My Boss Forced Me To Approve Defective Armor For Frontline Soldiers—When His Enforcer Grabbed Me In The Base Washhouse, I Put Him On The Floor And Uncovered His Darkest Secret
O’Brien shoved the tarpaulin back over the plates, the rough canvas rasping against the metal. The hangar door at the far end creaked open, just a sliver. We both froze.
“This way, Kincaid,” O’Brien whispered, pulling me back through a maze of crates. “There’s an old service tunnel. Leads out near the motor pool.”
We moved quickly, shadows flitting through the gloom. The thought of those repainted beams, ready to be mounted on M113s, churned in my stomach. Soldiers would die.
“Finch has been doing this for a while, hasn’t he?” I asked once we were clear of the hangar, slipping into the humid night. The crickets were chirping a relentless chorus.
O’Brien’s jaw tightened. “Hard to say how long. It’s usually small stuff, a bad batch of spark plugs, some faulty tires. But this armor… this is different.”
We walked in silence for a few minutes, cutting through a patch of overgrown scrubland behind the flight line. The distant sound of a Chinook helicopter thrummed in the humid air.
“There was a kid,” O’Brien said, his voice low, almost an afterthought. “Private Thomas Ward. Twenty years old. Army clerk. Sharp kid, noticed things.”
I glanced at him. O’Brien rarely offered unprompted information.
“Ward was assigned to Supply Depot Four,” he continued. “That’s where these plates came in. Three weeks ago, he started asking questions about the steel shipments. The metallurgical tests.”
My steps faltered. “What kind of questions?”
“He thought the test results were faked,” O’Brien said, his eyes scanning the perimeter. “Said the density reports didn’t match the weight manifest for a certain grade of steel. He even had some samples he’d scraped off.”
A cold knot formed in my gut. This was too neat. Too much of a coincidence.
“What happened to Ward?” I asked.
O’Brien stopped at the edge of the motor pool, gesturing towards a darkened, empty shed. “Official report says he was killed in a Viet Cong mortar attack. Caught outside the wire during a patrol.”
He pulled a small, worn notebook from his fatigues. Its cover was faded green, the pages dog-eared.
“But that’s not what the incident log says,” O’Brien stated, opening the book to a specific page. He held it out for me to see in the faint moonlight.
My eyes scanned the handwritten entry, my breath catching in my throat.
**INCIDENT LOG – 9TH MP REGIMENT**
**DATE:** 03 AUG 1969
**TIME:** 2340 HRS
**LOCATION:** Supply Depot 4, Main Entrance
**CASUALTY:** PVT Thomas Ward, Svc No. 129-87-65
**CAUSE:** Single projectile, .38 CAL, Entry wound posterior occipital region. Deceased at scene.
**REMARKS:** Depot secured and locked at time of incident. No signs of forced entry.
The words blurred for a moment. “He wasn’t killed by a mortar,” I whispered. “He was shot. Inside the depot.”
“From behind,” O’Brien added grimly. “In a locked building. No forced entry.”
He snapped the notebook shut. “The MPs closed the case fast. Called it ‘friendly fire in a confusing combat situation’ after the mortar report came through an hour later. No real investigation.”
I looked from the log entry to O’Brien’s hard face. The air, already thick with humidity, suddenly felt heavier, colder. Thomas Ward wasn’t a combat casualty. He was murdered, silenced because he got too close to Finch’s dirty secret. And now, I was standing in his shoes.
“This isn’t just about bad steel anymore, is it?” I said, the question hanging in the air. “This is about murder.”
O’Brien only nodded, his gaze distant. A low hum started, the sound of an approaching vehicle. Not a patrol, but something heavier, civilian. It was Finch’s private security detail, no doubt searching for me.
The night was closing in, and I knew my time on this base was running out.
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