by Leigh Barker
Colonel Mitch Morgan walked slowly to his car from the terminal at Camp Pendleton Munn Field Airport. He was tired but glad to be back home on American soil after a year and a half in Okinawa. Not that Okinawa wasn’t great; it was just having to leave Sarah and the girls for extended tours was wearing him down. Time to shoot for a desk job nearer home.
The grey SUV was right where he’d parked it, even though his brother, Tim, had been using it while he’d been away. Better than just letting it stand there and rot. He glanced at the scrape along the driver’s door and shook his head. Maybe not. He smiled. Timmy was a bit of a speed freak, so having to use the SUV must have been tough on him. He opened the rear door and stepped back a little to let the stale hot air roll out. He threw in his suitcase and slammed the door. The air was just a little fresher as he climbed into the driver’s seat, but only just. It smelled of wet dog and fish. Great. But he was still smiling.
He turned right onto Las Pulgas Road and put on the air-con and the radio—a country station. He wasn’t a fan of country music, but nothing says home like it. A few minutes later he was on the canyon road heading for San Diego Freeway. He changed the radio channel to news. Somehow, listening to people crying about their lost love, or their dog, or some cattle drive wears thin real quick.
In less than two hours he’d be in Los Angeles. In time to take the girls to the beach for ice cream. Suzy loved ice cream. Sienna not so much, but she’d pretend for the sake of her little sister. She was ten, going on twenty. No, that was then, so now she was twelve. Two years of her life missed, and two years of Suzy’s life was a third. This was no way for a man to live.
The traffic was light on Las Pulgas Canyon Road, and he settled back into the seat for a steady drive. He saw the Dodge Ram pickup in his rearview but thought nothing of it, except that he remembered somewhere that they were supposed to be the fastest pickups around. Which had struck him as odd. If you wanted to go fast, why buy a pickup?
The news reporter was telling him that financial turmoil in Europe was the cause of all America’s ills. Which made him smile. The pickup closed the gap and overtook him like he was going backwards. Just showing off. Then it cut in suddenly and sideswiped the SUV, and Mitch had to fight the wheel to keep it on the road. The pickup driver must be blind not to see how close he was. He brought the car off the rough shoulder and eased off the gas while he settled down from the shock.
He was feeling almost relaxed again as he came around the long left curve. He glanced in his rearview as a movement caught his eye and saw the pickup coming out of a dirt side road. A fist closed in his stomach, and he realised it had been no accident. He floored the gas pedal, but knew the lumbering SUV would never outrun the Ram. He wished he’d taken the sidearm he’d been offered, but he was in logistics, not Special Forces. And local law enforcement take a dim view of people, even marines, carrying weapons in LA. Chances are it wouldn’t have done him any good against a fast-moving truck from inside an SUV. Though he would’ve liked the chance.
The Ram came up alongside, and he looked across to see the passenger smiling at him and pointing at the rocky hill sloping down from the road. A second later the Ram hit the side of the SUV above the front wheel, and it started a slow left turn as Mitch fought the wheel. He was going to make it; he could feel the front end coming round. Then the Ram hit him again.
The SUV left the road and sailed ten feet over the rocks before crashing nose down into the boulders. It flipped almost in slow motion and slammed down on its roof, its momentum peeling it away like a can opener. But Mitch was already dead, with his head crushed by the compacted roof.
The Ram slowed a little and drove away slowly. No point being stupid. There was still a lot of Americans to kill.
The Predator Nest
Ethan sat at the single-drawer desk in his hotel room and scrolled through the photographs on his laptop. Marine generals rolled by one after the other, but none of them struck him as a prime candidate for getting killed. There were only four generals with four stars, and they were the commandant and assistant commandant and two on active duty overseas, and they would all be awash with security. The target would be a lesser general. He chuckled at the thought of a lesser general, as every one he’d ever met knew without doubt that he was far from a lesser anything and said so loudly.
He opened the minibar and sifted through the selection of bottles, selecting a thumb-sized bottle of bourbon that cost ten times more than a glassful if he’d walked out to a bar. But SecNav was paying the bills, so…
He poured the bourbon into a cheap glass and returned to looking at photographs of potential dead men. A knock on the door saved him from having to admit he was getting nowhere. He closed the laptop’s lid and crossed the small room.
A moment later Kelsey was standing in front of the bathroom door, shaking rain from her overcoat.
“It’s raining,” Ethan said as he closed the door.
She stopped shaking her coat and looked at him for a moment. “That’s why you’re a cop, right? You notice these little details.”
“Not much gets past me.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. Then looked over at the desk and saw the bourbon. “You got another one of those?”
Ethan opened the minibar. “Help yourself. They’re free.”
“Yeah, right, of course they are.” She took a gin and a tiny bottle of tonic and poured them into a glass.
Ethan smiled. “Now, you know I’m always glad to see you,” he said, even though he’d seen her only twice. “But it’s nearly midnight, and it’s raining.”
She sat on the chair he’d vacated by the desk and swallowed the drink. “There’s been another one.”
Ethan swore and stepped forward to open the laptop. “Which one.”
She shook her head. “No, he’s not on your list.”
Ethan sat on the edge of the bed and waited.
“This one’s a colonel. Colonel Mitch Morgan.” She opened the minibar and took out another gin, looked at it for a moment, and put it back. “And here’s the kicker.” She waited for a response, but got none. She’d get used to that. “He’s a… he was a logistics officer out of Okinawa. Home on leave.”
Ethan looked at the carpet. There was a small stain between the bed and the TV stand. “This whole thing is nuts,” he said and stood up. “Is there any connection between him and the generals?” He knew the answer.
“None that the FBI can find.” She caught his look. “And yes, I checked too.”
He walked to the sealed windows and looked at his reflection in the rain-streaked glass. Maybe some nut really was killing officers when the opportunity presented itself. The snipers call it targets of opportunity. He turned back to the room. “Where?”
She took a second to get it. “Oh, Camp Pendleton.”
“Shit, I know that place. Got drunk there with some good friends.”
“I’d say you got drunk with good friends at just about every marine base, foreign and domestic.”
“And you’d be right,” he said with a smile and a fleeting distant look. Good times and good friends. Many long gone, but that shit happens while everybody’s making other plans.
“We should probably get back to the office and…” Except she couldn’t think what they could do right then.
“Not me,” said Ethan. “I’ve had a couple of those ten-dollar bourbons.” He pointed at her empty glass.
“True,” she said.
“Dryer wants us in the office for a six-thirty briefing,” she said with a slight tilt of her head. “Seems to think he’s in charge.”
“That’s his title.”
“And it doesn’t bother you that he thinks he’s your boss.” She was genuinely surprised.
“No. Somebody’s always my boss. Me not being officer material.” He looked at the rain streaking the windows. “Have you got a go-bag in your car?”
She nodded. “What agent hasn’t?”
“Okay, go get it.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “What kind of a girl do you think I am?”
Ethan pointed at the armchair in front of the undersized TV. She raised her eyebrows.
“For me,” he said and pointed at the king-size bed. “For you.”
She looked from the chair to the big bed, got up and took the extra pillows and laid them down the middle of the bed. “Berlin Wall,” she said and patted the pillows.
He nodded. “Okay, but no peeking.”
She headed for the door to fetch her go-bag, and Ethan watched her go. Everything moved as everything should.
“Berlin Wall,” he said to himself and looked at the bed as the door closed.
A few minutes later she returned with a leather bag and dropped it on her side of the Berlin Wall and gave him a long look. “First person to try to cross the wall buys breakfast.”
“Deal,” Ethan said with a smile.
The next morning they sat in the window seat of the diner across the street from the hotel. Ethan ordered Canadian bacon and two eggs, and Kelsey brown toast and orange juice. They asked for separate checks.
As they drove to FBI Headquarters at five thirty the next morning, Kelsey thought about the previous short night while they both pretended to be thinking about something else. Ethan was a big marine, a man who’d lived his life in war zones. A tough guy in the true sense of the word, but he’d been a complete gentleman. Which was a real shame. But there’d be other nights, of this she was sure. Well, pretty sure. Berlin Wall, what had she been thinking?
She glanced at him looking at the city from the passenger seat. A little dented and scarred from a soldier’s life, but not bad. No, not bad.
They entered the conference room fifteen minutes early, but they were still the last to arrive. Five other people were already sitting round the table. Eager-beaver agents looking to get promoted. All men, and all pretty much identical. Clippered short hair, immaculate dark suits and ties, clean shaven to the point of shining, and tight features that pointed to a rigorous fitness regime. And Agent in Charge Dryer… and Teddy, far from tight.
Ethan felt old and fat, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. He had been super-fit most of his life, and now his body was core-conditioned for almost superhuman stamina and endurance. The marine way. When a man’s life and the lives of his friends depend on his ability to stay on his feet come what may, he has the ultimate driver for pushing the body’s boundaries. But he still felt old and fat. He nodded a greeting at Teddy sitting across the table. He was older and fatter, so that was okay.
Agent in Charge Dryer took a drink from his brushed steel coffee mug and put it down with a thud that announced the briefing had started.
“Agents Mancini,” he said, pointing out the agents one by one, “Philips, and Rayford have been assigned to this case.” He saw Ethan’s look. “They’re young, but good, damned good.” Enough had been said on the subject. “As you know,” he continued, “last night a Marine Logistics colonel was killed in his car en route from Munn Field to his home. He’d just returned from Okinawa and hadn’t even had time to kiss his wife and kids hello.”
If that was supposed to bring a tear to the eyes of the field-hardened agents, it fell a bit short. Boys were coming home in body bags every day. What was it they called it? Compassion fatigue. Yeah, compassion fatigue. Ethan thought about the colonel for a moment, out of respect. And because nobody should have compassion fatigue, not when good men are giving up their lives to keep ordinary people safe.
“Somebody’s killing our people,” said Dryer. “And I want it stopped.”
Ethan warmed to the man, but he could see from their exchanged glances that the agent-clones were less impressed. “So, Agent Dryer, what have we got so far?” he asked, to move the meeting past the awkward moment.
Dryer nodded once at some thought and continued. “A marine brigadier general, an air force general, and now a lowly colonel have all been killed in less than a week. And I don’t want to hear coincidence.”
“Terrorists,” suggested one of the suits, which one Ethan couldn’t tell.
Dryer slid his steel coffee mug from hand to hand across the polished teak table as he thought it through.
Thinking before speaking is good. Ethan watched him.
“That was my first thought,” said Dryer, “but terrorists don’t usually hire locals to do their killing for them. And Brigadier General Harper was shot in a diner by two punk kids.” He shook his head in disgust.
Do people still say punk? thought Ethan. He also wondered if there was any chance of coffee, as Dryer seemed to have looked after himself but not his guests.
“General Davy was shot in his car by a bogus driver using—” He looked steadily at Ethan. “Using what was probably a Russian MP-443 Grach.”
Mancini frowned and raised his finger, as if asking permission to speak from the schoolteacher. Nod received. “The Grach Rook is a pretty exotic weapon for what was basically a simple hit.” He frowned questioningly. “Why do you think it was a Rook?”
Dryer twitched a finger in Ethan’s direction. “This is Master Sergeant Ethan Gill,” he said, as if that would mean anything to them. “And he identified the weapon from the rounds we recovered at the scene.”
Mancini whistled through his teeth. “That’s very impressive… Sergeant.” He glanced at his colleagues for support. “And highly unlikely.”
The other clones nodded. Support given and received.
Ethan smiled at them and wished them a long and painful ailment. “It’s master sergeant, son.” Mancini twitched, and Ethan enjoyed the moment. “If you can tell me another weapon that can put two nine-mils through a man, the back seat, and out through a Lincoln’s trunk—” He winked. “I’d be really pleased to hear about it.”
Mancini glared at him while his colleagues found something else to look at.
“So,” said Dryer, the edges of his mouth twitching as he suppressed a smile. “That’s a mugging gone bad and a professional hit—”
“Not professional,” said Ethan.
They all watched him and waited for him to make an ass of himself, because somebody killing the driver and taking his place to shoot the general at close range was a professional hit. Any idiot could see that.
“A professional wouldn’t have used armour-piercing rounds.”
They waited, unconvinced.
Ethan watched them for a moment. “Because,” he said slowly, “the bullets came out through the trunk.” No, not getting it. “And it was only a fluke there was nobody close enough to hear them chew up the bodywork.”
They nodded slowly as they put it together. Bullets. Bodywork holes. Noise. Witnesses.
“The shooter intended to ambush the vehicle and shoot the general through the door,” said Ethan, “but something happened to change his mind. My guess is he saw the driver waiting to pick up the general and just improvised.” He shook his head. “A pro would never do that. He would never deviate from a plan. That’s a fool’s play.”
“So,” said Dryer, “we have two amateurs shooting our officers.”
“And the colonel?” asked Kelsey, who was thoroughly enjoying the agents’ discomfort. “A pickup rammed his car on the San Diego Freeway and rolled it into the scrub.”
“Traffic accidents happen,” said the agent she now recognised as Philips.
“True,” said Dryer, “but accidents don’t involve a pickup repeatedly sideswiping a sedan in broad daylight on a busy freeway with a hundred witnesses.”
Which was true, and nobody was going to argue even if it hadn’t been.
Ethan leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the teak. “So far all we have is three seemingly unconnected killings.”
Teddy leaned forward, mirroring Ethan across the table. “I might have found a link.”
All heads turned his way.
“Mahmoud Faraj’s family was killed six months ago.” He took a dramatic pause.
“Predator’s Hellfire
missile?” asked Ethan, punishing him for waiting.
Teddy squinted at him. “Yes,” he said quickly. “The missile blew up his house in northern Pakistan. Killed his wife and three children. Missed him by less than a minute.”
“Pity,” said Philips.
“Yes,” said Kelsey sharply. “It’s a pity we killed a mother and her children.”
The smart-ass agent squirmed in his padded chair.
“Those Predators are the Taliban’s best recruiter,” said Kelsey.
Dryer blinked and stared at her. “The Predator is decimating the Taliban command structure. Only last week—”
“True,” said Kelsey, “we’re killing a dozen or so. And for every civilian we kill in the process, we put guns in the hands of a hundred more new terrorists.” She raised her hand to silence the coming comment. “And yes, I know we’re killing experienced commanders and the new recruits are just green replacements, but the thing about being a terrorist in a war zone is you get experienced damned quick.”
Ethan smiled, mostly to himself. “I understand that argument,” he said. “It’s a dilemma we’ve faced in every war. Did the bombing of Dresden in World War Two drive more young Germans into the Nazi forces? Or did it, along with many more atrocities, break the spirit of the German people and shorten the war, saving millions of other civilians. Not to mention the Jews in the camps.” He shrugged. “I don’t know the answer to that, or whether or not targeting terrorist leaders with the inevitable collateral damage is the right strategy, but I do know they’re killing our people, right here on our own soil. And I am sure that if we do nothing, then we send a message to every fanatic in the world that it’s okay to come here and kill Americans. And I for one, say it is not okay.”
“Wow,” said Teddy. “That’s more words than I’ve heard you say in the whole time I’ve known you.”
Ethan shrugged again. “I’m a soldier, I’ve always been a soldier, and I know civilians die in war, but I don’t like it, and I wish it didn’t happen, but it does. I have to live with that, as every soldier has to live with it. All we can do is look to the end result. To victory and the end of the war.”
