Burke's Revenge: Bob Burke Suspense Thriller #3 (Bob Burke Action Adventure Novels)

by William Brown

  “You mean against us?”

  “Two officers murdered? Three bombs set off on post? Who else?” Bob answered. “Did they learn anything about the C-4?”

  “It came from one of the companies in the 20th Engineer Brigade,” Stansky told him. “They’re the only ones who have C-4 in inventory, other than Special Ops. I just got off the phone with the Provost Marshall; they inventoried them first thing this morning and four blocks came up missing.”

  Bob thought about it for a moment. “You said four blocks? The three explosions plus the half block they found on the roof means…”

  “Half of it’s still out there.” Stansky looked at O’Connor and laughed. “This guy’s smart, isn’t he, Patrick? Which means we’re a long way from done with those guys. The MPs are cross-referencing the unit sign-in logs and inventory sheets against the gate records and videos of cars and license plates, and sweating everyone who had access to the C-4. It’s time-consuming but we think we’ll have the names by later this morning.”

  “Then the trick will be to get them to roll on whoever they sold it to,” Pat added.

  “Guantanamo can be a strong motivator. What do you want me to do?” Bob asked.

  “What makes you think I want you to do a goddamned thing, Bobby?” Stansky looked over at him with hands on hips and grinned.

  “Because I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.” Bob grinned back.

  Stansky laughed. “Well, nothing yet. Bragg’s a big post, and somebody thinks it’s easy pickings. So stay close. I may need to get the Merry Men before it’s over.”

  “Send me the files. I’d like to have a look at them.”

  “If the CID hasn’t come up with anything by noon tomorrow, I will.”

  “Who’s handling the investigation?” Bob asked.

  “A young CID agent named Sharmayne Phillips. I met with her last night. Personally, I think she’s in over her head, but neither she nor her boss likes JSOC sticking its nose in their business. I understand that but I’m keeping them on a short leash anyway.”

  “You want me to talk to her?”

  “You?” Stansky laughed. “If she doesn’t like me, she really won’t like you.”

  “Me?” Bob feigned surprise. “Gosh, I can’t understand why.”

  “Neither can I. You’re ‘Mister Sweetness and Light,’ aren’t you?”

  “That I am, Sir. By the way, you remember Ernie Travers, don’t you?”

  “I remember everybody, Bobby. He’s that friend of yours, that big Chicago police captain who helped us out in Atlantic City, isn’t he? And a reserve MP colonel, to boot.”

  “That’s him. Ernie dropped in on our party yesterday and brought a friend along, an FBI agent who just arrived from Cyprus. He’s a Middle East expert, and he told me something in strictest confidence that you need to hear.”

  “The FBI? Off the record? They usually don’t cooperate with anyone.”

  “This guy does. Again, he’s an old pal of Ernie and the Agent-in-Charge up in Atlantic City. But he made it clear it’s ‘eyes only.’ ”

  “This doesn’t sound good.” Stansky frowned. “Okay, give it to me.”

  “He’s tracking some links between ISIS, Fayetteville, and Fort Bragg.”

  “ISIS!” Stansky almost exploded. “Geez, that’s all we need, but I can’t say it’s unexpected. It’s come up in Pentagon briefings all the time now, but you know how politically correct everyone has become back there.”

  “And he doesn’t think much of the CID’s ability to deal with something like that, either. Frankly, he doesn’t think they could find their asses with both hands.”

  Stansky shook his head and then leaned forward with his steely “Death Ray” stare. “I’ll tell you one thing, Bobby, we’ve got to get these guys. We’re the ‘point of the spear’ here at Bragg. If somebody’s killing our people and that CID bunch doesn’t get their asses in gear real soon and catch them, they’ll have a two-star general who answers to a four-star, who will be all over them.”

  “Copy that,” Burke agreed.

  “And I have another piece of bad news for you… no, for both of us, I guess. They’re sending me a new deputy.”

  “I didn’t know you had an ‘old’ one.”

  “I don’t! I don’t want one and I don’t need one but those morons won’t listen.”

  “Why don’t they just move Bill Jeffers from Delta over into the slot?” Bob asked. “He’s an 06 and an excellent Special Ops man with a ton of combat experience, and there’s no shortage of 05s they can move up to take over Delta.”

  “That would have been you by now, you know, if you hadn’t bugged out on us.” Stansky glared at him. “But no sense dredging that up again. Anyway, moving Bill over would have made a lot of sense, wouldn’t it, except Bill’s never been a politician. Neither were you, and that’s why you got out and why he’ll retire as an 06.”

  “As I hear it, you weren’t much of a politician either. Didn’t stop you.” Bob smiled.

  “You got that right! But I had some ‘Dutch Uncles’ with a lot of stars on their collars looking out for me. Unfortunately, they’re all gone now, which is why the Pentagon has been trying to force me out for the past four years. This is another of their little hints, but I’m not going anywhere.”

  “All right, who’s the new deputy?” Bob asked, not really caring.

  “An old ‘pal’ of yours…” Stansky answered very slowly to let the name sink in. “Colonel Jefferson Tyrone Adkins.”

  “Oh, Jeez, not that moron!” Bob shook his head. “Sorry to say this, Sir, but you two are going to look like the odd couple standing next to each other. He’s what? A foot taller and a good hundred pounds heavier than you? And he’s the kind who likes to look down on anyone he can. One good thing, though. If he tries that with you when you’re wearing your dress greens, his two rows of ‘I’ve-been-in-the-Army-kissing-ass’ medals are going to look really stupid next to what you’ve got on your chest.”

  “Or yours,” Stansky said. “Or Bill Jeffers’s, or Pat O’Connor’s.”

  “Adkins is a politician, not a warrior, and every soldier in Delta knows that.”

  “Maybe.” Stansky laughed. “But I hear he wasn’t too tall for you to reach up and knock out one of his front teeth.”

  “The upper left front incisor,” Bob corrected him. “As soon he opens his mouth, you can tell it’s an implant. Make a point of staring at it. It’ll drive him nuts.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he pissed off the dentist, like he did everyone else. Never a good thing to do,” O’Connor laughed.

  “Is that why you got out?” Stansky leaned forward. “Because of him?”

  “The truth? He got three of my men killed on an op near Khost — bad intel, bad plan, bad response, and no support. He left us there. Then, when it was all over, he had the balls to blame everyone else.”

  “That chicken shit…” Stansky replied, his expression about as angry as Bob had ever seen. “But decking him, you think that was worth it?”

  “One of the best punches I’ve ever thrown.” Bob looked across and grinned. “Straight from the shoulder, perfect contact, with all my weight behind it. He was out for a good two minutes. Actually, I thought I killed him, but when the medics carted him off, I got a standing ovation from the men. Was it worth it? You’re damn right it was.”

  “You know he’s the one who started that witch hunt at Al-Assad a week ago. The report went through Jeffers to me. It’s a joke, of course, but he’s still after Kozlowski and the others. He isn’t done with them.”

  “It’s me he’s after. He thinks going after my men is a safe play, especially here in my backyard. And he thinks there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Cool your jets, Bobby. He’s a useless toad, but we’re both stuck with him for a little while. But if you put him down again, I’ve got a very special bottle of Macallan 30-year-old single-malt scotch that I’ve been saving for just the right occasion. I don’t want to o
pen it in the stockade, however, so don’t get caught.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Fayetteville

  It was a lovely late summer afternoon, the perfect time to be a fully entitled member of the American higher education establishment. Shaw’s office window was open. It faced the main Blue Ridge College quadrangle and the air wafting in was still summery warm and fragrant, with the faintest hint of autumn. The trees outside his window were full of noisy birds, and the lush, green lawn stretching to the south was dotted with cute coeds lying on blankets with their boyfriends, pretending to study. Simply wonderful, Henry Shaw thought as he continued staring vacantly at them for a few more moments. Sadly, however, he knew he had to get back to work. He had spent most of the morning and early afternoon listening to the radio, flipping back and forth between stations, trying to find news about the bombs at Fort Bragg last night. It was already 2:00 p.m. when he opened his desk drawer, tore the plastic wrapping off another burner phone, and punched in a number.

  On the fifth ring, a familiar, surly voice answered. “Yeah, whatchu want now?”

  “Were things a bit exciting around post today?” Shaw asked, ignoring the question.

  “You damn right dey wuz. Goddamned MPs searchin’ everywhere. Hassled me twice.”

  “What were they looking for?”

  “The guns, man, it’s the damned guns. Dey questioned everybody who’d signed anything in and out ’a dat arms room. Everybody, man. Dey wants doze guns back, and dey want to know who took ’em.”

  “I’m sure they do, but we’re covered, both of us.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s easy for you to say. Dey ain’t still in yo’ car, iz dey?”

  “Of course not.” Shaw bristled. “They’re safely tucked away.”

  “Yeah? Well, one ’a yo little ‘packages’ didn’t go off last night.”

  “So I heard,” Shaw acknowledged, irritated that this buffoon should question him. “Apparently, the detonator and the cell phone were a tad more delicate than I thought.”

  “Dey ran tests and dey know where dat C-4 came from, man, and da detonator.”

  “As expected,” Shaw conceded, “but it doesn’t matter. They won’t learn anything they wouldn’t figure out from the forensic tests they’re running on the other three bomb sites. They’ll just know it a little sooner, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, well, dey had the post on lockdown all day. Dat really pissed everybody off. And dey been chasin’ their asses all over post lookin’ fo more bombs, man. Dat wuz funny. Iff’n ah cudda sold popcorn and beer to all the brothers sittin’ outside watchin’ ’em run around, I’d have made some serious coin, too.”

  “What about the guy you bought the C-4 from? Do you think he’ll flip on you?”

  “In a New York minute! All he wanted was the money. I never did trust dat sucker.”

  “You picked him. You should’ve chosen better.”

  “Yeah? You wanted the stuff, and there wasn’t zactly a whole lot of choice, you know. So, what we gonna do if he flips on me? Ah hate dat damned stockade, man.”

  “Maybe we should ‘take him off the board’ before he gets the chance. I have my first class on post tonight at 7:00. I should be out by 9:00. Why don’t you meet me in the parking lot of the Papa John’s Pizza on Butner here on post?”

  “Thas cool, man. Ah like their pepperoni.”

  “I didn’t mean for pizza!”

  “Oh, you mean to do dat engineer.”

  “If you think he’s unreliable and not to be trusted, yes. But there are a few other things we need to attend to first, like spreading a bit more mischief. Then we can pay a visit to the engineer and silence him. He’s all yours, Muhammad.”

  After he rang off, Henry Shaw popped the back off the burner phone, pulled out the Sim card, and put them in his pocket. They would go in separate trash cans later, after he left campus. It was 11:00 a.m. He didn’t have class for almost three hours so he picked up his desk phone and punched Stephanie’s extension.

  “Hey, Steph, what do you think Amy’s doing?” he asked in a suggestive voice. “I thought you two might be up for a leisurely ‘lunch’ today, maybe a little ‘takeout’ with me?”

  Stephanie cackled. “I can give her a call, but the problem is, your ‘lunch’ never involves food.”

  “That’s because you don’t like cracker crumbs in your bed,” he said, really enjoying the conversation and the anticipation of what would follow, when he noticed an outside line blinking on his desk phone. He stared at it for a long moment, letting it ring three or four times before he told Stephanie, “I have another call coming in. Give Amy a call and let me know.” He pressed that button, knowing nothing good ever came through his office extension, and no one he wanted to talk to ever called him on those lines to begin with.

  “Professor Henry Shaw here,” he answered with his usual confident arrogance.

  “And it is so good to hear your voice again, Professor. I’m pleased to see you arrived home safely,” he heard an all-too-familiar voice at the other end. The man didn’t say his name, but it wasn’t necessary. It was Mergen Khan.

  “Yes, yes, Mergen… Good to hear your voice. Look, I’m already late for class, so…”

  “This will only take a moment. In ten minutes or so, a young man will deliver a package to you containing all the necessary forms for two men to be admitted to Blue Ridge College and enroll in several of your courses. We would appreciate you using your considerable charms to ‘walk’ these documents through the college admissions process this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon? For this semester? You’re kidding? Classes have already started, and they’ll never approve…”

  “Oh, of course they will, Professor. Provided you use your very best efforts.”

  “My best efforts?” Shaw nearly exploded. “You have no idea…”

  “Ah, but I do,” Mergen commiserated. “I do. And I know how two ungrateful foreigners can present yet another difficult challenge for you. But if you are unable to get it done, I’ll have our brother Aslan call you and you can explain to him how the college’s bureaucratic challenges were simply beyond your capabilities.”

  “All right, all right. You said the documents will be here shortly?”

  “Who knows? Aslan may even decide to come over and personally ‘commiserate’ with you, Professor.”

  “All right, all right, I’ll see what I can do, Mergen, but it’s very late to get something like that done.” Shaw tried to make excuses, only to find himself talking into a dead phone. “Dammit!” he said as he heard a knock on his office door and slammed his fist on the desk, knowing that his delightful dalliance with Stephanie and Amy had just been canceled.

  Shaw went to the door and found a delivery man on the other side who handed him a thick, letter-sized manila envelope, just as Mergen Khan promised. Shaw rolled his eyes, then glared at it for a moment before he returned to his desk, carrying it carefully as if he expected the thick package to blow up in his face if he jostled it. The right side of his brain screamed, “Nonsense, throw it out!” but the left side remembered who he was dealing with and cautioned him not to be so quick.

  He placed the package on his desk very gingerly. When nothing happened, he found his scissors in his top desk drawer, cut the top edge of the envelope open, and let the contents spill out. Lying in front of him were two sets of neatly-typed enrollment applications for Blue Ridge College, secondary school transcripts, letters from various Jordanian government officials, xeroxed copies of two Jordanian passports, and two US student visas. Ignoring the enrollment applications for the moment, he picked up the copies of the two passports and studied them. As he expected, the photographs in the passports were of Mergen and Batir Khan, but the names were Abdul-Aziz Mifsud and Hamzah Hadad. In Arabic, the first one meant “servant of the powerful one,” and the second one, “the lion,” and he could see the deft hand of Aslan Khan all over them.

  Henry Shaw dropped the passports on his desk and picked u
p the enrollment applications. On paper, at least, the two young men had attended some of the better private schools in Amman and London, doing well in a wide variety of general studies, sciences, and business courses. Pure bull, of course. They had never attended those schools, and none of those courses were taught in the Western Desert of Iraq, Turkmenistan, or Raqqah, Syria, much less in wrestling camps, flight schools, or Republican Guard officer candidate schools. Disgusted, he opened his briefcase and tossed the papers inside, knowing what he would be doing the rest of the afternoon, whether he liked it or not.

  As Shaw made the rounds of the college admissions office, finance office, and the sociology department office with the papers he received from Mergen Khan, he found himself near the Student Union and used the opportunity to visit the coffee shop in the basement, where he found Sameer al-Karman sitting at his table, alone as usual, behind a tall stack of books and papers.

  “Ah, Professor Shaw, what can I do for you?” al-Karman asked without looking up.

  “I appreciate a man who values time, Sameer. Are you finished yet?”

  “Very soon. It is not a task that can be rushed, so let us say tonight, at midnight. I want the ‘soup’ to cool and be completely stable before you go tossing it around.”

  “Or what? You think it might go ‘Boom’?”

  “There is no ‘might’ about it, Professor. I met some of the young men you are working with now — Farrakhan Muhammad and Shahid Halabi as classic examples. They are entirely too excitable and unpredictable to be trusted with my material. If you allow them to touch that stuff, I assure you it will go ‘Boom!’ Provided I am not in the vicinity, and it is merely a theoretical problem, I don’t think I care. But if I am in the same ZIP code with them, it becomes an eminently practical problem for me, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

  “Can I talk you into taking their places?”

  Al-Karman looked up at him and smiled. “With all due respect, as your Dirty Harry said in the movie, ‘A man must know his limitations.’ My limitations are taking unacceptable risks and the threat of being deported… or getting myself blown up. Perhaps you can understand.”