Dale Brown: Edge of Battle

But in one of the three hundred and seventy weapon storage bunkers scattered across the barren desert landscape was one bunker that had its own chain-link fence enclosure and its own guard post. Although all of the bunkers were air-conditioned to keep the explosives stored inside stable, a thermograph of this bunker would have showed it several degrees cooler than most of the rest. Inside, the bunker was divided in half by steel bars. On one side of the bars was a simple desk and storage cabinets for the guards posted outside…

…and on the other side of the bars was a stainless steel cot, bedstand, washbasin, and toilet. This was the secret prison cell for terrorist mastermind Colonel Yegor Zakharov, his holding cell set up for him while he awaited trial in federal court.

Zakharov’s schedule since his arrest and detention at Twentynine Palms was pretty much the same every day: six guard shift changes per day, where the Marine guards would check in on him, then handcuff him and search his cell; and three meals per day. Once a week he was taken outside to a portable shower to bathe. As a federal prisoner awaiting trial he was allowed to have law-books and documents, but they were closely cataloged and taken away from him at night. He was allowed no TV, no radio, no books.

The evening meal and shift change occurred at the same time, so the oncoming Marine guard and the contractors with the meal would arrive at the same time. While the contractors waited outside in a pickup truck, the oncoming Marine guard would inventory and log in his weapons, ammo, and equipment in the bunker, receive the prisoner status briefing from the offgoing guard, check in with the security headquarters via radio to assume responsibility for the post, take the keys and passcodes from the offgoing guard, and then the offgoing guard would formally relinquish his post and depart. The new guard would then handcuff the prisoner, conduct a search of the cell and the prisoner, take away all of his books and papers and lock them in a cabinet, and then go outside to get the meals for himself and the prisoner.

“Hold on , comma es-tay you-stead hot, Maria?” the Marine guard said in pidgeon Spanish as he walked over to the pickup truck. “Boners tarheels.”

“It’s ‘ ¿Cómo está usted hoy, Maria? and ‘buonas noches,’ Sergeant: ‘good evening,’ not ‘good afternoon,’ and your pronunciation is terrible as always,” Maria Arevalo said with an amused smile. “When will you ever learn Spanish?”

“I said it the way it was meant to be said, Maria,” the Marine sergeant said with a smile. “C’mon in out of the heat.”

“I must go.”

“O-kay, darlin’,” the Marine said. “I’ll see you later. Ay-dos!” Maria rolled her eyes in mock frustration at the Marine’s clumsy attempt at Spanish and headed back to her pickup truck.

The Marine reported by radio that the meals had arrived, the contractor was heading back to the admin area, and he was about to open the bunker door. He rang the outer buzzer, then looked through the viewfinder in the door to be sure the prisoner was up against the back wall as he was supposed to do whenever he heard the bell, punched in the code to unlock the door, and went inside with the meal. “Chow time,” he said. He put the cardboard meal container on the small metal table, then turned to close the bunker door…

…and he never saw the baseball bat hit him on the side of his head.

Zakharov scrambled to the steel bars of his cell and looked on in astonishment as he saw the Marine guard hit the ground and a woman rush inside to check him. “¡Usted es un ángel!” he said happily. “I hope you brought explosives, my dear, because to use his key code to unlock this cell you have to call the security office first, so unless you can do a deep man’s voice you will need a…”

“I wouldn’t worry about any of that, Colonel Zakharov,” a man’s voice said in English—and U.S. Border Patrol agent Paul Purdy entered the bunker. He looked at Maria. “Is he okay?”

“He is unconscious.” She checked his pupils. “No concussion—I think he will be okay. His head is bleeding but not badly.”

“One lump on the noggin and maybe a slight career setback—a small price to pay to rid the world of you, Colonel,” Purdy said casually. He walked to the cell, withdrew an automatic pistol, and began screwing a sound suppressor to the muzzle. “Remember me, Colonel?”

“Agent Paul Purdy. I remember now,” Zakharov said. “You intend to kill me while I am locked in this cell? Is that how an American kills, Agent Purdy—from inside a robotic shell, or when his victim is behind bars?”

“I’ll give you as much as you gave Victor Flores, Colonel—and you don’t deserve none of it.” Purdy dropped into a shooter’s crouch, extended the gun, and aimed.

“I’ll see you in hell, Agent Purdy.”

“Don’t wait up,” Purdy said, and he fired a bullet into Zakharov’s one remaining good eye. Blood, brains, and bone splattered across the far side of the cell, and the almost headless corpse hit the concrete floor with a sickening thud.

Purdy casually unscrewed the suppressor from his gun, turned, and looked into Maria’s horrified face. “Sorry you had to see that, darlin’,” he said.

Maria tore her eyes off the grisly scene in the cell, looked at the Border Patrol agent, then stood on her tiptoes and gave him a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Victor would have wanted me to give you that,” she said.

“Oh, I think Victor would have wanted you to give me a lot more’n that, darlin’.”

“Stop it, you old letch. By the way—this means I will probably need a new job somewhere, Purdy.”

“I told you, I got you covered,” Purdy said. “I found a nice business for you up in Stockton, good schools for your kids—trust me, darlin’.” He put an arm around her waist. “Now how about you and me head on over to the Joshua Tree Saloon and celebrate with a couple of tequilas? Then maybe take a drive out into the desert and celebrate the new spirit of peace and happiness between America and Mexico?”

“Shall I invite my husband to join us too, Purdy?” Maria asked with an alluring, mischievous smile on her face.

“Ouch. You did it to me again, darlin’—you went and mentioned the ‘H’ word,” Purdy said, putting a hand on his heart as he escorted Maria out of the bunker. “You done broke my heart again.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my friends Gene and Alison Pretti for their generosity.

Special thanks always to my wife, Diane, and to my editor, Henry Ferris. Writing a novel on a difficult topic is never an easy task, but these two caring persons made the task much less challenging for me.

About the Author

Former U.S. Air Force captain Dale Brown was born in Buffalo, New York, and now lives in Nevada. Edge of Battle is his eighteenth novel. He graduated from Penn State University with a degree in Western European history and received a U.S. Air Force commission in 1978. He was still serving in the Air Force when he wrote his highly acclaimed first novel, Flight of the Old Dog. Since then he has written a string of New York Times bestsellers, including, most recently, Air Battle Force, Plan of Attack, and Act of War.

www.dalebrown.info

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ALSO BY DALE BROWN

ACT OF WAR

PLAN OF ATTACK

AIR BATTLE FORCE

WINGS OF FIRE

WARRIOR CLASS

BATTLE BORN

THE TIN MAN

FATAL TERRAIN