Running the Maze (7 page)

Hunt grunted. “Humph. And you think my file is thin? You’ve got nothing there.”

“I agree, but General Middleton has one of his feelings that something isn’t right and wants it checked out. We’ll keep it all in-house for the time being until we see if there’s anything worth following. I ain’t betting on it. The kid may just be a flake.”

Hunt flipped his empty cup into a trash can, then adjusted his glasses and leaned forward, planting his hands on his knees. “She may not be such a flake, Kyle. In fact, she may be onto something. My opinion is, this thing deserves some investigation but is being stonewalled by somebody over in Foggy Bottom.”

Swanson looked hard at his old friend. Hunt was getting on in years, but he was still part bloodhound and part street cop. “Why? You having some old jealousy vibes because State won’t let you guys into a party?”

“Look at the pictures carefully, Kyle,” said Hunt. “Take them back and let your guy the Lizard work on them, make them clearer. Something important is missing.”

“What’s missing?” Swanson opened the folder again and studied the pictures more closely.

“The story is that they were shot up and robbed by some Taliban loonies, right? These photos supposedly represent the positions in which the bodies lay when Paki army troops found them.”

“Yes.” Kyle looked closer.
What don’t I see?

“If their trucks had been stopped and they were forced out and murdered on that spot, then where’s the blood? There is blood around the bullet holes in their clothing but not around the bodies, Kyle. The guy with his head blown apart should be resting in a big puddle of brains. Get it now?”

Swanson did. Hunt was right. He knew from personal experience that nobody ever gets badly shot and keeps all of the blood inside. It leaks, gushes, oozes, sprays, drips, and floods, and it keeps coming out until the heart stops beating. In the photos, the ground around each of the bodies was trampled but unstained. “Maybe the rain washed it away?”

“It had stopped raining in that particular area two days before, and the sun dried it out. The floods had never reached that high ground. The dirt, the side of the truck, the foliage, those logs near the bodies—all devoid of blood.”

Swanson closed the folder. “You’re saying they were killed somewhere else, then moved to this place and dumped.”

“Exactly. Those bodies bled out, then were transported to this spot to be found, away from the actual murder scene. One other thing. Look at the ankles we can see. They’re all without shoes, which is not abnormal in a place filled with thieves. But those dark stripes look to me like rope burns, which had to be made while they were still alive. Our people down at Quantico say the bruising is consistent with a victim being hung upside down.”

“I thought you didn’t investigate.”

“Just called for a few observations by friends.” Dave Hunt grinned. “Nothing official. Your people will find the same thing. I think these poor people were captured, hung up like sides of beef, and shot to hell, and the blood emptied out by the barrel. Then they were brought to this place and dropped. Why? I have no idea.”

“Weird,” said Kyle.

“Indeed,” said Dave Hunt. “We may be stymied on our end, but you and Trident can go around the normal rules. Kick over some rocks on this one, Gunny Swanson. See what crawls out.”

*   *   *

The six o’clock meeting in General Middleton’s office at the Pentagon was a tense session that seemed to be taking them down a road they did not want to travel. Sybelle Summers reported that Beth Ledford had passed the polygraph examination and had been interviewed by a Marine Special Ops lawyer, under oath. Middleton had copies of the polygraph results and the legal statement.

Commander Freedman had produced a slick set of eight-by-ten reproductions from the grainy photographs that Ledford had brought, but they showed nothing more than the fallen railroad bridge, with one end sticking in the river, and another shot of a valley. He had examined her cell phone and said that it was clear. No one had hacked it.

Then Swanson gave a debrief on his talk with Special Agent Hunt of the FBI and added his photos to the growing stack of paperwork.

Middleton spread all of the photos side by side on his desk, the pictures the Lizard had enlarged next to the gruesome forensic-style pictures from the Pakistanis. “It’s not the same location. Both of Dr. Ledford’s pictures are from a low area, and the bodies are on dry ground, with completely different foliage,” he said. “Better if you not look at these, Petty Officer Ledford.”

“It’s all right, sir. I just want to know everything about what has happened. My whole theory is based on Joey having seen something that I would recognize. I have to look at everything if we want to figure it out.” She carefully took the pictures, forcing herself to stay calm. Joey would still be dead, no matter whether or not she saw the ugly pictures of his ravaged body.

Master Gunny O. O. Dawkins pulled at his cheek as he thought. “The fuckin’ State Department is covering this up?”

“We don’t know that for sure, Double-Oh,” replied Swanson, “but according to my Feeb, that is where the information funnel narrows. That way, the incident is moved out of reach of any investigating arm and disappears into the diplomatic arena. Cables will be exchanged saying it was a tragic situation. No fault to be assigned beyond the Taliban gunmen who are also now dead and cannot challenge any official version.”

Middleton gathered the photos and returned them to the stack and straightened the corners. He closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. “All right. Here’s what we’re going to do. I want a plan to put some boots on the ground over there. Lizard, you get some overhead images of the area. Swanson will take Petty Officer Ledford in to see whatever it was her brother found. Go in, then get the hell out quick. Stay out of trouble, if you can. Should be a piece of cake, since the Paki army swears they have control of the area.”

“Sir!” Kyle almost came out of his chair in surprise. “All due respect, general, but Petty Officer Ledford isn’t qualified to do a special ops mission.”

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Gunnery Sergeant. You will take her in there, find what needs to be found, and then bring her out again. Are we clear?”

Swanson gave up. No use arguing with Middleton, who wore two stars on each shoulder. He knew the general was already thinking several moves ahead. “Aye-aye, sir. We’re clear.”

Beth Ledford was out of her chair in an instant, standing at rigid attention. “Sir. May I speak freely?”

Middleton’s brow furrowed. “Go ahead.”

“Sir, I do not feel that Gunnery Sergeant Swanson is the right man for this job. I don’t trust him. He is condescending, and if he does not believe I am up to the mission, he will be distracted and could get us both killed.”

Swanson jumped up to attention, too. “Sir!”

Middleton slammed his desk so hard that it sounded like a gunshot. “Sit down! Both of you! Jesus H. Christ on a shingle. What’s the matter with you two? This is not some junior high school hayride, nor is it a democracy. I make the decisions around here. I gave an order and you will obey it. You don’t have to like it; you just have to do it.
Now … are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Swanson.

“Yes, sir,” said Ledford.

“Good. A warning for both of you. You will get your shit together and work as a team. Put your differences on the shelf, because I don’t care whether you like each other. But you screw up this mission over something that minor and I’ll put you both in front of a court-martial. If my estimation is correct, Dr. Ledford stumbled on something that may be of great importance for our country’s security. Master Gunny Dawkins, we will give this priority over the Green Light on Charlie Brown. He gets to live a few more days.”

7

T
HE MORNING SUN CAME
up like a bright ball over the Atlantic horizon. First there was a hint of the coming dawn, then the first bars of sunshine hit the black water, and in only a few minutes, it was daylight at the Unknown Distance Range on the Marine Corps base in Quantico, Virginia. Chilly. Kyle Swanson was sitting on a fender of a Humvee, watching the dawn and drinking coffee from a thermos. He was still angry at Beth Ledford for saying she did not trust him. He was right in the argument, because the woman was not spec op trained. Freakin’ Coastie. There was an old ditty about their motto:
Semper Paratus is a laugh, they join to dodge the draft.
He snorted and dumped the rest of his coffee onto the grass of the firing range.

Turning to the Humvee, he saw Ledford sitting in the passenger seat, still huddled in a jacket, arms crossed, obviously as miffed with him as he was with her. “Ledford, I would be very much obliged if you would begin, if you please.” Exact, phony, politically correct politeness.

“I told you earlier, Gunnery Sergeant Swanson. I don’t do exhibitions. You want to see trick shooting, go to a carnival, put down a dollar, and I’ll win you a teddy bear.”

Swanson stalked to the back of the Hummer and lifted an M-14 with a scope from the cushioned carrying case, then an ammunition clip. To hell with polite. His voice hardened. “Listen, Ledford, the general and I agree that we’re not going anywhere until I can figure out what kind of skills you have. That information is pertinent to this mission.”

She had her own cup of steaming coffee and was still drinking it slowly. A black watch cap was pulled low on her forehead, low enough to touch her eyebrows. “How can you lead us anywhere, when you don’t know where we’re going? You’re just along for the ride, Swanson—my personal bouncer.”

He thrust the rifle at her and dropped the ammo clip in her lap. “I don’t know what world you’re living in, woman. You bring nothing to the mission but possible geographical recognition. You’re just a GPS tracking system; no more, no less.”

“I’m a sniper,” she said. “OK?”

“No, Ledford, that is not OK. You are a Coast Guard sniper, which I personally rate as being at the level of a designated marksman, the guy who is the best shot in any Marine squad. The Coast Guard may be great for rescuing dogs off rooftops and stopping sailboats carrying weed. It is not, in my opinion, a combat arm of the United States military.”

“Screw you, jarhead. Marines are antiques and should be dissolved into the Army and Navy. It would save a lot of money and be a big relief to everyone that has to put up with your constant bragging.”

Kyle ignored her and walked away carrying a large heavy-paper target, the black silhouette of a man’s torso and head. Except for Ledford and Swanson, the range was empty at this time of early morning, a wide swath of carefully prepared ground that was graded specifically for firing weapons and soaking up the bullets. He heard the choppy sound of a helicopter, normal around any military installation. The bird was flying high, dipping down and climbing again, orbiting. Probably a pilot logging some stick time for his flight pay.

At the five-hundred-meter marker, Swanson secured the target to a post. When he looked back, Beth Ledford was out of the Humvee, standing at the firing line, resting the butt of the M-14 on her hip, checking it, and adjusting the sling. “That weapon had better be unloaded, Ledford!” he shouted. “You saw me downrange. Didn’t the Coast Guard even teach you range safety procedures?”

“Oh. Gee, mister. I am so sorry. Is that how the Marines do it? I didn’t know that.” She waved the clip of ammo in her free hand. “This bullet-holder thingie is, like, way cool. And there’s even a cute little telescope on the top of this gun.”

Kyle huffed a deep breath and returned to the Humvee to get the monocular spotting scope. As he reached into the vehicle, he heard the crisp mechanical snap of the ammo clip being slapped home and the sharp
rap-rap-rap
of the M-14 being fired fast, but on single shot.
Rap-rap.
He turned and yelled, “Cease fire! Cease fire! Cease fire! What the fuck? Why didn’t you wait for my command?”
Rap. Rap-rap-rap.

She casually tucked the rifle under her right arm, picked up her coffee cup, and drank while staring at him with the malicious look of a naughty child. “Oops. Was I supposed to wait? You weren’t standing in front of the target anymore, so I thought you wanted me to shoot. Sorry again. My bad.”

Swanson felt the anger growing from the back of his neck. She was giving him a headache. Ledford was violating every rule of procedure. He exhaled, but it was a fight to keep himself under control in this battle of wills. With the spotting scope in his hand, he walked back to the line and focused it on the target, until it loomed large and clear. It was grinning at him—two holes for eyes, one for a nose, and three in a tight V for the mouth. For good measure, she had put three more holes right in the in-center mass-ten ring.
Damn. Shots like that from a standing position.

“Keep watching, cowboy,” Ledford said. He glanced over and saw that she had picked up the rifle again, this time locked into a standing position but without using the sling, which drooped beneath the weapon. With two more quick shots, she gave the target ears, then lowered the weapon, keeping it pointed downrange, smoothly removed the clip, and popped out the bullet in the chamber.

“You want to test me, then OK, but test me with something worthwhile. I could do this five-hundred-meter crap all day long and never miss. You understand that, Gunny? Never. Same thing at a thousand. I can shoot the lights out with pistols, rifles, shotguns, it doesn’t matter. I’ve been able to do it since I was a kid, and I love to shoot. Won my first turkey shoot while I was still in pigtails. Somehow, I was born with this peculiar skill in my genes, and the Coast Guard, bless ’em, taught me the technical side. I understand that you needed to see my capabilities because our lives might someday depend on my being able to take a shot, and now you have. I promise you that if I must, I will, and I won’t miss. Are you satisfied now, or do you want to see me pop an ace of clubs, or maybe you flip a quarter into the air?”