Dirty Money ARC

by Deforest Day

  Truth be told, Davy, I haven’t been to Mass since Mom passed away, but I still pray every night- mostly for you.

  I started my first job, teaching third grade; a school district upstate. Shaleville, a little town in coal country. Way different from Philly; no busses or subways, so I had to buy a car with my half of Mom's life insurance.

  I am student teaching in a local elementary school, getting certified, and I really enjoy it. The little kids are so eager!

  Stay sharp, watch your six, and say ‘hey’ to your bud Justice for me.

  Luv ya,

  PENny for your thoughts

  PS. Thanks for the ‘tachment on your last e-mail. I printed it out and got a frame. You guys look like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. When did you learn to ride a horse?!!

  “Davy! We got company.”

  Driver closed the link, left the cave, peered over Justice’s shoulder at the Pointer’s eye view of the mountainous terrain. “One man, on horseback.” He took the controls from Justice. “I better bring my baby home. If there’s gonna be a shoot-out, I don’t want the Pointer up there on its own.”

  Justice had the binoculars focused on the lone man. “It’s that little girl’s granddaddy.”

  General Sayaaf, the local warlord, stopped in front of Justice, joined his palms in the traditional greeting, saying, “As-Salaamu Alaikum.”

  Justice answered with, “As-Salaamu Alaikum wa Rahmatullah.” After that he needed Driver’s linguistic skills; Davy could talk Pashtu like a native, and got along in Dari. He also knew enough Farsi to question prisoners. So Justice watched the Afghan’s eyes, and read the universal body language, while his partner engaged in conversation.

  The man invoked Allah again, smiled, embraced Justice, and left the way he had come.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Payback. For saving the girl.” Driver began packing their equipment. “Seems the Taliban is pissed off about us killin' Abu el Zahed.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “A company-sized force got wind of where we are. He says they're less than an hour away.” Driver hastily shoved his com equipment in their saddle bags. “We gotta skedaddle.”

  Two days later, after trading the horses, their Inmarsat M4 terminal, the AN/PVS-7B Night Vision Goggle System, and the AN/GVS-5 laser range finder for an ancient Land Rover and forty liters of fuel, Driver and Justice arrived at Jalalabad.

  Without radio or telephonic contact, they were very much out of the loop when they walked into the shabby, threadbare lobby of the Spin Ghar Hotel. What had been the HQ of the 101st Airborne, now teemed with 10th Mountain Division troops.

  Change crackled in the air like an impending thunderstorm. As they made their way toward the once-ornate ballroom, now decrepit from a decade of neglect under the Taliban, they received odd looks from Regular Army soldiers, ones freshly shaved and showered, and wearing pristine BDU’s.

  Special Forces tactics were giving way to conventional warfare. They were told to sit tight, the General wanted to see them.

  While they waited Justice asked, “I ever relate the time I bit a General?”

  “No! How’d that come about?”

  “We’d just finished sniper training, all pumped up with ourselves. As a graduation exercise we was tasked to play insurgents in a war game at Bragg. Some National Guard unit was there for their two weeks. A lard-butt one-star had his HQ set up in a bad location, with piss poor perimeter security. They set out their IR sensors with interlocking fields. Figured that was enough to keep the injuns out. So they could drink beer and play cards, ‘stead of standing watch. They was weekend warriors; closest thing to reality bein’ paint ball and capture the flag.

  “So I duct-taped four twenty-pound bags of ice under my ghillie suit, and slithered through the night, right on past them infrared sensors. Games was over at 0600 hours. The General waltzes out of his tent in just his skivvies and unlaced boots at 0559, pulls out his tallywagger, and pisses in the weeds. Says to the umpire with the armband, ‘I guess your OpFor hotshots ain’t quite as good as advertised, Major'.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “That’s when I rose up, and sunk my teeth in his ass.”

  Driver snorted a quiet laugh. “You didn’t!”

  “Did too. And got wrote up for it.”

  Brigadier General Franklin Roark watched the two men approach his desk. He'd waited a long, long time for this moment. The new star on his tunic added satisfaction to the event as he waited for the two men to stop in front of his desk, and toss what may have been salutes in his general direction.

  Filthy, hairy, bearded, dressed in native garb; they looked more like Taliban prisoners than soldiers in the world’s finest army. He did not return the salute. “Well, well, we meet again. Is it still Corporal Justice?”

  Justice figured the man wasn’t looking to hear his views on that particular topic, so he got to the heart of the moment. “What's got a bug up your ass? Sir.”

  “Misuse of government government equipment, for a start. You called in a medevac helicopter for a civilian casualty. And before that, stealing CIA funds to buy a horse.” He had their 201’s on his desk, and he picked them up, slammed them down, enjoying he theatrics.

  “Justice, since we last met you seem to have developed quite a relationship with the UCMJ. There are more Article 15’s in here than face cards in a canasta deck. A twelve-year trail of foul-ups.” He smacked his palm on the desk. “You’re a loose cannon, a cowboy, but, thank the Lord Jesus, you no longer have General Maas as a hole card. So you are out of here, ASAP. Heading Stateside, to await charges.”

  He picked up the other manila folder, opened it, flipped pages. “Sergeant Driver. Your language skills have gotten you a temporary reprieve.” He checked his watch. “Get yourself to the airstrip, catch up with your A Team, in Erbil. You have a flight leaving in thirty minutes.” He looked past the two men, now standing at a semblance of attention in front of his desk. “Softly he said, “Dismissed.”

  Later, in the street, Justice said, “Well, screw me with an RPG.”

  “Got that right. Was that just him blowing smoke, or will he really bring us up on charges?”

  Justice pondered the situation. “That booger’s had a ten year hard-on for my ass, so he’ll come up with a way to get me a Dishonorable Discharge. But he won’t do nothin’ about you. Cain't even prove we stole CIA funds. And I'm bettin' the warlord will put in a word for us with someone a heap higher than Roark. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.”

  Driver looked at Justice in open faced amazement. “Worry about! Hey, we’ve been partners, since Ranger School. You forgetting about the Buddy System?”

  Justice smiled, shook his head. “Yeah, well, looks like the buddies is about to get a divorce, courtesy of the U.S. Army.” He slapped the back of his hand against Driver’s sleeve. “Screw it, Kemosabe; let’s go see if we can scare up a beer in this Allah forsaken town.”

  Chapter 10

  Chick saw headlights sweep across the courtyard, penetrating the smoke like a lighthouse in the fog. “Here comes Mr. T and that army guy.”

  Tomczak climbed out of the Humvee and rushed toward the doorway as Howie backed the RoachMobile out. The Major carried a five cell flashlight and swept it across the ceiling, where tongues of flame caressed the joists. He aimed it down, let the beam wander across the carpet of shredded bills, the empty containers. It paused on a bundle of currency, shrink wrap glistening.

  “Hey, Mr. T,” Howie said, jogging back to the doorway. “You wouldn’t believe all the money that’s in the basement. We put a bunch in the-”

  Bumpsy kicked his heel, muttered, “Shut up, fool.”

  Tomczak bustled forward, picked up the bundle. The plastic was softening from the heat, and stuck to his fingers. He dropped it, shook his hand, furiously rubbed his fingers on his pant leg. “You took some of this money? You can’t do that.” He looked at Chick, Howie, the truck. “It belongs to the Iraqi people!
” He turned to Baer. “Major, make them put it back. We have to tell someone. I bet it’s from that food for oil scandal.”

  Billows of black smoke roiled from the upstairs windows. “Hey, Mr. T,” Bumpsy said, coughing, “It don’t matter who that money belongs to; it’s on fire, for Christ’s sake. Whole shebang’s gonna burn up, anyways. Who’s to know?” He turned his head and spat, hawked up phlegm, spat again.

  “Yeah,” Chick added, “Who’s to know?”

  “Well, I know, and Major Baer knows. And he’s the one in charge here. That money is his responsibility. We have to turn it in to the proper authorities.” The fire cast flickering shadows across the oily sweat glistening on his brow. He turned to the Civil Affairs officer. “Right, Major?”

  Baer took in the situation in a nanosecond; the fire, the three dimwits, Dudley Do-Right, and a scattering of empty boxes tossed helter-skelter across the garage floor. He raised his eyes to the filler hatch on the truck, and his myriad misfortunes, spelled out a few hours earlier in an e-mail, melted away.

  In college, Ancient History 101, he had been introduced to Virgil, who wrote: Audentes Fortunas Juvat. Fortune Favors the Bold. Baer considered it excellent advice.

  “Pal,” he answered, “I’m the proper authority.” He drew his Beretta and racked the slide, then fired three swift—bam-bam-bam—shots into Tomczak’s face.

  Because the man, cautious to the end, was wearing his vest. Baer turned, swinging the pistol toward the others. He felt his cock swell and his face was flushed. “We have a problem here?”

  “N-no sir!” Howie shook his head hard enough that his glasses jarred loose. Chick’s mouth dropped open. He looked down at Mr. T, on his back, looking up. Or would be, if he still had eyes. His face now resembled something squashed by a truck, and Chick felt his stomach heave. He bent over, vomited, sucked in a lung full of smoke, coughed, spat, wiped his hand across his mouth. He turned to Bumpsy, carefully keeping his eyes above the corpse. Bumpsy caught his eye, gave his head a little shake. “No problem at all, mister.”

  “Damn straight.” Baer lowered the weapon. “Drag him into the building,” he ordered. “And let it burn.”

  An hour later the garage was smoldering rubble, the fire brigade had rolled their hoses and left, and the Army EMT’s had transported Tomczak’s charred and twisted corpse to Graves Registration, for identification and shipment stateside. One of many; butchered, beheaded, or blown to bits. Major Baer assembled the three fools beside the shipping container. “I assume you boys lost everything in the fire?”

  Yes, they had. Except for the clothes on their backs, the rest had gone up in smoke. “All my freakin’ money,” Chick said, staring at the ruins, “was in my freakin’ locker.” The other two mumbled their agreement.

  Major Baer studied the men. The blimp seemed to be the brightest of the three. He pointed to Howie and Chick. “You two stay here, guard that truck.” He let them consider their helpless situation for a moment, then smacked Fat Boy on the arm. “You come with me. I think I see a way to help you boys out of this mess you have gotten yourselves into.”

  The key was to separate the cash from the scene, get the truck out of the country. Fast. And he was one of the few people in a position to do just that. Audentes Fortunas Juvat. He unlocked the Civil Affairs office and pointed to a chair. “Sit,” he ordered, and booted Cortez’s computer.

  —o—

  Howie and Chick sat in RoachMobile’s cab, staring through the windshield at the smoking rubble. The sour smell of wet burnt wood filled the night air. “I had close to fifteen thousand bucks in my locker,” Chick said, and felt under the seat, pulled out an eight pack of Deer Park, three left. It was warm and wet and tasted like bottled water. “About now I’d trade it all for a frostie.”

  Howie cracked a twist top and drank. “I don’t know how much I had. I don’t even know how long we been here. And now we’re goin’ home. With nothin’.”

  Chick raised a fist, knocked twice against the back of the cab. “Unless that man can figure a way to take this piggy bank along.”

  “You think? He pulls that off, we ought to give him a share!”

  “Howie. Way that man operates, we’ll be lucky to see a dime.”

  “Well, Frikko! You, me, and Bumpsy saved it from the fire. Ain’t his to decide what to do with it.”

  Chick turned and looked at his boyhood pal. An OK dude to get ripped with, but not anyone you’d want on your Mister Wizard team. “What the hell. No sense in even thinking about it right now. Let’s wait and see is the truck makes it back to Shaleville.” He crushed the plastic bottle, dropped it out the window. “Where we got home field advantage.”

  —o—

  Baer ducked into his office and grabbed his personal stash, while the printer produced transit papers and temporary ID for the three exterminators, shipping papers for the truck, and compassionate leave orders for himself. He left copies in his Sergeant’s IN basket, and drove to the 115th Engineers ordnance depot. It was 0500. At 0515 he had exchanged two hundred dollars for an electronic security lock and a crash course on the M18A1 Claymore directional fragmentation mine.

  “Take the padlock off your truck,” he ordered, then climbed up, replaced it with the digital one, and wired it to the Claymore, which he secured directly over the filling hatch. He was pretty sure he was following the ordnance sergeant’s instructions.

  Back on the ground he explained. “That mine is filled with 700 steel balls and a pound and a half of C-4. Anybody fools with that lock, they’re gone, along with the truck and the money. Now drive it into the container.”

  “Frikko!” Howie said. “I ain’t goin’ near it!”

  The Major threw Howie a look of disgust and turned to Chick. “It’s safe. In the field, soldiers sleep next to those things. You do it.”

  The Major sealed the container, then slapped on a foot-square yellow label with the international symbol for Radiation Hazard. “That should keep the curious away.” He handed Bumpsy the transit forms. “A truck is on the way to transport this container to the airport. The Tomczak Exterminating Company is going home.”

  After he left, Bumpsy produced a pack of cigarettes he’d swiped from the sergeant’s desk. He and Chick lit up; Howie shook his head, asked,” You got any gum?”

  Chick inhaled, coughed, dropped the cigarette on the ground, stepped on it. “I think I got me enough smoke to last a lifetime. Where’d you go with that man?”

  “Mostly to his office. He’s some kind of higher up; filled out these here papers. Man’s going home with us. Says we’ll split the money when we get there.”

  “Equal shares?” Chick was wondering what a four way split would come to. First off, he was going to get a new set of tires for the Camaro. And a beer.

  “Didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. I figure back home the three of us are in charge.”

  “Damn straight,” Howie said. “Wasn’t for us, there wouldn’t even be no money!”

  Chick snorted a laugh. “You already forgot how he shot Mr. Tomczak? I don’t think any of us would have had the balls to do that.”

  Bumpsy looked down at the cigarette in his hand, then at Chick. “Maybe, maybe not. We get to Shaleville, we’ll see who has balls.” He dropped the butt and stepped on it.

  —o—

  Baer changed into his Class A uniform and went to see the Battalion Commander. Colonel Jacoby was in his bathrobe, a mug of coffee in hand. “Curtis! What you doing out and about at the crack of dawn?”

  “Sir, I’m afraid I have bad news. I just got word that my wife was killed in a traffic accident.” He handed a sheaf of papers to his C.O. “I’ll need you to sign off on this two week’s compassionate leave order.”

  The colonel sank into a chair, slopped coffee on his dressing gown. “My Lord. This is terrible news, son. I’ll have to get someone in, to handle your tasks for the interim.”

  “Taken care of, sir. I called the 452nd Civil Affairs, in Kuwait. They’re sending a Captain to
fill in. My team can bring him up to speed.”

  “Good man, Curtis. We’ll miss you, and your efficiency.”

  “Thank you sir.” He offered his hand. “See you in two weeks.” In two weeks, given the current confusion, he would be a dim memory. And, for him, so would Erbil.

  —o—

  To the trio the airport was thirteen hundred and seventy five acres of total pandemonium. Worse than their arrival a few short weeks ago. They stayed within touching distance of the battered cargo container for five separate stops and starts spread over three hours.

  Now they were gazing into the cavern that was the ass end of the biggest airplane they had ever seen. “Jeezums,” Chick said. “Makes the one we come over on look like a toy.” They started up the ramp, following the container.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” They stopped, turned around. A soldier built like a fire plug, bunch of stripes on his sleeves, stood at the bottom of the ramp.

  “Major Baer told us to stay with the container,” Bumpsy said.

  “I don’t give a flying fuck what some Major said. Personnel don’t board before the cargo is secured.” The Master Sergeant had a bull horn, and he turned it on a forklift driver attempting to enter the aircraft with his load of steel coffins. “Fuck you goin’? You don’t go near my fuckin’ aircraft without first giving me some fuckin’ paperwork. Get your sorry ass to the end of the line, get the fuckin’ paperwork cleared, and then maybe I’ll let you load your fuckin’ load.”