The jet was fully computerized with the newest avionics. The Garmin G3000 flight deck plotted the route and the autopilot steered the aircraft across the country. A refuel stop near Dallas took more time on descent and climb out, but the aircraft was able to pick the right altitude for the best winds.
His aircraft, with the call sign of N883CS, was soon on its final leg to the landing at Memphis International Airport. Will slowed the plane down, went through the landing checklist, lowered the flaps and, near the outer marker, dropped his landing gear. The airport was lit up like the Las Vegas strip, but only in white. Will tilted his wing to see the world hub of FedEx. There, under the lights, stood an air force of white, jumbo cargo-carrying aircraft with the familiar blue tail lined up for what seemed like miles of tarmac. Boeing 767s, 777s, and other heavy airplanes were parked, liked NASCAR race cars in the pits, in line receiving their load of cargo and before departing on voyages to places around the country and the world. Being relatively close to the center of continental America had made Memphis a perfect choice for the original hub of FedEx.
The HondaJet’s wheels screeched as the aircraft settled down on the runway.
“November-eight-eight-three-Charlie Sierra request taxiing instructions to the FBO,” Will radioed after he pulled off of the active runway.
“Yes, sir, which one?”
“Wilson?”
He taxied the jet to the far end of the airport and pulled up beneath the cover of a large metal canopy.
“I won’t be long. Please refuel the aircraft. Here’s the number to call for funds.”
The man looked at him with a puzzled look.
“Call this number?”
“Yes, sir.”
A call on the number went directly to a particular bank’s main operations center and would then be transferred to a senior vice president on duty, whose job was to greenlight any funds Will Parker needed at a moment’s notice. The bank also offered twenty-four-hour access to the transfer of Will’s money when and wherever it was required.
The grounds man made the call as requested. After speaking with the person on the other end of the line for a moment, he put a hand over the phone and waved Will over: “They asked if you want fuel for a jet or to buy one.”
“Just the gas,” said Will. “Thanks. I’ll be leaving in a half hour.”
He still had several other destinations tonight and too short a time.
* * * *
“Let me finish this.” Will was using one of the burn phones he carried with him. The person he’d called would meet him in Washington, DC, in the morning. He made a special request, then thanked the person and clicked off.
He turned to Wade Newton, who was wearing his FedEx captain’s uniform. “Let’s go in the back.”
They headed to a quiet spot behind the rest area for visiting pilots, and Will sat across from him at a small table.
“Thank you for this.” Newton looked even worse than he had a few days earlier in Alaska. “I don’t expect much.”
The body found in the Sea of Cortez was, in all likelihood, the woman Marine who had been traveling with Newton’s son. Because of this, Wade Newton could only assume that the authorities would soon find the other body and return his son home for burial. A shallow grave in the desert of the Baja was a cold end that neither man could imagine.
Will Parker, however, was offering him hope. And hope was a dangerous thing.
“You might not want to do what I need you to do.”
“I’ll do it, don’t worry.”
Will nodded. “If you do, you’ll have to follow the exact timeline. You have to be at this exact spot at this time. And with these things.”
Newton looked at the sheet of paper on which Will had diagrammed the plan. Despite the details, it didn’t tell the whole story; it only showed the role that Wade Newton would play.
Wade looked up from the paper. “If this leads to whoever did this, I don’t give a damn what may come.”
“Okay,” said Will. “I’ll see you soon.” Thousands of miles were involved before what would happen next.
“Let me say this,” Newton added quickly. “I’m really sorry for what happened in Quantico.” Newton didn’t need to say it, but his speaking it helped. “I should have done more.”
A long silence unspooled between them.
“Let’s find out what happened to your son.” Will Parker shook the hand of a man who, one week before, he had never expected to see again.
* * * *
The HondaJet took off from Memphis as soon as it had been fueled. Will steered it to the southeast, heading for an airfield that had no designator. The flight from Memphis to Will Parker’s farm in southern Georgia caught a tailwind and took only slightly more than an hour. The airfield, like the one in Anchorage, had an unusually improved runway with lights and a hangar hidden in the pine trees at the far end.
Will saw the familiar figure of a man waiting outside the building as the aircraft taxied up and came to a stop. The man knew N883CS well. He pulled open the hatch after the airplane came to a stop.
“Gunny, I have a special mission for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You did get me into this mess,” Will said, not unkindly. He now needed Kevin Moncrief to do something most important. Like a good chess player, Will was thinking not about the next move, but two to three steps after that.
“I need some special equipment for Coyote Six, and you need to go north.” Will had a list of equipment he needed loaded on the jet and gave Moncrief the coordinates of his mission. The supplies for Coyote Six were all available at his cabin in Georgia. It wouldn’t take long.
The main cabin was on a ridge above the valley that held the airstrip. Moncrief’s truck took less than fifteen minutes to make the journey and was back with everything shortly thereafter. Will stayed with the aircraft, checking his aviation sectional charts and recording all of the frequencies on the avionics.
Will told Moncrief about his part of the mission as the gunny listened carefully.
“You need to be there no later than tomorrow night,” Parker said. “After that, things will start moving fast.”
* * * *
The jet lifted off from the small airstrip, turned to the north and, with the turn, started to lose some of the tailwinds that had carried it so far. Every pilot knew that winds could be fickle. And every trip was at the mercy of the wind gods. A hard headwind could slow an aircraft down to a crawl, just as a tailwind could provide a push. In between, a crosswind might help or hurt, but never to the same degree.
Will had landed at the next airfield a few times before and felt fairly familiar with it. VKX was barely on the maps. Potomac Airfield was a single strip just to the east of Fort Washington and a few miles outside of DC’s Capital Beltway. The owner had provided more than one favor over the years. He had served in the Marines and also happened to know personally the man who had put the general down with a punch. The Marine Corps was small enough that many knew most things that happened—on and off the battlefield. And all but a few had come down on Parker’s side regarding the lack of timely fire support that had resulted in the Marine team being overrun.
Will Parker didn’t have a problem with Potomac Airfield. Its strip was short by jet standards, but his skill with the HondaJet let it do more than what other pilots could do. Experience in the bush had taught him how to get in and out of tight places.
In addition to the safe landing, he needed an overnight hangar for Coyote Six, and even if it meant moving another plane out under the stars for an evening. It wasn’t protecting his plane that concerned Will; it was keeping it out of sight. The HondaJet was a hot rod that would cause other pilots to come by to kick the tires and take a look. The aircraft had a unique over-wing mount of its engines, and the jet motors looked like they were attached to pedestals. The design caus
ed the aircraft less drag and created more space inside. But it was all too obvious, too singular. And Will was, after all, trying to keep as low a profile as possible.
“Potomac approach, this is November-eight-eight-three Charlie Sierra for a full stop landing.” Will had lined up the aircraft for a landing on runway 24. It had just under 3000 feet of asphalt to work with. The HondaJet’s short-field capabilities made it work, plus the jet was light, with no passengers and little luggage, far less fuel than full tanks, so it could both land and take off in much less space than even a full HondaJet could have done. Nevertheless, it was a tight fit.
The airplane touched down just as the sun was coming up. The entire area seemed to be asleep, except for the few that ran the airfield. The problem was that those few who saw the HondaJet would speak of it.
“Don’t refuel it. I need to be light.” Will gave the instructions to the man who had slid the hangar door open and was pulling a smaller Cessna out to make room.
“Nice airplane.” The grounds man studied the lines of the jet as he hooked the HondaJet to a tow and backed it into the hangar.
His jet in place, Parker began the next step of his journey: to a five-sided building just across the Potomac. Time to set up the next piece of his plan.
Chapter 28
A Small Airfield in Maryland
Potomac Aviation had a nondescript, 1992 Oldsmobile Cutlass crew car that served as a courtesy car for pilots and crews that needed to do business away from the airport. The car’s odometer showed more than 150,000 miles and the vehicle clearly hadn’t seen the inside of a car wash in at least a decade. The free rental was ugly but convenient, and it also served another purpose for Will Parker: He’d leave less and less of a trail. The car would not be traceable to its driver, and no paperwork was involved in its use.
Similarly, he would not be using a registered cell phone or any credit cards. If all worked to plan, the tired former Marine in the Cutlass would officially never have driven on Indian Head Highway north toward Washington.
He checked his watch to ensure he was on time for the meeting, as he parked the car at the Pentagon City Mall public parking lot and crossed through the pedestrian tunnel. He wore a black baseball cap and sunglasses and kept his coat collar up, hands in his pockets. It wasn’t likely that the hundreds of cameras throughout the area would be used to search for him, but he preferred to remain as invisible as possible.
He crossed the grass to an area just below Arlington National Cemetery and not far from where the Pentagon’s helicopter pad had been located before September 11. The entrance to the memorial for those lost on that day was a short walk away. The sun lit up the area and its bright light reflected off of the stainless-steel cantilevered benches that marked each life lost the day American Airlines Flight 77 slammed into the structure immediately to his right. Will stopped at the first bench and read the name of three-year-old Dana Falkenberg, the youngest passenger on the aircraft. He stared at her name for a minute before moving on. The child had done nothing to incur the cruelty of the world. She, her sister, and her mother and father had been leaving for Australia when their plane had been hijacked.
Their fate reminded Will of another family that had boarded an ill-fated passenger jet on a trip that had been planned for years. Will glanced across the highway to Arlington, which hosted an unusual monument that few ever visited. He was one of the few. The Lockerbie Cairn, a short, circular tower made of Scottish red sandstone, had 270 blocks marking the 270 lives lost in the terrorist bombing of Pan Am Flight 103. Its place in Arlington marked one of the first acts of brutalism that would soon be known as terrorism. Two of the blocks in the monument were for Will’s own mother and father.
A woman dressed in a Marine Corps uniform was sitting on another bench not too far from the child’s memorial. She had a short haircut with some salt-and-pepper hair just below her cover and four rows of colored ribbons that told of more than one tour overseas. One of the medals was a Bronze Star with a V for valor. Below the decorations hung the Marine expert rifle badge and sharpshooter pistol badge.
Will looked up at the Pentagon. It had taken only sixteen months to build, despite the construction happening in the middle of World War II. Roosevelt hadn’t wanted it to stand higher than any building across the river. Today, 16,000 workers called it home.
Will joined the woman on the bench. “How’s your job?”
He had known Gail Ritchie since Basic School.
“Marine Corps Director of Intelligence? Good days and bad ones.” She understated the job. As the senior colonel, she ran the office for the two-star that held the top post.
“Still running marathons?” Will had had her on his shoulder in more than one race.
She smiled. “Maybe next time you come through here we can see what you’ve got.”
Will pointed at the seat she’d chosen. “It’s Chic Burlingame’s bench.”
Will stood next to her as she rose and straightened out her uniform.
“You knew him?”
“Yeah. F-four pilot and Academy grad. We crossed paths several years ago.” Will looked at the bench, remembering the man who finished first in his class at Top Gun. He had served in the Pentagon briefly with Will.
“Wasn’t he the pilot of Flight 77?”
“Yep. He’d retired from the Navy as a reservist and was waiting for his retirement to kick in.”
Gail sighed and looked at the bench with respect.
“All those years of danger and it ended like this.” She looked down to her hands as if they held the answer.
Will knew how she felt and he shared her anger. It wasn’t as if the nearly two decades had made much of a difference in the evil that still circled the world.
The particular pain caused by terrorism had struck him well before September 11. To this day, he lived with the memory of the telephone call. Every day something reminded him of it. The call had come from his mother; she’d said they were leaving London that evening and would be back in Georgia the next day.
“Still having trouble on the trigger pull with the pistol?” Will eyed the sharpshooter badge on her uniform. A sharpshooter was not a bad shot, but he knew she could do better.
“Yeah.” She said it with sarcasm, as if she were a student who still failed the test. “You’re right.”
A repeated fault of many was to anticipate the kick of the pistol just before it discharged. In anticipation, one would pull the trigger before the gun discharged. It tended to cause the shot to go down and to the left. Will had helped Gail on the range at Quantico more than once. She started out shooting so poorly that even the marksmanship badge seemed like a reach. It was a problem. Failure to qualify as a marksman meant disqualification as an officer until he or she got it right. Every Marine had to know how to shoot. The fundamental core of the Corps had always been each Marine’s ability to act as an infantryman or woman, first and foremost. So, failure on the firing range meant days and days of returning to it until one got it right. Failure also said that the extra time spent on the range put one further behind on other training, when everyone else had moved on. The embarrassment didn’t help. But Will, a natural shot, had taken her aside and with his help, she had qualified on time. Range officers didn’t let another young officer help a fellow lieutenant, but Lt. Parker had done things on that range that helped establish his reputation early on as an unusual officer. His max scores and accuracy qualified him to stay on at Quantico and be on the Marine firing team, but what he’d really wanted was to get out into the fleet so he could be shipped to the frontline fighting force.
Ultimately, his assistance had done more than help Gail Ritchie avoid getting a “toilet seat,” as Marines called the square marksmanship badge with a circle target in it, instead earning the sharpshooter badge. His training had also helped get Gail earn the Bronze Star when her convoy was overrun near Lashkar Gah in the Helmand p
rovince of Afghanistan.
He was also there for her during the divorce. She had made the mistake of marrying another Marine who liked hanging around the officer’s club when drinks were only a dollar. Her husband had one too many DUIs at a time when just one would derail a career. He didn’t handle the civilian world well. And Will helped her through the bad times. But she wasn’t smart—she was brilliant. The Marine Corps knew how important she was and made sure her career survived.
Will’s demeanor turned serious as he turned to his reason for meeting there.
He had already called her, so Col. Gail Ritchie knew what the mission was. She also knew Wade Newton. The man wasn’t on her favorite list either, but the loss of two young Marines meant much more than any personal likes or dislikes. Gail was one of only a few people who could deliver what Parker needed.
“I had to call in some IOUs to make this work,” she said. “It seems the woman Marine is likely dead.”
He nodded. “What were you able to do?”
“You’re going from here to New York. At CNN, you’ll check in with their bureau and they’ll handle what you need. You have the credentials as a freelance reporter working on a story about Michael Ridges. It usually takes a lot more time, but a friend has managed to get you an appointment with our expatriate hacker friend.” Gail Richie gave him the names of several people. “I got this from someone upriver.” She handed him a packet. The only agency upriver from the Pentagon was one known by its three initials.
He looked inside and saw a passport and other documents.
“They all match what we gave CNN. The photo’s a little old, but they blurred it enough that it should work.”
“Thanks.” Will looked at his cell phone, calculating timetables. “You got this done since just last night.” He was impressed. There was, however, no other option.
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