Gimbel had been waiting until the last minute to upload the program that would make the BlackStar operational. It was his insurance policy in case the general slipped over the edge. He knew Devin was definitely insane, but having to work with someone like that was the price he was willing to pay for the fame he would soon have.
Like the general, he had a trump card up his sleeve as well. He had embedded a sub file code in the programming that would need a protected password to activate the firing sequence of the BlackStar. If the wrong password was entered, a worm would be released and erase the entire command control. The BlackStar would tumble out of orbit and crash into the earth's atmosphere. He wasn’t about to take a chance on the general’s sanity to keep him alive.
“I gotta’ go take a leak. You want me to bring you another beer?”
“Sure. I hope you don’t mean that like it sounded,” he quipped, “And if we have anything to eat, bring that too.”
“I think we have some pretzels but I don’t know how stale they are. They were in the Jeep, open all night.”
“Well, it’s better than nothing. Bring them and I’ll munch on them,” he said, looking through the night vision glasses at Hammer Road.
It was the infamous road where the secret black mailbox was located. He stood leaning against the front of the Jeep. The pay was good but it was damn boring out here night after night with nothing to do but drink beer, watch a few planes land and take off, and sleep.
“Hey, did you fall in back there? How about a beer before I die of thirst,” he said lowering the glasses.
A hand slid up and around his face, yanking his head back as a knife slit his throat, severing his esophagus and vocal cords. He slumped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The six men emerged from the darkness. They were aware that the security patrols had night vision capabilities but they were the older fourth generation units. Strike-1 had the latest technology, far superior to the older versions. No one needed to say a word; they all knew exactly what to do next.
The Strike-1 team hugged the shadows at the base of the hill and started south. The target was just a little over five miles away. They would have to eliminate two more patrols but that would only take a few minutes at each post.
Within thirty minutes they were lying on the ground surveying the razor wire compound and the two guards sitting in the booth. Number One held up two fingers and then pointed to number four and number six. They knew what they were assigned to do.
They dropped down and started toward the booth, using the razor wire to cover their movements. They crawled forward, watching for any movement inside. Slowly they inched their way closer and closer until they were able to tuck right up under the bottom of the booth. They looked at each other and made a face. What were they doing inside, sleeping?
They made their way around to the side of the booth. Number Four held up three fingers, closing them one at a time. When he made a fist, Number Six yanked open the door and the other team member sprayed the inside of the booth with thirty rounds of sub-velocity machine gun bullets. The men in the shadows could see the action but couldn’t even hear the gun firing.
The two members quickly checked the guards. They were both dead. They pushed the button for the gate and it swung open. The other members rushed through the opening and fired as a guard inside the building spun around startled.
Number One waited until the other two members rejoined the team and then signaled for three men to go up and three to go down the stairs. Leap fogging from man to man, the teams went their separate ways. The upper team found three more guards sleeping and subdued and bound them with plastic wrist straps.
One member took out a syringe and shoved it to the arm of each one of the guards. They would be out for six to eight hours, and even when they woke up, they wouldn’t feel like doing much for a while. The men going down the stairs found only one guard. Like the others, he was sound asleep. It probably saved his life.
They strapped his wrists behind him and placed him in one of the cells. They opened the next cell door and found a man huddled against the wall.
“Are you Raymond Eller?”
“Leave me alone you bastards,” he yelled at them.
“Mr. Eller. Take it easy. We are here to get you out of this place,” Number One said.
“Don’t touch me,” he said, pulling his legs up to his chest.
“Relax. We’re here to stop all of this but we need your help. Mr. Eller?”
He sat rocking back and forth for several seconds and the men just left him alone. His face was dirty, his hair stood out at wild angles and he had a pretty good beard. From the pictures they had been shown it was obvious that he had lost a good deal of weight.
Finally he said, “Are you here to take Devin out?”
