Zero Option

12

Brig. Gen. Lee Carrothers hung up the secure phone gingerly, as if afraid it would explode in his hand. He had just spoken with Colonel Fuller at Fort Dietriek, and now his headache was back with a vengeance.

Surprisingly, Colonel Fuller had not had much to say about the specific substances in the missing weapon, but he” had been very clear about one thing: “If you guys’ve lost a can of Wet Eye, that’s worth a Soviet-style ‘lock up all the participants in a mental asylum for life, stonewall until the end of time’ cover-up, General. Tell Myer Waddell I said that.”

“That’s really peachy, Colonel. Please remember that all the general wanted you to do was think about it, okay?”

“Trust me, General Carrothers: I’ll be thinking of nothing else. Please call me later and tell me this is an exercise. Soon, okay?”

Carrothers rubbed his eyes and buzzed for more coffee. Colonels didn’t normally talk like that to generals, but, what the hell, this guy was an Army vet. And he’d used General Waddell’s first name. Carrothers had placed a call to General Waddell in Germany after talking to Fuller, and he was waiting for a call back. In the meantime, he called the commanding officer of the Tooele Army Depot in Utah to see how the sight inventory was coming. The CO told him they were conducting a destruction inventory match audit.

Carrothers exploded. That’s what Anniston had done. What the situation needed now was a sight inventory, not another damned paper drill. “We know the paperwork is screwed up. What we need to know now is what you did actually receive in that shipment.

Anniston doesn’t have the shit anymore; you do. So go do the fucking sight inventory right fucking now. And I don’t care if your people have to suit up in the rucking noonday sun. Do it, and do it now!” The CO, properly chastened, would order a sight inventory immediately.

Carrothers slammed down the phone. His clerk buzzed him on the intercom.

General Waddell was on the secure line. This day gets better and better, he thought miserably as he reached for the phone.

Carson watched through the Venetian blinds as the forklifts brought some more flea-market stuff into the warehouse. He had gotten home at nearly four in the morning, but his wife, her face draped in a sleep mask over some kind of cold cream, had not even budged. What sleep he, did get was fitful, and he was pretty sure he’d been visited by the dream again. He shivered.

He was surprised that he felt absolutely nothing about what he had done the night before. Not guilt, not concern for the old man next door, not fear of being caught, nothing at all. It was as if he had stepped over some psychological threshold back there when Lambry went into the demil machine. His fear in the airport, his apprehension about actually making this sale and getting his money— both were all gone. He didn’t feel invincible exactly — that damn dream was kind of scary — but he felt stronger than he had felt before last night. Doing Lambry’s house had been smart: The blast had reduced any traces of Lambry’s previous life to flinders. He saw his reflection in the glass: Wendell Carson, master criminal. Well, if that’s what it took to grab a million bucks, that’s what it took.

Stafford could still be a problem, of course, but with Lambry truly out of the picture now, Stafford would be on a very cold trail. All Wendell Carson had to do now was tie off the loose ends of Lambry’s quitting: a final paycheck, closing the personnel folder, and rearranging the work assignments. There would be local cops sniffing around, no doubt, after that explosion, but, surprisingly, Carson found he just wasn’t worried about any of that. He needed to focus now on the physical turnover of the cylinder for the money, and on how to make sure he got the money with his skin intact.

He thought about the cylinder, sitting right here in his office. Maybe he needed a better place for it. He lived southwest of Atlanta, on five acres in a semirural area. Take it out there? If someone suspected him and came looking, either the Army or, for that matter, Tangent, they would certainly search his office and his home. So it really should be better hidden, maybe somewhere out there in the DRMO warehouse complex.

He almost wished he had one of those environmental containers — what did the army guys call them? Coffins? But they had all gone through demil.

He Checked his door and then pushed the books apart to make sure the cylinder was still there. It looked even more lethal now without its protective plastic container. He sat back down and thought about where else to hide it. What was the old rule? When you really want to hide something, the best place is “often right out in the open. ‘One of the warehouses, he decided. He sat back down at his desk and doodled idly on his desk blotter. He saw the name Graniteville circled on the blotter.

Another loose end there? Despite all his newfound confidence, the memory of that little episode in the airport was still able to tickle his hackles. Why had that girl looked at him that way? And why in the hell had he fainted?

He looked at his watch. A good time to take a walk through the warehouses, see what struck his fancy as a better hiding place. He took a deep breath. He was safer than he had been twenty-four hours ago. What had happened to Bud had really been an accident; hadn’t he tried every way to stop the belt? But what was done was done.

A million dollars. No more shitty little civil service job. No more sullen employees. No more skulking around for chump change with the auction scam. No more coming home to a crazy old woman whose nighttime mud packs would stroke out a vampire; A new life. Very soon. With that kind of money, well dell Carson could go anywhere, do anything. After everything that had happened, he had no other options: He had to complete the deal.

Stafford was about to go to lunch when Ray Sparks called him. “Got a message from the Washington office,” Sparks reported. “Apparently some woman from Georgia called your number up there; said she needed to talk to you. Got a writing stick?”

Stafford wrote down the message and hung up. He studied the message on the pad: “Gwinette Warren. Calling from Graniteville, Georgia. Wanted, to talk to Mr. Stafford. Please call this number.”

Graniteville, he thought. Then he remembered. The woman in the airport.

Carson and the girl. He reached for the phone but then thought better of it. This one might be better done from a phone outside of the DRMO phone system. It wasn’t that he suspected anyone of eavesdropping, but this call probably involved Mr. Wendell Carson of the shaky hands. Better to do this at his hotel.

Stafford made it to his room at five after one. He planned to talk to this lady, see what she wanted, and then go out to see Ray Sparks and the DCIS crew in Smyrna. He needed to make his courtesy call, and also to get his hands on a car phone. He called the woman’s number, but she was not there. He left a message that he could be reached at his hotel number. She called back fifteen minutes later.

“This is Owen Warren,” she said. “Thank you for returning my call.”

“No problem, Ms. Warren. I’m just glad you kept the card. Is this about the incident at the airport the other day? And I can put this call on my nickel if you’d like.”

There was a moment of hesitation. “Can you possibly come see me, Mr. Stafford? Up here in Graniteville? This isn’t something I want to discuss over the phone.”

“I suppose I can, Ms. Warren. Can you give me a hint?”

Another hesitation. “It involves the girl who was with me in the airport. You said you were a federal investigator, is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am, with the Defense Criminal Investigative Service.”

“What is that, exactly?”

“A Department of Defense agency. That’s the Pentagon, in media parlance.

We investigate cases of possible fraud against the government.”

“And why are you there in Atlanta?”

Whoa, wait a minute, he thought. That’s my business. “Ms. Warren, maybe you’re right. I think I should drive up to Graniteville, as you suggested. How about tomorrow? How much of a drive is it from Atlanta?”

“It’s two and a half to three hours, depending on how fast you drive and road conditions in the mountains.”

“Okay, that’s doable. I’ll probably wait until after morning rush hour.

How’s about noontime? Is there a motel there?”

“Yes, there is one motel. It’s called the Mountain View. I’ll make you a reservation. They can give you directions to the Willow Grove Home. I’ll expect you around noon?” “Okay, I’ll be there,” he said, writing the information down in his notebook. “And Ms. Warren, you sound somewhat anxious. Please don’t be.

If this involves a minor, let me assure you we can be very discreet and very careful.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Stafford. You’ll need to be both. Until tomorrow then. Goodbye.” He hung up the phone and sat back in his chair.

Dave Stafford, master of discretion and care — now; there was a joke.

Except this didn’t sound like a joke. He thought back to what had happened at the airport. He had thought all along that there had been some interaction between that girl and Carson, and now this Gwen Warren had just confirmed that hunch. But what could it be? Obviously nothing to do with the DRMO. Some man-woman issue between this Warren woman and Carson? Looking at them, he would not have made that connection. She was a woman who appeared to be way beyond the likes of Wendell Carson — and David Stafford, more than likely. He shook his head and looked at his watch. It was time to take his chances with the Atlanta metre traffic and head out to beautiful downtown Smyrna, Georgia!