Sweepers

by P. T. Deutermann

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right. Okay. Based on what the DNI told me, I think I’m going to tell him to lay off the SEAL angle. But I’m not going to tell him that we’ve been asked to lay off. Basically, I want to see what he does.”

  “You mean you really want him to run free to see what the hell’s really going on here?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  Mccarty was silent for a moment. “If von Rensel actually flushes this guy,” he asked, “are we going to get across the breakers with the DNI and/or other interested parties?”

  Carpenter thought for a moment before answering. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I don’t particularly sweat the Office of Naval Intelligence; they’re pretty far down the food chain in the intel world. Besides, the way I’m going to frame my instructions to von Rensel, I can always claim later that he was freelancing. The lifer spooks think he’s a loose cannon anyway. And if it starts to get wormy, I can always pull Karen out of it and let von Rensel and the spooks sort it all out in some dark alley.”

  “Suppose it gets wormy before you find out about it?

  The last thing spooks do is tell somebody when one of their operations goes off the rails.”

  “I’ll think of something. But first I want to get an independent assessment from von Rensel.”

  “Independent of Karen Lawrence?”

  “Yeah. He’s an experienced investigator. She isn’t.”

  There was a pause on the line. “Whatever you say, Admiral,” Mccarty said finally, his tone of voice implying that he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of using Train to check on Karen Lawrence.

  Carpenter frowned to himself. “Just so,” he said, and hung up abruptly.

  He resumed scribbling continents on an appeal letter while. waiting for the five minutes to elapse.

  Finally, the yeoman brought in Train.

  “Mr. von Rensel, come in. Have a seat.”

  “Good morning, Admiral,” Train said, sitting down on the sofa. The admiral remained at his desk.

  “You getting all settled in here in the puzzle palace?”

  “Yes, sir.. I spent some time in ONI a few years back; not much has changed.”

  “In ONI or the Pentagon?”

  “Neither, Admiral. One’s a pile. of old concrete; the other’s a pile of … well.

  Carpenter smiled. “Yes, precisely my view, Mr. von Rensel. Our so-called intelligence community is like an onion.

  CIA, NSA, DIA, ONI, all that damned alphabet soup, and all rolled up in a tight little ball that makes you cry whenever you try to get into it.

  What’s going on in the Sherman matter?”

  Train paused to gather his thoughts. He wondered why Carpenter was asking him this question instead of Karen Lawrence, who was nominally in charge of the Sherman problem. Was Carpenter checking up on her? Or had the admiral perhaps detected her sympathy for Sherman? He launched into it.. He took fifteen minutes to bring the admiral up-to-date, including the events of the preceding night.

  When he had finished, Carpenter was no longer smiling.

  “Is Karen, Lawrence safe?” he asked.

  Train told him about taking one of his Dobes out to her house. “But if there’s a rogue SEAL on ‘ the loose, no one is safe,” he concluded. “The good news is that Karen is not his target. Sherman is. The bad news is that someone’s been knocking off everyone who’s close to Sherman.”

  “Are Karen Lawrence and Sherman ‘close’?”

  Train hesitated for a fraction of a second. Good question, that one.

  “Not in a personal sense, not that I know of. But she’s been with him at the Walsh apartment, the Walsh memorial service, the funeral, and two meetings with the cops, one in his house, one in her house. And somebody sure as hell knew where to find her last night.”

  “Did she actually see this guy?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So nobody has ever seen this guy, right?”

  “Correct. Nobody except Admiral Sherman, and that was twenty-some years ago. But I don’t think Karen imagined all this. She was really scared.

  She put on a good front this morning, but whoever did this knew how.”

  “So you think this Galantz guy is for real? I mean, all the records say he was lost in Vietnam. He’s even on the MIA list.”

  Train hesitated. “It’s possible,” he hedged. “As you know, that MIA classification covers everything from someone who was actually observed being blown to little bits to guys who simply went out and never came back.”

  “So he could be alive?”

  “Admiral Sherman says he is, or at least was back in 1972. The only other possibility is that Sherman is doing it.

  He’s had opportunity in at least a couple of these incidents.

  Even last night, for instance. But what’s his motive?”

  “So you’re coming down in favor of HMI Galantz,” Carpenter persisted, ignoring Train’s question.

  Train wasn’t quite sure where this was going. “Possibly,” he said. “Or someone calling himself that. Oh, did I mention Sherman’s son?”

  Carpenter shook his head patiently. Train told him about Jack, and the fact that, after many years of estrangement, Sherman had seen him twice recently, both times in circumstances that suggested the son knew something about what was going on.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” the admiral muttered. “Okay.

  We’ve got two problems with this Sherman situation’ The first is that, given the Navy’s intense sensitivity to bad PR, Admiral Sherman is becoming a political liability.”

  “The big guys are ready to just drop him over the side?”

  Carpenter gave a small shrug. “There is an unlimited supply of eager-beaver flag-material captains in the surface warfare community who do not bring baggage of this sort along with them.” Train nodded. “Karen told me about their little sdance with Admiral Kensington. I take it he’s a heavyweight here in Opnav?”

  “Heavy enough. Especially when the problem concerns a surface guy, and Sherman is surface Navy.”

  Train nodded. “And the second problem: Might that involve a certain government agency?”

  Carpenter gave him a speculative look. “It might,” he said.

  Train stared down at the carpet. The picture was getting a little clearer, and he now understood why Carpenter was talking to him and not Karen. He laced his hands together and cracked his knuckles, then looked back at Carpenter, who was watching hirh intently.

  “Are you telling me not to try to find Galantz?”

  Carpenter got up from his desk and came around to sit in one of the chairs. “Not exactly, Train. I am going to order you to stay away from anybody’s efforts to find this Galantz individual. I am going to tell you not to hunt down Galantz yourself.”

  ““Going to’? As in orders that will be forthcoming soon?”

  “Very soon.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “In the meantime, I do order you to keep Karen Lawrence safe.”

  Train nodded slowly. “And if that involves-“

  The JAG raised his hands. “Use your best judgment on how to execute your tasking, Train. You need not bother me with details. In fact, I’d prefer you did not. But that’s your tasking: Keep Karen safe while she makes a determination that Admiral Sherman is either the victim of a setup or one diabolically clever villain. And your time is limited.

  Remember what I am going to tell you-soon.”

  Train nodded again and got up. “Got it. And I appreciate the latitude, Admiral. I think. I suppose if this thing goes off the tracks, I can expect to be chastised?”

  “Most severely, although ultimately I’ll get over it.”

  Train nodded. This was a game he recognized.

  in probably doing the wrong thing here,” Carpenter said equably. “But it seems to me that Sherman deserves one chance, especially if he’s innocent.”

  Carpenter got up walked back around to his desk. He picked up some papers and pretend
ed to study them for a moment before continuing. “By the way, Karen had an archive request in to review the investigation records on the incident in Vietnam,” he said. “I’ve had her request intercepted. That investigation report is highly classified. But from what I saw, Sherman did the right thing in that incident.”

  Train had been about to ask. He was glad the admiral had brought it up first. “Galantz may not think so,” he said.

  Carpenter looked over at him. “You know that. I know that. That’s why I want you to keep an eye on Karen Lawrence. I have my reasons for having her on this case, but I don’t want her hurt.”

  “I understand, Admiral,”

  Train said, although he wasn’t sure he did.

  “Good,” Carpenter said. “Remember, time is of the essence, especially for Admiral Sherman. That’s all.”

  When the door closed, Carpenter sat back in his chair and thought for a moment, then punched the intercom.

  “Get me a secure call into Admiral Kensington’s office,” he said. He punched off and waited. Kensington came on the line.

  “Admiral Kdnsington.”

  “Good morning, Admiral,” Carpenter said. “Further to our last conversation on the Sherman matter, I have a suggestion to make.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Is this thing under control, Tom?”

  Carpenter thought about the DNI’s little bombshell. “I think so, Admiral,” he said slowly. I

  “Because if it isn’t, we need to do something. We’ve had i enough dirty laundry hanging out there lately.

  I’m not sure any of us could stand this thing getting loose.”

  “I understand. I think we need to take Sherman out of circulation for a few days.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Train left the JAG’s office, shaking his head as he walked back to his own cubicle on the fourth floor. Neatly done, Admiral, he thought. You want me to beat the bushes, but you can always say that I was never tasked to find this guy.

  If there was to be any trouble, Mrs. von Rensel’s bouncing baby boy, Train, had, in fact, been told to stay away from Galantz.

  He reached his cubicle, checked his voice mail, and then called Karen to back-brief her on his meeting with Carpenter. “He wanted an update, soup to nuts, on the whole case.

  I gave it to him.”

  “You told him about last night?”

  “Yup. That upset him. I also got the impression the bigs are stirring.”

  “What did he say about that archived file?”

  “That he blocked it. That it contains highly classified material. That it shows Sherman did the right thing back there, whfttever that means.

  But we’re not going to see that report.

  She was silent for a moment. “Any new instructions?” she asked.

  It was Train’s turn to hesitate. He did not want to tell her what his tasking had been. She was nervous enough already.

  “Not exactly,” he said. “The gist of it was to confirm that I’m to help you in your inquiries. So right now, I’m going to put on my NIS hat and enter some federal databases.”

  “So you agree we should concentrate on the son first and not Galantz?”

  There was a thread of concern in her voice.

  “Galantz is complicated,” Train said. “Let me explain that when we’re not on an unsecured phone. There definitely might be other players in this game, though.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh. Hold that thought. Right now, see what you can get from Sherman on Little Boy Blue. If I can get a read on where the son is, maybe we’ll go see him this afternoon. If you’re up to it, that is.”, in up to that.”

  “Okay. I’ll get back to you.”

  He hung up and sat back in his chair. You really need to talk to Mchale Johnson, von Rensel. He sighed and got out his personal phone book, looked up a number, and then placed a call. Johnson wasn’t in, an anonymous voice said, so he left a call-back message and mentioned the word SEAL. Then he called the NIS database query center over in the Washington Navy Yard, identified himself, and asked them to call him back at the JAG IR division’s secure number. The database administrator got back to him in five minutes and he gave him the name and the few general match points he had regarding Jack Sherman’s military service, approximate age, and a last-known location in the vicimty of Quantico, Virginia. He told them he would have better-defined data and a Social Security number later in the day. He asked for searches within the military and FBI criminal identification and information systems, since Sherman had said the kid had been thrown out of the Marines. He put a priority label on his request and asked for a voice debrief, with a final report to be transmitted electronically into his PC address within the JAG local-area computer network as soon as possible..’ You say you’ll have better definition data this afternoon?” the administrator asked.

  Train’s heart sank. Should never have said that.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then come back in with that data. Then we’ll do the coarse screen, Mr.

  Train agreed and hung up. He sighed. He had hoped for a quick look, but the database people weren’t about to do something twice. He then decided to try one of the most sophisticated search tools available-namely, the telephone company’s information operator.

  “Northern Virginia information, what city?”

  “Woodbfidge, Quantico, Virginia.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “John Lee Sherman. Address unknown. Might be Triangle, or Dumfries, or just Stafford County.”

  “One moment please.”

  He waited. About half the time he went looking for someone, the guy was in the damned phone book.

  “I have a John L. Sherman.”

  “Let’s try that.”

  “Hold for the number.”

  Bingo, he thought, as he recorded the number. Then he called the database administrator back and luckily got a new voi e. He went through the identification drill again, but this time he gave him the telephone number, asking for an address trace. The database guys could do this on a local PC.

  He was put on hold for a minute.

  “Your boy’s phone is in the Cherry Hill area, right north of the base at Quantico. The billing address is a Triangle post office box, though. I can get a premises wiring locator from C&P, but it’ll take a day, and you’ll have to come in with a for-rnal coarse screen request. But that phone’s in Cherry Hill. “

  “Much grass,” Train replied, and hung up. Do it like the pros, he thought. When in doubt, call goddamn Information.

  He decided to check his voice mail again. One call. “For Dr. von Rensel from Dr. Johnson,” the man said. “Lunch at the New Orleans House in Rosslyn, eleven-fifteen. Today.

  Dr. Johnson is really glad Mr. von Rensel called.”

  Train blinked and looked at his watch. It was 10:45. He just had time to hop the Metro over to Rosslyn. He called Karen, but now there was no answer. He hung up, frowning.

  Now where the hell did she go? And she did take the dog, I hope to hell.

  Mchale Johnson was a very tall, almost cadaverous-looking man. He had a long, narrow, and very white face with, a prominent forehead, highly arched eyebrows, and a long, bony nose. He wore square-rimmed glasses, which magnified his pale gray eyes. His hair was lanky, disheveled, and going gray, like’the rest of him. He did not get up when Train approached the table, but continued to look around the room as if he was trying to remember something or someone. Train pulled out a chair, tested it for strength, and then replaced it with one from the adjacent table. The two women sitting at that table just looked at each other, declining protest.

  “Dr. Johnson, I presume,” Train said. He was pretty sure that Mchale was indeed the man’s first name, but he doubted the Johnson part.

  “Dr. von Rensel,” Johnson replied, tilting his head back to examine Train through those huge glasses. “You’ve gotten bigger. That’s almost hard to imagine.”

  “Just spreading, probably,” Train replied, lo
oking at the menu. The doctor business was a private joke between them.

  Johnson held a doctorate in cybernetics, and he insisted on calling Train Doctor because of his law degree. And probably because it amused him to do so. Train put down his menu.

  “Your secretary intimated that my phone call was, um, timely.”

  Johnson nodded slowly. “My secretary. I’ll have to tell him that. But considering the subject, it was indeed timely.”

  “A SEAL.”

  “Indeed. Here’s the waitress.” They both placed their orders, having to speak up to be heard in the general hubbub. When the waitress left, Train asked if this was an appropriate place to talk. Johnson shrugged.

  “It’s crowded and noisy. Tough place to eavesdrop, really. Did someone tell you to call me?”

  Train shook his head. “No. I’ve been given some politically adroit tasking, so I decided to pull a string or two on my own. I was hoping you might be able to enlighten me with respect to a certain Marcus Galantz, ex-hospital corpsman, USN, ex-SEAL, and current MIA.”

  Johnson nodded slowly again, still looking slightly bugeyed through those windowpane-sized glasses. “Never heard of him,” he said finally, giving Train a friendly stare.

  Train smiled and looked away for a moment. He could not imagine Johnson being an operational agent himself, but he could very well imagine him as a controller. “Let me rephrase that,” he replied. “Would you perhaps like to tell me a story?”

  “Ah, yes, that I would,” Johnson said immediately, then paused as the waitress whizzed by to drop off Train’s beer and Johnson’s iced tea.

  When she had gone, Johnson sipped some tea.

  “Once upon a time, in a faraway place,” he began, “a certain organization had a need to recruit people with certain talents. There was concurrently a fair-sized military action in progress, and this organization was tangentially involved in certain peripheral, perhaps narcotics-related operations, which operations said organization would just as soon forget about. After a while, the organization in question discovered that occasionally certain persons would become available for recruitment, sometimes through rather unconventional circumstances.”