Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (27 page)

Stal’s
Quarters 

Stal’s
eyes fluttered open. He had no idea how long he had lain unconscious, but the period had served a recuperative benefit, as when he awoke, he had a massive erection. He would take care of that with an angry ravaging of his young captive―one last rape before he gave her to the Ayatollah to serve as one of his many wives. Since she would be the youngest, he had heard that the older ones would beat and humiliate her. Well, it’s not like Stal had not trained her to that role. She was getting too old for Stal anyway. He would find another. 

His bedroom was dimly lit. Stal reached for his wristwatch and felt resistance. He turned to look and found that his wrists were bound to the bedposts of the old metal bed frame. He tried to move his legs and found them similarly tied. He tested the strength of the rope and found little slack. Another disconcerting fact was that he was completely naked. Whoever had done this had some nefarious plans, thought Stal. 

“Ah, you’re finally awake, Colonel Stal,” said Bobby as he walked into the room. 

“Fool, untie me immediately, or I’ll have you killed,” said Stal. 

“You are not in the position to demand anything.” He raised his right arm and showed the man a weathered steel machete he held in a gloved hand. 

“You know the story of the machete, Stal?” Bobby waited for a response and, getting none, continued speaking. 

“The first Conquistadors came here to conquer, but you know all about that, don’t you, Stal. They used their swords for everything―clearing land, chopping off branches, and cutting undesirable growth. It’s a very useful tool.” 

Bobby held up the machete as if examining it for the first time. Stal noticed that although the machete was old, it held a well-honed edge. 

“The former owner of this house ran a banana plantation. This tool probably belonged to him or one of his workers.  It was very dull, but I found a stone and sharpened it while you…, Bobby thought for a moment, searching for the right word, slept. You know the American Marines hacked into your glucose meter. They knocked you out by remotely operating it and injecting you with larger doses of insulin. I could have killed you that way, but I chose not to.” 

Stal was shocked, but not surprised. The United States had some of the best hackers in the world, yet it was interesting that they would go to such lengths just to render him unconscious. He looked at the blade and the realization crept over him that he was in some degree of imminent peril.  “You want your daughter back?” asked Stal. 

“Fine, you can have her. She is locked in the small bedroom.

Take her and go.” 

“I know where she is. I am not here for that. She will be freed, but I am here to ensure that you never rape another girl.”

“I have money I can give you, said Stal. I will give you one thousand Swiss francs to let me go.” 

“You try to sell me your life cheaply, Stal.” The bound man rapidly nodded his head in agreement.

“One hundred thousand francs, then.”

“Ah, that’s better―not quite good enough, but better.” “Two hundred thousand?” said Stal. He was beginning to think he would buy his way out of this mess. Stal would surely kill this peasant when this was over, but current circumstances dictated his obsequiousness. 

“Why not a million, Stal? A million dollars is not too great a payment for your crimes―taking my young, beautiful daughter, holding her as your hostage, beating her, and stealing her virginity.”

“Done.
Just untie me and I’ll get the money. It’s in Swiss bonds.” 

“No, Stal, I cannot do that. However, I will sell you your freedom―one piece at a time.” 

Bobby grabbed Stal’s testicles in his gloved hand, twisted them so the sack was tightened and the slack removed. 

“This is how we snip the testicles of a sheep. Tell me, Stal, have you ever had them served as a meal?”

Bobby expertly slid the rapier sharp blade underneath the scrotum and swiftly cut through its skin until they were freed. He looked at the severed scrotum and then dejectedly tossed them onto the bed, where they landed beside Stal’s head. He screamed in shock and pain. Blood from the gaping wound flooded the bed.  “There is about two hundred thousand worth of you, Stal,” said Bobby. Stal screamed again. This time it had an almost animalistic quality to it, like the howl of a wild cat being skinned alive. He grabbed Stal’s penis and looked at it as if performing some type of medical analysis.

“Ah, this is the culprit of so many of your misdeeds. It’s sad that something so small could be the source of so much pain.” “Wait, please, no,” said Stal weakly. 

“Did my daughter say something similar before you raped her, Stal?” He gripped the head of Stal’s penis and swung the machete through the air, striking and severing the shaft at its base. A stream of blood gushed from the wound. 

“There is another filthy piece
of you fully paid for. Stal

began
to pass out from shock due to the loss of blood. Don’t leave me yet, Stal.” 

Bobby tossed the severed penis onto
Stal’s body and repositioned himself directly at his head. Bobby raised the machete over his head and brought it down with ferocious velocity, striking Stal’s neck and severing his carotid artery. Bobby spit on the partially severed head, dropped the blood covered machete and walked from the room. 

He went to the bathroom, removed his clothing, and sho
wered off the blood. He changed into a pair of Stal’s pants and rolled the cuffs several times to shorten them. The shirt as well was much too large for him, so he did the same with the sleeves. He examined himself in the mirror and was mildly surprised how much older he looked. 

He walked to the bedroom and unlocked the door. His daug
hter sat quietly on the edge of the bed. She looked up expecting to see Stal summoning her to another rape session, but beheld the vision of her father instead. She cried out in joy, leaped to her feet, and ran into his waiting embrace. 

“I am here to take you home, my love,” said Bobby through tears of elation. 

Carabobo Launch Complex

Johnnie pegged the gas pedal to the floorboards. The torque of a 413 horsepower engine loudly throbbed in response and ra
pidly accelerated the Ford Raptor to an imprudent speed. It made him think of the expression ludicrous speed from the movie
Spaceballs
, and he smiled despite the seriousness of the situation. 

The Raptor careened down the gravel approach road toward the control building. As the road gave way to parking lot, he turned the wheel hard to the left and executed a skidding fishtail and came to a lurching stop― ejecting a large cloud of dust and gravel into the surrounding air. 

The three Marines and Char leaped from the truck bed and stacked tightly, one behind the other, in a Close Quarter Battle entry formation immediately outside the door to the control room. Doctrine dictated that they throw in a hand grenade or some other mass-casualty-inducing device, but they needed the pilot alive. 

Michael had Char’s carbine, preferring the smaller caliber weapon to the AK-47 or the shotgun he had liberated from the guards they had killed. He checked the door and found it locked. He signaled Thomas forward. The man raised the shotgun, took aim at the lock mechanism, and fired. The round impacted against the door, blowing out a fist-sized chunk of wood, but the lock still held. Thomas fired again and another chunk of door evaporated, allowing the door to swing free. 

The men burst inside―each focused on a different area of the room. Michael locked eyes with the short, fat South African guard holding a bottle of Polar beer. Apparently, they had interrupted a celebration as most of the half dozen men in the room had drinks in their hands. The short man dropped the bottle and scrambled for his sidearm as Michael fired a three round burst into his chest. He fell to the floor dead. Michael caught movement to his left and heard the loud repetitive crack of the heavy 7.62 bullets as Char fired and brought down another guard.

The small room quickly filled with smoke and the metallic smell of cordite. 

Chen sat behind his computer directly in front of Thomas, too frightened to move. Van Achtenberg stood behind him with a glass of bourbon in his hand. The Afrikaner was startled for a moment, but managed to draw his sidearm, pulling the trigger as Thomas fired the shotgun. The double-aught buckshot struck Van Achtenberg in the chest and took him off his feet. 

Thomas approached what he assumed would be a dead man and was startled as Van Achtenberg fired his pistol. A round struck Thomas in the side. He collapsed to the floor and didn’t move. 

Dixon fired a long burst and watched as Van Achtenberg’s head erupted in a spray of blood, tissue, and bone. “The righteous shall rejoice when he seethe the vengeance,” said Dixon.

Michael’s area of responsibility within the room held one fat Arab in Middle Eastern garb and a muscular, mustached figure in western dress with a briefcase chained to his left wrist. The mu
scular man made a furtive gesture under his suit jacket and Michael fired twice. The 5.56 millimeter rounds pierced the man’s chest and he fell back against the wall, dead. The fat man held up his hands in a sign of supplication and began pleading in what sounded like Arabic. 

Madat
Asserian heard the gunfire while in the bathroom getting rid of a celebratory beer. He hunkered down and waited for the shooting to stop and then tentatively opened the door a crack and peered into the room. Dixon readjusted his sight picture and began to squeeze the trigger as Char shouted, “Stand down! He’s a friendly.” Dixon nodded, approached the door, pushed it open with the barrel of his weapon, and signaled Asserian to come out. Michael searched the room. The remaining Chinese technicians had sought cover under their desks when the shooting broke out and continued sheltering there, unsure of the intentions of the raiders. It didn’t matter; they had to grab the pilot and hit the road before things got worse. “Clear,” shouted Dixon. Char and Michael repeated the word. 

Michael knelt down by Thomas’ body and felt for the carotid artery in his neck. He waited for a minute and checked again on the other side. 

“It’s okay, son, you did everything you could. Sometimes the odds are just against you,” said Char. 

“Yeah,” said Dixon, “Thomas knew the score―high risk, high reward.” 

“I got a pulse,” said Michael.

Thomas’ eye’s fluttered and opened.
“Don’t count me out

just
yet,” he said quietly. Michael scanned the room, looking for anything that could be used to staunch the flow of blood. Chen turned his swivel chair toward the back of the room and pointed to a door. 

“Your gear is in there.” Michael ran to the door and opened it
―inside a small closet sat a pile of their tactical gear with the weapons leaning against the wall to the rear. He opened his web vest and pulled out a Marine Corps issue first aid kit and removed a QuikClot bandage, which contained a substance that would chemically staunch the bleeding. 

He returned to Thomas’ side, cut away the t-shirt with his
Kbar, and examined the wound. Thomas had been hit once and it appeared to have gone right through the man’s abdominal muscles and exited, but Michael couldn’t be sure. He removed the bandage from its drab green foil pouch and looked closely at Thomas. 

“They tell me this hurts a bit.” Thomas nodded weakly and Michael slapped the bandage onto the wound.  It generated steam as the porous minerals sucked water from the surrounding blood to coagulate it. Thomas groaned, inhaled several times, and closed his eyes. Michael verified he was still breathing and called Dixon over. 

“Monitor his vitals; let me know if there are any changes.”  Madat approached the Ayatollah and spoke soothingly in Persian. The man responded in a childlike tone, tentatively reached under his robe, and brought out a key on a long silver chain. Madat reached for the key and the fat man pulled his hand back while speaking urgently. 

“He wants your assurance you won’t kill him,” said Madat.

“He has it,” said Michael. 

“There’s more. He says that if he gives you the key, he and I leave right now.” 

“Shit, there goes our ride,” said Dixon. Michael nodded as if considering the deal. 

“No deal. Tell him to keep the bonds, we’re taking the plane.” Madat translated and the Ayatollah withdrew the key. Char looked at the fat Persian. 

“Give us the keys to the briefcase or I’ll personally arrange a meeting with Allah for you.” 

The Mullah continued muttering to himself, oblivious to Char’s demand. Char used the stock of his AK-47 to execute a sweeping butt stroke aimed at the Mullah’s testicles. The heavy man groaned and collapsed on the floor, moaning in anguish. Char reached down, grabbed the key from his neck and pulled until the chain snapped. 

The door opened and Johnnie burst into the room. Dixon brought his weapon up at the ready―then lowered it when he recognized him.  “You almost died, fool,” said Dixon. 

“Sorry, but we’ve got trouble. The Venezuelans look like their getting ready for a fight.”

“How so?” asked Michael. 

“Armored vehicles are warming up and soldiers are in their full battle rattle.” Johnnie grew wide-eyed as he took in the bloody carnage scattered about the room.

“You guys have been busy,” he said shaking his head. Michael walked to the closet and withdrew all his gear. His tactical radio was still attached to the vest. He turned it on, keyed in his pin code and put the headset on. 

“Victor Seven Two,” he said tentatively. 

“Victor Seven Two, over,” said a disembodied voice. Michael smiled.

“This is Charlie Two Five Actual.” 

“Roger, Charlie Two Five, glad to hear your voice.”

“Not half as glad as I am to hear yours,” said Michael.

“Victor Seven Two, we have a situation here,” said Michael.

“Roger, Charlie Two Five.”

“Can you provide over watch?” asked Michael.

“For a short while, but we are in need of resupply.” 

“Roger that. I’m going to be talking to the National Guard major. If I key the mike twice, drop him and as many others as possible, roger.”

Michael heard the rumble of the approaching heavy armored personnel carriers and was not surprised to see six trucks a
pproach in a line. They were awkward-looking vehicles that resembled a warthog in that they had a flat nose sprouting into a wide body. Michael had seen them in use overseas, but he had to think a minute to recall its designation. The UR-416 is essentially the chassis of a Mercedes-Benz Unimog cross-country vehicle fitted with an armored body. A light machine gun was mounted in a cupola on the top front of each armored car.

In this case, each gun was manned by a National Guard so
ldier in body armor. In the lead was the same National Guard major who had taken them into custody. Chen stood up, looked out the blast resistance window, and then looked at Michael.

“Whatever you’re going to do, make it quick.
We have about fifty-two minutes before the missile impacts.”

Michael nodded and spoke into his headset. “Victor Seven

Two, are you monitoring the current situation?”

“Roger, Skipper. It looks like you’re knee deep in Indians,” replied Sergeant Perry.  “Asshole, I am an Indian,” replied M
ichael. 

“Sorry, Skip, but we’ll sort it out. We can do an airburst and take out the gunners.

Just stall them a minute―I’m dialing in the range to targets now.”

“No, belay that,” said Michael. “Can you just take out the weapons?” 

“Take out six 7.62 machine guns before any of them can take you down? Doubtful.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll seek cover,” replied Michael. 

“Your funeral,” said Sergeant Perry, without meaning it. He released the transmit button and looked at Langston. 

“This guy is one crazy son of a bitch.”

“The good ones always are,” he replied. Langston’s eyes were glued to the spotter scope trying to plot the targets that Perry would shoot.  

Michael addressed the others in the room, “Guys, listen up.

I’ve got to try something. You all stay here, watch my back, and be ready to move.” 

“What do you plan on doing?’ asked Char. 

“Convince this asshole that it’s in his interest to get the hell out of here.” 

They were badly outgunned by the National Guard. He knew that the Venezuelans could open up on the building with their 7.62 millimeter machine guns and quickly shatter the hollow ci
nderblocks, reducing it to rubble. It would be best to diplomatically try and stop that from happening. 

Michael leaned his rifle against the doorjamb, opened the door, and watched as the six armored vehicles stopped in a hor
izontal line in front of him, six mounted machine guns all aimed at him. Michael held his hands in the air and approached the armored car with the additional radio antennas, figuring it was the command vehicle. 

“El Mayor” said Michael. The gunner repeated the words. A few moments later the rear passenger door of the armored car opened and the portly, mustached major clumsily hoisted himself out of the vehicle, straightened his uniform and approached. 

“You better surrender, Gringo. I have no time for this bullshit. I’ll have my machine guns lay waste to the building.”  “You have no idea how true that statement is, Major. You ain’t got time for shit, because that missile is coming back here.”  The major looked at Michael skeptically.

“Gringo, you have five seconds and then I’m going to have my men shoot you.” He raised his hand in the air and the m
achine gunners visibly tightened their posture. Michael was sure he could hear the click of the bolts being locked to the rear. The first twenty-five millimeter round struck the receiver of the armored vehicle’s light machine gun and exploded in a shower of heat, light, and shrapnel. 

Michael wrapped his arm around the major’s neck, swept his legs, and took him down to the ground. The pistol fell from the man’s hand and bounced across the gravel, landing a few feet beyond his grasp. 

Another machine gun exploded in a fiery ball of smoke and fragmented steel. Michael tightened his grip on the man’s wind pipe. 

“You ready to listen?” asked Michael. 

“You’re going to have to kill me, fucker,” replied the major. 

“Victor Seven Two, get a good sight picture on this fat head I have in a headlock. Think you can put a bullet in it?” 

“We’ll have to use the M16. Otherwise you’ll be collateral damage,” said Sergeant Perry. 

“Last chance, fat man” said Michael. He felt the man stop struggling. 

“Let me up.”

“Call off your soldiers,” ordered Michael. 

“Okay,” replied the major in a barely audible voice. 

Michael released his grip and the man struggled to his feet, straightened his rumpled uniform and addressed his soldiers.

“Lower your weapons, comrades. Lieutenant Gomez, the major yelled, send me two of your best soldiers.” “In case this is a trick.” Michael nodded, turned and walked back inside the control room.