Spectre Rising

by C. W. Lemoine

  He steadied the boresight cross on the truck as the gun pipper symbology rose to meet the target. The pipper in the F-16 gave a constantly computed indication of where the bullets would go at any given time. It was commonly referred to as the “death dot” because where you shot, death would follow.

  As he reached the preplanned range with the pipper on the truck, he squeezed the trigger. The jet vibrated with a metallic rattle as the Vulcan cannon spat one hundred rounds per second. He held the trigger for three seconds, then released the trigger and began a 5G recovery from the dive.

  For what seemed like hours, there was quiet on the radio. He reestablished his right hand wheel and picked up the target again in the targeting pod. He could make out very little as the dust settled from where he hit.

  “Good hits! Good hits!” the JTAC exclaimed. “You’re cleared immediate re-attack on the second truck, you’re cleared hot!”

  Spectre picked up the second truck visually through his Night Vision Goggles. It was now speeding westbound toward the front of the convoy.

  “Confirm the truck is moving to your position,” Spectre asked, trying to slow things down so as not to be too rushed and make a mistake.

  “That’s affirm, he just... oh shit!” the reply was cut off. Spectre’s heart sank. He saw the glowing streak of something large and hot shooting from the truck in his FLIR. He knew it immediately. It was an RPG. He watched as the second HUMVEE in the convoy was rocked by the explosion and the infrared targeting pod image washed out from the heat of the blast.

  The situation had gone from bad to worse. The radio was silent. He watched helplessly as the truck that had fired the RPG turned back away from the convoy to dig in and continue its assault. He was already risking it, but without a JTAC on the ground, he could not shoot.

  “Help!” a scream came over the radio.

  “Say again,” Spectre asked, hoping it was the JTAC.

  “This is the MRAP commander, we are under heavy fire with several casualties, our JTAC is down, request Emergency CAS, my initials are Hotel Sierra!”

  Unlike working with a qualified JTAC, Emergency Close Air Support was the most difficult CAS scenario to manage. It referred to a situation in which a fighter provided support with a ground controller who was not a qualified air controller. Someone with no prior training would be guiding bombs and bullets from fighters onto nearby targets. The rules of engagement allowed it, but only at the discretion of the operator in the air, and only in the direst of situations because of the risk of friendly fire.

  He called the MRAP commander back. Time to go to work. He confirmed that no personnel or vehicles had moved from the highway. The second truck was still the target.

  He picked up the second truck visually and rolled in just like the first time, establishing a 30-degree dive and putting the boresight cross on the truck.

  “Thunder Four-Two, in from the west,” he said, hoping his new controller would respond.

  “Do it! Take them out!” the MRAP commander exclaimed.

  He exhaled a bit. At least he had positive contact with someone. Once in range, he put the pipper on the truck and squeezed the trigger for two seconds. The bullets spat from the trusty 20mm just has they had done before, until the gun was empty

  Just as he began his recovery from the attack, he heard “Abort, abort, abort!” It was the call reserved for discontinuing the attack.

  His heart sank.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Homestead, FL

  Present Day

  Victor Alvarez stood alone in the grass parking lot. It was still dark out, but the horizon glowed orange in the distance as the sun began its upward trek. He hated morning, especially South Florida mornings. The air was almost completely saturated with moisture, and although it was almost fall, it was still eighty degrees.

  The parking lot was relatively isolated. It had taken him twenty minutes driving down a dirt road to reach it. It had previously served as a parking lot for field workers to drop off their vehicles, but with the recent recession and the foreclosure of the landowner, it was now just a vacant lot. He was in an area known as the Redlands of Homestead. Only minutes from the Everglades, it was mostly open farmland with a few houses scattered here and there. It was the perfect place to escape the congestion of Miami, or the eyes of an unwelcome third party observer.

  Alvarez leaned against his car as a lone pair of headlights approached from the distance. It was almost six o’clock in the morning. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat away from his brow. Despite having spent his whole life in this climate, he had still never fully embraced it.

  The car pulled to a stop next to his. The silver Honda Civic was much louder than he expected. It must have a broken muffler or something, he reasoned. Not quite what he was expecting from a man like the one he was about to meet, but in this business, he had learned not to assume anything, especially not when dealing with Americans.

  Alvarez ran his fingers through his jet-black hair and casually approached the car. He was holding a small envelope in his left hand and resting his right hand on his holstered gun. The man in the battered Civic was right on time and at the right place, but that didn’t make him trust the stranger just yet.

  “Are you Victor?” the man in the car asked. It was too dark in the car to make out his face.

  “Yes, do you have the documents?” he replied with a thick Spanish accent.

  “Here’s everything you asked for, flying schedules, personnel files... everything,” the man responded nervously, handing Alvarez a thick manila envelope through the car’s window.

  Alvarez leaned on the roof of the car. He was a tall man, and the low ride height of the car brought the window only up to waist level. He took the envelope from the man and put it on the roof of the car. Alvarez then handed the man the small envelope that he had been holding.

  “These are your instructions. The first of the funds has already been transferred. The rest will be delivered upon completion of this operation.”

  “Oh...ok... uh... But no one knows my name right? There’s nothing pointing to me when this is over, right?” The man was fidgeting in his seat.

  “Your government will never find out,” Alvarez reassured him. “Don’t worry.”

  Alvarez had seen it many times before. He had been an agent with the Cuban Dirección General de Inteligencia for ten years. He had spent most of those years in South Miami. It was easy to blend in there. The majority of the population was Cuban or Hispanic, and almost everyone spoke Spanish fluently. No one even raised an eyebrow. He had used Americans many times before. Occasionally it was for intel, but often it was for assistance. They seemingly always tried to justify what they were doing, whether it was for their families or some political reason. Alvarez didn’t care, but he still didn’t respect them. He needed them for his operations, but they were traitors to their country, plain and simple.

  Alvarez watched as the man opened the envelope and read the instructions. He looked for any signs of hesitation or weakness. He had been assured that his new contact would follow through, but he was more than ready to terminate their arrangement with a 9MM round to the man’s temple at the first sign of weakness.

  “Do you have any questions?” he asked with a toothy grin.

  “No, I can do it.”

  “Good. Go. You’ll be just fine.” Alvarez grabbed the files off the roof of the car and pulled out his cell phone as he walked back toward his car. The little Civic sounded like a bumblebee as it sped off into the now rising sun. He dialed the number he had been given by his handler. It was time to check in.

  “How did it go?” the voice asked.

  “It is done. We have everything we need to proceed.” Alvarez knew his cell phone was probably being monitored. The Dirección General de Inteligencia was the main state intelligence agency of Cuba. Since opening for business in late 1961, the DGI had been involved in intelligence and espionage operations across the globe. They had been inv
olved in aiding leftist revolutionary movements in Africa, the Middle East, and mostly Latin America. In the United States, the DGI had been heavily involved with the international drug trade, assisting homegrown terrorist cells, and intelligence gathering operations for third party countries. The CIA, NSA, and FBI all had them on their watch lists.

  “Excellent. Select the target and do what is necessary.”

  “Yes, jefe. You won’t be disappointed.” He hung up the phone and tossed the documents on the passenger seat of his car. This was the first operation he had undertaken without the knowledge of his government. It was going to make him a hero and wildly rich. He had a lot of work ahead of him, and a very short timeline.

  CHAPTER TWO

  R-2901

  Four Months Later

  “Rattler Two-One, Thunder One-One checking in as fragged, ready for words,” the metallic voice said over the Harris PRC-117F Manpack Radio. The dismounted radio, called a manpack, served as a multi-band, multimode radio that covered the gamut of waveforms. Frequencies covered included VHF, UHF, and UHF SATCOM radio. The unit was also compatible with the Single Channel Ground and Airborne Radio System, an Army system. It served as a lifeline for any JTAC to support assets in the air.

  “Roger, Thunder One-One, Rattler has you loud and clear, situation is as follows: we have several wounded friendly forces holed up in the urban village. They are unable to move at this time and are surrounded by multiple hostiles in pickup trucks,” he replied, looking up at the jets circling over their position. From his observation position, he could barely hear the two F-16s in a right hand orbit high above, but with the overcast sky, he could clearly see two dark specks speeding across the clouds like ants on a blanket.

  The two men were set up on the roof of a metal building overlooking a series of tin buildings just a quarter mile away. The terrain was relatively flat, and from atop the two-story building, they had a relatively unobstructed view of the village. Even for a village, it wasn’t much. A dirt road running north from their observation position was split by fifteen tin buildings before intersecting another dirt road that led out to a narrow tree line.

  “Do you recognize the voice?” he asked, turning to the man standing next to him. The man was about six feet tall with a narrow frame and muscular build. He wore khaki 5.11 Tactical pants with a black Survival Krav Maga t-shirt. Oakley Half Jacket mirror tinted sunglasses masked his deep set, blue-gray eyes, and a desert camouflage boonie hat covered his light brown hair. His square jaw clenched as he pondered the question.

  “C’mon Joe, you know I don’t fly with those assholes anymore,” the man replied with a grin.

  Tech Sergeant Joe Carpenter laughed and turned back to his Toughbook Laptop and PRC-117 radio. He was wearing the standard issue Air Force ABU digital camouflage uniform complete with flak vest and ballistic helmet. A former Army Ranger, he had been a JTAC for three years after going Green to Blue in search of a more aviation-oriented career. Unable to fly because of a color vision test, his search landed him right back with the Army, as an embedded JTAC.

  Perhaps one of the most physically demanding jobs in the Air Force, JTACs were frontline battlefield airmen. They were embedded with ground forces to advise the ground commander on Air Force air power capabilities, and in the heat of battle, to control aircraft during Close Air Support scenarios. Of course, it was just Carpenter’s luck that he’d get out of the Army just to go right back in a new uniform, but he didn’t mind, he was at the tip of the spear and he loved it.

  To Carpenter, though, the best thing about working for Mother Blue was the toys. He knew the Army had the same technology and capabilities, but in the Air Force, he always seemed to have the latest and greatest at his fingertips. At the moment, the latest and greatest happened to be his Toughbook Laptop equipped with the newest Precision Strike Suite for Special Operation Forces software – PSS-SOF. With PSS-SOF, he could pass airborne operators high fidelity GPS coordinates of his own position or the enemy from the comfort of whatever foxhole he happened to be operating out of.

  “Damn Spectre, still no love for the Gators?” Carpenter asked sarcastically. The Gators were the 39th Fighter Squadron stationed out of Homestead Air Reserve Base in Southern Florida. One of only two fighter squadrons remaining under the Air Force Reserve Command, the Gators had been Spectre’s squadron until the aftermath of his final flight that night in the skies over Iraq.

  “None. Don’t you think you should pass them a nine line and get this party started?” Spectre was never known for his tact. It was one of many reasons he and Carpenter got along so well.

  Carpenter nodded and keyed the microphone as he read from his Toughbook. “Thunder One-One, nine-line is as follows: items one through three are NA, line four: one hundred twenty feet, line five: group of trucks, line six: One Six Romeo Mike Lima Nine Three Eight Four Four Eight Zero Six, line 7 NA, Line 8: five hundred meters southeast, nine-line as required, remarks: final attack heading 270 plus or minus 10 degrees. Call in with final attack heading and expect clearance on final. Read back lines four, six, and restrictions.”

  The fighter repeated the nine-line perfectly as the F-16s maneuvered into position overhead. By using the standard nine-line format, Carpenter had given the fighters all the information they needed to take out the target, including elevation, coordinates formatted in Military Grid Reference System, distance from friendly positions and restrictions on attack direction.

  “It’s Magic,” Spectre muttered.

  Carpenter turned and gave Spectre a puzzled look.

  “Magic? No man, it’s science. We give them the coordinates of the bad guys with this fancy laptop, they plug it into their system, and the bad guys go boom.”

  “No shit, smartass, I mean the guy flying. It’s Magic Manny,” Spectre fired back. Lt Col Steve “Magic” Manny was the Director of Operations for the Gators.

  Carpenter picked up his binoculars with one hand and the handset of his radio in the other as he watched the F-16 roll in on its target.

  “Thunder One-One, in heading 275,” announced the tinny voice of Magic over the PRC-117.

  “You’re cleared hot,” Carpenter replied, clearing the pilot to employ ordnance while ensuring that the fighter’s nose was pointing at the right target.

  Spectre watched as the F-16 rolled in and hurled itself toward the ground. Seconds later, two objects fell as the jet turned back skyward. He winced in anticipation of the impact only to be greeted by two barely audible thuds.

  “Good hits! Good bombs!” Carpenter exclaimed on the radio.

  “Inerts are so anticlimactic,” Spectre sighed.

  “What do you expect? They drop two five hundred pound pieces of concrete that are shaped to look like real bombs. It’s way better than when they roll in and just ‘simulate’ without anything coming off the jet. Now that is boring.” Carpenter always had a way of putting a positive spin on things.

  Just as Spectre was about to explain the merits of training without any ordnance on the aircraft, his cell phone rang. It was his boss.

  “I have to go Joe, thanks for letting me spot for you,” he said as he hung up the phone.

  Carpenter gave him a nod and turned back to the target. He had invited Spectre to make the drive from Homestead to Avon Park to catch up and observe the Forward Air Controller side of Close Air Support. They had been friends since college, but aside from an e-mail or phone call here and there, they rarely got to see each other nearly ten years later.

  Spectre picked up his backpack and climbed down the Conex container to begin the mile hike back to his truck. His boss had been brief but the sense of urgency was apparent in his voice. It was time to quit playing and get back to the office – something new had come up.

  With the boss as vague as he was, Spectre was forced to wonder what could be going on until completing the three-hour drive back to Homestead to find out. Was the store finally going to be bought out by a bigger chain? Did some new, rare find show up that needed an im
mediate appraisal? These were the new questions that weighed heavily on his mind since his transition to civilian life.

  It wasn’t a very easy transition to make. When Spectre was told by his superiors upon returning from Iraq that he’d never fly an Air Force Reserve aircraft again, he refused the non-flying staff job they tried to force on him. For him, flying the F-16 hadn’t been about the adrenaline rush or the need for speed. It was about serving a higher purpose. In the current world climate, that meant providing Close Air Support for boots on the ground. When the powers that be decided he was no longer fit to do that, he decided his services could be better used elsewhere.

  Unfortunately for Spectre, the economy he escaped to wasn’t conducive to his unique skill sets. And after several rejected applications to a myriad of three-letter agencies and private contractors, he found himself quickly burning through his savings.

  That was until he met Marcus Anderson. The gruff Mr. Anderson had been a classmate of Spectre’s in their Survival Krav Maga class. And although Marcus was nearly twenty years his senior, the two became fierce sparring partners. The former Marine versus the former fighter pilot, each did a good job of keeping the other on his toes. A black belt himself, Marcus had helped Spectre earn his black belt in Krav Maga.

  Through their training and constant ribbing, the two became good friends. And when Marcus learned that Spectre was down on his luck, he didn’t hesitate to bring him into the family business.

  Anderson Police Supply in Florida City, FL was established in 1981 by the late John Anderson. A former Miami-Dade County detective, John Anderson had retired to the more rural Florida City to escape the explosive expansion of Miami and Ft. Lauderdale, while still being close enough to visit. What originally started out as a hobby of collecting rare and unique guns soon became a fairly lucrative business for John. His buddies from the force appreciated the discounts on firearms and supplies, while the locals enjoyed having a full service firearms dealer with a huge inventory right down the street.