“They do. And he’s been here for over three years.”
“Steadily building his empire,” Ernie said.
“Right. And according to Major Schultz’s inspection report, most of these policies were implemented as soon as Captain Blood arrived. The J-2 who ran things before Colonel Jameson thought Blood walked on water.”
“Max OERs?” Top ratings on his Officer Efficiency Reports.
“Every one,” I said, “until maybe the next one.”
“After Colonel Jameson reads that report.”
“Which he has. The one Strange gave us is just a copy. The official report was already submitted, just before Schultz’s death.”
“So the kingdom Blood painstakingly set up over the last three years was about to be dismantled, piece by piece, because of Schultz’s inspection.” Ernie thought about it. “Happens every day. Not exactly a motive for murder.”
“Not usually. But there’s something else.”
“What?”
“The number of North Korean spies arrested.”
“How many?”
“In the last three years, not one.”
Ernie guffawed. “That’s a lot of money spent for zero results.”
“Not zero. Over two dozen GIs were brought up on charges. Mainly for aiding and abetting enemy espionage.”
“If they didn’t collar the North Korean handler, how’d they prove that the GI was a spy?”
“They did collar the handler. In almost every case, it was the GI’s yobo.”
“Their yobo? Their yobo is the North Korean spy?” Ernie was incredulous. “You can coerce a yobo into admitting anything! They’re poor country girls. Everybody pushes them around.”
“I couldn’t agree more. They’re easily manipulated.”
“So that’s no kind of credible evidence. How come we never heard about this?”
“The proceedings are conducted in camera.”
“What’s that mean?”
“In secret. Classified. And CID didn’t have a need-to-know.”
Ernie shook his head. “The court-martial boards went along with this?”
“Not always. Sometimes they let the guy settle short of criminal prosecution. Take a bad discharge, leave the service. Most of them jumped at the chance. A few of them fought it and ended up serving time.”
Ernie took a deep breath, his hands clutched on the steering wheel. We stopped at the main gate of Camp Coiner and I handed the MP our dispatch. He glanced at it.
“Destination?” he asked.
“None of your freaking business,” Ernie growled.
The MP stared at him, bug-eyed. His right hand slid toward his holstered .45. “Destination,” he repeated.
I grabbed the dispatch back. “Five Oh Worst MI,” I said.
Suspiciously, the MP stepped back and waved us through. Ernie wound through the tree-lined lanes. “What it looks like,” he said, “is these counter-intel losers were setting up bogus arrests just to make their stats look good, so they could keep on drawing their per diem and living in the lap of luxury.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“But that’s where Major Schultz was headed,” Ernie said.
“No question about it,” I replied, “if the J-2 has the balls to follow up the report.”
Ernie gunned the engine and rolled up a ten-foot incline into the small parking lot in front of a long wooden building with a white placard out front that said headquarters company, 501st military intelligence battalion. We climbed out of the jeep and walked toward the double front door. The firelight beneath the awning shone yellow. A man in fatigues and highly spit-shined jump boots opened the door before we could get there. Massive arms were folded across a broad chest.
“Get the fuck off my company street,” he said.
The embroidered nametag on his fatigue blouse said Blood, rank insignia Captain. From around the edge of the building, four more GIs appeared. Two of them held M-16 rifles.
Slowly, I pulled out my badge and held it up to what little sunlight filtered through the overcast sky. “Eighth Army CID,” I said. “Agents Sueno and Bascom, here on official business.”
“I don’t give a fuck who you are. Get off my company street.”
“You don’t seem to understand,” Ernie said. “We’re here conducting an official investigation.”
Captain Blood motioned with his forefinger. All four GIs rushed us. One of them I recognized. Specialist Four Fenton, the guy who’d been harassing Miss Kim, the one who Ernie’d called a twerp. He didn’t seem like a twerp now. Reinforced with backup, he took the lead and reached out to shove Ernie, but Ernie sidestepped him and cracked a left hook into the side of his head. His black helmet liner flew off his skull, but then the other three were on top of us; screaming and shouting, trying to overpower us with their sheer weight. It was foolish for two of them to be carrying rifles if they didn’t intend to use them. They tried to shove me with the weapons, but I lowered myself and rammed one fist, then another into their unprotected midsections. After a few seconds of cursing and grunting, first Fenton, then two more of them went down. The last one stepped back, unsure of himself, and aimed the M-16 rifle at us. This focused our attention. Ernie and I stepped back and raised our hands. Captain Blood continued to stand on the porch, feet shoulder-width apart, arms crossed. During the entire fracas, he hadn’t moved.
“You’d better have him put that rifle down, Captain,” I said.
In the dim light, I thought I saw a smile crease his broad cheeks. After a pause, he said, “Stow it, Benson.”
Private Benson lowered his rifle.
Two of the men on the ground shoved themselves back to their feet. The twerp, Specialist Fenton, appeared to be out cold.
“Get Fenton out of here,” Captain Blood said. The three of them picked him up and carried him over to the back of a three-quarter-ton truck. They tossed him unceremoniously in the back. Once they drove off, Captain Blood said, “If you wanna talk that bad, then we’ll talk.”
He turned and strode back through the building entrance.
Ernie and I glanced at one another. Captain Blood had known he’d eventually have to talk to us; he’d just wanted to put us through some sort of macho “test” to see if we’d stand our ground and fight, or run back to the head shed for reinforcements.
I wasn’t sure if we’d passed or not. But frankly, I didn’t give a damn what he thought. We trudged up the steps and pushed through the big double doors.
– 17-
The hallway was floored with cheap brown tile, Army-issue. After passing three or four closed doors, we went through an archway into what appeared to be your typical Orderly Room. Grey desks in the center, even greyer filing cabinets lining the walls, telephones and in-trays scattered around the room. A bulletin board with a white organizational chart and yellow carbon-paper duty roster, bristled with stainless steel thumbtacks. Off to the left, a sealed door with a double-paned glass window in the center was marked secure communications. It was dark, but the room behind it appeared small, like a phone booth.
“A direct line to DC,” I whispered to Ernie. Secure satellite communications with the Pentagon.
Another door was open in the right corner, and Captain Blood flicked on its overhead fluorescent light and strode into the small office. As we caught up with him, he was pulling shut a long curtain over a huge map on the wall. He turned and glared at us.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” he asked.
I told him.
“CID,” he said, shaking his head. “Criminal freaking investigation. Whoop-dee-doo.”
He was the type of guy who liked to use plenty of obscenities so that no one missed the fact that he was tough. He backed that up with muscles so pumped up from lifting weights that his fatigue blouse could barely contain his shoulders. On his desk, where a photo of the wife and kids would normally be, stood a photo of Captain Blood almost nude, greased down and wearing the silk briefs of a body-builder, facing the camera, every tendon tensed, flexing and smiling with all the wattage he could muster.