Rogue Commander, Leo Maloney [classic books for 11 year olds TXT] 📗

maintenance. Works for me, though. I just need a machine.”

Karen gestured at an empty cubicle off to her right. “You can use that one there. I’m going to grab a bite outside. Want something?”

“Thanks, but I’ll do that later. Don’t want him to think I’m disobeying his orders.”

“God forbid.” Karen winked, picked up her backpack, and left.

Alex slipped into a chair at a lone computer, took out her Zeta CAC card, and swiped it in the access strip. The monitor brightened up with its weird wavering Z, which resembled the logo from that movie, Zorro.

She opened the Internet, did some Googling on Lieutenant General Sheldon Margolis, then picked up a white telephone headset from the desk and pushed the mike close to her lips. By then she had accessed the Department of Defense telephone listings and dialed a certain number. A woman answered.

“Pentagon, Public Affairs.”

“Morning, ma’am,” Alex said brightly. “My name is Alex Steenbeck. I’m a journalist with The Mandible.”

“The Mandible?” The woman held her snicker. “You mean, as in jawbone?”

“Well, yes. It’s a college newspaper, Ohio State.”

“Oh, I see. And what can we do for you, Alex?”

“So, I’m doing this story about the Eighteen X-Ray program. You know, the one where Army Special Forces takes guys straight out of college?”

“Yes. And?”

“Well, I was hoping to get some quotes from General Margolis. He was head of US Army Special Operations when they started Eighteen X-Ray.”

“That’s true,” the woman said, apparently impressed. “Hold on a sec, please.”

Alex waited, shifting in her chair and trying not to glance up at all the “Big Brother” cameras poking down from every corner of Zeta. The woman came back on the line.

“Alex, I’m afraid General Margolis is out of town.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. I’ve got a deadline, of course, and a grade goes with it.”

“Well, he’s apparently down at CENTCOM for the Special Operations Expo. He should be back in a few days.”

“Okay,” Alex said. “That’s in Tampa, right?”

“Yes it is. Seems you know your subject.”

Alex grinned into the mike. “I read a lot of Clancy.”

The woman laughed. “Good for you. Call us back on Monday, and I’ll see what I can do. I’m Gail.”

“Thanks, Gail.”

“You bet.”

Alex took off the headset, shut off the computer, and strolled back over to the Team Room. She went to her locker, worked the combination, pulled out her black gear duffle, and set it on the linoleum floor. Then she swept through her hanging rack of “costumes,” selected a bunch of stuff that seemed schoolgirl-reporter appropriate, and folded them into the duffle. She shut the locker, hefted the duffle, left the Team Room, and turned right.

She pushed through the exit door, took the elevator up and popped out into the underground garage. But she walked right past her Ninja and trotted up the ramp and out into the bright daylight. She hailed a Boston Cab and piled into the back.

“Logan Airport, please.”

The driver took off. Alex pulled out her wallet and chose her own Visa card, rather than the Amex one linked to the Zeta accounts. She tapped her cell phone and smiled as she found Travelocity.

“Dad’s gonna love this,” she mused.

Chapter Twenty-Five

SOFIC, the Special Operations Forces Industry Conference, is held every year at the Tampa Convention Center. It is an enormous undertaking, composed of hundreds of private companies hawking their military wares in a space that seems about a square mile in size. The convention is an endless labyrinth of booths, from the smallest ones displaying items such as the latest field dressings, tactical flashlights, and combat knives to the stalls the size of small-town playgrounds offering everything from armored assault vehicles to Little Bird helicopters.

Over the course of three days, special operators from fifty nations roam the aisles in search of the latest implements of warfare. Some are in uniform, some not, and for the most part, they’re men. So, a comely young female striding through this “mall of death” always draws winks and smiles.

Alex had no idea exactly how she was going to track down General Margolis, but she was determined to walk the convention until her feet were blistered and the lights were turned off. She’d caught a late flight to Tampa, discovered that every decent hotel room in town was booked, and slept in a fleabag out near Busch Gardens.

In the morning she’d dressed in her college reporter outfit—a tartan skirt, low black heels, a cream-colored chemise, and a black cotton-cashmere cardigan—bought a thick notebook at the nearest stationery store, and cabbed it down to the convention.

Admission was by invitation only, so she’d gone to the Press Office, presented her phony Ohio State ID and lied about The Mandible having applied months ago, as well as that she’d flown down on her own dime. When her eyes welled up and she looked on the verge of hysteria, they’d given her a patronizing smile and a press pass.

As it turned out, she’d arrived at the last day of the conference, which made her grimace. Margolis might have already finished up all his business and left. But fretting over that wouldn’t do any good, so she started an alphabetical grid pattern, beginning with Aimpoint gun sights. By the time she got to Columbia Helicopters her calves were already aching.

The place was packed with handsome, buff men, and if she’d been looking for a boyfriend that would’ve been great, but she only had eyes for a middle-aged, three-star general. It was like looking for one particular goldfish in the Boston Aquarium.

With her feet on fire, and having already been offered six invitations to lunch, she arrived at the Defense Logistics Agency booth. There was no equipment on display, just a bunch of American army officers discussing the trials and tribulations of quartermasters. She tugged on the sleeve of a tall blond captain, who turned, looked down at her, and smiled.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said. It was the first time she’d ever been called that. “You interested in parachute rigging hangars? They’re on sale