Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (20 page)

USMARSOC, MacDill AFB

Major General McElroy stood at the window and looked out upon MacDill Air Force Base. It was a little past midnight and McElroy was considering his limited options. He had ordered the assault team to take a tactical pause and they were presently awaiting orders on whether the mission was “a go” or not. Six Marines were dead or wounded, and that left just nine to acco
mplish the mission. 

He could let the operation proceed and hope for the best, but he was uncertain the officer currently in command could pull it off, given his dubious past. Still, he had thwarted an ambush that should have wiped out the team and coordinated the safe evacu
ation of the wounded through some under-the-table deal he had negotiated with his buddies in the COLMAR. 

The other option would be to walk into the office of the

Commander of United States Special Operations Command and report that he had gone a “little bit off the reservation” in an effort to extract revenge against the man who killed his son.

McElroy imagined that USSOCOM would remedy the situation with focused alacrity.

It would cost him his upward mobility—so much for being

Deputy of one of the regional commands, such as CENTCOM or AFRICOM—and any hope of realizing his longtime desire to become Commandant of the Marine Corps would evaporate like a fart in a wind tunnel. 

The remedy would be almost as bad as the aliment.

Notifications would go out and a single B2 bomber from the 509th Bomb Wing at Whiteman Air Force Base would be given a close hold mission. They would make the 3200-mile nonstop flight from Knob
Noster, Missouri, and perhaps deliver a tactical nuke, just to make sure they sent a message with the mission―fuck with the bull and get the horns. 

After it was over, he would be retired and perhaps even reduced to Brigadier. Parental pride had brought him to this point. 

He’d desperately wanted his son to follow in the old man’s footsteps and for a time that had seemed to be working out.

Jimmy’s childhood had been little more than a prep course for what he would endure in the Corps. McElroy and his son had spent many vacations hiking in the Sierra, Grand Tetons, and Rocky Mountains, cross-country skiing in Colorado, and compe
ting in numerous triathlons and marathons. 

His son had breezed through the Basic School, been honor graduate of the Army’s Ranger School, and completed all the Recon Courses with nary a whimper. He had set his sights on

MARSOC when it was little more than a test company called DET 1. It had made his old man beam with pride, only to have it all come crashing down to a fiery end on a faraway battlefield.  Like Ahab and the white whale, McElroy made it his mission in life to find out who had orchestrated the death of his son, and to do the same to them. Eventually, “who” became “why.” And when the motive became known, he wanted first dibs on making things right. 

In the interim, McElroy had failed to take into consideration the gravitas of the situation. He had let his desire for revenge cloud his judgment and he had badly miscalculated his capability to quietly resolve a very profound threat against the country. A warhead of two hundred fifty megatons exploding three hundred miles above the United States would have devastating effects on every unshielded electronic device within its range, throwing the United States back, if not to the Stone Age, to a nineteenth cent
ury level of technology. 

A closely held source had generated intelligence that the launch was being timed to coincide with the anniversary of the founding of the Islamic Republic, April first, which was just days away. Think of the headlines―less than thirty years after the founding of the Islamic Republic, they had brought the Great Satan to its knees. And they would accomplish it with the tacit assistance of a vainglorious Marine Corps general. 

“I’ll be damned if I will let that be my last act as the commander of this fine unit,” he said quietly.

“Did you need something sir?” said his aide, a very senior first lieutenant, who systematically hovered in a small alcove immediately outside McElroy’s door.

“Yes, head over to the SCIF. Tell them to set up a secure conference call with Colonel Hearth and Captain Blackfox. I’ll be there directly.” 

***

Michael had turned the old dormitory into a rudimentary command post and had quickly begun planning the assault with the men he had left. He had expected the call, but figured it would come from Colonel Hearth and that any decision he recommended would be filtered in terms of whether it diminished or enhanced his long-term career prospects. The fact that Hearth had tied his wagon to a shooting star had thus far escaped the man. 

“Based on the current situation, do you still feel that you can carry out the mission?” asked McElroy.

“Maybe,” said Michael. 

“Maybe is not an answer, Captain. The general wants an a
ccurate tactical assessment of the situation on the ground and your capability to carry it out.”

“Excuse me, sir, but fuck you very much. General, your sources led us straight into an ambush and your
chickenshit ops chief made me broker a drug deal to get my wounded Marines a medevac! I don’t give one rat’s ass what you think you’re owed. As far as I am concerned, you both should end up sharing a cell at Leavenworth.”

Colonel Hearth shouted something unintelligible and then o
rdered Blackfox to the position of attention, but McElroy interceded. 

“Shut up, Dick―let Mike
blow off a little steam.”

There was silence on the line and the general continued, “Feel better, son?”  “Yes, I do.”

“Well, all things being equal, you may just get your wish, but I take full responsibility for this debacle. Colonel Hearth is blameless.”

“He’s still a spineless dick, sir.”

“Well, that may or may not be so, but if that were an indictable offense the vast majority of the officer corps would be in jail.” Michael inadvertently smiled and relaxed a bit. 

“Now, you have shown me something that I did not ever think I would see―a criminal and washed-up Marine rehabilita
ted through combat. You took command of a unit you weren’t qualified to even serve in and displayed exemplary poise in a very difficult situation. Don’t blow it now.” “Aye, aye, sir,” said Michael quietly. 

“I’m going to ask you again, and this time I want you to rea
lly be sure. Can you accomplish the mission with the assets you have available?”

“Yes, sir.”
 

“Then you have forty-eight hours to do so. After that, I fall on my sword and the next sound you hear will be either one g
igantic or many large explosions impacting the objective. Woe be it if you are still in the area,” said the general.

“Sounds familiar,” said Michael.

He ended the transmission and checked his watch―it was 0210. They had a little over four hours of darkness left and that wasn’t going to be enough. He needed more time to plan the infiltration of the compound, tap the fiber link, and upload the virus. He turned to his RTO. 

“Get the team leaders up here for a FRAGO, and send me

Bobby. I’m going to see how much useful information the Candy

Man has to share.” 

***

The short Yanomami was escorted into the small office, and Michael broke a
chem-light so that they would have some illumination. They were seated in a small windowless room that might have been a linen closet. It was the only place Michael felt secure enough to use a light. 

He offered Bobby a seat on an old five-gallon tub that had once held lard and Michael took a seat on a wooden fruit crate. “How did Stal learn you had informed on him?” asked Michael. 

“I was stupid enough to believe that the Venezuelan government would take action against Stal. When they did nothing, I reported him to a Human Rights Organization in Caracas.”

“What was the name of the NGO?” asked Michael. 

“The Human Rights League,” said Bobby. That was probably how MARSOC had learned of it, thought Michael. 

He had been briefed that the CIA had various passive liste
ning organizations in Caracas and that was one of them.

“Chavez’s government tipped Van Achtenberg that I had r
eported people being burned by radiation. I believe he informed Stal and they moved to silence me,” continued the informant. 

“Van Achtenberg summoned me to his office, and beat me badly with a heavy leather strap. He threatened to use a power drill to drill into my kneecaps. What kind of man would do such things?” asked Bobby.

Michael knew of a few.  “So, why didn’t they just kill you?”

“I was trained by the Cubans to be a Physician’s Assistant. During his first visit here a few months ago, Stal became sick with hyperglycemia and was brought to my clinic. If I had not treated him, he might have died. Twice, I helped him install an insulin pump that made manual insulin injections unnecessary. I think he believes he needs me. He decided to take my daughter as a hostage instead. From that point forward, I did as I was told.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Michael, immediately reminded of the ambush he had walked them into. 

“So he took your daughter as a guarantee of your cooper
ation?” 

“Yes, she is very beautiful and I know that Stal is sexually abusing her.” “How old is she?”

“Sixteen,” replied Bobby.

“I feel for you, bro. There are few things in the world worse than rape, but unfortunately, we’re facing one of them,” said M
ichael gravely. 

“Listen, if I get your word you will cooperate and help us take down Stal, I promise to help you get your daughter back.” Bobby nodded. Michael was silent for a moment as if going over
the details of the conversation in his head to insure he had not forgotten anything, 

“Why twice?” he said finally. 

“Stal is a technologist; he loves new technology and insisted that I purchase a newer version of the insulin pump and glucose meter when it was released. I have his old system back at the clinic,” said Bobby.

“Is the new system backwards compatible?” asked Michael.

“I believe so.”

“Really?” said Michael, his face revealing little.

“Sergeant Dixon, report to the command post,” Michael said into his headset.                

Carabobo Launch Site 

They had a status meeting in the office scheduled to review progress of the conversion of the warhead, but Chen, their chief scientist, had been unexpectedly delayed. 

Stal, very relaxed after a midafternoon tryst with his captive, leaned back in the old leather chair he had inherited with the office and regarded his security chief. “Our Iranian dignitary is a very important cleric, but low-key as they can’t risk a higher profile visit at this time. Perhaps after the Great Satan falls, I’ll be invited to meet the Iranian president. 

Van Achtenberg listened intently while standing in front of the Colonel’s desk, but said little. 
Stal’s diminished testosterone may have calmed him for the moment, but his mercurial temperament was known to shift quite suddenly and the Afrikaner was a cautious man.

“He will arrive via private jet at the airport in Puerto Ayac
ucho tomorrow afternoon at 1430. Be sure that you go personally to pick him up. I’ve asked Chavez’s office whether we can expect a visit from him, but it seems El Presidente will be in Cuba attending to a personal matter.” 

“Too bad,” replied Van Achtenberg 

“Trust me―it’s better for you if more important people don’t visit, as you can’t seem to effectively safeguard a glass of piss.”  The rebuke stung and Van Achtenberg was embarrassed. Back when he was a major in First Recce, he had once killed a man for a lesser insult. True, the offender was enlisted and a Kefir, but a man would be treated as badly as he allows and Peter Van Achtenberg was getting to the point of no return. 

Van Achtenberg believed that the cleric would be bringing payment, as this was not something you handled with an invoice. He imagined that the figure would be in the realm of at least one hundred million dollars, but since dollars would effectively be worthless, payment would probably be made in specie or bearer bonds. His payment for services rendered would pale in compar
ison with Stal’s remuneration, and Peter had to split his among his men, although that was becoming less and less of a problem.

It would be interesting to see what happened after the world’s largest economy ground to a halt. Van Achtenberg had a farm in
Rustenberg, on the western side of the Kgaswane Nature

Reserve, which was as isolated as one could get, so he wasn’t terribly worried. After the missile launched, he would head to Caracas and book a ticket in first class on a South African

Airways flight to Cape Town. Upon arrival, he would buy a new Range Rover and drive in style to his homestead. He hoped to be amused by news of the collapse of the United States early in the transit. 

***

Dr. Chen smoked nervously as he walked across the compound, his mind awash with fear and worry as it became clear that he was in over his head. He had been lured into making an electromagnetic pulse weapon big enough to destroy a superpower while wrongly believing it would be a way to reclaim his wealth and status. Safety procedures were disregarded and workers died, some Chinese, but mostly local workers they had used for the most dangerous tasks. 

It had become clear to him that Stal would do anything ne
cessary to deliver the actual weapon to those insane enough to use it. And then what? Did he think that Stal would leave witnesses around for an eventual investigation? Even after 9/11 there was a very thorough one, and this incident would not only affect the United States, but would have reverberations that would be felt worldwide. 

Chen would be foolish to think a man as cunningly deviant as Stal would let him live after his usefulness ended, and that time was quickly approaching. Once the missile was launched, his presence would no longer be required. 

He felt obligated to stop this madness before it could go any further, and to that end, he had purchased a Brazilian made nine millimeter pistol from one of the less-than-savory campesinos. The pistol rocked heavily in the pocket of his white lab coat, but he didn’t seem to notice. He would kill the Afrikaner first and then shoot Stal. The office had thick insulated wooden walls lined with tin. He doubted anyone would hear the shots. He would steal Stal’s vehicle, load up some of his like-minded colleagues, and drive to Caracas. From there, he would return to China and hope for the best. Perhaps nothing more would come of this. 

He approached the door, stopped a moment to extinguish his cigarette, and inhaled deeply to try to steady his nerves for what lay ahead. Chen touched a button on the intercom affixed to the wall and waited. The camera recoded his image and he heard the electric buzz and the mechanical click of the latch being released. 

He entered and the two men looked at him. Stal started to speak, but Chen didn’t hear him. He pulled the automatic from his lab coat and fired at the tall Afrikaner. The man saw the pistol and did not hesitate, as if he was conditioned to act, and this surprised Chen. He fired once at Van Achtenberg and then turned and pointed the gun at Stal, who cowered for a second. 

Van Achtenberg felt something hit his arm like a heav
yweight’s punch, but his reactions kicked in and he charged Chen before he could fire a second time. He slammed into Chen’s shoulder while simultaneously reaching for the pistol and wrenching it from his hands. 

“Don’t kill him, we need him alive,” said Stal. Van Achte
nberg pushed the man to the ground, removed a set of handcuffs from a leather pouch on his belt, expertly handcuffed him, and placed his large combat boot onto the small man’s back. Next, he turned his attention to the Brazilian automatic. He removed the magazine, cleared the chamber by charging the slide, which ejected the cartridge from the chamber. He caught the bullet, dropped it into his shirt pocket, and then placed the pistol into his belt at the small of his back. He turned to regard his superior.

“Lucky for you I wasn’t busy guarding a glass of piss.”

  Stal ignored the comment. “Get him on his feet.” Van Achtenberg pulled the man into a standing position and placed him in front of Stal’s desk. Chen looked at the floor. 

“Chen, are you unhappy about something?” said Stal. Chen said nothing and continued to stare at the floor. 

“We really cannot allow this, my dear Doctor Chen. Not when we are so close to successfully completing the task. Once done, you can go on your merry way with over five million dollars in bearer bonds. I assure you of this.” 

“You lie!” said Chen quietly, his face still pointed at the floor. 

“You will kill us all.” 

Stal realized it was pointless to carry on this conversation. Chen had somehow figured out that he would execute them all after they had given him a fully functional EMP weapon. It was just good, thorough risk management, reasoned Stal. Ah well, the cat had to be let out of the bag sooner or later. Stal would let one of Chen’s subordinates run things for a while and lock him up until he cooled down. Or, if he was proven superfluous to the rest of the operation, Stal would kill Chen himself and the resultant excitement would make him hard. He would then summon his young slave and defile her again. 

“Did you know you were bleeding, Van Achtenberg?” 

“Yeah, the little fucker caught me a good one in the arm, but it went right through.” 

“Better have it seen to. I’ll have a truck transport you to the clinic.”

“That’s not necessary; one of my boys is a medic. He’ll see to it. What do you want done with this little shit?”  “Lock him up,” replied Stal.

Van Achtenberg led Chen away to be locked in the cold storage room that was now used as a holding cell. 

Stal went to a laptop, initiated the video conferencing pr
ogram he used to communicate with, and summoned Chen’s assistant. The face of a young, bespectacled Chinese woman filled the screen.

“Dr. Lam, isn’t it?” She nodded. “How close to having the missile ready are you?”

“It is ready. Doctor Chen said he was coming to tell you that. We mounted the warhead on the missile this morning, so physically it is complete. It is just a matter now of entering the telemetry data and it will be ready for movement to the gantry and launch.” 

“And how long will that be?” 

“Six hours, more or less,” she said offhandedly. 

“Very good, Doctor. You are now in charge. Doctor Chen has taken ill and I have sent him to the clinic in
Pintado. He probably will not be returning.” 

She felt the slight urge to scrutinize the statement, but knew better. It would add nothing to the equation. Chen was the mora
list; she had a family to support back in Chengdu and little time for such niceties.