The Zombie Deception

by Marvin Wolf

  “Rhenquist also bought Pensacola PD chopper to replace the one they lost. He gave another million to the Northwest Florida Police Benevolent Association, and the same amount to the Pensacola Fire Department to buy equipment to fight high-rise fires.”

  Now Will laughed. “There’s not but one high-rise in that city, and it just burned down.”

  Davis smiled. “Take the money, Will. And when you open the envelope, you’ll find another one. You are to use that to send a copy of your tax return to his office. He’ll pay the taxes on that million. He wants you to have the money.

  Will shook his head. “What would I do with a million dollars, sir? Unless you’re booting me out of the Army, I just don’t have any use for that much money.”

  “We’re not booting you out. Think about it, Will. You’ll find that a million doesn’t go that far. Buy a house somewhere where you might like to retire, and rent it out until it’s time to kick back—that day comes around quicker than you might imagine when you’re young. Buy yourself a car. Hell, buy your mother a car. Pay off your debts. Find a wife, and then sit back and watch the rest of that million disappear.”

  Will laughed. “Yes, sir. Well, I’ll think about it. I’ll park the money in a bank until I figure out what to do with it.”

  “I’ll put you in touch with my broker. New York gent, very savvy.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I know your head must be swimming, but I have a few other matters, Will, if we can get back to them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Davis again opened his desk and took out a sheet of paper. “If your class graduated tomorrow, you would be honor graduate. You earned the highest grades and have the best efficiency reports. Walk-on-water reports, as they say.

  “On the other hand, there are two senior officers under my command who believe that you are reckless and a danger to your fellow aviators.”

  “Do you believe that, sir?”

  “I do not. I think the record shows that you made a lightning calculation and decided that the reward was worth the risk. It required both great courage and great skill to pull it off. I would fly with you anytime, anywhere.”

  “But?”

  “I have great regard for Colonels Ahearn and Giordano. They are superb leaders and inspiring aviators. I don’t want to bruise their feelings. Just so you know, they both retire this year. They won’t be around to cause you any grief.”

  “What about Colonel Donovan, sir?”

  “He’s a special case. He retired five years ago. Then he was hired by DoD as a GS-15 last summer for a classified assignment. There were a few bent noses over that arrangement—it’s a plum job, and now he’s collecting his pension and a Department of Defense salary. He didn’t say so, but I believe that he didn’t want to antagonize either those who want to hang a medal on you or the ones who want to hang you.

  “So I’ll cut the baby in half—but you get the big half. You will be awarded the Aero Scout rating and a diploma for Advanced Aviation Training. Your class ranking will stand, and with only ten days until graduation, I doubt that anyone will best your collective scores and ratings. But you will not return to school. You will not join your class at graduation. As we speak, I’m having your possessions moved to VIP guest quarters.

  “From this moment, you are on special duty, reporting directly to me, and me only.”

  “I don’t understand, sir. Am I your aviation aide?”

  “No. Lieutenant Brad Cho is my aviation aide. Captain Whitfield Johnstone—not Johnson, not Johnston, but Johnstone, is my senior aide. He’s rated—somewhere around 1,500 hours in various helicopters—but he doesn’t do much flying in this job. You’ll meet him soon. You can tell him anything that you would tell me, and if he tells you something, you should assume that it came from me.”

  “Yes, sir. But what is it that you want me to do?”

  “Stand up,” said Davis, rising as he spoke.

  Will got to his feet.

  “Take a deep breath.”

  Will took a deep breath.

  “Exhale.”

  Will let the air out of his lungs.

  “Now sit down again.”

  Will reclaimed his chair.

  “We’re changing the subject. That was to clear the old air out of your lungs. What I have to say next is classified. You will not share it with anyone outside of the people that you are working with, and my aides. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” said Davis. “Over the last six weeks, one at a time, three men have disappeared from this base. Vanished without a trace. All three are aviators. A chief warrant officer, a captain, and a lieutenant colonel. There were no signs of violence. No ransom note. It’s as if they were swallowed up by the earth.”

  “Is CID looking for those men, sir?”

  Davis nodded, yes. “They’ve made zero progress. I want you to take over and lead the investigation. I want you to find out what happened to my pilots.”

  Chapter 3

  An icy shock ran up Will’s spine, and the room spun. For several seconds he felt like he might blackout. For most of the previous year, he had devoted his full energies to learning to fly. He thought of himself as an aviator; it defined him, made him feel useful and empowered. He was looking forward to many years of flying. The thought of giving all that up—he just couldn’t accept it. But he was talking to a two-star general, and he knew that he must control his emotions and speak rationally yet forcefully.

  “General, you should understand that I haven’t worked in law enforcement in the last year,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten how to be a detective, but I might be a little rusty. Maybe more than a little. And I’m not Sherlock Holmes, sir. I’ll need full CID support, access to every available forensic tool, and all the resources that are available to a modern law enforcement agency.”

  General Davis frowned. Then he threw back his head and roared. After a few moments, he gathered himself and peered at Will in a different manner than he had previously displayed, a look that conveyed a mixture of respect, hopefulness, and understanding.

  “Now I know that you’re the man I need on this. Someone who can’t be intimidated. This morning I called General Morris Goldzweig, the CID commander. He remembers your case from a year ago. He has appointed you a CID special agent, with full authority, and he’s sending his best supervising agent here on temporary duty to run the CID shop and to make sure that you get full CID support. And I, personally, will give you two my full support—anything that you need to help find those men.

  “The supervising agent arrives at Maxwell Air Force Base at 1700 hours in a C-12 Huron. Check out a Lakota at Cairns Field and pick him up there. I’ve laid on a full briefing for tomorrow morning at CID. I believe the agent in charge here to be competent, but I also suspect that he’s over his head with this. I suspect he’ll be glad to hand off these cases.

  “Any questions?”

  “Yes, sir. First, an observation: If the senior resident CID agent has any talent and dedication, he’ll resent being taken off the case.”

  Davis cocked his head to the side, thinking. “I expect you’re right. So, you’ll find a way to deal with it. What’s your question?”

  “Why is the aircraft landing at Maxwell, when we have two perfectly adequate runways here?”

  “Good question. We don’t get many Army aircraft that size here, and when we do, it’s usually delivering a general officer or some other VIP. I don’t want this agent’s arrival to attract any attention. Helicopters take off and land here every day by the dozen. No one will notice your arrival. Do you have a car, Spaulding?”

  “A ten-year-old Chevy pickup, sir. All I can afford.”

  “It’s perfect for this. And now you can buy any car you like.

  “Anything else?”

  “How will I know who to bring back from Maxwell AFB?”

  “There won’t be many Army C-12s landing at Maxwell. Besides, he’ll know you.”


  Spaulding got to his feet. “Will that be all, sir?”

  Davis shook his head. “No. The taxpayers have invested a lot of money in training you to be an aviator. I expect that when you conclude your investigation, you will be assigned to flight duty somewhere in the world. So between now and then, I expect you to maintain proficiency. I’ve put a Lakota at your disposal. Use it, if necessary, while conducting your investigation. Or not. But no matter how busy you are, I want you to log a few hours a week for as long as you’re working for me. I want you to stay current in instruments as well. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir. And I must add, very welcome to hear.”

  Chapter 4

  Spaulding looked around his new quarters, a cottage near headquarters and a housing area where colonels lived in relative luxury. He had a nicely furnished bedroom; a smaller room equipped as an office; a sitting room with a small sofa, a coffee table, and a couple of comfortable chairs; a tiny but well-appointed kitchen; and a compact dining area. A generous bathroom with a tub and separate shower completed the ensemble. More than enough for a bachelor officer, he thought, and a palace compared to the tiny room that he’d shared with Moretti.

  Stepping into the office, he noted a laptop computer and a printer on the desk. A large, thick, padded envelope lay next to the computer. He picked it up, noticing that his name was handwritten on one side.

  The first thing his fingers found in the unsealed envelope was a small, rectangular, leather-covered box. When he opened it, he found a sheet of creamy white stationery in Monarch size. Unfolding it revealed a letterhead in the form of a red flag trimmed in gold, with two white stars on it. In Davis’s hand, it said:

  “This was your father’s. He left it to me because he feared that your mother would pawn it to buy booze. I hope that you will cherish it as much as I have.”

  Beneath the note was the Distinguished Flying Cross, a bronze medal suspended from a cloth ribbon of ultramarine blue and white stripes with a narrow, blood-red stripe down the center. The medal itself was a four-bladed propeller superimposed on a cross. The reverse side was engraved to CWO-2 William Sloan Spaulding.

  Will took the medal from its box and held it in his hand. In a trick of the mind, he seemed to feel a faint emanation, as though the bronze was giving off energy, and for an instant, he believed that it was his dead father’s life force. Tears came to Will’s eyes, and he felt a deep grief, a wound of the soul that would never heal. He clutched the medal to his chest for a long moment. Then he returned it to the box.

  The next item out of the envelope was a CID badge. Will grinned when he saw it: It was the one that Chelmin had given him a year earlier at Fort Fremont. With it were CID credentials and a set of orders signed by Brigadier General Goldzweig appointing him a special agent of the Army Criminal Investigation Division. Then, another set of orders confirming the award of the Scout Helicopter military occupational specialty. A diploma from the US Army Aviation School, personally signed by General Davis. A set of orders assigning him to HQ and HQ Fort Rucker with temporary duty to the Criminal Investigation Detachment. Then a small, sealed, green box. Within the box was a folded, letter-size manila envelope containing a certified check from Rhenquist Asset Management for $1 million, a postage-paid envelope addressed to Rolf Rhenquist with a blank tax return, and a personal note from Rolf thanking him for saving his son from certain death, an invitation to call him, anytime, on his private line.

  Last out of the envelope was, what looked like an ordinary cell hone with a strange name: Iridium. After a close examination, Will realized that it was two phones in one: a cell phone using the popular Android operating system, with one number listed in its contacts folder—and at the touch of a sliding switch, it became a satellite phone that could be used from anywhere in the world. It, too, had a single number in its contact list.

  On impulse, he touched the screen and rang that number.

  Chapter 5

  When his phone rang, Rudy Chelmin, Special-Agent-In-Charge (SAC) of the Criminal Investigative Division at Fort Fremont, California, was outside his modest house on a leafy Salinas residential street.

  The phone was in his trousers pocket, but Chelmin’s hands were full: One grasped the top of a step ladder, and the other held the wood handle of a half-inch wide foam rubber stylus, with which he was applying the second coat of dark blue paint to a window frame.

  Chelmin let the call go to voicemail.

  Half an hour later he went inside and cleaned his hands before taking the phone out of his pocket.

  When he saw the caller’s number, he shook his head in disgust. Two days earlier, he began fourteen days leave, his first extended absence from work in the nineeteen years that he had been a CID agent. And now someone at CID headquarters in Quantico, Virginia wanted to speak with him. It could not be good news.

  Chelmin got a can of Vernor’s ginger ale out of the refrigerator and sat at the kitchen table. He popped the tab, then took a long pull from the can and set it down, wondering if he should wait for whoever it was to call him back or take the bull by the horns. He was thinking about Cheryl, his bride of almost six months, at work at City Hall. Cheryl was the Manager of Parking Enforcement for the City of Salinas, a job that paid nearly as much as Chelmin’s. She had worked there only about eight months, during which she had accrued nine vacation days. She planned to take all those days, and two weekends, starting the day after tomorrow.

  Chelmin knew that a call from CID headquarters could only mean that he was being called back from vacation. So much for his long-anticipated honeymoon.

  The phone on the kitchen wall, a landline, rang, and Chelmin pushed his chair back, struggled to his feet, and took the call on the third ring.

  “Rudy? Are you all right?” said his wife’s voice.

  “I’m perfect, Cheryl.”

  “Your office called and said a General Gold-something is trying to get hold of you. They called your cell and you didn’t answer.”

  “I was on a ladder with a paintbrush in one hand. When I finished, I came inside for a cold ginger ale.”

  “Does this mean that we’re not going to Hawaii?”

  He could almost feel the pain in her voice.

  “I don’t know, darlin’. I’ll call and find out. If I have to return to duty, can you reschedule your vacation?”

  “It’s going to make a lot of people mad at me.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions. I love you, and I’ll call back when I know something. And did I mention that I love you?”

  Cheryl giggled, and Rudy hung up and glanced at the clock above the refrigerator: It was a quarter to three, local civilian time. Almost 1800 hours in Virginia. With any luck, he told himself, they’ve all gone home. He could hide for a day and leave for Hawaii before anyone could locate him.

  He dialed the number, and after one ring a familiar voice answered.

  “Thanks for calling, Rudy,” said BG Morris Goldzweig.

  “What can I do for you, Mo? And did you know I’m on vacation?”

  “I did know. And I’m sorry to do this, Rudy. I know you and Cheryl are scheduled to leave for Hawaii in two days, but you’re going to have to postpone. If that costs you anything out of pocket, I’ll personally make you whole.”

  “What’s going on, General? And by the way, congratulations on your promotion. When does your second star come through?”

  “In April. And don’t think for an instant that I don’t remember why I still have an Army career. A wonderful career at that. If you hadn’t been wise enough to ignore the most stupid order in the history of law enforcement, I would have been bounced out of the Army before I made captain. I hope that you know how grateful I am?”

  “Never a doubt, Mo. But let us not forget that you took that second chance and handled everything that came your way thereafter with distinction—and I had nothing to do with any of that. You can be grateful for the second chance, but I had no effect on your subsequent career.”

  �
�Thanks, Rudy—but I also need to say that I’m very sorry that I had to miss your wedding. You remember the shit storm over those dirty agents at Fort Bragg?”

  “Working with the local meth cookers, if I have it right?”

  “Just so. And that blew up two days before your wedding. How is your bride, by the way?”

  “Thanks for asking. She’s landed a good job, and we’re doing well. Except that she is going to be disappointed if we don’t go to Hawaii the day after tomorrow.”

  “Can’t be helped. We’ve got a situation at Rucker. Three officers have disappeared in the last six weeks—all pilots—and there’s not a trace of them. May I presume that you know Nick D’Angelo?”

  “Not well, but we’ve crossed paths a few times. Very competent and professional. And much too good-looking for a cop.”

  “That’s him. But Les Davis—Major General Davis, the Rucker CG—wants these officers found, dead or alive. ASAP. He got it in his head that D’Angelo is not up to the task, and that your wunderkind, Spaulding, should head up the investigation.”

  “Spaulding is in helicopter school.”

  “Was. Davis had him graduated two weeks early so that he could work on this case.”

  “How on earth would he know anything about Spaulding? He has hundreds of student pilots.”

  “About a week ago, Spaulding rescued two Pensacola cops, a kidnapped kid and the kid’s dog from the roof of a burning high-rise. It’s on video and all over the Internet. YouTube, Vimeo, and several other places. Spaulding lost his aircraft in the fire, and that put him in the spotlight. So Davis pulls his records, finds the Soldiers Medal and the Army Commendation Medal, reads the citations, and decides he’s the right man for this investigation.”

  “D’Angelo is going to be pissed.”