Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (16 page)

Carabobo Launch Complex 

It had been a busy morning. The ambush had failed to check in and when multiple attempts to contact it were met with neg
ative results, Van Achtenberg and two other security guards mounted a couple of ATVs to investigate. The bikes were nimble enough to take them to the site, but so noisy they alerted everyone within miles of their approach. They arrived at the site a little before midday. 

To say Peter Van Achtenberg was not happy would be a pr
ofound understatement. He had not witnessed such carnage since the raid on Gaborone when he was just a young trooper with the Defense Forces. The enemy had killed an equal number then, but they were Kefirs and not men he had served with for over twenty-five years. Carl Ferreira, a man he had known since at least that time, was also missing. 

It was obvious that the bodies had been searched for intell
igence as all the pockets were turned inside out. Most of the weapons and ammunition were gone. The few remaining AKMs were left in a slag heap of melted metal, the thin stamped steel of the weapons’ receivers and barrels melted into a blob. Someone had used a thermite grenade to render them useless. 

Initially, he found no enemy dead, although he did find some evidence that his men had inflicted significant casualties on the Americans. 

“Find me a body!” he ordered. 

It was clear to Van Achtenberg that those who had countered the ambush were not desperate men who had luckily escaped with their lives, but well-honed professionals who, though initia
lly surprised by the chain of claymore mines that should have destroyed them, had speedily rallied. Though the initial ambush had undoubtedly caused casualties, they reacted like a vicious, cornered animal, striking back with insane ferocity. He vowed not to underestimate them again.

That had been his morning. Van Achtenberg had called it in to Colonel Stal, who had asked him to stop by for an official
briefing. He felt his sphincter tighten and his heart skip a beat―a week ago Stal had asked the same thing of a scientist who had trimmed too much shielding from the warhead in one small area. Rumor had it that he had shot the man dead in front of his maid and left him lying there in a pool of blood as he violently forced Gloria, the young girl, down on the desk and raped her.  Thirty five minutes later, Van Achtenberg stood in front of Stal’s desk, a large piece of furniture made of polished tropical wood that had belonged to the original owner of the plantation. The icehouse had quickly and painstakingly been turned into an officious-looking inner sanctum. 

Stal stood just out of sight in an antechamber behind the desk, busily engaged in replenishing his computerized insulin pump. He had recently purchased a new glucose meter from the United States. Insulin would be injected into the colonel’s body via a plunger-driven needle on a more continuous basis based on blood glucose levels read by the meter and transmitted wirelessly to the pump. 

He administered a dose of glucose, and sat down behind the desk.  He regarded the man with practiced nonchalance, “you have proven yourself to be a failure, Van Achtenberg!” He picked up a Russian Tokarev TT-33 Service Pistol and nonchalantly pointed it at the man’s chest.

“Tell me why I should not kill you for failing me.”  “You still need me,” Van Achtenberg desperately replied.

“My men are loyal only to me.” 

“Your men are a rapidly diminishing commodity. If I were you, I would base your irreplaceability on something more su
bstantial, such as your willingness to die should you fail me again,” said Stal lackadaisically, as if he customarily threatened people with death in the normal course of business. 

Stal looked at the pistol as if surprised to find it in his hand and disinterestedly placed it down on the desk. 

“Now, who and where are they?” Van Achtenberg relaxed somewhat. Apparently, he wouldn’t be testing the bulletproof vest he had recently started wearing. 

“We found one of the bodies they had hastily buried. Accor
ding to a tattoo, they are Recon Marines―the same that you ambushed in Iraq.” Stal nodded slightly while adopting a smile, as if reliving the event.

“It’s possible that you’ve been tied to the helicopter downing and they are conducting some type of vendetta.” 

“Yes, well, that was bound to happen. You don’t steal a nuclear ballistic missile and think that they won’t come looking for you. But they are simply too late to do anything other than watch.” 

“There is one other thing, continued Van Achtenberg. I b
elieve this is a new unit. The Marines recently set up a Tier II Special Operations unit—Marine Special Operations―a cut above Force Recon, but drawn primarily from their ranks.” 

“That might explain how they escaped the ambush you set for them,” ventured Stal. He appeared bored with the conversation, glancing at the pistol as if noticing it for the first time, slowly reaching for it and then pointing it at the security chief. 

“Your job, my dear Van Achtenberg, is to ensure that this installation is protected. Now contact the National Guard Commander and tell him I want this facility completely surrounded with a fully manned defensive perimeter, or the next call I make will be to Chavez. After that, go find these Marines and finish them off or I’ll do the same to you.” 

Stal stood up from his desk and walked into the house to a locked bedroom. He removed a key from his pocket, opened the door, and peered at the young woman reclining on the bed. “A
ssume the position,” he said quietly. The young woman silently got to her feet, pulled the simple white cotton dress over her head, climbed onto the bed, and got on her knees and elbows.  

Caribbean Sea; heading southwest 

Char hadn’t left the bridge since he had clandestinely boar
ded a day previous and quietly powered out of the harbor. He was now steaming toward Colombian waters and was cautiously optimistic, that he had slipped through the legal clutches of the two deputies. The sun was directly overhead―noon, regardless of what time zone he was in. The sea was kicking up whitecaps and he was bucking a moderate headwind, but the weather was otherwise fair. 

He stood at the console of the Hatteras, feeling that if he sat down in one of the captain’s chairs he would pass out and, like the Robert Frost poem, he had miles to go before he slept. He had fueled himself on strong black coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich from the fridge, but was otherwise operating on adren
aline. Being a felon on the run from the law should have felt more normal by now. 

All that remained was picking up Michael and heading fu
rther south than they had originally planned. He liked Brazil, and had heard it was difficult to extradite someone from there. Ramos had given him a business card when they had first met and Char fished it out of his wallet―you never knew when knowing a Colombian senator’s son might come in handy.

Ramos’ name and contact information were elegantly detailed in raised gold lettering on thick letter stock. 

There was spotty cell phone coverage on the Isla de Bartolomé. There was a cell tower there primarily for military use, but it was obsolete and not very powerful. He called the number, left a message on Ramos’ voicemail, and waited for a return phone call. Two hours and forty-seven minutes later, his sat phone buzzed. 

“Hello?” said Ramos
tentatively

“
Where’s Michael?” asked Char. 

“He’s in a world of shit, Mr. Blackfox,” replied Ramos gri
mly. 

“O
kay son, but that’s a situation, not a place. Run it down for me and we’ll see if we can help him.” 

Ramos spent a few minutes detailing Michael’s return to a
ctive duty to be pressed into service as a computer hacker. “The team was ambushed while moving from the drop zone to the objective. They suffered multiple KIAs and WIAs,” said Ramos.

“How is Michael?” asked Char, suddenly concerned that Ramos was trying to break bad news to him gently. 

“As far as I know, he’s fine. He fought through the ambush and is now coordinating the medevac of the wounded.” 

“That’s my boy,” said Char. 

“They let you call from jail?” asked Ramos, curious how Char had been able to call him. 

“Not exactly,” replied Char, hoping to avoid a difficult di
scussion.

Ramos noticed the throaty hum of the Hatteras’ twin Cu
mmins marine diesels and it abruptly occurred to him.

“You escaped?” 

“Yeah, I gave the feds the slip.”

“What do you intend to do?” 

Char didn’t hesitate, as he had given the question a lot of thought.

“Find Michael and head to a yet-to-be-determined location as far from the long arm of the government as possible,” answered Char cryptically, thinking the less Ramos knew the better for all involved. 

“Michael wants to complete the mission, and you should let him,” replied Ramos. 

Char was surprised by Ramos attitude, but was intent on le
tting his son know that there was no longer any reason to cooperate with these bastards and get himself killed in the bargain. 

“What the hell were they going after?” asked Char. 

“I wish I could tell you, but it’s classified,” replied Ramos.

“Listen, I need to know what I’m up against. You better give me enough information to get to my son, otherwise you and I are going to find ourselves crosswise, understand?” said Char. 

“The target is a Soviet era ICBM owned by the Iranians. It’s set to launch on April 1st, the target is the U.S. Michael’s team was going to take it down. I can’t tell you anything else.”

Char inadvertently swallowed and the release of adrenalin caused him to shiver.

“Listen, Ramos, it’s important that you give me his location. I’ll pick him up and we’ll just disappear; everyone goes away happy,” said Char, purposely omitting the two deputies handcuffed to a bed in Santo Domingo, who may have been a lot of things, but happy wasn’t one of them. 

“I can’t do that, Char. Michael is involved in something bi
gger and more important than all of us.” 

Char thought for a minute and considered his options―he had none.

“OK, Ramos, how about this―tell me where he is and I’ll see if I can help him?” 

Ramos thought for a minute. The team had lost a lot of fir
epower. He was betting on Villegas to evacuate the wounded, but apparently, Colonel Hearth’s career management was trumping the need to exfiltrate the team, whether or not they accomplished the mission. 

The Bird, as Ramos liked to call Hearth, occupied a specially constructed plywood office that a couple of
loggies had built for him two days ago. He had added an outside satellite antenna so he could sit at his field table and chat instead of traipsing outside to get a signal. To Ramos, that meant he would be having conversations that were worth listening to. Luckily, the coffee maker was right outside his door. About the same time the walls went up, Ramos had developed a near insatiable appetite for java while attempting to glean some of the strategic thinking behind this ill-begotten mission. 

Immediately after the ambush, Hearth had begun spending a considerable amount of time discussing the need for air support with the general, who was currently
back at MacDill. At first, Ramos thought this was appropriate―they were going to bring in an Osprey and pull the team out—but then he heard Hearth refer to “boomers” a couple of times. The Bird struck him as being as sincere as a Bogota street prostitute―he would do or say anything to advance a self-serving agenda. In the case of the Bogota hooker, it would be to connive a few extra pesos out of you. The Bird’s motivation was to pin on the silver star of general. 

The cell went silent for a moment, and Char thought he had lost the signal. Finally, Ramos spoke.

“He’s near Puerto Ayachuco in Venezuela, on the Orinoco River. The objective is about one hundred klicks south of there.

Where are you?” 

Char checked the map display. “I’m about 150 klicks due south of the southwest tip of the D.R., headed for your location.”

“Suggest you change course and head for the mouth of the Orinoco. You come here and Hearth will just have you arrested, and this time you might end up in a Colombian jail,” advised Ramos. 

Char thought for a minute and replied, “Yeah, sounds right, but I’m going to need assistance piloting this yacht up the river.”

“Just stop somewhere and hire a crew, replied Ramos. I re
commend Port of Spain in Trinidad. They have lots of guys that hire on as crewmen for transatlantic crossings and passage to the

Pacific.”

He knew Ramos was an experienced sea hand primarily b
ecause he was the son of a wealthy man who also owned a sailing ketch. “Roger that. I will have to refuel there as well,” replied Char. 

“It’s
gonna take you a few days to reach Puerto Ayacucho. Stay in touch and I’ll see if we can’t guide you to Michael,” said Ramos.