Running the Maze

by Jack Coughlin

  Middleton arched his heavy left eyebrow. “I know they are photographs, Petty Officer. But of what?”

  “Sir, the one on your left is of an old steel bridge that has fallen into a river in Pakistan, maybe washed away by the floods, or even earlier. Joey attached it to a text message that asked, ‘Remember this?’”

  “Why would he think that? Were you ever in northwest Pakistan?” The general reached into his desk drawer and scuffled around until he found a large magnifying glass. He bent closer to the photo, studying it.

  “No, sir. My brother was referring to an old abandoned bridge near our family’s farm in Iowa. It once was part of a spur rail line, but that closed in the fifties, and eventually, the bridge fell down. We played on it when we were kids. The skeletons of the two bridges are remarkably alike.”

  Middleton grunted. He saw nothing of interest. He pushed it aside and ran the magnifying glass above the second picture. A huge new bridge was under construction, a colossus that looked more like a dam. “And this one?”

  Ledford shifted, and her hands drew into fists on the arms of the chair. “I think that’s why he was killed.”

  Middleton lifted his eyes to meet her gaze. “Tell me.”

  “Here’s what the text message on this said.” She helped herself to a pen and a yellow legal pad from the gerneral’s desk and wrote N TRBBL RUNNING CC. He passed it around without comment. “That was the last contact anyone had with the team. Since I never take my phone or personal effects off base during a mission, I didn’t receive these until we finished a multiday patrol in Somalia. By then, it was too late.”

  The general grunted and slid the pictures aside. The photos had already been examined by Summers and the Lizard, and they would not have passed them up the chain of command to him unless they thought the information was worthwhile. “I still don’t see anything.”

  “You probably won’t, sir, not in the picture at least.” Ledford was more certain of her ground now. At least the members of Task Force Trident, including its commanding general, were listening to her. “It’s in the message itself, sir, not only the photographs. The ‘CC’ initials. Our father was an Army infantryman in Vietnam, and since he was small, he sometimes was assigned as a tunnel rat. He used to tell us stories about being underground with a flashlight and crawling through these amazing networks of tunnels, like an anthill. One place he worked was around the town of Cu Chi, not far from Saigon. Joey and I were too young to take it all in, but when we would find some exciting place to explore, we would call it Cu Chi. Then we shortened the name to just CC.”

  “Your conclusion, then, is what, Petty Officer Ledford?” Middleton pushed back in his chair and was watching her for signs that she might be lying, or making it up as she went along.

  “Sir, I think—I know—that my brother’s medical team stumbled into somewhere they were not supposed to be and discovered something that reminded him of Cu Chi. Somehow he figured out they were tunnels, and probably for military use. The Taliban chased them down and killed them to keep it secret.”

  “You informed your superiors and people in here in Washington of everything you just explained to us?” The other four members of Trident had sat by without comment as the general addressed Ledford.

  “Yes, sir. Nobody listened.” She hesitated. “Nobody cared.”

  Middleton glanced at Swanson. “Now she is being followed by the FBI?”

  “Best as I can tell, although I didn’t ask to see their badges. It’s a total surveillance package.”

  “But the FBI did not confiscate your cell phone when you spoke to them?”

  “No, General. The two agents showed no interest in me, or my story. They listened politely and told me how sorry they were that my brother had been murdered by jihadist fanatics.” The memory of the brush-off made Ledford’s lips tighten. “I don’t understand it.”

  The general examined her quietly for a few moments, and the room fell silent. “Well, Petty Officer, I frankly don’t understand it either, and I don’t like it.” He unfolded from his chair and walked to the window, looked out, then turned back, having made his decision. “Lieutenant Colonel Summers, I want you to set up Petty Officer Ledford with a lawyer and take a sworn statement, and get a polygraph so we can start a file on this. Names, dates, and places of the people she talked with. Lizard, take her cell phone and go do some of your electronic magic. See if it has been hacked, get the call history, and enlarge those two photographs, as clear as you can get them. Gunnery Sergeant Swanson, you find out what’s going on with our friends at the FBI. Everybody be back here at six o’clock for a briefing.”

  Master Gunny Dawkins cleared his throat loudly to get the general’s attention. “Sir, we already have a Green Light project under way.”

  “I am aware of that,” Middleton said. “We just have to juggle two balls with one hand for a little while. Dismissed. Get out of here.”

  THE MALL WASHINGTON, D.C.

  SPECIAL AGENT DAVID HUNT of the Federal Bureau of Investigation met Kyle Swanson in a Starbucks near the National Archives, where they each bought a coffee and walked the two blocks to the Mall. The tourists were not as thick in August, with schools around the nation getting ready to start and vacation time drawing to a close. Hunt had been with the Bureau for almost twenty-five years, and somewhere along the way, the burly special agent had become a bureaucrat. He didn’t even remember when it happened. He thought more and more about life after the Bureau, retirement, slowing down and rebuilding the family time that had suffered for his job for so long. Maybe even learn how to fish. No, not that. Fishing was worse than playing golf.

  “Here,” he said and handed a plain manila file folder to Swanson. “Didn’t need any private face time for this, Kyle. I could have sent it by bike messenger. Nothing to it. We offered to help the Pakistani ISI investigate the ambush, give them access to Bureau forensic resources, and they almost laughed out loud. These raggedy-ass pictures of the scene are already on the Internet, and it’s all we’ve got.”

  Swanson led them to a park bench beneath the shade of a big tree that broke the heat. “Pretty thin stuff, Dave,” he said, studying the half-dozen photographs. Nude bodies on the ground, swelling due to the heat. An empty truck. Just a normal slaughter of innocents. He had seen similar atrocities in different places all around the world.

  “Well, after we got slapped around by our pals at the ISI, the State Department also decided to shut us out. I got a memo that the Pakistani government had taken appropriate action, found and disposed of the murderers, and that it was officially all over but for the burying. It was all very terse, very convenient. Since WikiLeaks, they’re scared shitless over there at State about writing anything down.”

  Swanson drank his coffee. “I thought we were all supposed to be working together these days. The War on Terror ring a bell?”

  “Yeah. Well, it ain’t happening. Why are you guys interested in this little scrape, anyway?”

  Swanson handed the folder back to Hunt. “Some Coast Guard chick that knows Sybelle Summers came to town to shake some bushes because her doctor brother was among the victims. She’s got a lame story that he saw something that is possibly militarily important over there in Mudville, and that’s what got him shot. When she took her story up the chain, including to your FBI shop, she was ignored.”

  Hunt shook his head. “I didn’t hear anything about any inquiry from a relative, but it’s a pretty routine situation. Some family members always see conspiracy in the violent death of a loved one. Did she have any proof?”

  Kyle said, “A couple of messed-up cell phone photos that her brother had sent, along with a cryptic text message that she claims refers to the Viet Cong tunnels in Vietnam, back in the day.”

  Hunt grunted. “Humph. And you think my file is thin? You’ve got nothing there.”

  “I agree, but General Middleton has one of his feelings that something isn’t right and wants it checked out. We’ll keep it all in-house for the time b
eing until we see if there’s anything worth following. I ain’t betting on it. The kid may just be a flake.”

  Hunt flipped his empty cup into a trash can, then adjusted his glasses and leaned forward, planting his hands on his knees. “She may not be such a flake, Kyle. In fact, she may be onto something. My opinion is, this thing deserves some investigation but is being stonewalled by somebody over in Foggy Bottom.”

  Swanson looked hard at his old friend. Hunt was getting on in years, but he was still part bloodhound and part street cop. “Why? You having some old jealousy vibes because State won’t let you guys into a party?”

  “Look at the pictures carefully, Kyle,” said Hunt. “Take them back and let your guy the Lizard work on them, make them clearer. Something important is missing.”

  “What’s missing?” Swanson opened the folder again and studied the pictures more closely.

  “The story is that they were shot up and robbed by some Taliban loonies, right? These photos supposedly represent the positions in which the bodies lay when Paki army troops found them.”

  “Yes.” Kyle looked closer. What don’t I see?

  “If their trucks had been stopped and they were forced out and murdered on that spot, then where’s the blood? There is blood around the bullet holes in their clothing but not around the bodies, Kyle. The guy with his head blown apart should be resting in a big puddle of brains. Get it now?”

  Swanson did. Hunt was right. He knew from personal experience that nobody ever gets badly shot and keeps all of the blood inside. It leaks, gushes, oozes, sprays, drips, and floods, and it keeps coming out until the heart stops beating. In the photos, the ground around each of the bodies was trampled but unstained. “Maybe the rain washed it away?”

  “It had stopped raining in that particular area two days before, and the sun dried it out. The floods had never reached that high ground. The dirt, the side of the truck, the foliage, those logs near the bodies—all devoid of blood.”

  Swanson closed the folder. “You’re saying they were killed somewhere else, then moved to this place and dumped.”

  “Exactly. Those bodies bled out, then were transported to this spot to be found, away from the actual murder scene. One other thing. Look at the ankles we can see. They’re all without shoes, which is not abnormal in a place filled with thieves. But those dark stripes look to me like rope burns, which had to be made while they were still alive. Our people down at Quantico say the bruising is consistent with a victim being hung upside down.”

  “I thought you didn’t investigate.”

  “Just called for a few observations by friends.” Dave Hunt grinned. “Nothing official. Your people will find the same thing. I think these poor people were captured, hung up like sides of beef, and shot to hell, and the blood emptied out by the barrel. Then they were brought to this place and dropped. Why? I have no idea.”

  “Weird,” said Kyle.

  “Indeed,” said Dave Hunt. “We may be stymied on our end, but you and Trident can go around the normal rules. Kick over some rocks on this one, Gunny Swanson. See what crawls out.”

  * * *

  The six o’clock meeting in General Middleton’s office at the Pentagon was a tense session that seemed to be taking them down a road they did not want to travel. Sybelle Summers reported that Beth Ledford had passed the polygraph examination and had been interviewed by a Marine Special Ops lawyer, under oath. Middleton had copies of the polygraph results and the legal statement.

  Commander Freedman had produced a slick set of eight-by-ten reproductions from the grainy photographs that Ledford had brought, but they showed nothing more than the fallen railroad bridge, with one end sticking in the river, and another shot of a valley. He had examined her cell phone and said that it was clear. No one had hacked it.

  Then Swanson gave a debrief on his talk with Special Agent Hunt of the FBI and added his photos to the growing stack of paperwork.

  Middleton spread all of the photos side by side on his desk, the pictures the Lizard had enlarged next to the gruesome forensic-style pictures from the Pakistanis. “It’s not the same location. Both of Dr. Ledford’s pictures are from a low area, and the bodies are on dry ground, with completely different foliage,” he said. “Better if you not look at these, Petty Officer Ledford.”

  “It’s all right, sir. I just want to know everything about what has happened. My whole theory is based on Joey having seen something that I would recognize. I have to look at everything if we want to figure it out.” She carefully took the pictures, forcing herself to stay calm. Joey would still be dead, no matter whether or not she saw the ugly pictures of his ravaged body.

  Master Gunny O. O. Dawkins pulled at his cheek as he thought. “The fuckin’ State Department is covering this up?”

  “We don’t know that for sure, Double-Oh,” replied Swanson, “but according to my Feeb, that is where the information funnel narrows. That way, the incident is moved out of reach of any investigating arm and disappears into the diplomatic arena. Cables will be exchanged saying it was a tragic situation. No fault to be assigned beyond the Taliban gunmen who are also now dead and cannot challenge any official version.”

  Middleton gathered the photos and returned them to the stack and straightened the corners. He closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. “All right. Here’s what we’re going to do. I want a plan to put some boots on the ground over there. Lizard, you get some overhead images of the area. Swanson will take Petty Officer Ledford in to see whatever it was her brother found. Go in, then get the hell out quick. Stay out of trouble, if you can. Should be a piece of cake, since the Paki army swears they have control of the area.”

  “Sir!” Kyle almost came out of his chair in surprise. “All due respect, general, but Petty Officer Ledford isn’t qualified to do a special ops mission.”

  “I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Gunnery Sergeant. You will take her in there, find what needs to be found, and then bring her out again. Are we clear?”

  Swanson gave up. No use arguing with Middleton, who wore two stars on each shoulder. He knew the general was already thinking several moves ahead. “Aye-aye, sir. We’re clear.”

  Beth Ledford was out of her chair in an instant, standing at rigid attention. “Sir. May I speak freely?”

  Middleton’s brow furrowed. “Go ahead.”

  “Sir, I do not feel that Gunnery Sergeant Swanson is the right man for this job. I don’t trust him. He is condescending, and if he does not believe I am up to the mission, he will be distracted and could get us both killed.”

  Swanson jumped up to attention, too. “Sir!”

  Middleton slammed his desk so hard that it sounded like a gunshot. “Sit down! Both of you! Jesus H. Christ on a shingle. What’s the matter with you two? This is not some junior high school hayride, nor is it a democracy. I make the decisions around here. I gave an order and you will obey it. You don’t have to like it; you just have to do it. Now … are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Swanson.

  “Yes, sir,” said Ledford.

  “Good. A warning for both of you. You will get your shit together and work as a team. Put your differences on the shelf, because I don’t care whether you like each other. But you screw up this mission over something that minor and I’ll put you both in front of a court-martial. If my estimation is correct, Dr. Ledford stumbled on something that may be of great importance for our country’s security. Master Gunny Dawkins, we will give this priority over the Green Light on Charlie Brown. He gets to live a few more days.”

  7

  THE MORNING SUN CAME up like a bright ball over the Atlantic horizon. First there was a hint of the coming dawn, then the first bars of sunshine hit the black water, and in only a few minutes, it was daylight at the Unknown Distance Range on the Marine Corps base in Quantico, Virginia. Chilly. Kyle Swanson was sitting on a fender of a Humvee, watching the dawn and drinking coffee from a thermos. He was still angry at Beth Ledford for saying she did not tr
ust him. He was right in the argument, because the woman was not spec op trained. Freakin’ Coastie. There was an old ditty about their motto: Semper Paratus is a laugh, they join to dodge the draft. He snorted and dumped the rest of his coffee onto the grass of the firing range.

  Turning to the Humvee, he saw Ledford sitting in the passenger seat, still huddled in a jacket, arms crossed, obviously as miffed with him as he was with her. “Ledford, I would be very much obliged if you would begin, if you please.” Exact, phony, politically correct politeness.

  “I told you earlier, Gunnery Sergeant Swanson. I don’t do exhibitions. You want to see trick shooting, go to a carnival, put down a dollar, and I’ll win you a teddy bear.”

  Swanson stalked to the back of the Hummer and lifted an M-14 with a scope from the cushioned carrying case, then an ammunition clip. To hell with polite. His voice hardened. “Listen, Ledford, the general and I agree that we’re not going anywhere until I can figure out what kind of skills you have. That information is pertinent to this mission.”

  She had her own cup of steaming coffee and was still drinking it slowly. A black watch cap was pulled low on her forehead, low enough to touch her eyebrows. “How can you lead us anywhere, when you don’t know where we’re going? You’re just along for the ride, Swanson—my personal bouncer.”

  He thrust the rifle at her and dropped the ammo clip in her lap. “I don’t know what world you’re living in, woman. You bring nothing to the mission but possible geographical recognition. You’re just a GPS tracking system; no more, no less.”

  “I’m a sniper,” she said. “OK?”

  “No, Ledford, that is not OK. You are a Coast Guard sniper, which I personally rate as being at the level of a designated marksman, the guy who is the best shot in any Marine squad. The Coast Guard may be great for rescuing dogs off rooftops and stopping sailboats carrying weed. It is not, in my opinion, a combat arm of the United States military.”