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

strode down the flank of the air force LMTV, turned right behind its rump, and stood there for fifteen seconds—waiting for a passing car to cruise by. Then he popped one corner of the canvas cover, hauled himself up, slithered into the cargo bed, and reset the canvas from inside. It was dark as a coffin, but he wasn’t going to risk using the light from his cell. Instead, he felt his way around a pile of file boxes and curled up in a spot just behind the cab.

Half an hour later the air force kids came out, jumped in the cab, and the LMTV started to roll. Now Morgan prayed that the Coldcastle sentries at the Entry Control Point didn’t search every vehicle coming inside or, worse, use dogs. Neika would have picked up his scent in a heartbeat, especially since he stank like burgers and fries.

His prayers were answered. The truck cruised down the two-lane highway, then turned off along a winding gravel road for about twenty minutes. When it stopped at the ECP, he heard Airman Perry joking with the sentries as he handed them a bag of fries. Then came the sound of powerful pneumatics moving heavy doors on rollers, and the truck’s wheels were rolling forward on a surface smooth as glass.

The way the engine sound echoed tightly, he could tell they were in some sort of long tunnel, and then the sound expanded as if the space had opened wide. The airmen parked the truck, got out, slammed the doors, and disappeared. For a full minute, Morgan listened intently for the sounds of other boot steps or voices nearby. Hearing nothing, he slipped out the back of the truck, jumped down, and reached back inside for one of the file boxes.

A hardened facility like Coldcastle would have surveillance cameras bristling all over like porcupine spines, so if someone spotted him on camera, he’d look like a noncom with a task rather than a stowaway. He took care to move only his eyes, not his head, as he started walking. It was an enormous motor pool the size of a small-town armory, with battleship flooring, ten parked LMTVs, six Humvees, floodlights, and a high arched ceiling of power-chiseled granite. He headed straight for the high black maw of the entrance, then out into the access tunnel.

It was about a quarter mile long, with a treaded steel floor, fluorescent lights, and slimy, gleaming brown walls gnawed from the rock. It sloped up fifteen degrees to a distant pair of heavy steel doors—the ones he’d heard hissing open. Off to the left and right were two long hallways with gray steel walls, interspaced office doors, and more hallways splitting off from the mains.

Camera snouts poked down from everywhere. He couldn’t be seen to hesitate, so he chose left and walked. Collins had told him what to look for, vaguely. “It’ll be a cyber-lock door with a swipe pad and a window. Probably with a ‘Level Two Clearance’ sign.”

Great, Morgan thought. They all look like that.

But actually, they didn’t. He spotted it, off to the left just ten feet onward. A red slab on the door said “Level Two Only.” And coming straight at him down the hallway was a young lieutenant. Morgan switched the box to under his left arm and started fishing in all of his pockets with his right.

“Damn it,” he muttered.

The lieutenant cruised up and stopped. “What’s up, Master Sergeant?”

“I’m a dumb ass, LT,” said Morgan as he fumbled through his Velcro pockets. “Must have left my CAC card in my locker.”

“Yeah? Haven’t seen you in the hole before. You new?”

“I’m old as dirt.” Morgan smirked. “Just here for one last TDY; then I’m going fishing for life.”

The lieutenant laughed. “This one’s on me.” He pulled out his own CAC card and swiped it through the lock. The door buzzed, and he pulled it open.

“Much appreciated, sir.” Morgan grinned. “Saved these old legs from another marathon.”

“You bet.”

Once inside the level two area, none of the doors in the next hallway had keypads, but they all had steel doorknobs with keyholes and were locked from the inside. Following Collins’s coaching, he strolled along until he found the one with a blue nameplate and letters stamped in white: Sequences & Logs. He knocked on the door and it buzzed.

Morgan walked in with his box. A female technical sergeant sat facing the door behind a large steel desk with a barrier countertop for signing in and out. Behind her, the large room was lined on three sides with tall steel filing cabinets, with each vertical row of drawer handles speared from bottom to top by what looked like iron railroad pikes—each of those locked at the top with silver tubular key locks.

No combinations. Thank you, God. Morgan dropped the box on the countertop and glanced at the tech sergeant’s name tape just before she looked up.

“What’s up, Master Sergeant?” she asked. She had short black hair and green eyes, and was wearing a thigh holster with an M9—Security Forces type.

“Are you Tech Sergeant Stepfield?” Morgan asked.

She smirked and glanced down at her name tape. “Last I looked.”

Morgan tossed a thumb over his shoulder. “Some wet-behind-the ears second louie told me to send you over to Medical Squadron.”

“Me?” She touched her chest. “I just had my dental last week. I’m Class Two, good to go.”

Morgan shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I’m just a noncom boot like you.”

The young woman got up. She had a huge jangle of keys dangling from her belt. She gestured at the box.

“Whatcha got there?”

“Property logs. You’re supposed to sign off, individually.”

“Okay,” she said. “Stay right here. I’ll shoot over there and be right back.”

“Roger.” Morgan gave her a thumbs-up.

“And don’t touch anything,” she said as she headed out the door.

“Wouldn’t dare.”

As soon as she was gone, Morgan blew out a sigh of relief. If she hadn’t taken the bait, he would’ve had to take her down and tie her up. But now he’d have