Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2)

by T. S. O'Neil

  The baker directed them to a Ford truck dealership located about a half mile away adjacent to the highway. After a short walk, they arrived to find it closed due to the early morning hour. They knocked on the window and a thin middle aged man dressed in a dark blue Guayabera opened the door. Seeing two foreigners alerted his well-honed sales acumen. He politely ushered them inside and escorted the pair to a glass walled office in the corner of the showroom. After a short discussion, the man regarded Char with a look of sincere disappointment.

  “Sorry, I don’t normally rent pick-up trucks. I can import one for you to buy if you don’t mind waiting a month or so.”

  “What about that one,” said Johnnie, pointing to a brand new pickup with the word ‘Raptor’ painted on the side of the bed parked in the corner of the showroom.

  “A local cattle rancher ordered it special. He is currently out of country and will pick it up upon his return.”

  “How much was it?” said Char.

  “Fifty-two thousand dollars―give or take a peso or two,” replied the man.

  “How would you like to sell it to me for five thousand more?”

  “In cash?” asked the man.

  “Wire draft from a bank in Curacao.”

  “Ten thousand,” said the dealer.

  “Does it have GPS?” asked Johnnie.

  The man smiled broadly displaying a gold upper incisor

  “Sure, I’ll throw one in for free.”

  Chapter Thirty-five - Black Hat

  Carabobo Launch Site

  Michael, Dixon, and Thomas waited a hundred meters outside the perimeter of the installation in a waterless streambed. The intermittent stream bisected the installation roughly south to north and was channeled through a culvert under the launch pad access road.

  “Light them up,” said Michael into his headset.

  “Roger that,” replied Langston. They had pre-registered the targets, so the first twenty-five millimeter explosive round that went downrange a second later, found its target and exploded against it with a satisfying whump. An incendiary flash followed, destroying the weapon atop the gantry whose field of fire included Michael’s current position. It was now safe to infiltrate the installation without fear of being mowed down by a large-caliber bullet.

  The first Ma Duce, fifty caliber crew-served weapon had been disabled when the round destroyed the receiver and severed it from the rest of the weapon. Victor Seven Two moved on to the second target, another crew-served weapon located to their right front. The sniper moved slightly to his right, took aim, and fired when he had finished exhaling. The second machine gun position was also destroyed.

  The perimeter responded with poorly coordinated panic fire. Lots of birds and bats are being endangered, thought Langston as he watched tracers haphazardly flying through the night sky. Clayton Perry shifted fire once again, this time targeting a crew-served weapon that was in operation, busily firing heavy rounds that were hitting directly in front of their position with a heavy smack and generating distracting showers of dirt.

  The twenty-five millimeter explosive round hit the machine gun’s receiver―it erupted in blue and yellow flames as the ammunition belt in the feeder ignited and cooked off. A few seconds later a large secondary explosion occurred, illuminating macabre shadow figures of the gun’s dying operators trapped in the conflagration.

  Per prior coordination, the Havoc Twins employed the M-32 grenade launcher to saturate various strongpoints to their immediate and left front with six round salvos of MEI HELLHOUND round, which had twice the lethality radius of standard forty mm high-explosive grenades. The object of the exercise was to keep the enemy’s collective head down and attention diverted.

  “Let’s move,” Michael whispered. After studying the perimeter, it had become apparent that the only logical point for him to tap into the conduit was along the link that ran between the control room and the launch tower, as it was isolated and exposed at a point where it crossed an intermittent stream. The PVC containing the fiber link was partially exposed as it broached the earth to bridge the streambed, and that was where Michael planned to tap the line.

  They crouched and scrambled down the streambed until they reached the perimeter fence. A grate made of thin steel rebar had been welded to the bottom of the fence to close off access. Since a thermite grenade or a demo charge would reveal their location, Dixon removed a compact pair of bolt cutters from a small kit bag and began snipping the fence around the grate. In less than a minute, he had cut sufficient fencing to allow them to squeeze through one at a time. Once inside, they high crawled down the creek bed until Michael spied the white PVC lying in an aluminum pipe bridge that ran above the creek bed.

  Michael crawled up the ten-foot hillside of the culvert to a point about two feet below ground level where the pipe left the soil. He quickly selected a spot to drill that would be easy to conceal after he finished, withdrew a battery-powered, low-speed drill from his rucksack and went to work cutting a four inch hole in the side. After he was done, he would notch the plug so he could run his tap cable out the notch hole and glue the plug back in place.

  Dixon figured that threats would come from the direction of the buildings, although he couldn’t be sure that some of the Venezuelan troops on the perimeter hadn’t seen them. He set up the machine gun to cover a wide field of fire and hoped for the best. Thomas took up a similar position on the opposite bank to cover the other 180 degrees.

  ***

  Peter Van Achtenberg pointed to the television screen. “There they are.” He had been summoned to the security control room when a highly specialized alarm system had alerted to the possible existence of a tap on the line. Once an optical stream was misaligned, the system generated an alarm coded to a particular section of the fiber link. A quick search using the lowlight surveillance cameras turned up three figures attempting to tap into the cable directly east of his location.

  He had thought the attack was a ruse. They had targeted crew-served weapons positions with gleeful abandon, but thus far there was no attempt at a raid on the missile assembly building, which was both heavily guarded and heavily mined. The Venezuelans had responded by exhausting half their ammunitions at ghosts. He had ordered them to stand down, but there were still intermittent bursts of gunfire along the perimeter.

  No, this was something different―a Hail Mary pass as the Americans sometimes said. The only time he had seen one in actuality was years ago when a mate had him over for Braaivleis or grilled meat. The mate had lived in the states and developed a love for that peculiar game. After eating a ton of good grilled beef, and numerous beers, his friend used his gargantuan satellite dish to tune in a replay of a match between Miami and Boston College. To say he was impressed with the diminutive quarterback’s throw in the last seconds of the game would be a decided understatement. Boston College even managed to squeak out a win over Miami. At that moment, he clearly understood the meaning of the term.

  So, what was left of the American commando team was attempting to tap the network. They obviously didn’t have enough forces to mount a full-on attack. For some reason unknown to him, Colonel Stal wanted them captured alive, perhaps to auction them off to the Iranians, or demonstrate the gravity of the forces marshaled against him. It really didn’t matter; Stal didn’t take failure lightly.

  “Alert the quick reaction force. Tell them to await my arrival,” he ordered.

  ***

  Through a thermal imager used for long-distance observation, Michael saw the heat signature of three vehicles speedily approaching down the access road.

  “They’re coming,” he said.

  “Fire them up?” asked Dixon.

  “Yeah, but don’t overdo it,” said Michael.

  “Excuse me?” whispered Dixon.

  “If you kill them all, there’s no one to take us in and get us close to Stal, so don’t kill all of them, just fuck ’em up a bit,” said Michael.

  “This is no way to run an ambush, but you’re
the boss,” said Dixon. He took aim at the lead vehicle, and waited. Thomas took up a prone firing position next to him and did the same. Dixon breathed slowly, waiting until the vehicle was about fifty meters away, and engaged the tires and engine block with a staccato burst of thirty caliber, armor-jacketed bullets.

  The rounds impacted where he intended―the vehicle skidded to the left and leaned over. The driver apparently panicked and turned the wheel in the same direction as the lean. The light duty pick-up rolled over and catapulted the soldier in the bed onto the roadway.

  Thomas engaged the following vehicle, blowing out the front tires and ventilating the radiator. It skidded to a stop as soldiers dismounted in an unorganized gaggle. He fired in their direction and they scattered. Dixon took up aim on the third vehicle and fired―the tracers illuminating a stream of hot lead. This time the driver panicked and screeched the truck to a full stop as the large copper-jacketed bullets shredded his radiator and engine block. The troops exited the vehicle, took up positions in a rough line facing their enemy, and began returning fire. Michael waited. There was little for him to do but have his guys cease fire before they killed all the attackers.

  “Say when,” said Thomas.

  “After you have expended all your ammo, otherwise we won’t be able to sell it.” Dixon fired a long burst into the three vehicles until his gun was out of ammo, rolled on his side, removed his sidearm, and emptied a clip in the general direction of the enemy. Michael and Thomas did the same.

  They heard a high-pitched whistle as a parachute flare rocketed overhead.

  “It’s now or never,” said Dixon.

  “I surrender!” said Michael in Spanish. He waited and then yelled it again, but the firing continued. He repeated the phrase until the firing slowly petered out. They heard someone― probably an officer, order a cease-fire and then yell something in their direction.

  “Get on your feet with your hands in the air,” someone said in heavily accented English.

  Michael looked at the other two Marines and nodded. He knew what they were thinking―the moment they stood up they could be shot, but that was the name of this game, anyway. If they weren’t at peace with the concept of an untimely death in a foreign land, they should have joined the Coast Guard.

  They slowly stood as the enemy troops swarmed them, roughly searching their pockets and removing anything that could be used as a weapon. Peter Van Achtenberg walked slowly toward the three prisoners and scrutinized each man, seemingly attempting to determine the leader. He swiftly disregarded Dixon, causing the man to raise a jaundiced eyebrow and look at Thomas, who almost laughed in response. Van Achtenberg turned toward Michael and loomed over him a scant few inches away.

  “You are the leader?”

  “We’re largely a democratic organization these days, Chief, haven’t you heard?”

  Michael braced himself for the inevitable. The left side of his face exploded in pain as his captor smashed a meaty fist into it.

  Michael’s head spun to the side―he saw stars and tasted blood. He forced a smile and stared up at Van Achtenberg.

  “Is that the best you’ve got, asshole?” He was pretty sure it wasn’t, but Michael couldn’t help but to ask.

  Chapter Thirty-six - Lurch

  Carabobo Launch Site

  “See, yank, you’re not so tough,” said Van Achtenberg. Michael was handcuffed and thrown into the back of the Toyota pick-up―the cheap double cab kind they always foisted on you when you asked for a four-by-four in most third world countries.

  “Sorry, did you say something, Lurch?” asked Michael.

  He tightened his stomach muscles in anticipation of what was to come next. The South African let go with a powerful kick to the midsection that would have cracked a rib had it been a few inches higher.

  “Like that, yank? I used to be a striker on my football team.” Michael looked up at the man.

  “You mean soccer, Lurch? That’s what girls play in the states, but not bad for a geriatric.”

  Van Achtenberg was about to let loose with another kick, but the pickups squealed to a halt in front of Stal’s office. He knew better than to be unprepared for an appearance before the diabetic psychopath.

  He jumped from the truck and pulled Michael from the bed and onto the pavement headfirst while the National Guard troops did the same with Thomas and Dixon. Michael tucked his chin into his shoulder and rolled onto his back as he landed, managing to avert further injury for the moment. He needed to sell the surrender―otherwise; they might believe he was planning something, but he didn’t intend to suffer significant injury doing so.

  They were lined up next to each other for a moment as they waited to be ushered into the colonel’s office.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Thomas whispered.

  Selling the sizzle,” said Michael. Thomas gave him a puzzled look.

  The tin wrapped wooden door opened and a portly Venezuelan major ushered them inside. He looked Michael over and then looked at Van Achtenberg.

  “Is this the man?” Van Achtenberg nodded and the National Guard major grabbed Michael by the hair and pulled his face to an inch from his own.

  “You know, gringo, those were my men you shot up.”

  “Yeah, they have all the tactical proficiency of a Girl Scout troop―you should be very proud.” The major drew a Brazilian Tarsus pistol―a cheap knockoff of the Berretta M9—and held it up to Michael’s temple.

  “Gringo, I should kill you for that.”

  “But you won’t,” said a disembodied voice that emanated from the darkened back of the building.

  An office light clicked on and Michael beheld his adversary for the first time—Colonel Dmitri Stal, ex-GRU Officer, international arms dealer, and voracious child molester. The man was completely bald and the tropical sun did nothing to alleviate the parchment-like pallor of his skin. “Bring him to me.”

  Van Achtenberg violently pushed Michael forward so that he was standing directly in front of Stal’s desk.

  “You are the man responsible for all these distractions as of late?” asked Stal.

  “Distractions?” said Michael. “You ought to buy a clue Colonel Klink. We’ve managed to rack up quite a body count against your army of senior citizens.”

  Stal didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow; Michael braced himself for the blow as the South African cracked him across the side of his head with a lead-weighted leather sap. This is getting tiresome, thought Michael as he grimaced in pain.

  “Well, you obviously know my rank, but I need to know who you are, what unit you represent, and whether we can expect any further distractions while we get ready to launch,” said Stal.

  “Wish I could help you, Klink, but Lurch here is going to get worn out before I tell you whether or not I think Reggie Bush will be drafted by the Saints.”

  The blow fell again against his face and this time the whole side of his head felt numb. Dixon slammed into Van Achtenberg, pinning him up against the plywood wall while simultaneously managing to knee him twice in the mid-section. Van Achtenberg doubled over from the force of Dixon’s knee and let out a groan.

  He slowly straightened and looked at Dixon with the kind of loathing bred by decades of racist contempt.

  “How dare you, Kefir!” screamed Van Achtenberg as he fell on the man, raining blows down in a frenzied, haphazard manner. Dixon responded with another series of kicks to the torso, this time following with a sweep of the South African’s leg that dropped him to the floor. Shit, even with his hands tied, Dixon’s got some skills, thought Michael, more amused than their current conditions should allow.

  “Are you alright, Van Achtenberg?” asked Stal. He didn’t answer, so Stal directed his commands to the Venezuelan major.

  “Remove these two and place them under guard while we finish questioning this man.” The major nodded and attempted to shove Dixon and Thomas towards the door. Thomas head-butted the man and then struck two blows with his shoulders.

&nbs
p; The two Venezuelan soldiers generated a flurry of ineffective strikes with the butts of their rifles, as well as some halfhearted kicks, but the young conscripts did little to hasten the departure of the two well-muscled Marine commandos.

  “Don’t worry about me, guys. I’ll be fine with Colonel Klink and Lurch,” said Michael. Van Achtenberg looked at him malevolently.

  “Alone at last,” he whispered, as he slowly raised the truncheon over his head and brought it down in a long arc that slammed into the top of Michael’s head. The blow rendered him unconscious. He woke a few moments later when he was doused with water. This was getting old quick, thought Michael. It reminded him of SERE School and the professional psycho the school had hired to wreak similar punishment―except that guy had limits.

  The torture session continued until Stal either grew weary of the gruesome display or titillated by it and excused himself, undoubtedly to take further advantage of his young captive, thought Van Achtenberg.

  He dragged Michael’s bloody, bruised, and semi-conscious body along the wood floor towards the cold room in the corner and pulled him inside. Michael awoke some time later. He had no idea what time it was, but he could see daylight being filtered in through the ceiling vent.

  Someone was applying something cool to his face. He attempted to open his eyes and found them stuck closed, no doubt from coagulated blood. He felt his eyes being gently irrigated with water and he opened them. Bobby looked down at him and smiled warmly.

  “Van Achtenberg sent for me. He was worried that you might be dying.”

  “That guy couldn’t kick his own ass,” spat Michael.

  Bobby handed him a cup of water and Michael sat up, took the cup, and drank it all. He handed the cup back. “Did you bring it?” Michael asked.

  “Of course, but take it easy―you’ve suffered greatly,” said Bobby.

  “No time for that,” said Michael. He unsteadily got to his feet, unbuckled the belt on his camouflage utilities, and let them fall to his knees.