by T. S. O'Neil
“Help me pull it off.”
Bobby dutifully grabbed the ends of the duct tape and began tentatively pulling them off of Michael’s inner thigh, where they secured the cellphone sized object.
“Just pull it off all at once,” said Michael.
Bobby grabbed the end of the tape and ripped it off, along with a good portion of Michael’s leg hair. He repeated the same process with the rest of the tape until the object came free in his hands. He removed the rest of the tape from the glucose meter and handed it to Michael.
“I hope it works,” said Bobby
“You and me, both,” replied Michael.
He scanned the room and found a demure Chinese man sitting on a bunk in the corner closely watching him.
“Who are you?” The man looked up.
“My name is Chen. I was the head scientist on this project.” “Why are you locked in here?”
“I tried to kill Stal and the South African.”
“I applaud your initiative, but do you mind telling me why?”
“He’s a mad man―he intends to hand the Iranians a working EMP bomb that will be used against the United States, and I have to stop him.”
“But you were helping him,” countered Michael.
“I was working to earn money to get my wife back. Once I realized Stal’s intention was to destroy the U.S., I had to try and stop him, but I failed.”
“How would you like another chance?” asked Michael.
Chen rapidly nodded his head. “I’ll do anything to stop this madman.”
Michael thought for a moment and regarded the man. “Can you get back onto the network?”
“I think so. I’m the chief scientist on this project. Or I was. I can offer to return to work. Lam, the woman they replaced me with, is an incompetent and will cause them issues. She has dazzled them by how hard she works, but it’s not until recently that she has had to account for what she was working on.”
“Maybe we can do something to speed up the process,” said Michael.
Chapter Thirty-seven - Ayatollah
Venezuelan Airspace
The Dassault Falcon 50 was a French-built, three-engine corporate jet that the Iranian regime used for the transportation of high-ranking clerical officials from within the theocracy. It had a range of a little over four thousand miles, so the Grand Ayatollah Mohammad Hussein Najavani and his party of eight had to refuel in Cape Verde and Caracas.
The interior of the jet was furnished in Iranian finery befitting the head of state that normally used the aircraft. Persian rugs, red velvet curtains, and an abundance of rich, satin pillows made the passenger compartment resemble a Turkish opium den. Tomorrow would be a great day for the Islamic Republic and Najavani wanted to celebrate, but he knew better than to appear blatantly drunk. Word might filter back to his superior, the Supreme Leader, and that would be the end, as he did not tolerate drunkards. It was doubtful that Najavani, at age sixty-three and a corpulent three hundred ten pounds, could survive the one hundred and sixty lashes.
The flight crew indulged anyone―for a price. There was a standing but unspoken agreement with some of the clerics that if they would use their diplomatic cover to smuggle in goods that were in short supply in the Islamic Republic, they would be served whatever inebriate they requested while traveling.
The dignitary would use his blanket exemption from customs inspection to “import” cases of beer, wine, and alcohol that would then be resold for a huge markup back in Tehran.
Najavani was tired and hung over from the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue he had purchased in Cape Verde—and nearly finished—while also gorging himself on French wine, caviar, filet mignon, and a French vanilla sundae with fresh berries and cream.
He badly wanted a bacon cheeseburger to soak up some of the alcohol, but would have to wait for the return refueling stop in Caracas. Then he would hire a cab for a quick clandestine foray to Calle El Hambre, or Hungry Street, to take advantage of their block-long stretch of outdoor fast food burger stalls. His favorite was a burger topped with an egg, a thin pork chop, ham, and crispy bacon―he figured if he was going to Hell, he might as well arrive well satiated.
He had overdone it, yet there were few times when he found himself outside the long arm of Islamic Law, and he had chosen to take advantage of it. He was set to deliver one hundred million Swiss francs in bearer bonds to the infidel who would soon be responsible for bringing the Great Satan to its knees. Bearer bonds drawn on several solid European-based conglomerates with limited US interests were a safe bet and were as good as cash—if not better—as they provided anonymity to the holder. It was a small price to pay for destroying the Great Satan.
He rested his eyes on the overstuffed white leather of the lie-flat sleeper as one of his wives rubbed his feet. The steward came forward to clear away the dirty dinner service and prepare the cabin for a landing in Puerto Ayacucho. The male steward approached and bowed in deference.
“Grand Ayatollah, we are preparing to land in Puerto
Ayacucho.”
“So, let me continue to rest. I have much hard work ahead of me.”
“Yes, your eminence.”
The steward could care less if the old smelly goat got thrown out of the seat during landing―he was anxious to take the money the crew had pooled, go into town, and buy as many cases of rum as they could afford. Normally, they would purchase well-aged whiskey or American bourbon, but both were in short supply in Venezuela. They did, however, have some very fine rum.
The fat bastard had a Qud Force bodyguard with him, but he had long ago been corrupted by the crew and even participated in funding the importation of alcohol and occasional outings to the local brothels.
The steward stuck his head in the cockpit, “All ready, Captain.” Captain Madat Asserian nodded and began his descent in earnest, as he too had an agenda. The first time he had flown this route, he had found a club called Calle Pachingon meaning cheap pleasures street and encountered a beautiful, curvaceous Venezuelan woman who made him forget he lived in an Islamic country.
Captain Asserian had once been an F-14 Tomcat pilot and had even attended the American Navy’s Fighter Weapons School, commonly known as Top Gun, at Naval Air Station Miramar. Unfortunately, he never had a flight physiologist who looked even remotely like Kelly McGillis.
During those days, the Shah’s air force had been closely allied with the Americans, so much so that they offered exclusive access to their best school to some of the more skilled or well-connected pilots; Asserian was both.
During the Shah’s time life was good. He even managed to get the call sign Maverick for a while, even though he had to actively lobby for the moniker. At the time, he was a member of a small community of practicing Armenian Christians that was unofficially tolerated by the Shah’s regime, as they had bigger fish to metaphorically fry with the rising tide of radical Islam.
After the fall of the Shah, Asserian was quickly found to be untrustworthy by the Revolutionary Council and was subsequently imprisoned, tortured, and thought to be rehabilitated when he converted to Islam. Now he shuttled around a geriatric set of flatulent hypocrites while hoping for a retirement that did not include a small, lonely, and dry apartment in Tehran.
He was masterful at bilking the regime out of money. The three-decade-old US embargo necessitated the use of an international currency, and Captain Asserian preferred euros for the time being. He carried with him over one hundred thousand euros to pay for fuel, lodging, and food. The bills would be inflated and duplicated, and he would funnel a small percentage into his getaway fund. He had been embezzling funds for years and that—together with the smuggling—had provided him many creature comforts, but still fell short of providing him a retirement in the South of France or Lake Como. However, he was rapidly nearing a point where he could afford a nice villa near his family’s ancestral home of Yerevan, Armenia.
Now he was relegated to flying around old pompous religious zealots like the current
asshole he had in the back of the jet.
Madat actually loved Venezuela. The women were some of the most beautiful in the world, Polar was pretty good beer and the scenery was magnificent. It was the current regime that had fucked things up. He had an idea what the old reprobate in back was up to and he didn’t approve. If it involved Stal and the
Chavez Regime, it couldn’t be good for anyone but them.
As soon as he landed and the Ayatollah was tucked into his hotel, Captain Asserian would be free to see his beautiful and exotic jungle princess. He contacted the tower and was cleared for an initial approach.
Chapter Thirty-eight - Hacking the Pump
Carabobo Launch Complex
“When you think about it, we’ve all become slaves to technology,” said Michael as he examined the glucose meter that had recently been taped to his inner thigh. He sat on the edge of the metal bunk and turned it over in his hands as if not believing he had it. He had spent the hours immediately prior to their aborted attempt to splice into the fiber cable working remotely with Sergeant Howell to reconfigure the meter.
Michael had vaguely remembered reading that it was possible somewhere on the web―Drudge perhaps, but Howell, was able to give a first-person account of the hack, as he had attended the Black Hat Conference in Las Vegas where it was demonstrated. A few years previous, a similar hole had been found in the wireless protocol controlling pacemakers―it allowed the device to be hijacked and ordered to deliver an electric shock sufficient to stop the heart and presumably kill the wearer.
The security expert who discovered and exploited the insulin pump vulnerability was a diabetic who was justifiably worried that someone could wirelessly manipulate and gain control of the glucose meter that controlled the flow of insulin injected into his body. He had spent over two and half years through trial and error to learn how to hack in and control the meter, and Howell had been on hand to watch him demonstrate it. The security expert did this in order to prod the manufacturer to strengthen the security of the device―so far his efforts had been in vain.
Now, supposedly, the meter was configured to do what they needed it to do—and then some. If all went as planned, the device would wirelessly connect to the antenna of Stal’s insulin pump, gain control of its computerized management system, and adjust the amount of insulin the pump attached to the side of his abdomen would inject. They just needed to be within ten feet of Stal to make it happen.
“Do you have the radio?” asked Michael.
“Yes, it’s in my medical bag.”
The AN/PRC-148 Team radio was too big for Michael to conceal on his person so he had to trust Bobby to smuggle it in. As a Medical Practitioner who treated Stal, Bobby had near unfettered access to the Stal’s office and quarters. He removed most of the contents of his bag, pulled out the radio and handed it to Michael.
“Gunny, call Victor Seven Two and tell them I have a mission for them.”
“Go with your mission, Charlie Two Five,” replied Gunny Grimes.
Michael ended the call and handed the radio back to Bobby. He figured Stal would be sending for him soon as they would need to locate the various shooters he had arrayed against the site―Victor Seven Two and the Havoc Twins.
His team had their orders, and he had a plan. If the remaining team members did not hear from Michael, they would wait until the missile was moved to the launch pad and light it up―engage it with incendiary and high-explosive rounds.
That would most likely result in secondary explosions and might even detonate the warhead. Although that would be an impossibility with a US made ICBM, this particular Russian warhead had been manufactured over thirty years ago by workers who considered a quart of vodka to be a moderate daily ration and the flushable toilet to be a technological marvel.
In any event, the secondary explosions would most likely destroy the installation and kill everyone within it. That would accomplish the mission, but at an unacceptable level of loss. There was also the unknown factor―exactly what USSOCOM would do if McElroy went in and fell on his sword as he had promised to do. The range of possibilities staggered the imagination, ranging from a laser-guided smart bomb to a cruise missile. Based on the particular circumstances—far from shore in a country with jet interceptors—the most logical course of action was to employ a cruise missile with either a large conventional or small tactical nuclear warhead. Its terrain-following radar and all weather capability made it an ideal fire-and-forget weapon.
Any collateral damage, such as the death of a handful of
Marine Corps Special Operators, would be addressed as an afterthought by posthumous award of medals and speedy payment of four hundred thousand dollars in Servicemen Group Life Insurance.
A little before noon, Van Achtenberg opened the door of the cold room and peered inside. At his side stood a short, fat, bearded trooper holding a Sanna 77 machine pistol that Michael vaguely remembered from a familiarization fire that the Recon Special Weapons Unit hosted. It was notoriously unreliable as its selector switch would sometimes trip between semiautomatic or full-auto mode― making it a total failure as a military weapon.
Michael stared with scorn at the smaller man and then turned toward Van Achtenberg.
“Looks like you’re running out of both soldiers and weapons there, Lurch. He regarded the short, fat trooper; you’d have better luck throwing that piece of shit at me.”
The man’s face immediately reddened in rage and he spit his words at Michael.
“Shut yer gob, rock-spider, or I’ll clap your lights out!”
Michael laughed, “Clap my lights out? Rock-spider? Lurch, where the fuck did you get this guy? He looks like he belongs on a box of cookies.”
Van Achtenberg regarded Michael with a tired expression.
“Turn around or I’ll have him shoot you in the leg.” Michael knew he wasn’t bluffing―his usefulness alive was nothing more than as a hostage to protect the missile from being attacked. He could do that with a bullet in his leg.
Michael turned his back to the two Afrikaners. Van Achtenberg entered and roughly clapped his wrists into a set of handcuffs. He pulled Michael from the cell, loudly slammed and relocked the door. Van Achtenberg propelled Michael forward by raising his handcuffed arms in the air and steering him into the office.
“I am so going to beat you to death, you hear me, Lurch?”
“Tough talk from a rock spider that’s about to get stomped,” said the fat trooper.
Van Achtenberg lowered Michael’s arms. He looked up and caught Colonel Stal regarding him curiously as he sipped tea from a glass cradled in an ornate silver chalice.
“Ah, it looks like your wounds have been properly treated by my personal medic. We want you looking good for your execution,” he said nonchalantly. Stal stared at Michael for a reaction and was offered none.
“You see, we have a very important visitor here to witness the launch of the Al-Hasib Missile. The name means ‘Bringer of Judgment,’ and I feel it is appropriate, no?” Michael remained silent, staring at the bald man with measured indifference. “But we can’t move the missile to the launch site until we neutralize the men that you have hidden in the jungle. Therefore, I will be offering you a deal―call your men off and I will spare your life and the lives of your two men.”
“And if I don’t?” asked Michael.
“Well,” said Stal as if considering several alternatives, “we have to do something to entertain our visitor if he can’t see the missile being launched. So I will cut the heads off your men while you watch. Then we will do the same to you.”
Michael felt a slight buzz in his back pocket, indicating that the glucose meter had connected to the wireless signal generated by Stal’s insulin pump. He had set up a test to prove that it worked by injecting enough insulin to get a noticeable response.
Michael waited, as if gravely considering his options.
Stal face flushed and his hand developed a visible tremor, causing him to drop the teacup. It clat
tered to the desk, rolled on to the concrete floor, and shattered into pieces. Van Achtenberg looked at Stal with a puzzled expression.
“Are you okay?” asked Michael with mock sincerity. Stal started to say something, but it came out slurred and unintelligible. He summoned Van Achtenberg with a slight wave of his trembling hand. He immediately went to Stal’s side and the old Russian whispered something into his ear.
Van Achtenberg swiftly guided Michael back to the cell and ordered Bobby, “See to the colonel. I think he is sick.” The informant nodded solemnly.
Chen sat on the corner of the cot at the back of the room and looked up at Michael as Van Achtenberg propelled him inside with a forceful shove.
“Ready to go back to work?” asked Michael. Chen smiled cautiously.
***
They had set up in a site near the warehouse under the assumption that they would be given the go-ahead to neutralize one of their HVTs.
“That’s a tough one,” said Sergeant Langston.
“That’s why I’m the team lead, and you’re the spotter,” said Staff Sergeant Perry.
“No, that’s just because you have more time in service, is all.
I’m saying it’s tough because it’s a trick question.”
They had been sitting in various hide sites around the perimeter for the last twenty hours. Initially, after they had fired up the perimeter with harassment fire, the Venezuelans had dispatched several patrols to locate the snipers, but they had managed to do little more than clumsily stomp around in the underbrush as Victor Seven Two relocated to a safer hide site.
After this, the enemy had lobbed some sixty millimeter mortar rounds into various locations, but little had happened in the last six hours.
Doctrine dictated that the team remain completely silent, but boredom indicated otherwise, so they often engaged in obscure trivia games to while away the hours. In this case, they were engaged in a game that Perry had invented called Guess the Rifle.