Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (9 page)

Isla de
Bartolomé, CO

General McElroy was at first irritated that the three fugitives had managed to cause so much grief in so short a time span. The two Americans had been identified, but the guy who blew up the raid team had remained silent. 

The MARSOC commander always traveled with a compact Iridium satellite phone. It buzzed and he immediately recognized the number. 

“Hello, Felix, to what do I owe this pleasure?” The movement into Colombia had been cleared through the Colombian Armed Forces General Staff, but was otherwise kept on a need-to-know basis. Once General McElroy found out he would be crossing into COLMAR battle space, he had called to clear it with their commander and arranged to meet for dinner in Bogota, but the general had been busy and McElroy had left a message with his aide. 

McElroy listened for at least three minutes straight, unable to get a word in. Finally, he managed to penetrate the monologue.

“Let me check.” He looked at his sergeant major, who never seemed to be more than a few steps away. “Do me a favor, Sergeant Major, and find out who that local national is they caught with Blackfox. It seems that a Colombian senator is raising holy hell with the COLMAR about the location of a certain Captain Marco Ramos.” 

The sergeant major disappeared, then returned a moment la
ter and nodded in the affirmative, confirming that their captive was indeed the missing Colombian Marine. 

“It’s him, Felix, but he’s not being held. We’re visitors here after all. He just got swept up in us policing one of our own. I can drop him off where you want, but I have a couple of things to discuss with you while I have you on the phone. If I can get your approval in concept now, we can work out the

in Bogota this evening over a nice meal of bandeja paisa.” 

The general paused for a moment, listened, and then a
nswered. “Well, the long pole in the tent is this base. If we fly in a logpac, it should meet our needs and allow us to keep a lower profile than we anticipated. If I can get your approval, we would like to use it as a tactical operations center for the next couple of weeks.” 

While McElroy listened to his COLMAR counterpart, it su
ddenly occurred to him that Ramos might be useful. He was politically connected, quick thinking and a consummate mischief maker―just the kind of freethinker that MARSOC was said to covet. 

“The other thing I wanted to discuss with you, Felix, is the need for a heavy hitter from COLMAR to act as a liaison officer (LNO). We need someone who can fix things when they have gone awry. I think I know a good candidate.”

The COLMAR commander readily agreed to the use of the base as it was hardly used anymore and it would give the North Americans the anonymity they so badly wanted to maintain. The decision regarding the liaison officer was just as straightforward. McElroy ended the call and smiled.

***

“Captain Ramos, front and center!” Colonel Hearth shouted into the C-Hut.

“Si, my Colonel,” shouted Ramos loudly while jumping to his feet and walking to the door.

“Got to hand it to you son, you move quick―get into a little hot water and a few hours later you have the commandant of the Colombian Marine Corps looking for you because a certain

Senator Ramos won’t stop calling him.” 

Ramos didn’t even fight the urge to smile. “What can I say?

My father is an important man.” 

“Let’s step outside so we can make a call.” The colonel handed Ramos the sat phone, instructed him to push send, and retreated a short distance away to give him at least the perception of privacy, as he didn’t want to miss the fireworks.

Ramos expected to hear the cultured, rapid-fire Spanish that his father had developed through years of political debate. I
nstead, he was very much surprised to hear the guttural voice of General Felix Gonzales.

“Capitan Ramos?” “Yes,” he replied.”

“This is General Gonzales; your father called me and was very worried about your well-being.”

“I’m fine, my General.”

“Then why did you bother your father with this business?”  Ramos started to answer, but the general cut him off.

“You ever go outside official channels and call your father again, I’ll have you reduced to private and sent to the smallest post I can find on the border with Panama.”

“I understand, my General.”

“Good. I want you to do something for me, Marco.
”  The general’s voice softened. “The North Americans need a liaison officer and have specifically asked for you. Although I didn’t have to do it, I discussed your participation in this mission with your father, and he asked me to convey that he wants you to do what’s right for Colombia. Marco, you’re a good Marine―make sure you prove yourself to the North Americans so that they will be rightly proud of their Colombian brothers. They have some very serious business to take care of and they need your help.” 

The only appropriate answer was to acquiesce to the ge
neral’s request, which was really an order.

Ramos felt emotion creep into his voice and the only thing he trusted himself to say was “Yes, sir.” He ended the call and walked over to the colonel to return the phone. 

The colonel smiled slightly at Ramos. “Well, my young friend, you may have your daddy’s ear, but your ass belongs to the Marine Corps.” 

Simon Bolivar International Airport

Caracas, VZ 

The 2006 black Range Rover was waiting at the curb next to a no parking sign with the engine idling. The driver, a broad chested, squat Venezuelan nicknamed Tovar, wordlessly took the colonel’s suitcase and opened the rear door. He was alleged to have been one of Hugo Chavez’s former bodyguards who had been let go for unspecified reasons. A National Guard general had recommended him to Van Achtenberg as someone who could provide certain unspecific, but immeasurably necessary, skills to facilitate an orderly operation. He was a consummate fixer, fluent translator, and did not shy away from violent action when such things were required. Tovar was trained in evasive driving and as soon as the colonel was seated, the man jumped behind the steering wheel and expertly threaded the Range Rover through the airport’s rush-hour traffic.

Peter Van Achtenberg handed the colonel a cold towel and a large bottle of ice-cold water. He was a former major in the South African Army’s First Reconnaissance Commando who had left the army soon after Mandela had ascended to power. 

Stal looked at the man and uttered one word, “Well?” Having grown accustomed to his employer’s unique style, Van Achtenberg was ready to give him a thorough update concerning their progress in rehabilitating the installation.

“Since you were last here, we’ve made a considerable amount of progress. In early February, we hired an army of u
nemployed from Caracas, flew them out to the site, and worked them like slaves to get the place ready for your arrival. We spent a fortune getting air-conditioning restored in all the buildings and have turned one of the warehouses into a dormitory for the workers. They are mostly Chinese and don’t complain about much as long as we are feeding them and letting them drink when they are not on duty.”

It was a twelve-hour drive from the Simon Bolivar Airport to

Puerto Ayacucho over mostly good, modern highways. The drive would take a circuitous route along the coastal plain to Barcelona where they would cross the mountains and descend to the flat and wide savanna to Cuidad Bolivar. There, Van Achtenberg would check in with the local shipping company to inquire about the status of the PAMAX ship,
Mario’s Luck
, which they hired to transport key components from the port of Dubai to Puerto Ayacucho via the Orinoco River. 

“Chen wanted to know when he could expect delivery of the C2 systems.” 

The colonel was annoyed at being questioned by the hired help, but was proud of his accomplishments and he decided to indulge the man.

“I brought them with me on the aircraft. The equipment will be shipped on a dedicated freightliner I had Tovar arrange. U
nload them first. Have the laborers you hired do it as long as they are supervised by Chen’s team,” said Stal.  

He leaned back into the soft glove-like leather of the rear seat and smiled, “I purchased the components from a bankrupt co
mmercial space venture that the Chinese government shut down. It’s almost the complete mobile command system―hardware and software—but the crown jewel of the acquisition is commercial flight control software written by a team of developers formerly with the China National Space Administration,” he paused and took a long drink of water, other large missile components are arriving on the ship, I have a list.” Stal reached into his portfolio, removed a manifest and handed it to Van Achtenberg. “You need to ensure every component is accounted for, offloaded and transferred via eighteen-wheelers to the installation. See that the ground transportation does not stop anywhere between the port and the base.  Given the sensitivity of the cargo, any dwell time needs to be minimized,” said Stal.

“Will do,” replied Van Achtenberg. 

“If you can’t get this all done today, I’ll leave you in Bolivar so you can coordinate it tomorrow and I’ll go on to the installation,” said Stal. 

“No problem, one of my lads is already at the port coordina
ting the transshipment.” The colonel leaned back in the tall leather captain’s chair and started to close his eyes when a thought occurred to him. 

“Who is providing security for the installation?”

Van Achtenberg smiled broadly. “Chavez has given us priority for use of a National Guard company headquartered in Puerto Ayacucho, but we shouldn’t need them. I’ve brought in twenty-two of my best men from First Recce that will form a personal security detail for you and provide security to the base.”

The colonel nodded, “my lodging?” 

“Your quarters are in the old plantation house that sits on the edge of the launch complex. We had it thoroughly cleaned and fumigated, and stocked with food and drink per your dietary requirements, so I think you will be comfortable. Unfortunately, it is not air-conditioned, but I had a window unit installed in the bedroom. Regarding your requirements for an office, there is an old ice house on the property that was previously used as an office. It is air-conditioned, very well insulated, and hence soundproof. I had them hook it into the fiber circuit so you will be able to access the network from there, which should make things easier as the road to the launch site is subject to flooding. It will also make an adequate holding cell as there is a small windowless section that can be secured.” 

“Excellent! I wish to talk with the medical worker who likes to share information with NGOs immediately.”

“I will have him brought to you. Per our earlier discussion, we hired his daughter as your personal maid. He seemed visibly distraught when we took her.” said Van Achtenberg

“Good”
Stal’s interest suddenly peaked. “Perhaps that will better insure his cooperation. How old is she?”

“A teenager―sixteen, I think.” 

“Has anyone else touched her?” asked Stal. 

“No. According to the girl’s mother, she’s a virgin.”

The colonel smiled. “If things continue at this pace and there are no mistakes, we should be operational by the end of March,” said Van Achtenberg. 

“We had better be. The Supreme Leader of the Iranian Armed Forces will be here on March thirty-first. The Iranians don’t deal well with disappointment.” 

After they left Cuidad Bolivar, they would follow the path of the Orinoco, crossing numerous tributaries and arriving at the installation at about three the following morning. The four semitrailers would follow along behind them at their own pace, allowing the colonel and his colleagues to pre-clear the shipment through the various police and military checkpoints with a letter signed by the big man himself. 

The colonel was satisfied that the project was on track for the time being. Of course, there was a lot more to be done before he could deliver his Iranian clients a truly effective magic bullet. Stal leaned back in the plush leather seat, closed his eyes and was soon asleep.

Isla de
Bartolomé, CO 

The Marine Special Operations Support Group was responsible for providing the special operators with logistical support, including all classes of supply, from major end items such as vehicles to the MREs and B-rations necessary for subsistence. Log flights began arriving during the early afternoon, as if they were standing by on the flight line until an ultimate destination was selected. 

The
loggies arrived in a combination of MV-22 Ospreys and one airdrop involving three KC-130J Super Hercules cargo planes. The first sorties brought in lightweight, rough-terrain forklifts to rapidly transport the supplies from the edge of the airfield to the ten C-huts that comprised the FOB. The forklifts shuttled three-kilowatt electrical generators, stacks of rations, ammunition, electronics, and other supplies to various buildings within the base. 

The first order of business was to set up a working tactical operations center (TOC), a Special Compartmentalized Intell
igence Facility, and a computer lab to facilitate train-up of one white hat hacker. Munitions were transported to a sheltered location among several small hills where they were secured by concertina wire, command detonated anti-personnel mines, and surveillance cameras, as there would be no troops to spare to guard the lot.

Ramos’ world had been upended. He was anxious, if not nervous, about the sudden turn of events. He wandered to the side of one of the C-huts that was formerly designated a smoking area to indulge a habit virtually all his health-conscious friends frowned upon. He sat down on top of one of the two
weather-beaten picnic benches, shook out a Colombian Marlboro, flipped the top of his battle-scarred Zippo to light it, and inhaled deeply. 

The nicotine had the desired effect―he relaxed a bit and e
xhaled out a cloud of smoke. The counter-narcotics captain wandered in front of the alleyway headed to the TOC. Ramos waved him over and offered a smoke. The captain shook his head.
Another health nut
, he thought. 

“Thanks for the favor,” said Ramos.

“No problem, it was the least I could do. Good luck to you―by the look of things, you’re going to need it,” replied the captain. 

“Yes, it does seem that things are getting interesting.” Ramos purposely understated the significance of the developing events. As if to punctuate Ramos’ statement, an MV-22 Osprey roared overhead preparing to land.

“Are you leaving?” Ramos inquired.

“Yes, it would seem that the chess master has made another move,” replied the captain.

Ramos adopted a puzzled expression. “I’m actually more of a poker player.” 

“I mean it seems that these Norte Americanos will risk an
ything to get whatever they are after. Just make sure you don’t find yourself sacrificed like a pawn.”

“Don’t kid
yourself, mi Capitan Lopez,” he said, finally remembering the man’s name. “It doesn’t matter whose flag we fight under as everyone in this business is cannon fodder if the need arises.”  

Ramos flicked his cigarette onto the ground as if to punctuate the point. He hopped off the table, patted the captain on both u
pper arms in a quasi-embrace, shook his hand, and offered a traditional parting farewell. “Vaya con Dios.” 

“You too,” replied Lopez and then he was gone. 

***

“Come with me.”
LtCol Freeman summoned Michael from the operations hut. He then escorted him to another building at the end of the dirt road that formed the main street of their C-hut village. He entered and a young Marine turned away from tinkering with the internal components of a server, stood up and regarded the two officers with rapt attention.

“The critical dependency of this op is the ability to hack into a computer network and upload a payload. If you can’t do it now,
you’ll be able to do it by the time we are done training you. Meet Sergeant Ellis Howell, your instructor.” 

The kid looked like he was all of sixteen years of age. He was of slight build and had wispy blond hair that was slightly longer than allowed by the Corps’ notoriously strict grooming standards. Michael figured the kid was taking advantage of the looser stan
dards MARSOC, and other Special Operators adopted while deployed to better blend with the local populace. He shook the Sergeant’s hand.

“Give the captain a rundown on your qualifications, Sergeant Howell.” said Colonel Freeman. 

“Black hat hacker for a few misspent years in my early teens. Broke into just about every federal network I could think of―I got caught after I hacked into a federal credit union and transferred thirteen million dollars into an account in the Cayman

Islands.
I was arrested when I showed up to withdraw the funds.”

“He was just seventeen and got treated like a youthful o
ffender. The judge was a traditionalist and former Marine. He offered him a choice: four years in a federal prison, or an equal number of years in the Corps,” said LtCol Freeman.

“I think I would have had an easier time in prison,” quipped Ellis.

“Yeah, but think of all you’d be giving up,” replied Freeman as he turned towards Michael. 

“You’ve got eight hours to get Captain Blackfox trained. I’ll be back at sixteen hundred to take him for a practice jump,” said the Colonel as he turned to leave. Michael looked around the i
nterior and was amazed, but not really surprised. The MARSOC loggies had been busy―the hut had been rapidly transformed into a functional computer lab. 

Three long green tables lined either side of the building, and each table held two laptops. In the center of the room sat a tower hosting a server, several switches, and a power supply. The pl
ywood shutters had been nailed shut. Windows and two large window air-conditioners had been installed and connected to a sandbagged three-kilowatt generator located a short distance away. 

“This is a rough mockup of the network that you will encou
nter. Each table represents a separate building. All the locations are connected via fiber link. You need to be able to remotely break into one of the end points and upload a payload. But before we get started, walk me through what you would do and how you would do it so I can gauge how much remedial training I will need to give you.” 

“What operating system?”

“Microsoft XP or a Chinese copy,” replied Ellis. 

“Piece of cake―or it should be if you have the tools.”

Howell nodded thoughtfully, measured his words, and then responded. “We did a drug deal for a hacking kit from some Air Force cyber-warfare types, but it was mostly outdated crap. I downloaded some current stuff from some black hat sites I still use to keep my skills current, which are much better for what we want to do.” 

“Are there any specialized log-on access controls, like bi
ometrics?” asked Michael.

“Pretend that there are,” replied the sergeant with a smile. “Is there a workaround?” 

“The password is tied to the fingerprint, so there will still be a hashed password stored locally on the machine of whoever logged on to the computer. Just unplug the biometric reader and grab the password file, decrypt it with a password-guessing program, then log in. Crack the network and upload the code,” replied Michael. 

“Fair enough, but what if you couldn’t touch the computer?”

“We do the same thing remotely.” 

“The buildings that make up the installation are all connected by shielded fiber-optic cabling installed in PVC piping. There should be access points, but you’re going to have to look for them. They will normally run in straight lines between the buil
dings, and you should be able to locate them with a pipe and cable locator,” he said as he handed Michael a small L-shaped electronic meter. “We’ll test it out later this afternoon.”

“Seems like you have pretty good information.
How did you come by it? Got a man inside?” asked Michael.  

“That’s above my pay grade sir,” replied SGT Howell dryly. 

He pulled a whiteboard over in front of Michael’s chair and began drawing a rough map of the layout of the facility in black, erasable Sharpie marker. 

“The fiber cable to be tapped needs to be stripped down to filament and placed in a little vice-like device called a micro
-bend clamp.” He drew a picture of a U-shaped clamp and pulsing cable. 

“The light pulses leaking from the cable are detected by the opt
ical photo detector and sent to an optical-electrical converter. The converter changes the light pulses to electrical IP data that is placed on an Ethernet cable attached to the laptop I will supply you. The laptop will be running sniffer software and should provide you with a view into the data streaming across the tapped fiber cable. Government agencies sometimes encrypt data to avoid the risk of cable taps, but we have not detected it up to this point. I think they believe their isolation is the best security,” said Howell.

“
And if it is encrypted?” asked Michael. 

“Then our part of the show is over, replied Howell. But there are other things worth worrying about.”

“Such as?”

“They might be monitoring the cable with a fiber intrusion detection device. These monitors can detect minor changes in the characteristics of the light traveling over the fiber. This will be most obvious when preparing it for a tap.
How about a break?”

Michael nodded. “I feel like my head is going to explode with all the knowledge you’re feeding me.” 

“You need some brain food? I’ve got Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwiches and some pretty decent dark roast coffee with my Keurig coffee maker: Green Mountain Coffee Roasters, Double Black Diamond,” offered Ellis. 

“You’re kidding right?”

“I never kid about food. The first thing I learned in the Marines is that creature comforts were damn hard to come by and that goes double in MARSOC, so when I pack for the field, I take it with me.” Ellis walked over to a white cooler with a YETI label attached to the front and withdrew four disk-size objects wrapped in butcher paper.

“One or two, Captain?” 

“Two, thanks,” replied Michael. 

They spent the morning working on the various methods for hacking into the network based on several different scenarios.  After a lunch of cold Italian subs, chips and diet cokes, SGT Howell shifted gears and began a discourse on multi-function viruses and SCADA computer systems used to control most modern computer controlled machinery such as electric generating systems. Once that was done, he began a short discussion of the STUXNET virus. 

“It was a very sophisticated worm used to attack Iran’s n
uclear facilities, specifically the network of the supervisory and control systems that controlled their centrifuges. It caused their systems to run at a very high rate of revolutions while the gauges registered normal operation, until the system blew. It brought their nuclear program to a virtual standstill,” explained Howell. 

“
Who developed the virus?” asked Michael, although he already knew. 

“Who indeed.” replied Howell. He walked to the back of the hut where a grey metal field safe sat atop a table, spun the dials back and forth, turned the lever and opened the single drawer. He withdrew a small padded manila envelope, approached M
ichael and handed it to him.

“Don’t even ask where this came from,” said Howell. M
ichael withdrew a black flash drive and examined it. 

“That is a ten Gigabyte flash drive hosting the virus you will upload. It’s based on STUXNET, but it’s an improved version. 

“Ten gigs?” asked Michael.

“Yeah, I don’t know why they gave me a drive that big as the worm is surprisingly small; less than a third of a Megabyte.” 

At 1545, Sergeant Howell packed the laptop and various hacking devices into a padded hard sided container that easily fit into Michael’s rucksack. As promised, LtCol Freeman returned at 1600 looking for Michael. He opened the door and summoned SGT Howell outside. 

“How is he doing?” asked the colonel. 

“He’s a quick study. I think he can handle it, replied Ellis,

b
ut there are a lot of unknowns.” 

“Roger that. To quote Donald Rumsfeld; ‘some are known unknowns, in that we know what we don’t know, and others are unknown unknowns,’” replied the colonel.

“If I recall correctly, that means there are things we do not know we don't know,” replied Ellis.