Deadly Heirloom

By Alex Ryan

A rogue, dishonored Army soldier bequeaths a deadly gift to his son upon his death in a military stockade - a portable tactical nuclear launcher. The seeds do not fall far from the tree. This is the saga of ace detective Bruce Highland's understudy, Rodd Mace, as he tracks a deranged psychopath, Connor Sharpe, in an attempt to stop him before he can secure the weapon and use it for extortion and revenge in a major urban area.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Ryan
• Release date: Oct 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463688755

Alex Ryan

Alex Ryan is an American author living in Northern California that has authored a series of action adventure novels featuring former military intelligence officer and private investigator Bruce Highland. He is a former US Army Infantryman, a licensed pilot, and holds a graduate degree in engineering.

Book preview

Table of Contents

A Note from the Author

Prologue

Chapter 1 – Cleaning the Basement

Chapter 2 – Looks like we got a problem

Chapter 3 – Sins of the past

Chapter 4 – Picking up a trail

Chapter 5 – Give me the prize

Chapter 6 – Are we there yet?

Chapter 7 – Running away

Chapter 8 – The fruitcake wars

Chapter 9 – A new problem

Chapter 10 – Scouting the target

Chapter 11 – Here’s the deal

Chapter 12 – What now?

Chapter 13 – We’re watching you

Chapter 14 – Day of Reckoning

Epilogue

Deadly Heirloom

A Bruce Highland Novel by Alex Ryan

Introducing Rodd Mace

©2018 by Alex Ryan

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

Edited by Catherine Stone

"We get the airplane back the same as we always do. We abandon it, the DEA impounds it, sells on auction dirt cheap because it’s too expensive to make legally airworthy, and we buy it and fly it back." – Anonymous DHC 4 Caribou Pilot

Never, ever, eat a gifted fruitcake. – Bruce Highland

Fuck the pigs. – Connor Sharpe

"Mr. Agostini is suspected of infidelity. Are you doing him?" – Rodd Mace

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

Who is Bruce Highland? He’s not just a private investigator, he’s the guy you call when you have a very sensitive situation. He’s the guy the government calls when they have a very delicate situation. He’s the contractor intelligence agencies use when they can’t be officially involved with an investigation. He’s not the guy you want your daughter to marry. Not because he isn’t a nice guy; he’s a great guy. He’s just never home. He’s former military, and has high-level connections within the intelligence community. Don’t call him if you suspect your spouse is cheating. Call him if you suspect your spouse is planning a terrorist attack, using a weapon of mass destruction.

Badass he is, but superhuman he is not. He has to work within his means. He cringes when he watches a James Bond movie. He rolls his eyes when he watches a single man dive a Soviet nuclear submarine and navigate it to the United States. He kind of likes Space Odyssey 2001. He really can’t get in to Star Wars.

Now, how about Rodd Mace? He’s quite simply Bruce Highland’s understudy. The master transfers the skills. Rodd is the main character here, but Bruce is there to back him up.

A Note from the Author

Really, Alex? A shoulder fired nuclear weapon? How do you make this stuff up? Actually, it isn’t quite shoulder fired, but close; and no, I did not make it up. Believe it or not, back in the cold war era in Western Europe, somebody actually thought it was a good idea to lob nuclear bombs from artillery guns and man-portable rocket launchers at advancing Soviet ground forces in the event they should show up uninvited to a party in Western Germany. Eventually, someone else reconsidered and decided it wasn’t such a great idea after all, and the ‘Davey Crockett’ recoilless rifles, capable of propelling a twenty ton yield nuclear projectile to a distance of 1.5 to 2.5 miles depending on the version of the launcher used, were decommissioned by 1967. Nuclear capable artillery shells with yields up to forty kilotons remained in service through the 1980s.

This novel is about the saga of a demented, twisted individual as he plans and executes a campaign to carry out an attack using a weapon of mass destruction, and the man charged with finding and stopping him. Original topic? No. Original twist? Yes, I think so. It’s really about the personalities, the minds, the characters, and how they deal with the evolving, and seemingly hopeless situation. Mace has his work cut out for him. Let’s hope he can keep it together.

Prologue

Aschaffenburg, West Germany, 1967

First Lieutenant Max Gilbert glanced down at his watch. They were late. He was the S4, which is the position descriptor of the battalion supply officer. Today, unlike a normal day, he wore a razor sharp starched and pressed olive drab fatigue uniform. He sported spit-shined Corcoran jump boots. Granted, it was an Infantry battalion, but he was the supply officer, not a combat Infantry soldier. Why was he dressed so well?

A week ago, his annoyance for being tied up on a Saturday morning would have resulted from no more than the intrusion of his weekend time off. He looked down at his packed duffle bags sitting by the Charge of Quarters’ desk. This time, the situation was different. His last official act as the Battalion S4 was starting to cut in to his deployment orders. If ‘they’ didn’t come soon, he risked missing his flight from Ramstein; that would not have a positive effect on his career. On the other hand, if he bailed on his assignment and left for the flight, there would be no duty officer to sign off the transfer paperwork. That was the transfer paperwork for the retirement and collection of field deployed tactical nuclear weapons; specifically, the unit’s allocation of four Davy Crockett M29 recoilless rifle systems, and four M388 nuclear projectiles. A failure to complete that duty assignment would have actionable consequences. Courts-martial consequences.

The flight was heading east, not west. They told him not to bother bringing any cold weather gear. That meant one thing. Again, he was a supply officer. Without even consciously realizing it, he answered the question revolving in his mind. The sharp pressed uniform. The spit shined boots.

Why? His appearance wasn’t normally so squared-away.

Again, why? The answer is why not? Think about it. Look sharp. Be sharp. With any luck, he would be snagged for a garrison office assignment in MACV headquarters when he reported for duty in Saigon, and not with some forward fighting unit up north. His supply sergeant ended up in Pleiku. Got taken out by shrapnel from a regular NVA artillery shell, God rest his soul. He needed to look pretty. He needed to present himself as a garage queen. An indoor pet. A wall hanging. A studious administrator capable of quashing endless volumes of oppressive paperwork within the protective confines of a massive garrison. He needed to be someone that could be seen in the background as the journalists photographed the generals.

Finally, the truck came. ‘They’ were actually a jeep and three trucks, two of which had a healthy detail of security guards bearing M14 rifles and helmet liners. He breathed a sigh of relief, although a part of him really did want to miss that flight.

A captain approached Gilbert with a clipboard and a pen. All right, listen up, Gilbert announced to the detail of four enlisted soldiers on hand for the transfer. The individual companies had relinquished their Davy Crocketts two days prior in preparation. One at a time. One M29 unit, and one warhead unit. We check off on them, load them in to the truck, then you go get the next set. Got it?

Yes sir! the corporal leading the detail responded.

Well, get to it.

Two could probably have managed, but four was a lot easier. The heavy wooden crate of the M29 launcher system was large and awkward. Even the smaller crate with the warhead wasn’t exactly light at nearly eighty pounds. One by one, four sets were loaded in the truck, the captain seemed satisfied, and the convoy drove off.

Sir! The corporal said as the convoy departed.

Yes corporal?

There is still one set left.

What? No. You aren’t pulling my leg are you?

No sir. Take a look for yourself.

Gilbert walked down the stairs to the basement room on the end. Sure enough, there was, in fact, a crated M29 system with an accompanying warhead, just like the other four. How the hell...?

I think we picked it up on that last alert. One of 1/7’s tracks broke down.

Gilbert walked back up the stairs, eyeing his watch. A jeep pulled with a Sergeant at the wheel. Sir, he said, saluting, I’m here to take you to Ramstein.

What do we do, sir? The corporal asked.

I really don’t know. Listen guys, it’s been real, and it’s been nice, but it hasn’t been real nice. I gotta go. See ya. Gilbert hoisted his bags on to the jeep, climbed in the right hand seat, and drove off the post. His mind was focused on what was ahead of him, not what he was leaving behind.

The other three men looked at each other in disbelief. What do we do? One of the PFCs asked.

Well, the corporal sighed. Remember the rest of our detail assignment. Put all that junk sitting in the hallway in to storage. The quicker you get it done, the sooner we can head down to the river and get some beer.

But, what about the Davy Crockett?

Hmm. I dunno. Just leave it be. I’ll deal with that tomorrow.

Or not.

The driver looked nervously through his rear view mirror. The dark blue Plymouth Satellite of the Missouri Highway Patrol had been on his tail for the last ten minutes on the lonely forest road. Finally, the twin red lights of the patrol cruiser came on. He coasted the massive Dodge Dart to a gravel turnout, shut off the engine, and rolled down the window.

The trooper put on his Smokey the Bear hat as he approached the driver. Driver’s license and registration please?

The driver fished his wallet out of his trousers, pulled the registration paper out of the glove box, and handed them to the trooper.

Is this your current address Mr. Sharpe? The trooper asked.

That’s right.

Long way from Saint Louis. Whatcha doing out here in these parts?

Just doing a little target shooting. That’s all.

The trooper looked around the interior of the Dart. Nice vehicle. I was looking at getting one myself. Might hold out for the sixty-eight model year.

Thank you.

The trooper handed Nathan Sharpe’s license and registration back. Wait here please. The trooper walked back to his patrol car, and returned with a clipboard. We have a report of a missing runaway. Last seen in Bixby. Seen this girl?

‘Nate’ Sharpe peered at the grainy black and white photograph of the high school aged girl. No. Sorry, officer.

The trooper scanned Nate’s eyes. He was more interested in his reaction than the actual answer. All right. Thank you. Have a nice day. He’s a good liar. But not a great liar. But a search without probably cause would really throw a wrench in to things.

Nate was visibly disturbed when he unlocked the front door. It was dusk. Mary Sharpe came out of the kitchen bouncing a crying toddler in her arms. Shhh. Daddy’s home. The toddler calmed down. Mr. Pierce called this morning. He wanted to know why you didn’t show up for work.

I uh, had to take care of some business. Friend of mine needed some help working on his car.

I told him you were sick, and at the doctor. Have you been drinking?

We had a few at the tavern.

Is that blood on your shirt?

Oh, yeah, I cut myself. I’ll be all right.

Sometimes I think you’re going to end up just like your father.

That’s not right. I don’t need for you to be lecturing me.

Oh I’m going to lecture you, mister. I don’t believe for one second you were helping some friend with some car. The women. The booze. Soon Roth is going to be old enough that he’s going to start noticing things.

Nate was getting angry. But, arguments led to fights. Fights led to visits by the cops. He could not have the cops show up tonight. He couldn’t. He simply couldn’t. He calmed down. All right. Yeah, you’re right.

He turned on the television. He couldn’t sleep. That encounter with the Highway Patrol trooper shook him badly. He watched the late night news as images of war protesters flickered across the screen. Soldiers. Burning villages. Dead bodies. Then it came to him.

He hated his life. He hated Saint Louis, he hated Missouri. He hated being a father. He hated himself. He wanted to escape. There on the television. The images. That was the answer. They could get out of Missouri. He could get out of Missouri. There’s only one place that they would send him. And he could get his… fix… as well. He heard the stories. The gook girls were free for the taking. That’s what they said anyway.

The tall sergeant in the sharp green dress uniform eyed Nate as he sat in the chair in front of his desk, reviewing the forms. I’m going to be up front with you, Mr. Sharpe. If you sign up with the Army, at this point in time, you’re going to Vietnam, and there is almost a one hundred percent chance you will end up on a front line fighting unit. Are you willing to accept that probability?

Yes. Yes I am.

Then I have some more paperwork for you, and you can expect a report date for MEPS within a couple of days.

Let me ask you a candid question. Do you think I’m doing something stupid?

There are some rumors that within a couple years, they might actually start the draft again. So, you might end up there anyway. Most guys are trying to get in the Navy and the Air Force while they still have a choice, to be honest with you.

The recruiting station closed down for the day. The master sergeant in charge withdrew the blinds. Something ain’t right with than man he said casually to the sergeant. The look in his eyes. I’ve seen it before. He’s signing up because he wants to kill.

The sergeant sighed. Well, he’ll go straight to a combat unit, so he’ll get his chance.

In my experience, psycho killers don’t make good soldiers. In fact, they make bad soldiers. If I were a bettin’ man, I’d guess he’ll end up in the brig before he reached the halfway point of his tour.

Chapter 1 – Cleaning the basement

Aschaffenburg, Germany – 1989

The fall weather was still pleasant. In a month, it would start getting cold. Real cold. Alpha Company stood in formation in front of the ancient world war one vintage barracks that housed the men during garrison duty. The mood was somber. Three junior enlisted members of first platoon screwed up and started a bar fight with some of the local Germans, affectionately known as ‘Rads.’ Granted, it was a GI bar down on the strip and there was alcohol involved, but there was property damage, and the incident caught the attention of the battalion commander. The battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Nash, spent Sunday morning bitching out the Alpha Company commander, Command Sergeant Major Lemmons, who then spent Sunday afternoon bitching out First Sergeant Franken. Eventually, the shit rolled downhill to Spec Four Mace.

They were Mace’s men. He was the squad leader. He was there. He didn’t start the fight, in fact, he ended it, but he was still there, and those were his men. Although only a Spec Four, Mace was one of the youngest peacetime Infantry soldiers to carry a squad leader position, which was normally an E5 or even an E6 slot. The company commander briefly assumed charge of the formation, expressed his displeasure for the behavior of the men at the gasthaus Saturday night, and returned control of the company formation to First Sergeant Franken.

Franken was a tall, wiry, crusty, old codger that always walked around like he had a pole up his ass, and carried forth a disposition that suggested the same. He rarely smiled, and when he did, it was when he threw a corny cliché at the Friday evening briefing such as, ‘if you have too much to drink out there, call me, and I’ll call you a cab.’ Franken spend the better part of five minutes just walking up and down the formation, eyeing the men standing at parade rest.

The incident was especially troubling to Rodd Mace. He passed his E5 board with flying colors. Maxed the board actually, just last Wednesday. The fact of the matter was that it was a tough board. First Sergeant Hallenstock actually liked the young specialist, but the command sergeant major, and even First Sergeant Franken himself had mostly distain for Mace, putting him generally in the classification of a young buck with too much authority, and too much special treatment, citing his special assignments with both battalion and brigade. Given that Franken had such a hard on for him, he expected that the promotion would not take place that morning as scheduled. In fact, he half expected it to not take place at all.

Finally, Franken broke the silence. Now, I know all of you hate standing at parade rest for an hour while Top bitches you out, but it’s not the first time you’ve been here and it won’t be the last. I realize you young men like to go out on the strausse and drink beer and chase girls, but you’ve given Alpha Company a black eye. I’m not going to sit here and lecture you all morning because you have a lot of work to do, starting now. And it won’t end with the evening formation. No. For the next solid week, until the following Monday, you will report for special details to last until twenty one hundred hours, every day. Dismissed.

The platoon sergeants did an about face and dismissed their platoons.

Oh, Frankel added, in a raised voice, above the din of conversation, Mace, report to my office.

It was like reporting to the grim reaper, sans the black hooded robe, but standing next to him was Staff Sergeant Hill. This can’t be good. Then again, it’s just Top and the platoon sergeant. Not Top and the company commander. That meant it probably wasn’t an article fifteen. But, then again, you never know. You really never know.

At ease, Mace. Please remain standing. With a grim look, Franken walked over to the front of the desk, and faced Specialist Four Mace. He proceeded to methodically strip both metal specialist four rank insignias from each collar and laid them down on the desk. You won’t be needing these anymore.

What the hell is Top doing? Mace was beside himself. Granted, it was a regrettable incident, but goddamn, lose rank over that?

All right, Staff Sergeant, he’s yours now, Franken said, taking his seat behind his desk.

Staff Sergeant Hill stood in front of Mace, and proceeded to pin on a set of replacement rank insignia. Mace couldn’t see it. What was he getting busted back to? E3? E2? At least some rank was being pinned back on, so he wasn’t an E1.

Congratulations, Sergeant Mace, Hill said as he backed off. Mace pulled up the collar of his forest camouflage BDU jacket to confirm that it was, in fact, a three stripe sergeant E5 insignia on each lapel. Thank you, staff sergeant. And first sergeant.

The first sergeant spoke. I realize you think I’m a sour old man, but believe it or not, I know the deal. You aren’t at fault. That said, if you thought there wasn’t going to be a ceremonial promotion in the formation, you were right. Regardless, you still earned it. Welcome to the NCO corps.

Thank you, first sergeant. I don’t know what to say. Mace replied.

Oh, you’re not getting off free and clear. You heard the part about special details until late night. Your squad is going to be faced with the hardest, so don’t let the promotion get to your head. You’re going to have to earn your keep here.

Understood.

Mace was generally described as tall, muscular, medium brown hair with a high and tight haircut, and washboard abs. All of these were visible in the sun lit barracks room as he performed a series of Tai Chi moves, with thirty minutes to go before the next detail.

Specialist Roth Sharpe and PFC Eric Mendoza were playing a couple hands of poker a couple beds down as they worked through a pack of cigarettes. Really, more like a couple of ‘AOs’ down. The large expansive rooms typically housed anywhere from two to five men, but the beds were not laid out in a regular formation, rather, the personal storage lockers and beds were arranged in a fashion that would provide maximum privacy in such small of a space, not that there was much privacy to begin with. These makeshift dwelling spots were typically referred to ‘areas of operation’ or ‘AO’s’ for short. An AO is basically wherever the soldier is residing at the time, be it a bed and locker, a tent, a sleeping bag, or even a hollowed out spot under a thicket of shrubs.

Both Sharpe and Mendoza were problem children. It was those two that started the altercation with the German ‘Rads’ on Saturday. It wasn’t the first time. They earned places on Top’s watch list. Mace frankly would have preferred to be on a different squad, although it was the smallest in the company, with only five men total out of the normal eleven men in a standard Infantry squad. That meant less work and fewer headaches. Takata and Brown were golden. But, Sharpe and Mendoza, more Sharpe than Mendoza, offset all of those good qualities.

All right gentlemen, Mace announced as he buttoned up his shirt. It’s time.

Cold war era U.S. Army installations were not typically large, self-contained full service bases, rather, they were typically located in ‘kasearnes,’ which took the space of a couple of city blocks, containing old world war one vintage barracks buildings originally built for the German Army. One brigade size unit might be split among two to four locations within a city, and the division might be located across several cities. A single kasearne might house a whole battalion, consisting of four line infantry or armor units and a headquarters unit. Alpha company was located next to the main gate entrance. Headquarters was located on the other side of the entrance. The buildings were massively constructed, with four effective stories. The line company barracks had two floors, with the lower entrance level containing the offices for the company commander and the first sergeant, with the enlisted men and junior NCOs of the company arranged in the rest of the first and second floor rooms. The top attic level was open, and used for indoor assembly and recreational purposes. The basement level contained the arms room, and ‘tow’ rooms, which were storage and assembly areas for the individual platoons.

Sergeant First Class Goth greeted the detail of five men. I love it when you guys fuck up Goth said, as he lead the detail down the stairs of battalion headquarters.

Why is that First Sergeant? Mace asked.

Because I get free labor to get stuff done I normally don’t have time for.

The headquarters building was constructed similarly to the barracks but contained mostly office space, with a small arms room in the basement and storage. Goth explained to the five men that their detail was to clean out the basement room labeled ‘B10’, which hadn’t been used in such a long time that they didn’t have a key for it, and even if they did, getting to it was a challenge because it was at the very end of the hallway, which was blocked solid with stacks of various wood and cardboard boxes.

Takata checked out the M35 ‘Deuce and a Half’ 2-1/2 ton tactical truck and parked it at the battalion headquarters entrance and joined up with the rest of the squad in the basement.