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those committed more to the stipend we pay them than to the revolution? That the English may not take the occupation of their old colony lying down? That the Gringos, despite having a regime at the moment in sympathy with us, tend to support the English? Ask Argentina what that means.” In short, when’s the last time someone got away with what you’re planning?
    The general raised his pointer again, tapping it onto a section of the map in the western portion of Guyana. “There’s another factor, too, Mr. President. There are a number, a fairly large number, of gringo mercenaries with local auxiliaries here. It’s the same group that trounced Suriname. The United States might not take well to their nationals being killed.”
    “Fuck the United States!” Chavez shouted, his demeanor changing from calm and serious to frothing and furious in an instant. He slammed a fist to the table, knocking over several cups of coffee with the force of his blow. “Fuck those little boy buggerers! And fuck their mercenaries who are illegally in our province.”
    Chavez forced himself to a calm he didn’t feel. God, I fucking hate gringos.
    “General?” Chavez looked directly at the Army’s senior officer.
    The general at the map gulped and went pale. “Yes, Mr. President?” he asked, meekly.
    “When we retake our stolen province, I want every gringo in it dead , as an object lesson to interlopers.” Chavez gave a little mirthless chuckle. “Think of it,” he added, “as disposing of the garbage.”
    The admiral’s face remained blank even as he thought, Isn’t that a fascinating thought; getting rid of the garbage. I’ll have to think on that one.

    Castillo san Filipe, Puerto Cabello, Venezuela

    The air was filled with the smell of the sea and the sound of a port. Ship’s engines thrummed ; horns blared; cranes and gantries squealed and squeaked. Overhead and at the shoreline, white and gray birds’ cries arose as they hovered and hunted for bits of floating and beached garbage.
    “What would you say, old man,” asked the white-uniformed admiral. Fernandez, of the bronze, bow-tied bust of Francisco de Miranda, el Precursor , “what would you say today if you saw what our country has become? Not that it was your country, of course …merely your dream.”
    “His dream,” said the general, Quintero, standing ahead of the admiral on a ramp that led from the courtyard of the fortress up to the crumbling battlements. “His dream,” he repeated, sneering. “Our nightmare.”
    “Maybe not,” Fernandez countered, somewhat cryptically. “Or maybe it’s a way to wake up from the nightmare.”
    Quintero made a “give forth” gesture.
    “Well,” the admiral began, “I was against this whole scheme at first. But the more I think upon it the more I like it. After all, what’s the worst that can happen?”
    Quintero guffawed. “We piss off the gringos and they decide to visit us to teach us a sharp lesson.” He turned to walk up the ramp.
    “Right,” said the admiral, following behind. “You survive that. I survive that. But who doesn’t survive that?”
    “My troops? Your sailors?”
    “And so?” Fernandez shrugged.
    “Good point,” the general conceded.
    “And who else is unlikely to survive the experience?”
    That brought a smile to the general’s face. “Better point,” he said. “Much better.”
    “And what’s the best thing that can happen?” the admiral asked.
    The general considered this while continuing to walk. He reached the crenellations and stood there for a moment, watching a midsized freighter pass into the harbor through its narrow mouth. “If this mad scheme works, we actually take Guyana.”
    “Right again,” said Fernandez, also watching the passing ship. “And for that best to happen, what must also happen?”
    “Money.”
    “Indeed. Money for my ships. Money for your tanks and infantry and artillery. Money to become combat effective again. And why don’t we have and