Free Point of Crisis by Steven Konkoly

smell, which he figured was some sort of chemical preservative or pest repellent. Possibly both. Presumably, the uniforms had been packed with no foreseeable use date, so it made sense to protect them for long-term storage.
    “Ever seen this camo pattern before?” Alex asked Lianez.
    “Negative. Looks like a dedicated urban pattern. Pretty useless in the native environment out there,” said Lianez, pointing to the trees beyond the main runway.
    Alex rubbed the material between his fingers, staring deeper into the container.
    Unless Homeland wants us to stand out.
    He pulled a packet labeled “manifest” from a metal folder attached to the inside of the door and ripped the sealed plastic covering. The first line item on the packing inventory disturbed him: Marine Corps Combat Utility Uniform, MARPAT: Federal Security pattern. 800 Units. Size adjustable.
     
    Federal Security? He couldn’t wait to see what was in the rest of the containers. No wonder Grady had hung up on him.
    “Does it say what the pattern is?” asked Lianez.
    “Negative,” Alex muttered. “Can I trust the two of you to check out the other hangars, without shooting someone? I’ll dig through the rest of this shit,” said Alex, hoping to somehow secure the containers before they returned.
    “That’s hurtful, sir. I do have feelings.”
    “Nice try. The Marine Corps doesn’t issue feelings, so I know you don’t have any. Just do a quick walkthrough. Make sure we don’t have any squatters. Looks like there’s a small office in each hangar. Close them up when you’re done.”
    He held out a ring of keys, which Lianez swiped from his hand.
    “Roger that, sir.”
    By the time Alex entered the final combination for the second container, the Matvee had sped to the adjacent hangar. The keypad LED turned green, and the hinged front door hissed, releasing its airtight seal. Instead of a disinfectant smell, the second container reeked of gun lubricant.
    This should be interesting.
    Alex pulled on the heavy gray metal doors, swinging each half hard enough to hit the sides of the container.
    “Whoa.”
    The box resembled an armory, filled front to back with four sliding weapons racks. A two-foot-wide passage ran down the center of the rows, leading to the rear of the container. Alex took a small flashlight from one of the pouches on his vest and illuminated the darker recesses beyond the racks. Dark green ammunition crates filled the far end, stacked from bottom to top and strapped to the container. He pulled on one of the weapons racks, which eased out of the container on heavily greased tracks attached to the floor and ceiling.
    Welcome, Kmart shoppers.
    The fifteen-foot-long, reinforced metal gun rack bowed slightly when fully extended, prompting Alex to push it most of the way back into the container. He didn’t want to break the sliding mechanism and not be able to get this rack out of sight. The contents would raise questions. He counted the rifles as it slid inside. One hundred mint condition MR556SDs, counting both sides of the rack. Recognizable by their hexagon-shaped, partially integrated suppressors, each rifle was fitted with an ACOG sight, forty-five-degree-mounted reflex sights for Close Quarters Battle (CQB), vertical front grip and the AN/PEQ-15 Advanced Target Pointer Illuminator Aiming Device.
    He directed the light down the next rack, seeing the same rifles.
    Why the hell would they need rifles designed to accept specially adapted suppressors? And why would they need two hundred of them?
    The third rack contained an even more bizarre choice of weapon. Compact and futuristic-looking MP-7 Personal Defense Weapons (PDW) fitted with reflex sights. The MP-7 fired a unique 4.6X30mm cartridge, capable of punching a hole through a Kevlar helmet at one hundred yards and defeating most Level IIIA body armor at similar ranges. The armor-penetrating projectile gave a concealable, submachine-gun-sized weapon the comparable power of a combat