Omega Sanction

Chapter Eleven

Sergeant Major Dublowski shuffled through the downloaded pictures, lingering over each one, until his daughter's picture was back on top. He leaned back against the torn upholstery in the cab of his battered pickup truck.

"We know it's not random, now," Thorpe said. "At least with the other five. There's a pattern."

Dublowski nodded ever so slightly. They were parked outside of the Delta Force compound — the Ranch — several miles from the main post of Fort Bragg. Thorpe had called Dublowski as soon as he had arrived at work and arranged to meet him here. The sergeant major had driven out the main gate of the compound and parked behind Thorpe's rent-a-car.

"This isn't good," Dublowski finally said.

"I know," Thorpe concurred.

"This means there is a serial killer and she's dead," Dublowski continued.

"That's not necessarily true," Thorpe said. "She looks different than the other five, Dan. Maybe something else happened to her. These other five might be connected and something entirely differently happened to her. Hell, we don't even know what happened to the other five."

"Don't bullshit me," Dublowski said. He tapped the pictures against the steering wheel. "Any idea who's doing it?"

"I'm working on it," Thorpe said.

"I want the son-of-a-bitch. You get me a name. I don't care where he is or who he is. I'm going to make sure he never gets another girl and he pays for what he's done."

Thorpe had expected that. "I've got someone doing some checking, seeing if they can find us some names. I'm going to Europe tomorrow. I'll be able to do some firsthand looking. I need some help, though."

Dublowski looked at Thorpe for the first time since getting the pictures. "What do you need?"

"I'm going to need some contacts in Europe. Someone on the German side of the house. Someone on the American. And maybe someone who knows both sides."

Dublowski nodded. "I'll call them for you. There's a guy in GSG-9, a Major Rotzinger. I'll have one my buddies in Europe Special Ops Command, Master Sergeant Joe King, arrange a meeting. You need anything, King's the man."

"What about someone outside the military?"

Dublowski thought for a few seconds. "Yeah, there's this guy. Retired E-8, lives over there, outside Stuttgart. His wife is German. He wasn't Special Forces qualified — a supply man assigned to Det-A for a while — but he's good people. He might be willing to help."

"Good. Do you know anybody high-ranking who can cut orders in Europe Special Ops Command?"

"Two-star general good enough?"

"Should be. I need someone to get me away from my boss."

"General Schaeffer, the Special Ops theater commander owes me a favor. He can do that."

"I'm going to call Colonel Giles also," Thorpe said, referring to his civilian boss. "He's got plenty of contacts."

Dublowski nodded. "He'll help."

"I also need some gear." Thorpe pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to the sergeant major. Dublowski looked at it and nodded. "Come with me."

He put the truck in gear and turned it toward the gate for the Delta compound.

Takamura wove his way through the electronic hallways of the military's Internet, pausing before the database holding personnel records. Takamura's head was on a swivel — checking the door to his office, then back to his screen, back to the door, back to the screen. He was torn between excitement and fear. So far, his probe program had again accessed the DOD database without tripping any alarms.

He was checking the CONUS — Continental United States— database now, searching for reports of missing girls in the age range specified. The only problem with this check was that unless the family happened to be living on post, police authority would rest with the local authorities.

Despite that limitation, he came up with a rather long list. Now he worked on the hard part — pulling up the photos of the dependents.

After an hour, he had four girls who fit the profile.

He started as the door began opening, hitting the bar on the bottom of his screen, switching from the program to his word processing.

"You look guilty as hell," Thorpe said as he shut the door. He had a black satchel in his hand and he carefully put it down on his desk.

"You about gave me a heart attack," Takamura said.

"What have you found?" Thorpe came around behind Takamura's seat.

"Four girls in the States. Check 'em out." He switched back and the faces of the four appeared. "All missing in the last two years stateside."

"They look the same," Thorpe acknowledged. "When and where?"

Takamura had the data ready. "Two within six months of each other. Two years ago. Fort Rucker. Both from families on post. One from Fort Benning just after that. One from right here at Fort Bragg half a year ago."

Thorpe considered that. "Rucker, then Benning, then Bragg." He knew Fort Rucker in Alabama was the home of army aviation, where all the helicopter pilots were trained. Fort Benning was the home of the infantry and airborne schools. And then Bragg.

"A pilot, who goes to airborne school, then is assigned here, maybe for a short specialty course," Thorpe said. "Then is assigned to Germany a little over three months ago."

"Yeah," Takamura said. "That looks like it. But you have to remember these four hits stateside are only the ones from on post. Most families live off post, so there could be a lot more."

"Can you make a program that will check active duty soldiers for the assignment pattern of the girls we have? Rucker when those two girls disappeared there, then Benning, then Bragg, then Germany in the Stuttgart area?"

"That will take a while," Takamura said,

"Then take a while." Thorpe stood. "I've got to check on some stuff."

Thorpe left the SOCOM headquarters and drove across Bragg to the post library. He used the computer to find what he was looking for. There were several books on profiling serial killers and Thorpe grabbed them all. Then he sat at an unused desk and used the military phone to dial Parker's office as he thumbed through one of the books.

When she answered the phone he got straight to the point. "Do you think you can have your FBI contact do up a profile for this killer?"

"Whoa!" Parker said. "You're not even sure you have a killer."

"I'm surer now than I was yesterday," Thorpe said. He told her of the similar appearance of the five girls who had disappeared around Stuttgart.

"Okay, you're right," Parker agreed. "Sounds like you might have a serial killer. But it also sounds like your friend's daughter doesn't fit the pattern."

"Not in looks," Thorpe agreed, "but she's the same age as the others. She got taken at night. Maybe the killer couldn't see that well in the dark. Hell, I don't know a damn thing about this. Can your friend do a profile for me? Maybe he can explain why one girl looks different. I've got Takamura running through records, getting me a list of personnel who had the same assignments as the girls we've uncovered missing."

"He's not my friend," Parker said in a sharp voice. "And they're backed up pretty bad at Behavioral Sciences."

"Tell it to the families of these missing girls," Thorpe said.

"Hey, don't get on my case." Parker said. "Why don't you let the people who are supposed to, handle this?"

"Because you know what happened when we went to CID. I think the killer is overseas now — so whose jurisdiction does that make it? It seems like these girls have fallen between the cracks."

"I understand, Mike, but—"

"If not you, who?" Thorpe threw at her. "You were the one after Omega Missile who was going to change the world. Or at least the military. How much has changed?"

"That's not fair," Parker said.

"Life's not fair," Thorpe said.

"Jesus," Parker said. "You've gotten worse."

"Are you going to check with the FBI?" Thorpe asked.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you."

"Mike."

Thorpe paused. "Yes?"

"I heard what happened to Lisa and Tommy. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about what I said about you being worse."

"Yeah." Thorpe felt the hard plastic of the phone in his hand. His head was pounding and all he could think of was going to the Officers' Club and getting a beer.

"Mike?" Parker's voice was lower, concerned. "You there?"

"Yeah, still here. Listen, I've got to go. If you get anything, send it to me."

Thorpe put the phone down. He stared across the tables of the reading area. A young boy was whispering in his mother's ear. She laughed, picking up the pile of books they'd collected and heading for the checkout counter.

He blinked, took a deep breath, then focused on the open book on the desk in front of him. He tried reading, but he couldn't. After a few moments, he gave up. He checked the books out and drove back to the BOQ, taking a route that avoided passing the O-Club.

Welwood shifted gears, feeling the vibration from the Corvette's engine through the leather seat. He punched the accelerator and roared out of the CIA parking lot, passing the site where two workers had been shot and killed by a Pakistani terrorist in 1993.

The killer had been caught, tried and convicted. Then, in 1997, four Americans in Pakistan had been gunned down on the street, in retaliation for the conviction. Welwood knew that in turn, Direct Action had sent a covert team into Pakistan and assassinated several of the killers. Tit for tat was much more a way of life in the covert world than the average citizen knew.

He took the turn onto the George Washington Memorial Highway. He headed southeast along the tree-lined road, the Potomac occasionally visible to the left. He turned right onto Kirby Road, heading toward his townhouse in Falls Church. His mind was on the information he had pulled together, trying to connect the dots.

He pulled up to a major intersection, waiting, the car in neutral, while his right foot gunned the gas every few seconds so that the entire car vibrated. The light turned green and he continued on his way.

He reached a stop sign ata busy intersection, awaiting his chance to cut into the fast-moving traffic. He spotted a gap, one only large enough for his powerful engine to propel him into, and he gunned the gas and let his foot off the clutch. The Corvette leapt forward. Welwood was shifting into second when the engine simply died.

The Corvette stuttered to a halt. Welwood's eyes flashed up to his rearview mirror. The grill of a large truck filled the glass. He watched with disbelieving eyes as the truck inexorably bore down on him, the shiny grill getting closer and closer. His foot hit the gas pedal impotently while the fingers of his right hand scrabbled at the keys, turning them, grinding the starter, but the engine wouldn't catch. Welwood heard the squeal of brakes, tires gripping asphalt, and then the truck hit.

Fiberglass cracked and shattered as the truck plowed over the Corvette. Welwood was thrust forward onto the steering wheel, the entire seat, with belt strapped around him, being ripped from the floor. His chest was crushed, splintered ribs tearing into lungs. The pain was so great from those injuries, he didn't even feel both legs snap as they were jammed up under the console.

Then there was silence. Welwood blinked blood out of his eyes. He couldn't move. He tried to breath, and that only served to cause pain to jab through his chest.

"You all right?" a blurry face appeared in the smashed window next to him. The voice had an accent that Welwood momentarily tried to place, but pain was the entire center of his being.

Welwood could only moan. He faintly felt a pair of hands running across his chest.

"You're all broken up, my friend." The voice was very close to his ear. The hands were pressing against him.

Welwood tried to scream, but the sound was lost in the blood that was now beginning to fill his airway. The hand pressed harder, sliding a piece of broken rib against his heart.

"It's better this way," the voice whispered.

Irish? Welwood had time to wonder, when the bone lanced through the soft flesh of his heart, slicing it wide open.