugo is the president and is entitled to first pick.

“I am
not,
by the way, despite whatever my cousin may think or may have told you, Hugo’s mistress. I’m his secretary and that’s
all
I am.”

“But …” Larralde objected, “but you’re so …”

The woman shook her head. “Hugo doesn’t really like them all that good looking.” She shook her head again, as if puzzled. “I’m not sure why. But really; his ideal woman is a peasant girl, a little thick through the middle, and with, at most, a mildly pretty mestiza face. Sometimes I think the reason I got this job is because he knew I was too good looking—that’s not vanity; facts are facts—above all too Euro looking, to interest him, so he could be sure I’d work for him rather than use him for a sinecure.”

“How very …”

“Odd?” she asked. “You don’t know the half of it, Captain.” She turned away, at the same time asking over her shoulder, “And now, if you’ll follow me?”

As Larralde watched the gently swaying form precede him, he thought, I’m glad you said ‘follow me,’ because
I couldn’t ‘walk this’ …err …
that
‘way’ if my life depended on it.

“
Señor Presidente
,” Marielena announced, after cracking the thick wooden door, “Captain Larralde is here to see you. He has an appointment.”

“Show the captain in,” Chavez said. Marielena opened the door just enough for easy passage, waited for Larralde to pass, then closed it again behind him.

Once inside, Larralde saw his president, half hidden behind the papers piled on his desk. He stood to attention and saluted, stiffly, which salute Chavez returned just as formally. Once Larralde had dropped his and returned to the position of attention, Chavez stood, walked around, thrust out his hand, and said, “Welcome. My secretary told me you had something important to say and she thought I should see you. What is it? A coup?”

Larralde shook the president’s hand, answering, “No, sir, not a coup. At least, not as far as I know. It’s about the upcoming, um, operation.” Larralde looked around furtively, as if seeking eavesdroppers or even listening devices.

“You can speak freely here, Captain,” Chavez insisted. “If my office is bugged and I don’t know about it, we’re screwed anyway.” Chavez pointed to a couple of seats separated by a low end table. “Sit. Speak,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Larralde answered. He sat, placed his briefing on his lap, and waited for Chavez to likewise sit. That didn’t happen. Instead the president parked his posterior on the edge of his desk, folded his arms, and looked down at the captain, repeating, “Speak.”

Larralde gulped. He hadn’t realized it until just then, but he’d been counting on the formality of his briefing to act as a sort of shield. And he wasn’t going to get to use it as a shield.

“Speak,” Chavez repeated.

It all came out in a rush. “Mr. President, I don’t know every aspect of the upcoming operation. I only know my unit’s part of it. And we’re screwed. I mean without grease and without being kissed afterwards. There is no chance, Mr. President, not even a tiny one, of us being able to take a bunch of city boys and girls, train them to soldier, train them to jump, and then actually jump on even an unsuspecting and unresisting objective. Not in the time we have. No chance, sir. We’ll defeat ourselves and won’t need an enemy for the process. It’ll be a catastrophe. The whole country will be a laughingstock. And anyone who’s been telling you otherwise is either a liar or an ignoramus. Sir, it’sjustnotpossible!”

It was that “liar or ignoramus” line that caused Chavez to even consider the rest of what Larralde had to say, since those sentiments meshed with his own opinions of the general staff to a T. He sneered and, for a moment, Larralde thought the sneer was directed at him.

“You have a better plan, I take it?” Chavez asked.

“I have a plan that has a chance, sir.”

“Okay, you have my ear, Captain. What’s this great plan of yours?”

Larralde opened the folder on his lap and pulled out a map and a sketch. The rest of the folder he closed and placed on the table next to him. Then he slid forward to place one knee on the floor and began to spread the map out. Beside it he put the sketch.

Curiosity piqued, Chavez unfolded his arms, lifted his rear end from the desk, and took the couple of steps needed to place him standing over the map.

Larralde looked up and said, “The key points, Mr. President, are that a) we can’t jump and b) we really don’t have to.”

“Do you have any idea of how much trouble you’re in for jumping your chain of command?” the president asked.

“Yes, sir,” the captain admitted, “I’ve got some little idea of that. I figure I’m going to end up as assistant division vector control officer. Or worse.”

“So what made you do it?”

“Couple of reasons, sir. For one, I hate to lose. I really hate to lose. For another …well …the kids I’m supposed to command deserve better than to be wrecked before they even fight. It’s not their fault they’ll still half-civilian.”

Chavez sat down on the floor next to the map and asked, “You don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you, Captain?”

Larralde reached into a pocket and pulled out a pack of Belmonts. These he handed over before reaching for his lighter.

“I try to cut down by usually not having any around,” Chavez explained, puffing the thing to life. “But I’m still addicted to the motherfuckers. Okay, now explain to me again, everything from your proposed training program to boarding at Ciudad Bolivar to securing Cheddi-Jagan to vectoring in the follow-on flights …”

The pack of Belmonts had just about run dry before Chavez leaned back, away from the map. “Okay, Major,” he said, “you’ve sold me. But we’ve still got the problem of you and that slot as vector control officer that has your name written all over it. So here’s what I propose:

“You’re going back to your battalion, tonight. In three days, I’m going to show up for an unannounced inspection. I will insist on an operational and training briefing. Your battalion will fail, badly. I will then relieve your battalion commander and most of his staff. Maybe brigade, too. I will look around the room carefully and my eye will alight on you. You must look confident when I do. I will then assign you to command the battalion. And—”

“—Did you say ‘Major,’ sir?” Larralde interrupted.

“Shut up and listen,” Chavez answered. “And I will promote you to major on the spot. I will then give you back pretty much exactly the plan you’ve just given me. You will express your doubts but end with, ‘I’ll try, Mr. President.’ I shall, of course, say, ‘You’ll do better than try, Larralde; you’ll succeed.’

“Now, is there anyone in that battalion you absolutely want to get rid of or keep?”

As he found himself doing more and more of late, Larralde sighed. “The battalion commander doesn’t deserve relief, Mr. President. And the staff’s basically decent.”

“Then why didn’t one of
them
come to me?”

“Mr. President,” Larralde answered, “if my second sergeant major hadn’t had a connection to you, I wouldn’t have come to you either.”

“A connection?”

Larralde made a torso-waist-hip wavy motion with one hand.

“Ohhh …Marielena. When you get back would you please tell Mao that I am not fucking his cousin. For one thing, she’s just the wrong …type for me. I’d feel self conscious.”

“Yes, sir,” Larralde agreed, “I’ll do that.”
And I’m not about to ask how you know my second sergeant major
. “In any case, sir,
Coronel
Sanchez doesn’t deserve relief. Neither does his staff.”

“So what do you propose then?”