Chapter 28

Midmorning, Fred pulled into the first rest area they came to on I-75. "Feels odd to take the truck side," he said, swinging the RV to the right toward the truck parking area. A couple of minutes later, he picked a place and eased into one of the long pull-through parking spots. "Georgia does a job on their rest areas, don't they?" he said as they all sat looking at the mowed grass under the acres of trees that surrounded the large parking area, and the almost manicured lawn and hedges nearer the visitor center.

A truck driver got out of his eighteen-wheeler and gave a little wave as they stepped out into the brilliant sunlight. Fred wasn't sure whether the acknowledgment was for the pretty women he was with, the luxury rig they were riding in, or just a simple good morning. Either way, he smiled and waved back.

"We've already gone to the bathroom in the RV," Carla said, "we'll just wait for you, if that's what you stopped for."

Fred looked around at the sparsely populated lot. "Oh, I could have pulled over and used the bathroom in the RV, but that's not why I stopped. Remember what the guy said at the dealership about not being road warriors? We've got less than three hundred and fifty miles to go today, and almost a hundred of those miles are behind us; we've called and gotten our reservations at the camp, so there's no hurry.

"Why don't we walk over to the visitor center there?" he said, pointing. "You can check things out while I use the bathroom. In other words, stretch your legs so we don't get to the campground tired out."

A few minutes later, Fred stood in front of a urinal in a clean bathroom, watching his stream hit the porcelain.

"I wish I could hold that thing for you," Brenda suddenly said in his mind.

Fred's thoughts had been on the trip and what they would do when they got to the campground. Brenda hadn't said anything in several hours. Startled, he jerked and sprinkled some urine on the floor before catching himself and redirecting the stream. He mentally grumbled about the one-size-fits-all urinals that must have been designed to accommodate a one-year-old, and seemed to be barely above his ankles. The giggling in his mind didn't help as he tried to remain composed and appear nonchalant as the guy standing at the next urinal jerked his foot out of the way and glared at him.

"Sorry," Fred said.

The man didn't say anything, just shook his dick dry and zipped up. Turning away, he went to the sink to rinse his hands, but Fred noticed as the guy checked him out in the mirror.

Well, I guess I would be a little leery, too, if some dork jumped like he had been goosed, and almost pissed on my foot, Fred thought.

The man left after one last glare at him. Fred chuckled in spite of himself as the giggles in his mind changed to unladylike guffaws.

It wasn't that funny. And I just pissed beside his foot.

It didn't matter; she continued to laugh. "But did you see the look he gave you in the mirror? she gasped out. And he was only half your size. No telling what he thought you were on when you suddenly jumped like that. I'll bet he was afraid you were going to come unglued and beat him to death with that baseball bat you call a dick."

Oh, he didn't notice my dick, Fred tried to reason.

"Didn't notice it, my ass. He couldn't keep his eyes off it. Then when you did that rain dance, he darn sure got a good look at it. Heck, his mouth was hanging open."

It was not, Fred said, but the belly laughs were back in his mind as he zipped up and washed his hands. When he walked outside, the women were waiting for him in front of the center. "What's that look on your face?" Jessica immediately asked.

"Oh, nothing. Let's walk around for a few minutes," Fred said, trying to distract her.

Grabbing his wrist, Jessica said, "What's he up to Brenda?"

Soon, all three women were touching him as they strolled along while Brenda told her tale, embellishing it all out of proportion — in Fred's opinion. He was pleased to note there wasn't anyone near them to wonder why the women all seemed to want to hold onto him as they walked. Audrey had been forced to walk behind him as she reached up and touched his neck, all of them laughing like idiots.

A few minutes later: MERGE LEFT ONTO INTERSTATE 75 SOUTH. MERGE LEFT! the GPS instructed as they entered the run-on ramp from the rest area and accelerated to match traffic on the Interstate.

Both pilots were base people, therefore in the know and blocked from telling anything about the base to outsiders. So shortly after reaching cruising altitude, the aircraft was deemed secure by both Campbell and Fisher. Fisher was obviously uncomfortable with Captain Madison aboard, though, her speech guarded.

"Lieutenant, Bill will have the blocks as soon as we're there. This has been approved by the General. We can now speak freely in front of Captain Madison concerning the Ingles matter."

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir."

"Let's get down to business," Jeff said as he, coffee in hand, contacted Lieutenant Richardson on the secure phone.

(Note: Various agencies have slightly different methods to teach building entry, and to practice for an oncoming high-level entry. A building entry during wartime, or a domestic building entry, will, obviously, vary greatly. The type mockup Lieutenant Richardson is referring to in the next paragraph is frequently used to practice domestic building entry. The "house" is constructed of panels of a resistant material such as three-quarter inch plywood. These four feet by eight feet sheets of plywood, usually on small rollers, or sometimes fitted into slots into a concrete floor, can quickly be moved about to form walls, hallways, etc. to match the configuration of the building to be entered. Thus, the entry team will know and feel comfortable with the layout of the real building they are about to enter. Everyone is assigned specific duties, and those duties are practiced, ad nauseam. However, the plan has a distinct tendency to go to shit as soon as you set foot through the door, but at least you know where you're going — if the informant didn't lie to you, or you didn't wind up, somehow, with the wrong building plans. Murphy. But a team that works together and becomes a whole, stands an excellent chance of overcoming "our friend." Improvise, adapt and overcome. Sometimes, with a well-bonded team, those three innocent-sounding words happen between one running step and the next.)

"Sir, we managed to get the architect's drawing of Ingles' house, and have configured our mock-up to match. But the drawing doesn't show the sub-basement Mrs. Madison mentioned in the interview. I'm a little confused by her description of the area..."

Jeff thought for a moment, bringing Jill's memory of the area to the fore. "The wall in the den that's farthest from the stairs — the whole wall — slides four feet to the right. There's a door behind the exposed section. Ingles has the key on the same ring with his car and house keys. The wall is thick and heavily insulated. Its door opens onto a set of wide steps leading straight down about twenty feet into the first room. The stairs have two landings. This room has a couple of couches, a bed and some overstuffed chairs, plus a couple of ... benches and other paraphernalia used for sex.

"Ninety degrees to the right is a door that goes down a hallway and opens into a lab — one big room with a small storage room opening on the right wall, and a smaller storage area opening on the left wall. Nothing else that way. Now, back to the first room. Straight through that room on the wall opposite the stairs is another big room built in an 'L' shape. There are several cages in there, and other, uh ... pieces of equipment to torment the prisoners when Ingles chooses to do so," Jeff said, noting the flinch that Bill almost covered up.

"Okay, Sir," Richardson said, "Let me repeat so that I'll know I have everything right." He hadn't bothered to wonder how Jeff had gotten the information so much more clearly than Jill had been able to communicate to the lieutenants during the interview, indeed, he usually expected the major to understand things better than others did.

When Richardson had finished, "Yeah, that's it," Jeff said.

"Sir, we don't have time to set up the house for another level. We'll just attach some pretend steps, then configure the additional rooms to represent the sub-basement. That sound good enough to you, Sir?"

"That'll work," Jeff said. "Going in as late as we are, plus with the snowstorm, maybe Ingles won't be 'entertaining, ' and he'll be the only one in the house."

"Yeah, and if frogs could fly," the lieutenant laughed. "We'll hope for that, though. In the meantime, we'll train as if the place will be full of his cronies and they're all armed. Oh yeah, Sir, what about a key to the cages?"

Jeff thought for a moment. "I don't think Mrs. Madison knows where it's kept. We'll just have to wing it if there are prisoners. Bring something to cut through the locks, or bars, just in case. We should be to the base in about three hours," Jeff said. "I'll need a sit-down with you and Sergeant Gomez. Lieutenants Campbell and Fisher are going with us. Campbell will be in charge of securing Ingles' computer drives and information along those lines; assume that Fisher will handle the women if there are any in the cages. Assign her an entry position and an entry job as you see fit. Captain Madison will be with me on the entry and will be an observer."

"Uh, Sir, we have someone designated for the computer systems already..."

"Bring him too. He can take care of any recordings that Ingles has made and anything else that crops up, but I want Campbell to work with the computer systems. We'll see how he does," Jeff finished as he looked at Campbell, who had heard every word spoken.

"Who do you have for the alarm system?" Jeff went on. "I have the code Ingles was using when Mrs. Madison was there, but he may have changed it since then."

"Well, the same guy I just mentioned. Mrs. Madison remembered the name and model on the keypad that Ingles has in the closet just inside the front door. Haskins has been practicing on a similar unit, and can have it bypassed in ten seconds. He can bypass a system he's not that familiar with in less than thirty seconds. This system has a thirty-second period after opening the front door to allow for the code to be entered, but if Ingles has changed the code, it won't make any difference to Haskins; just take a few seconds longer."

Lieutenant Richardson had noted that Major Matthews hadn't mentioned what he wanted Campbell to do on building entry, and he knew the major well enough to know that the omission wasn't a slip. Richardson would treat Campbell like a computer guru and assign his entering position as next to last. He would also assign someone to keep Campbell from getting his ass killed if things went to shit.

"We'll talk more when I get there," Jeff said.

"Yes, Sir," Richardson replied as he broke the connection.

A few minutes later, Richardson had both Fisher's and Campbell's files in front of him. He quickly scanned Campbell's. Very basic familiarization with operating procedures, rank, firearms, and physical training. Just enough to keep him from pissing off his superiors by failing to salute someone of higher rank, running his mouth at the wrong time — that sort of thing. Not much effort had been spent in making him a fighting man. He was a computer geek, plain and simple — though a damned smart one, he thought as he closed the file and picked up Fisher's.

He had seen her on the firing range from time to time, but she hadn't been around the base much. Hmmm, he thought, she graduated college at twenty-one with a master's in anthropology. No slouch there. Off planet, she's been on three extended missions and a couple of shorter ones, but she hasn't seen combat. Looks like the colonel has been concentrating on using her expertise in her own field. She's been with some real shitheads, though. Wagner is ... what? An archeologist, I think. Yeah, that's his bailiwick. Oh yeah, that's Doctor Wagner. I remember someone griping about him insisting on the title. He's so full of himself that he's probably positive his shit doesn't stink. He's also a smart son-of-a-bitch, it looks like. He damn sure has enough education and a whole string of published articles — none in the last few years, though. It must be a real pisser to not be able to publish the things he's found out on his missions, Richardson thought as he chuckled. Yeah, serves the bastard right. Well, if Fisher has survived this asshole, and the Major wants her on the mission, she's bound to be okay. I'll put her with the two who are assigned to take Ingles. There might be a woman with him, if not, Fisher will get to help take the son-of-a-bitch down, anyway. Might use up some of her pent-up frustrations from having to deal with Wagner. Yeah, that'll work. All Ingles has to do is survive. If his balls don't work, who gives a shit?

Lieutenant Richardson secured the files, then stood for a second, thinking. The team worked all night. I'll send them to take a nap until Major Matthews gets here. Knowing him, he'll want to practice at least once with building entry. I can nap for a couple of hours, too. Hopefully, the major will let us take another short rest before we have to get on the plane to go to North Dakota, if not, we'll sack out for the short time it will take us to get there. Sleep and eat any chance you can, he thought, for you might not get the chance later.

Richardson gave the sergeant his orders, grabbed an energy bar, left word to be awakened when the major's plane was on final approach, and was walking out of his office, his butt dragging, when he met the colonel. "Let's go back inside," the colonel said as he motioned with his hand.