Читать книгу Armed Resistance - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

Camp Shelby, Mississippi

“I should be fishing,” Carl Lyons announced.

A military policeman cleared them through the gate with a smart salute.

“Cheer up, Ironman,” Hermann Schwarz replied from the backseat of the sedan with the government plates. “We could’ve been stuck with an assignment someplace where it’s cold.”

“Or worse,” Rosario Blancanales added from behind the wheel. “How would you like to have the mission location Phoenix got?”

Lyons scowled. “We’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“I’m hungry,” Schwarz said. “Wonder what the chow’s like here?”

“You’ve had Army chow plenty of times,” Blancanales reminded him. “You never really liked it.”

Schwarz looked puzzled. “I didn’t?”

Blancanales looked him in the eyes through the rearview mirror and shook his head.

Indeed, both men were quite familiar with Army food. While Schwarz had significantly less experience in the field than his friend, he brought skills that were unusual for a combat veteran. Following a stint in Vietnam as a radio intelligence officer, Schwarz had begun his second tour with Bolan during the Mafia wars after spending only five months at a technical school in East Los Angeles. With his electronic intuition, one that had earned him the name Gadgets, Schwarz was a shoo-in for selection to become part of Stony Man’s elite urban counterterrorist unit.

Blancanales had a more distinguished career in the sense of notoriety. A decorated Green Beret, “the Politician” had earned a reputation as an effective member of the pacification programs implemented by the Army during the Vietnam War. He also served as Able Team’s medic. Most of the time, Blancanales acted as the team’s primary spokesperson due in no small part to his talent at being charming and gregarious.

The team leader was glad to leave these two men to their specific talents. Lyons had first met Bolan when the two men were on opposite sides of the law. Bolan had not spared Lyons’s life once, but three times, actually, and it came as quite a surprise when Bolan and Brognola approached him about joining Able Team as their leader—not that he wasn’t qualified. The only member of Stony Man’s field units who had never served in the Armed Forces, Lyons had been a member of the LAPD SWAT team and a decorated police sergeant. His successful completion of the Ironman competition, coupled with his intense inner strength and physical stature, had earned him the nickname and he wore it well.

“We got a major shit storm in front of us and all you two can think about is food?” Lyons grumbled. “Hopeless, utterly hopeless.”

“Well, who peed on your cereal this morning?” Schwarz asked.

“You know he gets like that when he gets hungry, too,” Blancanales said. “He’s the boss so he’s not really allowed to show his discomfort.”

Ignoring the chance offered by his two friends to trade coarse jokes, Lyons said, “What do we know about this General Saroyan?”

“Highly decorated officer,” Blancanales cited mechanically. “Came up the hard way, from what I understand. Did tours in both Iraq wars and spent some time with a military intelligence unit following the 9/11 attacks. He’s been post commander here at Camp Shelby since 2007. Definitely not the politicking type, which means we can probably assume he’ll shoot straight with us.”

“He’d better,” Schwarz interjected. “The guy doesn’t have any choice, especially in light of the fact they decided to slap Army CID credentials on us.”

“If he’s got nothing to hide then I don’t think we’ll have to worry about it,” Lyons said. “I’m actually more concerned about the disappearance of Colonel Scott. Barb was right when she told us this guy going AWOL and the disappearance of the spook in Khartoum was entirely too proximal to be an accident.”

“Well, let’s just remember we’re not supposed to know anything about Scott unless Saroyan mentions him,” Blancanales reminded them. “The Farm got that information from someone inside the administrative ranks. We have to keep our investigation focused on the missing weapons. If Scott’s disappearance comes up then maybe we can take an interest, be able to logically tie the two incidents together.”

“Sounds like a reasonable plan to me,” Lyons said. “The sooner we can get this done the sooner we can get to work and find the bad guys.”

“While we’re on the subject of bad guys, what do you two think about Scott’s disappearance?” Schwarz asked.

“What do you mean?” Blancanales said.

“Well, I just mean that while his splitting is obviously not coincidental, we don’t have any evidence so far that suggests he was taken involuntarily. If we assume he was kidnapped or worse, that would imply whoever’s behind smuggling these weapons off this base and out to members of the Lord’s Resistance Army would have to be in country. Even if we are able to swing this so that our looking into Scott’s disappearance just seems like part of the case, it’s a good chance we might walk into a trap.”

“You’re thinking members of the Lord’s Resistance Army might figure someone will come looking for him,” Lyons said.

“Exactly.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve walked in with blinders on for the sake of government red tape,” Blancanales said. “I think we just have to wait and see what happens.”

“Are we there yet?” Lyons asked in an attempt to lighten the conversation a bit.

“I thought I told you to go before we left,” Blancanales shot back.

Lyons took the opportunity to give him a light tap in the arm, if there was any such thing from the blond warrior, as Blancanales turned into the parking lot of the base headquarters building. After locating a guest parking spot and asking a short, pert brunette in uniform where they could find the base commander’s office, Blancanales and Schwarz made their way dutifully toward the entrance to which she pointed. Lyons straggled just a bit, taking the opportunity to watch her walk away—appreciative of the shapely legs that protruded from the dark green skirt and dipped into black shoes that clopped along the sidewalk in rhythm to her walk.

Shaking himself and realizing his friends had made considerable distance, Lyons jogged after them with just the hint of a smile.

The men found the office of Major General Anthony Saroyan and were shown in by a young sergeant as soon as they arrived. The place was spacious and nicely decorated, many of the pieces on the furniture from the turn of the nineteenth century. There was a fair amount of war memorabilia sitting along the high shelves and a fairly large bookcase occupied another wall. The desk was the only military-issue item in the whole place, and the chairs shown to the Able Team warriors were unusually comfortable.

They were barely seated when a tall, distinguished-looking man in his early fifties entered the room. He had thin hair of a color somewhere between white and gray. The eyes were equally gray but there was no mistaking the intelligence and hard discipline behind them. He was attired in standard Class B uniform, and a bucket-load of medals adorned the left breast of his shirt. The twin stars of his rank rode on dark green epaulettes and glistened in the morning light that streamed through the window.

They rose to attention and saluted in unison. He returned the salute casually, shook hands with each of them in turn and then took a seat behind his desk.

“Gentlemen, this is Command Sergeant Major Shubin,” Saroyan said, gesturing to a man who entered right at that point and took a position near the general’s desk.

Shubin was considerably shorter than his CO but no less intense. He wore the identical Class B uniform and nearly as many medals, the only difference being that on his epaulettes were three stripes and three rockers, a star cradled in a leaf centered between the chevrons.

Saroyan continued. “Sergeant Major Shubin is the senior noncommissioned officer on the base, and I’ve asked him to be a part of this inquiry since the armory here at Camp Shelby falls under his purview along with all of the other S1 depots.”

“That’s all well and good, sir,” Lyons replied, adding the honorific quickly as an afterthought. Damn, he’d almost blown it and he’d barely opened his mouth. “But I assumed that we would be joined by your senior supply officer, as well. We are, after all, talking about a dozen missing assault rifles.”

“I’ll be candid with you, primarily because you are representatives of the Army’s chief law-enforcement division,” Saroyan said. “Under most circumstances I would’ve had Colonel Scott join us. Unfortunately, he had to leave the base quite suddenly. A family emergency—I’m sure you understand.”

“I see,” Lyons said. He glanced at Shubin and then returned his attention to Saroyan. “Well, I have every confidence the sergeant major here can assist in our investigation.”

“Sir,” Blancanales interjected, intent on getting the situation into their control as soon as possible. “Being as these weapons have gone missing and Colonel Scott is not present—”

“I know what you’re going to say, Chief…?” Saroyan’s voice trailed off.

“You’ll pardon me, sir,” Blancanales said. He made a show of reaching for his credentials.

Seeing they had not demonstrated proper protocol, Lyons and Schwarz followed suit. They should have presented their identification and orders to investigate to the base commander immediately on arrival, but they knew the oversight would be forgivable under the circumstances. If nothing else, Blancanales was convinced Saroyan didn’t know anything about the missing weapons; his choice to not tell them Scott was actually AWOL was little more than courteous. No matter whom they represented, in Saroyan’s and Shubin’s view the trio were outsiders and would be treated as such where it concerned reputable Army officers until they had proved their trustworthiness.

Once Saroyan made a cursory inspection of their credentials, he sat back and smiled, although Blancanales didn’t see much warmth in it.

“Now that we’ve dispensed with formalities,” Saroyan said, “I’d like to follow up on your earlier comment. I’ve known Colonel Scott for a good many years, gentlemen. As a matter of fact he served as my S1 officer during Operation Iraqi Freedom. He’s a man of good reputation, not to mention a United States Army officer and a gentleman. I’m sure his family emergency has nothing to do with the missing weapons.”

“Sir, you’ll understand if we tell you that it’s our responsibility to investigate anything we think may be related to these missing weapons,” Lyons said.

“I know your responsibilities, Mr. Irons.”

“I think what Chief Irons is actually trying to say,” Blancanales cut in, “is that we must consider Colonel Scott’s sudden departure as a little untimely. We do need to review all possibilities, of course. However, under the present circumstances will be more than happy to work with Sergeant Major Shubin until we can speak with Colonel Scott.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Rose,” Shubin said.

“You must understand, sir, that we will have to speak with Colonel Scott before we leave Camp Shelby and return to Washington,” Schwarz hastily added.

“Of course, absolutely,” Saroyan said. “As I’ve already told you, gentlemen, you will have the full cooperation of me and my staff and the resources of Camp Shelby at your disposal. We’re ready to cooperate with your investigation.”

“Thank you,” Lyons replied.

Saroyan turned his attention to Shubin. “Sergeant Major, escort these men to their quarters. I’m sure they would like to get cleaned up before heading to the armory and speaking with Lieutenant Jaeger.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And who’s Lieutenant Jaeger, sir?” Lyons said.

“Jaeger’s Colonel Scott’s XO. He’ll be able to answer any questions you have to your satisfaction.” Saroyan favored Schwarz with a glance and added, “That is, of course, until Colonel Scott can get back here.”

“Exactly how long is Colonel Scott expected to be gone, sir?” Blancanales asked.

Lyons had difficulty repressing a smile. While his tactics were much different in human interactions, there were times the wisdom of his friend shone through. He knew that Blancanales hadn’t asked the question because he actually wanted to know when Scott would return; Blancanales wanted to see how Saroyan would dance around the inquiry.

Saroyan replied straight-faced. “I’m not really certain since it was an emergency. I approved a pass of up to seventy-two hours for him if needed, and so I would expect him back here in that time unless he notifies my office prior to that, of course. Will there be anything else?”

“Not at all,” Blancanales replied. “Thank you again, sir.”

The three men rose, the meeting obviously adjourned, and Shubin escorted them out to the parking lot. They decided to follow him rather than ride in his vehicle so they could discuss the short, if not very strange, meeting with Shubin and Saroyan. Rather than go to their quarters, however, Lyons had insisted Shubin take them straight to the armory depot where the missing weapons had been stored.

“I don’t like him,” Lyons said when they were alone.

“Who…Saroyan?” Schwarz asked.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think he’s a bad egg,” Blancanales said. “And he doesn’t strike me as the type who would get into arms smuggling, especially not with all the checks and balances that are required.”

“This was obviously an inside job, Pol,” Lyons insisted.

“I don’t disagree.” Blancanales shook his head. “But at the end of the day I don’t think Saroyan had anything to do with it.”

“Yeah, but he lied for Scott with that cockamamie story about him having emergency leave,” Schwarz said.

“Covering the ass of a trusted officer doesn’t automatically qualify the guy for collusion with Sudanese terrorists,” Blancanales reminded his friend. “Not to mention the fact that we have no hard evidence to suggest even Colonel Scott’s culpable. We’re talking about high treason here, committed by more than one Army officer, and I’m not entirely convinced that’s the case.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time somebody inside the U.S. military flipped sides,” Lyons said.

“Of course not. But let’s consider motives, Ironman, or at least the lack thereof in this case.”

Schwarz said, “He’s got a point there. There really isn’t any evidence to suggest Scott or Saroyan is working with the Lord’s Resistance Army.”

“I can think of one very good motive,” Lyons countered. “Money.”

“According to the initial reports we got from the Farm, only twelve weapons were missing,” Schwarz said. “The U.S. military property ownership stampings were still on them along with the serial numbers, making them easily tracked, which means that most of the guns could have fetched a price of maybe five hundred dollars each.”

“So six grand for the lot, and that’s before you pay off customs inspectors, smugglers and anybody else who’s due a cut,” Blancanales said. He looked at Lyons and replied, “Doesn’t seem worth spending the next thirty years at Leavenworth for chump change.”

“Okay, so maybe I hadn’t thought of that,” Lyons admitted.

“You know what strikes me as odd?” Blancanales asked.

“The fact you haven’t been on a real date in the last decade?” Schwarz offered.

“Oh…we have a funny guy on our hands,” Blancanales said. He continued in a more serious tone. “What really strikes me as odd is why only a dozen guns. Sure, they’re military-grade small arms. M-16 A-3 carbines in the hands of trained terrorists or guerrillas can do some significant damage. But you’re not going to win a war with them and it seems like an awful lot of effort to go to just for a few guns.”

“Especially if you’re shipping them to a country where guns are a dime a dozen,” Schwarz said.

Lyons had to admit he hadn’t considered it and there was no disputing Blancanales’s point—no surprises since most of his friend’s observations were equally astute. Conflict had been going on for so long in Sudan with the skirmishes and microcosmic civil wars between the various groups, each fighting for its own power and political position, that the arms market had all but consumed the meager resources of the country. Illegal weapons came from every part of the world: Europe, China, parts of Southeast Asia and the Middle East.

And now the United States.

There was certainly no shortage of guns in Sudan. Way more money could be made sending things like food, potable water and nutritional supplements. Medications were also a big game in Sudan. An entire pharmaceutical underground had been established in the country, selling everything from antibiotics to painkillers to experimental drugs. American military personnel getting involved in smuggling weapons out of the United States, even civilians, appeared to create a risk much greater than would prove profitable. It just didn’t make any sense.

“Well, whatever’s going on,” Lyons finally said after a time of silence, “we need to get to the bottom of it so we can get the intelligence to Phoenix Force. David and friends are going to need that information in order to accomplish their mission objectives.”

“No argument from me,” Schwarz said.

“Agreed,” Blancanales added. “I would hate to think our dragging ass caused them a lot of additional heartache. If we—”

Blancanales never got to finish his statement as Schwarz shouted and pointed in the direction of a van hurtling toward the intersection they were approaching from their left. At the speed they were moving it seemed evident they would impact Shubin’s car at precisely the moment he reached the middle of the intersection. The cross street had the stop, and from Shubin’s speed it appeared the Army noncom hadn’t spotted the looming peril.

“That’s trouble!” Schwarz cried.

“He doesn’t see them, Pol,” Lyons said. “We need to get in front of him!”

Blancanales was obviously already in tune with the thoughts of his friend because he’d tromped the accelerator and whipped the nose of their sedan into the oncoming lane to pass Shubin. As they gained ground, the precious seconds ticking, Blancanales ordered his friends to brace for impact.

And then they smashed headlong into the fender of the van.