Surly Bonds

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “Certainly. This way, Mister Caldwell.” The two entered Baker’s office, and the colonel shut the door behind them. Baker gestured to the soft leather chair positioned in front of his desk. Caldwell sat down as Baker moved over to the coffee pot. “Coffee?”

  “No thanks, just had some.”

  Baker poured himself a cup and took his place behind the desk. “So, Mister Caldwell, what can I do for you?”

  Caldwell took a deep breath. “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “I know you are Agent Aaron Caldwell of the CIA, and I am to assist you in any way possible. It appears you are investigating one of my students.” Baker sipped his coffee.

  “I see you possess a Top-Secret clearance. Where did you get that?”

  Baker appeared surprised. Perhaps he didn’t expect questions about himself. “I’m an old KC-135 guy from way back. Back then, SAC still ran the show, and we all got them. Nuclear secrets, war plans, standard procedure.”

  “Colonel, I’m about to brief you on a highly classified situation. This information is on a need-to-know basis. At this point, you are the only person in this wing that has a need to know, and that includes your lovable, wing commander.”

  Baker laughed, “Oh, you met Colonel Jensen.”

  “Yes, and I wasn’t very impressed.”

  “Well, he has a way of affecting people like that.”

  “You understand that if you are briefed into this, it might cause a conflict between the two of you.”

  Baker smiled. “Mister Caldwell, I’m a tanker pilot. My whole career is based on not getting along with fighter pilots. Hell, I’ve got six months left until I’m eligible to retire. It’ll be fun having something to hang over the old buzzard’s head.”

  Caldwell pulled out a non-disclosure statement and gave it to the squadron commander. After he read and signed it, Caldwell walked across the room, locked the door to the office, and turned on the radio perched on the wooden bookshelf.

  Briefcase in hand, he moved behind Baker’s desk and stood next to him. He laid out a stack of blurred photographs and a synopsis of Section Nine. “This is Nikolai Gregarin . . .”

  41

  September 11, 1995

  * * *

  IT TOOK JASON FOUR HOURS TO WALK back to the base the night before, being careful to stay off the main roads and avoid being seen. He didn’t want Vince to circle back around and find him. When he arrived home, Jason locked the door, then examined his bruised body and minor cuts from the shattered glass. He cleaned himself up and fell asleep in minutes. The phone rang seven hours later and rustled him from his slumber. It was the Oklahoma State Police, informing him about his car.

  This was something he’d considered on his long walk last night. Shouldn’t he tell someone? Alonzo? Gus? His flight commander? At this point, he didn’t know who to trust. Jason ended up defaulting to Plan C. He told the trooper he was restricted to base and didn’t know how the car ended up smoldering in some farmer’s field. Someone must have stolen it sometime during the night. Jason gave the officer information and discussed his options. They settled on his coming to the station tomorrow to view the vehicle and pick up his paperwork for the insurance claim. A trooper would be dispatched later today to take his statement.

  He hung up the phone troubled. His story, no doubt, would only complicate his situation. He questioned himself once again. Did he make a bad decision? He didn’t think so. It just wasn’t the best decision.

  Jason squinted his eyes to check his clock. Eight o’clock. He had been removed from training so there was no need to try and report to the flight.

  He rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling. His side ached, and again he checked for broken ribs. Nothing. Vince tried to kill him last night but had only done a halfway decent job of busting him up. What angered him most? His classic ‘65 Mustang had been destroyed. For the past several weeks, he had felt like a target, in more ways than one. That would end today. He climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom. As he examined himself in the mirror, he decided he had better clean himself up. It wouldn’t be long before the police showed up at the base.

  “VINCE ANDREWS?” BAKER said. “Are you sure?”

  “That’s the best information we have from a reliable source. After a quick, but extensive, background check, we discovered he has no background,” Caldwell replied.

  “My word, we might have a problem.” Baker leaned back in his chair.

  “Problem?”

  “Well, I received a phone call last night from Captain Johnson, the ‘D’ flight commander in charge of Andrews’ training. Lieutenant Andrews had a death in the family and needed emergency leave.”

  “What do you mean?” Caldwell said.

  “I mean he’s gone. Or at least he should be. We released him for emergency leave as of zero six hundred this morning.”

  Caldwell’s brow furrowed. He walked around and sat in the soft leather chair across from Baker. “Is there anyone who is good friends with Vince Andrews?”

  “Well, the best source would be the SRO, Captain Gus McTaggart. I’m sure he could answer your questions.”

  “Get him.” The SRO should be able to point him in the right direction.

  “What do I tell him?”

  Caldwell hadn’t thought about that. “What do you normally tell them?”

  “Well, we usually don’t have CIA here investigating our students. Would it be satisfactory to say you are here conducting a background check for a security clearance?”

  “Colonel, that would be perfect.” Caldwell sat alone in the room while the colonel went to find the SRO. The only sound was the background music on the radio. The room looked like most other Air Force commanders’ offices he had been in—a lot of photos of airplanes and family, plenty of awards, and indications of previous assignments. The plaque with the Japanese flag on it indicated he must have been stationed in Japan at one time.

  Lieutenant Colonel Baker returned after three minutes with Captain McTaggart.

  Baker spoke first, “Captain, this is Mister Caldwell. He’s doing a security background check, and he’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gus said, shaking Caldwell’s hand. “I know the drill.”

  “Great, Captain, have a seat.” Caldwell gestured to the couch against the wall. He turned his leather chair to face him. “What can you tell me about Vince Andrews?”

  “Well, other than the fact that he’s not here and he left without his orders, not much. He makes excellent grades on his tests and flies the jet well, although sometimes he doesn’t perform well under pressure.”

  “How so?” Caldwell said.

  “Uh . . . well, he struggles during his stand-up emergency procedures. Same for his ground evaluations. It’s as if he doesn’t understand the material.”

  “What about his personal life? How well do you know him? Who are his friends? Where does he hang out?”

  “I don’t know him that well. He’s not a very outgoing individual. Kind of quiet in a crowd, almost aloof. He hung around with Lenny Banks, Jason Conrad, and Matt Carswell.”

  “Who knew him the best?”

  McTaggart took a deep breath. “Well, his best friend, no doubt, was Lenny Banks. The guy who died in the plane crash last week.”

  McTaggart’s voice trailed away. Caldwell glanced at Baker, who stared solemnly at the floor. Banks was still a sore spot.

  “I’m not sure what he did in his spare time,” McTaggart said, “but the guy who would know him best after Lenny, would be Jason Conrad.”

  Caldwell scribbled down the name. “Thank you, Captain, you’re excused. Could you send in this Conrad?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. He’s not here.”

  After a split-second pause as Caldwell’s jaw dropped. He began to wonder what kind of base they ran here. He breathed deeply, then asked, “Captain, where can I find Jason Conrad?”

  42

  September 11, 1995

  * * *

>   VINCE’S SUITCASE BULGED in every direction; the zippers barely closed. The room clutter hinted at a disaster. Piles of clothes and paperwork he considered, but chose not to take, were thrown across the room. He walked to the closet and pulled his Smith & Wesson 9mm pistol off the shelf. Checking the magazine, he tucked it into his pants. It was time to move out.

  He always imagined that when he left America, it would be under a more controlled circumstance. Instead, he packed the things he needed, and a few sentimental items. How American. Vince opened the door and peered into the breezeway of the dorm.

  Empty.

  Officially, he was on emergency leave. He was supposed to be gone by now. It was almost eleven a.m. and he had to leave before any of his classmates returned to the dorms for lunch. He walked to the new truck and inspected the front right bumper. Minor damage, but nothing that impacted the trucks driving capability. The attack on Conrad may not have been necessary, but it made him feel better. The little shit was getting too close. But Conrad was dead. Finally. There was no way he survived the explosion.

  He tossed his bags into the back seat, climbed in the front, and cranked the engine. None of his classmates lingered around the dorms, everyone was in class.

  Vince drove through the front gate and headed for the Ramada Inn. He reached the hotel in seven minutes and registered under the name Jason Conrad. Conrad, the little bastard. Vince began to question himself for not confirming he was dead. The fire was too intense, and he never did see the body in the driver’s seat. Could he have survived the explosion? He scanned the daily paper while the clerk reserved his room. Nothing on the incident last night.

  The clerk, a skinny woman in her late thirties, gave him a room in the back of the hotel, as requested. Vince drove to the back of the motel and found his room. It had two double beds with earth-tone polyester bedspreads, a dresser, nightstands, and a modest sized closet. The television had no remote control, so Vince opted to leave it off. He lay on the bed and drifted off to sleep. Nikolai would be calling soon.

  AGENT GREG JOHNSON SAT IN HIS JEEP Cherokee outside the hotel near the suspect’s room. Johnson wasn’t thrilled at the prospects of waiting for a kid he wouldn’t recognize. Caldwell did all the legwork, while he sat on his butt all day. He found Vince Andrews’ truck still in the parking lot at the dorms. When the tall young man walked out with his bags, he followed him to a different truck. Johnson was puzzled when the truck drove into town and stopped at the Ramada Inn.

  Was this Vince Andrews? He ran the license tag and it was a new truck registered to Vince Andrews, but he still didn’t have a physical description of the guy. After several minutes, he went to the front desk.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the thin woman at the desk. “Can you tell me what room Vince Andrews is in?” He gave her a charming smile as he leaned forward on the desk and propped his chin up with one hand.

  She blushed as she flipped through the hotel records. After she went through them once, his smile began to fade. Her face flushed as she searched again. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said after several minutes, “my records don’t show a Vince Andrews registered at this hotel.”

  Johnson frowned. “Are you sure? He told me he was checking in here this morning.”

  The thin woman shook her head. “I checked three times. I’m sorry, sir. Perhaps he’s staying somewhere else.”

  “No, he’d be here. Thanks for the help.” Johnson turned to walk away, unsure if he struck out.

  “You might check back later,” she hollered after him. “Maybe he’s late.”

  Johnson stopped and turned as he reached the glass door. “I might need to do that, ma’am. Thank you.”

  The blush blossomed on her face as she smiled. “I’ll be here till five. That’s when my shift ends.”

  “You’ll be the first one I look for,” he said with a wink, as he left. Once outside, he pulled the mobile phone out of his pocket and dialed.

  “Caldwell here,” the voice said.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” Johnson replied. “How’s your progress on the case?”

  “I’m still working on it. Apparently, Andrews called his commander in the middle of the night to take emergency leave. They don’t know if he left yet. I’m tracking down one of his buddies as we speak. I want a little background on this guy to make sure he’s who we want; he could be a decoy. Nikolai’s a sneaky little shit; I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Well, just so you know, I sat outside the student dorms this morning watching his truck. Actually, turns out the guy owns two trucks. Somebody got in one with their bags, came downtown, and got a room at the Ramada. He didn’t use the name Vince Andrews, but it could be him.”

  “I’ve got his file in my hands now. Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Oh, yeah. If you have a photo, I can identify him.”

  “Great. I’ll be done here soon. As soon as I can find this other fellow, I’ll meet you there with the photo. Till then, keep an eye on this guy, will you?”

  “You bet.” Johnson hung up his phone and stuck it back in his pocket. His stomach growled as he reached his truck. He pulled out a sandwich and a bag of chips. A long, boring day lay ahead.

  THE TEMPERATURE FELL THROUGHOUT the day as the wind picked up. Chilly surges swept across the open field on the base, and Aaron Caldwell began to wish he’d accepted the ride to Jason Conrad’s dormitory. He pulled his collar higher around his neck and quickened his pace. The walk took less than ten minutes, but it seemed more like twenty. He reached Jason’s building and found room 107.

  Caldwell knocked. A moment later, a ragged young man answered, his wet hair matted against his head. He wore tattered gym shorts and an old LSU football jersey with cutoff sleeves, his face and arms covered with fresh cuts and bruises. The young man squinted as he peered from the doorway into the light outside.

  “Are you Jason Conrad?”

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “My name is Agent Aaron Caldwell,” he said, flashing his I.D. “I need to talk to you.”

  Jason handled the situation as if it were routine. “Yes, sir. Come on in.”

  Caldwell followed Jason inside. The student pilot moved the loose papers and notebooks spread out on the couch to give him a place to sit. Jason plopped down in the chair next to him.

  The two sat in silence for a moment. Caldwell could tell Jason was nervous. The student pilot couldn’t sit still; he constantly tapped his feet on the floor and twirled a pencil with his fingers.

  “Geaux Tigers,” he said, attempting to relax the young man.

  “You a Tiger?”

  Caldwell shook his head. “Tulane. I’m from south of New Orleans. A little town called Bertrandville. Been to Tiger Stadium a lot over the years.”

  Jason nodded with a subtle grin.

  “You get into a fight?” Caldwell asked.

  Instinctively, Jason touched his face. “No. Fell down the stairs.”

  Caldwell smiled. “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “Look, I’ve told everyone, I had nothing to do with those stolen tests. If you check my scores, it’s obvious I haven’t cheated. You can check my bank account and my savings. Add up my personal assets. I don’t live an extravagant lifestyle, and I don’t throw a lot of money around. I didn’t do anything except try to save a friend some embarrassment.”

  Caldwell looked at Jason, unprepared for the brief monologue, bewildered by its content. “What are you talking about?”

  “You . . . you aren’t here about the test thing?”

  “No, but why don’t you tell me about it.” Caldwell listened to Jason weave his tale about Lenny Banks, Big Joe McCain, Alonzo Jacobs, the stolen tests, and eight-thousand dollars cash. Fascinating. More than the average student pilot probably bargained for during training.

  Jason finished his tale and went to get each of them a Coke. Caldwell opened the cold soda. “So, if you weren’t involved in this, who do you think this Lenny guy sold these tests to?”

&
nbsp; “Vince Andrews, a guy in my class.”

  Caldwell became rigid. Now we’re getting somewhere, he thought.

  “I wasn’t sure at first,” Jason said, “but now I am, especially after last night.”

  “What happened last night?”

  “Vince tried to kill me.”

  Caldwell leaned forward, intrigued by the new twist. “This sounds interesting.”

  Jason recapped his story of the night before. Caldwell smiled. They were on the right track. The pieces fit together and formed a tight puzzle no one knew existed before. “I want you to get dressed. We’re going to my place for a while.” Jason did not move.

  “Sir, I’m restricted to base. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m under investigation for computer tampering. If only I had a computer.”

  Caldwell pushed his bangs out of his eyes and slipped on his jacket. “You’re right. Tell you what,” he said, as he glanced at his watch, “I’ll take care of that. I’ll be back here at three o’clock to pick you up. We’ll grab a bite to eat, and I’ll discuss some things with you. I’m going to contact this Agent Jacobs in San Antonio as well.” Caldwell stood at the door. “Don’t talk about this with anyone, understand? If anyone speaks with you, I was never here. In fact, don’t answer the door or talk to anyone except me. You may want to pack a bag. Enough for a couple of days. I’m not sure when you’ll be coming back.”

  “For a background check?”

  “This is more than a background check, son. This is national security. And you’re coming with me.”

  IT WAS SIMPLE FOR NIKOLAI to change the destination from Oklahoma City to Tulsa. The drive from the east took well over two hours. Thirty minutes outside of Tulsa there was nothing to see but the flat land and farms. The sky ahead loomed gray and ominous. The long drive to Enid gave him plenty of time to review his plans. With his hectic schedule, he never had time to sit and think. The drive was serene. He rechecked the map to verify he stayed on this road all the way to Enid.