Heroes Proved

by Oliver North

  “Does this have to do with the Cohen-Templeton-Long discovery?” persisted the Canadian law officer as they walked down the hall toward a group of uniformed police officers. “What are you looking for here in Canada?”

  Seeing the crowd gathered outside room 321, Newman suddenly realized he needed the chief inspector’s help. “I’m here to pick up a digital memory card,” he said softly. “It’s in the bottom drawer of Dr. Long’s safe.”

  The inspector simply nodded, walked up to the four uniformed officers standing outside the door, flashed his credentials as a courtesy, and said, “Chief Inspector Jackson, RCMP.”

  One of the officers in a Calgary Police Service uniform checked his wrist-mounted PID, then stepped forward and said, “Christopher, this is our investigation. Is the RCMP taking it over?”

  Jackson smiled and said, “We’ll have to see about that, Jonathan. You know how it goes—the Mounties always get their man—even if it means taking credit for your work.” Then, more seriously, he said, “You have Cummings in there. I need to talk to him. Won’t take a minute. Excuse us.”

  With that, Jackson stepped between the men in blue uniforms and opened the door. Newman followed him into the spacious office. Two crime-scene investigators attired in paper coveralls were painstakingly documenting the chaos with tiny digital cameras equipped with UV strobes. One of the investigators looked up and said, “Sorry about the disorder, Chief Inspector. Seems as though someone ‘tossed’ the place looking for something before we arrived.”

  “I should hope it was before you arrived, Cummings,” Jackson said, surveying the mess. “Any prints?”

  “Sure, lots of ’em,” the investigator replied. “But so far they all match student or faculty prints in the national registry. No ‘bad-boy’ matchups yet. Whoever did this was probably wearing gloves.”

  “Well, whoever did this may have been here beforehand—without gloves,” Jackson said. “Any surveillance images or PERT records?”

  “First thing I asked for when we got here,” replied the forensic investigator, while snapping images of an upturned lamp. “According to all available PERT data we have, Dr. Long was alone in here this morning. There are audio and video sensors at the main entrance, on the elevators, and in the hallways, but none in the stairways or inside this office. It’s primitive time lapse; fifteen-second interval; useless. The perps probably knew that and timed their entry and exit so they wouldn’t get imaged.”

  “Perps? How do you know more than one person did this?”

  “Because Dr. Long was on the phone from this office less than fifteen minutes before she fell, jumped, or was pushed off the roof,” answered Cummings. “Unless her office was like this while she was here, this was all done between the end of her last call and her sudden stop on Fowler Drive. The campus police were in this office within ten minutes of her death. One person couldn’t make this mess in that length of time.”

  Jackson nodded, looked at Newman, then at Cummings, and asked, “Do you know who she was talking to on that last call?”

  Cummings now paused in his work, pulled a PID from the pocket of his coveralls, thumbed the screen until he found what he was looking for, and said, “She arrived in the office at eight-oh-five. Apparently came directly from her home after stopping at Tim Hortons for a doughnut and coffee. Over the course of the next forty minutes, she placed three phone calls: two to members of the faculty and one to a student. At eight fifty-five she took a call from the office of Dr. Steven Templeton at the University of Calgary. Seven minutes later she placed her last call. It lasted less than five minutes. At nine twenty-five her body was found on Fowler Drive.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” said the chief inspector at the end of the recitation.

  “You’re correct,” replied Cummings. “Because her last call was to the switchboard of the U.S. Senate in Washington, D.C. And as you know, Inspector, the North American Union Treaty does not permit us to monitor those calls.”

  Jackson nodded, paused a beat, and asked, “Is there an alarm system in here?”

  “Of course not,” said Cummings, grimacing. “Come now, Inspector, if people did all these things, they would put me out of work.”

  “Where’s the safe?”

  “Over there, if you can get to it,” Cummings replied, gesturing toward an anteroom full of file cabinets—and a four-drawer safe. “But before you touch anything, please put these on,” he added, handing Jackson and Newman each a pair of latex gloves.

  The inside of the file room was even worse than the office. File drawers were opened and documents were strewn everywhere. As they made their way through the mess, Jackson said, “Apparently Dr. Long missed the memo about going paperless.” The safe was the only unopened cabinet.

  Jackson stared at the heavy steel box and said, “Now there’s an antique. Old S&G government model from the last century. Manual dial combination and all. Unless we have the combination, we’ll need a torch to get into that thing.”

  “We don’t need a torch” was all Newman said. He reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a PID, pulled off his right glove, touched his forefinger to the screen, and it immediately lit up. He scrolled down on the screen and four numbers appeared. As he put the latex glove back on he looked Jackson in the eyes and said, “Professor Templeton knew the combination. He gave it to me this morning.”

  With the inspector watching, Newman spun the dial, left, right, left, and right again, finally stopping at zero. He then rotated the little toggle in the center of the combination dial, spun the wheel a quarter turn until it stopped, and pulled down on the lever mounted on the drawer. There was a resounding thunk as the lock pinions disengaged.

  The top three drawers were tightly packed with neatly labeled files. But as Newman pulled the bottom drawer open, both men could see it was empty except for a single silver digital memory card, less than an inch long. As Newman reached for it, Jackson said, “Stop!” Newman looked at the big policeman, who then added, “Before we touch anything, I want Cummings in here with his handy little camera.” He turned and went into the outer office to summon the forensic investigator.

  In the thirty seconds it took for Jackson to return with Cummings, Newman reached into the drawer, pulled out the tiny card, held it against his PID, and touched DOWNLOAD on the screen. By the time Jackson returned with the white-clad Cummings and his camera, Newman had the PID back in his pocket and the memory card back in the drawer.

  It took Cummings, camera in hand, nearly five minutes to “image” the contents of the safe. Just as he was completing his work, there was a commotion at the hall doorway, and two men—both attired in pinstripe suits and shirts buttoned to the collar without ties—practically burst into the outer office.

  The lead intruder turned toward the file room, his eyes widening above a closely trimmed beard. “Jackson, what’s going on in here!” he shouted. “This isn’t your purview.”

  The chief inspector let out a groan and said under his breath to Newman, “Ahh, the Calgary chief prosecutor. This will be interesting. Close up the safe and follow me.”

  Cummings watched Newman close the drawers of the safe and spin the combination dial. Then both men followed the big Mountie out of the file room and back into the office.

  “I’ll have your badge for this, Jackson!” yelled the prosecutor, waving his arms about furiously. “This isn’t your investigation. If you and your leather-jacketed goon aren’t out of here immediately, I’m calling Ottawa and having you sacked! Do you understand me?”

  “Okay, Mr. Al-Nouri,” said the Mountie with a shrug. “I was just trying to help. We’re on our way. Come on, James.”

  As they exited the office, both men peeled off their latex gloves. Newman stuffed his into the rear pocket of his jeans—and never noticed when one fell on the floor as they stepped into the corridor. The gaggle of officers outside the door when Newman and Jackson arrived was now at the opposite end of the hallway. As the elevator door closed, Jack
son asked quietly, “Did you get what you came for?”

  Newman, mindful of what Cummings had said about surveillance cameras in the elevators, simply said, “It’s still in the bottom drawer of the safe.” Jackson shrugged, reached down, and switched on the microphone transmitter on his belt.

  As they exited the building and headed back toward the Harley sandwiched between the two blue sedans, Jackson said, “I’m sorry we couldn’t have been of more help to you, Mr. Newman.” Handing Newman a business card, the Mountie added, “Here’s my card. Please be in touch if we can be of any assistance in the future. Now, how are you going back to the Lower Forty-Eight? Virginia, isn’t it?”

  For James it was another subtle reminder about how much others knew about him. Before zipping up his jacket he said, “Yes, Chief Inspector, Virginia. I guess I’ll head east on Route 1 and cross back into the states at Detroit. Fuel is cheaper here in Canada.”

  “One of the advantages to living up here, eh?” replied the Canadian lawman.

  “I suppose,” James said, then added, “Please do what you can to look after Dr. Templeton.”

  Jackson scowled and asked, “Do you think he’s in danger?”

  Newman paused a second and responded: “I don’t know, but I didn’t think Dr. Long would be dead today, either.”

  The chief inspector simply nodded and held out his hand. The two men shook hands and without further ceremony, Newman put on his helmet, fired up the Harley, put up the kickstand, stepped the big bike into gear, and eased out on the clutch. Jackson watched Newman head north on Fowler toward the Trans Canada Highway.

  As the motorcycle turned right, onto the eastbound lanes of the highway, the inspector turned to his driver and said, “Morton, send a message to our office in Medicine Hat. Inform them that James Stuart Newman, a person of interest to our superiors in Ottawa, is headed east on the Trans Can and should make it there in five hours, more or less. Give them the motorcycle’s GPS ident code and Newman’s PERT data.”

  “Yes, sir,” Officer Morton replied. Then he added, “But of course, you know, sir, if he’s riding that motorcycle it will take him less than three hours to get to Medicine Hat.”

  “Thank you, Morton. Very astute,” Inspector Jackson replied, looking closely at his subordinate. Then Jackson continued: “Wait ten minutes to file that report. Our colleagues in Medicine Hat apparently intend to track him with a UAV. Tell them I don’t want them to interfere with him until he crosses into Saskatchewan. I don’t want him stopped in Alberta. It creates too many reports. I hate filing reports.”

  * * * *

  James Newman never made it to the Alberta-Saskatchewan provincial border. Just a mile east of the institute he turned right on Centre Street and into a truck stop full of twenty-four-wheelers. Interspersed among the big intracontinental rigs were a handful of motorcycles—but no cars. He went inside, selected a half-dozen protein bars from a shelf, took three liter-sized containers of water from a refrigerated display case, went to the counter to check out, and presented his PID.

  As she swept the nine items across the sensor built into the countertop and put them in a sack labeled FULLY DEGRADABLE BIO-BAG, the clerk said, “I’m sorry, sir, but our electronic payment system inside the store is down. It still works on the fuel pumps, but in here it’s cash only. That will be four-point-three gex.”

  Newman reached into his pocket and pulled out several bills, all U.S. The young woman smiled and said, “Oh, you must be American. Well, that’s okay. We still take your currency until next year, when you switch to Global Exchange Units like the rest of us.” Then she added, “That will be fifteen dollars in your money, plus one more gek—the mandatory International Monetary Transaction Fee. I’m sorry, but it’s the law. That will be a total of eighteen-point-six of your dollars.”

  He started to protest the “rounding up,” then shrugged and handed her a U.S. twenty-dollar bill. She keyed an entry into a keypad on the counter, then handed him a receipt for ¤5.3 and four small coins embossed with “¤.1 Global Exchange Unit” on one side and the United Nations seal on the other.

  James said, “Thank you,” picked up his purchases, and headed out the door. After stuffing the energy bars and water into the bike’s right saddlebag, he wheeled the machine over to the fuel pumps.

  While watching for any “followers,” he topped off the Harley’s 3.3-gallon tank. The fifty-fifty gasoline/ethanol mix was just ¤1.0 per liter. Newman did the math in his head: one gek per liter = 3.785 gex per gallon; 3.5 dollars per gek = $13.25 a gallon—almost $4 per gallon cheaper than in the United States.

  James checked the digital display on the pump to ensure the transaction was recorded, read the cheery PAID BY PERT, THANK YOU message, then mounted the bike and pulled around to the back of the service bays. He parked between stacks of discarded tires, batteries, and vehicle parts beneath a RECYCLE HERE sign. After quickly checking to see if he could spot any surveillance cameras, he reached into the left saddlebag, removed a small gym bag, and carried it into the men’s room.

  After locking the door, Newman pulled some scrap paper out of the trash, spread it on the tile floor, and placed the motorcycle helmet on the paper. Then he took a small can of quick-dry flat black spray paint from the bag and coated the bright blue helmet until no sign of its original color was visible.

  While the helmet dried, he removed his jeans and leather jacket and put on a pair of dark green Carhartt work trousers and a navy blue nylon parka. He then exchanged his chukka boots for a pair of foil-lined military boots. Returning to the Harley, he pulled five sheets of black lead foil from the saddlebag and used them to wrap the bike’s fuel tank, securing it in place with black tape—effectively putting the GPS transponder inside the tank on “mute.”

  Newman checked his watch: 12:35. He sat down on the bike, reconnected his helmet to the PID device on the handlebars, keyed the button on his right wrist, and said into the helmet microphone, “Change of plans. I’m coming back on a borrowed bike. I should be at Foxtrot Charlie Alpha by 2300. I’m shutting off the GPS locater on this PID. Will key you twice when I’m an hour out of FCA so you can have one of our aircraft ready. I need to be back at your end of CONUS for breakfast.”

  An instant after James said the words, the PID converted his voice into an encrypted data message and transmitted it in a burst of zeroes and ones to the CSG Operations Center. Five seconds later, as he fired up the bike’s engine, he heard a ping in the helmet’s earphones, signaling his message was received.

  Newman exited the truck stop on Centre Street, carefully merging into the southbound lane of trucks and motorcycles headed for the Centre Street Bridge, over the River Bow. Once across the river, he picked up MacLeod Trail and followed the four-lane highway to the intersection with Glenmore Trail. Here he cut back again to the east, moving with the traffic and following the signs to Deerfoot Trail—Alberta Route 2. At the cloverleaf, he merged onto the southbound ramp, checking the rearview mirrors for followers—and trying hard not to do anything too exciting with the bike, to avoid attracting attention on the highway traffic cameras.

  Thirty minutes later he was in open country, speeding south on the highway, passing broad fields of hybrid grain and corn, dotted with natural gas wellheads and oil pumps rocking slowly up and down. At every interchange there were flatbeds loaded with “fracking pipe”—steel tubes for horizontal drilling that meant billions for Canadian oil and gas companies.

  Rolling with the high-speed, international truck traffic, it took him less than an hour and a half to reach Fort MacLeod. There he cut west to hit Highway 810 south, crossing the upper and lower branches of the Belly River. At Hillspring he fueled up again, this time using gex, and then took side streets through the settlement to avoid the Provincial Vehicle Inspection station.

  By the time Newman arrived at the intersection with Route 5 west of Mountain View, less than ten miles north of the U.S. border, the sun was a crimson ball, well down on his right shoulder and edging toward
the peaks of the Continental Divide. He made the uphill run into Waterton Lakes National Park without needing his headlight, but two miles after passing the park headquarters he pulled off into a deserted campground. Newman dismounted and in the semidark shadow of Mount Blakiston, he once again delved into the bike’s saddlebags.

  While looking around for any surveillance cameras or ground sensors, James ate two of the protein bars and drank a liter of water. Satisfied that he was alone, he used a Leatherman tool to remove the aluminum Alberta license plate from the back of the bike, scraped off the Canadian RFID tag, and tossed it into the woods. He then broke the plate into eight pieces by folding it back and forth in his hands and stuffed them into his jacket pocket to scatter one at a time up the road.

  Finally, in near-total darkness, he pulled out a set of lightweight U.S. military-issue, PVS-35 thermal night-vision goggles and snapped them onto his helmet. He knew he was going to need the “night eyes” for the most dangerous part of his journey—crossing the border back into the USA.

  OVAL OFFICE

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, DC

  TUESDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER 2032

  0915 HOURS, LOCAL

  Just tell me what you’ve learned about this man Newman since his name came up in this morning’s DNI briefing as a person of interest in the Houston attack,” the president said curtly. “And remember, I don’t want any record of this inquiry or this conversation, Larry.”

  Standing in front of the ornately carved desk, Larry Walsh, Counsel to the President, started to pull a piece of paper from the file in his left hand.