say, the border here is worse than it has ever been. Mexico can’t keep a handle on any of their cartels and small paramilitary groups are all vying for power. The government is powerless, and they’re basically fighting a civil war with about a dozen different factions wanting a place at the table. We can find out who is responsible on the other side of the border, but the selling of U.S. arms on this side is more concerning.”
“We’re going to poke around in Sierra Vista next,” Bolan said. “A lot goes on at Fort We Gotcha that happens behind the scenes.”
Tony and Rivers both nodded, apparently amused that Bolan knew the more colloquial name for Fort Huachuca.
“In the meantime,” Tony said, “I’ll make a little noise and see who I can roust from their dens south of the border. You boys be careful, though. Something about this feels downright dangerous.”
“I’m always careful,” Bolan said. “It’s a habit.”
“Not too careful to eat, I hope,” Eleanor said, setting a plate piled high with tortillas on the table. “That’s enough business talk. Eat first, solve problems after.” The smells from the kitchen were mouthwatering and all three men dug into the meal with gusto. Sometimes, a good meal before battle was all a man could hope for.
Fort Huachuca was situated just outside the small town of Sierra Vista and was home to the U.S. Army Intelligence Center as well as the 9th Army Signal Command, among other electronic communications and intelligence-driven units.
The gate guard took one look at Bolan’s identification, offered a quick, casual salute and sent him on his way. He’d offered the credentials that would get him access to damn near every military installation he could want: Colonel Brandon Stone.
In the distance, past the manicured lawns of the buildings closest to the heart of the fort, Bolan could see the yellow hangars of Libby Airfield, which was used by both military and civilian aircraft.
The building Bolan was looking for wasn’t hard to find—a quick internet search on his handheld revealed that a civilian company, Kruegor Enterprises, was in charge of the weapon warehousing and storage facilities on the base. Although Kruegor couldn’t actually hand the weapons out, they provided the building maintenance, basic security and administrative personnel, while the armory itself was manned by Army regulars.
Bolan found the main administrative office quite easily. He parked his vehicle, then decided to try something. Instead of entering through the main office doors, he strolled around to the side of the building, where a set of bay doors, large enough for trucks to pass through, were wide open. He entered, whistling to himself. At the moment, no vehicles parked were inside, and other than a bored-looking sergeant at a checkout desk, no one was around. A quick visual inspection showed no weapons in the main area, but a sign on the door behind the sergeant indicated that only authorized military personnel were allowed beyond that point.
Bolan gave a friendly wave to the man and flashed his credentials. When the sergeant waved him through, he continued into the main office. There, another man was bent over a file cabinet, oblivious to Bolan’s presence and muttering to himself about the nuisance of inspections. The man’s white shirt wasn’t quite tucked in on the sides, where it was a little small, and small trickles of sweat had formed on his bald head. He gave the impression of a man who knew a lot more about paperwork than building security.
Bolan pulled the door shut behind him, rocking the picture on the wall, as the man wrenched up from his hunched position. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me!” he exclaimed.
Bolan didn’t say anything but eyed the thin wad of papers the man was tucking behind his back.
“Can I help you? I mean...what are you doing here? This is a restricted area.”
“Yeah, I got that from the mountains of security,” Bolan quipped.
“Everything that needs to be secured is, but that’s none of your business anyway. What do you want?”
“That remains to be seen. Either way, I’m looking for Brett Kingston.”
“He’s out of the office right now.”
“I’ll wait,” he said. “I’m patient.”
“I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
The main office door opened and a tall man strode inside. Bolan instantly recognized him as Kingston from the personnel file he’d studied earlier. Although he appeared closer to fifty than twenty, he was in excellent shape beneath his black polo and khaki slacks. An Airborne tattoo, along with the insignia from the 7th Special Forces group stood out on his bulging bicep. Bolan took a casual step back, folding his arms. It wouldn’t do to underestimate a man who’d spent time training in guerilla warfare.
The man didn’t seem to notice him right away, snapping, “Hansen, where the hell is that file I need?”
Hansen pulled the papers out from behind his back, clutching them to his chest for a moment before shoving them toward Kingston like they were about to burst into flames. Kingston took them, nodding, then turned his attention to Bolan. A small tic in his face registered how happy he was to see a stranger in his facilities.
“Who’re you, then?”
“Colonel Brandon Stone,” Bolan said, not bothering to offer his hand. “I’m helping out Homeland Security with an issue.” When Kingston didn’t say anything, he offered up his credentials.
Kingston shrugged. “What’s DHS want now? You need more airport screeners?” He laughed.
Bolan considered his response for a moment, then said, “Some things are better done off the books. Surely a man who served in the Seventh knows that.”
Kingston nodded, his face turning serious. “Yeah, all right. What can I do for you, Brandon?”
“That’s Colonel, if you don’t mind.”
Kingston’s jaw clenched again and his lips pursed, keeping something unsaid. “All right, Colonel. What can I do for you?”
“DHS got a confirmed report from Border Patrol of U.S. Army weapons being moved in the desert, northwest of Douglas. Since this is the only Army base in the area, they figured it might be a good place to start asking some questions.” Bolan eyed Kingston for a minute. “Hard questions.”
For a moment, Kingston looked like he’d swallowed a bug—a big, crunchy one—then he shook his head. “Damn it. I don’t believe it. Are you kidding me or something?”
“Wish I were, Mr. Kingston,” Bolan said. “But I’m not.”
Kingston slumped into the chair facing the desk. “Shit,” he said, shaking his head. Then he looked at Bolan. “I’m sorry for how I greeted you, Colonel. Truth is, we were told this morning of a surprise audit and facilities inspection for tomorrow morning, so I’m running around like an idiot and short-tempered on top of it. I didn’t like surprises when I served in the Seventh, and I like them even less now.”
Sensing the man’s attitude changing, Bolan nodded. “Consider it forgotten,” he
