by Bob Mayer
Thorpe knew that anyone who thought the Gulf War had been about freedom was naive. There had been no great deployment to Somalia after the bodies of U.S. soldiers were dragged through the streets. But threatening to cut off the flow of oil had led to the greatest U.S. deployment since the Vietnam buildup.
In fact, being a soldier and studying the history of war, he knew that almost every war was based on economics—hell, the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor only after the U.S. had imposed an economic blockade on the island kingdom, just one of many examples of the mighty dollar leading to bullets.
Thorpe saw the monument at the side of the airfield built to commemorate the Berlin airlift. Even that had been about economics and war had only been averted when the West had been able to keep West Berlin alive economically.
Thorpe followed Kinsley to the main terminal to check in. He smiled as he saw a tall, thin man sporting a faded green beret waiting inside the terminal. The man walked through the crowd, people stepping out of his way, making a beeline for Thorpe.
"Major Thorpe." The man held out a callused hand.
"Master Sergeant King," Thorpe read the man's name tag and gripped the other's hand. "How the hell are you? Dan Dublowski sends his greetings."
"Yeah, I talked to him on the phone yesterday," King said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I've got transport—how much gear you got?"
"Just the ruck."
"Wait a second." Colonel Kinsley stepped between the two men. "What's going on?
"I've got orders to escort Major Thorpe, ma'am," King said.
"Escort him where?" Kinsley demanded.
"I'm not at liberty to discuss that, ma'am."
"Orders from who?"
The edge of King's mouth twitched as he fought back a smile. "General Schaeffer, ma'am."
"Major Thorpe!" Kinsley spun from the NCO to face him. "What is going on?"
Thorpe shrugged. "Don't know, ma'am, but as you've told me, orders are orders."
"Major, I don't—"
Thorpe leaned close so King couldn't hear. "Ma'am, I'm a reservist. There isn't much you can do to me. And I'm going into a hornet's nest. All you could do was get yourself involved in something I don't think you want to be involved in. So my advice is steer clear and let it go."
Thorpe didn't wait for a response. He shouldered his ruck and followed King without a backward glance.
***
Lieutenant Colonel Lisa Parker disembarked a plane at Fayetteville Airport at approximately the same moment that Thorpe met Master Sergeant King: midafternoon in North Carolina to the late evening of Germany.
The small airfield that serviced Fayetteville was used to military personnel coming in TDY—temporary duty. Parker quickly had her rent-a-car keys in hand and strode out into the lot, looking for the assigned vehicle.
She drove out of the lot and toward post, taking Ail-American Freeway most of the way, bypassing the numerous strip joints, tattoo parlors and pawnshops on Bragg Boulevard. The freeway ended on post and she headed for Moon Hall to check in.
Those following her had used two different cars to mask their surveillance and already knew what room she would be assigned. The two cars parked in the lot across the street from Moon Hall, the men inside masked by tinted windows.
***
Takamura stopped at the Class VI store for a six-pack of beer on his way home. Then he headed west across Fort Bragg. He knew the military police usually staked out Chicken Plank Road, which he was on, trying to nail speeders.
Takamura pulled one of the cold cans out and popped the top, feeling a strange thrill at the illicit act. He wasn't completely foolish, though, keeping his speed exactly at the posted limit as other cars pulled out and passed him every so often.
His eyes shifted between the rearview mirror, to make sure the MPs didn't sneak up behind him, and the road ahead, searching for speed traps. Every time he was sure he was clear, he would take a quick, furtive sip of beer.
By the time he got to his trailer he'd gone through two beers, was buzzed, and felt more alive than he had since his high school prom and his date had allowed him to feel inside the top of her dress. Despite working at Special Operations Command for two years, the most exciting thing he had done was requisition some reservist experts for an element of Delta Force deployed overseas one time. He'd had no idea why they needed the experts, even though he'd checked the news diligently for weeks afterward looking for any sign.
He'd called Dublowski at the Delta Force Ranch during duty hours. Talking to the sergeant major had made what he was doing real, and necessitated the trip to the Class VI store and the beer for Takamura to keep going. Takamura turned on his computer before he turned on the lights in his trailer. The large-screen TV came alive with the images of the operating system loading. Takamura opened his third beer as he put the rest in the refrigerator.
He sat down in his recliner and put the keyboard on his lap. He adjusted the headset until the pointer was aligned with his straightforward gaze.
"Time to rock and roll," Takamura said out loud. He opened the arm of the chair and pulled out a remote. He pointed it at the stereo system resting on racks on the wall of the trailer and punched buttons. The CD player whirred and the music blasted out of the speakers: Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, heavy programming music for Takamura.
The list he had given Thorpe had contained over three hundred names. He pulled the profile Thorpe had given him. It was short and to the point:
***
Male
18-28
White
Higher-than-average IQ
***
Only four parameters, but Takamura knew they were more than enough to winnow the field down considerably. He began working the program to do exactly that as the music vibrated the walls of the trailer. He got up and retrieved another beer halfway through.
He paused in his programming and brought up the six photos. He lined the right side of the screen with the girls' visages. Terri Dublowski was the second one from the top.
Then he brought up the other missing girls from the military posts in the United States and put them on the left side. He took a sip of his beer and almost spit it out. Suddenly it didn't taste as good. Takamura blinked and shook his head, trying to clear it.
He forced himself to continue on the program. When it was done, he accessed the DOD database, sneaking his way in like he had the previous time. The green bar glowed at the top of the screen as the program began sifting through the records. The beer sat ignored on the arm of the chair.
Forty-two soldiers fit the profile and the assignment progression.
A large number, but better than before. He downloaded the names onto a disk.
Takamura's hand reached for the beer, but paused. He stared at the screen. He was missing something. Dangling at the edge of his programmer's mind. A link that hadn't been made.
He thought of the program he had used to initially get the names. The lines of programming, the flow.
Then he had it, or at least the beginning of it. He'd had an instructor once who had beaten into them that they always had to check their program by reversing the parameters.
Takamura pulled the keyboard closer to him on his lap. He aimed the pointer with his head.
"Access," he ordered. The program he had written appeared. "Oh, yeah," Takamura whispered to himself. His fingers typed as he moved the pointer with his head to the appropriate places.
He paused as he thought he heard something. He waited, fingers poised for several seconds. But there was no repeat of whatever it was, if it had been anything. He continued working.
When done, he ran the altered program. The green bar was steady as it worked. This one was finished much more quickly than the first time, given that the numbers involved were much fewer. After a minute there were several names listed.
"Jesus," Takamura whispered. He picked up his phone and dialed the number from a card in his pocket.
"Dublowski." The voi
ce on the other sounded wide awake, even though it was early in the morning.
"Sergeant Major, this is Specialist Takamura. Major Thorpe told me to call you if anything came up."
"Well?" Dublowski demanded.
"I've got something here. Something we didn't think of."
"What is it?"
"I'll bring it to you in the morning. Where should I meet you?"
"Main gate to the Ranch. You know where the Ranch is, right?"
"Yes, sergeant major."
"See you there at oh-eight-thirty."
The phone went dead. Takamura felt the blood rushing in his temples. "Download screen," he ordered, saving this data on the disk alongside what he had downloaded earlier.
He looked at the screen. "Enlarge," he ordered. The data doubled in size. He sat back in his chair and stared at it, thinking hard.
"Now, laddie, don't you think we know what you're doing?"
Takamura jumped, dumping his keyboard to the floor as he spun about. A man was silhouetted against the door of the trailer, but all Takamura's eyes could focus on was the glint of light from the large-screen TV reflected on the barrel of the gun in the man's hand.
"What do you want?" Takamura stammered.
"I find it interesting," the man said, his Irish accent almost musical. "Most people ask who I am before they ask what I want. But you're the straight-to-business type. That's good."
The man stepped forward. He was tall, about six feet, and slender. His face was covered with a large black beard that had streaks of gray in it. He wore small rimless glasses that were tinted a red color. Takamura couldn't see his eyes through the lenses. What he could see was that the barrel of the gun was locked on to him without the slightest tremor.
The man moved to a point where he could see the screen. "Ah, laddie, you turn over enough rocks sooner or later, you find a snake. Not a very healthful pursuit."
"Who the hell are you?
"Ah, too late," the man said. "I didn't answer your first question; what makes you think I'll answer the second?"
Takamura turned toward the big-screen TV. "Lights," he said.
"What was that?"
"Off."
The trailer went dark. Takamura dove to his left as the room was briefly lit by the muzzle flash of the Irishman's gun. There was no sound of the gun going off, only the metallic noise of the slide going back as a new bullet was loaded.
Takamura hit the small button on his central processing unit by instinct and the disk popped out. Takamura slid it into his pocket, then scrambled across the floor, putting the couch between him and the other man. Another strobe of light and a bullet punched through the couch, just inches behind Takamura. He could hear the sound of the bullet going through the cloth.
Takamura's fingers ripped aside a rug and grasped the handle for the bottom storm exit to the trailer. He pulled up the hatch and slid underneath as a third burst of light indicated another bullet being fired.
"Laddie, don't make it hard!"
The voice was muffled as Takamura scrambled through the mud underneath the trailer. He pushed aside the wood lattice and rolled free, pulling the keys out of his pocket as he did so. He jumped into his car and slid the keys in the ignition.
The sound of the engine starting brought the Irishman out the door of the trailer, gun firing. A round shattered the windshield, showering Takamura with safety glass. He ducked down and floored the gas pedal. The BMW's wheels spun in the dirt, then caught. He turned the wheel hard right and the car spun around the small parking area.
Takamura peeked over the edge of the dashboard and steered down the drive. Another bullet smashed the rear window. As he got closer to the paved road, Takamura eased himself up higher in the seat. He glanced in the rearview mirror, but there was nothing to be seen.
With one hand on the wheel, he used the other to flip open the screen on the laptop and turn it on. The small screen lit the inside of the car as it booted up. Takamura pulled the disk out of his pocket and slid it in the slot on the side while still maintaining control with the other hand.
Takamura looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see lights from a trailing vehicle, but there was only the blackness of a deserted North Carolina road in the middle of the night. He eased up slightly on the accelerator so he could concentrate on what he was doing.
He leaned over and pulled his cell phone out of the glove compartment. He punched in the number for his office's fax/data line. As the phone rang, he plugged a cord from the cell phone to the laptop.
He looked once more in the rearview mirror. Darkness. "Goddamn, I got away," Takamura whispered to himself. Then he repeated it, screaming the curse at the top of his lungs in exhilaration.
There was the hiss in the cell phone as he was connected with the office computer. Takamura was reaching for the enter key on the laptop when the car was slammed forward, his head snapping back against the headrest. He grabbed the steering wheel with both hands as he fought for control of the car. His right tires dropped as the car went onto the narrow shoulder. Straining hard, Takamura managed to get back on the road.
He looked in the rearview mirror. There was a darker shadow behind him, another car, with its lights off. It raced up and slammed into his rear bumper again. Takamura was prepared this time and managed to stay on the road.
The car came racing up alongside. Takamura risked a glance. A man was driving, but there was something wrong with his outline. That was all Takamura managed to register as the other car slammed into his left side panel. Takamura shot his right hand out and hit the enter key as the BMW went off the road, flying across a ditch and stopping abruptly as it slammed into a hundred-year-old oak tree.
Takamura, unbuckled, went through the already shattered windshield, breaking both legs in the process as they were snapped against the top of the dashboard. His head hit the tree above the crumpled hood of the car, his neck snapping, killing him instantly.
On the road, the other car, a red Mustang, came to a halt. The Irishman stepped out. His upper face was covered with the bulk of a set of night-vision goggles. He carefully climbed down, across the drainage ditch, then up to the wreckage of the BMW. He noted Takamura's smashed body lying on the hood, the cant of the neck leaving no doubt as to his condition.
The Irishman looked in the open window. Through the greenish image the goggles gave him, he saw the glow of the laptop screen, still functioning, as a bright light. He reached in and pulled the laptop out from under the dash. Battered but functional. He pushed the small button on the side, ejecting the disk and pocketing it. He turned and headed back to his car, his voice softly humming an Irish ditty.
Chapter Fifteen
"Major Thorpe, Major Rotzinger." Master Sergeant King made the introductions in German.
Thorpe took the other's man hand, feeling the rough skin and the strong grip. Rotzinger was short, under five-six, but built like a tank, with immensely broad shoulders and a barrel chest. The German nodded his head at Thorpe, but didn't say anything as they sat down.
They were seated in a quiet gausthaus outside of the main gate for Seventh Army Headquarters in Stuttgart. King had driven Thorpe directly here from the airport and they'd waited over two hours for the other man to appear, an indication of the German's unhappiness about the meeting. Rotzinger was wearing tan slacks with a black T-shirt under a sports jacket. The coat was well tailored, as Thorpe could barely make out the bulge under the left armpit where Rotzinger's gun was concealed.
He knew GSG-9 members carried the Heckler & Koch P7, a rather radical pistol. The cocking mechanism, which was usually a slide in most pistols, was a lever along the front of the grip, which meant a firer could draw the gun and cock it with the trigger hand. Rotzinger's eyes had the shaded look of someone who had fired his weapon at live targets.
"It is good to meet you, Major," Thorpe said in German.
"It is not good for me," Rotzinger said in perfect English.
"Pleasantries are over," King said wit
h a worried smile.
Rotzinger shifted his hard gaze to the master sergeant. "I owe you and I owe Sergeant Major Dublowski. That is why I am here. Let us get this over with."
"What can you tell me about the names you were given?" Thorpe asked.
Rotzinger splayed large hands on the top of the table and he seemed interested in only his fingernails. "They were American family members. Under the jurisdiction of your Criminal Investigation Division."
"Who disappeared in German jurisdiction," Thorpe said.
"Many people disappear," Rotzinger said. "Many Germans disappear."
"They were girls," Thorpe said. "Do you have children, Major?"
"I am not here to play emotional heartstring games," Rotzinger said.
"Why the hell are you here, then?" Thorpe leaned forward, getting close to the German. "You're a policeman, aren't you?"
"You know where I work," Rotzinger said. "I am not a flatfoot or whatever you call your regular police."
Thorpe knew he meant that GSG-9, part of Germany's border police, was a special unit designed specifically for antiterrorism work after the disaster at the 1972 Munich Olympics. They were Germany's equivalent of the army's Delta Force and the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team.
"You started as a cop," Thorpe said.
"The girls disappeared," Rotzinger said with a shrug. "It was investigated. Nothing turned up."
"One of those girls is the daughter of a friend of mine." Thorpe held himself back with a great effort. "Dan Dublowski's daughter."
"Do you know the problems we have here?" Rotzinger asked. "Everyone thinks it is so great now that the Berlin Wall is down. More than the Berlin Wall came down. We had to take in the East. With most of their police, their military now out of work. And their criminals still working. More terrain to cover. More border. Plus being that much closer to the scum in the other Eastern Bloc countries. It is a terrible mess."
Thorpe bore the outburst with strained patience. "Anything, anything you could tell me to help find her would be greatly appreciated."
"I know nothing that can help you," Rotzinger stood. "Good day, gentlemen."