Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (14 page)

Vicinity of
Pintado, Amazona

It was a little past midnight on a dark moonless night―perfect for an operation of this type. Night-vision goggles rendered the need for much ambient light moot. The landing zone turned out to be a semi-flooded marsh. Michael splashed into the water and felt his boots sink in the mud. The forward motion of the parachute caused him to fall to his knees. He had belatedly decided to ride his pack in rather than lowering it from a line prior to hitting the earth, as he was worried the impact would damage the fragile components. The night jump brought back memories, but this time he was unarmed and felt vulnerable. He would have to see what he could do to remedy that situation. 

Sergeant Howell had painstakingly packed the small Dell
Ultrabook and other key components into a water-resistant Otter box and sealed it in thick black plastic along with two spare batteries and a solar charger. Size and weight constraints inherent in planning HAHO operations mandated that they choose a small laptop rather than the standard military ruggedized one. 

They all used night vision goggle systems clipped to the lightweight Kevlar helmets that were specifically designed for Special Operations. Most team members were armed with the ubiquitous M4 Carbines. They carried 240 rounds of the high velocity, yet relatively small 5.56 millimeter rounds packed into eight polymer 30 round magazines. The Havoc Twins were armed with new M32 multiple-shot grenade launchers, while a
nother Marine carried an M240B medium machine gun. 

They could communicate with each other via personal  Motorola PRC-153 radios, and for external communications with the rear, Sergeant Meyers, the Communications Chief, carried the

AN/PRC-117G transportable tactical radio that, together with a TACSAT antenna, could reach anywhere covered by communications satellites. 

The team all wore Brazilian Army camouflage uniforms. Although, since no one on the team spoke much Portuguese, the subterfuge merely provided a layer of semi-plausible deniability
for State Department politicians to hide behind should the plan turn to shit. 

The team leader did a quick head count and the team began silently filing down the well-traveled jungle trail that would lead them to the village. It was ten minutes past midnight when they started. The plan was to arrive at the village well before sunrise and contact Bobby Abreu, who would then take them to a portion of the installation’s perimeter that he knew to be unguarded while it was still dark. 

An early morning rain shower had cooled the surrounding dense foliage to a point where Michael felt slightly chilled. Were it not for the sixty pound rucksack on his back, this might be mistaken for a comfortable hike. They had a six kilometer trek from the LZ to the clinic and Michael was glad it was not longer. The small team moved quickly. Two point men reconnoitered ahead of the main body, and a two-man team provided rear security. Michael took up a position behind Doc Murphy, to the rear of the main body. 

At about 0130, the team passed hand and arm signals indica
ting a halt. Michael was summoned to the front of the column to meet with Reigns. 

“We’ve reached the village perimeter. I’ve dispatched one team to locate the clinic, meet with the informant and bring him to us. Once we move out, stay to the rear and look inconspicuous.

I don’t want anything happening to you, at least not until you upload the virus,” said Reigns. 

“Gee, Reigns, that’s almost touching,” whispered M
ichael. 

The Havoc Twins, Juan Thomas, and Marcel Dixon were d
etailed to pick up the informant. The team moved tactically to the edge of the village, took up concealed positions, and waited while closely monitoring the buildings for any signs of suspicious activity. The clinic was illuminated with a solar-powered front light that cast a dim glow about the entrance of the white cinder block building. A sign out front proudly proclaimed the clinic to be a gift from the Cuban government constructed under the auspices of the Chavez regime. 

By turn, each Marine executed a short three- to five-yard rush while being covered by his teammates. Once Dixon completed a rush, he would cover one of the Havoc Twins as he leapfrogged ahead of him. 

Once the team reached the clinic’s outside perimeter wall, they took up covered positions as the Havoc Twins approached the door. Jamie Olsten provided close security, while his brother, Jerry, checked for the presence of tripwires or explosive devices. Discovering nothing, he slowly turned the knob and found it to be unlocked. He gradually pushed the door open, eliciting a long, drawn-out creak from a rusty hinge. He cursed under his breath. Jamie, providing close security, repositioned to better cover the exposed doorway. 

While Jamie remained outside providing security, the rest of the team entered the clinic. Inside the lobby stood a five-foot-tall bespectacled Indian wearing a red and white Phillies’ jersey and similarly colored baseball hat. 

“Hello, Yankees, I am called Bobby Abreu.”

“Fuck the Yankees; I’m a Red Sox Fan,” whispered Marcel Dixon, as he swept the room for potential threats. 

“I think he meant Yankee as slang for North Americans,” said Sergeant Juan Thomas.

“So, you speak English?” asked Thomas. 

“Yes, a little,” Bobby replied. 

“OK, great,” said Thomas, secretly relieved he wouldn’t be forced into speaking Yanomami, a language that was particularly challenging because it involved generating sounds through his nose to speak certain vowels. 

“Please do us a favor and place your hands above your head while my partner searches you.” 

Dixon did a quick pat down for weapons while the other team members did a cursory search of the clinic before returning up front. Bobby lowered his hands and regarded Thomas and Dixon.

“You know, I picked the name of the famous baseball player as a nickname because we were both born on the same day,

March eleventh. He was born in 1974 and I was born in 1970.”  Thomas looked at him with keen interest.

“Yeah, who does he play for now?” Bobby pointed proudly to the white “P” embroidered on his ball cap. 

“Interesting,” replied SGT Thomas. He quickly launched into a prepared, but low-key interrogation to verify the veracity of the informant’s bona fides.

“So tell me about security around the facility. How many soldiers are guarding it?” 

“About ten,” replied Bobby.

“Are there any large weapons, like machine guns?” “Yes, let me show you,” said Bobby as he walked to a whiteboard used for staff instructions, picked up a Sharpie, and drew a reasonable depiction of the launch site. He then drew three circles and a series of long dotted lines. 

“The circles indicate a position with a machine gun, the do
tted lines are existing fence lines, and the areas where there are no lines is where the fence was torn down a long time ago for scrap.” 

SGT Thomas was pleased with the level of detail and pressed for more information. “What type of fence?” 

“The new fence is a special kind with spaces too small to allow good hand holds, about five meters tall, and topped with barbed wire.” 

SGT Thomas grew suspicious at the level of detail and pounced, “How do you know?”

“Many of my neighbors are employed by the company completing the repairs, including two who died of radiation burns,” replied Bobby. 

Juan Thomas indicated he was satisfied and smiled at the i
nformant.

“Excuse me while I check in with my boss,” he stated as he retreated to a corner of the building to radio Captain Reigns. 

SGT Thomas returned to Bobby and withdrew a banged up set of monovision NVGs from his rucksack. 

“These will help you see at night. I will turn them on when we are outside as there is too much light in here.” Thomas fitted the goggles on Bobby’s head and conducted a short orientation on their use. 

Once he was properly outfitted with the goggles, the four

Marines guided him outside and turned them on to demonstrate their capabilities. The transformation of blackness into green tinged daylight astounded the informant. 

“Marveloso” he proclaimed repeatedly, like a child delighted by a new toy, until Thomas asked him politely to shut up. 

The scout team returned to the team’s location in the same manner as they had left, this time escorting a seemingly amused informant.  “What fun!” he proclaimed when they finally reached the perimeter. 

Thomas found Captain Reigns hunkered down with the radio operator giving a situation report to the rear command post. The translator approached the MSOT Commander and gave him a back brief outside of earshot, then summoned the informant for an introduction.

“Sir, meet Bobby. He’s fluent in Spanish and even speaks some English.” Reigns nodded and shook the man’s small hand.

“Welcome to my country,” said Bobby. 

Reigns, having learned the value of a kind word in a Civil Military Operations, smiled warmly and greeted the man cordia
lly.

“It’s
nice to meet you, Bobby. The plan is to have you lead us to the launch site so we can reconnoiter.” Juan Thomas began translating it to Spanish, but the informant immediately nodded affirmatively. 

After a few moments of discussion among the team leade
rship, word was passed to saddle up and the commandos were again on the move. Bobby was placed in the middle of the tactical column with Juan Thomas directly behind him. 

They began moving past the village and down a trail that fo
llowed the path of a swiftly running, rock-strewn stream careening down from the surrounding hills. Michael looked up at the high ground, noted the potential for ambush, and became uneasy. After ten minutes of a relatively easy downhill trek, the trail crossed the stream and began climbing up a hillside in measured steps, switching back and forth across its face. Water cascaded down the hill at different intervals. The squawks and howls from a legion of jungle creatures reverberated from the undergrowth. Unseen birds, most likely Macaws and Toucans, announced their displeasure with the patrol’s presence through a series of squeals and whistles, while Howler monkeys loudly hooted at the approaching Marines. 

The trail became overgrown in spots, and the point man withdrew a Special Ops hybrid machete from a holster on his ruck and swung at the offending growth. After an hour of steady rucking up the slight incline—as drill instructors laughingly called any steep uphill grade—Reigns checked his GPS. They were about one hundred fifty meters from the summit. 

From there, it would be another two klicks to Rio Venturi. The launch site was located on a flat river plain about three klicks from the far side of the river. They would be very vulnerable to ambush at various points along the route, but especially while crossing the river. It would be tactically unwise to use a well known river crossing site, but Reigns had chosen to trust the informant.

Even though it was still dark and relatively cool, sweat dripped down Michael’s face in rivulets. Months of soft living had taken their toll on him but, although winded by the toil, he was able to keep up with guys who could take tougher punis
hment for longer periods than professional athletes endure, for wages that they spend during a night of partying. 

The point man spied movement up ahead as the trail turned to the left to avoid an ancient outcropping of volcanic rock. He shouted, “Ambush front,” and attempted to drop to the prone, but was immediately eviscerated by an explosion that erupted in noise and flames. The unmistakable sound of multiple daisy chained claymore mines being detonated resonated throughout the valley as hundreds of double-aught, buck-size shot were pr
opelled towards the approaching Marines. 

“Ambush left,” someone else shouted. 

The first two men in the column were all shredded by the 700 steel balls propelled by 682 grams of composition four explosives. The Team Chief, Master Sergeant Udall, a short stocky rugby player, was so close to one of the mines that he was literally vaporized by the blast.  

Immediately after the chain of explosions, the loud unmista
kable crack of multiple Kalashnikov rifles opened up with full automatic fire. 

Everyone initially hugged the ground—shocked at the loud and voluminous tsunami of shrapnel. From the prone position, the Havoc Twins began lobbing well-aimed salvos of forty-millimeter High-Explosive Dual-Purpose grenades at the unseen enemy. The fragmentation rounds struck a few enemy positions and the level of hostile fire lessened somewhat. 

Bobby had begun lagging behind the man ahead of him as they approached the ambush site. It became clear why he had done so. After the first claymore erupted, he attempted to crawl away from the team. Thomas fell upon the man and pinned him to the ground. A 7.62 millimeter round hit Thomas in the shoulder, but did little more than carve an inch long furrow that would require a few stitches to close. 

The remaining Marines returned fire as best they could, but the enemy had caught them flatfooted and it looked like they might prevail. One more claymore erupted from the Marines’ left flank, critically wounding the M240B gunner, who had risen to a crouch to reposition his gun to better advantage. Multiple double
-aught buckshot caught him in the side of his head, tearing off most of his face. The rest of the team was spared further injury as the mine was aimed as if they were standing, rather than hugging the ground. No doubt a delayed detonation, thought Michael. Undoubtedly, more would have been lost had the point man not shouted a warning.