by T. S. O'Neil
“Did you know you were bleeding, Van Achtenberg?”
“Yeah, the little fucker caught me a good one in the arm, but it went right through.”
“Better have it seen to. I’ll have a truck transport you to the clinic.”
“That’s not necessary; one of my boys is a medic. He’ll see to it. What do you want done with this little shit?” “Lock him up,” replied Stal.
Van Achtenberg led Chen away to be locked in the cold storage room that was now used as a holding cell.
Stal went to a laptop, initiated the video conferencing program he used to communicate with, and summoned Chen’s assistant. The face of a young, bespectacled Chinese woman filled the screen.
“Dr. Lam, isn’t it?” She nodded. “How close to having the missile ready are you?”
“It is ready. Doctor Chen said he was coming to tell you that. We mounted the warhead on the missile this morning, so physically it is complete. It is just a matter now of entering the telemetry data and it will be ready for movement to the gantry and launch.”
“And how long will that be?”
“Six hours, more or less,” she said offhandedly.
“Very good, Doctor. You are now in charge. Doctor Chen has taken ill and I have sent him to the clinic in Pintado. He probably will not be returning.”
She felt the slight urge to scrutinize the statement, but knew better. It would add nothing to the equation. Chen was the moralist; she had a family to support back in Chengdu and little time for such niceties.
Chapter Thirty-three - Victor Seven Two
Valle Verde
The team spent their day in mission prep. They cleaned and pulled required maintenance on their weapons, radios, ammo was reallocated and reconnaissance teams were dispatched to gather intelligence about the launch complex.
They had just run out of meals, but Villegas had supplied them with some Colombian field rations. They were a welcome change from their normal chow; the new, less bulky, long range patrol rations. The Colombian meals offered variety and a different taste palate, but had fewer calories and needed to be supplemented. The local vegetation provided the team with a ready supply of tropical fruit and the Havoc Twins repaired an old fishing net. It was quickly put back in use. In two hours they had caught over a dozen good size Peacock Bass.
Michael stood in his command post vainly trying to contact the sniper team after dispatching them an hour ago to put eyes on the target. Sergeant Meyers, his Commo Chief, entered after finishing the adjustment of the parabolic antenna.
“What’s their call sign? I’ve been trying to contact them for the last ten minutes,” asked Blackfox.
“Victor Seven Two,” said Meyers.
“Not according to the CEOI,” said Michael, referring to the Communications Electronics Operating Instructions.
“See, the team calls itself Victor Seven two―they guarantee to introduce you to seventy-two virgins.”
Michael adopted a bemused look. Meyer shrugged his shoulders in response.
“What can you do? There is no sense getting into an argument with someone who’s proven he can end it from another zip code,” replied Meyers dryly.
“Fucking prima donnas! said Michael. I don’t care what you call them, just get them on the line.”
***
Staff Sergeant Clayton Perry, the sniper, and his spotter,
Sergeant Shane Langston, had been together through the invasion of Iraq and subsequent redeployment―two six-month stints in the Helmand Valley in support of a joint special operations task force and had recently completed the MARSOC qualification course. The sniper team was a tight pair. Rumors circulated at times that they were gay, but even if they weren’t, they had an annoying tendency to argue like an old married couple.
Victor Seven Two had taken up a defilade position to the rear of a four hundred foot hilltop overlooking the installation to lay eyes on the objective and identify some high-value targets, as the snipers were planning on doing some business.
Based on the threat profile for the mission, they had selected the XM 109, a twenty-five mm anti-material payload rifle that fired the XM 307 round. It could penetrate and destroy lightly armored vehicles and material at ranges of up to two kilometers. The rifle was designed as a more lethal and smarter conversion of the venerable M107 Barrett sniper rifle. At over thirty-five pounds, it was normally a two-man carry in transport; but the twenty-five mm bullets had an awesome ability to shift the initiative in their favor by blowing the crap out of just about anything short of a Main Battle Tank.
Although it was early in the morning, the installation was a maelstrom of activity. They had just set up when a column of Venezuelan National Guard armored vehicles and two and one half ton troop transports filed into the compound. The team counted the troops as they unloaded and recorded where the vehicles deployed.
“It looks like the installation is being reinforced. We spotted six heavy, or possibly medium, machine-gun positions being set up, fifteen armored vehicles and at least one hundred troops being emplaced in a defensive perimeter,” said Shane Langston.
“Register them,” said Blackfox.
“Roger that,” Langston replied and then turned to Perry. “Damn greenhorn telling us our business.”
“He got us this far,” said the sniper.
“True, just not sure if that’s bad or good.”
“You’re still breathing, so stop complaining. You sound like an old woman,” said Langston.
“That hurt. At 335 degrees, 400 meters there is a crew-served weapon. It looks like a Ma Duce.”
“Mark it,” said Perry.
They continued identifying and registering the location of each high-value target and recording it on a range card that listed azimuth, range, and target type. It was painstaking work that took well over two hours to complete. The primary high-value target wasn’t in place yet. In the event lesser means of disabling the missile failed, they were to engage the body with explosive rounds in the hopes of initiating an explosion. From what they knew about radiation, it was not a course of action that would be particularly healthy for anyone within a radius of five miles or so. After they finished registering the targets, there was little to do but allow one of them to doze while the other pulled security.
Michael wasn’t surprised about the reinforcements; they had laid waste to their security team and left the installation exposed. He might have been able to get in, hack the network and get out without being discovered prior to the arrival of reinforcements, but now, he was not so sure. It didn’t matter―he was willing to adapt.
He grabbed the radio mike. “Ramos, I need something. There is an insulin pump and glucose meter back in a desk at the medical clinic in Pintado.”
“Not sure I follow you, bro,” replied Ramos.
“There is a glucose meter and insulin pump in Bobby’s desk. If we get our hands on it, it could be a decisive factor in this mission,” said Michael.
“How so?” asked Ramos.
“I don’t have time to explain. Can you call someone for me?”
“Yeah, I have international on my cell, and the colonel has his sat phone.”
“Also, get Sergeant Howell on the line.”
While he waited, SGT Dixon appeared in the command post.
It didn’t take Michael long to learn that Marcel Dixon was a three-time winner of the Marine Corp Marathon in the military category, with finishing times that rivaled professional marathoners, an even more-impressive accomplishment when you took into account that two of his wins took place while he was deployed in an active war zone.
“Feel like running a marathon?” asked Michael.
“Now?” replied Dixon.
“I need something from the clinic in Pintado and you are just the guy to get it for me.”
“We’ve covered a little over forty-three klicks since we left the village. A round trip would be like a double marathon.”
“I may not need you to go that far. Just get t
o the river where we crossed last night,” he said pointing to a spot on the map.
“It’s about six klicks. How long will it take you?” asked Blackfox.
“Over this ground, I’ll need ninety minutes to get there and back.”
“You’ve got an hour—go.”
“Bye,” replied Dixon and he was gone.
He carried only a customized Colt forty-five that MARSOC had recently issued. Dixon cleared a passage of lines with security and began a fast recon shuffle down the trail. He reached the main trail and hung a right to begin the climb up the steep hillside where they had encountered the ambush a day ago. He felt good; running without a ruck in the cooler air of the early morning was invigorating. Reaching the ambush site, he picked up the pace, perhaps not wanting the bad memories of the event to return.
He saw the two figures standing in the center of the trail, blocking his path. He recognized the weapons and distinctive headgear as identical to the Afrikaners that had ambushed them last night. He wasn’t sure if they’d seen him or not, but he was certain they would momentarily.
Dixon slowed a bit and said, “Blessed be the Lord, my rock, who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle,” as he brought the pistol up to the ready, took up a good center of mass on the lead figure, and fired.
The second figure dropped to one knee and struggled to bring his rifle to the ready. Dixon fired once more causing the figure to cry out and drop his weapon―apparently, Dixon’s rounds had hit it. He didn’t have time for this shit. Dixon came to a full stop, took up a modified Weaver stance with his feet shoulder-width apart and strong-side leg slightly back, used opposite pressure to keep the pistol aimed at center mass of the crouching figure’s torso, and fired twice. The rounds struck with the sound of two loud thuds and the body fell to its side.
He scanned the area for other troops, but found none. These two were probably scouts sent to figure out what had happened to the guys that had defeated their ambush. He had left them another riddle to solve.
He kneeled for a moment, crossed himself, and spoke softly, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”
Dixon crossed himself again, stood up, and began running again. He looked at his watch, he had been running for forty-five minutes and estimated he still had at least two klicks to cover until he reached the tributary of the Ventuari they had crossed last night. So much of consequence had happened in the interim; it seemed like a long time ago. Eleven minutes later, he was at the river.
Dixon took up a covered and concealed position and waited. He sweated and attracted mosquitos so he removed a tube of bug juice from a cargo pocket and liberally doused himself. About ten minutes later, he heard something reverberating upriver—an outboard engine headed towards him. A few minutes later it came into view―a long narrow wooden boat painted a garish blue, yellow, and red. It slowly navigated around a turn in the river and maneuvered towards shore a few meters away from where Dixon had concealed himself. The pilot cut the engine, pulled up the propeller, and glided to a stop at a shallow bank next to the trail.
An Indian youth of perhaps thirteen dressed in a school uniform of a short-sleeved white shirt and blue shorts, walked forward to the bow, disembarked and held the boat against the current. Dixon stood up and walked out of the foliage toward the boat.
The boy smiled at him and held out a package wrapped in a white rag and tied with rough twine. Dixon took the package and carefully placed it into the cargo pocket on his right pant leg. The boy signaled for Dixon to push the boat off the shore, and with a wave, he was soon motoring back down the river.
Curiosity got the better of him and he withdrew the package, unwrapped it, and examined the contents. He found two small electronic devices covered in an off-white protective coating. One looked a bit like a Blackberry and the other like a numeric pager. His adopted mother was diabetic and Dixon recognized the insulin pump and wireless glucose meter.
“Captain Blackfox, what the hell are you up to?” asked Dixon.
Chapter Thirty-four - Un-ass the AO
Rio Orinoco
Per prior instructions, Johnnie woke Char shortly before reaching their destination. Char stopped in the galley and fixed a cup of coffee before heading to the bridge to find Earl at the helm navigating upriver at a snail’s pace.
“You know that this is close to the end of the road for the yacht. We can’t take it much further upriver. There are two sets of rapids, the Atures and Maypures, that make the river unnavigable for a while,” said Earl.
“So I guess we have to decide how to proceed,” said Char as he reached for the sat phone the original owner had thoughtfully installed on the Good as Gold. He called Ramos’ cell phone. The man answered on the second ring, sounding upbeat.
“We are a mile shy of Puerto Ayacucho, Char told the Colombian Marine. What’s the situation?”
“With the help of one of my friends who commands a unit close to the border, we were able to medevac all the wounded. The Marines are sending in a medevac flight to fly them to the Naval Hospital at Camp Lejeune,” said Ramos.
“How are they?” asked Char.
“Three are in critical condition, but that includes one enemy soldier who lost a leg,” replied Ramos.
“Roger that. So where does that leave us?”
“Michael worked out a plan with Sergeant Howell to upload the virus and they are confident that they can do it, but there is no one to help them…um…un-ass the AO,” said Ramos using the term he had heard Michael use.
“I’ll take the job,” said Char.
“I was certain you would,” replied Ramos. “You are about one hundred klicks away by road. I suggest you rent a truck big enough to carry the team and head south on VE-12, he said, referring to the new interstate that Chavez had built in an attempt to better connect the hinterlands. I will direct you from there. Make sure you take a GPS,” said Ramos.
“Roger that, replied Char before ending the conversation.
We go on land from here,” said Char to Johnnie.
“Well, that was easy,” said Earl.
“Is there a place to tie up and secure the boat?” asked Char
“Not unless you want to deal with the Venezuelan government. Chances are they will search the boat if we want to tie up at their pier,” replied Earl.
“Okay, Earl, you stay here, anchor the boat in a deep part of the river, and keep a low profile. Johnnie and I will rent a truck and head south,” said Char.
Earl was taken aback by Char’s selection of his friend instead of him. “Why Johnnie and not me?” asked Earl.
“Ever heard a shot fired in anger?”
Earl thought for a minute. “Does being chased by an angry husband with a crossbow count?”
“Probably not,” replied Char.
“Hell, I’m a lover not a fighter, anyway.”
They ate a hearty breakfast that Johnnie had cooked— biscuits with sausage gravy and a mountain of scrambled eggs.
After they finished, Char went below deck to the engine room. He opened a gear locker, removed a hidden panel in the back and took out a selective fire M4 carbine, a Beretta M9, and Smith & Wesson Model Thirty-nine.
He loaded all the weapons and several boxes of ammunition into a black dry bag. He had purchased an additional sat phone for Michael so they could stay in touch when separated, but the kid never used it. It sat in a charger in his cabin and Char added it to the bag. He returned to his room to secure a small rucksack he had packed earlier with some food, water, a first aid kit, and extra clothing. He staged the two bags near the stern, and then lowered the twelve foot Zodiac from the dinghy davits that secured it to the yacht. Once in the water, he jumped in, lowered the fifteen-horsepower outboard into place, and started the engine.
They motored downriver through the cool rising fog and tepid sunshine of the early morning, hoping that the Venezuelan military was slee
ping in. Char directed Earl to a sandy riverbank on the outskirts of town.
“Don’t let anyone on board and stay near the sat phone. If we need you, we’ll need you in a hurry. And don’t smoke any dope.
I need you awake and alert,” said Char admonishingly.
It suddenly occurred to Earl that he had never had the chance to renegotiate their contract. “After all we’ve been through together, and in light of how little we’re being paid, that hurts!”
“Just do what I say, and I’ll double both your pay.”
“Triple would make me feel better about risking our lives,” said Earl.
Johnnie nodded in agreement, “True dat.”
“Fair enough. Just don’t fuck up, and I’ll triple your pay.” Earl smiled and gave Johnnie a high-five.
Char adopted a pained expression. “Save the mutual hand jobs for later―we still have work to do.”
Johnnie and Char jumped from the rubber boat and pushed it off the shore. Luckily, they had landed near a hard-packed dirt road that quickly spilled onto asphalt. They followed it until it forked and Char chose the left branch. After a short walk, they arrived at a blinking traffic light at the intersection of Avenida Orinoco and Calle Bolivar. The rich smell of baking bread guided them to a small bakery being operated out of a compact storefront with the picture of a chubby French looking baker with a thin handlebar mustache painted on the window glass. Char entered and bought two crusty baguettes and a couple cups of coffee from a baker who bore an uncanny resemblance to the picture on the window.
He asked the baker if there were any car rental agencies in town.
“No, the fat man laughed as though Char was being ridiculous, then regarded him with a sly look, there is a dealer who might rent you a car, but it will cost you,” the baker warned while tapping his knuckle on the glass counter indicating the dealer was a hard business man.