by T. S. O'Neil
“Let me know if the missile starts to launch and I’ll make the call,” said Gunny Grimes.
“How the hell we supposed to know if it starts to launch?” asked Langston.
“You’ll see heat waves as the engines start to ignite.” “Won’t that be too late?” asked Langston.
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen a ballistic missile being launched, but if you get them out of there too early, they’ll know something is up and stop it,” replied the Gunny
“Okay, we’ll watch it closely.”
“You better; otherwise you’ll have a couple of extra crispy Marines on your conscience.”
“Thanks, Gunny, that’s nice.”
“Just don’t fuck up; I want to get all my Marines home.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, Gunny,” said Langston as he ended the transmission.
“That’s congregation,” interjected Staff Sergeant Perry. “What?” said Langston.
“It’s actually ‘preaching to the congregation, I believe.” repeated Perry.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I mean, why would you preach to the choir?” “I don’t know, maybe their singing sucks,” said Langston.
Five short minutes later, the loud, high pitch screech of an alarm broke the silence, half a dozen blue rotating lights strategically placed on the launch gantry illuminated and began rapidly rotating. The gantry’s support arms fell back from the missile’s body and the engine shook as a blue flame generated by the missile’s propellant issued forth from the rocket’s exhaust nozzle. Black exhaust from the igniters was channeled out the back of the engine and billowed out onto the launch pad, momentarily obscuring the prisoners.
“Gunny, Elvis is leaving the building!” shouted Langston into his microphone.
“What do you want us to do?”
“I told you I’m taking all the rest of my Marines home, didn’t I?” replied Gunny.
“Yeah, Gunny, you did,” replied Langston.
“I guess I failed to mention I wanted them to be alive—so get them the Hell outta of there!”
Grimes handed the microphone back to the Radio Operator and nodded his head as if in confirmation of a tough call,
“Blackfox got us this far, we’ll just have to trust that he uploaded the virus, otherwise we won’t have much of a country to go back to.”
***
Thomas and Dixon reacted in alarm as the missile’s large rocket engine sputtered to life. A throaty roar began to build as the waves of heat and smoke it generated filled the atmosphere around the gantry.
The chain above Dixon’s head exploded, causing him to reflexively crouch as metal shrapnel showered the surrounding launch pad. A short second later, another explosion erupted over
Thomas’s head, destroying several links of the steel chain.
Not a second was wasted as both suddenly free men ran away from the igniting missile. Dixon rapidly outpaced Thomas running down the gravel approach road. They covered almost a half mile without stopping. He skidded to a halt as the Raptor appeared in the distance. Thomas stopped beside him
“What’s wrong?” asked Thomas.
“Truck approaching.”
“Who is it?”
“I’m not sure, but there is a high probability that it’s more enemy.”
“Let’s seek some cover,” said Thomas.
“Too late, they’ve seen us,” replied Dixon. “Besides we need a truck.”
“How you going to take it from them? You’re unarmed.” Dixon didn’t answer as he recognized Michael standing in the bed of the Raptor and smiled. The vehicle ground to a halt in front of the two men and they jumped over the fender and into the bed.
“Thought we were going to find a couple of crispy critters,” said Michael as he embraced both men.
“Almost,” said Thomas.
The ground shook as if a company of Main Battle Tanks was passing nearby. A loud throaty roar of the missile’s engine erupted from the direction of the launch pad. They all stared in disbelief as the seventy-five foot missile thundered into the sky.
“There it goes,” said Dixon.
“Yeah, but it’s taking a long loop around the Caribbean and then coming back here.” “No shit?” asked Dixon.
“No shit,” replied Michael.
“How much time do we have?”
“I don’t know; an hour, maybe longer.
“Time to get the fuck out of Dodge,” said Thomas.
Chapter Forty-five - Stal’s End
Stal’s Quarters
Stal’s eyes fluttered open. He had no idea how long he had lain unconscious, but the period had served a recuperative benefit, as when he awoke, he had a massive erection. He would take care of that with an angry ravaging of his young captive―one last rape before he gave her to the Ayatollah to serve as one of his many wives. Since she would be the youngest, he had heard that the older ones would beat and humiliate her. Well, it’s not like Stal had not trained her to that role. She was getting too old for Stal anyway. He would find another.
His bedroom was dimly lit. Stal reached for his wristwatch and felt resistance. He turned to look and found that his wrists were bound to the bedposts of the old metal bed frame. He tried to move his legs and found them similarly tied. He tested the strength of the rope and found little slack. Another disconcerting fact was that he was completely naked. Whoever had done this had some nefarious plans, thought Stal.
“Ah, you’re finally awake, Colonel Stal,” said Bobby as he walked into the room.
“Fool, untie me immediately, or I’ll have you killed,” said Stal.
“You are not in the position to demand anything.” He raised his right arm and showed the man a weathered steel machete he held in a gloved hand.
“You know the story of the machete, Stal?” Bobby waited for a response and, getting none, continued speaking.
“The first Conquistadors came here to conquer, but you know all about that, don’t you, Stal. They used their swords for everything―clearing land, chopping off branches, and cutting undesirable growth. It’s a very useful tool.”
Bobby held up the machete as if examining it for the first time. Stal noticed that although the machete was old, it held a well-honed edge.
“The former owner of this house ran a banana plantation. This tool probably belonged to him or one of his workers. It was very dull, but I found a stone and sharpened it while you…, Bobby thought for a moment, searching for the right word, slept. You know the American Marines hacked into your glucose meter. They knocked you out by remotely operating it and injecting you with larger doses of insulin. I could have killed you that way, but I chose not to.”
Stal was shocked, but not surprised. The United States had some of the best hackers in the world, yet it was interesting that they would go to such lengths just to render him unconscious. He looked at the blade and the realization crept over him that he was in some degree of imminent peril. “You want your daughter back?” asked Stal.
“Fine, you can have her. She is locked in the small bedroom.
Take her and go.”
“I know where she is. I am not here for that. She will be freed, but I am here to ensure that you never rape another girl.”
“I have money I can give you, said Stal. I will give you one thousand Swiss francs to let me go.”
“You try to sell me your life cheaply, Stal.” The bound man rapidly nodded his head in agreement.
“One hundred thousand francs, then.”
“Ah, that’s better―not quite good enough, but better.” “Two hundred thousand?” said Stal. He was beginning to think he would buy his way out of this mess. Stal would surely kill this peasant when this was over, but current circumstances dictated his obsequiousness.
“Why not a million, Stal? A million dollars is not too great a payment for your crimes―taking my young, beautiful daughter, holding her as your hostage, beating her, and stealing her virginity.”
“Done. Just
untie me and I’ll get the money. It’s in Swiss bonds.”
“No, Stal, I cannot do that. However, I will sell you your freedom―one piece at a time.”
Bobby grabbed Stal’s testicles in his gloved hand, twisted them so the sack was tightened and the slack removed.
“This is how we snip the testicles of a sheep. Tell me, Stal, have you ever had them served as a meal?”
Bobby expertly slid the rapier sharp blade underneath the scrotum and swiftly cut through its skin until they were freed. He looked at the severed scrotum and then dejectedly tossed them onto the bed, where they landed beside Stal’s head. He screamed in shock and pain. Blood from the gaping wound flooded the bed. “There is about two hundred thousand worth of you, Stal,” said Bobby. Stal screamed again. This time it had an almost animalistic quality to it, like the howl of a wild cat being skinned alive. He grabbed Stal’s penis and looked at it as if performing some type of medical analysis.
“Ah, this is the culprit of so many of your misdeeds. It’s sad that something so small could be the source of so much pain.” “Wait, please, no,” said Stal weakly.
“Did my daughter say something similar before you raped her, Stal?” He gripped the head of Stal’s penis and swung the machete through the air, striking and severing the shaft at its base. A stream of blood gushed from the wound.
“There is another filthy piece of you fully paid for. Stal
began to pass out from shock due to the loss of blood. Don’t leave me yet, Stal.”
Bobby tossed the severed penis onto Stal’s body and repositioned himself directly at his head. Bobby raised the machete over his head and brought it down with ferocious velocity, striking Stal’s neck and severing his carotid artery. Bobby spit on the partially severed head, dropped the blood covered machete and walked from the room.
He went to the bathroom, removed his clothing, and showered off the blood. He changed into a pair of Stal’s pants and rolled the cuffs several times to shorten them. The shirt as well was much too large for him, so he did the same with the sleeves. He examined himself in the mirror and was mildly surprised how much older he looked.
He walked to the bedroom and unlocked the door. His daughter sat quietly on the edge of the bed. She looked up expecting to see Stal summoning her to another rape session, but beheld the vision of her father instead. She cried out in joy, leaped to her feet, and ran into his waiting embrace.
“I am here to take you home, my love,” said Bobby through tears of elation.
Chapter Forty-six - CQB
Carabobo Launch Complex
Johnnie pegged the gas pedal to the floorboards. The torque of a 413 horsepower engine loudly throbbed in response and rapidly accelerated the Ford Raptor to an imprudent speed. It made him think of the expression ludicrous speed from the movie Spaceballs, and he smiled despite the seriousness of the situation.
The Raptor careened down the gravel approach road toward the control building. As the road gave way to parking lot, he turned the wheel hard to the left and executed a skidding fishtail and came to a lurching stop― ejecting a large cloud of dust and gravel into the surrounding air.
The three Marines and Char leaped from the truck bed and stacked tightly, one behind the other, in a Close Quarter Battle entry formation immediately outside the door to the control room. Doctrine dictated that they throw in a hand grenade or some other mass-casualty-inducing device, but they needed the pilot alive.
Michael had Char’s carbine, preferring the smaller caliber weapon to the AK-47 or the shotgun he had liberated from the guards they had killed. He checked the door and found it locked. He signaled Thomas forward. The man raised the shotgun, took aim at the lock mechanism, and fired. The round impacted against the door, blowing out a fist-sized chunk of wood, but the lock still held. Thomas fired again and another chunk of door evaporated, allowing the door to swing free.
The men burst inside―each focused on a different area of the room. Michael locked eyes with the short, fat South African guard holding a bottle of Polar beer. Apparently, they had interrupted a celebration as most of the half dozen men in the room had drinks in their hands. The short man dropped the bottle and scrambled for his sidearm as Michael fired a three round burst into his chest. He fell to the floor dead. Michael caught movement to his left and heard the loud repetitive crack of the heavy 7.62 bullets as Char fired and brought down another guard.
The small room quickly filled with smoke and the metallic smell of cordite.
Chen sat behind his computer directly in front of Thomas, too frightened to move. Van Achtenberg stood behind him with a glass of bourbon in his hand. The Afrikaner was startled for a moment, but managed to draw his sidearm, pulling the trigger as Thomas fired the shotgun. The double-aught buckshot struck Van Achtenberg in the chest and took him off his feet.
Thomas approached what he assumed would be a dead man and was startled as Van Achtenberg fired his pistol. A round struck Thomas in the side. He collapsed to the floor and didn’t move.
Dixon fired a long burst and watched as Van Achtenberg’s head erupted in a spray of blood, tissue, and bone. “The righteous shall rejoice when he seethe the vengeance,” said Dixon.
Michael’s area of responsibility within the room held one fat Arab in Middle Eastern garb and a muscular, mustached figure in western dress with a briefcase chained to his left wrist. The muscular man made a furtive gesture under his suit jacket and Michael fired twice. The 5.56 millimeter rounds pierced the man’s chest and he fell back against the wall, dead. The fat man held up his hands in a sign of supplication and began pleading in what sounded like Arabic.
Madat Asserian heard the gunfire while in the bathroom getting rid of a celebratory beer. He hunkered down and waited for the shooting to stop and then tentatively opened the door a crack and peered into the room. Dixon readjusted his sight picture and began to squeeze the trigger as Char shouted, “Stand down! He’s a friendly.” Dixon nodded, approached the door, pushed it open with the barrel of his weapon, and signaled Asserian to come out. Michael searched the room. The remaining Chinese technicians had sought cover under their desks when the shooting broke out and continued sheltering there, unsure of the intentions of the raiders. It didn’t matter; they had to grab the pilot and hit the road before things got worse. “Clear,” shouted Dixon. Char and Michael repeated the word.
Michael knelt down by Thomas’ body and felt for the carotid artery in his neck. He waited for a minute and checked again on the other side.
“It’s okay, son, you did everything you could. Sometimes the odds are just against you,” said Char.
“Yeah,” said Dixon, “Thomas knew the score―high risk, high reward.”
“I got a pulse,” said Michael.
Thomas’ eye’s fluttered and opened. “Don’t count me out
just yet,” he said quietly. Michael scanned the room, looking for anything that could be used to staunch the flow of blood. Chen turned his swivel chair toward the back of the room and pointed to a door.
“Your gear is in there.” Michael ran to the door and opened it―inside a small closet sat a pile of their tactical gear with the weapons leaning against the wall to the rear. He opened his web vest and pulled out a Marine Corps issue first aid kit and removed a QuikClot bandage, which contained a substance that would chemically staunch the bleeding.
He returned to Thomas’ side, cut away the t-shirt with his Kbar, and examined the wound. Thomas had been hit once and it appeared to have gone right through the man’s abdominal muscles and exited, but Michael couldn’t be sure. He removed the bandage from its drab green foil pouch and looked closely at Thomas.
“They tell me this hurts a bit.” Thomas nodded weakly and Michael slapped the bandage onto the wound. It generated steam as the porous minerals sucked water from the surrounding blood to coagulate it. Thomas groaned, inhaled several times, and closed his eyes. Michael verified he was still breathing and called Dixon over.
“Monitor his vitals;
let me know if there are any changes.” Madat approached the Ayatollah and spoke soothingly in Persian. The man responded in a childlike tone, tentatively reached under his robe, and brought out a key on a long silver chain. Madat reached for the key and the fat man pulled his hand back while speaking urgently.
“He wants your assurance you won’t kill him,” said Madat.
“He has it,” said Michael.
“There’s more. He says that if he gives you the key, he and I leave right now.”
“Shit, there goes our ride,” said Dixon. Michael nodded as if considering the deal.
“No deal. Tell him to keep the bonds, we’re taking the plane.” Madat translated and the Ayatollah withdrew the key. Char looked at the fat Persian.
“Give us the keys to the briefcase or I’ll personally arrange a meeting with Allah for you.”
The Mullah continued muttering to himself, oblivious to Char’s demand. Char used the stock of his AK-47 to execute a sweeping butt stroke aimed at the Mullah’s testicles. The heavy man groaned and collapsed on the floor, moaning in anguish. Char reached down, grabbed the key from his neck and pulled until the chain snapped.
The door opened and Johnnie burst into the room. Dixon brought his weapon up at the ready―then lowered it when he recognized him. “You almost died, fool,” said Dixon.
“Sorry, but we’ve got trouble. The Venezuelans look like their getting ready for a fight.”
“How so?” asked Michael.
“Armored vehicles are warming up and soldiers are in their full battle rattle.” Johnnie grew wide-eyed as he took in the bloody carnage scattered about the room.
“You guys have been busy,” he said shaking his head. Michael walked to the closet and withdrew all his gear. His tactical radio was still attached to the vest. He turned it on, keyed in his pin code and put the headset on.
“Victor Seven Two,” he said tentatively.