by Leigh Barker
Ethan looked up. “Yeah, why not. They’ll have Internet.”
“We got time to download porn, then, Top?” Loco asked.
Ethan ignored him.
He left Chuck to handle the check-in and went into the business lounge, found a computer, spread the map on the polished desk and examined the circled area. Then he Googled the coordinates. A moment later he had a satellite view of the area. Out in the field he would’ve given somebody’s right arm for access to satellite images like these. Times moved on. Yeah, and technology got smarter while marines just got older.
The marked area was to the north-west of the city off Route 61, out in the sticks. Which was both good and bad. Good that it meant they wouldn’t be overlooked by locals, who’d see their guns and get the uniforms involved, but bad because they’d stand out as being the only humans for miles.
He leaned back in the big leather chair. They’d need wheels, not a family runabout, but real wheels capable of handling the boggy terrain and complete lack of roads. Not the sort of thing he could just go and buy, except maybe one of those suicide buggies. He needed the real thing. A MATV. Yeah, right, the Corps are just going to hand one of those over to a master sergeant. He could imagine it now. Excuse me, Major, can I borrow one of your all-terrain vehicles? You’re not using it, are you? He could also imagine the answer.
The squad came into the lounge and fell into the chairs.
“Anybody order beer?” Winter asked.
“Plan first, beer later,” Ethan said, turning the map so they could see it. “This is swamp.” He pointed at the circle. “And forest. One road in.”
Chuck pulled the map closer and examined it. “They’ll have lookouts along that road.”
“They will,” Ethan said.
“We’ll need to flush them,” Chuck said, and raised an eyebrow. “I’m guessing that’s me.”
“Yeah, with Loco and Smokey.” Ethan glanced at Smokey, who was asleep in one of the big chairs.
“The SUV’s no good for that,” Chuck said.
“Agreed,” Ethan said, and leaned back. “We need some wheels.”
“Can’t you just ask for them?” Loco said. “You being all regenerated in the Corps.”
Ethan ignored him. “Any ideas?”
Ben chuckled and they waited for his words of wisdom.
“Ever see Dirty Dozen?”
Ethan frowned. “Yeah, few times. They had it at some base someplace. Kept showing it.”
“Remember when Donald Sutherland’s character pretends to be a general?”
“Sure, so what?” Ethan asked, then got it. “That’ll never work.”
“Only plan I’ve got,” Ben said.
“It’s a movie plan,” Chuck said. “It’ll get us ten years’ hard time.”
“Nah,” Ben said, “they’ll just shoot us.”
Ethan stood up and walked around the small lounge. “There’s a Marine reserve base in New Orleans.”
“There is,” Chuck said.
“They’ll have vehicles.”
“They will.”
“Let’s go and borrow some.” Ethan picked up his go-bag and headed for the exit.
The rest of them looked at each other and sighed. Ten years’ hard time.
Chuck caught up with him in reception and put his hand on his arm to slow him down. “One problem with the plan. If you can call it a plan,” he said quietly. “To pretend to be a general you’ll need a uniform.”
Ethan tutted. “Been a long day.”
“It has. I vote we get some sleep then recon the base in the morning.”
“This is a democracy now, eh, Chuck?” Ethan was smiling. “Rest and recon. Make it so, Number One.”
Chuck slapped him on the shoulder. “Bar first?”
“Bar first.” Ethan pointed ahead. “Beer’s on me.” He caught Chuck’s eye. “Watch them, Gunny, tomorrow’s a big day.”
“Copy that.” Gunny frowned. “Where will you be?”
“I’m going to speak to a friend at the FBI, see if she’s found anything.”
“I’ll handle the beer, then.”
The rest of the squad was with him almost before he’d finished speaking.
Ethan was showered, dressed in loose canvas slacks and a light T-shirt with a light beige multi-pocket waistcoat, with more pockets than a man could decently use.
He was eating breakfast in his room shortly after dawn cracked the orange-lit sky, and Googling the Marine Logistics Group in New Orleans on the laptop the concierge had scrounged for him. Not poster boys for combat, but without guys like these, there wouldn’t be any combat, well, not for very long, then there’d be lots of dead marines. And no body bags.
He scrolled through the list of officers and NCOs on the base, stopped and leaned closer to the screen. And smiled. No surplus-store uniforms required. He popped a corner of toast into his mouth and washed it down with the remains of a jug of black coffee.
There was a knock on the door, a rhythmic knock that could only be Gunny Chuck Petty. It was one of his annoying little habits, one of many. He said it made sure nobody mistook him for a bad man and shot him. He was pushing that assertion and his luck to the precipice.
Ethan looked up from the laptop, waited several seconds just to let Chuck stand there in the corridor, then got up and opened the door.
“Hey, it’s you, Chuck,” he said, and stepped aside.
“You knew it was me, didn’t you, Top? Just messing with me.”
“I’d never do that to my most trusted sergeant,” Ethan said, with lie written all over his face.
“I’ve roused the men and they’re grabbing coffee. Ready for wheels up in thirty.”
Ethan pointed at the laptop. “Take a look.”
Chuck leaned over the end of the bed and looked at the screen. “Shit! That’s the Sergeant Major Bradley P. Whitmire. Older, but it’s him, sure enough.”
“It is. And he owes me one.”
“More than one,” Chuck said.
“Round up the troops,” Ethan said, pushing his Sig into its belt holster on his right hip.
“Your FBI…friend tell you anything useful?” Chuck asked as he followed him out of the room.
“Nothing we don’t already know. The local forensics found mud on the bus from the airport. Swamp mud.” He shrugged. “Could just mean it’s been on a tour to the bayous. But it supports what we have.” He pressed the elevator button and waited. “Kelsey says there’s a survivalist cult in the area we’re heading for. Been on the FBI radar for a while. Extremists, but done nothing but frighten people away. So far.”
Chuck followed him into the elevator.
“You think they’ll frighten us away?”
“Could do,” Ethan said with a smile. “I’ve been getting a bit skittish just lately.”
Sergeant Major Bradley P. Whitmire stood in his office doorway and looked Ethan up and down slowly, a smile on his face. “Well, Master Sergeant Ethan Gill, I heard you were dead.”
“I recovered.” He shook the offered hand. “Good to see you again, Brad.” It was mostly true.
Brad patted his generous stomach. “More to see in some places.” He brushed his hand over his bald head. “And less in others. Still, can’t complain.”
“Never stopped you before,” Ethan said with a smile.
“Come on in. Take a load off.” Brad led the way into his office.
Ethan looked around and whistled. “Improvement on Helmand.” He patted one of the overstuffed armchairs and sat down slowly so he didn’t flop back into it and look like a complete fool.
Brad sat behind his equally overstuffed, leather-topped and immaculate desk and moved a picture of him shaking hands with George Bush. So Ethan would see it. He saw it.
“Got a problem, Brad,” Ethan said, leaning forward as much as the stupid chair would let him.
Brad nodded slowly. “Figured as much. Don’t see any of the old crowd since I got sidelined into this paper-pushing. He looked up. “Hey
, how’s the squad doing? Old and fat by now, right?” He grinned, then frowned as he thought hard. “Let me see.” He started checking them off on his fingers. “Edward?”
“Elward. Eddie Elward.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Dead.”
“Damn, sorry to hear that.” He sighed to show how sorry he was. “And that Hispanic. I liked him.”
“Manuel Alvarez. Dead. Caponetto too. Left them all in a shithole in Helmand.” Now Ethan sighed, but his was the real deal. He’d tried not to think too much about his friends. It hadn’t worked. He saw them pretty much every time he closed his eyes to sleep.
“Shit,” Brad said quietly. “We lost some good men over there.”
Ethan’s eyes fell on the photograph of Bush shaking hands and grinning. “Yeah, we did. Gotta ask what for, way things worked out.”
“Man says go, we go.” Brad shrugged.
“Oorah,” Ethan said, without much enthusiasm.
Brad leaned forward until his stomach pressed against the desk. “This problem?” He raised his eyebrows. “Something I can help you with?”
Ethan looked around the office again while he thought how to phrase it. The wall to his right was floor-to-ceiling bookcases in faux mahogany, with sliding glass doors securing lines of leather-bound tomes bearing the US Marines crest. The opposite wall was covered with certificates and photographs of Good Ol’ Brad shaking hands with… just about everybody. Ethan looked down and killed the smile when he saw that the carpet echoed the books’ crest and had a huge eagle, globe and anchor woven into it. It was like the Oval Office.
Ethan looked up quickly before he lost it. “I hope you can, Brad.”
“Say the word. I owe you big time for that… well, for Camp Bastion.”
Yeah, you do. “Forgotten about it.”
Brad nodded his thanks. “You need something I got. It’s yours.”
“Good to hear. I need a MATV.”
Brad’s jaw dropped into his loose jowls. “Jesus!”
Ethan raised his hands in mock surrender. “Only a loan. I’ll bring it back. And it’s official business.”
Brad let out his breath in a long sigh of relief and put out his hand. “Okay. Thank God. You got the paperwork with you?”
“That’s the problem. This op was put together in a hurry.” He turned his hands to show they were empty. “No paperwork.”
“Then that is a problem.”
“Not for a man like you, I’m sure,” Ethan said, with a big smile. Your good friend here.
Brad drummed his fingers on the desktop and looked at Ethan while his brain whirred. Then he shook his head. “Can’t be done.” He shook some more, and his chins joined in. “Not for a MATV. They’re just in. Everybody wants one. No, can’t be done.”
Ethan knew that before he’d asked. “What about a Humvee, then?”
Brad tilted his head as he thought about it. “Been replaced by the all terrains.” He made a low humming noise.
“Then you’ll have a few Humvees lying around waiting to be decommissioned.”
“Most of them have gone.” Brad smiled. “Very popular is your Humvee. With the brass.” He looked over at the picture wall. Probably looking for the biggest handshake. “Only got a couple left.”
“Only want two,” Ethan said, finally getting to what he really wanted.
“Two? You said one.”
“That was the MATV. Humvees I’ll need two. Can you do that for me?”
“What’s it for?”
Ethan took a moment to decide if he should tell him. “You heard about the generals getting assassinated?”
“Yeah. Not safe to take a shit these days. What’s the fuckin’ country coming to? Where’s the fuckin’ FBI when you need them? Squeezing Congress’s balls to get more funding for more plush fuckin’ offices and more—”
“You can do it, then?” Ethan said.
Brad licked his lips and stared at Ethan for several seconds. “So you’re looking for the bastards killing our boys?”
“I am.” He neglected to mention the FBI.
The nod again. He opened one of the rack of drawers in his desk and took out a stack of papers. “See these?”
Ethan nodded, not needing glasses yet.
“You’re supposed to bring me a bunch like this, signed by every SOB in the Marines, then I can give you a pencil.”
Ethan guessed Sergeant Major Bradley P. Whitmire was not happy in his present role.
Brad bundled them up and dropped them back into the drawer. “Fuck ’em.” He stood up. “Come with me.” He stopped at the door. “You’ve got another driver?”
Ethan resisted the smart-ass comment that came to mind, no point souring the cream at this point. “Got the whole squad sitting in your parking lot.” He smiled.
Brad smiled. Everybody feeling happy. It gave Ethan a nice, warm glow.
The squad was in the parking lot, in the SUV. Smokey was asleep in the back. And Brad shook hands with every one of them. It was a bit creepy, a sergeant major shaking hands with ordinary grunts. It wasn’t natural.
He finished handshaking and headed off someplace to find Ethan two Humvees. Ethan watched him go then turned to the men standing around the SUV, looking uncomfortable, like they’d kissed their sister or been caught looking down the teacher’s blouse.
“He’s just lonely,” he said, as if that made things better.
Loco put his fingers down his throat and mimed throwing up.
“That ain’t no way for a sergeant major to behave,” Ben said, with a long slow shake of his head. “No way I’d want to be engaging the ragheads with him in charge.”
“He was an okay soldier in his day,” Ethan said.
“What day was that, then, Top?” Loco asked. “WW2?”
“He’s not much older than me,” Ethan said, then wished he hadn’t.
“You should quit there, Top,” Chuck said.
“We got the transport,” Ethan said, taking Chuck’s advice. “What else do we need?” It was a rhetorical question. “Four M16s, an M82 sniper system for Loco, and an MP5 submachine gun for Smokey.”
The squad were laughing quietly, and Chuck put it into words. “What are we up against? M82’ll blow a hole in a tank!”
Ethan nodded slowly. “Yeah, just dreaming. The M16s will be no problem.” He looked at Loco’s eager face. “Sorry, Loco, the M82…” He shrugged. “No chance. Maybe get an M40 and a Colt SMG for Smokey.” He looked around. “This is the Marines, remember? They don’t want to make it too easy.”
“You want I should drift over to the stores and requisition them, Top?” Loco asked.
Ethan closed his eyes in despair. “Yeah, you do that. We’ll probably visit you in Leavenworth.”
“You got a plan, then, Top?” Loco asked.
“Top’s always got a plan, bonehead,” Smokey said.
“No, he don’t! Not always anyhow.” Loco sounded genuinely hurt, which wasn’t hard to achieve.
“If you’ll shut up long enough, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” Ethan said.
They shut up and listened intently. It was unnerving.
“I’m going to ask Brad for four Browning M2 fifty-cal machine guns. He’ll have a cow right there and then. So I’ll downgrade my request to a couple of M16s. He’ll be so relieved he’ll arrange it.” He looked straight at Loco. “We’ll all go on over to stores, and while we’re helping the quartermaster pick out the M16s, you, Loco’ll go get the rest of the gear.”
“What about Leavenworth?” Loco asked.
Ethan shrugged. “You get caught, we’ll deny ever seeing you before.”
“Fair enough,” Loco said. “What are friends for?”
“Who said we’re friends?” Chuck said.
“Yeah, right,” Loco said. “I’ll remember that when we’re in some hole getting shot to shit.”
“Have you all finished?” Ethan asked mildly. The worst possible tone for a master sergeant.
They
shut up instantly.
Ethan intercepted Brad as he returned to his office; he was grinning like a kid who’d been given a new bike. Ethan thought he should feel bad about spiking his happy mood, but couldn’t work up to it.
“Well,” Brad said, “you’re the proud owners—borrowers of two low-mileage Humvees. Wasn’t easy, but hey, I owed you one.”
Ethan didn’t miss the use of the past tense. “Knew you’d pull it off, Brad. You always were a player to watch.” He slapped him on the shoulder and followed him into his office. “Just a couple more things and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Brad stopped dead and turned around slowly.
“You’re pushing me too far, Ethan.”
“How’s your daughter?” Ethan gave him a second to register the question. “Kimberly, isn’t it?”
Brad frowned hard. “She’s fine. She’s married to a banker in LA.” He was silent for a moment while he tried to work it out. “What’s Kimberly got to do with this?”
Ethan pointed at the chair behind the desk and Brad sat and waited while Ethan returned to the big armchair and sat down.
“I told you about the mission.”
Brad nodded slowly, suspicious that he’d been hoodwinked.
“And it’s like I said.”
“But?” Brad added.
“But that’s not exactly why we’re down here.”
Brad licked his lips nervously. “Jesus, was all that a snow job?”
“No, I’d never do that.” That was a lie, but no point spoiling the man’s day. “We’re here to rescue a kid, the daughter of one of the agents investigating the assassinations.”
Brad sat up. “A kid’s been kidnapped? Why isn’t the FBI handling this? It doesn’t sound like a job for Special Ops to me.”
Ethan got out of the god-awful chair and sat on the corner of the desk. “The FBI is working on it.” He smiled. “They just don’t know it.”
Brad was confused and looked it.
“The assassination of the generals is an FBI case, and I’m working as a… consultant.” Ethan shrugged. “Problem is—”
“There’s a leak,” Brad finished, demonstrating that the desk job hadn’t completely robbed him of all his skills.
“Yes, there’s a leak. If I tip my hand, they’ll kill the kid.”