Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2)

by T. S. O'Neil

  “Victor Seven Two, over,” said a disembodied voice. Michael smiled.

  “This is Charlie Two Five Actual.”

  “Roger, Charlie Two Five, glad to hear your voice.”

  “Not half as glad as I am to hear yours,” said Michael.

  “Victor Seven Two, we have a situation here,” said Michael.

  “Roger, Charlie Two Five.”

  “Can you provide over watch?” asked Michael.

  “For a short while, but we are in need of resupply.”

  “Roger that. I’m going to be talking to the National Guard major. If I key the mike twice, drop him and as many others as possible, roger.”

  Michael heard the rumble of the approaching heavy armored personnel carriers and was not surprised to see six trucks approach in a line. They were awkward-looking vehicles that resembled a warthog in that they had a flat nose sprouting into a wide body. Michael had seen them in use overseas, but he had to think a minute to recall its designation. The UR-416 is essentially the chassis of a Mercedes-Benz Unimog cross-country vehicle fitted with an armored body. A light machine gun was mounted in a cupola on the top front of each armored car.

  In this case, each gun was manned by a National Guard soldier in body armor. In the lead was the same National Guard major who had taken them into custody. Chen stood up, looked out the blast resistance window, and then looked at Michael.

  “Whatever you’re going to do, make it quick. We have about fifty-two minutes before the missile impacts.”

  Michael nodded and spoke into his headset. “Victor Seven

  Two, are you monitoring the current situation?”

  “Roger, Skipper. It looks like you’re knee deep in Indians,” replied Sergeant Perry. “Asshole, I am an Indian,” replied Michael.

  “Sorry, Skip, but we’ll sort it out. We can do an airburst and take out the gunners.

  Just stall them a minute―I’m dialing in the range to targets now.”

  “No, belay that,” said Michael. “Can you just take out the weapons?”

  “Take out six 7.62 machine guns before any of them can take you down? Doubtful.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll seek cover,” replied Michael.

  “Your funeral,” said Sergeant Perry, without meaning it. He released the transmit button and looked at Langston.

  “This guy is one crazy son of a bitch.”

  “The good ones always are,” he replied. Langston’s eyes were glued to the spotter scope trying to plot the targets that Perry would shoot.

  Michael addressed the others in the room, “Guys, listen up.

  I’ve got to try something. You all stay here, watch my back, and be ready to move.”

  “What do you plan on doing?’ asked Char.

  “Convince this asshole that it’s in his interest to get the hell out of here.”

  They were badly outgunned by the National Guard. He knew that the Venezuelans could open up on the building with their 7.62 millimeter machine guns and quickly shatter the hollow cinderblocks, reducing it to rubble. It would be best to diplomatically try and stop that from happening.

  Michael leaned his rifle against the doorjamb, opened the door, and watched as the six armored vehicles stopped in a horizontal line in front of him, six mounted machine guns all aimed at him. Michael held his hands in the air and approached the armored car with the additional radio antennas, figuring it was the command vehicle.

  “El Mayor” said Michael. The gunner repeated the words. A few moments later the rear passenger door of the armored car opened and the portly, mustached major clumsily hoisted himself out of the vehicle, straightened his uniform and approached.

  “You better surrender, Gringo. I have no time for this bullshit. I’ll have my machine guns lay waste to the building.” “You have no idea how true that statement is, Major. You ain’t got time for shit, because that missile is coming back here.” The major looked at Michael skeptically.

  “Gringo, you have five seconds and then I’m going to have my men shoot you.” He raised his hand in the air and the machine gunners visibly tightened their posture. Michael was sure he could hear the click of the bolts being locked to the rear. The first twenty-five millimeter round struck the receiver of the armored vehicle’s light machine gun and exploded in a shower of heat, light, and shrapnel.

  Michael wrapped his arm around the major’s neck, swept his legs, and took him down to the ground. The pistol fell from the man’s hand and bounced across the gravel, landing a few feet beyond his grasp.

  Another machine gun exploded in a fiery ball of smoke and fragmented steel. Michael tightened his grip on the man’s wind pipe.

  “You ready to listen?” asked Michael.

  “You’re going to have to kill me, fucker,” replied the major.

  “Victor Seven Two, get a good sight picture on this fat head I have in a headlock. Think you can put a bullet in it?”

  “We’ll have to use the M16. Otherwise you’ll be collateral damage,” said Sergeant Perry.

  “Last chance, fat man” said Michael. He felt the man stop struggling.

  “Let me up.”

  “Call off your soldiers,” ordered Michael.

  “Okay,” replied the major in a barely audible voice.

  Michael released his grip and the man struggled to his feet, straightened his rumpled uniform and addressed his soldiers.

  “Lower your weapons, comrades. Lieutenant Gomez, the major yelled, send me two of your best soldiers.” “In case this is a trick.” Michael nodded, turned and walked back inside the control room.

  Dixon opened it with the AK-47 slung over one shoulder, the barrel pointed downward.

  “Everything alright, Skip?”

  “Yeah, just showing the major how little time he has.”

  The men approached Chen’s computer console as Dixon regarded the two young National Guardsmen.

  “What are you guys, like twelve?” he said with a smirk.

  “What?” one of them said.

  “Nothing―just fucking with you.”

  Chen brought up the telemetry program and it showed the missile over the northern Caribbean heading north toward the continental United States. He entered three keystrokes and the program changed to display the missile’s true course―south towards its point of origin.

  “This is a trick,” said the major.

  “I wish,” replied Michael. “According to that clock, we now have a little bit less than an hour to get the hell out of here. Every minute you delay brings the missile closer. That minute could be

  the difference between living or dying.”

  Chapter Forty-seven - End Game

  Carabobo Launch Complex

  Dixon helped ease Thomas into the back seat of the Raptor and slid in beside him. Michael turned around and regarded Chen. “We need to talk about what this missile is going to do.” Chen nodded. “The casing on the warhead is very thin as it was set up to maximizing the generation of gamma waves, so it will not have as much physical destructive effect as an unmodified warhead. However, to be on the safe side, we should get as far away from ground zero as possible.”

  “What about Stal? We just going to leave him here?” said Dixon. As if in response, Michael pointed to two diminutive figures walking away from Stal’s quarters. Bobby’s arms enveloped the small teenage girl as if attempting to shield her from any further harm.

  They stopped in front of Michael’s door and addressed him; “Stal is dead. I killed him and cut off his head with a machete.”

  Michael nodded. “You saved us from having to do it.”

  Dixon leaned over the seat and whispered in Michael’s left ear. “Are we just going to let this guy live. He walked us into an ambush?”

  “What would you do if that was your daughter?” replied Michael.

  Dixon thought for a second. “I’d probably do the same thing―including cutting his head off, except I’d do it with a rusty spoon.”

  “Go get proof Stal’s dead a
nd if he’s not, take care of it,” said Michael.

  Dixon exited the vehicle and broke into a run. He entered Stal’s quarters, exited a few minutes later carrying a knotted black plastic garbage bag. He approached Bobby and handed him something. “Oh, yeah, he’s dead, alright,” said Dixon as he climbed back into the cab.

  “What did you give Bobby?” asked Michael.

  “The keys to Stal’s Land Rover―it’s not like two dead guys are going to need it,” replied Dixon.

  Johnnie started to press the accelerator of the Raptor, but Michael grabbed his arm signaling him to stay put and addressed the informant.

  “Bobby, it’s best that you drive as fast as you can back to your village. Michael looked at his watch, you have a little bit more than forty minutes to do so. Gather the people and shelter in the clinic. The mountain should shield you from the blast.”

  The man nodded. Johnnie hit the gas and drove the Raptor out the now abandoned front gate.

  ***

  Gunny Grimes had been slowly consolidating the remnants of his team in anticipation of redeploying. It was just a matter now of closing the fifty meters or so down an old jungle trail that ran from the highway to the highpoint where Victor Seven Two had been set up.

  “Good to hear your voice, Skipper.” Gunny Grimes’ voice reverberated in Michael’s earpiece.

  “Same here, Gunny. Can you rendezvous on the main road in a few minutes?”

  “Roger that. We started moving as soon as we saw you didn’t need overwatch.” There’s a billboard about a klick down the road. It’s got a big ugly picture of Chavez on it. It says he’s the town or some such shit. Stop there and we’ll meet you.

  ***

  The Raptor accelerated down the highway and stopped at a billboard with a picture of the dictator under which was ‘Chavez Es El Pueblo.’ The Marines stepped out from behind it as the Raptor skidded to a stop. Although they were still in a tactical situation, Gunny Grimes saluted smartly. “Gunny, you look pretty tired,” said Michael.

  “And you look like hell, sir

  “Roger that. Let’s say we act like a Shepard and get the flock out of here. ”said Michael with a tired smile.

  The Marines mounted the bed of the Raptor, the vehicle departed in a squeal of thick rubber tires and accelerated down the highway. They rapidly approached scattered light industrial buildings surrounding the outskirts of the airport and Madat slapped the back of the front bucket seat with the palm of his hand.

  “We must take my girlfriend with us,” he said suddenly.

  Michael ignored the man and Madat repeated the demand. “No can do, we don’t have the time,” replied Michael. He looked at the watch MARSOC had issued him, a Casio Pro Trek PAW2000-1, and read the countdown timer he had set when Chen had told him they faced an incoming missile. They were down to just over thirty eight minutes.

  “If you don’t let me take my girlfriend, I won’t fly you out of here,” said Madat. Dixon started to raise his sidearm and pointed it at Madat.

  “Killing me will solve nothing and I won’t be threatened by you,” replied Madat.

  “Lower the weapon, Sergeant Dixon,” said Michael. He turned to Madat. “Do you know where she is?”

  Madat smiled. “Oh yes. She has a room in the back of the club, Calle Pachingon. It’s right on the way.” “Do you know where the club is?” Michael asked.

  “Sure, it’s close by,” replied Johnnie.

  “For all our sakes, it better be,” said Michael with a sigh.

  Three minutes elapsed before Johnnie pulled up in front of the club.

  “You have two minutes, understand?” said Michael

  Madat shook his head in acknowledgement. The club was closed due to the early hour of the day, but Madat went around back and came back a short time later with a petite fair-skinned young lady dressed in tight jeans and a sheer halter top. Seeing her and the smile on Madat’s face, Johnnie jumped from the truck and ran inside.

  “Where the hell is he going?” said Dixon.

  “I don’t know but he took the keys,” replied Michael. “Go after him.”

  Dixon approached the door just as Johnnie exited with Victoria, the stripper he had met the night they snatched Madat. He started to take her to the back of the truck, but thought better of it. Dixon climbed back into the rear seat and tried to close the door but Johnnie pulled it open.

  “You’re married correct?” he asked as he ushered the curvaceous Latin beauty onto Dixon’s lap.

  Dixon looked at the man with a mix of annoyance and resignation, “I may be married but I’m not dead.”

  They reached the airport seven minutes later. Despite the suspicious appearance of the vehicle’s occupants, the guard waved them on. Johnnie parked the vehicle beside the Dasault Falcon and the group filed on board. He put the keys on top of the visor, exited the truck, and closed the door.

  “Damn shame,” said Johnnie.

  “You’re welcome to stay with the truck. It just probably won’t run in another half hour,” said Dixon.

  Madat entered the cockpit and Michael followed, taking the copilot seat. “Doctor Chen,” yelled Michael. The Chinese engineer limped into the cockpit and Michael grabbed his arm.

  “What will the missile do?”

  “Hard to say. Its original programming was that it would detonate three hundred miles above the earth, but in this case, I think it will detonate at a much lower level. Someone wanted to send a message,” said Chen.

  “How low?” asked Michael.

  “According to the virus code, it will detonate at fifty thousand feet above the site of origin.”

  “The operational ceiling of this jet is fifty one thousand feet, so that’s a problem for us,” said Madat.

  “If you’re going to stay up here, take the jump seat,” he continued, indicating a small flip down seat behind the copilot.

  Chen unstrapped the seat, sat down, and buckled himself in. “What happens if we exceed the operational limit?” asked Michael, afraid he already knew the answer.

  “The engines will fail in the thin air and we’ll crash if I can’t get them restarted.”

  “If we get hit by the pulse, the electronics will be fried and we will crash as well,” replied Chen.

  “One of them is a sure thing,” said Madat, “the other is not. I say we take our chances climbing as high as we can as fast as we can.”

  Madat taxied the jet into position and ignored repeated calls from the tower chastising him for preparing to take off without their permission. He snapped on the intercom.

  “Attention passengers, you better be strapped in because, as you Americans say, we’re off like your mom’s dress.” There was scattered laughter in response.

  “I think you mean prom dress,” replied Michael.

  “Oh, that makes more sense,” exclaimed Madat.

  He pushed the three levers controlling engine thrust all the way forward and released the brakes causing the small jet to rocket forward. They were airborne in a surprisingly short space of runway, and Madat put the jet into a steep climb. Michael looked at his watch; they had just twenty seven minutes left.

  The climb continued and Michael watched the altimeter tic off the altitude: twelve thousand, fifteen thousand, twenty thousand feet and they still continued to climb. When he reached fifty one thousand feet, Madat looked at Michael “Now it really gets interesting.” Michael nodded.

  “Given the altitude that the device is expected to detonate at, I estimate that the EMP radius for this explosion should be about four hundred miles,” said Chen.

  “We won’t make it,” responded Michael.

  “No, but maybe we can still get above it,” said Madat.

  The plane was now just shy of fifty one thousand feet and Madat struggled to gain more altitude. The engines sputtered in protest, but continued pushing the plane higher. “Can I level out now?” asked Madat.

  “I’m not sure. Most of the shielding was removed from the underside of the wa
rhead, but it’s prudent to think that some gamma radiation will be directed skyward, so I would continue to go higher,” said Chen.

  Michael’s countdown timer reached zero as the Falcon reached fifty one thousand five hundred and twenty two feet. They were approximately 173 miles from ground zero. Since they were pointed away from the blast, they saw nothing. The blast wave carrying gamma radiation radiated out from the point of detonation at supersonic speed, but it would last for only a millisecond. The key would be whether they were above it or not.

  Severe turbulence rocked the plane in a wave that emanated from the explosion, causing the small jet to fishtail and rock from side to side like a maple leaf in a strong autumn wind. The shock wave passed them and the electronics blinked, but stayed on. Madat shouted something in Persian that sounded joyful. He smiled and high-fived Michael and Chen repeatedly.

  There was a loud bang as a high power surge caused by the severe turbulence caused pressure and flames to be released out both ends of the engine. The engine sputtered out and an alarm initiated loudly, repeating a clarion warning.

  Madat put the aircraft into a downward dive and attempted to restart the engine with a ram air start, but the air was too thin to support combustion; it caught and fired but did not ignite. Then a second engine sputtered out. It was then that panic began to seep into Michael’s psyche. The plane continued in a steep dive that was in danger of turning into an uncontrolled descent should they lose the last engine. Michael looked at the altimeter―they were below 39,000 feet and falling fast. The third engine sputtered but maintained speed and then died.

  The plane began an uncontrolled descent. The altimeter registered that they were falling at an alarming rate. They were now below thirty thousand feet and falling fast. “Michael, Chen, help me,” said Madat.

  “Tell me what to do,” said Michael.

  “When I tell you to, hit the igniter switch there,” he said, pointing to a shielded switch on the control panel.

  Madat engaged the air turbine starter and it made a high-pitched whine indicting it was turning the engine. Michael hit the igniter switch at Madat’s command. They waited until it reached fifteen hundred RPM and turned on the flow of fuel. It caught and roared back to life.