Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  Two men and a woman entered the small testing room. “Marwa,” the woman in the pantsuit said, “I want to thank you for enduring all the testing and interviews. We have to be assured that someone who comes over is who they say they are. Your SF-86 was simple, and we’ve received interim verification of your life and history. Your polygraphs are good—actually, very good. So after we’ve poked and prodded you for the last couple of weeks, are you still interested in working for us?”

  She gave them a tired smile. “I am. I think I can help, and I’m ready to work at whatever you wish for me to do.”

  “I’m excited to have you on the team, but there are several things we have to do before we can officially bring you aboard for active duty.”

  “I’m ready to work. What must I do next?”

  “We still have a great deal of work to do to bring you into the world, and we haven’t been lazy. First, we must give you a new identity. Unless you have objections, we must come up with a new name.”

  “I won’t have any objections unless the name doesn’t suit me or is too cute.”

  The three spooks laughed and struggled to compose themselves.

  “Marwa, I’m sorry,” the woman said. “We tried to find something that reflected a professional Islamic woman while acknowledging your natural beauty. We felt the name Nazy was as striking as you are. In Farsi it means….”

  “Cute.” Marwa took a deep breath and smiled. “It’s a beautiful name. My mother was Iranian. I was almost named Nazy. Thank you for your kind words. I think I can be Nazy.”

  “From this day forward, you’ll be known as Nazy. Actually, Nazy Cunningham.” The shorter man with a full head of hair and a CIA lanyard filled with ID cards placed a black briefcase on the table, opened it, and extracted a handful of documents and keys. “Miss Cunningham, here’s your Social Security card and US tourist passport. We have a Virginia’s driver’s license, two credit cards in your new name, a bank account, and a long credit history. You have a house near headquarters and a car. I understand it’s a nice house and a very nice car. Those came from a different funding source. I believe your recruiter facilitated that.

  “Oh, yes. Here’s your personal history.”

  Marwa was intrigued by the narrative and their professionalism. As she tried to adapt to being an employee of the CIA, she was enthralled by the tone and pace of the briefing.

  “Nazy Cunningham,” the man said, “I’m sorry to hear you lost your husband, Lieutenant Commander Jeff Cunningham, a US Navy jet pilot, several years ago. You graduated from Oxford Law School, where you met Commander Jeff Cunningham in London while he was on an exchange program with the Royal Navy. You fell madly in love, married, and, one month later, he disappeared on a training mission over the Indian Ocean. You were crushed.”

  Initially confused, Nazy smiled back at him. She eased into a little role play as Duncan taught her. “The poor man. I was crushed.”

  “Exactly. Ms. Cunningham, you have a little royal Persian blood. You emigrated from the United Kingdom twenty-five years ago with your mother and father, a cousin of the shah. You carry yourself well, and, as long as you don’t advertise your not-so-humble background, you’ll be OK.

  “We selected this cover, because we have a few ideas about future operations. Documents, keys, and briefing book are all in the briefcase. The briefing book can’t leave this room. John G will wait for you to read it, commit to memory, and then he’ll shred it.”

  “You’re very thorough. You’ve made a good life for me. I greatly appreciate what you’ve done.”

  “So when do you think you ready to start work?” the woman asked, leaning over the table.

  Nazy Cunningham responded, “After I use the facilities?”

  *

  On the other side of the world, a US Marine tank recovery vehicle cautiously rolled into Firdos “Paradise” Square. A crowd of several hundred Iraqis and reporters from around the world congregated in the square to welcome the Americans. A small group of men struggled to climb the forty-foot statue of President Saddam Hussein and placed a rope around its neck.

  A Marine corporal disembarked from the big, tracked, armored vehicle and assessed the situation. He scanned the crowd, looking for trouble, then waved them away. Directing his crew to move the M88 to the base of the statue, he climbed to the top pulley so he could drape an American flag over Saddam’s face before adding a chain around the neck of the statue.

  At 1548 Baghdad Standard Time, the statue fell. The crowd erupted in unrestrained joy and beat the statue's head with their shoes.

  BOOK THREE

  CHAP TER ONE

  1000 April 19, 2003

  Carlisle Barracks Athletic Center Parking Lot Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania

  The surveillance was correct. It was easy to locate the distinctive black Silverado with Texas tags. Hunter always parked away from other vehicles, ostensibly to prevent it from receiving dings in the door panels from drivers indifferent to others’ property. The infidel went to great lengths to reduce the risk of being hit by other vehicle’s doors and to have a bomb placed on his vehicle.

  One of the unintended consequences of the infidel’s actions was that he made it difficult for anyone to park close to his truck, so someone could drop down between the vehicles and hide something on the truck’s frame. Hunter never left his vehicle unattended for long or very often when he was off the Navy War College campus. When he played at the Newport Athletic Club, the parking lot always teemed with people coming and going between their vehicles and the club.

  For months, teams of watchers monitored the base gates and determined Hunter’s black truck left the base typically only once or twice a week, to drive through a fast-food restaurant, usually fast food Mexican. The other times, he drove to a racquetball club or storage facility near the War College, and either worked on or retrieved his trailered race car for a weekend.

  The surveillance on the other men on the list was complete. Their movements were known, and their vehicles were tracked. With graduation looming, the imam insisted on redoubling their efforts to plant a tracking device on the vehicle owned by the last person on their list.

  The Royal Saudi Navy commander suggested the arrogant infidel wasted much of his time playing the game called racquetball, and it was widely known that Hunter would go to Pennsylvania for Jim Thorpe Days. The President of the War College opened participation to the foreign officers if they were interested. The one sport where they might possibly participate was futbol or soccer. It was nearly an all-international team with naval officers from Australia, New Zealand, Great Britain, Germany, France, Saudi Arabia, and Jordan. The soccer team played well and showed their War College classmates they were masters of the ball and helped the Navy team win a gold medal.

  When they weren’t playing soccer, the Saudi and Jordanian officers continuously monitored Hunter’s movements, his vehicle’s location, and windows of opportunity to install a tracking device on the huge black truck. With limited parking spaces on the Army War College compound, Hunter found spots which backed against the tennis courts but his truck was often among other vehicles.

  There would be no failure. The men’s bronze Mercedes was parked three vehicles away from the truck. It was common for men and women to walk about, going to and from vehicles or in and out of the fitness center.

  Jebriel opened the Mercedes’ trunk, removed a black Saucony bag, and walked toward the rear of the Texas truck. Athamneh was lookout, his hand resting on the car’s horn button. Forty seconds later, Jebriel emerged from under the truck. It took him ten seconds to locate and separate a power wire and strip away insulation, then another ten seconds to insert the exposed wire and transmitter wire into the dual-wire splice connector. As he flipped the clip and squeezed it shut, the wires were connected, crimped, and secured. In another ten seconds, he unwrapped the adhesive strip, activating its chemicals to bond the transmitter permanently to the top of the fuel tank.

  He used up the final ten s
econds getting out from under the truck and emerging between the two vehicles. Royal Saudi Navy Commander Jebriel was joined by Royal Jordanian Navy Commander Athamneh at the fitness center entrance. When Jebriel entered the crowded observer area, he saw the infidel Hunter fully engaged playing a racquetball match.

  CHAPTER TWO

  1000 April 19, 2003

  Carlisle Barracks Racquetball Court

  Before putting on his safety goggles, Hunter took a quick look around the crowd that gathered at the single court to observe the final racquetball match of Jim Thorpe Days. He watched the Air War College team, led by a dynamic, hard-hitting, left-handed African American with a boxer’s build, crush the Army team and the team of National and the Industrial War Colleges. The Navy team also proved to be very tough, winning all its matches.

  Air Force and Navy were both 3-0 in their matches, and no one attending Jim Thorpe could have seen the collision of two undefeated teams, especially with Navy in the finals.

  Hunter’s A-player match with Lieutenant Colonel “Goose” Moncrief drew a standing-room-only crowd. Murmurs of an Air Force blowout came from USAF boosters, while the small Navy contingent waited anxiously. Navy had one gold medal for the games, and had been within an inch of winning another. Navy had split their other matches with the Air Force, and it came down to the finals of the two A-players.

  Hunter looked for McGee and Admiral DiFilippo. When he didn’t see them, he rocked his head from side-to-side to loosen his neck muscles, tossed his goggles on, and entered the court. As he turned to ensure the door was closed, he saw a pretty redhead jammed uncomfortably in the corner of one of the observation windows. When she smiled, he returned the compliment.

  Goose crushed one ball after another during his warm up. He looked at Hunter in disgust, having watched him play a few minutes during an earlier match without getting a good read of his skills and play level.

  Hunter lobbed balls to the ceiling on his forehand side, repeatedly not hitting the ball hard but consistently using enough force to have it drop inside the rearmost three feet of the court.

  “Change sides?” Hunter asked.

  Goose moved to the other side without a word and kept crushing balls with muscular arms that would have made McGee jealous.

  Captain Bill McGee and Admiral DiFilippo entered the crowded viewing area, as Hunter entered the court. Some observers recognized the SEAL and the President of the NWC and tried to get out of their way, so they could get a better view of the action on the court. Always one to investigate his surroundings, McGee, his arms crossed, slowly studied the masses trying to squeeze into the limited area to watch the racquetball finals.

  Admiral DiFilippo also looked over the crowd. With his hands stuffed into his pockets, he leaned close to McGee’s ear and said, “I never knew so many women were interested in racquetball.”

  McGee momentarily stiffened, smiled, and looked again. Well over half the observers were women. He covered his mouth with one hand and whispered to the admiral’s ear, “I don’t think you’ve seen Hunter in his shorts.”

  The admiral raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips together. “Ah.”

  It seemed like providence when Duncan changed sides during the warm-up and came into clear view. Several women plastered at the viewing glass leaned forward to see Hunter’s huge, medal-winning quadriceps and chiseled calves strutting out from under his little black nylon shorts.

  The admiral was duly impressed. With a smile, he replied, “Well, that explains much.”

  “You’re in for a treat, Sir. Duncan can definitely play. He’s the best I ever saw.”

  Hunter, unconsciously trying to turn McGee into a liar, had a poor start and was down 3-11 and about to call time-out. Goose walked over to Hunter and said condescendingly, “You try too many low-percentage shots.”

  The Goose returned to the service box to serve the next point.

  Hunter grinned, turned to the door, and called, “Time out,” leaving his opponent standing in the court, smirking.

  When Hunter left the court, McGee left his place beside the admiral and moved to the court door. He handed Hunter a towel and bottle of water. “It doesn’t look like it’s going well.”

  “Sometimes I take someone for granted or forget I’m playing a southpaw. Today, it’s a little bit of that and a distraction. I keep hitting it right back to him, and that redhead is a major distraction. He’s a smart player and has lived off guys who forget he’s a southpaw. I’ll be OK…I think.” Giving McGee a wry smile, he wiped sweat from his brow.

  Hunter looked up, smiled at the redhead, and made eye contact with the admiral in the back. He also noticed the dark, Middle-Eastern man to the admiral’s left. He’d seen him before, thinking he was the Saudi officer who repeatedly tried to talk to him, but Duncan couldn’t recall his name.

  Admiral DiFillipo gave Duncan a thumbs-up, and he returned the gesture with a wink.

  As Hunter returned to the court, it was clear to those watching that a shift in momentum had occurred. Once Hunter gained the serve, he hit drive serves to Goose’s forehand, who tried to kill the ball, but every time the ball stayed in play, Hunter deftly scored.

  In ten minutes, Hunter rolled off ten straight points and won the first game 15-13. The Navy part of the crowd went wild.

  McGee grinned, held out a dry towel and water bottle for Hunter, as he stepped from the court while Goose remained, crushing the little green ball with a vengeance.

  “Is that better, Sir?” Hunter asked.

  “What did he say to you? It seemed like he said something, and, when you went back in, you were a different person. No more Mr. Nice Guy or what?”

  Removing his drenched shirt, Hunter toweled his head and chest. “He said, ‘You try too many low-percentage shots.’” He rummaged in his large racquetball bag for another shirt, pulling out a white-collared polo with a large decal on the back with the words, 25th Anniversary National Singles Championships.

  As Hunter removed his sweat-drenched shirt, all eyes went to the man in black shorts and white, high-top court shoes. His thirty-inch waist set the demarcation of heavily defined abdomen muscles and obliques, fanning up to solid pectorals the size of soup bowls. As he replaced his shirt, he caught the striking redhead smiling, but he scanned the crowd, oblivious to the women until he saw the admiral, his arms crossed, with a big smile—and the same Middle Eastern man to the admiral’s left.

  Is he watching McGee or me? Duncan wondered. He glanced at the redhead again. I think she’s a Navy commander.

  She looked at him hard, barely biting her finger, her lips on the edge of a smile.

  Duncan smiled to return the gift. McGee talking pushed him into the present.

  “He tried to tell you how to play, and you kicked his ass? Oh, that’s rich.”

  “I’ve played a lot of assholes. Once I played a guy who was so offended by how easily I beat his ass, he wanted to fight me right there on the court. Some guys are nice, but, when they get onto the court, they turn into turds. This guy just thinks he’s a better player than he really is. He hasn’t hit me or pissed me off—yet.”

  Twenty minutes later, it was over. Hunter stood in the middle of the court, hugging his sweaty, bald, muscular opponent. It appeared they left the court as good friends. Both were engaging and animated.

  The crowd enjoyed seeing great racquetball. When the two men emerged from the court, they heard applause and “Hooyahs!”

  McGee, smiling, offered Hunter a towel and water. “You could have given him a chance in that game.”

  “Yeah, right. I just exploited his weakness. He really is an awesome player. And, I got lucky with my low-percentage shots.” His voice held a tinge of sarcasm.

  “I couldn’t tell which was a low-percentage shot and which wasn’t.”

  “When he tried them, they were low-percentage shots. He didn’t win many points that game.”

  “Oooo! Be nice, Hunter.” Under his breath, he added, “For whatever it’s worth
, that’s the difference between a sniper and a shooter. Snipers practice what would be a low-percentage shot for anyone else.”

  Hunter nodded at those words of wisdom and shed his sweaty shirt. The admiral pushed his way through the crowd of back-patters and well-wishers. Hunter stood to face the Naval War College President, toweled his head and hands, and accepted the admiral’s handshake. The crowd remained around them.

  “Well done, Duncan. You made that look easy.”

  The Middle-Eastern man stood and watched Hunter and McGee, but so did everyone else.

  “Mission accomplished, Sir.”

  The tall, soft-spoken admiral patted Duncan’s shoulder with his free hand. “I’m very proud of you. That was a history-making event, and I appreciate your efforts. Again, well done, Duncan.”

  “Thank you, Sir. Appreciate it.”

  The crowd thinned. Hunter stood with arms akimbo. The excited admiral looked for something else to say.

  “How’s the research coming?”

  As Hunter pulled on his shirt, McGee said, “Sir, we can brief you when we’re back. We’re in Suitland this week to wrap it up.”

  “That’ll work. Well, Gentlemen, I have to go rub a little gold medal into the nose of the Air War College President.”

  “Sir, tell him some old, fifty-year-old, decrepit, blind Air Force civilian got out of his wheelchair and kicked his guy’s ass.” Hunter made quote marks in the air with his fingers when he said “Air Force.”

  That brought another smile to the admiral. “You can count on it. Safe travels to Suitland and back to Newport.” He shook hands with both men.

  As the admiral left, McGee asked, “So, what are you doing after this?”

  “I need to find a hot tub or massage before heading back. I’m all checked out. You?”

  “We’re touring the area before we head back tomorrow. We’re going to a place called the Horseshoe Curve to take the girls on a picnic.”