Bird Brained

by Jessica Speart

  I took a sip of beer and unruffled my feathers. “Great. Then tell me what this scam is that you’re talking about.”

  Tommy leaned back on his elbows, sinking into the Astroturf. “You ever hear of Defense Reutilization and Marketing Offices?”

  He could have been speaking a foreign language. “No. What are those?”

  “Those, my girl, are where the U.S. sells its military surplus. Think of it as sort of a designer’s outlet. Except instead of sweaters and pantyhose, these outlets offer helicopters, rocket launchers, missiles—things like that.”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” was all I could think of to say.

  “Absolutely not,” Tommy retorted. “In fact, it’s one of the few programs the Pentagon has that’s actually capable of paying for itself. Hell! Last year, they made $302 million selling stuff.”

  Maybe I was tired, but none of this was making a whole lot of sense to me. “Don’t play games by leaving things out, Tommy. How about just explaining the setup to me, and how it works?”

  “All right. Basically, DRMOs are a network of sales offices at different military bases. The idea is simple: When the military has a surplus of stuff, instead of just junking it, the material is trucked to a warehouse and offered to buyers who submit sealed bids. Anything that’s a weapon is supposed to be rendered harmless before being sold. Of course, a lot of times that isn’t the case.”

  “Why not? What’s the problem?” I took another sip of beer and began to relax.

  “What? You want just one problem? Forget it!” he snorted. “This program is loaded with them.” Tommy picked up a flat stone and sent it skimming over the water. “The main objective of DRMOs is profit, which means just about everything else tends to get overlooked. Stuff is supposed to be coded so that high-level weapons are destroyed and key weapon parts are prevented from reaching foreign buyers—that kind of thing. However, this is the military we’re dealing with, which means there are nothing but fuck-ups. Military surplus is presumed to be stuff that’s been used. Not in this program! I’d say more than half of what’s sold is brand new. Hell, I’ve known guys who’ve nearly built their own army from what they’ve bought out of DRMOs.”

  Educational as this was, I still wasn’t sure how it tied in with Weed. “This guy I’m talking about wouldn’t have been involved in auctions with a bunch of hot shots. He was a lowlife, two-bit wanna-be.”

  Tommy held up a hand. “Hey. I’m laying it out, giving you the background here. I’m not finished yet.”

  He ladled out another cup of beer. “Okay, now where was I? My guess is that this friend of Willy’s—what’s his name?”

  “Buzz,” I replied.

  Tommy snickered. “Buzz—I love it. Anyway, Buzz is probably stationed at Robins Air Force Base. Am I right?”

  I nodded my head in surprise. “How did you come up with that?”

  “Piece of cake,” he grinned. “You already told me that he’s stationed in Georgia. And if Buzz is doing what I think, Robins is the perfect place. He’s probably stealing them blind and they don’t even know it.”

  It was my turn to hold up a hand. “Whoa! This Buzz is no brain surgeon, either.”

  Tommy polished off his beer, and ladled himself another. “It doesn’t matter. We’re talking about a program that’s an absolute disaster. The Pentagon’s tracking system for surplus is lame as hell, which makes it easy pickings. Not only that, but their sales system is so overloaded that the computers at a number of DRMOs have actually broken down.” Tommy burped and flexed a bicep, giving the forties pinup girl a free ride. “It just so happens that Robins was one of those places. So much property came into their DRMO three years ago that their system collapsed. By the time they got it back up and running, close to $40 million in surplus had disappeared. The base lost track of it, pure and simple. To this day, no one knows where the stuff went.”

  “And you think Buzz could have had something to do with that?” I asked dubiously.

  Tommy picked up the container of dip and ran his finger inside, digging out whatever was left. “I’m not saying he knocked out the system. But once it was down? Yeah, he could have taken advantage of it. Hell, he can probably even tap into other DRMOs around the country and order whatever he wants, from .38 revolvers to parts for Stealth airplanes. You don’t need a lot of brains. All you need are the right connections to sell the stuff on the outside.”

  That’s where Willy came in. But something about this still didn’t sound quite right.

  “I have a problem believing the military would sell working grenade launchers,” I told him. “It makes these places sound like grocery stores for terrorists.”

  Tommy tipped his cap in my direction. “Don’t it, though? Or like candy stores for your military-minded, entrepreneurial civilian Rambos.” He gave me a wink.

  I looked at him. “Just like the message on Willy’s machine.”

  He nodded. “You got it. Except that I can’t tell you who the Commander is.” Tommy sipped his beer, getting more and more soused. “Remember I told you everything is supposed to be coded, so that weapons are permanently disabled before any sale? Well, fuck-ups generally happen on purpose—to hide whatever crap is going on. The guy in charge of coding will give intact rocket launchers the same code as an ordinary table, since launchers in working order get more money on the black market. A Pentagon investigation even confirmed that DRMOs are a big source of supplies for arms traffickers.”

  Tommy hiccuped, rolled down onto his back, and closed his eyes. Though I wanted to believe him, I was still skeptical. For all I knew, Tommy was drunk to the gills and making this up.

  He turned his head in my direction and opened his eyes, as if he’d heard my thoughts. “You want proof of this, Porter?”

  “That would be good for a start,” I replied.

  Tommy’s eyes floated in their sockets, like two castaways out at sea on a raft.

  “Set your fanny behind that computer in your office, log onto the Internet, and type in the letters DRMO. Then, list whatever kind of weapons your little heart desires.” Tommy turned his head back up to the sky, and began to snore.

  I figured that was my cue to leave—story time was clearly over.

  Sixteen

  Since I had to face Carlos at some point anyway, I headed to the office, hoping Phil hadn’t reported me for dumping all my paperwork on him.

  I walked into my cubicle, where my desk sat sparkling clean, without one file on it. Oh, God—I’d probably been fired, and hadn’t been told yet. I had no choice but to play wait-and-see until Carlos returned to the office. I logged on to the computer to make good use of my time.

  “Hey, Porter.”

  I jumped. My finger hit a key and deleted whatever had been on the computer screen. The place was so quiet I’d figured no one else was around, but Phil was leaning against the doorway. Creeping into his late forties, he was attired in a pair of navy polyester pants and a white shirt, making him look more like an accountant than a wildlife agent. Even his sleeves were rolled up, as if he’d been hard at work crunching numbers.

  A hot flush rose up into my cheeks, and I instantly regretted my actions of the other day. I’d had no reason to dump my paperwork punishment on him.

  “Listen, Phil. I’m really sorry about sneaking all those files over to your desk. All I can say is, it was done in a moment of anger.” I started to get up. “Let me haul them back here right now.”

  “No need to, Porter. It’s already been taken care of. In fact, I came over to see if we could work something out.” He folded his arms and smiled.

  I was instantly suspicious. “What are you thinking about?”

  “You know that I hate fieldwork, right?” He sauntered over to my desk, and sat on the edge.

  It couldn’t have been more obvious: not only was the man wearing a pocket protector, but he even had ink marks on his hands.

  “Right,” I agreed.

  “So, what say you take on the footwork for me w
hen you can. In return, I’ll do all the paperwork,” he suggested. “And by the way, Carlos thinks you’ve been in here at night catching up on all those folders he slapped on you. You haven’t gotten around to setting up a new filing system yet, or posting past documents, but you’re working on it,” he grinned.

  That clinched the deal. “Just give me a list of the calls you’re supposed to be following up on.”

  Phil had it ready and waiting. He placed the list on my desk and I quickly perused it, with the promise that I’d start cracking on it in the next few days. As he left, I turned my attention back to the computer.

  Besides hating paperwork, I’m also no whiz when it comes to dealing with things high-tech. I immediately discovered that Tommy had been wrong: it wasn’t as easy as typing in the letters, DRMO, and magically having a list of military weapons appear. I made a few discouraging stabs at trying to figure out what the web address for the Defense and Reutilization Marketing Offices would be, with little luck. Finally at my wit’s end, I typed in the simplest and most stupid thing I could think of—the Department of Defense web page—and hoped it would connect me.

  I love technology when it works. A quick peck and search immediately led me to what I’d been tearing my hair out about only a minute before: the home page for DRMOs, in living color. Tommy had been right, after all—this was almost better than the Home Shopping Network. From boots, to office furniture, to computer equipment, to missiles and bombs—it was Tool Time meets the Unabomber.

  I typed in grenade launchers and learned that yes, there were some lovely M-79s for sale through an outlet in Crane, Indiana. I even discovered I could pick up three complete TOW antitank missile systems at a DRMO outlet at Fort Benning, Georgia. I was about to add machine guns to my shopping list when Carlos came in, catching me by surprise.

  “Buenas tardes, Porter. ¿Como está?”

  Phil must have done one bang-up job on that paperwork. Carlos had never inquired how I was before.

  “Buenas tardes, Carlos. Bien, grácias.” I figured he’d appreciate the attempt, even if my accent could use a little work.

  “I think we should talk about what happened the other day.” He sat down in a chair next to my desk.

  “All right,” I agreed, my fingers itching to get back to the keyboard.

  “I deal with a lot of pressure, being in charge of this port,” he said.

  “Everyone knows this is the toughest port in the country,” I assured him.

  “This place is a black hole that eats agents and their careers alive,” Carlos drove his point home.

  “But you’re doing everything you can with the shoestring budget Washington’s given you to work with.” Even though I meant what I said, I was hoping to rack up some points.

  “I’ve also found this position very frustrating. I’m not someone who does well sitting behind a desk doing paperwork,” he added.

  Tell me about it.

  “Which is one reason why maybe I’ve been too hard on you,” Carlos conceded.

  “Why is that? Because women should do the paperwork?” Me and my big mouth—I just couldn’t stop myself.

  “That could be part of it.” His fingers twitched, lost without the revolver they normally held on to. “That bird case we discussed may be worth your looking into after all. Since you’re able to handle the paperwork as well as carry out an investigation, you have my permission to proceed.”

  Well, knock me over with a bocci ball. I silently said a prayer of thanks to Phil.

  “That’s great—especially since there’s been a new development,” I began in a rush. “I went over to Weed’s place this morning, where I discovered he had been preparing to head out again for Brazil. He’d procured another fake passport, along with an airline ticket to Brasília, a bunch of muslin sacks, and a chunk of cash.”

  “What do you mean by ‘he had been’ preparing?” Carlos asked, kind enough to overlook the fact that I’d gone to Weed’s on company time, after having been instructed not to.

  “Weed was murdered. I discovered the body,” I informed him.

  “You seem to have the magic touch,” Carlos noted dryly. “How was he murdered?”

  I knew I was setting myself up to be shot down. “Constriction,” I muttered.

  Carlos’s mustache twitched in surprise. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you say constriction?”

  I nodded, figuring that was the safest reply.

  Carlos sat back, stretched his legs, and laced his fingers behind his head. “Would you care to elaborate on that, Agent Porter?” he inquired, in a voice oozing with sarcasm.

  Just when we were beginning to get along so well. “At first glance, it would appear his Burmese python squeezed him to death.”

  “You call that murder?” Carlos asked. “It sounds to me like a crazy herp dealer got himself into some trouble he couldn’t get out of.”

  I started to laugh. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

  Carlos wasn’t amused. I tried to put a lid on my case of the giggles, but between too little sleep, and having been locked in with a bunch of lethal snakes and a squished dead man, I must have needed the release.

  Carlos’s lips stretched into a thin smile. “I’m glad to see you’re laughing, Agent Porter. Because that’s about how seriously I’m taking everything you told me.”

  That sobered me up quickly. “I haven’t fully explained the situation. Someone else was at Willy’s while I was there. Whoever it was took the necessary steps not to be discovered, by locking me inside the trailer that contained Willy and his snake.”

  “I take it you have no idea who locked you in?” Carlos inquired, methodically laying the groundwork to ensnare me.

  “No.” I moved a step closer to his trap. “They had the foresight to turn out the lights right before the door was closed and locked. By the time I got out, they were gone.”

  “Still, I’m sure you were smart enough to pick up the plane ticket, the passport, and the money when you found them,” Carlos said, handing me the rope with which to hang myself.

  “By the time I went back to retrieve them, those items were missing, as well,” I explained, compliantly sticking my head in the noose.

  Carlos slapped his hands on my desk and stood up. His expression told me I’d performed exactly as he had expected. “In that case, you seem to be running around in circles, with nothing but two dead bodies to show for your trouble.”

  Then Carlos’s eyes fell on my computer screen, where he took in my shopping list. He brought his face down close to mine.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s really going on here, Porter?” he asked, in a tone that chilled the air.

  What I didn’t want was to hand him any more ammunition; at least, not until I had a better handle on exactly what I had stumbled upon.

  “I was just computer surfing,” I lightly replied.

  “M-79s? Antitank missile systems?” Carlos’s eyes were glued onto mine. “This investigation wouldn’t have anything to do with gun running, would it? Because, if it does, this case goes well beyond Fish and Wildlife’s authority.”

  Great. Decoded, that meant I could expect to spend the rest of my days seated next to Phil, bogged down in paperwork for eternity.

  “Call me crazy,” I figured a plea of insanity might do the trick, “but I’ve been tossing around some conspiracy theories.”

  Carlos looked pleased at my admission toward lunacy. “Such as?”

  “You remember our talk on how Cuban paramilitary groups are armed to the teeth with weapons?” I asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, it’s possible that our government might still be secretly supplying them with arms,” I proposed.

  A patronizing smile flitted across his face. “Of course they’re not, Porter. Those days are long over.”

  “Are you absolutely certain of that?” I felt like the female version of Oliver Stone.

  “Listen, Porter: the failure of Operation Mongoos
e put an end to all U.S. covert activities in Cuba,” Carlos stated.

  “Operation Mongoose?” I repeated. Carlos had to be making some of this stuff up as he went along.

  “How can you not know about Operation Mongoose?” He sighed.

  What I knew was that Carlos got a kick out of stumping me. “Is there any reason I should have heard of it?” I snapped.

  “That information was declassified in 1993,” he condescendingly informed me, his male pride fully sated. “It was a covert program cooked up after the Bay of Pigs to get native Cubans to rebel and oust Castro. The CIA targeted Cuban industries and transport ships for sabotage, and contaminated Cuban sugar shipments on their way to other countries. The plan even considered convincing Cubans that Castro was the anti-Christ and then staging Jesus’ return from heaven.”

  “No wonder it failed.” I was amazed at some of the loony-tune things that had been concocted.

  “Exactly. Which is why the U.S. has done nothing but maintain sanctions against Cuba for the past thirty-eight years. Now it’s just a waiting game.”

  What continued to nag at me was Saul Greenberg’s hint of a political tie-in with the parrot smuggling. That, along with the recent bombings aimed at the tourist industry in Cuba, left too many questions unanswered.

  “But what about the Cuban-American United Stand Foundation?” I probed. “You said yourself that they exercise enormous power: Maybe they’ve worked out a deal where the government supplies Omega-12 with arms, but doesn’t get involved in any other way.”

  Carlos waved his hand as if I were an annoying fly not worthy of being swatted. “You’re getting carried away with your conspiracy theory, Porter. Even CAUSF isn’t that powerful.”

  “Maybe not. But isn’t it possible that Omega-12 still has some sort of tenuous ties to the CIA?” I challenged.

  Carlos shrugged. “I suppose there could be a lone renegade who’s never given up on the fight against Castro, some wildcard fanatic who might be working with them. But it doesn’t seem very likely. Without government backing, he’d just be spinning his wheels.”