Crawley beckoned at Spanos, encouraging him to continue.
“The master sergeant called her McMichael.”
“Good, Corporal Spanos. Now, what was her rank?” Crawley asked.
Spanos shook his head as if trying to remember. At last he said, “I believe she was an NCO. Her uniform was covered in blood.”
“Describe her wounds,” said Crawley.
“In the back of the ambulance, she complained of a concussion and deep leg scratches. She wanted bandages, footwear, painkillers, and antibiotics. I think the blood on her combat shirt and pants came from someone else.”
Sergeant Flood bolted forward, “Did she have a knife, weapons?”
Spanos leaned back in his chair and answered, “I didn’t see a knife, but she had a pistol, with a…” he couldn’t think of the term, described it, “…fat barrel at the end.”
Flood recognized the description, a suppressor. Thinking back, he hadn’t seen Kinney’s Glock. He could’ve missed it, but he had his doubts. It made too much sense. Flood shifted to Chavez and asked, “You, did you get a good look at her?”
After a long stern stare, Chavez answered, “she was missing a front tooth.”
“Did Upton have a knife, weapons?” asked Crawley.
“Si,” Spanos answered. “He carried a knife, a pistol, and a few grenades. Complained of a round to his chest. Told me his vest took the impact and broke some ribs.”
“When did you drop them off, and how long ago?” demanded Flood. Moving closer, opening and closing his fists, he needed answers. Crawley stretched out his arm and Flood stopped, but he kept a death stare on the two medics.
Both Chavez and Spanos seemed to sense the intensity of the question and looked at each other. Chavez turned back to his interrogators, “About an hour ago.”
“Which way did they head?” asked Flood.
“We dropped them on the south side of the highway. They mentioned finding a place to hide,” answered Spanos.
“What other help did you give them?” asked Flood.
Still looking down, Spanos said, “Chavez didn’t give them anything, but I did. The woman was barefoot. In the rear of the ambulance, we had clothes from other wounded soldiers. I gave her a pair of boots. They were too big for her, but she had no choice. I also gave them a pack stuffed with painkillers, antibiotics, and tape for the master sergeant’s ribs. The woman put on a field jacket, over her blood-drenched uniform. That’s it, just medicine and clothing.”
Flood had heard enough. He turned to the major and gestured towards the far end of the tent, “A word, sir?”
“Sure,” replied the major, but before following the sergeant, he turned back to his prisoners, “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” The two men, shackled, hung their heads.
Crawley and Flood exited and stood outside breathing in the cold morning air. The sun was due up in just over an hour, but adrenaline and revenge fueled the sergeant. He wanted to get going. Too much time had been wasted in finding the Mexicans, rounding up the interrogation officer, and getting answers. The clock was ticking, and each expired second gave the ROAS bastards more time to get away. He wanted action. “Sir, we have enough information to hunt them down. With your permission I want to take the prisoners and have ’em lead me to where they dropped off the enemy. I’ll take my squad from there. Time is wasting.”
“Sergeant, I don’t have the authority to authorize you to conduct a manhunt. No, this entire episode needs to go up the chain of command. Besides, the best way to track down and get the bad guys would be through aerial surveillance—much quicker and would cover a wider area. I’ll call it in and request the resources. Meanwhile, hit the rack. Looks like you’ve been up a long time. Fact is, you look like shit.”
Flood didn’t like the answer or the officer. Like a creature from a childhood nightmare, the way Crawley looked and acted touched something deep inside the sergeant. But he needed the officer on his side. “Sir, these bastards killed my man along with two other US soldiers. This is personal. Allow me to take a prisoner and start the search. If you want to call it in and get additional resources, be my guest. But let me go.”
“Sergeant, I’ll call it in to Command and recommend an immediate aerial search. You’ve done good work to this point; don’t blow it now. You copy that?”
The sergeant stared hard at the MP officer. Without a prisoner, he wouldn’t know where to start. On foot, an hour or more behind, his men already exhausted, he knew Crawley was right. Hell, the only thing keeping him going was adrenaline, and it wouldn’t last. What the scary major suggested was logical. Still, before giving in, he had a final request. “I get the rationale, sir. But, if I may, sir?”
“Yes?”
“Can I have a few moments alone with the two Mexicans? Without them, the two murderous bastards wouldn’t have gotten away.”
“Negative. Those men are under my custody.” In a sympathetic tone he added, “Chavez and Spanos are both fucked. I don’t believe for a moment their story about being forced. Instead, those guys willingly helped their ROAS counterparts. Considering their parole, a traitorous act. Over the next half an hour, I’ll pull the truth from them. Then, we’ll let military justice take its course. And remember, execution is the penalty for treason. I’ll let you know what happens. Now, let me contact Command.”
Exhausted, not knowing what else to do, a frustrated Sergeant Flood replied, “Yes, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
CAUGHT
May 9, 05:22 (PDT)
Inside the Mobile Command Headquarters trailer alongside Highway 15 west of Mesquite, Brigadier General Lee Gist and his senior staff were wrapping up the daily 05:00 intelligence briefing. Afterward, the agenda called for a review of the next phase of Operation Jackpot—the liberation of Las Vegas.
Gathered around a long table covered with monitors and tablets, the senior officers had just finished watching press coverage of the Mesquite battle. The Truth Network, Gist noted, struck a strong chord, and the men around the table applauded the reporting. Not so for the ROAS press propaganda claiming the US attack was an unprovoked wanton slaughter. On the screen, the ROAS showed images of a defiant female soldier, against all odds, shooting down a US vertical-lift aircraft. The ROAS press made her out to be a martyr. For the officers in the room, the ROAS reporting was absolute bullshit. The US Army had negotiated under a flag of truce, in good faith, and offered reasonable terms. When the enemy refused, a fair fight ensued.
The battle officer of the day, Lieutenant Colonel Frederick Lawton, entered the trailer as the senior officers engaged in a lively discussion about the news. Lawton’s shift was ending, and part of his duties included briefing these men on significant Command Post events that had occurred during his watch. Ignored, Lawton paused near the briefing table and waited for the noise to diminish.
General Gist spotted Lawton from across the room and waved for him to take a seat. The lieutenant colonel nodded, grabbed an empty chair at the far end of the table, and connected his smart pad to the primary monitors.
“Quiet down!” commanded the general. Chatter ceasing, the room obeyed as the men shifted their attention towards Lawton. The general continued, “Colonel, you have fifteen minutes, starting now.”
Lawton went through a quick summary of his shift, covering items of note, including an update on establishing the ground and air security perimeter. Other status updates followed, covering multiple subjects including civilian evacuations, figures on ROAS killed and wounded, logistics, and other Command Post items. Near the end, he mentioned a pending Custer “search and destroy” mission targeting two suspected enemy combatants. He explained that two ROAS infantry NCOs, apparent survivors of the battle, were on the run and suspected of killing at least three US soldiers. He added that two paroled ROAS medics, both of whom were in military police custody, had aided and abetted the enemy combatants.