BlackStar Mountain

by T C Miller

  “Unfortunately, they are occupied with guarding and completing the acquisition of the devices we discussed. The death of the members of Team Four left us woefully short of personnel.”

  “It seems as though we face new challenges daily...I wonder if we are, perhaps, a little too ambitious.”

  “Not at all,” the Commissioner shot back. “I thrive on the challenge and look forward to the rewards. It sounds, though, as if you would welcome retirement.”

  “No, but it would be nice to take a more leisurely pace. I would welcome more time with my family...After all, I have almost a dozen school-aged grandchildren...Less work would allow more time with them.”

  “Yes, but leaving them with a generous legacy is also important. You are more than capable of conducting affairs on the world stage while I oversee our clandestine operations. Maybe you are weary from negotiations the past few months.”

  “I suppose you are right...What is the plan?”

  “It will take less than a week to assemble and brief the team to begin the assault. They have the advantage of being thought dead by the rest of the world. We assigned them clean new identities and divided them into two teams on extended vacations. Half are on a Pacific island...The other half at a remote site near the Guatemalan border in Belize where they have maintained the highest level of proficiency.”

  “That is already more than I need to know. When will the action take place?”

  “Within a week or two,” the Commissioner answered. “I am waiting for last minute information regarding security at the site. It will probably occur on the weekend...When their security forces are minimal and with fewer collateral casualties to complicate matters.”

  “Do you require my assistance?”

  “No. Furthermore, I would not want your name to be brought up in subsequent investigations. I am the only direct contact and my identity has more layers than an onion...The Consortium is immune from discovery.”

  “Your reassurance is comforting,” Stanislav noted.

  “And I find comfort in knowing this BlackStar team will soon be nothing more than a bad memory.”

  BSOG COMMAND CENTER

  CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN COMPLEX

  “Something about this whole thing stinks,” Mary Benson commented.

  “Hey, I took a shower this morning,” Joanna Davies said with a sly smile.

  “Not you, Tadpole. I’m talking about this weapons heist and how it’s gone from the start...Not likely one deep-cover Soviet operative could orchestrate two operations by himself...”

  “He did have the Thursday Night Mafia to help,” Nora interjected. “Not only did they have the talent to take on the real Mafia at the casinos in Tahoe, they also had the right skills for the takeover of the alert pad at Mather.”

  Mary scratched her chin. “That’s one of the things that bugs me...How did one spy, with no inside source at the base, identify just the right guys to recruit?”

  “Well...” Bart pondered.

  “In my opinion, it would take an organization with lots of resources,” she offered before he could answer.

  “Good point,” Bart replied. “Combined with the Russian smugglin’ operation in Seawind Bay, it gets real complicated. Been tap-dancin’ on roller skates on an ice rink tryin’ to figure it out...Ain’t come up with diddly-squat.”

  They were gathered around a conference table in the command center. A cool breeze from the ventilation system carried the fresh smell of the mountains outside their cavern.

  Jake let out an explosive whoosh of air. “Joanna and I’ve been kicking that around, too...Eichner and Peters must have somebody feeding them some serious intel.”

  “Been thinkin’ the same thing myself,” Bart said. “Aren’t too many intel groups that could pull it off. Most pose as think tanks...Don’t have field ops. They gather info and repackage it...Like dynamite fishing...”

  “What’s dynamite fishing?” Joanna queried.

  He grinned. “Chunk a lit stick of dynamite in the water...When it goes off, everything floats to the surface.”

  “Ugh,” she responded. “Isn’t that cheating?”

  “Only if you get caught.”

  Mary spoke up, “Speaking of proof...Sometimes it’s the absence that points you in the right direction. For instance, we know from running Eichner’s financials he was dead broke...Be hard for him to buy equipment for the Mather op...much less hire mercenaries to help break into the base.”

  “May have used offshore funds left over from old Soviet ops,” Bart noted. “Maybe none of the money showed up in bank transfers ‘cause it was done in cash...Easiest way to physically transfer funds. If that’s the answer, it had to get to him somehow. He doesn’t seem to have much in the way of international contacts...So, who made the arrangements?”

  His comment was met with shoulder shrugs and blank stares, so he went on, “Could be that’s where the Seawind Bay smugglin’ crew comes in...Had the boats and trucks to make the transfer.”

  “Maybe Eichner knew Peters in the Soviet Union when they were young,” Jake added. “Could be they trained together in Vinnytsia, that American town the Russians built back in the fifties to Americanize their undercover spies.”

  “Possible, son...Or could be somebody else brought them together...Like this shadow group we’re talking about.”

  “How do we prove it?” Jake asked.

  “Keep diggin’,” Bart replied. “Answer’ll more’n likely come through intel we dig up...Look deeper into their backgrounds and track down their contacts. Somewhere, there’s a common link between them and that shadow group...By the way, what should we call them?”

  “How about UFO?” Jay Johansen chimed in.

  “Space aliens?” Bart said.

  “No, Unidentified Funding Organization...Since we don’t know who or what they are...Remember the old cliche and follow the money...Figure out why they’re backing Eichner and Peters. In the process, we may discover others who are getting support from them.”

  “UFO it is, then,” said Bart. “At least until we discover what they call themselves. Also, we need to keep this close and personal...Raises too much dust if we start referring to shadow organizations and UFOs...And don’t narrow in on one track...Keep an open mind.”

  LICIA MARTINEZ’ DORM ROOM

  BOULDER, COLORADO

  “I’ve posted extra security at each entrance to the dorm,” Dog told the two girls. “It’ll help if you stay together in this room, so I had an extra bed brought in.”

  “How long is this going to last?” Star asked.

  “Long as it takes, Cupcake.”

  “My uncle is having his people look into it, too,” Licia added. “Asked us to hang tight till he gets back to me.”

  “Don’t see a problem with that,” Dog said. “How ‘bout you, Gwen?”

  He had begun asking for her opinion out of professional courtesy, but also because he was developing a strong respect for her. She hadn’t panicked when they were being followed and responded with calm, calculated actions.

  “None...We can order pizza and have a little slumber party,” she responded. “With a side order of vigilance.”

  “Call it in, if you don’t mind, while I do a walk-around.” He turned around when he reached the door. “Remember what I said, don’t open this door unless you hear the password. I know it sounds melodramatic, but could save a lot of heartache...Got it?”

  The girls nodded and he left.

  As soon as the door closed, Licia turned to Star. “Is he for real?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  Gwen added, “Basic security protocol...Unless you hear Heartthrob, don’t open that door...Give me time to get to my weapon.”

  The girls’ looks turned serious.

  “You’re the boss,” Licia said.

  Star nodded in agreement.

  They got their first test thirty minutes later when somebody pounded on the door. They all jumped and the girls shrieked.

  “
Who is it?” Gwen demanded.

  “Dog.”

  “What’s the password?”

  “Open Sesame,” came the muffled reply.

  Licia reached the door first and was about to open it when she froze with her hand on the knob. “Wait, what did you say?”

  “Just kidding...Heartthrob.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door.

  Gwen stood off to one side, weapon ready.

  He entered with the overpowering aroma of pizza. The fragrant smell of garlic and pepperoni hung around him like a cloud and permeated the room. Within minutes, the women sat on one side of the room on one of the beds, with Dog on the other side.

  “What...I have to eat all by myself?” he asked with a grin.

  “Long as you put anchovies on your pizza,” Gwen replied.

  “Wouldn’t expect me to eat it without fishes, would you?”

  “Little dead fishes, you mean,” Licia said.

  “No, but we expect you to eat it as far away from us as possible,” Star added.

  “Your loss.”

  “I can live with that.”

  “Have to if you want to hangout with me.”

  They turned their attention to demolishing the pies.

  BAGGAGE CLAIM AREA

  DENVER INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  “There a golf tournament going on I don’t know about?” The question from a car rental clerk casually standing at a customer service counter was directed to a fellow employee.

  “No idea...Why?”

  “Seen a dozen guys on the last couple of flights with golf bags...Three rented from us and got SUVs or trucks. Must be something going on somewhere.”

  “Where are they from?”

  “Billing addresses all over the map.”

  “Just a coincidence.”

  The golf bag men didn’t speak and offered only a smile and a nod to each other as they passed. An observant person would have noticed they were dressed in similar fashion and wore dark sunglasses. Each had identical lapel pins.

  A vigilant person could have watched as they left the rental car area at various times and drove the same route from the airport. But it was Monday. Bustling crowds of business passengers and families rushed about like ants on a fallen ice cream cone, anxious to get to their final destinations.

  Besides, golfing is a popular pastime along the Front Range. Little attention was paid to golf bags, even those that contained hidden firearms.

  GOLDEN EAGLE GUEST RANCH

  PIKE NATIONAL FOREST, COLORADO

  The Community Room in the log-cabin style building was big enough to hold sixty people in upholstered, wood-framed couches and chairs. A massive stream-rolled native-stone fireplace was the centerpiece of one wall and lent a pleasant outdoor scent.

  Two couches faced each other and sat on hand-woven Navaho rugs with two large armchairs filling in the other sides of a square. It was apparent the five golf-bag men and one woman were acquainted as they sat talking like a circle of old friends.

  “Has it really been that long?” asked Chopper, a barrel-chested man in his late thirties with closely cropped red hair. The nickname came from a fire fight in the Colombian jungle fifteen years before, when he used an M2 “Ma Deuce” .50 caliber machine gun to cut trees down around a landing zone.

  “I guess so,” replied Bantam, the smallest member of the reconstituted Consortium Strike Team Five. “South Africa sounds about right and that was, what...four, maybe five years ago? Pit Bull, you remember it, don’t you?”

  “All I remember about South Africa is getting out of there with a crowd of angry locals chasing us in a beat up old truck. Glad they weren’t better shots.”

  A dark-haired operative with shoulder-length hair tied back with a rubber band interrupted the socializing by tapping a K-bar against his beer glass.

  “All right, girls, time to get down to business...And that includes the only real girl here...How you been, Twister?”

  The question was directed to a fit-looking brunette in her mid thirties with a slender build.

  “Bored to tears, Buster,” she shot back. “Last assignment was baby-sitting a drug-lord’s kids and guarding his wife while she shopped in Miami...I’m ready for some real action.”

  He smiled. “Know what you mean...Thought six months on a tropical island would be great, but I was starting to go crazy. You can only hangout on the beach and practice house-to-house searches for so long before it gets to you...How ‘bout you, Jack?...For those of you who haven’t been introduced, this is Jack...no call sign, yet...Newest member of the team...Just finished another op.”

  A stout man in his forties looked up at the mention of his name. “Ready to earn my keep...So tell me, what’s this op all about?”

  “Don’t have the slightest,” Buster replied. “Supposed to hear from the man on that thing any minute.”

  He pointed to a forty-inch monitor mounted on the opposite wall from the fireplace and glanced at his chronograph for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening. “Should be any minute.”

  The manager of the guest ranch entered the room through a door to the kitchen. He turned on the monitor and passed out sealed letter-sized envelopes, before leaving without speaking to the group.

  “Awfully quiet, ain’t he?” Bantam noted.

  “Gets paid a lot of dough to keep his eyes, ears and mouth shut,” Pit Bull answered. “Can’t be questioned about what you don’t know.”

  “I’ll say one thing for the Consortium...They do hire good people,” Twister interjected.

  “You mean like us, right?” Bantam joked.

  “I wasn’t including you.”

  “Hey, hey...”

  “Pipe down, you two...Call’s coming in.”

  The screen came to life with a white-haired man in a business suit sitting at a massive walnut desk. Floor-to-ceiling wooden bookcases filled the wall behind him.

  “Good evening.” His voice was deep in tone with a slight eastern European accent. “I will dispense with introductions, since you already know each other.”

  He paused to give the members of the group time to respond.

  “I have called you together to address a threat to the security of the Consortium. I will not bore you with unnecessary details, but, as you can see, we have assembled the best team in the world to address the problem.

  “You are the main force and will be assisted by others. Their mission will be to distract the security forces of a highly-fortified installation while you eradicate a smaller unit within. I also want to welcome Jack to the team. He has had some contact with the group you will be seeking to destroy.

  “The packets you were given include floor plans of the target installation and details of the security arrangement. You may open them now.”

  He waited while they tore open the envelopes and listened to the exclamations that followed.

  “Cheyenne Mountain...Are you serious?” Pit Bull raised the question, but it was on the minds of the others.

  “Yes, Mister Pit Bull, I am most assuredly serious about this mission. Although, the NORAD operation in the facility is not our target, it is probable you will encounter heavy resistance from them. The intention of the plan is to bypass them as quickly as possible.

  “Based upon their current emergency plan, they will lock down the buildings that comprise their share of the facility and wait for reinforcements from local military bases before attempting to clear the mountain. That should give you sufficient time to destroy the target and retreat. They will not be expecting a lightning-fast attack that disappears equally as quickly as it arrives.”

  Chopper interrupted, “Excuse me, but have you gone off the deep end? Never been there before, but their security is legendary...And you expect us to waltz in and out of there like a stroll in the park? Why not admit it’s a suicide mission from the get-go?”

  “Mister Chopper, you should know by now we have considered all parameters...especially security. The plan wi
ll allow you to enter the complex and move to the target with little initial resistance from the security force...That will give you a distinct advantage, will it not?”

  Chopper rolled his eyes. “I’m well aware of the Consortium’s ability...And, yes, every operation I’ve been on has gone smooth and easy...I’m just saying, maybe this time you bit off more than we can chew.”

  “I think you will find this job to be no different than the other missions. If you would, please, read the material in your envelopes and discuss it among yourselves...We will talk again in two hours. Mister Chopper, if you object to being part of this operation, you are free to leave.”

  Chopper shrugged his shoulders.

  “At the risk of repeating myself, you are free to leave at this time if you do not feel comfortable with the mission.”

  “It’s not that...Just want to make sure we’re getting paid enough for the risks.”

  “We are known for our generous compensation...So I shall state it in a different way...If you are in the room when this intermission has ended, I will assume you are fully committed to the project.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The Consortium leader motioned to an unseen technician and the screen went blank. The audio feed was still working and the Commissioner waited to hear their response to his words.

  He turned off his microphone and addressed Stanislaw, who was seated behind the camera. “How would you evaluate that exchange?”

  “They seem to be ready for the assignment...Although, this Chopper person questioned the plan before even seeing it. Have we made a mistake by including him in the operation?”

  “It will serve our agenda quite well, given the evidence we have accumulated of his extracurricular activities. I do have alternate team members available nearby, in the event they are needed.”

  One hour and fifty-eight minutes later Buster used the remote on the table to turn on the big screen. “The Commissioner likes punctuality,” he said to nobody in particular.

  Two minutes later the screen flickered a few times and the Commissioner resumed the conversation as if there had been no interruption.

  “I assume you have read and discussed the plan?”

  Buster spoke for the group, “We did, and see no problem implementing it. In fact, some parts are brilliant and should proceed quite...”