Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  On one screen, she typed each word in Arabic. On the dual monitor, she transcribed the conversation in English. She started and stopped, taking one sentence at a time, clicking the mouse to advance the recording before pausing, typing, and approving the translation.

  After thirty minutes of concentrated transcribing, she was startled when she felt the SCIF door slam closed. She lifted an earpiece and was ready to shout, “Nazy here!” to let the person know he wasn’t alone when she heard the DCI’s voice. She froze, afraid to breathe.

  “…they’re alive, but their airplane was completely wrecked.”

  Another man’s voice, deeper and more direct than the effeminate DCI, responded, “The two will be grounded for an extended period of time. By the time the aircraft is repaired, their contract will expire, and we can bring this work back in-house and start using our unmanned systems.”

  At first, she didn’t recognize the voice, but she felt it was the Chief of Counterintelligence. That man kept his mouth closed, rarely saying a word in meetings for fear of flashing his incredibly bad teeth. He also smelled bad, and Nazy inhaled quietly to determine the invisible man’s identity.

  The SCIF door handle unlocked, and the DCI said, “I approve of shutting down Rath. Put a closed tab on the file and lock it away.”

  “Will do, Sir.”

  Three seconds later, the SCIF door slammed shut. Nazy blinked several times and slowly exhaled, trying to make sense of the conversation. She knew Duncan and Greg were contract pilots for Langley and were out of the country, but she didn’t know which program they were on. In the very highly compartmentalized world of Special Access Programs, she had no need to know.

  As she pondered what the men said, she suddenly understood why Connie called. Nazy checked the gold Rolex Duncan gave her, performed a few mental calculations, and settled on terminating the transcription session, as her focus was gone. She closed her work and hurried to her office, sending more shredder detritus into the depths of the old carpet.

  Operating on autopilot, too stunned to think clearly, she entered her office. After closing and locking the door behind her, she shut down her computer. She stowed the key in her office safe, collected her handbag, briefcase, and coat, then unlocked the door.

  Once in the corridor, she checked for traffic before locking her door and setting the cipher lock. Nazy walked down two flights of stairs before catching the elevator to the main-floor lobby. She left the old headquarters building and walked toward the parking lot.

  When she reached her Mercedes, she looked around, expecting to be stopped. Very few people were about, and they were more interested in getting out of the weather that had turned overcast and blustery than noticing someone leaving in the middle of the day.

  She placed her gear into the trunk, got into the driver’s seat, and left the parking lot. As she approached the main gate, the guard gave her a half-salute and waved her through.

  Once on Highway 123 heading toward Tysons Corner, she felt mildly aggravated with the unusually heavy lunchtime traffic. Taking a deep breath, she looked carefully both ways and concentrated on driving.

  *

  When Nazy arrived at the Ritz Carlton, she pulled into the underground garage, found a parking space near the stairwell leading to the hotel, got out, grabbed her handbag, and walked toward the elevators. She pushed through the hotel lobby toward the restaurant, her heels announcing to all that the woman in the black power suit was in a hurry.

  Connie Lynche nursed a half-full goblet of red wine at a table for two near the fireplace when she looked up at her visitor. Under furled brows, Nazy’s green eyes flashed.

  “Well, I see you made it,” Connie said. “I didn’t think you’d show up.”

  Nazy hesitated, tempted to snap back. “I know why you called me.”

  “I doubt you know anything after you walked out on Duncan.”

  Before Nazy could respond, the waiter came up and asked if they were ready to order.

  Connie returned the two menus and said, “Two cob salads and two iced teas.”

  The waiter half-bowed and walked away.

  Nazy took time to compose herself. “I didn’t walk out on him. I told him I needed time to think. I was shocked that he arranged for my divorce and Waleed’s death. Duncan knew the outcome.”

  “Let me get this straight. You told the man who rescued you from a life of bondage, saw to it that you were able to make a whole new life for yourself, who loved you from the moment he set eyes on you and arranged to make sure you were free from any threat of retaliation, that you needed time? To do what? Mourn the cruel, evil man your family married you to?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Nazy said defensively. “I’ve never seen Duncan as cold and matter-of-fact as he was when he told me what happened. It was like he stepped on a bug.”

  Connie worked very hard not to raise her voice. “You silly fool! He stepped on a bug for you. Duncan is either black or white in his views. There are no shades of gray. When he cares for someone, he’ll go to hell and back for that person. If someone walks away from him, he turns his back. Unfortunately, he can’t let you go, so he’s been taking chances he never would have before you came into his life. The latest episode almost killed him and my husband. Thanks to your betrayal, they almost died.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You blew their cover.”

  “What? I don’t know anything about any program involving Duncan or Greg, other that what I heard in the hallway earlier today.”

  “Of course, you do.”

  “No, I don’t. I have a good idea what Duncan and Greg do, but Duncan never told me anything. We’re in the business of keeping secrets. He said it was for my own safety.”

  Connie’s confusion showed on her face. She sat back so hard she almost dropped her wine.

  “Is Duncan OK?” Nazy asked. “Are Duncan and Greg OK?”

  “Yes, they’re fine, but they almost died. Duncan saved Greg and their airplane.”

  “It seems that man’s always saving someone.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “You love him, don’t you?” She said it matter-of-factly, almost accusatory. Nazy’s eyes were wide open.

  Connie smiled, trying to suppress a laugh, but she knew Nazy knew the truth. “Yes, I love him. I’d do anything for him. He loves me like the sister he never had. You don’t know how lucky you are, Nazy Cunningham. Duncan’s one of a kind, and he’s nuts about you.”

  The admission completely disarmed Nazy. She breathed deeply without taking her eyes off Connie. Marshaling her thoughts, Nazy whispered, “Connie, when I was getting ready to come over here, I overheard the DCI and another SIS talking about what had to be a special access program called "Rath," and the pilots were almost killed, and the aircraft almost destroyed. It had to be Duncan and Greg. They were almost hostile in their discussion. Why?”

  The waiter appeared with two salads and teas. As he walked away, Connie felt the tension leave her back. “Are you sure he said Rath?”

  Nazy noticed the change in Connie’s tone without registering the change in her stress level. “That’s what he said. “I’m almost positive it was Rath, but it sounded like it rhymed with bathe. I didn’t catch it perfectly. I don’t know any English word that sounds like bathe but starts with an R. As I drove down here, I thought that was why you called me.”

  Connie went from confrontational to friendly. “You’re right, only I thought you were involved in the program, and you blew their cover.”

  Nazy, confused by Connie’s sudden 180° turn, bit into her salad. “First, I don’t know what program he’s on. Second, I’d never do that. I love Duncan. I’d never do anything to hurt him.’

  “I know you do, but he thinks you were somehow involved in the mission being blown. Why would he think that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  After a few seconds’ silence, Nazy asked, “What am I supposed to do now?”

  Connie paused,
then opened her handbag and extracted an airline ticket envelope. “You’re flying to Texas this afternoon. Duncan’s headed back, and you need to be there when he arrives. You need to tell him what you overheard and convince him you didn’t, that you wouldn’t ever betray him.”

  Nazy was bewildered by the sudden change of direction in the conversation. Dozens of thoughts crowded her mind, as she slowly accepted the envelope. She almost said she couldn’t go, that she had work to do, as she opened the envelope and saw a first-class round-trip ticket from Washington Reagan to San Antonio. The flight departed at 3:30 PM.

  She checked her Rolex and realized she had plenty of time, even with DC traffic, to get to the airport. When she looked up, she asked, “How am I supposed to get to Duncan’s?”

  “Carlos will pick you up. I called, and he’s expecting you. I’ll call again when I leave and know you’re on your way. He’ll make sure you get to the house. I know you have a key, but you don’t have the current security code, and neither do I. Carlos has it.”

  Nazy’s eyes fell on the ticket, then she looked up. “Thank you, Connie.”

  Connie forced a smile. “My pleasure. Eat your salad. I need to think.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  1800 October 28, 2011

  The Yellow Corvette Ranch, Fredericksburg, Texas

  Flying first-class, Nazy was one of the first passengers off the American Airlines flight. Although it was late October, southwest Texas was still subject to triple-digit temperatures, and San Antonio was experiencing some of its warmest weather in many years. The temperature on the jet bridge was stifling, so she hurried up the long, tiled passenger walkway toward the air-conditioned relief inside the terminal. By the time she reached the end of the jetway, her brow was damp, and she shed her suit coat. She went to the women’s restroom. The trip to Duncan’s ranch was another couple of hours away with few opportunities for a bathroom break.

  Connie emailed Nazy that Carlos, Duncan’s ranch manager, would pick her up at baggage claim. He would drive the Hummer Duncan used for runs into town and to irritate environmentally sensitive liberals, but mostly because the oversized, black monster was a tank, modified to protect the occupants from mayhem. The Hummer carried an additional 1,000 pounds of the latest armor-piercing, and rifle-protection technologies, while the supercharged Corvette motor under the hood was specifically tuned to allow the heavy truck to run away from trouble with ease, on the road or off.

  The fuel tank was bullet-resistant, reinforced with quarter-inch AR500 ballistic steel, and blast-proof. The self-sealing tank used bladder technologies to prevent the tank from leaking fuel if punctured by hostile rounds. The huge tires were run flats composed of an outer shell and a strong internal rubber shell that would continue functioning at high speeds even when shot multiple times. The glass surrounding the cabin was replaced with 40mm bullet-resistant multilayer polycarbonate glass.

  Nazy, riding the escalator downstairs, walked through baggage claim with her briefcase. When she stepped through the automatic glass doors, the San Antonio heat assaulted her. Carlos Yazzie stood beside the immaculate black Hummer and jumped into action when the striking woman appeared in the doorway. He raced to take her bags.

  Men and women along the curb jerked their heads to stare at the beautiful, raven-haired woman who inspired such a dramatic response from the driver. No one would have guessed that the woman in white silk and the black skirt was a senior intelligence officer in the service of her adopted country.

  “Welcome back to Texas, Miss Nazy. It’s been too long since we last saw you.”

  Nazy smiled at the fit, ruddy Apache with the high-and-tight haircut. Like all proud jarheads, Yazzie still wore his hair short after he retired from the Marine Corps. “It’s good to see you, too, Gunny. How is Theresa?”

  Nazy resisted a little, then let Carlos take her briefcase and hovered at her side until they reached the Hummer. As Yazzie opened the passenger door and stepped aside, he said, “Feisty as ever, Ms. Nazy.”

  He turned his body and head toward the curb to prevent anyone from seeing the skirted woman indelicately enter the truck. When Yazzie felt his charge was safely inside and composed, he checked to make sure all of her body parts were safely inside and composed before closing the immensely heavy door. He moved quickly around the rear of the idling truck, placing Nazy’s briefcase on the back seat. Once behind the wheel and buckled in, he continued talking as he drove from the terminal.

  “Yes, Ma’am, she’s feisty as ever. She has aired out the house and provisioned the kitchen. Captain Hunter is due home later tonight.”

  Leaving the airport complex, he drove north on Interstate 10 toward Fredericksburg. The seventy-mile trip passed in companionable silence.

  When they arrived at the compound surrounding the main house, garages, and outbuildings, including the Yazzie quarters, Carlos parked at the front door and helped Nazy out. A rotund, sprightly Theresa emerged from the house and met them on the porch. The two women embraced and exchanged greetings.

  Carlos opened the door and waited for the women to enter. He carried Nazy’s bags in one hand and motioned the ladies to get out of the heat with the other. Once inside, he took Nazy’s briefcase to the guest room beyond the main living area.

  Once Carlos was out of earshot, Theresa looked hard at Nazy. “Are you here to try to make it up to Captain Hunter or tell him good-bye?”

  “I’m here to make it up to him.”

  “Bueno. He hasn’t been the same since you went out of his life.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’ve known him a long time, ever since he saved my Carlos from becoming a washed-up drunk and kept him in the Marines. Captain Hunter hasn’t been the same man since he returned from Washington.”

  “I’ll make it up to him if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Theresa hugged Nazy again. “I know you will. You’re a good woman.”

  As Carlos entered the foyer, he lowered his head. “Theresa, we need to go.”

  The two walked out, and Nazy closed the door behind them before walking into the main living area that made up the main part of the house. She noted the LeRoy Neiman over the fireplace. The painting was of Duncan and his old Corvette after Duncan won the Vintage Grand Touring Championship at Monterey, California, the previous year. The room, decorated in the warm tones of the southwest, included Navaho rugs and pottery, leather furniture, and southwest watercolors by local artists.

  Opposite the Neiman, suspended in the corner, was a six-foot Apache war bonnet with double rows of foot-long eagle feathers descending in long tails to the carpet, worn only by chiefs and warriors. Carlos Yazzie presented the family ceremonial bonnet to Hunter, the greatest chief he knew, for saving him from a life of despair and misery. Nothing similar to the war bonnet existed in the Middle East, and Nazy always found the golden eagle feathers, ermine trim, and fancy beadwork unique, striking, and elegant.

  After admiring the painting and headdress, she went down the hall to the kitchen, brewed a cup of tea, and returned to the living room to wait.

  *

  The Fredericksburg FBO was shut down for the night when the stillness was broken by the sound of a jet crossing the threshold, inbound from the east. Ninety seconds later, the pilot keyed the microphone to the special frequency to turn on the runway and taxi lights. After landing and clearing the taxiways, the pilot keyed the microphone to extinguish the lights, as the Gulfstream taxied to a large hangar at the far end of the airport.

  The engines were shut down and the stairs lowered. One man exited the aircraft and walked into the hangar through a side door.

  A bell sounded, as the hangar door slowly folded up toward the ceiling, while interior mercury vapor lights gradually increased in brightness.

  Once the hangar door was retracted to the ceiling, the man stepped away from the door switch and toward an aircraft tug in the middle of the hangar. The white tug’s engine started easily. In less than five minutes, a tow bar
was pinned to the nose wheel, the jet was towed into the hangar, and the landing gear chocked.

  Duncan Hunter loaded his bag and old leather flight jacket into the black Aston Martin parked inside and drove the sleek Vantage out of the hangar, set the brake, and returned to the hangar to lower the door and turn off the lights.

  Ten minutes after landing the big jet, Hunter drove into the hot Texas night.

  *

  When he arrived home, he was surprised to see lights on in the house. He noticed lights on in the Yazzie house, too. He paused, then realized Connie must have called Carlos to tell him he was on the way back.

  Duncan used the remote to raise the garage door and pulled the Aston Martin into its assigned slot. After he shut off the engine, he clicked the remote a second time to lower the door, removed his bag from the trunk, and entered the house via the kitchen door, noting Carlos hadn’t reset the alarm.

  As he reached for the light switch in the kitchen, he tensed, feeling the air in the kitchen had been disturbed. He caught the faint scent of cinnamon. Duncan quietly set down his bag and flight jacket on the granite countertop, removed his Sig Sauer P290 from the holster on his back, stepped out of his shoes, and quietly walked toward the front of the house.

  As he approached the living room through the kitchen hall, he barely caught the slight rustle of fabric against the leather couch. Crouching in the dark hall, he said, “Stand up. Put your hands were I can see them, and step away from the furniture.” Without thinking, he raised the tiny gun to firing position and clicked off the safety.

  Nazy, dozing, was startled by Duncan’s voice. She turned toward the sound in panic, tripped, and fell.

  Duncan, shocked when he saw Nazy fall down, moved quickly toward her, gun still in his hand. When he reached her, she was beginning to rise. He offered his hand, but she pushed it away.

  “I’m glad you’re a good shot. You could have killed me,” she said.