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

“Roger that,” Morgan said. “And if you don’t mind, I promised my buddy I’d pick him up a set too. His name’s Martin, just like it sounds.”

“All right, young man. Come back in an hour.”

Morgan strolled around the base exchange for a while and bought himself a five-inch Gerber folding blade and a coil of 550 parachute cord. He’d flown out “naked” from Nashville, leaving his firearms locked in the Shelby’s trunk, so all he had were his cell phone, his ear comm, and his lock-pick set. Coldcastle Mountain was a Department of Defense facility, nestled in the crags of Ogden Canyon and managed by air force personnel. No matter what happened, he wasn’t going to kill anyone there, but a knife and some rope might come in handy.

Sixty minutes later, he picked up his uniform, paid for the service with cash, kept everything in the shopping bag, and headed north on Route 15 in the Wrangler. An hour after that, he was in a gas station restroom in Ogden proper, where he pulled the new “tiger stripe” ACU trousers right over his jeans and switched out his running shoes for the boots.

He kept his black T-shirt on, pulled the sage green one over that, and zipped on the air force tunic. Only then did he pull off the Velcro name tape that said “MORGAN” and switch it to the one that read “MARTIN.” When he adjusted his cap and put on his sunglasses, he looked like a typical “short-timer” master sergeant that nobody’d want to mess with.

From there, he’d turned east on Route 39 and wound his way into the peaks and pines. Using the coordinates that Collins had passed to his cell, he crossed over the Goodale River and started searching for the telltale signs of an access road to Coldcastle Mountain. Sure enough, off to the left, he spotted a break in the brush that revealed a dirt road with a small sign that read “US Government Property—Restricted Access.”

Ain’t restricted to me, Morgan mused, but he drove on for a couple of miles, looking for the one spot to which all the Coldcastle troops would gravitate. It was the same with every secure base; no matter how good the chow might be inside, you’d get sick to death of it soon enough and start foraging for tastier grub. It turned out that The Oaks was the only such place around. So now he sat there in the eatery, taking his time. He was already fairly stuffed, but if he had to order another full meal and just nurse it, he would.

The night fell fast and hard in the mountains, and stars outside the rear picture window were starting to pop. His ear comm was tucked in his auditory canal, but he’d switched it off and had no intention of using it unless things got desperate. He trusted Shepard, but the kid had masters at Zeta, and if they decided on making their renegade bad-boy Cobra disappear, then breaking into an Alpha-3-level federal facility would present an unassailable opportunity.

He wondered what Jenny was doing. One of these days his beautiful wife was going to get wise and dump him for a lawyer—maybe the same one she’d wind up using for their divorce. From that discomfiting thought, his mind wandered to Alex, and a surge of guilt for getting her into this game. And while he was brooding about all that, losing his appetite, his prey walked in.

They were a pair of young airmen, both second class, and, as they strode in through the front door, Morgan could see their frog-nosed LMTV truck parked out front. They doffed their hats and nearly bounced on the balls of their boots as they stared up at the menu poster above the order counter. A blond and a carrot-top, they both had normal haircuts rather than “high and tight,” and neither carried a sidearm. They weren’t Security Forces guys, probably desk-jockeys.

Morgan slowed down with his apple pie and sipped his coffee. He glanced around and saw that most of the other tables were full, so when the two airmen got their food baskets and searched for a spot, he caught their eyes and pointed at his own table. The airmen grinned and sauntered over.

“You can have this one, boys,” Morgan said. “I’m done here.”

“Thanks, Master Sar’nt,” the blond said as they slid into the bench facing him.

Morgan squinted at the kid’s name tape and smirked. “You’re ex-army, Perry. Don’t try to hide it.”

The kid laughed. “How’d you know?”

“Used to be green myself. Army guys say ‘Sarn’t. ’ Air force guys say ‘Sarge-ant, ’ like friggin’ Gomer Pyle.”

“Who’s that?” the redhead asked.

“Just some old dinosaur, like me.” Morgan looked at his watch and finished his coffee while the kids dug into their burgers.

“Where you headed, Chief?” the blond airman asked between bites.

“Hill,” said Morgan. “Spent the day out at the lake. Tomorrow I start my sentence.”

The redhead’s eyebrows went up. “You do something wrong?”

“Nah. Just bein’ funny,” Morgan said. “I’m doing a six-month tour in these lizard pajamas, just to round out my retirement points. You guys headed down there too?”

“Nope.” The blond sipped his Coke and offered nothing more. Morgan nodded.

“I get it. You guys work in the castle.”

They glanced at each other, and the redhead muttered, “Can’t confirm or deny.”

Morgan grinned. “You just did.”

The two airmen laughed. Then he finished his coffee, picked up his basket, and slid out from the bench. “Well, gonna grab a smoke and head down to Happy land. See ya, boys. Watch your sixes.”

“Roger that,” the blond said as Morgan mashed his cap on his head, dumped his trash, and headed out the front door.

Outside in the parking strip, he didn’t bother to make sure the airmen weren’t watching him because he’d set them up with their backs to the entrance. His Wrangler rental was parked at the end of the row of vehicles, locked up tight, so he