Hernandez, in Daniel’s debt, knew the account had come due.
“Señor, we have a small number of open-ocean patrol planes. We will find the Americans and report on their movements….”
“Edgar, I do not want to know where the American are. I want my supply routes open. It’s the Americans that are stopping my shipments, I’m sure of it. They’ve changed their tactics, and I want to take their minds off me and focus them on you.”
“Señor?” Despite being ten years older, Hernandez deferred to Daniel, but the bill—starting a war with the United States—was more than he had ever thought he’d be asked to pay. He was now focused, but soon his mind wandered back to his conditioned obsession. He couldn’t help himself. Daniel continued.
“I want you to start a war, or make the Americans think you are. Rattle your sabers, move provocatively. I want to see an American aircraft carrier outside my window dealing with you and the threat posed by your expensive warplanes. I want them to ignore my little boats and bug-smashers. I want to hear — on the BBC and CNN — about war clouds, the threat of Russian overflights, partnering with Cuba, whatever. Invite the Russians to your bases and have a party when they arrive. The Americans will go loco with fear and will take their hands off me. All this is to your benefit, Edgar.”
“Señor, I do not see how increasing the American presence in the Caribbean can open the sea lanes and air corridors?”
“Edgar, in my experience the Americans, as they say, cannot walk and chew gum at the same time. They can focus on one thing only, and the AMV in the defense of the Bolivarian Republic is a worthy opponent.”
“While I work for you in private, señor, I work for the President in public. I must have orders.” Hernandez was too savvy in the ways of politics to proceed without all the bases covered.
“Yes, of course, orders from above. We have several friends in Caracas, men you are familiar with, who will assist you. Surely the Americans have committed some diplomatic slight or have designs on our nation’s oil wealth that our intelligence operators have uncovered. Perhaps we can accuse a diplomat or businessman of a trumped-up charge. Events will occur — within days — that will assist you in your efforts so you can send your men into battle with a clear conscience. All of us want a clear conscience, Edgar.”
Daniel’s words reminded Hernandez of another military commander who had served masters who did not appreciate what they asked of him. After masterminding the attack on Pearl Harbor, Admiral Isoruku Yamamoto was said to have lamented his orders. At least Yamamoto had been able to “run wild” for six months, which he did. Hernandez knew that against a determined United States, he didn’t even have six days.
But what choice did he have? Daniel was gracious and attentive, refined in speech and dress. However, Hernandez harbored no illusions that his friendship with Daniel would “save” him. He knew Daniel was ruthless, capable of killing him while smiling into his eyes. And, if that failed, the muscle who waited outside the door would do so the moment Daniel snapped his fingers. A quick bullet to the head or a slow squeeze with their bare hands. Hernandez had seen it with others over the years; Daniel had seen to it that he had seen it. Hernandez thought of some of his F-16 pilots — Falcon and Rico, Gunnar. In just a few days, he would be sending them to their deaths. At the memorial services, he would console their grieving widows and pat their small children on their heads in sympathy as his own wife stood next to him. The money, the girls….
Hernandez stiffened his back. He had known this day would come. Maybe I can lead a formation of fighters into battle. I’ve lived fifty-five years, many more than I deserve.
“Señor, the AMV and all the forces of the Bolivarian Republic will fight to the death to uphold our sovereignty and freedoms. I will set about these tasks as you request.” He was trembling and wanted to get on with it.
“Excellent, General!” Daniel beamed as he poured them another glass of wine. “And when the Russians visit us, please throw them a large party. I’ll cover the costs, of course, and send you a list of entertainers all of you will enjoy. And I’ll have a handsome gift for our friends to take with them when they return to Moscow — or wherever they live! Come!”
With Hernandez’ heart pounding in anticipation, Daniel led him to a modest patio and small pool surrounded by high hedges to discourage prying eyes. The invitation to the patio was his reward for the Pavlovian stimulus/response to his master’s request. Under the shade, a folding table of warmed food and chilled wines awaited them, and plush couches, stacked with luxurious towels, lined the walls. In the pool, three showgirls in bikinis, new to him, smiled at the men, beckoning them to remove their clothes and join them. For a brief moment, Hernandez realized his own daughter was older than any of these girls. Aware of the cameras mounted on the eaves and trees to record the event, Hernandez wondered if Daniel would view these tapes himself. Who would he show them to? Would he share them after Hernandez was dead?
One of the girls stepped out of the pool and, dripping wet, picked up a silver tray. She smiled up at Hernandez as she offered it to him, the dog-treat reward for his faithful military service to the Bolivarian Republic. General Edgar Hernandez knew the drill and forced a smile as he picked up a straw and took a blow, shedding his inhibitions. He had shed his honor and dignity many years ago.
CHAPTER 22
Since his encounter with Weed, Jim Wilson had gone about his day-to-day existence and command duties aboard Coral Sea in surreal disbelief. Read-in to a Top Secret program, he was now complicit in an undeclared and “black” war involving his airplanes and maintenance crews, although it was unknown to them. He couldn’t believe it. Unknown to the damn admiral! Each day Weed would fly a Firebird jet in an effort to seek drug runners and execute them on the spot. It rubbed him the wrong way, as unrestricted submarine warfare and destroy the village to save it had in earlier times. Weed was right, though; the United States was using drones overseas to good effect, and sniper operations had valid military legitimacy. If in combat he snuck up on an enemy aircraft, he would shoot it down and be proud of it. The difference between the circumstances was whether or not there was a declared war, or at least the legitimacy of clear orders passed down from National Command Authority, open and known to the public.
He was not so naïve as to think that classified or clandestine operations were in some way morally wrong. Wilson was a realist. Why should we telegraph our every move? He didn’t lament the lack of media involvement — they always got it wrong anyway — but the cover story troubled him. He wished the United States would just say the Caribbean drug trade is going to be shut down, effective immediately, in order to give the enemy in this phony war fair warning. Then, Wilson himself would blow any blockade runners out of the water without a second thought, and shoot down, without remorse, any non-squawking, low/slow flyers. Just say it and then do it. If you are going to take Vienna, take Vienna.