“The King George Apartments… ” Colorado shook his head, “not a hard name to remember.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got to come back here to get my car.”
“Why didn’t you just leave your car at the Heart of Fayetteville?”
“Don’t ask so fucking many questions!” Moore ground the gears, trying to shift out of second without using the clutch. “You’re being paid to supply me with the things that I need… after fucking up your part of the deal.”
“We’ll see how fucking cocky you are once we get out to Camp McCall and you have the opportunity to see for yourself how tight the security is out there.”
“You’re a fucking novice.” Red Wolf spit out the words.
Sergeant Colorado leaned back against the jeep seat and pulled up the collar of his lightweight jacket to keep the cool morning breeze off his neck.
The guards at the gate recognized Sergeant Colorado and didn’t question his MP escort driving him. The XVIII Corps markings on the bumper of the jeep didn’t raise any curiosity either, because it was a common practice to draw vehicles out of the Corps motor pool when the division was overcommitted. Moore dropped Colorado off in front of the courtroom building and disappeared without even nodding at the sergeant.
Colorado walked up the steps and opened the entrance door. His eyes locked with Sergeant Arnasao’s.
“Hello… Red Sleeves… it’s been quite a while since we’ve had a chance to talk… with you being on the board and all.”
Sergeant Colorado smiled; not too many people knew that the word Colorado was an Indian word meaning “red sleeves.” “I wanted to talk to you earlier, but I didn’t want to risk compromising my position on the board. We still have to be careful.”
“I understand.” Arnasao had seen the look on the jeep driver’s face when he had stopped to let Colorado out in front of the building. “That MP who dropped you off looked mighty pissed at you.”
“Really?” Colorado hadn’t caught the look Moore had flashed at him.
“Are you still running recon in ’Nam?” Colorado changed the subject.
“Yeah… I’ve got the best recon team in the country.”
“You always were good at training them.”
“A lot has to do with the spirit of the men you get.” Colorado nodded. “Like that kid Barnett.”
“He’s one of the best!”
“Good man?” Colorado’s voice lowered just a bit, but Arnason caught the difference.
“The best.”
Spencer and Woods stepped through the doors leading from the courtroom just as Colorado had asked the question and Arnasao had answered. Spencer asked, “What’s the best?”
Arnasao smiled. “Oriental pussy.”
“Wrong!” Spencer hooded his eyes. “I’m partial to round-eye pussy myself.”
“What do you know about pussy, Spencer? You’ve been laid only twice in your life!” Woods cuffed the back of Spencer’s head.
Spencer pointed his finger at Woods. “I’ve just about had enough of your shit… boy!”
“Ignore them, Colorado… they should be going into puberty pretty soon!” Arnasao grabbed the sergeant’s elbow and led him away from the two grab-assing soldiers.
“They really are close, aren’t they?” Colorado looked back over his shoulder.
“War buddies… closer than brothers.” Arnasao leaned his rear end against the low ledge of the bank of French windows. “Are you going back to ’Nam soon?”
Colorado shook his head slowly from side to side. He spoke to Arnasao, but his eyes were locked on the two highly decorated soldiers. “No, I’ve put in my retirement papers.”
“You’ve got twenty in already?” Arnasao was surprised because Colorado looked too young to be retiring from the Army.
“Got me a small ranch that I’m looking forward to working.” Colorado’s eyes switched from the soldiers to the black MP standing outside holding a dark blue gym bag.
One of the trial lawyers was standing at the far end of the open waiting area drinking a cup of machine coffee. He had a small portable radio with him that he had set on the narrow window ledge so that he could listen to the morning news while he drank his coffee and ate a honey bun. The announcer’s voice filled the long covered porch:
“This morning the Fayetteville police were called to the Heart of Fayetteville motel… the scene of a brutal double murder. A well-known Fayetteville pimp and one of his homosexual hookers were found mutilated in one of the rooms this morning. The police are looking for a black male suspect in his midtwenties, six foot tall and weighing one hundred and sixty pounds.... The suspect used the name of Spencer Barnett when he signed into the motel yesterday.... ”
Spencer’s head snapped toward the radio when he heard his name over the air.
“Weird shit.” Woods frowned and looked at Arnasao.
Colorado swallowed, reached over, and laid his hand on Arnasao’s shoulder. “We’ve got to talk, my friend.”
The members of the general court-martial board entered the room in single file for the reading of the charges and the sentencing of Specialist Mohammed James. Sergeant Colorado was still a member of the board. The FBI and the CIA both thought that to remove him now would alert everyone that something was wrong, and they wanted the assassin to expose himself. No one was sure that Moore and Colorado were the only two people assigned to kill Spencer Barnett and, now, Mohammed James.
Major General Koch was visibly nervous when he look his seat. The building had been surrounded by infantrymen from the paratrooper company that had been held in reserve, and dogs had been called in to search the whole building for bombs.
Spencer and Woods sat in the same seats that they had occupied for the whole trial; both of them had insisted on staying and listening to the reading of the charges and the sentencing of James. The general understood how much it meant to Barnett and to General Garibaldi to see justice performed and had agreed to their staying in the courtroom
Colonel Chan reviewed the official papers, making sure that everything was legal, and handed the package back to the court clerk for the reading.
The courtroom was absolutely quiet as the charges and the findings were read. The reporters wrote rapidly on their pads as the charges were covered. James had been found guilty on all counts under Articles 104, aiding the enemy; 105, misconduct as a prisoner; and 106, spying. The clerk looked up and took a deep breath before continuing, “Specialist Mohammed James has been found guilty of murder in three of the twenty-three charges against him under Article 118.”
A soft buzz spread across the courtroom and stopped just as suddenly as it had started when General Koch hit his gavel on the table. “Quiet!”
James glared at the general sitting behind the long conference table. He would like just one minute in private with the pompous honkie, just one minute alone! He turned his head and looked over to where Barnett was sitting and saw that Spencer had a look of pity in his eyes. Anger boiled into every cell in James’s body. He could handle hate, but not pity, coming from a white man.
Major General Koch’s voice penetrated the red-hate veil that was forming around James’s body. “Specialist James… do you have anything to say to the general court-martial board before we read your sentence?”
James heard his own voice speaking from somewhere outside his body. He struggled to his feet and tried shifting the ankle and wrist chains so that he could stand more comfortably. “Yes… I did everything you have accused me of, and…I have done even more! You devilbeasts can’t stop the black race this time!”
The black lawyer tried grabbing James’s arm to pull him back down in his seat. “Shut up!” he hissed.
James glared down at his Muslim-hired lawyer and then spit in his face. “White-trained monkey!”
The lawyer started to reach for James’s throat and was restrained by a pair of MPs. “You are dead!… Wherever they put you, James.… You are dead!” He was dragged out of the Courtroom.
&n
bsp; James continued, “I am a Death Angel!” He turned to look in the direction of Spencer Barnett but his eyes didn’t focus. “I’ve killed twenty-three devilbeasts and I will kill more! Go ahead and put me in your fucking prison… I’ll kill devil-beasts in there!”
The media was having a field day. Reporters were holding up their microphones to get James’s words recorded and the two television stations present were taping the whole event.
“I am a Death Angel!”
One of the other black lawyers from Detroit pulled a long-bladed knife out of his briefcase and thrust it toward James but was prevented from reaching him by an MP’s nightstick crashing down against his forearm.
General Koch hit the table with his gavel and yelled above the noise, “Clear this courtroom of everyone except James and his defense attorney… and the trial counsels”—he looked over at Colonel Chan—“and the law officer.”
The MPs had started escorting the press and the spectators out of the building when the whole back of the courtroom turned into a ball of flame. The blast pushed the massed people back against one another and the chairs in the room. The whole back wall of the building disappeared in a ball of flame. Arnason reacted instinctively and covered Spencer with his own body. Woods had been knocked backward out of his chair and lay semiconscious on the floor.
James’s reaction was automatic. He dove toward the MP sergeant who had the keys to his chains. James had watched the NCO put the small keys in the right front pocket of his fatigue pants. It took James only a few seconds to remove his restraints and grab the Army-issue .45 out of the sergeant’s holster. James didn’t hesitate: he jumped through the burning hole that used to be the back wall of the courtroom.
Spencer pushed Arnason’s body off him and struggled to his feet. He saw Woods on the floor and saw that he was breathing. Arnason had a four-foot-long piece of wood siding sticking out of his back. Spencer turned in time to see James leaping through the flames.
Red Wolf Moore stood behind the jeep-mounted M-60 machine gun and sprayed the area around the courtroom. The infantry company had assumed that because there were so many of them and the MPs had secured the whole Camp McCall area, there was no need even to load their weapons. The error was disastrous. Soldiers were dying by the dozens. There was no place for them to take cover. Red Wolf was laughing as he raked the ranks of paratroopers with the deadly fire from the machine gun. The first belt of ammunition was used up in seconds. He reached down to load another 250-round belt, giving the infantry company commander a chance to fire his .45 caliber pistol. The first round went through Red Wolf’s cheek and lodged against his upper teeth. He turned and stared at the man who dared shoot him and then growled. His hand slammed down the cover on the machine gun. The second round hit him in his chest and he slumped over the black-painted weapon, streaking his blood on the hot barrel. The smell of his own blood baking reached his nostrils first. The captain fired again and Red Wolf dropped down on his knees, his fingers fighting to reach the trigger of his weapon. The captain ran over to the side of the MP gun jeep and emptied his pistol into the body of the Death Angel.
“You fucking bastard! You bastard!… You bastard!” The captain dropped to his knees and held his hands up to his face to hide his tears. “You… fucking bastard!”
James ran through the smoke and found himself up against the perimeter fence that separated Camp McCall from the swamp that surrounded a portion of the Special Forces training area. He stepped over to one of the steel posts that supported the Cyclone fence with the row of concertina wire that had been recently strung along the top. He didn’t hesitate and reached up with his hand to lift the wire off the post. The engineers who had laid the wire had been under a lot of pressure to get the job done, and in their rush they hadn’t tied the wire down to the support posts. The concertina bounced, fell off the top of the fence, and hit the ground. James dropped down off the top of the fence and pushed himself away from the pole so that he wouldn’t land on the wire. He remained crouched on the pine needles and sand while he oriented himself. The infantry guards had not bothered setting up outposts in the swamp because they didn’t think anyone would risk trying to infiltrate through the snakes, quicksand and mud.
Spencer saw James climb the fence and started running toward him. When he saw the handle of the .45 sticking out of James’s belt, he dropped to the ground, then ducked behind a building and watched to see which direction James would take.
James disappeared into the thick stand of pine trees that circled the edge of the marsh area leading into the swamp.
Spencer searched the area around him for a weapon and saw none. He had to move fast or he would lose James. He ran over to where James had scaled the fence and pulled himself to the top before pausing to look back toward the courtroom. The whole area was in a state of confusion. Spencer heard the steady fire coming from an M-60 machine gun and thought that the gunner needed lessons on how to fire the weapon. As he dropped down to the ground and started running toward the woods, he was breathing heavily and the cool air he inhaled made his teeth cold. Spencer closed his mouth and felt for a second the coolness against his front teeth before he smiled. He might get his wish and be able to tear James’s throat out with his teeth. They were the only weapons he had with him as he disappeared into the North Carolina swamp.
CHAPTER NINE
Sharp Teeth
Spencer became the ultimate recon man the instant he touched the shadows of the thick stand of trees. He was dressed in a set of short-sleeved khakis that were already mud covered. He paused next to a shallow stream and checked the banks for the direction James had taken. The broken branches of a large purple loosestrife plant that overhung the stream gave Spencer the information he needed. The bees circling the purple flowers gave Spencer additional information: James had only recently passed the plant. Spencer scooped up handfuls of the black mud that bordered the sandy stream bottom and rubbed the thick paste over his bare arms and around his neck to keep the hordes of mosquitoes away. Spencer smiled to himself and used three fingers on each of his hands to mark streaks of mud warpaint on his cheeks before taking off to follow James.
Major General Garibaldi was the first one to recover from the explosion in the courtroom after James and Spencer had left. He saw the weathered piece of siding sticking out of Arnasao and knew instantly that the sergeant was dead. Woods was shaking his head, trying to clear his vision. The whole court-martial board was lying on the floor, and the loud chatter from a light machine gun outside the building kept the occupants kissing the polished floor. Garibaldi scooted over to Woods and lifted his chin with his index finger. “You all right, son?”
Woods nodded. “Yeah…. How about—” He saw Arnasao lying on the floor. “Sarge!”
Garibaldi grabbed Woods’s shoulders. “He’s dead, son.”
“No!” Woods tore away from the general and struggled to his sergeant’s side. “Oh no! He survived Vietnam to die here?”
Major General Garibaldi understood what Woods was saying and nodded sadly in agreement. It was very ironic.
The sound of the machine gun stopped outside the building and the low-frequency popping sound of a .45 replaced it.
Woods suddenly stopped trying to shake Arnasao awake and looked around the courtroom. His eyes were filled with panic. “Spencer! Spencer!”
Garibaldi instantly joined Woods and began searching the rubble for Spencer.
“Spencer!” Woods ran to the hole in the back of the building and stepped outside. “Spencer!”
James slowed his pace. He knew that if someone had seen him leave the camp, they would have opened fire or tried to follow him. He smiled to himself. He was free. All he had to do was remain calm and work his way out of the swamp and then hitchhike back to Detroit. He had a lot of debts to pay back. James stopped walking. The stream bottom began to get deeper suddenly as the shallow stream joined up with a wider flow of water. He looked for dry land but couldn’t see any except for the dense clumps of
undergrowth that bordered the waterway. He decided on wading across the wide-open, stump-filled expanse of water to what looked like a decent-sized island that was covered with tall loblolly pines. The water reached his midchest before it began receding again. He was glad, because he really didn’t want to have to dog paddle in the brackish water.
James was about ten feet from the island when the water roiled about twenty meters away. A five-foot alligator made its escape into the swamp lagoon.
“Fuck!” James tried running out of the bog and tripped over the submerged roots of long-dead trees. He fell face first into the brown water and rose almost instantly at a full run. He didn’t stop until he was a dozen feet up on dry land and then whirled around, holding the .45 out toward the water. “Motherfucker!” He was angry and embarrassed over being afraid of the alligator. James stood up and screamed, “Motherfucker!”
Spencer stepped out from the overhanging bushes that bordered the stream entrance to the swamp lagoon just as James screamed at the alligator. He saw James exactly at the same instant as James saw him.
The .45 echoed against the trees. A large hunk of rotting wood tore loose from a dead tree a foot above Spencer’s head as he stepped back under cover.
James didn’t need to be told who the man was wearing the filthy khakis. He knew almost instinctively that it was Barnett.
“Come on! Come on, motherfucker!” James fired two more rounds at the spot where Spencer had disappeared.
There was no way that he could cross the swamp lagoon now that James had seen him, so Spencer backtrailed for a hundred meters and broke through the underbrush. Less than fifty meters from the stream, the ground started to rise and dry out. Spencer turned to his left and started jogging between the trees and low shrubs. He heard a couple of wild pigs grunt and escape into the bushes to his right. A large oak tree occupied a small clearing where the pigs had been feeding on acorns. Spencer grabbed a low limb and started climbing as fast as he could up the trunk. The climbing was made easy because of the huge limbs and sparse leaves on the old tree. He stopped climbing when he was high enough to see above the scrub pines. Spencer could see the black column of smoke coming from Camp McCall and the power lines cutting through the high ground of the swamp a mile away. There was a finger of taller pine trees that intersected the power lines from where Spencer sat in the tree. He could hear the occasional sound of a car passing by in the distance and figured that a highway ran parallel to the power lines. James would stay on the high ground and head toward the road. Spencer was almost sure he wouldn’t venture back into the swamp. He had served on recon patrols with James and knew how the man operated. James always took the easy way out if given a choice.
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