Dale Brown - Act of War

Kristen’s war was over, Jason thought grimly—his was not.

CHAPTER NINE

York, Pennsylvania

That same time

The place looked deserted; the doors were locked. The rather small red-brick colonial building half-hidden in a clump of oak trees out near York Airport, a small general aviation airport about ten kilometers from the city, looked as if it had been built a hundred years ago. There was a forty-acre fenced storage lot behind the building topped with razor wire, with a collection of green camouflage trucks, trailers, service vehicles, Humvees, helicopters, and even some larger armored vehicles such as Bradley Fighting Vehicles. There was even what appeared to be a multiple rocket launcher or two out there—a pretty impressive collection of weaponry for a little Pennsylvania National Guard unit.

At the rear of the storage lot was a six-bay service building and three aircraft hangars, and one of the hangar doors was open about a meter or so, so that’s where Special Agent Ramiro “Rudy” Cortez decided to look first. He and the agent accompanying him on this trip, Agent Jerome Taylor from the Federal Bureau of Investigation office in Philadelphia, went around the side, looking for a gate. The large taxiway gate leading to the runway was doublechained with fresh-looking chains and locks. “Hello!” Cortez called out. “Anyone in there?” No response.

“What do you want to do?” Taylor asked.

“I’d sure hate to come out all this way and not speak with someone at this unit,” Cortez said. “It looks to me like someone’s in there.”

“How about I call the state military bureau in Harrisburg?”

“That’ll take all day—I’ve got to be back in D.C. by three o’clock,” Cortez said. He thought for a moment, then asked, “We don’t need permission to go onto a National Guard installation…do we?”

“You got me.”

Cortez shrugged. “At the very least, this compound is not secure—it’s our responsibility to secure it,” he said.

“If you say so,” Taylor said. He pulled out a cigarette and lit up. “I’ll watch from here.”

“You’re not going in right behind me?” Cortez asked.

“I haven’t climbed a fence since the academy, Cortez. I’ll watch.”

Cortez pulled his car up to the gate, removed his jacket and tie, and retrieved a thick quilted packing blanket from the trunk. He climbed up on the hood of his car, threw the blanket over the razor wire, and started to climb. He was halfway over the fence and ready to throw a leg over the top, surprised at how well he was doing, when he heard, “Hey, yo, what do you think you’re doin’ there?” A guy in camouflage trousers, spit-shined combat boots, web belt, and olive drab T-shirt, carrying a very large Crescent wrench, came trotting out of the garage. His hair was a little on the long side, and his T-shirt had large drips of oil on the front—in short, he looked like a typical mechanic.

Cortez climbed down from the fence, thankful he didn’t rip his suit trousers on the razor wire or dent the hood of his Bureau car. He retrieved his badge case from a trouser pocket and opened it. “Cortez, FBI. We came here to talk to the CO.”

“FBI?” the soldier asked. “What’s the FBI want with us?”

“I’d rather talk it over with the CO.”

“Why were you climbin’ the fence?”

“I saw the hangar door open and thought I’d better check it out.”

“Why didn’t you just use the front door?”

“It’s locked. No one up there.”

“What? No, the secretary’s there.” He motioned with a couple fingers at the badge and stepped toward the fence. Cortez showed it to him again. “Did you knock or what?”

“No, I didn’t knock, but I didn’t see anyone up there. It looked like you were closed.”

“Well, you got that right.”

“Say again?”

“Closed. I mean, we’re closin’. The unit’s moving, back to Fort Indiantown Gap. Annville.”

“When?”

“End of the fiscal year, I guess,” the soldier said. “That’s better than an hour from where I live. Right now it’s easy for me to just get off from work and go to drills, but with the move, it’s a real hassle to…”

“Can you let us in so we can talk to the CO?” Cortez interjected.

“Oh. Oh, sure. C’mon over. The CO, he ain’t here, but the first shirt is around here somewhere and he can fill ya in. Right over here.” The soldier walked toward the rear of the red-brick building. Cortez jumped off his car and retrieved his jacket, and he and Taylor went to the front entrance. A few moments later, the soldier opened the front door and let them in.

The reception area looked neat and tidy, just deserted. The floor was polished to a high sheen, the computers were on, there was no dust built up anywhere; the live plants looked well cared for. Obviously it was geared heavily toward recruiting, with lots of posters and brochures around touting the educational and training opportunities in the Pennsylvania National Guard. “What’s your name?” Cortez asked.

“Conway. Eddie Conway. Sergeant First Class. Helicopter maintenance specialist, Troop F, First Battalion, One-Oh-Fourth Cavalry.” He turned to Taylor and motioned again with two fingers. “Do you mind?”

“Troop F?” Taylor asked as he showed his badge and ID card again. “You mean, ‘F Troop’?”

“The first shirt, he don’t like the negative connotation,” Conway said. “I just learned what the big gag was, and I still don’t get it—F Troop, the TV show, that part I get—but he’s a baby boomer so he’s pretty sensitive about it.”

“You guys usually closed on the weekdays like this?”

“We usually open a couple days before a drill weekend,” Conway said. “But with the unit relocating, the schedule’s all dicked up. The CO hasn’t been around since, oh hell, I don’t know—I haven’t seen him in a while. I just see the first shirt. I try to stay out of the old man’s crosshairs, know what I mean? But the choppers still need the maintenance, know what I mean?”

“Sure,” Cortez said. “We’ll just check in with the first sergeant and get out of your hair, let you get back to work.”

“Heck, I like the break, know what I mean?” Conway said with a smile. “I got credit for a training day whether I crawl under one bird or six, know what I mean?” Cortez thought that this was the kind of guy who needed lots of supervision, but he remained silent as they headed toward the offices in back.

“What do you guys do?” Taylor asked.

“We’re a maintenance unit detached from the rest of the aviation battalion,” Conway said. “We fix ’em all—Apaches, Kiowa Scouts, Black Hawks, Hueys, everything, even the vehicles like the Bradleys and Humvees. We’re not really a combat unit but we can do field maintenance behind enemy lines if necessary.”

“What about the rocket launchers?”

“Oh, that’s just here for chassis maintenance—the carrier vehicle has the same chassis and drive train as a Bradley,” Conway said. “It’s been unloaded, safed, and secured twelve ways to Sunday or we don’t touch it. I don’t know nothin’ about those things, the business end of it at least, know what I mean?”

“Sure. Are all these helicopters and armored vehicles armed?”

“Nope,” Conway replied. “We can do field maintenance on the weapon systems if necessary, but usually that’s just R&R—‘remove and replace.’ We expect all the choppers and vehicles that come here to be completely unloaded, disarmed, and safetied, but we find ordnance in them all the time. So what are you guys looking for?”

“We’re investigating National Guard units who have reported losses in the past few months,” Cortez said. “This unit’s reported losses have spiked, and I was hoping to get some indication as to why that might happen.”