Chapter 6 - Blood on the Flightline
The blue and red strobes of three base MP cruisers slashed through the driving rain, illuminating the razor wire along the perimeter road in rhythmic pulses of emergency light.
Colonel Arthur Harris stood in the center of the road, an olive-drab trench coat draped over his broad shoulders, his commander’s garrison cap pulled low against the downpour. Behind him stood six armed MPs, their M4 carbines held at port arms, their expressions uneasy.
In front of them, Vance’s black government SUV stood bumper-to-bumper with the lead patrol car, its headlights blazing on high beam.
Sofia marched through the rain, her boots splashing through deep puddles of muddy water, her NCIS windbreaker soaked black.
“Colonel Harris!” Sofia shouted over the roar of the wind. “You are obstructing a federal investigation! Order your men to clear the roadway immediately!”
Harris didn’t flinch. He was fifty-four years old, with weathered, leathery skin, a clipped gray mustache, and the rigid posture of a career officer who believed the United States military was the only legitimate government on earth.
“Agent Ramirez,” Harris said calmly, his voice projecting easily through the storm. “You’ve overstepped your bounds. NCIS has concurrent jurisdiction on this installation, but operational security of active armaments remains the sole responsibility of the base commanding officer. I have received intelligence regarding an unauthorized civilian intrusion into our logistics system. For your own safety, I am placing Camp Redstone under total lockdown.”
“Lockdown?” Vance stepped up beside Sofia, holding a sealed waterproof folder in his gloved hand. “You’re not locking down the base, Colonel. You’re clearing the runway for an unregistered Antonov cargo plane currently descending through civilian airspace over the Gulf.”
Harris’s jaw tightened. For a fraction of a second, the mask of military decorum slipped, revealing the cold, calculating mind beneath.
“You’re out of your lane, Agent Vance,” Harris said quietly.
“I have a federal search warrant,” Sofia said, stepping directly into Harris’s personal space, uncaring of the armed MPs standing ten paces behind him. She held up the document. “Signed thirty minutes ago by Federal Magistrate Thomas Vance in the Northern District of Alabama. It authorizes the immediate search, seizure, and tactical quarantine of Warehouse 7, the flightline, and all personnel associated with logistics operations on this post.”
Harris glanced at the paper, then back to Sofia’s eyes.
He didn’t take the warrant.
“Magistrates don’t command troops, Agent Ramirez,” Harris said. “My Marines take orders from me.”
“Your Marines took an oath to defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic,” Sofia replied, her voice cutting like a scalpel. “They didn’t swear an oath to help you ship surface-to-air tracking suites to cartel syndicates in exchange for bearer bonds deposited in a Grand Cayman trust.”
A sharp, collective intake of breath came from the line of young MPs behind Harris.
The young men were looking at each other now. The word *cartel* had landed among them like a live grenade. They were nineteen, twenty years old, trained to fight enemies abroad, not to serve as an armed guard for a corrupt base commander selling weapons out of the back door.
“Lower your weapons, Marines,” Sofia commanded, projecting her voice directly past Harris to the young soldiers. “Your commanding officer is currently the subject of an active federal indictment for high treason, arms trafficking, and the capital murder of Lance Corporal Miller and Corporal Diaz.”
The MP on the left, a corporal with a combat ribbon on his chest, immediately dropped his rifle to low-ready and took half a step backward.
“Stand your ground!” Harris roared, turning his head, his face contorted in sudden fury. “That is an unlawful order! I am your commanding officer!”
“Not anymore, Harris,” a new voice boomed from the darkness behind Sofia.
Major General Edward Vance—Marcus Vance’s uncle and the deputy commander of Marine Forces Command—stepped out from the passenger side of a second black SUV that had just pulled onto the shoulder. Behind him, two dozen heavily armed federal marshals and NCIS tactical operators deployed across the asphalt in a clean tactical sweep.
“Colonel Harris,” the General said, his voice dripping with absolute disgust. “Relinquish your sidearm. You are relieved of command.”
Harris stood frozen in the middle of the rain-slicked road. The wind whipped his trench coat around his legs.
He looked at his MPs. None of them were looking at him. Every single rifle had been lowered.
Slowly, his fingers reached for the retention strap of his service holster. For a terrible, breathless second, Sofia’s hand hovered over her Glock, expecting him to draw.
Instead, Harris unbuckled his duty belt and let it fall into the mud.
May you like
“You think you’ve won something, Ramirez?” Harris whispered as the federal marshals moved forward with zip-ties. “You have no idea how high this ladder goes. Mercer was right about one thing. You’re already dead. They just haven’t delivered the casket yet.”
***
