01 Sepmtember 0225 Local

www.aviationGeeks. org

South American Aviation Renaissance?

Posted: 01 September

0225 Local

Attention Aviation fanatics:  Looks like some regional development organization, the SARDC (South American Resource Development Corporation), is buying up every spare, worn out, tired old commercial airframe that is up for sale.  All it has to be is in flying condition.  They’ve given preference to Boeing airframes, but they’re taking McDonnell Douglas, and Airbus as well.  They’re not exactly paying top dollar, but they’ll take anything, as long as it has wings and engines and most everything on board works, they’ll pay for it.  Between you and me they’re not even looking for avionics! 

Apparently the SARDC is looking to build a regional airline for South America.  They’re looking for the developing world’s cast off airliners to do it, relatively cheaply.  I, for one, am not sure I’ll be a paying passenger on some of these “high mileage” aircraft.  By “high mileage”, this author means “wings are about to fall off.  Good buy for a one way ticket on an “express elevator to hell”…

30 August 1026 Local

Rosario, Argentina

30 August

1026 Local

“Where the hell is he?”  Octavio Kluger muttered.  He sat in his neat, but aged office.  His furniture betrayed not only his frugality, but a certain measure of his personality.  He was not a man of excess in any form, and believed that money was a thing to be saved, not spent on frivolities like office furniture.  Kluger owned a new company that built and repaired an old, relatively straight forward piece of military power.  Kluger owned and operated an old fashioned cannon factory.

He swiveled in his squeaky old chair and looked into the window that allowed him to oversee the shop floor beneath him.  There, he saw ten 105mm M2 pattern towed howitzers undergoing final reassembly.  The M2 was an old American design, and in fact a great number of the pieces that he refurnished here were originally manufactured in the US.  Kluger had seized the opportunity to extend the service life of these old artillery pieces.  His company manufactured new replacement barrels, or tubes as artillerists called them, and an assortment of other parts that these old guns needed.  Then they all came together on the shop floor beneath him.  His employees ran the gamut.  Some were skilled metallurgists, some manual labor to move the heavy tubes and recoil springs about.  A great number, including him, were former Argentine Army, and most of them were American trained artillerists.  Some of them had even seen combat.

Octavio Kluger had seen a share of combat against the British back in 1982 when he was an Assistant Battery Commander of an Argentine artillery unit.  He was at Goose Green when the British Paratroopers had attacked.  He had been wounded and captured and spent the remainder of the short war in a British field hospital.  His anger at his government’s inability to supply him with artillery ammunition and for his own infantry to defend him from the lightly armed Paras had long faded.  He was no longer a youthful Lieutenant, fresh from the Artillery Basic Course at Fort Sill in Oklahoma, where he had been an exchange officer.  He looked at his reflection in the glass.  There he saw his military and business careers, etched in the lines in the face that hung in the glass before him.  He remembered the fire of indignation at being wounded, a bullet across the abdomen, and the agony of being captured.  Being shot abdominally hurt like hell, of course, but the pain of surrender would stay with him for the rest of his days. His right hand hovered over the scar where the nine millimeter bullet had gouged into his abdomen, spilling his intestines out onto the loamy soil of Goose Green.  He squeezed his eyes shut remembering how much like sausages thrown in dirt, his own entrails had looked.

Those British!  Shot him to pieces, and then slapped him back together again.  A debt he owed to the nameless British Army soldiers, doctors and nurses, who scooped him, and his lower gastrointestinal tract off of the soil, pumped him full of morphine, and sped him to a field hospital.  He remembered snippets of his time in that field hospital, an orderly dumping a bucket of warm, soapy water into his wound, to begin the process to clean out the bloody mud that streaked it.  He remembered the incredulity of being placed ahead of two wounded British paratroopers, one who had a brutal compound leg fracture. He clearly remembered the brown, morphine fog and the overwhelming, world consuming ache of his recovery.  “For what?” he had asked himself what could have been a million times? The British had called them the Falklands, if he remembered correctly. 

All of that pain, all of that suffering and he had only fired four salvos from the tubes that had been assigned to him.  Sixteen rounds and then some Sterling submachine gun wielding Paratrooper had blown his guts all over the dirt.  Good Lord! Some combat career!  Kluger shook his head.

Kluger was a blond man, aged forty five, and one could definitely see the German ancestry in him.  He kept his hair cut short, and his blond mustache was trimmed neatly.  His mother and father had immigrated to Argentina in 1945, under less than ideal circumstances.  Apparently, his father had been an artillery officer in the Wehrmacht, and filled the young Octavio’s head with stories of the heroics of the Eastern Front.  His father’s politics were never a factor, and Octavio had only asked twice.  Each time father had politely told son that it was none of his business, and not to ask again.

Kluger knew without a doubt that his father had been a Nazi.  The old man was well connected Nazi at that.  He had, when he was 13, quietly stolen into his father’s study and had picked the lock on his father’s old army trunk.  There he found a black Waffen SS uniform, with the rank of Obersturmfuhrer, or Colonel.  He found pictures of him with Herman Goering and Adolf Hitler himself, no less.  He saw pictures of peace and of war and pictures of his father’s battalions of towed 88mm cannon, their long, black barrels pointing backwards, trailing the half-tracks that pulled them.  The photos were black and white, and all of them had thrilled Octavio, knowing that his old, doting father had been a man of power and ability back in the wars of old. 

Octavio was the youngest of six children, and had been born Argentinean.  Each one of his brothers and sisters had served in the Argentinean Army, Navy or Air Force during the Malvinas Campaign as the idiots in Buenos Aires had called it.  Kluger called it a bloody, damnable disaster.  In fact two of his brothers had died during that war.  One died when his A-4 Skyhawk blown apart by a British anti-aircraft missile, and another had been a gunnery officer on the General Belgrano, when that blasted Royal Navy submarine had torpedoed her. More than once he had been woken by nightmares, able to imagine what being tossed into the frigid South Atlantic must be like.  

“Octavio! Hello, Octavio!”  Kluger jumped with a start. 

“Miguel!  Just caught me…” 

“Back at Goose Green, were you?”  The distinguished looking Mexican grasped Kluger’s hand.

“Indeed.  You, of all people know how it is.  How, in the name of hell have you been?”  Kluger asked, smiling, gesturing to the worn leather office chair that was in front of his desk.

“Not bad, old friend, in fact I feel better than I have in years!  Sorry for keeping you, but I am a slave to this!”  He held up the tiny silver cell phone.  “My son just called me about another business activity.  We’re buying some new shallow draft cargo boats for our Amazon Project.  It is simple technology, actually an updating of the American Higgins Boat design. But now…”  The older man said.

“Yes, now!  What have you come all this way for?  What is it you need me to do, my old friend?”  Kluger responded.

“I have come for two reasons, Octavio.  First,” The older well dressed man stood and walked to the window.  The glint of light from the welding on the shop floor caught his face and cast shadows of his form along the wall. “First, I need to talk shop.  I need to know if you will be able to, at the least, quadruple your current refurbishment capacity.”

“Quadruple?  I can do that, Miguel.  I can refurbish almost 10 pieces in a month, right now.  I am currently arsenal-reconditioning most of the Argentinean Army’s light pieces.  Most of them are American M2 pattern howitzers, but I am also working on a few of their newer British built M119 pattern 105’s.  I didn’t realize that the Mexican Army would be willing to ship their pieces all the way down here, when it would be cheaper for the Americans to do it.  Hell, the American’s would probably get some contractors to do the work on site,” Kluger picked up his chipped coffee mug and took a sip of the bitter, lukewarm fluid.

“We don’t want the Americans to do it. Besides, we have other pieces as well.  Ever worked on older Soviet and newer Russian patterned artillery?”

“We have performed arsenal-reconditioning on virtually every artillery piece that was ever employed.  From the old 37 millimeter Pak Three guns, the 122 millimeter light artillery, and even some of the old Soviet division heavy equipment.  We take great pride in being able to quickly reverse engineer and fabricate a number of spare parts.  That’s the key, Miguel.  We hand craft spares that are needed, laser scan them, email the part specifications back here and then use CNC machining techniques to turn or mill any number needed.  We then UPS or FedEx the parts to where they are needed,” Kluger sat back in his chair, quite pleased with himself.

“Then conceivably you could send out teams to various locations to fix systems on site?”

“Indeed.  Why?”  Kluger asked, intrigued and hungry for the business.

The older Mexican looked about the office.  Not seeing any obvious methods of eavesdropping, he lowered his voice, “Cuba.”

Kluger's brows raised,  “I'm listening, Gerardo.”

The Mexican officer leaned forward, elbow on his knees, “We are going to land Airborne and amphibious troops in and liberate the island from the Communists!”

“Finally ready to get rid of the doddering old fool?  Between you and the Americans, it won’t be long before there aren’t any Communists left in this world.”  Kluger chuckled.

“Octavio, this is why we want you to do this.  We don’t want the Americans to know about this in the slightest.  We’d like your teams to go from unit to unit and check out their equipment.  We need you to fix what is broken, and fix it right in relatively short order.  We're planning something, something big.  This will be an old fashioned campaign.  Infantry, artillery and armor!  This is a war for old fashioned soldiers like you and me!” 

“For you perhaps it is so, Miguel.  So you want my teams to look at all of the artillery in the Mexican Army?”

“Mexican, Venezuelan, Paraguayan, Chilean, Uruguayan, Nicaraguan, Salvadoran-“

“Miguel!  You mean this is an-“

“Yes!  An OAS operation!  Finally, a major operation that will allow the military forces of our nations to shine from under the skirts of the “Gringos”! The Organization of American States, or whatever the politicians finally decide to call it, will provide the political framework for the assault.  The actual operation will be under Mexican Army command.  Ground, air and naval forces of twelve nations will be participating.  What an operation!”

“You sound very enthusiastic,” Kluger chuckled, “What exactly do our American brothers think about your plan?  Do you actually expect them to place their troops under command of a ‘wetback’?”

The slur rang out like a shot.  Kluger knew his guest hated the term, had seen him enraged by the derision.  The muscles in at the back of the tall Mexican’s head contracted, pulling his face up, taut.  Some color drained out of his aristocratic face.

“No,” The man sat down again, “I rather expect that they would not.  That’s why we aren’t going to tell them a goddamned thing.”

“Miguel, we’ve known each other a long time,” Kluger leaned forward in his chair and put his elbows on the cracked Formica desktop.  “How do you expect our governments to keep this a secret?  The Yankees have operatives and agents everywhere, and our nation’s politicians are all so corrupt that you could just as easily buy our state secrets as steal them.”

“Octavio, my old friend,” The Mexican leaned back in the worn chair, and pulled out a silver cigar case.  He extracted a long, dark cigar and began the process of trimming and lighting. “We’ve been around long enough so that men and women we can trust are finally gaining positions of power.  Men and women like you and me, old soldiers, who having shared a common bond, of training in the American style of war, are now experienced enough to be able to make policy, not just enact it.  The current president of Venezuela, in fact, attended the Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth with me.  I believe you attended the Artillery Officers Advanced Course at Fort Sill with a member of the Chilean Congress and a Brazilian regional governor?”  Kluger nodded and the silver haired Mexican continued, as he lazily puffed away on his cigar. “We know that freedom can triumph for the Cuban people, and will allow our peoples the chance to show the world that we are no longer to be looked on as third rate.  It will give our business markets to develop.  Fortunes will be made!”

“I can imagine refurbishing all of the artillery of a liberated Cuba!  The contracts will make me millions!” Kluger could see it!  He could smell almost smell the sweet scent of money!  All of the artillery pieces and tanks and heavy mortars in the Cuban military had for years languished, forgotten, neglected, rusting and hardly used.  The communist government in Havana, cash strapped since the fall of the Soviet Empire, had no funds to pay for training, ammunition, or even spare parts.  Even with Russia as resurgent it had been, there had been very little other than symbolic improvements in the Cuban military.  The Cuban Army had professional and dedicated soldiers, but no money for expensive items, like artillery shells or motor oil.  Worst of all, like all dictatorships, the Cuban military was geared at keeping the Cuban population quiet and obedient, not ready to repel even a token invasion force.  With appropriate planning and will, and a good dose of follow through, a fiasco like the Bay of Pigs would not be repeated. 

“With our contracts getting the OAS in shape and your first dibs on the Cuban equipment that isn’t destroyed in the operation, you stand to take in around a hundred million and change.  Sound good?”  The Mexican exhaled, a thick aromatic plume diffused into the sparse office.

“For you, my dear old friend, and one hundred million dollars,” Kluger laughed, his whitening blond hair accentuated his ebullient grin, “I’ll even volunteer to fight this war for you!”

“Funny you should mention that, Octavio,” the well dressed, elegant Mexican leaned forward.  “After you finish getting the refurbishment plans under way, I’d like you also to assist with planning and training of our artillery officers and gun crews.”

The idea of serving in uniform again thrilled Kluger.  His pulse thundered in his ears.  “I – I’d be honored, sir!”  He stammered.

“That’s exactly what I thought you’d say!  In fact I’ve already talked to the defense minister.  He listened to my ideas and agreed to offer you the rank of Major in the Argentine Army reserves.  He’d like to meet you tomorrow in Buenos Aires to make it official.  You do know where his office is?”

“Yes, sir” Major Octavio Herman Kluger responded.  He fought the silly urge to jump up and stand at attention.  Father would be so proud! A major and a chance to fight the communists to boot!

“I appreciate your confidence, General.  I look forward to the day when we march victoriously on Havana and see the evil communist regime destroyed! I will do my best to equip, train and unify these disparate and unorganized artillery units into a force that even the Americans would respect!”  Kluger’s pride and enthusiasm were palpable.

The Mexican smiled at his old friend, blowing a thin channel of smoke high in the air.  “That, my old friend, would be wonderful indeed.”

29 August 1717 Local

Camp H256, Western Paraguay

29 August

1717 Local

            Senior Lieutenant Miladys Rocha, of the Army of the Peoples Republic of Cuba, smiled to herself and quietly chuckled. 

            “Something amuses you, eh, Lieutenant?”  The Paraguayan Major asked.  He dipped his head and brought up his hands.  One covered the scratched, dented old Zippo lighter that he flicked with his right index finger, shielding it from both the wind and the rain. 

            “I never thought that in my entire lifetime I would be standing in the middle of a Paraguayan Prison - especially in a cold and driving rain, and on the side of a frigid, stony mountain to boot.  The things we do for our people, wouldn’t you say, sir?”  She replied with a smile.  She tapped a few more icons on her tablet PC.  The bleak scene unfolded before them as the gray mist passed before them in bands. 

            Consistency is something, she noted about her Paraguayan hosts.  Even though Paraguay was a poor nation, the Paraguayan airmen and soldiers she had met seemed to be confident and competent.  Paraguayan politicians, on the other hand, were like any of the myriad of other corrupt politicians the world over. 

This prison, not on any map, and high in the Andes, was as close to being on the moon as she’d ever hoped to be.  She had endured a long, scary helicopter flight up the passes and a draw to Camp H, as it was known.  The pilot of the aged, rattletrap helicopter had to have been insane.  Rocha, not a stranger to military aircraft, especially those with inexact maintenance, was still baffled at the route the Paraguayan Air Force pilot had chosen.  Thankfully neither she nor any of the other passengers of the flight had much to eat for lunch that day. 

            Camp H256 was located in what Rocha imagined hell would look like if it had been attacked by artillery wielding angels.  Aside from faint colors of lichen, nothing lived.  Everything was gray.  The metal buildings were gray and although shabby looking, most of them looked to be well maintained, for Paraguay was amongst the poorest of the South American nations.  The Andean talus on which the buildings rested on was gray.  It looked as though the country had been slashed and had bled out.  In fact, the only colors other than gray were of the uniforms of the guards. They were a mottled green and brown, the same as the majority of the other military and police forces in this part of the world.  Her uniform was similar, only the shape and borders of the multi-hued blotches on her uniform were in different shapes and of slightly different colors.  Her epaulets also reflected green, for Cuban Military Intelligence. 

            “Mind the gate, sir, it will swing towards you,” the guard sergeant called.  Rocha and her Paraguayan guide, Major Timotheo Alivar stepped back from the path of the large gate.  The gate itself was comprised of similar materials as the rest of the wall of fence around the Camp.  Like the fence, the gate consisted of razor wire and triple strands of barbed wire on a hinged frame. The Paraguayans had installed an electric opener for the gate.  Rocha and Alivar started in, once the gate had fully opened.  As they passed the center fence line a second gate whirred open, as the first one shut.  Alivar slowed his pace slightly and canted his head towards Rocha.

            “Lieutenant, for the record I would like to state that I am concerned for your safety. This is a hard labor camp. We keep the worst sorts here: murders, rapists, spies, military convicts, the like. If more than a few of them take designs on you, my guards may not be able to stop them all.”

            “Major, I have a sidearm,” she placed her hand on her holstered Browning Hi-Power, “Besides, if your men are even remotely competent, I should be just fine.  I’ve noticed a total of six guard towers and each one of them is manned by at least a three man crew.  If I am not mistaken I see six MAG 58 general-purpose machine guns that have optimal and interlocking fields of fire.  I am confident that my honor and safety are quite secure,” she smiled at him as the rain ran down off the brim of her field cap.  Alivar returned her smile, impressed, recognizing both her grasp of the emplacement of the machine guns, their ability to control any “issues” with the prisoners.  This woman was not only quite attractive, but she new her profession.  This Cuban officer was not the stereotypical communist loyalist political appointed lightweight he had expected.

            “My men are highly trained at the use of their weapons, but your confidence is indeed a compliment,” He nodded.  He looked at her, “It is quite strange to have a Cuban intelligence officer granted permission and authority to address a prison population.  Might you have any details?” he asked hoping to get even a sliver of information that might whet his curiosity. 

            Rocha smiled and shook her head, “I have to apologize, sir,” She returned the salute of the guard sergeant, and turned back to the Major as he began to climb a few steps to the top of a small dais.  “Although I believe that you and your men may find my message interesting, as well. From what I am told, great events are afoot.”

            “I await your message with great anticipation, Lieutenant.  Sergeant!” Alivar shouted. His voice pierced the increasing din of the heavy rain drops on the metal roofs of the prison barracks. 

            “Sir!” came the shouted acknowledgment.

            “Towers! Prepare for assembly!” the guard Sergeant shouted, as he moved from the guardhouse to the center front of the courtyard, in front of the dais.  Rocha saw movement in each of the six towers, as one of the Paraguayan soldiers locked in behind the machine gun, and the other unslung his FAL  rifle and moved to a secondary, covering fire position.  Rocha noted the lack of the sound of bolts being thrown, meaning that the machine guns and rifles were already chambered. She either heard or imagined the sound of safeties being disengaged.

“Assemble the population in the courtyard!”  Alivar thundered.  Rocha was impressed that the charming, handsome Paraguayan could so effectively project his voice.

            “Yes, sir! Guard Sergeants, sound assembly!  Move with haste!”  The prison camp exploded in a frenzy of activity.  Guards shouted and inmates scurried.  Rocha noted the military precision that the formation took.  Men spilled out of the shabby barracks.  The Paraguayan criminals quickly and quietly found their places.

            “Prison discipline does have its usefulness,” Alivar whispered, echoing her own thoughts.

            As quickly as it began, the tornado of activity stopped.  “All present, sir!” The Guard Sergeant shouted, snapping off a salute. 

            “Thank you, Sergeant!  Gentlemen!”  Alivar boomed to the assembled mass of men, “I would like to introduce Lieutenant Rocha.  She is a military attaché to the Organization of American States, representing all of the Americas.  You will listen to what she has to say!”

            The silence that followed genuinely shocked her.  She had expected catcalls and lewd comments to erupt on her introduction.  What she received was silence, save for the roar of the rain on rock and tin.  The prisoners stared at her. She didn’t sense the lust, but she did sense an overpowering wall of resentment, boredom and fatigue. Their eyes, all twelve hundred of them, bored fire at her, the guards, and her uniform. She had seen starvation before and what she saw shocked her.  These men were not starved and rail thin as she had expected and been led to believe. These men were well fed.  All of them had only the pallor induced by the lack of recent sunshine, but otherwise looked fit, and not a little menacing.

“The inmates are much healthier than I had expected, Major,” Rocha whispered.

“I am not a dictatorial Prison warden.  I do have a degree in criminal psychology from the University of Southern California.  We try to use the latest in rehabilitation techniques to compliment the discipline specified by our mandate to provide hard labor.  The hard labor these men perform burns a great deal of calories, Lieutenant.  Not to mention, hunger would introduce an unstable element into a situation that succeeds in stability.  We do the best with the meager funds that Asuncion can provide.  The majority of our expenditures go to feed and educate.  We work them eight hours a day in two shifts of four.  Each man is allotted two hours for religious study and education. After all, this is a rehabilitation facility, and we are not Nazis.”  He looked at her and smiled wryly, “or wretched Stalinists.”  He smiled at her.

She let the barb pass without comment returning a smile that acknowledged her own understanding of the situation, “With your permission, Major?”

“Lieutenant, the formation is yours.”  Alivar stepped aside from the concrete podium. Rocha swallowed and stepped up.  She set the tablet PC in front of her on the concrete podium.  Rain sheeted off of its waterproof surface. Her speech scrolled slowly, backlit on its color surface.

“Gentlemen, I am Lieutenant Rocha, currently assigned to the Inter American Military Development Council of the Organization of American States.  I am here to call for volunteers for a new and highly specialized experimental force that will in all probability see combat action within six months.  Naturally, this force may be required to conduct themselves in a manner outside the normal ways of war. That is why you are being asked.  We need a number of volunteers who would like to repay their nations and all the nations of South and Central America for their crimes, and to allow their people, and all of our people a brighter and more rewarding future. 

“Gentlemen, I do not want to give anyone the idea that this will not be a dangerous and threatening challenge.  Many of you who volunteer will not even survive the training which is, to say the least, demanding.  But you will be trained to the utmost and in a variety of different disciplines.  You will be infiltrated into enemy countries. You will harass supply lines, disrupt communications and generally tie up enemy regular forces.

In any contract there are two sides.  We require of you total dedication, and a commensurate level of discipline.  In return you will receive from us training, food, weapons, equipment, and nothing else.  We will not pay you one peseta, one peso, or one penny.  Your opportunity lies in your conduct in the nations that you are sent to.  If after the conflict is over, you wish to stay in the enemy land and begin anew, you will do so with our blessing.  If you follow all orders and conduct yourselves as we require, your sentences will be commuted and you will have an opportunity to become wealthy beyond your dreams.”

Rocha paused.  She could hear murmurs in the formations of men.  This group has possibilities - educated, disciplined and in better than average physical condition.  Real possibilities!

“If you like or in any way are intrigued by what I have said today, then you should take the next step.  By this time tomorrow, a cadre of OAS officers will be here to interview all volunteers.  If you pass their harsh scrutiny and are found to have what we are looking for, you will be immediately transferred to the nearest military airfield, where you will board a transport for a flight to our main training area. There your training will begin.  Take charge of your lives again!  Live free again, brothers! Good evening.” Rocha shook the rain off of the tablet and placed it under her arm. She stood back from the podium and saluted Alivar. “I return your population to you, sir!”

            Alivar responded with a crisp, professional salute of his own. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Guard Sergeant!” He boomed out.

“Sir!”  came the reply.

“Return the population to barracks.”

“Yes, sir!  Guard Sergeants return the battalions to barracks.”

Alivar about- faced and stepped over to Rocha.  “Fine speech, Lieutenant.  What am I supposed to do if my entire population volunteers?” 

“The future is bright for enterprising officers, Major.  Bright indeed.”

29 August 0200 Local

25 Kilometers East of Caipiriha, Brazil

1000 Meters ASL

29 August

0200 Local

The old bird was acting a bit sluggish.  The rear gear had kissed the deck at about where the Number Three Wire would have been deployed.  It would have been a textbook take-off.  The bang of the gear hitting the deck followed by the roar of the twin afterburning turbofans blasting him away from the deck was then followed by another, more distant and totally frightening sound.  It felt as though something had hit his aircraft.

Flight Lieutenant Ricoletto Adonja knew that he would have to sit down and have a very long debriefing with his crew chief and the flight crew that serviced his aircraft.  His brain spun, trying to think of what might be the problem.  His eyes flashed to the three large multifunction displays and then all of the instruments in the darkened cockpit.  He cautiously waggled the flight stick and knew that something was wrong.  It was almost as if something was stuck in one of the large elevators at the rear of his two seat Brazilian Navy F-18B.           

“Bull Base, this is Simon Two Two Three,” Adonja spoke into the oxygen mask that was affixed to his face.  Now came the part that he dreaded. 

“Simon Two Two Three, this is Bull Base, over,” came the deadpan voice of the American Naval air controller sitting in his air-conditioned workstation 10 miles away, in the heart of the mammoth USS John Adams. 

Adonja hated even the appearance of weakness or incompetence in his personal life and he, like the majority of his countrymen, positively despised it in the face of foreigners, much less American naval personnel.  He was currently participating in Operation Southern Resolve XI, a joint American, Brazilian and Argentinean air and naval exercise that had been held every spring for the past eleven years.    

Southern Resolve exercises had begun in the late 1990’s and although they weren’t even consecutively numbered until Resolve VI, they were a good chance for the Brazilian and Argentinean navies and air forces a chance to meet and greet with their neighbors to the north.  The Americans typically sent one of their newest carriers, equipped with the latest aircraft and showed off to the less advanced officers and men of Brazil and Argentina.  The exercises typically involved some war games, exchange of some officers and crew to see how the other navies performed, and some flight exercises.  Adonja was currently involved in the latter.  His flights of four F-18’s were practicing landing on the large, flat expanse of Adams’s flight deck.  The Adams was the newest American aircraft carrier, a Ford class and recently commissioned.  The Adams was the thirteenth in a line of what soon would be fourteen of the mightiest military vessels ever to see service.  Unfortunately she was now dwarfed by even larger cruise ships. Adonja was always amused that the newest cruise ships might be twice the size of the floating city that slowly diminished behind him.  The Adams was nicknamed “The Bull”, after her famous namesake.  The Adams displaced approximately 104,000 tons and with the aid of two nuclear power plants was able to perform approximately 50 knots under the right conditions. 

The Adams was the first super carrier to incorporate stealth into her design.  Her massive bulk, although identical to the other twelve Nimitz class carriers in the American fleet, was almost featureless.  She had a relatively small sloping superstructure that rose ten meters above the flight deck.  There were as few right angles on the Adams as the naval architects could manage.  The huge vessel was a study in angles and curves.  Her hull painted a faintly mottled grey color, appeared to blend into the haze, even on a moderately clear day.

“Bull Base, Simon Two Two Three, I am experiencing a bit of delay in my control surfaces.  Situation is not critical, but am calling off touch and go for this mover, requesting vector to Bravo Base,” Adonja said, hoping that the sound of his teeth grinding in embarrassment wouldn’t be heard by the air controller or anyone else on the frequency.

“Understood Simon Two Two Three, vector is one eight five, range two five kilometers.  Transmit telemetry to us on Freq Two Alpha in five. Over.”

Adonja’s fingers flew over the controls.  In an instant he has transmitted the output of his avionics and diagnostic computers to the American aircraft carrier.  He’d rather have the damn Yankee just let him head back to his own carrier, the Brazilian Navy’s Minas Gerais, which was currently steaming twenty five miles to the south.

Adonja detected movement in his peripheral vision.  His fingers reflexively tensed over the appropriate controls that would arm his aircraft’s single AIM-9T missile, and the massive 20mm Gatling gun in the nose of his old bird.  His head snapped around and he caught a glimpse of the source of the movement.  There it was – behind, a bit lower and about ten kilometers distant from him.  He immediately recognized as one of the Adams’s F-35B fighters.  Adonja quickly estimated that the approaching fighter was moving supersonic, as he was flying at about three hundred knots, and the American fighter was rapidly closing the distance.   Adonja could not help but admire the deadly beauty of the fighter that approached.  It was the successor to the F/A-18 series of fighters that had served the American navy for so long.  Stealthy and fast, the F-35 was the envy of most the world’s navies and air forces. 

“Simon Two Two Three, we are vectoring in Jolly One One to your position to visually inspect.  Our diagnostics are showing no failure in avionics or fly by wire.”

“No shit,” Adonja thought.  His own on board instruments had told him that.  “That concurs with my data, Bull Base.  I am maintaining heading, speed and altitude, have Jolly One visually.”

“See-moan Two Two,” The Yankee’s drawl was almost nauseatingly stereotypical.  Adonja had the fortune of being an exchange midshipman at the Untied States Naval Academy and had grown to both like and loathe the US Naval Aviators.  The little humility amongst the American flying class had done little to endear some of them to Adonja during his four years at Annapolis and two years of US Navy Flight training.  The Americans had built the planes he would teach Brazil’s young pilots to fly, so they were kind enough to pick up the tab of Adonja’s education.  Adonja was a brand new instructor pilot and flight leader assigned to Brazil’s largest aircraft carrier, the Minas Gerais.  He had almost three hundred carrier landings under his belt and fifteen hundred hours in the F-18 alone.  Adonja loved to fly fast fighter planes.  He loved figuring out how to shoot down other fast fighter planes even more.

The fighter that was fast approaching would be, in such an environment, a definite challenge.  He remembered as a youngster surfing the internet for pictures of the latest military aircraft that the Americans produced.  When he first saw the F-35, it was an experimental aircraft known as the X-35, and it enthralled him.  Visually similar to the larger F-22 Raptor, the F-35 was smaller and cheaper to build. It came in three versions.  A consortium of US companies were building a version for the US Air Force, a larger winged version for the US Navy, and a vertical landing version for the US Marines and British Royal Navy.  In fact the F-35 was the reason that Adonja was currently in the aircraft he was.  When the Americans switched to the F-35, they began to sell or give away their older “obsolete” aircraft.  Adonja had no illusions that the fighter he was in was still more than a match for any other aircraft in the sky.  But, at this point Adonja knew that the American approaching could swat him from the sky without so much as breathing hard. 

The US Navy fighter was then upon him.  He approached from the right rear.

“See-moan Two Two, this is Jolly One, please maintain speed and heading.  I’m going to take a quick look- see.”

“Roger that, Jolly One One.  Feels like one of the elevators may be obstructed. Going to have to let my flight crew chew me a new one for banging up their bird,” Adonja threw in the bit of American slang to appear friendlier than he actually felt.  Adonja had always hated the sometimes condescending attitude that some of his acquaintances at Annapolis and Pensacola occasionally showed foreign officers.  He did not want to have to be rescued by the Americans!

“Sea-moan Two, I think you may be off the hook with your flight crew.  Looks like you have a big fat seagull frapped in your port elevator. It does indeed look like the control surface itself might be damaged.  Probably hit it on your way out of the last touch and go you performed.  They’ll review the camera footage on Bull Base to see if they can see anything.  You might be able to go into a steep climb to see if you can clear the bird bones out of your control surfaces, but-“ 

“But, if I try that and the surface locks, I’ll go for a real expensive swim,” Adonja cut the American off, having already thought of that, and gingerly trying it a few times. 

“Simon Two Two, Jolly One One, this is Angel One.  Bravo Base is reporting problems with her arresting gear.  Bravo Base commander is requesting all Simon flight divert to Caipirinha.  Simon Two Two, you are cleared to land – immediate – Bull Base, for repairs.  Jolly One One, follow Simon Two Two in and then orbit for catch, over,” the deadpan accent-less voice of the air traffic controller on the Adams had been replaced by a vaguely female voice.  Angel One was the call sign of the orbiting E-2F Hawkeye, a veritably ancient, propeller-driven airplane, crammed full of the most expensive and advanced search, target acquisition radar and air traffic control systems known to man.  Adonja knew from the message that his own carrier, the pride of the Brazilian Navy, was hobbled by a fault in her arresting wires, the very wires that would stop a hurtling airplane and allow it to land on a moving carrier deck.  Adonja pushed his helmeted head back against the head restraint of his ejection seat, trying to relax.  He cursed his spotty luck.  Sometimes his luck was good, such as getting the posting to fly fighter planes and defend his country.  Sometimes luck ran the other way and made him have to be rescued by the Yankees.

Adonja put the F-18 into a lazy turn, and began to dump the majority of the remainder of his fuel, not wanting to tempt the fates further.  He cut back a bit on the throttle to drop his altitude and looked out and saw the enormous American carrier.  Even though Adonja had actually been on the flight deck of a Nimitz class carrier during his time working with the US Navy, he still could not quite get used to a carrier with such a small island, a comparatively tiny superstructure.  His naval mind knew the reasons for getting rid of it, stealth and greater protection that a bridge inside the hull would afford the command crew, but something in him made him miss the elegant chaos of steel and glass that was the island of a traditional aircraft carrier. 

Keeping his lazy turn and obeying the every command of Angel One, Bull Base, and Jolly One, he edged his damaged aircraft to the rear of the massive black strip that was tearing through the Atlantic a few kilometers ahead. 

“See-moan Two, do you have NAVE on that bird?”  Jolly One asked.

“Roger that Jolly.  I have NAVE 326 Key 4 on board.  Bull Base I am activating NAVE now,” Adonja said as he activated the landing assistance computer.

“Wait one, Simon, recalibrating to 326 Key 4.”  Adonja knew that the computers on the American ship were now reaching invisibly out over the waves to make contact with the slightly older computers on board his aircraft.  Naval Aviation Visual Enhancement was a recent addition to the tools available to the naval aviator.  It fused the data from a myriad of different sensors on the carrier, the aircraft in question and even the radar systems on the escort ships of the Adams’s battle group.  It allowed the officers on the carrier, in extreme circumstances, to land the aircraft without any input from a possibly injured, or unconscious, pilot.  In most instances, like now, it was used to assist the pilot of a damaged aircraft safely land.  To Adonja, he saw the flight path he was to take into the desk jump out from the back of the carrier as a red sheet of glass, suspended in mid air.  He knew that it was merely a function of the advanced Heads Up Display of his aircraft interpreting the data from the NAVE System.  He felt the throttle move up almost imperceptibly as the programming corrected for his inconsequential lack of power. 

“NAVE is up and I am running in with about five thousand pounds, I am in positive glide path and NAVE has throttle,” Adonja said, feeling adrenaline begin to run cold through the veins of his arms.

“See-moan, see you on the deck.  Bull Base, Jolly One One, he’s yours.”  Adonja saw the F-35 accelerate ahead and bank off to the right. 

“Roger that Simon, we’re into the wind and are ready to receive.  See you on the deck, you have the ball.”

With NAVE on, I don’t need the damned ball, Adonja wanted to shout.  He was angered because with the NAVE system activated his actions against the flight controls would be registered on board the hulking shape bobbing about in the blackness.  They would be able to grade his approach and landing, nitpicking his every deviation from the textbook norm that the computer calculated.  He could see that the directional lights on the fantail of the ship were where they should be and he could see the glowing wands of the Landing Signal officer clearly.  “Bull base, I have the ball, out.”

Adonja was starting to get a bit concerned.  The sluggishness of the controls was becoming more pronounced.  He knew if he kept on the NAVE flight path then he would be just fine, but realized that he now felt as though he was flying in darkness with an aircraft that was mired in a huge vat of porridge.  Any deviation in wind or direction could leave him splashed, aflame, across the fantail of a brand new aircraft carrier.

Just like the exercise, Adonja thought.  He heard “Deck!” in his headphones as the LSO informed all that the F-18B was over the flight deck.  Adonja’s training flashed his hands through a series of movements.  The old Hornet met the deck in the style of the controlled crash that carrier sailors and airmen like to call a perfectly executed three wire landing.  The Hornet dropped from two hundred knots to a dead stop in under two seconds.  The G forces pushed him forward against his harness, away from the ejection seat and then his left hand yanked the throttle back and the engine roar died down.  Adonja knew he had made a perfectly executed carrier landing in a damaged aircraft in the dead of night, on a foreign vessel in moderately rough seas.  He had felt no resistance in the throttle or control stick during the final phase of the landing.  Adonja smiled as he followed the instructions to flight deck handler waving his glowing wands.  Pride exploded in him.  He deactivated the microphone in his helmet and screamed in adulation.  Upon command he parked his aircraft and began the process of shutting it down.  He opened the canopy and the flight deck handler was already up on the ladder.  A deck chief, alien in appearance with her bulky helmet and protective goggles leaned in and shouted over the din of the wind and the flight deck.        

“Nice landing, sir!”

Adonja pulled off his helmet and skull cap, and smiled, his white teeth momentarily flaring in the white hot blast of an F-35 being flung off of the front of the carrier.  “Thanks, chief! Permission to come aboard?”

“Granted, sir!  You should see your tail!” She assisted him in deplaning.  Once on the deck, he noticed two men scuttling over to him, as he began use his small flashlight to look at his damaged aircraft.  The left tail elevator looked as though it had been hit by a rather angry giant, but there were some remains of the unlucky avian still smashed into the torn metal.  The men arrived, Adonja turned to them and executed a perfect hand salute to the two arriving officers, both of whom returned the salute. 

“Permission to come aboard, gentlemen?”  Adonja asked regally, quite pleased with himself, his blood awash in adrenaline.          

“Granted, Flight Lieutenant!   Helluva landing!  Wish my boys and girls could do that every time!  I’m Tanner, John Tanner, and I’m one of the duty officers. Let’s leave Simon Two Two in the hands of our maintenance folks and see if we don’t get below before the rain sets in.  How ‘bout a drink?”

Adonja tipped his head to the other, taller man.  A rather grave and normally sour expression was currently quite pleasant. “Only if Fleet Admiral Renos will permit me.  I am after all, on duty.” 

Renos, then in an action that almost frightened Adonja to the point of incoherence, smiled at the young pilot and extended his hand and took Adonja’s and shook it warmly.  “My boy, you have done us proud this night!”  The man said in Portuguese, his eyes alight.  Switching to lightly accented English, Fleet Admiral Ignacio Paulos Javier Renos, continued, “I suppose we can make an exception, which is if our American hosts would allow it.  They reached the door in the side of the sloped, smooth superstructure, just as an F-35 screamed in to land.  The state-of-the-art warplane snagged the two wire and screamed to a halt. 

“Not bad landing, eh, Lieutenant?”  Adonja heard in Portuguese, from Renos who was already inside the superstructure, “Not bad, but a bit sloppy, eh?”  Adonja smiled back at the commander in chief of the entire Brazilian Navy.  Adonja was afraid to respond, hoping the American officer behind him hadn’t heard the Admiral’s disrespectful comments.  He felt a tap on his shoulder.  Commander Tanner leaned into Adonja and pointed to the recently arrived aircraft. 

“That’s Jolly One One, piloted by Captain Lyle.  We’ll make our way to the wardroom, and he’ll join us in a few minutes,” Tanner said, as he pulled the bulkhead door shut and dogged it secure. 

The US Navy Staff officer led the Chief of Staff of the Brazilian Navy and one of the best carrier pilots in the history of Brazilian naval aviation into heart of one of the most powerful naval vessels on the planet. 

Captain Steven Lyle, USN, Chief, Aviation Wing of the USS John Adams, never entered a room.  He always exploded into it.  Lyle was not a small man.  In fact he just barely was able to qualify for the rigors of Naval Aviation training.  Lyle always had prided himself on his home state and decided at an early age that it would be necessary to exude pure Texas from every pore.  A bold, friendly, competitive spirit, Lyle turned heads whenever and wherever he was.  Lyle was an accomplished aviator and a competent staff officer, a blend that every naval aviator needed but did not always have.  He inspired confidence, both in his subordinates, but also in his superiors.  One knew that with Lyle on the case, you’d either have a competently completed job or one pissed off Texan ghost on your hands. 

“Good evening, gentlemen!”  Exclaimed Lyle as he, true to form, entered the Officer’s Mess.  Assembled inside were a number of officers, some on duty, and some off, all seemingly quite pleased.  Some appeared to be quite pleased to have liquor in hand.  At the center of the attention were two foreign officers, one in the process of unfastening his G-Suit and survival vest.  The other was a tall, kind of scary looking officer with a whole lot of gold and silver on his epaulets.  That one would be the Fleet Admiral, thought Lyle.  “Evenin’ Admiral Renos!  You should be quite proud of that boy!”  Lyle extended his hand.  Damn fine job of putting that bird on down!  Hell, he had a better landing than I did tonight!”

The visage on the officer split and what Lyle assumed must be what the Admiral passed as a smile appeared.  “I am quite pleased with his performance, indeed, Captain!  Also, I would like to thank your flight operations staff and yourself for not allowing a damned bird from depriving us of a serviceable airframe and one of our best pilots.  Here!”

Lyle accepted the offered white coffee mug from the Admiral.  A golden, thick liquid swirled about within it.  Lyle took an experimental swig.  Potently sweet liquor smashed into his taste buds and burned its way clear down to his stomach.

“Never experienced Cachaca before, Captain?”  The Admiral said. 

“No, Sir.  Sweet, ain’t it?”

“Product of sugar cane, similar to rum, but it has certain…”

“’Enthusiasm’ the word you’re looking for, sir?”  A new voice spoke.  Rear Admiral Gerald McCauley, Commanding Officer of the Adams battle group strode into the room, immediately followed by two aides. 

“Yes, I believe it would be that, exactly Admiral!”  Said the normally taciturn Renos, who much to Adonja’s surprise was turning into quite the life of the party.  Adonja had never met the Fleet Admiral before tonight, but had heard a myriad of tales describing those unfortunate enough to meet the wrath of Renos.  Renos was a career naval officer, before assuming his nation’s highest naval post, he had commanded both of Brazil’s aircraft carriers and had pioneered a cooperative relationship with the larger and more technologically advanced American Navy.  It was rumored that Renos was even trying to persuade the higher echelons of Brazil’s government to try to purchase one of the older Nimitz class carriers from the American Navy.  Adonja returned his attention to the rather attractive pilot who he had been speaking with.  Carol was her name, if he remembered correctly.

The rest of the evening proceeded quite amicably.  Being the last night of the exercise, the Americans were in high sprits.  The contingent of visiting Brazilian and Argentinean officers and crews came by the Officer’s Mess to pay their compliments to the Fleet Admiral and the battle group commander.  Adonja was even making some headway towards an invitation to Carol’s quarters, regaling her with tales of his days at the US Naval Academy.  He still nursed his original drink, having also downed several bottles of water from a cooler.  His rule of thumb, he quietly informed Carol and Captain Lyle, was never to drink too much in the presence of so much brass.

A crewman had come into the party about an hour later and had informed Captain Lyle that Adonja’s fighter had been repaired.  Lyle slapped Adonja on the back and claimed that he could now allow the Brazilian Navy to have him back.  Renos, laughing at something that Admiral McCauley had said, politely excused him self from the gaggle of officers and moved next to Adonja.

“Commander Sevich,” Adonja said to Carol, “I’m afraid I have to take the Flight Lieutenant home.”  Renos turned to Adonja, “Ricoletto, you’re driving.” Adonja didn’t know how the Fleet Admiral knew his name.

Adonja leveled the F-18B at about 25,000 feet, after the steep climb up and out of the Adams’s airspace.  Leaving the ship was much more uneventful than the arrival.  The young flight Lieutenant and Fleet Admiral of the Brazilian Navy had suited up, thanked their hosts, and boarded the fighter plane.  The Adams’s starboard bow catapult flung them into the air, and Adonja had, according to orders, aimed the fighter skyward and accelerated straight up.  The repaired control surface was behaving normally, and everything was just fine in Adonja’s world.  The scene outside the canopy was magical.  The stars shone brightly in their multitude.  The clouds below the sleek fighter shone with the touch of moonlight cast by the waning crescent moon.  Ahead, in the distance, the clouds glowed faintly, warmly covering the brightly lit coastal town of Caipiriha. 

“Lieutenant, can you please check in with the tower at Caipiriha, and let them know that we are diverting to Oshka Base?  I’ll input the GPS information,” Adonja replied that he would, and while speaking with the air traffic controller of Caipiriha, his brain whirled.  He had never heard of an Oshka Base.  He looked down at the MFD, and noted the coordinates as the Admiral entered them.  The coordinates appeared to be about three hundred miles inland.  Quite actually in the middle of nowhere, right on the northeast bank of the Amazon. 

“As ordered, sir.”  Adonja wanted to ask just where the hell they were headed, but thought better of it.  He adjusted the heading of the aircraft, set the throttle a bit lower and adjusted the trim, all to make the aircraft use the fuel on board most efficiently.  He heard a laugh over the interphone from the seat behind him. 

“I imagine that you are probably wondering just where the hell I am taking you and your marvelous aircraft,”

“I am curious, sir.”

“Can you please ensure that the communications system is off, that we are not transmitting any signals?”

Adonja knew that the system was not transmitting, but he quickly deactivated the radio system.  “Done, sir.”

“Lieutenant, you are going to rue the day you landed this airplane on that carrier.”

Adonja’s stomach dropped. 

“You exceeded everyone’s expectations, so now I am going to ratchet the expectations a little higher.  I am going to select you for a position that will have you doing some very difficult things.  You will, of course, continue your current duties, but over the next eighteen months you are going to spearhead a program that will pave the way to introduce F-35 fighters into the inventories of the Navy and Air Force.  In two months we will receive the first of three airframes that you are going to use to train a cadre of pilots to operate.  You will instruct these pilots in all aspects of naval aviation and work with our American brothers on how best to operate and maintain them.  Do you understand, Lieutenant?  You are going to forge a path and use the treasure the people of our nation give to us to defend them against all enemies.  This is a plum assignment.  If you decide that this assignment might be too much to handle, I will of course understand and you will return to your duties with no stain on your record.”

Adonja felt faint.  “S-sir, i-it would be my dream to, sir,” he stammered.  He had no choice.  He was a fighter pilot and wanted to fly the best and the fastest of fighters.  The fact that his country was going to invest so much precious capital on fighter planes for him, amazed him, and took him aback.  Adonja felt tears welling up.  He soaked up the tears with the back of his Nomex flight glove, hoping his movement would not be obvious to the officer sitting behind him. 

“Excellent!  I was looking for a highly competent pilot and officer to head up our F-35 program, and it appears that fate smiles on me tonight!  Our base at Oshka has the necessary documentation and a simulator that the Americans are giving to us, in the hopes that we decide to buy hundreds of them.  Before we left the Adams I contacted the Gerais and informed Admiral Willis that you would be reassigned.  One of the pilots at Oshka will ferry this fighter back out to the Gerais.  What a night!  You have done very well, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, sir.  I appreciate the confidence.  May I ask what your plans are once we reach the base?”  Adonja asked, trying to make conversation hoping small talk might calm the roiling nervousness in the pit of his stomach.

“Well, I plan on getting some sleep, having a hearty breakfast, and then resigning as the Chief of Staff of the Navy.  I will also be reduced in rank to Admiral and put in charge of a very special project.  You will be involved in one small facet of a much larger operation.”

He felt his heart race. The dreams of his youth were coming to fruition!  Adonja figured that he may as well jump in with both feet, “So it is true that we are going to purchase one of the Nimitz from the Americans?” Adonja asked nervously.

Renos chucked, “You could put it that way,” Adonja could hear the Admiral shifting about in the ejection seat and harness trying to be more comfortable.  “Actually, Lieutenant, within the next year, we hope to command at least three of them.”

18 April 0346 GMT

A Turn for the Worse? Tensions in the Misiones Province of Argentina

Transmission Priority - Secondary

Compiled from Wire Reports for the International Information Network

18 April

0346 GMT

In what looks to be the most worrisome turn of events in recent South American history, the mineral rich region of Misiones, Argentina is poised to become a possible flashpoint in an unprecedented four way war for territory and resources.  Until now cooperative and peaceful relations between Paraguay, Uruguay, Argentina and Brazil are becoming marred by an increase in military expenditures by all four nations.  Diplomatic relations are strained, but communications between the four are at an all time high. 

            “We will not remain pawns to the supposed powers of our continent,” Paraguayan representative Colonel Jose Taracon said at a recent briefing.  “Our nation and its sons and daughters will not shirk from any fight.”        

            To add fuel to the possible incendiary nature of the crisis, Argentina and Brazil have both partaken in military restructuring expansion in recent years, especially in terms of infantry, armor, artillery, airborne and special operations.

            Paradoxically, the recent sale of 30 military transport planes from the Brazilian Embraer Corporation to the Argentine Air Force has proceeded without a hitch.  Also, the export of the new Hellion anti ship missile to the Brazilian Navy from Argentina has raised several eyebrows.  The status of further arms sales between Brazil and its neighbors remains in question.

            All four nations have stationed Army units on their common borders.  There have been unconfirmed reports of small unit skirmishes in and around the province.  The entire continent holds its collective breath.  In a written statement, the Organization of American States, pleased with the four sides to work diplomatically to find some sort of common agreement. 

            The United States State Department wishes for all parties to come together and dialogue.  Undersecretary of State for Latin America, John Rodriquez suggested that all representatives meet in Rio de Janeiro in two weeks.  He pledged the assistance of the United States as a mediator.

28 August 0845 Local

Reciefe, Brazil

28 August

0845 Local

            He felt energized and alive!  The flight from Mexico D.F. was pleasant.  He had indulged in a small bottle of American scotch that the attractive flight attendant had offered.  The film on the flight was tolerable, if it was badly dubbed into Portuguese.  Something about an American law student or lawyer.  There had been a dog in it, if he remembered correctly.  He had seen it a while back, while in Kentucky, where it was barely memorable.  That time it had been in English, and new.

            “Merciful God, I do hate dubbed movies,” He muttered to himself.  Rafael Lopez shook his head to clear the distraction, and reached around the case slung over his shoulder to adjust his belt.   His eyes, hidden behind his sunglasses, quickly scanned the other people walking and riding along the Brazilian street.  Not detecting anyone paying him attention, he quickly pulled up on his pants.  Even though he carried the lightest pistol available, the Glock 36, in his right pocket and the 12 rounds of .45 caliber ammunition, in two magazines in his left, still tugged his pants lower with every step.  Lopez wouldn't have had it any other way.  The tiny little Glock was slim and concealable, but still had six rounds of potent .45 caliber ammunition per magazine.  “Bless the American gun control laws that made the Austrians develop such a wonder,”  he thought to himself. He felt he needed this edge in the event of an all too common kidnapping attempt that had been made more likely by his expensively tailored clothes and therefore his membership in the class of business elite.  In Reciefe, Brazil, you never could be too careful.

            Lopez eyes caught the sign ahead of him, to the left.  He felt the vibration of the cell phone buzz against his hip.  He detached the small device from its holder, snapped it open and put it to his ear. “Hello?” he said in English.

            “Status?”  Inquired the voice, again in English.

            “I am in sight of the business.  I’ll see if the owner is in, present him with the offer and see what kind of discount we can get,” he replied.

            “You have arrived already?  Have you checked in at the hotel?”

            “The flight was early.  Aero-México has really been improving their departure times.  I’ll check in after I conduct the business.  My flight home?”  Lopez grinned and nodded at two attractive business women who smiled back at the fit, short haired Mexican. 

            “I’ve emailed the e-tickets to your AOL account.  Your flight leaves tomorrow morning, about 0600 local.  Don’t miss it.”

            “I will not miss that flight.  I’m here.  I will check in via email as soon as I am concluded here.  Take care,” Lopez said, craning his neck back to look at the glass and steel of the building.

            “And you, Captain, good luck.  Out,” The line went dead.

            Lopez snapped the phone shut and entered the lobby of the building.  He walked straight to the information desk, smiled at the receptionist as he removed his sunglasses. “I am here to see Mr. Koslowski.  I have a 9:00am appointment.  My name is Pablo Domingo.”  He said in perfect, unaccented Brazilian Portuguese. He hooked his sunglasses into the collar of his maroon Brooks Brothers golf shirt.

            The receptionist nodded and smiled back, revealing slightly crooked teeth.  “One moment, sir,” she tapped an extension into her PBX console and spoke into the headset she wore, “Mr. Koslowski, a Mr. Domingo is here to see you,” she paused, getting a response.  “Yes, sir.  Good bye,” she again met his eyes, “Mr. Domingo, just take the elevator to the third floor, take a right from the elevator lobby.  Mr. Koslowski’s office is the fifth on the left,” She gestured in the direction of the elevators. 

            “Thank you,” Lopez said, nodding his head.  He shifted the combination laptop case and valise on his shoulder and headed off to the elevator, which arrived just as he reached for the button.  Two men in light suits stepped out.  Lopez stepped in and pushed the appropriate button.  The door slid shut and the elevator rose.  He looked at himself in the mirrored wall.  Tall, just over six feet, with jet black hair.  In his features you could see both the features of his Castilian heritage, and the ancestry of the Aztec blood that ran through him.  His hair was short, his face clean-shaven and dark from years in the sun.  He flexed his arm.  The muscles rippled beneath the pucker of scar on his right forearm.  His smile faded as he remembered a June day in Chiapas.

            The door opened.  He shook his head, shoving the unpleasant memories back into the little part of his mind where they normally resided, along with many others.  He took a quick, deep, cleansing breath and put his friendly smile back on.  Out, to the right, he found the fifth door on the left.

            “Ricardo Koslowski – Naval Architect - Senior Account Manager – Rio de Oro Boatbuilders, Inc.,” read the placard on the wall next to the door.  He rapped it with this knuckles twice and twisted the handle.  The door opened and a tall, slightly overweight Brazilian of Polish descent rose and crossed the office to greet him.  Lopez closed the door with a click behind him.

            “Mr. Domingo!  I trust that your flight was pleasant?”  Koslowski said extending his hand.

            “Indeed, sir!  I was just remarking to my father on the phone how much better Aero México has become in recent years,” Lopez took the proffered hand, grasped firmly and shook once.  Koslowski gestured to a chair opposite the large wooden desk.  It was almost out of place.  It was different from the rest of the room, and of the building.  The building was very modern, built of glass, steel, concrete, chromes and plastics. The desk was a throwback, made of old, thick and heavy woods.  Its top, polished to mirror sheen, was beautiful to behold.  The accouterments upon the desk befitted that of an early twenty-first century professional, muted silver nineteen-inch flat panel computer monitor, optical wireless mouse, and attractive speakers.  No paper on the desk at all.  Everything neat and where it should be.  Lopez was impressed.

            “Beautiful desk, sir,” Lopez offered.

            “This used to belong to the founder of Rio de Oro.  He passed it on to me when he retired.  I trust that you have reviewed the specifications of our proposal?”  Koslowski asked, his eyebrows arched.

            “I have,” Lopez reached into his laptop case and extracted his tablet PC.  He awoke it, and made sure that the CAD application was where he had left it and handed the unit to Koslowski.

            Koslowski looked, scrolling down over the various views of the boxy watercraft, smiling paternally. Koslowski was naturally proud of all of his designs.  That’s why he was ecstatic when a small, unknown corporation had telephoned one day taking bids on a new, shallow draft, cargo hauling work-boat.    They wanted a thousand of them, to boot!  It was wide, had tall gunwales and a shallow draft, a cargo ramp at the front and two small, inexpensive water jet engines.  Koslowski nodded approvingly.   “A compact, efficient design if I do say so myself,” he passed the tablet PC back to Lopez.  He looked up to Lopez who nodded and chuckled, “A question, though. Do you really want them built out of plywood over the steel frame? Thermoplastic sheeting would be more durable, especially in the climate of Amazonia, and not prohibitively more expensive” Lopez shook his head, Koslowski nodded and continued, “They should be able to carry approximately the weight of a fully loaded two-and-one-half-ton cargo truck.  They appear to ready for mass production.  Would you like to inspect the prototype? Your evaluation team finished with it yesterday and we are having it cleaned.  They were rather rough with it!”  He chuckled.

            “I am sure that they were.  I have seen their report and they are impressed.  Unfortunately, however, our timetable has progressed a bit.  I’ll be leaving town as soon as our business is conducted here.  More importantly, we are going to need the first 250 of these in six months,”  Lopez stated, “I will need the remaining 750 no later than four months after that. Our mining and pharmaceutical operations across the Amazon basin require us to move sooner than we had expected and these craft will expedite the process,” a mild look of surprise crossed Koslowski’s face.

            “That is sooner that we had expected, but that should not present an insurmountable obstacle.  I expect we should be able to meet that target deadline.  Cost may be more of an issue…”  His voice drifted off.  He looked plaintively at Lopez.  Lopez smiled.  In addition, I have been authorized to broker a new cost per unit.  Would seventy-five hundred, US, per craft suffice?” 

            Koslowski turned to his PC.  His right hand manipulated the mouse, while he typed numbers in furiously with his left. When completed he turned back to Lopez with a bit of a frown.  “Disappointingly, Mr. Domingo, due to possible supply problems we might have procuring the steel frame and plywood sheathing that these vessels require, we would be unable to do this for less than ten thousand per copy.  Factor in development and production costs,” Lopez expression remained unchanged, still smiling, “taking the total to just over eleven million, US.  Is that a workable figure?” Lopez smile widened.  “It is indeed, sir.  We will take it!  On behalf of the South American Resource Development Corporation, I’d like to take this opportunity to say that you are opening a grand new future for all of the people of the Western hemisphere.  We expect to make great gains in developing the resources of this continent, and your boats will allow large number of men and women to fully explore and develop the resources in and around the shallow waters of the Amazon basin.  Be proud, sir.  You are contributing to a bold new chapter in history.  I think that it is safe to say that your name and your industrial ability will be a role model in the future,” Lopez stood and stuck out his hand, “An initial sum of five million US dollars will be wired to Rio de Oro Bank within the hour, sir.”

            Koslowski stood, smiling and shook Lopez hand. “It is a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Domingo!  Might I invite you to lunch?  I happen to know a restaurant that serves the best food in Reciefe!  It is within walking distance of here.   Let us celebrate this historic deal!”

            Lopez canted his head and smiled at Koslowski.  “Historic indeed, and far more historic than I think anyone realizes!  Lead on, sir!”  How little he knows, Lopez thought to himself - how little anyone knows.