Countdown: The Liberators-ARC (15 page)

Ahead, they could hear the steady wop-wop-wop of their helicopter's rotors, mixed in with the higher pitched whining of its jet engines. In his earpiece, Terry could hear Konstantin ticking off the names of the team members as they arrived and formed a perimeter around the oval island.

Konstantin reported, "Captain Welch, I have everybody here, including Victor, except for you and Sergeant Fulton."

At that moment the moped heeled hard right as Buckwheat turned it toward the island.

"We're about two minutes out," Terry said. He felt for a moment the joy that hangs on the edge of a completed mission, which joy is usually expecting disaster to intervene and cut its life short. "Start loading."

Konstantin pointed at Baluyev. "Get Victor aboard." He had to shout to be heard over the helicopter's roar. Arm around Inning, Baluyev led him up and over the rear ramp, which Borsakov had dropped for faster, smoother loading. (Some models of the Hip have clamshell doors; this was a variant with a ramp able to handle a vehicle up to the size of an SUV.) Others began following by twos as Konstantin called off numbers.

The men were buckling in on the side-mounted troopseats when someone shouted, "Look the fuck out." Everyone turned their head to the helicopter's rear. They saw white teeth and the whites of eyes, both in their way smiling broadly, in a black face. The moped below that face came up the ramp before the driver twisted and dumped it on its side, causing it to slide down the cargo deck, bouncing off this and that and propelling legs upward.

"Take the fuck off!" Welch shouted from the cargo deck. He was rewarded with the sound of the chopper pulling pitch and lifting off the island. His stomach was pressed to his back. A low tree ahead brushed its branches along the underside just before the Hip twisted in air, assuming a generally easterly heading, on its way back to Thailand.

I love Russian helicopters!

D-112, Headquarters, State Peace

and Development Council, Napyidaw, Myanmar

A ceiling fan rotated gently over the desk, not so much fanning the moist air as just redistributing it a bit.

"Well, that went nicely," said the general at the desk to Mr. Nyein. "My compliments."

"All the doing of the Americans and Russians, sir, I assure you," Nyein modestly responded.

The general made a shushing motion with his hands. "Perhaps," he admitted, "but let us not give the foreigners too much credit. Your job was in many ways the most difficult: Getting the arms merchant Inning off our hands in a way that would not hold us up to the world's opprobrium, not annoy him to the point he would no longer do business with us, and with as little harm to our own as possible. And doing it all behind the scenes."

Nyein bowed his head graciously, then asked, "Speaking of which, sir, the policeman . . . ?"

The general seemed momentarily aggrieved. "The one who was shot with an electric gun at the intersection? He died. Congenital heart defect of which no one was aware, least of all himself. Apparently the shock was too much."

"Ah, that's too bad. Still . . ."

"Never mind," said the general. "His wife and children will be well cared for. Moreover, his death validates our innocence. Thus, he died for his country."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I must go down to the sea again,

to the lonely sea and the sky

-John Masefield, "Sea Fever"

D-112, Hong Kong, PRC

The advent of "communism" to this former British colony had made remarkably little difference to the running of the place. Trade, enormous levels of trade-especially considering the long recession-bordering-on-depression in which the world found itself-still flowed. Ships were built, outfitted, and repaired. Ships sailed to and from the place almost en masse. Indeed, the level of maritime activity was so great that one ship, more or less, being worked on, more or less, or even modified, more or less, invited little notice. More or less.

The ship, for the nonce the MV Magellan, rang and hissed with the sounds of workers, busily making the relatively minor mods Kosciusko thought he needed to turn a container ship into an assault transport. Under the guise of strengthening the hull, beams were being welded-and here the ship's sole gantry was proving singularly useful-to provide a resting platform for containers which would leave some open space down below. Additionally, another partial deck of perforated steel, sent up from the Philippines, was being welded very near the bottom of the hull. Space had to be left, and new power leads run, for a containerized, seventy-two hundred gallon per day desalination plant, being flown in tomorrow from Santa Clara, California.

And there goes about a hundred and twenty k, thought Kosciusko. But without something like the desalinator, we could never hope to carry so many people for so long. A quarter million liters of bottled water? That would have cost even more and taken up too much space. And that's not even counting predictable losses if we hit any rough seas. Which we will.

The Chinese were also being paid to add in some extra fuel bunkerage. The ship was capable of almost eighteen knots, fast for a merchie, but maintaining that speed cost in fuel. And, since every day mattered, speed would matter and fuel would be used profligately, as well. Moreover, the day was going to come when the ship would be carrying things no customs agent could be permitted to look at. Since customs agents and ports went hand in hand, any of the latter that could be avoided should be avoided.

There were Chinese at work, as well, on the exterior of the ship, painting it in its new colors as the flagship of the new-courtesy of Matt Bridges-non-governmental, humanitarian aid organization, Mobile Emergency Relief for Civilians In Fear of UnLawful aggression: MERCIFUL.

Stupid as shit, Kosciusko thought, though bleeding heart NGO-wise, it's got no monopoly on stupid names. And . . . well, it beats Onward Christian Soldiers, or OCS, which was the first suggestion given. And, thank You, God, ‘Titan Uranus' was already taken.

Then, too, one could read the name as "Merciful aggression," and that surely fits the mission profile. And I do kind of like that proliferation of clasping hands, doves, olive wreaths, and whatnot.

Rechristening as the "Merciful"-though, in fact, no ceremony would take place –would be one of the last things done, the better-if only slightly-to drop off the screens after the ship left Hong Kong.

Three landing craft-LCM-6s-were already enroute to Manaus, Brazil. Two of these were coming from Richmond, California, and one from Seattle. They were expected to arrive there via a Panama registered merchie about ten days after the staff and advanced party landed at Gomes Airport, Manaus, to take possession of the huge tract of jungle purchased for an assembly and training area. If sufficient armored cars arrived to begin training with them in Brazil the LCMs would meet them on the Amazon and sneak them in to camp.

And, if not, we're just screwed, thought Kosciusko. Though there's always highly suspicious fallback position two: buy a couple of turret simulators from the Frogs, if they exist. Not my job, anyway.

Kosciusko had been something of an odd duck in the Navy. "Duck," in this case, carried more than one meaning. A former enlisted Marine, Ed had gone to the Naval Academy and elected, at graduation, to enter the Navy rather than the Marine Corps. In the Navy he'd made a specialty of amphibious operations, with a sideline in logistics. This, unfortunately, left him pretty much out of all the more powerful "unions" within his service. He'd never been passed over for promotion. Still, his personnel manager had been direct. "Ed, you've got about two years left in. You better find another job."

Well over fifty now, nearly bald, and with a budding paunch, Ed had been with the merchant service for a while. That had lasted until boredom and the realization that he was a little late for that union, too, sent him into a second, potentially suicide inducing, retirement. He'd been mulching the flower beds surrounding his house when his wife, Elaine, had come out, cordless phone in hand, and said, "Someone named Cruz wants to talk to you, Ed. Said you know each other from the Pakistan thing. By the way, what Pakistan thing?" she asked, very suspiciously.

"Need to know, Hon, need to know." That dickhead, Cruz.

Cruz had been considerably more cagey about inviting Ed in than his naval personnel manager had been in inviting him out. "Whatcha been up to, Ed? . . . Sounds really dull . . . yeah, I hear ya. Hey, why don't you fly on down to San Antonio. Friend of mine has unlimited cases of free beer . . . Yes, Ed, free beer. You'll understand when you get here . . . he might have some worthwhile piecework for you . . . We'll have to see . . . "

***

Though he'd kept his face a blank, at first Ed had been a little skeptical. Then he'd seen the staff at Stauer's place, heard the money being spent, seen the utter seriousness of the Army and Marine types Stauer had collected. This hadn't completely dispelled his skepticism. Indeed, he'd kept it until Gordo-Harry Gordon-had shown him four container ships he'd found for sale or lease and said, "Pick one and defend your choice to Wes."

With that, they'd had him hooked. Command the naval portion of an amphibious assault? My so-far-frustrated life's ambition? Be still my heart. Where do I sign? I've only got the one firstborn child. Can I offer you a couple of grandchildren?

Still, it's going to be a bitch, Ed thought, glancing up at the gantry. Sure, the thing will move back and forward, but not one inch further back than to reach the middle of a twenty foot container parked in front of the superstructure. That still means that a plane taking off from just forward of that is going to have to pass under the gantry before going airborne. Cruz says he can do it-says any good small plane pilot could do it-and that, in any case, these planes are really short take off.

But I'm mighty glad I won't be in any of those planes. And, if they really decide to load out the Pilatus', taking off a PC-6 through that window is going to be hairy, even if they won't have to land again.

Note to self: Talk Stauer out of trying to launch the PC-6s from the ship; be bad on the paint job.

And speaking of landing, those Hips are best put on the back deck. And there they're going to be tight as shit. And the Chinese still haven't put in the fuel tanks and pump. Yeah, they're working on it. That, and the check's in the mail and I won't come . . .

Kosciusko became aware of a small presence standing behind him and slightly to his right. He turned and saw the tiny boss of the Chinese crew that was doing the modifications. The Chinese spoke English rather well.

"Yes, Mr. Chin?" Ed asked.

The Chinese sighed. "It used to be Captain Chin, you know, skipper."

Ed gave a small sympathetic nod. He'd had enough of the Chinese's background to have guessed it. That, and that the man had been beached a few years before Ed, himself, had.

Chin looked at the deck and said, "You know, skipper, that you are building this thing into a clandestine assault carrier is so obvious to anyone who really looks that I'm surprised you haven't had us paint "USN" in tiny letters all over the thing."

Ed's eyes flew wide. It wasn't obvious. He was sure it wasn't.

Chin smiled and said, "Imagine, Captain Kosciusko, that you are a poor country with a rebellious province on, say, an island far out at sea. Imagine further that the greatest power in the world-a great and hostile power-had a fleet sitting between you and said rebellious province. How might you consider getting a military force to that island in a way your great adversary would be unlikely to discern? Might you, say, consider using merchant vessels rigged out to transport troops and aircraft? Might you then, say . . . "

Kosciusko understood then. "That's what you used to do in the Chinese Navy," he said, definitively.

"Yesss, skipper," Chin nodded. "For the last dozen years of my service, anyway. And that is why it is so obvious that you are doing the same . . . except that I doubt you intend to take on Taiwan. Now, Captain Kosciusko, I have seen your plans and if I may offer some useful suggestions?"

"What do you want from it?" Ed asked.

"Not much," Chin replied. "Enough money to get a fishing yawl somewhere else than the PRC, and that you take me and a dozen of my crew with you when you go. Us, and our families. Our families are small, what with the one child policy they used to enforce here."

"I don't know about that," Ed answered.

"The alternative . . ." Chin left the thought hanging.

"Let me contact my principal."

"Tell him my select crew is all composed of long service regulars with the Peoples' Liberation Army Navy. We will be useful."

"One question, Mr. Chin," Ed emphasized the "Mr." to remind the Chinese that a ship could have only one captain. "You're a seaman. Why didn't you just grab a ship with your men and leave?"

"And do what? We had no money to set up again somewhere else. Assuming the PLAN wouldn't have simply sunk us at sea. See . . . I probably know just a little too much to let go."

"Fair enough. Why leave?"

Chin sighed, wearily and hopelessly. "Captain, I am a communist. Do you know what communism means here now? It means that high party cadres are able to shunt tremendous wealth to their children. It means nothing else. And I want out. It will be bad enough living under capitalism, I suppose. But it can't be as bad as living under industrial feudalism pretending it's communism."

Chin's face grew wry. "Why, captain, do you suppose I'm not commanding a ship right now? Because all the commands are going to the children of high party cadres, that's why.

"So, no thanks."

"You realize," Ed said, "that there will probably be no more viscerally anti-communist group under the sun than the one you would be working with."

Chin shrugged. "Are they hypocrites about it, Captain?

The corners of Kosciusko's mouth bent down as he shook his head no.

"Then I would relish it."

"I'll ask," Kosciusko agreed.

"I can ask for no more," Chin said. "And, since I can see no reason for your principal not to agree to accept a baker's dozen highly trained and competent seamen, I have the following suggestion: You have us welding in two large areas of "hull reinforcement." It's not necessary. Yes, you need a mess and planning deck. But for passageways and such, there's no reason we can't make a normal configuration of containers and simply cut side passages through them. We can also, if you or your principal will pay for lumber, build stairs and ladders to access a second level of containers. I don't think we'll need three levels."