Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  “What do you want me to say?” O’Sullivan asked. “Everything is hunky-dory? It isn’t. It sounds like we have someone who doesn’t want to go into the history books as the guy who tried to kill this president, so he found a way to get a surrogate to do his dirty work.”

  “A rogue SEAL?” the Attorney General asked. “That’s blackmail on a horrific scale.”

  “If he’s capable enough to take out four of our finest warriors,” the SECDEF replied, “we could all be in the crosshairs before this is over.”

  “Any intel on the wire?” O’Sullivan asked.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” the DCI replied. “I’ll talk to the deputy CTC and see if they’ve heard anything. We need to find this shooter. Marty, you need to lock down the president as much as you can, and limit his public exposure and public appearances. Since he’s campaigning, that’s going to be a challenge.”

  “We’ll see if there have been any snipers booted from the services in the last ten years or so,” the SECDEF added. “I don’t want to, but we should probably brief all SEALs, and they’ll need to submit to a poly. I can’t just confine the SEALs to base. They have work to do. If they refuse a poly, they’re done.” His BlackBerry buzzed on his hip.

  “You mean give them all a polygraph?” O’Sullivan asked. “Sir, that will piss them off. What if they all fail, because you insulted them? You can’t fire them all!”

  “I’ll have the FBI working overtime on this,” the Attorney General said. “Highest priority. I’ll brief the president and the vice.”

  The SECDEF sighed, thinking the AG was a lightweight. “We’ll engage the full resources of the IC to see if we can find some leads,” the Director of Central Intelligence said. “I propose we have our deputies ramrod these investigations and brief daily. Anything substantive, we can brief at my place.”

  “Full court press,” O’Sullivan said. “Thank you. I appreciate the help, Gentlemen.”

  “Who do we know with the skill set to knock off SEALs?” the DCI asked.

  “There aren’t many,” the SECDEF said. “An effort like that will take a lot of money, too.”

  “With the killing of bin Laden, there must be a Middle East connection,” O’Sullivan said.

  The SECDEF nodded, while he read something off his handheld device. The DCI seemed startled for a moment, while the AG remained clueless.

  “Do we need to investigate the backgrounds of the SEALs who were killed?” O’Sullivan asked. “Are there any common threads that link all four of the guys?”

  As he placed his BlackBerry back in its holster, the SECDEF asked, “Besides the fact they all were in the initial wave that went into Afghanistan to find Osama bin Laden and all attended the Naval War College at the same time? That, and there’s been another SEAL killed we didn’t know about.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  1800 June 8, 2011

  Secretary of Defense Office Pentagon, Washington, DC

  The SECDEF, glancing at the file, waved the admiral away. As the door closed, his breathing rattled in his ears. The conversation with the Office of Naval Intelligence commander still ran through his head.

  “Of all the men killed this month, they were SEALs during Jawbreaker from October to December, 2001, and they were ordered to the Naval War College during 2002-2003. One Saudi naval officer also attended the international class at NWC in 2002 and was later identified as an al-Qaeda lieutenant from a detainee in Gitmo in 2008.”

  “Go on,” said the SECDEF.

  “Commander Zaid Jebriel, Royal Saudi Navy, is the son of Prince Bashir Mohammad Jebriel, a Saudi oil billionaire who’s believed to have bankrolled several AQ operations. Also noteworthy, Team Six took one of the prince’s sons captive in 2003, and that lad’s still in Gitmo. Sir.”

  “It’s a little thin, and it isn’t perfect, but it’s the best story I’ve heard to date,” the SECDEF said. “We still don’t have any idea who the trigger puller is.”

  “There’s one more pretty obscure link. When Ops processed the dead SEALs to close out their clearances, it seems all were read in on a Special Access Program called Broken Lance. Other SEALs in the building claim they never heard of it. ONI has no visibility into that program. Do we know who else has been read in on Broken Lance?”

  When the door closed behind the admiral, the SECDEF whispered to himself, “Only a dozen SEALs, the DCI, the AG, and…me.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  1800 June 8, 2011

  Secret Service Office Western Campus of St. Elizabeth’s Washington, DC

  The Secret Service director pushed away from his desk and walked to the window overlooking the DC skyline. He stood there for several minutes, arms akimbo, before finally asking aloud and to no one, “What are the chances they were all part of Broken Lance?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  1045 June 9, 2011

  Paul's Pure Gas Station, Fredericksburg, Texas

  The former 1950s-era Chevrolet dealership across the street from the even-older Pure gas station had both been quietly rehabilitated. The twenty-foot white-and-blue Pure sign on the corner was reminiscent of a small water tower. Fresh paint sparkled in the Texas sun. Old-time gas pumps with glass tops and racks of oil cans and other antique signage were reminders of days long past.

  The gas pumps were fully functional, but the station didn’t sell gas at the advertised price of nineteen cents per gallon. The two-bay garage was usually fully active. Mechanics worked on antique cars held aloft by old-time hydraulic lifts with single pistons, just like they were in the good old days. Paul’s Pure Gas Station was part of the city’s long, expansive Americana Main Street that was home to the greatest string of old-time specialty and antique shops in Texas. At the other end of the street in the tourist-trap town of Fredericksburg was the National Museum of the Pacific War, where thousands of sightseers visited every day, rain or shine.

  Across from the Pure Gas Station was an old bank building on one corner, holding the corporate offices of Quiet Aircraft Technologies. After the passing of the old warhorse, Art Yoder, Lynche and Hunter consolidated and continued their contracting work under newly established front companies—Lynche in Maryland and Hunter in Texas.

  At the other corner sat the old car dealership with fresh glass, restored neon signs, and new plaster and tiles. In the showroom were six collectable Corvettes from the ‘50s, ‘60s, and ‘70s, along with an immaculate 1974 Jaguar XKE. The old sales lot, which once held 100 cars for sale when the Stempel dealership was running, was reserved for car clubs or organizers of car shows. Sometimes it was used by old-car aficionados when they visited the Main Street shops.

  In the back of the dealership, in the former repair shop, a thriving phalanx of automotive artisans, craftsmen, and mechanics were quietly busy restoring two dozen rare motorcars. Also in the rear of the dealership sat a long, tall, air-conditioned single-bay garage that held a forty-foot maroon motor coach Duncan and Nazy took out to see America when they weren’t working. Nazy Cunningham loved traveling to see America's beauty.

  The BlackBerry vibrated on the red toolbox, signaling an incoming e-mail. Duncan sighed and stopped draining fluids from his race car, which sat atop a single-piston lift at Paul’s Pure Gas.

  Catchment pans were strategically placed to capture oils from the engine, transmission, and differential.

  By the third buzz, Hunter snatched the device and looked at the display. He didn’t recognize the address. Two presses of the Track button brought up a message that read, “Apex, Bullfrog.”

  Hunter, stunned to see those two words, immediately typed rapidly. “I was just thinking about you, with your guys finally getting OBL. I hope, good Sir, you’ve been able to put that ghost to rest.”

  As so often happened with military people, they meet and got to know each other only to lose touch over time. That happened with Hunter and McGee, too.

  “OK, now,” McGee replied.

  “Good Sir. Haven’t heard from you in a long while. Hop
e you and the family are well.”

  “Would like to talk with you. Better to see you in person. Would like to take a plane ride. Best from Newport if able.”

  “Verify you’d like to see me in Newport, RI?”

  “ASAP. Very important.”

  “Roger, Sir. Can do. Be there tonight. Can you talk? Call my number?”

  “That’s very fast. Thx. Voice comm. not good. Plz text. Text is best.”

  “Wilco. Out.”

  Three additional punches of buttons, and Hunter heard Lynche's phone ring in the handset. He answered on the third one. “Mr. Hunter.”

  “Mr. Lynche. What’s going on with you?”

  “Connie and I are on the boat in the middle of a race.”

  “Remember my buddy from the Naval War College, the SEAL?”

  “I do. Huge fucker. Snap your head off like it was a twig.”

  “He wants to see me at Newport ASAP. I got the impression he’s in some kind of trouble. Just sent text messages. He didn’t want to talk. I thought I’d take the jet and see Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is going on. I also thought 007 has to be about ready.”

  There was a long pause. “Greg? You still there?”

  “Yes. Listen, I got wind of something’s up at my old place but nothing more. My bud from there had to leave a race meeting in a hurry. He gave me a look that said something was up. I don’t know how they could be related, but….”

  “Nazy’s out of pocket. Want me to pick you up? I can be there in three hours.”

  “Easton? Call when you’re an hour out?”

  “Wilco. See you in a bit.”

  Hunter disconnected. Scrolling down his phone list, he punched a button. Bob answered on the first ring.

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “Are you in a place to ready the jet for an immediate takeoff?”

  “No, Sir. Bob’s at his place hunting. Nothing was on the schedule.”

  “No problemo. I’ll take her solo. Don’t know when I’ll be back. Any issues with her?”

  “Sir, you wound me.”

  “Sorry, Bob. I knew but still had to ask. Will call when I’m heading back, OK?”

  “I’ll call Wolfman at the FBO. He’ll have her out of the barn and ready for you. Safe travels, Sir.”

  “Thanks, Bob. Out.” He scrolled through more contacts and punched another button.

  Rudy Cervantes, his sometime race mechanic and pit crew, answered on the first ring. “Señor Hunter. What’s up?”

  “Rudy, I have to go out of town, and I have the beast up on a lift with all her fluids running out. Can you come over and replace the drain plugs, then service the little darling?”

  “Sure. Anything else?”

  “Make her ready. I’d like to run the Nevada Open Road Race next week before we head to Lime Rock.”

  “For you, el jefe, can do easy. I’ll see you when you return.” “Thanks, Rudy. I’ll set the alarm. Take care.”

  Duncan looked around the restored two-bay ‘50s gas station, as he wiggled out of his threadbare coveralls with the Frontier Airlines patch on the back. Hanging the faded beige coveralls on the office coat rack, he stroked them for a second. They belonged to his father when he was a line mechanic for the airline, and they were the only thing Duncan had left of his father’s life.

  Lincoln Hunter died seventy-seven days after being told he had inoperable cancer, and he suffered greatly through the early days of chemotherapy and radiation treatments. Duncan was twenty, a sergeant in the Marine Corps, and he was assigned as a helicopter crew chief for the local Search and Rescue unit at the Marine Corps Air Station. Where other SAR units flew the medium-lift CH-46s, Yuma, Arizona, had the smaller UH-1 Hueys. Crew chiefs flew the left seat, effectively being copilots and admittedly the luckiest assignment for an enlisted man in the Corps.

  There was no other place in the Marine where a snuffy could fly in the copilot’s seat of a helicopter every day, sometimes twice a day. When his mother suddenly called to ask him to come home, Duncan raced back to Denver and felt his world collapse as he watched his father die. Dad died on the Marine Corps’ birthday, November tenth, forever stigmatizing that date as a time of sorrow for Duncan.

  Duncan turned off the CD player in the middle of the Moody Blues’ I Know You’re Out There Somewhere, looked around to see if he forgot anything, then turned off the lights, set the alarm, and locked the door behind him.

  Bob called the FBO and had the owner, Josef “Wolfman” Wulfkuhle, prepare the jet for departure. When Duncan arrived, he stopped at the terminal to file a flight plan and get a quick weather brief. Flimsy in hand, he stopped at the men’s room. Even with autopilot, he didn’t dare leave the cockpit to relieve himself at the rear of the jet.

  He jumped into the Hummer2 and sped toward the entry gate, where rows of executive and T hangars stood. He swiped his card to open the access gate. Once inside airport property, he checked his rearview mirror to ensure the gate closed before speeding toward the hangar. To his right, he saw the hangar door was open, while to the left, the GIVSP was being towed into position in front of the terminal. Duncan drove the truck into the hangar, got out, and walked to the corner to press the Close button before leaving the hangar and walked to the parking apron where the Gulfstream sat.

  As he approached the jet, he looked back at the hangar to ensure the door closed, then went into pilot mode. He scanned the plane’s exterior for any defects, making sure tire condition and pressures were OK. He walked under and around, looking for anything that was loose, missing, or damaged. The gear pins had been removed, as had the pitot, intake, and exhaust covers, which should have been stowed by the Wolfman.

  Duncan opened the baggage compartment and saw all the covers were in place, as were a spare nose and main wheel assembly, toolbox, and jack. The gear pins, with their long, red-and-white Remove Before Flight tags, lay on the top step, as he climbed the stairs, grabbed and counted the three pins, and entered the jet.

  The Wolfman stroked his long beard, as he watched Hunter move quickly around the jet and up the stairs. When the door closed, Wolfman removed the chocks from the nose wheel, walked to the large red fire extinguisher abeam of the jet, placed sound suppressors over his ears, and waited.

  Hunter sat in the left seat. In a sweeping, fluid motion, he turned the battery switch on, engaged the APU, buckled his shoulder and lap belts, and positioned a headset over his ears to listen for ATIS information on the VHF. As the little jet turbine at the rear of the airplane spooled up and engaged the combining gearbox, Duncan’s hands flew over switches, knobs, and buttons.

  With a flick of the generator switch, the cockpit was awash in lights. Display panels came alive, radios hummed in the background, and hydraulic system indicator needles jumped to fully pressurized. A quick scan of the instrument panel indicated everything was working, as he engaged the #1 engine starter switch.

  Speaking to himself, he double-checked the pocket checklist on his knee. “Off the peg, thirty percent, lever to idle. Good pressure, and we have light off. Looks good. OK, number two. Off the peg, thirty percent, lever to idle. Good pressure, and light off. Two engines in the green, brake pressure good, GPS set.”

  He pressed the microphone switch. “Tower, November nine, nine, nine Sierra Hotel, taxi one with Delta, clearance on file.”

  He moved the throttles to eighty percent to start the jet rolling, then returned them to idle.

  “November triple nine Sierra Hotel, you’re cleared taxi to runway eighteen. Hold short for release.”

  Wolfman spat a load of chaw in an arching splat and muttered to himself as the jet’s engines spooled up beyond idle RPM, “Damn, that man’s fast.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  1715 June 9, 2011

  Easton Municipal Airport, Maryland

  “Hola!” Greg semishouted, doing his best kabuki dance to fit his six-two frame into the Gulfstream’s cockpit.

  Hunter monitored the lanky man’s legs and elbows to ensure they didn’t bump an
y switches or buttons. He didn’t shut down the starboard engine, and, once he heard the cabin door close behind Lynche, he started the port engine and called the tower for taxi.

  When he was in the cockpit, the former fighter pilot displayed the sense of urgency and economy of motion to get an airplane airborne and ready to fly as quickly as possible. At least with the Gulfstream, he let Lynche take his seat before throwing the throttles to eighty percent to pull out of the chocks and take a hard right turn.

  Once Lynche had his headphones on, he said, “I swear you do that just to see me bounce around.”

  Hunter gave him a “Who me?” look.

  “November triple nine Sierra Hotel, Tower. Cleared to taxi, runway 04. Hold short.”

  On the interphone, Hunter said, “Good evening, good Sir. Hope I didn’t ruin your evening. I hope Connie’s still talking to me.”

  “You send her flowers. She loves you. You can do anything, and she’ll still love you. I think she loves you getting me out of the house. I never send her flowers. She tolerates me.”

  “You obviously never read The Art of Worldly Wisdom. Chapter 1348 clearly tells you to send a woman flowers often to keep your ass out of trouble.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “It could happen. And it can’t hurt.”

  Lynche smiled. The two amigos were back in their element, bantering in an airplane on an adventure.

  Once they were airborne, Lynche asked, “So what the hell’s going on with your SEAL friend?”

  “I thought I lost track of him, but he popped up on my BlackBerry. I’m not sure how he got that particular address. I suspect maybe Ferrier gave it to him. I don’t know what the issue is, but he was very circumspect. The atmospherics of Bill emailing me on our emergency address is bad karma. Traffic, eleven o’clock, low. Forty-five minutes ETA.”

  “Tally-ho. How’s Marwa? I’m sorry. Ms. Nazy Cunningham.”