Captain Longfellow seemed to sense the sergeant’s reticence. “Yes, it looks like these two guys, Privates Hough and Pugh, killed each other during an act of sexual perversion. I wouldn’t put homosexuality or criminal behavior past them, but not in this case.”
“How’s that, sir?” asked Flood.
“Well, with Mortuary Services, we deal with the dead. That’s what we do, get to see death come in all shapes and sizes. But if you examine this scene, notice Private Hough on top has his throat slit. A wound like that, there should be a shitload of blood. But look at Private Pugh beneath him. See how there’s only a few drops on his face? It looks like Hough bled out someplace else.”
“Makes sense,” said Flood, “but where?”
Captain Longfellow walked a few yards and bent over. With his helmet lamp illuminating a dark spot on ground, he pointed and said, “There.”
Flood, skeptical, walked over and took a close look. Sure enough, blood soaked the sand. “You could be right, sir. If that’s the case, then someone staged the bodies.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” agreed Longfellow.
“Sir, were these men working alone?”
“Affirmative. Two-man detail.”
“Any thoughts then?” Flood asked.
“Well, it’s conceivable someone from another punishment detail did this. Six teams are working tonight. But I’ve been checking through the evening, and other than these two poor bastards, all reported in. Nothing seems amiss. It’s still possible, but I would say doubtful.”
Suspicious, Flood walked around the shell hole and noticed an open pack. Peering in, the contents appeared a jumbled mess. Nearby, a pair of boots and socks lay. Size small, he guessed. Weird. Plus, embedded in the sand he counted multiple boot prints of various sizes, but that could mean anything. None of it made sense. Then he spotted something unusuaclass="underline" an opening in the side of the shell hole. Intrigued, he moved closer and bent lower. With his headlamp, he peered inside and detected a small blood trail mixed with dirt and sand.
“What you got there?” asked the captain.
He stood up and explained, “Sir, it looks like an irrigation pipe. Makes sense, as years ago intelligence maps show this area bordered a golf course. Inside the pipe there’s a blood trail.”
The captain walked over and motioned Flood aside. He, too, bent low and used his headlamp to confirm the finding. “I see it. Whoever killed our guys might still be in there.”
Sergeant Flood hated to agree, but the evidence was clear. “Sir, I’m not sure who the hell’s been in that pipe. Might be an enemy combatant, a civilian, or even one of our guys. Who knows? I’m responsible for battlefield security, and if someone unauthorized is roaming around, I need to find out.”
“Are you going in?” asked the captain, apparently excited by the prospect of a manhunt.
Not answering, Sergeant Flood activated his radio headset, “Squad Three Kinney; Squad Three Actual. How copy? Over.”
“Ah, Squad Three Actual. Copy you five by. Over.”
Flood recognized the voice of Corporal Aaron Dalton and frowned. “Squad Three Dalton, where’s Kinney? Over.”
After a moment Dalton answered, “Squad Three Actual. Ah, well, Kinney’s not here. He’s taking a dump. Over.”
Earlier, Flood left his squad inside their parked fighting vehicle twenty meters away. He intended to let them stay warm and allow them to rest while he investigated the call from Captain Longfellow. But now it was time to work. “Squad Three, Dalton. Go get his ass. Tell him I need him and to bring a suppressor for his Glock. Over.”
“Squad Three Actual. What you got? Over.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just get Kinney, pronto. Out.” Sergeant Flood, ending the radio call, stood conflicted. If he didn’t investigate, a later inquiry might find him derelict, and he didn’t want that type of blemish on his record. Still, he’d rather be tucked away in a nice warm place and not chasing God knew what. Dammit again. Flood spoke to Captain Longfellow. “Sir, with your authority, I will send in one of my guys. He’s tougher than nails, and if there’s someone in there, he’ll flush ’em out.”
Longfellow gave a quick endorsement. “Outstanding! I’ll call it into Command and let them know I’m ordering a reconnaissance in pursuit of suspected enemy infiltrators involved in the death of two US soldiers.”
Flood grimaced at the pompous speculation. Then he glanced at the pipe and tried to imagine Longfellow, the fat ass, fitting into the narrow confines. No way. Longfellow and his ilk clamored for glory, but it was his grunts that paid the price. He hoped this time the cost wouldn’t be too high.
Chapter Fifteen
THE OLIGARCHS
May 9, 00:55 (PDT)
Inside her private quarters, buried deep underground in the heart of the San Jose ROAS alternate seat of government, Ortega was taking a moment to gather herself. Looking in a mirror, staring back at her was a haggard and exhausted woman. The last twenty-four hours had been the hardest in her life, and it showed. Deep lines etched outward from her eyes, and poking through her freshly dyed raven hair, she detected too many grays. She was killing herself, but it didn’t matter.
At a young age, she had known politics was her calling. A passion burned so hard she couldn’t explain the depths. Equality, fairness, defeating bullies, overcoming injustice: all those ideals drove her. As a young teenager growing up on the hard streets of a Los Angeles barrio, she couldn’t contain her feelings. Instead, she strove to make the world a better place and voiced her opinions, joined many liberal groups, and wasn’t afraid to stand up to anyone who objected. Back then, as a young political activist, succession seemed a dream come true. And it was. She recalled those heady times and the joy of establishing a new national government grounded in the beliefs that compelled her.
All her life she worked for the common good, and now she was nearing the end of her second and final term as president. Then came today, and it held no such happiness. War, death, destruction: the decisions she made were killing people. The thought caused her stomach to rumble, not so much from hunger, she realized, but nerves. Just then a wave of nausea washed over her. Bending over to stifle the sensation, after a few deep breaths she felt better. Rising up, she needed to pull herself together.
Gazing in the mirror, she picked at a wisp of hair and examined the dark bags under her eyes. The crow’s feet appeared deeper and longer than ever. She looked like death warmed over. The thought almost caused her to laugh as the job, sure as hell, was trying to kill her. But, she wasn’t dead yet. Determined, she stood taller, and looking at herself, vowed once more to do everything in her power to save the nation. To do so, she’d commit to almost anything. Besides, what else was there? Her detractors named her the “compassionate ice queen” as she had never married or had children. Although she’d had many lovers over the years, male and female, no one could replace her life force. Deep down, she knew her destiny was much greater, and she believed her name would go down in history forever.
But the reflection in the mirror wasn’t helping. The wrinkles in her neck appeared longer, and the flesh around them sagged. She hated the sight, and then a thought struck her. Maybe SALI could help? The AI was supposed to have infinite intelligence. Surely it could solve the ravages of age, gravity, and stress. Even better, the AI, if used properly, could save her country from destruction. Under her control, the AI could defeat the US armies, expand the borders of her country, and unleash a new age of liberalism. Given control, she’d use the AI to shepherd in a new wave of medical and scientific breakthroughs focused on enhancing the lives of humanity. Her name would live forever! But Vivek Basu and the oligarchs stood in the way. That thought pulled her back. Smoothing her hair, in ten minutes she had a critical meeting with Basu, and there was no way she could go in looking like this. Shaking off the nerves, she turned away and headed to the bathroom.