Investigating Agent - #1 Novella in the Agent Series.: Agent Series, #1

By Dan J Ford

The perfect crime... A dead of night, audacious weapons shipment hijacking, with no discernible clues...

Months later, one barcode identifying a crate of the hijacked consignment is scanned and flagged in a biannual back-count at a Marine Air Base. Fightertown, MCAS Miramar.

Upon arrival, the investigation seems a fools errand: a scanning malfunction. Until inconsistencies emerge. Then MCAS Miramar becomes downright hostile.

Aided by by-the-book Rookie MP Ezzy Lobos, Investigating Agent Tom Wiseman might have to side-step standard operating procedures to close the case, and exercise justice... his way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan J Ford
• Release date: Nov 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223602408

Book preview

1

CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIVE DIVISION HQ. QUANTICO, VIRGINIA. FRIDAY 5 TH MARCH. 0755 EST.

Early morning sun streamed through the second-floor, east-facing office windows, and the air, although conditioned, carried the lightest scent of wetlands - the nearby Potomac River’s distinct aroma.

It was a beautiful, pre-spring day in March and partitioned screening cut shadows across compact desks and computer terminals segregated by partitioned screening in CID’s sparsely furnished Headquarters. Personnel in military and non-military dress arrived and said mostly perfunctory greetings and engaged in small talk whilst making a morning coffee in the fully equipped lunchroom.

As wall clocks transitioned from off-duty to on-duty at 0800, CID’s few civilian human resources staff, forensic scientists, and its majority of military officers and special investigators set to their daily tasks and caseloads.

One Investigating Agent had performed these pre-work routines hours ago and sat in his cubicle, pondering a personal dilemma.

Well, that’s that. Sergeant Tom Wiseman reread the text message his mother had sent whilst suppressing a wave of anger, blanketed in regret.

‘Thomas, I have great news. Shelly and Gary just got engaged.’

Gary… Tom pushed the Bakersfield truck hijacking prelim report and its witness interview back into their file, then pushed the file further away on his spotless desk. The hijacking was three months ago, still unsolved, and ruminating over it had become his early morning ritual. Its audaciousness and complete lack of tangible leads singled it out amongst the slim pickings of his other unsolved whodunits.

Dejected, Tom placed his phone in the newly cleared space. He studied each word of the text message again, as a bomb technician might wires of various colors and origins. Meeting Gary for the first time last Thanksgiving was a kick in the teeth. A real alpha male meets Law School archetype. Chiseled, big gold watch and apt to remind anyone within earshot ad nauseam even if you had just met, of his litigating attorneys’ credentials and Ivy League top honors.

Oh Shelly, don’t marry that jacka⁠—

Wiseman?

Startled, Tom turned to find his Staff Sergeant, surnamed Richards, first name, Willard or Willy, standing a few meters behind him. Richards was a dark African American, and he stood attired in Army fatigues with his dark arms folded, studying Tom. An All-American tailback in his college years; Tom had found that out after ‘Willy’ and he had solved a murder whilst taking down a Credit Card scam at a PX store in Hawaii. They had celebrated with a case of beer on the tailgate of the hired pickup truck used as cover to buy cloned PX store cards at a truck-stop restroom in Honolulu. Willie still carried a stocky, fast-twitch athlete’s demeanor, hardened with eighteen years of service, twelve as a CID Agent.

Important? Staff Richards furrowed his ample brow, directing the question at Tom’s phone.

Not anymore. Tom swept the phone aside.

You caught the hijacking a while back, right? Richards pointed to the dog-eared file. Bakersfield?

Yep, just going over the prelim and witness statement again.

Take em with. One crate of the heisted mines just showed up in MCAS Miramar.

Miramar? Tom said, perplexed. When?

Our CO just got off the phone to the Marine CO. The crate got flagged during a bi-annual backcount of base logistics. Matching barcode. That’s all I know. Your flight to San Diego leaves in an hour.

Tom shoved his phone deep into his back pocket and all sentimentality with it.About time something shook loose. Standing excitedly, Tom swept the Bakersfield file from his desk when Willy gave his parting two cents.

Tread lightly Agent Wiseman. Marines can get a little…rowdy, and territorial.

2

MCAS MIRAMAR. SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA. 1415 PACIFIC TIME

Tom rubbed his earlobe to collarbone scar in the Uber’s back seat as they stop-start approached Miramar’s main security gate with a building stream of cars, SUVs and pickups three lanes wide. Was inflow traffic in such quantities unusual for a Friday afternoon? Tom wondered.

Embossed in thick brass within a low curved wall of deep red bricklayers backing: ‘MCAS MIRAMAR’ fronted the Corps 3rd Marine Air Wing, and 1st Expeditionary force. A ‘big deal’ base. Tom rubbed his neck’s scar tissue again, absentmindedly. Flying always tensioned the superficial tissue with an uncomfortable, dehydrated pulling effect. The airline’s lunch offerings and a bag of salted peanuts did not salve any discomfort. In fact, the only saving grace of the flight was a magazine someone had left in the overhead compartment, the latest installment of the New Yorker. Amongst the editorials and advertisements was a half-decent four-page article on how organized crime, particularly the Balkan mafias and South American cartels were engaged in a tech race against their counterpart policing agencies. Night vision, communication scanners, UAV drones, etc. Tom’s phone rang as the guard gate neared: it was Richards. Tom answered.

Staff?

Wiseman. The CO of Miramar just called. The armory has reported a fowl up. Apparently, they have repeated the back-count of all TS-50 mines and the count and barcodes now match Miramar’s inventory. The flagging was likely a misread with the scanning gun. It’s rare, but it happens.

Disappointment edged Tom’s reply. He’d been hypothesizing most of the plane and Uber rides how a crate of mines could be hijacked from an Army transport near Bakersfield, then show up three months later at a Marine Air Base, three hundred miles away.

I’m at the gate. Wait one. Coasting under a huge tan-colored awning in the middle lane, the car came to a stop. Tom cradled the phone whilst surrendering his Military ID. A tanned, razor-sharp Marine Private Second Class, name badged Sloan, eyeballed the stats: Wiseman. Thomas. H. Sergeant. Height: 5’ 11". Weight: 187 pounds. Eyes: Blue. Hair: Dark Brown. Ethnicity: Caucasian. The photo was of a younger Tom, sporting more of an airliner pilot’s hairstyle than a GI’s with a few fingers of dark hair falling over one eyebrow. He was clean-shaven and scarless. Penetrating blue eyes, the color of snooker chalk, seemed to hold a measure of calculation, with a strong, squarish jawline culminating in a mildly cleft chin. Sloan issued a curt nod and handed the ID back, then eyeballed Tom’s Army ACU’s and tan duffle bag on the rear seat. His Indian driver was also studied closely. PFC Sloan then scanned a tablet in his other hand, eyebrows rising in surprise.

Colonel Stradforth is expecting you. PFC Sloan gave curt and precise directions as a second guard holding a pole with a mirror attached, completed a full circuit, checking the Uber’s undercarriage.

Go ahead Staff, Tom said into his phone as the car moved off.

As Colonel Stradforth initiated the order to investigate, take a quick summary statement, then have him sign it and an order to rescind as well. Staff Sergeant Richards ordered. Be back here tomorrow.

Roger that.

Colonel Stradforth was a Marine Aviator, lean, Caucasian, hair thinning, and good-humored in his 50s. His flyboy insignia, one anchor and shield centering a broad set of wings was affixed to his spotlessly pressed, tan dress shirt. He shook Tom’s hand in his top-floor corner office at ‘HQ.’ Colonel Stradforth eyed Tom’s scar quickly as they both sat down either side of the CO’s desk.

I’m sorry for the mess around Sergeant. Logistics command alerted me via email, yesterday afternoon. A flagged consignment. First time for everything. I followed SOPs, contacted our Provost Marshal and issued an order to investigate, then sent a copy of the order back to Army Logistics Command. However, It seems a faulty scanning gun or a bad read by one the armory staff, or something like that has wild-goose-chased us all.

Tom placed the Bakersfield folder on the desk, opened the file, then slid out a line-ruled summary statement page resting on top.

I understand, sir. So which is it? Tom began jotting details on the summary.

I’m not sure I understand. The colonel replied. Which… is what?

The cause of rescinding the investigation? A faulty scanning gun, or a misread?

Ahh, the gun, I think. That’s what our Armourer reported up the chain to the Provost Marshal, this morning. I called Army CID directly after as the reply to the order to investigate I received from Army Logistics, identified they had sent an Investigating Agent.

Understood sir. Was there anything else unusual about the back count, anything out of the ordinary at all?

No. The colonel pursed his lips for a moment. Apart from the date.

The date?

Yes, a late change. I moved the backcount forward a week as we are hosting the annual Marine Air Arm maneuvers here, next week. Armory staff will be required for extra guard gate shifts, with the expansion of billeted personnel.

Understood sir. Tom finished transcribing the main points of their brief conversation and passed the summary statement across the desk. Please sign this summary statement if you agree with its accuracy sir. Colonel Stradforth read and signed the document, giving a curt nod as he passed it back across the table.

If you could point me toward the armory sir, Tom said whilst shouldering his duffle bag. "I will