by T. S. O'Neil
The Afrikaner’s face flushed with anger, and he attempted a retort, but was preempted by Stal’s shout.
“Lock them up in the cell and bring me Chen.”
Van Achtenberg and his guards herded the three Marines to the cell door, opened it, and beckoned Chen out with a quick wave of his hand. There was no need to handcuff the little man; he knew what to expect. With Lam dead, they had no choice but to put Chen back in charge. The Topol class missile was over seventy feet long and weighed over ninety-nine thousand pounds. It would be transported to the launch gantry on a flatbed, and then a crane and harness would be used to place it upright. It would be a tricky business and Chen was the only one with the requisite expertise to get it done.
Van Achtenberg had already discussed it with Stal. One of his rapidly diminishing cadre of men would be responsible for monitoring Chen’s every action, right up until the time came to put a bullet in his skull.
Chapter Forty-one - The Ayatollah’s Guests
Carabobo Launch Complex
The motorcade had arrived at the front gate and security was told to stand down to allow the Ayatollah to enter without the customary search. They had been escorted by four of Van Achtenberg’s men. There would have been more had he had them to spare, but continuous engagement over the last two days had decimated his ranks. He had just eight South Africans left, including himself.
The Venezuelans were still a resource, however, and he was currently using them to lob sixty-millimeter mortar rounds into the perimeter to ensure that the Americans had left. The object now was to get the missile in place, fire it, collect payment from Stal, and head back to South Africa. He thought that air travel might be disrupted, if so he would probably book passage on a cargo carrier that allowed passengers as it was a discrete way to travel the world.
Per prior coordination, Van Achtenberg’s men would lead the convoy to the assembly warehouse, and then later to Stal’s quarters where he would offer refreshments to the Ayatollah and introduce him to his newest concubine: Bobby’s recently deflowered daughter. Stal had little further use for her and figured it might smooth over some of the issues that had occurred over the course of the project.
The four-vehicle motorcade screeched to a halt in front of Stal, and Van Achtenberg opened the back door of the Range Rover. The Ayatollah clumsily turned to exit the vehicle and unsteadily gripped the side of the doorframe with both meaty hands to propel his corpulent body out of the vehicle. His bodyguard exited the driver’s side door, brusquely pushed past the two infidels, and assisted the Ayatollah to his feet with a practiced motion. “Welcome, Grand Ayatollah Najavani. I hope your trip here was not too taxing.”
The Iranian regarded Stal with a contemptuous glare.
“Stal, I did not come here to exchange banalities with you. Show me the product of the Islamic Republic of Iran’s lavish investment.”
“As you wish, Excellency,” said Stal.
He nodded to Van Achtenberg, who spoke into his headset. Moments later, the twenty-foot high double doors of the warehouse retracted and revealed an early sixties vintage Mack tractor attached to a trailer, which was dwarfed by the seventyfive foot missile. The tractor trailer inched slowly forward into the parking lot and came to a stop before the assembled group.
Michael, Dixon, and Thomas stood chained at intervals along the length of the flatbed. “What is this?” asked the Ayatollah.
“Americans we captured trying to tamper with the weapon. They now provide security against any further attempts,” said Stal.
“Very good,” said the Iranian.
“Perhaps you should launch them with the missile to give them a ride home.” Stal and Van Achtenberg laughed, although louder and longer than they would have otherwise.
In the cab sat Doctor Chen, glumly reviewing the sequence of events that would have to happen to place the missile upright. As far as he was concerned, life presented few opportunities to clear the slate, and this was one he couldn’t afford to squander―he would have to sacrifice it all to ensure that the missile wouldn’t be used for its intended purpose. It wasn’t that it would just destroy the United States―the reverberation of the destruction of the world’s largest consumer nation would throw countries dependent on it into financial chaos. It would engender a global apocalypse that made no sense, and therefore, had to be stopped. The chance would come when Chen had to input the final telemetry data in the control room.
The tractor trailer slowly picked up speed towards the launch site, followed by a security vehicle filled with five of the remaining South African security guards. The driver, another Afrikaner, was to insure the little Chinese engineer did his job, and once the missile was launched, they had been ordered to kill him and the other hostages.
The missile would be stood upright upon a heavy-duty marine hydraulic dolly wheeled into place, and attached to the launch gantry. Once all of that had been accomplished, Chen would return to the control room for the final check of the flight plan. That would be his only opportunity to upload the malware virus.
It took about an hour to cover the mile long approach road to the gantry. Luckily, an early-season shower unleashed a torrential downpour on the area, cooling down the hostages who would otherwise have been subjected to the unrelenting tropical sun.
Upon arrival, the four security guards quickly unchained the captives and re-chained them to the launch gantry. The guards retreated into an air-conditioned auxiliary control room a short distance away.
“I'm gonna kill that sonofabitch!” “Who?” asked Thomas.
“The Afrikaner, Van Achtenberg,” said Dixon.
“If you wait by the water's edge long enough, you'll see the bodies of your enemies float by.”
Dixon starred at the man with a perplexed look on his face.
“Confucius?”
“Sun Tzu, the Art of War,” said Thomas.
“I ain't got time to wait for that Boer Afrikaner asshole to fall in the river and die―I'm gonna do him in myself.”
“I thought you were a Christian. You know, turn the other cheek and that sort of thing.”
“I'm Catholic,” said Dixon. “Ever wonder why I always recite biblical passages while shooting motherfuckers?”
“Now that you mention it, I thought it was a bit peculiar, but you’re pretty good company under fire. However, since you brought it up…”
“I was born in Detroit to a heroin addict who gave me up to her sister right after I was out of her womb. Aunt Marie was French Canadian and belonged to a convent and Catholic school across the Detroit River in Canada. She arranged to have me taken in as a ward of the diocese. My childhood was an exhausting regimen of early morning trudges to school and endless homework, including motherfucking Latin―I mean who speaks Latin anymore?”
Thomas shrugged and Dixon continued.
“Every night I was either at the Catholic league or the Boys Club learning how to box, and we had boxing matches most weekends. I even won the State Golden Gloves one year. But Aunt Marie wanted more than just a boxer as a nephew, so I joined the Marines rather than continue to trade punches with other losers.”
“Now you just get shot at.”
“While that might be the case, she got me out of Detroit and taught me something very important.” “And that is?” asked Thomas.
“She taught me to confront evil and to pray to God, and He would keep me safe.”
“So, it's a ritual then?”
“Yeah, more or less,” said Dixon.
“Long story just to tell me that,” said Thomas.
“Well, it's not like you were going anywhere.”
“It’s cool man, I’m Catholic too. I just wear a medallion. I think it’s Saint Michael.” “Yeah, that would figure since he’s the patron saint of paratroopers,” said Dixon. “Isn’t that an army thing?”
“No, it’s a paratrooper thing. Think the army is the only one with paratroopers?”
“Not sure. There sure were a lot of them at Airbo
rne School,” said Thomas.
“Just remember, if you see that Afrikaner’s body floating in the river, it’ll be because I drowned the motherfucker!”
“Yeah, you said that,” said Thomas.
Michael tried to intervene. “Guys, can we get back to the task at hand?”
“Sorry, sir, we were just trying to pass the time,” said Thomas.
“Can you see the door to the control room from here?” asked Michael.
Thomas turned his head to the right as far as he could and nodded. “Yeah, I can see the door.”
“Let me know if you see anyone coming.” ***
Chen sat behind the computer terminal and began inputting the configuration into the flight telemetry program while one of the Afrikaner guards watched him closely.
“What are you doing?” he asked Chen when he opened a browser window to access the configuration program. “How well do you know computers?” asked Chen nonchalantly, as if not already knowing the answer. “Well enough,” said the man.
“I am inputting coordinates for the missile’s flight control system. The purpose of the flight control program is to force the missile to follow guidance commands developed by the navigation system. The types of steering commands vary depending on the phase of flight. I am currently working on configuring the boost phase, which will force the missile to track the desired flight path over the continental United Sates. I estimate this will take about a half an hour. Next, I will be working on the mid-course and terminal phases of the system, which will control the missile in midflight and to its point of detonation: Lebanon, Kansas, about one hundred forty-eight miles northwest of Topeka, the geographic center point of the continental United States. That should take another hour and a half or longer if I have to continue to explain everything I am doing to you,” said Chen in a matter of one simply stating a problem.
The Afrikaner’s face reddened and it looked like he wanted to strike Chen. He forced himself to smile.
“I’ll be out smoking a stompie. See that you stay to task or
I’ll squash your ass like a little bug.”
Chen felt the skin of his scrotum tighten, but he forced himself to smile at the man.
“Of course. That is what I’ve been hired to do.”
The man turned away and walked out the door. Although there were two others in the auxiliary control room, they were Chinese technicians busily engaged in preparing the electrical and data connections to the missile.
Chen reached into his pocket, drew out the black USB drive and slid it into the data port. He opened a command line and typed in the execution path. A black window briefly flashed on screen indicating the files were being written to the configuration program. From this point forward, all the commands he would write would be overwritten with substitutes. He didn’t know what the end result would be, but he was sure it would not be good for anyone unfortunate enough to be left here.
***
Stal sat in his office sharing chai tea with the Ayatollah. He had anticipated that Chen would betray him, so he had sent him to work on a node that had been disconnected from the main telemetry network and placed into a virtual sandbox. The PC had a surveillance program on it that had tracked Chen’s every action and sent Stal an email. Stal read the email closely and then opened an attachment that contained a more in-depth description of the virus. The malware Chen attempted to install bore a striking similarity to the program that had corrupted the SCADA programs on the Iranian’s uranium centrifuges. It was obvious that the Americans had furnished Chen the file.
“Problem?” asked the Ayatollah.
“Nothing that I did not anticipate.” He pressed the speed-dial button on his desk phone.
“Bring me Chen and the American commander.”
Chapter Forty-two - Gate Pass
Vicinity of the Carabobo Launch Complex
“Dominican roofies, what are you gonna do?” said Char. The pilot, who was supposed to be out for at least four hours, was groggily awake in less than two.
Char had seen the executive jet land before deciding to kidnap the pilot figuring he would steal the plane, rescue Michael’s team, and fly everyone to the nearest airport outside of Venezuela. Then the Marines could go back to Camp Lejeune, the pilot could disappear, and Char could get the hell of the Caribbean―he heard Bora Bora was nice.
He had found a key for the Amazona Hotel in the pilot’s pocket. No one bothered to check their identity when they half-walked, half-carried the pilot to his room. They were obviously Norte Americano tourists, and hence did not merit the same level of scrutiny as would a local. “Who are you?” said the pilot.
Char wasn’t sure how to answer the question and figured less was more. “Just some guys interested in what your boss is doing here.”
The man stared at him with a perplexed look on his face.
“You are Americans, no?”
“Yes, we are,” said Johnnie.
“CIA?”
“No, we’re just a couple of concerned citizens.”
“Well, if I was you, I would head out of here and don’t go back to your country. There will be little left after today.”
“That’s what we are trying to avoid, my friend, and you’re gonna help us do that,” said Char.
“How? The missile is ready to be launched. The person I brought is here to witness it happen and pay Stal one hundred million in Swiss francs for the effort.”
“You’re going to get us in the gate, and we’re going to ensure that the missile isn’t launched―at least at its intended target.
Then we will gather up our friends, and you’re going to fly us out of the area, got it?”
“No, I am not going to do that,” said Madat Asserian. The plan hinged on the pilot playing ball, although admittedly, drugging someone in a strip club is not something that engendered trust, thought Char. He thought about a motivation that would gain the pilot’s cooperation and it hit him.
“You say your boss has one hundred million in Swiss francs.”
Madat shook his head slowly. “Yes, in bearer bonds.”
“Better still,” said Char. “Let’s make a deal.”
***
Char drove the truck to the front gate with Madat in the passenger seat while Johnnie rode in back. The Venezuelan National Guard soldier guarding the gate looked to be all of eighteen years old and wasn’t about to open the gate for Chavez himself without orders from higher authority. A second lieutenant appeared that looked scarcely older.
He approached the driver while the private kept his assault weapon pointed directly at Char’s head.
“Morning, Lieutenant,” said Char. The man ignored the greeting.
“Identification,” he shouted. Char handed him the pilot’s license and an identification card issued by the Military High Command of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela, the latter being a sort of “get out of jail free” card, that the pilot had used whenever he was pulled over or otherwise molested by lowly government officials--it always worked like a charm.
The lieutenant’s eyes grew wide when he glimpsed the card.
“Lower your weapon, imbecile, he said to the private. Open the gate and let them in. Gentlemen, I am sorry for the misunderstanding. The colonel and his visitors are at his office― the small building behind his quarters to your right.”
Char nodded and they slowly proceeded into the compound.
“What now?” said Madat.
“Any number of things. We kill Stal, kill your boss, keep the missile from being launched, you name it.”
“Okay, let's go fuck some shit up,” said Johnnie.
“Great, another fucking cowboy gringo,” said Madat.
“Actually, I’m an Indian, from the Seminole tribe,” said Char with a smile.
“There's another way to do this. Get me in the building, let me do the talking. Leave the guns.”
“And take the cannoli?” asked Char with a sly grin.
“What?” said Madat. “J
ust fucking with you. Lead on Gunga Din,” said Char.
“Fucking stupid Indian, I'm Persian.”
“That’s ironic on multiple levels,” said Johnnie, “but it's the wrong time for a disagreement, gentlemen. Class it up a bit and stop acting like assholes. We do this right, we all get a payday. Do it wrong and we’ll all be buried in fucking Venezuela.”
“That’s incentive enough,” said Char.
“Obviously, he's the brains of the operation,” replied Madat.
“Yeah, I'm beginning to think the same thing,” said Char.
As Madat exited the driver side door, Char reached over the console, opened the glove box, quickly removed the Smith & Wesson model 39, and slipped it into the small of his back. It's always better to have and not need than need and not have.
***
Stal and the Ayatollah sat in the office calmly discussing the launch. Chen and Michael were manhandled through the door by four South African security guards, and Van Achtenberg followed carrying an old, steel-encased drill. The guard dragged the small man by a leather garrote around his neck and quickly strapped him into the chair with heavy leather restraints on his ankles and legs, while his hands remained handcuffed behind his back. Michael was similarly strapped into a heavy wooden seat that had recently been bolted to the floor.
Stal got up from his desk and walked into the center of the room.
“Given your earlier disloyalty, Doctor Chen, I needed to give you a test before I would let you configure my missile. Unfortunately, you failed and must be punished. However, since we still need you to input the correct data, I will spare your hands and fingers. No one, however, said we have to allow you to walk out of here. Van Achtenberg, bring the drill.”
The little man kept his composure until the small drill bit began to tunnel into his kneecap.
A pool of urine collected by the foot of the chair they had tied him to, and he screamed as the drill cut through the leg of his trousers and found purchase in the thin flesh of his kneecap. Van Achtenberg pushed the bit further into the knee until it began to drill into bone. Michael was sure he could smell it burning.