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
The grinding roar of a base loudspeaker suddenly shattered the relative calm, making me jump. The mechanical voice boomed across the motor pool, echoing off the corrugated metal roofs.
“Attention all personnel! Urgent security alert!”
O’Brien and I exchanged a look of dread. The voice continued, flat and authoritative.
“Evelyn Kincaid, civilian contractor, is now considered a flight risk and an active threat to base security. She is wanted for the theft of classified military blueprints, conspiracy to commit treason, and aiding enemy forces.”
My blood ran cold. Treason? Enemy forces?
“A full CID investigation has been launched,” the loudspeaker declared. “Any personnel found assisting Kincaid will face immediate court-martial. Report her location immediately.”
O’Brien’s mouth was a thin, grim line. “Finch works fast.”
“But… treason?” I stammered, the words barely forming. “He’s making me a North Vietnamese sympathizer?”
Before O’Brien could reply, we heard the thud of heavy boots on the gravel road leading to the quarters. A squad of MPs, their helmets glinting under the few remaining lights, were fanning out around the area where my quarters were.
“They’re raiding your room,” O’Brien stated. “Looking for ‘blueprints.’ And for you.”
“My equipment,” I said, a wave of panic rising. My metallurgical testing kit, my logbooks, the small photo of my brother. All of it.
“Go,” O’Brien urged, pointing to the darkest corner of the motor pool. “There’s an old maintenance pit under that lean-to. You can hide there until first light.”
He disappeared into the shadows, presumably to create a diversion or to mislead the MPs. I didn’t wait, darting for the lean-to.
I squeezed into the cramped, oil-stained pit, pulling a torn canvas tarp over myself. The air was thick with the smell of gasoline and rust. Through a crack in the metal siding, I watched.
The MPs were systematic. They kicked open the door to my small, prefabricated hut. I heard the crash of overturned furniture, the splintering of wood. They weren’t just searching; they were destroying.
A few minutes later, two men in civilian clothes, Finch’s private security, emerged from my quarters carrying a canvas bag. They emptied its contents onto the ground. I saw the glint of my spectrometer, the delicate glass of my reagents.
One of Finch’s men raised a heavy boot and stomped down. Glass shattered. Metal crunched. My equipment, irreplaceable in this war zone, was pulverized.
“No blueprints, huh?” one of the security men sneered.
The other laughed. “Doesn’t matter. The major’s already signed off on the warrant. She’s cooked.”
My stomach clenched. Major Callahan. He was bound by procedure. If Finch presented official-looking documents, even fabricated ones, Callahan might have had no choice but to authorize the warrant.
The MP squad leader barked orders, and his men began to spread out, systematically sweeping the motor pool. Flashlights cut through the darkness, moving closer and closer to my hiding place.
I pressed myself further into the grime of the pit, trying to control my breathing. Finch wasn’t just trying to get me off base. He was trying to erase me. To discredit everything I’d found, and everything I was about to find.
The accusation of treason wasn’t just a threat. It was a lock, designed to cut me off from any help, any official channel. It put a target squarely on my back. And out here, in a war zone, that target could be fatal.
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