Mason nodded. “I expect him to be here shortly, so I'd like you to stick around."
"No problem, sir."
Poking some numbers on his phone, Mason asked someone to send up some coffee and rolls. He and Brant discussed the printouts and Dalton's story until Markham arrived at the same time as the coffee and rolls.
Once the enlisted guy had closed the door behind himself and Markham had been offered a chair by the desk, Mason sipped his coffee and said, “Colonel Markham, have you ever heard of a Sgt. Levine?"
Looking puzzled, Markham asked, “Who, sir?"
"Levine. Maybe you saw his name on something?"
Slowly shaking his head in apparent thought, Markham said, “The name doesn't ring any bells, sir."
"How about a team op on Tuesday night at a nearby farm? Does that ring any bells for you, Markham?"
Peoples’ eyes change in various ways for lots of reasons; a couple of the primary reasons being the telling of a lie or a change of mood.
Markham's eyes changed; they became blank blue spots in his face as he shook his head again. “No, sir. No bells."
"You signed him out for TDY. Don't remember that, either?"
Looking enlightened, Markham back-pedaled with, “Oh, yes, the extra guys for the new PX's guard detail!” Switching to a concerned demeanor, he asked, “They aren't back yet? They were only supposed to be gone a few days."
Mason glanced at Brant, who was sitting somewhat behind and to the left of Markham. Brant shook his head minutely; he wasn't buying something.
His face expressionless, Mason returned his gaze to Markham and said, “Give us details, Markham. On TDY where, when, and to whom, exactly. All of it."
Glancing at Brant, then back at Mason, Markham asked, “May I ask what's going on, sir?"
"No,” said Mason, “You may not. I want Levine in this office tonight, and if that's just not possible, I want to know where he is and why he's there."
"I told you, sir. The new PX..."
"That's not good enough, Markham. If you don't open up fast, you'll leave this office in handcuffs. How many of our people have you lent to the CIA?"
Markham seemed to pale slightly and his blank-eyed mask slipped a bit. He recovered himself quickly and tried to look offended. “Sir, I object to..."
Slamming a hand on his desk, Mason almost shouted, “Can the bullshit, Markham! If you won't talk to me right now, you'll by-God talk to the MP's before this night's over, I guarantee it! One more—and your final—chance, Markham. Answer my goddamned questions!"
Sitting straight, Markham quietly replied, “I can see where this is going. I have a right to speak with a JAG officer, General. Until I've been assigned counsel, I invoke Article Thirty-one."
'Okay,’ I thought, ‘We've established that Mason and Brant are the nearest thing to good guys at that desk. Time to fire up the fax machine again.'
Whispering almost silently, I instructed the flitter to make the fax machine spit out the names, ranks, and serial numbers of all the TDY personnel it had found.
Some of them were undoubtedly on legitimate TDY assignments, but at least sixteen weren't. I'd let Mason and Brant sort things out.
The men below stared transfixed as the unplugged fax machine came on and chuckled for some paper. Brant quickly got up and fed it a small stack of paper, then stood back as if watching a ghost at work.
"Jesus,” muttered Mason, as the list appeared and slithered across his desk when it escaped the fax machine. “It isn't even plugged in, Brant."
Looking somewhat spooked as he pointed at the sheet of paper, Brant nonetheless quipped, “Ask and ye shall receive, General. I'll be goddamned if I know how, but...” he stopped talking as page two began printing.
"There's more?!” yelped Mason. His wide-eyed gaze turned to Markham again and he said, “Markham, I'm not kidding. Forget the lawyers and start talking or I'm going to make your retirement disappear. The CIA doesn't hire jailbirds. You won't have shit by the time I'm through with you."
Markham looked at Brant, who cupped a hand to his ear and asked, “General? I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you just said."
Mason remained focused on Markham as he said, “That's how it is, Markham. Your world is about to turn to shit if you don't start cooperating."
It didn't take long after that. Markham didn't break down or anything as dramatic as that; he simply sighed and started marking some of the names on the printouts.
"These men,” he said, “Call Harry Short at this number. He'll be able to have them sent back. I don't know about getting them here tonight, but within the next day or so."
"Will he be there now?"
Chuckling tiredly, Markham said, “He's always there. I don't think he ever sleeps."
When Mason called the number and asked for Harry Short, whoever answered must have put him on hold. A few moments later he introduced himself.
"Mr. Short, this is General Mason. That's right. Colonel Markham has confirmed a list of our people lent to you without authorization.” After a moment, he said, “No, Mr. Short, I will not retroactively authorize them. I don't give a damn why you wanted them; you and Markham circumvented my command."
Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, Mason grinned and said to Brant, “He just asked me not to act like a prima donna about this."
Brant returned an appropriately wry expression as Mason said, “Mr. Short, I understand that it can be difficult to recover people from field assignments on a moment's notice, so I'll make the following allowance; our people will be returned and recorded by our company clerk by five o'clock tomorrow afternoon. That's right, Mr. Short, it's a threat. I'll personally go up the line with this."
Apparently Short had some parting words, but Mason's only reply was a saccharine, “Thank you, Mr. Short. Goodbye."
Mason hung up the phone and sipped coffee thoughtfully for a moment, then handed the lists of names to Brant.
"Contact the CO's of any men on those lists who don't belong to our group."
"Yes, sir,” said Brant, “Happy to do it."
Turning to Markham, Mason calmly said, “You're restricted to quarters until further notice. Pray that all of our people come back healthy, because if even one doesn't, you're screwed."
Poking some buttons on his phone, Mason told whomever answered, “General Mason here. Give me your Duty Officer.” A few moments later, he said, “Hi, Don. Send an MP to my office for Colonel Markham. He's not to leave his quarters until further notice and I want a man outside his door twenty-four-seven. That's right. He'll be eating meals in his room and his phone's to be disconnected immediately, if not sooner. If he needs to make contact with the outside world, he'll do it through my office unless or until charges are filed."
The guy must have asked a few questions. Mason said, “We won't know about any of that until tomorrow, Don. Let's just say that we're all hoping the news is good for different reasons. No, I won't go into it beyond saying that it currently involves only misappropriation and misuse of personnel and equipment."
A radio chattered in the corridor and an MP stepped into the room. He saluted Mason and said, “Major White is sending a man to replace me on watch, sir. I'm to escort Colonel Markham to his quarters and disconnect his phone in the hall box."
Nodding, Mason, said, “Good,” then said to Markham, “Dismissed."
Markham stood up with unconcealed anger, but didn't aggravate matters by not saluting as required. He rather stiffly preceded the MP out of the office.
Brant pointed at the printouts and said, “I'd like to meet the guy who came up with this intel. Do you think it's for real?"
Looking at the thin stack of paper, Mason nodded again.
"Yes. I do think it's real, Fred. The question is whether he truly intends to try to blow the place up. Also whether we'll be able to move in or be ordered to stand down again."
Grinning, Brant said, “I vote we stand ready and get there before anyone can issue an order to stand down, sir."<
br />
"Um,” said Mason, sipping his coffee, “That's what I had in mind, too. I just wish we knew when—exactly—to be near the farm, dammit. All it takes is a phone call to stop us."
Chapter Seven
I'd seen enough and heard enough. Scooting out of the office through the open doorway, I had the board hug the ceiling and whispered, “Flitter, send the following message to the fax machine on General Mason's desk, please: ‘The bunker will blow up tonight.’”
The fax machine chuckled and whined as it printed, then whirred out the rest of the sheet of paper.
Mason shoved it at Brant, then grabbed his phone. Within minutes, the building was a beehive of activity. With all the people hauling gear outside to vehicles, it was easy to slip out through an open door.
Guiding the board up to the flitter through the darkening sky, I considered whether to open a can of soup. Yeah, why not? Might be busy later.
I made a fresh coffee and shared some of my chicken noodle soup with Tiger as I reviewed the underground layout again. Some of the complex ranged widely under the dairy pastures, so night was actually the best time to blow the place; the cows would be in the barns.
Hovering above the brigade headquarters building, I considered the best way to gain entrance to the complex, then decided that using one of the tunnels might not be necessary.
The place had several large vents for getting stale air out and fresh air in. I checked one out on the screen and found it measured almost four feet wide all the way down. There were huge squirrel-cage fans at the bottom of each vent.
Good enough. I could have the flitter disable the fans, which might also be a way to cause an evacuation and keep Steph from harping at me about killing people. Hm. No, I couldn't; if all the fans went out at once, they'd know something was up.
Vehicles full of charged-up troops were forming convoys in the streets below. I noted that the natives looked on with curiosity, but kept well away from the military activity.
One by one, the convoys moved out in various directions, likely to confuse anyone watching, and simply wound their ways through the town's streets on a general course eastward.
When it was fully dark, I headed the flitter toward the farms and parked it above the barns, told Tiger which direction to watch, and slid off the deck on my board.
I almost flew past the vent directly above the ammo storage rooms without recognizing it; the damned thing had been disguised as a small tool shed, but it was right where the field screen said there should be a vent.
Shearing through the padlock on the door with a field tendril, I let myself into the fake tool shed and sheared more padlocks off vent shutters, then told the flitter to disable the fan below me.
Changing the tendril to a directional light, I looked down the huge square hole. There was absolute darkness below the range of the light and I realized the same trepidation about being unable to see what was under me that I'd felt whenever I'd been on or in the ocean at night.
Oh, well. Reshaping my board to fit the hole diagonally, I lowered myself carefully into the darkness, sending the light tendril down ahead of me.
The bottom rose to meet me sooner than I'd expected and I had to brake hard to stay clear of the unmoving blades of one of the big squirrel-cage fans.
Angry and questioning voices yammered somewhere beyond and below the fan. I decided to clear a landing zone by shearing through the fan's axle.
When my cutting tendril caused the right side of the fan—the side on my right, anyway—to break loose with a loud ‘bang!’ and sag a foot or so, even the angry voices turned rather questioning.
The fan sagged ever lower as I sent the cutting tendril through the other end of the axle. That side, too, broke loose, and the fan's blade assembly dropped crashingly to the inside of its housing.
Sending a broad tendril of searing heat into the fan's motor made bearing grease, wire insulation, and even paint sizzle and burn. Men screamed below and suddenly the area was absolutely silent except for the pings of cooling metal.
I sheared off the bolts holding the back wall of the vent shaft and drifted out of the vertical tunnel into an alcove along a concrete corridor, just as shown in the flitter's pictures.
Getting my bearings, I headed for the nearest steel door, sheared through the latch and hinges and pulled it out of its frame, and found what looked like howitzer shells stacked like cordwood within a large room.
Hm. Not the best place to start, really, since I had every intention of getting out of there alive. Howitzer shells? There'd been no big guns on the manifest. The baddies must be storing them for transport or stripping them for explosives.
Two men came out of an adjoining room and saw the damaged door on the corridor floor. I stunned them before they could shout or run.
Moving down the corridor, I found rooms containing AK-47 and AK-74 rifles, ammo, and B-40 shoulder-fired rockets. Also not the way to get things started. I needed things with timers or remote controls or the means to make remote controls.
The ninth door I removed from its frame fell away to reveal something more to my liking; limpet-type mines with one-hour timers built into their casings.
They were kind of heavy, so I laid a dozen of them on my board to carry them to the various rooms and concealed them where they seemed likely to do their best work in each room.
I set each timer for half an hour as I placed the mines. They'd go off at different times, but that wasn't important to me; getting the hell out of there was my priority. When the mines set off the bigger shells, a large chunk of farmland would head skyward in the blast.
When the last mine had been placed, I hopped on my board and hauled ass for the vent, but I found the alcove full of men gawking at the damaged fan and housing.
Did I care if they were caught in the blast? No. Did I care about the amount of flak I might catch from Steph later? Yes, indeed. I very much didn't want to lose her as a friend.
Reversing course, I went back to the limpet mine room and grabbed one, set it for a full minute, dropped it in the room, and hauled ass back toward the vent.
The region of the corridor behind me seemed to erupt and a solid wall of concussion and flame came rushing toward me and the men by the vent. Although the flames stopped well short of the area, the men shrieked and ran, just as I'd expected.
I was able to zip above the crowd and into the open wall of the vent. Nosing the board nearly vertical, I clung to it as it shot upward, counting to five before I reduced speed to a crawl in order to avoid slamming into the shed's ceiling.
Another count to six passed before I saw the shed just above me. Changing the board's direction, I shot through the shed's open doorway and headed back toward the barns as fast as the board would go.
On general principles, I didn't want to be in the air above the farm without the flitter's field around me. I've seen high explosives go off, and they can be pretty damned scary.
A four-inch-long shell fragment once traveled over half a mile and embedded itself into a tree near me. You don't forget things like that.
Chapter Eight
Short lines of tiny moving lights wove among buildings in the far distance. I considered having the flitter flash brightly once to provide them some extra encouragement, but that suddenly became altogether unnecessary.
A large chunk of the turf on the east side of the road over a mile from the barns brightly erupted skyward in silence. A few seconds later, the sound of the blast reached our position.
Tiger's eyes grew wide even as his pupils contracted against the brightness. Cattle instantly panicked in the barns below us and people came flooding out of the barracks-like building between the barns across the road. Their shouts and screams were barely audible amid the ongoing eruptions in the fields.
Something big blew up out there, briefly illuminating a high spray of rock, dirt, and concrete flying in all directions, then a few more of those ‘something big's’ seemed to explode in a series before they all seemed to blow
at once.
The ribbon of concrete road that masked the main tunnel seemed to swell upward and split, then there were several muted thumpings and quite a length of the road nearest to the crater forming in the fields seemed to rear up and topple slowly back upon itself.
That display seemed to convince some of the people below that the explosions were heading for the barn and a frantic exodus began in the opposite direction.
In truth, I didn't know how well the tunnel under the road would fare, either, and it bothered me that all the cows in the barn might be at risk, after all.
"Three and five suits on, board on,” I said, and slid off the deck to fly into the barn through its open north doors. A couple of men were laboring as quickly as possible to open all the stalls as two more men shoved open the south doors that led to fields and pastures.
One man ran ahead to close the eastern gates to the grain fields and the cattle were channeled into the west pasture as they came galloping out of the barn.
A cow slipped and fell in the damp grass and the gate-guy ran through the oncoming cattle to encourage it to get up and keep moving.
The cow balked, half-sitting as it bawled its panic to the world. I sent a tendril to sting a line along its butt and it was up and running instantly as yet another string of massive explosions rocked the night air.
The strings of lights became bigger as they approached, then they veered off the road into the gated eastern grain field and milled around in about the same manner as the cattle in the western pasture as I returned to the flitter.
A few of the vehicles were fire trucks and half a dozen ambulances were mingled in with US Army and Iraqi police HumVees and some armored transports. Troops and cops unassed the vehicles and began rounding up people around the farm buildings.
3rd World Products, Inc. Book 7 Page 4