Will said, “Very clever setup.”
Chelmin said, “Once M-9 gets those cosmetic products, they hide small quantities of stolen pharmaceuticals in the jars, bottles, and tubes and ship them by UPS to retail drug stores in the Southwest, Texas, and Florida. The retailers keep them behind the counter, out of sight, and sell only to established customers. It’s a very lucrative business. And that’s how they moved about half of what came out of the Marine supply depot. The rest they sell to street gangs.”
Will said, “Now I understand why they were ready to kill anybody who got in their way.”
Chelmin said, “You played the pivotal role in this investigation. You saved my ass. All I did was get myself drugged and locked up.”
“That’s not true. I wouldn’t even have been there if you hadn’t taken me along.”
“Praise doesn’t come often in this racket of ours. You need to learn how to accept it, Spaulding.”
Will frowned. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, let’s talk about your future. You enlisted for flight school.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Still want to fly?”
Will said, “I thought so. But to tell the truth, now I’m not sure. So, maybe.”
Chelmin said, “It’s a tough grind, but I think you’ll make a helluva pilot. But here’s what I want to tell you: The requirements for assignment to CID from active duty military are listed on the CID Command website. The important things are these: Two years' military experience minimum, the grade of sergeant or below, completion of a 30-day combat leadership course.
“If you decide after basic training that you want to work in this office, I will arrange to have you assigned to the MP battalion, and after 60 days on-the-job training, you will be awarded the military occupational specialty for military police. Then you would be detailed to this office and work with me and Wagner on investigations. After you complete two years' active duty, you could apply for appointment to the CID. I’m certain that you would be accepted. But that would be your choice.”
“I understand, Mr. Chelmin.”
“Will, Agent Blair offered to talk to the Assistant Director of the FBI—he was Blair’s training officer about 20 years ago—and get you out of the Army and into the FBI Academy.”
Will looked shocked. “I don’t know about that.”
Chelmin said, “Put a pin in that, for now. There’s more: Your father asked me to get your enlistment voided.”
Will’s face turned scarlet. “I asked him not to do that,” he said.
“He told me that, too. And about the bribe that you were offered by the Prinze family. But your father gave me an idea. Do you want to hear it?”
“My time is yours.”
“I could probably arrange for your enlistment to be voided, pending your acceptance as a CID civilian investigator. That would take a few months, at least, and it would require a couple of waivers, but based on your civilian experience and your outstanding performance, it’s very possible. Then you would begin a career as a civilian investigator in pay grade GS-12. That’s four times what you’ll be making as a junior enlisted man.”
“It’s a lot to think about. Where would I be assigned as a CID agent?”
“Anywhere in the world where the U.S. Army operates. But probably not here.”
“Mr. Chelmin, how long have you been in CID?”
“Going on twenty-six years. I don’t plan on retiring until they kick me out, which would be at thirty years' service or age 65, whichever is later.”
“Thanks for the information. It’s a lot to think about.”
Epilog
Chelmin put his bag in the trunk, closed and locked it, then found the passenger seat and smiled at the beautiful brunette behind the wheel. Cheryl smiled back.
“Seatbelt,” she said, still smiling, and watched as Chelmin buckled himself in.
Chelmin said, “Let’s take the scenic route. Your household goods won’t go anywhere until you claim them, and I have ten days to get back.”
Cheryl said. “The scenic route it is.”
Chelmin said, “Do you know your way back to the coast? To Highway 101?”
Cheryl said, “I found my way here from Hunter-Liggett, didn’t I?”
“That you did.”
“But I wouldn’t mind getting lost for a few days on the way. Maybe in the wine country around Solvang and Santa Ynez?”
So, they did.
- the end –
A preview of Book Two:
The Zombie Deception
A Chelmin and Spaulding CID Thriller
Marvin J. Wolf
Prolog
Eglin Air Force Base, Florida
The voice in Warrant Officer Will Spaulding’s ears was clear, urgent, and familiar: It belonged to Captain Greg Chastain, his flight instructor.
“Bluebell Four, drop down and take a good, close, look at that area east of Turtle Creek,” Chastain said. “Watch for the high bluff along the southwest bank, it’s got some very tall trees.”
“Roger, Wilco,” said Spaulding. He stood on the left pedal while easing back on the cyclic, watching the stars move across his windscreen and feeling his OH58D Kiowa Warrior, otherwise known as the Bell Advanced Scout Helicopter, slide into a sharp left bank.
At 500 feet, peering through night-vision goggles and mist rising from the forest floor, the terrain appeared in other-worldly shades of greenish-white. There was the creek, on this cold winter night warmer and thus brighter than the wooded land on its banks. Spaulding throttled back, bleeding airspeed as he descended, watching for the bluff that Chastain had warned about.
After crawling along the watercourse for half a minute while at a little more than a hover, he decided that there was something odd-looking about the water. Glancing around to make sure he was clear of obstacles, he descended to a hundred feet. The water was bright, as he expected, but some small areas seemed a little brighter.
At twenty feet over the deep, sluggish creek, he realized that the brighter spots were men—only their heads were above the water. Men floating down the river past the friendlies whose flanks and rear Bluebell Scout Platoon was screening. Spaulding eased back on his collective, slowly ascending as he counted the bright spots below.
At 500 feet, he continued to follow the water, then flipped his radio transmit switch to FM, the tactical frequency.
“Oxbow, Bluebell 4, over,” he said into his lip mic.
The reply was a whisper in his ear: “Bluebell, Oxbow 6 Alfa, go.”
“Swimmers in the creek at your six. I counted eleven. Might be more.”
“Roger. Thanks. Out.”
Spaulding put his bird into a slow, climbing right turn, away from the high bluff, grabbing some sky as he headed eastward. Flipping his night-vision goggles up and out of the way, at a thousand feet the night sky was revealed in all its glory, a vast carpet of glowing lights that always filled Will with awe. Far to the northwest, low on the horizon, a new moon was setting. Will smiled as he took in its dim, ghostly portion. It was moments like this, he thought, that confirmed his decision to put law enforcement behind him and become an Army aviator.
He had made the right decision, he told himself. Back home in Barstow, he’d been a police detective. On the streets, he was a prince of that small California desert city, rewarded with respect and sometimes admiration by the honest citizens. But he was also the only son of the police chief, forever in his father’s ambit, always under the influence of his name and family. Here, in the sky, he was on his own. And in the Army, he had found an almost pure meritocracy. There was the usual assortment of ass-kissers and court jesters, he’d discovered, but he was nevertheless free to soar as far as his talent, energy, and desire could take him.
Snapping back to reality, Will pointed his aircraft toward a patch of sky a few miles to the east, where the rest of Bluebell Scouts flew figure eights in trail formation at 4,000 feet.
A minute later and miles behind his aircraft, the woods a
long Turtle Creek erupted with flashes. The sound of rapid gunfire came through Will’s radio speaker as background to the brief messages exchanged by Oxbow 6, the commander of a Ranger company, and his platoon leaders.
“Nice work, Will,” said Captain Chastain’s voice in Will’s ears. “Everyone: Form up in echelon right, we’re calling it a night.”
“More like a morning,” came the voice of the irrepressible Jim Moretti, like Will a student pilot at Fort Rucker, Alabama, eighty miles northeast of the enormous training area beneath them, the swamps and forests of Eglin Air Force Base, Florida.
“We did good!” yelled Ethan Andrews.
“Knock off the chatter,” Chastain barked. “Report fuel status.”
“Bluebell 1, a little under a quarter tank.”
“Bluebell 2, about the same.”
“Three, a little more than a quarter.”
“Four, almost half.”
“Bluebell Flight: On my command, come right to 195 degrees. We’ll refuel at Hurlburt Field.”
Half a minute later the five helicopters were headed southwest toward Hulburt at 100 knots.
Off to the west, many miles away, an enormous flash lit the night sky.
“What the hell was that?” shouted Moretti.
A few seconds later, a second, even brighter flash lit the same area. In the distance, the flickering light of flames reflected from high clouds.
“That’s probably Pensacola,” said Chastain. “Bluebell 4, go take a look. Stay on VHF, and monitor guard channel. And watch out for low-flying aircraft, especially news copters.”
“Roger,” said Will. “Wilco.”
“Don’t loiter, but see if they need help,” added Chastain.
About The Author
Before his 21st birthday, Marvin J. Wolf had walked five miles through a blizzard to pay a family debt, served with distinction as a delicatessen pearl diver, was a U.S. Army drill instructor, taught hand-to-hand combat to Army officers, ran a weapons squad in cold-war South Korea, sold encyclopedias door-to-door, and worked in a junkyard.
While serving as a combat photographer in Vietnam, Wolf was awarded a battlefield commission, one of only 62 such promotions during the decade of that war. Back in civilian clothes, he became a globetrotting photojournalist; when he regained custody of his adolescent daughter and was forced to choose between frequent travel and single parenthood, he turned to writing. He is the author of more than a dozen nonfiction works and a series of mystery novels. Two of his teleplays, based on stories from his nonfiction books, were produced as made-for-television movies. His screenplay, “Hawk’s Hitmen” was a finalist in the Ojai Film Festival’s 2018 Screenplay competition.
Wolf lives in Asheville, NC, with his adult daughter and a pair of ferocious Chihuahuas.
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