Allies

by Wolf Riedel

  “What do you think about the Disney thing?” asked Mark as he and Sal pulled out of E-One’s parking lot on their way to Ocala’s National Guard armory.

  Sal pondered the question. “I guess it’s possible,” he said. “What are the chances we could pick something up on a security camera?”

  “No idea. I’ve never dealt with them there. Might be worth a look-see though. How long to get there, do you figure?”

  “About an hour and half if we take the Turnpike and the Five Thirty-Five. Then afterward it will be, what, an hour twenty to get to SOCCENT.”

  “He was a great guy. Never a problem.”

  Mark gave the speaker a long, silent stare aimed at coaxing a more expansive answer. Captain David—not Dave but David—Cullen, the commanding officer of ALPHA Company of the 3rd Battalion of the 20th Special Forces Group wasn’t about to be more forthcoming. In the first five minutes of their conversation Mark had pegged the tall and ruggedly good-looking officer as a schmoozer; an accountant in his day-job with a glib way of handling his clients that ensured that they only heard from him what they wanted to hear but nothing revealing.

  “But . . .,” said Mark at last.

  “But what?” replied Cullen with a look, which on anyone else, Mark would have taken as a look of genuine puzzlement.

  “He was a great guy. Never a problem. But . . .,” said Mark looking Cullen straight in the eyes. “There was a definite unspoken but at the end of your statement.”

  Mark and Sal would have rather interviewed the company’s First Sergeant. Evaluations of enlisted men, particularly their weaknesses and extra curricular activities, were usually more candid coming from the senior noncommissioned officers. Evaluations and opinions given by commissioned officers, on the other hand, were usually more political and guarded, the product of years of writing and pushing inflated efficiency reports up the chain of command. All too often it was also the result of the officer simply not knowing about the details of their subordinates’ lives. Unfortunately the First Sergeant was out of town.

  To this point all that Cullen had offered was that Lewis had been a proficient soldier with a particular strength in computers; that he had completed all requisite training efficiently and that he had been deployed twice as an augmentee for two ODAs—once to Afghanistan and once to Iraq. The later deployment had been over a year ago and since then he had remained in Florida, most recently taking a part-time attachment to SOCCENT.

  Cullen took his time responding but at last offered a tidbit.

  “He’s had some financial troubles,” Cullen said. “I’ve had to counsel him about his and his wife’s spending habits.”

  Mark and Sal waited for more. After a long pause Cullen came through.

  “Their bank’s been pushing them on their mortgage,” he said. “The house had cost them a bundle and they’d taken over a sub-prime with a big balloon payment not far down the road. They’d been back-and-forth on it for about nine months. Simply put neither he nor his wife were earning top dollar in their jobs but they were both spending it like there was no tomorrow. Another deployment would have probably put him into bankruptcy but he was quite excited when I was able to arrange a weekend position at SOCCENT. It left him in his civilian job full-time and gave him a little extra cash for his weekend work. SOCCENT was happy too. They’re short of bodies but got tons of cash. They need more-and-more people on a daily basis. They’ll take anyone I can rustle up.”

  Mark nodded and slid his eyes toward the window. The small armory—in size not unlike his own in Lakeland—was located just south of Ocala’s city center surrounded by a parking lot. The lot itself was surrounded by a stand of small but dense woods which screened it from its industrial neighbors on its north and east and its residential ones to the south. On the far side of the lot several members from a company of the 2nd of the 124th Infantry—which shared the armory with Cullen’s troops—were doing maintenance on several HMMWVs. Their bustling activity stood in sharp contrast with the plodding interview that Mark and Sal were engaged in.

  “Did that solve the problem?” asked Mark.

  Cullen shrugged. “I hadn’t heard anything in the last few months. I guess it did.”

  Mark caught the surreptitious glance Sal had thrown his way. He silently agreed with his partner, there wasn’t anything further to be gained here. Time to go to Disney World.

  The trip had been a fast one down the I-75 and Florida’s Turnpike. Even the Daniel Webster Western Beltway had been taken at a quick pace with few slowdowns. From there they’d made their way onto the Disney properties using the relatively obscure Western Way; none of your Mickey or Donald festooned arches welcoming you to the place Where Dreams Come True like on the more heavily trafficked World Drive and Epcot Center Drive.

  Western Way had connected them to Buena Vista Drive which led past what had once been swampland and orange groves but were now immaculately manicured lawns, ornamental bushes, palm trees and well hidden theme parks to their destination, the pastel-hued Team Disney offices. There had been no stopping here except a brief halt to meet Ben Herfst, the Director of Disney Security in the lobby and to put their side arms into a Disney lock box before immediately returning to the parking lot to transfer into a small white SUV; no To Serve and Protect or police badge decal, just a discreet mouse eared D Security logo on the door.

  Mark and Sal were quickly whisked along Buena Vista and World Drive to an administrative area well hidden from the public on the north side of the Magic Kingdom. From there they descended by golf cart into the Utilidor tunnel system that stretched underneath the theme park’s street level. The brightly painted and lit corridors were filled with electrical conduits, signs pointing the way to attractions and a multitude of cast members—from administrative to maintenance to costumed characters—making their way from point to point in the rambling park.

  “This whole system is underground?” asked Sal taken in by the bustle.

  “Technically, no,” said Herfst. The white haired, fifty plus security director wore what was seemingly Disney World executive staff clothing, tan slacks with a small leather holster containing both a walkie talkie and a cell phone, an open-necked, light blue, long-sleeved shirt and a dark blue blazer with a discrete name tag. “These tunnels were actually built on ground level and then the area between them filled in with material that was dredged out of a lake that is now the lagoon to the south of the park. The park itself is actually built on top of all that. There was a hell of a lot of terra-forming done here when the place was originally built.

  Mark stepped to the side of the corridor as a gaggle of princess-costumed cast members stepped out of a doorway and made their way in his direction. Is that the right term? A gaggle of princesses. Or should it be a bevy?

  Herfst directed them through a doorway whose signage had indicated that they were now somewhere beneath Main Street USA. He led them on into a stairwell which took them upward two storeys, past the street level occupied by the park’s guests, into the center of the security operations for the park.

  “Terry!” he called to a man standing amongst banks of computer terminal screens showing images from all across the park. Mark noted him as mid-forties, mid-height, average weight, advance male-pattern balding of his blonde hair and with rimless eye glasses. The man advanced over to them and was introduced to them by Herfst as Terry Whittaker, the security director responsible for the Magic Kingdom park. He ushered them into an office off to the side with a window overlooking the bustle on Main Street below. They settled into chairs around Whittaker’s pedestal desk.

  “Ben called me about your problem,” he said. “We can help you a bit but not much. As I understand it your theory is that there may have been someone following them.”

  “That’s based on the fact that while the parents were killed, the two girls are missing and presumed abducted and we have information that the mother and daughters came here the day of the murder,” said Sal.

  “And that part w
e can confirm,” said Whittaker as he turned one of the three monitors on his desk around to face Mark and Sal. On it was a surveillance camera still of the turnstiles entering the park. Going through the turnstile were the two young Lewis girls followed by their mother who wore the same clothing she was wearing when lying on the floor of the garage. “With the names that you provided, we were easily able to track their annual passes and to isolate the time and the turnstile when and where they entered the park.” He clicked his mouse and there were several additional stills from various cameras extending down Main Street. “That’s all we have. After that we’ve lost them. There’s no record of any credit card use and there’s no way that we have the resources to find them by tracking each and every camera.”

  “Too many people,” observed Mark.

  “Quite right,” said Whittaker. “We get an average of about forty thousand each day but we can hold up to one hundred thousand and during spring break we’re often close to that. That day there were a total of seventy-three thousand entries but remember that not all of those stay; there’s a fair amount of park hopping that goes on so the numbers fluctuate throughout the day.

  “Our resources are for monitoring ongoing situations and unless someone comes to our attention as a developing situation, we do not track people’s activities. Once we do identify a problem issue we usually vector a plainclothes team to follow, observe and resolve the situation.”

  “What about exiting the park?” asked Sal. “Theoretically if they did get targeted here the individual could be on an exit scan with them.”

  “There is no way that we know when they left,” said Whittaker. “People don’t scan out when they exit. I’ve checked into whether there were any entries by them park-hopping into other parks but there weren’t any. We did find that they obtained FastPasses on three occasions but haven’t had time yet to review the videos from those venues and regretfully I don’t think we will be able to. I just don’t have the resources. The best I can do is assign you a liaison to work with you if you can send someone here to review the videos. Maybe if you could give us an approximate time that they arrived back in Ocala we could work backwards and take a guesstimate at their departure time and we could provide the exit scans for that time but I think it’s a needle in a haystack at best.”

  Mark nodded grimly.

  “Like I said,” continued Whittaker, “we don’t have the resources to review the videos, but that day’s scans are backed up and I put a protective hold on them. I can make workstations and a liaison available to you here if you’ve got someone to work it through.”

  Mark nodded. “I’ll talk to the Ocala and Marion County folks while we drive down to SOCCENT. Marion County’s sexual assault unit would probably be best at identifying known perps.” Mark rose and held out his hand. “Thanks for this. We’ve got to get back to Tampa. We’ll get back to you later today.”

  CHAPTER 5

  SOCCENT HQ, Tampa, Florida

  Sunday 04 Mar 07 1500 hrs EST

  Mark joined Richter and Jackson in getting a coffee. Sal declined. They were getting used to being in General Sambrook’s conference room. Since the general had become commander of SOCCENT the relationship between Lakeland’s CID office and SOCCENT had perked up considerably; not that it had ever been terrible before.

  The day Sambrook had taken command had coincided with the murder of a Russian FSB brigadier general in Tampa. Bucking the interference by a legal officer located at CENTCOM, Sambrook had put in place a working relationship which gave Winters unfettered access to SOCCENT’s Command Sergeant Major, Devon Jackson and to Colonel Kurt Richter, Sambrook’s personal troubleshooter and roaming go-to-guy.

  It was the Colonel who, after the conclusion of the Russian case, had managed to set up a formalized, but nonetheless unique, reporting structure with the CID command. Winters now had access, when needed, to CID investigations taking place within CENTCOM’s theaters of operation, particularly Afghanistan and Iraq, whenever they involved SOCCENT controlled people. Ordinarily those investigations came under the authority of whichever CID battalion 3rd CID Group had assigned to the operational theater at any given time. That arrangement hadn’t changed but Winters now had the authority to choose to involve himself in those investigations.

  The relationship had given Mark considerable trepidation at the beginning.

  The intent had been simple. CID investigations generally took time and followed the chain of command that ran back to the individual who was the convening authority for the troops involved. Sambrook, not being a convening authority, had found too much developing information about troops that were under his operational control, was by-passing him or presented too late to be of use. Special forces operations had unique characteristics—their covert nature, their need for timely action and the degree of risk they assumed—that were frequently not well understood by the regular army line units and commands. Winters’ newly granted ability to involve himself in ongoing investigations gave Sambrook and Richter the ability to access raw data as it was being developed and thereby allowing them to initiate timely actions.

  The problem had been that not everyone had understood or agreed with this. It had taken much face-to-face time by Winters to overcome the understandable resistance that existed in theater with both the investigators and the lower leadership levels. Richter had taken the lead when dealing with the CID group and battalion staff but when it had come down to the rank and file, Winters had been blunt with Richter. “You being Canadian isn’t helping,” he’d said. “They may accept you at SOCCENT and at Group, but with the investigators your authority isn’t worth shit.” Richter had seen the wisdom in that and had held back considerably letting Winters take the lead in the process and at times calling in Jackson to help out. Bit-by-bit, Winters had generated an atmosphere of reluctant tolerance to the idea of his office’s involvement.

  As uncomfortable as it had been to set up the new relationship within 3rd Group, Mark’s relationship within SOCCENT had flourished. The typical us-and-them mentality between CID and line units simply didn’t exist here. Richter, Jackson and even Sambrook were approachable and displayed not just professional courtesy to him and his staff but a high level of trust. In exchange he felt more comfortable in discussing aspects of ongoing investigations with them than he did with any of the other units and commanders which his detachment supported.

  “Any word on the girls yet?” asked Jackson as he stood at the room’s side table stirring a fourth packet of sugar into his coffee.

  “Nothing,” said Mark. “Marion County has the lead in that and they’re hitting every known perp with a proclivity for young females in their database. They’ve also put out a statewide alert through the FDLE and a specific one with Tampa PD and Hillsborough County’s Sheriff.”

  “We’re currently working on a theory that the perps probably came from the Tampa or Hillsborough area,” interjected Sal. “That’s based on the fact that the Lewises’ vehicle was found dumped just off SR200 which puts it on the road to Tampa. This thing has all the hallmarks of a hit and the most logical source for that would be either Miami or here. The direction suggests it came from down here.” Sal shrugged. “It’s a weak thing but it’s a thing.”

  “But so far, Marion County’s not really on board with that,” added Mark. “They think it’s more likely that the perp’s a local sex offender.”

  “Is Bill in on this?” asked Richter. Bill was Sergeant Bill Sexton of the Tampa PD’s Homicide.

  “So far no,” said Mark. “I gave his name to Ocala PD and I’ll probably get in touch with him once we’ve developed more information about the Lewises’ background.”

  “Speaking of which I’ve got a guy waiting to talk to you after you finish briefing us,” said Jackson. “Lewis worked for us in IT and the master sergeant managing the people in that section is expecting you.”

  Master Sergeant Emil Paddock was the antithesis to what Mark had come to consider the hallmark of a special ope
rations soldier. Absent were any signs of robustness, physical fitness or steely-eyed determination. Instead he was faced with a short, pudgy, ruddy complexioned—if not outright florid—semi bald, mid-fortyish man. His office was a small one fronting on an open concept workspace covered with a dozen cubicles sprouting computer monitors and ancillary equipment like mushrooms in a damp forest. The analogy carried on into the office which had a dampness and a persistent odor to it that it took Mark a moment to place before he settled on what he called the inside of a sneeze; that humid, pungent cloud of spray that is ejected every time someone sneezes.

  Behind Paddock the wall was covered by a modern workstation with six flat-screen monitors, each displaying an array of computer management modules. The only screen showing anything with which Mark was even remotely familiar was a Microsoft Project Gantt chart although it was too far away to identify what it related to. Between Paddock and Mark and Sal sat an old steel pedestal desk that looked as if it had seen service in Vietnam and, paradoxically, in a facility dedicated to automated data processing, was covered with stacks of papers to a depth of nearly a foot in places.

  “Lewis,” Paddock’s voice suited the man; soft, almost lisping. “I couldn’t believe it when the CSM told me.” He shook his head. “Then again I couldn’t believe it when he didn’t show up for work this morning. I got a call this morning that he hadn’t come in and then, when my guy called his home, he got the police who wouldn’t tell him anything.”

  “Why?” asked Sal.

  “Why?” Paddock looked quizzical.

  “Why couldn’t you believe it when he didn’t show up?”