America has slipped into a conflict it refuses to name. The signs aren’t subtle. They aren’t even deniable. They are simply scattered across headlines, Pentagon statements, satellite images, and the unmistakable roar of carrier groups shifting into position. If this isn’t war with Venezuela, then the word has lost its meaning.

It began almost anonymously, with a drone and a drifting wooden boat somewhere in the Caribbean. These boats are the region’s background noise—used by fishermen, smugglers, anyone who knows a coastline better than a government map. In normal times, U.S. forces intercept and inspect them. This time, the drones simply blew them out of the water. One boat, then another, and another. Fourteen strikes in a matter of weeks.

The administration insisted it was targeting cartel traffickers. Perhaps. But the geography didn’t add up. Cocaine doesn’t typically migrate through those waters; its arteries run through Colombia, Peru, Bolivia, Mexico—overland or across the Pacific. What Trump labelled a counter-narcotics surge was in reality the opening salvo of something else: a pivot towards the Caribbean theatre, with Venezuela at the centre of the crosshairs.

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By October, the façade was collapsing. Washington deployed its most advanced aircraft carrier to the region and quietly authorised CIA activity inside Venezuelan borders. In diplomatic terms, this was the equivalent of shoving all the furniture against the door before a storm. The message was unmistakable: the next drone strike might not hit a wooden boat. It might hit a flag.

Why Venezuela? There’s a long and tortured answer, and a simpler one. The long answer involves oil—specifically, the world’s largest proven........

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