21
General Salbatore Callas suppressed a smile as he put
down the phone. The first reports had come in to Miraflores of an
uprising in the city . . . but the one he had just received was
very different from those his agents in the Bolivarian Militia were
feeding to the palace’s senior staff. The first accounts of events
President Tito Suarez received would be vague, conflicting,
uncertain even who was responsible for the explosions and gunfire
across Caracas.
Callas, however, had
accurate intelligence. His forces had struck exactly on schedule,
and now controlled a long list of important locations. The only
major target yet to fall was one of the state-run – and
Suarez-supporting – television stations, where the approach of
troops had roused a loyalist mob to defend it, but it would soon be
taken.
He left his office
and marched down a marble-floored hall to the double doors at its
end. Two members of the Bolivarian Militia stood guard, eyeing him
suspiciously – for the crime of wearing an army uniform rather than
militia fatigues, even an old and trusted friend of el Presidente was regarded as a potential threat.
But they let him pass. Within, Suarez’s secretary was fielding
phone calls; she waved him to the next set of doors.
Callas knocked once,
then entered. The wall behind the large teak desk facing him held
three portraits: Simón Bolívar, the nineteenth-century liberator of
Venezuela from colonial rule; Hugo Chavez, the previous Venezuelan
president who fancied himself as Bolívar’s modern-day socialist
successor; and, central and largest, the current holder of the
office.
The general kept his
contempt hidden. Suarez in person was not nearly as impressive as
the artwork, his hair thinning and greying, fuller in face and body
thanks to the lack of exercise and rich foods that accompanied high
office. Callas made a mental note not to fall into the same trap
once he occupied this room.
With Suarez was
another man in fatigues: Vicente Machado, second-in-command of the
militia after the president himself. He was also number two after
Suarez on Callas’s long list of enemies, a problem to be eliminated
as soon as possible. With its head cut off, the militia’s body, a
semi-trained rabble of peasants and paupers driven by vapid
propaganda or the desire to feel important because they were
wearing a uniform and carrying a gun, would soon die.
That time was rapidly
approaching. But not quite yet. He had to wait for
Stikes.
Suarez finally looked
away from Machado. ‘Salbatore! What’s going on? Who is behind
this?’
‘Unfortunately, I
don’t have an answer yet,’ Callas replied. ‘I’ve had reports of
gangs rioting in the barrios, attacks
on police stations and military personnel. But it’s definitely
organised – the first incidents all took place simultaneously.
Someone is behind it all.’
‘The Americans,’ said
Machado. ‘It has to be. They’re trying to overthrow the
revolution!’
Callas forced himself
not to tut sarcastically at the idiot’s naïveté – Suarez had
appointed him for his loyalty, not his brains. Instead, he took
advantage of it. ‘They would be the obvious culprits, yes. And,’ he
put a conspiratorial note into his voice, ‘they could have agents
anywhere. For an operation this big to begin without our security
forces knowing, the CIA must have corrupted people at all levels.
The police – even the militia.’
‘Or the army,’
Machado said. Stupid he might be, but he still had enough cunning
and survival instinct to recognise an attempt to discredit
him.
Which was exactly
what Callas wanted. ‘Or the army, yes. We have hundreds of
thousands of soldiers – there’s no way to know how many have sold
their loyalty to the Americans.’ He faced Suarez. ‘Which is why we
have to get you out of Miraflores and to a secure
location.’
‘No,’ said Suarez.
‘The people need to see that I am still in control. Not running
away and hiding.’
‘But that’s exactly
what President Chavez thought in 2002,’ Callas countered, raising a
hand towards the portrait of the former leader. ‘The plotters in
the coup attempt arrested him here in the palace – in this room! He
only survived because his enemies overestimated their support among
the people. They won’t make the same mistake twice. We have to get
you to safety. I’ve already ordered a helicopter gunship to
evacuate you.’
‘To
where?’
‘There’s an army base
at Maracay. It—’
‘Not an army base,’
Machado interrupted. ‘The Bolivarian Militia are responsible for
the President’s safety. One of our
facilities.’
‘It . . . is your
decision,’ Callas told Suarez, making a show of seeming conflicted
at the idea of deferring to Machado. ‘Your safety is my top
priority. I will be at your side whatever you choose, of
course.’
‘The militia base,’
said Suarez after a moment. Machado couldn’t contain a smug smile.
‘But yes, you will come with me, Salbatore. Both of you will. I
need you to fight back against these bastards!’
‘The helicopter will
be here soon,’ Callas told him. ‘We should go now, before the
rebels move on Miraflores.’
‘I’ll get some men,’
said Machado, hurrying into the anteroom.
Suarez stood,
gathering up documents. ‘Don’t worry, Tito,’ said Callas
reassuringly. ‘We’ve seen days like this before. We’ll get through
it together.’
Suarez gave him a
faint smile. ‘I’m glad to have you behind me, Salbatore.’ He shoved
the documents into a folder and snapped it shut. ‘All right. Let’s
go.’
They left the room,
waiting briefly for Machado as he finished issuing orders by
telephone. The two militiamen outside the doors fell into step
behind the group as they moved through the palace. ‘A squad will
meet us at the west exit,’ Machado reported.
‘The helicopter only
has eight seats,’ said Callas. ‘It can take the three of us, plus
five of Vicente’s men. Everyone else will have to
stay.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Suarez
said dismissively, his own well-being now dominating his thoughts.
They reached the outer doors, where a gaggle of armed militiamen
awaited them. Machado selected five to accompany them to the
helicopter, and ordered the rest to defend the building. With the
uniformed men flanking them, the high-ranking trio set out across
the grounds.
Callas heard echoing
cracks of gunfire from the surrounding city, but his attention was
fixed on another noise – the rising roar of rotors. The helicopter
was approaching. He slowed slightly, falling a couple of steps back
so that neither Suarez nor Machado could see what he took from a
pocket.
A pair of earplugs.
He quickly pushed the soft silicone into his ears, sound dulling as
if he were underwater.
A spotlight stabbed
down from the sky, darting over the trees before finding the
helipad. Callas followed it up to its source. A Hind, descending
for a landing. It passed through the lights illuminating the
palace. The Venezuelan tricolour stood out proudly on its
flank.
The eight men held
back as the Hind dropped on to the pad. Its rear hatch slid open .
. .
Six figures dressed
in black leapt out.
Callas shut his eyes
and turned away, clapping his hands over his ears. Even with the
plugs in, he knew that what was about to come would be
loud—
The new arrivals,
faces concealed behind balaclavas, had timed everything perfectly.
The first man to emerge had already pulled the pin from a stun
grenade, the fuse burning away as he threw it. It exploded in
mid-air a second later – at head height right in front of Suarez
and his group. The blinding flash and earsplitting detonation hit
the unprepared men as solidly as a physical blow, obliterating all
senses.
The utter
helplessness of their victims didn’t encourage mercy from the
attackers. Two men opened fire with suppressed, laser-sighted M4
assault rifles, short, controlled bursts slicing down four of the
militiamen. The other survived only by chance, having tripped in
his dizzied state and fallen into some bushes.
Callas lowered his
hands. Even prepared and protected, the stun grenade’s blast had
still been painful. But he ignored his ringing ears, instead
drawing his gun.
Suarez staggered,
groping blindly. Machado had managed to bring an arm up in time to
block the flash, but was still reeling. He opened his eyes, and saw
the general standing contemptuously before him—
A single shot from
Callas’s pistol hit him in the forehead, blowing out the back of
his skull in a gruesome spray.
One of the men in
black ran to Callas. Though he was holding an M4, the gleam of his
holstered pistol instantly told the general who he was: Stikes.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I think so,’
Callas replied, pulling out the earplugs.
‘Good. Get Suarez
aboard. We’ll cover you.’
Callas grabbed Suarez
by the collar and hustled him along.
Even though the
mercenaries’ rifles were silenced, the grenade and Callas’s gunshot
had attracted attention. More militia were running towards the
helipad. The surviving member of the presidential escort pushed
himself to his knees, feeling for his gun—
One of the mercs, a
muscular colossus, grabbed him by both ankles and yanked him off
the ground as easily as if he were a doll. The giant spun like a
hammer-thrower, whirling the man round – and letting go. The
Venezuelan flew screaming over the bushes, slamming down like a
human bomb on the leading militiamen and knocking them
flat.
Stikes’s other men
used more lethal weapons. The flat thuds of suppressed fire mingled
with screams as they picked off other targets.
Callas pushed Suarez
to the Hind’s hatch. The President was starting to recover from the
blast, and resisted. Callas jammed his pistol’s still hot muzzle
under his chin and forced him inside.
Shouts from above.
Two militiamen ran along one of the palace’s rooftop balconies,
carrying a heavy machine gun. Stikes fired at them, but his shots
cracked against the thick stonework as they ducked. One man slammed
the gun’s bipod down on the parapet, his companion already loading
a belt of ammunition as they prepared to fire on the
mercenaries—
A black-clad man
fired first. Not a rifle, but an RPG-7 rocket launcher. The warhead
streaked up at the roof, blasting the parapet and the men behind it
to pieces. Chunks of masonry rained down on people running out of
the building.
‘Let’s go!’ shouted
Stikes. The group retreated to the helicopter. He fired another
burst, sending a man flailing to the ground, and
followed.
He jumped into the
cabin, slamming the hatch. Gurov, piloting from the rearmost of the
two bulbous cockpits, increased power. The Hind lurched into the
air.
A piercing clang
echoed through the cabin: a bullet hit. Stikes hurriedly strapped
himself into the seat beside Suarez, Callas holding the President
at gunpoint on the other side. The helicopter was heavily armoured,
but not invulnerable. He pulled off his balaclava and donned a
headset. ‘Okay!’ he yelled. ‘Hose them down!’
In the forward
cockpit, the Hind’s gunner – an Armenian, Krikorian – grinned and
pulled a trigger.
The helicopter’s nose
cannon pivoted, unleashing a fearsome stream of fire from its four
rapidly spinning barrels. Through the infrared display in the
gunner’s helmet visor, the Miraflores palace was transformed almost
into a video game, human beings a hot white against the greys and
blacks of the grounds. All he had to do was look at each target,
sweeping a cursor over them – and the human shapes exploded into
glowing chunks as the blazing Gatling gun followed his movements.
Bullets clonked off the cockpit canopy and hull, but the Hind’s
armour shrugged off the 7.62mm rounds spitting from the militia’s
AK-103s. The men firing at him were picked out by brighter flashes
from their weapons; like a modern-day Gorgon, he killed them with a
glance.
The Hind wheeled over
the palace. Men on the upper balconies opened fire, only to be cut
to pieces by more storms of gunfire. The helicopter kept rising,
turning southeast and sweeping past skyscrapers.
‘What’s our status?’
Stikes said into the headset. ‘Did we take any
damage?’
‘No, we’re okay,’
Gurov replied. ‘Did you get him?’
‘We got him. How long
until we land?’
‘We can be there in –
yah!’ He recovered from his surprise and muttered in Russian before
returning to English. ‘We have company. Another krokodil.’
Crocodile was the Russian nickname for the Hind.
‘Where?’ Stikes demanded.
‘Left side, ten
o’clock.’
Stikes loosened his
seatbelt so he could look through the hatch window. Formation
lights blinked in the darkness over Caracas – the other
Hind.
Catching part of
Stikes’s conversation with the pilot, Callas put on headphones.
Still pressing his gun against his president’s chest, he peered
through the window. ‘Do they know we have Suarez
aboard?’
‘Yes,’ said Stikes
calmly. ‘Otherwise they would have shot at us by now.’
Gurov’s voice came
over the headsets. ‘They are on the radio . . . they are ordering
us to fly ahead of them to a military base, where we will surrender
and turn over Suarez.’
‘Will we now?’ Stikes
said. He pulled his straps tight once more, giving his client a sly
smile. ‘General, you’ve spent a lot on this helicopter. I think
it’s time you got your money’s worth.’
Callas’s own smile
was more predatory. ‘Yes. Do it.’
‘Gurov, Krikorian,’
the Englishman said into his headset. ‘Our friends out there – show
them the quickest way to the ground.’
‘Okay, roger!’
replied Krikorian, excitement clear in his voice.
The Hind banked
towards the Venezuelan gunship. Gurov spoke again. ‘They are back
on the radio – this is our last warning. If we do not
turn—’
‘I don’t waste time
with warnings,’ Stikes snapped. ‘Krikorian, take them down.
Now!’
Krikorian switched
weapon modes, activating the Russian ‘Igla’ missile mounted on one
of the Hind’s wing pylons. The surface-to-air weapon had not been
designed for an aerial launch, but the mercenary ground crew had
wired it to the helicopter’s systems. A warbling tone in his
headphones told him that the improvised connection was working –
the missile had found a heat source in the night sky.
The other Hind was
almost directly ahead, closing fast.
He pulled the
trigger.
The Igla shot from
its launch tube, searing past the cockpit on a pencil of orange
flame. The heavy, clumsy Venezuelan chopper had no time to
dodge—
The missile hit the
Hind practically head-on at supersonic speed. The explosion blasted
apart the rear cockpit, instantly killing the pilot. Shrapnel
ripped through the twin engines’ air intakes, shattering compressor
blades and smashing turbines.
Power lost, the
crippled Hind nevertheless hung in the air, supported by its main
rotor as it continued to auto-rotate . . . then its great weight
dragged it downwards, spinning out of control to explode on top of
an apartment building.
‘Well?’ said Stikes
impatiently. ‘Did you get it?’
‘We got it,’
Krikorian reported with glee.
‘Good. Gurov, get us
back to the Clubhouse.’ He leaned back with a satisfied expression
as the Hind resumed its course to Valle Arriba.