Starfish Prime (Blackfox Chronicles Book 2) by T.S. O'Neil Page A
Authors: T.S. O'Neil
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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.”
Chapter Fourteen - Puerto Ayacucho
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
“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.”
Chapter Fourteen - Puerto Ayacucho
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
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