Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (28 page)

Dixon opened it with the AK-47 slung over one shoulder, the barrel pointed downward. 

“Everything alright, Skip?”

“Yeah, just showing the major how little time he has.”

The men approached Chen’s computer console as Dixon regarded the two young National Guardsmen. 

“What are you guys, like twelve?” he said with a smirk.

“What?” one of them said. 

“Nothing―just fucking with you.”

Chen brought up the telemetry program and it showed the missile over the northern Caribbean heading north toward the continental United States. He entered three keystrokes and the
program changed to display the missile’s true course―south towards its point of origin. 

“This is a trick,” said the major. 

“I wish,” replied Michael. “According to that clock, we now have a little bit less than an hour to get the hell out of here. Every minute you delay brings the missile closer. That minute could be

the
difference between living or dying.”              

Carabobo Launch Complex 

Dixon helped ease Thomas into the back seat of the Raptor and slid in beside him. Michael turned around and regarded Chen. “We need to talk about what this missile is going to do.” Chen nodded. “The casing on the warhead is very thin as it was set up to maximizing the generation of gamma waves, so it will not have as much physical destructive effect as an unmodified warhead. However, to be on the safe side, we should get as far away from ground zero as possible.”  

“What about Stal? We just going to leave him here?” said Dixon. As if in response, Michael pointed to two diminutive figures walking away from Stal’s quarters.  Bobby’s arms enveloped the small teenage girl as if attempting to shield her from any further harm. 

They stopped in front of Michael’s door and addressed him; “Stal is dead. I killed him and cut off his head with a machete.”

Michael nodded. “You saved us from having to do it.” 

Dixon leaned over the seat and whispered in Michael’s left ear. “Are we just going to let this guy live. He walked us into an ambush?” 

“What would you do if that was your daughter?” replied Michael.

Dixon thought for a second. “I’d probably do the same thing―including cutting his head off, except I’d do it with a rusty spoon.” 

“Go get proof Stal’s dead and if he’s not, take care of it,” said Michael.

Dixon exited the vehicle and broke into a run. He entered
Stal’s quarters, exited a few minutes later carrying a knotted black plastic garbage bag. He approached Bobby and handed him something. “Oh, yeah, he’s dead, alright,” said Dixon as he climbed back into the cab. 

“What did you give Bobby?” asked Michael.

“The keys to Stal’s Land Rover―it’s not like two dead guys are going to need it,” replied Dixon.

Johnnie started to press the accelerator of the Raptor, but M
ichael grabbed his arm signaling him to stay put and addressed the informant. 

“Bobby,
it’s best that you drive as fast as you can back to your village. Michael looked at his watch, you have a little bit more than forty minutes to do so. Gather the people and shelter in the clinic. The mountain should shield you from the blast.”

The man nodded. Johnnie hit the gas and drove the Raptor out the now abandoned front gate. 

***

Gunny Grimes had been slowly consolidating the remnants of his team in anticipation of redeploying. It was just a matter now of closing the fifty meters or so down an old jungle trail that ran from the highway to the highpoint where Victor Seven Two had been set up. 

“Good to hear your voice, Skipper.” Gunny Grimes’ voice reverberated in Michael’s earpiece. 

“Same here, Gunny.
Can you rendezvous on the main road in a few minutes?” 

“Roger that. We started moving as soon as we saw you didn’t need
overwatch.” There’s a billboard about a klick down the road.  It’s got a big ugly picture of Chavez on it.  It says he’s the town or some such shit.  Stop there and we’ll meet you. 

***

The Raptor accelerated down the highway and stopped at a billboard with a picture of the dictator under which was ‘Chavez Es El Pueblo.’ The Marines stepped out from behind it as the Raptor skidded to a stop. Although they were still in a tactical situation, Gunny Grimes saluted smartly.  “Gunny, you look pretty tired,” said Michael. 

“And you look like hell, sir

“Roger that. Let’s say we act like a Shepard and get the flock out of here. ”said Michael with a tired smile.  

The Marines mounted the bed of the Raptor, the vehicle d
eparted in a squeal of thick rubber tires and accelerated down the highway.  They rapidly approached scattered light industrial buildings surrounding the outskirts of the airport and Madat slapped the back of the front bucket seat with the palm of his hand. 

“We must take my girlfriend with us,” he said suddenly. 

Michael ignored the man and Madat repeated the demand.  “No can do, we don’t have the time,” replied Michael. He looked at the watch MARSOC had issued him, a Casio Pro Trek PAW2000-1, and read the countdown timer he had set when Chen had told him they faced an incoming missile. They were down to just over thirty eight minutes. 

“If you don’t let me take my girlfriend, I won’t fly you out of here,” said Madat. Dixon started to raise his sidearm and pointed it at Madat. 

“Killing me will solve nothing and I won’t be threatened by you,” replied Madat. 

“Lower the weapon, Sergeant Dixon,” said Michael. He turned to Madat. “Do you know where she is?” 

Madat smiled. “Oh yes. She has a room in the back of the club, Calle Pachingon. It’s right on the way.”  “Do you know where the club is?” Michael asked. 

“Sure, it’s close by,” replied Johnnie. 

“For all our sakes, it better be,” said Michael with a sigh. 

Three minutes elapsed before Johnnie pulled up in front of the club.

“You have two minutes, understand?” said Michael

Madat shook his head in acknowledgement. The club was closed due to the early hour of the day, but Madat went around back and came back a short time later with a petite fair-skinned young lady dressed in tight jeans and a sheer halter top. Seeing her and the smile on Madat’s face, Johnnie jumped from the truck and ran inside. 

“Where the hell is he going?” said Dixon. 

“I don’t know but he took the keys,” replied Michael. “Go a
fter him.” 

Dixon approached the door just as Johnnie exited with Vict
oria, the stripper he had met the night they snatched Madat. He started to take her to the back of the truck, but thought better of it. Dixon climbed back into the rear seat and tried to close the door but Johnnie pulled it open.

“You’re married correct?” he asked as he ushered the curv
aceous Latin beauty onto Dixon’s lap.

Dixon looked at the man with a mix of annoyance and resi
gnation, “I may be married but I’m not dead.”  

They reached the airport seven minutes later. Despite the suspicious appearance of the vehicle’s occupants, the guard waved them on. Johnnie parked the vehicle beside the
Dasault Falcon and the group filed on board. He put the keys on top of the visor, exited the truck, and closed the door.

“Damn shame,” said Johnnie.

“You’re welcome to stay with the truck. It just probably won’t run in another half hour,” said Dixon. 

Madat entered the cockpit and Michael followed, taking the copilot seat. “Doctor Chen,” yelled Michael. The Chinese eng
ineer limped into the cockpit and Michael grabbed his arm. 

“What will the missile do?” 

“Hard to say. Its original programming was that it would detonate three hundred miles above the earth, but in this case, I think it will detonate at a much lower level. Someone wanted to send a message,” said Chen. 

“How low?” asked Michael. 

“According to the virus code, it will detonate at fifty thousand feet above the site of origin.” 

“The operational ceiling of this jet is fifty one thousand feet, so that’s a problem for us,” said Madat.

“If you’re going to stay up here, take the jump seat,” he continued, indicating a small flip down seat behind the copilot. 

Chen unstrapped the seat, sat down, and buckled himself in.  “What happens if we exceed the operational limit?” asked M
ichael, afraid he already knew the answer. 

“The engines will fail in the thin air and we’ll crash if I can’t get them restarted.” 

“If we get hit by the pulse, the electronics will be fried and we will crash as well,” replied Chen.

“One of them is a sure thing,” said Madat, “the other is not. I say we take our chances climbing as high as we can as fast as we can.” 

Madat taxied the jet into position and ignored repeated calls from the tower chastising him for preparing to take off without their permission. He snapped on the intercom. 

“Attention passengers, you better be strapped in because, as you Americans say, we’re off like your mom’s dress.” There was scattered laughter in response. 

“I think you mean prom dress,” replied Michael.

“Oh, that makes more sense,” exclaimed Madat.  

He pushed the three levers controlling engine thrust all the way forward and released the brakes causing the small jet to rocket forward. They were airborne in a surprisingly short space of runway, and Madat put the jet into a steep climb. Michael looked at his watch; they had just twenty seven minutes left. 

The climb continued and Michael watched the altimeter tic off the altitude: twelve thousand, fifteen thousand, twenty tho
usand feet and they still continued to climb. When he reached fifty one thousand feet, Madat looked at Michael “Now it really gets interesting.” Michael nodded. 

“Given the altitude that the device is expected to detonate at, I estimate that the EMP radius for this explosion should be about four hundred miles,” said Chen.

“We won’t make it,” responded Michael. 

“No, but maybe we can still get above it,” said Madat. 

The plane was now just shy of fifty one thousand feet and Madat struggled to gain more altitude. The engines sputtered in protest, but continued pushing the plane higher. “Can I level out now?” asked Madat.

“I’m not sure. Most of the shielding was removed from the underside of the warhead, but it’s prudent to think that some gamma radiation will be directed skyward, so I would continue to go higher,” said Chen. 

Michael’s countdown timer reached zero as the Falcon reached fifty one thousand five hundred and twenty two feet. They were approximately 173 miles from ground zero. Since they were pointed away from the blast, they saw nothing. The blast wave carrying gamma radiation radiated out from the point of detonation at supersonic speed, but it would last for only a millisecond. The key would be whether they were above it or not. 

Severe turbulence rocked the plane in a wave that emanated from the explosion, causing the small jet to fishtail and rock from side to side like a maple leaf in a strong autumn wind. The shock wave passed them and the electronics blinked, but stayed on. Madat shouted something in Persian that sounded joyful. He smiled and high-fived Michael and Chen repeatedly. 

There was a loud bang as a high power surge caused by the severe turbulence caused pressure and flames to be released out both ends of the engine. The engine sputtered out and an alarm initiated loudly, repeating a clarion warning. 

Madat put the aircraft into a downward dive and attempted to restart the engine with a ram air start, but the air was too thin to support combustion; it caught and fired but did not ignite. Then a second engine sputtered out. It was then that panic began to seep into Michael’s psyche. The plane continued in a steep dive that was in danger of turning into an uncontrolled descent should they lose the last engine. Michael looked at the altimeter―they were below 39,000 feet and falling fast. The third engine sputtered but maintained speed and then died. 

The plane began an uncontrolled descent. The altimeter registered that they were falling at an alarming rate. They were now below thirty thousand feet and falling fast. “Michael, Chen, help me,” said Madat. 

“Tell me what to do,” said Michael. 

“When I tell you to, hit the igniter switch there,” he said, pointing to a shielded switch on the control panel. 

Madat engaged the air turbine starter and it made a high-pitched whine indicting it was turning the engine. Michael hit the igniter switch at Madat’s command. They waited until it reached fifteen hundred RPM and turned on the flow of fuel. It caught and roared back to life. 

Madat, his face contorted in concentration and wet with perspiration, slowly brought the engine up to idle speed. The aircraft continued to fall as the jet was still not generating thrust.  Madat powered up and painstakingly brought it to full speed. The small jet’s tumbling descent slowed as the single motor fought to stabilize it. 

“We’re going to need to start another engine as this one is g
oing to overheat,” said Madat. 

He followed the same procedure with the other one, but it would not immediately restart. After multiple attempts, it spu
ttered to life and Madat brought it to idle and then attempted to bring it back to full speed when a series of loud bangs generated from both ends of the motor. “The engine is surging,” said Madat. “I have to bring it back to idle.” Madat retarded the thrust lever to idle and then slowly brought it back to full power.

This time, there was no surge and the engine returned to normal operation. 

Finally, the last engine came back on line and Madat struggled with the controls to arrest the free fall. He set the flaps to maximize lift and pulled the nose up sufficiently to bring the aircraft into stable flight at about 1500 feet. Michael could clearly see the jungle vegetation giving way to increasing urbanization along the coastal plain through the cockpit’s side window. He felt his asshole unclench and gave off a deep sigh of relief as the jet regained a steady forward momentum.