Dale Brown - Act of War

“Don’t bother—I’ll find them. This way?” Jason pointed to the only other door. He retrieved his flight line badge and swiped it in the card reader, entered a code, and the door popped open.

The hallway inside was dim and narrow, with a decades-old linoleum floor and bare walls. Jason remembered he was here last night, looking for the bathroom, but he didn’t remember much from that long night of transferring equipment from their C-130 Hercules transport plane out at Cannon into a couple tractor-trailers and then making the hour-long drive out to Area Twelve. But he followed vehicle and cargo-handling noise to another locked steel door, entered his codes, and entered.

Containers, boxes, and equipment were strewn all over the hangar, but in the middle of it all were the two Humvees Jason and Ariadna brought out to Cannon, the working prototype they had used in the demo in Washington and another they were using to test upgrades. Jason had to show his badge to a security guard before he could check the Humvee—yes, two CID units were on board, they hadn’t been disturbed, and both were fully charged and ready to go. The first CID unit was the operational prototype; the second, like the other Humvee, was used to test enhancements to the weapon system. Two more upgraded units were just a few weeks from being ready—after Kingman City, Jason was sure that timetable was going to be stepped up. Jason went over to check on the second Humvee…

…and found a guy in a plain gray lightweight jacket, khaki slacks, shooter’s yellow sunglasses, and outdoor all-terrain shoes sitting in the driver’s seat. He was taking notes on the various switches and controls, and he had the computer access panel open. “Who are you?” Jason asked.

“Who are you?” the guy challenged him. “No one’s allowed near these vehicles!”

“They’re my fucking vehicles,” Jason snapped.

The guy scrambled out of the driver’s seat. He was a good three inches taller than Jason, square-jawed and athletic—he definitely looked like he could take care of himself. He withdrew a leather wallet from a breast pocket and flashed a gold badge and ID card that said “FBI” on it. “Special Agent Bolton, FBI.” He stood right in front of Jason, blocking his view of what he was doing inside the Humvee. “Step away from the vehicle.”

“I told you, it’s my Humvee,” Jason said. “What were you doing in there?”

“And you are?”

“Major Jason Richter.” He lifted up his flight line badge and stuck it in Bolton’s face. “I’m commander of this task force.”

Bolton grasped the card, read it, and nodded, after giving Richter a quick and apparently none-too-favorable appraisal. “Okay,” he said, “you’re cleared.”

“I asked you, what were you doing in my Humvee?”

“I asked him to take some notes for me.” Jason turned and saw Kelsey DeLaine walking toward him. The guards did not ask to see her badge, Jason noticed. “I wanted to know the difference between the two vehicles, and since you weren’t around to ask, I had Agent Bolton go in and check. Carl, Jason Richter, U.S. Army. Jason, Special Agent Carl Bolton.”

“Agent Bolton should leave his paws off things he knows nothing about,” Jason said pointedly.

“Carl Bolton is the Washington director of the advanced technology office of the FBI,” Kelsey went on, ignoring Jason’s warning. “He has a master’s degree in electrical engineering and a Ph.D. in advanced computer architecture. He might know more about the systems in there than you do.”

He might indeed, Jason thought—he had heard of this guy before, but had no idea he worked for the FBI. But he was still in a peeved mood, and he’d only been awake for twenty minutes. “Then he should know better than to touch anything he’s not intimately familiar with, especially switches that can activate weapons.”

“I assure you, Major, Agent Bolton didn’t touch anything—he was simply taking notes.”

Jason stepped around Bolton, reached into the cab, and closed the computer terminal’s access cover—he couldn’t remember if he had left that cover open or not, but he assumed that Bolton had opened it. “Oh yeah? Maybe Agent Bolton would like it if I took a look around inside his suitcase—I promise I won’t touch a thing. Is that okay, Agent Bolton?” The big engineer scowled at him but said nothing.

“Problem here?” Jason looked up and saw Command Sergeant Major Jefferson approach. He wore a slightly boyish grin, but those eyes…his eyes pierced through Jason’s brain like a white-hot poker. Despite the crocodile smile, those eyes said only one thing—you are dog meat to me, sir. “Good morning, sir. Any problems?”

“Good morning, Sergeant Major.” Jefferson nodded but said nothing. “I was just warning Agent Bolton here about the dangers to himself and others—especially himself—if he gets near my equipment without letting me know first.”

“Slept in this morning, I see,” Kelsey said to Jason with a trace of humor in her green eyes—her rather gorgeous green eyes, Jason had to admit. He ignored her, mostly because she was too damned perky and together to be for real.

Jason turned to Jefferson instead. “I want everybody kept away from the Humvees until I’ve had a chance to brief everyone on their operation,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Yes, sir,” Jefferson responded.

“Next item, Sergeant Major: are all the showers screwed up like mine is?”

“If you mean is the hot water not on and do the pipes need flushing out: yes, sir. This facility was mostly shut down when we arrived—there wasn’t time to get everything up and running.”

“That’s unacceptable, Sergeant Major,” Jason said. “I realize the urgent nature of our mission, but piss-poor planning on the White House’s part shouldn’t become a hardship on our part—there’ll be plenty of time for that when we get on the road. I want you to find every available unoccupied transient or visitor’s quarters available at Cannon, divide our crew into shifts, and send them over there for rest, a shower, and a meal.”

“We can’t spare the time or the manpower,” Kelsey DeLaine interjected. “We need to be up and running in less than six days.”

“Agent DeLaine, I don’t care what Chamberlain said—I’m not going to have bone-tired soldiers working around my equipment,” Jason said. “Everyone here understands the urgency of our mission, and we’ll all work as hard as we can. But CID works because my directorate is careful, deliberate, and we don’t make bonehead mistakes. I’m going to keep it that way. Sergeant Major, see to the crew rest rotation schedule, and have someone out at the air base get our facilities fixed ASAP.”

“Yes, sir.” Jason was relieved to see Jefferson’s scowl had lessened a noticeable bit—obviously his way of showing his approval—as he turned to issue orders.

“Next item: What time does the chow hall open, Sergeant Major?”

“The chow hall here at Facility Twelve is closed, sir,” Jefferson replied. “Because of the THREATCON ALPHA security alert, all civilian contractors without at least a Confidential security clearance are prohibited from entering this area. Hours had to be severely cut for all support services. We’ve requested MREs and box lunches until we can get hot meals prepared again.”

“That won’t work either, Sergeant Major.” He thought for a moment; then: “Is there a Pizza Hut near Cannon?”

“I do not know, sir.”

“Sergeant Major, in all your years of experience, do you know of any military installation in the continental United States that does not have a Pizza Hut right outside the front gate?”

Jefferson glared at Richter as if he was trying to decide if the man was pulling his leg or not. “There are usually an abundance of civilian fast-food restaurants within a very short distance of the entrance of every CONUS military base that I am aware of, sir,” he replied with a deep threatening voice, obviously warning the young major to get to the point quickly and not to fuck with him in front of all these outsiders.