While no match for a concerted American effort, the AMV was a capable South American air force that could pose problems for the Americans should they decide to test Venezuela, the topic the two men were discussing in the dimly lit room in a non-descript neighborhood. Hernandez, who wore civilian clothes for the meeting, had only his aide and a bodyguard outside. He knew they were no match for Daniel’s team. Hernandez hoped the meeting would be over soon. He couldn’t wait for his reward and found it difficult to concentrate on Daniel’s words.
“Edgar, my supply lines are almost completely cut. I haven’t had a single shipment of any kind make it to the Yucatan in almost two months, and my operations in the islands are severely curtailed. Unlike normal interdiction efforts, my mules are disappearing. They go over the horizon in a plane or boat and are never heard from again. They disappear, as if in the Bermuda Triangle. Even my lily pad trawlers. Some of my best men, men who know how to outfox the Yanquis, are gone without a trace. And it’s becoming a challenge to replace them. Not only for me, but my colleagues are also feeling this new phenomenon, and we do not know what it is. I suspect the Americans. Who else has the intelligence to locate my shipments and the firepower to destroy them without warning? Their elite soldiers know their business. Without a trace, Edgar. We have a problem, mí General.”
Hernandez was a fighter pilot by trade, one of the youngest FAV pilots to fly the F-16 when it was purchased by Venezuela in 1983. He survived the 1992 coup by being on the loyalist side, and, because there were so many openings in the officer corps, he moved up fast. He was the Commanding General of the Venezuelan Air Force, now known as the Aviación Militar Nacional Bolivariana de Venezuela, or AMV in the Bolivarian Republic. While he had never flown in combat, Hernandez knew how to survive — not only in the air force bureaucracy, but while currying favor with the politicians in Caracas. Having a friend in Daniel — who saw to it that one million dollars a year appeared in his offshore accounts and that some of the finest mistresses in Aragua State appeared at his plush safe houses — made life worth living.
Hernandez, in Daniel’s debt, knew the account had come due.
“Señor, we have a small number of open-ocean patrol planes. We will find the Americans and report on their movements….”
“Edgar, I do not want to know where the American are. I want my supply routes open. It’s the Americans that are stopping my shipments, I’m sure of it. They’ve changed their tactics, and I want to take their minds off me and focus them on