Surly Bonds

by Michael Byars Lewis

  He was starving, and his cabinets were bare. Nothing in the fridge or freezer either. Alonzo had told him he was under house arrest, but he never really specified what that meant. Screw it, he thought. They were either going to kick him out or not. It was better to beg for forgiveness that to ask permission.

  After a quick shower, he dressed and decided to head to Taco Bell. Once in his Mustang, the engine roared to life and he drove out of the parking lot. Out the main gate, he made a right turn and headed for Highway 81. He approached the intersection and noticed a truck behind him. The bright headlights annoyed him as the truck pulled up close behind his car. The first thing that popped into his mind? He was worried someone followed him off base.

  The thought left him immediately, as the truck switched lanes and pulled beside the Mustang. Jason slowed as the two vehicles reached the intersection. Without warning, the truck jerked to the right and slammed into the Mustang’s left front fender. The move forced Jason toward the shoulder of the road, but he took the quick right turnoff on to Highway 81 and escaped the truck.

  “Holy crap,” Jason said. His heart raced, and his mind struggled to understand what just happened. Jason controlled the Mustang as he headed southbound out of Enid. “What the hell is that crazy son of a bitch doing?” he said as he glanced in his rearview mirror. The bright lights of the truck followed him southbound.

  His grip tightened on the steering wheel and Jason accelerated steadily. He sped up to sixty miles an hour. The headlights in the mirror stayed with him.

  “Who is this guy?”

  The truck trailed him for a couple of minutes, two car lengths back. Jason increased his speed to seventy, north of the small town of Bison. The truck still hung with him. When they passed through Bison, the truck closed the gap. He checked the mirror, as the truck came closer and closer.

  Jason scanned both sides of the road, searching for a way out. The median between the two sides of the highway couldn’t be crossed. A small ditch sat in the middle of the highway and on the right side of the road. The truck would catch him if he went off-road. His best option was to stay on the highway and attempt to outrun the truck. Another glance in the mirror and he realized this might be difficult to do. The truck rode ten feet behind him now at eighty-five miles an hour. Jason pushed the accelerator to the floor and the Mustang crept toward ninety, yet the truck stuck with him.

  The two vehicles raced through the darkness on the deserted strip of highway. The truck turned off its headlights, and for one moment, disappeared in the darkness. Checking the side view mirror, the truck barreled toward him. Jason braced for another strike on his fender. The Mustang shook as the truck hammered the side fender again, but Jason maintained control. No sooner had he regained control of the Mustang, the truck hit him again.

  “Hey,” Jason yelled. “What the hell did I do to you?” His thoughts were disrupted by a loud noise from his car, likely the muffler. It must have been knocked loose. Sparks danced across the road from underneath his vehicle. The truck dropped back again.

  Jason never heard the gunshots. The first indication the guy in the truck shot at him was the round that penetrated his rear windshield and buried itself in the dashboard next to him. The rear windshield shattered like a spider web, and Jason couldn’t tell what was behind him. He swerved back and forth across the road, to keep the person in the truck from getting a good shot at him. A few more dull thuds hit the back of his car, as bullets peppered his classic automobile. Suddenly, the back of his vehicle erupted in flames.

  When he saw the fire, Jason moved the Mustang across the road, and steered into a wheat field. The terrain bounced him around violently; his head bounced against the steering wheel, then he jerked back into his seat. Jason no longer controlled the car. It drove him through the field.

  The car slowed, and Jason managed to gain enough composure to open his door and throw himself out of the fiery Mustang. He landed on his right side and rolled away, the left rear tire of the car barely missed his feet. The door slammed shut as the car barreled deeper into the field. Jason stopped rolling in time to watch his beloved American classic Mustang explode in the night.

  He It had been a long day. checked himself out. There didn’t seem to be any broken bones, although his ribs were sore, and blood dripped from his forehead. Instinctively, he crawled deeper into the wheat field to conceal himself. The truck pulled up to the edge of the wheat field. Jason laid motionless for several moments, well hidden among the tall grass, fifty yards from his flaming car.

  The driver stepped out of the truck. Jason couldn’t see his face and wasn’t about to crawl closer. He could see a pistol in his hand. The figure edged toward the burning car, and then picked up his speed to a jog.

  Jason didn’t move; afraid to breathe. His heart beat hard and for a moment, he feared his attacker would hear it. He was defenseless. The would-be killer approached the car and walked around to the back end. The flames engulfed the Mustang, the assailant unable to get too close.

  The attacker turned and ran toward him. Jason’s heart pounded. Had the man seen him? The attacker came closer, but Jason refused to move. Was it fear? Or was instinct taking over? The flames of his burning car highlighted the assailant, his face finally in view.

  It was Vince.

  The bastard had tried to kill him.

  Vince ran past him and jumped into his truck. Jason breathed a sigh of relief but remained frozen. The truck’s engine started, and he watched it pull on to the highway and drive off into the darkness.

  40

  September 11, 1995

  * * *

  VIKTOR WALKED THROUGH THE SMALL FIELD behind his cottage, the fresh snow crunched beneath his boots, the trail back to his cottage visible in the still-white snow. The fresh air was prevalent this time of year. Any stench that existed would soon be buried under an icy tomb for the next several months. The snow had fallen early as he predicted, the gloomy winter upon them. His hands were stuffed deep into his pockets, and a thick fog came from his mouth with each breath. Viktor was troubled, as he walked nowhere in particular. More troubled now than in recent weeks. He could not remember when he had been so disturbed. Perhaps when his wife died.

  Viktor stared back at the cottage, as he stood just short of the tree line. The dull gray sky showed promise of another snow soon. It was impossible to tell the time of day since there were no shadows cast by the sun. The people would go hungry again, his plan to save them unraveled before it started.

  News of Palovich’s death came as a shock to Viktor. He received the news with no display of emotion; a benefit of years of experience in the Soviet system. Inside, the news shook him like an earthquake; years of friendship, shattered. His driver, his confidant, his friend was a traitor. He knew why Nikolai took care of the situation without informing him. His judgment would have been clouded. He was too close. And now it was done.

  Why had Palovich done this? Was he angry at Viktor? The government? He had an excellent job. While the role of a chauffeur was not an exciting line of work, Palovich had a certain amount of prestige. It didn’t make sense. What drove a man to forsake all those to whom he had been loyal?

  Viktor stared across the field, his heart heavy, and thought about the future. Long ago, this cat and mouse game with America, became a game for younger men. He no longer had the stomach for the complexities involved. He hoped the Committee would handle the situation he created for them. The players were all in place; the process in motion. The Mako had been activated. In a matter of days, an American senator and potential presidential candidate, would be dead.

  AT EIGHT IN THE MORNING, Colonel Benjamin Todd Jensen was ready for the day to end. His job as wing commander of an undergraduate pilot training base wasn’t supposed to be stress free, but it wasn’t supposed to be this difficult either. He sat behind his desk with his hands in his lap. His eyes peered over the glasses sitting midpoint on the bridge of his nose. He had another appointment scheduled this morning, but for som
e reason his secretary slipped this gentleman in first. The man approached his desk and stopped five feet from the edge.

  “Good morning, Colonel, my name is Agent Aaron Caldwell, Central Intelligence Agency,” he said, flashing his I. D. badge.

  Agent Caldwell extended his hand, but Jensen ignored it. “CIA? What can we do for you? I thought DIA did all the background checks for security clearances.”

  “Well, sir, I’m not here for that. My associate, Agent Greg Johnson of the FBI, and I, are here working on a case. It is my responsibility to notify you that we will be operating on and around Vance Air Force Base. I’m here to ask for your cooperation as much as possible.”

  Jensen stared at the man coldly as he leaned forward. “I’m sorry—run that by me again. Did I hear you say you were investigating my base?” Jensen said.

  “No, sir, we are investigating on and around Vance Air Force Base. I am here asking for your cooperation when needed.”

  “And just what, sir, is it you are investigating?”

  “I am not at liberty to disclose that information, sir.”

  “But the CIA’s job is to deal with intelligence and counterintelligence overseas. This is America. If we have a problem here, the FBI should handle it. Why are you investigating on my base?”

  “Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m unable to disclose that information. Let me assure you arrangements have been made and the accountability lies with us.”

  Jensen slammed a fist on his desk. “Damn it! Do you have any idea what kind of week I’ve had here? I’ve already had one Class A mishap resulting in a fatality and an aircraft destroyed. I’ve got a damn student AWOL, who we still can’t find. I’ve got the damned OSI investigating a test-cheating scandal. And now the CIA shows up, without warning, and wants me to roll out the damn red carpet but doesn’t think they need to tell me a damn thing about why they’re here. Well, I tell you what, Agent . . .”

  “Caldwell.”

  “Agent Caldwell, you can waltz yourself right back to wherever you came from until I can find out what you are here to investigate. I’ve seen how you guys operate. I worked with some of you folks during Desert Storm, and I can tell you I wasn’t very damned impressed. Do we understand each other now?”

  “I think so.” Caldwell stood in front of the colonel, silent for a moment. “May I use your telephone?”

  Jensen pushed the phone toward Caldwell.

  Caldwell picked up the receiver and dialed. After several seconds, someone answered the phone on the other end and Caldwell spoke softly into the phone. He hung up and stepped back from the desk. “Is there somewhere I can get some coffee while I wait?”

  Jensen’s face glared a fiery red. “Wait for what? What the hell was that all about? You mark my words, mister—there will be no investigation on my base until I am in-briefed on who is being investigated and why. This is my base, and I will determine who will do what.”

  “Colonel?”

  “What?”

  “The coffee?”

  Jensen grunted and hit the speakerphone. “Helen.”

  “Yes, Colonel?”

  “Would you be so kind as to get Mister Caldwell a cup of coffee?”

  “Coming right up, sir.”

  “Have a seat, Mister Caldwell. I’m sorry. Do you prefer Agent Caldwell or Secret Agent Caldwell?” he said sarcastically. Jensen sat back in his chair, confident in the way he handled the situation. He was tired of outsiders coming to his base dictating how they would conduct business.

  “Mister Caldwell will do.”

  Thirty seconds of silence passed before Helen brought his coffee. Caldwell stood and thanked her.

  “Okay, Mister Caldwell, you’ve got your coffee. Now, since you can’t tell me what you want to do here, do you suppose you can tell me what your little phone call was about? Do you want to tell me anything before I have you removed from my office and my base?”

  “Colonel, you’ll receive a phone call in five minutes or less, explaining everything you need to know. I can sit outside if you’d like, while you wait for that call.”

  “You can keep your seat. I have a feeling this will be most interesting.” Jensen felt he’d taken charge of this situation. He thought it was a clever idea for the agent to watch him handle whatever CIA supervisor called to explain why Caldwell was here. Of course, he would cooperate, but Jensen grew tired of these agents popping up out of nowhere. It was time to show them who was boss.

  Agent Caldwell sat in his chair and sipped his coffee for several minutes. It began to bother him that he couldn’t intimidate Agent Caldwell. Damn spooks. They always pissed him off. They pissed him off in the desert, and this one pissed him off now.

  The shrill phone shattered the silence. It had been six minutes since Caldwell made his call. Jensen sneered at Caldwell.

  Get ready for the show, boy. I dropped bombs on downtown Baghdad in triple-A so thick you could walk on it. No spook is going to walk into my office and tell me what to do.

  Jensen answered after the second ring. “Colonel Jensen here.”

  “Ben, this is General Maxwell,” the voice over the phone said. General Hiram Maxwell was the four-star general who commanded Air Education and Training Command. Jensen sat at attention in is chair without realizing it.

  “Yes, sir, what can I do for you this morning?” he said, forgetting momentarily about the agent in front of him.

  “Ben,” the four-star said in a grave voice, “I’m not sure what the hell is going on, but the chief of staff just called me about you not cooperating with the CIA on an investigation at your base.”

  “He did?” His eyes darted to Caldwell, then away again.

  “Hell yes, he did, and every indication is that you are being, in plain English, a pain in the ass.”

  “But sir—”

  “I don’t want to hear about it. Your orders are to cooperate to the max extent possible.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If that man asks you to move out of your house, you move.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Look, Ben. I have no idea what’s going on, but I just had my butt chewed out by the chief because of you. I’ll suck it up for now, and we’ll sort it out later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This one’s big, Ben. Don’t screw up, or we’ll both be serving Big Macs and fries at McDonald’s.”

  Jensen gulped as the line on the other end went dead. No thanks, no good-byes, no vote of confidence—only the prospect of getting fired if he screwed up this investigation. Jensen stared at his desk for a moment, and then glanced at Agent Caldwell. He expected him to wear a smug smile, but he didn’t. Jensen wondered who the hell this character was and how he had access to the people he did. When he thought about what just happened, as fast as it did, he decided the general was right. This was big.

  “Mister Caldwell,” Jensen said with all seriousness, “what can I do to help?”

  THE EXECUTIVE OFFICER Jensen assigned to help Caldwell was sharp. In fifteen minutes, he retrieved the names and schedules from the database. He scanned the sheet until he found the name Vince Andrews. He gathered the info on him and placed it in his briefcase.

  “Do you think you could drive me over to the T-37 squadron?” Caldwell said.

  The young executive was a captain named Tyler Daily. “No problem, sir. The colonel’s car is downstairs. I’ll have you there in minutes.” The short, trim exec spoke politely and confidently. Caldwell admired that. The two walked downstairs and climbed into the colonel’s dark blue sedan. The two-minute ride made Caldwell feel as if he should walk, but he tossed the thought aside.

  “Here we are, sir,” the young exec said. “Is there someplace specific you were looking for?”

  “Yes, the commander’s office,” he replied.

  “Through these doors, take an immediate right.”

  Caldwell shook the young captain’s hand. “Thank you, Captain. Your boss could use a few more like you.” The captain nodded. Caldwell exite
d the car and entered through the double doors, where he was met by a paunchy lieutenant colonel.

  “Mister Caldwell? I’m Lieutenant Colonel Baker, squadron commander of the Eighth Flying Training Squadron. Colonel Jensen called and told me you were on your way down. How can I help you?”

  Caldwell studied the man. He didn’t appear to be the stereotypical commander like Colonel Jensen. He was a little overweight with a comical face.

  “I’d like to review some of your students’ files. And I’d like to make sure no one is aware of what I’m doing.”

  Baker nodded. “Follow me, we’ll get you started.” They stepped into his admin section and showed him the student files. Caldwell appreciated Baker never asked who or what he searched for. It took several minutes before he found Vince Andrews’ file. He placed a pink file marker labeled OUT in its place, then slipped the file into his briefcase.

  “I’d like to access any information you might have on the computer.”

  “Not a problem.” Baker moved across the room to where an older tech-sergeant sat at a computer and spoke quietly to the man. The sergeant grabbed his hat and left the room. Baker signaled Caldwell as he sat at the computer. Baker had a main menu up with a list of commands displayed.

  “I think this is the page you want. It contains all the personnel information for everyone in my squadron—instructors and students. It also contains all the information on student performance—daily rides, tests, basic student performance information.” Baker stood and offered Caldwell the chair. “If you need anything else, let me know.”

  “Thank you,” Caldwell said with a smile, “I think this is exactly what I need.” He slid the mouse around and clicked away. The first file he opened was Baker’s. Sooner or later he’d need to brief someone on this, and Jensen was such an asshole, he was more comfortable dealing with Baker. Caldwell was relieved when he saw Baker’s Top-Secret clearance. Next, he opened Vince Andrews’ personnel file. He scanned it and hit “print”. Finally, he found Vince’s student records and printed those as well. He stuck the pages in his briefcase and stood from the computer. “Could we go into your office, Colonel?”