Читать книгу Desert Impact - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

Chapter 4

Fort Huachuca was situated just outside the small town of Sierra Vista and was home to the U.S. Army Intelligence Center as well as the 9th Army Signal Command, among other electronic communications and intelligence-driven units.

The gate guard took one look at Bolan’s identification, offered a quick, casual salute and sent him on his way. He’d offered the credentials that would get him access to damn near every military installation he could want: Colonel Brandon Stone.

In the distance, past the manicured lawns of the buildings closest to the heart of the fort, Bolan could see the yellow hangars of Libby Airfield, which was used by both military and civilian aircraft.

The building Bolan was looking for wasn’t hard to find—a quick internet search on his handheld revealed that a civilian company, Kruegor Enterprises, was in charge of the weapon warehousing and storage facilities on the base. Although Kruegor couldn’t actually hand the weapons out, they provided the building maintenance, basic security and administrative personnel, while the armory itself was manned by Army regulars.

Bolan found the main administrative office quite easily. He parked his vehicle, then decided to try something. Instead of entering through the main office doors, he strolled around to the side of the building, where a set of bay doors, large enough for trucks to pass through, were wide open. He entered, whistling to himself. At the moment, no vehicles parked were inside, and other than a bored-looking sergeant at a checkout desk, no one was around. A quick visual inspection showed no weapons in the main area, but a sign on the door behind the sergeant indicated that only authorized military personnel were allowed beyond that point.

Bolan gave a friendly wave to the man and flashed his credentials. When the sergeant waved him through, he continued into the main office. There, another man was bent over a file cabinet, oblivious to Bolan’s presence and muttering to himself about the nuisance of inspections. The man’s white shirt wasn’t quite tucked in on the sides, where it was a little small, and small trickles of sweat had formed on his bald head. He gave the impression of a man who knew a lot more about paperwork than building security.

Bolan pulled the door shut behind him, rocking the picture on the wall, as the man wrenched up from his hunched position. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me!” he exclaimed.

Bolan didn’t say anything but eyed the thin wad of papers the man was tucking behind his back.

“Can I help you? I mean...what are you doing here? This is a restricted area.”

“Yeah, I got that from the mountains of security,” Bolan quipped.

“Everything that needs to be secured is, but that’s none of your business anyway. What do you want?”

“That remains to be seen. Either way, I’m looking for Brett Kingston.”

“He’s out of the office right now.”

“I’ll wait,” he said. “I’m patient.”

“I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

The main office door opened and a tall man strode inside. Bolan instantly recognized him as Kingston from the personnel file he’d studied earlier. Although he appeared closer to fifty than twenty, he was in excellent shape beneath his black polo and khaki slacks. An Airborne tattoo, along with the insignia from the 7th Special Forces group stood out on his bulging bicep. Bolan took a casual step back, folding his arms. It wouldn’t do to underestimate a man who’d spent time training in guerilla warfare.

The man didn’t seem to notice him right away, snapping, “Hansen, where the hell is that file I need?”

Hansen pulled the papers out from behind his back, clutching them to his chest for a moment before shoving them toward Kingston like they were about to burst into flames. Kingston took them, nodding, then turned his attention to Bolan. A small tic in his face registered how happy he was to see a stranger in his facilities.

“Who’re you, then?”

“Colonel Brandon Stone,” Bolan said, not bothering to offer his hand. “I’m helping out Homeland Security with an issue.” When Kingston didn’t say anything, he offered up his credentials.

Kingston shrugged. “What’s DHS want now? You need more airport screeners?” He laughed.

Bolan considered his response for a moment, then said, “Some things are better done off the books. Surely a man who served in the Seventh knows that.”

Kingston nodded, his face turning serious. “Yeah, all right. What can I do for you, Brandon?”

“That’s Colonel, if you don’t mind.”

Kingston’s jaw clenched again and his lips pursed, keeping something unsaid. “All right, Colonel. What can I do for you?”

“DHS got a confirmed report from Border Patrol of U.S. Army weapons being moved in the desert, northwest of Douglas. Since this is the only Army base in the area, they figured it might be a good place to start asking some questions.” Bolan eyed Kingston for a minute. “Hard questions.”

For a moment, Kingston looked like he’d swallowed a bug—a big, crunchy one—then he shook his head. “Damn it. I don’t believe it. Are you kidding me or something?”

“Wish I were, Mr. Kingston,” Bolan said. “But I’m not.”

Kingston slumped into the chair facing the desk. “Shit,” he said, shaking his head. Then he looked at Bolan. “I’m sorry for how I greeted you, Colonel. Truth is, we were told this morning of a surprise audit and facilities inspection for tomorrow morning, so I’m running around like an idiot and short-tempered on top of it. I didn’t like surprises when I served in the Seventh, and I like them even less now.”

Sensing the man’s attitude changing, Bolan nodded. “Consider it forgotten,” he said. “We all have bad days, and I don’t want to make yours worse. Still, I’ve got a job to do. If those weapons came from this base, we need to know it and we need to know how.”

“You’re completely right,” Kingston said. “I’ve never had anything like this happen before. I’ll do everything I can to help you—just name it.”

“Seems to me the best place to start would be with an inventory,” Bolan said. “If nothing is missing, then that will answer at least one question.”

Kingston nodded. “All right. Let me get through this inspection tomorrow morning, then in the afternoon I’ll go over our warehouses and inventory logs with a fine-toothed comb. If something has gone missing, we’ll find it.”

“Sounds good,” Bolan said. “In the meantime, I’ll be out with the Border Patrol. We’re going to take another look at the site where the weapons were found and see if we can start piecing together the movements. I’ll get in touch with you by tomorrow night or early the next morning to see what you’ve discovered.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Kingston said. “If these weapons are coming out of here, I want to know it. Then the bastards behind it can pay the tab.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Bolan said. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

“Anytime, Colonel,” he said, getting to his feet. He stuck out a hand. “I know I was a bit of ass when you came in, but I’d like to offer you my hand and my help.”

The two men shook and Bolan thanked him once more before leaving the building—through the office doors this time—and headed back to his car. Rivers was waiting for him back in Douglas, and they had a long day ahead of them.

* * *

RENE SURENO WATCHED from the balcony as his second, Jesus Salazar, drilled the small group of men in hand-to-hand combat. Rene allowed himself a grim chuckle. For a man named after the son of God, Jesus was anything but a pacifist. He was an icy killing machine who’d served in the Mexican army for several years before traveling to Africa and working for a private military company as a mercenary.

Rene had hired him after Jesus had returned to Mexico and run afoul of one of his distributors. The distributor and several of Rene’s men showed up for months in little pieces all over Mexico City. Rene was no fool and knew that any man capable of that would be a powerful ally, and he’d been right. For the right amount of money, Jesus would do almost anything, but for the past several months, he’d been focused on moving drugs and weapons while training Rene’s soldiers to kill and fight better than any other cartel in the country.

He watched as Jesus quickly defeated a man by dropping him to the hard stones of the courtyard in one swift move and sweeping his legs out from beneath him. As the man lay there, he simulated the finishing move that in real combat would have killed him—dropping an elbow into his throat, then following with a reverse move with his knife that would have opened his neck from one side to the other. Getting to his feet, Jesus turned his attention to the others, explaining why the man had lost.

As Jesus spoke, the man got slowly to his feet and Rene saw the hate in his eyes—and realized his intentions—before Jesus would have had a chance to notice. Drawing his combat knife, the man lunged forward, then stopped cold as the bullet from Rene’s gun took him in the abdomen. The echo from the shot startled everyone, and they looked up at the balcony to see him staring down into the courtyard.

Jesus turned and saw the would-be killer falling to the ground, then moved closer, kicking the knife out of his hands. “Gracias,” he called up to Rene. “Podría haber sido doloroso.”

“Painful?” Rene laughed. “He might have killed you.” He preferred to speak in English, knowing that disappearing inside the U.S. required the ability to speak without an accent.

“Maybe,” Jesus admitted. “But I knew you were there.” He looked down at the man groaning and bleeding on the stones. “It’s never personal,” he said, loud enough for the others to hear. “You cannot let it be personal. This man allowed his anger to get the better of his judgment. See what it cost him?”

The other soldiers agreed quite loudly that the man had made a mistake. “You two,” Jesus said, gesturing at two men nearby. “Get him out of here. Put him in the hot box.” Eyes wide at this cruelty, the men did as they were told, and Jesus turned his attention back to the fighters he’d been training.

Rene contemplated having the man killed outright, but Jesus’s choice would send a clear message—those foolish enough to bite the hand that fed them would not just be killed, but would die horribly. Behind him, the phone on his desk rang, and he turned his attention back inside, shutting the balcony doors behind him.

“Hello?” he said, picking up the handset.

“Rene, this is Kingston. We have a problem.”

“What problem?” Rene asked, annoyed. Kingston had proven useful to his weapon smuggling plans and was even more helpful with information. Still, he could be overly jumpy, and he was only one cog in the chain. Paranoia had its place, but a man should still be able to sleep at night.

“There’s a guy sniffing around where he doesn’t belong. He’ll be with that Border Patrol agent who interrupted our last shipment.”

“They’re going back?” Rene asked.

“Yes, so I’ve heard.”

“I’ll take care of it. You keep working on the next shipment.”

“Don’t you want to let things cool off a bit?” Kingston asked. “We can’t afford to get caught.”

“Shut up,” Rene snarled. “I said I will take care of this man. You just do your job. Everything stays on schedule. Understood?”

The silence stretched for several seconds. “Understood,” he replied.

“Good,” Rene said, then hung up the phone. He returned to the balcony and called Jesus inside. They had some planning to do.