“Speaking of helicopters. Where is Javier’s?” she asked.
“The outlaying images were ill-defined. However, I believe he has it under a large camouflage covering,” Poet described. “I found it interesting that an officer of a private company would conceal his transportation. Then I realized where the cover was in relationship to the cottage.”
Static came into the retired Marine’s ear while she waited for him to finish. After a few deep breaths, she realized her pilot/researcher’s ego required stroking. Although it infuriated her to have him feeling the need in the middle of an operation, Diosa did.
“Poet. You’ve done a remarkable job,” Warlock assured him. It wasn’t a lie. In her military career, she had worked with intelligence officers and analysts. None came close to Walden’s skill level or ability to evaluate data. Also, none displayed his abnormal behavior patterns. “Where is the helicopter in relationship to the cottage?”
“Thank you, Warlock,” he acknowledged. “The helicopter is directly across the runway from the cottage. That’s not logical because there are granite knolls in the area. Someone went through a lot of trouble to demolish a break in those rocks and create a parking spot.”
“Providing Javier Rodolfo with access to his helicopters for a quick escape,” Warlock offered. “I’ll enter the compound from the east.”
“One more thing. We’ve just been notified the Uno government is preparing a raid on the compound,” Poet said. “You have until first light if you want alone time with Mr. Rodolfo.”
“Moving,” she informed him.
Chapter 9 – UGT Research Facility
With Poet’s description of the compound’s layout, Warlock took the time to circle around and approach from the east side. Closer to the cliffs overlooking Falcate Harbor the granite outcrops in the woods became more numerous giving her cover. But the ground under the leaves became rocky making the footing treacherous and slowing the retired Marine. Long after nightfall, she located Rodolfo’s helicopter and a space shuttle.
“Poet. Confirmed. Camouflage covered,” she whispered from the nose of the spacecraft.
Through the night vision goggles, she peered across the hard surface and through the fence. A man stood beside the cottage facing southward. Then the thunder of a turboprop transport reached her. The aircraft’s four engines screamed, increasing in volume as the plane roared down the runway. It flashed by her. Warlock saw lights on the wings before they dipped out of sight over the cliff. She lost it for a moments before it reappeared and climbed into the night sky. The man at the cottage turned, marched onto the porch, and went into the house.
“Poet. Confirmed. It’s a combat runway,” she informed Walden. “Moving to the fence.”
Two steps from the shuttle and helicopter, a shape crossed the porch of the cottage and ran in her direction. Warlock eased back into the shadows of the camouflage cover.
He was larger than the one who watched the transport take off. Warlock noted the man jogging across the runway carried fat around his middle. But his shoulders were broad and despite the bulky physique, he trotted lightly over the hard surface. She lost sight of him when he reached the shuttle. Dropping back, Warlock circled around the tail section to the other side in time to see him climb into the spacecraft. Interior lights came on and the warm illumination from the control panel spilled out of the open hatch.
Warlock crept to the cockpit and peered in to find the man running a preflight check. She hadn’t planned on having to remove guards figuring to use stealth to enter the compound. Now she had to remove the pilot or move further along the fence to find another entrance. Then the man decided for her.
“Mr. Rodolfo, five minutes,” the pilot said. He held a headset loosely in his hand and spoke at the mic.
“Acknowledged. I’m alerting the yacht to sail into the wind and prepare for our arrival,” a voice tainted with Empress dialect replied. “And I have a few loose ends to wrap up.”
Warlock recognized the accent and the voice from the warehouse. The search aspect of her operation became easier. Javier Rodolfo would come to her.
“Yes sir. But Uno Security might use air assets,” the pilot warned.
“I am aware of the time constraints. I’ll be there shortly. Just be sure you’re ready,” Javier told him.
“Yes, sir,” the pilot replied.
He laid down the headset and flipped on the starter. As the ion engine rattled to life, Warlock raised the carbine to shoulder level. She braced her feet, and drove the gunstock through the open hatch at the pilot’s head. It turned out, Warlock wasn’t the only one with reflexes honed by combat.
***
His shoulder raised and he jerked his head away from the stock. The beefy deltoid absorbed the blow and deflected it enough to prevent a strike to his temple. Without pause, the pilot’s arm rotated back and around capturing the carbine in the crook of his arm. Holding the secured rifle up and back with his left arm, the man reached to his side with the right.
The shadows in the cockpit prevented Warlock from seeing across his body. But she didn’t need to see the pistol to know he was reaching for one. While the pilot had no issue making noise, the former Striker did. She required stealth if she wanted a private conversation with Javier Rodolfo.
Confronting the pilot through the hatch was as dangerous as attacking a bear in his den. The large man occupied a defensible position with all the advantages. It would test her body armor if the pistol cleared the holster and he got off a shot at close range. And the report would bring security running to the shuttle.
Warlock lifted her right foot and delivered a snap kick to the underside of the arm holding her weapon. Already overextended, the arm jerked back throwing the pilot against the headrest. While the kick didn’t do real damage, it caused the man to twist, pulling his right hand away from the pistol. In the milliseconds needed for the pilot to reacquire the handle, Warlock grabbed his belt, jumped up, and got both feet on the frame of the hatch. Then, she dragged the bear from his den.
As his massive body fell out of the hatch, the man attempted to wrap his arms around the attacker. But the rifle, intertwined with his left arm, inhibited the grab. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had managed the bearhug, because his assailant was no longer in front of him.
With the pilot following her towards the ground, Warlock flexed sideways and got the back of her elbow on the outside of the man’s left arm. He attempted to counter but the rifle snagged. The former Striker hand-to-hand combat instructor had his back before he hit the tarmac. The large man shifted, preparing to roll. A fist clubbed him in the back of the head.
The Marine Corps referred to the bony ridge on the back of the skull as the knowledge knot. Striking it hard would temporarily disorientate an enemy. Warlock punched the pilot’s knowledge knot three times in rapid succession. And as promised by the GCMC instructors, her adversary didn’t notice the forearm slipping under his chin.
Warlock pulled on her arm to tighten the stranglehold and the man bucked and again attempted to roll out of the neck lock. With his neck and spine stretched, he could only roll slightly from side to side. Seconds later, the pilot stopped struggling and went limp.
“You big boys always go for the grab,” Warlock said as she rolled him over and zip-tied his arms and legs together. A rag she found under the seat went into his mouth. Then, she gripped one of his wrists while stepping towards his head. Swaying back once, the former Marine surged forward diving and throwing her shoulder into the man’s midsection. Using momentum, she rolled back onto her feet pulling the large man off the ground. He was on her shoulders for a moment before Warlock released him. The pilot sailed into the cockpit where he landed with his legs in the air and his head on the edge of the seat. She offered a combat lesson to the comatose man while leaning in and grabbing his helmet. “If you had gained your footing and not tried to smother me, you might have stayed in the fight longer.”
***
On the far side of th
e UGT compound, vehicle lights winked on and swept the darkness. Soon all that was visible of the moving vehicles were taillights. On the east side, a man strutted from the cottage making for the runway. Once across, he walked directly to the shuttle.
“Let’s go,” he ordered while climbing through the side hatch. As the hatch closed, he barked. “I said let’s go. Uno Security will be here at dawn and I need to be on the yacht and heading for deep water.”
Rather than reaching for the controls, the pilot began banging the back of his head against the headrest. After a full ten seconds of the manic behavior, Javier Rodolfo reached out and slapped at the helmet. To his surprise, the headgear spun away revealing a pair of boots wiggling in the air.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he gasped in surprise.
“Professor Rodolfo, we need to have a conversation,” a voice from the seat behind him stated. A pistol barrel nudged his side, a hand frisked him, and his pistol was lifted from the underarm holster. “You are correct. We don’t have much time so let’s not waste it.”
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Warlock noted his output of ammonia and carbon dioxide. In the low glow of the shuttle, her scattered bioimaging lacked the light to track his blood pressure.
“Ok, I’ll go first. Call Sign Warlock of Striker Command,” Diosa offered. “Your turn.”
“Murderer. Savage. Assassin,” Javier spit out as he sat straighter in the cabin chair. “Do your duty, Striker.”
“I see you’re familiar with our work,” Warlock teased.
“Kill me. I am prepared to die,” Javier declared. “I gladly forfeit my life. The Empress loves me.”
“No doubt she does. Before you die, wouldn’t you like to be buried under your real name,” Diosa suggested. “Come on, what’s the point of an unmarked grave. How will the Empress ever find the site? Your real name and rank?”
His vitals dropped before answering.
“Captain Hervé 6th Chwilio,” the man calling himself Javier Rodolfo said after a few seconds of thinking.
“I figured you for a Constabulary officer,” Diosa acknowledged. “Who else could have put together a global network. I just thought of something, Captain.”
“I didn’t think a creature like you could think,” challenged Hervé 6th. When Warlock remained silent, he asked. “What thought?”
“Your grave will be correct, but no one will know what you accomplished,” Warlock proposed. “If I had the name of your superior officer, I could put it in my report. For your commanders to find, you know, when they search the records. But you won’t give it to me. Will you?”
“Admiral Nesta 4th Deallus is untouchable,” Hervé bragged. “He is with the fleet and far from the guns and swords of your kind.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Warlock admitted. “One thing bothers me, Captain.”
“What bothers a butcher, Striker?” he sneered.
“Why would the Constabulary trust an operation the size of Uno Global Transporters to a Captain?” questioned Diosa. “No offense, sir. I believe you but, my bosses will have a hard time with it.”
His ammonia peaked as did his carbon dioxide.
“I am in charge,” Hervé lied. “The network, the acquisitions, I did it all.”
“Yes, sir,” Warlock replied. “I’d appreciate it if you’d answer a couple more questions. When Uno Security arrives will they find the counterfeit currency in the compound?”
“The stacks are in the lodge,” he blurted out.
Even without the rushed words, Warlock knew the truth.
“You’ve been very cooperative, Captain,” Warlock said. “One final thing. I assume the vehicles leaving and your planned flight are because of the Uno Security raid. Do you have a spy in the forces?”
Spikes in the chemicals preceded his answer and she waited for the lie.
“I pay off a number of their soldiers,” he stated. “They keep me informed. Now, I’m ready to sacrifice myself. The Empress is coming.”
“Yes, sir. And she loves you,” Warlock announced as she slammed the pistol handle into the Constabulary officer’s temple.
***
Minutes later, as Warlock ran through the woods, she inquired, “Poet, did you get all of it?”
“Every word,” her pilot assured her. “I’m writing the flash report. Anything you want to add.”
“The tip-off of the raid didn’t come from a soldier,” she informed him.
“But Hervé 6th Chwilio said he paid informants,” protested Walden.
“He lied. He may have paid someone but it wasn’t a member of a line company. Have the agency investigate higher-ups in the force,” suggested Warlock. “And get a trace on the air transport. The currency will be on the plane. He lied about that as well.”
“You know this runs counter to the recording,” warned Poet. “How am I supposed to justify changing the facts from the interview?”
“Just do it and add that Hervé isn’t head of the UGT conspiracy,” Warlock told him. “The agency needs to get on that as well.”
“Eiko is not going to like all these changes,” Poet offered. “He’ll want us at Command Station for a debriefing.”
“Remind Special Agent Eiko that we have a mission,” Warlock advised him. Her breath came in gasps as she jogged over the rough ground. “Also inform him, the changes are why he picked me for this assignment.”
“Technically, he didn’t choose you for this task,” Poet replied. “You sort of started checking UGT on your own.”
Diosa glanced at a map on her PID and decided to take a more direct route to her pilot.
“Be sure Uno Security knows to collect Hervé and his pilot from the shuttle,” Warlock prompted as she came upon a wide path. “I’m about ten out, crank it up in five.”
“Theoretically, you don’t crank an ion engine,” Poet informed her. “The starter…”
Further down the trail, two shapes stepped from the shadows of the woods and turned in her direction. Warlock ignored the rest of Walden’s explanation. Dropping to her belly, the Marine stretched out and rolled to the side of the trail.
“What do we do now?” a man questioned as the pair walked by.
“We camp in the woods for a day,” the other replied. “After the soldiers go over the equipment and question the staff, they’ll leave and we can go back.”
“If that’s all they’ll do, why did we have to leave?” the first man inquired.
“Because they’ll run identity checks on everyone,” the second told him. “With your record, I’d like to hear you explain how you got a job at UGT.”
“What? You don’t think a transportation company needs an explosive’s professional?”
“Blowing up bank vaults doesn’t qualify you as a safety expert.”
“And being a sniper doesn’t qualify you as a munitions shipping manager.”
“And that’s why, you and I and the rest of the crew are camping out tonight,” the second man offered. “Come on the camp should be up ahead and off to our left. I’m hungry.”
The voices faded as the two men vanished around a bend. Warlock pushed off the ground and continued down the trail. What had been an empty forest was now enemy-held territory. She moved cautiously in the moonlight.
“Poet. Are you OK?” Warlock whispered.
“All secure,” Walden assured her. “Why do you ask?”
“Because UGT has mercenaries and they’re in the forest,” Warlock explained. “Add that to your report. And don’t start the engine until I check our perimeter.”
“Eiko’s been listening to the recording and is impressed with the information you extracted,” Poet related. “But he’s having a hard time explaining the contradictions in the flash message. It seems some higher-ups believe it’s a he said, she said situation.”
“Ask him which is more important. A bionic eye demonstration for the brass, or investigating the loss of the Sorcha Innis.” Warlock suggested. “And check with naval i
ntelligence. See what they have on Admiral Nesta 4th Deallus.”
“I’m on it,” Poet assured her. Then he added in a stammering voice. “With my screens on The Talon, safe from fright, progress I’ll make, without the monsters in the night.”
“Walden. Do you know why Marines are called Devil Dogs?” Warlock inquired.
“It sounds demonic,” the pilot replied.
“An enemy General once described the Marines advancing on his positions as dogs from hell,” Warlock explained. “In short, you have your own monster on the prowl tonight. Hold on, I’m coming.”
***
A Marine Corps recon team moved swiftly but they traveled silently. Nocturnal predators struck quickly after silently stalking their prey. Far below the skill levels of those hunters, and least equipped to survive the night was a lone man racing down a dark forest trail.
Warlock heard the shuffling feet and stepped to the side. Before realizing there were troops employed by the Empress in the forest, she would have let the man go. But he moved in the direction of the mercenaries’ camp and came from the location of Poet and Talon One. Whether going for help or just in a rush for breakfast, it didn’t matter.
An arm shot out of the dark and smashed him across the throat. The force from Warlock’s forearm drove his neck back while his feet continued forward. He went horizontal. As she flung him to the ground, the former Marine brought her rifle around and gave his forehead a couple of love taps. After dragging the unconscious man into the trees, she returned to the trail.
With the knowledge that enemy forces were between her and the shuttle, Warlock slowed her pace. If they had a trail watcher to guide and direct reinforcements, she needed to find him. There were various routes depending on the preferred outcome to reach a sentry’s position. She could circle through the woods, crunching leaves as she went, and shoot him from cover. Or, remain on the trail and listen for his breathing and fidgeting. In preparation for a silent kill, the former Striker Team Leader slung the rifle across her back and drew the katana.
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