Chapter 16
brODIE AND TAYLOR APPROACHED THE barracks building on foot. It was about nine-fifteen, and lights were on in many of the windows. A few white LED streetlamps lit the road leading to the building and the parking lot in front.
The barracks front entry was unguarded and unlocked. They entered a small foyer, where an unoccupied desk held a landline telephone and over a dozen empty cans of Monster Energy drink and Coors Light.
Taylor looked at the drawing longer than she really needed to. Then she said, “They’re emasculated by these things.”
“It’s a joke.”
Taylor gestured to the disembodied robot head covered in darts. “And behind the joke is anger.”
Brodie didn’t respond.
She asked in a low voice, “Who has a clearer motive for ending this program, and for exacting revenge on its chief scientist, than these guys?”
“Are we looking for an Army Ranger with an advanced degree in computer science?”
“No, Scott. We’re looking for a potential co-conspirator.”
Right. And that co-conspirator might be PFC Thomas Greer, whether witting or unwitting.
There was a hallway off the foyer, and they could hear up-tempo hip-hop coming from somewhere down the hall. Brodie led the way, and about midway down the corridor was an open door with the music blaring from it.
They entered a common room lounge with couches, chairs, a large TV, a kitchenette, and foosball and pool tables.
About thirty Rangers—most of them in T-shirts and jeans or cargo pants—milled around drinking and shooting the shit.
They were all young men in their twenties or early thirties, muscular, lots of ink.
It was a tough-looking bunch, at least as far as humans went.
The two CID agents immediately caught their attention. Brodie said loudly over the music, “Good evening, gentlemen.”
One of the guys near the speaker stopped the music, and the room fell silent.
Brodie and Taylor produced their creds and Brodie said, “I am Chief Warrant Officer Scott Brodie, Army CID, and this is my partner, Chief Warrant Officer Maggie Taylor. As I’m sure you’re aware, Ms. Taylor and I are here to investigate the death of Major Roger Ames of the DEVCOM team, and we appreciate your cooperation. Who’s the officer in charge?”
A mid-thirties man with dark-brown hair and stubble stepped forward. He was holding a bottle of Budweiser and wore jeans, boots, and a well-loved T-shirt. “Sergeant First Class Mike Miller.”
They led Sergeant Miller out of earshot of the other men, who got the music started again and went back to what they were doing.
Miller took a swig of his beer and asked, “Want a drink?”
Brodie replied, “We’re on duty.”
“Must be nice.”
Mike Miller was the senior noncommissioned officer for the Ranger platoon.
He was lean and wiry, and handsome in a rugged sort of way.
He looked like the kind of soldier who might get cast in one of the Army’s slick recruitment commercials—except for the stubble and the beer in his hand, and the thousand-yard stare of a combat vet who’d seen too much.
Brodie wondered who Sergeant Miller had squared off against in his Army career before being tasked with this assignment at Camp Hayden.
Brodie asked the sergeant, “How are your men doing?”
“Bored. Pissed off. Wondering if the geniuses in DEVCOM are going to have to shitcan their toy soldiers over this.”
Brodie looked around the room. The Rangers were mostly going about their business while occasionally stealing glances at the new arrivals.
Most of those glances were reserved for Ms. Taylor, a very attractive woman in a room full of isolated and frustrated young men.
Brodie said to Miller, “We’re looking for PFC Thomas Greer. ”
“Why?”
“Is he here?”
Miller shook his head. “Not his scene. You’ll find him in his room. Three-H.”
Taylor asked, “Do you know all of your men’s room numbers off the top of your head?”
“No, ma’am. But I’ve visited Greer’s room more than most. He has required special attention.”
Brodie asked, “For what reason?”
Sergeant Miller hesitated. Then he said, “Some of the guys are handling this assignment better than others. I’d say Greer’s been the worst off in the entire platoon. Stress, paranoia, anger issues.”
“Drug use?” asked Taylor.
“Do I have to answer that?”
Brodie asked, “Do you wish to comment on the death of Private Justin Beal?”
Miller looked at Brodie a moment, poker-faced. He took a swig of beer, then said, “You guys have no clue what you’re dealing with here.”
“Enlighten us.”
Miller kept his eyes on Brodie. “Beal pushed himself to the limit, and when he reached his limit, he tried to go further. And then he broke.”
Taylor asked, “And Private Greer?”
“Greer cracked in a different way. A couple months ago, he assaulted his roommate in the middle of the night. Private Sam Kowalski. Went into Kowalski’s bedroom and started whaling on the guy.
Kowalski fought him off. No serious injuries.
I talked Greer down after. He kept saying Kowalski wasn’t real.
Wasn’t human. He eventually settled down and realized he was whacked out of his head. Claimed sleep deprivation.”
Brodie asked, “What disciplinary action was taken?”
“None.”
“None?”
Miller nodded. “Kowalski was willing to let it go so long as he was assigned to a new room. And Greer took a turn for the better a week or so after the incident. He quit using. The assault was his breaking point, and he cleaned up.”
“What was he using?”
“Speed, coke, steroids. Whatever he could get when he needed it.”
Brodie said, “I have a hard time understanding why no action was taken against a soldier who was abusing drugs and assaulted a fellow soldier. I thought the Rangers had higher standards.”
Miller kept his cool as he replied, “We are loyal to our own, sir. And given what my men have been put through at Camp Hayden, they’re allowed a little leeway.”
“Was your commanding officer made aware of the assault? Captain Pickman?”
Miller kept his eyes on Brodie. “The captain trusts me.”
That sounded like a no. And like perhaps Captain Pickman was happy to be kept in the dark.
Everyone at this desert outpost—commissioned officers, enlisted soldiers, and scientists—understood that any publicity for Camp Hayden was bad publicity.
The death of PFC Beal could not go unreported.
But Greer’s assault could, especially if news of the incident would end up shining a light on a broader pattern of drug abuse at Camp Hayden—and the highly classified activities fueling that abuse.
Sergeant Miller added, “If Kowalski wanted to press charges, he could have. But he understood we needed to help Greer, not end his Army career.”
Taylor asked, “And how did you help him?”
“By keeping an eye on him, talking him through things, and confiscating his supply.”
“Are you a mental health professional?”
Miller looked at her. “No, ma’am.”
“Are there any mental health services available here?”
Miller thought that was funny. He gestured around the rec room. “You’re looking at them.”
Brodie asked, “Was Greer kept from participating in training exercises after the assault?”
“No,” replied Miller. “If we’d been doing live-fire exercises, that would have been a different story.”
“You must all have service pistols, in addition to the SIMRES-equipped rifles.”
Miller nodded. “And Greer’s was confiscated.”
Brodie asked, “Have you spoken to him since Major Ames’s death and the start of the lockdown?”
“No.”
“Are you aware of any direct interactions or associations between Private Greer and the deceased, Major Ames?”
“We don’t interact with the DEVCOM people.” He looked bothered by the question. “You really think Greer is somehow involved in this?”
Brodie ignored the question and said, “Take us to the private’s room.”