Empire of Gold

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.