Grave Mistakes (The Grave Diggers Book 3)

by Chris Fritschi

  Contents

  Title Page ebook

  Copyright

  Disclamer

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen Review

  Bonus Free Book

  More Grave Diggers

  Authors Note

  About the Author

  GRAVE MISTAKES

  A GRAVE DIGGERS SERIES

  - Book 3 -

  by

  Chris Fritschi

  Grave Mistakes

  By Chris Fritschi

  Copyright © 2017 by Christopher Fritschi.

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

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  DISCLAMER

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To Karen. You’re encouragement, honesty and belief in me fuel my spirit.

  Acknowledgements

  The pages of his book are the result of all the people who gave their input, guidance, and knowledge. Thank you all.

  A special thanks to all of you, you know who you are, for the encouragement and finger wagging that kept me on my toes through the development of this book. The critical, but honest, input from my beta-readers Cinnamon, Becka, Samantha, Lauren. You guys make me look good.

  Enough can’t be said for my wife who spent endless hours listening to me brain-dump over this book. Her patience and support never flagged.

  CHAPTER ONE

  NOTHING IS FREE

  The slide snapped forward on the pistol’s lovingly oiled rails with a satisfying clack.

  “Stop screwing around with that,” said Lubbock. “You’re making me nervous.”

  Shelp eyed his partner disapprovingly and holstered his pistol.

  Arrayed on the desk, in front of them, were feeds from multiple security cameras. The staff had gone home hours ago leaving the security guards to their nightly vigil of watching empty corridors and locked doors.

  Lubbock took another bite out of his hotdog before swallowing the previous bite. “You gotta calm down with that ninja, gunslinger act.”

  “That,” said Shelp critically, pointing to a soggy lump of half chewed food rolling down Lubbock’s shirt. “That, right there is why I’m here. This complex is a critical communications hub responsible for transmitting vital and classified information and you treat it like it’s a kitchen. They reassigned me to this post because I can be depended to defend this site from hostile elements.”

  The forward momentum of the lump of food wasn’t enough to get over the swell of Lubbock’s belly and it stopped against a button. Lubbock looked at it for a moment, deciding it’s fate. “Hostile elements?” said Lubbock as he flicked the food off his shirt. “Who? We’re not at war with anyone. This is South America, not a war zone.”

  “It’s complacency like yours that makes America a sitting duck to attack,” said Shelp. “Unlike you, I’ve honed my awareness. There’s threats everywhere.”

  “Like that janitor you almost shot?” said Lubbock. “That’s what got you reassigned.”

  “Janitor. Right. I got reassigned to cover-up what’s going on there,” said Shelp with an edge in his voice. “Why was the janitor there after the building was closed? Why did he run?”

  “You shot at him,” said Lubbock.

  “That was an accidental discharge,” growled Shelp.

  “Discharge is right,” Lubbock chuckled wetly through his mouth of food. “You’re lucky they didn’t discharge you to jail.”

  “I’m going to do a patrol,” said Shelp, abruptly standing.

  “What?” said Lubbock. “Aw, come on. We already did our scheduled patrol and clock out in a few minutes.”

  Shelp unlocked the dull, grey cabinet behind them and took out a bull-pup assault rifle. Lubbock’s eyes widened with alarm as Shelp inspected the magazine.

  “Whoa, hang on,” protested Lubbock. “We don’t touch those unless there’s an armed break in.”

  Shelp slapped the loaded magazine into the assault rifle. “How do you know someone’s not breaking in right now?” he said. “I’m not waiting until it’s too late to find out.”

  Shelp picked up the master key-card and disappeared around the corner leaving a worried Lubbock looking at the clock.

  “That psycho’s gonna make me late getting home.”

  * * *

  Dim grey-blue light outlined row upon row of steel monoliths brooding in the shadows as banks of tiny, green and orange status lights blinked across their faces. The temperature hung at a constant forty three degrees as each server pumped terabytes of data through miles of cables. Collectively, the low hum of their cooling fans sounded like a distant roar as they inhaled the cold air across their processors.

  Sergeant Major Jack Tate and Sergeant Tyler Rosse stood next to the exit door as silent sentinels, ignoring their shivering as they stared intently at a pair of legs sticking out, below a distant server.

  The legs disappeared inside the eviscerated belly of the server, occasionally shifting as their owner struggled for a comfortable position. Sergeant Bret Monkhouse’s slim build didn’t provide much padding against the unforgiving metal struts of the server’s shell making him wince as he propped his elbow on the hard angles. Using his free hand he traced a yellow data cable through a confusing knot of identical cables leading beyond his view.

  “Wesson, I’m trying another lead,” grunted Monkhouse into his radio mike as he struggled to fasten a clip to the yellow cable.

  “Standing by,” crackled Wesson’s voice in his earpiece.

  A narrow bundle of wires ran from the clip into a small, flat display about the size of a pack of cards.

  Far away, Sergeant Lori Wesson sat transfixed at a desk, her face lit by the blue-white static on the monitor in front of her. Her pale green eyes searched the screen until bold characters began marching across the bottom of the screen. “I got it,” she said.

  “Look for the SUID,” said Monkhouse, “and give me the code that follow it.

  Wesson scanned her finger over the screen, slowly filling with a jumble of meaningless symbols, numbers and letters. “Found it! SUID. Five, five, charlie, zero.”

  Monkhouse swore under his breath. “Are you sure that’s a zero and not the letter O, like oscar. The Specified Unique Identification has to be…”

  “I know the difference,” Wesson cut in.

  “All right. All right,” said Monkhouse as he took the clip off the data cable. “That leaves one cable left.”

  “Then that’s got to be it,” said Wesson, encouraged.

  “If this is the right server,” said Monkhouse.

  Wesson frowned at her watch. The simple, but durable device indifferen
tly counted down the minutes. “We’re running out of time.”

  Monkhouse ignored her as he stretched to put the clip on another data cable. “It’s not like they put big signs on them saying, ‘tap this line’,” he said. He was feeling the effects of the cold and contortions he performed to access the data interface. His hands were tired and his fingers beginning to cramp.

  Tate’s eyes shifted to the door, in alarm, as his ears picked up the distant sound of bootsteps in the hallway.

  At the end of the hallway, Shelp came around the corner and stopped at the first door. Automated lights came on, illuminating several plain doors lining the hall. Shelp slung his assault rifle over his shoulder as he fished his key card out of his pocket and held it up to the door’s security sensor. With a chirp the sensor glowed green and the guard heard the electronic lock slide open.

  With one smooth movement he swept the assault rifle up, bracing the stock against his shoulder. He quickly turned the doorknob and pushed the door open to the darkened room. He thumbed the switch to the under-barrel flashlight mounted to his gun, stabbing the darkness with a brilliant stark-white beam that made him squint. Looking down the barrel of his rifle, he panned the room until he was satisfied there were no intruders.

  Down the hallway Tate heard the door close and the sound of the guards boots walking to the next door. Rosse nodded grimly acknowledging he heard it too and shrugged his broad shoulders prompting Tate for direction.

  “Monkhouse,” whispered Tate into his radio. “We have to abort.”

  “Are you kidding?” said Monkhouse. “I’m just getting the sensor on the last cable.”

  “We can’t abort,” hissed Rosse.

  “Rosse is right,” said Wesson over the radio. The electronic shielding of the building walls made it hard to hear her radio signal, but there was no mistaking the tension in her voice. “This is the only shot we have.”

  Outside, Tate heard another chirp as the guard unlocked the next door.

  “Win or lose, this is the last one, Monkhouse,” said Tate.

  “All ready ahead of you, Top,” said Monkhouse. “Come on, Wesson. Give me some good news.”

  Tate moved his mike so close to his mouth his stubble rasped against it when he spoke. “Enough chatter,” he growled. “Exercise proper radio procedure.”

  Wesson momentarily blinked at the rebuke, but her expression changed to sharp concentration when the pixel noise of her display was broken as characters began filling the screen. She quickly found what she was looking for. “Authenticate. SUID, zero, alpha, kilo, seven, eight.”

  “That’s it! I mean, I authenticate,” said Monkhouse rolling his blue eyes at the unnecessary formalities. “I just need to plug in the tap and we’re done.”

  Another chirp, this one much louder as the guard unlocked the next door. Tate and Rosse traded expressionless nods, neither wanting to admit the surge of adrenaline that shot through them. The sound was very close. Their door was next. Rosse glanced at the security access panel next to their door as if it was going to bite him.

  Tate reached behind his back, to his belt and silently slid his tomahawk out of the sheath. Flexing his grip on the handle, the lethal weapon’s gunmetal finish made it nearly invisible in the gloom. Only the naked metal of the axes razor edge could be seen softly reflecting the muted light. Even in this age of advanced technology there was a place for this weapon of noseless brutality.

  Turning inside the cramped metal box of the server, Monkhouse banged into the side panel with the sound of kicking a bass drum making Rosse jump. “Quiet!” hissed Tate.

  “Sorry,” said Monkhouse, sarcastically. There was nothing the team could do but watch and wait, and Monkhouse’s frayed nerves were making him resentful of the burden he was carrying.

  Wesson stared at her watch trying to will the second-had to stop. “Less than a minute left,” she said. “It’s all on you.”

  “Yeah,” said Monkhouse. “No pressure.” He disconnected the clip and stuffed the small device into his pocket. From his other pocket he pulled out a small, square box, with an open ring in the top. “I’m connecting the packet splitter now.” Reaching over his head he tried to clip the ring around the data cable, but his hand was shaking from fatigue and the cable was at the end of his reach. With each try the cable glanced off the ring. He needed to be closer. Monkhouse clenched his teeth to fight back the frustration and stress that had been building up to the thundering storm that wanted to explode out of him. He was chilled, tired, cramped and sore. The edges of the metal cross-frame he laid on bit into him like a bed of nails. Every time he moved he traded one part of his abused body for a new one.

  Wrestling against time and the cramped space, his temper overruled his caution and he moved too sharply, pinching a grey cable under his shoulder and pulling it from its plug.

  The whirring sound above his head stopped. “Oh no,” groaned Monkhouse as he watched the blades of the large cooling fan stop. Immediately the green status light on the fan changed to amber.

  “Oh no, what?” asked Tate.

  “I just unplugged the cooling fan,” explained Monkhouse.

  “Big deal,” said Rosse. “Tap the line and lets blow.”

  Monkhouse reached behind his back, groping for the disconnected cable. A second amber LED lit up on the fan’s temperature sensor. “These servers generate a lot of heat and that fan’s critical to keeping this one cool.” His fingers dug into a tangle of cables, feeling for the loose one.

  “If I don’t get the fan going,” said Monkhouse, “the heat sensor will hit red and an alarm will go off.”

  Feeling for the cable wasn’t working. The servers frame rattled as Monkhouse twisted around to see what he was searching for. His eyes lit up as he saw the cable inches from where he’d been groping. Plucking the cable from the tangle of others he was about to twist around again and plug it in when a hand clamped down on his ankle making him flinch in alarm. His yelp died on his lips as he saw Tate scowling at him. Tate put his finger to his lips and pointed towards the door.

  Shelp stopped at the door to the server room. With his assault rifle ready he swiped the security card. The sensor chirped and he turned the doorknob.

  Rosses breath caught in his throat as he watched the doorknob turn. The door rattled, but didn’t open.

  In the hallway, Shelp frowned and swiped the keycard in front of the sensor again. The sensor turned green and chirped, but the door wouldn’t open.

  In the gloom of the server room Tate winked at Rosse who glanced at the destroyed circuity and cut wires hanging from the door’s security lock panel then gave Tate a thumbs-up.

  Nudging Tate with his foot, Monkhouse gestured that he’d gotten the cooling fan cable and pointed at the fan. The second to last LED blinked dark orange. Tate shook his head for Monkhouse to stay still.

  Outside, the guard pulled his radio from his belt. “Base, this is Sector Echo. One of the doors won’t unlock. Do you show a fault on your board? Over.”

  The static of Shelps radio was short lived as Lubbocks irritated voice broke in. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s Shelp,” answered the guard stiffly. “I’m in sector …”

  “Yeah, sector echo,” crackled the radio. “You gotta door that won’t open. What do you want me to do about it? Mobilize a quick reaction team? Maybe come down there and shoot the lock off?”

  “Base,” continued Shelp. “We’re responsible for the security of…”

  “Give it a rest, hero,” chided Lubbock. “You’re running me past my shift. Get back here and write it up in your report.”

  Sweat matted Monkhouse’s short brown hair and trickled down his face. Wiping at his stinging eyes he contorted his body to reach the plug, but was short by inches. Desperate he held the cable several inches back from the plug and for an instant it looked like he had it, but the tremble from his straining arm caused the plug to bump uselessly away from the fans connection port.

  Tate looked to Ross
e who signaled that the guard was still outside. Tate couldn’t wait anymore. Betting everything on Monkhouse being quieter than the heat sensor alarm Tate let go of Monkhouse. Free to move, Monkhouse quickly turned his torso and slipped the plug into the cooling fan. Instantly the fan’s motor whirred to life and the LED’s began flicking off.

  Outside, Shelp seated his radio back in its holster and frowned a last time at the door before walking down the hallway and disappearing around the corner.

  “He’s gone,” said Rosse.

  “Thirty seconds!” said Wesson.

  Finally free to move, Monkhouse shuffled around sounding like boots tumbling in a clothes dryer. “This has got to be it,” he said clipping the scanner ring onto a cable. Monkhouse mumbled a silent prayer to whatever divine power would listen to him.

  Wesson’s knuckles whitened as she gripped her chair, eyes locked on the screen of static. She dared to look away at the timer as it mercilessly killed off the remaining seconds when the screen flashed with scrolling data. “That’s it!” she cried, as a large screen, behind her, came to life. “Monkhouse, you genius, you did it.”

  Every straining muscle in Monkhouse went limp at the same time as he basked in relief. Tate patted his leg and gave him smile.

  “I think everyone in the team owes this man a case of beer,” said Tate warmly. “Each. Wesson, I hope you’re recording that feed. We’ll watch it when we get back.”

  Wesson turned her chair towards the big screen hanging on the wall. An announcer grinned as he shouted into his mic only to be drowned out by the packed stadium as the fans cheered while the Los Angeles Rams came onto the field.

  “Roger that,” smiled Wesson.

  “And no spoilers,” said Rosse over the radio.