by Andy Harp
“Mr. Scott,” said Krowl, “Admiral Williams, Commander of USPACON, is with us by satellite.” USPACON, short for U.S. Pacific Command, was responsible for all Defense Department matters in the Pacific.
On one of the screens appeared a four-star Navy admiral with graying, close-cropped hair and a well-tanned face. “Hello, gentlemen,” said Admiral Williams. Based in Hawaii, he was the lead commander in any crisis that might occur in that part of the world. His was an enviable job. Admirals throughout the Navy fought for the chance to be Commander, USPACON. With hot spots such as China, North Korea, Pakistan, Vietnam, India, Cambodia, and the Spratly Islands within his purview, Admiral Williams was guaranteed plenty of CNN exposure. Only Central Command provided commanders more media attention. With enormous areas of ocean in the Pacific Command, it was natural the post would always go to an admiral.
“Gentlemen,” Krowl said curtly, “there are to be no notes! This is Need-to-Know Only.” He didn’t care about Wolf or Scott, and considered McCain no threat. “Admiral Williams, naturally you’re exempted, sir.”
Krowl turned to Scott. “Now, Mr. Scott, what is so urgent that we needed to get together?”
“Admiral, the Yongbyon project has gained new life. After the Taepo Dong 2 failure, they changed their team, acquiring someone who we believe can put it all together for the first time, and he has gone straight to the full range TD-3X. It will have a range of ten thousand-plus nautical miles and carry a five hundred-plus load.”
“Shit,” Williams muttered to himself.
“He’s also working on a sixth generation weapon.”
Silence hit the room. Everyone knew the potential impact of a soon-to-be operational Taepo Dong-3X. Virtually every city in the continental United States would be within its range. Several sixth-generation weapons could be carried by a missile with five hundred kilogram load capacity.
And that’s why, now, Admiral Krowl and Scott found themselves here, in this small town, looking for the one man who could pull off the mission at hand.
Chapter 3
As everyone in the courtroom stood, Judge Anderson Roamer, a barrel-chested bull of a man with dark, thick, horn-rimmed glasses, took the bench, sitting well above the floor of the cavernous old courtroom. The courthouse, built with the detailed craftsmanship of the 1930s, now had large, hand-sized strips of paint peeling off the walls and ceilings. A new courthouse was stranded at the bottom of the county’s list of capital project priorities.
After shuffling some papers, Judge Roamer looked down at the two attorneys below.
He pushed his glasses up with a finger, stained brown from years of smoking. “We have heard from the defense. Is the State ready for closing argument?”
Will Parker stood up. “The State is ready, Your Honor.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Parker.”
“Folks,” said Will to the jury, “we just met two days ago, so let me reintroduce myself—I’m William Parker.”
As he spoke, a door squeaked open in the rear of the courtroom. Everyone glanced toward the two dark-suited men who entered. The older one sat down in the last row of benches—a balding head, heavy, dark eyebrows, and bright gold glasses that framed a pair of dark eyes. The other man, who had a military-style haircut, wore dark sunglasses.
Will turned back to the jury. He looked each juror in the eye through thin glasses that framed his own sky-blue eyes and created the impression of a teacher. His personality, though, seemed more like that of a neighbor talking over a fence. His blonde-brown hair had a high part, and his tall, athletic frame dominated the jury box. A small scar over his left eye did more to accent his face than to distract. Will had a calm presence, speaking with a voice more of a judge than a juror, more of a general than a captain.
“I was born in this town. Except for school, the Marine Corps, and Desert Storm, I have stayed in this town. Like each of you, I care for this town and the people who live their lives here.” His voice was quiet but sincere. He smiled, and as he did, a small dimple appeared on his cheek.
Will turned to the table across from the jury box and picked up a small, square black object with a short, slender black wire attached. The wire, like an antenna, extended an inch from the object. He slipped it into his pocket, turned back to the jury, and looked directly at one juror.
“This case has been about the illegal transport and offer for sale of an illegal substance—ten kilos of cocaine, to be exact,” said Will. “Using recorded conversations, we have proven that this defendant, David Ikins, possessed cocaine when he secretly flew into the Dooley County airport in the early morning hours of July 3rd—on a twin engine Cessna 401 seen in a coastal airport in Colombia, South America the day before. And we have shown that the defendant flew the drugs here, to our country, to our home, for the purpose of selling them to Ham Aultman.”
Will turned toward a thin man in the seats beyond the trial area. Ham Aultman, dark and ill-shaven, sank into his seat as the courtroom’s attention shifted to him. His tie crumpled up the collar of his off-white shirt, like a laundry bag pulled too tight. Oversized clothes notwithstanding, Ham had apparently done his best to clean up for court.
“Ham Aultman is a convicted felon. . . a thief. . . a drug dealer. Not someone I especially like, but in this particular instance, he is the state informant who made this case. Before the defendant landed, Aultman had been caught in a minor drug bust. As soon as he was booked on that charge, Aultman, to gain leniency, bailed on the Ikins scheme and agreed to wear a wire. In reality, he was merely a mule for the ten kilos. He didn’t have the financing or the nerve for such a big load, so he squealed on his delivery man—the next one up the ladder. The U.S. Attorney in Macon saved Aultman several decades in prison in return for his cooperation in the much bigger Ikins case before you.”
Ikins, with long dark hair tied in a ponytail, glared at Will, who returned the look. The sharp, custom-tailored attorney sitting on Ikins’s side stared forward, trying to ignore Will’s glare and the jury’s attention.
“And,” continued Will, “Mr. Writesworth has done an excellent job as defense counsel in showing each of us that Aultman is, in all likelihood, a dislikeable, unbelievable person. But, this is not about your believing Ham Aultman or his word under oath.”
With that, Will turned back to his table, walked over to the low black box, and flipped a red switch. A clear, audible voice emerged—his own, from a few minutes earlier. “This case has been about the illegal transport and offer for sale of an illegal substance—ten kilos of cocaine, to be exact.” Several of the jurors smiled.
Will flipped off the play button. “This case is about the reliability and credibility of modern electronics. If you doubt the reliability or credibility of our recordings, then you need to return your verdict for the defendant. Otherwise, you need to find for the State.” Will stopped at the corner of his table and turned back to the jury. “Thank you.”
Judge Roamer straightened in his chair, and the jurors shifted their attention to the bench.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the judge, “I have the responsibility to give you instructions on the law, or as we call it, the charge of the Court. Before doing that, though, I must ask the marshal to gather the evidence, and I will need to talk briefly to the attorneys. Since it’s nearing lunch hour, I’m going to call a recess at this time and we’ll reconvene at one-thirty. Please do not discuss this case with anyone, or even with each other, until I tell you to do so.
“Marshal, you may take custody of the defendant. We are in recess until one-thirty.” Judge Roamer cracked his gavel, and the jury left. He turned to the lawyers. “Gentlemen, I need your proposed instructions of law before lunch. Any questions?”
“No, Your Honor,” the two attorneys said in near unison.
“I’ll see you back here at one-fifteen.” And, with that, Roamer slid his chair back and quickly left the courtroom. The marshal touched the defendant on his shoulder. Ikins stood and walked to the side door.
&nbs
p; “Clark,” Will said to the young court reporter sitting beside the judge’s bench, “I’m going up to my office.” She looked up at him with a glow. Clark Ashby was a tanned, freckled redhead with a petite but well-shaped body—a runner who took pride in her ability to outrun most of her competitors. Her red curly hair flowed over her shoulders. Looking into Will’s eyes, she did not disguise her thoughts.
“Will, if that’s an invitation, I’ll be happy to join you in your office.”
“Clark, if I ever want to review a trial transcript in detail, I’ll do it with only one court reporter.” With his smile, the sly dimple again showed on his face.
“I was hoping for more than a transcript. . .”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Will, pushing up the hair drooping onto his forehead, “I’ll chill a bottle of champagne and move some of the appellate briefs off my desk.” He enjoyed the banter.
“Will. . .” Clark paused. She enjoyed this, too.
Will, walking through the door, spoke over his shoulder. “What else were you going to say?” He smiled.
She laughed but said nothing. She might just go by his office—to see if the champagne was indeed on ice. She didn’t expect it to be. Perhaps a cold Coke, though.
Will all but hopped up the two flights of stairs to his office. Always proud of keeping in shape, he had just won his second marathon—a much longer distance than the races he won in college. The Marine Corps had instilled in him the pride of accomplishing any challenge he gave himself, and running the 26.2 miles in a marathon had become the challenge.
After many years of successfully prosecuting criminal cases, Will still enjoyed challenges. He had seen the dregs of society—and sent many of them to jail—but others constantly took their place. Often, the process felt monotonous. He would see the same criminals sentenced, serve part of their time, then commit the next crime while on release. A constant cycle of catch, try, and release, then catch again. The game had become boring, almost unfair. Will knew the criminal code better than anyone in the state.
More importantly, he could anticipate, and this was the professional asset his legal opponents most feared. Again and again, Will was able to anticipate the criminal’s storyline, and hence his defense. Drug dealers began to avoid Vienna. Most would skirt the town and Dooley County altogether just to avoid him. But Dooley County also had U.S. Interstate 75, a direct connector from Florida to the north, and drugs continued to flow through this pipeline.
Will’s first marathon, for which he’d trained two years, had pushed him to the edge, the way prosecuting criminals no longer did. He had always achieved a first-class score on his Marine fitness tests, but the marathon tested his ability to endure the pain and challenge of a two-hour-plus race. After ten miles, the salt would hit his eyes; fifteen miles and he would see runners stop, withering in pain. Will, with an inner strength, would keep going. Marathoners were often thin, wiry, small men, but Will was more muscular. It was his inner strength, though, that often surprised his competitors at the twenty-mile mark, where he passed many of them.
As he passed through the front door of his office, Connie, his secretary, was standing up.
“What’s going on?” Will asked.
Connie Graham, who’d worked for Will for several years now, had seen him threatened by some of the worst criminals in Georgia. As a district attorney, he had prosecuted and put well over twenty on death row. Will was not easily excited and, after a dozen of these threats, neither was Connie. But her face had a different look now, twisted into a frown.
“Boss,” she said, “there are two very strange men waiting for you in your office.”
“What do you mean by strange?”
“Definitely not from Vienna—or Georgia for that matter. One has a different accent. The heavier one acts like he’s doing his best just trying to be nice. He asked for a cup of coffee and then basically ordered me to put two scoops of sugar in it. I thought they were some of your Marine buddies.”
“What do they want?”
“They asked to meet with you privately for a minute, so I put them in your office.”
“Okay,” said Will, “send the Ikins jury instructions down to Judge Roamer and don’t disturb me unless he calls.”
Chapter 4
As Will stepped through the door marked “District Attorney—Private,” the two men turned around. The older one had been looking at a wall photograph of Will taken with his ANGLICO unit in Iraq. ANGLICO, short for Air Naval Gunfire Liaison Company, was a small, elite Marine unit assigned the job of calling in instructions for specific naval gunfire targets. Often, Will’s team, a small patrol of six Marines, would be well beyond the front lines, deep into the enemy’s territory. Usually, they were dropped there, under cover of darkness, by Marine helicopters, or they parachuted in from AC-130 aircraft. Team members would silently slip up to nearby enemy positions and then call in strikes on the targets. No unit required cooler heads.
“Colonel Parker?”
“Yes.” Will immediately knew the men were not here on a criminal matter. In his civilian world, he was rarely, if ever, addressed as Colonel.
“I’m Admiral Krowl and this is Mr. Scott.”
As the introduction was being made, the dark, younger man slid past Will, closed the door, and turned the lock. Will’s curiosity went up another notch.
“Sir, what can I do for you?”
Scott pulled out a brown folder with a striped, bright red cover marked “Top Secret.”
Krowl pulled up his chair.
“Colonel, before I answer that, Mr. Scott needs to ask you a few questions. This won’t take a lot of time, but the matter is quite sensitive. I hope you won’t mind.”
Will tried to place the name “Krowl.” When he went through SEAL training in San Diego, he had heard about a Navy SEAL Admiral named Krowl who was not well regarded.
SEALs were similar in many ways to Marines—determined, tough, disciplined, and cohesive. A bar fight between Marines and Navy SEALs was a truckload of destruction. If someone picked on a brother Marine, especially those with the elite training of Marine Force Reconnaissance, Marines would fight to the last. And they knew how to fight. Navy SEALs were just as determined, and usually just as stalwart.
Will had thus been surprised to hear San Diego-based SEALs disparage this Admiral. An Admiral who was a former Navy SEAL was usually admired and respected.
“Forgive me for these simple questions,” Scott said as he opened up the folder. “You are Colonel William Parker, United States Marine Corps Reserve, Social Security Number 140-44-4802?” Will noticed Scott’s slight British accent.
“Yes.”
“You’re forty-two.”
“Yes.”
Scott knew the significance. Will Parker was one of the youngest colonels in the Marine Reserves.
“Do you have your Common Access Card with you, Colonel?”
Will pulled out his CAC identification card and handed it to Scott.
Scott reached next to his chair and took from the floor a black briefcase, which he opened, revealing a very slim, metallic-looking computer inside. Scott opened the computer, pushed a button, typed in a code, and then passed Will’s identification card through a slot on the machine. Will had been issued the new identification card—a card with a holographic seal of the United States and, more importantly, an encoded chip that held every essential detail about him as a Marine.
“Colonel, you attended college as an undergraduate at the School of International Service at American University in Washington, D.C.?” Scott asked the question in a quiet, serious tone, emphasizing each word.
“Yes.”
“You speak Spanish and Russian fluently and graduated with honors with a degree in international service?”
“Yes.”
“You were raised in Georgia?”
“Yes.”
“Both parents lost in an airplane crash just after you finished law school?”
“Yes.”
/> In 1988, for their wedding anniversary, Will’s parents had gone to London for a week. The 747 explosion gave Will nightmares for years, and he developed the lifelong habit of showing little emotion.
It was interesting, he thought, that the record only showed them as victims of an airplane crash.
“During your freshman year, you roomed at McDowell Hall, a freshman dormitory on campus?
“Yes.”
“You lived on the second floor?”
“Yes. . .” Will thought he knew his resumé well, but these seemingly insignificant facts had him puzzled. Who would track this kind of information, and why on earth would it matter?
“You served with the 1st Marine Division, with a primary military occupational specialty of 0802—artillery officer?”
“Yes.”
“You served as an intelligence officer and forward observer with Force Reconnaissance?”
“Yes.”
“You served as an Arctic survival instructor at the Advanced Mountain Warfare Training School in Bridgeport, California?”
“Yes.”
As to Bridgeport, they were light on their information. Will had been the Marine Corps’s expert on cold weather survival and warfare. During the years following Vietnam, this was a rare specialty. Well into the 1980s, the Marine Corps focused on jungle warfare, as did all the services. But one general at 1st Marine Division recognized that the Marine Corps had to have expertise in other environments. He had remembered the hundreds of casualties from the cold of the Korean War and was determined that young Marines would be well-prepared for all types of climates.
“Did you undergo training also at Fort Greeley in Alaska?”
“Yes.”
A young captain at the time, Will was chosen the Marine expert on cold weather environments because of his reputation as an outdoorsman capable of survival in any circumstance. Pulled out of the 11th Marines, an artillery unit, he’d been sent, almost alone, to the Arctic survival course at Fort Greeley, Alaska for several months of deep winter training.