by T C Miller
BLACKSTAR
MOUNTAIN
THE AUTHOR
T. C. Miller’s twenty-four year Air Force career, combined with his study of Hakkoryu Jujitsu give him a unique perspective.
It was during his assignment at Mather Air Force Base, California that he formulated the basic plot for his debut novel, BlackStar Bomber. His love of hiking and camping produced the locale information that inspired him to write his second book, Black Star Bay.
Six years of living in Colorado provided inspiration for Black Star Mountain.
He is the founder of Coffee With the Author, a twice-weekly event that features local authors discussing and signing their books.
T.C. is available as a speaker in person, or for televideo, (Skype) calls.
T.C. is a member of the Oklahoma Writers Federation Incorporated (OWFI), and the McLoud Writers Group. He welcomes comments and suggestions in the form of e-mails at:
[email protected].
BLACKSTAR
MOUNTAIN
BY
T. C. MILLER
Cover by Ken Farmer
©2015-2016, by T.C. Miller All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form with out prior written permission from the author.
ISBN-10: 0-9971290-5-0
ISBN-13: 978-0-9971290-5-2
ISBN-E 978-0-9971290-4-5
Timber Creek Press
Imprint of Timber Creek Productions, LLC
312N. Commerce St.
Gainesville, Texas
(214)533-4964
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
No book is written in a vacuum, or without the support of family and friends. Thank you to my wife of twenty-five years, Jake, for her assistance and patience.
Ken Farmer and Buck Stienke of Timber Creek Press have provided invaluable assistance and advice.
Thank you, Jeff Schrock, for letting me tap your knowledge of mountain climbing.
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.
Publisher:
Timber Creek Press
[email protected]
www.timbercreekpress.net
Twitter: @pagact
(214) 533-4964
To contact the author:
Facebook Fan Page: T.C. Miller, Author
Website: www.blackstaropsgroup.com
(405) 820-0546
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to a true WWII hero,
dedicated law enforcement officer,
and my uncle.
William R. Snell.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
TIMBER CREEK PRESS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
GLOSSARY
CHAPTER 1
Rampart Range, Rocky Mountains
Near Colorado Springs, Colorado
June 26, 1983
C’mon...dudes,” Jimmy implored. “Gotta get back down the mountain ‘fore it gets like, totally dark...One slip and we’re goners...”
Four young men in wrinkled-green military utility uniforms sat on wooden crates in an old abandoned mine and passed around a hand-rolled joint. They tried their best to ignore a plea from the fifth figure standing near a small entrance. The cave opening required bending over to enter.
“Yeah, yeah, we hear ya,” Randy replied. “Right after we finish this smoke break. Haulin’ crates up that hill was a real drag.. .Need to catch our breath.”
“No time...gotta get the deuce-and-a-half back,” Jimmy answered. “01’ Kroft’ll kick my ass if he’s gotta come in on Monday to unlock a stupid gate...wanna know why we had a truck out late on a drill weekend.”
“You mean why you had a truck out late...”
“Hey, we’re in this together, you know...Ain’t just my idea to cop this stuff.”
“Just messin’ with you.” Randy sneezed. “Man, the dust in here is really gettin’ to me...Must be these rotten old beams. Anyways, lighten up...Kroft don’t care. We kept trucks out late before.. .never said a word.”
“It’s different now...He’s takin’ a lotta flak from Denver...They say we gotta be more military.”
“Yeah, right. We’re weekend warriors...don’t gotta be military.
“For sure...But why yank his chain?” Jimmy stepped into the small circle of light from a survival candle. “Hey, that ain’t no store-bought...”
“No shit, Sherlock...Want some?”
“Sure, just be careful with those candles...Why’d you light so many, anyway?”
“To see what we’re rollin’, Einstein,” Bobby chimed in. “Besides, Randy’s afraid of the dark.”
“Ain’t afraid of no dark, hog-breath...Just don’t want nothin’ crawlin’ on me. Place gives me the creeps.. .Light keeps the heebie-jeebees away.”
“That’s why we’re stashing the stuff here...Nobody’ll ever find it.”
“Cause nobody’s dumb enough to come in this far. Beams gotta be at least a hundred years old...Look at ‘em sag.”
“That’s just a opcatle...oppica...Oh, man, this is good stuff! Wait, got it...must be an optical delusion.”
“Well, this one’s creakin’...like, maybe we should split.”
“Yeah, ‘cause you’re afraid of your own shadow, chicken shit.”
“Who you callin’ chicken?” Randy jumped up as if to fight, stumbled against the support beam and it collapsed. Tons of rock, dirt and splintered wood fell in an instant and covered the only exit from the cave.
The billowing cloud of dust knocked two burning candles off one of the wooden crates. They tumbled onto a pile of timber splinters and started a small fire.
Flames quickly grew in the bone-dry tinder and orange shadows soon danced merrily on the craggy walls. The smell of burning wood blended with the choking cloud of dust.
“Hey, man, didja get both them candles?” Jimmy said through the haze.
“Both? Nobody says there was two.”
The flickering fire lit the faces of the young soldiers through the dust.
“We gotta split...like, now!”
“Yeah, ‘cept there ain’t no way out,” Randy said. “Sweet Jesus, we’re gonna die here!”
“Man up, dude...don’t panic.”
“Gotta right to panic and don’t call me ‘dude’! Name’s Randy...Got that? Randy.”
“Whatever...Oh, man, can’t breathe...legs are goin’ numb. What’s in this shit, anyways?”
He held up the doobie.
“How should I know?...Got it from a friend of my sister.”
“Gotta be juiced. C’mon, dude, get your ass up...help me find a way out.”
“Legs’re too heavy...Can’t think straight...Hey, what’s wrong with Bobby?”
“Think he passed out...Bobby, you okay?”
“Ain’t movin’...Gotta sit down, too.”
“No, get up, we gotta go...”
There was no reply. He laid down after a minute and put his head on his arm. One after another, the others followed his example.
The prone figures surrendered to the drugs and the stifling air and drifted off to sleep. The fire quietly consumed the oxygen in the cave and also died.
TWO MILES NORTHEAST OF
DEER TRAIL, COLORADO
Three Years Earlier
“Think you’re gonna like the property I’m about to show you gentlemen. Sorry about the dirt road...just how they are this far out.”
Flat grasslands that were once home to buffalo and elk stretched to the horizon and were interrupted only on rare occasion by communities of a few hundred hardy souls.
The statement came from Big John, as he liked to be called. “Been a landman most of my life...or ‘realtor,’ as they like to call it nowadays. Runnin’ up and down country roads is second nature.”
“No need to apologize, Mister Hesse,” replied Swanson from the passenger seat. He was the leader of a group of three prospective buyers. “We are quite comfortable.”
“That’s why I like taking clients out in my Escalade...Cadillac builds a good ride into ‘em...Almost like sittin’ in a recliner in your livin’ room, right?”
They nodded their heads and he turned his attention back to the road in front of them.
“How far off the paved road is this property we are going to view?” asked Swanson.
“Never measured ‘xactly...’bout two miles...Maybe a hair more.”
“A hair?”
“‘merican thing...means a little more.”
“I surmised that from the context...You do have a colorful language.”
“Guess we do, at that. How ‘bout your language, what didja say it was?”
“I did not say.”
The answer hung uncomfortably in the air until Big John picked up the slack. “Anywho...Comin’ up on the actual property. Chain link fence goes all the way ‘round the old missile site...Bit under thirty-eight acres.”
“Another colloquialism...I assume ‘a bit under’ means a little less than?”
“You got it, friend.”
“How many hectares would that be?”
“Never figured the ol’ metric thing out. Granddaddy knew it, but he was from the old country.”
“I will compute it later.” Why can these fools not adhere to the measuring system of the civilized world?
“Damn, looks like somebody left the gate unlocked,” Hesse mumbled as they pulled through the gap in the fence.
The two sixteen-feet-high, barbed-wire-topped gates were pushed all the way back and propped open with pieces of wood.
“Local construction company was leasin’ the property. Supposed to close and lock the gate when they left.”
“Not to worry, Mister Hesse, if our clients purchase the property, they will provide their own security.”
“What did you say they want it for?”
“I did not say...although I will tell you they are in the business of providing secure underground storage for business records.”
“This place’d sure fit the bill...Nobody comes near here ‘cept farmers and a hunter, now and then.”
He parked the SUV near a concrete structure that resembled the entrance to a WWII bunker.
“Here we are...Time for the fifty-cent tour.”
Swanson offered no reply, but turned to the two men in the back seat and commented in Russian, “This idiot has been making my head hurt with his incessant babbling since we left the airport in Denver. Let us hope this ‘fifty-cent tour’ does not take very long. Otherwise, I may be tempted to shoot the loudmouth and bury him here.”
The two men smiled as they undid their seat belts and stepped out of the vehicle in unison with their boss.
They followed the fence that enclosed the site and discovered no breaks, even though it had been placed there almost forty-years before.
The clouds of sand carried by the prairie wind felt like stinging rain. The smell of freshly cut prairie grass hay from a field a quarter-mile away mixed with the dust.
Hesse played the role of rural real estate salesman to perfection, mostly due to his thirty-years experience in the business, but also the Dale Carnegie correspondence course he invested in early in his career.
He decided long ago he had better learn how to be a good salesmen if he was going to be in the land business for the rest of his life—unlike his drunken father, who ended up selling used cars at a high-pressure lot in Denver that preyed on young airman from Lowry Air Force Base.
Big John asked direct and leading questions by second nature and drew out his client’s needs with the care of a surgeon. “So, from what you’ve told me, your client’s looking for a place that offers protection from just about any disaster...that right?”
“Indeed, you are correct,” replied Swanson. “Protection not only from natural disasters, such as blizzards and tornadoes, but also theft or vandalism.” The ability to hide and launch missiles is a definite priority.
“You hit the jackpot, then...This was a Titan 1 site...built at a cost of one hundred and forty-eight million dollars in ‘60 ...Be looking at ten times that much today...That was during the Cold War, though, and expense wasn’t nearly as important survivin’ a nuclear attack.”
“Pardon me, Mister Hesse, but as I look around, I fail to see why it would cost so much.”
“Again, call me Big John. Yes, sir, don’t look like much. But, like the tip of an iceberg, we’re only looking at what’s above ground. Let’s head down below and you’ll see where the rest of those taxpayer dollars went. Slanted door in that concrete pad is the entrance.”
Hesse led the way, keeping a running commentary going over his shoulder as they walked.
“Area enclosed by the fence got dug out to an average of sixty feet...The three missile silos go all the way down to a hundred and seventy feet...Antenna silo drops a hundred feet or so.”
“So, that is the source of the hill upon which we are standing?”
“Had to go somewhere.”
“Why such a large area?”
“Part was for steel-reinforced concrete domes that housed utilities and the control center. Tunnels tied them to the missile silos at the other end of the site. They didn’t want the hundred or so folks who worked here too close to the silos...Case there was an accident, you know.”
“Accident?”
“Titan I’s were liquid-fueled...Mix liquid rocket fuel with liquid oxygen and you got a real touchy thing...One spark and it all goes up like the Fourth of July. That’s why they went to solid fuel.
“That’s also why they only used this site for a couple of years and skedaddled. Sold it back to the farmer for a bargain price...Thirty-five thousand, from what I hear...He was gonna use the silos to store grain...just never got around to convertin’ ‘em.”
They reached the solid-steel double door and found it secured with a chain and formidable padlock. Big John hefted his pants, dug deeply into a front pocket and produced a ring of keys. “Let’s see, here...Think it’s the bronze one with ‘E-l’ on it...There we go!”
The lock yielded and he removed the chain. The doors opened smoothly, given their age. He wedged a piece of lumber to keep them from falling back into place. “Wouldn’t wanna get trapped down below.. .believe-you-me.”
They moved toward the opening...
NORAD SECURE BRIEFING ROOM
PETERSON AFB, COLORADO
September 14, 1989
Lieutenant Colonel Bart Winfield was on loan from the United States Air Force to the National Security Agency. He had been given command of the NSA’s BlackStar Operations Group, which protected the Top-Secret-NOFORN Black Star System. The Director made it clear he had complete trust in Bart’s ability to run the highly classified and covert investigative field team and had not interfered.
He suggested Bart might want to cooperate with other agencies whenever possible, which was why the BSOG was seated around a conference
table in a sterile briefing room at Peterson AFB, patiently listening to Lieutenant Colonel Jim Oglesby, Public Affairs Director for the North American Air Defense Command, deliver the indoctrination briefing required of all newly arrived personnel before they were allowed to work inside Cheyenne Mountain.
Forty-five minutes into it, however, he found his thoughts wandering. Events of the previous weeks had presented challenges to all of them, especially for him and Nora, his wife of twenty-five years.
She was a former member of the Air Force Office of Special Investigations and her technical expertise in covert surveillance techniques and intel analysis had already proven valuable to their operations in Lake Tahoe and Seawind Bay. Nora also used her connections in the CIA and he was glad to have her on the team.
The shocking reappearance of their son, Brian, during the attack on the CIA safe house at Lake Tahoe shook Bart to the core. He had tortured himself for almost five years with the thought that he was responsible for their only child’s death. Now, the possibility that Brian—or Chance, as he was known by the group that attacked the safe house in Lake Tahoe—was back from the dead left Bart and Nora numb. They were waiting for DNA results to decide how to proceed.
Jake Thomas looked to his left down the conference table and caught the eye of Joanna Davies, the youngest member of the BSOG. He put his forefinger to his temple and flicked his thumb. She nodded.
Oglesby paused. “Agent Thomas, do you have a question?”
“No, sir, just thinking about lunch.”
Bart intervened, “Actually, been doing this for a couple hours...Could be a good time to break for lunch.”
Oglesby glanced up at the clock. “It’s only ten thirty...we don’t usually have lunch until noon.”
“Really? My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut...Don’t think I want to wait that long.”
Nora patted his leg and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Play nice with the other children, dear.”
Bart smiled and turned back to Oglesby. “Well, I suppose we can wait...”
“No, no, not at all...since you’re our guests. We can grab a bite in one of the clubs on base.”
