Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (18 page)

Riverine and Marine Infantry Post

Poyare
, Colombia

After it splits off from the Casiquiare canal, the Orinoco turns to the northwest and flows in a large meandering stream to its convergence with the Ventuari River. From there the river turns to the west to run between high sedimentary banks, its course marked by large sandbars. Near San Fernando de Atabapo, the Atabapo and Guaviare rivers join the Orinoco, demarcating the end of the upper Orinoco. 

The thirty-two meter, twin-screw diesel submarine had been seized at a jungle ‘shipyard’ that had been carved out near the Ecuadorian border. The mission had been personally planned by Captain Alberto Villegas, and he was at the head of the team that carried out the seizure of the boat before it could be placed into use.  The sub had the capacity to accommodate ten metric tons of cargo and a crew of five or six people―therefore; it should be able to easily fit the four wounded. Despite its rather generous size, the boat was cramped, hot, and it stunk of diesel fuel. As a long time Beatles fan, it struck Villegas that the vessel looked comically similar to the Yellow Submarine depicted on the album of the same name. This was the first that he had spent any signi
ficant time aboard the long blue submersible, as he was mildly claustrophobic. 

Undoubtedly, they would have to run submerged because, in order to reach the Ventuari River, they’d have to cross the Ven
ezuelan border and pass through the densely trafficked part of the river around San Fernando de Atabapo. River depth and sand bars at various locations would mandate that they travel on the surface, but they would have to submerge at times to avoid detection by the Venezuelan military. 

The Venezuelan Navy didn’t have a fleet of littoral combat ships with sonar and depth charges that would pose a hazard to a vessel operating underwater in a river. 

Their Guardian twenty-five foot patrol boats, however, could pose a threat if they detected the passage of a submerged submarine, as they would initially think they had detected cocaine smugglers. 

Villegas sought out and volunteered a few of his more trusted and competent men—his chief mechanic and one of his best boat pilots—and then waited for the decision to go. It was an hour after sundown by the time Villegas’ men had properly prepared the boat by loading it with medical supplies, ammunition, food, and water, and had topped off the five-hundred-gallon fuel tank.  Last minute coordination with the Marine’s rear tactical oper
ations center and Michael’s team quickly devolved into a heated debate between him and the Operations Chief. Colonel Hearth suddenly became worried about the political implications should the rescuers and their evacuees be captured.

“How about the political implications if they’re not?” asked Michael, when told of the cause for the
delay. 

“Would the colonel be happy if the wounded were left to die?” he asked Ramos. 

Eventually, Ramos was able to intercede and convince Colonel Hearth to let Villegas make the call, arguing that it would then be a Colombian matter. To Villegas, there was no need for a debate―it was simply a matter of honor; a friend of his best friend was in trouble and he had the means to help, borders and career brinksmanship be damned. 

Ramos radioed the GPS coordinates of the site and the pilot input the data into a commercial navigation system that the smugglers had installed on the boat. They ran on the surface, the sub’s profile barely visible as they motored along at seven knots in full blackout mode, the pilot and Villegas outfitted with NVGs he had borrowed from his arms room. It was ten nautical miles to the border and another twenty-eight to the coordinates. Based on a top speed of seven knots on the surface and five should they submerge, he estimated that they could be at the extraction site sometime well after midnight. 

They would need about a half hour to load the wounded before turning the vessel around and steaming the five to seven hours back to base while hopefully missing the heavy river traffic that occurred most weekday mornings.

The submarine had an observation hatch and Villegas climbed the steel ladder, turned the circular wheel to open it, and gratefully felt the morning air generated by the craft’s forward motion cool his sweat-soaked face. The craft might have been state of the art, but the air conditioner was a window unit that did not sufficiently cool such a large space filled with
heat generating mechanical and electronic equipment. 

It was a beautiful morning. The river was more than a mile wide at this point. Villegas could see the luminous glow from numerous small villages that dotted the coastline. Intermittently, they passed small boats, but were careful to steer clear as the low silhouette of the submersible made them nearly invisible. 

He felt a tug on his pant leg and climbed back down into the crew compartment. 

It was Gustavo, his mechanic. “I think we should test the dive capability, sir.”

“I was hoping to avoid that eventuality,” said Villegas. 

“
It’s better we do it before we cross the border―if we die, at least we do so in Colombia.” 

Villegas felt himself nod in agreement as if summoning up the words was beyond him. Gustavo climbed up the ladder, s
ecured the observation hatch, and then passed word to the other crew members to prepare to dive. Twin ballast tanks ran down each side of the sub. Seacocks could be opened to let in seawater, allowing the vessel to sink beneath the sea. If they wanted to surface, the seacocks would be opened and compressed air would force the water from the tanks, lightening the sub, and allowing it to rise. 

Since it was necessary to flood both tanks at the same time, lest the submarine keel over, Gustavo and the other Marine did a three count to synchronize their
movements. On the count of three, they opened the tanks and river water flooded in. 

The change was immediate. The vessel began to rapidly sink straight down, and Gustavo ran forward to help the boat’s pilot adjust the sailplane that would allow them to change depth while on the move. 

The sub's periscope had two cameras, one for daylight and the other for night vision, to monitor the sea surface while submerged. It could be retracted into the sub’s body to better streamline the craft while underway. The sub’s pilot was immediately stymied by the near zero visibility in the muddy river. He dead reckoned via the GPS and kept a heading that placed him roughly in the middle of the river. 

Gus checked all the seals and seemed satisfied. He opened the valves to blow the ballast tanks free of water and the craft lurched upward. Villegas watched on the television screen mounted on the control station as the periscope penetrated the surface of the river and felt relief wash over him.

He slapped Gustavo on the back, “Well done, old man!” 

Villegas and Gustavo began planning their surreptitious ci
rcumnavigation of the three rivers that met in San Fernando de Atabapo. Gustavo proposed submerging early and proceeding through the confluence of the Guaviare and Orinoco Rivers, past the Venezuelan’s Riverine Patrol Base, and then execute a turn towards the southwest and into the Ventuari River, where they should be able to continue on the surface. 

***

Michael had stationed a two-man security team at the dock. The American women that had run the
ecolodge had splurged and installed a concrete pier that seemed to have largely defied the elements and looters’ efforts to destroy it. He received a radio call that summoned him to the dock. “Something is coming down river,” cackled the voice in his headset. 

Michael ran to the dock and immediately heard the low hum of a diesel engine echoing in the distance. He took up a concealed position and watched the green-tinged silhouette emerge from the darkness. He wondered for a moment what the hell he was loo
king at. It sat low in the water with just three feet of superstructure protruding above the river. It proceeded under power towards the dock and Michael realized that he was looking at a repurposed drug sub. “Fucking brilliant,” he said aloud. 

A head and torso rose from a hatch and Michael leveled his rifle and looked through the scope to identify the figure.
He recognized the thin, lanky frame of Alberto Villegas and stepped out from behind the concrete abutment. Villegas recognized Michael and waved. 

“Captain Blackfox, how are you?”

Michael smiled despite the grim circumstances. “Been shot at and missed, shit at and hit, but all things considered, I’ve had worse days. I’m glad you’re here.” Michael spoke into his headset, “Bring the wounded to the dock, the medevac is here.”

The wounded Marines and the South African with the cat
astrophic leg amputation were loaded into the sub. The latter’s condition was grave. Murphy had juiced him up on morphine, but he had lost a lot of blood. “Go with them, Doc,” said Michael. 

“My place is here with the team,” protested Murphy.

“Take care of the wounded. This mission will be over in a couple days. It’s a zero-sum game―we pull it off in one fell swoop, or die trying. In either case, your presence doesn’t factor in,” said Michael. Doc Murphy nodded slowly in recognition. Michael had not acted rashly. All the Marines had a basic level of training in combat lifesaving, and Thomas served as back-up Corpsman for Murphy. The more non-shooters he got out of harm’s way, the less he would have to worry about them.

***

Lieutenant Manuel Garcia Ochoa of the Shore Patrol

Command of the Marine General Simon Bolivar, Ayacucho Div
ision, was bored. He had been transferred to this backwater port of San Fernando de Atabapo due to situations beyond his control―he liked to party. Which meant that no cap on any bottle of rum he opened ever had to be replaced. 

The situation came to a head, quite literally, when he was found in a grossly intoxicated state while the chubby, neglected wife of his commander serviced him orally in the bathroom of their quarters during a drunken Christmas party. In retrospect, he probably should have locked the door.

Ochoa was given a rehabilitative transfer and mandatory alcohol counseling. He found that enforced sobriety gave him a new lease on life. He rededicated himself to his career and pledged to wipe this black spot off his besmirched record. Towards that end, he looked for any opportunity to do so, but the graveyard shift in a backwater port seemed to be offering those opportunities infrequently. Still, he didn’t drink anymore, and therefore had plenty of time on his hands. In a therapy session he was mandated to attend, he learned that inactivity causes boredom and that was the enemy of sobriety. 

Therefore, he needed to consistently occupy his time with a
ctivity. He often went out on patrol with his men in their small boats armed with a bow mounted thirty-caliber machine gun and hand grenades. It was just such a night he chose to patrol with Riverine Patrol Number Four, assigned to the area called Tres Rios―the place where the three rivers joined. 

He spent nearly every shift on the water, searching for drug smugglers, as a significant seizure would go a long way towards rehabilitating his soiled reputation. This night he sat in the stern of the patrol boat and scanned the water’s surface with his night vision goggles while his Marines smoked Belmont cigarettes and joked about their latest antics in the town’s whorehouses. He had purchased a Chinese copy of the American NVGs in Caracas with his own money. It was funny how much free cash he had now that he wasn’t spending it on rum. 

At three thirty-five, Lieutenant Ochoa noticed a slight displacement of water moving slowly with the current. At first he thought it was an Orinoco crocodile swimming underwater, but this looked to be bigger and seemed to be navigating in a straight line under power. He signaled the boat pilot to slow the engine and summoned the gunner from the bow. Ochoa pointed to the slight wave moving on the surface, “Look, Cabo! Do you see it?” 

“Yes, sir, I see something.” 

Ochoa had prepared for such an eventuality. He withdrew a fragmentation grenade from the side of his ammunition pouch, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the center of the wave. The grenade sank four feet and exploded ten feet above the submarine. It did no damage, but the noise and water displacement shook the submersible. 

“What the fuck?” exclaimed
Villegas. 

Gustavo checked the television screen tied to the cameras in the periscope and replied, “Venezuelan Marines in a small p
atrol craft.” 

“Full ahead!” ordered Villegas. The pilot moved the engine throttle lever fully forward, just as another explosion rocked the boat, this time coming closer to the hull. The lights blinked off and on and a second later one of the seals on the substructure popped, causing a fountain of water to erupt into the interior.   “We can’t take much more of this. The boat is made of fibe
rglass―one rupture and we’re gone,” shouted Gus.  Villegas turned to Doc Murphy. 

“Suggestions?”

“Anyone
have anything left…grenades, mines?” asked Doc Murphy. Reigns shook his head slowly.

“We gave the team everything we had left.”

“What about him?” asked Gustavo, pointing to the prostrate figure of the South African.