by Andy Harp
“Not only can I tell you where it is, I can personally take you. I’m going to the Marriott to give a talk at one of the conferences there.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m not from here and would greatly appreciate your help.”
“Follow me.” Dr. Walter took off like a racehorse. He was well thought of by fellow faculty members for his academic prowess, but no one tried to walk with or slow down Lin Walter. One of his classes had given him an end-of-school-year plaque volunteering his body to the medical school at Harvard. The theory was that if he had a heart, it would beat only once every hour—even with plenty of caffeine.
Dr. Walter crossed over the campus, following the identical trail Rei had taken. Rei knew exactly at what point he needed to strike.
As they came to the street that paralleled the Charles River, Rei saw the professor preparing to cut across the traffic instead of walking down the thirty meters to the pedestrian walkway. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted several bicyclists at the crosswalk and knew this would provide him a small advantage.
When Walter paused for the traffic, Rei moved up quickly to his side, turned the gold ring on his finger, and carefully flipped the small cap.
“Doctor, you’re too fast for me. Please go ahead and I’ll find it myself.”
“Are you sure?” Despite a strong sense of civility, Lin Walter could not stand to slow down for anyone.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Well, that second tall building is the Marriott. You shouldn’t have any trouble at all finding it.”
“Thank you.”
As Lin Walter shook the stranger’s hand, he felt a slight prick and yanked his hand back. The palm, at the base of his ring finger, had a dot of red blood. “Damn.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Rei’s look was of inadvertent innocence.
Walter turned, starting across the traffic where he saw a brief gap in the cars. As he stepped forward, the thought suddenly struck him, How did he know I was a doctor?
As the young professor fell to his knees in the second lane of traffic, the taxi slammed on its brakes, yet still struck Walter with tremendous force, apparently killing him instantly.
Rei turned from the street and walked back to the campus. His identity was quickly obscured by dozens of other students who swarmed to the busy intersection to see what had happened.
Chapter 9
The half-moon illuminated much of the old Army Air Corps facility. In the dull light, shadows from the hangar darkened the line of small Cessnas and an old Piper twin-engine tied down to the tarmac. With its long curved roof, the rust-brown hangar was shaped like a large Quonset hut and was pitch black inside its cavernous doors. Above the opening, etched in weathered paint, were the words “Cordele Aviation.” Even in the dim translucence of the half moon, one could sense the wide open size of the airfield, which had been built at the height of World War II. It was similar to hundreds of facilities constructed across the South to train young bomber pilots.
The flight line once featured strings of small Army Air Corps training planes, mid-sized B-25 bombers, and several active runways. Now, the small town’s limited budget kept only one runway open and active. A few miles south of Vienna, it was the only airport near the town, though actually closer to neighboring Cordele. The broken asphalt was occasionally repaired by the Cordele road department, and once every several weeks, a tractor with a bush hog mower would come out to cut the grass around the field, the clumps shooting up through the tarmac.
In the shadow of the old hangar, tucked next to its wall, Will and Clark sat, shaded and hidden, in an older, low-to-the-ground Mercedes sports coupe.
Clark knew that prosecuting high-level drug dealers had serious risks, but she didn’t fully understand why the U.S. Government thought the situation so serious as to fly an airplane to Vienna and pick up its prized passenger in the middle of the night. The events of the last few days only increased her curiosity, but Clark had learned a long time ago not to ask too many questions. She realized the risks didn’t matter—not to Will Parker, anyway. She didn’t think she loved him, but, given the chance, she very easily could.
“As I said, I may not be coming back to Vienna for quite some time,” said Will. He pulled out a brown manila envelope and handed it to her. “This envelope has the keys to my condo and to this car.” Will’s car was notorious in the small town of Vienna. While others drove their GMC pickups with extended beds, he drove a 1990 Mercedes 300 CE. The engine of the two-door coupe effortlessly carried the car to well over a hundred miles per hour. Inside, the dark leather seats and deep, rich burl wood made the vehicle a collector’s item.
“You can use the car and condo as much as you like. I left you the title and deed, and signed both over to you. If you don’t hear from me after six months, they’re all yours.”
The last comment scared Clark.
“Will?”
Will changed the subject.
“Also, it’s important to keep this in a safe place and tell no one you have it.” Will handed her another envelope—a standard, white, letter-sized envelope. As she took it, she felt an object, small and rectangular, inside. “It may amount to nothing, but just keep it safe. My future may depend on that envelope.”
Will gazed at her briefly and took in how attractive she was. For several years, the lawyers of that judicial circuit had talked about her beauty, but Will had always been too busy to pay much attention. She had sensed that, and his lack of interest only intrigued her more.
At that moment, they heard a low jet hum from above. Will pushed the window button down in the Mercedes, and almost instantly, the runway lights came on.
“How did that happen?” Clark wondered aloud.
“The field has a special system. When the pilot keys the mike to a certain frequency, it switches the lights on for a while. It’s fairly common in rural fields without active towers.”
Even with the lights on, she and Will could barely make out a long, sleek jet as it turned for its final approach and landing. Will was surprised at how dark the aircraft looked, as if it had less navigation lighting than most normal planes he had seen. He heard the wheels screech as the plane touched down, but was still amazed at the quiet of the two-engine jet.
Will reached over and turned the Mercedes ignition, but he didn’t turn on the lights. A long, black jet taxied up to the hangar entrance and stopped. The jet engines continued to hum as Will recognized the shape of a new unmarked Gulf Stream V jet.
The spy business must have its perks, Will thought, watching as the aircraft door opened, revealing a figure standing in the doorway. As the aircraft stairs moved to make contact with the ground, it became clear from the man’s shape that it was Will’s newfound friend, Mr. Scott.
“Clark, be careful.” Clark shuddered at the way Will said his good-bye. He flipped a switch overhead so that the interior of the car stayed dark. He leaned over, kissed her, and quickly opened the door.
Clark was beginning to wonder if she needed this much excitement. She got out of the car, came around the back, and got in behind the steering wheel.
Scott noticed the figure of someone on the other side of the hangar, but could only detect movement in the darkness. As Scott stared in the general direction of the car, Will quickly walked across the tarmac and hopped up the stairs of the jet.
“Welcome to the spy business, Colonel.” Scott sounded a bit obnoxious.
Will passed through the small curved door into the jet, carrying a small bag over one shoulder. Dressed in a starched white shirt, neatly creased khaki slacks, black loafers, and a blue sport coat, he looked like a successful businessman leaving on his annual vacation.
A young, slender, attractive woman with short blond hair stepped to the side as Will adjusted to the aircraft’s bright interior light and looked around the jet cabin. To his left, the cockpit door was open and in the left pilot’s seat was a surprisingly youthful man, seemingly just out of college, whose attention was focused on a pa
nel switch he flipped several times. As a pilot himself, Will noticed the jet’s green-blue instrument panels, recognizing they were modern and electronic, not the old needle and metal gauges. A multicolored radar set dominated the center of the panel. The seat to the pilot’s right was empty.
“Colonel, may I take your bag?” The woman, in a white shirt with black and gold-striped epaulet boards, took Will’s crumpled blue bag, which bore the well-worn imprint of the “Cordele Health Club.”
Will turned to his right and noticed, on both sides of the center aisle, a mahogany-paneled kitchen with gold-plated sinks, faucets, and a small refrigerator door. At the end of this short space, he could see dark wood panels with only the opening of a small door. Apparently, one could close off the cockpit and kitchen from the remainder of the aircraft.
Will stepped through the electronics cabin and another door into a large open room with several oversized, tanned leather chairs on both sides of the aisle. It looked to be the private jet of an oil-rich Middle Eastern prince.
“Have a seat, Colonel, so we can bloody well get moving.” Scott imparted his British accent more emphatically with certain words than others. Key words like “bloody well” telegraphed his background.
As he sank down in the deep chair, Will looked toward the cockpit, watching the woman as she pushed and held down a lit yellow toggle switch near the exit. He heard a low hum under the front of the aircraft as the stairs pulled back. She turned from her job briefly, and as she did, her eyes found Will. He smiled and she smiled back.
Scott sat down in the seat across from Will’s. “Hold on, Colonel,” he said. “These birds waste no time.”
In less than two minutes, Will felt the turn of the aircraft onto the active runway and heard the jets very quietly spin up to a higher pitch. Few would know it was ever here in Cordele.
Suddenly, the nose of the aircraft tilted sharply upwards, pitching up into the black sky. Will’s head sunk back into the chair, his eyes focused on the front wooden panel that formed the bulkhead between him and the electronics compartment. In the bulkhead wall were three small television screens. The top screen displayed a highly detailed map with the shape of a small airplane just above the word “Cordele.” The second television was blank, but the third displayed a muted CNN correspondent. Will sat there, absentmindedly trying to interpret what the female reporter was saying.
“Well, Colonel, are you ready for this?” Scott swiveled his chair toward Will. Almost in perfect sync with his comments, the aircraft tilted down to a level position. Will glanced toward the altimeter and noticed the number “42,000,” then swiveled his chair to his left.
“Yes, Mr. Scott.”
“What questions do you have, Colonel Parker?” Scott reached over and closed the door to the forward compartments.
“Here’s what I’ve deduced. Peter Nampo has developed a high degree of computer, electronic, or engineering capability. He is in North Korea, using his talents to help that government, and thus has become a threat to the United States. Somehow, North Korea has camouflaged him to the point where we can’t be sure who he is.”
“Right on all fronts,” Scott fired back.
Will had been pondering the situation since earlier in the week, concluding that the country involved had to be the hardcore Stalinist nation of North Korea. It was a perfect fit for both Peter Nampo and the mission vaguely described to him.
“Taking this job, handling this mission—flag rank may be in your future,” Scott said. He knew that a military man, particularly a senior officer, enjoyed that phrase, “flag rank.” He often laughed at the fact that, despite their protests, he had never met a lieutenant colonel or colonel who didn’t think he had every chance of becoming a general. Some of the generals and admirals unknowingly encouraged this belief through their own, sheer incompetence. Most officers thought, “Surely I’ll be picked—because I’m so much abler than this general is.”
The Marine Corps especially encouraged such thinking among its officers. On more than one occasion, some of its reserve generals had been demoted because of scandals, or they had very mixed, embarrassing pasts. As a youth, one such officer had even attended meetings of the “Christian Identity,” a radical Aryan-based hate group, and the Marine Corps had somehow hid that fact from a Democratic White House. Scott thought that many Marine colonels were probably right—how did these people make it to top rank?
“Not at all, Mr. Scott.” Will smiled, not realizing he had thoughts on the subject.
“Why’s that, Colonel?” Scott thought he would provoke the conversation. Even in a Gulf Stream, the flight to Andrews would take the better part of an hour. And Scott needed to begin to know this man. It was his job to train Will not only to succeed at this mission, but to survive it. He needed to know how Will Parker thought.
“We have peace-time generals and war-time generals. Patton would never have made it through the selection process in peace-time or in the reserves. And I have no interest in doing what it takes to become a general. Even in times of war, our greatest hero was Chesty Puller.”
Scott smiled. Puller, a tough, hardheaded fighter, had received more Navy Crosses in more wars than any other American. Yet, he did not become Marine commandant or even a four star general. Late in his career, he did make a two star general, but he was better known for his days as a Marine colonel than a Marine general.
“You get picked for Marine colonel for what you’re capable of doing,” said Will. “You get picked for general, particularly a reserve general, by the innate ability to kiss ass.” Will smiled as he emphasized the last two words.
It took several years of combat for Will to understand that the heart and soul of the United States Marine Corps was the young lance corporal and brand new second lieutenant, because each believed he was an invincible part of a true brotherhood, which was made up of the private first class in his new dress blues, and the buck sergeant leading his tank crew into combat. The higher in rank you rose, especially lieutenant colonel and above, the less it was a Marine Corps of ideals. The world was politics—even in the Corps.
Generals like Admiral Krowl proved the point. They played the bureaucratic game, regardless of who became the pawns. Despite his experience and record, Will had never submitted to the General Selection Board a package of information for its consideration. Many an undistinguished colonel would mail into Marine headquarters elaborate, thick books summarizing their successes, designed to persuade an impartial jury. But the jury wasn’t impartial, and the verdict had been reached weeks before the Selection Board met. Will had heard and believed that the commandant was always consulted, and the Board always knew his preference. The king always had the last word. Will refused to play the game.
Ironically, but for his unique history of personally knowing Peter Nampo, Will would continue to fade further and further away from the Marines, along with the challenge the Marines once represented to him. Yet he hadn’t agreed to this mission to gain the opportunity to become a Reserve Corps general.
“You’re responsible for supporting this mission? You’re the operation’s sponsor?” Will changed the topic.
“Yes, I am.”
“I want to do the training at Quantico.”
Scott had planned to use several Agency facilities in the Virginia area, but not Quantico. A Marine Corps base and home of the FBI Academy, Quantico was, he thought, too accessible and too close to Washington.
“Colonel, your best bet for survival would be to keep this mission under wraps—to stay under wraps yourself—as long as possible. Quantico is open to everyone and has a lot of traffic.”
There were certain benefits to being accessible, and Will wanted them. He was not prepared to put his entire fate in the hands of the CIA.
“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Scott, but I want a familiar training environment.”
Like virtually every Marine officer, Will had begun his training at Quantico. He went through several weeks of Officer Candidates School the
re, and returned for several months of basic officer training. He was familiar with every running trail, every hill, every swamp.
“Also, I assume there will be a cold weather cycle before making an insert in North Korea during the winter. I want to do that at MCMWTC in Bridgeport, California.”
The Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center was a small Marine outpost in the high Sierras near the Nevada and California borders. At one time, it had only a maintenance crew of ten Marines, but it had enlarged over the years into a modern, battalion-sized training center. It remained both remote and unknown.
Scott thought, At least he picked one place that’s somewhat isolated. He actually liked the idea of Bridgeport, but was dubious about the colonel’s assertion of control. Admiral Krowl had set the parameters of the mission without Scott’s input, and especially without Parker’s.
“I need to be patched into the op center at Langley,” Scott said through an intercom. Will heard a door open in the rear of the aircraft, and a short, muscular, blond-haired man appeared through the cabin. Dressed in the same style white shirt and black slacks as the other crewmembers, along with epaulet boards with a single stripe, he, alongside his mates, gave every appearance of being a corporate jet crew member at home at any airport in the world.
Will, however, thought to himself, This one is probably a senior Air Force enlisted man on attached duty to the CIA. He appears slightly older. A communications tech sergeant.
The airman placed headphones on in the small electronics compartment, after which the telephone on the wall next to Scott rang in a subdued, buzzing sound.
Scott picked up the phone. “We need to switch operations training site A to Quantico,” he said. “See if we can get the top floor of the dormitory at the FBI Academy sealed off. And begin planning on operations site B being moved to the Marine base at Bridgeport, California.”