Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2)

by T. S. O'Neil

  Char bowed his head and nodded. “Well, son, I guess we both knew that this day might come. Keep your powder dry―your old man will be okay.”

  Char hugged his son and whispered something in his ear, causing Michael to grin. And with that, Char was escorted out of the C-hut and marched down to the Good as Gold for a return to a country he had left behind nearly three years ago. Ramos sidled over to Michael.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip,” replied Michael. Ramos smiled.

  The rest of the group appeared to be either aviators or some staff officers or senior NCOs. Michael assumed the tall guy with the graying temples was the Chief of Operations by the way he conducted himself.

  The Marine looked out the door and then shouted, “Stand by.” He called the room to attention and in walked a Marine Michael recognized immediately― although he doubted the man remembered him. He had never served with Major General McElroy, but he had met the man once when Michael was undergoing the Basic Reconnaissance Course at Little Creek, Virginia.

  It turned out that Lieutenant James McElroy was undergoing the same rigorous training course and his father was there for graduation. McElroy Jr. was selected as honor graduate. While the obvious conclusion was that the selection was made in an attempt to curry favor with a GO, in Michael’s opinion, the guy deserved the award as he was a damn fine Marine. Michael, forever the consummate low key player, finished in the middling middle.

  Unlike most of the others, McElroy wore rank on his highly pressed tropical utilities. The two small silver stars were centered horizontally and vertically on his collar with a single tip pointing up, but Michael wondered why he bothered as no one would mistake him for anything but a general officer.

  “Read the orders,” commanded the general.

  “Attention to Orders, effective immediately, Captain

  Michael C. Blackfox is recalled to active duty. Assignment is to

  Second Marine Special Operations Battalion, Camp Lejeune,

  North Carolina.”

  “Congratulations, Captain Blackfox. Screw up and we’ll send you to jail faster than shit passes through a goose,” said the general.

  Chapter Twelve - Sorry Charlie

  Isla de Bartolomé, CO

  “The name is Char, not Charlie,” he said quietly. The two federal marshals and their captive stood on the dock, now being guarded by the Colombian soldier that Char had disarmed during their unsuccessful escape. The soldier glared at him with venomous eyes. Char figured the guy was probably being punished for getting bested by an almost senior citizen, and he felt for him. But shit happens and it’s best not to be in front of it when it does.

  “Gee, sorry, Charlie. Now get on board and otherwise, shut the fuck up! From this point on, your name is shit-stain as far as

  I’m concerned.”

  Upon close inspection, the deputy marshal was a balding blivet of a man―ten pound of shit in a five-pound bag. His commando light wear was rumpled and stained, probably indicating he was a bachelor, and his bulbous nose, which looked like a subway map of greater Tokyo, indicated a more-than fleeting acquaintance with Jack Daniels or some other liquor. This was news that Char could use. In taking the measure of the man, Char calculated that it would be possible to beat the snot out of him, should it come to that, but he was also sure that he would employ a host of dirty techniques and devices to even the match. Weight added strength, even if it was fat. Cops survived either by being well trained, or—if they were out of shape, like this pear-shaped specimen—by being willing to do whatever it took to take you out. The other guy was less of an out-of-shape douche bag than his partner, but he could have afforded to lose a few pounds.

  He was also more by the book.

  The years had been kind to Char. At the ripe old age of fifty eight, his six-foot-two-inch frame still weighed a relatively lean two hundred pounds. He had a slight limp from an AK-47 round that had almost taken his leg. Due to a rigorous physical conditioning regime and decent work done by the army surgeon, people hardly ever noticed his condition.

  “We’re Deputy Marshals Lewis Beavers and Carl Davis. There is no reason why this can’t be a fairly pleasant cruise. Let’s sit down in the—”

  “Main salon,” offered Char.

  “Sure, let’s sit down in the main salon and discuss a few things.” They boarded at the stern and passed into the cabin. Char immediately noticed that both cops seemed awed by the opulent accoutrements of the yacht.

  The room had two deep, tan armchairs and a couch made from the same glove-soft leather. There was a forty-two inch flat screen attached to one of the bulkheads and a three-stool bar constructed of chromed steel and dark black marble, complete with a mirrored backsplash between twin tiered racks that held top-shelf liquor. Char actually saw Davis lick his fat, pouty lips as he perused some of the labels. This was going to be easier than he’d thought.

  Char took a seat on one of the bar stools while both Davis and Beavers selected the deep leather recliners.

  “Okay, so what do you want to know?”

  “Are there any weapons on the boat?” asked Davis.

  “Aside from my rapier like wit, no,” lied Char.

  “Better be sure, as we’ll search,” said Beavers.

  “Search away, it’s your boat, now,” said Char, knowing the weapons were well concealed.

  “Your intended course?” asked Beavers.

  Char looked at the bar, “mind if I get a soft drink?”

  The agent nodded. “Just don’t make any sudden moves,” cautioned the younger agent.

  Char slid off the stool and nonchalantly retreated behind the bar while talking, figuring he would get them used to him serving them.

  “Northeast to the Dominican Republic, refuel and replenish in Santo Domingo, then take the Mona Passage between Puerto Rico and Hispaniola, Char replied flatly. We want to watch the tides and the weather before we leave Santo Domingo, as that eighty mile strait is one of the most hazardous passages in the Caribbean. It’s riddled with variable tidal flows created by the islands on either side of it and by sand banks that extend out for many miles from both sides of the strait. It’s not a crossing you should take lightly.”

  Char opened the small refrigerator and withdrew three Diet Cokes.

  “You guys want a soda? All I have is Diet Coke, but it’s better than nothing.”

  They both nodded; it had been a thirsty morning all around.

  Char popped the tops, delivered the sodas, and then returned to the bar stool. Beavers, visibly the smarter of the two, looked at Char suspiciously.

  “If the strait is so dangerous, why not go the other way, the passage between Cuba and Haiti?”

  “Easy—feel like dealing with the Cuban Coast Guard? They could impound this boat and take us prisoner. If it’s all the same to you fellas, I would rather be locked up in a jail in the States than in Cuba.” That seemed to satisfy the deputies. Beavers took a deep sip of his soda and looked suspiciously at Char.

  “Let’s talk about some ground rules,” said Beavers.

  Char took on a facial expression that he hoped conveyed rapt attention, “Shoot.”

  “We aren’t going to handcuff you while on the boat, as you need to pilot us back to Miami. However, fuck up by trying to escape, we’ll lock you in your cabin and I’ll take over.”

  “You know how to drive a boat this size, Lou?” asked Char.

  “No, but I have a thirty foot Bertram that I take out on occasion.”

  “That’s less than half the size of this yacht,” replied Char.

  “Yeah, that’s why you’re not currently locked in your cabin,” said Beavers.

  “OK, sounds fair” said Char as he slipped off the bar stool and clapped his hands, “how about a quick lunch of steak sandwiches and French Fries before I point this fine piece of government property north toward the land of the big PX?” Both cops nodded vigorously.

  “Ever
ything’s frozen, but even so, I still manage to make a decent Philly Cheesesteak,” said Char.”

  “Thanks. We’ve been eating MREs since we got assigned to this detail, “replied Beavers.

  “Yes, meals rejected by Ethiopians, although I am more familiar with their predecessor, C-Rats. Either is high living for Marines. Just let me see if I can do something better.” This was going to be easier than selling condoms in a whorehouse, thought Char as he retreated into the galley.

  Chapter Thirteen - LNO

  Isla de Bartolomé, CO

  General McElroy was at first irritated that the three fugitives had managed to cause so much grief in so short a time span. The two Americans had been identified, but the guy who blew up the raid team had remained silent.

  The MARSOC commander always traveled with a compact Iridium satellite phone. It buzzed and he immediately recognized the number.

  “Hello, Felix, to what do I owe this pleasure?” The movement into Colombia had been cleared through the Colombian Armed Forces General Staff, but was otherwise kept on a need-to-know basis. Once General McElroy found out he would be crossing into COLMAR battle space, he had called to clear it with their commander and arranged to meet for dinner in Bogota, but the general had been busy and McElroy had left a message with his aide.

  McElroy listened for at least three minutes straight, unable to get a word in. Finally, he managed to penetrate the monologue.

  “Let me check.” He looked at his sergeant major, who never seemed to be more than a few steps away. “Do me a favor, Sergeant Major, and find out who that local national is they caught with Blackfox. It seems that a Colombian senator is raising holy hell with the COLMAR about the location of a certain Captain Marco Ramos.”

  The sergeant major disappeared, then returned a moment later and nodded in the affirmative, confirming that their captive was indeed the missing Colombian Marine.

  “It’s him, Felix, but he’s not being held. We’re visitors here after all. He just got swept up in us policing one of our own. I can drop him off where you want, but I have a couple of things to discuss with you while I have you on the phone. If I can get your approval in concept now, we can work out the

  in Bogota this evening over a nice meal of bandeja paisa.”

  The general paused for a moment, listened, and then answered. “Well, the long pole in the tent is this base. If we fly in a logpac, it should meet our needs and allow us to keep a lower profile than we anticipated. If I can get your approval, we would like to use it as a tactical operations center for the next couple of weeks.”

  While McElroy listened to his COLMAR counterpart, it suddenly occurred to him that Ramos might be useful. He was politically connected, quick thinking and a consummate mischief maker―just the kind of freethinker that MARSOC was said to covet.

  “The other thing I wanted to discuss with you, Felix, is the need for a heavy hitter from COLMAR to act as a liaison officer (LNO). We need someone who can fix things when they have gone awry. I think I know a good candidate.”

  The COLMAR commander readily agreed to the use of the base as it was hardly used anymore and it would give the North Americans the anonymity they so badly wanted to maintain. The decision regarding the liaison officer was just as straightforward. McElroy ended the call and smiled.

  ***

  “Captain Ramos, front and center!” Colonel Hearth shouted into the C-Hut.

  “Si, my Colonel,” shouted Ramos loudly while jumping to his feet and walking to the door.

  “Got to hand it to you son, you move quick―get into a little hot water and a few hours later you have the commandant of the Colombian Marine Corps looking for you because a certain

  Senator Ramos won’t stop calling him.”

  Ramos didn’t even fight the urge to smile. “What can I say?

  My father is an important man.”

  “Let’s step outside so we can make a call.” The colonel handed Ramos the sat phone, instructed him to push send, and retreated a short distance away to give him at least the perception of privacy, as he didn’t want to miss the fireworks.

  Ramos expected to hear the cultured, rapid-fire Spanish that his father had developed through years of political debate. Instead, he was very much surprised to hear the guttural voice of General Felix Gonzales.

  “Capitan Ramos?” “Yes,” he replied.”

  “This is General Gonzales; your father called me and was very worried about your well-being.”

  “I’m fine, my General.”

  “Then why did you bother your father with this business?” Ramos started to answer, but the general cut him off.

  “You ever go outside official channels and call your father again, I’ll have you reduced to private and sent to the smallest post I can find on the border with Panama.”

  “I understand, my General.”

  “Good. I want you to do something for me, Marco.” The general’s voice softened. “The North Americans need a liaison officer and have specifically asked for you. Although I didn’t have to do it, I discussed your participation in this mission with your father, and he asked me to convey that he wants you to do what’s right for Colombia. Marco, you’re a good Marine―make sure you prove yourself to the North Americans so that they will be rightly proud of their Colombian brothers. They have some very serious business to take care of and they need your help.”

  The only appropriate answer was to acquiesce to the general’s request, which was really an order.

  Ramos felt emotion creep into his voice and the only thing he trusted himself to say was “Yes, sir.” He ended the call and walked over to the colonel to return the phone.

  The colonel smiled slightly at Ramos. “Well, my young friend, you may have your daddy’s ear, but your ass belongs to the Marine Corps.”

  Chapter Fourteen - Puerto Ayacucho

  Simon Bolivar International Airport

  Caracas, VZ

  The 2006 black Range Rover was waiting at the curb next to a no parking sign with the engine idling. The driver, a broad chested, squat Venezuelan nicknamed Tovar, wordlessly took the colonel’s suitcase and opened the rear door. He was alleged to have been one of Hugo Chavez’s former bodyguards who had been let go for unspecified reasons. A National Guard general had recommended him to Van Achtenberg as someone who could provide certain unspecific, but immeasurably necessary, skills to facilitate an orderly operation. He was a consummate fixer, fluent translator, and did not shy away from violent action when such things were required. Tovar was trained in evasive driving and as soon as the colonel was seated, the man jumped behind the steering wheel and expertly threaded the Range Rover through the airport’s rush-hour traffic.

  Peter Van Achtenberg handed the colonel a cold towel and a large bottle of ice-cold water. He was a former major in the South African Army’s First Reconnaissance Commando who had left the army soon after Mandela had ascended to power.

  Stal looked at the man and uttered one word, “Well?” Having grown accustomed to his employer’s unique style, Van Achtenberg was ready to give him a thorough update concerning their progress in rehabilitating the installation.

  “Since you were last here, we’ve made a considerable amount of progress. In early February, we hired an army of unemployed from Caracas, flew them out to the site, and worked them like slaves to get the place ready for your arrival. We spent a fortune getting air-conditioning restored in all the buildings and have turned one of the warehouses into a dormitory for the workers. They are mostly Chinese and don’t complain about much as long as we are feeding them and letting them drink when they are not on duty.”

  It was a twelve-hour drive from the Simon Bolivar Airport to

  Puerto Ayacucho over mostly good, modern highways. The drive would take a circuitous route along the coastal plain to Barcelona where they would cross the mountains and descend to the flat and wide savanna to Cuidad Bolivar. There, Van Achtenberg would check in with the local shipping company to inquire about the statu
s of the PAMAX ship, Mario’s Luck, which they hired to transport key components from the port of Dubai to Puerto Ayacucho via the Orinoco River.

  “Chen wanted to know when he could expect delivery of the C2 systems.”

  The colonel was annoyed at being questioned by the hired help, but was proud of his accomplishments and he decided to indulge the man.

  “I brought them with me on the aircraft. The equipment will be shipped on a dedicated freightliner I had Tovar arrange. Unload them first. Have the laborers you hired do it as long as they are supervised by Chen’s team,” said Stal.

  He leaned back into the soft glove-like leather of the rear seat and smiled, “I purchased the components from a bankrupt commercial space venture that the Chinese government shut down. It’s almost the complete mobile command system―hardware and software—but the crown jewel of the acquisition is commercial flight control software written by a team of developers formerly with the China National Space Administration,” he paused and took a long drink of water, other large missile components are arriving on the ship, I have a list.” Stal reached into his portfolio, removed a manifest and handed it to Van Achtenberg. “You need to ensure every component is accounted for, offloaded and transferred via eighteen-wheelers to the installation. See that the ground transportation does not stop anywhere between the port and the base. Given the sensitivity of the cargo, any dwell time needs to be minimized,” said Stal.

  “Will do,” replied Van Achtenberg.

  “If you can’t get this all done today, I’ll leave you in Bolivar so you can coordinate it tomorrow and I’ll go on to the installation,” said Stal.

  “No problem, one of my lads is already at the port coordinating the transshipment.” The colonel leaned back in the tall leather captain’s chair and started to close his eyes when a thought occurred to him.

  “Who is providing security for the installation?”