by Wolf Riedel
“Call it drawing the line somewhere,” said Mark as he unwrapped his own. “How’s Roxy? I didn’t see her this morning when I picked you up.”
“She went in early today. Teddy’s got a big case going on and needed her to help out with some depositions this morning.” Teddy was Teddy Brevard, Esquire, a lawyer in Lakeland; Roxy his law clerk.
“That happen a lot?” Mark asked.
“Hardly ever,” said Sal talking with a mouthful of fries. “It’s still mostly nine-to-five unlike that shift shit that Kristin has to do. I don’t know how you guys can manage that.”
Mark shrugged. “We’ve never known anything else but,” he said. “She was working shifts when I met her and she hardly even took any time off when Max was born.
“So what’s the big case they’ve got?”
“Dunno for sure,” Sal replied. “It’s a wrongful death suit of some type. What I gather is some kids were on a camping trip and they had an old three-wheeler ATV that took a flip with two kids on it; one died the other got pretty badly messed up.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Well . . . what can you do?” Sal shrugged. “So . . . where do we go from here?”
“Start by taking me over to Ocala PD and I’ll see if I can grab a ride back to Lakeland. Meanwhile you stay in town here and start working your way through the list Nordell gave you. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find some probable cause for a search or two. When I get back home I’ll see if I can dig anything more out of CENTCOM. Someone’s got to know something about this full-auto business.”
“What about the autopsy?” asked Sal. “You want to meet there for that?”
Mark sighed. “Man I wish I knew a way to avoid that.” He knew that he couldn’t and even if he could, he wouldn’t. “Yeah. Give me a call later tonight and let me know where you’re at. We’ll figure it out then.”
CHAPTER 12
SOCCENT HQ, Tampa, Florida
Tuesday 07 Mar 07 1400 hrs EST
Phil looked into Kurt’s office and quickly waved him and Chief Warrant Officer 3 O’Donnell down as they started to rise.
“Sit down, sit down,” he said. “How’s the planning going?”
“Good, Sir,” said Kurt. “We’ve just received some timings from Shirazi as to when he can get down here. He’ll be in by early this evening. Looks like we should all be able to get out of here the day after tomorrow.”
“I’m glad your folks could spring him,” said Phil. “He does good work.” Shirazi was Master Warrant Officer Cyrus Shirazi, an Iranian-Canadian Senior NCO who had served with Kurt in JTF-2 and subsequently on several missions with both Phil and Kurt. He currently worked in Ottawa but loved to get away whenever Kurt could spring him.
Kurt agreed. “Between him and Mister O’Donnell here,” Kurt tilted his head toward O’Donnell, “we’ve got the best in the business on this. We’ll get it figured out.”
O’Donnell had been with Phil during his time at 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment - Delta and had been working at the Small Unit Tactics Battalion at the Special Warfare Center at Bragg when Phil had convinced him to come to work for him first at SOCOM and subsequently SOCCENT.
“I’ve just been getting a brief on the latest about our ODA friends in Zabul,” said Kurt. “You want to sit in?”
“No, thanks,” said Phil. “I’ve got an Iraqish meeting going on down the hall. You guys run with this. I’ll wait for your report.”
Phil turned away and then hesitated. “Dinner still on at your place tonight?” he asked.
“Yup. Plan for around eighteen hundred but don’t worry if you’re late. We’ll play it by ear.”
Phil strode into the anteroom of his executive suite and noticed his visitor already waiting for him on the couch across from his assistant and aide. He waived the latter two off as they started to rise and held out his hand to the former.
“Good to see you again, Sean,” he said. “We don’t get to meet much anymore.”
On the back side of his thirties and standing in at five-foot ten, Sean Fenton, a burly Virginian, had transferred to the Central Intelligence Agency's Special Activities Division after seven years with the Navy's SEALs. Shortly after 9/11 Fenton had arrived in Afghanistan as a mid-level SAD officer to help organize the Afghan Northern Alliance and plan for the follow up invasion of Afghanistan by Special Forces. In the end, some one hundred CIA officers, three hundred and fifty Special Forces and about fifteen thousand Northern Alliance fighters well supported by US air power defeated a Taliban force of almost fifty thousand. During the later stages of that fight Fenton, as he was wont to say, zigged when I should have zagged and intercepted a handful of shrapnel. Four months later, mostly recuperated, he was posted to MacDill as one of the CIA's representatives at SOCOM where he had been a frequent contact for Phil when Phil had worked there for the Director SOJ2; the Command’s intelligence division.
“That’s cause they don’t let me do briefings anymore,” said Sean.
Phil snorted and pointed Sean toward a seat on one of his office’s leather couches.
To Phil, the CIA was a heavy bureaucracy as much concerned with protecting its own reputation as providing actionable intelligence. In his mind eighty percent of the secrets it kept were for legitimate security concerns while twenty percent had a cover-your-ass purpose. Chief amongst those in his mind was the recently discontinued program of enhanced interrogation. In his mind the CIA’s program using minimally qualified interrogators was deeply flawed, had seriously damaged the country’s reputation amongst its allies, had produced little intelligence of value and, in all probability, had interfered with the more effective interrogations conducted by trained military and FBI interrogators.
Sean had been a vocal opponent to this and various other CIA activities. It had been nothing short of a miracle that he hadn’t been recalled to Langley to finish out his career in some sub-basement office. Fortunately for Phil, Sean was still at SOCOM and therefore continued to offer a trustworthy point of entry to intelligence issues that were of interest to SOCCENT.
“I guess that your absence from the briefings is probably why I don’t hear much about Operation AVARICE anymore,” Phil said. He wasn’t sure if this was the real name for the operation; it was a name that had come into usage and it seemed to fit its character. “My people are still interested in what’s going on.”
“I don’t know what to tell you beyond the fact that we think it’s run its course. I presume you’ve gotten nothing from the military side,” said Sean.
Phil shook his head. The operation had started two years previously when the search for Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction was at its height. The need to find evidence that Saddam had such weapons had been a top priority since the Bush administration’s invasion of Iraq had been predicated on their existence. Little had been found beyond several thousands of carrier shells and rockets that seemed more to be lost and forgotten munitions going back to the Iran-Iraq wars of the 1980s than a continuing, active special weapons program.
Then the CIA had been contacted by a source who alleged that there were still live rounds, primarily aluminum 122mm al-Borak rockets, that had been locally manufactured in Iraq for the delivery of Sarin nerve gas. He agreed to find and sell these to the CIA. A few of these munitions had been found by the Army in 2004 and 2005 before the first was delivered through the CIA’s source in the fall of 2005. They had been analyzed and confirmed to contain Sarin at a purity level beyond what had been considered within the capability of the Iraqi industry. As a result, a joint CIA, army intelligence and army chemical and EOD element task force was set up to handle these munitions; the CIA to deal with the source and to do the acquisition, the others to handle the analysis and disposal. Over four hundred rounds had dribbled in during 2005 and 2006 and then, this last winter, nothing.
“No,” Phil said. “All we’ve ever had through them is analysis of what was turned over. All that they can report is the fact that nothing new has come in.
It’s your guys who would be able to tell us why that is.” Phil paused a second. “I don’t have to tell you that this causes an interest amongst our people who still wonder to what extent they need to take chemical agent protective action.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Phil,” said Sean. “I’ll reach out and see what I can find out but I think the good news in this is that this guy is selling these things to us for cash. The fact that he isn’t offering us any now leads me to conclude that he’s exhausted his supply.”
“That would make me feel a lot better if he hadn’t previously threatened to sell them to the insurgents”
“But he didn’t because we could pay more. This guys no idealist; he’s in business. Anything that he can find he’ll offer up for sale to the highest bidder.” Fenton shrugged his shoulder. “I think the best advice I can give is that we know that there were unmanaged, small stocks laying around and we have incomplete knowledge about who amongst the Iraqis knew or controlled these. There’s always a chance that more will come to light.” Fenton held his hands up in mock surrender. “I think that’s probably the best I can do for you.”
CHAPTER 13
James West Army Reserve Center, Lakeland, Florida
Tuesday 06 Mar 07 1725 hrs EST
Mark sipped gratefully on the steaming cup of coffee that Sal had brought with him, together with a blueberry muffin, from Mitchell’s. The coffee supplied in the detachment’s break room was only one step removed from swill; you get what you pay for. The muffin had been a bit much but Mark couldn’t say no; baked goods were Sal’s one weakness and he insisted that everyone around him participate when he did.
“Anything new out of Company A?” asked Mark setting down his coffee in order to turn his attention to the muffin.
Sal waved him off as he swallowed his own mouthful. “A little bit,” he said, pulled a notebook from his pocket and slid it across the table to Mark. “I was able to get to four of them and two were pretty open.”
Mark scanned through the notes remarking on the names, ranks and comments.
Sal continued, “Everyone of them acknowledged that Lewis was heavily into small arms purchases and sales, two say they knew he did full auto conversions, one of those said that Lewis had told him that he had a guy who was licensed to convert them and who had access to transferable components; whatever those are.”
“I can help you with that,” said Mark. “I’ve researched that this afternoon.
“Prior to 1934 machine guns were treated like any other firearms which means that they were pretty much unrestricted. Then the National Firearms Act was enacted and required that they be registered for a big fee but didn’t prohibit them. In 1968, the Gun Control Act prohibited imported machine guns from being sold to civilians. Lastly in 1986 The Firearms Owners Protection Act banned the possession of new machine guns by civilians. Incidentally certain parts that allow a weapon to fire fully automatic are in themselves classified as a machine gun.
“Long story short a machine gun or component registered before, what was it now?” Mark looked at his own notes. “Here it is . . . May 19th, 1986 is legal and can be transferred between civilians. Estimates are that there are a couple of hundred thousand of these in circulation. These are bloody expensive and can cost ten, twenty grand or more depending on their type. Don’t forget that over and above that there are also a whole lot of organizations who can legally possess machine guns including the military, the police, dealers and manufacturers and that there is a business for repair and replacement of machine gun parts.”
“So how does that work with the AR-15?” asked Sal.
“Haven’t finished with that yet but from what I understand to make an AR-15 full auto you start with a semi-automatic AR-15 and several parts from an M16: a bolt carrier, hammer, selector and disconnecter and a specialty part called a drop-in auto sear; DIAS for short. From what I gather, prior to 1981 anyone could freely manufacture a DIAS. They were pretty cheap and a whole lot were sold. Then in 1981 there was a ruling that grandfathered existing sears but said any new ones had to be registered. So technically you can own an unregistered pre-1981 sear but if you do you aren’t allowed to also own an AR-15. Any unregistered sear made after 1981 is simply illegal by itself but they’re not that hard to make and there are a lot of illegal ones out there.”
“How can you tell the difference?” asked Sal.
“That’s part of the problem; you really can’t unless you have paperwork to back it up,” answered Mark. “I think what’s important here is to understand that there are lots of parts out there to make an AR-15 full-auto. If you have access to registered i.e. legal parts then both they and the final products are very pricey. On the other hand if you use unregistered or newly made parts and if the end user doesn’t care if it is registered or not then there is a potential for a very high profit margin.”
Sal stood and walked over to the window. He stared out at the cemetery that spread out beyond. “So we haven’t yet found any paperwork or equipment to lead us to one conclusion or the other,” he said.
Mark took another sip of his coffee. “Nope. But I’m putting my money on the fact that it’s the latter. So besides the murder investigation here I’d wager we’re also doing a felony investigation into the illegal manufacture and sale of machine guns.”
Sal contemplated the matter some more. “Are you bringing Lucky in on this?” he asked.
“I’ve already told him to keep his ear to the ground on this and to give Ezzy a heads up,” Mark said. “There are about three thousand Air Force people at MacDill and a lot of them have pretty high technical skills.”
“What about Sykes?” asked Sal referring to WO4 Bernie Sykes, the Benning MP Battalion’s Operations Officer and the Detachment’s immediate boss.
“I gave him a heads up too. He’ll have someone browse around the files to see if there’s anything ongoing that could be connected.”
“Okay, then,” said Sal as he turned to the door and gave Mark a short wave. “I’m out of here. See you in the morning.”
Mark had spent a further fifteen minutes researching the issue of AR-15 conversions and decided to pack things in and head home when the phone rang.
“Winters.”
“Mark? It’s Detective Agnew,” said the voice on the phone.
“Phyllis? How can I help you?” Mark asked.
“Just calling to pass on some information,” she said. “We’ve got back some analysis on the slugs recovered from the Lewises.”
“Hang on while I get a pen.” Mark dug his notepad out of his pocket to record the particulars of the call.
“Go,” he said.
“There are some fragments that aren’t conclusive, but we’re pretty sure that every round fired came from the same gun. There’s nothing that points to a second one being used. In short the rounds were .32 ACP Remington UMC 71 grain FMJs.”
“That probably doesn’t help us at all unless we can find a gun to tie them to. Lots of guns use those rounds. With the number of rounds fired it’s probably an automatic or even a small machine pistol. There are some revolvers that use the .32 ACP too but with the number of rounds fired that’s most probably an outside chance as he’d have had to reload somewhere during all that.”
“That’s what we figure as well,” said Agnew. “There’s a lot of argument about how powerful a round the .32 is. Most cops would only use it as a back-up gun, but the fact of the matter is that the guns that fire it are usually pretty compact, are easy to hide, can be drawn from a pocket without snagging. The stopping power is adequate for short-range gang-banger shit. A lot of the shootings in the bigger cities use .32s.”
“Have you gotten anything on ATF’s databases yet?” he asked.
“We don’t have our own terminals into IBIS/NIBIN so Forensics is still working with FDLE’s people in Tallahassee on that. We’ve got nothing back yet. They certainly don’t compare to anything in our own database. We’ll let you know if there’s anything else.�
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“Thanks, Phyllis,” he said. “At least we’ll have an idea what to keep our eyes open for.”
Not for the first time, Mark was thankful for the fact that it was less than a five minute drive between the office and his home; half a mile as the crow flies, less than a mile following the roads. Notwithstanding Agnew’s phone call he had made it home a few minutes before six, another half hour before sunset; time for a quick swim.
As he pulled into the driveway and stepped out of the car he basked in the warm moist day. After a cool start, today’s high had gone to, and still was, seventy-seven. He’d have to hurry because with the setting sun would come a quick and predictable cool down to sixty or less.
The short walkway from the driveway to the front entrance to the house was a riot of fern-like bushes and multi-colored flowers all dominated by a fifty foot tree on the front of the lot. Being on the west side of the property the tree barely provided any shade from the sun even in the last few minutes of the day.
I’m getting way too used to this weather, he thought. His childhood and schooling had all happened near his home in Nashua, New Hampshire where at this time of year the average high would be in the low forties. He’d looked it up online and today it had barely cleared twenty there. The low was going to be zero. No idea how much snow was on the ground but, while typically five feet fell during the winter, it was well spaced out and it only became extreme if a bad nor’easter dumped a lot at one time.
Mark made his way through the house to the master bedroom shedding his clothes and calling a hello to Kristen along the way. Slipping on his swim trunks, a recent purchase at Ron-Jon’s in Cocoa Beach, he darted into the kitchen for a quick hug and kiss with Kristin and a tousle of Max’s hair followed by a quick kiss to his forehead.