“Why else would I seek out an elite Striker Team Leader?” inquired the General.
“Ma’am, I was half joking,” Warlock replied. “As you can see, I’m not exactly mission ready.”
Tuulia faced the therapist and asked, “How fit is the Master Sergeant?”
“Ma’am. If Sergeant Alberich was a desk jockey, she’d be released with orders for light duty,” the P.T. advised. “As it is, she’s almost exceeding the levels of our strength equipment.”
“That’s excellent because I don’t need you in top form,” Tuulia stated to Warlock. “I do need your experience. Is there somewhere we can talk, privately?”
“My office is available,” volunteered the physical therapist.
***
“I’m at a loss,” complained Tuulia as she sat next to Diosa. “Lieke Steyn’s agents and my Marines couldn’t find any trail other than where the attacker cut the fences. I contacted J-Pop, but Lieutenant Piran begged off. He suggested I contact you.”
“General, I appreciate your vote of confidence but I’m a Striker,” protested Diosa. “I’m better trained to kill people and break things than to investigate multiple homicides.”
“Warlock, there’s an old adage. The best person to catch a thief is another thief, because she knows how thieves think,” Tuulia advised. “Besides, the Troops are top secret. It’s not as if I can contact Naval Investigative Services or the local constable. I’m afraid you are my best hope, if not my only one.”
In truth Master Sergeant Diosa Alberich was bored with the repetition of therapy, the view of the hospital deck, and the long hours of inactivity. Her hesitation had come from a fear of not being the right fit for the General’s need. After Tuulia’s plea, what else could she do?
“In that case General. You’ve hired yourself a Striker,” Warlock assured her. “But there’s another matter. I haven’t a thing to wear. And I can’t do the investigation naked.”
“Did you know, Master Sergeant, as the Commanding Officer of a secret POW camp,” Tuulia informed Warlock. “I have a black account? Until the invasion by the Constabulary, I didn’t even know what a black account was. It seems I have access to an extraordinary number of Pesetas. I believe we can buy you several outfits.”
Warlock shifted to the chair behind the physical therapists’ desk and began typing. After ten minutes, she spun the screen around for Tuulia to view it.
“Sturdy boots, good choice. Maxi length pleated black leather skirt, not my style but certainly fashionable,” Tuulia read from the items displayed. “Long sleeve black silk blouse and a fitted short beige jacket. Plus, slacks, tee-shirts and Marine Corps utilities. Wonderful, we’ll order sets for you and a suitcase.”
“Flip to the next screen, ma’am,” instructed Warlock.
Tuulia reached out and thumbed the screen. An entirely different shopping experience greeted her.
“A twenty-centimeter tactical combat knife, it looks wicked. And I can’t imagine a use for a spring powered expandable baton,” Tuulia read as she studied the screen. “And a short barreled nine-millimeter pistol. That’s quite the arsenal, Master Sergeant Alberich.”
“Yes, General,” Warlock replied. “As I explained, I don’t like to walk around naked.”
***
The Marine detail at the Troop compound had transferred from the Ander El Aitor. They’d survived the battleship’s escape from planet Tres and the space battles with the Constabulary Navy. All of them had witnessed Warlock and her Striker team brutally and efficiently clear corridor after corridor of Empress sympathizers. When she stepped off the General’s shuttle, it brought smiles to their faces.
The agency shooters strutted around like weekend warriors and posed as if video action stars. Having a Striker, one of their own at the compound, gave the Marine riflemen a boost in morale. Master Sergeant Alberich stopped to exchange words with a few Marines before heading into the barracks to unpack.
“Warlock is here,” a Marine outside the other barracks noted.
“She looks a little smaller,” another replied.
“And, that means you’d want to tangle with her?” inquired the first.
“Not a chance,” his buddy confirmed what they both understood.
On the battleship, during downtime, they’d witnessed Diosa Alberich run close quarter combat drills. Both armed and unarmed, it didn’t matter. Warlock, as a Strike Kill team hand to hand combat instructor, was proficient in a variety of martial arts. She may be down a few kilograms, but it didn’t make her any less deadly.
***
Diosa left the barrack and crossed the parking lot. The natural sunlight felt good on her arms and, although her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, she enjoyed the way the light reflected off the trees, hills and the distant mountains. But, she wasn’t here for a camping adventure.
At the guard shed, she nodded to the duty Marine but didn’t speak with her. Instead, Warlock began turning as she scanned the surrounding hills and trees.
‘Where is the best location to observe the lighted guard position?’ she thought. On her third rotation, the Striker stepped off heading west.
Across the dirt road, she examined the grass but too many boots had tramped through here recently. None of the footprints were distinguishable. She turned and gazed at the guard shed. Then slowly, she scanned the surrounding area noting tall trees, depressions in the soil, and the few hills close by.
The evergreen tree on one of the hills caught her eye. It was too close to the foot of the slope. Not an optimal observation post as it was too easy for a patrol to check under the branches. Warlock marched to the fir tree, ducked under the green skirt and stepped into the shade. Squatting down, she pulled off her sunglasses and waited for her eyes to adjust.
A flat area beside the trunk, where the pine needles were crushed, showed the shape of a body. On the other side of the trunk, Warlock got on her hands and knees. With her nose against the needles she sniffed, moving her head back and forth while crawling up the slope.
A faint aroma of urine ended the bloodhound search. Someone had been under the tree for an extended period of time. Long enough to void their bladder several times and to take periodic naps. Resting her back against the tree trunk, Diosa stared at the curtain of branches. From the base, there was no view of the guard shed. After tilting her head back, she smiled up at where the branches tapered and thinned.
The first three branches were pristine. No boot marks or scuffing. But on the fourth branch, someone had stepped and broken the bark.
‘Good recon craft,’ Warlock acknowledged. The infiltrator had done pull-ups to raise their feet to avoid marring the first branches.
After a quick climb, the Striker caught a view of the guard position. Resting with her legs across two branches, she sat comfortably unobserved by the Marine on duty.
‘This was your OP,’ whispered Warlock to the unknown attacker. ‘What was your approach route?’
Diosa climbed down, got onto her hands and knees, and used an arm to lift the skirt of the tree. Just beyond the ring of pine needles, in the dirt and protected from the wind by the low branches, was a boot impression. The toe print pointed towards the dome.
***
“General Tuulia, your attacker is a woman,” explained Diosa. “She wears a size nine boot. More than likely, she hiked in and spent a day observing before the assault. How she got out, I couldn’t tell. Too many Marine patrols have obliterated any trail to the south of the dome. But I can state her field craft is excellent.”
“That’s more information than I had before,” admitted the General. Then she pulled a box from a drawer. “Here is her brass. Eighteen bullets. Just eighteen? Does that have a significance?”
“Just enough ammo for a quick strike,” Diosa guessed as she picked up an empty cartridge. After examining it, she waved it in the air. “These are old. You can tell by the fracture lines in the brass. And they’ve been polished. I can bet there are no fingerprints on any of the e
ighteen.”
“The agency agrees with you,” Tuulia confirmed. “Oh, and she took the spoons from the grenades.”
“Overall, it’s a pretty clean search and destroy mission, ma’am,” commented Warlock.
“You sound as if you admire her?” accused Tuulia.
“Professionally, yes. But it doesn’t mean she didn’t mess up somewhere,” Diosa replied. “Or, that one of her confederates isn’t going to trip her up.”
“What is the next step?” inquired Tuulia.
“If I were running surveillance on your compound, I wouldn’t risk getting too close,” the Master Sergeant explained. “For flights in and out, I’d have a scope position on a far-off ridge. There’s not much I can do to look for one. Maybe the agency can fly some radar gear around to see if there are any.”
“I’ll have them do that,” Tuulia assured her. “You said not too close. Where else should we look?”
“You have a choke point ma’am. The dirt road,” Warlock explained. “All your ground traffic leaves through one point. I’d assign an observation post across the main road recording your traffic.”
“Should we send squads and sweep the area?” suggested Tuulia.
“No, ma’am. That might yield the observers. We need to follow their chain of command,” Warlock corrected. “It’s why I’m going to do some night recon this evening. If you’ll excuse me, General, I’m going to rest. All this fresh air is doing me in.”
“Dismissed Master Sergeant, and thank you,” Tuulia said acknowledging the request.
Chapter – 5 Night Maneuvers
The evening winds fell to intermediate gusts and the trees settled. Two hundred meters east of the dirt road leading to the compound, a shadow crossed the main road. It quickly vanished into the forest and was swallowed by the dark.
Warlock moved light footed and slowly until she located a trail. Taking it westward, she used the brush free path to increase her speed. It wasn’t as if she had a specific goal. The night reconnaissance was a probe to see if any watchers were professional or amateur. If the latter, she’d find them. If professionals, she could bypass them and not even know it.
The old trail twisted and turned around crops of trees and a few low hills. At the end of one blind curve, she spotted an object sitting in the center of the trail. As she approached, it materialized into a pickup truck. A hand on the hood felt the warmth of the engine.
Master Sergeant Alberich stepped off the trail. Ten paces in, she heard voices.
“I’ve been here all day,” a man offered. “Don’t belly ache about one night.”
“But nothing happens at night,” another complained. “Except animals prowling around. I’m telling you, it’s scary.”
“We’re getting some nice Pesetas for this,” the first replied. “Just stay awake. If you feel unsafe, climb into the hunting platform and watch from up there. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Footsteps crunched underbrush as the speaker moved towards the trail and the truck. He climbed in and started the motor but didn’t turn on the headlights. Cautiously, he turned the truck around and drove along the trail until it intersected with a logging road. Then the lights came on and he increased speed. Eventually, the truck reached the main road. There it turned westward and accelerated to highway speed.
The lights of service stations, roadside taverns and diners became more prevalent. At a diner with a dimly lit parking lot, the pickup slowed and turned off the highway. After parking in the back, the driver left the pickup and walked towards the diner’s entrance.
A shadow rose from the bed of the truck, jumped over the side and ran on a parallel track. The driver paused under a light to open the door. Warlock got a look at his face before the man walked into the roadside restaurant.
‘There is one problem with camouflage streaks,’ thought Warlock as she felt the paint on her face. ‘It’s tough to blend in with civilians looking like a video commando.’
Rather than go inside, she jogged around back seeking a window with a view of the driver.
***
He slid into a booth with another man. As soon as he sat, he reached into a shirt pocket and pushed a data chip across the table. A well build man with military bearing and a slick haircut snatched up the chip. A packet of Pesetas appeared and the driver plucked it from the table. They exchanged a few words then fell silent. As the driver picked up a menu, his companion pushed out of the booth and walked away.
Warlock was conflicted. Unless the military man drove a pickup, there was no way to follow him. Should she take him into custody or let him go?
Creeping back around the building, she watched as he opened the door to a sedan. The interior light illuminated an occupant on the passenger side. That resolved the issue. She worked her way close enough to get the license plate number before the car turned on the main road and zoomed off into the night.
After a quick message to General Tuulia, Warlock faded to the back of the parking lot. In the dark, she located a semi comfortable place to sit and wait for the car to come and pick her up.
***
“Shouldn’t we pick up the watchers?” asked Tuulia.
“No, ma’am. That would scare off the man in the sedan,” advised Warlock. “Until we know who he is and who he reports to, we need to let them continue the operation.”
“This is all very unsettling,” confessed the General. “I’ve passed the plate number onto the G.C.I.I.A. Hopefully, they’ll have an answer by morning.”
“Speaking of morning, I think I’ve accomplished all I can here, ma’am,” Warlock informed Tuulia. “I’ll need wheels and a hotel room. Once I have the sedan man’s name and address, I’ll be watching him.”
“Of course. I’ll have a Sergeant drive you,” Tuulia agreed.
***
The suite was more than Warlock expected. Located on the fourth floor, it had a sitting room, two bedrooms and two and a half baths. A balcony spanned the entire length of the suite. For a Striker accustomed to tight birthing on a Navy ship, the accommodations were extravagant.
With her feet up on the balcony’s rail and a cup of freshly brewed coffee in hand, Master Sergeant Alberich watched the sunrise. Then her peaceful contemplation ended with a chime from her PID.
The sedan belongs to Arnar Sigrún. A former Navy explosive ordinance disposal technician, currently employed by Katrijn Industries. Katrijn Industries is a Galactic shipper with warehouses on all three planets and contracts with Clipper Ship companies. Also, Katrijn Industries is rumored to be linked to several Tramp Steamer families.
None of the associations seemed nefarious but a shipper would benefit from playing both sides. Especially with planet Tres and a third of the company’s warehouses being under control of the Empress. The message listed two other pieces of information about Arnar Sigrún. His home address and a supper club where he was part owner.
Warlock walked to the bedroom and stretched out. It was going to be an interesting night.
***
The entrance to The Blues Man’s Hideout rested half a block from the parking lot. Warlock decided against valet parking. She wanted access to her car without delay if it became necessary.
“Drink?” asked Chad the floppy haired bartender with the twinkle in his eyes.
“Wine. Red and hearty,” replied Diosa.
“I’ve got just the vintage,” Chad promised.
As he moved down the bar to select the wine, Warlock glanced around the supper club. Four-top white linen tables created a maze through the center of the long room with large booths hugging one wall. At the rear of the room was a raised stage with a small dance floor. Off to one side of the dance floor a restroom sign marked a hallway. A monster of a mahogany bar anchored the other side of the room. Warlock sat near the wall around the corner a the highly polished wood bar.
“This should please you,” Chad declared as he set the wine glass down.
A combo stepped on the stage and began with a blues standard.
“Are you waiting for someone?” Chad asked.
“No. Can I eat at the bar?” inquired Diosa.
“Glad for the company,” exclaimed Chad. “Let me get you a menu.”
While Chad collected the menu, Arnar Sigrún strolled in, waved a casual hand at the bartender before walking to the last booth before the stage. He slid into the center of the booth and a waiter rushed to greet him.
It seemed the part owner required attention. The waitstaff wasn’t the only one observing the man. Warlock studied him over the rim of her wine glass. Just this side of forty and has a regular appointment with a personal trainer and a hair stylist, the Striker decided.
She ordered a rare steak, potato and a side salad from Chad. The tables began filling and the band took a break. As the combo stepped down from the stage, two men in suits approached Arnar Sigrún. One remained standing while the other sat and leaned forward engaging Arnar. As soon as the men finished the conversation, another man rose from a table and went to speak with Sigrún. When the band started filing back from their break, the visits ended.
Like a Commanding Officer holding office hours, thought Warlock. Bring them in, listen, make a judgement call, dismiss them and call in another. But what were they discussing?
Warlock was on her third glass of wine when Arnar got up, crossed the empty dance floor and vanished down the hallway.
“Chad. Where is the ladies room?” Diosa inquired.
“The hallway by the band,” Chad replied cheerily.
“Thank you,” Warlock said as she slid off the comfortable bar chair.
The drummer of the band nodded at the woman in the black leather skirt and short brown jacket. Diosa flashed him a smile before turning down the hallway. In the Marines, you never pass up three things. A chance to eat, to nap, or to use the restroom. After washing her hands, Warlock eased out of the room and back into the hall. Instead of heading out, she drifted back to a door marked office. Placing an ear against the wood, she listened.
“I don’t like it,” a woman complained.
Op File Revenge (Call Sign Warlock Book 1) Page 4
