Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2)

by T. S. O'Neil

  In Chen’s opinion, the man seemed blissfully removed from such details. Stal dismissed the concern and went on to speak emphatically about the project, offering Dr. Chen the technical lead of a team that he could recruit with full autonomy. He offered money that would allow Chen to woo back his wife and live anywhere he wished.

  Over the course of the last several months, Chen had assembled a team drawn from mostly former colleagues that had either retired or been involved in different scandals with similar outcomes.

  The missile and warhead had recently arrived in five large crates and they immediately got to work reassembling it. The real work was preparing the warhead to maximize the generation of an electromagnetic pulse. To do this, the underside bomb casing would be thinned from its current thickness of two inches to a yet to be determined level. Given the austere conditions, no truly modern industrial scale solutions were available. The only viable resolution was to employ multiple angle grinders with cutting wheels to grind off the excess steel. It was slow, tedious and dangerous work, but required to maximize the electromagnetic pulse effect.

  If a large enough warhead was detonated at the right distance and location, every single electrical device within range would be destroyed. In short, the target audience would be thrown back, if not to the Stone Age, to the late nineteenth century at the very least.

  Stal hadn’t seen Chen since hiring him but knew that he had been busy assembling his team and relocating to Amazonia. The site was austere, but the Chinese are a hardy lot, Stal ensured there would be sufficient creature comforts to keep them content while the bigger plan unfolded.

  Stal had arrived that day and demanded an immediate progress report and visual inspection of the facilities. Overall, Chen was pleased with the progress his workers had made in preparing the installation and the missile. Yet the Colonel’s highly critical demeanor was about to become well known to the senior team members. He had given them fifteen minutes of warning that he intended to view the site, figuring that the sooner the Chinese scientists got used to his autocratic style, the better they would get along.

  He was given a cursory tour of the facilities including the control room, the launch pad, and the warehouse being used to assemble the missile. They returned from the inspection covered with dust and sweat. Chen ushered the man into a stuffy glass sided conference room that had been hastily cleaned to accommodate his arrival.

  Without direction, Stal took a seat at the head of the table and allowed a female hostess to pour him a tall glass of ice water before he summarily dismissed her with a wave of his hand. He left Chen standing and without refreshment.

  “I’ve read all your progress reports, Doctor Chen, said Stal. Just tell me how close you are to having the weapon ready for launch on April 1st.”

  “Well, we are not sure that we can meet the required goals for the weapon. We have lightened the casing somewhat, however there have been problems with radiation poisoning involved with this,” replied Doctor Chen in heavily accented English.

  Stal smacked the table with his hand causing the drink to fall over and spill its contents.

  “So? Use the local laborers if you have to―just get the warhead properly prepared on time.”

  Chen nodded slowly. “We have done so and three workers were badly burned. How do we explain workers dying of radiation sickness to whatever authorities exist in this area of the country?”

  “Leave that to me,” Stal replied arrogantly.

  “What do we do when more workers start showing signs of radiation sickness?”

  “Fire them or kill them, I don’t care which.” Stal enjoyed shocking the man.

  “On second thought, call Van Achtenberg and he will take care of the workers―we can’t have any more burn victims showing up at the local clinic now, can we?” Chen said nothing as there was nothing to say. Stal stood up and strode from the room. Apparently, the meeting was over.

  Chen sat down at the long wooden conference table. It was stained with water damage, and although it was less than five years old, already looked like a neglected antique. Someone’s idea of what might have been, thought Chen. He lit the last of his Davidoff Gold cigarettes. He supposed he would have to start smoking the Marlboros smuggled from Colombia. They were readily available in the small store that had materialized at the end of the compound a week after they had started clearing it.

  Another miracle of capitalism, he thought ruefully.

  Chen blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling and grew pensive. As was often the case with fascists, whether they were from the right or the left of the political spectrum, the end always justifies the means. There were numerous petty examples of this scattered throughout his past life―the farmer who sold wood alcohol to his neighbors labeled as whiskey, the gang that sold rat meat passed off as lamb, and the company that knowingly sold tainted baby formula. All were but petty betrayals for commercial gain. The question remained―would desperation make him do the same thing? Not just to the poor Venezuelan workers, but also the intended target of Stal’s nefarious scheme? It would seem that he had entered into truly uncharted ethical territory.

  Chen walked to the window and watched a group of local laborers busily engaged in laying new conduit to house fiber-optic cabling that would connect the network of telemetry computers. The original fiber cabling and conduit had been looted soon after the installation was completed. Several Chinese telecom specialists hovered about the workers; presumably haranguing them in broken Spanish while they labored in the tropic heat to bury the new pipe.

  ***

  Stal had asked his security chief to set up a meeting with the local National Guard commander, given the need for a heightened security posture.

  “The National Guard major won’t be able to meet with you until tomorrow, as he has been summoned to Caracas to attend a meeting,” said Peter Van Achtenberg as the colonel seated himself in the Range Rover.

  “Then show me the security plan for the compound,” ordered

  Stal.

  Van Achtenberg nodded and accelerated the vehicle to the launch pad along a narrow access road that had been newly laid with gravel.

  “We don’t have enough men to have a complete perimeter defense, explained the Afrikaner, but we use the gantry as a watchtower manned by a machine gun team with a Vektor SS-77 and night vision equipment. It’s manned twenty four hours a day,” he said, pointing to the gantry. Stal nodded, but said nothing. This made Van Achtenberg nervous. He pointed to the fence line.

  “This twelve foot, barbwire-topped chain link fence used to completely surround the compound, but much of it has been stripped by looters. We have covered some of these open areas with defended strong points, and in others we strung cameras connected to the fiber optic LAN and emplaced command detonated mines, all monitored by the Security Command

  Center.”

  “Take me there,” the colonel ordered. The Afrikaner nodded, wheeled the vehicle around, and returned to the compound. In roughly the center stood a one-story, unpainted cinderblock building with a flat roof festooned with antennas of varying height. They entered the control room and interrupted three Chinese technicians. All stopped what they were doing and turned towards the pair. A guard dressed in old South African camouflage utilities stood up from behind a control panel and saluted.

  “Hello, Peter.”

  “Hello, Gunther. This is Colonel Stal, the boss.” The guard saluted and Stal nodded his head slightly.

  “Give him a rundown of the perimeter defenses.”

  “This is the main control panel. We have night vision cameras at twelve strategic locations around the perimeter as indicated by the black dots on the map,” said the man, indicting a computer display on a flat screen in front of him.

  “Sensors have been installed on the existing fence line, and we have a crew of locals reinstalling missing perimeter defense with concertina and command detonated mines, which will be controlled from here.”

  “And air defense?”
asked the Colonel.

  “That’s the best part, interjected Van Achtenberg with a sly smile. The Chavez regime has ordered the deployment of an S300VM missile system to protect this compound. It will provide active defense against short- and medium-range ballistic missiles, cruise missiles, fixed-wing aircraft, as well as precision-guided munitions. With this in place, we will be untouchable!” “Fool, no one is untouchable! Those that think they are will quickly become extinct,” replied Stal.

  The remarks stung and the security chief was doubly embarrassed because it had happened in front of a subordinate. Stal examined the remaining space and engaged the Chinese in a similar interrogation about the flight telemetry equipment that would occupy the rest of the room. After ten minutes, he seemed satisfied and indicated to Van Achtenberg that he was ready to leave.

  The security chief expertly wheeled the vehicle down the rutted jungle road towards the 1920s-vintage, tropical style tin roofed house that the colonel would be occupying.

  “Your luggage has been placed inside and the house has been supplied with food and drink. You should be very comfortable.” “Good, I think I will take this opportunity to get acquainted with the girl you told me about. What is her name?”

  “Gloria,” replied the Afrikaner.

  “She is locked in your bedroom. One of my guys spotted her when they took some workers in for treatment of their burns, and she was waiting on her father to finish work. She was dressed in a cute schoolgirl outfit, and we thought you would like her.”

  “Gloria, what a lovely name!” said Stal like a starving man anticipating a particularly delicious meal.

  Chapter Twenty-two - Going Hot

  Vicinity of Pintado, Amazona

  It was a little past midnight on a dark moonless night―perfect for an operation of this type. Night-vision goggles rendered the need for much ambient light moot. The landing zone turned out to be a semi-flooded marsh. Michael splashed into the water and felt his boots sink in the mud. The forward motion of the parachute caused him to fall to his knees. He had belatedly decided to ride his pack in rather than lowering it from a line prior to hitting the earth, as he was worried the impact would damage the fragile components. The night jump brought back memories, but this time he was unarmed and felt vulnerable. He would have to see what he could do to remedy that situation.

  Sergeant Howell had painstakingly packed the small Dell Ultrabook and other key components into a water-resistant Otter box and sealed it in thick black plastic along with two spare batteries and a solar charger. Size and weight constraints inherent in planning HAHO operations mandated that they choose a small laptop rather than the standard military ruggedized one.

  They all used night vision goggle systems clipped to the lightweight Kevlar helmets that were specifically designed for Special Operations. Most team members were armed with the ubiquitous M4 Carbines. They carried 240 rounds of the high velocity, yet relatively small 5.56 millimeter rounds packed into eight polymer 30 round magazines. The Havoc Twins were armed with new M32 multiple-shot grenade launchers, while another Marine carried an M240B medium machine gun.

  They could communicate with each other via personal Motorola PRC-153 radios, and for external communications with the rear, Sergeant Meyers, the Communications Chief, carried the

  AN/PRC-117G transportable tactical radio that, together with a TACSAT antenna, could reach anywhere covered by communications satellites.

  The team all wore Brazilian Army camouflage uniforms. Although, since no one on the team spoke much Portuguese, the subterfuge merely provided a layer of semi-plausible deniability for State Department politicians to hide behind should the plan turn to shit.

  The team leader did a quick head count and the team began silently filing down the well-traveled jungle trail that would lead them to the village. It was ten minutes past midnight when they started. The plan was to arrive at the village well before sunrise and contact Bobby Abreu, who would then take them to a portion of the installation’s perimeter that he knew to be unguarded while it was still dark.

  An early morning rain shower had cooled the surrounding dense foliage to a point where Michael felt slightly chilled. Were it not for the sixty pound rucksack on his back, this might be mistaken for a comfortable hike. They had a six kilometer trek from the LZ to the clinic and Michael was glad it was not longer. The small team moved quickly. Two point men reconnoitered ahead of the main body, and a two-man team provided rear security. Michael took up a position behind Doc Murphy, to the rear of the main body.

  At about 0130, the team passed hand and arm signals indicating a halt. Michael was summoned to the front of the column to meet with Reigns.

  “We’ve reached the village perimeter. I’ve dispatched one team to locate the clinic, meet with the informant and bring him to us. Once we move out, stay to the rear and look inconspicuous.

  I don’t want anything happening to you, at least not until you upload the virus,” said Reigns.

  “Gee, Reigns, that’s almost touching,” whispered Michael.

  The Havoc Twins, Juan Thomas, and Marcel Dixon were detailed to pick up the informant. The team moved tactically to the edge of the village, took up concealed positions, and waited while closely monitoring the buildings for any signs of suspicious activity. The clinic was illuminated with a solar-powered front light that cast a dim glow about the entrance of the white cinder block building. A sign out front proudly proclaimed the clinic to be a gift from the Cuban government constructed under the auspices of the Chavez regime.

  By turn, each Marine executed a short three- to five-yard rush while being covered by his teammates. Once Dixon completed a rush, he would cover one of the Havoc Twins as he leapfrogged ahead of him.

  Once the team reached the clinic’s outside perimeter wall, they took up covered positions as the Havoc Twins approached the door. Jamie Olsten provided close security, while his brother, Jerry, checked for the presence of tripwires or explosive devices. Discovering nothing, he slowly turned the knob and found it to be unlocked. He gradually pushed the door open, eliciting a long, drawn-out creak from a rusty hinge. He cursed under his breath. Jamie, providing close security, repositioned to better cover the exposed doorway.

  While Jamie remained outside providing security, the rest of the team entered the clinic. Inside the lobby stood a five-foot-tall bespectacled Indian wearing a red and white Phillies’ jersey and similarly colored baseball hat.

  “Hello, Yankees, I am called Bobby Abreu.”

  “Fuck the Yankees; I’m a Red Sox Fan,” whispered Marcel Dixon, as he swept the room for potential threats.

  “I think he meant Yankee as slang for North Americans,” said Sergeant Juan Thomas.

  “So, you speak English?” asked Thomas.

  “Yes, a little,” Bobby replied.

  “OK, great,” said Thomas, secretly relieved he wouldn’t be forced into speaking Yanomami, a language that was particularly challenging because it involved generating sounds through his nose to speak certain vowels.

  “Please do us a favor and place your hands above your head while my partner searches you.”

  Dixon did a quick pat down for weapons while the other team members did a cursory search of the clinic before returning up front. Bobby lowered his hands and regarded Thomas and Dixon.

  “You know, I picked the name of the famous baseball player as a nickname because we were both born on the same day,

  March eleventh. He was born in 1974 and I was born in 1970.” Thomas looked at him with keen interest.

  “Yeah, who does he play for now?” Bobby pointed proudly to the white “P” embroidered on his ball cap.

  “Interesting,” replied SGT Thomas. He quickly launched into a prepared, but low-key interrogation to verify the veracity of the informant’s bona fides.

  “So tell me about security around the facility. How many soldiers are guarding it?”

  “About ten,” replied Bobby.

  “Are there any large weapons, li
ke machine guns?” “Yes, let me show you,” said Bobby as he walked to a whiteboard used for staff instructions, picked up a Sharpie, and drew a reasonable depiction of the launch site. He then drew three circles and a series of long dotted lines.

  “The circles indicate a position with a machine gun, the dotted lines are existing fence lines, and the areas where there are no lines is where the fence was torn down a long time ago for scrap.”

  SGT Thomas was pleased with the level of detail and pressed for more information. “What type of fence?”

  “The new fence is a special kind with spaces too small to allow good hand holds, about five meters tall, and topped with barbed wire.”

  SGT Thomas grew suspicious at the level of detail and pounced, “How do you know?”

  “Many of my neighbors are employed by the company completing the repairs, including two who died of radiation burns,” replied Bobby.

  Juan Thomas indicated he was satisfied and smiled at the informant.

  “Excuse me while I check in with my boss,” he stated as he retreated to a corner of the building to radio Captain Reigns.

  SGT Thomas returned to Bobby and withdrew a banged up set of monovision NVGs from his rucksack.

  “These will help you see at night. I will turn them on when we are outside as there is too much light in here.” Thomas fitted the goggles on Bobby’s head and conducted a short orientation on their use.

  Once he was properly outfitted with the goggles, the four

  Marines guided him outside and turned them on to demonstrate their capabilities. The transformation of blackness into green tinged daylight astounded the informant.

  “Marveloso” he proclaimed repeatedly, like a child delighted by a new toy, until Thomas asked him politely to shut up.

  The scout team returned to the team’s location in the same manner as they had left, this time escorting a seemingly amused informant. “What fun!” he proclaimed when they finally reached the perimeter.

  Thomas found Captain Reigns hunkered down with the radio operator giving a situation report to the rear command post. The translator approached the MSOT Commander and gave him a back brief outside of earshot, then summoned the informant for an introduction.