BlackStar Enigma

by T C Miller

  BlackStar Enigma

  by

  T.C. Miller

  Cover by: Mike Beckom

  AUTHOR

  T.C. formulated the plot for his debut novel, BlackStar Bomber while stationed at Mather AFB, California. His love of hiking and camping along the California coast provided background for his second book, Black Star Bay. Six years of living in Colorado inspired scenes for Black Star Mountain, and BlackStar Enigma, and his life-long study of Hakkoryu Jujitsu added elements to all his books.

  He is the 2017 Author of the Year for the Rose State College Symposium For Writers.

  His email is: thomas@blackjackbomber.com, and his Face Book page is: T.c. Miller Author.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to the fans who have encouraged me over the years to keep the story going. Your support is genuinely appreciated.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7329119-4-9

  ISBN-10: 1-7329119-4-0

  Timber Creek Press

  Imprint of Timber Creek Productions, LLC 312 N. Commerce St.

  Gainesville, Texas 76240

  Published by: Timber Creek Press timbercreekpresss@yahoo.com www.timbercreekpress.net Facebook Book Page:

  www.facebook.com/TimberCreekPress

  © Copyright 2019 by T.C. Miller. All rights reserved.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  This book, and all previous work have enjoyed the patience and input of my wife, J.K. Miller. I often think about the generous support from Ken Farmer and Buck Stienke of Timber Creek Press, and believe my writing career would have followed a different path without them. William Bernhardt has provided valuable insight and helped me grow as a writer through seminars at The Writer’s Colony in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, and his annual writing conferences. Brigadier General (Doctor) Robert W. Enzenauer provided tips about the Russian language, among other things. Jeff Schrock, a retired Chief Master Sergeant in the Indiana National Guard, and long-time civilian police officer, shared his experience in law enforcement, and I treasure his friendship of nearly forty years. Mike Beckom lent his considerable commercial art expertise.

  BETA READERS

  Beta readers are an essential part of my support network. They read very rough drafts and offer suggestions. Even though some points they uncover never appear in the final version, their work contributes greatly. Thank you, Leslei Fisher, Penny Whisman, Sandy Stewart, Jeff Schrock, Dr. Robert Enzenauer, and E.B. Black.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or did not win it in an author/publisher contest, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form with out prior written permission from the author. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental…maybe.

  TIMBER CREEK PRESS

  Chapter One

  Wyoming Highway 487, North of Medicine Bow

  “Hey, Dispatch, uh, Gloria, this is 27…need you to run four plates,” Wyoming State Highway Patrol Trooper J.D. Worthington said.

  “You okay, J.D.? Sound a little on edge.”

  “Got a problem on 487.”

  “How’s that?”

  “…rolling up on vehicles half-a-mile south of Doc Marston’s place. First look tells me it’s an accident, but nobody’s here. Hold on, got a body on the road. Make that two. Send EMTs fast, and the Sheriff.”

  “As Coroner?”

  “And backup. I got a bad feeling about….”

  The passenger side window of the patrol car shattered, and a round hit the headrest behind him. J.D. threw the transmission in reverse and burned rubber getting away.

  “I’m under fire,” he yelled into the mike.

  “You’re what?”

  “I say again, I’m under fire. Get help here ASAP, and Air One.”

  “Copy, 27, be advised, weather might ground it.”

  “Understood. Get every warm body out here you can…National Guard, dogcatcher, even the Girl Scouts. I need help.”

  Gloria kept the mike open so J.D. could hear as she marshaled the meager resources of the rural county.

  “Also, send fire,” J.D. added, “Got a vehicle fully engulfed. May spread.”

  “You’ve got four vehicles?”

  “Correct, Doc Marston’s pickup, Glen McFadden’s feed truck, and another one belongs to the guy who bought the old Fenton place. Plus, a black SUV with Colorado plates. Here’s the number so you can trace it.”

  “Roger, 27, ready to copy.”

  The two minutes it took Gloria to respond seemed like an hour to the lone patrolman. “J.D., you there?”

  “Where else would I be?”

  “What’s your twenty?”

  “Two hundred yards south of the scene. Got my vest and rifle out of the trunk. Put flares out a hundred yards back. Tell responders to slow down when they see them. Road pops up out of a dip, and you’re right on the scene.”

  “Will do, 27. You okay?”

  “Peachy-keen, under the circumstances. Be a whole lot better when backup gets here.”

  “ETA is twenty minutes.”

  “Gonna feel like forever. I’ll just hunker down and…what the? Idiots drove right around my flares,” J.D. mumbled under his breath. “Gloria, got a black SUV with heavy tint windows approaching from the north. Probably tourists who want to see what’s going on.”

  The veteran patrolman dropped the mike, stepped out of the warm car, and slung the AR-15 over his shoulder. The frigid air assaulted his nostrils and produced a cloud of frost. He zipped his jacket to the top and pulled the collar up. J.D. mumbled as he waved his arms, “Gonna give ‘em a piece of my mind.”

  The SUV slowed down until it got to within fifty feet of him, then accelerated. J.D. twisted sideways and dove over the hood of his patrol car, as the SUV struck where he had been standing. A hard landing on the frozen pavement knocked the wind out of him, and he thanked himself for hours of weightlifting and running that helped him recover fast.

  He slipped the AR-15 from his shoulder and tried to pull the charging rod back, but it would not budge.

  J.D. tossed the useless rifle aside and drew a Colt Python .357 Magnum from his belt. He peered over the hood of his damaged patrol car as brake lights on the SUV flared. Who are these guys?

  Colorado Interstate 25, One Mile South Of Wyoming

  “What the…” Jake applied the brakes hard and thrust his right arm out in time to stop Mitzi, a Pomeranian, from rocketing headfirst into the dash. The pink-ribboned lapdog belonged to Star, one of two college students napping in the backseat. M&M candies burst out of a large bag sitting in a cup holder by his knee and scattered over the floor.

  Jake kept an eye on the near-blizzard weather as the Blazer slid sideways toward the rocky ditch ten feet away. He spun the steering wheel in the direction of the slide and stopped a dozen feet behind the big rig.

  A quick tap of a button on the dash activated emergency flashers, as the smell of a spilled raspberry cappuccino drifted from the back seat.

  “Man, that was close.” Joanna Davies eased her hands from a braced position on the dash, settled back into the passenger seat and glanced over at him. “Nice driving.”

  Jake exhaled sharply. “Thanks, and you’re right…too close. Well, with any luck, nobody else will try to kill us today.” He glanced in the rearview mirror to check on their backseat charges.

  A sleepy-eyed Licia Martinez sat up while wiping coffee from her designer ski parka.

  “What’s going
on?” she grumbled. “Are we there yet?”

  Preparations for the weekend skiing trip began two weeks before during a morning meeting in Eagle One, a forty-foot bus converted to an RV owned by Bart Winfield and his wife, Nora.

  Bart led the elite BlackStar Ops Group, an above-Tier One Level counterterrorism strike force of the National Security Agency. Nora, a former Air Force Office of Special Investigation agent, was the team’s intel officer.

  Agents Jake Thomas and Joanna Davies sat across the dinette from Bart and Nora. The warm smell of fresh cinnamon rolls lent a homey touch to the scene.

  “Where were we?” Bart asked.

  Jake sipped the thick-as-mud coffee he preferred and set the cup on the white Formica table. “You mentioned escort duty, although I don’t understand why we’re being pulled off the search for the nukes.” “I’m sure the Director has his reasons.” Jake’s eyebrows went up.

  “That’s right, son, order came right from the big guy himself.” Bart’s slow Mississippi drawl earned him the code name “Tupelo” from CIA counterparts early in his Air Force career. “He wants you and Joanna to take Licia Martinez and her roommate on a week-long skiing trip during Spring break.”

  “Skiing trip? I know the agency agreed to protect Licia after Yancy’s men killed her daddy, but Gwen

  Harding has been doing it. What changed?”

  “Gwen had to take care of personal business and won’t be back in time. I said good things about you to John Banner when he took over as director, and I guess that chicken came home to roost. I told him you’re an operative who gets it done, no matter what.”

  “Thanks for the compliment, Colonel. He asked for me by name?”

  “Sure did. I briefed Banner on your overseas operations, and he appreciates your skills as much as I do. He also tasked you two because you’re closer in age to Licia and her roommate.”

  “Details?”

  “You’ll use an NSA safe house condo in the Hogadon Ski Basin near Caspar, Wyoming. It’s got a good communications and alarm system, and a safe room to boot. We don’t expect you’ll need it, though, or we’d be sending a bigger team.”

  Jake stretched his bulging arms and chest as he forcefully yawned. “I would think Banner has his hands too full to worry about a little thing like Licia’s spring break.”

  Bart picked up a dark-blue mug with a United States Air Force seal on one side and a metallic silver colonel’s eagle on the other. “Banner got to be number one because nothing’s too small, including spring breaks. So, even there’s no credible threat, your orders are to escort Licia and her roommate, even though the worst crisis they may face is a hot cocoa spill.”

  “Understood, but I thought our mission was to protect BlackStar.”

  “Can’t go into detail, but keeping Licia and her roommate safe is high on the agency’s priorities. Gregori Yancy wants Licia, and my gut tells me it’s related to BlackStar.”

  “I agree. Two Russian smugglers on the run after stealing a bunch of nuclear weapons, and one is after Licia. Must be a good reason. Are we using Licia as bait to draw Yancy out?”

  “We don’t put civilians in the line of fire if we can avoid it. Besides, we’re not a hundred percent sure Yancy wants Licia. We picked her name up in communication intercepts.”

  “Could be connected to Yancy’s operation in Seawind Bay,” Jake replied. “It got Licia’s father killed, and may be important enough for Yancy to risk getting caught. Making Licia visible could create more chatter and narrow down his location.”

  “There does seem to be a connection between Eichner and Yancy we haven’t pinned down yet. Any other thoughts?”

  “Eichner planned and led the op to invade the Alert Pad at Mather, which should have been impossible, yet was carried off with military precision. He not only got the nukes, but the ransom and a BlackStar System, to boot. Somebody did a good job training him.”

  Bart refilled his mug. “I agree. The only screw-up was Bill Johnson escaping before Eichner detonated the charge and collapsed the tunnel.”

  “What bothers me is how did he know a BlackStar system was onboard in the first place? Who was the source?”

  Bart shrugged. “Hard to tell, and we may never find out.”

  “Sounds like an inside job, if you ask me. Could even be a mole within the agency. We got lucky when Bill’s information led to Seawind Bay. Otherwise, Eichner and Yancy would have been long gone.

  Nora picked at doughnut crumbs on a napkin. “Yes, and international terrorists would have nukes if we hadn’t changed the Russian’s plans. The question is, where are they now?”

  “Most criminals leave unintended clues,” Bart answered. “They may have escaped with the nukes and a couple-dozen mercenaries, but we’ll track them down sooner or later.”

  “It may be later if we don’t come up with more intel,” Jake said. “Sightings are few and far between. Although I suppose they’ll show up when it’s time to peddle the nukes.”

  “More’n likely,” Bart replied. “In the meantime, life goes on, and our college charge needs rec time. Have a great weekend courtesy of the agency, and try to enjoy it.”

  “We’ll do our best, sir.” Jake stood and tugged Joanna’s sleeve. “Come on, partner. Let’s go have some mandatory fun.”

  Surefire Mine, Wyoming, Two Days Before

  “You will capture Alicia Martinez and kill her security persons.” Gregori Yancy said in English with a heavy Slavic accent. The Russian smuggler thumped his second-in-command’s chest with a sausage-sized forefinger to emphasize each word.

  “Da, Bocc.”

  “Bring her here. She has information I must have. Wait, she will be with roommate from university.

  Bring both. They can amuse men when I am through with them.”

  “Who should go with me?”

  “Strike team, sniper, and prisoner transport. Bring teams here in thirty minutes so I may give instructions.”

  “Da, Bocc.”

  Hideaway Lounge In Georgetown, Maryland

  Hans Boerman, a swarthy middle-aged man with a stocky build, stared at the figure sitting across the table in a dark corner of the seedy bar. The stench of stale beer and dirty restrooms filled his nostrils. Tattered plastic upholstery on the booth sported numerous duct-tape patches and protested with crackles and squeals when the other man leaned forward.

  “You need to face the truth, Big Shot,” Jack Morgan said. “Your guys screwed up big time.” Hans slouched back, and the booth crackled again. He crammed his hands deeper into the pockets of a worn dark-blue overcoat. The figure across from him would suspect there was a pistol pointed at him under the table.

  Likewise, he assumed Morgan was aiming a weapon at him in return. It was the nature of the business. Is Jack Morgan even his real name? Not that it mattered. Nobody in covert intel used the name on their birth certificate.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” Morgan demanded.

  Hans stroked a dark beard highlighted with streaks of gray. “The men I sent to Colorado were topnotch mercs. They penetrated one of the most secure sites in North America, if not the world, and maintained control until you arrived. You can’t blame me for unforeseen circumstances.”

  “You’re going to go with unforeseen? Breaking into the old NORAD site wasn’t a cakewalk, so you should’ve been ready for anything. You had all the money you needed to do it right. No, I chalk it up to lack of planning and preparation.”

  “You’re out of your mind, Morgan. The op was planned and rehearsed for weeks. My men had all the equipment required for the job. How were they supposed to know there was a hidden way out?” “Doesn’t matter. You got paid big bucks, and you failed. The BlackStar people waltzed away unscathed. Then you blew the chance to kidnap Alicia Martinez during her little camping trip in the Rockies. How many more shots do you need?”

  Boerman took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “A whole strike team was guarding them. We figured three or four guards, at the most.”


  “Then you figured wrong, pal. So, how you gonna make it right?”

  “Hold on a minute, there, pal, why are you throwing it in my lap? You created this mess by letting the Feds break up the Seawind Bay operation with your poor security. Now everybody’s on the run. Your intel wasn’t up to par then either, was it?”

  Morgan leaned forward, and the pale glow of the beer-sign light above the table highlighted a menacing look.

  Boerman tightened his grip on the pistol. Morgan settled back, and Hans continued, “Besides, these BlackStar people aren’t your average agents. They’re equal to the best black ops people I’ve ever seen.”

  Morgan sat up straight and leveled a stare at Hans. “Look, I don’t know you from Adam, you rat-faced little sleazeball. The Consortium recommended you, so I hired you. They said you were the best in the business, and you let me down. So, let’s cut to the chase. I’m the paying customer, and I’m not happy, simple as that. Before I tell the Commission how bad you screwed up, not once but twice, how about you fix the problem?”

  Hans considered blasting away under the table, but there would be repercussions with the Commission, the elite upper echelon in charge of the Consortium. They were his biggest clients. “No need to get them involved. What do you want?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask so I wouldn’t have to kill you. Tell you what, Hans, ol’ buddy, you handle a couple little problems I’ve got, and I’ll consider it even. I’ll even throw in a half-mil to sweeten the deal.”

  Hans cautiously eyed the sociopath across the table. “What do you need?”

  The former DEA agent who caused a helicopter crash in Seawind Bay and was considered dead, leaned in and grinned. “Simple, Hans, I need two men taken out.”

  Colorado Interstate 25, Near Wyoming

  Licia gently nudged Jake’s shoulder from the back seat. “Hey, Superman, what’s going on?”