“I saw him at the DFAC right after you and I spoke. I asked him outright what happened to those non-combatants and to explain the presence of the Russians and the biohazard crates.”
“And?”
“He played dumb. Said he had no idea what I was talking about.”
“That does sound like the OGA. But how did he threaten you?”
I look at Murph and then back at the screen. “I told him I was going to get to the bottom of what went down on that mountain.”
Granite leans back in his chair. “Marine… goddammit… I thought we’d agreed to let it go.”
“SAP or no SAP, there were kids in there, sir. Since when are U.S. forces in the business of harming children?”
Instead of answering my question, Granite asks, “So, what did he tell you?”
“That when you fuck with a bull you get the horns. That’s a direct quote. And that’s pretty much what it felt like on that mountain, sir. Bull horns right up the ass.”
Granite rubs his chin. “So, now you think he had something to do with that snafu?”
“Like I said, sir, I don’t believe in coincidences. And there’s too much conflicting shit, and also missing shit, like the transcripts. I know the bastard is somehow behind all of it. I just don’t know how to prove it.”
“Well, Lawson, that bastard is also a ghost. He left KAF that same week, and the OGA will deny him ever having been there. We don’t even have a real name.”
“Sir, with all due respect, that’s not good enough. My guys deserve better than that. And Dix knew him and his contractors, sir. And I’m also pretty damn sure that Cope also knew at least one of them.” I decide to throw that in since they’re both now dead.
“Knew them how?”
“Neither would say, but it had to be during their respective stints in the DIA. Ponytail Jones, as well as two of his contractors, recognized Dix outside Compound 35 that morning. They must have worked together or something. Dix was actually the one who convinced me to stand down in the field and later at the DFAC, and that alone tells me something about Ponytail Jones and his goons. Dix’s never backed down from anyone or anything. And I know I saw Cope and another of Jones’ contractors, a sniper, exchange words and pat each other on the back. But I could not get a single word from either one. And there’s also the strange behavior of those Talis, sir, the ones we killed in Compound 35, and those in that village the day after. They moved way too fast, even for a SEAL. Extremely nimble, agile. And right before getting blown up, Cope said something about those hajis reminding him of the ones they used to…”
“Used to what?”
“Don’t know. A cluster bomb hit him in midsentence.”
“Oh.”
“And I also can’t forget what the big guy with Jones said about ‘this shit really works’ and something about running out of time. What was he talking about? And then there’s the biohazard crates. Sir, something really, really stinks here.”
“What are you after?”
“For starters, payback, sir. I want those responsible for what happened to my team held accountable. But I also want to open an investigation into the whole thing to find out what’s going on. I’ve seen enough to suspect there’s more to this than what’s being reported.”
Granite runs a hand over his gleaming scalp. “So, what’s your next move?”
That is, of course, the question I’ve been trying to answer since regaining full consciousness three weeks ago. At the moment, I have no game plan. All I have is a ton of loose ends.
“Look, Lawson,” he says at my silence while checking his watch a third time. “I’ll look into the extra two heads in that platoon and see what comes out of that. I’ll also make some inquiries about the no-strike list mix up and the biohazard crates you saw. Not sure what to do with the comments made by Cope and Jones’ guy, but I’ll keep them in the back of my head while I dig around. And if there’s enough, I’ll personally call people I know at the USMC CID and open an official investigation. Alright?” The CID is the Criminal Investigative Division of the Marine Corps, similar to the NCIS for the Navy.
Realizing this is probably as far as I can move the ball today, I settle for a simple, “Thank you, sir.”
“Alright. I’ll get back to you. You guys take care of yourselves, and let me know if I can help in any way on whatever you decide to do next, okay?”
“Thank you, sir.”
He leans forward as his right hand reaches the keyboard, and the screen goes blank.
Murph says, “So, Law, is there a game plan?”
I close the laptop, dreading to tell him that I have no earthly idea what to do next. But then I remember what Granite said about Brooks and his platoon.
“There might be something,” I finally say. “And ironically, we could actually be in the right place and at the right time.”
Murph shakes his head. “I don’t follow.”
Before I can elaborate, Cheech walks in the room to collect his hardware.
“Where’s your compadre?” Murph asks as I hand him the computer.
The man places it under his right armpit, before smoothing his Zapata mustache with an index finger, which he then points at the ceiling. “We had a little excitement last night. He’s up there keeping an eye on Dix.”
Murph and I share a look before I ask, “What are you talking about?”
“Coded last night. But we got him back, and he’s stable now. Woke up a little while ago, which was… well, unexpected given his condition.”
Well, fuck me.
While I’m trying to recover from that, Cheech adds, “And he asked for you guys.”
“He’s… talking?” I ask, grabbing my cane while Murph reaches for his crutches. “What about the breathing tube?”
“Weird, huh?” Cheech says, smoothing his mustache again with the same finger. “Don’t need it anymore. Docs said that something happened when his heart stopped. Like his system was rebooted or something. Go figure, and—hey, where are you guys going?”
Murph and I are already limping our way out of the room and down the hallway toward the elevators. Unlike last night, this is a daylight overt op.
“Wait a moment!” the orderly shouts at our backs. “I didn’t mean you could go up and—”
“Stand back,” Murph says.
“Damn right,” I add, deciding this has definitely fallen in the area of Divine Intervention.
I get to the elevators first, ignore the day-shift nurse reading a newspaper, and stab the button to go up.
Cheech catches up to us. “Guys, I’m serious. You need permission to go to—”
The familiar double ding precedes the elevator doors opening, and I lift my cane and press the three rubber bottom legs against Cheech’s chest, pushing him away from us.
He’s obviously surprised at my move and just stands there.
“Take the next one,” I say as Murph crutches in and I follow, but walking backwards while using my newly found weapon to keep the orderly at bay.
We leave him there as the doors close and we pop up one floor, staggering as fast as our contraptions allow back to the scene of the crime—or I should say, attempted crime. I quickly take the lead as the adrenaline rush hits me hard.
A female nurse at the station asks in English with a thick German accent if there’s something we need, and Murph shouts back, “Yeah! Privacy!”
I get to Dix’s room while Murph is still halfway there and cursing like the damn sailor he is because he’s not used to being left behind. The nurse is now calling after us.
I push the door open. Dix is indeed awake and Chong is standing next to him taking his pulse.
“What the hell?” Chong asks, turning his dark figure dressed in blue scrubs toward me as I stand in the doorway looking at the Jersey boy like if he were a ghost. “You can’t be in
here, Commander. Sergeant Hope is not ready for visitors.”
“The name’s Dix, and I’m not a damn visitor,” I reply, stepping in and getting my cane ready in case he tries to stop me. “I’m his goddamned brother.”
“Boss,” Dix says, slowly turning his one good eye, albeit quite bloodshot, towards me. He is wearing a patch over the spot where his other eye used to be, giving him a sort of swashbuckling look. There’s a clear mask over his nose and mouth, which I’m guessing is so he can continue breathing oxygen now that the breathing tube is out. Until he can get a new lung, the concentrated oxygen is the only thing keeping him from asphyxiating.
Dix cringes, then adds, “This asshole won’t tell me… if I still have… my balls. And I can’t… fucking check.”
I try to hold back a grin. The man’s missing both legs, an arm, an eye, a lung, with the other one pretty screwed up, and there’s no telling if he’ll get to keep his surviving arm. But he wants to know if his balls are still attached.
Murph finally makes it in with the nurse in tow, a slender woman wearing green scrubs and one hell of a scowl. She’s also quite attractive, with ash-blonde hair pulled back into a bun and high cheekbones on smooth porcelain skin. Her light-blue eyes focus on me like a pair of lasers. Man, she might be pretty, but boy, is she pissed.
“Murph,” Dix says from beneath the clear mask, muffling his voice a bit.
“Hey, Bro,” he replies, crutching his way to one side of the bed while the nurse remains behind us, arms crossed as Chong finishes checking his pulse.
“You need to leave, now, yes? It’s against the rules!” she announces just as Cheech also steps in the room. The name OLGA is stenciled on her scrubs.
“Just need a minute here, guys, alright?” I say, looking at all three. “He’s our—”
“Brother, yes,” Chong says. “We get it.” Then looking at Olga, who stands next to him and Cheech, he adds, “Let’s not fight this, please. Just give them a few minutes to see their war buddy, okay?”
Olga breathes deeply as a deep red hue spreads across her very pale cheeks while a vein becomes prominent down her forehead.
Yep.
Very pissed.
“This will go in my report!” she proclaims before turning around and stomping away.
Chong stretches the fingers of his right hand and says, “Five minutes, guys.” Then lowering his voice, he adds, “After that you’re on your own with her. This is her pond and you’re pissing in it.”
“We’ll be right out.”
I give them a nod and they step into the hallway and close the door behind them.
“You guys… look like shit,” Dix says.
“Right back at you, man,” Murph replies as I step up next to him while doing my best to control my surprise, and also anger for what we did. Though now I’m wondering if we had not done it, would Dix still be in a coma?
Talk about a mind fuck.
“Glad you’re… okay… Boss,” he says, sizing me up.
“Thanks to you,” I reply. “I owe you, man.”
“You owe me… nothing. How’s Chappy… Cope?”
Murph shakes his head.
Dix briefly closes his eye and also shakes his head ever so slightly, then asks, “Who did… this?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Too many coincidences.” I take a couple of minutes to give him the abridged version, including the basics of our chat with Granite. But toward the end of it his eye starts to flutter a bit. At the same time, Chong sticks his head in and says, “Two-minute warning.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I reply, before turning back to Dix. “So, everything points to an Agency job, and at the center of it is your old friend, Ponytail Jones.”
“Not… my friend.”
“How do you know him?”
Dix opens his eye wide in an effort to stay awake, but I can tell he’s starting to lose the battle. Still, he considers what I’ve asked for a moment, then looks at his missing arm and legs.
“Leave it… the fuck alone, Boss,” he finally replies to my near dismay, closing his bloodshot eye again. The man has been pretty much drawn and quartered, and he’s still protecting the people who are likely responsible.
“Franky?” he mumbles.
“Been here twice already,” I tell him. “Last time just three days ago.”
Shaking his head, he mumbles, “Dammit. She doesn’t… deserve… this shit.”
Before either one of us can reply, he looks at Murph and says, “My… balls…”
“You’ve got it,” Murph says, and calmly lifts the sheet, like he did last night, only this time he pulls on the bandages.”
“Ouch… fuck! Take it easy, man!” Dix protests, suddenly very awake, his one eye wide open, trying to gaze down at Murph. I see the fingers projecting from the cast covering most of the surviving arm twitching a little, which I think is a good sign.
Murph looks up from the man’s groin and smiles. “That’s a good sign, Bro. If it hurts it means you have feeling.”
And of course, this has to happen just as Cheech and Chong, plus Olga, walk back into the room, but now accompanied by four MPs.
“What the hell are you doing?” Chong asks.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Murph says and keeps doing his thing down there.
“The man needs to know,” I add.
“Hey… HEY!“ Olga shouts when she realizes what Murph is doing. “You can’t—”
“Four MPs, two orderlies, and a nurse against three wounded SEALs? Hardly a fair fight,” I interrupt, before lifting my cane at them. “I’ll try to go easy on you.”
Chong holds back, and so do the MPs, as they exchange a look and stay put flanking Olga, who crosses her arms. Cheech remains quiet fiddling with his damn mustache.
“Still got your three inches, man,” Murph proclaims triumphantly, lowering the sheet. “Even got a little wood. Franky will be impressed.”
Dix grunts beneath the mask. Then he mumbles, “Asshole,” and closes his eye for a moment. He’s drifting away.
“Alright, guys, really,” Chong says. “He needs to rest. Please?”
I look at Dix one more time. His surviving eye is rolling to the back of his head, and he takes a big breath and finally closes it.
I signal Murph to get rolling. Then I lower my cane and walk slowly past a very angry Olga and her posse.
Chapter 9
Because of the Christmas rush at KAF, it takes Private Finn almost two days to get me the names of the wounded Marines who got ambushed under Lieutenant Brooks’ command.
Unfortunately, he hasn’t been able to dig up the names of anyone on that gunship. It’s almost as if the CH-130 was flown by ghosts. There is no record of the crew, only their combined statement included in the report Granite emailed.
But one thing at a time.
My theory, which turned out to be true, proposed that at least one or more of the wounded Marines would have been flown here after getting patched up at the Role 3 MMU.
Makes sense, right?
So, while Brooks and his gunnery sergeant might have taken the identities of those two extra heads to their graves, Finn found out that there are three of the late lieutenant’s jarheads at Landstuhl, and I’m hoping like hell at least one of them might remember something.
Unfortunately, two are in only marginally better shape than Dix. According to everything Finn could dig up, the ambush included a barrage of mortar fire after Brooks and his gunnery sergeant stumbled onto the Daisy-chained IEDs that blew them to pieces.
So, getting the intel from Finn is only half of the equation. The other half, which Murph and I are actively working to execute, is getting a little face time with the third Marine, Sergeant Adanna Johnson, who also happened to be one of Brooks’ three squad sergeants.
Murph and I target
her because being the third-ranking member in the platoon, she might have been privy to what really went down that day. And according to Cheech and Chong, she’s in far better shape than her two comrades-in-arms up there with Dix on the third floor. Although Adanna lost both legs below the knees, she’s in otherwise good health and already in rehab.
Cheech points her out to us in the cafeteria. Like Murph, she’s already fitted with a pair of prosthetics and a side of crutches. She’s sitting alone at a corner table in the back of the place quietly eating her chow while staring at the white landscape beyond the windows. Bing Crosby’s I’ll be Home for Christmas streams from overhead speakers.
Yeah. It’s Christmas eve, and there’s snow on the ground, mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, and even presents wrapped under the goddamned tree in the middle of the dining area. I know I should feel grateful that all I lost is an ankle and a pound of flesh from my back, but that fucking Crosby song is doing a number on me. Something about the holidays and that old tune makes me reflect on the choices I’ve made in my life. And hobbling with my cane to this corner table followed by Murph on crutches to join another wounded warrior in the middle of Germany on this day makes me wonder if I made the right ones.
But it is what it is.
My mood, however, takes a turn for the better the moment I set eyes on her.
Adanna is unexpectedly beautiful, especially for a jarhead, and looks to be in her late-twenties. She’s not quite as dark as Murph and sports a pair of strong shoulders, like those of swimmers. A tight black T-shirt shows her slim but muscular physique. According to Finn, she was on her third tour. But like us, it really makes it her final tour. She has very short, almost shaved, black hair, a straight nose, lips that remind me of Kate, and this amazing pair of light-brown eyes that look up from her Christmas chow.
Unfortunately, those eyes regard me with the apathy you see around here. Let’s face it, if you’re at Landstuhl, chances are your military career—at least the one you always dreamed about—is pretty much over. So, everyone who’s actually conscious spends most of his or her recovery time in one of the five stages of grief. I’m personally just past denial and into pretty serious anger, while I think Murph, to his credit, has already zoomed right through denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and is well into acceptance.
Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller Page 9
