“No. I think I’ll stay with the men, sergeant,” he said firmly.
***
“Shit,” Alonzo muttered under his breath as the lieutenant shook his head. He’d counted on the young punk jumping at the chance to see the town.
Well, time for Plan B.
The chosen enlisted men – about twenty in all – were already gathering for the job. A mix of the smart ones and the big ones; he wished he’d had the time to choose the big ones with brains.
Yeah, well, in a perfect world we wouldn’t have to do this shit in the first place. In a perfect world I’d already have my damn green card and wouldn’t have to be here in the first place.
He went over to the group and briefly counted them. Twenty-two. Good. Everyone was there.
“Alright, guys,” he said quietly. “We’ve got a job to do, but the lieutenant doesn’t need to know about it. Just trust me on this one, OK?”
He was counting on the E-1s, fresh out of the rigid Juarez boot, appreciating cameraderie from a senior sergeant. Someone who held the same rank as their drill company commanders had.
“Anyone has any misgivings, you don’t have to come along. All I ask is that you keep your mouth shut.”
“What are we doing?” asked one of the men. “Some kind of a prank?”
“Sort of,” said Alonzo. “Not on the LT, don’t worry. He won’t necessarily be pissed if he knows, but it’s better for everyone – including him – if he doesn’t, right now.”
“You’re asking us to fuck with an officer,” said one man. “No thanks.”
“All I’m asking you,” said Alonzo, “is to keep your trap shut. As a personal favor.”
“I can do that,” the man said. “But I’m not going to screw around behind the back of a senior officer. They might throw us into a Black Gang for this sort of thing.”
“Yeah,” said another man.
“Me too,” said a third guy.
“OK, you three go back. The rest of you, come with.”
The three who’d objected – followed, after a moment, by a fourth – went back to their units. They didn’t seem about to say anything.
The corporal and two lances from Brigade didn’t know what was going on; they were doing a favor for beer money. If they knew, they’d call Division G-4 and edge in on Fourth Battalion’s action. They probably suspected something was up – otherwise, why would they be needed? – but they weren’t getting that beer-money to ask questions and, in the passenger terminal, they wouldn’t be in a good position to get answers. By the time they knew what was going on, the stuff would be out of Division’s reach.
“Sergeant Alonzo!” called the lieutenant as they were leaving the lounge area for the greater terminal.
Oh, shit.
He turned. Lieutenant Croft was walking towards them.
“Where are you taking these men, Sergeant?”
“Sir, working party,” said Alonzo. He chose his words carefully – lying to an officer was something you wanted to avoid doing. The trick was in what the man expected to hear. “We’re going to help unload a shipment. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
The lieutenant was clearly conflicted.
“Don’t worry, sir,” Alonzo said. “It’s good PR for the Legion, helping with this kind of thing. We’ll be back by” – he checked his watch, it was just past one a.m. – “three o’clock, sir.”
“OK, go ahead,” the lieutenant said after a moment.
“Thank you, sir. It’s appreciated.”
“No problem. Just make sure you come back on time.”
“Will do, sir.” Alonzo saluted and turned.
***
What the hell is this all about? Mullins thought, as Sergeant Alonzo led his group out of the passenger section of the terminal and into the truck-freight handling area. Past loading docks, swinging winches, a forklift. A couple of stevodores stood smoking on one loading dock.
A little bit later, they passed a crew busily moving grey plastic tote boxes from the back of a truck to a conveyor belt.
They weren’t going to help unload some freight shuttle. That was obvious.
This isn’t some shady black-market thing, is it?
It certainly seemed like it.
This seems shady as absolute hell. I don’t want to be sent to a Black Gang within a day of my first deployment!
Alonzo led them into an alley, where four covered five-ton trucks sat. They were grey, with dark-green covers over their cargo beds. ‘US Army’ was stenciled in black letters on each door, above a large five-pointed star. Army markings were on the covers, too.
“Alright, you boys,” Alonzo said. “By now you’ve figured – some of you have, anyhow – that what we’re doing is a little bit sketchy. Don’t worry – nobody’s going to wind up in a Black Gang because of this. If we get caught, the Army is going to whine and send us to Division HQ for discipline. Where a big noise will be made, and we’ll all get publicly chewed out, and then our officers will wink and tell us to look appropriately sad for a while. OK?”
“Sergeant,” said a man from Third Platoon called Johnson, “exactly what are we going to be doing?”
“Well, boys, I may as well give you the details. Officially, as far as you all are concerned, it’s a work detail. We’re going to be moving freight, just like I said to the LT.”
“And unofficially, sergeant?”
There were nods and murmurs from the rest of the group, including Mullins.
“Unofficially, we’re going to be moving freight between different branches of the US military. The Army just received a shipment of goodies. Techno-toys that they’re not going to put to use anyway. The Legion, as you may have heard, is under-funded and under-supplied. One way that we make up for this problem is by borrowing equipment from the other service branches.”
“So we’re going to be stealing Army stuff for the Legion,” said Andrews.
“‘Stealing’, Private, is such a prejudiced word. Yes.”
A more serious look came onto Alonzo’s face.
“I assure you men that not a penny’s worth of this stuff is going to wind up on the black market. I’m not, and none of you are, going to get anything personally out of this job. Army quartermasters sell shit to Buddy on the side, and don’t fucking get me started on the local CGs. Ninety percent of this stuff is going to Fourth Battalion’s S-4, and it might save some of your lives. The rest goes to Division G-4 in exchange for the loan of these trucks. Either way, it stays within the US military. It’s just going to the guys who’re going to get the most use out of it. Understood?”
There were nods and murmurs.
“Now, boys, in the back of the trucks you’ll find US Army PT uniforms. T-shirts and running pants. Change into them – we’re a loading party come to pick some of this stuff up.”
“Won’t they ask for paperwork or something?” asked a man from Fifth called Vai’id.
Alonzo produced what looked like a snub-nosed yellow pistol. A taser.
“This is our paperwork,” he said. “Any questions?”
“I have one,” said Andrews. “Sergeant, you picked a bunch of total fish for this. Why’d you pick us when there’s a division and a brigade HQ in this town?”
“Good one,” said Alonzo. “I took Fourth Battalion, Fourth Brigade men because this is a Fourth Battalion, Fourth Brigade operation. If I went to Division or First Brigade for bodies, they’d take most of the loot and only give One-Four-Four a piece of it. And not necessarily a big piece.”
“So why aren’t they doing it themselves?”
Alonzo smirked.
“This shipment just came in a few hours ago. They don’t know about it yet. By tomorrow, they’ll know. By tomorrow, we’ll be in Roanoke.”
“Surely the Army’s going to know we did it,” said another man.
“Sure they will,” said Alonzo. “Proving it’s another story. And getting it back is right out of the question. This happens all the damn time, and so far as I
’m concerned it’s the Army’s fault for not guarding their shit properly.”
***
Mullins rode on the center seat of the lead truck’s cab. Alonzo, who wore a dress shirt with first lieutenant’s bars, rode shotgun. Andrews was driving.
This could get us into some serious trouble, he thought. It’s theft, by any other name.
No; Alonzo had justified it well. It was merely transferring property from one branch of the US military to another. And some of it might save their lives. Save his life.
And if we get caught…
He wasn’t sure he believed Alonzo on that. The Army would press hard for punishment and he might well wind up in a Black Gang.
Too damn late now. Besides, Alonzo’s a senior sergeant. He knows what he’s doing.
The trucks made their way around the edge of the shuttleport, bumping a few times as they crossed railroad tracks. Two or three times they heard sonic booms as freight shuttles blasted off, ascending at acceleration-rates that would have killed any passengers.
“Stop! Who goes there!” came a shout, as they entered the floodlit zone around the secure storage area.
Alonzo leaned out the window. Gesturing for Andrews to keep going forwards.
“What do we damn well look like, rebellious sepoys?” he snapped.
Mullins could see two soldiers standing in front of a double gate. They held rifles – heavy, multi-magazine weapons that he recognized as M-31s – but they were pointed at the ground.
“Gotta be sure,” said one of the soldiers. There was some kind of enlisted rank insignia on his arm, but in the shadow Mullins couldn’t tell what it was. “Here for a pickup?”
“Yeah,” said Alonzo. He opened his door and got out. When the soldiers noticed the silver bars on each arm, they saluted.
“You got the paperwork, sir?”
“Yeah,” said Alonzo. “You wanna open that gate? My last truck is blocking a rail track.”
That was probably true – they’d bumped over one not long ago.
“Hey, LT,” the man shouted. “You wanna open the gate? We’ve got a pickup here.”
“First I’ve heard about it,” said a voice from the other side. “He got paperwork?”
Alonzo had a black clipboard under his arm. He showed it to the two enlisted men, who glanced at it and nodded.
“Yeah, they’ve got paperwork,” the man said.
“OK, gate’s unlocked. You two pull `em open.”
“We’re going to reverse our trucks in, Lieutenant,” called Alonzo. “There room for four in there?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
The gates, which like the walls were topped with razor wire, began to open outwards. The two enlisted men, helped by another two from the inside, pressed them flat against the wall.
“Three-point the truck and reverse it in,” Alonzo called.
“Yessir,” replied Andrews.
So far, thought Mullins, it’s all going according to plan. But how does Alonzo know how many guys the Army has?
A horrible thought struck him: if things go wrong, they might think we’re secessionists in disguise. They’ll shoot first and ask questions later.
***
“Here we are,” said Calhoun, coming into the warehouse. He was followed by about two dozen men, who looked around skeptically. As Skorzy had instructed, they all wore black. They looked to be aged anywhere from mid-teens to late fifties, and they were all armed.
“I’m – you can call me Roger,” said Skorzy. “By now you’re wondering what you were called in for. Well, boys, yesterday afternoon the Army got themselves a big new shipment of toys. Guns, ammo, demolition charges – I’m guessing you can name it and it’s right there.”
“And we’re gonna get usselves a piece?” asked a fiftyish man with a greying beard.
“That’s exactly what we’re gonna do,” Skorzy said. “And blow the rest to blazes, if we can. Gather round me, will you?”
“Mister, I take orders from Tom Calhoun,” said another man. In his thirties, with a weatherbeaten face and brown hair. “Don’t know you from Adam. Tom, how `bout you outline this plan if it’s so good?”
Skorzy sighed. Fucking two-bit urban amateurs.
“Let me outline the plan to Tom, and then he can outline it to you,” he said.
“Sounds good to us,” said the man with the greying beard. “But you just remember, Mr. Roger, that we take our orders from Tom Calhoun here. Anything you wanna say, you say to him and if it’s good, he’ll tell it to us.”
“Fine,” said Skorzy.
I wish I was back in the mountains proper, he thought. Where his name and face were known, and he didn’t have to deal with bullshit like this.
I’m needed back in the mountains proper. Should be there already.
***
The fourth truck backed through the open gate of the secure area, clumsily reverse-parking next to the other three. From where Mullins sat, he could see a guardhouse just inside the gate, with a couple of Army types standing just outside.
Sentries sat in the corner towers and paced along ramparts inside the fence. Those guys seemed intent on their jobs – they were looking, pretty attentively, at the floodlit area outside the holding area’s walls. What took place inside the area wasn’t their concern.
Unless someone raises the alarm. Then we’re fish in a barrel.
Alonzo didn’t seem worried.
“So you say you have paperwork, sir?” asked one of the men outside the guardhouse. There were gold bars on his shoulders; second lieutenant.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” said Alonzo. Holding his clipboard, he went over to the lieutenant. The second man outside the guardhouse moved a respectable five or six feet back, holding his M-31 cautiously.
Oh, shit. They suspect something’s up. Whatever’s on Alonzo’s clipboard is bullshit.
Alonzo handed the clipboard to the lieutenant, who moved into the guardhouse to get a better look at it. From his vantage point in the truck’s cab, Mullins saw the Legion sergeant draw his taser from a hip pocket.
Saw him go over to the other man, who didn’t quite raise his rifle. Clearly he was wondering what this strange first lieutenant wanted, though.
He didn’t have time to say anything. Just as the lieutenant in the guardhouse threw the clipboard down and walked outside, Alonzo brought his taser up and in a single move lunged forwards, pressing it to the enlisted soldier’s chest. There was a blue flash and the man collapsed, quivering.
“What the–” the lieutenant began. One hand reached for his pistol.
Faster than Mullins could have imagined, Alonzo whirled and tased the lieutenant. The man collapsed in a quivering heap.
Alonzo gestured at the truck cabs – ‘come here.’
Mullins and the others climbed out and ran.
“Zag `em so they don’t wake?” one man whispered to Alonzo, finger twitching towards his sheathed combat knife.
“Hell no,” whispered Alonzo. “Drag `em into the guardhouse, tie their hands, gag them. I’ll be back in a moment to check. You” – he pointed a finger randomly at Johnson. “Stay in the guardhouse and answer the phone if anyone calls. Your name is” – he looked at the nametag on the lieutenant’s shirt – “Gorman. Second Lieutenant Gorman. Answer the phone that way. If they give you a sign and ask for a counter… hell, look in the guardhouse, he might’ve written `em down somewhere. If you can’t get them, don’t guess. Say something about a bad connection, put the phone down, and get me immediately because we’re bugging the fuck out. There’s a CG barracks right next door, but the Army won’t trust those fuckers… they’ll send their own response and we’ll have five to ten minutes before it shows. Clear on that, soldier?”
“Yessir,” said Andrews.
“Good. You others, let’s grab.”
***
“Imperil guideds,” Alonzo hissed, gesturing at a stack of crates. “Get those. All of those. You four, start loading `em.”
There were cr
ates everywhere – hundreds of them, stacked under eight-foot-high shelters that consisted of little more than sheets of corrugated iron held up by steel poles. Alonzo paced past more stacks of crates, glancing at the serial numbers until he found something else he liked.
“HD batteries. Sweet. All of these. You guys.”
“What about these?” asked Kiesche, gesturing at some crates next to the goggles.
Alonzo took one glance at the stencilled label on top.
“Replacement actuators for the heavy-infantry suits. What the hell use do we have for those?”
Kiesche shrugged.
“No damn idea,” he said.
“Get loading those ones,” Alonzo said, pointing at a stack he’d passed earlier. “WP grenades. Never enough of those. You four.”
Mullins was one of those last. He picked up a crate from the stack of about twenty, carried it – it was heavy, but not impossibly so – over to the back of the nearest truck. Andrews was waiting there to take it.
“Those,” Alonzo said, when the crates of WP grenades were all taken. “Each of those has half a dozen sniper scopes – really, really good ones. Be careful handling `em.”
“Yessir.”
Over the next half-hour or so, Mullins loaded crates that apparently contained radios, guided rockets, computers, flares and flareguns, sniper-rifle ammo – those ones required two men each to carry – and optics.
Then Johnson came running out of the guard shack.
“Boss! Sarge!” he hissed frantically.
Alonzo whirled.
“Boss, they asked us for a countersign. Gave `em the one I thought it was – it was written down – and he was silent for a moment. Then he asks me what Saturday’s was. I gave him the bad-connection spiel.”
“Shit,” hissed Alonzo. He checked his watch.
“Of course, it’s oh-two-hundred on the dot. Should have figured they’d check on the hour. Let’s go!”
Oh, shit, thought Mullins, running for the cab of the nearest truck. Dashratha was already in the driver’s seat, starting the engine.
One of the soldiers pacing the wall, evidently noticing the frantic running, turned around and looked down.
Retreat Hell Page 41
