Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (11 page)

Captain Reigns stood up to address the operations officer. “Sir, what is the actual nature of the target? If it’s a sealed nuclear warhead, the shielding should prevent leakage that would cause radiation burns.”

“The agency thinks it’s being converted to a strategic EMP weapon, you can guess the target. He paused for a moment to let that sink in. The team was well versed in the effect of an electromagnetic pulse weapon.

The colonel regarded each member of the team. “The obje
ctive of your mission will be to upload the payload to the flight control program for the missile. What that payload does is classified above your need to know, however, you can assume that it will disable or destroy the missile.”

“What’s the danger to my team once the payload has been u
ploaded?” asked Reigns.

“
It’s minimal, as long as you immediately evacuate the area. The program will take time to work its magic,” replied Colonel Freeman.

The answer seemed to satisfy Reigns’ need to assess the risk of the operation―it sucks being responsible for men getting killed, but it’s even worse if it’s caused by something you did or failed to do. The success of the mission hinged on Blackfox’s ability to tap into a fiber-optic cable and upload a piece of ma
lware. Reigns needed to ensure that the guy would be playing on their team; otherwise, the mission was doomed before they got off the ground.

“Once that is done, the exfiltration site will be here in the v
icinity of the pueblo of Poyare, on the Colombian side of the border--there is a remote Colombian Marine Infantry Base that Captain Ramos, our LNO, has arranged for us to use.”

Michael looked at Ramos and smiled. “Been busy?”

Ramos shrugged. I’m just trying to do my job.”

Colonel Hearth stood up and turned towards the group of seated MARSOC Marines. “One more thing, gentlemen; I need to stress the sensitivity of this operation to everyone involved. The Colombian government is allowing us limited access to their f
acilities and airspace because of the nature of the threat as we have explained it. Anything goes wrong, and we need to have complete and utter deniability.” Michael knew what that meant―fully sanitized uniforms, possibly of foreign origin, and no expectation that the US government would take any active interest in them should the plan turn to shit. The Gunny announced a short break and Ramos turned to him as the rest of the audience filtered out of the room. “So, what do you think?” asked Ramos.

“Well, you know what they say, replied Michael. No battle plan survives first co
ntact with the enemy.”

Isla de
Bartolomé, CO 

The Ops briefing eventually concluded. Michael looked at his watch―it was just ten minutes past midnight. He knew what to expect next―the team leader, an Annapolis grad who served as quarterback from his sophomore year through graduation, would develop his own plan based on the guidance he had been given by higher headquarters. 

The guy’s name was Claymore Reigns. His given name ha
ving come from the medieval, Scottish, two-handed long sword rather than the anti-personnel mine. Michael occasionally would catch a Navy game and the sport commentators would without fail mention this background-color sound bite. Reigns graduated in 2003, so the climb up the military rank structure had been a speedy one. 

He was a new breed of shake-and-bake commandos who started out at one end as a basic Marine and graduated little more than a half year later as a would be snake eater. In between there was an arduous and rigorous gauntlet he’d had to run through, including the seven-month-long Individual Training Course (ITC) designed to develop an operator’s critical skills. This
four phase course built the MARSOC commando from the ground up, from his capacity to endure through his ability to operate as a fully functional warrior conducting irregular warfare as part of a highly organized team. After this, there was a host of add-on training to further develop the operator’s critical skills including courses in SCUBA, airborne operations, sniping, and languages.

Reigns was
a giant of a man―six foot five and about two hundred fifty pounds of lean muscle. Michael doubted that the physical part of ITC challenged him much. It was evident that he could withstand lots of physical abuse. He wondered, however, whether the leader had what it took to lead his men into harm’s way and bring them back home again. Football may be a rough sport, but no one normally dies during the game. 

They released the team members, but most of them milled around the hut, not sure if the team leader would call them t
ogether, as was often the case―in the Marines there was always something left to do. Michael tapped Ramos on the shoulder and pantomimed smoking. Ramos nodded and they retreated to the smoking area. They walked down Main Street a short distance, took a left between two C-huts, and plopped down on the top of the weathered picnic table. 

Ramos took out a couple of Marlboros and offered one, but Michael waved him off. 

“I got a Cohiba Lancero I’ve been saving for a while.”

Ramos lit the end of his cigarette and inhaled deeply, while Michael bit the tip off the cigar and fired the end with a wooden match. 

“Shit’s bad for your health,” said Michael, pointing to the Marlboro.

“Got to die of something,” Ramos deadpanned. 

“So, what do you think?”

“Personally, I think you’re fucked. It’s a high-risk mission and they aren’t telling you squat― the usual situation.”

Michael laughed. “Yeah, a real SNAFU―situation normal, all fucked up.”

“Same as always,” replied Ramos. They both laughed. M
ichael looked toward Main Street and spied two Marines, apparently searching for them. 

“There they are
,” shouted one of them. Michael recognized the Team Gunny as he approached.

“Captain Reigns wants to see you right now, Captain Blackfox.”

“Sure, Gunny, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“He said right now, sir.” 

Michael looked at Ramos, who simply shrugged. He snuffed out his Cohiba on the picnic table and placed it back in his mouth. 

“Lead on, Gunny.”
He left Ramos smoking pensively and followed the gunnery sergeant to the team C-hut. 

The NCO led him to Reigns who seemed transfixed by an I
ntelligence overlay covering the large military grid map of their area of operations. The overlay was a clear plastic sheet that designated the objective, probable enemy avenues of approach, named areas of interests, and any other piece of information that they would need to know about their enemy’s probable course of action. 

Shit, he’s even bigger close up
, thought Michael. Reigns acknowledged Michael with a nod. 

“They tell me you’re my cyber-warrior?”

“Yeah, that would be me,” said Michael. 

“Be ready to brief me on your part of the op plan not later than 0300.” 

“I’ll brief you right now, if you want,” said Michael, thinking that at 0300 he wanted to be heavily ensconced in dreamland.

“I’m not ready now, Blackfox. I suggest you become accu
stomed to giving me exactly what I order you to provide and we’ll have no problems.” 

So, this was it
, thought Michael. The leader exerting his authority, cowing any potential threats in order to consolidate his leadership—very tribal. 

“You got it, boss. See you at zero three,” said Michael as he turned to leave.

“Not so fast, hotshot. I want to have a few words with you,” replied Reigns.

“Didn’t we just do that?” 

Reigns approached within six inches of Michael and loomed over him. 

“See, keep talking like that, you and I aren’t going to get along well at all. In fact, I might just have to kick the tar out of you to get my point across.” 

“Feeling froggy? Go ahead and jump, tough guy,” said Michael, while secretly hoping he wouldn’t―it was already a fact established by ESPN that this guy could take a beating. 

Their heated dialog garnered the attention of the other team members gathered about the room. 

“Why not take it outside, gentlemen!” the team gunny suggested. 

“Fine by me,” lied Michael. He would have to find something hard with which to hit this gorilla. 

“There may come a time for that, but for right now, I want you to know, you aren’t a member of this team. You’re just a specialist mostly along for the ride. You don’t carry a weapon, and although the men will respect your rank, you aren’t in charge of shit. We clear on that?”

“Crystal,” replied Michael. 

“Disappear,” said Reigns dismissively. 

Michael walked to the computer lab and pounded on the door until he roused Sergeant Howell, who was apparently playing a first-person shooter video game. 

“What’s up, sir?”

“I need my laptop for a briefing,” replied Michael.

“Well, come on in, and I’ll make us some coffee while you explain how I can help you.” 

It was after two thirty when they finished their work. There was not an application, program, or platform that Howell could not master. He helped Michael integrate satellite maps into the classified graphics program that would detail how he intended to break into the fiber cable, hack into the network, and upload the payload into the system. 

The virus fit handily on a USB drive. It consisted of a complex multifunction worm that could replicate and change system settings so that the device controls would register incorrect readings while actively manipulating the machine functions in the background. It would be as if your car suddenly accelerated to one hundred miles an hour while the speedometer registered just fifty-five. 

Michael flawlessly briefed his part of the operation order to a rapt audience, including Colonel Hearth, who had silently a
ppeared in the back a few minutes after the start.

“I have a question for you, Blackfox,” said the colonel.

“Shoot,” replied Michael. 

“How do you intend to find the conduit housing the
fiber optic cable?” 

“Already got that covered, sir.” 

Michael went to the computer and pulled up a satellite photo of the compound with several long, faint lateral lines running between most of the buildings. 

“The lines indicate that jungle undergrowth has been cleared away in long narrow paths between the buildings, and that at ce
rtain spots, a slightly wider circular perimeter has been cleared away. My conclusion is that these are the fiber conduits and the circular areas are the location of the access ports.”

The colonel nodded.
“Better hope you’re right.” 

“Hope has nothing to do with it…. sir,” Michael added the term of military courtesy to soften the verbal smack down. “I know that is the conduit.” 

Hearth nodded and Reigns seemed grudgingly satisfied―he was nothing if not pragmatic. The team’s success depended on Michael, and he had demonstrated the requisite planning prowess to prove he could complete his portion of the mission. Reigns concluded the briefing and released the team. An exhausted Michael staggered back to his C-hut, took a cot next to where

Ramos softly snored, and fell into a deep slumber.
He didn’t even bother to remove his boots.               

Santo Domingo, DR 

They had anchored off a small islet fifty nautical miles south of the Dominican Republic late on Friday instead of arriving into Rio Dulce after dark. Char had convinced the agents to allow him to anchor so they could all enjoy a few hours of fishing and, pe
rhaps, catch a nice dinner. 

He had purposely iced down six
Aguila beers in such a way so that they glistened with wet ice chips when he removed them from the cooler. His continued urgings had eventually worn them down, and after pulling in a grouper, they joined him in a celebratory beer that was soon followed by another.

The galley was a gourmet’s wet dream. The appliances i
ncluded a Sub-Zero upright refrigerator, a microwave, a full-size oven, and a four-burner ceramic cooktop. All the countertops were a polished black marble, and all of the cabinets were constructed of medium brown teak. 

Char cut the grouper into filets; lightly covered them in virgin olive oil, and seasoned them with garlic, salt, and pepper. He then dipped them in a cornmeal, egg, and beer batter, and lightly fried them in a shallow pan until they were a rich golden brown.  He spread a thick smear of tartar sauce on hoagie rolls he had d
efrosted, and served the sandwiches with a side of homemade onion rings and coleslaw made with what was left of his vegetable larder. 

The beers during fishing were followed by several glasses of a nice Argentine Pinot
Grigio, Char had purchased during happier times in Cartagena. He had been plying them steadily with whatever food and drink he could muster up out of the rapidly depleting stores.

They all had tried their hand at fishing this afternoon, and it had turned out to be an unseasonably hot day as they labored over rod and reel on the stern. The fishing had been good, even for the novice federal agents. They had each caught a couple of good size
snook, and Char had pulled in the fifteen pound black grouper that they now feasted upon. 

After they finished, he cleared away the plates and brought out a Boston cream pie he had defrosted earlier. He retrieved a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream from the bar and served it with the coffee. 

“I have to hand it to you, Char, you’re the perfect host,” said Carl Davis. 

“You’re too kind, Carl,” he said in reply to the older and fa
tter federal agent. He waited until the agents had finished their desserts and retrieved a large, dark, polished wooded box from behind the bar. 

“Cigar anyone?”
Char held out the box with the lid of the humidor open so the agents could peruse a plethora of mostly Cuban cigars Char and Michael had purchased when they had passed through Havana in the weeks past. 

They passed away the rest of the evening smoking cigars a
ccompanied by a hefty snifter of Hennessy XO Extra Old Cognac poured from a bottle Char had recently discovered in the recesses of the liquor cabinet. 

Tomorrow at midmorning they would arrive in the Domin
ican Republic to refuel and replenish the larder. The agents had stipulated that while docked or moored at the marina, aside from the two errands, no one would be leaving. It would probably be Char’s last chance to escape, as once they were back in U.S. waters, he sensed it would be too late. 

He used the satellite phone to call the Rio Dulce Yacht Club located a short distance outside of Santo Domingo and reserved a slip for the
Good as Gold
. Once he had received confirmation of the reservation, he dialed in the latitude/longitude coordinates on the GPS, engaged the autopilot, reclined the captain’s chair as far back as it would go, and drifted off to sleep. 

The agents occupied the two master suites―Char wanted to make sure they were comfortable. He awoke while it was still dark, made a cup of strong Colombian coffee, and ascended to the upper deck to catch the sunrise. 

He then descended to the engine room, opened the seawater strainer on the cooling system, and half-filled it with sand and other debris. He wanted one engine running measurably hotter, without specifically damaging it. A short time later he noticed that he had increased the running temperature of the engine by about fifty degrees to two hundred thirty five degrees. 

At seven thirty, Char started cooking. He chopped the r
emaining potatoes into thin julienne slices and placed them in a deep pan filled with olive oil, cut up a Jimmy Dean sage sausage he had defrosted last night, and beat the remaining eight eggs into a scramble.

“Good Morning, Lou,” said Char cheerfully. He handed the marshal a big mug of coffee and returned to his duties.

Morning,” replied Beavers, who sounded a bit hung over from the previous evening. 

“Is Carl up yet?” asked Char.

“Yeah, I think he is grabbing a shower. From the noise in the bathroom this morning, he probably needed one to clean up.” 

Char laughed. “Well, do me a favor and see if you can hurry him up, otherwise the eggs will be dried out.” 

Both agents appeared a few minutes later and seated themselves at the polished teak dining table while Char placed a large rectangular serving tray heaped with sausage, eggs, hash browns, and biscuits in the center.

“You’re too good to us, Char,” exclaimed Beavers.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be a shame to have to lock you up,” commented Davis somewhat acerbically. 

They finished breakfast and Char suggested the agents finish their coffee on the airy upper rear deck while he cleaned up. He returned to the bridge and checked their location. They were about fifteen knots from Rio Dulce; at their present speed, they would be there within the hour. He passed the time on the bridge, feeling the throb of the twin diesels under him, slowly sipping his third cup of Colombian coffee and listening to Jimmy Buffett sing about banana republics, hamburgers, being forty, and other happy trivialities. 

Beavers entered from the galley and noted they had sighted land and were just about to enter a shipping channel that would take them to the yacht basin. “How’s it going?” 

“She’s running hot,” replied Char as he tapped the electronic gauge. He pushed a button and a graph displaying the historic
temperature over the week showed a fifty-degree deviation from the norm on the port engine. 

“Will that be a problem?” 

“I’m not sure, but we will probably need to get it checked out, and that might take some time. They are going to want us tied up at the dock so they can diagnose it,” Char added, hoping he conveyed the appropriate level of sincerity. The next step was to get them off the boat, and that would take some work that he was not willing to do until they were tied up at the dock.

The Rio Dulce Yacht Club was really a small modern city composed of a full-service marina, numerous high-end luxury shops, Mediterranean style villas of red stucco, and a fully stocked supermarket that rivaled the best Publix had to offer. 

Char navigated into slip seventy-three and had the two deputies field the lines and secure them to the dock. The agents both escorted him to the harbormaster’s office where Beavers produced a government Visa card.

“The taxpayers will be picking up the tab from this point on.” 

“Fair enough,” replied Char, “but we are out of beer and wine.” 

“We can pass the hat for that,” answered Beavers. 

The harbormaster was a robust sixty-year-old black Dominican of Jamaican origin who Char had remembered from past trips.

“Mister Char, how you been?” he asked in an accent that was almost musical in its lilt.

“Well enough, Barry, but one of the diesels is acting up. Can you have Rodrigo come and take a look at it?”

“Sure thing, Mister Char, I’ll send him right over.” Char thought about ways to get the agents off the boat, and he initially focused on a fuel leak. It would be messy and the sabotage would be easy to detect, especially if he had to absent himself to do it. A few months ago, Michael had blown out the thermostat on the air conditioner because he didn’t bother to trip the breaker while working on it. He figured that would be the way to go, as he had learned through experience that a new thermostat would have to
either be delivered from Santo Domingo or be sent from the States via FedEx. 

They returned to the boat and Rodrigo arrived a short time later. He was a short, but well-muscled Dominican who had earned a living as a professional boxer until an errant punch a
lmost cost him an eye. Luckily, he had maintained his vision and had saved enough to pay tuition to a marine diesel school in Miami. 

Char figured it would take Rodrigo all of five minutes to find the problem with the engine cooling system, so he escorted him to the engine room and sought out the AC control panel in the main salon. He took out a small screwdriver, unscrewed the co
ntrol panel, and jumped different contacts until the screen display went out, and he heard the whisper quiet system cease. 

The agents were both occupying club chairs on the stern, drinking Arnold Palmer’s from tall, frosted glasses. Davis e
ntered the main salon in order to secure a refill and perhaps a snack as it was getting close to lunchtime. He immediately felt the heat and noticed that the air conditioner’s plume of frosted air had ceased. 

Davis looked at Char quizzically, “did you shut off the air-conditioning?”