by Marvin Wolf
Will spoke into the intercom. “Rudy, the sky over Rucker is usually swarming with helicopters at all hours. With all this weather on the way, by the time we get there, most of them should be on the ground—but I’d still like you to help watch for any aircraft on your side, and particularly above and below us.”
Rudy nodded. “Can do, skipper. And, I’m very proud of you.”
Will shook his head. “Why’s that?”
“Remember that morning at Fort Fremont, when we talked about your future? About after you completed Basic, coming over to work out of the CID office?”
“I remember. And I was very tempted.”
“Yet, here you are, master of the sky. You turned down a sure thing for one of the riskiest paths to success. I’m still not sure why, but I’m happy for you.”
“Flying is... well, I’m not sure I can explain it properly. There’s a freedom that you don’t find on Mother Earth. There’s a richness—a beauty—to life that’s not like anything else. And there’s the risk. When I set out to become an aviator, I was a little afraid. There are many things that can go wrong in a helicopter. But—it’s about managing risk. There are those that you can’t control, like weather, but there are also ways to approach those risks. And then... my father was a helicopter pilot. His father flew choppers in Vietnam. His father flew off an aircraft carrier in World War II. When I’m up here, I feel very close to them, to my Dad and those who went before me. I never knew my real Dad, you know. This is my way of getting to know what he was like, what his life was about.”
Chelmin smiled. “That’s the most I’ve heard you say at one gulp.”
“I guess. But there’s one more thing: Your arrival is supposed to be a secret. Nobody is supposed to know that I’m bringing in a famous CID investigator.”
“Sorry, but I’m not famous, Will.”
“In certain Army circles, I’ve learned, you’re a living legend. Anyway, as soon as we’re down, I’ll give you my truck keys. It’s parked across the street from the Operations building. I’d like you to take your small bag and go directly to it—a red Chevy Colorado with a crew cab and California plates. Climb in and make yourself comfortable while I secure the aircraft and check back in with Operations. I’ll bring your suitcase and take you to your quarters, and then you can watch me eat a steak at the Officer’s Club.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Chelmin said.
§
Ten miles out, Will called the Cairns tower and was told to land on Runway 18 South. As he hovered down the taxiway toward his tie-down, the first drops of rain splashed the concrete below. A man in a bright yellow rain suit and carrying a pair of flashlights appeared from the darkness and guided him to the right spot.
By the time he shut down the engine, two more men in rain gear had appeared, both carrying heavy canvas tie-down straps.
Will hopped down and one of the men came over. “We’ll take it from here,” he shouted over the wind and rain. Will nodded and the men began to secure the aircraft to steel eye-bolts set into the concrete.
Will gave Chelmin the small bag, grabbed his own gear, and handed over his car keys. As Chelmin headed for the parking lot, Will manhandled the big suitcase out of the back seat and headed for the Operations building.
Inside, he was surprised to find Sergeant Bender behind the Operations desk.
Will said, “Don’t tell me—your relief didn’t show?”
Bender shook his head, no. “He’s out on the flight line securing aircraft, so I volunteered to stay a little longer.”
Will slid the logbook across the desk. “I admire your attitude, Sergeant. I’m sure your superiors see it too.”
Bender shrugged. “Maybe so. Anyway—anything you need to tell me about your aircraft?”
Will shook his head. “Nope. Everything seems to be working well.”
”Where’s your passenger?”
“In my car, trying to stay dry.”
“Say why he’s here, Mister Spaulding?”
“He didn’t say much of anything. And I didn’t ask.”
Bender nodded. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”
Chapter 10
Wearing his oldest suit, the least flashy among his six neckties, and Army-issue black socks inside a pair of mature but presentable Wellingtons, Will parked his truck in front of the Provost Marshal’s office and went inside. As soon as he gave his name, the desk sergeant silently pointed at an office to the left of the desk.
Inside Will found Chelmin, in a well-worn brown suit, plain white shirt, and nondescript necktie waiting with a short, trim colonel, the owner of a head that seemed too large for his body, topped by a long, almost equine face with large teeth inside a down-turned mouth set in a perpetual scowl. On his fatigue jacket were paratrooper wings and a combat action badge—altogether a package labeled No Nonsense Tolerated. He is Fort Rucker’s top cop, the provost marshal.
“Good morning Colonel Moffett,” he said, rendering a salute. “Warrant Officer Will Spaulding, sir.”
With a hard stare, Moffett returned the salute. “The wonder boy himself,” he said in a gravelly, lower octave voice that belonged to a much larger man.
Will shrugged. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
“I meant that General Davis speaks very highly of you, both as an aviator and as an investigator. And Spaulding, I find this an unusual, not to say astonishing, combination of talents.”
“I’ll do my best not to disappoint you or the general.”
Chelmin allowed himself a chuckle.
Moffett turned to Chelmin. “I’ll have a word with him in private. Why don’t you go say hello to D’Angelo.”
Chelmin nodded, and before going through the door shot Spaulding a look that said: “Watch your ass.”
Moffett sat down behind his desk. He did not indicate that Will should take one of the other chairs; he remained standing.
Moffett said, “I don’t know what General Davis expects you to accomplish that my CID agents can’t.”
This did not sound like a question, so Will remained silent.
“Well?” said Moffett.”Cat got your tongue?”
“Sir, I didn’t realize that you had asked a question. If you did, then my answer is that General Davis did not consult me before assigning me this duty. Nor did I volunteer for it, sir. I was ordered to report to General Davis, and when I did so, he ordered me to take charge of the investigation into the disappearance of three officers from this base. He also ordered me to report to him, and him only.”
“What do you think was going through General Davis’s mind when he made this decision, Mister?”
“Sir, I have no opinion on that subject. I wouldn’t have any idea how a general officer’s mind works. What I do know is that he is my superior officer and he issued an order. My only thought is to carry it out to the best of my ability. With the greatest respect, Colonel, if my assignment here troubles you, I would be very happy if you could persuade General Davis to rescind my orders and send me to flight duty.”
Moffett looked thoughtful. “Mister Spaulding, do you think that you are the right person to investigate these abductions?”
“Not necessarily, sir. I’m sure that your resident CID agents have a much firmer grasp on what’s going on around Fort Rucker than me. Most of what I know about the base is what it looks like from the air.”
“Then why, if you know, of all the student pilots on this base, did he send you down here to work?”
“The general indicated to me that he had read my personnel file, sir, and learned that until about a year ago, I was a police detective.”
Moffett sat up in his chair. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. In Barstow, California.”
“What else was in that file, Spaulding?”
“The narrative citations for medals I was awarded last year, sir.”
“Which ones?”
“The Army Commendation Medal and the Soldier’s Medal, sir.”
“Te
ll me about the Arcom.”
“Under Mr. Chelmin’s supervision, we investigated a murder that led us to a criminal conspiracy that included an international gang with narcotics, money, and weapons trafficking operations, and some compromised US government officials, to be succinct.”
“A year ago? What was your MOS at the time?”
“Sir, at that time I did not have an MOS, I was a temporary CID agent, but I had not yet begun basic training.”
“This gets more and more unbelievable. Go find Mr. Chelmin and send him to me.”
“Yes, sir,” Spaulding said, saluted, and when Moffett had returned it, executed an about-face, and headed for the door.
Chapter 11
Chelmin pushed the door to D’Angelo’s private office open and stepped inside. D’Angelo looked up from the file he was reading, a matinee idol with clear olive skin, a full head of lustrous black hair nicely styled but too long for a soldier, gleaming white teeth framed by thin lips, and a winner’s self-confident gaze.
“Rudy Chelmin!” he said, rising to his feet. “What brings you to Crimson Tide country?”
“A little birdie told me that you’re going to Scotland Yard.”
D’Angelo looked like he’d been struck by lightning as he leaned across the desk to shake Chelmin’s hand.
“A little birdie? Scotland Yard? What the hell is this?”
“Got a call from Quantico yesterday hauling me back from my first two-week vacation in nineteen years. They sent a plane for me so I could relieve you, temporarily.”
D’Angelo sat back down and punched the desk intercom.
“Yes, Chief?” said a woman’s voice.
“Katrina, could you come in please?”
A moment later the door opened and a slender, curvy woman in her early twenties entered, her carefully tousled red hair framing a symmetrical face of porcelain skin and long eyelashes over orbs of deep blue. She smiled, the room filled with light, and even Chemin shuddered at the sight of those ruby lips framing blindingly white teeth. “What is it, Nick?” she breathed in a slow, Southern way.
Chelmin stifled a laugh.
“Katrina, did I get anything by courier, or from the message center? Anything unusual at all?”
She frowned. The sun went behind a dark cloud. “No, Nick, I don’t think so.”
Chelmin said, “What about an email from CID headquarters?”
Katrina brightened. “Oh, yes. I have to print it out. You don’t like reading them on the screen. I remember you said that.”
Nick smiled back. “Please print it, and come right back.”
Katrina held up both hands, revealing long, sinuous fingers topped by fingernails of bright tangerine. “The printer is out of paper, and my nails are still wet, Nick. Can you wait about ten minutes?”
“Make it five,” he replied, and she danced from the room.
When the door had closed behind her, Chelmin roared.
“You have real talent,” he said. “Most beautiful secretary I’ve seen in years.”
D’Angelo grinned sheepishly. “She has a business degree. And a Phi Beta Kappa key, if you can believe it. She just likes to embarrass me in front of visitors.”
“If you say so.”
“Security clearance?”
“Just ‘Official Use Only.’ Her ‘Secret’ clearance application went in last month. Should be back any day now.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Chelmin said.
“Have a seat, Rudy,” D’Angelo said, indicating a comfortable chair near his desk.
“What’s really going on?”
Chelmin shrugged. “You’ve been selected for the Forensic Master’s Course at Scotland Yard. It starts in two weeks.”
D’Angelo sat up in his chair and leveled a finger at Chelmin. “That little birdie—you and General Goldzweig—right?”
“What?”
“You guys are thick as thieves. And you go way back. I heard a story, years ago, that you saved his career. When he was a captain or a major, in Berlin, I think.”
Chelmin shook his head. “I’ve never been to Berlin, and I didn’t serve with Goldzweig when he was a captain or a major.”
“But you know him. You served with him, right?”
“Sort of. He was in the Provost Marshal’s office at Dugway Proving Grounds. I was a rookie agent on TDY from Fort Carson for about six weeks. So what?”
“So you’re here to big foot me out of the kidnapping investigation, right? And your boy, Spaulding, he’s here with you, right?”
Chelmin spread his hands, palms down. “I’m not here to big foot you. Give Miss Alabama a few minutes to print out that email, and it all will be clear. And how do you know about Spaulding?”
“You should know this, Rudy. About six months ago, the nuts and bolts of your Barstow Marine Logistics Base investigation with Spaulding, and all your reports have been required reading at CID offices worldwide, and at the Military Police Officers advanced course. Especially because the writing is unusually excellent. And of course, I was told yesterday that the Old Man is coming in an hour for a briefing on the kidnappings and that a Warrant Officer Spaulding is with him.”
Chelmin nodded. “Spaulding is a first-class investigator. And also a helicopter pilot—a fact that he asked me not to share with your staff. My understanding is that you will brief us about that investigation, then move on to your next assignment. I’ll hold the fort down until Quantico decides whether to promote one of your agents to Special Agent in Charge or bring in a more experienced agent.
“And where is Spaulding?” D’Angelo said.
As if in response, the office door opened and Spaulding entered, carrying a piece of paper. “I’m Will Spaulding,” he said. “Your secretary asked me to print these out for you because her nail polish is still wet. And, Colonel Moffett would like to see you, Rudy
Chapter 12
After knocking on Colonel Moffett’s office door, Chelmin walked in and was waved to a chair by Moffett, who was on the telephone.
When he hung up, Moffett stood, stretched, sat down, and then hoisted his feet, clad in regulation combat boots, to the desktop as he sat back in his chair.
“Rudy, help me out. I’ve heard that you’re tight with General Goldzweig. What the hell is going on here?”
Chelmin shrugged. “Near as I can tell, General Goldzweig is doing General Davis a favor. Davis seems to think that your CID crew should have been able to track down three presumably abducted officers by now, and for some reason, he’s getting nervous because it hasn’t happened. Somebody needs to explain to Davis that good police work is seldom done in a hurry. And, strictly off the record, if I was sitting in his chair, I’d have called in the FBI by now. I’d have called them when the first man disappeared. The fibbies have jurisdiction over kidnappings in general and those of federal employees in particular.”
Moffett raised a cautionary hand. “As long as we’re off the record, after the second presumed abduction, I told General Davis that I intended to bring in the FBI. He ordered me not to do that. Maybe it’s because I’m the only officer over the rank of captain on this base who doesn’t know how to fly, but I don’t understand why.”
Chelmin shook his head. “Colonel, I haven’t been read into the case. I don’t know particulars. I’ve had no dealings with Davis. But if I had to guess, he wants the disappearances cleared up before news crews are crawling all over his base, before 20 million Americans learn about the abductions on Sixty Minutes, and before the Pentagon decides that he should have had a handle on this.”
Moffett nodded. “It makes sense. This is his terminal assignment, and he’s probably worried that he’ll be forced to retire early.”
Rudy nodded to show that he agreed. “He’ll bring that on himself. Should have called the FBI. And I’m pretty sure that you know that bringing us in sets up a lose-lose for you. If we don’t come through, he’ll need a high-ranking scapegoat, and that will be you, Colonel. And if we do come through—belie
ve me, that is what we will work toward night and day—if we fix this, then you’ll get no credit.”
Moffett put a sad little smile on his long face. “That’s the crux of it. Now, tell me about your boy Spaulding.”
“I plucked him out of the replacement company at Fort Fremont because I was short-handed. One of my agents was on maternity leave. Another was TDY at Fort Huachuca. And my last agent was a clueless moron, close to retirement, owns a house near the post—untouchable. When I learned that Spaulding had been a police detective, I grabbed him up, hoping that he could just handle some of the leg work. Turns out he’s a crackerjack investigator, very creative, physically brave in every sense—but not crazy—and a first-class report writer to boot. He saved my life and while I was in the hospital, cracked our case with an outside-the-box notion—a wild idea that panned out.”
Moffett swung his feet off the desk and stood up. He leaned across the desk to shake Chelmin’s hand. “You’ve got ten days to show some progress.”
What happens then, Colonel?”
“If I were a betting man, I’d say that ten days from now, one or more of the missing officers’ wives is gonna call the FBI.”
Chapter 13
Chelmin found Spaulding and D’Angelo in the latter’s office, drinking coffee and exchanging stares.
“The general will be here in ten minutes, Nick,” Chelmin said. Who’s doing the briefing?”
D’Angelo smiled. “Asher Shapiro, my lead agent.”
“Where is he?”
The door opened behind Chelmin and he turned to find a miniature woman, five feet tall and a curvy, perfectly proportioned hundred pounds, with long, dark, lustrous hair piled into a neat bun atop an oval head. She had big, dark brown eyes, a sensuous mouth, and a small, pointed nose in a heart-shaped face. She wore a dark gray, tailored pantsuit, low-heeled shoes, and no trace of makeup. She was nevertheless striking, if not beautiful.
“Ash is short for Asher,” she said, in a husky voice near the bottom of the female octaves. “To answer the questions about to burst from your brains, I was born in Korea. North Korea. My mother died in childbirth. At age six days, I was smuggled into China, where I was adopted by Isaac and Rachel Shapiro, employees of the United States Agency for International Development. I grew up in China, , Maryland, and Virginia. I speak English, Mandarin, Cantonese, Hebrew, and a little Yiddish. I do not speak Korean.”