Without waiting for her response, I whispered, “Flitter, feed the data on the first farm complex to Lieutenant Dalton's fax machine, please."
"Who are you talking to?” snapped Dalton.
"A friend,” I said, gesturing at her printer and moving to one side, “Come take a look at this, please."
I'll give the Army credit; they don't stint on hardware. The fax machine churned out eleven pages in less than two minutes. I let Dalton pick them up and leaf through the black and white drawings, then read the inventory sheets.
"My God..!” she muttered, “I know this place! They had us watch it for a solid week! Is this for real?! You're saying that all this stuff is under that farm?"
"Yup. I have stuff like this on eighteen more farms, too."
Dalton glanced at the inert fax machine, then looked at me.
"Well? Aren't you going to print them?"
"Not yet. I want to tell you why I'm here first."
Peering sharply at me, she replied, “Yes, maybe you should."
Parking my butt on the edge of her desk, I said, “An Army captain called Sergeant Tom Levine's mother Wednesday and said he was AWOL. He asked her a lot of questions, but didn't tell her spit. She asked me to look into things. I found that he's now listed as TDY and that the Wednesday ‘AWOL’ had been changed to ‘TDY'."
Taking a breath and holding up a hand to stall her questions, I added, “But nobody seems able to find him, LT. He was dropped into the middle of the western field of that farm on Tuesday night with three other guys."
Tapping the circle with Tom's GPS numbers next to it, I said, “That's his last-known position. He sent a burst-mode radio signal from there. Those guys zig-zagged through that field until they were within a quarter of a mile of the farm buildings, watched them for a while, and were airlifted out, yet there are no records of any flights over that area during last week."
Dalton's face hardened. “Well, doesn't that sort of tell you something, whoever-you-are?"
"Suppose you tell me what it tells you, LT."
She set the papers on the desk and moved to lean on the corner of the desk by the gun drawer as she said, “It tells me there's a security lid on whatever's going on."
"Same here. Don't care. I want to know if Levine is dead or alive. Either way, I'll want to see him and verify matters, and if you go for that gun or anything else on the desk, you'll wake up on the floor without shit to show for this visit."
Her hand froze near the stapler, then returned to her side. She stood straight as she asked, “So what do you want from me? This isn't a personnel office, you know."
Moving to stand only a few inches from her, I said, “My intel is going to be a real coup for someone, ma'am. If you were that someone, the asshole who bashed his head on the door could conceivably wind up working for you, couldn't he?"
"Only if it's good. How can I know your ‘intel’ is real? How can I know you aren't trying to plant a load of crap on me?"
Sighing, I re-parked my butt on her desk and asked, “How come nobody's searched those farms? They're in Iraq, aren't they? There's a war on, isn't there? Who gave the order to pass them by and why?"
"They weren't hostile and they aren't owned by Iraqis."
"Not good enough, ma'am. Not nearly good enough. Even British-owned factories on the coast were searched on the way in, and the Brits are US allies. Who owns the farm?"
"An Arab conglomerate. Mostly the Saudis, I think."
I laughed. “Jesus. That would be enough to make me turn the place upside down. If someone specifically said not to search it, I'd have a company of MP's there in ten minutes."
Chapter Five
Lt. Dalton eyed me for a moment, then sighingly said, “Politics and money. No surprise, huh?"
"What'll it take to get troops and cops out there? An explosion? I could make that happen."
Clearly skeptical, she asked, “How?"
"That's my business."
"Uh, huh ... Why would you do that?"
"To validate my info this one time and make my point. I'd make it look like an accident so the other baddies wouldn't scamper like cockroaches. You can play show ‘n tell with the printouts while the dust settles. After that it would be up to you to nail the other farms. And remember, it all hinges on your full cooperation in finding Sgt. Tom Levine. Is he worth eighteen farms full of arms and ammo to you?"
She shrugged and chuckled, “Oh, hell, yeah, but I still don't know how you expect me to find him."
"You're in the information biz, ma'am. Do some trading. Fish around a little. Whatever you have to do, do it."
Her eyes narrowed at that.
I said, “I didn't tell you to sleep with anybody, did I? Draw your lines wherever you want, ma'am. I've already drawn mine. If you can show me Sergeant Tom Levine—dead or alive—you'll get whatever glory comes with releasing the farm intel."
Dalton let her irritation out. “And just where the hell am I supposed to tell them I got it? From the invisible man?"
Deliberately sarcastically, I said, “Well, gee, lady, that might not fly too well, y'know? Try telling them a man just walked into your office and offered to trade this stuff for Tom Levine, and be sure to mention the part about ‘dead or alive'. That'll probably make some brass hats scurry to make sure their asses are covered. I'll be watching for them and I'll chat with them later.” Pausing, I added, “And if all else fails, I can go to the goddamned media. They should probably hear that, too."
After a moment, she shook her head. “No, I don't think you'd do that. Go to the media, I mean. If you were prepared to do that, you'd just do it."
"Anonymous tips, LT. Tips just like the one I'm giving you now. After an explosion on a dairy farm they've been tipped about, do you think they'd ignore the story? Do you think they'd back off because of political pressure?"
Standing up, I thumbed at the printouts on her desk.
"Keep an eye on that farm,” I said, “Let some people know that somebody's looking for Sgt. Tom Levine—dead or alive, as I said. Let them know that I'm dead serious about it, and let them know that politics, money, and corporate conglomerate political immunities don't mean shit to me. Now, will I have to stun you again to get out of here unmolested?"
Her eyes widened slightly and she hissed, “What?!"
"Shot at,” I clarified as I ambled away from her desk, “Chased and harassed by guards. Stuff like that. I just want a few minutes to get clear of the building."
Dalton's gaze narrowed. “Oh. Yeah. Okay. It's not as if anyone could really stop you, anyway, right?"
As I neared the door, I said, “Well, damn. That didn't sound very sincere at all, ma'am. You're gonna sound the alarm the second I'm out of sight, aren't you?"
She grinned wryly. “If you believe that, why did you bother to ask?"
Shrugging, I answered, “Oh, I dunno. You're kind of cute in a ‘please-me-or-I'll-kill-you’ sort of way."
With that, I reached behind me to unlatch the door, whispered, “Three suit on,” and pulled the door open before I stepped well to one side of the doorway.
Lt. Dalton was on her feet instantly, yanking the drawer open to grab her pistol and dashing for the door. After peering out cautiously, she just as cautiously entered the corridor, then quickly headed for the stairs, her gun held at the ready position in front of her.
I whispered, “Board on,” and lay flat on it, then lifted to the ceiling. “Flitter, monitor the phones in this building, please. Trace all calls in which Tom Levine or the first farm we found are mentioned in any context, code, or form."
Dalton returned after a few moments and plopped herself into her chair. Spreading the printouts on her desk, she studied them for a short time, then she reached for the phone.
When whomever she called answered, Dalton said, “Stella, I'm sending a fax. Yes, I know it's closing time. Just stand by."
One by one, she fed the printouts into her fax machine and confirmed that Stella had received them, then
said, “I just want a witness, Stella. Someone just ... delivered ... these to me and said to watch the farm. He said there are eighteen farms like this and he'll trade the intel for info about some sergeant named Tom Levine. No, I don't know who the hell he is, but if this source is for real, the intel is too good to pass up. Yes, if he's still there. Okay. Bye and thanks, Stella."
After hanging up, she sat back for a moment, then made another call to someone named Richards and went through the routine again. Enlisted? Officer? Didn't matter; I'd find out later if necessary.
Dalton picked up her pistol and dropped the clip, jacked the slide to eject the round in the chamber and caught it in the air, then set the gun down and forced the round into the clip.
From a desk drawer, she took out a tiny can of WD-40, sprayed some into the gun's mechanisms, briskly wiped off the excess with tissues, put the clip back into the gun, and put the gun back in its holster.
It was a stall; a way to have something to do while thinking about what to do next. I guess she decided to go whole-hog; she scribbled a fly sheet for the printouts that briefly said what she'd told Stella and Richards about the farm and Tom Levine, then she began feeding the fax machine again.
Copies of the printouts went to six numbers before she went to the copier, made copies of all the pages, and took them across the hall to another office.
I followed and watched her stash the copies between two sheets of pegboard behind a file cabinet, then she returned to her office.
As if waiting for something, she went to the coffee pot and poured herself a mug, then took a seat at her desk and spread the printouts for further study.
Almost ten minutes passed before the phone rang.
She answered it and told whomever, “That's right, sir. Yes, I'm still in my office. Yes, sir."
Sipping coffee, she hung up the phone and continued reading. Another five minutes passed before two men—both in desert BDU's and wearing leaf-insignia on their collars—strode quickly into her office and came to a stop by her desk as she stood up.
Bypassing salutes and such, one man pointed at the printouts and asked, “These are the originals?"
"Yes, Major,” said Dalton.
The major gathered up the pages and handed them to the other guy, who stood looking through them as the major stepped behind Dalton's desk and eyed the fax machine.
Poking a button, he wrote down the last few numbers in the buffer and asked, “Is there any chance for containment?"
Dalton shook her head. “I doubt it, sir."
Guiding my board to the far corner of the ceiling, I very quietly whispered, “Flitter, use Dalton's fax machine to print out another copy of the farm info, please."
When the fax's ‘on’ switch clicked and it came to life, everybody startled and stared at it.
The major went to catch the first sheet and held it up as he asked, “Why are you making another copy, Lieutenant?"
She gestured at her monitor and almost whispered, “I ... I'm not, sir. I didn't touch it."
Both men joined her in briefly staring at the inert computer, then they stared at the fax machine, which was by then busily buzzing out page three.
The other guy asked, “What the hell's going on here?"
Biting her lip, she moved to let him get to the fax machine, and answered, “I don't know, colonel. The fax line didn't ring and ... well, I really don't know."
They watched the fax machine grind out the remaining pages and turn itself off. After a moment of glancing at each other, the colonel said, “Bring the fax machine and let's get moving. General Mason is waiting for us."
The major disconnected the fax machine, eyed the computer, and asked, “Should we take the whole thing?"
Shaking his head, the colonel said, “The computer was off. Just the fax machine for now. We can have the computer checked out tomorrow."
Nodding, the major slung the fax machine under his arm and went around the desk. Dalton grabbed her helmet, fished her keys out of her pocket, and held the door for the others. I barely slipped through before they did and hovered above them in the corridor as Dalton locked her office.
When she turned around, the major held his hand out for her keys. Dalton looked reluctant, but she dropped the keys in his hand.
"I have personal items in there,” she said.
The colonel said, “They'll be there tomorrow. Let's go."
Chapter Six
A few minutes later the major led the way into an office on the first floor in the rear of the building. I scooted through the doorway and hovered near the ceiling, as before.
General Mason stood up and greeted Dalton more as a woman than an officer; he pulled a chair out for her and gently invited her to take a seat, then he accepted the printouts from the colonel as he eyed the fax machine.
"Why'd you bring that?” he asked.
With a glance at the colonel, the major apparently settled for the shortest possible explanation that would do under the circumstances.
"Evidence, sir,” he said, “Better safe than sorry."
Turning to Dalton, Mason asked, “Do you have anything to add to what you told Captain Richards?"
"No, sir. The man came to my office, showed me these printouts, and said that he'd go public if we didn't produce Sergeant Tom Levine, dead or alive."
"He really said it just like that? ‘Dead or alive'?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did he say why Sgt. Levine deserves this sort of attention?"
Almost hesitantly, Dalton said, “Ah ... Well, sir, he said that Levine's mother was very upset because he'd been listed as AWOL and a captain had called to question her."
The men all stared at her as if in disbelief and the major yelped, “Are you serious?!"
Dalton's face reddened as she replied, “Sir, I'm only telling you what he said. Levine's mother..."
Raising a hand and facing the colonel, Mason said, “It seems likely that someone who can find things like bunkers under farms could much more easily locate a single Army sergeant. Where is Sgt. Levine?"
"I checked the name, sir. He's on TDY. I'll try to find out where he was sent in the morning."
Mason stood tall and announced, “No, colonel. In view of his possible connection in this matter, you and the major will try to find out tonight, and if at all possible, you will get that man back here tonight. Who authorized his TDY?"
"Colonel Markham, sir, our agency liaison."
"Then get him in here, too. ASAP."
Nodding curtly, the colonel replied, “Yes, sir,” then looked at Dalton for a moment and started to say something.
General Mason had been moving to his chair behind his desk. He said, “Get on it now, colonel. I think I can discuss this matter with Lt. Dalton without assistance for now."
Saluting, the colonel snapped, “Yes, sir,” and headed for the door with the major close behind him.
Once the door had closed, Mason turned to Dalton and said, “Now, Lieutenant Dalton, tell me exactly what happened. Leave nothing out."
She did so, including a description of me that I found rather flattering. Dalton adjusted matters only slightly by omitting the fact that I'd been invisible.
"So,” said Mason, “This guy—an apparent civilian—somehow got into our secure brigade headquarters? And you did nothing at the time to summon assistance?"
"Sir, he took me down when I drew my weapon. You've never seen anyone move so fast."
I thought, ‘Huh? She's making it sound as if I hit her or something. What the hell is that about?'
Eyeing her speculatively, Mason said, “Fast, huh? Hand me your weapon, Lieutenant Dalton."
She did so. He dropped the clip out of it and checked the chamber for brass, then handed it back to her, saying, “Show me how it went down, Lieutenant."
Dalton stood and went to close the door.
"I put my back to the door,” she said, “He was no more than six feet away by then. I drew and managed to aim my weapon at him, but before I c
ould fire, he'd put me down."
"Show me. Draw your weapon and fire it at me."
She drew and racked the pistol as quickly as she had before, aiming it directly at Mason as she pulled the trigger.
Mason's eyes widened and he gave a low whistle.
"Wow! That was damned quick,” he said, “Okay, I'll buy it, Lieutenant. The guy was probably a special ops type."
Dalton agreed, “Oh, he's definitely one of those, sir."
"Did he give any hints about when he'd blow up the farm?"
"No, sir. He just said to watch the place."
Mason rubbed the side of his face and sat back in his chair.
"That's everything? All you can remember?"
"Yes, sir."
"You bunk downstairs, don't you?"
"Yes, sir."
Nodding, Mason said, “Okay. Some people will want to talk to you tomorrow. Dismissed, Lieutenant."
Startled, Dalton queried, “Sir?"
"Dismissed, I said."
"Uh, yes, sir.” She saluted and let herself out.
Mason used his phone to tell someone that—until further notice—Lt. Dalton was not to leave the building for less than an emergency, that she'd have an escort if she did have reason to leave the building, and that the escort would remain with her at all times until she returned to the building.
He added, “She's not in trouble, but she might be in danger, Major. Make sure whoever escorts her is really on his toes."
Genuine concern, or just masking suspicion? Didn't matter. I hung out near the ceiling as he made another call.
"Fred,” he said, “Something's come up. Come to my office."
A bird colonel appeared some minutes later and came to a halt by Mason's desk. The men didn't exchange salutes, which told me that the colonel—Brant, by his nametag—wasn't just another brass hat.
"Fred,” said Mason, “You may want to sit down for what I'm about to tell you,” then he related what Dalton had told him, showed Brant the printouts, and ended with, “Do you know anything about this Sgt. Levine?"
Brant sat through it without interrupting, then said, “No, sir. Levine disappeared during what sounds like an off-the-books op to me, and it sounds as if Markham has become more agency than Army. It's common knowledge that he's going to take early retirement next year and go to work for them. With that in mind, I'd say he'd probably do just about anything they want to make sure nothing gets between him and his next job."
3rd World Products, Inc. Book 7 Page 3