CHAPTER 8

 

8a

Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq, 2005

O’Mara crushed the cigarette out with her boot and watched the rest of her squad gear-up. Abdul leaned against the wall of the trailer, he was smoking as well.

One hour earlier, Sergeant Sanchez had handed O’Mara a message from Major Simpson to give him a call at ten that morning.

“A Mercedes that matches your description was spotted by a local policeman north of Karbala, parked near a small cluster of houses,” the Major said. “There were rumors from the locals that there was an al-Qaeda safe house located at the edge of the cluster, not too safe if everyone knew about. They said that five or six men come and go, another Mercedes was also seen.”

“The girls?” Sharon asked.

“No sign, but the car is a ringer for the kid’s description. You still believe him?”

“Yes and no, he has a big agenda for someone his age. Want’s to trade his info for a green card. Told him we’ll see, seems satisfied for now.”

“No promises, Lieutenant, you know that. Hell, if we hung that carrot out everyone would turn in their grandmother for a pass.”

“Understood. Let’s play this out,” Sharon said.

“Quick trip in and out, command says a front’s coming,” the Major warned. “I’ll bring in two Hueys as backup; you take your men and coordinate from the ground. Sixteen-hundred hours this afternoon, does that work?”

“Works. We’ll need three hours to get there, only about seventy miles but I want time to prepare. I’ll call for the copters when we’re one hour out and then we’ll coordinate.”

“Good, keep this low profile if you can,” Simpson had said. “No need to blow up the whole damn village.”

“Wasn’t intending to, but the element of surprise would be nice.”

“Later, mind the front.”

“Roger, out.”

Every operation needed meticulous planning from ammunition to water; it’s not a good idea to run out of either in the Iraqi desert. Her three Humvees were double-checked and loaded. Operations gave her coordinates as well as aerial pictures. The house sat on the northern edge of a cluster of other houses; all were constructed of the typical mud walls found among the houses in the agricultural areas fed by the elaborate irrigation system dug over five thousand years ago.

The land, mostly irrigated fields, was open to the south and west; groves of the ubiquitous date palm wrapped the north side of the compound. Irrigation canals sliced back and forth across the flat plain of fields providing the only life-giving substance that this forsaken country had. One of Saddam’s gridded master planned residential neighborhoods sat a quarter mile to the south, entirely out of context with the historic informal ways of living in this country.

“You can’t go, Abdul,” Sharon said to the boy.

He took another drag on his cigarette; the smell of cloves filled the air. “Sure I can, seen lots, maybe I can help.”

“Not a chance, you stay here. We’ll be back before nightfall, I hope, with the girls.”

“Then on to America!”

“As I said, we’ll see. No promises,” Sharon said.

“Promises, promises, you American’s always promise.”

“That’s another issue to debate! When I make a promise, I keep it. You remember that.”

“Sure, sure. Big promises, small kid, no fucking chance.”

“You know what I said about swearing.”

“Yeah, no fucking swearing, I hear that from all you guys, but then all I hear is fucking swearing. I’m a big guy, I can handle it.”

“Yeah, tough guy.”

“Yeah, that’s right, tough guy.”

The three-hour trip only took an hour and a half; the Iraqi commuter traffic was light that afternoon. The three Humvees pulled up about a mile east of the compound, turned onto a side road that paralleled a large canal and slid to a stop. Dust engulfed the vehicles.

“Always amazed how sometimes this country feels like the land south of Fresno, Lieutenant,” Private Nolan said. “All these canals and irrigation ditches everywhere, seems the same as back home, except that the locals in California don’t try to shoot you.”

“You ever stumble onto a meth lab in California?” a voice over the radio said. “If you had, you would never have said that.”

“Sure, Sergeant, but then again, you’re a cop and have seen that shit. Me, I’m just a farm boy trying to make a living.”

“Quiet, you two,” Sharon said. She dismounted, stood outside the Humvee and sighted her binoculars on the compound. Open fields sloped down from the canal to the tangle of palm trees and grey brown buildings; the fields were crisscrossed with shallow irrigation ditches. One larger canal cut diagonally across their target, a straight shot from where they were standing. She scanned the top of the low earth dike along the canal’s banks, she saw nothing. No lookouts. They had already mapped the attack. One group would parallel the large canal and then come in from the north. The second team would come up a dirt road from the south. O’Mara would take her team further west and sweep up the road from the southwest. She wanted the helicopters to sweep in from the west and set down in an open area among the date palms; this would push the insurgents toward either the south or east. Traps are so easy to diagram and set-up, so easy, so fucking dangerous. All you need are willing rats. She knew these people would not be willing.

She made the call to the Huey base at the Baghdad Airport, they were standing by. They confirmed, Sharon knew, with their normal cruising speed of 120 miles per hour, they would be there in less than thirty minutes. She would get another call from them when they were four miles out.

“Lieutenant, we got weather issues. A front is busting in from the south, will hit soon, my people say it’s picking up speed. I need my people back here and on the ground in two hours,” ground control said.

“Roger that. I want this over in one hour. Send them,” O’Mara said. She knew the front he was talking about wasn’t rain; maybe a dry front, like a dust storm.

She killed two more cigarettes. At the thirty-minute mark, she heard from the Hueys.

“Ten minutes out, O’Mara,” a voice said, almost drowned by the roar of his engines.

“Roger. Sanchez, let’s do this. First one to get the girls gets a case of beer,” O’Mara said.

A minute later, they were busting down the hard road directly south of the compound, which poked its ugly roofline over a field of short gray green grass. Sanchez split off on the first dirt road and headed north. Sharon’s Humvee slowed at the next road and began to turn north. Her radio blared in her ear.

“O’Mara, we got a problem. That front’s not two hours out, it’s fucking here.” The static-filled reply grated on Sharon’s ears.

“Say again.”

“The front is about twenty miles south and bust … Can’t land … wall of sand a mile … sorry, going home, good luck …” Static, generated by the sandstorm, erased any further chance of communication.

“Shit. Sanchez, we lost the copters. The front’s busting in and it’s a Goddamn sandstorm as well.”

“Shit.”

“Let’s rethink this. Hold your position.”

“Roger.”

For two long minutes, O’Mara considered their situation. The sky to the south continued to darken and an eerie yellow haze began to envelope the colorless landscape. Shadows disappeared and the world flattened.

“They won’t expect any kind of attack in this shit,” Sharon said into her headset. “Same game plan, but this time we’ll wait for the first winds, then hit them. Sanchez, you come in as planned. Rodriguez, you swing over and come in from the north side, I’ll come in from the west. At the perimeter, dismount and push forward. Encircle and envelop, got it?”

“Roger that,” came two replies simultaneously as static built in their helmet speakers.

Sharon tapped Nolan on the shoulder, “On my command.”

The rest of her team sat behind her, three soldiers, one from Salt Lake City, one from Phoenix, and one from some place she’d never heard of in some forgotten part of northern Nevada; she lit another cigarette. Salt Lake tapped his boot nervously on the Humvee’s deck. She watched the tops of the palms, they went from dead still, to waving, to leaning over in less than thirty seconds. The first burst of dust blew in waves across the fields.

“Now, go, go, go,” she yelled, pitching away her cigarette.

Private Nolan pushed the accelerator to the floor and the thousand pounds of human military muscle and three tons of Indiana steel roared down the dirt road, racing the sandstorm toward the al-Qaeda compound. The wind masked the sound of its motor; they could barely hear themselves think inside its dark interior.

Nolan drove fast down the street that split the central core of the first cluster of buildings. He watched as mothers, dressed in black chadors, grabbed children and pulled them inside doorways. He could feel eyes watching their every move.

“Positions?” O’Mara yelled into the headset.

“Ready,” Rodriguez said as the static began to interrupt his radio.

“Ready,” Sanchez echoed.

As if Sanchez’s affirmative response was a signal, an RPG appeared over the top of the mud wall of their target and then tore through a wave of yellow dust and exploded against the wall behind his Humvee.

“Lieutenant, I think surprise is no longer an option,” Sanchez said.

“You think! Find cover and dismount, hit these bastards.”

Nolan spun the Humvee into a narrow alley between two buildings a hundred feet from the target. Everyone dismounted and took covering positions forward and rear. Sharon could hear small arms fire over the increasing wail of the storm.

“Everyone okay?” All she got back was static. “Shit, this storm is screwing everything up.”

With that invective still blowing in the wind, O’Mara watched their empty Humvee explode and fly ten feet straight up into the air before landing on its demolished undercarriage. Everyone on her team was flat on the ground, she felt the hard mud wall behind her; she couldn’t hear anything. Dust and dirt filled her eyes and throat as the Humvee started to burn. Two men began to crawl toward the walls of the buildings; she could see Nevada’s leg ripped open. Nolan didn’t move, he was down and ten feet from the mud wall. Through the sand, O’Mara watched a man walk casually around the corner of the far end of the alley; he was partially obscured by the heavy smoke from the Humvee and the sandstorm. He held an AK-47; his head was wrapped in a red and white keffiyeh, his face was covered except for a dark opening for his eyes. He raised the weapon and aimed at the motionless Nolan.

Before O’Mara could bring her weapon up, Nolan quickly rolled on his side, scanned the alley and knocked the man down with three short bursts. The man’s keffiyeh was the only thing preventing his head from exploding like a melon as the 5.56mm slugs slammed into it. Both Nolan and the dead man were immediately lost in the blowing dust, then, as quick as the dust filled the air of the alley, it left and they reappeared. Nolan signaled O’Mara, thumbs up, as he pointed to the wall, she covered him as he found safety next to one of his team.

For the next ten minutes, O’Mara heard sporadic gunfire but no heavy weapons or explosions. The storm’s intensity increased until they were forced to crawl from safe points along the walls to other safe points, hopefully out of the storm’s path. Nolan dragged Nevada to a safe location and triaged the man’s leg, a piece of shrapnel had opened a six-inch gash on the man’s thigh; it wasn’t deep, he’d survive. She was also well aware that, under these conditions, one of her team members could be mistaken for the enemy by the other team; accidents might happen. The storm’s static electricity completely shut down any radio communications; visual signals were all but impossible. She signaled to her team.

“We’ll settle in against the lee side of that wall. Nolan and Hernandez take the ends,” Sharon said. “We’ll watch the center. As the storm subsides, we’ll move to the right, toward the building. All we can hope is that Sanchez has his team holed up as well.”

“Lieutenant, I’m catching something on my headset,” Nolan said. “Wait a second.”

O’Mara wiped the dust off her goggles and watched as Nolan listened, the man looked like a ghost, dust and sand covered most of his body. The other team members looked the same way; one had cleaned his goggles and it produced the strangest look imaginable, as if a stone sculpture had goggly eyes that moved.

“Got you Sanchez,” Nolan said directly into O’Mara’s ear. “Yes, Sarg,” Nolan continued, “we got one injured, one enemy down, IED killed the Humvee … yes … yes, Sergeant. Got it.” Nolan went back to O’Mara’s ear, “Lieutenant, he says to move to the building, they have the far side secured … two enemy down … maybe three left, they may come our way.”

O’Mara signaled to the team and they slid along the wall, she could see the top of the buildings again. As quickly as the storm hit, it was leaving as dust twisted in small tornados in the courtyard.

Her experienced eyes scanned the building; she looked at each window and potential hiding place. Clear. She signaled to the men behind her, they moved in a cover formation, leap-frogging the courtyard to the building facade. Nothing showed. If the girls were inside, she couldn’t rake the building with cover fire or toss grenades inside it. She would have to settle for a room-to-room search.

“Lieutenant, Sanchez is at the back. The third team is providing cover for him. It’s quiet back there.”

“On three, bust the door - get the count to Sanchez.”

“Roger,” Nolan answered and spoke into this headset.

O’Mara scanned the courtyard past the walls to the roofs of the hardscrabble village that stood beyond the dust-covered palm trees and dead trees. Nothing moved except some fronds tossed by the dying breeze. Nothing moved as O’Mara looked across the courtyard again, nothing at all.

“Nolan, I want you to cover us and watch those walls; this stinks and I don’t want to find out they’ve moved behind us. Tell Sanchez. No one goes in yet. After the Humvee, this building may be nothing more than a bomb waiting for us. Tell him.”

“Roger,” Nolan answered.

Thirty seconds later, Nolan responded, “He felt it too, he is holding.”

“Watch for an end around to push us into the building, tell him,” O’Mara said to Nolan.

“He’s pulling back.”

At Nolan’s comment, gunfire erupted from the far side of the building.

“Shit,” O’Mara said. “Everybody, hit the deck.”

At “deck,” bullets exploded into the mud walls over their heads, new dust churned by the impact started to fill the air. The team opened up and returned fire. Insurgent rifle barrels popped up and disappeared over the walls of the courtyard, not concentrated fire, just erratic and unfocused. The enemy was trying to force them to find cover inside the buildings.

“I want four grenades over that wall; Nolan, get them ready.”

One team member continued to fire at the pop-up AK-47s, the insurgents kept below the wall.

“Any time, Nolan, anytime. One of those sons-of-bitches may get lucky,” O’Mara yelled.

“Now, frag out,” was all she heard as four M67 grenades flew high and over the wall. Four concussions, no AK-47s popped-up.

“Check it out,” O’Mara said.

Nolan zigzagged across the courtyard and gingerly looked around the end of the wall. He held up two fingers and then pointed to the ground with his thumb. “Clear,” he yelled as he ran back to the wall and his team.

“I want eyes in this building, can you get a man through that window,” O’Mara said, pointing to an open window ten feet above them.

“No problemo, Lieutenant,” Nolan answered.

She watched as two team members hoisted Nolan up to the window’s ledge. He grabbed the ledge and pulled himself in. All was quiet for twenty seconds and then one shot echoed through the downstairs windows.

“Nolan?”

Private Nolan stuck his head out the upper window. “One man left, badly injured now. He was going to set off an explosion. Looks like an explosive charge in the center of the downstairs’ room. He won’t now, Lieutenant. And no girls here.”

“Shit. Be careful, there may be redundant trip wires,” O’Mara said.

“Roger that,” was Nolan’s response. He disappeared into the building.

“Lieutenant,” Sanchez said into her working headset. “Move or hold?”

“Let’s get inside and stop being moving targets.”

O’Mara reached the closed front door and checked the jam for any visible wires. Nothing was obvious. “Nolan, we’re coming in.”

“Hold a minute, Lieutenant, think I’ve found something,” Nolan said from inside.

“Be fucking careful,” she answered.

Three heartbeats later, the interior of the lower level of the house exploded outward through the windows and doors. O’Mara, standing directly behind the heavy wooden door, was thrown thirty feet into the courtyard. The door lay across her legs, she didn’t move. Other team members were luckier, they were between the blown out windows, only their ears rang. Sanchez came around the corner of the building and ran to O’Mara.

“Get the medic over here,” Sanchez yelled.

The medic was with the third team and it took a precious minute for him to reach the courtyard. Sanchez had already removed the door and was beginning to check O’Mara out for injuries. He didn’t see any blood but there could be internal injuries. He looked at her dirty face, she blinked.

“Sargent, if you touch me like that one more time I’ll have to marry you and your wife wouldn’t like that at all.” She coughed. “My ears are ringing like a fucking super loud alarm clock is going off. Everyone okay? Nolan?”

“Not sure, the men are inside trying to find out,” Sanchez answered.

O’Mara slowly sat up and waited for some form of reality to return. She felt like she had been beaten with a baseball bat, everything tingled and vibrated. Pain was worse across her breasts and shoulders where the impact of the exploding door hit her first. She looked back toward the house; one of Sanchez’s team walked out the door and signaled the Sargent.

“Help me up, Sarg,” O’Mara said.

“You just sit there,” he answered.

“Not a chance, give me a hand.”

Sharon reached up and grabbed Sargent Sanchez’s forearm and, with locked hands, she rose shakily. The world spun around her, she felt Sanchez’s strong hands steady her; the world came slowly back into focus.

“You sure, Lieutenant?”

“Damn sure,” she said as the two slowly went to the house.

The soldier stood just outside the destroyed doorway. He was grey orange from the storm’s dust, his face said everything.

“Nolan?” O’Mara said when they reached the man.

“Dead Sir, the explosion caught him coming down the stairs, probably missed a trip wire or something. He’s pretty busted up, was dead instantly, for whatever that’s worth.”

“God damn it, son-of-a-bitch,” she said. “The twins, he said he didn’t see the twins.”

“Nothing Sir, but they may have been here. The upstairs room has some bedding and blankets thrown around; there were some personal things that girls their age would wear, along with some papers with drawings on them.”

He handed Sharon a piece of paper. The drawing was of a rough house with doors and windows high over the house; in yellow crayon, there was a crescent moon and stars.

 

 

8b

Basil laid his head on the edge of the bed and looked into the closed eyes of his mistress. On his third warm breath, as he breathed into her face, Sharon opened her eyes and stared into furry jowls and dark eyes, a spot of drool hung on a corner of his mottled lip.

“I know, I know,” Sharon said as she slowly swung her legs out toward the floor. Everything was stiff, “This is what I get for living a life of such dissipation, Basil. I wake up stiff and sore with only a furry roommate to have breakfast with.”

Basil nudged her naked hip and took a step back, then nudged her again.

“I know, I know,” she said as she pulled an Army tee shirt over her full figure; they headed down the hallway to the kitchen. Basil headed out the door and into the back yard. Sharon made a cup of instant coffee and sat at the kitchen table.

“Just one, just one,” was all she could think of.

Habits are hard to break, that’s why there’re called habits and some are worse than others. There’s the usual drinking and drugs, your choice. And then there are the compulsive sexual things and the need to collect and store everything you touch. There are many that are just socially undesirable, such as nose-picking, thumb-sucking and hair fondling. Then there’s OCD, bulimia, and Internet porn that can be just plain annoying not to mention dangerous. And then there’s smoking, the most politically evil bad habit of all.

Sharon ran her fingers over the red and white box sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. All the tools were there: her Giants zippo lighter, an ash tray from a small hotel in Paris where she and Kevin had stayed, an open box with eight cigarettes left and her cup of instant Starbucks coffee, Columbian.

Her habits sat at the three other chairs around the table and encouraged her. “What the hell’s the difference,” the one on the right said. “With the way you live, someone will shoot you someday and look what pleasures you gave up.”

“Not that I’m bragging,” the habit directly across from her said. “But we have cut back on the drinking. That’s a good thing. So why not?”

The last habit, TO SMOKE IS TO LIVE written on his tee shirt, just sat there and joined Sharon in staring at the box; finally it looked at Sharon, smiled and said, “Yes, what the hell.” With that she lit up, took a deep breath and relaxed. They all agreed it had been a good discussion.

After a light breakfast, she searched the Internet for stable locations around Mt. Diablo, surprisingly, there were more than she thought, but they were all fairly close together.

“Good morning,” she said to the first stable operator on the list. “I’m hoping to find out some information about your stables. We are moving to the area from Colorado and have two horses. A friend of ours, Eva Karg, suggested a stable in your area, but for the life of me I can’t remember which one. So I’m a bit embarrassed to be asking.”

On the third call, she snagged a potential winner. “Oh yes, Ms. Karg rides here, tell her thank you for the reference. I don’t know her that well, in fact she was here just the other day. She has been riding with us for almost six months. You said you had horses?”

“Yes ma’am, two, a mare and pony my daughter rides. We have been relocated to the Bay Area and Ms. Karg mentioned your place and now I do remember the name. I apologize.”

“Oh dear, with everything on your mind and the move, we can help,” the woman said. “I have an excellent shipper who can handle your horses and move them safely here and we have room. And the hills and trails around here are excellent for riding.”

“Excellent, may I come out and visit? I’m in town for just a few days before heading back, this afternoon?”

“That would be fine, I’m here all day. I live in the ranch house. Just ring the bell, plenty of parking out front.”

The ride through Walnut Creek’s suburban neighborhoods quickly changed into rolling hills and small open valleys, Mount Diablo, a double peaked chunk of rock 3,864 feet high, looms over its five surrounding counties. Its flanks folded and spread outward from the base of the cone shaped upthrust of rock. Not an extinct volcano, as some think, it’s more of a leftover from the turbulent and shaky history of the California coastline that includes two massive plates of the earth’s crust grinding and pushing against each other. With the way the two plates grind against each other and the northward thrust of the western Pacific plate, someday Los Angeles will replace San Francisco as Mount Diablo’s urban area of choice.

The stable sat in a pleasant valley between two of the ridgelines that extended out from Mount Diablo like broad roots from an oak.

A stout yet strong looking woman met Sharon at the door to the simple ranch house, its covered porch extended across and then around the one story building. Two rocking chairs separated by a low table sat on the deck.

“Good morning, can I help you?” the woman said as she dried her hands in a towel.

“I called about boarding my two horses; I’m moving from Colorado,” Sharon said.

“Oh yes, yes, yes. Just a sec, let me put this dishtowel down. Be right back. Coffee or anything, just made some?” The woman’s voice died as she headed back into the house.

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” Sharon answered and looked around the ranch’s compound. Corrals and low buildings filled the area and a large fenced pasture extended out toward the mountain. She counted at least ten horses in the corrals; she guessed others were still in their paddocks.

The hard tap of boots on wood preceded the woman as she rounded the end of the house. Cowboy boots, jeans, belt with silver buckle, and a checked shirt supported a pleasant face and tangled head of blond hair. She stuck her hand out as she approached Sharon.

“Emily Chase, ma’am. Glad you could make it, came from around back.”

“Sharon Moss,” O’Mara replied. “Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice.”

“Oh don’t worry about that, I’m here all day long and people come and go as they please,” Chase said. “Two people are out riding right now and the boys are always moving the horses in and out.”

“Quite a place you have. Didn’t realize there were so many stables up here,” Sharon said.

“We are the leftovers, last edge of old California. We keep all the suburbanites from building right up the slopes of that old mountain. So you said you had a couple of horses?”

“Yes, a mare and a pony. My daughter just loves to ride and I’ve had the mare a long time. Would hate to leave her. She might even like the weather here, kind of like retirement for her,” Sharon said with a laugh as they began to walk between the fences of the first corral.

“I understand, that fellow there is almost fifteen; he came from Wyoming when his owner moved here. Added a couple of years to his life, to the man and the horse.”

They walked into the first stable; a long double row of paddock doors lined the brick paved hallway. Another open double door cast light from the opposite end. The smells were unique. The full aroma of urine and manure instinctively conjured something primal in Sharon, as though she had been here before. Men and horses have been working and living together for over ten thousand years, they are both genetically linked. Both depended on each other.

Halfway down the hall, the full head of a Palomino stuck itself out over the stall’s gate to see what was happening. Her nose flared and she shook her mane. Sharon remembered the strand of hair from the hydrofoil.

“That’s a handsome horse, Ms. Chase. In fact gorgeous,” Sharon said as she walked over to the mare.

“Careful, she’s full of spirit and herself. Her name’s Madigan, she occasionally gets in these moods, when she was a colt, one of the boys yelled that she was mad again, it stuck. We’re not real creative when it comes to naming horses.”

“I think it’s great,” Sharon answered as she raised her hand toward the horse, it jerked away and spun back into the stall.

“A little shy, but more often testy,” Case said. “Horses are like humans, same nervous issues and traits. I never get tired trying to figure ‘em out. And I’m sure they are trying to outsmart us. By the way, that’s the horse that your friend rides.”

“Ms. Karg? Oh yes, I can see she would fit her. Did they ride recently? I only just got back in town.”

“Maybe a couple of days ago, as always she was all business, had a friend with her this time. Good-looking fellow, had a dark outdoors tan, not that fake paint-on stuff I see, black hair, pony tail, which suited him and a French accent. Actually pretty good-looking if you ask this old farm girl, kind of took your breath away. Out for a couple of hours, Madigan came in well lathered so my guess is they went at a good pace. Madigan loved it, I could tell. Ms. Karg hinted that she might be interested in buying the horse. I’ll wait and see.”

Sharon watched the horse swing its full flanks in a half circle and then come back to the gate; it looked directly at Sharon. She put her hand up and the horse didn’t shy this time. She placed her palm against the jaw line, slowly rubbed her and felt the strength of the mare. Though her touch was light, she could feel the horse’s power and energy. She ran her hand through the mare’s mane, and dug her nails into the hair. The horse nudged her.

“Amazing, she won’t let some people near her. You’re a natural, can see you’ve been around horses. Well, back to business, let me show you some open stalls,” Emily Chase said as she headed toward the far open door.

“Right behind you,” Sharon said as she patted the horse with her left hand and gave a short jerk to the mane she had gripped with her right. A small handful of maybe twenty hairs came away. Madigan didn’t even flinch. She carefully twisted the hairs into a tight coil and slipped them into a small zip-lock bag she had retrieved from her back pocket. She gave the horse another pat and followed Chase out the rear door of the paddock.

After another fifteen minutes of walking the stable grounds, Sharon was satisfied that Chase didn’t suspect anything more than a prospective client. She left her cell number but no address. Twenty minutes later she rolled up the driveway to her bungalow.

“Kevin, I have one more sample to test,” Sharon said over her cell in her most businesslike voice.

“You are going to get me fired, O’Mara. All the favors I do for you and all I get is another request for another favor,” Kevin said.

“Poor boy,” she answered. “This one is critical. I think I found the horse that matches the hydrofoil horsehair.”

“No kidding, how’d you do that?”

“Intense detective work,” Sharon said.

“And luck.”

“Yeah that too; anyway, can I drop them off? I think there are enough bulbs on the hairs to get DNA; if they match I’m a couple of steps closer.”

“I’m in all morning, paperwork. The Captain is out for the next two days at a conference in Sacramento, it’s safe.”

“Like he scares me,” Sharon chortled.

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Kevin said. “I just don’t need the friction.”

An hour later Kevin took the hairs, still in their bag, placed them in another, more official, evidence bag and posted a number on its label. Sharon’s little car accident had an evidence trail that was now longer than some strong-arm robberies.

“Thanks,” Sharon said as she kissed him on the cheek.

“Don’t do that,” Kevin said. “Not here!”

“Kevin, everyone in this room,” she scanned the area designated for detectives, all three desks in one corner of a large open floor, currently empty, “knows me. They can keep a secret. Later, I have a meeting in Oakland.” And she walked out, leaving Kevin holding the bag.

 

 

8c

As she passed through Orinda, heading toward Oakland, Sharon’s phone rang. It didn’t really ring; it played a few bars of the La Marseillaise, then repeated itself. Warmth grew in her breast; she answered.

“Good morning Jean-François, comment allez-vous?”

“Je suis tres bien and your accent needs work.”

“Don’t I know that, are you back?”

“Yes, you are my first call; I’m in a limo heading to the Compton, then meetings all afternoon in San Jose. The tech people want to show me some new gear and pulleys, all remotely controlled. Are you free for dinner?”

“Let me catch a breath,” she paused for a moment and turned down the radio. “Dinner would be delightful. Where?”

“A special place on Folsom between 7^th and 8^th, Italian.”

“Rocco’s? Just love it.”

“You know all the good places,” JF said.

“I know more about the cafes and pizza joints than high-end restaurants; that’s why I have you around,” Sharon answered.

“7:30, see you there,” JF said.

“7:30 it is.”

She hung up just as she exploded out of the far right westbound bore of the Caldecott tunnel that connected the near suburbs of Contra Costa County and the urbanistas of Oakland and Berkeley. The view, as she weaved her way down Highway 24 into Oakland, was, as always, spectacular. The city of San Francisco, with it hills and skyline, spread out across the left side of the panorama. The Bay Bridge and the Golden Gate Bridge looked almost connected and Alcatraz floated, like a ship, on San Francisco Bay. No fog obscured the picture framed by the windshield of her Jaguar. After a brief stop at a Starbucks, she pulled into a visitor’s stall at the Oakland police department and headed to Major Crimes, Section 1, Homicides. An hour earlier she had called and made an appointment to see Sergeant Danny Chang.

“Sergeant Chang, please, Sharon O’Mara, I’m expected,” she said to the officer at the desk as she sat two grande coffees on the desk.

The officer, a young woman, smiled at Sharon and punched a few numbers into the ancient phone on her desk. She said something into the phone and then said to Sharon, “Please take a seat, Sergeant Chang will be right with you.”

Sergeant Danny Chang had worked with Sharon on an earlier case involving the Chinese sex slave trade that resulted in the collapse of an Oakland Tong as well as putting a serious hurt on one of the local Mexican drug cartels. She learned more, as a result, about the shipping container business than she ever wanted to know. Now she needed Chang’s help again; he had been reassigned to homicide.

Sharon watched Danny Chang push open the door from the back offices into the lobby. As experienced cops go, this man hadn’t acquired the usual bad habits of a thick physique and a fluorescent light inspired pasty face. He was tall and trim; walked with an athletic grace and she had never seen him without at least a trace of an ironic smile. Irony spread from ear to ear this mid-morning.

“Damn Sharon, it was good to hear from you, but then again, every time I see you something happens. Should I call backup?” Danny asked, as he hugged her quite unprofessionally.

“No, I think we’re safe here, but I need a little information and a little help. Do you have a minute or two?”

“Absolutely, the left interview room,” Chang said and then turned to the desk officer, “I’ll be in Two, ring me if you need me.”

The officer nodded and then looked at the coffee cups, then at Sharon.

“Refreshments, Sergeant,” she said as she picked up the coffees and handed one to Chang. The desk officer looked seriously disappointed.

They settled into the hard well-worn, battle weary wooden chairs.

“How’s your mother?” Sharon started.

“She’s well, the tea room keeps her occupied and Mei and Jiao are in school now. It was a close one for those girls; if it weren’t for you, I don’t know where they would be. You need to see them again.”

Mei and Jiao were two girls kidnapped in China and smuggled into Oakland in shipping containers. Sharon, Kevin and Chang had rescued the girls before they became two more drug-addicted prostitutes in Oakland’s darker alleys.

“I know, it’s been too long, I promise,” she said.

“You said help,” Chang said.

“What can you tell me about the dead trucker found last week near the port?”

“You know I can’t discuss ongoing cases,” Chang answered.

“I know, but I’m looking into a possible connection between the man’s death and a missing boat. We might be able to unofficially trade information.”

“Missing boat?”

“Yes, my client is developing a new style of sailboat,” Sharon said. “It was placed in a shipping container to be taken back to France where it’s being manufactured. The driver, Julio Flores, was to take the container from a pier in San Francisco to the Port of Oakland. There it was to be loaded on a train and sent to the East Coast and then transported by boat to France. But, before Flores could get to the port, he was murdered and the container was stolen.”

“We know that, give me a couple of minutes,” Chang said as he left. Two minutes later he returned with a binder and a laptop. He laid both on the grey Formica; he opened the binder, when he lifted the lid of the laptop the screen lit-up. Sharon could see the edges of crime photos and section tabs in the binder; she could not see the screen.

“Can you help me?” she asked.

“Not sure, but maybe you can help me?”

Sharon squinted at Chang, “Me?”

“We know that Flores was killed somewhere else, put back into his truck and left where we found it. It wasn’t until we got the APB on the missing truck that we found it; a patrol car spotted it late on the same day the APB was issued. Nobody paid attention to the truck or the driver all day; he looked like he was sleeping. We get a lot of truckers doing that near the port between loads. Our men banged on the door and found him dead. Coroner says he’d been dead maybe fifteen hours, shot once in the heart. Damn shame, left a family.”

“Always a shame when the innocent get caught up in evil,” Sharon answered.

“We haven’t found the primary crime scene, not sure we ever will, could be anywhere. The keys were left in the cab, no fingerprints, none, even from Flores, wiped clean, handles, steering, everything. The odometer tells us nothing. His company logged in the miles before his shift and it fits his trip into San Francisco, then back to Oakland, seems there might be a two or three mile anomaly. But shit, he could have gotten lost or had to take a piss or something. A couple of miles are almost nothing.”

“Almost?”

“Yeah, almost. As I said, the primary crime scene is somewhere along the route between the piers and where Flores was found. Not a lot of leeway, considering the mileage. We caught a break; his truck had a transponder that let the Port know about his comings and goings. We found out that he never entered the port so that area was eliminated.

“How come you couldn’t find him through the transponder in his truck?”

Chang looked through the photos and slid one across the table to Sharon, she saw a small grey box, its case cracked open with wires sticking out at all angles.

“They busted it up,” she said.

“Yes, it was found on the street near the truck. All the information we have is from the company’s computer files, timed about fifteen hours before Flores was found. Works with time of death. I have three men working on this. The men at the port are worried and the union isn’t helping since the guy was non-union. Me, I think this is specific to the theft, not a general threat to the drivers. But the unions are using it for leverage and their own purposes, way out of bounds crap if you ask me.”

“No kidding,” Sharon said.

“We have also spliced together a short video from cameras in and around the port,” Chang said and turned the laptop so that both he and Sharon could see the screen. “Thanks to Homeland Security, we have worked with the port to install about twenty cameras at the entry area of the port’s gates and along major routes in and out. The short shots take us from the end of the Bay Bridge to within a few blocks of the port.”

“That all makes me feel so warm and cozy, Sergeant,” Sharon said.

“I know, I know. Not my call. The Feds are all concerned about terrorists and the port. They wave money and technology at us, we bite. Anyway it does help with the crime in the area, car thefts, break-ins, general vandalism is down almost 20 percent. Funny how different you act when mom’s looking over your shoulder.”

“Yeah, real funny,” Sharon said.

“Anyway, let me run this and you will see what we have, the number 053 is painted on the cab’s roof, makes it easier to follow. Ready?”

“Go for it,” Sharon said. “Does it have a lead-in that says Big Brother Productions?”

“Jesus, Sharon, I only work here, please,” Chang answered just a bit too defensively.

She looked at the laptop and pointed, “Action, Sergeant, action.”

Chang pushed the enter button, the screen came alive.

A high overhead view popped up on the screen, cars raced from the bottom of the screen toward the top, the off ramp from the Bay Bridge softly curved to the right, trucks, cars, vans, and motorcycles did a deadly dance amongst each other as they headed toward the road’s split, north to Berkeley and south to Oakland. A digital display clocked seconds in the corner of the image.

“At the twenty-one second mark, 053 passes by the camera,” Chang said as he counted up, “nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. There.”

The cab, with 053 painted on the roof, drove into view. Its forty-six foot, dark blue container was secured on a trailer. Two more tractor-trailer rigs followed 053. They watched as it kept to the far right lane and eased from their view. This off ramp headed toward Oakland and the port. Cars and mini-vans surrounded the trucks, the dance continued.

“The clock jumps here to the time stamp of the next camera,” Chang said.

The next image showed the rig slowly going down Maritime Street, the primary access to the port. The next camera picked it up near the rail terminal.

“It should have turned here, but it didn’t. It continued on into the Acorn area of Oakland and then past these cameras near the Nimitz underpass. This is where we lost it. Flores was found on a side street in the Produce District. We found one quick shot of his cab, without the trailer, passing by the Amtrak station on 1^st Street; it was heading south toward the Produce area. No visual on the driver, you can see it on the screen as it passes the station.”

The red bobtailed truck cab, ‘Port Shippers’ on its door, passed by the camera’s view, then disappeared.

“The time stamp says it’s almost two hours later than the Nimitz shot; that correct?” Sharon said.

“Yes, I confirmed it, all the cameras’ digital clocks are checked often, actually they are all monitored through a security center; all images are sent directly to the hard drives; this new equipment is just amazing.”

“Yeah, amazing,” Sharon answered. “I just hope that someday scratching your ass or picking your nose in public doesn’t become a criminal office, hell, they might go back years to convict you.”

Sergeant Chang tilted his head and opened his palms upward, “Please, Sharon, it’s just a video, my head hurts from all the crap I get from Homeland. To them, this is all a game. So please …”

“I’m sorry, Danny, anyway, looks like we have two hours missing, not too much additional mileage and, wait a second,” Sharon said pointing at the laptop. “Back the video up.”

Chang stopped the video; making a series of clicks he played the video back to the start where the cab passed the train station.

“There,” Sharon said. “Freeze it.”

The image came to an abrupt stop.

“Gotcha,” she said. “Danny, what’s that following the cab?

Chang studied the screen, “Black BMW, maybe a 650 from the looks.”

“Go back to the beginning please,” she said.

The tractor and trailer slid into view, followed first by a grey and then a white car, then a black vehicle appeared, a black BMW ragtop. It followed the trailer with its dark blue container as it turned south to Oakland. During the next three camera shots, the BMW showed up in all of them, following the container with the hydrofoil tightly packed inside.

“Coincidence?” Sharon asked.

“I don’t believe in them,” Chang said. “Let’s go through it one more time, maybe I can grab a plate number.”

In two of the five camera shots, they could see a license number on the BMW, not Californian. They both agreed it was the same BMW.

“Right there, does that front right corner look damaged?” Sharon asked.

Chang studied the image; they ran it back and forth a couple of times, “Yes, a slight indentation, but the headlight’s still good. Give me a second.” The sergeant left the room and Sharon watched the video one more time.

“The license plate was reported stolen a month ago, also from another BMW 650 visiting from Nevada,” Chang said when he returned. “These guys are good and meticulous. What’s with the damage on the car?”

“This may have been the same BMW that tried to knock me off the road a few weeks ago, too many coincidences.”

“I would have guessed they’d have repaired the ding by now. If it’s connected to the murder, we may be looking at the car that picked up whoever was driving the truck. They needed some way to leave after dumping the truck and leaving the driver. We identified Flores from his driver’s license but the press got his name from someone, we’re not sure from whom. It was leaked before there was a confirmation; his wife found out from the news. Everyone’s upset about how it went down.”

“It was done to mess up the police and the storyline, now you have to spend more time defending the story than finding the killers,” Sharon said.

“Could be, but you’ve given us a clue and a possible murder suspect, thanks.”

“No worries, now I just need to find a goddamn sailboat in a box.”