by T. S. O'Neil
Madat, his face contorted in concentration and wet with perspiration, slowly brought the engine up to idle speed. The aircraft continued to fall as the jet was still not generating thrust. Madat powered up and painstakingly brought it to full speed. The small jet’s tumbling descent slowed as the single motor fought to stabilize it.
“We’re going to need to start another engine as this one is going to overheat,” said Madat.
He followed the same procedure with the other one, but it would not immediately restart. After multiple attempts, it sputtered to life and Madat brought it to idle and then attempted to bring it back to full speed when a series of loud bangs generated from both ends of the motor. “The engine is surging,” said Madat. “I have to bring it back to idle.” Madat retarded the thrust lever to idle and then slowly brought it back to full power.
This time, there was no surge and the engine returned to normal operation.
Finally, the last engine came back on line and Madat struggled with the controls to arrest the free fall. He set the flaps to maximize lift and pulled the nose up sufficiently to bring the aircraft into stable flight at about 1500 feet. Michael could clearly see the jungle vegetation giving way to increasing urbanization along the coastal plain through the cockpit’s side window. He felt his asshole unclench and gave off a deep sigh of relief as the jet regained a steady forward momentum.
Michael and Chen slapped Madat on the back, high-fived, and shouted in joy. Madat got on the intercom. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I have a few announcements to make: one, we have survived an electromagnetic pulse bomb; two, all of our engines are fully functioning; three, we are now out of Venezuelan airspace. And four, there is beer, wine, and alcohol in the galley.
Feel free to break it out and have a drink.” A cheer came from the passenger compartment.
Madat looked at Michael. “So, where to chief?”
“I’ve been meaning to do some scuba diving. Any suggestions?” “I hear Bonaire is nice,” replied Madat. “Bonaire then,” replied Michael.
Madat hit a switch and stood up. “It’s on autopilot; watch it, but don’t touch anything.”
“Where are you going?” asked Michael.
“Bonaire is very close, and if I’m going to join the mile high club, I better make my move.” Michael just laughed.
Chapter Forty-eight - Bonaire
They set themselves up in the Pura Vida Villas, a five-star resort run by a Dutch guy with a healthy fixation on the Costa Rican style of relaxation, hence the name. It was a series of white-washed volcanic stone, two-story villas nicely furnished with light-colored modern furniture in a Caribbean motif.
The Good as Gold was still a day’s sail away from Bonaire. They originally planned to wait for Earl to arrive with the yacht and depart before the Marine Corps caught up with them, but Michael wanted to stay until Thomas’ medical condition improved.
Char was able to cash in one of the lesser denominations of bearer bonds to fund their stay. Michael had taken Thomas into a local hospital and he was recovering nicely. The prognosis was that he would be released in a few days. The Havoc Twins took up kite boarding. Gunny Grimes and the others sat on the beach and drank bottles of Amstel Light from a tub full of ice that the beach staff had stationed among them, having grown tired of constantly answering calls for another round.
The team took to the unforeseen R & R opportunity with vigor. Char always called it I & I for intoxication and intercourse, but he thought that perhaps the military had gotten more stoic in the years since Vietnam. Shortly after their arrival, two tall blond-haired, bikini-clad flight attendants wandered by the Havoc Twins as they took a break from kite boarding. The stewardesses expressed interest in knowing what such fit-looking men were up to. This line of inquiry led to a hasty departure to the twins’ villa, which debunked Char’s belief in the stoicism of the modern Marine.
Once Thompson was released, Michael intended to put them all on a commercial flight back to Camp Lejeune with a letter to be hand-carried by the Gunny requesting his transfer to the IRR be approved. He doubted it would be that simple, but he figured McElroy owed him that.
The pilot and his girlfriend had taken an adjoining villa and Michael had seen neither hide nor hair of them since they’d checked in. It was pretty much the same case with
Johnnie―occasionally, he’d see room service plates piled up outside their door, but other than that, they were indisposed.
Char and Michael went scuba diving for three days straight, five dives a day, surfacing just long enough to burn off the nitrogen that accumulated in their system. They rented a pickup truck and drove to different shore-accessible dive sites and waded into the pristine, crystal waters that made Bonaire such a popular dive location. They both found much-needed solace in the water and rekindled their father-son bond while sharing in the visual feast that diving among the prolific sea life and aquiline waters of Bonaire afforded.
As for his old man, Char, Michael hoped that a full pardon would be forthcoming regardless of his antics with the federal marshals. Michael knew he could not put off reporting in forever, but he figured the men appreciated the respite. April fifth dawned a beautiful sunny morning. A strong offshore breeze cooled the island and made dining alfresco on the hotel’s rooftop patio an attractive option. It also afforded a panoramic view of the coastline and surrounding landscape.
Thomas had been released from the hospital and was enjoying a breakfast of Belgian waffles and local bacon washed down with strong Colombian coffee. The others were working their way through Denver omelets that they had recently taught the chef to make, although they had to substitute local hot peppers for the more conventional jalapenos.
Across from the resort was the town’s soccer field, which was occupied by a local team engaged in a spirited morning practice. Michael heard the sirens and suspected something was afoot. They could see the flashing lights from three small Dutch Caribbean Police Force patrol vehicles. The police exited the vehicles and fanned out across the field, halting the practice. A short discussion ensued between the police and a man that Michael assumed to be the coach. He blew a whistle and the team retreated off the field.
Michael heard the low rumble of incoming fast movers. The team all looked up in unison and watched in interest as two Marine Corps F/A-18s approached low and fast, rattling the windows and furniture. The jets streaked across the sky directly overhead at about three hundred feet and then banked seaward―Michael could clearly see the pilot’s helmet and olive-drab flight suit. He swore one of the guys looked at him and smiled, but perhaps that was just his imagination.
“Someone’s trying to make an impression,” said Char as he brought the coffee cup to his lips.
“Yeah, I doubt there’s an airshow in town, said Michael. Go get the briefcase.”
“Is that any way to talk to your old man?” said Char with a raised eyebrow.
“You’re right. Please go get the briefcase, Dad.” “I have it right here,” said Char with a sly grin.
“Well, I guess they know we’re here,” said Michael.
“All good things must eventually come to an end,” said Char.
“Those Super Hornets had no drop tanks―must be a carrier offshore,” said Dixon.
“Quite a reception party,” said Char.
The Hornets returned for another fly over and it was then that Michael heard the unmistakable throaty repetitive whump of an incoming Osprey. He looked towards the soccer field as the MV22 transitioned from forward flight and vertically descended to terra firma at midfield.
Michael looked at the stairway to the lobby and noticed that three heavily armed Dutch policemen in anti-ballistic vests appeared, briefly scanned the room, and moved towards Michael’s table.
“I guess it’s too late to get the check,” said Char.
“Since when did you ever pick one up?” replied Michael as he turned his attention to the approaching officers.
“Which one of you is Captain Blackfox?”
asked the tall uniformed officer in precise, but accented English. Michael nodded.
“We have been asked to detain you here. Please continue eating, just don’t try to leave.” Michael nodded and returned his attention to the partially eaten omelet. The officers retreated from the table and stationed themselves at the doorway to the staircase, as if awaiting someone’s arrival.
Michael watched as a uniformed crew chief exited the Osprey did a quick inspection of the landing zone then signaled it was clear to deplane the aircraft.
A group of six passengers exited the Osprey and headed towards the restaurant. Five of them wore Marine Corps standard issue utilities in full battle rattle.
“Expecting a fight?” said Char.
“Maybe, said Michael, or it might be something else.”
As the group approached to within a hundred yards, Michael recognized the tall stocky frame of Major General McElroy accompanied by the even taller and rail thin Chief of Operations, Colonel Hearth. The others were various aides or subordinates. The one man in civilian clothes appeared to be either in law enforcement or the CIA, given the cargo pants, safari shirt and semi-automatic sidearm strapped to his leg.
“Could be trouble,” whispered Michael.
“Since when is there not?” replied Char.
Michael heard the loud clamor of six pairs of combat boots on the stone staircase and watched as the general and his heavily armed entourage approached the table. Luckily, given the early hour of the day, there were few other patrons. Michael and the other team members stood, while Char remained seated. McElroy’s face betrayed no emotion.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, General, you really know how to make an entrance,” said Char while finishing the last of his omelet.
“Well, they say that half of being a general officer is showmanship,” replied McElroy.
“What’s the other part―having a frontal lobotomy?” replied Char with a smirk. Michael groaned, while the general offered a tight smile, but otherwise ignored Char and looked at Michael.
“You and your team are U.A., Captain Blackfox” said the general using the abbreviation for Unauthorized Absence.
“And you’re apparently still in command of MARSOC,” said Michael.
“Let’s just say I called in a marker. You acquire a lot of them in Special Operations,” replied McElroy.
“Yes, I suppose you do, as far as being U.A. goes, we’re currently undergoing preparation for return from an overseas deployment. I was just about to hand out funds so they can take a commercial flight back to Camp Lejeune.”
“That won’t be necessary. They can board my aircraft and I’ll transport them to the Roosevelt so they can be debriefed. You can come along as well,” replied McElroy.
“No, I’d rather not,” said Michael. “I think I’ve done enough
for the Marine Corps over the last two weeks―I’d just as soon get on with my life.” He removed a form from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to McElroy. “That’s a request to be dropped back to the IRR. Do me a favor and sign it.”
“Think successfully accomplishing this mission gives you that type of latitude?” asked McElroy.
“Saving the country from reverting back to kerosene lanterns and the horse and buggy? Hell, General, we didn’t just save the country, we saved the world. If the United States had been plunged back into the dark ages, the world would have descended into chaos,” said Michael.
“We weren’t leaving such things to chance. We were sitting right off shore on the Roosevelt with a squadron of F/A-18s ready to fire off a salvo of AGM-65 Mavericks at the missile if you failed.”
“You’d still have a war on your hands with Iran and Venezuela. Now all you have are a bunch of farmers in the jungle who can’t figure out why their tractors and TVs won’t work.”
McElroy nodded his head slightly. “Plausible deniability is definitely preferable to an overt attack, but don’t kid yourself if you think we’re not already at war with Iran.”
“None of my business, anymore, General,” said Michael as he reached for the coffee urn and refilled his cup, but, it’s nice to know you had a backup plan. Did that come before or after you called in your marker?”
“That’s also none of your concern. Let’s just say your high risk plan worked and we’ll all live to fight another day,” said McElroy.
Michael took a sip of his coffee as if considering the answer.
“By the way, Stal is dead. The informant killed him and Dixon has photographic confirmation.”
“A photograph is not acceptable proof. I want irrefutable evidence the man is dead,” said McElroy.
Michael nodded to Dixon sitting across the table.
“If its irrefutable proof you want, that’s exactly what we intend to deliver. Can Dixon leave for a moment?” McElroy nodded.
Dixon rose to his feet and quickly disappeared out of the door of the restaurant. He reappeared a few minutes later carrying a bowling ball bag. He gingerly placed the bag upon the table in front of Michael. “Is that what I think it is?” asked McElroy.
“You said you wanted irrefutable proof. It took me a couple hours and one hundred fifty bucks to come up with a bowling ball bag on Bonaire. It’s wrapped in heavy plastic. You can examine it if you like.”
The general signaled Colonel Hearth.
“Have this taken to the aircraft.” Colonel Hearth looked disgusted.
Char smiled at the man. “Don’t feel bad. If it were me, I would have brought you his dick; you know, from one dick to another.
“Dad, please,” said Michael, “let’s be civil.” Michael realized that in order to get the outcome he desired from this meeting, he would have to prep the battlefield a little and soften up the general.
Michael regarded McElroy, “I didn’t tell you this before, but I served with Jimmy. He was a good leader and a great Marine. I hope the death of his killer brings you some peace.”
The general started to say something, but his voice was choked with emotion. He took a moment to compose himself and then looked at Michael.
“You did one hell of a job, Blackfox, and I’d like to offer you a permanent command.”
Michael smiled. “Sorry, General, not interested. I’ve got a lot of scuba diving to catch up on and none of it will be in murky water.”
“Okay, Blackfox, I’ll sign the release…on one condition: return the one hundred million francs in bearer bonds you took from the Iranians.” Michael was not surprised he knew. Someone on the team had let him know where they were and had no doubt informed them of the ill-gotten gain.
“It’s just ninety five million,” said Char. “We had to pay off the Venezuelan National Guard major, the pilot that flew us out of ground zero, the two guys I had working for me, plus a lot of ancillary expenses.”
“And that amounts to five million francs?” asked Colonel Hearth with an air of incredulity.
The general looked at Colonel Hearth pointedly. “That’s fine, give it over; we’ll use it to settle some of the judgments against the Iranians dating back to the hostage crisis.”
“Sounds right,” said Char as he removed the briefcase from beneath the table. The general took the case and handed it to an adjutant, who took it to another table, opened it and counted the bonds.
“Ninety-five million Swiss franc,” said the aide.
The general used two fingers of his cupped right hand to signal for the form. Michael handed him the document together with a government issue Skill craft pen he had gotten from SGT Howell.
“Isn’t it ironic, son, that the same mark of pen that was used to sign your original enlistment papers is being used to set you free?” said Char. Michael didn’t reply, figuring he might jinx the moment, so Char turned his attention back to his coffee cup.
The general handed the document to his aide and regarded the two men, “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. The Marshal’s Service was awfully upset about two of their agents who turned up drugged and handcuffed to their beds in
Santo Domingo. It almost kept me from obtaining your pardons,” said McElroy.
The aide handed the general a large brown envelope. He removed the certificates and handed one to Michael and the other to Char. They both examined the documents.
“Based on the signature, you do indeed hold some markers. It seems we are free men,” said Michael.
McElroy regarded Char with a cold stare, “I owed you a favor, Mike; despite your father’s incident with the deputies. Take care of yourself. I would say stay out of trouble, but we both know that with him around, that’s not going to happen.”
Char smiled at the man, brought his cup up as if toasting and then sipped from it. Major General McElroy turned and departed without another word as his aide called the room to attention.
“Saddle up, gentlemen. We have a debrief on board in fifteen minutes,” said Colonel Hearth.
There were some hurried goodbyes and the team members departed to get their gear and move to the aircraft.
Char signaled the waiter who promptly delivered two Caribe beers glistening with ice.
“So, tell me, what will do we do with five million francs?” asked Char
“Well, the rent here can’t be cheap and I’m sure we’ll have to pay the pilot and deck hands some of it.”
“We should probably give some to the families of the dead Marines and the wounded certainly deserve a share,” said Michael.
Char looked flummoxed. “Why stop there? Why not give the rest of your team some of the loot?”
“We can’t do it while they’re on active duty as they have to report it, but there’s no reason why we can’t hold it for them,” replied Michael.
After paying off the deck hands and the pilot, we’ll keep a million and give them the rest. That should afford us a few more years of high living.”
“Make it two; running that boat is expensive,” said Char.
“Fair enough,” replied Michael.
The beers arrived. Char picked up the bottle glistening with chips of ice and tapped it against Michael’s beer.