Burke's Revenge: Bob Burke Suspense Thriller #3 (Bob Burke Action Adventure Novels)

by William Brown

  “Ah saw their collar tabs. It was a bird colonel and a major. No, maybe a light colonel, ah couldn’t tell in the dark.”

  “Did you recognize them, or know what unit they were from?”

  “Nah, too dark for any ’a dat, but ah know ah got ’em good.”

  “And you’re sure they’re dead?”

  “One to da body and one to da head? Oh, yeah? Dey be dead, bof of ’em.”

  “Good, good. You did well, Muhammad,” Shaw told him, exultant. “And this is just the beginning.” Shaw smiled to himself. So they don’t think I’m radical enough? Well, we’ll see about that, Shaw thought to himself.

  Finally he turned and looked at Muhammad. “I need you to take another look at those arms rooms. The handguns we picked up tonight are fine, but we aren’t dealing with any rednecks anymore. We need automatic rifles, good ones, M-4’s and M-16s. If we are supposed to be a real army, we must have real weapons. You need to figure out how to make some of them ‘disappear’ from one of the arms room on post. And I need that C-4. I’m getting some made but I need enough for us to get started.”

  “C-4? Man, ah tol’ you. Maybe ah kin get da guns, but dey moved all da explosives and da C-4 to da engineers. How I gonna get dat?”

  “Steal it, buy it, bribe somebody. Do whatever you need to do.”

  Muhammad shook his head. “Like ah said, ah kin get da guns, but ah’ll need mo’ money, some serious money to pull off somethin’ like dat, lessin’ you jes tryin’ to get me killed, Shaw.”

  “All right, how much?” Shaw asked.

  “$2,000… fo’ each block… thas if ah kin get it at all.”

  “All right, Muhammad, here’s $10,000,” Shaw said as he handed him part of the stash he brought to pay the rednecks. Then he stared at the big African American private long and hard. “Get the C-4. I need it by Monday night. That gives you two days to figure out how to do it. Got that? I’ll phone you and set up a time, and you’d better be there!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sherwood Forest, Sunday

  Putting together a big down-home barbecue in North Carolina, Tennessee, or Texas, where everyone thinks they’re an expert, is child’s play. And the barbecue gave Bob one more good excuse for having bought the new pickup. The truck bed was just the right size for two large kegs of Bud, a case of Kentucky sipping whiskey and vodka, several cases of canned soft drinks, paper goods, a half-dozen cases of steaks and ribs, a dozen bottles of barbecue sauce, hot sauce, a dozen gallons of Ben & Jerry’s, several big buckets of fresh oysters, six dozen unhusked ears of corn, baking potatoes, tinfoil, and big buckets of potato salad, coleslaw, and anything else Bob could think of as he and Ace rumbled through the commissary pushing two carts each. Thank God for the commissary, he thought. Doctors were always lenient in determining “disability” percentages for Delta “early retirees,” enough to get them the minimum threshold for commissary and PX privileges. That was probably the only advantage they got for accumulating as many gunshot wounds and broken bones as they had over the years, not to mention the hearing loss from artillery and IEDs.

  But before Bob left Sherwood Forest, he had one last chore to do. He went out back to the Annex, to the Geeks’ “KGB Data Center,” or “The Geekdom,” as Ellie called it, where they did all their computer work. Bob took the stairs two at a time, making lots of noise to ensure they heard him coming. It was Charlie Newcomb, the CFO of Toler TeleCom, who hired Jimmy Barker and Ronald Talmadge to be his tech-savvy “wunderkinds” in the Chicago office. One looked like he was fifteen and the other looked like his younger brother. With superhero T-shirts, pockets full of pens, and Master’s degrees from Caltech, they were brilliant at computer analysis. Bob brought them out to Atlantic City to attack the casino’s security and financial systems during the dustup with the New York Genovesi and Lucchesi mobs over Vinnie Pastorini’s killing. When they added Sasha Kandarski, a hairy, equally brilliant, knuckle-dragging Russian classmate of theirs at Caltech, Bob’s digital assault team was complete and the “KGB Data Center” was officially open to destabilize crooks.

  The Geeks were far better at finding money and making it disappear than the Mob’s New York bankers and consultants ever were in hiding it. They cleaned out the casino’s cash and the Mob’s investment accounts, broke it down into hundreds of little pieces, laundered it through dozens of banks and accounts in the Caymans, Switzerland, Nigeria, Thailand, Bulgaria, and as many other places. Weeks later, the money all came back together in a series of new accounts owned by a multilayered, murky corporation named “The Merry Men of Sherwood Forest,” a nonprofit based in Switzerland engaged in donations to US veterans’ charities, which owned the conference center and farm outside Fayetteville, North Carolina.

  When Bob entered the central lounge and game room in “the Geekdom” it was “0800” on Sunday morning. He walked over to their new Sony 2400 Watt RMS stereo system, which featured “sub woofers, separate mids, and tweeters big enough to create a punishing bass, screaming highs and wake the neighborhood,” or so the salesman told him. Bob thought he’d find out if those claims were true by playing his favorite trumpet solo recordings of Reveille and the old cavalry call, “Charge!” To gain maximum benefit, he inserted the disk in the CD player and turned the volume all the way up. Fortunately, it didn’t blow the windows out, but it only took thirty seconds of sharp-edged bugle notes before the three wide-eyed and half-naked Geeks, plus Jimmy’s “main squeeze,” Patsy Evans, came stumbling out of the three bedrooms with their hands over their ears.

  Bob let the music run for another five seconds before he turned the stereo off. “Good morning! I see everyone’s here and ready to go to work,” he told them, hands on hips, looking them over, with a thin, sadistic smile on his face.

  “Go to work?” Ronald started to complain until Bob cut him off.

  “I understand you three met with Master Sergeant Randall yesterday?” he asked as he looked around, but the only replies he heard were moans, groans, and some “Yeah buts,” so he continued. “Good. We’re inviting some friends over this afternoon for an old-fashioned country barbecue, and there’s a few minor chores I need for you three to attend to for me before they begin to arrive.”

  After more moans, groans, and grumbles, he continued, “Mow the lawn behind the house, hose down the patio, put six of the big round tables and fifty chairs on it, and roll over that big barbecue grill that’s out in the barn, the one made of two halves of a fifty-five-gallon oil drum. When I get back from the store, you can load it up with charcoal. You’ll also find some big coolers out in the barn. Bring those out too. I’ll have a bunch of meat and food put in those when I get back.”

  “But, but,” Jimmy stammered, “haven’t you got some groundskeepers who can do that kind of stuff? We were going to make another run at some of those accounts in the Bahamas later this morning…”

  “Is that the kind of ‘run’ that includes Krazy Glue? Or X-rated cartoons with talking squirrels? Or the Grand Vizier breaking your digital sword over his knee?”

  “Uh, well, uh, not really…” Ronald began to stammer. “You see…”

  “Outstanding, then!” Bob bellowed, fists on hips, looking around at them. “I’ll be back from the store by 1100, that’s 11:00 a.m. for you twits. I expect to see the yard and the patio finished, and then you can start on the tables and the grill. I want the beer cooling and the grill lit by noon, the ribs cooking by 1230, and the first steaks on by 1245, because things should be hopping by 1300. Got that?”

  By 1:00, “Chester” Blackledge and two dozen other lesser and greater sergeants and junior officers from the Unit and their wives and girlfriends had arrived. By that time, Bob had come out wearing his full-length white apron with “Master Chef” embroidered across the chest and a tall, white stovepipe chef’s hat. Linda, Dorothy, Patsy, and Ellie took great pleasure sitting at one of the tables near the barbecue grill, where they proceeded to tease and laugh at Bob as he tossed the first batch of oysters on
the grill while Ace tapped the first keg.

  “Nice hat,” Linda chortled.

  “Waiter, aren’t you going to bring us some beer and oysters?” Patsy called out. That was when Jimmy staggered over carrying a tall stack of plates from the kitchen.

  Bob called over to him, “Boy Toy, our women crave beer and oysters. Your next job is to make sure that their table lacks for nothing all afternoon.”

  “Oh, man… I’m beat. We’ve done all the…”

  “Krazy glue, dancing squirrels, Grand Viziers. You have your orders.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jimmy mumbled as he walked to the beer keg.

  That was when Command Sergeant Major Pat O’Connor arrived, escorting Colonel William Jeffers, the Regimental CO of the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment - Delta and his Sergeant Major Pete Krasner. Jeffers was short and stocky, and he and Bob Burke looked like the runts in the litter compared to those two big NCOs and Ace. Everyone there was dressed in blue jeans and various casual polo or cowboy shirts, as was the rest of the crowd. No one wore a uniform or had any insignias or badges of rank, but everyone knew who everyone else was.

  “Nice of you to invite us tired old grunts out here, Major,” Jeffers said with a big smile as Ace joined them and they all shook hands. The colonel took a long look at Bob’s chef hat and apron. “Is that your new uniform?”

  “The uniform of the day, Colonel. And I’ll tell you, when you hang it up, you’ll discover a lot of things feel comfortable you never thought would.”

  Jeffers paused and looked around at the big farm. “Nice spread you got here.”

  “Oh, it’s not mine,” Bob quickly answered, knowing that a retired major couldn’t possibly afford a farm like this. “It belongs to a nonprofit I’m working with.” Jenkins wasn’t part of the Merry Men. Someday he might be, then he would understand, but not now.

  “I guess the General’s still out of town?” Jeffers asked. “He’s missing a great party.”

  “I talked to him this morning,” Pat O’Connor answered. “He wanted to come, but he’s stuck in Germany until Monday. He told me to tell the Major how much he’s looking forward to their lunch on Tuesday.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I am,” Bob said with a strained smile.

  “Yes, I’m sure you are,” O’Connor answered, and they all laughed.

  Colonel Jeffers stepped in closer and asked Bob in a low voice, “You got any thoughts about the shootings on post last night, Robert?”

  “What shootings? I’ve been running around all morning and didn’t hear anything.”

  “Two officers were shot to death outside the rear entrance to the Stryker Golf Club, a colonel and a major. Two bullets each in the back. That kind of thing doesn’t happen around here very often; it has the headquarters going nuts.”

  “Were they ours?”

  “No, the colonel was with Post Finance and the major was with transportation,” Jeffers said. “The CID is still investigating, but apparently it wasn’t a robbery. That’s about all they do know, except the pistol that did the shooting was a .45, probably an old Colt M1911.”

  “Old school, but I can see where it would have everyone up there on edge, given everything else that’s been going on these days. Sounds like Fort Bragg is not immune.”

  “No, and I’m sure the old man will bring it up on Tuesday when you have lunch.”

  “No doubt. Thanks for the heads up,” Bob told him and turned toward Jimmy, who had just finished up bringing beers to the women. “Boy Toy, draw some beers for these warriors. Then you can have Patsy give you a big hug.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jimmy beamed as he quickly filled some cups and passed them around.

  “I haven’t seen him around post.” Pete Krasner looked at Jimmy.

  “Or those other two,” Jeffers cocked his head toward Ronald and Sasha, who were putting up the last of the tables and chairs. Ronald had started growing a shaggy goatee, while Sasha looked like the hairy Russian bear that he was. “Are they ours?” Jeffers asked. “Those two look like they could use some PT,” he said, looking at Jimmy and Ronald. “The big one just needs a head to toe shave,” he added, referring to Sasha.

  “No, Fort Bragg is the last place you’ll see those three,” Bob laughed. “They’re the computer brain trust from my Chicago office. I’ve had them down here for a few weeks doing some systems work for the foundation. They may not look like much, but all three of them have Masters from Caltech and they’re smarter than all of us put together.” Bob looked toward the house and saw Koz, The Batman, and two other young men in civilian clothes walk around the corner from the parking area.

  Ace saw them, said, “Excuse me for a minute,” and headed their way.

  Jeffers saw them too and took a sip of his beer. “Given your vast intelligence network, I’m sure you also heard that we lost some men last week — some of yours, in fact.”

  “Lonzo and Bulldog. I heard, but not much else. When’s the service?”

  “Sometime next week. I’ll have Pete keep you posted. Our forensics team has swept the site twice but it’s in western Syria and they came under fire both times. There’s not much left to find so we’re not sending them back in. It’s too risky.”

  “It’s unfortunate, but I understand,” Bob said as he glanced at his watch. “Colonel, I’m gonna start throwing the first steaks on the grill in a few minutes. Why don’t you guys grab some oysters and top off your beers while I go play host and press the flesh a little.”

  Jeffers and the two NCOs grabbed some plates while Bob took the opportunity to grab a couple of beers and head toward Koz and the other three sergeants who were walking along the back of the patio with Ace. Bob handed one of the cups of beer to Koz and said, “Glad you guys could make it,” and shook their hands.

  “We weren’t sure how welcome we’d be,” Koz said quietly as he glanced at Jeffers and the high-ranking NCOs. “Not with all the brass here.”

  “Koz, you’re always welcome. You’re one of the original Merry Men, dating back to Chicago,” Bob reassured him. “You’re always welcome. Now tell me what the hell happened over there.”

  Koz looked at the others and took a sip of his beer. “Soldier to soldier?” he asked.

  “It won’t go any further. Look, I know it was a bad Op and you got ambushed, but what the hell are they blaming you for?”

  “It was a trap, and a damn good one. We went in ahead of the Iraqi infantry to provide covering fire if it came to that. We didn’t see any problems until their Chinook landed. They bounced down the ramp and charged the house, and that was when all hell broke loose. A big IED went off in the middle of them, and a squad of ISIS fighters popped up on the roof and poured fire down on the survivors. We engaged, but by then, it was a waste of time. Fonzi… Lieutenant Winkler, ordered us to fall back to the pickup point, returning fire all the way, but when we got to our bird we realized we had company — two Iraqi officers and a sergeant had somehow miraculously beat us back and were hiding inside the Stealth. We never saw them at the house. Best guess is they’re the ones who ratted out their own men and hung back when the others were hit. Anyway, no sooner did the two birds lift off than Fonzi’s Stealth was hit…” Koz paused to look at the others.

  “I’m not sure I want to hear the rest.”

  “You’re the one who asked.” The Batman glared at Bob.

  Prez Washington stepped in and said, “With four of our guys KIA, we didn’t feel like doin’ no damn ridesharing! ’Course we wuz up at two thousand feet at the time.”

  “I get the picture and I do understand,” Bob told them.

  “Can’t say a whole lot of thought went into what happened next,” Koz admitted with a sad laugh. “It just happened, but none of us regret doing it.”

  “If we’d ’a turned ’em in, the Iraqis wouldn’t have done anything to ’em, Major,” Illegal told him. “That Iraqi captain was probably some mullah’s cousin, and those three bastards got what they deserved.”

  “Un
fortunately, the copilot must’ve seen the last one go out the door and said something to somebody when we got back to al-Assad. That’s when it hit the fan.”

  “I can imagine,” Bob commiserated. “But with four dead Deltas plus the flight crew, if your copilot was also from the 160th SOAR, I’m surprised he said anything to anybody. A night Op? With everything else that was going on?”

  “We heard he’s new. He tried to take it all back the next day, and now he says he saw nothing,” Koz told him. “Didn’t matter. Late the next day we found ourselves getting grilled by your old friend, Colonel Adkins from JSOC, and he had no intentions of letting go.”

  “Adkins?” Bob snorted. “You mean he’s a full colonel now? And he’s with JSOC and running your Op? How the hell did they ever sneak that past Stansky?”

  “He took over operations several weeks ago,” Koz answered.

  “Don’t matter. We didn’t tell dat prick nuthin’. We stuck to our stories,” The Prez said.

  “Adkins? Wasn’t he the jerk in charge of Intel on that last Op you ran in Afghanistan?” Ace asked, but Bob didn’t answer, which said volumes. “He got two guys killed that day, too.”

  “Really?” Bob asked glumly. “Maybe he has a twin?”

  “One who’s also missing a front tooth?” Ace laughed. “I wasn’t in the room back in Kandahar but I heard something about you decking him and giving him a black eye.”

  “You know you can’t believe stories like that,” Bob answered with a thin smile. “My guess is he’s still trying to get even with me and you guys dropped into his lap like manna from Heaven. But he hasn’t filed charges on any of you, has he?”

  “No. It comes down to the four of us versus the initial statement he got from the co-pilot,” Koz answered. “And I don’t see how he can make a case out of that.”

  Ace looked at Bob. “Koz said he even brought up your name when he was grilling them. As I understand it, it wasn’t very positive.”

  “Oh, Adkins will keep trying, but that’s about all he can do,” Bob said as he turned to Koz. “If he keeps pressing, let me know. I’ll make a few phone calls and get you guys some top-notch attorneys.” Bob turned and looked at the others, eye to eye. “He’s my fight, not yours, so stick to your stories. Besides, with you guys here and him back there, there isn’t much he can do.”