Caribbean Payback
Caribbean Payback
The CANZUK at War Series
Book 0.5
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Afterward
Copyright
Other Works
Dedication:
To my old man, Bob Flannagan:
A steady presence. A man who encourages through his interest, his actions, and kindness.
Author’s Note: CANZUK is an alliance comprised of Canada, Australia, New Zealand and the United Kingdom. Caribbean Payback is a standalone novella in the larger CANZUK at War universe.
Chapter 1
Haiti, Port-au-Prince
Not for the first time, she marveled at the drabness of this cursed city. Everywhere Captain Veronique Bertrand looked were the ramshackle, grey concrete-block homes that made up the vast majority of the buildings in Port-au-Prince. The roofs of the tightly-packed structures didn’t help. It was the dull grey of sun-tired tin or the red rust of sheet metal that had long given into the unforgiving heat and rain of the Caribbean.
And the smell. She would never get used to the combination of rotting garbage and fresh shit. With the exception of the city’s few affluent neighborhoods, the stench was ubiquitous and clung to you like some desperate drunk at one of the nightclubs she would visit on her occasional trip to Montreal. She looked forward to the day she was out of this hapless country so the ripe stink would no longer infect her nostrils.
The ride from United Nations Square to their destination in that part of the capital called Martissant shouldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes, but they were coming up on twice that. The lag in their schedule didn’t concern her anywhere near as much as the absence of people out and about this morning.
As they approached the dirt patch of a soccer pitch where she and a platoon from the Royal 22nd Regiment, or the Vandoos, as they were called in Canada, would work with a local non-governmental organization to set up one of the UN’s too-infrequent food distribution and medical stations, Bertrand took in a loose gaggle of desperate-looking Haitians. In her five months in-country, she had lost count of how many times they had visited this same location to oversee and provide security for the NGO’s outreach program. In each previous instance, she had found hundreds of people already waiting at the pitch where the clinic would distribute its medicines and nutrition as long as its supplies lasted.
As she watched the first of the convoy’s up-armored Mercedes G-Wagons take a right off Route des Dalles into a small copse of trees that would lead them to the dirt-brown playing field, she grabbed the radio handset from the dash of her vehicle. “All vehicles, this is Shepherd Actual. Shepherd Two and Three, I need you to slow up on your approach to the distribution area and take a good look around. Everyone else, come to a halt. Am I the only one who’s noticed that there aren’t a lot of the locals around? Did we miss the memo – is today a national holiday?”
“Or these people are too fucking lazy or high to drag themselves out from whatever holes they live in to come and get the help they need,” said the ever-bitter Master Corporal driving Bertrand’s G-Wagon.
She had long ago stopped her efforts to soften the man’s attitude. From in the hinterlands of Quebec, Soulier, was by far her unit’s harshest critic of the locals. But for all his insensitive commentary, when it came to getting the work done, the man performed as well as any other soldier in the outfit. The Canadian Armed Forces or the CAF as it was known by those in the military had spent years and millions in an effort to better shape the hearts and minds of its soldiers. In Soulier’s case, the effort hadn’t stuck. She would again note the behavior in her mission debrief so it could be more thoroughly followed up on when they were back home.
Making sure her radio handset in her hand was un-toggled, Bertrand snapped at her driver, “Check that shit, Soulier. If you can’t empathize with the locals that’s fine, but for my sake and that of my career, do me a favor and keep your mouth shut while I’m on the horn.”
“Copy that, Captain. Will save the unwelcome commentary for when you’re not addressing the troops,” the soldier said with a faux smile on his face.
Bertrand ignored him. There would be time enough to deal with him when they were back home.
Her attention reverted to their ongoing mission as she heard her radio burb in response to her earlier question. “Shepherd Actual, this is Shepherd Two. Copy your order. Shepherd Three and I will roll up, and let you know what there is to see. We’ve noted the absence of the locals too. Could be that the NGO didn’t do a great job of advertising today’s clinic. It’s happened before.”
“Copy that, Shepherd Two,” said Bertrand. “In the meantime, I’ll put in for drone support from HQ. We’re the only ones on the road as far as I know, so they should be able to have something up ASAP. Something isn’t right this morning. I can feel it. Let me know what you see once you get on the field. We’ll keep the engines ready and if we need to, we’ll ride up on you looking badass.”
“Copy that, Actual, we’re moving onto the soccer field as I speak. Everything looks on the up-and-up. There’s a pair of trucks from Life for Relief and a couple of dozen locals standing around. It's fewer than we’re used to seeing but other than that, it looks okay.”
“What about the treeline on the right and the compound on the northeast end of the field?” asked Bertrand. “If I was going to take a run at us, that’s where I’d be.”
The radio paused momentarily. “Ahh... looks good from here, boss. Wait... hold up. We’ve got movement in the treeline. Males. They’re dressed like locals. Wait... Jesus fuck, they’re armed! We’ve got incoming!”
Two hundred meters away, Bertrand heard the distinct crack of dozens of automatic weapons open up. Over the small arms fire, she heard Shepherd Two yell across the radio, “Contact, contact, contact! We’ve got multiple hostiles in the treeline and we’ve got what looks like a machine gun crew setting up on the roof of the compound. They’ll have us in a crossfire within the minute. We have multiple civilians who are down. We’re taking heavy fire, boss, permission to return fire.”
Bertrand didn’t hesitate. The too-strict rules of engagement for the UN mission could go to hell. “Permission granted, Shepherd Two. Open up with everything you’ve got. I’ll be on your position in moments. Hold tight. Actual out.”
Forcing her voice to remain deliberate and calm, she addressed the rest of the security detail. “Task Force Shepherd, we are getting out of here. Shepherd Seven, Eight, Nine - you are to lead the logistics team to Rendezvous Point Lima. You are not to stop for anything. Shepherd Seven, you have point. Move out now.”
“Copy that, Actual. We’re moving now. Shepherd Seven out.”
As Bertrand heard a loud boom emanate from the direction of the soccer field, three G-Wagons quickly rolled past her. Atop each of the armored four-by-fours, a soldier manned a pintled-mounted machine gun and each was carefully scanning their section of the road. As they began to pick up speed, several of the convoy's logistics vehicles followed them, each truck accelerating to bring themselves into the right position relative to the vehicle in front of them. Everyone under her command knew the drill and knew it well.
As she listened to the crackle of gunfire, her eye caught movement down the road. Right at a slight bend in the thoroughfare, a pair of large, rough-looking trucks came together nose to nose at the center of their westbound route. “Tabernac,” Bertrand cursed.
On the back of each truck, men began to pop in
to view. Each was toting a weapon of some kind. As the G-Wagon that was Shepherd Seven slowed down to face off with the new threat, she heard several sharp cracks to her immediate left.
Driven by the instinct of self-preservation, her eyes lanced in the direction of the new threat. In between the buildings on the other side of the road and on several rooftops, she could see armed men firing in the direction of the G-Wagons that had remained with her.
The vehicle’s radio handset still in her hand, Bertrand brought the unit to her mouth and called out, “Ambush, ambush, ambush! All units, all units, you have permission to fire on any hostile holding a weapon. Have an eye for legit civilians. All remaining units are to advance...”
Before she had the opportunity to finish giving her orders, the driver-side window of her vehicle exploded inwards showering her with chunks of glass. She heard a loud grunt and felt something wet spray across her face. In that moment, Soulier was pressed up against her, his left hand at his neck, while his right hand still gripped the steering wheel. In the rear seat, she could hear the welcome chug of the turreted C-6 machine gun issuing rhythmic five-round bursts.
Placing the handset back to her mouth, “All units, all units - advance toward Shepherd Seven’s position. We will consolidate around his position and fight past the ambush point on Route des Dalles, making our way to RV Lima. Get moving, everyone. That includes you, too, Shepherd Two and Three. Blanchet and Dube, get the hell out of there, now!”
Bertrand counted to three and said again, “Shepherd Two and Three, do you copy?”
As she felt her own G-Wagon begin to move, her eyes moved to Soulier. He said nothing as he looked forward intently and drove. His left hand, covered in blood, was pressed against the side of his neck. He looked terribly pale.
A new voice burst onto the radio. “Shepherd Actual, this is Gator Four, what is your status? Is that gunfire coming from your position? Gator Actual is requesting a sitrep and advises that if any of your units are firing their weapons, they are to cease fire immediately. I repeat, any units firing their weapons are to cease fire immediately.”
“Gator Four, this is Shepherd Actual, that is a negative on the cease-fire. We were ambushed and fired upon by a well-armed force and we have wounded and potentially several KIAs. We are taking fire from multiple directions, and I’ve given the order for a fighting retreat. I’m requesting eyes in the sky and reinforcements from the rapid reaction force to our location. We’re just west of the soccer field on Route des Dalles. Advise. Shepherd Actual out.”
To the rear, Bertrand heard a yelp and turned in time to see the knees of her topside machine gunner buckle. The man, one Corporal Rivet, had slid from the turret and was now slumped across the back seat moaning in pain. A portion of his jaw was missing and as a result, his face was now a horror show of blood and exposed bone.
A too-calm, Irish-accented male voice came onto the radio speaking English. “Shepherd Actual, this is Gator Actual, what is your status? May I remind you that our rules of engagement dictate that we are to use minimum force and only in response to an active threat. I hear lots of automatic gunfire coming from your direction, Shepherd. It sounds like a bloody warzone out there. What the hell is going on?”
Bertrand ignored the voice and took in the scene now in front of her. The front end of one of her four logistic trucks had begun to burn. The remaining three were arrayed behind their three G-Wagon escorts, of which only two were exchanging fire with men on the back of the trucks that had blocked their escape route. Other soldiers from the convoy, men from the security force and several of the logistics soldiers, were behind engine blocks or some other type of cover and were returning fire with their own personal weapons.
Bertrand counted three bodies on the ground and saw the convoy’s medics working feverishly on another soldier on the pavement behind the logistics truck immediately in front of her.
As Soulier brought their vehicle to a sharp stop behind the loaded flatbed stacked high with food and medical supplies, she turned to the wounded man and said, “Grab Rivet, and get to the medics.”
Somehow, the man had got his hands on a tourniquet. The bandage was soaked with fresh red blood, but despite this, he gave her a glare and said, “I’m good. I can still drive.”
“Bullshit. Get Rivet and get the fuck out of here now!” Bertrand barked. “I’ll grab somebody else. I haven’t heard from Blanchet and Dube. I’ve got to go back to the soccer field to see what’s up. You’re no good to me the way you are now. Move, Master Corporal. Now!” She nearly screamed the final word.
The wounded soldier gave her one last hard look and then opened the door. In seconds, he had grabbed Rivet from the backseat and together they shambled toward the harried medics.
She took up the vehicle’s handset. “Gator Actual, this is Shepherd Actual. Do you copy?”
“We copy you, Shepherd. I need your status report, Captain,” said the Irishman.
“We continue to engage an enemy force that is of company strength – at least. We were ambushed at RV Bravo and continue to be under heavy fire. They have automatic and high-caliber weapons. I have multiple dead and wounded. We’re going to consolidate at my current position, then we’re going to put down smoke and make a break for it. We continue to return fire. I repeat, I have not ordered a ceasefire. Have the rapid reaction force waiting for us at RV Lima. I’ll issue a sitrep in five. Shepherd Actual out.”
“Shepherd Actual, that’s unacceptable. I’m giving you a direct order to ceasefire. You need to deescalate the situation. You have to try and start a dialogue with them. This has to be some kind of mistake.”
Bertrand's hand reached out and savagely turned off the radio, and said, “Fucking Irish prick.” Grabbing her C-8 carbine, she opened her door and walked in the direction of the small triage area in front of her G-Wagon.
Excluding her own vehicle, her platoon’s remaining G-Wagons had encircled their position, and soldiers were now in each vehicles’ turrets, lashing out steady bursts of machine-gun fire at the two trucks blocking their way and in the direction of the ambushers now behind them. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but for the moment, they had a standoff. As she stood in the shadow of the rearmost logistics truck and did her best to filter out the sounds of moaning soldiers and automatic weapons fire, her eyes found the person she was looking for.
“Vincent,” she yelled to a squat man twenty meters away standing behind the engine block of one of the up-armored SUVs. Hearing his name, the commander of the platoon that had drawn responsibility for the security element of the morning’s mission immediately locked eyes with her, smiled, and without a moment's hesitation, left his position and with his body bent, hustled toward her.
Arriving, the lieutenant said, “What a shitshow, Vee.”
“That’s one word for it. Listen, it looks like we’re on our own for the next fifteen at least. O’Regan wants us to stand down if you can believe it?”
“Stand down? You told him to fuck off, I hope.”
“I didn’t get the chance. I lost radio contact. Or that’s gonna be the story when we make it back. Listen, if I take two of the Wagons, do you think you can hold these bastards off until the reaction force arrives.”
“We can hold. We can make our ammo last and as long as we have the C-6s going, they won’t come at us. They’re not that stupid or brave by the looks of it. You gonna head back to the soccer field?”
“Yeah. It’s been radio silence from them since this thing kicked off,” said Bertrand.
“Don’t worry,” the thickly built younger man said. Incredibly, he was still sporting his signature smile. “Blanchard and Dube know their business. They’re two of my best guys, eh.”
“Yeah, well, there’s no way I’m waiting here while they have all the fun. Hold the fort, Lieutenant. If I know the colonel, he’ll already have the RRF rolling, regardless of what the Irishman says.”
“No doubt about that, Captain. Fucking wild horses couldn’t stop Michaud fr
om getting here. The only question is how soon.”
Vincent held out his fist and Bertrand quickly fist-bumped it and said, “I’ll be back in five with the boys.”
“Copy that, Vee. Stay safe.”
Brigadier General Micheal O’Regan’s face was tinged with red and verging in the direction of ugly. The commanding officer of the UN’s latest mission in Haiti was beyond displeased with the current situation.
“Lt. Colonel Michaud, your Captain Bertrand is in a whole hell of a lot of trouble. Need I remind you of what happened the last time a civilian got killed by one of your trigger-happy soldiers? I thought Canadians were professionals who took pride in their role as peacekeepers, but I see you’re nothing more than a bunch of shoot-first-ask-questions-later cowboys. No doubt the Americans would be right proud of the mess that you’re making, but as you well know, the Americans aren’t a part of this mission, thank goodness for that. Your captain is playing right into the hands of the gangs, and I’ll have no part of it.”
Michaud stared back at the man, doing a masterful job of keeping the fury he felt from poisoning the look on his face. “Sir, my soldiers – soldiers under your command – are under fire, and by the sounds of it, some of them are wounded or maybe dead. Are you going to order in the Rapid Reaction Force or not?”
“How can I order in the RRF, if I don’t know what’s going on? You’ve heard the captain, or more accurately, you’ve heard very little from her. I asked for details, and she blew me off. How do you expect me to risk throwing more fuel on the fire without having more information? Tell me, Colonel, what do they not teach Canadian infantry officers about situational reporting and following the chain of command?”
Michaud placed his hands on his hips. Despite the madness that was Haiti, he still believed in the work they were doing. But he was no warrior-diplomat and the Canadian generals who had signed off on his current role knew that. In fact, he had been told explicitly that he’d been given this command because the Canadian military knew that O’Regan was foremost a bureaucrat-soldier who was more keen on his next career move than he was on commanding soldiers. Whether she had known it or not, Michaud thought, in prioritizing her soldiers’ welfare over UN force commander’s need to control the situation, Veronique Bertrand had given this sandbagger of an officer the cover he needed to dodge the fall out of what was to come.