Countdown: The Liberators-ARC (9 page)

Cruz was a retired Marine, retired and bored. Normally, he ran a farm in middle-of-nowhere, Pennsylvania. Occasionally he did some teaching, or defense work, under contract.

As a younger man, a much younger man, he'd served as a very junior infantryman at the tail end of Vietnam. Following that, and despite the glasses he now wore perched on his nose, he'd gone commissioned, then to Army Ranger School, then switched over to choppers, the heaviest kind. As far as his emotional relationship between Marine infantry and Marine aviation, he sometimes said that he felt like a man, "torn between two lovers." He was pretty attached to both.

That wasn't why he'd come though. He'd come because, I was just so damned, bloody bored. I doubt I was alone in that.

Kosciusko, the mostly bald ex-naval officer, smiled at the stocky retired Marine and said, "I don't know about him, but I sure as hell would like one."

"Delusions of grandeur," Cruz announced.

"Doesn't really matter," Gordo said. "It isn't for sale. Matter of fact, there's not another aircraft carrier for sale anywhere. Not so long ago it was a different story, the old Minas Gerais was even up on eBay. It's been sent to the breakers already."

"Wouldn't matter," Boxer said, "even if it were available. We need stealth, which in our case means complete lack of remarkability."

"Couldn't afford the crew if the thing were invisible. So a cargo ship?" Stauer asked.

"Yes," Kosciusko agreed, "except with a big but. You want the ship able to launch and recover helicopters-which isn't that hard-and fixed wing aircraft, which is really fucking hard. We could maybe build a temporary flight deck, if we had a long enough ship."

"Except that flight deck has to be something that can be quickly assembled and disassembled," Boxer said, "or we lose our stealth. Even I can't hide something like looks like an aircraft carrier continuously from the eye in the sky."

"We can get some genuine short takeoff birds," Cruz added, "which will reduce the need for a flight deck but of those that will take a really short roll before takeoff, the very best that are available are only really available in kit form."

"Which means we'd have to set up a factory and build them."

Stauer nodded, and said, "And I trust you have some recommendations."

"We need that abandoned missile base for a factory," Gordo said, "the one in Washington state. Two point eight million, plus maybe a few hundred thousand and ten days to a couple of weeks or so to make it halfass livable. The planes, of which we need about eight, take two hundred and fifty to five hundred man hours to turn from kits to aircraft. Call it five hundred. That's four thousand man hours."

"Why the missile base?" Stauer asked. "I would think any old warehouse-"

"The kits are made in the Czech Republic," Gordo said, then amended, "Well, some are made in Canada but the Czechs have a tradition of closed mouthedness. FAA lets them in on the presumption they'll be put together by a home builder. But eight of them? No, we're setting up something more like an industrial operation. Bound to attract attention from the FAA if noticed by someone and reported to them. So we move it out of sight."

"And I need them ready within the month," Cruz said, "and it will be two weeks to set everything up."

"So," Gordo continued, "even if we work the builders twelve hours a day for fifteen days, that's a building crew of, oh, call it twenty-three or twenty-four, with a foreman, every one of which is a security risk."

"But we have a solution," Ralph said, smiling.

"Why does that smile make me worry?" Stauer asked.

"Because you're a natural paranoid," Boxer replied. "In any case, we can solve both the labor problem and the security problem in one fell swoop."

"Oh, really? Tell me how."

Boxer jabbed a finger toward the beach. "Mexicans. Illegal Mexicans. They'll never complain to any authorities. And anyone who thinks Mexicans don't have an amazingly strong work ethic-at least until inner city liberals get their sticky paws on them-is an idiot."

Stauer rubbed his jaw, considering. "It has a certain elegance to it, I admit," he said.

"And we can train them as ground crew in the time between finishing assembly and crossing the line of departure for the mission," Cruz said. "We can add armaments aboard ship."

"But what about the runway. These planes . . . ?"

"Czech designed CH 801's," Cruz supplied. "They're basically Fieseler Storchs, if you're curious."

"Right. Czech. They'll still need some space to take off."

"Four hundred feet or so, with full loads," Cruz said. "Well, really less because they'll start off well above the sea and moving into the wind . . . but four hundred to be safe."

"So I suggest a container ship," Kosciusko said. "We pile the containers high to get over any masts, or cut the masts to drop them, then lay PSP or AM-2-"

"AM-2 is better," Cruz said.

"No doubt," Gordo agreed, "but I can get an unlimited supply of PSP"-perforated steel planking, or Marsden Matting; it was used to lay airfields essentially overnight- "in the Philippines. World War Two leftovers, and in as good a shape as the day it was delivered to the islands. They use it for fencing down there."

"What about the choppers?" Stauer asked.

Gordo answered, "Russian Hips. Used, I can get as many as you want for under two million a copy."

"And we can pile the containers in such a way as to leave spaces for the Hips to land in," Cruz offered. "Then we cover them with tarps. From the surface, nobody will see shit, and from the air . . . well, camouflage is a wonderful thing. Same deal with the landing craft; we load them in by the sides, build container sized frames to hold them, and cover them with tarps. Or cover them with cut out container sections."

"But who can fly Hips?"

"Besides an infinity of eastern Europeans," Cruz said, blowing on and then buffing fingernails on his shirt, "I can. Exchange program to Kremenchug Flight College, back in the mid-nineties."

"You have a line on recruiting some eastern Euros, then?" Stauer asked.

"Guy who taught me is living not so large in Tver," Cruz said. "Goes by the name of Borsakov, Artur Borsakov. He's pushing seventy, was a colonel, as a matter of fact, in the Soviet-Afghan War . . . early in the war. He can round up the other pilots, crew chiefs, and whatever mechanics we need. I figure we can pick up the two choppers Gordo found, enough spare parts, the ground crews, and fly the whole assembly to link up with the ship somewhere around Vladivostok. Or anywhere else, really."

"We need two," Stauer said. "That means that unless we have at least three we will end up with one working."

"I can get a third," Gordo said. "I told you, ‘as many as you want.' You want the water float kits installed?" he asked Cruz.

"How much?" Stauer asked, even though the question wasn't directed at him.

"Another seventy-five thousand over and above the five point one million for the Hips. And Mike's going to need funds to buy spares once Borsakov identifies which spares we really need."

Stauer looked the question at Cruz.

"We're gonna fly off of and then to and from a ship; the floats would make sense," Cruz said. "Shit often goes wrong, ya know?"

"All right," Stauer agreed. "And the ship?"

Gordo scowled. "For reasons beyond my ken," he said, "shipping costs are much higher than what I expected them to be. At least for the size we want they are. I recommend leasing one."

Stauer turned to Wahab and asked, "Will your chief go for a lease?"

Wahab liked Stauer immeasurably. He appreciated, too, what the American was trying to do for him, his people, and his leader. But he was a little miffed that all this conversation, all this planning, all this spending of his chief's money, had been discussed almost as if he weren't there. He pushed the feeling and the thought away. I am not here for pride's sake, but for my people's.

"What's the cost of purchase?" Wahab asked Gordo.

"For what we want, anywhere from eighteen to sixty million USD."

"And to lease one for . . . what, three months?"

"Much less than the figures I gave you. Maybe a million, two hundred thousand, if we can get a three-month charter. Four or five million if we have to go for a year. I haven't asked for a quote yet but we are talking a small fraction, and we can always sublease any time we haven't used."

Wahab turned his facer to Stauer. "Lease one, Wes. We're already getting over fifty million in known, planned costs, and those are only so far. Sixty million for a ship will send my chief over the edge."

Stauer grimaced. "One advantage to buying, as opposed to leasing, is that you can get the money back on a purchase, but the lease is just lost. Still . . . you're the boss."

"Just his representative," Wahab corrected. Though I appreciate the honorific.

"What about the sub and the patrol boat?" Stauer asked.

"We've got a couple of issues there," Gordo said. "The patrol boat's no problem; I've already contracted with the Finnish company that owns it for Biggus Dickus to take delivery next week."

Gordon was no fool. Stauer said ‘you're the boss' because he is the paymaster, and we'd better keep him happy. To Wahab he said, "The purchase price on the boat was so low I figured I'd better jump on it. Hope that's okay."

"Sure, Mr. Gordon," Wahab agreed. He only said that because Stauer dropped the hint.

"It's unarmed, of course," Gordo continued, "but we can fix that later, after Terry springs Victor from durance vile. And Biggus doesn't need an armed boat anyway.

"The sub, however . . . well, I narrowed it down to two that would do, one of which is perfect and not particularly expensive. That one's in Croatia."

"Problem is, Wes, that the Croatian one is still military. Well . . . naval. It's one of those Yugoslav-built commando carriers. Plastic, don't you know. But because it's military, buying it would raise questions and attract attention. Neither of which we want."

"Right" Gordo sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he handed it over to Stauer.

"A minisub painted up in killer whale motif?" Stauer asked, passing the sheet over to Wahab, who looked and shrugged.

"Mmmm . . . yeah. It used to be military, Swedish, but has been sold and resold enough to drop off the screens. Sea Shepherd owned it for a while, hence the paint scheme. Less than half a million bucks and capable of getting a couple of Biggus's boys to the harbor where they can mine the other side's boats."

"Right," Stauer said. "Orca the friendly killer sub it is. Now what about the assembly and training area?" That question was directed to Wahab.

"My chief will pay for the smaller one in Brazil," Wahab said, "but he insists on retaining ownership." He looked embarrassed when he added, "Yes, I know he agreed that the assets purchased would be part of your fee, but this is land and the land's a lot of money. A ruler in Africa never knows when he's going to need five thousand square kilometers of jungle on another continent to hide in."

Stauer kept his face blank, even as he thought, Go ahead and break your agreement with me, Khalid. Don't be too surprised if I don't keep to all the fine points concerning my agreement with you.

While Stauer was thinking that, Boxer reminded himself, Brief Wes that Khalid has probably stolen and stashed away something between two and three billion dollars. Might help his-our-bargaining position.

"Keeping supplied up there?" Stauer asked Gordo, changing the subject.

"The same landing craft you're planning to use for the assault. Or . . . "

"Or?"

Gordo reached into another pocket and pulled out another sheet of paper. This he also handed to Stauer. "Or we can buy a hovercraft. Frankly, if you really need the landing craft, and you do, we'd wear them out making constant runs up and down the Amazon. Might lose one, too. This"-his finger indicated the sheet of paper-"can deliver a couple of tons every three days. That's enough, if we bring the heavy shit in initially by landing craft, and purify our own water, to supply us in the middle of nowhere, Amazonia."

Stauer thought about that. No . . . no. A hovercraft operating on the Amazon daily is going to attract attention from the Brazilian authorities . . . and they're borderline paranoid. Besides, I don't know where to get a hovercraft crew we could trust. They're just not that common.

"No hovercraft," he told Gordo. "Think of something else."

"Oh, well, just a thought," Gordo said. "If no hovercraft then we can use the mix of the landing craft, the Hips, and maybe some fixed wing, since we're buying a couple of Pilatus PC-6's, anyway. And I can charter some Brazilian river craft. The engineers can hack out a strip and I can order some extra PSP from the Philippines. Hell, maybe that will work better." Gordo frowned momentarily. "No, I'd better order the extra PSP from Calumet in the States. More expensive but we'll get it sooner."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Development aid is one of the reasons for

Africa's problems. If the West were to cancel

these payments, normal Africans wouldn't even

notice. Only the functionaries would be hard hit.

Which is why they maintain that the world

would stop turning without this development aid.

-James Shikwati, Kenyan economist

D-149, N'Djamena-Abéché "Highway," Chad

"Oh, God," moaned Adam, seated between Abdi and Gheddi, "what is this?" The boy covered his mouth and nose with his hands and began to cough and sneeze from the thick dust that swirled around the bus. His kidneys were in agony from the pounding they'd taken from the combination of bad shocks and worse road.

"I believe this is called ‘foreign aid,'" Labaan answered.

The captive looked confused, and from more than the aftereffects of the drugs he'd been given.

"Foreign aid," Labaan repeated, with a sneer. "You know: When guilty-feeling Euros and Americans shell out money, ostensibly to help the people, but the money all ends up in the hands of sundry corrupt rulers and their relatives?"

"I don't . . . "