Four Blind Mice

Chapter Eighteen

The Three Blind Mice were in Fayetteville again, headed toward Fort Bragg for the first time in several months. Brownley Harris, Warren Griffin and Thomas Starkey were admitted through the security gates on All American Freeway. No problem. They had official business on post; they had an appointment.

The three men were unusually quiet as Starkey drove the dark blue Suburban across the base. They hadn't been at Bragg since the murders of the three women. Not that the place had changed one iota; change happened very slowly in the military.

“This is a trip I personally could do without,” Brownley Harris contributed from the backseat of the Suburban.

“It's not a problem,” said Starkey, taking control as he always did. “We have a legitimate reason to be here. Be a mistake if we stopped showing our faces at Bragg. Don't disappoint me.”

“I hear you,” said Harris. “I still don't like being back at the scene of the crime.” He decided that things needed some lightening up. “You all hear the differential theory of the US Armed Forces the so-called snake model?” he asked.

“Haven't heard that one, Brownie,”said Griffin, who also rolled his eyes. He knew a joke was coming, probably a bad one.

“Army Infantry comes in after the snake. Snake smells them, leaves the area unharmed. Aviation comes next, has Global Positioning Satellite coordinates to the snake. Still can't find the snake. Returns to base for re-fuel, crew rests and manicures. Field Artillery comes. Kills the snake with massive Line On Target barrage with three Formal Artillery Brigades in support. Kills several hundred civilians as unavoidable collateral damage. All participants, including cooks, mechanics, clerks, are awarded Silver Stars.”

“What about us Rangers?” asked Griffin, playing the straight man.

Harris grinned. “Single Ranger comes in, plays with the snake, then eats it.”

Starkey snorted out a laugh, then he turned off Armistead Street into the lot for the Corps Headquarters. “Remember, this is just business. Conduct yourselves as such, gentlemen.”

Griffin and Harris barked, “Yes, sir.”

The three of them gathered their briefcases, put on lightweight suit jackets, and tightened their neckties. They were the senior sales team for Hechler and Koch, and they were at Bragg to promote the sale of guns to the Army. In particular, they were trying to build common interest in the gun manufacturer's Personal Defense Weapon (PDW),

which weighed just over two pounds, fully loaded, and could 'defeat all known standard issue military body armor.

“Hell of a weapon,” Thomas Starkey liked to say during his sales pitch. “If we'd had it in ”Nam, we would have won the war."