Cold Shot (26 page)

“No,” Carreño said, ignoring the directive. “My motorcade was attacked leaving Miraflores.”

Avila’s eyes widened and his mouth tightened. “Explain.”

“We were pulling out of the gates. A few people in the crowd had thrown rocks, bottles, garbage, but someone threw a Molotov, which hit the car. My driver was able to evade and get us away—”

“They knew who you were?” Avila asked.

“They didn’t
care
who I was,” Carreño told the president. “We were just some officials leaving the
palacio
and they tried to kill us. It could have been you and they would have done the same. And this is spreading, Diego.” The SEBIN director called the president by his first name, too worked up to care about protocol now. “The reports are that the crowds in the other cities are still growing. Attacks on the troops are getting more violent. We are taking casualties.”

Avila nodded, his teeth clenched. The intelligence officer knew his chief of state well enough to see that he was embarrassed by the news. Weakness before allies was not to be tolerated. “I don’t want these groups coordinating.”

“We can shut down Internet service…the phone companies will follow orders. We can send soldiers to occupy them if they won’t,” Carreño suggested.

“We should shut down the entire cellular network,” Avila replied.

“That would make it difficult to coordinate with the gangs and other civilian allies.”

Avila grunted. “Very well. Leave it up for now. But if the situation grows worse, it will have to come down.”

“Yes, sir,” Carreño said, suddenly tired.

USS
Vicksburg

11°22' North 67°49' West

75 miles north of the Venezuelan coast

Captain Dutch Riley stepped through the hatch onto the
Vicksburg
bridge. “Captain on the bridge,” the officer of the deck announced.

“Report,” he ordered.

“We have a contact bearing one-eight-three, ten thousand yards on course zero zero zero, speed twenty-five knots,” the lieutenant replied. “Sir, she’s approaching the red line and will cross in four minutes at her present speed. Signal bridge reports she’s a warship, likely a
Lupo
-class frigate. I’ve ordered a course change to intercept, speed thirty knots. What are your orders?”

“Very well. The XO is in the CIC?”

“Yes, sir.”

Course zero zero zero,
Riley thought. That was no navigational error.
Due north. She’s going to run the line.
“Set Condition One, then ask him about it,” Riley ordered, nodding his head toward the approaching vessel.

The junior officer looked up, surprised that the captain was declining to take immediate command. “Aye aye, sir,” he said, trying to suppress a smile. The OOD turned on the 1MC. “General Quarters, General Quarters, all hands man your battle stations. General Quarters, General Quarters, all hands man your battle stations. Damage Control, set Condition Zebra.” Then he took a deep breath, switched off the shipwide speaker, and raised the mic again. “Venezuelan warship, this is USS
Vicksburg
. State your intentions.” He held the mic to his chest, keeping a mental countdown as he waited for the answer, which didn’t come in time, and so he lifted the mic to his mouth and repeated himself.

Venezuelan Missile Frigate
Almirante Brión

Captain Rafael Loyo of the Bolivarian National Armada of Venezuela fought down the urge to tell the American his real desires in profane terms and restricted himself to his orders. Whether the admirals in Caracas were actual fools or just playing at it for some higher purpose, he didn’t know, but regardless, he didn’t like them using his ship this way.
My ship?
he thought. It wasn’t really, he knew, but every captain liked to think so. The days were long gone when pirates sailed these waters and captains acted alone for months, sometimes years at a time, without orders from their superiors. In those days, a ship truly did belong to its master and commander. Now a captain was never truly alone and the admirals above and far away used ships like pawns. A disobedient captain could be removed on a whim, whisked away by helicopter within hours of even questioning an order. He wanted desperately to disobey this one, but there was no point to it. The admirals would have their way and the American blockade line would be tested, whether with the
Almirante Brión
or another vessel.

Vicksburg?
Loyo ransacked his memory and came up with nothing. One of the junior officers finally handed him a vessel recognition card—Ticonderoga-
class guided missile cruiser.
The American ship was four times the size of the
Almirante Brión,
bigger, heavier, a severe mismatch in every way but speed. His own ship was a
Lupo
-class missile frigate, built by the Italians to counter the Russian Navy ships in the Mediterranean, then later upgraded by the Americans before Chávez turned so completely hostile to them. The
Brión
was no ship to be trifled with, but it was now badly outmatched, not nearly the equal of the vessel he was approaching. At best, with luck and God’s blessing, she might actually manage to sink the
Vicksburg
. She had a pair of Mark-32 torpedo tubes, American designed, and the ordnance to go with them. If Loyo fired first at close range, he might prevail. But the
Vicksburg
would surely savage his own ship in short order, sending her to the bottom in the time it took the torpedo to transit the space between them. One antiship missile from the American ship would kill his entire crew and they did not deserve that fate. They were a good crew, mostly boys who should not have been pawns in this stupid game of machismo that the politicians were trying to play with the rest of the world.

Loyo would not fire first. He would not be the man to plunge his country into a war the Americans could win very, very quickly.

He looked down through the forward windows at the foredeck. His men were at their stations, guns manned, but his sailors were untested. Venezuela hadn’t fought a naval battle since . . . when? The War of Independence in 1824? Certainly not in his lifetime. None of his men had ever fired a gun in anger and now they were facing down the most powerful navy in all of history? The admirals and politicians expected this crew of untested young men to embarrass the Americans? He would count himself fortunate if one of those nervous teenagers on the deck didn’t do something foolish out of pure fear.

“
Vicksburg,
this is the Bolivarian National Armada ship
Almirante Brión,
” Loyo replied over his own mic. The Venezuelan sailor rankled at having to answer in English. It was another sign of which navy truly ruled these international waters. “I am engaged in the defense of Venezuelan coastal waters per international law. You are in violation of our territorial sovereignty. Withdraw immediately.”
Foolishness,
he thought. They were well past the twelve-mile line that marked the end of Venezuela’s territory and the U.S. captain surely knew it. He didn’t need a GPS to tell him that. At this distance, a sextant and compass would’ve been more than enough to figure that out.
They will not run.

USS
Vicksburg

“You have got to be kidding me,” Riley muttered, too quiet for anyone else on the bridge to hear.

“
Brión,
this is USS
Vicksburg,
” the OOD said. He took a deep breath, excited that the captain was putting his trust in him, terrified of speaking even a single word wrong. “We are in international waters and are engaged in the enforcement of the Venezuelan quarantine per orders of the president of the United States and UN Security Council resolution twenty-five eighty-seven. You are hereby ordered to remain inside the zone or you will be fired upon. Heave to or reverse your course.” He looked to his commanding officer for approval. Riley nodded at him and watched the young man’s confidence start to swell.

The response was immediate. “
Vicksburg,
this is
Almirante Brión
. You are in Venezuelan waters. You will withdraw or we will seize your vessel in the name of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela for violations of our national laws.” The Venezuelan captain’s English was accented, heavy to the point of being unintelligible through the speaker.

“
Brión,
this is your last warning. Reverse course or you will be fired upon,” the OOD ordered.

Venezuelan Missile Frigate
Almirante Brión

The Americans were holding their ground, as Loyo had believed they would do. Both vessels were well out into the open oceans, both their captains knew it, and
Vicksburg
’s captain must have thought Loyo a fool for disputing that reality. But his orders were clear and Loyo intended to follow them. He could hardly expect his own men to follow his orders if he was willing to disobey those he was given.

“Steady as you go,” he ordered the sailor at the helm.

“Steady as you go, course zero zero zero, sir.”

“How long to the quarantine line?” Loyo asked

“Two minutes, ten seconds, sir,” the helmsman answered. The younger man’s voice quavered a bit as he said it.

“Very well.”
He’s afraid,
Loyo knew.
I don’t blame him. I’m afraid.
But perhaps his leaders were right and the Americans wouldn’t fire. Any fight now would be one-sided and perhaps the fear of appearing as bullies before the world would stay the Americans’ hand.

Maybe,
Loyo thought. He would know in two minutes.

USS
Vicksburg

“They’re holding course and speed, sir,” the OOD reported a minute later. “They’ll cross the red line in fifty-five seconds.”

My responsibility if we have to fire,
Riley thought. The first shot in a conflict should never be laid on the shoulders of a subordinate, he believed. The younger officer had performed well but it was time for Riley to take back his command. “Very well. Lieutenant, once she crosses the red line, put one shot across her bow with the five-inch gun.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the officer of the watch said, relieved that the captain was finally taking charge. “Forty-five seconds.”

Venezuelan Missile Frigate
Almirante Brión

“Distance to the
Vicksburg
?” Loyo asked. He stared at the American vessel through his binoculars. She was some distance away, but even so, she was large enough for him to see the five-inch gun swivel on the foredeck.

“Thirteen-point-five kilometers. Ten seconds to the red line, Captain,” the helmsman announced.

“Sir, shall I target the
Vicksburg
?” the gunnery officer asked.

Target them?
Loyo thought.
I suppose we must.
The
Vicksburg
’s guns were surely trained on his vessel. Loyo nodded. “Very well.” Loyo counted backward in his mind.
Diez, nueve, ocho, siete, seis, cinco, cuatro, tres, dos, uno . . .

“We have crossed the red line, sir.”

For a moment, Loyo thought the Americans would do nothing, that his superiors had been right. The U.S. Navy would not fire. The quarantine was an illusion and the
Vicksburg
and her sister ships and the aircraft flying between them in a thousand-mile line were all an empty show of force. Then anger began to surge in him, fury that the Americans had tried to oppress his country again, to intimidate them into acting out of cowardice. But he and his men were not cowards. He felt a bit of pride swell in his chest, that he and his men had braved the danger despite their fears—

The
Vicksburg
’s five-inch gun roared, fire and smoke tearing into the blue sky. The round struck the water just ahead of the bow, missing the
Brión
by only tens of meters and spewing a geyser into the sky that flew as high as the ship’s bridge. The officers on the bridge began to yell, alternately asking for orders and hurling them around, contrary directions given as discipline started to break down in the face of real hostile fire.

It’s over,
Loyo thought. The Americans were not hesitating, they were not backing down . . . no sign of weakness.
We cannot fight them and win—

USS
Vicksburg

Riley had heard his ship’s gun fire before, but never in anger, only in drills. It sounded the same this time, but he felt no joy in it now
. Heave to, you idiot,
he ordered the other ship’s captain. Whoever was in charge of the
Brión
had to know how badly he was outgunned.
You obeyed your orders, you made the good show, now don’t be stupid—

“Sir!” the officer of the deck yelled. He pointed out the window.

The
Brión
’s
OTOBreda 127mm deck gun flashed orange and red. It was a strange thing, to see the sight without hearing the noise of the gun, and it took Riley a second to realize the cause. The sound was slower than the light.

The sound wave was also slower than the round the gun had just fired. They wouldn’t hear it before it hit.

“Come right, steer course one one five! All engines ahead full!” Riley ordered.

“Come right, steer course one one five, all engines ahead full, aye, sir!” the OOD repeated, confirming the command.

Riley grabbed the 1MC. “All hands, brace for shock!” He felt
Vicksburg
’s four General Electric turbine engines surge under his feet, trying to squeeze out the few horsepower that they hadn’t already been throwing into the water. The two propellers chewed into the Atlantic and the ship began a hard turn to port—

The round hit the
Vicksburg
just aft of the island, ripping into metal and armor, sending a small fireball and white smoke back out over the water. Riley heard the dull thud, followed by the scream of his wounded ship as the steel plating was torn and the entire vessel shuddered under the blow.

Venezuelan Missile Frigate
Almirante Brión