'A' for Argonaut

by Michael J. Stedman

  “Until KoeffieBloehm gets hurt; then the big banks will be all over Treasury screaming for the military option.”

  “That’s a fact!” Luster’s finger punctuated the air like a rapier.

  “It keeps coming back. The Animal’s face. My guys, slaughtered. Those savages came out of the bush armed with top-shelf U.S. armament! Yet, one hour earlier, they were sitting around in their compound. No perimeter guards. All we had to do was close in…”

  Maran paused.

  “…but the Animal knew we were coming.”

  General Bull Luster grimaced. When he opened his mouth, it was like a flamethrower.

  “What do you think this has to do with me? Valentine moved me out of the action. You may think you’re one scapegoated trooper. Betrayed. No doubt, it’s what’s anchored you from beaching up on the dry land, the rocks. Now it’s time to lick your wounds and give it up!”

  Maran’s breath came in short, heavy gasps. Vertigo hit like a rush. Doubt besieged him.

  Is Luster right? Maybe my soul is fired by blood lust.

  Luster stood, pulled out a sheaf of color photos, threw them on the desk. Mutilated faces. Dismembered bodies. Children rent in pieces. Piles of rubble where large buildings had been. The gore wasn’t new to either of them. You never get used to it.

  “This is the gruesome truth of the story. In spite of this barbarism, half of America still believes we should be coating our foreign policy with honey. Diplomacy,” he scoffed. “They believe, somehow in their addled minds, that we’re swatting flies here when it’s so obvious that we’re under attack by a subterranean swarm of sewer rats.” The General’s face flushed like an inflated plum. “We’re in a civil war right here in America.”

  “What has that got to do with Cabinda?”

  “Everything’s connected. Today, anything’s possible. No truths anymore, only theories, guesses, and dreams. A president who wants to release Gitmo terrorists as though the enemy war criminals and serial killers we’ve got locked up there are the victims. Anti-Americans slithering out of the campuses. The fur-worshipers, tree-huggers, abortionists, gun-control nuts, porno-freaks, transvestite-lovers, atheists, One-Worlders, Communists, Trotskyites, Maoists, Castroists. Now radical Islamists. It’s the poison they’ve spread, the Leftists, that’s made you paranoid,” Luster growled.

  “And we’re still pulling punches,” he added. “No one has the balls to face that fact. It sounds almost un-American to say it; we are fighting an ideology in Islamism, not a religion. The West better soon remember that Israel, derisively referred to by the Liberals as ‘the Zionists”, is the only democracy in the Middle East as we know democracy and the entire Arab world united to attack that country’s independence as soon as it was birthed in 1947.”

  Maran’s mind flashed on his days at the Point. In a class with Colonel Jon Timber, he studied the Sociology of Ideology and got turned on by Friedrich A. Hayek’s little book “The Road to Serfdom.” He never forgot Hayek’s warning about the left’s obsession against free enterprise competition in favor of government central planning: “Planning leads to dictatorship.” Maran saw that happening all around him. However, this wasn’t the time he was going to get into that.

  “I didn’t come for a political speech. I’ve heard enough of that bullshit to last me three lifetimes. I need concrete answers. How can you help me?”

  “You had a chance to testify, to provide evidence. There was none. Get out before you get killed.”

  Is that advice‌—‌or a threat? Maran wondered.

  “How did the Animal get hold of an Abrams tank?” he asked.

  The question hung in the air like gun smoke.

  WHEN MARAN LEFT, LUSTER picked up the telephone. Baltimore confirmed that the meeting was on. At the same time, in the privacy of his own office, Sergeant Jake Woodruff put in a call to Abner Dolitz.

  THE SUN WAS STILL out, shimmering like a mirage on the pavement ahead on the George Washington Parkway as Maran tooled the rented Town Car around the light midday traffic. It had taken him fifteen minutes to find a spot in the Pentagon parking lot and now the ride down the Interstate to Alexandria’s Old Town took no longer. This time his host expected him. He pulled off South Washington Street, a block down from the Lyceum. He parked at the rear of Cole Martin’s office.

  Martin, a large man, fond of Stetson cowboy hats which hung from a rack behind his desk, had retired from his role as Inspector General at the National Security Agency months earlier. Before that, he had led NIMA, the National Imagery and Mapping Agency that collects and analyzes satellite images for DOD. A former professor of national security at MIT, Martin now taught nuclear non-proliferation policy law at Georgetown. He was also a Nelson McCracken Award-winning expert in ballistic missile and satellite technology. He had been Maran’s friend since his early days as a covert operator on TDY with the Army’s remote space intelligence programs.

  “Sit down” Martin offered. He gestured to one of two leather chairs on either side of a gas fireplace. “I knew sooner or later you’d get into trouble with that meathead of yours.”

  “That’s an upgrade. My mother used to call me pig-headed.”

  “Did you take a taxi?”

  “Funny you ask, patriot. I came to talk to you about a taxi. Taxi Home.”

  “Still cutting right to the chase. Subtlety was never your vice. Look, I’ve always respected you, believed in your capabilities and integrity. And I agree your mission never should have been scrapped. But if you’re right about this thing‌—‌and you can prove it, it’ll be the most monumental scandal the U.S. military has ever endured. They’ll be gunning for you every step of the way.”

  “It’s the only way I can clear my name. And I need your help,” Maran added. He lifted his hands, palms up, an uncharacteristic plea. “At my trial, Baltimore said the Intel he based the order to retreat on was top secret. From the NRO. He refused to disclose it. I want to see that intelligence.”

  “Too late. We already checked with Defense Intel. It’s gone,” Martin observed. “Shredded.”

  “What can I do for you?” he asked. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going into business.”

  Martin’s brow wrinkled.

  “BANG!” Maran grinned. “Business Analysis Network Group. You remember Sergei?”

  “Karakazov, the Soviet cyberwarfare genius?”

  “Right. He’s on board.”

  “Sergei Karakazov! Funny business we’re in. Enemies today; friends tomorrow.”

  “And gone the next day,” Maran continued. “Set up a duplicate of his Huntsville risk analysis firm, complete with a successive string of PCs replicating a supercomputer. We’re up and working out of an old warehouse on the Boston waterfront. On the surface, market research, a bona fide competitive business intel agency but in fact, a corporate spy operation‌—‌with one tiny variation.”

  “How so?”

  “We’re going to kill some people.”

  “Cute.”

  Maran handed Martin copies of his new business cards.

  “Layers of deception. A criminal investigator posing as a marketing research analyst posing as a journalist, cover on cover on cover. I’m impressed. You work fast. I imagine you’re armed as well?”

  Maran smiled. “Someone set us up in Cabinda. I want to find out who and why.”

  “Where do you intend to start?”

  “What do you know about diamond smuggling?” Maran asked.

  “Not much, but I have sources. What are you getting at? If you think that’s what’s behind Cabinda? If you’re serious about this…”

  Maran raised his hand in a stop sign.

  “ …as I know you are, you’ll have to get into the field and travel. That means hotels and restaurants‌—‌cars, trains, and planes. You can’t get away with just cash anymore. As soon as you use your credit card, you’ll leave a money trail. They’ll be right behind you.”

  “With Sergei signed on, we’ll get
around that.”

  Martin’s thick eyebrows shot up. “Who have you spoken with?”

  “A few dealers. Mini Eitan, old friend from Yamam, has some people at the Diamond Dealers Club in New York City.”

  “Then you’re already exposed,” Martin admonished. “You are out of your mind. If you’re right on this, you’re going to single-handedly take on the guys who wrote the manual on horror. And they’re not sitting on their hands. You better make sure they can’t find you.”

  “They slaughtered my men, they betrayed my country, they trashed my honor, destroyed my career, and left me crippled! The one hope I have is to get to the bottom of this and expose the conspirators. I want vindication!”

  “Vengeance,” Martin added. “You said ‘kill.’ They’ll be watching you like vultures circling a herd of poached elephant carcasses.”

  “I need all the help you can give me.”

  Martin shrugged.

  “I want to move right away. Every night, I’m back there. With the Animal. Just as I get my hands around his neck I wake up soaked in sweat, shaking,” Maran said.

  “I’ll make some calls. In the meantime, make sure I know where you are and how to reach you,” Martin stressed.

  Maran agreed to keep his friend informed.

  OUTSIDE, IN THE SUNLIGHT, Maran lit up a fresh stogie on his way back to the rental. He seldom indulged and usually only with an unlit cigar. When he was anxious, he enjoyed the smoke, the feel; he liked to bite down, savoring the bittersweet juice. He was addicted to the apple flavored version. He mulled over his friend’s warning.

  Stepping around the corner to the rear of the building, he stopped short.

  What the hell?

  A big, yellow, steel boot locked the front left wheel of the rented Town Car. A plastic sticker pasted on the driver’s side window indicated that the fine could be paid and the boot removed at a garage off King Street in the low-rent side of town. Strange. The parking meter still had time left. Another one of those frustrations, careless people screw up and cause problems for everyone else.

  Hell!

  He peeled the sticker off, rolled it in a ball, stuffed it in his jacket and walked out to the street to hail a cab.

  The taxi dropped him off in front of an old garage in need of a rehab, shingles missing on the roof, rusting drainpipes, crumbling mortar between fractured bricks. The front door was locked, encrusted with sun-bubbled paint.

  He rapped.

  A man appeared. Maran could barely make out the face through the filthy window. The man gestured for him to go out back. He walked along the sidewall toward the rear of the building. A 1970 Ford pickup truck sat on wood milk crates in a corner at the back of the lot. Cobwebs laced its windshield.

  The hairs at the back of Maran’s head bristled. His sensors clicked into full alert, teeth clamped on the cigar still in his mouth. He stepped up to the rear door.

  Locked!

  Years earlier, he had picked up a non-jingle police key holder. To that, he had attached a small multi-purpose tool. He opened its screwdriver with a push-button and used it to rap. He closed the key case and put it into his jacket pocket as the door flew open.

  The face! Those eyes!

  Bloodshot and yellowed around inky pupils.

  Jake! The Sergeant Major from Hank Luster’s office.

  He held a handgun. Maran recognized it as one of SAWC’s. With an ugly grimace, Jake reached out. He grabbed Maran by the shirtfront and pointed the weapon at his face.

  Treason! How? Why? Where will it end?

  The thoughts flashed through his mind as Jake threw him against the wall, pinned him with one arm. Maran tightened his teeth on the cigar, blew smoke in the face.

  Jake slapped him in the face and, with the other claw-like hand, patted him down.

  “What’s this?” he demanded as he yanked out Maran’s closed key carrier. Maran felt the barrel of the blast suppressor against his head.

  Jake put the key case back in Maran’s pocket.

  “Not that you’ll need them,” he said. The gunman barreled him into a small office.

  “We’re going for a ride.”

  He pushed Maran into a chair in front of the desk. The gun was now thrust against Maran’s throat.

  “This is crazy! What is this? Politics? A scam?”

  “Shut up.” Fury stripped across his face. He smashed the pistol across Maran’s face, opening a gash down his nose.

  Air rushed from Maran’s lungs. He gasped, felt a knot in his windpipe. Cleared his mind. Tightened his stomach, gasped in a draft of the putrid air. Jake ranted. Maran contemplated his timing. He had one chance. If he missed it, the goon would kill him.

  The key-holder!

  He could feel the hardness of the screwdriver on the tool set, its pushbutton ready. Hate took over. Superseded any doubt. One of his Pentagon betrayers stood in front of him.

  “You must be a player,” Maran said.

  “You’re fuckin’-A right I am.”

  “Who are you playing for? They’re paying you a lot of money. Must be deep pockets to get a pro like you on board.”

  Placate. Ingratiate.

  The killer lifted the weapon. Zeroed its laser spot square between Maran’s eyes.

  “So, who’s paying?” Maran snarled.

  “I give a fuck? It’s all the same color.”

  “Luster! You knew I was coming. You followed me to Martin’s.” Maran slowly slid one foot to the side, gaining leverage. His eyes glared, his teeth clenched; his face screwed up like an enraged lion. He snapped, “Put that toy down or I’m going to stuff it down your throat and blow the pea brains that reside in your colon right out your rectum.”

  “That’s enough bullshit, dick cheese,” Jake bellowed.

  “Enough! Do you understand the people that are paying you consider you a serf, a Neanderthal, as they think of every other Marine and Special Ops trooper. I’m sure they wouldn’t have you to dinner in their homes. They’re using you like they use the American taxpayer, to do the dirty work while they drive up to their country clubs in limousines to wipe their feet on you. And you’re such a sorry asshole; you’d die for them without ever having an inkling of an idea of what you are dying for.”

  “Shut up! You! Who are you to be talking about noble causes? You’re no more than a paid assassin. An out of control rogue.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong. Out of control? I kill with a good deal of forethought and approval, only as a last resort, and never other than to save the lives of Americans and American allies. You’re ready to kill for money, chump change to the goons who hired you. So, yeah, I’m ready to rid the world of a scumbag like you.”

  Maran wasn’t finished baiting him.

  “They’re up in Georgetown laughing at you. If you mess this up you’re going to suffer.”

  Jake raised his weapon, ready to strike Maran again. As the hand started up, the body shifted weight, just enough to tweak his balance. It was all Maran needed. He smashed the gun hand to the side with a blow that broke the forearm like a twig. The force was enough to throw the thug off guard. The gun clattered to the floor. With all the force he had in him, Maran whipped the lit stogie out of his mouth and jammed the glowing ember into one ugly eye. He yanked the key case out of his pocket, snapped the button, and plunged the screwdriver into Jake’s exposed windpipe.

  Blood flew over his hand.

  Jake grabbed at his burnt eye. Gasps came up from his throat like water bubbling from a fountain. Maran stepped back, took a deep gasp, and placed into the man’s stomach a side-thrust yoko-geri kick.

  “Hai!”

  He followed up with a blow of his weaponized fist to the man’s temple, clenched index knuckle forward like a polearm.

  “Hai-Yah!”

  Beneath the hard-tempered knuckle, lethalized by years of training, Maran felt the skullbone cave. Jake’s body hit the floor. His head bounced on the concrete; his torso jumped once and crumbled like a wet sack.

&n
bsp; You should have known who you were playing with before you stuck your neck out, you sorry bastard, Maran eulogized.

  He didn’t usually gloat, but nothing was usual anymore.

  He reached down and picked up the handgun. With the weapon stuffed under his shirt, he stepped out to King Street, pulled out his phone and reported the vehicle stolen.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Georgetown, Washington, DC

  Retired Marine Corps Lieutenant General Alexander Stassinopoulos’ all-brick home just off Dumbarton Street dominated the neighborhood like a mid-eighteenth century Italian villa. The front walk led from the gas-lit street down a flowered path on the edge of the rarified nucleus of power that was Georgetown. Stone steps curved around mounds of rose, lilac, and wisteria.

  This was the meeting that General Luster had been waiting for since getting the call from Baltimore in his office the day Maran stopped in. Wearing his favorite tweed jacket and chinos pressed to a razor’s edge, he climbed the steps, raised his head to wink at the closed-circuit surveillance cameras he knew would be pointing down on him from the eaves of the slate roof. At the landing, he chose to use the brass skull knocker, a symbol he recognized as coming from Stassinopoulos’ exclusive Yale student music club, Fife and Drum. Inside, Stassinopoulos, known to friends as “Stash,” greeted him. His closely-cropped silver hair was accented by a brown tan gained by sailing fractional rig sloops on the Potomac and he wore summer-weight khaki slacks. A bright red mock turtle jersey emphasized an outsized Adam’s apple that bobbled like a golf ball when he spoke. As Chairman and CEO of Global Coast Oil, Stash supported the Angolan government in the form of guns and tough men who knew how to use them.