Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) (8 page)

“Shut it down,” he ordered
Char. The Green Beret looked at Michael.

“Michael Blackfox, I presume?” He nodded slightly and the man replied, “Someone wants to talk to you.” 

“What about them?” said Michael, while using his thumb to gesture towards his father and Ramos. 

“That depends on you.” 

Isla de
Bartolomé, CO 

The soldiers marched Michael, Char, and Ramos single file back to the FOB with their hands tied behind their back with zip ties. The tall Hispanic Green Beret directed them into one of the C-huts--the presence of a long wooden table and numerous chairs indicated it served as a conference room. 

They had been roughed up a bit during the walk from the dock, but Michael wasn’t going to begrudge his captors a few slaps or kicks. He figured it was probably because the three had managed to embarrass the team by disarming the two at the dock, blowing up the chow hall and knocking the entry team on their collective asses. 

The soldiers didn’t bother Ramos. One of them kicked him once, but the Colombian captain sharply rebuked the man and then stationed himself behind the Marine to ensure no one tried anything else. 

“You know this guy?” Michael managed to ask after they had been seated side by side on metal folding chairs that lined the wall of the C-Hut.

“Yes, I think so, airborne school. And I think we did a joint operation in El Canato about a year ago—a bit of a tight ass, but a good guy,” replied Ramos.

“
Silencio!” commanded one of the Colombians. 

Ramos continued whispering as if he hadn’t just been told to shut up. “Let me see if it’s him.” He signaled the officer by ju
tting out his chin and the man raised one of his fingers indicating Ramos should wait. A moment later, the two Americans exited the C-hut and the counter-narcotics captain approached Ramos. 

“I know you,” said Ramos in Spanish. “We went to airborne school together, no?” 

“Yes, and we did an operation last year in Caquetá,” he said, referring to the province. 

“Yes, that’s right. How have you been?”

“Better than you,” replied the captain with a slight grin.

“Ah, my friend, this is just a simple misunderstanding. I was out diving with my friends and had no idea they were involved in narcotics.  Would you mind doing me a small favor?” 

“Shit, Ramos, why should I do you a favor?”

The officer had a sanitized uniform with the name tag removed, but Ramos remembered a conversation he’d had with the man, as he had campaigned for Ramos’ father when he was first elected to the Senate. The man had initially beamed with pride when he had met the son of Enrique Ramos. 

“Por favor, mi Capitan, me haces un favor? Ramos pleaded.

If no
t for me, do it for my father.”

The C
ounter Narcotics officer’s expression softened and he leaned in closer, “tell me,” he said. 

They were left there sitting for hours, and the morning trop
ical sun turned the conference room into a wet sauna. Sweat dripped down their faces unabated, their zip-tied hands rendered useless in even providing the small comfort of wiping it off their brow. Their captors offered no clue as to the reason for the interminable wait. Finally, they heard it approaching in the distance. 

At first, Michael mistook the low whine of turboprop engines for a C130 Hercules, but he doubted that the landing strip could accommodate such a large aircraft. As the noise increased in pitch and volume, it changed into the throaty low rumble of twin helicopter engines.

“An Osprey just landed,” said Michael, referring to the MV22B Osprey, a tilt-rotor hybrid aircraft that could cruise at airplane-like speed, but land like a helicopter. That told him several things: one, whoever was arriving was being transported by Marine Corps Aviation; two, they were probably coming a considerable distance; and three, there were might be a lot of them—as the Osprey had the capacity to transport twenty-four combat-loaded Marines. 

The anticipation increased as it seemed to take an inordinate amount of time for the new arrivals to grace the prisoners with an appearance.

Char wore a tired grin on his sweat-soaked face. “Is that bad or good?”

“Not sure, but we should probably go with bad,” replied M
ichael. 

“Wonderful! We could have been scuba diving in Bonaire right now, drinking icy Heinekens and chasing tall blond Dutch chicks, but no…we had to give your friend a ride,” said Char.

The plywood door was slung open and a group of Marines kitted up in full battle rattle marched into the small hut like they owned the place.

“Prisoners, on your feet!” someone shouted, most likely a senior NCO. 

Char looked at Michael and smiled. “Firing squad?”

“Probably not, but all the fun just got sucked out of the room,” replied Michael. 

An older, grungy looking Marine got to within two inches of Michael’s chin and shouted, “I said shut your pie-hole, Marine!” Michael nodded and waited for the Marine to turn his attention elsewhere.

“It’s going to be a long day,” he whispered.” He looked at the group of Marines and one thing became clear: most of them were Special Operators. They wore sanitized MARPAT camouflage utilities, a few sported beards, and their equipment was a mix of the old and the new―highly customized M4 Carbines and tricked out forty-five caliber pistols-- this was not Chesty Puller’s M
arine Corps. 

He counted fourteen shooters and figured this was a Marine Special Operations Team or MSOT. There were a couple of o
bvious staff types wearing tactical vests, but more symbolically than for actual functionality. Two other individuals, dressed in khaki-colored cargo pants and dark blue polo shirts that military security contractors favored, hovered around the periphery of the group, not quite comfortable mixing with the tight-knit group of warriors. Michael at first took them to be civilians, but they had a hard edge to them, like they were former military that had gone a little bit soft. 

One of the non-shooter types, a tall salt-and-pepper-haired

Marine, spoke to the two civilians, pointed to Char, and said, “No time like the present,” before walking away. Char felt a cold shiver down his spine―things had taken yet another ominous turn. 

Both men approached Char. “We’re federal deputy marshals. Get on your feet,” one of them commanded. Char stood up as the other deputy pulled out a manila folder from a black knapsack, opened it, and began reading aloud.

“Charles Blackfox, this is a copy of a warrant for your arrest specifying the multiple charges against you. It also contains a copy of your rights. Read it and sign an acknowledgement at the bottom next to the “X.” There is also a copy of a seizure order pertaining to an 80-foot Hatteras yacht currently known as the
Good as Gold
.” 

“Kind of hard to sign anything with my hands tied behind me, numb nuts,” said Char. One of the deputies approached Char, deftly spun him around, withdrew a Leatherman from a belt pouch and used the knife blade to cut off the restraints. 

Michael was shocked the long arm of the law had finally caught up with them, but he was also mystified as to why he wasn’t also being arrested.  The tall, distinguished-looking Marine wearing the silver eagles of a colonel looked at Michael and seemed to read his mind. 

“The only thing saving you from a similar fate, Captain Blackfox, is your ability to assist this team in the completion of their mission. If we deem you unfit to do that, you’re
gonna be joining your old man making small rocks out of big rocks.” 

“What happens to my father if I help you?” 

“At the very least, we comment at trial that you both cooperated with your government in the successful completion of a sensitive strategic mission,” replied the colonel. 

Turning to
Char, he said, “You’ve got one minute to say good-bye to your son.” 

“Thanks, it’s so good to know that government officials r
espect that special father-son bond,” said Char.

“That was ten seconds. I suggest you use the rest of the time more judiciously,” replied the deputy.”

“Can he get his stuff from our boat?” asked Char.

“No, the boat and everything in it are now the property of the U.S. government. We are sailing for Miami as soon as we are finished here,” replied the deputy. 

Char bowed his head and nodded. “Well, son, I guess we both knew that this day might come. Keep your powder dry―your old man will be okay.”

Char hugged his son and whispered something in his ear, causing Michael to grin. And with that, Char was escorted out of the C-hut and marched down to the
Good as Gold
for a return to a country he had left behind nearly three years ago. Ramos sidled over to Michael.

“What did he say to you?”

“There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip,” replied Michael. Ramos smiled. 

The rest of the group appeared to be either aviators or some staff officers or senior NCOs. Michael assumed the tall guy with the graying temples was the Chief of Operations by the way he conducted himself. 

The Marine looked out the door and then shouted, “Stand by.” He called the room to attention and in walked a Marine Michael recognized immediately― although he doubted the man remembered him. He had never served with Major General McElroy, but he had met the man once when Michael was undergoing the Basic Reconnaissance Course at Little Creek, Virginia.

It turned out that Lieutenant James McElroy was undergoing the same rigorous training course and his father was there for graduation. McElroy Jr. was selected as honor graduate. While the obvious conclusion was that the selection was made in an attempt to curry favor with a GO, in Michael’s opinion, the guy deserved the award as he was a damn fine Marine. Michael, fo
rever the consummate low key player, finished in the middling middle.  

Unlike most of the others, McElroy wore rank on his highly pressed tropical utilities. The two small silver stars were centered horizontally and vertically on his collar with a single tip pointing up, but Michael wondered why he bothered as no one would mi
stake him for anything but a general officer.

“Read the orders,” commanded the general. 

“Attention to Orders, effective immediately, Captain

Michael C. Blackfox is recalled to active duty. Assignment is to

Second Marine Special Operations Battalion, Camp Lejeune,

North Carolina.” 

“Congratulations, Captain Blackfox. Screw up and we’ll send you to jail faster than shit passes through a goose,” said the general.               

Isla de
Bartolomé, CO 

“The name is Char, not Charlie,” he said quietly. The two federal marshals and their captive stood on the dock, now being guarded by the Colombian soldier that Char had disarmed during their unsuccessful escape. The soldier glared at him with venomous eyes. Char figured the guy was probably being punished for getting bested by an almost senior citizen, and he felt for him. But shit happens and it’s best not to be in front of it when it does. 

“Gee, sorry, Charlie. Now get on board and otherwise, shut the fuck up! From this point on, your name is shit-stain as far as

I’m concerned.”  

Upon close inspection, the deputy marshal was a balding
blivet of a man―ten pound of shit in a five-pound bag. His commando light wear was rumpled and stained, probably indicating he was a bachelor, and his bulbous nose, which looked like a subway map of greater Tokyo, indicated a more-than fleeting acquaintance with Jack Daniels or some other liquor. This was news that Char could use. In taking the measure of the man, Char calculated that it would be possible to beat the snot out of him, should it come to that, but he was also sure that he would employ a host of dirty techniques and devices to even the match. Weight added strength, even if it was fat. Cops survived either by being well trained, or—if they were out of shape, like this pear-shaped specimen—by being willing to do whatever it took to take you out. The other guy was less of an out-of-shape douche bag than his partner, but he could have afforded to lose a few pounds.

He was also more by the book.

The years had been kind to Char. At the ripe old age of fifty eight, his six-foot-two-inch frame still weighed a relatively lean two hundred pounds. He had a slight limp from an AK-47 round that had almost taken his leg. Due to a rigorous physical conditioning regime and decent work done by the army surgeon, people hardly ever noticed his condition. 

“We’re Deputy Marshals Lewis Beavers and Carl Davis. There is no reason why this can’t be a fairly pleasant cruise. Let’s sit down in the—”

“Main salon,” offered Char.

“Sure, let’s sit down in the main salon and discuss a few things.” They boarded at the stern and passed into the cabin. Char immediately noticed that both cops seemed awed by the opulent accoutrements of the yacht. 

The room had two deep, tan armchairs and a couch made from the same glove-soft leather. There was a forty-two inch flat screen attached to one of the bulkheads and a three-stool bar constructed of chromed steel and dark black marble, complete with a mirrored backsplash between twin tiered racks that held top-shelf liquor. Char actually saw Davis lick his fat, pouty lips as he perused some of the labels. This was going to be easier than he’d thought. 

Char took a seat on one of the bar stools while both Davis and Beavers selected the deep leather recliners.

“Okay, so what do you want to know?” 

“Are there any weapons on the boat?” asked Davis. 

“Aside from my rapier like wit, no,” lied Char. 

“Better be sure, as we’ll search,” said Beavers.

“Search away, it’s your boat, now,” said Char, knowing the weapons were well concealed. 

“Your intended course?” asked Beavers. 

Char looked at the bar, “mind if I get a soft drink?” 

The agent nodded. “Just don’t make any sudden moves,” ca
utioned the younger agent. 

Char slid off the stool and nonchalantly retreated behind the bar while talking, figuring he would get them used to him serving them. 

“Northeast to the Dominican Republic, refuel and replenish in Santo Domingo, then take the Mona Passage between Puerto Rico and Hispaniola, Char replied flatly. We want to watch the tides and the weather before we leave Santo Domingo, as that eighty mile strait is one of the most hazardous passages in the Caribbean. It’s riddled with variable tidal flows created by the islands on either side of it and by sand banks that extend out for many miles from both sides of the strait. It’s not a crossing you should take lightly.” 

Char opened the small refrigerator and withdrew three Diet Cokes. 

“You guys want a soda? All I have is Diet Coke, but it’s better than nothing.” 

They both nodded; it had been a thirsty morning all around. 

Char popped the tops, delivered the sodas, and then returned to the bar stool. Beavers, visibly the smarter of the two, looked at Char suspiciously. 

“If the strait is so dangerous, why not go the other way, the passage between Cuba and Haiti?” 

“Easy—feel like dealing with the Cuban Coast Guard? They could impound this boat and take us prisoner. If it’s all the same to you fellas, I would rather be locked up in a jail in the States than in Cuba.” That seemed to satisfy the deputies. Beavers took a deep sip of his soda and looked suspiciously at Char. 

“Let’s talk about some ground rules,” said Beavers.

Char took on a facial expression that he hoped conveyed rapt attention, “Shoot.”

“We aren’t going to handcuff you while on the boat, as you need to pilot us back to Miami. However, fuck up by trying to escape, we’ll lock you in your cabin and I’ll take over.
” 

“You know how to drive a boat this size, Lou?” asked Char. 

“No, but I have a thirty foot Bertram that I take out on occasion.”

“That’s less than half the size of this yacht,” replied Char.

“Yeah, that’s why you’re not currently locked in your cabin,” said Beavers.

“OK, sounds fair” said Char as he slipped off the bar stool and clapped his hands, “how about a quick lunch of steak san
dwiches and French Fries before I point this fine piece of government property north toward the land of the big PX?” Both cops nodded vigorously.

“Everything’s frozen, but even so, I still manage to make a decent Philly Cheesesteak,” said Char.” 

“Thanks. We’ve been eating MREs since we got assigned to this detail, “replied Beavers.

“Yes, meals rejected by Ethiopians, although I am more f
amiliar with their predecessor, C-Rats. Either is high living for Marines. Just let me see if I can do something better.”
This was going to be easier than selling condoms in a whorehouse
, thought Char as he retreated into the galley.