Rogue Commander

by Leo J. Maloney

  “Doing what, son?”

  “Six-month stint, in blue no less.”

  “Well, we’re all blue around here.”

  “Yep, it’ll all be new to me.” Morgan flashed her his army ID. “I was green for almost twenty.”

  The elderly woman patted his hand. “Air force food’s much better. So, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, if you’ve got a spare slot, I need these ranks sewed on and some name tapes.”

  “We could do that. Take about an hour.”

  “Outstanding! Could use a cup of joe anyway.”

  She glanced at his ID. “Morgan for the name, Air Force on the other side, right?”

  “Roger that,” Morgan said. “And if you don’t mind, I promised my buddy I’d pick him up a set too. His name’s Martin, just like it sounds.”

  “All right, young man. Come back in an hour.”

  Morgan strolled around the base exchange for a while and bought himself a five-inch Gerber folding blade and a coil of 550 parachute cord. He’d flown out “naked” from Nashville, leaving his firearms locked in the Shelby’s trunk, so all he had were his cell phone, his ear comm, and his lock-pick set. Coldcastle Mountain was a Department of Defense facility, nestled in the crags of Ogden Canyon and managed by air force personnel. No matter what happened, he wasn’t going to kill anyone there, but a knife and some rope might come in handy.

  Sixty minutes later, he picked up his uniform, paid for the service with cash, kept everything in the shopping bag, and headed north on Route 15 in the Wrangler. An hour after that, he was in a gas station restroom in Ogden proper, where he pulled the new “tiger stripe” ACU trousers right over his jeans and switched out his running shoes for the boots.

  He kept his black T-shirt on, pulled the sage green one over that, and zipped on the air force tunic. Only then did he pull off the Velcro name tape that said “MORGAN” and switch it to the one that read “MARTIN.” When he adjusted his cap and put on his sunglasses, he looked like a typical “short-timer” master sergeant that nobody’d want to mess with.

  From there, he’d turned east on Route 39 and wound his way into the peaks and pines. Using the coordinates that Collins had passed to his cell, he crossed over the Goodale River and started searching for the telltale signs of an access road to Coldcastle Mountain. Sure enough, off to the left, he spotted a break in the brush that revealed a dirt road with a small sign that read “US Government Property—Restricted Access.”

  Ain’t restricted to me, Morgan mused, but he drove on for a couple of miles, looking for the one spot to which all the Coldcastle troops would gravitate. It was the same with every secure base; no matter how good the chow might be inside, you’d get sick to death of it soon enough and start foraging for tastier grub. It turned out that The Oaks was the only such place around. So now he sat there in the eatery, taking his time. He was already fairly stuffed, but if he had to order another full meal and just nurse it, he would.

  The night fell fast and hard in the mountains, and stars outside the rear picture window were starting to pop. His ear comm was tucked in his auditory canal, but he’d switched it off and had no intention of using it unless things got desperate. He trusted Shepard, but the kid had masters at Zeta, and if they decided on making their renegade bad-boy Cobra disappear, then breaking into an Alpha-3-level federal facility would present an unassailable opportunity.

  He wondered what Jenny was doing. One of these days his beautiful wife was going to get wise and dump him for a lawyer—maybe the same one she’d wind up using for their divorce. From that discomfiting thought, his mind wandered to Alex, and a surge of guilt for getting her into this game. And while he was brooding about all that, losing his appetite, his prey walked in.

  They were a pair of young airmen, both second class, and, as they strode in through the front door, Morgan could see their frog-nosed LMTV truck parked out front. They doffed their hats and nearly bounced on the balls of their boots as they stared up at the menu poster above the order counter. A blond and a carrot-top, they both had normal haircuts rather than “high and tight,” and neither carried a sidearm. They weren’t Security Forces guys, probably desk-jockeys.

  Morgan slowed down with his apple pie and sipped his coffee. He glanced around and saw that most of the other tables were full, so when the two airmen got their food baskets and searched for a spot, he caught their eyes and pointed at his own table. The airmen grinned and sauntered over.

  “You can have this one, boys,” Morgan said. “I’m done here.”

  “Thanks, Master Sar’nt,” the blond said as they slid into the bench facing him.

  Morgan squinted at the kid’s name tape and smirked. “You’re ex-army, Perry. Don’t try to hide it.”

  The kid laughed. “How’d you know?”

  “Used to be green myself. Army guys say ‘Sarn’t. ’ Air force guys say ‘Sarge-ant, ’ like friggin’ Gomer Pyle.”

  “Who’s that?” the redhead asked.

  “Just some old dinosaur, like me.” Morgan looked at his watch and finished his coffee while the kids dug into their burgers.

  “Where you headed, Chief?” the blond airman asked between bites.

  “Hill,” said Morgan. “Spent the day out at the lake. Tomorrow I start my sentence.”

  The redhead’s eyebrows went up. “You do something wrong?”

  “Nah. Just bein’ funny,” Morgan said. “I’m doing a six-month tour in these lizard pajamas, just to round out my retirement points. You guys headed down there too?”

  “Nope.” The blond sipped his Coke and offered nothing more. Morgan nodded.

  “I get it. You guys work in the castle.”

  They glanced at each other, and the redhead muttered, “Can’t confirm or deny.”

  Morgan grinned. “You just did.”

  The two airmen laughed. Then he finished his coffee, picked up his basket, and slid out from the bench. “Well, gonna grab a smoke and head down to Happy land. See ya, boys. Watch your sixes.”

  “Roger that,” the blond said as Morgan mashed his cap on his head, dumped his trash, and headed out the front door.

  Outside in the parking strip, he didn’t bother to make sure the airmen weren’t watching him because he’d set them up with their backs to the entrance. His Wrangler rental was parked at the end of the row of vehicles, locked up tight, so he strode down the flank of the air force LMTV, turned right behind its rump, and stood there for fifteen seconds—waiting for a passing car to cruise by. Then he popped one corner of the canvas cover, hauled himself up, slithered into the cargo bed, and reset the canvas from inside. It was dark as a coffin, but he wasn’t going to risk using the light from his cell. Instead, he felt his way around a pile of file boxes and curled up in a spot just behind the cab.

  Half an hour later the air force kids came out, jumped in the cab, and the LMTV started to roll. Now Morgan prayed that the Coldcastle sentries at the Entry Control Point didn’t search every vehicle coming inside or, worse, use dogs. Neika would have picked up his scent in a heartbeat, especially since he stank like burgers and fries.

  His prayers were answered. The truck cruised down the two-lane highway, then turned off along a winding gravel road for about twenty minutes. When it stopped at the ECP, he heard Airman Perry joking with the sentries as he handed them a bag of fries. Then came the sound of powerful pneumatics moving heavy doors on rollers, and the truck’s wheels were rolling forward on a surface smooth as glass.

  The way the engine sound echoed tightly, he could tell they were in some sort of long tunnel, and then the sound expanded as if the space had opened wide. The airmen parked the truck, got out, slammed the doors, and disappeared. For a full minute, Morgan listened intently for the sounds of other boot steps or voices nearby. Hearing nothing, he slipped out the back of the truck, jumped down, and reached back inside for one of the file boxe
s.

  A hardened facility like Coldcastle would have surveillance cameras bristling all over like porcupine spines, so if someone spotted him on camera, he’d look like a noncom with a task rather than a stowaway. He took care to move only his eyes, not his head, as he started walking. It was an enormous motor pool the size of a small-town armory, with battleship flooring, ten parked LMTVs, six Humvees, floodlights, and a high arched ceiling of power-chiseled granite. He headed straight for the high black maw of the entrance, then out into the access tunnel.

  It was about a quarter mile long, with a treaded steel floor, fluorescent lights, and slimy, gleaming brown walls gnawed from the rock. It sloped up fifteen degrees to a distant pair of heavy steel doors—the ones he’d heard hissing open. Off to the left and right were two long hallways with gray steel walls, interspaced office doors, and more hallways splitting off from the mains.

  Camera snouts poked down from everywhere. He couldn’t be seen to hesitate, so he chose left and walked. Collins had told him what to look for, vaguely. “It’ll be a cyber-lock door with a swipe pad and a window. Probably with a ‘Level Two Clearance’ sign.”

  Great, Morgan thought. They all look like that.

  But actually, they didn’t. He spotted it, off to the left just ten feet onward. A red slab on the door said “Level Two Only.” And coming straight at him down the hallway was a young lieutenant. Morgan switched the box to under his left arm and started fishing in all of his pockets with his right.

  “Damn it,” he muttered.

  The lieutenant cruised up and stopped. “What’s up, Master Sergeant?”

  “I’m a dumb ass, LT,” said Morgan as he fumbled through his Velcro pockets. “Must have left my CAC card in my locker.”

  “Yeah? Haven’t seen you in the hole before. You new?”

  “I’m old as dirt.” Morgan smirked. “Just here for one last TDY; then I’m going fishing for life.”

  The lieutenant laughed. “This one’s on me.” He pulled out his own CAC card and swiped it through the lock. The door buzzed, and he pulled it open.

  “Much appreciated, sir.” Morgan grinned. “Saved these old legs from another marathon.”

  “You bet.”

  Once inside the level two area, none of the doors in the next hallway had keypads, but they all had steel doorknobs with keyholes and were locked from the inside. Following Collins’s coaching, he strolled along until he found the one with a blue nameplate and letters stamped in white: Sequences & Logs. He knocked on the door and it buzzed.

  Morgan walked in with his box. A female technical sergeant sat facing the door behind a large steel desk with a barrier countertop for signing in and out. Behind her, the large room was lined on three sides with tall steel filing cabinets, with each vertical row of drawer handles speared from bottom to top by what looked like iron railroad pikes—each of those locked at the top with silver tubular key locks.

  No combinations. Thank you, God. Morgan dropped the box on the countertop and glanced at the tech sergeant’s name tape just before she looked up.

  “What’s up, Master Sergeant?” she asked. She had short black hair and green eyes, and was wearing a thigh holster with an M9—Security Forces type.

  “Are you Tech Sergeant Stepfield?” Morgan asked.

  She smirked and glanced down at her name tape. “Last I looked.”

  Morgan tossed a thumb over his shoulder. “Some wet-behind-the ears second louie told me to send you over to Medical Squadron.”

  “Me?” She touched her chest. “I just had my dental last week. I’m Class Two, good to go.”

  Morgan shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I’m just a noncom boot like you.”

  The young woman got up. She had a huge jangle of keys dangling from her belt. She gestured at the box.

  “Whatcha got there?”

  “Property logs. You’re supposed to sign off, individually.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Stay right here. I’ll shoot over there and be right back.”

  “Roger.” Morgan gave her a thumbs-up.

  “And don’t touch anything,” she said as she headed out the door.

  “Wouldn’t dare.”

  As soon as she was gone, Morgan blew out a sigh of relief. If she hadn’t taken the bait, he would’ve had to take her down and tie her up. But now he’d have to move fast because he had no idea where Medical was or how long it would take her to come back. Thankfully, just like with most such facilities, the security cameras were only out in the corridors.

  He took out his lock picks and started quickly scanning the standing files, looking for that one label Collins had relayed. And there it was, middle of the fifth high cabinet on the left: Sierra 626. He worked the tube tumbler with a long pick and a tension wrench until it popped, then hauled the pike out of the top, and pulled the drawer open.

  Inside was a double row of small standing files, greeting-card size with alphabetical tabs, and inside each folder was an air force chain-of-title card with a plastic sleeve containing a black square chip resembling a digital camera flash card. As instructed by Collins, Morgan plucked up the card from the M file and then took L and N as well, just in case Stepfield was dyslexic.

  He stuffed them into his chest pocket, closed the drawer, slid the pike back down from the top, and locked it all up. He was just pocketing his lock pick set and scooting back around the desk when the door lock cranked. He leaned back on the wall with his arms folded, looking half asleep.

  Tech Sergeant Stepfield walked in and faced him with her knuckles on her hips. She didn’t look pleased.

  “You screwin’ with me, Master Sergeant?” she accused. “Medical says my file’s fine.”

  Morgan raised his palms in surrender. “Hey, just tryin’ to help. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  Stepfield looked around her office and then eyed him again. “I haven’t seen you before. You got orders?”

  “Sure.” Morgan came away from the wall, thinking, Shit, so close. He looked down, pulled open his right-hand breast pocket, then balled his fist, and coldcocked her right in the chin. Her head snapped back, and she went down like a sack of potatoes—lights out.

  He bent over and looked at her, shaking his head. Damn it, kid. Why’d you have to be so smart? He didn’t see any blood. She’d have a wicked headache, but she’d be all right.

  He walked out, pushed his way back through the Level Two door, took a right, quick-marched back to the vehicle tunnel, and then into the motor pool bay, his ears feeling pinned back like Neika’s as he waited for the first shouts and alarms.

  Even so, he couldn’t look rushed or panicked for those eyes in the ceiling, so he slid casually into a Humvee, cranked it up, and drove out of the bay and up the long tunnel, holding his breath.

  Please tell me you don’t need a code to get out. But sure enough, right before the pneumatic sliding doors was a metal stanchion with a keypad box at the top. Damn it! But there was also a big red button. He pushed it, and a disembodied voice echoed from a speaker above the truck.

  “Gate, here. Whatcha need?”

  “A Big Mac, large fries, and a Coke,” Morgan said.

  “Funny. Hit the keypad.”

  “Gimme a break,” Morgan pleaded. “I’m new, TDY, and nobody gave me a friggin’ code yet.”

  “It’s three two eight two.”

  “Thanks, brother.”

  “Don’t thank me. Memorize it.”

  “Will do.”

  Morgan punched the numbers, and the doors whined open. He drove through, wound the Humvee slowly through the big red labyrinth barriers at the Entry Control Point, waved to the Security Forces Squadron guys at the booth, and gunned it.

  Just before reaching Route 39, he swung the wheel hard to the left and took the Humvee down into a thick grove of brush. He jumped from the truck, stripped out of the uniform tunic, tro
users, and sage-green tee—leaving himself wearing his black tee and jeans. He pulled the jeans cuffs down over the tops of his boots and then made sure to strip everything from the uniform and its pockets and stuff them into his jeans—especially the name tapes, chips, and his car keys. He kept the knife, ditched the 550 cord, and took off.

  Twenty minutes later, he popped out of the woods across from The Oaks, crossed the highway, climbed into the Wrangler, and burned some rubber—heading back west toward Ogden. As he passed the cutoff for Coldcastle Mountain, he heard sirens and saw a wink of blue lights. Tech Sergeant Stepfield had apparently woken up, pissed.

  He stepped on it hard, racing back toward Route 15. But he knew he couldn’t go anywhere near Hill Air Force Base again, and certainly not Salt Lake City airport. If those air force cops were halfway decent, they’d flash his description to Homeland Security. He’d have to turn north, drive his ass off to somewhere else, and take a train.

  His knee was throbbing, and he felt bad about slugging the girl.

  “You’re getting too old for this shit, Cobra,” he muttered. But then he smiled. “Hell, but she’ll have a great story to tell her grandkids.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Cold.

  Bone-splintering, lung-sucking cold.

  Lily had never felt anything like it. Not in Berlin in January, that safe house in Islamabad with no heat, or even in the Alps where she’d once lost her way on a climb. This was something else: the unmoving ice-brittle air of an empty Buddhist temple in the mountain forests of Dalian Jinlon—a structure constructed centuries ago before the concept of steam and one with no regard for a hearth. It was a place for monks to go dizzy with suffering and meld with their deity in delirium.

  But she wasn’t a monk. Even so, she stopped shivering. She had nothing left. She was done.

  She sat on a hard wooden chair in the middle of a conical space the size of an ancient Greek Orthodox apse. The floor was made up of polished, interlocked, stones, and the curving walls had been hewn from nearly black teak. A hundred small stone Buddhas sat in pocketed recesses in the walls, their lifeless fingers caressing unlit candles in their laps. From high above her head, where a convex ceiling braced the bottom of the temple’s cap, beads of ice water fell to the floor in a constant, maddening rhythm. Except for the grinding of Lily’s teeth, it was the only sound in the room.