Leon's Fire

Table of Contents

A note from the author

Prologue – A bittersweet farewell

Chapter 1 – A ghost from the past

Chapter 2 – The hunt begins

Chapter 3 – We have a problem

Chapter 4 – How will it work?

Chapter 5 – Good help is hard to find

Chapter 6 – One problem solved

Chapter 7 – Oops, didn’t see that one coming

Chapter 8 – Okay this is what we want

Chapter 9 – We’re going bankrupt

Chapter 10 – Back to square one

Chapter 11 – Who’s on third?

Chapter 12 – Only heroes need apply

Epilogue – Lessons learned?

Contact the Author

Leon’s Fire

A Bruce Highland Novel by Alex Ryan

©2017 by Alex Ryan

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

Edited by Catherine Stone

"It’s you! God damn it, Highland, you’re playing with fire!" – Officer Jones, Police Department Vice Squad

"By his standard, the Pope is agnostic." – CIA Department Head Nielson, on the Director

"While I fully believe you are every bit as crazy as we are, I’m afraid our differences in ideology are… incompatible. I am sorry, but I cannot help you." – Al-Maliki

"It’s called a 1964 Lincoln Continental. Oldest vehicle registered in the FBI fleet that isn’t sitting in a museum. We keep it around for these kinds of purposes. The other option is to stuff six agents in a Prius" – Lead FBI Agent Friedrich

Leon’s Fire is the seventh novel in the Bruce Highland series of action adventure novels: Other books in the series, listed in order of release, are as follows:

The Gatekeepers (2015)

The Man with Three Selves (2015)

Gauthier's List (2016)

The Vine Fraternity (2016)

The Back Door Key (2016)

The Lambda Tribe (2017)

Also by the author:

Rain unto Death: A Rex Muse Novel (2017)

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between real persons and fictional characters is entirely coincidental. Certain historical facts have been modified and altered to suit fictional purposes. This material is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in part or entirety without permission.

Introduction

In 1988, a radicalized junior enlisted Army service member managed to orchestrate the theft of Cold War era production nuclear artillery shell, and brought it to South America, storing it for an eventual terrorist attack against the United States. Years later, shortly after her death, her son and her Colombian housekeeper join forces to carry out her legacy. Bruce Highland rises to his highest level of skill and perseverance in the effort to find and stop the psychopathic, homicidal pair before they are able to unleash a weapon of mass destruction in a major metropolitan area.

A note from the author

Oh come on, Alex, really? Nuclear artillery shells? Are these things real? Oh yeah. Absolutely, although it is believed that they were all dismantled prior to two decades ago. If you happened to have knowledge of the strategic battle plan for the Cold War era European theatre, you might find it a bit frightening to be a front line unit opposing advancing Soviet forces. As for details of the latter, we’ll just have to leave it at that. It’s one of those things that, if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you. As for the former, it’s all public information.

You might ask how many novels can be written about small scale terrorist induced nuclear holocaust scenarios. What’s new? You could ask the same question about romance novels. What new ground can you break? Let’s go back to the second question. Half the excitement is how the characters deal with the situation, and how it affects their personal lives, and for that matter, how the situation itself is affected by their personal lives. As in the case with the preceding novels in the series, Bruce Highland is a real person, who has to solve problems without the aid of a secret decoder ring, a mass annihilation wand, a solar plasma gun, or x-ray vision. He uses a Sig Sauer P226 nine millimeter pistol, which he doesn’t carry half the time because he can’t, drives a sedate, white Altima sedan, and has a horribly dysfunctional personal relationship with the women in his life. In other words, he’s the real deal.

There is one ethical dilemma that I think all action adventure writers in our genre consider in passing once or twice when they embark on a novel that incorporates technical details on mass destruction devices. Like missiles. Submarines. Tanks. Defense satellites. And that is: do you want to give an enemy, or a terrorist, a cookbook approach for an attack? Of course not. Fortunately, any document that can provide such won’t resemble a fiction novel much, and it will be vastly more detailed.

Prologue – A bittersweet farewell

Miesau, Germany - 1988

The lights created odd shadows as the jeep negotiated a winding maze of roads. The two Army Spec Fours sat nervously in the rear seat as they clutched their loaded, but not locked, M16A1 assault rifles. There was nothing particularly challenging or dangerous about their assignment, as it was more an exercise in boredom control. Frankly, the biggest threat was that overeager protesters would attempt to scale the concertina wire fences at the perimeter of the massive munitions depot. But that would be a daytime activity, not a nighttime activity. At least that’s what the briefer said.

The scene was surreal, as if it had been taken off a set of the Twilight Zone. During the daytime, it was just a maze of barren, grassy knolls; hiding partially buried concrete bunkers. At night, all you could see were the floodlights marking the roads and the massive steel doors of the bunkers, and it extended as far as the eye could see.

The jeep finally pulled off the paved road and the sergeant driving the vehicle shut the engine off. Here we are, he announced as he hopped out. The two specialists, Jones and Davis, climbed out. There was a taped outline of a body in front of the jeep, at the base of the guard tower.

What happened here? Jones asked.

The lieutenant sitting in the front passenger seat spoke, without looking at them. See those woods in the distance?

Barely sir, it’s pretty dark. Jones replied.

That’s where the sniper was.

Fuck!

Now listen up, the sergeant said. "The protocol is this – one of you up in the tower, and one of you on the ground. If you see anything that looks wrong, anything, you call up base on the radio, got it?"

What’s our call sign?

The sergeant paused. There was a large painted ‘9’ on the side of the tower. Tower nine.

Got it Sarge, both specialists replied in unison.

Radio stays on the ground. See you in six hours.

There was something about the lieutenant that was very disconcerting. Jones couldn’t quite put his finger on it though. He climbed up the ladder to the enclosed tower, which was a welcome relief from the chill outside. After the noise of the departing jeep disappeared, the silence became noticeable. There was no noise whatsoever, no animals, no birds, no wind. During the briefings, they were told that there were numerous towers around the facility, but not all of them were occupied, and they manned them randomly. Perhaps in response to the incident that happened below. The briefer did not mention it, however. It was apparent that whoever was shot, was probably standing in the tower, outside the enclosure, and fell over the railing to the ground.

Two hours had passed. There were four more to go. Davis climbed the ladder of the tower, leaving the PRC77 radio, affectionately known as a ‘prick seventy-seven’ on the ground. He surveyed the massive expanse of half-buried bunkers on the gently rolling hillside. I wonder which ones have the nukes in them? Davis asked, in a rhetorical tone.

I’m not sure any one person knows all the details of this place, Jones replied. That, of course, was not true, but it seemed that way. The permanent party ordinance company shared very little information with the rotating Infantry units that would provide security for the facility.

Davis went inside the Plexiglas windowed enclosure and looked in the corner. Did you see that used condom down there?

Jones smiled. Yeah, it looks like someone jacked off in their condom. It’s boring as fuck out here.

You can go down and walk around if you want to, Davis said.

Nah. I don’t think anybody is going to bite our heads off if we hang out up here. It became apparent that whoever it was that pleasured himself, did it in the tower because that was the only place that offered any privacy. Down on the ground, there was no privacy. No trees, no shrubs, no cover, no nothing. And probably cameras. They couldn’t see the camera fixtures, but they knew they were probably there.

A light in the distance startled Jones. It was a CUCV, which was the green painted militarized version of the Chevrolet Blazer, used mostly for administrative garrison duty. It stopped at a bunker several rows over. Hey look at that, Jones exclaimed, pointing to the distant vehicle. What the hell would they be doing at zero two hundred hours?

I don’t know, should we call it in? Davis asked.

It’s probably legit I’m sure, Jones said. But if it isn’t, then it’s a test. If we don’t call it in, we’ll get a rash of shit for it.

Davis climbed back down the ladder, strapped the radio to his back and climbed back up the tower. The radio’s frequency was pre-set. Davis turned the power on the radio, double checked the frequency, and keyed the mic on the corded handset. Miesau base, this is tower nine, over.

Miesau base, go ahead over, a crackling voice responded.

Just wanted to let you know a vehicle is parked out by one of the bunkers, and someone is going inside, over.

Roger, copied. Don’t worry about it. Base out.

Davis stowed the handset. This is weird. I don’t know who’s working the base radio. I don’t recognize the voice.

Stay here in the tower, Jones said. I’m going to hump over there and check things out. Something just doesn’t look right.

I think it’s best we stay out of their business, but, it’s your call. Davis was thinking about one bar girl back on the strasse the last Saturday night before the unit deployed for Miesau. He got to third base with her in the shadows behind the back door of the crowded GI bar. He was starting to think that he might just need a few minutes of quality ‘me’ time while Jones was away.

You’re probably right, but I’m bored as fuck anyway. Jones climbed down from the tower and traversed three grassy embankments to reach the row of bunkers. As he approached, he discovered that the CUCV had left the area already, so he started to turn back towards the tower when something caught his eye; a uniformed figure lying on the ground. He locked and loaded his weapon, and cautiously approached the man. It was a master sergeant, lying in a pool of blood, with a small caliber bullet wound to the head. His shoulder patch indicated that he was a member of the permanent party ordinance unit. Jones immediately spun around, aiming the assault rifle, with the expectation that the shooter might be in the area. After confirming that the master sergeant had no vitals, he carefully backed away from the lit bunker entrance.

Jones raced back to the tower, and yelled for Davis to descend with the radio. We’ve got a problem, he said, as Davis climbed down the ladder with the radio strapped to his back. Give me the radio.

Jones keyed the mic. Miesau base, tower nine. Call a general alert. We have a soldier down. I say again, we have a soldier down. The two specialists listened intently. The radio was silent. All right. We’re going to need to hump our way back to base. It’s a fuck of a long way, but we need to hurry.

What’s going on? Davis asked.

There is a dead master sergeant at that bunker. He’s been shot.

Oh Jesus.

Jones and Davis burst through the wooden door of the watch office. Staff Sergeant Peters, second platoon squad leader, was slumped over the desk, with blood on the back of his head, next to the base radio.

By daybreak, scores of military police investigators had secured the depot and were scouting the compound for evidence, and systematically interviewing all personnel, focusing on the permanent party. Alpha company had set up a security perimeter around the administrative compound of the munitions depot to assist the investigators. Unaccounted for were one CUCV utility vehicle assigned to the base unit, one First Lieutenant Riggs, one W33 203mm nuclear artillery shell, and one nuclear core ‘pit’, configured to give the shell a yield of forty kilotons.

Chief Warrant Officer Two Bruce Highland was jostled from his bed by the ring of his telephone. He looked at his alarm clock. It was about time to get up anyway. Highland speaking.

Highland, this is Colonel Bixby. I need you to report ASAP. We have a situation on our hands.

Be there shortly sir. Bruce replied, and hung up the phone.

Highland was a young warrant officer, not much older than the junior NCOs that he gave the security briefing to the previous day. He was muscular, slightly on the tall side with angular, chiseled features, and a military Ranger style high and tight haircut, despite the fact that his commander would have preferred that he wear a more civilian looking hairstyle. Military intelligence agents aren’t supposed to stand out particularly, but they always do. Particularly Highland, who’s normal working uniform is a sharply pressed Italian designer suit, under which he carries an issue Sig Sauer P226 automatic pistol and his MI shield.

Warrant officers are the envy of the enlisted soldiers, and to some extent, the regular commissioned officers. They typically come and go as they please, and are rarely to be found in morning formations. In many cases it isn’t even clear what they actually do. And that is doubly so for an MI special agent.

Highland parked his Opel in front of the division headquarters in Wurzburg, and proceeded up a flight of stairs to Colonel Bixby’s office. He passed the briefing room, and noticed that it was full of the MI unit staff. In here, Highland, Bixby said as he waved him in. Colonel Bixby was wearing his dress green uniform. He always wears his dress greens, even when the division commander himself parades around in BDU fatigues on a daily basis, just like everyone else. Bixby is a heavy set, light skinned, black man with short-cropped gray hair.

Glad you could join us this morning, Highland Bixby said. Let’s get started. Here’s the situation. One of our units, Alpha company from the first and seventh Infantry was deployed on security detail at the munitions depot in Miesau. One of the permanent party members of the ordinance unit stationed at Miesau, a first lieutenant by the name of David Riggs, managed to gain access to a bunker containing a store of nuclear howitzer shells, and made off with one, as well as a high-yield fission core, which would enable the shell to have a yield of forty kilotons. This happened at approximately zero two-thirty hundred hours, this morning. Lieutenant Riggs was last seen driving away in a plain green painted CUCV. Investigators found the CUCV approximately five kilometers away parked in an ally way in the town of Landstuhl. There was no sign of either Lieutenant Riggs or the missing nuclear shell. Gentlemen, and ladies, we have to assume the worst. Whatever you are doing, drop it, and work on getting some intel. Canvas all known spy rings and terrorist groups. Highland, you’re the point man in the field investigation. We will be working side by side with the CIA and military police. This investigation is highly classified – the public, and the German authorities, are not aware of the missing nuclear shell at this time.

Bixby dismissed the group, and led Bruce back to his office. Have a seat, Bixby directed, as he fished out a cigar from his desk. He put it back, deciding against smoking it.

Sir, what is it, specifically, that you need me to do? Bruce asked.

Pretty much a repeat of what the military police investigators have already done. Talk to people. Ask questions. Our focus is on trying to find what organization Lieutenant Riggs may be working for. Scour the damn area. Look for clues. I’m not saying that the investigators aren’t competent, but the more eyes we have on this, the better.

The Germans really don’t know what’s going on?

There is an Interpol alert out for Riggs, but no, they don’t know the details. This is some scary shit, Highland. This shell has a yield of forty kilotons. That’s twice the yield of the bomb dropped on Nagasaki. And it all fits within an eight inch diameter package, and it only weighs a little over two hundred pounds. There is a million ways someone could get this thing out of the country. And into ours.

That’s presupposing it’s headed to our country. It seems to me that the Soviets are much closer. They would be keen to have it, wouldn’t they?

Why? They don’t need it. Maybe from an intelligence standpoint, but they don’t exactly have a shortage of their own tactical thermonuclear devices.

Excuse me, sir? A voice sounded outside Bixby’s office, preceded by a knock.

Yes? Bixby replied.

We just intercepted an encrypted message, over a telephone line, the call of which originated in Worms a cryptologic analyst relied.

Well, break it.

We have. Rendezvous at location Alpha in three days.

Bruce Highland leaned back in the wooden chair. Worms. That’ right on the Rhine River. You could float it all the way out to the Atlantic through the Netherlands.

Yep Bixby replied.

And that would take about three days.

Yep.

And I’ll bet it’s a smokescreen. It’s way too obvious. Somebody went out of their way to create a suspicious message and ensure that it was intercepted. All we would need to do is deploy radiation sensors at a couple points upstream and downstream and then whammo, we got it.

Probably, just the same, I’m ordering them. Not a bad idea, by the way, Bixby replied.

If it were me, I’d keep it in a car or a small truck, and take side roads, and go the opposite direction from where I’m trying to lead folks.

Sounds reasonable. That’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Aren’t there satellites up there that can detect these things?

A large device aboard a Soviet bomber flying at 30,000 feet yes, and not reliably; a small device on the ground, forget it.

What is it with Miesau? Bruce asked himself. This was the second incident concerting MI that Bruce fielded within the previous month. The first time was about a tower guard that was shot by an unknown assailant in the middle of the night, who was located in the woods off-post. Whether that was an issue for MI had never been resolved. Bixby had him go check it out, just in case.

Lieutenant Colonel Pherris was having a bad day. He spent most of the previous afternoon getting bitched out directly by the USAEUR commander himself, and before that, MP investigators grilled him. Having a man, an officer at that, defect from his unit along with a thermonuclear warhead, was not a career enhancing event. And now military intelligence wants to talk to him? Make it stop. He ran his fingers though his thick, curly red hair and focused on Bruce Highland, seated across from his desk.

Sir, Bruce began, adjusting his tie, I realize that the investigators probably went over this a million times, but just how does one walk in to a nuclear bunker, and walk away with a nuclear device?

Pherris turned red. It’s not like a person can just waltz in there and take things. There is a two-party authentication system that is required to access one of those doors. And both Lieutenant Riggs and Master Sergeant Williams had the appropriate credentials.

And Master Sergeant Williams was a participant in this process?

"Given that he ended up with a bullet in his head, I suspect he was not a willing participant."

What about Riggs, what do you know about him?

Not much. He’s been here for four months. Single, never talked much outside of his work. Can’t say he’s the most efficient junior officer that I’ve had under my command, but he’s not the worst either. Kind of middle of the road. Never stood out much.

There were no signs at all that something was up?

Correct me if I’m wrong, Special Agent Highland, but it’s your people that issued him the top secret clearance.

Touche. That hurt. I can’t argue with that one sir. Not our unit specifically, but yeah.

There is a box with Riggs’ personal effects. The investigators already went through it and cleaned it of anything that looked valuable, but you’re welcome to look through it.

I’m already here, so I might as well.

It’s down the hall, last door on the left. Feel free to help yourself out when you are done.

Translation: Don’t let the door hit you on the ass… Thank you sir.

It was a shared office. There was two metal desks, one obviously in use and occupied with some personal effects, and another with an empty box sitting on top, and an engraved placard sitting on top that read ‘1LT Riggs.’

Bruce stared at the empty box. Pherris could have shared the fact that the investigators took everything (why didn’t they take the box?) but that probably would have been counterproductive to the interest of getting Highland off his back. Save for some pencils and paperclips, the metal desk drawers were empty as well. The bottom metal drawer got hung up on something as Bruce tried to close it. He opened it back up, and pulled out a card in an opened envelope. It was a Valentine’s Day card. Love you David - Gemma. The investigators missed that one. Riggs had a girlfriend.

A female PFC entered the room, and sat a stack of forms on another metal desk at the opposite end of the office. She seemed nervous, and started to walk back outside. Excuse me, Private? Bruce said as she was about to leave.

Yes? She said as she turned toward the man in the fancy Italian suit, not exactly sure of how to address him.

Did you know Lieutenant Riggs?

She turned slightly red, as she spotted the card in Bruce’s hand. I worked for him.

What do you do?

I’m a ninety two Yankee; I do inventory.

Did you know him personally?

She turned away. No.

She was lying, Bruce could tell. You’re Gemma, aren’t you? She remained silent. Tell your supervisor you’re taking a break to be interviewed. Meet me outside. We’re going for a drive.