Allies

by Wolf Riedel

  She was able to fight back the confusion and the darkness for a few seconds and finally saw the phone sitting next to the easy chair. In a slow crawl she fought her way across the room , inch by inch, desperate to connect to someone who could help.

  In her mind it seemed that she might have passed out fully once but eventually found herself next to the phone. By now she felt numb all over and her left arm had stopped responding to her. With what little control she had left in her right arm she reached up and knocked the phone to the floor where the handset fell to the side. She could hear the phone’s dial tone. Desperately she brought her right hand over to the phone’s keypad and one by one pressed the keys: 9 . . . 1 . . . 1.

  The dial tone was replaced by beeps as she dialed and then a voice came faintly across to her.

  “Nine—one—one. What is your emergency?”

  Priti tried to speak but nothing came.

  Again. “Nine—one—one. What is your emergency?”

  Behind her Jay had stopped moaning.

  And a tear rolled down her cheek.

  PART 1

  — § —

  CHAPTER 1

  Mile Marker 79.6, Florida SR-60

  Tuesday 16 Oct 07 2349 hrs EST

  Mark pulled the heavy SUV over to the side of the road next to the Wendy’s sign. He saw Sal right where he’d said he would be waiting. The car’s red and blue emergency lights flashed in a random pattern brightly illuminating the nearby bushes, buildings and sign posts not to mention Sal Watts’ bald head and T-shirt.

  Watts opened the vehicle’s back passenger door allowing a rousing rendition of Yellow River to escape into the night. He threw his go-bag onto the floor in front of the back seat, slammed the door and came forward and opened the front passenger one.

  “Don’t you ever listen to anything other than Credence?” he asked.

  “Why bother?” replied Mark as he gunned the vehicle back onto the highway before Sal could even fasten his seat belt. “Once you’ve found perfection, there’s no need to change.”

  The black 2006 GMT800 3/4 ton Suburban complete with a police pursuit push bumper, grill wraps, a radio and light package, working air, all-wheel drive, a 496 cubic inch Vortec V8 had come to the detachment the previous winter with only forty-seven miles on the odometer in order to replace a broken down Piece-of-Shit Crown Victoria Police Interceptor. It now had some forty thousand miles on it but was still Mark’s pride and joy. Sal simply referred to it as The Pig or the Heavy Chevy as the mood struck him.

  Mark was Chief Warrant Officer 2 Mark Winters of the US Army’s Criminal Investigation Command and the special agent in-charge of its Lakeland, Florida sub-office. Their office was collocated in the James West Army Reserve Center with the headquarters company of a Florida National Guard artillery battalion. Sal was Staff Sergeant Salvadore Watts, also a CID special agent and, Mark’s second in command. Their office, which reported directly to the CID Battalion located at Fort Benning, Georgia, had responsibility for all felony investigations concerning US Army facilities or personnel within the Florida Peninsula. Besides dealing with southern Florida’s Army National Guard their jurisdiction included investigations involving the army’s elements at each of US Central Command and US Special Operations Command in Tampa, and US Southern Command in Miami—CENTCOM, USSOCOM—or simply SOCOM—and SOUTHCOM respectively.

  “I’m just sayin’” said Sal, “that there are whole new genres of music out there now. Once in a while you could play something else.”

  Mark grinned but made no effort to change the CD that was playing.

  They quickly made their way out of the last vestiges of the built up area that was Lake Wales, a small farming community of some twelve thousand. With the lights behind them the four-lane divided highway dropped into total blackness as it made its way in straight lines across alternating stretches of farmland and marshes. State Road 60 was the most direct road connecting Tampa on the Gulf Coast with Vero Beach on the Atlantic and passed close by Lakeland. While divided, the road was not a limited access one and therefore Mark had to keep his eyes open for the odd pickup truck or deer that might deign to wander across the pavement. The high beams cut through the darkness but even so the lights barely illuminated far enough ahead at the hundred miles an hour that Mark was pushing the SUV.

  Sal looked out a bit concerned. “Do we really need to go this fast?” he asked.

  “One of them is still alive.” Was the curt reply. A pause. “I’m concerned about the scene and the evidence. I’m not sure how much support is available down there.”

  Sal nodded knowingly but not really knowing what the problem was. The work day had finished, and he and his significant other Roxy, a legal secretary for a downtown Lakeland lawyer, had gone to have dinner and a few drinks with friends who lived in Lake Wales. They had been about to head back home when Mark’s call had come. Logistically, since Mark had to drive through Lake Wales anyway, it had just seemed simpler for Sal to wait for him there while Roxy drove herself home. Simpler maybe, but in spite of that Roxy had definitely driven off for home in a huff.

  “So what have we got?” asked Sal. There had been no time to go into detail on the phone.

  “Don’t know all that much. Got a call from the Indian River County Sheriff saying they had an incident concerning a soldier and his wife at the Wabasso Beach Resort. Ever hear of it?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Roxy and I went down there once for a weekend. Nice place. Any idea who this guy is?”

  “Yup. Had his ID with him. A Major Vijay Chopra. I had Benning track him down for me. He’s National Guard out of Maryland. Assigned to Company B of the 2nd Battalion of the 20th Special Forces Group. They tell us he’s currently on active duty assigned to the Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force-Horn of Africa.”

  “Any idea why he’s here.”

  “Nada. I left a message with CSM O’Donnell at SOCCENT to see what he could find out. They have overall command of CJSOTF-HOA.”

  Sal nodded and thought for a few seconds. “What did the local Sheriff have to say?”

  “Not that much. Apparently they got a 9-1-1 call with a dead phone so they sent a patrol to investigate. Took them some time to figure out where in the resort the call had come from but eventually they found the place and got let in by security. Chopra and his wife were unconscious so they called in an ambulance and paramedics. They hauled them off to the nearest hospital but the word on the scene was that the major was probably already gone.”

  It had taken them forty minutes to cover the remaining sixty-five miles to the I-95 Overpass at Vero Beach. Ahead of them lay the lights of a continuous stretch of commercial businesses flanking the road.

  Sal clicked off the phone function of his Blackberry. “York said we might as well meet him at the resort. There’s no sense in going to the Indian River Medical Center. They’ve flown both Chopra’s body and his wife to the Poison Center at Jackson Memorial in Miami. His team is almost done at the resort but they’ll wait for us there.”

  “The body too? What’s the local medical examiner going to say about that?”

  “Apparently he works down the road out of Fort Pierce and he figured that the specialists at Jackson should be involved with this case. He’s heading down there tomorrow morning.”

  “Sounds like they’re pretty sure it’s poisoning of some type or other.”

  Sal nodded. “You know you can slow down now. We’re in a city now.” He looked at the Garmin on the dash. “Keep going straight this way. It’ll take us out to the A1A.”

  The gate guard at the resort had pointed them to the parking spot closest to the scene and passed them through. Mark extinguished the emergency flashers and pulled the SUV into a slot next to a Sheriff’s crime scene van. The lights here cast a dim amber glow.

  “Turtle lights,” said Sal getting out of the car.

  Mark nodded and, feeling the chill, reached into the back of the car for his blue-black nylon rain jacket. Its gold lettering
prominently featured the words POLICE and US AGENT on the back and CID and the CID crest on the right and left breast respectively. Sal dug around his go-bag and pulled out his own jacket as well as his holstered M11 which he fastened to his belt.

  A concrete pathway wound its way through an arbor of bushes and trees along the side of a pool complex. Ahead of them they could hear the surging of the surf on the shore. To their right, behind a screen of trees, sat a three storey condo-like complex with numerous windows and balconies. Most were dark but some had dim lights on and on three of them shadowy figures could be seen looking down at the scene below.

  “A little late for looky-loos,” mumbled Sal.

  “Never too late for the macabre. People do love their live entertainment and there’s no live entertainment like dead folks,” replied Mark dryly.

  Directly to their front was a cottage with all the lights on and a deputy standing by the door. Mark and Sal showed their credentials and badges and donned paper booties and latex gloves while the deputy recorded their particulars in the crime scene log.

  “Sergeant York?” asked Sal.

  The deputy shrugged his head towards the interior of the cottage and returned their credentials to them. “Inside and upstairs,” he said.

  Mark led the way, Sal followed behind. At the top of the stairs five people stood around in an arc; two men, three women. One of the men wore a uniform with stripes. Two of the women looked younger and were wearing white paper coveralls, the remaining two—a tall and broad-shouldered male with a crewcut and a mid-sized blonde female with a very short ponytail—were in civilian slacks and windbreakers with paper booties.

  “You must be our CID guys. I’m York,” said the uniformed one as he walked forward with his hand out. “You guys made good time.”

  Mark took the hand. “Chief Mark Winters,” he said and, nodding at Sal, “Staff Sergeant Sal Watts.”

  York shook Watt’s hand and pointed at the remaining four. “The folks in the paper coveralls are our two crime scene techs Amy Flores and Christine Reims. The other two are detectives Laurie Brown and Stan Powell. Powell’s the in-charge of this investigation. I’m just here to do the liaison with you guys. Stan. Want to tell Mark and Sal what’s up.”

  Powell stepped forward. “Sure thing.” He pointed to a phone on the floor next to an easy chair near an open door leading to the deck. “Our 9-1-1 call center got a call at 1949 hours last night but there was no response on the other end. Our procedure is to trace back the call and to send a deputy to investigate. Our deputy got here at . . . ,“ Powell looked at his notes, “. . . At 1957 hours but had to go through the main office to determine which room corresponded to the number we had. It took them a few minutes and at 2006 hours our deputy and the resort’s security officer attended at this cottage. The front door was locked and when no one responded to knocking and calling, security opened the door for us.”

  Sal had out his notepad and was recording the pertinent points.

  “Our deputy walked through the downstairs and found no one present and then went up the stairs. Resort security stayed in the entranceway throughout. On arriving at the top of the stairs the deputy observed two persons lying on the floor; a male over by the dining room table and a female by the easy chair next to the phone. He immediately called dispatch to roll paramedics and a supervisor. He checked the female first and found her unconscious with labored breathing. He then checked the male but found no breath nor heart beat. He returned to the female and stayed and monitored her condition while waiting for the paramedics.”

  Mark and Sal held their questions and let Powell continue.

  “Paramedics arrived at . . .,” he again checked his notes, “. . . 2023 hours and briefly conducted an assessment and treatment to both the male and the female and then evacuated both at 2033 hours. It was decided to take them directly to Indian River Medical Center in Vero Beach.” Powell looked up. “The hospital at Sebastian was a bit closer but my guy said the paramedics checked with their dispatch and were told to go to Vero instead.

  “Sergeant York arrived on the scene at 2037 hours and directed that the scene be secured and called Laurie and me and crime scene in. We were on call tonight. Laurie and I got here at 2108 hours and crime scene at 2114 hours.”

  Powell walked over to stand between the dining room and the kitchen.

  “Best we can figure right now they were having dinner.” He pointed out the dining room table and the kitchen counter. “Looks like it was some kind of Indian meal. The table was covered with dishes with the food mostly eaten and there were partially full containers on the counter. Crime scene has bagged and tagged those for analysis as well as anything in the kitchen that wasn’t nailed down; spices, cooking ingredients, pots and pans, all that stuff. Our guess is that there was something wrong with the food. There were signs of vomit on the floor there as well as some in the bathroom downstairs and up over by the phone. That’s bagged and tagged too. It appears the guy went down hard but the wife had enough ability to make the phone call but was unable to speak once she got the number in. There’s no signs of external violence as far as our deputy could see. No blood, no obvious wounds, no obvious bruising. Both were cold and clammy and stained with vomit.”

  He nodded over toward the two crime scene techs.

  “Our techs have gone around to check for forced entry and prints.” Powell paused and looked to the techs.

  “Nothing obvious beyond the usual bumps and scrapes you see in hotel rooms,” said Flores. “As far as prints, we’ll print the plates and containers back at the lab. We’ve taken the cupboards and the fridge but our guess is that we’ll have a whole pile of unidentified prints from previous guests and staff.” She shrugged her shoulders. “We’ll see what we can get.”

  Powell took up the thread again.

  “There were two travel bags downstairs—one hers, one his—with the usual stuff for a beach side vacation. Purse and wallets were there—no sign of a robbery—which provided their identification as one Vijay Chopra and one Priti Chopra both from Stevenson, Maryland. That’s just outside the north end of Baltimore. She’s got a rental contract that’s with Hertz that goes from the fourteenth until the twenty-third which are the same dates as for the cottage rental. Car’s still in the parking lot. She’s got return air tickets for herself from Baltimore/Washington International to Orlando for the same dates and he has return flights from Djibouti to Miami International for the fifteenth and the twenty-second.”

  Mark looked around the room.

  “Food poisoning?” he asked rhetorically.

  “That’s what we figure,” said Powell. “Trouble is we don’t know if it’s accidental or deliberate so we’re treating it as deliberate until we know otherwise.”

  “I guess if it does turn out to be deliberate then you guys will want to get in on the the guy’s case?” said York.

  “Nah,” said Mark. “Either way, we’re already in.”

  — § —

  Read on for an excerpt from

  DAWN FLIGHT

  By WOLF RIEDEL

  PROLOGUE

  — § —

  For as long as I can remember, far back when I was just a small girl sitting at my mother’s feet on the pine needles beside the communal fire, I enjoyed the tales about the Old Ones. The fire would burn long into the night; four pine tree trunks coming together in a cross over a shallow pit which had been filled with brush and bark and then lit. As the white-hot coals formed, the heavy logs would be pushed ever further into the center of the pit to be consumed bit-by-bit in flames that danced white and red and blue. Sparks would fly high into the air as the wood cracked and popped. The smell of the acrid smoke permeated the skins on which we sat as well as my mother’s deer hide skirt and our shiny hair. I revelled in the smoke. I loved its smell and the way it kept the mosquitoes and the black flies at bay; away from my naked skin.

  I was still a baby then; without a name; without responsibilities; without any purpose but to l
ive until I could care for myself. In those days, wherever my mother went, so did I. At first I was slung on her hip but as soon as I was able to stand on my own feet, I was left to run after her. Most babies screamed and howled when their mothers insisted that it was time for them to walk on their own feet. Their screeches could be heard the length of the entire village. But I revelled in the freedom when I was left to run. And run I did. Everywhere. So much so that in my third summer I was given my first name, my child name: Kizo’alak malukh; Morning Star’s Runner.

  But I was talking about the time, when I was still a baby, before I became a child, when I first began to understand the tales that were told around the fires. Stories told to us by the talkers; those who kept the story of our people alive and passed them on from generation to generation. Stories about the hunt. Stories about the lake on which our clan lived every summer. Stories about the mountain streams where my family lived during the winters. Stories about the frozen wastes of the distant ice fields. Stories about my family, my clan and best of all, stories about the Old Ones and the spirits that governed our lives.

  It was only in the summer, when the various families of the clan gathered by the lake, to fish and to harvest the plants that grew wild there in abundance, that we would hear the stories of the Old Ones. Stories about how they had made their way from the far distant lands beyond where the sun rose; a land along the edge of the sea where the ice sheets had grown; how the Old Ones had followed the ice and hunted seal and fished and lived along its edge; how after many generations they had escaped the ice and once again found good earth and rock on the shore of the sea; how they hunted the giant creatures that once walked the lands and how they followed the retreating ice, followed the streams and the animals inland to the giant lake that had once been here; how that lake had drained toward the place where the winter-sun rose only to be replaced for generations by the salt waters of a giant sea where whales and seals came in abundance and, finally, how that sea also drained toward the winter’s morning-sun until all that remained was the long narrow fresh-water lake that feeds and nourishes us now.