by Marvin Wolf
Will said, “I should brief General Davis. But first, I need to float an idea with you, Colonel, and of course Rudy and Ash.”
Moffett frowned. “Let’s have it, Spaulding.”
Will said, “Were it not for General Davis’s explicit instructions, we would have called the FBI in by now.”
Moffett and Chelmin nodded in agreement. Ash looked at Will, a worried frown on her face.
Will continued, “It’s clear to me that we need more manpower. We’re losing military police and agents, and these guys are still on the offensive. This is about counterfeiting as much as it is about kidnapping and murder, so I’d like to ask the Secret Service to send some agents to work with us.”
Moffett said, “Do you have a number in mind?”
“Fifty is what I’ll ask for. Twenty is what I expect. But that’s enough to start scouring the more remote parts of this base.”
Moffett said, “Buck that up to General Davis, and I’ll back you.”
Chelmin said, “Good idea, Will.”
Ash flashed a brief smile.
§
Fifteen minutes later, Captain Johnstone led Will into the commanding General’s office. They waited half a minute before a side door opened and Davis appeared.
“Have a seat, both of you,” Davis said, taking his place behind the desk.
Will said, “A couple of hours ago, as we were passing the PX parking lot, Agent Shapiro noticed that we were being followed. She pulled over and the car slid in behind us. I got out first and shot it out with a gunman on my side of the car. Ash was a few seconds slower—she had to stop the car before getting her gun out—and the second guy grabbed her. I had a shot, so I took it. Two dead bandits. We called for Mr. Chelmin and a CSI team. Chelmin released us to our original mission to meet with Sheriff Taliaferro. While we were with her, four men in cammies attacked our crime scene technicians and their MP security. One killed, four wounded, all friendlies. The attackers then removed the two corpses that I shot earlier, and made off with the vehicle they were driving.”
Davis looked worried. “This sounds like the Wild West.”
“It’s an indication of a brazen, well-equipped gang that has a lot at stake—I’m pretty sure that they’ve passed over $130 million in counterfeit bills in this part of Alabama alone. I appreciate your reluctance to call the FBI, but circumstances have escalated beyond our capabilities. Instead of the FBI, however. I’d like to ask the Secret Service to send some agents. They’re already pursuing the counterfeiters and have confiscated huge sums from local banks. They’ll be national media on that very soon, I expect. The thing is, if I ask for their help, I’ll have to read the Secret Service in on our missing airmen.”
“What does Colonel Moffett have to say about this, Spaulding?”
“He said that he’d back me. Chelmin is also on board.”
“I need to think about this for a few minutes. Who would liaise with the Secret Service?”
Will thought for a moment. “Agent Chelmin, sir.”
Davis touched a button on the side of his desk. A moment later his secretary entered the room.
“Get Special Agent Chelmin on the line, please,” Davis said. The woman turned and left the room.
The three sat in silence for half a minute before the General’s phone rang.
“Chelmin, what do you think about Spaulding’s notion of bringing in the Secret Service,” Davis said, then listened for Chelmin’s reply.
“Very well,” the general said and hung up.
“Go ahead with this, Spaulding, and bring me those murderers.”
“One more thing, sir. We got a warrant for Idelle Richardson’s arrest. She is still at large, but this morning someone posing as one of our agents kidnapped her son.”
“Good God. Where does this end?”
Will shook his head. “All I can do is work the case, sir.”
Davis stood; both his aide and Will jumped to their feet. “Find my pilots, Spaulding. Whatever it takes.”
Chapter 92
“Agent Lockwood, this is Will Spaulding.”
“What’s up?”
“We just had a shootout with your counterfeiters,” Will said, speaking carefully. “I’m pretty sure that’s who they were.”
“Tell me what happened.”
In half a dozen sentences, Will sketched the events of the morning. “There’s more to this than we’ve told you, Agent Lockwood. Mr. Chelmin and I would like to brief you on how our case fits with yours, with a view toward getting some Secret Service help. We’re outmanned and outgunned. We’ve lost an agent and several MPs, killed or wounded to these bandits.”
“I’m in Montgomery today and tomorrow, in discussions with our regional supervisor. How long would it take you to get here?”
“About two or three hours,” Will said.
“Call me when you’re ten minutes from Maxwell Air Force Base and I’ll send a car for you.”
§
Twenty minutes later, Chelmin followed Will across the street to flight operations. Inside he found Spaulding at the counter, looking through a log book.
Will said, “Sergeant Bender, still no replacement parts for that fuel warning sensor light?”
Bender shrugged. “All we can do is put in another requisition, sir. Uh, you gonna file a flight plan?”
Will nodded. “Maxwell AFB,” he said, accepting a printed form from the sergeant.
“Anything else I need to know?” said Bender.
“If it’s gassed up, I’ll check with the weather gods and we’ll be off.”
“One passenger, sir?”
“Yup.”
“This the same guy you brought in last week?”
Will looked up from his paperwork and drilled Bender with a glance. “This is something you need to know?”
Bender held up both hands, palms out. “No, sir. Just curious.”
Will decided not to press it. “Gonna start my preflight,” he said.
Chelmin followed Will out to the flight line and watched, slightly amused, as Will went through his preflight checklist. He chuckled when Will took the wooden stick from his flight bag and unscrewed the fuel tank cap.
“Old school,” Chelmin said. “That really necessary these days?”
Without looking at Chelmin, Will pushed the stick into the tank until he felt it hit bottom, then pulled it out. “Gauges can fail. A stick never lies.”
After screwing the tank cap back on, Will dropped to his knees and slowly opened the petcock. A small stream of fuel dripped out before Will closed the valve.
“That’s different,” he said. “Usually there’s at least a few ounces of water.”
“Maybe the fueling crew drained the water,” Chelmin offered.
Will grunted. “That would be a first,” he said.
Will climbed into the cockpit and helped Chelmin strap in. Then he completed his preflight checklist before starting the engine.
“This is about an hour’s flight,” Will said over the intercom. “Like last time, keep an eye out for aircraft above and below us.”
“Roger that, Dead Eye,” replied Chelmin.
“C’mon, Rudy, that’s not funny.”
“Turnabout is fair play,” he replied. “I seem to recall being similarly honored after the San Bernardino Courthouse attack.”
“Not by me,” Will said. “I was in the hospital.”
“Still, that was quite a shot this morning.”
“He was ten feet away. Anyway, I need to fly this bird..”
“Fly the bird, Will.”
Will radioed the tower, was directed to a runway, and three minutes later soared into the sky, climbing toward 8,000 feet as he pointed the nose north.
At 7,200 feet, well above most of Fort Rucker’s training flights, a red light flickered on the instrument panel.
“What’s that?” said Chelmin.
“Low fuel warning light. This ship has a defective sensor, and the parts are on backorder. The fuel gau
ge reads almost full.”
“So nothing to worry about?”
“Not yet,” said Will.
A moment later, the engine stopped.
The aircraft dropped like a stone
Chapter 93
Will disengaged the transmission from the rotor and put the helicopter into a steep dive. The air rushing past the falling aircraft spun the rotor blades giving lift that slowed the descent.
“Mayday, Mayday,” Spaulding said into the radio. “Lakota 7714, flameout. Autorotating from, uh 6400 feet.”
“Roger your Mayday 7714,” said a voice in his ear. “Pick a pad and try to set it down on the grass, not the concrete.”
“Wilco,” replied Will as the altimeter wound past 4,000 feet.
“What’s happening?” said Chelmin.
“Tighten your belts,” Will said. “We’re trading altitude for airspeed, but this is gonna be a hard landing.”
Will raised the nose, stood on the left rudder pedal, and the aircraft went into a tight circle as it descended. Below, perhaps a quarter mile to the north, was an empty concrete square with a painted number. He widened the circle, nudging the Lakota toward it.
“Tower, Lakota 7714, trying for pad two-niner,” he radioed.
“Copy two-niner. Be advised it is closed for maintenance. Emergency vehicles en route.”
As the altimeter passed 1,000, Will knew that he would probably make the open area around the pad.
“Rudy, tighten those straps and let your body go limp,” Will said.
“Limp is what I do best.”
Stifling a giggle, Will concentrated on the landing. At 500 feet he began to widen the circle. At a hundred he raised the nose.
They landed on grass above hard ground, bounced several feet in the air, and came to a halt.
“Rudy? All good?”
“Should I go limp now?” Chelmin replied, and Will laughed.
“No danger of fire,” Will said, mostly to himself. He unbuckled, helped Chelmin do the same, and then both men climbed out of the Lakota. Will took out his phone and dialed a number.
Chelmin said, “There’s cell service out here in the boonies?”
Will shook his head. “Satellite phone.”
“CID, Special Agent Foosler,” said the voice in Will’s ear.
“This is Spaulding,” he replied. “We had a little change of plans and had to make a forced landing. I’m at Pad 29 with Agent Chelmin. We’re both fine. Could you or Ash call Agent Lockwood and tell him that we’ll be late?”
“Sure,” said Foosler. “What happened?”
“Ran out of fuel. Tell you all about it later,” Will said, then broke the connection.
Chelmin said. “You checked the gas with a stick. I saw you.”
“Let’s take another look,” Will said.
He took his stick from the cargo compartment, unscrewed the filler cap, and shoved the stick into the opening. It came back wet all the way to the top.
“How the hell can that be?” he mumbled. He took a small LED flashlight from a pocket on his flight suit, and shined it into the tank, peering closely at it.
“Son of a bitch,” he said, straightening up. “Someone put a little tank inside the big tank and then drained the big tank of all but a few gallons. The fuel gauge was moved into the little tank so that it would show full.”
Chelmin said, “Who could do that?”
“Somebody with access to the aircraft who could move it to a hangar maintenance area. And somebody with a good idea of how to sabotage the aircraft.”
Chelmin said, “I hate to bring this up, but I gotta pee.”
Will looked around, then pointed to the landing pad, some fifty yards away.
“This pad is closed for maintenance, but, next to the shack, is what looks like a porta-potty.” Both men started for the pad.
“Oh shit,” Will said. “How stupid can I be?”
“What’s the matter?” Chelmin said.
“When we interviewed Bill Roundy, one of Lopez’s pals and a senior flight instructor, he said that before Lopez took Slocum and McHugh on their check rides, he complained of having diarrhea. And here we are, looking at what has to be the only portable latrine on a Fort Rucker landing pad.”
A large flatbed truck with a crane and derrick came out of the thick forest on a dirt road. The driver waved.
“That was awful fast,” Will said.
“Let’s go pee, he added, and both men started for the landing pad.
“You first,” Will said.
Chelmin opened the door to the porta-potty. A gorgeous, red-haired woman with lacquered nails stood inside with a .40 caliber Glock pointing at Chelmin.
“Welcome to Northwest Asia Adventures,” she said.”
Chapter 94
“I’ll take your guns,” said the woman they knew as Katrina Sawyer, and pulled Will’s Glock from its holster and stuck it under the wide, shiny, patent leather belt cinching her waist. She opened Chelmin’s coat and stopped, her face showing amazement at the long-barreled .357 Smith & Wesson. She took it from his gun-belt and stuffed it under one arm.
“Careful on the steps,”
Chelmin stepped forward, hesitantly.
“You can put your left hand down and use the railing,” she said to Chelmin.
“But you, flyboy, you keep your hands in the air and follow him.”
She pulled the porta-potty door shut, locked it with a deadbolt, and followed them down a narrow circular stairway that descended toward a dark hole.
An electric jolt of fear ran down Will’s spine to his guts. For an instant, he thought he might soil his trousers. Was this what happened to Sloan, McHugh, and Lopez? Was he now going to die?
Abruptly, an electric light came on, and Chelmin stopped.
From below came the voice of a man with a thick accent. “Keep coming,” it said.
Chapter 95
“So, you and Spaulding are doing the nasty?”
Ash turned Lieutenant Cho, and considered whether to hit him in the face or not. As he was flying a helicopter and they were at 5,000 feet, she decided to save it for a better time.
“Even if I was, Lieutenant, it would be none of your business. Does General Davis know that you harass women while on duty? Or do you also hand out the same garbage when you’re off duty, Lieutenant Cho?”
Cho turned bright crimson under his flight suit and helmet.
He said, “Hey, can’t you take a joke?”
“When I hear one, I laugh. What you said was not a joke. Now fly to Pad 29 and keep your thoughts out of your pants.”
“What a cunt,” Cho said, under his breath.
“I heard that,” Ash said. “And when we’re on the ground, I’ll make you regret it.”
Cho glanced over at Ash and in an instant he realized that he was in trouble.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Please forgive me.”
“Just fly the aircraft, Lieutenant.”
Several seconds later, Pad 29 came into view and Cho started a rapid descent. As they passed 1,000 feet, he said, “You sure this is the place? No sign of a helicopter.”
Ash said, “Special Agent Foosler wrote it down. This is the place.”
“There’s no emergency vehicle. No recovery truck.”
“Put us down,” she said. A sinking feeling rose in her gut. Something was wrong.
As they descended through the foliage surrounding the pad, Ash thought she saw something metallic on a tree.
Chapter 96
Will whispered, “Can you get to your Beretta?”
Chelmin whispered, “This is my backup leg. Government issue. No secret compartment.”
Will sat back against the cold concrete wall. The room was small and dark, but a little light seeped in under the door, and a little more from some hidden source; there was sufficient illumination that he could see the outline of Chelmin’s body seated six feet away against the opposite side of what must have once been a closet.
Chelmin w
hispered, “Got a knife in my belt buckle.”
Will said, “I’ve got one under my arm.”
Chelmin said, “Proving, beyond doubt, that Katrina might be a killer, but she’s a half-ass amateur. I expected to be searched.
“If they come back for us, and they might not, first one through the door will see you. I’ll jump them from the side, and you go after the gun or stick ‘em with your blade, whatever seems more likely to work.”
Will said, in a low voice, “If they were going to kill us, why not do it already?”
Chelmin said, “Maybe someone needs to make a decision, and he wasn’t available. Or maybe we might be of value as hostages.”
“If not, they could just leave us here to rot.”
Chelmin said, “That’s a possibility. If this bunch is our counterfeiter gang, they’ve got to be thinking of pulling out soon.”
“So the only reason they’re still here is? We know that they’re very well organized. They must have a prepared escape route.”
“My guess is that they don’t want to abandon their loot. I’m sure they’ve been steadily moving money down to the Caymans, or wherever they keep their stash, but maybe they’re victims of their own success—too much to move all at once.”
Will sighed. “They’ve passed over $150 million. Even if half their cash is still here, they’re filthy rich. Why not just pull up stakes?”
Chelmin shook his head. “Ever meet a thief who’d walk away from even one million? Or maybe they have a boss who’ll be unhappy if he thinks they cheated him.”
Will took a deep breath of the damp, foul air. “Just had another thought. Maybe the cash isn’t their biggest problem. Maybe they have to return the plates.”
A shadow darkened the center of the light under the door.
