Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  Ebanks smiled. Lu raised his eyebrows.

  “The technology is improving daily,” Schmidt began. “The cost curve is going down. Unmanned aircraft will soon be less expensive to operate than manned.”

  “No disrespect, you can choose to believe that but you’re flat-out wrong. If you’d done your homework, you’d know there’s a growing body of evidence that unmanned systems don’t solve problems but simply change their nature. Complex thinkers recognize the paradox. The very systems designed to reduce the number of humans to operate and support them require even more people to support them. Weren’t we supposed to be paperless by now and now we go through more paper than ever. It’s liberal folly. The current DOD approach to this science project is squandering money that could be used for other things, like building more quiet manned airplanes that cost a third of a Predator, are more effective, and can’t be hijacked by a virus.”

  They waited for him to finish. He got the hint. “So what do you want from me?”

  “SECDEF would like you on the Quiet Aircraft Systems Project Office on a team to develop quiet aircraft capabilities,” Dr. Lu said. “Actually, they want manned and unmanned. After you graduate, you’ll be reassigned. The moment we walk out of this office, quiet aircraft development goes full black. It becomes a DOD Special Access Program.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  0800 May 9, 2003

  Global Mission Solutions Eufaula, Alabama

  After the 9/11 attacks, the head of counterterrorism at the CIA investigated the feasibility of hiring cleared private security firms to perform personal security work for Agency and Embassy personnel in Afghanistan and projected Iraq would require even more contractors. The Special Activities Division was stretched to the breaking point putting every available CIA officer into country to collect and develop intelligence. Contractors would help free up Agency personnel for more kinetic activities.

  As Marines rolled into Baghdad, the counterterrorism head received approval to hire more contractors to operate overseas. The Agency turned to a few trusted startup companies for those services, including Blackwater, Triple Canopy, KBR, DynCorp, and others. Several former special operations and SEALs founded defense contracting firms, which provided assessments of terrorist organizations, their techniques, and their abilities.

  There was plenty of lucrative personal security detail work for those companies. When the Director of Central Intelligence or the Chief of Counterterrorism needed something more than a terrorist assessment, something special and covert, and they couldn’t do it in-house or needed a high level of plausible deniability, they turned to the innocuous-sounding GMS for their expertise in conducting “special activities.”

  A former intelligence officer and Green Beret, Colonel Arthur Yoder, started Global Mission Solutions as a green-badged consultant for the intelligence community as soon as he retired from the Pentagon. Yoder’s claim to fame was being the military intelligence officer of several top-secret operations, including the Green Berets who tracked down and found Che Guevara in Bolivia.

  Every week, Lieutenant Yoder left their expeditionary campsite in the jungle, went to the US Embassy, and, from the ambassador’s office personally checked in with the President of the United States and gave him a SITREP on a cleared line. After four weeks of tracking Che and his band of terrorists through the jungle, when the President asked Yoder how the men were holding up, Yoder replied lightheartedly, “Sir, they’re doing well and are looking forward to getting out of the jungle and getting some ice cream.”

  Two days later, a single US Air Force cargo plane arrived at El Alto International Airport in La Paz with supplies, including fifty gallons of Baskin Robbins ice cream.

  Yoder returned to his troops in the field and said, “Gentlemen, the President of the United States sent us fifty gallons of ice cream with a note. ‘Art, get that SOB.’”

  Three days later, Che was captured by CIA-assisted Bolivian forces and was executed. The same day, Yoder reported to POTUS their mission was accomplished.

  The President responded with, “You tell your men well done, and enjoy the ice cream.”

  Green Beret Captain Yoder found himself on the lead team of every major special operation, from the infamous Son Tay raid as the intelligence officer to Operation Eagle Claw as a member of the Army’s newly formed Special Forces Command Detachment Delta. When a mob rushed the walls of the US embassy in Tehran and held hostages, Delta Force planned for their rescue but failed in the Iranian desert. Eagle Claw ended in disaster when a Marine Corps CH-53, flying off the USS Nimitz, collided with an Air Force C-130 at the Desert One refueling point. The crew chief of the destroyed Marine helicopter, Staff Sergeant Dewey Johnson, USMC, was killed.

  Sergeant Duncan Hunter, USMC, Dewey’s roommate in Okinawa and on the Nimitz, stood on the flight deck, waiting for his friend to return, when a tall Green Beret walked off the back of the last helicopter and saw the Marine standing alone, waiting. Exhausted and defeated, the tall man changed directions and walked up to the jarhead. With tears rolling down both men’s cheeks, Lieutenant Colonel Art Yoder told Hunter, “They aren’t coming home, Marine.”

  Yoder’s Cat One Yankee White clearance and one-on-one meetings with future presidents didn’t win him any accolades with Pentagon brass. When he retired, he seemed to be on every defense contractor’s short list for a presidency for some related line of business. Instead, he opened his one-man shop with a collection of on-call talent for special projects, like the former CIA Chief of Air Branch and a retired Marine F-4 pilot who happened to play racquetball and could land a taildragger at night inside the width of a two-lane road. Yoder collected uncommon or unusual talent that provided a range of capabilities for his customers’ needs.

  Together, they submitted classified proposals to the intelligence community on known intelligence community shortfalls. Yoder traveled the country interviewing people with special talents. Human resources and civilian personnel offices for three-letter agencies or billionaires weren’t equipped or capable of finding unusual, specialized, one-of-a-kind talent. There are thousands of Cessna pilots but only a handful of astronauts who can fly supersonic aircraft. There are a couple hundred fighter pilots but only a handful who could pass a piss test and a full scope polygraph. Of that group, maybe one or two could land a glider at night inside a baseball stadium or steal an F-14 from an Iranian air base.

  Finding people who could do that kind of thing was Yoder’s specialty. When he was contacted and negotiated a contract, government or commercial, they were very lucrative and made him and his cohorts increasingly wealthy for performing nearly impossible missions. When a workforce held improbable skills and talents, executing improbable missions with plausible deniability, he generated a great deal of interest and more incentives for success.

  Greg Lynche planned to let the phone ring. He was preoccupied with sliding the kitchen door just enough and shoot the damn deer licking seed from his large bird feeder.

  Sighing, he shouted at the deer, set down the BB gun, and ran for the phone. “OK, I’m coming. Greg Lynche.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Lynche. You busy?”

  “Art! Good morning. I hoped you got my e-mail. Where are you?”

  “I was at Camp Pendleton. I interviewed a gent who won a major rifle championship and could shoot seventy consecutive bull’s eyes at 1,000 yards. I thought he would be a good fit for that project with your old place.”

  “Sounds like you were disappointed. You didn’t give him a job?”

  “It was a waste of my time. I should have said he was a world-class shooter who suddenly found Islam.”

  “Uh, that sounds like a bad combination.”

  “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have stopped. He seems at peace with himself. Anyway, I’m sitting in the Admiral’s Club at LAX waiting to get out of here. What have you heard?”

  “The neighbors down south are shitting in their own mess kit.” Lynche sat at his computer and double-clicked Internet Expl
orer.

  “I’ll be in the area tonight if you think we’d be interested.”

  “I’ll throw some steaks on the grill.”

  “Thank you, Sir. See you soon.”

  Lynche quickly typed an e-mail to Hunter. Call me.

  CHAPTER NINE

  2000 May 9, 2003

  Annapolis Golf Club Apartments

  Greg Lynche, hearing a car door shut in the driveway, hurried across the Persian rugs and opened the door to find Art Yoder with an overnight bag. The tall man thrust a bottle of wine into his face.

  “Louis Roederer Cristal Rose, 1998.” Yoder pushed through the portal, leaving Lynche on the stoop scrutinizing the salmon-pink label.

  “I think this will go well with the filet.” It wasn’t every day he sipped $500 wine.

  “I gotta piss.” Yoder set his bag in the bedroom doorway, used the head, and wandered back into the kitchen.

  “Must be something ugly if you’re bringing a ’98 Roederer. The beef’s almost ready,” Lynche said.

  “First of all, we have to celebrate our new acquisition. Second, your old place wants to see if we can intercept some hot materials and maybe find some tunneling activity on the other side of the border—Nogales. As you said, they’re going nuts. Easy weeklong surveillance out of Tucson. We also have to install some radiation detectors on 007.”

  “Hot materials? You mean…?”

  “Radioactive.”

  “In Mexico?”

  “The intel suggests a drug lord was paid a couple million to get it from Monterey into the US. Supposedly, he’s going to use his tunnel. The FBI and Border Patrol think it’s in Nogales. Ever been there?”

  Lynche shook his head. “Dirty bomb materials or something else?”

  “No need to know.”

  “Hmmm. When do we need to be in Nogales?”

  “Your old place and the NRO and NSA tracked it from Iran. The Navy’s shadowing the ship. Intercept window begins in two weeks. The detectors will be here tomorrow. Saul has a sheet-metal mechanic and an avionics tech en route to do the install. The Bobsey twins have 007 out of the can and in the hangar and are doing some upgrades to the container.”

  “Have you seen these detectors?”

  “I have not. When we get to Arizona, we might have a chance to check them for airworthiness or see if they’ll whistle. Like last time, you’ll do some low-level flights and duct tape anything that looks like it’ll tweet. Saul assures me they’ll be fine.”

  He let Lynche ponder what would be necessary for the next mission.

  “When does Duncan graduate? When do we pick her up?”

  “I’m heading down to Miami tomorrow and get checked out. Do you want to go?”

  “Can’t. Have to head to Jordan for a meeting with the Prince—His Royal Highness, not that little fuck who likes purple crushed velvet.”

  Lynche was momentarily confused, but for someone who didn’t know what a Chic-fil-A was, Yoder wasn’t surprised.

  “Duncan’s scheduled for the first week of June, but we should be able to get him to graduate early, or he might be able to take leave. It shouldn’t be a problem. If there’s a problem, he’ll find a way, or I’ll make a couple calls.

  “Also, he was notified that SECDEF wants him to help with developing new quiet aircraft technologies. Seems like his paper struck a chord with someone at NAVAIR and OSD. All Quiet Thruster research and his paper went full black.”

  Yoder’s brows furrowed. “That could be good and bad. Do they know anything about Wraith?”

  “I talked to Rob. He assures me our cover’s solid, but I’m really worried about our operation getting exposed. SOCOM got five of the six available YO-3As. The NASA administrator told SECDEF to fuck off.”

  Yoder almost choked at the joke. He wiped his eyes with a smile. “That didn’t help.”

  “Nope, but the little lady Duncan met certainly has.”

  “Do say! Have you seen her?”

  “I haven’t, but Rob assures me she’s incredibly beautiful, and her Iranian mother has that Sofia Loren thing going on. The real news is she was fully debriefed, polygraphed, made a citizen, and is now a GS-13 in the NE Division. What’s she’s producing is turning heads.”

  “I sense a but….”

  “Not with her. She has a thing for cryptology. I hear she took apart a couple coded messages from AQ and busted the code. We picked two high-value individuals off the street. She has a nose for this kind of work.”

  “Glad she’s on our side.”

  “Along with the good comes some bad. I think 007 is at risk. I don’t trust SECDEF, and it won’t take him long to find out I have 007. Then all hell will break loose.”

  “Maybe I should brief him.”

  “If you ask me, I think he already knows and maybe doesn’t care we’re just working for my old place and doing great work. On the other hand, he could demand I return it. On the other hand, maybe DCI briefed him.”

  “Let’s think about this. Ready to eat?”

  “I’m ready to get the cork out of this bottle.”

  “Amen to that!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  1230 May 19, 2003

  President’s Office Naval War College

  Admiral DiFillipo and Captain McGee shook Hunter’s hand for the last time. “Sir, truly this was probably the best experience of my life,” Hunter said. “I absolutely loved every bit of the school, and I could see coming back here as an instructor if there was ever a need for someone like me.”

  “Let me work on that,” the admiral said. “We might be able to make you a professor emeritus, and you’ll always have standing here. When you’re done playing with OSD, you could come back and teach. You’d have to get a PhD at some point, but that’s down the road.”

  “Admiral DiFilippo confirmed I’m staying on as a faculty member until I retire,” McGee said. “Maybe I could work a deal to stay on full-time after I retire.”

  “Could you see us together again?” Hunter asked. “That would be asking for trouble.”

  “I think it would be fantastic,” the admiral said, then he paused. “This isn’t for release, at least, not yet. I think I told you I was going to retire next month?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Well, CNO called this morning and said he was sending me down to be the superintendent of the Naval Academy.” Hunter, showing genuine surprise, offered his hand. “Congratulations, Sir. I know that means a promotion. Did that come out of nowhere?”

  “It did. There are some problems in Annapolis, and the staff thought I’d be the right guy to settle things down.”

  “Sir, that has to be a first. I’ve never heard of the President moving to become the academy superintendent. Amazing things happen to good guys when their college wins a gold medal at Jim Thorpe.”

  The men laughed heartily. It had to be true.

  “Good luck, Sir,” Duncan said. “You know I have some friends in Annapolis….”

  “Duncan, if you’re in Annapolis, I expect you to call me, so we can get together. Do we have a good e-mail address for you?”

  “Sir, your secretary and half a dozen others have it, as does Captain McGee. I guess I’d better get going on my next great adventure. If you’re in the area or need me for anything, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  The admiral gave him a thumbs-up, which signaled their good-byes were officially over. McGee walked out of the office with Duncan.

  “Well, good Sir, I never thought this day would come,” McGee said. “You did a lot for me, and I want you to know you’re….” It seemed like the big SEAL was searching for words and fighting back tears. “…really special. You should have been a SEAL. You would’ve been a great one. I want you to have this.”

  He opened his hand to reveal a gold SEAL trident. Hunter was taken aback, and clenched his jaw, fighting back his own tears. “This is the only warfare specialty pin that’s the same for officers and enlisted,” McGee said. “It symbolizes that Navy SEALs are brothe
rs in arms. They train and fight together. You and me—Mustangs. You’ll always be my brother in arms, Sir. Thank you for everything.”

  “Thanks, Bill. I don’t know what to say. You’re amazing, good Sir.”

  “Stay in touch, Apex. That’s an order. Fair winds and following seas, Sir.” McGee saluted. Hunter thought McGee looked like a Roman God in that uniform.

  Hunter returned the salute. “WILCO, Bullfrog. Take care.”

  He watched as McGee executed an about face and marched off without looking back. He looked at the Trident in his hand before closing his fingers tightly around it while fighting back tears. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes.

  Duncan Hunter bounded from Hunter Hall, jogged across Cushing Road, and took the steps up to his truck. Checking his watch, he shed his suit coat and drove from the Naval War College compound pulling his trailered Corvette. He headed up Luce, negotiated the obstacles adjacent the guard shack, and drove toward the roundabout.

  As he approached 3rd Street, he noticed the woman in the headscarf quizzically looking at his truck. Checking his side mirror, he frowned when she followed the trajectory of the Silverado.

  “I wonder how long it’ll be before they realize I won’t be coming back,” he muttered.

  Speeding through the roundabout, he drove across the bridge at Narragansett Bay on his way to the old Naval Air Station Quonset Point, renamed Quonset State Airport.

  He stopped at the FBO, crossing five parking spaces, and left the engine running. As he got out, he reached over the truck bed rail and retrieved a black ballistic nylon B-4 bag.

  By the time he turned around, Bob from the YO-3A support crew crossed the parking lot and said, “I’ll take good care of her, Duncan. See you in a few days.”

  Duncan shook his hand, looked both ways, and hurried across the parking lot to the FBO. Four minutes later, he closed the door and crawled into the copilot’s seat of the waiting Gulfstream GIVSP. “Thanks for the lift, Greg.”