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haven’t we had any money?”
    “Because the bastard doesn’t trust us.”The general’s head rocked from side to side several times. “As he has good reason not to,” he admitted.
    “Exactly. And if we have the money, and you—especially you—become combat effective again?”
    “We toss the peasant piece of shit into Yare prison and throw away the key?”
    “Better to just shoot him,” said the admiral, with a sneer.
    The general considered that. “Firing squad, all formal, or just a bullet the back of the head, do you think?”
    “We’ll have to consider that later,” said Fernandez. “There are advantages to both methods. And leaving aside the best and the worst, what’s the middle case?”
    The general thought upon that for several moments, quietly. A slight smile creased his face. “We don’t get the money; we fail and …”
    “And his attempt to turn the people’s minds away from their own and the nation’s problems backfires. In that case, I think we should go formal, really formal.”
    “What? A silk rope?”
    “Silk?” The admiral shrugged. “Whatever seems best to you. Personally, I think good old fashioned hemp would do. I’d be glad to provide it from the Navy’s own stores.”
    “Something else also seems best to me,” Quintero said.
    “What’s that?”
    “The Fifth Division is possibly the least combat effective formation we have, though at least they’re spared the humiliation of tank turrets that won’t turn. I think it might be a good thing if we ask Chavez to fill it and the paras up with volunteers from his youngest and most fanatical Bolivarian supporters.”
    The admiral thought on that for a moment or two, then said, “He’d like that. Then he can claim more of a personal victory.”
    “Exactly,” said the general. “And, if we lose, then we’re rid of them. Of course, we’ll have to be truly serious about at least getting them to Guyana to have any good effect. To say nothing of not being carted off to Yare ourselves.”
    The admiral sighed, then smiled broadly. “Who says soldiers are stupid?”

    Miraflores Palace, Caracas, Venezuela

    Stupid fucking generals and admirals , Chavez thought, sipping a cool fruit juice at a patio table, in the shade of a palm tree growing from the palace’s central courtyard. Though he indulged in occasional tobacco, always in private, Chavez never drank alcohol, hated the stuff, indeed hated the very fact of the existence of the stuff.
    He refused to make money available for the import of whiskey. He taxed the hell out of both alcohol and tobacco. He’d forbidden sales directly from beer trucks in neighborhoods. He’d even forbidden the sale of alcoholic beverages during Holy Week.
    Of course, he also nagged the nation to avoid hot sauce, to drive within speed limits, to not buy Barbie dolls for their daughters, to avoid breast augmentation, and to not eat high cholesterol foods.
    In a different universe and a different time, and provided they didn’t know of his addiction to women, Cotton Mather and any given surgeon general of the United States would have loved the man. For the matter, the current surgeon general did love him, but on ideological rather than health grounds.
    “They’re stupid, you know, Martinez,” Chavez said to an aide, standing by with a pack of cigarettes and lighter to hand. The president’s finger pointed at an open folder on the table in front of him.
    “Mr. President?”
    “The generals, the admirals, the Army, the Navy, and the Air Force. They’re all box of rocks stupid . You couldn’t find an appreciation for the defense needs of the nation among them. Or any other needs, for that matter. Their thinking on the subject is so wrongheaded, so completely out of tune with the facts, that even chance wouldn’t, couldn’t produce an intelligent opinion if you queried them all. Under torture.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the military, Mr. President,” the aide answered.