Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (10 page)

Isla de Bartolomé, CO 

The other members of the team said little to Michael. He expected to be an outsider even to the two Marines he served with briefly while in Second Recon―the Team Gunny named John Grimes and a redheaded corpsman called “Murph” for Sean Murphy. Murph had been a paramedic in Boston during a previous lifetime and had at least nodded in recognition when Michael was introduced to the team. 

Two of the more colorful members of the team, Jamie and Jerry Olsten, aka the Havoc Twins, were two adopted brothers who grew up on the upper coast of California, in Humboldt County, with a dinosaur hippie couple intent on growing marij
uana to support a growing adopted family. The plan came to a miserable end when Pop Olsten was killed by a bullet to the head while harvesting the year’s bumper crop of Humboldt

County’s finest chronic. 

The boys weren’t twins, or even biologically related and yet they looked remarkably alike―they were of similar size and both had blue eyes and blond hair. While they were still toddlers, their mother took what money they had stashed and fled to Costa Rica, where she opened up a restaurant offering uniquely named California cuisine such as the ‘Humboldt County double- baked herbed chicken.’ 

They learned about surfing at
Jaco Beach and picked up Spanish from the locals who worked in their mother’s restaurant. They reached enlistment age and made plans to return to the United States intent on joining the Navy SEALS, as they had just seen a movie of the same name. While getting their passports issued at the US Embassy, they had occasion to talk to one of the Marines who was just getting off duty and had, coincidentally, recently served a tour as a Marine recruiter. He regaled them with tales of Force Recon and denigrated the SEALS as a street gang without adult leadership.

They returned to California and promptly enlisted in Marine Corps Infantry on the buddy program. After a mandatory one year spent as ground-pounders with the infantry, they passed a rigorous physical assessment test and their transfers to Battalion Reconnaissance were approved. Eventually, the two proved their worth and made the more selective accession into Force Recon. They served in Operation Iraqi Freedom and did a six-month tour of Afghanistan. It was there they earned the nickname the Havoc Twins for their proficient and prolific use of the M203 grenade launcher. 

Their platoon was badly outnumbered and pinned down by a Taliban patrol during the early morning hours and air support was unable to get them any relief. The twins left the platoon’s perimeter without permission, sought high ground, and rained thirty-three forty millimeter HE grenades down on the heathen savages. The few that were left were dispatched by accurate aimed fire from their M16A2 rifles. 

The only thing that kept them from being awarded the Navy Cross was the fact that their Platoon Commander had not ordered them into action. He was a stickler for the chain of command and it was only after the intervention of the Battalion Commander that they were put in for Bronze Stars with V devices. They were actively recruited by MARSOC while still deployed when a m
obile recruiting team learned of their balls to the wall heroism. 

Everyone knew Michael was here under a cloud, but he didn’t care. The eyes of fortune weren’t smiling at him for the moment, but he would make his own luck. He was as sure of that as he was that his father would do the same. He would just deal with the task at hand and see what that would get him. 

Michael had been issued a set of utilities, boots, a helmet, an oxygen system, and an MC-4 Special Operations parachute. They jumped without equipment, as this was their first practice jump as a team. Michael was the second to last jumper. The high-altitude, high-opening parachutes were designed for a high glide coefficient. In this case, they would be using a Ram Air Parachute System, which allows jumpers to maneuver up to thirty miles or more over the course of the jump. 

The Osprey was from VMF-263, late of Al
Asad Airbase in western Iraq. The squadron had recently traded in the venerable CH-46s Sea Knights for the relatively new technology of the world’s first operational tilt-rotor airplane. 

The craft took off like a helicopter, but accelerated and d
ecelerated like an airplane. It didn’t take more than ten minutes to reach a jump altitude of twenty-five thousand feet, approximately ten miles offshore. 

On a signal from the crew chief, the jumpmaster got on his feet and gave a series of hand and arm signals that indicated the team should move to the back of the aircraft and get ready for a tailgate exit. The fourteen members of the team, along with M
ichael, unceremoniously shuffled single file from the tailgate and jumped into open sky. 

Once clear of the aircraft, each Marine popped his parachute, made sure the canopy cells were fully inflated, and then mane
uvered into a stack formation, from low to high. One of the team leaders took up the lowest position in the stack and set the travel course using a specially designed Global Positioning System. For ten minutes they ran with the wind until they were in sight of their landing zone, the unimproved runway. Once over land, the team slowed until within three hundred feet of their landing zone and then began executing a series of landing approaches that facilitated a decrease in speed and altitude in a systematic way, while bringing them closer to their target. They completed their final turns at about two hundred feet from the ground. 

At about ten feet above the ground, Michael slowly pulled both toggles downward, timing the movement to coincide with the full-brakes position at touchdown. He landed on his feet, but fell to his knees as a gust of wind caught his chute. 

The team assembled into a close school circle around the jumpmaster for a quick critique.

“Blackfox, you came in way too fast―it’s a wonder you didn’t face plant,” said the jumpmaster.  A few of the other jumpers chuckled, but were immediately silenced when the jumpmaster continued his critique. “Murphy, that reverse exit is going to cost you a set of teeth one of these days. I don’t know about you, but I use mine to chew with, so cut that shit out.”

“Aye aye,” replied the corpsman. The jumpmaster went on to critique some of the more flamboyant maneuvers, but otherwise said nothing more about Michael’s performance. He felt relieved that while he was singled out for criticism, he had otherwise made the cut. 

The jumpers quickly gathered their equipment and walked back to the FOB as there was still a lot left to do. They delivered the expended parachutes to the supply hut, grabbed an MRE, and headed to the TOC for a much-anticipated operations brief. 

Isla de Bartolomé, CO

Ramos occupied a seat in the front row and saved Michael the next chair― perhaps in a lame attempt to ingratiate them to their new family. Michael grabbed a cup of coffee and began unpacking the contents of the plastic pouch containing the MRE, offering items he didn’t want to his friend. “Already ate,” said Ramos. Michael opened a packet of beef stew, emptied the contents of a miniature bottle of Tabasco sauce into it, and began to eat it cold with a long brown plastic spoon.

The Deputy G2, a senior first lieutenant intent on one day joining the teams, began with the Intelligence portion of the ope
rations brief. The briefing detailed the disposition of enemy forces which involved two high-value targets.

“Saddam Hussein, President of the Republic of Iraq and the Chairman of the Revolutionary Command Council, had pu
rchased the RT-2PM Intercontinental Ballistic Missile from a Russian general late in 2002.”

The photograph of a fifty-something mustached man in a Russian army uniform flashed on the screen. “General Olaf
Baskov, the officer who sold the system to Saddam, was in command of the Nineteenth Rocket Division of the Russian Strategic Rocket Forces located at Rakovo, Khmelnytskyi Oblast. The general had been contacted by various middlemen and offered fifty million dollars for the sale of an operational mobile nuclear missile system. He is now deceased.”

The briefer paused to let that fact sink in. “Once purchased, the launcher was placed on a railcar to the Black Sea port of Odessa, where it was partially disassembled, containerized, and loaded aboard a cargo ship bound for Turkey. There, the contai
ners were loaded onto several semitrailers and shipped to Iraq via the border crossing at Habur Gate. It was a desperate, last-ditch attempt to finally make Iraq a nuclear-armed nation and perhaps stave off the promised invasion by threatening nuclear retaliation against Israel or the allied forces staged in Kuwait.”

A picture of the launch system was displayed on the screen and the lieutenant continued. “The missile system is composed of
a two hundred and fifty kiloton yield warhead perched on top of a three stage solid propellant rocket launcher. The missile and erector unit were originally mounted on a gigantic, fourteen wheel MAZ-7310 heavy truck, but that truck was damaged when the missile system was concealed by the Iraqi Armed Forces sometime before the invasion.”

The lieutenant paused to catch his breath and surveyed the crowd. Although the Marines had already put in a full day of training, the audience stared at him with focused attention.

He took a sip of water from a plastic bottle and continued. “Saddam had always planned nuclear retaliation against an invasion. Once the disassembled missile system arrived in Baghdad, he had a team of engineers attempt to reassemble the beast and get it ready for launch. However, the CIA had discovered the system in transit and caused sufficient damage to the electronic launch system to prevent it from ever becoming combat effective.”

“Chalk one up for the agency,” said a burly blond-haired M
arine in the back of the room.

“Even a blind squirrel gets a nut once and a while,” replied his companion, another equally large, blond-haired Marine. The two looked similar enough to be brothers. Michael turned to look at them. Ramos tapped him on the arm and whispered, “I hear they are called the Havoc Twins and they’re great to have in a firefight. It seems that they are very precise with the grenade launcher.”

The lieutenant cleared his throat to redirect the attention forward. “As the threatened invasion drew nearer, Saddam became paranoid that the invaders would find the missile and so he sought help from his old enemies, the Iranians, to hide the launcher for him. It broke down en route and could not be fixed. Based on the report of witnesses, the launcher was dragged off the road with a T-72 tank and buried by two bulldozers and a bucket loader. We think Stal was given the job of salvaging the missile system by the Iranians, and that he stationed anti-aircraft systems around the excavation site, which downed a recon platoon from the Twenty-Sixth MEU.”

The room grew silent. Everyone present knew someone who had died on that aircraft and no one was more notable than their Platoon Commander, Major General McElroy’s only son.

“Okay, so why are we heading to Venezuela” said Gunny Grimes.

“Gunny, I’m so glad you said that,” replied the Lieutenant. “Hugo Chavez once dreamed of having a Venezuelan space pr
ogram. In 2003, he received a large grant from the Chinese government and the requisite expertise to construct a launch site. The fact that Venezuela had no space program to speak of did not initially enter into the equation.” There was scattered laughter in response.

“The two friendly governments broke ground at a site in the Department of
Amazona near the Orinoco River. This state occupies an area of over 180 thousand square kilometers, which is about the size of North Dakota. Approximately ninety percent is tropical forest or thick vegetation and most of the rest is either swampland or savanna.

“Sounds pretty much like a typical jungle shithole,” said one of the twins.

“The Chinese selected the location based on the nearness to the equator and to the river, which would allow large items to be delivered cheaply. The project was rife with corruption, but they managed to get a launch pad, the control building, and a couple of warehouses built. It was christened by Chavez as the Carabobo Launch Complex, named after some famous battle in Venezuelan independence.

“That literally translates to ‘foolish face’ in English,” whi
spered Michael.

“Long story,” replied Ramos.

The Lieutenant cleared his throat again and Ramos redirected his attention to the man. “They had high hopes of attracting foreign users of the site, but Venezuela’s political instability doomed the success of the site and it was eventually abandoned.”

The Intel officer clicked through several satellite photos of the facility on his laptop, which was connected to a micro-projector and displayed on a large pull down screen on the wall in the front of the hut. “You can see the recent improvements through this time-lapsed sequence of photographs. This phot
ograph on February fourteenth shows little―it just looks like overgrown jungle around an abandoned facility. The work seems to have commenced shortly after that and has gotten to a point where the facility is almost completely restored to its original operational status.”

Michael was impressed with the clarity of the high-resolution photos; he could almost make out the make and models of the various vehicles parked around the installation. He viewed the assorted buildings―two large warehouses, a smaller building that he took to be the control center, and a few buildings that might have been garages or other maintenance buildings.

Most importantly, located about a mile down a long, wide, roadway stood the one-hundred-foot-tall gantry mounted on a concrete launch pad and nearby, a bunker-like auxiliary control center.

The briefer next displayed the picture of a tall, thin man with a cadaverous pallor and a long, ugly scar bisecting his cheek. “Gentlemen, meet Dmitri Stal. According to the C.I.A.’s profile on the man, his father was an officer in the Secret Police under Beria who is believed to have been killed in the mini-purge co
nducted during the struggle for power following Stalin’s death in 1953.”

“Stal is not a Russian family name. The name literally means ‘steel.’ We believe that he took the moniker as his surname to enter the military, as appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, the Russians, like the Soviets before them, do not allow criminals to serve.

“When he was six years old he killed another boy for his food,” the Intelligence Officer stated, as if waiting for someone to ask. He let the statement sink in by remaining silent for a pregnant pause. “At the age of ten, he escaped an orphanage and lived on the street where he thrived as a petty thief. He was eventually caught and placed into a youth prison in Kolpino, while only fourteen years old.

He and another boy had been sentenced to three years in jail for stealing money, alcohol, and some food. Because he was in the company of another, he was given a harsher sentence because it was considered an organized crime. We believe the name Stal was given to him while in youth prison in deference to his u
nbreakable will.” “Sounds like a wonderful lad,” said Michael quietly.

The Intel officer continued. “The youth prison housed teens between the ages of fourteen to eighteen and normally, being fourteen would have made Stal an inviting target for the older prisoners. According to the documents that the CIA furnished us, Stal was twice charged with aggravated assault and once he act
ually carved an older boy’s eye out with a piece of broken glass.”

“Charming,” said a bearded commando standing near the door. The Intel officer continued. “He was commissioned in eighty-two and went to work in the GRU, the Russian Military’s Intelligence Division, in the Ninth Directorate, responsible for gathering intelligence on military technologies. Stal rose quickly in the ranks, did several tours overseas; usually working out of their embassy and operated a sort of ‘flying squad’ that would quickly deploy and gather intelligence about captured high-value foreign military technology. We believe at some point he parted ways with the Russians and now provides these services for a fee to the proverbial highest bidder.”

The Intel officer concluded with a detailed disposition on the enemy forces deployed around the facility and, more generally, those that would be able to respond to any incursion. “Stal has a private cadre of about two dozen former South African commandos that currently protect him. They are well-paid mercenaries, so their loyalty is questionable. There is also a company of National Guard Troops in town. They are not weekend warriors, but full time soldiers with police authority over the populace. They are fiercely loyal to the Chavez regime and can be considered to be an effective military unit. Gentlemen, what are your questions?” There were none and after a few moments, he retreated to the back of the room and was followed by a tall, dark-haired major who Michael recognized as the pilot of the Osprey. “Apparently, he’s doing double duty as the G3 Air,” Michael whispered to Ramos.

The man started talking with a thick Alabama drawl. “I’m Major John Petty, VMF-263
--Thunder Chickens. Roll Tide! I will be explaining the flight plan to you gentlemen. No aircraft will be violating Venezuelan airspace. My bird will deploy y’all within Colombian airspace and you will glide into Venezuelan territory. We will be flying a direct route to the town of Puerto Inírida, Colombia,” he said, using a laser pointer to illuminate a spot on the map. “I’ll stay on the Colombian side of the Oronoco River and drop you there at 26,000 feet, our operational ceiling. You will navigate north from the small city of San Fernando de Atabapo at 4° 01′ 26″ North 67° 41′ 01″ West. Y’all need the eight digit grid?” he asked referring to the Military Grid reference System. ”We can convert,” said Captain Reigns, the team commander.

The aviator nodded, “the city will be the only significant i
llumination you will see off your right shoulder. Follow the river northeast until you reach the LZ located on the east side of the Orinoco on a flat coastal flood plain here,” he said, briefly illuminating a spot on the Venezuelan side of the Oronoco. “But I don’t want to steal the thunder from Colonel Freeman who will be giving you the ground portion of the operation.”

A tall, black lieutenant colonel stood up and withdrew a laser pointer from his sleeve. “Once at the landing zone, you will move to the small rural community of
Pintado at 3° 9' 0" North, 65° 50' 0" West, basically down a dead-end dirt road off VE 12, a two-lane, hard-top principal route about twenty-five clicks south of Puerto Ayacucho.

The colonel looked out into the audience. “Who are my Yanomami speakers?” Michael and one other Marine raised their hands. “Because their given names are difficult to pronounce, the Yanomami often adopt the nicknames of famous Venezuelans. Our informant and guide
is nicknamed Bobby Abreu.”

“You mean the guy who plays for the Yankees?” asked Juan Thomas, the team’s
Communications Chief.

“El
Comedulce, himself," answered the colonel, dryly. “He will meet you at the government clinic where he works. From there, you will be taken to the objective. Reconnoiter and figure out how to deliver the payload, then beat feet back across the border to the extraction point.”

Freeman paused and looked out at his audience. “The infor
mant is an unknown quantity. According to intelligence reports, he’s a medical practitioner who received his training from Cuban doctors. Reportedly, he became alarmed when he encountered several male patients with radiation burns over parts of their bodies. These patients died and the informant complained to various parties, including the local National Guard commander named Major Javier Oswaldo Reyes. He commands the local company of National Guard troops headquartered in Puerto Ayacucho, a position normally filled by a captain. Although he is a School of the Americas graduate, he is a Chavez loyalist and you should consider the company he commands to be threat forces.”

The colonel looked at the assembled group and lowered the volume of his voice. “Word has it that the C.I.A. has tried to kill Stal on numerous occasions. Speculation is that someone within the agency tipped us that Stal was the one who took out First Recon Platoon.” The comments surprised Michael, as the details
of the team’s demise had been hushed up--the cause of death was listed as catastrophic engine failure.