Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (6 page)

MacDill AFB 

It was 0630. The wiz kid operations officer, Captain Wes Jameson, had skipped PT, which filled him with pent-up energy and that made him anxious. He sat huddled in his small, soundproofed corner cubicle of MARSOC’s Special Compartmented Information Facility, (SCIF), satisfied that he had found what he was looking for. 

Jameson was a mathematical genius who had graduated fourth in his class at Annapolis. He was also a legacy midshi
pmen―his father had graduated and risen to the rank of Captain before leaving the navy for a follow-on career with a defense contractor. 

Jameson Senior had almost had a coronary when he’d found out his son was taking the option to be commissioned as a M
arine. Jameson Junior didn’t drink, was an avid triathlete, and a staunch Roman Catholic. He was a deacon at his church and enjoyed intelligence analysis as a hobby. In short, he was a commander’s wet dream of an Intel Officer.

Colonel Hearth entered the SCIF and shouted “
Jamson!”

“It’s Jameson,” he corrected, not looking up from his work, thinking one of his cohort captains was looking for him to go for a morning run. “Like the Irish Whiskey, not the American porn star,” he continued. Hearth smiled and continued across the SCIF towards the sound of Jameson’s voice. 

One of the Intelligence Section’s noncommissioned officers jumped to his feet when he recognized the colonel and called the rest of the office to attention. Jameson jumped to his feet as the tall, distinguished-looking Marine poked his head through the doorway. 

“I’ll try to remember that,” commented the colonel in a flat tone of voice that betrayed no emotion. “So, what have you got for me?”

Jameson motioned for the colonel to take a seat, but he shook his head. “Got a meeting with the old man in a few. Need to get a quick brief so I can give him an update.”

“Aye
aye sir. I think we found them.”

“Do tell,” said the colonel dryly. He had been told this kid was good, but this had to be a record. His ops sergeant, Gunny Robinson, had passed along the name of the yacht on Saturday afternoon and a little more than a day later it had been located. 

“Here is a satellite photograph of the yacht at the small island of Bartolomé de Las Casas in the San Bernardo Archipelago, a group of ten or so small islands about seventeen klicks off the coast of Colombia.” The colonel looked at Captain Jameson skeptically; it was going take more than the kid’s cocksure pronouncement to get Hearth’s buy in. 

“How did you find them?”

“Child’s play, sir,” said Jameson brightly. “I was going to have my Intel sergeant start contacting various port captains in the Caribbean looking for the yacht, but that would be like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack, not to mention the waste of a good NCO,” said Jameson.

The colonel looked at Jameson, thinking how much he hated junior officers who were smarter than he was. Sensing Hearth’s building impatience, the captain continued. “The
Good as Gold
left the port of Cartagena two days ago in route to Turbo, a port city in the Gulf of Uraba, near the Panama border.” 

“If you didn’t call the ports or search every satellite phot
ograph between Cartagena and Turbo, do you mind sharing with me how you found them?”

“I thought about it for a while, continued Jameson, and then it hit me. When you invest four or five million in a yacht, you normally do a few things to keep it from getting stolen. I got the configuration of the yacht from the original dealer based on the registration number that Gunny Rob gave me. It turns out the boat has a device called a
Yacht-Tracker
installed on it.”

He looked at Hearth with a knowing grin, but the colonel just stared blankly back at him. “The easiest way to explain it is that it’s like
LoJack
for boats. It combines global positioning technology with a low-power RF communication that runs over the company’s satellite network to let you know where your boat is all the time. Once I had the right vessel ID number, I called my contact at the NSA who has a hack into the company’s network and ten minutes later I had the coordinates emailed to me.”

The colonel smiled. “Can you do the same with my wife?”  

***

The general was dressed in casual civilian attire― a dark blue Polo shirt, Wrangler Jeans, and Tony Lama alligator boots―he was meeting with some Justice Department and N
ational Security folks later in the day near Miami and they preferred that he keep a low profile. 

Colonel Hearth stood ramrod straight in a modified parade rest, as was his custom―it reminded him to never relax around the boss— and calmly waited while the general perused a thick brown file folder that had been sent via courier from Marine Corps Archives. 

McElroy was seated behind a battered mahogany desk once owned by Lewis “Chesty” Puller, former Commandant of the Marine Corps and one of the most highly decorated Marines in its history.

Puller won five Navy Crosses—more than anyone else—but he never won the Congressional Medal of Honor; probably b
ecause he lacked the humility that seemed to be part and parcel for recipients of such a high award. 

While fighting a retrograde action during the Korean War, Puller proudly announced that his unit was surrounded by five

Chinese army divisions, thereby simplifying the problem of ‘finding these people and killing them.’ 

Puller had been no friend to the then-nascent Marine Special

Forces community, personally ordering the dissolution of the four Marine Raider Battalions. His reasoning was that small raid forces were no longer useful against the heavily fortified sites the Marines faced later in the war in the Pacific. Puller’s stated reasoning was that every Marine was special—a cut above your average Soldier or Sailor. That logic held for more than half a century until the events of 9/11 forced the Marines to organize MARSOC and there was no turning back from that point. 

Many Marine officers were amateur historians, and living in

North Carolina during a past assignment gave the general lots of opportunities to buy antiques. When Puller’s desk was auctioned at a private event to raise money for the Marine Corps

Scholarship Foundation, McElroy decided he had to have it. He’d had to offer nearly five thousand dollars to outbid a retired se
rgeant major who had served with Puller at the “Frozen

Chosen,” but it was well worth it. 

McElroy loved the aura produced by such a historic piece, and he would regale everyone from his driver to other GOs with its historical lineage. 

With a slight jut of his chin, the general indicated the long wooden conference table surrounded by a dozen high-backed leather chairs that occupied one side of his office. “Dick, you’re making me tired just looking at you. Relax and have a seat will you?”

“As you wish sir,” said Hearth with an air of resignation. He slowly walked over to his assigned seat at the conference table, immediately to the right of the head. After a moment, the general followed. Hearth waited for McElroy to sit down and then did the same. 

“Well, we started out with a choir boy and ended up with the spawn of Satan, but that's okay, we'll make it work,” said McElroy as he tossed the service record that Hearth had supplied him onto the table. 

“Yes sir. He’s no Kyle Christiansen, and he hasn’t been in an operational unit in almost three years, so there is no guarantee that we can whip him into shape in time,” replied Hearth. 

“He had a relatively short tenure with Force Recon. I assume he transferred to get a command?”

“Yes, sir, that would be my guess,” replied Colonel Hearth

“They must have thought he was a fast burner. But, he was wounded before that could happen and received a Silver Star,” said McElroy. 

“Yes sir, awarded for actions in Al Anbar Province in early

2004. He was a very senior First Lieutenant and Platoon

Commander then.”

“That was a rough time to be a Marine―especially a Recon Marine. I was Chief of Staff of First
MarDiv at the time, and that was indeed an interesting moment to be alive. They called it ‘The Awakening,’ when the most powerful Sheiks turned against Al

Qaeda and cast their lots with the Americans.”  

“We studied it at the War College,” said Hearth, anxious to steer the conversation back to the task at hand—seeking McElroy’s approval of the contingency operation his staff was developing.

“He has the soft skills for the job—
level three/three in

Spanish and Yanomami, a graduate of the Air Force’s Level three Computer Security Course, and HAHO qualified. Aside from the recent criminal activity that is suspected, not proven, he’s as close to a perfect troop-to-task match that we are going to get given the short deadline.” 

“Yes, your ops sergeant had quite a tale of intrigue to tell,” commented McElroy dryly. 

“We know where he is, and I wanted to schedule a time to give you an operational briefing on how we intend to get him back under MARSOC control,” said Hearth. 

“Well, you can brief me now, Dick, but you need to keep it short—I have a flight to catch.  Though it’s my plane, so I’m pretty sure they will wait. I’m aware of the broad strokes as I called in the favor to make it happen. I trust you to carry out my intent as quietly and expeditiously as possible.”

“Aye
, aye, sir,” replied Hearth. He adopted a pained expression and McElroy knew there was something else. 

“I believe this mission is too risky. It has the potential for the loss of the entire team without a guarantee that the objective can be accomplished.” 

“I read your report, Dick, and took it under advisement. Is there anything else?”

“No sir.”

“Then go get some coffee and leave this old man to his thoughts,” said McElroy.

The anniversary of Jimmie McElroy’s death was a little more than a month away. Mona, his wife of twenty-nine years, became gravely somber during this period each year since their son’s
death. Occasionally, her self-control would be punctuated by uncontrollable fits of sobbing that became more frequent as the anniversary grew nearer. 

Mona had her way of dealing with grief and McElroy had his. On the desk sat another thick file— the Command Investigation concerning the downing of a CH-53E Super Stallion helicopter in the opening days of what would eventually become known as Operation Iraqi Freedom. Although he had read the report n
umerous times, he picked up the thick folder and began to scan through its pages. 

War is a violent and dirty business and the Marines take the death of one of their own with profound seriousness. If the death of one Marine is a tragedy, the death of a platoon of such elite warriors is catastrophic. 

A surveillance satellite had discovered a possible launch system and an unarmed drone had been launched to confirm it. Once the target had been tentatively identified, a targeting cell had notified the Task Force Viking commander, who in turn ordered the Twenty-Sixth Marine Expeditionary Unit to reconnoiter. 

The MEU Commander misinterpreted the intelligence est
imate regarding enemy forces—otherwise, he would have given the mission to a company-sized element. Instead, he issued a Fragmentary Order (FRAGO) to his organic Recon Platoon to conduct a reconnaissance in force along Route 3 to the vicinity of the Iranian Border.

Fifteen minutes after receiving the FRAGO, the
seventeen man Reconnaissance Platoon commanded by First Lieutenant James McElroy Jr. launched in a single CH-53E Super Stallion helicopter. 

The aircraft approached the target in a nap-of-the-earth flight pattern, hugging the terrain with the help of a sophisticated te
rrain following/avoidance radar system. The helicopter was just two hundred feet off the ground traveling at approximately 150 knots when the first SA7 launcher achieved primary missile lock against the heat signature generated by the giant aircraft. This allowed the rocket to fire and arc toward the target at a rapidly accelerating speed that would top out at over twelve hundred miles per hour if not stopped by impact. 

The 2.6-pound high-explosive warhead collided with the starboard exhaust manifold and exploded, rupturing the crew compartment and showering the occupants with aluminum shra
pnel. 

Another firer aimed his SA7 skyward and launched his dea
dly missile at the wounded aircraft, thus ensuring its demise. The second warhead found the port side exhaust manifold. This time molten shrapnel impacted the left sponson housing of one of the three hundred gallon fuel tanks and the aircraft was engulfed in flames as it plummeted earthward. There were no survivors. 

The general finished reading the report and tossed it back on his desk. While reading it did not prove particularly cathartic, it did help steel his nerves for what lay ahead. One way or another, he was going to insure his son’s killer met a similar fate. 

Isla de
Bartolomé, CO 

It was late afternoon by the time they finally arrived at the small, scrub covered island. The diminutive palm tree covered atoll was a little more than two miles in diameter and was selected by the COLMAR because it provided a relatively deep-water anchorage. It was also otherwise uninhabited.

Duty on the island would have been an exercise in prolonged tedium
were it not for the horseshoe shaped coral reef that sat the mere length of a football field offshore.

There were two moderately sandy beaches―one of which was located immediately adjacent to the pier. It proved suitable entry for both swimming and scuba diving. 

A rutted gravel road led about three quarters of a mile from the pier to the approximate center of the island.  There, the buil
ders of the Forward Operating Base (FOB) had clustered ten C-huts among a grove of aged coconut palm trees, insuring both shade and a contingency source of food for the occupants.

Ramos and Michael quickly donned their dive equipment and wadded into the water in the bay adjacent to the dock. According to Ramos, there was a ledge over a deep drop off just outside the inlet. 

The coral reef was composed of massive independent structures of multicolored, slow growing, calcium carbonate secreting living organisms. Ramos slowly swam to the ledge, dumped the air from his Buoyancy Compensator and submerged into the clear blue water; Michael followed closely behind. They glided over the edge of the coral cliff feeling not unlike a pilot does as an airplane flies over a canyon wall.

The two Marines plunged rapidly down along the reef wall. The cliff-like drop-off plummeted to over two hundred feet, se
venty or more feet below recreational dive limits. But limits were for pussies, thought Michael as they plunged ever deeper to at least touch bottom before going about the more mundane task of hunting lobsters. 

While descending rapidly, he felt the pressure within his face mask and ears increase. He blew air into his mask to equalize the pressure by pinching his nose and blowing while swallowing.  He hadn’t been in the water for several months—the last time being when he and Char had visited Cozumel—otherwise, equalizing would have come more naturally. 

Ramos pointed to a dark, narrow crevice beneath them. Michael swam into the opening thinking that Ramos had spotted a lobster or crab. He illuminated the coral outcroppings with his dive light and began closely studying the intricate coral patterns for telltale signs of just such a lurking crustacean.  A six foot long reef shark, startled by the beam of light powerfully propelled itself over Michael’s left shoulder and into the open ocean. 

The shark’s explosive departure momentarily startled M
ichael. He looked at Ramos, and even with a regulator and mask obscuring his face, it was obvious that the man was laughing. You could have warned me, asshole, thought Michael, but nodded in acknowledgement of the well-played prank.

Michael brought his Hawaiian Sling up in front of him in o
rder to parry off any attempt at a feeding strike, but the shark slowly swam away long the reef’s perimeter, seemingly uninterested in the two relatively ungainly trespassers. He checked his depth gauge and found that they had passed one hundred feet. He felt the light-headedness of nitrogen narcosis and knew that it would get worse the longer they lingered at depth. 

Ramos signaled him and pointed to the reef. Under a large brain coral were the undulating antennas of two spiny lobsters. Michael pointed his spear point towards them, but Ramos gently pushed it away. He moved forward toward the hole and showing a practiced proficiency, expertly plunged an arm behind the cre
ature while distracting it with a feint to its front. The creature backed into Marco’s waiting right hand. He grabbed it by its abdomens, withdrew the struggling crustacean and released it into a goodie bag that Michael rapidly produced. 

They found two more lobsters and one large crab in the same area, and they surfaced a short time later on nearly empty tanks, totally satisfied with the dive. Ramos had maneuvered them to the shore to the right of the dock where the
Good as Gold
was tied up, and they came ashore with their heavily laden game bag tied to Michael’s buoyancy compensator. 

Char had watched them surface from the deck of the yacht and came down to the shore to help them.

“Good dive?”

“Yeah.
Ramos is like freaking Aqua Man. He wrangles lobsters with his bare hands.” 

“No shit?” said Char as he took the game bag from Michael and held it up to examine its contents.

“Very nice. I am sure they will be delicious. Bring them on board so we can get ‘em cooking.”

“I have a suggestion,” said Ramos as he slid out of his buo
yancy compensator and air tank. “We have a store of Guava wood up at the cocina, a twin burner barbeque grills we made from an old fuel drum, and a double boiler for the lobster. Why make a mess of the boat?”

Guava was very popular with barbeque chefs, but was diff
icult to find outside the tropics where it grew. It imparted a semisweet flavor that went well with just about any cut of meat or fish.

Char was already sold.
“Sounds good to me. You guys did the heavy lifting by catching these little babies, and without the use of a Hawaiian Sling, I might add. Go get showered up and I’ll start hauling everything down to the cook shack.” 

A short time later, Ramos and Michael arrived outside the kitchen to find Char already busily stoking the fire in one of the old steel grills.

“Beer’s in the ice chest,” he said without turning his attention away from the grill. Michael reached into the marine cooler and withdrew two ice-coated bottles of Aguila beer. He opened both beers with an old Heineken bottle opener that Char had attached to the handle with a “dummy cord,” handed a bottle to Ramos, and clicked the neck with the bottom of his beer.

“A los
compañeros caídos,” Michael toasted. 

“To fallen comrades,” repeated Ramos. 

“Ok, Marco, you’re gonna have to show me where the burners are if we’re going to boil lobsters.”

Michael gave his old man a perplexed look. “Why not just throw them on the grill?” 

“Because my young, inexperienced son, I put together my secret blend of lobster boiling ingredients in a boil bag and would like to introduce our Colombian guest to the nuances of

American Indian cuisine.”

Michael rolled his eyes and laughed. “Shit, if I know you, you threw some Old Bay seasoning in a bag and are trying to pass it off as some ancient Seminole secret.”

Char laughed while Ramos disappeared under the raised floor of the C-Hut and appeared a short time later on the other side of the door. “Trap door,” he explained upon return. “We use the space for storage of canned goods and the cook got sick of getting soaked during rainy season, so we cut him a door.” 

Ramos retrieved the propane stove, little more than a four
legged metal stand that supported two burners, and per Char’s direction, placed it three feet to the side of the grill. 

“What about the propane?” said Michael, looking dubiously at the hundred gallon tank that sat off to one side of the cook
shack.

“
Muy facile,” said Ramos with a smile. He reentered the hut and returned a moment later with a long hose and a ten gallon lobster pot. 

A half hour later, Char had the water boiling and three rib eye steaks and potatoes sizzling under the heat of the Guava wood.   Michael and Ramos sat atop an old sun-bleached wooden picnic table content to drink cold beer and watch the process. 

The lobster seasoning turned out to be a hit with them both. The boil bag imparted a slight Cajun spice to the succulent white flesh that nicely complemented the smoked flavor of the rich marbled steaks, which they washed down with several more iced cold Colombian beers. Other than stopping once to compliment Char on his culinary accomplishments, no one said anything until all the food had been devoured. 

They had drunk enough to make returning to the boat through the thorny underbrush a task better left to the morning. Char let the fire burn down to a smoldering glow and cleaned the lobster
pot from a tank of rainwater mounted on a tower beside the propane tank. 

The sun quickly began retreating across the horizon, casting long shadows against the buildings and palm trees. Ramos d
irected them to the back of the C-Hut where a large pile of military cots sat neatly stacked in one corner. 

They set the cots up on the weathered wooden sun deck.

Once done, Char reclined on a cot and almost immediately asleep— a moment later, he began peacefully snoring.

“Guy could sleep through a fire fight,” said Michael,

unaware of how prophetic that statement would turn out to be.