Spectre Rising

by C. W. Lemoine

As they walked out to the Customs ramp, the large rotors of the Blackhawk helicopter were already turning. Even with earplugs, the sounds of the turbine engine and rotors beating the air into submission were deafening. An Aviation Enforcement Officer stood waiting outside the black and gold unmarked helicopter with two pairs of David Clark aviation headsets. He handed them to Marcus and Spectre as they climbed aboard.

  “Spectre, is that you?” a raspy voice said over the intercom. As Spectre took his seat, he saw the pilot in the right seat turn to face him. Despite the Nomex helmet and visor, he could still see that it was one of his former squadron mates from the 39th.

  “How the hell are ya, Elvis?” replied Spectre, reaching out to shake his hand.

  Tim “Elvis” Breuer had been one of the lucky new hires of CBP in the last three years. He was among the last in the pool of applicants that did not possess both fixed wing and helicopter ratings. He had been hired and immediately sent off to school to get his helicopter add on, and then to learn the Blackhawk helicopter. Throughout his training and new career, he still maintained his currency as a Reservist F-16 pilot with the Gators a few times per month. He was living Spectre’s dream.

  “Flying fighters and this bad boy, I can’t complain,” Breuer tapped on the center console.

  Spectre was genuinely happy for the guy. It was good to see nice guys like Elvis doing so well.

  Elvis put the Blackhawk into a hover just a few feet off the ground and did a pedal turn to orient them with the taxiway. They had been cleared to hover taxi down Taxiway Alpha, but to hold short of the runway for an eastbound VFR departure.

  As they proceeded down the taxiway, Spectre looked out the left side to see the twenty-five F-16s sitting on the ramp. Except for the newly installed conformal fuel tanks on the spine, they looked exactly the same as the last time he had flown them. But he knew that the similarities stopped there. These jets were completely different internally from the ones he’d flown.

  With the F-35 slipping further and further to the right and getting more and more expensive, the Air Force was finding itself losing in the technological war with China, a country whose ingenuity was only surpassed by its espionage capabilities. So when the newly appointed Chief of Staff of the Air Force testified before Congress that the Air Force would be unable to guarantee total air dominance in a potential proxy war with China over North Korea or Taiwan, the men holding the purse strings took notice.

  The Chief of Staff argued that it could be done under the cost of a squadron of the $200 million apiece F-35s. His solution? A new breed of F-16 called Titanium Vipers.

  The F-16 Block 60 production line in Fort Worth, Texas was still very active producing the latest Block 60 “Desert Viper” for export to the United Arab Emirates. Due to military export control laws and the funding dumped into the project, the US Military couldn’t just start buying Desert Vipers off the line. That would have been too easy, despite the fact that the Active Electronically Scanned Array radar, advanced electronic warfare and electronic countermeasures suites, and weapons systems were more advanced than any F-16 in the US inventory. In order to buy the new F-16s rolling off the showroom floor, they had to be renamed. So the Block 70 “Titanium Viper” was born.

  But the Chief of Staff didn’t stop there. Within his budget, he was only allowed to add two squadrons of new iron. So instead of sending the older jets to the bone yard, he ordered that the rest of the remaining F-16s, including Guard and Reserve, be upgraded to Block 70 capabilities under the Semper Viper program.

  The mechanically scanned array and slower-than-a 1986 Apple II-Processor APG-68 radar had been replaced with the newer AESA. The old hardwire data buses had been replaced with state of the art Ethernet and high capacity solid-state hard drives. All of the gauges were replaced with digital displays, and the two color MFDs had been swapped in favor of high definition LED displays. And that’s just what Spectre had seen in the technology demonstrator simulator he had been given the chance to sit in before he left the Air Force. He was sure there were more cool toys in that jet now than even he could imagine. It would’ve been awesome to be stepping to that jet to fly right now.

  But as they passed the flight line bustling with crew chiefs and maintainers preparing the jets for the next event, Spectre knew that those days were behind him. Maybe it had changed him, but for now, he had a lot more on his mind. He was riding in a Blackhawk, which was cool and all, but it didn’t answer the lingering questions about Chloe, or give him solace that his position at the store wouldn’t eventually be eliminated.

  He tried to shake it off. Enjoy the ride, he told himself. At least you’re not staring at the “Guns-a-palooza” ads on the website right now.

  After holding short of the runway waiting for an orange and white Coast Guard HC-144 “Ocean Sentry” to complete its touch and go, they were cleared to depart to the east.

  They flew low to the southeast past the Nuclear Power Plant over Homestead Bayfront Park and into Biscayne Bay. There were many boaters out on the crystal clear, blue waters of the Atlantic taking advantage of the calm waters and beautiful sunny day. Heading south along the bay, they passed the Ocean Reef Club, an exclusive resort for the richest of the rich equipped with its own private airport for jet-setting guests and residents.

  As they flew south along the Florida Keys, their backup radio came to life with a call from the CBP Operations Desk. A Coast Guard Law Enforcement Boat was attempting to intercept a “Go Fast” boat with suspected drug smugglers and requested air support.

  “You guys up for it?” Elvis asked over the intercom. “It could get dangerous.”

  “Yes, we promise not to sue,” Marcus responded, eager to see some action.

  “Only if you let me shoot the SCAR,” Spectre joked. He was referring to the FNH SCAR-H Rifle chambered in 7.62 x 51mm the AEO was carrying. It was the Mk 20 Sniper Support Rifle version based on the Mk 17 rifle. It included a longer receiver, a beefed up barrel extension and barrel profile to reduce whip and improve accuracy and an enhanced modular trigger configurable for single-stage or two-stage operation together with a non-folding precision stock.

  “This baby’s mine,” the AEO replied. He was specifically trained in airborne sniper interdiction missions, from either a sling harness while sitting on the skid of an AStar helicopter, or through the side door of any Blackhawk.

  “Hold on fellas,” Elvis said, maneuvering the Blackhawk into a tightly banked turn. From Spectre’s vantage point, it looked like the rotor blades were only a few feet away from hitting the water and ruining their day, but Spectre trusted Elvis. He’d flown with him in combat, and he knew Elvis only pushed aircraft within his own limits.

  The Blackhawk sped along only fifty feet above the water at nearly 140 miles per hour. Spectre had flown low levels at nearly 600 miles per hour in the F-16, but never lower than 500 feet, and never with this kind of a sensation of speed. It was eye opening. It was just fun.

  As they neared the intercept location, the Fast Boat was easily recognizable, being trailed a few hundred feet by a 33 foot Coast Guard Law Enforcement Special Purpose Craft struggling to keep up. The Fast Boat was small and light, with two high horsepower outboard motors. It was specifically designed to outrun the authorities or other smugglers.

  Elvis put the aircraft in another high-banked turn to parallel the Fast Boat’s path. He used the turn to bleed off the excess airspeed down to 60 miles per hour, easily pacing the boat.

  “Slow him down,” Elvis said to the AEO in the back. The AEO readied himself out the right door as they pulled up alongside the Fast Boat. Using his Leupold sight, he set up for the shot.

  Despite the David Clarks and the steady thump of the rotors, the shot was easily heard by Spectre. He couldn’t see where it had hit, but he could see the boat start to slow as the Coast Guard SPC-LE gained distance. The men on board the Fast Boat were starting to panic and began throwing bags overboard.

  Elvis used the opportunity to gain altitude and slow
to match the boat’s new pace. He wanted to give his AEO a better angle for the second engine. The AEO again readied himself. Just as the first, the second shot was true and the boat slowed to a coast.

  The SPC-LE initially passed the boat and circled around. Elvis brought the helicopter to a hover while the AEO in the back kept a watchful eye on the boat’s occupants, ready to take out the two smugglers in the event they turned hostile. Once back alongside the disabled boat, the men in the SPC-LE boarded and arrested the two men at gunpoint.

  “Not bad,” Spectre said over the intercom.

  “Believe me, this is the most action we’ve seen this year. You’re just lucky,” Elvis admitted.

  “Yeah...Lucky,” Spectre replied sarcastically. If he were lucky, he certainly didn’t feel like it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Winter Haven, FL

  The three-acre plot of land was small by their neighborhood’s standards. In this part of Florida, though, it wasn’t much of a neighborhood. The large ranch homes were all separated by no less than a quarter of a mile, visible to each other barely during the day, and only by their lone streetlights at night. Neighbors rarely saw each other except at the occasional social gathering.

  For Maureen Ridley, it was the perfect place to retire and enjoy life. She had spent her entire life moving from major city to major city in pursuit of her very successful career as a corporate litigator. She had raised her children with almost nonexistent yards in the tightest of neighborhoods. She had always looked forward to the day she could stretch out and enjoy the secluded life.

  The four-bedroom ranch home on ten acres was exactly what she had been looking for. It had plenty of room for their two horses to roam free from their custom stables. The single-story home had been built twenty years previous with solid construction – the kind strong enough to withstand several major hurricanes, something even the so-called “hurricane proof” houses that had been built in the recent years couldn’t boast. The backyard featured a large dual level below ground swimming pool equipped with a stone waterfall feature from one level to the next. As the years clicked by, the pool became less about the beauty it added to the property and more about the therapeutic value it held.

  At age 65, Ridley had achieved a fruitful life as both a public servant and devout mother of two. She had retired as a three term Representative of Florida in the US House of Representatives, championing education and healthcare reforms. In her mind, her biggest accomplishment in life, however, had nothing to do with her career, but in balancing that while raising two children, one of whom had cerebral palsy.

  Evan Rivers was thrust into the world with the deck stacked against him. To the doctors, it was a miracle he had even survived birth, much less to the age of 18. Born premature and with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, Evan was deprived of oxygen long enough to cause permanent brain damage. Like every parent of a special needs child, it was always Jack and Maureen’s hope and prayer that Evan would one day develop and grow to lead a functional and normal life, but after therapy and treatment after treatment, it became clear that Evan would never develop more than a fourteen month old in a man’s body. While he was ambulatory, he could only make cooing noises like a baby or cry in pain. He could not feed himself or use the restroom on his own. He would forever require twenty-four hour care.

  Maureen walked into the living room of the spacious ranch home from the kitchen. The shiny marble tiled floors reflected the light of the 60 inch plasma TV that Jack was especially proud of. It had been his homework to design an entertainment room for their dream retirement home, and with the combination of the oversized high definition TV, seven speaker Dolby Digital Surround Sound system, and Blu Ray disc library, he was pretty sure he had nailed it.

  There were two large leather chairs in the center of the room, with an ottoman on one side and a leather couch on the other. Jack was planted in the near chair with remote in hand in his Bermuda shorts, t-shirt, and socks, while Evan sat quietly playing with his Tickle Me Elmo in the other. They were watching Wheel of Fortune – Evan’s favorite TV show. The spinning wheels and colors kept his undivided attention.

  “Dianne, can I get you anything?” Maureen asked. Dianne Jennings sat on the couch. She was Evan’s evening caretaker. She shared the duties with two other women who alternated days, nights, and weekends among themselves.

  “No, ma’am, I’m fine, thank you.” She smiled shyly.

  Maureen walked in and sat on the ottoman, joining the family in their evening ritual. It was part of the routine they’d grown into in their quiet life. They would spend their evenings doing yard work or hanging out by the pool, then settle in with Wheel of Fortune before getting ready for bed. After years of twelve and fourteen hour days at work for both Jack, who was a retired futures trader, and Maureen, it was a welcome paradigm shift.

  Their peaceful evening was interrupted by the growling of their two-year-old miniature dachshund named Scooby. Scooby’s growl turned into a bark as a loud thump was heard outside. Jack’s attention suddenly snapped from the TV to the door behind him.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked as he put the remote down and slowly rolled out of the chair. At the age of 70, he was in excellent physical condition and health, but his arthritis often made it difficult to get moving again after sitting for long periods.

  “It was probably just the neighbor’s cats knocking over the trash can,” Maureen replied casually.

  “I’ll go check it out,” he said as he slipped his sandals on over his socks and grabbed a flashlight out of the closet.

  As he walked outside, it wasn’t quite completely dark. The sun had just set, leaving an orange afterglow over the horizon. He walked around the side of the house, finding an overturned trash can just as Maureen had predicted. He cursed the cats and picked up the overturned trashcan, replacing the full garbage bags that had fallen out.

  He walked out to the edge of their long driveway. All was still quiet. Just as he was about to end his investigation, he noticed a dark colored minivan parked on the gravel road tangent to their property line. It was unusual to see anyone on that road, especially this late in the evening. He decided to walk over and investigate before going back inside.

  Jack used his flashlight to look into the windows of the minivan. Except for a few McDonald’s bags and fountain drinks, the van was empty. There was no one in it or anywhere around it. He originally thought it may have been just a couple of high school kids looking for a place to get some privacy, but now he wasn’t sure what to think. The local sheriff could probably help out.

  He caught something moving in the corner of his eye just as he started the walk back to the house. It was immediately followed with a brief but intense pain, and then everything went dark.

  * * *

  As much as Spectre hated mandatory fun nights with the Gators, he hated the idea of losing Chloe even more. So when Chloe asked him to accompany her as her guest at the squadron boat party, he reluctantly agreed.

  Over the past two weeks, Spectre had done everything he could to rebuild the burned bridges of their relationship. He had spent hours talking and listening, trying to rekindle the spark they once had. Chloe had agreed to try to work things out, but she refused to guarantee anything.

  In fact, to Spectre it seemed like she had been the one that changed. She had gone from being physically affectionate to cold and withdrawn. Her greeting in the mornings and in the evenings when he came home felt cold and unemotional.

  But as much as the warning signs were there that it was completely unrecoverable, Spectre pressed on. He even sat through couples counseling sessions in which she confessed that she wasn’t even sure she wanted to give it another try.

  This night was just another attempt to right the sinking ship. He knew she hadn’t yet told the squadron about their break up for fear of the “I told you so” mafia bearing down on her. It wasn’t really a genuine attempt to make things right, but deep down Spectre thought maybe a night ou
t with him could relight the spark.

  So they spent the evening on the water with the Gators, laughing and joking as if nothing had ever happened. They were a team again, sharing with each other in the ridiculousness of the Gators. Spectre was pleasantly surprised.

  With the boat finally back in its slip, Spectre was ready to take Chloe and go home. A night spent hanging out with the Gators could be fun, but tiring. It was hard to stay patient with people that completely lost control when drunk.

  As the two walked down the dock to the parking lot where they’d deposited their car, Spectre saw one of the Gators standing on the pier looking out into the water. He had seen the man previously walking with another, much larger Gator whose callsign was Ox. The same intoxicated Ox who had fallen over into a trash can much earlier in the night. It couldn’t be good.

  Spectre was about to ask what was going on as he approached the scene, until he looked down into the slip and saw what had happened. There he saw Ox holding on for dear life to a mooring attached to the boat in the slip. He had somehow stumbled and fallen in and was now dazed and completely clueless on how to get out. All he could do was yell in a slurred speech. “Arrrgh, I’m all right.”

  Spectre sighed. “I need to get him out of there before he drowns himself.”

  “Be careful. I’ll go see if I can find more help,” Chloe responded.

  “I’ll be fine.” Spectre began disrobing. No one else was sober enough, or competent enough in his mind, to save the large man. He handed Chloe his shirt, wallet, and cell phone and began to assess the situation. Good thing he had opted to wear a swimsuit.

  The man on the dock protested at first, trying to talk Ox to safety. The large man yelled incoherently and tried to drag himself to the front of the boat using the rope. It was all to no avail, as there was no exit. The only option he had was to swim under the dock and to the boat in the next slip. There he could either climb the ladder back onto the dock, or use the back deck of the adjacent boat to climb out of the water. He currently possessed neither the wherewithal nor motor skills to perform such a task.