Strike Force Charlie s-3

by Mack Maloney

  “The May 1–7 Plan … Seven Days in May,” Ozzi said now after reading it through, putting the pieces together, connecting the dots. A famous novel about a near coup back in the 1960s. That’s why the file was labeled as it was.

  “Strictly an amateur,” Hunn said now, putting some fresh ammunition into the team’s lone M16 clone. “But dangerous nevertheless ….”

  But then Ozzi stepped in.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Putting two into this guy, here, like this, might not be the way to go. It will only make us look like the villains once they catch up to us. And at that point no one will believe any of this is true — no one who wasn’t involved in it, that is. Popping him here and dumping his body in a ditch is too good for him and bad for us. Somehow we’ve got to expose this asshole for what he is ….”

  “I agree,” Li said, the blood running ice-cold in her veins by now. “He’s got to go. Just like Palm Tree and Ramosa. But it has to be to our advantage.”

  Rushton spit back at them. “Look at this,” he said. “A Chink, a commie, and a moron, trying to put the world back together again. It’s exactly people like you who are ruining this country. Can you honestly say you think the person in the White House is capable of dealing with things today? Or those idiots in Congress? We’re on the same side here, in a way. Power speaks. Power gets respect ….”

  They let him talk, but they weren’t really listening to him. They were huddled in the corner, trying to think of a way to prevent Rushton from becoming a martyr and thus encouraging others like him.

  In the end it was Ozzi who came up with the perfect solution. No, they wouldn’t pop Rushton here. They would do it someplace that would at least lead people to suspect that the facade he’d put forward — true — blue, family values type of guy — was not the real Rushton at all. And once that happened, maybe other people with more juice than they had would start looking into the whole thing. And maybe it would get exposed that way.

  Ozzi told the others his idea, and they agreed it was worth a shot.

  But they would have to work fast.

  * * *

  It was around 2:00 A.M. the next day when the Baltimore police got the call. There was an “undisclosed disturbance” at a brothel on the south side of town, a place that was once a playground for the rich and famous but had fallen into disrepair lately.

  It was the second time in as many weeks the police had been called to the run-down cathouse. A body had been found there on the first call. Shot in the face, he was still lying in the morgue, unclaimed, listed as “John Doe/Filipino.” That case was unsolved of course. No suspects. No motive. Just another skel, found dead in a room full of needles.

  The responding unit found pretty much the same thing this night. A dead body. No ID. No motive. Found on the third floor in the same room as the last.

  The scene was puzzling even for the seen-it-all cops of South Baltimore. They thought they recognized the dead man’s face, but it had already puffed up and was leaking pus. He was stripped of all his clothes, found propped on the filthy bed in the corner of the filthy room. He had a needle still stuck in his arm, his hand still on the plunger.

  But he did not look like an ordinary junkie. He was obviously well fed, overweight even, clean, no tracks on his arms, with manicured fingernails, even pedicured feet. They doubted this body would lie unclaimed in the morgue for very long.

  No one at the cathouse recalled seeing the man arrive — none of the hired help remembered taking him on. Though this was standard operating procedure in cases of cathouse murders, the cops tended to believe the residents this time. They seemed legitimately shocked that the body was here in the first place.

  The cops were also hip enough to know that this was probably a setup, that whoever arranged the scenario had done it to disgrace the victim — a simple homicide not being good enough for him.

  The cause of death would eventually be determined as air being injected into a major artery, causing a bubble to race and then burst in the victim’s heart. Painful and not as quick as it might sound. With the dark humor of the police in a tough part of town, they’d almost appreciated the joke. Someone who wasn’t really a junkie dying a junkie’s death.

  But there was one last puzzling piece. Something that didn’t quite fit in, at least not yet.

  Shortly before the body was discovered in the whorehouse, a butcher shop nearby had reported a break-in with some of its goods stolen. That might have solved the how but not the why, for the guy was found dead with an animal in the bed with him.

  A tiny pig.

  Chapter 25

  Las Vegas One week later

  Ryder had actually enjoyed his time in the holding cell at Nellis.

  He’d spent most of the time playing cards, enjoying the food, and watching TV with the rest of the ghosts.

  And he slept, for the first time in what seemed like years. He didn’t dream, though. Not about his wife. Not about Li. He just slept, soundly, deeply.

  They were incarcerated in name only. Actually, it was more like a stay at a hotel. The bed was soft; the service was great. They were treated like celebrities by the Air Police who were supposed to be guarding them.

  And celebrities they were. By now everyone in the country knew who they were, knew what they had done. A large cavalcade of media had descended on Vegas in the last few days reporting on the thwarted attack at the base and hoping to get a shot of the ghosts. Many of these media types were camped right outside the main gate at Nellis, causing many more headaches for Captain Mark Audette than he’d ever dreamed were possible.

  Many things had happened in the week they’d been locked up. General Rushton was dead, found in a whorehouse in Baltimore, a needle sticking out of his arm, a pig sitting on his lap. That certainly had Hunn and Ozzi written all over it. The three dozen terrorists who’d been set loose in the United States had all been accounted for and were all dead as well. Good riddance on that note. There was still a smoldering hole next to the flight line at Nellis, but that would soon be repaired as well.

  Of course most of the story was still under wraps. Rushton’s coup plans, the French government’s involvement — all of it was unknown to the public, and to everyone except a handful of power people in D.C. whose business it was to keep such things secret forever, if possible. Rushton had died in a crackhouse brothel. He’d had problems. Pressure of work, and so on. Not the first Washington player to die a strange death and certainly not the last.

  The country itself was breathing a little easier. The terrorist threat seemed to pass away with the Fourth of July fireworks. Not gone forever, but at least for a little while. The traffic around Washington returned to its usual slow pace, no more gridlock. No more troops in the streets. No more jets constantly flying overhead. Massive, if secret, court martials were already in the works though.

  So it did seem the world was back on-track, again at least for a little while.

  But the ghosts couldn’t stay at Nellis forever, as much as they would have liked to. They weren’t military personnel, not technically anyway, and as their incarceration was being played out and discussed and debated endlessly on the 24-hour news stations, it was becoming quite clear that they probably shouldn’t have been in military custody in the first place. And while the four of them appreciated what the Air Force, especially Audette, had done for them, they also knew there were pressures inside and out to have some resolution to their case. Despite their heroics, they were guilty of many, many federal crimes. And while they were the darlings of what people were beginning to call the New Patriotism, even they knew they had to be held accountable for what they’d done. Besides, there were people in Washington who still wanted to exact some revenge on them.

  Finally, on their sixth day at Nellis, they were told that they had to go. But the military was doing them one last favor: Instead of turning them over to the Feds, they were actually handing them off to the city of Las Vegas, where they would be charged with one count each of il
legally operating an aircraft, a civil offense. This would give them another breather, at least until reality set in and they were remanded to a federal court in D.C.

  That’s when the real trouble might begin.

  * * *

  Because of the media swarm encamped around the main gate at Nellis, it was agreed that the ghosts would be transported to the Las Vegas courthouse in a military vehicle, this as opposed to a car from the sheriff’s department. A military vehicle would not have to stop to get out of the base, and this would leave the media types waiting there high and dry.

  Ryder, Bates, Puglisi, and Fox, now wearing plain, unmarked flight suits, were picked up at their holding cell at 9:00 A.M. They thanked their jailers, up to and including the base commander, profusely apologizing again for tearing up his base. It was clear many people in the military supported them, though; many had already thanked the ghosts for what they had done. Just like those two A-10s they’d encountered over Milwaukee that day, so long ago. The pilots could have easily shot them down and ended all this — but they didn’t, because they believed in what the ghosts were doing. It was good to know that many of the people in uniform were behind them all the way.

  Leaving Nellis by the main gate went just as they had hoped. The base admin car simply drove off the base, not stopping, leaving the media in the dust.

  The problem was, there was another army of reporters waiting at the courthouse, with a forest of satellite dishes accompanying them. Protocol said the military car would have to leave the ghosts at the rear of the courthouse, where they would be turned over to local law enforcement. Six sheriff’s deputies were waiting for them here — but they would still have to walk about fifty feet to the rear door of the courthouse itself, and waiting there for them was a gauntlet of media. The four ghosts had agreed beforehand that the less they said publicly the better. But when they drove up and saw the crowd of press, they knew staying by that agreement would almost be impossible.

  The deputies took custody of them, and after one last handshake with their military handlers the four of them began their weird perp walk across the parking lot to the back door of the courthouse. They were surrounded immediately by microphones and video cameras, wielded by beautiful newswomen mostly, with a few GQ-looking male reporters thrown in. The questions were all stupid and senseless and obvious. “Do you consider yourselves criminals?” “Do you consider yourselves heroes?” “Have you been offered any book deals?” “Movie deals?” “Endorsement deals?”

  The deputies did their best, but they were vastly outnumbered. Before they made it halfway across the parking lot, the crush of media just collapsed in on them. More deputies arrived. Pushing and shoving ensued. But it was no use. They were trapped.

  This is how the Beatles must have felt, Ryder thought, betraying his age.

  Finally he just stopped. And everyone else stopped with him.

  All cameras turned to him. The others were whispering to him, “If you’re going to say something to get us out of here, make it quick.”

  That’s exactly what Ryder intended to do.

  Silence came over the courtyard. He looked out on at least a hundred cameras, twice as many microphones, the faces of the media types smiling and accommodating, expecting him to say something great but ready to pounce on him if he didn’t.

  Finally, he began to speak:

  “We did what we did for all the people who died on 9/11,” he began. “We did what we did for the families of those who lost loved ones that day. But we’re not heroes — not in the way you people in the media might want us to be. We’re just Americans, trying to do what’s right. Trying to protect our country.”

  A short pause. His audience was rapt.

  “September Eleventh was an awful day,” he began again. “No matter what’s happened before or since, it’s true, we will never be the same — not until we find every last person who was connected with those attacks and put them in the ground where they belong.

  “But something very special also happened on 9/11—or at least I think it did. I heard someone say this once, and so I want to pass it on to you. We know the terrorists spent several years planning the attacks of September Eleventh. We know they got it down to the last-minute detail. The time and effort they put in, the sneaking around, the deceit, all to kill three thousand of our countrymen. Three years, twenty-four hours a day, planning to commit mass murder.

  “But what really happened? Yes, those three thousand people died, especially in the towers — but twenty thousand people were saved that day. Twenty thousand people who didn’t lose their lives … because of the bravery of the cops and the firemen and just ordinary people. Like you and me.

  “And here’s the thing: how much planning went into that? These murderers took three years to plan how to kill three thousand people — but we, we Americans, we saved twenty thousand of our countrymen, and it didn’t take any planning at all. The people there just did it. It just happened. Because that’s how we are in America.

  “And that’s why we’re different from them.”

  * * *

  Five minutes later, the four ghosts were led into the courtroom. It was packed, but not with media types — hardly. Ryder scanned the crowd and was surprised to see some very familiar faces, as well as some not so familiar. Some he would only learn later who they were.

  Master Chief Finch and the Doughnut Boys were there. So were Bo Tuttle, his brother Zoomer and cousin Hep, from Campo, Kentucky. And Detective Mike Robinson from the Chicago Police Department was there. And Donny Eliot, the park ranger from Nebraska. And Dave Hunn’s uncle, the priest from Queens, and the NYC firemen Sean O’Flaherty, Mike Santoro and Mark Kelly.

  The Ruckers were there, right in the front row. And the truckers who transported the team into the Rockies. And the guys from the company that owned the CL-215 firefighting plane. And the people who owned the seaplane refueling island in Minnesota. Even Captain Audette was in attendance.

  They were all here because they believed. They had helped the ghosts along the way and now they had made their own way here to show their support, to watch over the ghosts, just as they felt the ghosts had been watching over them for the past few crazy weeks.

  But most surprising of all, sitting in the back row was Hunn. And Ozzi.

  And Li.

  And when she saw Ryder, she blew him a kiss.

  The show of support was heartwarming, but it didn’t take away the fact that the four rogues were potentially in a lot of trouble.

  The infractions that were to be discussed here today were petty compared to what they might be charged with once they were extradited to D.C. If they were found guilty back there, especially on national security violations, they could be locked up forever, in conditions not so different from what they had left back in Gitmo, public opinion be damned.

  At that moment, as they were being seated at the defendants’ table, Ryder could not shake the feeling that this was the end of the road for them. Their future was very much uncertain.

  They all looked at one another, as much to say, How are we going to get out this?

  * * *

  Li was thinking the same thing.

  They’d been able to slip out of D.C. cleanly to get out here — and even better, no one seemed to know who they were. But she knew that it could very well be her name on the docket next, along with Hunn and Ozzi. Murder? Conspiracy? Numerous violations of the National Secrets Act? They would have been better off leaving the country. But there was no way they were just going to let their comrades hang. Still, their future was uncertain, too.

  Finally the court officer came out and asked everyone to rise. A side door opened and the judge walked in. And this was where Li got the biggest surprise of her life.

  She recognized him. This day judge from Las Vegas, a place she’d never been before — she took one look at his face and realized that he looked very familiar.

  He was a small man, about sixty-three or so. An unimpressive face, with a re
d nose and huge ears. He seemed almost unsure of himself, his judge’s robes appearing to be too big for him by a factor of two.

  But that face — it was unforgettable.

  He was the little man who’d walked out onto the court of the Wizards basketball game that night so long ago to help the two kids revive their singing of “America the Beautiful.” The man who had brought the entire arena to the brink of tears.

  But what was he doing here?

  The little man took his seat up on the bench and fiddled with his glasses. Meanwhile the court officer called the proceedings to order by saying that the regular day judge, the Honorable J. C. Hood, was on vacation this week and that a substitute jurist would be handling the cases today.

  This substitute judge was the Honorable Bobby Murphy.

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