Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (29 page)

Michael and Chen slapped Madat on the back, high-fived, and shouted in joy. Madat got on the intercom. “Ladies and Ge
ntlemen, 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.   

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 coas
tline and surrounding landscape. 

Thomas had been released from the hospital and was enjo
ying 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 pra
ctice. 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 M
arine 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 un
iformed officer in precise, but accented English. Michael nodded. 

“We have been asked to detain you here. Please continue ea
ting, 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 O
sprey 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 t
owards 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 sho
wmanship,” 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 Di
xon has photographic confirmation.”

“A photograph is not acceptable proof. I want irrefutable ev
idence 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: r
eturn 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.