Ghost

by Fred Burton

  Suddenly, looking at all these relics from my childhood makes me feel a little empty. I’d hoped to share these with my own son someday. But from the seat I’m in now, I don’t see how that can happen anytime soon. The DSS is my life. How can I be a father, too?

  The phone rings.

  Before I even realize it, my body has propelled me across the room. My Pavlovian response brings me to the phone before my brain can catch up.

  A pause. It rings again. I take a breath. What is it this time? A bombing? Another clueless academic bagged in Beirut? I want to know. I don’t want to know. My Sunday’s toast.

  “Fred Burton,” I say into the receiver.

  “Fred! Hey, how are you, buddy?” Fred Davis nearly shouts at me through the phone.

  “I’m good, Fred. What are you up to?”

  “Well, I’m over at the hangar in Anacostia.”

  “That explains why it’s so hard to hear you.”

  I hear him laugh. “Listen, we’re going to take Eagle One for a little joyride—uh, I mean test flight. Wanna tag along?”

  “Heck, yes. Let me get my car keys.”

  “Don’t bother. We’ll come and get you.”

  At noon, Fred Davis arrives in his new ride, a Bell JetRanger helicopter. As he hovers over my townhouse, the rotors acting as the mother of all leaf blowers, my neighbors pour out into their yards. JetRangers are anything but quiet.

  I grab my new Sig Sauer automatic and my briefcase. Inside are my earpiece, protection pins, and passport. I never leave home without them, not after all the times I’ve been shuffled off to foreign lands in the middle of the night. I’m always ready for that now.

  The chopper settles into a field behind our townhouse. The blades spin and debris flies. I charge out the back door, looking deadly serious, briefcase in hand, Sig stuffed in my shoulder holster. The neighbors gawk. As I pile inside the bird, I can only imagine what they must be thinking.

  “Well, that was subtle!” I shout to Fred. He’s in the pilot’s seat and turns to give me a face-splitting grin. He’s finally done it. My best friend is behind the controls of Eagle One, the Park Service’s aerial eyes for the capital. The pride in his eyes over this accomplishment is so clear that I can’t help but grin back and shout, “Way to go, Fred! I knew you’d do this.”

  He motions to the jump seat behind and between the two pilot seats. As I strap into it, I notice that the copilot is another old friend, Ron Gailey. He was a member of the rescue squad with us back in the day. Ron hands me a radio headset with a microphone and I put them on.

  “Let’s go do some sightseeing—the right way!” Fred says into the intercom. I key my mike and reply, “Sounds great. Congratulations, my friend!”

  “Thanks. Your neighbors are gonna talk about this for weeks.”

  “Yeah. They probably think we’re whisking you away to Camp David or something,” Ron says.

  We soar over the Potomac River, marveling at the last of the autumn colors. Winter is fast approaching. Today is clear and chilly. The sun’s high and the shadows are short. The river is a splendid shade of blue flanked with reflections of the green, gold, and red leaves of the trees that grow along its banks.

  I feel at home within this brotherhood of the badge.

  “Hey, did you hear anything about a counternarcotics chopper getting shot up in Colombia?” Fred asks over the intercom.

  “No, but I can check it out for you.”

  “Not like we don’t get shot at here,” Ron interjects.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  Fred banks Eagle One into a turn circle over the Jefferson Memorial. “People over in Anacostia,” he says. “They like shooting at the Man’s eye in the sky. You know?”

  Anacostia is a dangerous place for beat cops, but I didn’t know that it is hazardous to fly over as well.

  We make another circuit over the Jefferson Memorial. I’ve never seen it from such a vantage point before, and I’m taken by its perfect symmetry. The grass surrounding it is so lush and green it stands out among all the other colors of this dying fall.

  Fred continues, “We were lighting up a crack house after a reported shooting one night. They took some potshots at us, nothing serious.”

  Part of Eagle One’s job is to use the powerful searchlight slung under its nose to illuminate crime scenes and suspects trying to escape. At night, the chopper offers law enforcement in the area a unique advantage. With Eagle One overhead, the bad guys can’t escape.

  We turn for another run down the river. We come to the 14th Street Bridge.

  “I’ll never forget that day,” I say into my microphone. Both pilots nod but remain silent. The Air Florida crash in ’82 was a tragedy that will never be far from any of us who were there.

  Fred drops the JetRanger’s nose and we speed up. Pretty soon, we’re racing along at low altitude, following the course of the river. It is euphoric to be up here, seeing the sights as we talk shop. Already, Fred’s seen plenty of action with Eagle One. They’ve landed on the local freeways to pick up car accident victims and fly them to local hospitals. They’ve chased car thieves and murderers through the streets of D.C. They’ve lit up crack houses and vehicular pursuits, only to return to their run-down hangar along the Potomac at Anacostia to take gunfire as they land. What an odd country we live in. From up here, its tranquillity cannot be denied. Yet below that façade, the streets team with conflict.

  Forty minutes into the flight, I’m staring out the Plexiglas at the landscape below, listening to Fred as he regales me with another Eagle One story. I feel strange. At first, I can’t put my finger on it. Gradually, it dawns on me: Up here with my best friend, I am totally at peace. My mind is clear; I’m not fighting any demons. I haven’t felt this way in months. Years. I realize with a start that I’m happy. I’d forgotten how this feels. Happiness pales before the mission of saving lives. It is not a priority. Stopping the next attack is all that matters.

  What kind of life is this? When do I get to live it for myself and my family?

  Somebody has to do it. But what about the price?

  What about the price?

  Those are not questions for now. I stow them away in a distant corner of my heart. Right now, I’m just going to focus on the moment and enjoy it.

  We skim along the Potomac, and I find it impossible to wipe the smile off my face.

  twenty-eight

  TWO-MINUTE FREE FALL

  December 21, 1988

  Behind the New Big Blue Door

  I reach the office before sunrise on this Wednesday morning, coffee in hand and a few PowerBars in my pocket that’ll serve as both lunch and dinner. Though elsewhere in the country most of my fellow Americans are preparing for Christmas, here behind the big blue door, there will be no vacation. We’re chasing down dozens of threats that have come in from all sorts of strange nooks and crannies within the Dark World. Things are tense, and the expectation is that sooner or later, we’ll get hit again. Ten days ago, the constant tension and pressure had worn me out. Now, thanks to my Sunday flight with Fred, I feel rejuvenated.

  I need to be fresh. There’s too much going on in the Dark World right now for me to be off my A-game.

  Autumn Leaves was the first sign. At the end of October, the West German police launched this operation with the intent of taking out the PFLP–GC terrorists operating around Frankfurt. They raided a safe house used by the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine–General Command and took down a cell that may have been planning to blow up an airliner. The police recovered an improvised explosive device built into a Toshiba boom box. About a pound of Semtex, a Czech-made plastic explosive, was hidden inside the stereo. The police also found a Pan Am flight schedule.

  Could this have been Iran’s effort to exact revenge for last July? Possibly. Rumors circulating since the summer indicate that the Iranians may have given the PFLP–GC’s leadership ten million dollars in cash to go after American targets.

  On July 3, 1988,
the USS Vincennes, a Ticonderoga-class Aegis missile cruiser, shot down an Iranian airliner, killing 290 people. Exactly what led to the incident is still murky, but the American warship was inside Iranian territorial waters in the Persian Gulf at the time. Needless to say, relations with Iran have been even more inflamed than ever. Their leadership publicly vowed to avenge the deaths of these innocent civilians, which included sixty-six children.

  As quiet as the Dark World grapevine was over PAK-1, Iran Air 655 has caused a flood of conspiracy theories, threats, innuendo, and rumor to flow through FOGHORN. We’ve been inundated with work, sorting through the credible threats and the crackpots. As a result, we’ve issued travel warnings and have urged American air carriers to beef up their security.

  Earlier this month, an anonymous caller phoned the American embassy in Helsinki. He warned that Abu Nidal planned to blow up a Pan Am airliner flying out of Frankfurt within the next two weeks. Given what the Germans uncovered with Autumn Leaves, we took immediate steps. The State Department notified its embassies all over Europe and warned the Federal Aviation Administration. The FAA passed the warning along to all U.S. airlines in hopes that the companies would increase their security. Each carrier has its own private security arrangements, which has been a source of friction between the government and the industry ever since hijackings became relatively common in the seventies and eighties. The cost and delays of additional security are the two biggest stumbling blocks to building a more robust system to protect our planes. Consequently, even though some of the airlines are charging an extra security surcharge to their passengers, the fact is there are plenty of gaps that can be exploited.

  Just ask the survivors of TWA Flight 847.

  The CT office has grown so large now that we’ve moved out of the Truman Building. The old rat hole in the basement is gone. Now we’ve got an oversized, ultramodern cell in the middle of a building across the street on Virginia Avenue. We designed it with security in mind every step of the way. No drop ceilings. No windows. All around the office we have built-in white noise generators. They provide a constant hissing sound that defeats listening devices and directional microphones. Gone are the burn bags. In their place, shredders are scattered all over the office.

  I enter our new home and find the perpetual morning chaos in full blossom. We’re running multiple security details today, and we’ve got agents scurrying around between cubicles carrying Uzis and Remington shotguns as they prepare for their day. Others have Sig Sauer automatic pistols strapped to their hips. We have our own secure lines now, and I notice one of our newer agents is on one, looking terribly unhappy. Around him, the traffic flows. Agents move back and forth between their cubes and FOGHORN, which has moved to a new facility right down the hall from us. Radios squawk. Phones ring. The shredders grind. The white noise hiss is almost lost in the cacophony of the CT office at work.

  “Morning, Fred!” calls Bob O’Bannon in his languid southern drawl. Bob, formerly a southern Virginia cop, is one of our new agents. He’s already proven himself as an outstanding investigator.

  “Morning, Bob. What’s the word?”

  “Looks like a bad episode of Hill Street Blues around here.”

  I start to laugh. Behind me, somebody quips, “More like Barney Miller.”

  As we’ve grown, we’ve been fortunate enough to cherry-pick the rest of the DSS for the best and the brightest. We’ve assembled a group of first-class agents who’ve done extraordinary work. They’ve built a tremendous reputation for our group, and now we’re turning agents away who want to join us. We rival the Detail as the tour everyone wants.

  I reach my cubicle and get to work. I go through the morning cable traffic, then read the Rewards for Justice mail. We get tips via our RFJ address all the time now. Behind me, I can hear one of our agents talking to an informant who seems eager to drop a dime on his buddies. For money, of course.

  The phone rings. The Agency wants an update on a case we’re involved in, and this absorbs several minutes. As I’m talking, the agent who had been on our secure phone comes over to my cubicle. I hold up a finger and mouth, “Just a minute.” He waits until I finish the call and cradle the phone.

  “Hi, Stick, what do you need?” Scott “Stick” Stewart is another young agent with tremendous promise. This morning, though, he’s looking morose.

  “Well, I have an agent in Istanbul on the secure line. He’s been chewing me out.”

  “What for?”

  “He sent us some forensic evidence three months ago. He says the Turkish police need answers today.”

  “Where’d you send it?”

  “The FBI lab. You know how they are.”

  “Did you explain that to him?”

  Stick lets out an exasperated sigh. “Yes. But it just made him scream louder.”

  “When did you get it over to the FBI?”

  “Soon as we got it here. He says the ambassador’s on his back now, too. Anyway, he wants to talk to my boss now.”

  I give this a bit of thought. “Okay, give me a minute and I’ll be there.”

  Stick heads back to the secure phone. I take care of a few quick things, then follow him over. I pick up the receiver and say, “Who’s this?”

  A very irritated voice spits back, “Who the hell are you?”

  I ignore this and ask, “What’s the problem?”

  The voice launches into a diatribe. He’s been waiting for months for his evidence results. He needs it now—not tomorrow—and we’re all at fault for getting the ambassador on his case.

  “Okay,” I reply calmly. “I know you think this is your world, but we’ve got twenty-five major things going on in the office here right now.”

  That did it. Before I can continue, the agent in Istanbul explodes. A steady stream of shouted epithets and cuss words flows across the trans-aAtlantic line we’re sharing. I hold the receiver away from my ear. As I do, I notice the whole office has come to a halt. Agents are prairie-dogging over the tops of their cubicles to catch a glimpse.

  I interrupt him. “Hold on a minute. Hold on.”

  Miraculously, he goes quiet.

  “Okay, you’re in luck. I see one of my agents now. He’s donning a lab coat. Another one is firing up a Bunsen burner.”

  Amazingly, the hothead buys it. “They are? Great. I’ll wait.”

  I lay it on thick, “Another one just put on a set of goggles.”

  “Terrific!”

  I reach for a thick book sitting on a shelf nearby.

  “Oh my God! Oh no!”

  “What? What?”

  “No! NO!”

  I drop the book on the floor, holding the receiver close. In the quieted office, it sounds like a gunshot. Or a bomb.

  We all bust out laughing. The agent on the other end is not amused.

  “Look,” I tell him once I’ve regained my composure, “I was making a joke here. I understand this is important to you, okay? Your evidence is over at the FBI lab. I’ll send somebody over to light a fire under them and get your results expedited.”

  “Well, okay.” At least he’s not yelling anymore.

  “The thing is, I do not appreciate you calling up and cussing out one of my guys, screaming like you’re out of your mind. Don’t ever berate one of my agents again, clear?”

  I hear a grumbled apology.

  “Good.” I hang up. Turning to Stick, I tell him, “Why don’t you run over to the FBI lab and tell them to expedite.”

  “Okay, Fred,” Stick says with a big grin. He grabs his keys and heads out of the office. I return to my desk and get back to work.

  Early afternoon rolls around, and I start eating a PowerBar at my desk. I’ve been working on my card-file index of terrorist acts, updating it with all the latest news from around the world. My phone rings.

  “Burton.”

  “Sir,” says one of the agents in FOGHORN, “we’ve just received news that an American airliner has gone down over Scotland.”

  Oh, God. Not at Ch
ristmas.

  “Okay. I’ll be right there.”

  I slam the phone down and hurry over to FOGHORN. When I open the door, I find two agents at the console. Both are on the phone. Other phones are ringing in the background. Two TVs are on, one of which is set to CNN.

  The U.S. Embassy in London sends us a flash cable. The plane was a 747, the largest American airliner. It belonged to Pan Am.

  Autumn Leaves. The PFLP. There was another cell the Germans must have missed.

  Over the next hour, details flow in. We can safely rule out a midair collision. The air traffic controllers report that there wasn’t another aircraft in the area. Pan Am Flight 103 simply vanished off the radar screen at thirty-one thousand feet, thirty minutes after takeoff from Heathrow Airport, outside of London.

  Then Beirut checks in with a stunner. The U.S. ambassador to Lebanon, three agents, and a Defense Intelligence Agency officer were scheduled to fly Pan Am Flight 103 from London to JFK in New York. They were coming home for Christmas to spend the break with their families.

  “Okay, we need to get the passenger manifest right away,” I tell the crew manning FOGHORN’s Star Trek console. They start making calls to the FAA, which is already on this one. Pan Am’s working on getting the information ASAP.

  The minutes tick by. Each embassy has a travel section that makes transportation arrangements for the diplomats at its station. The travel section in Beirut has gone through its records and reports that Ambassador Andrew McCarthy, Major Chuck McKee of the DIA, Matt Gannon, and Ron Lariviere had been booked on Pan Am 103. Matt Gannon is a senior State Department official. Ron Lariviere is one of our own.

  Minutes later, our embassy in Cyprus sends a flash cable. Danny O’Connor had flown from Cyprus to Heathrow to catch 103. He’s one of our senior DSS officers in Cyprus. I know Danny. He’s the son of a Boston cop and a good man.

  This is a nightmare.

  I step over to one of the STU-III secure phones in the room and call the CIA to find out what they know. When I’m finished, it is clear some catastrophic event took place to knock Pan Am 103 out of the sky. A bomb is the most likely cause.