The Langley Profile

by Jack Bowie

  “Great. I’ll put it in his calendar. Next item. This morning I read about a terrible murder of an Omega Genomics employee. I’ve been trying to get Adam but his cell keeps going to voicemail. Do you know anything about that?”

  “How did you hear about the murder?”

  “I have a Google Alert on all of Adam’s clients.”

  Of course you do, Karen.

  “Ah, yeah. I did hear about that. And about the cell. You’re not going to hear from Adam for a while.”

  The line went silent. Slattery had called him a few minutes before. He couldn’t argue with the plan as crazy as it appeared at face value. There was no way Braxton would survive if he stayed.

  But damn Slattery for making him do this.

  “Adam had to take off for a few days,” Fowler added.

  The silence remained. After a few more seconds a very different voice came over the line.

  “Samuel Fowler, what’s going on? Is Adam all right?” Chu’s voice was as angry as he had ever heard.

  “Yes, he’s fine.” I think. “He just needs to lay low for a little while.”

  “It’s that Mr. Smith isn’t it? He’s gotten Adam into trouble again, hasn’t he? I told Adam not to get involved.”

  Quiet crying in the background.

  “Sam. Answer me. It isn’t that murder is it? They don’t think Adam is involved?”

  “You might hear some things about Adam, Karen. But they’re not true. We’re trying to get this straightened out.”

  “We? Are you involved, too? Where are you, Sam Fowler?”

  “I’m in Boston.”

  “Oh, damn.” Fowler had never heard Chu swear before. He had to get this call back on track. “When will I hear from Adam? He’s got client meetings next week. What am I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know when we’ll hear from him. Honestly. But it’s going to be okay. Say Adam is sick. It will only be a few days. I promise.”

  “Sam. Please don’t let anything happen to him. He trusts you.” Chu’s tone was pleading. The three of them had become very close the past two years. Cerberus was more than a company. It was a close-knit family. And the head of that family was in serious danger. Again.

  “I’ll try, Karen. I really will.”

  * * *

  “Commonwealth,” Wilson whispered into the burner phone. He tried to keep his voice from trembling. He braced himself for the familiar clicks and the inevitable disembodied voice.

  He had stayed in his office all day watching the damn consultant bob in and out of his cubicle. Continuing to stick his nose into their work. His work.

  The urge had eaten at him all afternoon. He had willed it away like the fight against vomiting after an alcohol binge. But he had failed. At 4:30 he had finally run from the building and rode to a bar in Watertown.

  “Why are you calling?” The voice shook him like a bolt of lightning.

  “Why am I calling? What the hell are you doing? Why did you kill O’Connor? The problem was the damn consultant.” He spit out the words as fast as he could. Why was it so hard to breathe?

  “He’s being taken care of. You need to calm down.”

  What the hell is wrong with them? “How can I calm down? He’s still there!”

  “He won’t be for long. Just wait.”

  Wilson stared at his hands. They were bruised from pounding on his desk. His collar was wet with sweat. “I can’t stand it any longer. You’ve got to get me out.”

  “You need to wait. We’re taking care of it.”

  Taking care of it? Didn’t they see it was all falling apart?

  “Do you hear me?” The voice yelled.

  “Yes.” He closed his eyes.

  “Good.” The voice softened. “Now take a day off. You’re sick. You’re in mourning. Whatever. It will all be over soon.”

  The call ended and he was alone. Completely alone.

  Chapter 14

  Hanscom Field, Bedford, Massachusetts

  Thursday, 5:20 p.m.

  Hanscom Field is a regional, general aviation airport occupying 1125 acres of prime Boston real estate just outside of I-95 in Bedford, Massachusetts. It began life as Lawrence G. Hanscom Air Force Base in the early 1940s as Massachusetts’ contribution to the national defense effort in preparation for World War II. During the war, the base served as the training home to a number of Air Force fighter squadrons.

  The importance of its flight activities, however, was rapidly eclipsed by efforts of a more cerebral nature. Given the base’s proximity to the scientists of Harvard and MIT, Hanscom became the womb for a series of technical breakthroughs that proved critical to the war effort and national defense.

  During the war, a progression of advancements in radar developed by MIT’s Radiation Laboratory underwent extensive testing at Hanscom.

  Once the war ended, the Air Force continued their research focus at Hanscom, making it home to the newly-formed Air Force Cambridge Research Laboratories. AFCRL took the lead in the development of a new national air defense system, calling on the same academic partners it had nurtured during the war. Starting in the 1950’s, the field saw construction of the MIT Lincoln Laboratory research center, centralization of many of the Air Force’s satellite physics and electronics laboratories, and reconfiguration of Hanscom’s runways and infrastructure to improve their testing capabilities. The rapid expansion of responsibilities in, and funding for, electronics research also drove nearby commercial development, culminating in the emergence of old Route 128—now I-95—as America’s Technology Highway.

  The investments resulted in the Semi-Automatic Ground Environment—SAGE— air defense computer system in the 1950s and the creation of the Air Force’s Electronic Systems Division to consolidate management of all of the Air Force’s electronic systems development. The expansion of these efforts continued through the 1980s and 1990s. By the turn of the century, the Air Force’s electronics and cryptographic efforts had expanded beyond the capabilities of a single location and most of Hanscom’s operations were distributed to bases in other, primarily red, states.

  Hanscom now fills its days hosting fleets of corporate jets and catering to a handful of regional airlines that serve the New England States.

  Mostly.

  * * *

  The taxi driver followed Braxton’s directions easily. Once they crossed I-95, the crowded inner towns gave way to a more relaxed, and suburban environment. Classic New England capes and Victorians filled the wooded neighborhoods, their proud owners fighting the pressures of urban sprawl.

  The cab eventually stopped in front of a narrow road that branched off of Virginia Road and curved into a dense woods. There was nothing nearby: no other roads, no buildings, no vehicles. The only indication Braxton was in the right place was a small sign at the road’s entrance that read “Gate 7. U.S. Government Property. No Admittance.”

  The driver asked if this was the right place and Braxton assured him it was, despite a nagging concern to the contrary. Braxton paid the fare from his now over-stuffed wallet, grabbed his backpack and left the warmth of the cab for a cold, damp Boston evening.

  The sun had set on the way out and the temperature felt it had dropped ten degrees. Braxton zipped his jacket to his neck and followed the macadam into the trees.

  The canopy of the trees hadn’t yet closed over the road, so he was able to navigate from the weak moonlight that filtered through the gray cloud cover.

  Why the hell didn’t Slattery tell me to bring a flashlight?

  His breath formed puffy clouds which disappeared into the darkness as he walked forward. He heard a faint murmur from the never-ending traffic on I-95, but otherwise, his only companion was the soft chirping of crickets.

  Braxton turned a corner and saw a dark shadow in the distance. Farther on, the shadow turned into what looked like a guardhouse. Wooden and weather-worn from too many New England winters, it was hardly bigger than an over-sized construction toilet. The road split on each side of the struc
ture and plastic security gates hung lazily across the entrance and exit paths. It was hard to imagine they could stop anything bigger than a Soap Box Derby racer. A small spotlight shone from the front of the guardhouse lighting an oval on the pavement with an alien glow. It reminded Braxton of a Star Trek transporter beam.

  He walked toward the light.

  About ten feet from the guardhouse he heard a sound. The door on the side of the house opened and out stepped a giant.

  Well, he looked like a giant. Or at least Rob Gronkowski’s bigger brother. The sentry, Braxton assumed he was a soldier of some kind, was dressed in camouflage fatigues and moved to face Braxton in front of the security gate. His head was square as a box and Braxton couldn’t tell if the man even had a neck. His arms hung straight at his sides but Braxton couldn’t miss the bulky sidearm holstered on his belt, his hand just inches from the weapon.

  “Can I help you, sir?” came a deep, gravelly voice.

  Not quite the “halt, identify yourself” Braxton had expected, but this was suburban Massachusetts after all.

  “I was told someone would meet me here?” he said weakly. The adrenaline rush from Slattery’s call had dissipated in the taxi and now Braxton was feeling the unwelcome onslaught of anxiety. Following Slattery’s directions had kept the reality of his situation at bay. But now that he had arrived at his destination he was forced to confront it. He was a criminal on the run. What was he doing here? Where was he going? The presence of the huge soldier was doing nothing to calm his nerves.

  “What is your name, sir?”

  Braxton saw that the man’s right hand now rested on the handle of his weapon. He had better get this right.

  “Bra …, ah, Greystone. Robert Greystone.” He tried unsuccessfully to hide the shaking in his voice.

  The sentry’s hand twitched and Braxton felt his knees nearly give out. Then the man’s hand came forward.

  “Mr. Greystone. Yes, sir. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Braxton extended his hand and it was swallowed by the sentry’s huge grip.

  “Thank you, …”

  “Johnson,” the sentry replied. “Follow me, please.”

  He led Braxton into the guardhouse. When Braxton stepped over the threshold, he entered another world. The inside of the unremarkable hut looked like a television control room. Above the windows facing the road were three video monitors. Two showed grainy, low-light intensified shots of the approach to the gate. On the third was a frozen capture of Braxton’s face as he approached the guardhouse. And lying on the top of the desktop below the windows was his photograph, likely taken from the CIA’s files. Johnson had known exactly who was coming. The rest of the small desktop was filled with an array of digital readouts and switches whose purpose Braxton could not decipher. Hidden sensors? More offensive security measures?

  Braxton turned and the opposite wall was even more surprising. Arrayed on a panel was enough weaponry to support a military raiding squad. There were numerous handguns, most of which he didn’t recognize, three M16 assault rifles and what looked like an M320 grenade launcher.

  What the hell is this place?

  Johnson pointed to a small plastic chair wedged between the entrance door and the back wall. “Mr. Smith asked that I make you as comfortable as possible,” he said. “Not easy in this place, but at least it’s out of the wind. Someone will be here shortly.” He turned back to the control panel and spoke into a microphone at his shoulder. “Greystone has arrived. Awaiting pickup.”

  A small space heater sat on the floor across from his chair and Braxton spent the next few minutes rubbing his hands and soaking in the warmth.

  About five minutes later, Braxton saw headlights approaching from a dark road inside the gate. A black Suburban SUV pulled up and stopped behind the hut.

  “Time to go, Mr. Greystone.”

  Johnson led Braxton out to the car. “This will take you to the field,” he said.

  Braxton walked to the car, opened a rear door, then turned back to face the soldier. “Thank you, Johnson.”

  “You’re welcome, sir. Have a safe trip.”

  * * *

  The driver navigated a winding path through the woods, eventually emerging into the vast clearing that was Hanscom Field. He stopped in front of a modern single story building with a sign that read “Atlantic Aviation” surrounded by a flourish that reminded Braxton of the Nike swoosh. He assumed it was some kind of civilian air terminal.

  The driver got out of the car and opened the rear door. He was about Braxton’s height, well-built, with short blond hair and a tanned, craggy face. Dressed in a black leather jacket, tan slacks and heavy crepe-soled shoes, he looked like an FBI agent gone rogue.

  “This way, sir,” he directed.

  He led Braxton into the terminal which was decorated with all the obligatory counters, computers, signage, and seating expected in an airline operation, but was completely devoid of any personnel or travelers. They immediately proceeded out a rear door marked “To Gates.”

  Ahead, Braxton saw a gleaming white airplane bathed in floodlights from the terminal. They approached another civilian who was studying the clipboard in his hands. The man was the driver’s virtual twin.

  “This is Mr. Greystone,” the driver said simply, then turned and disappeared back into the terminal.

  “This way, Mr. Greystone,” Braxton’s new escort commented, barely making eye contact. “Have you flown with us before?”

  “Ah, no. Is that a C-130?”

  “Very good. You’re familiar with the plane.” There was a small crack in the man’s expressionless face. “Actually, that is an L-100J, the latest civilian variant. It’s a real workhorse.”

  The cargo airplane was huge, over one hundred ten feet long, with a wingspan of one hundred thirty-two feet. Its wings hung regally atop the fuselage, each supporting two massive turboprop engines. The plane always reminded Braxton of a scaled-down Spruce Goose.

  “I was in the Army,” Braxton added. “Had a couple flights in a Hercules.” He tried to return the smile, but his memories of those flights weren’t pleasant. Being thrown around in a cold, empty cargo plane strapped into a web seat was not his idea of transportation.

  They continued up to the plane and walked up the loading ramp that descended from under its tapered tail. Braxton had hoped the “civilian variant” of the plane would be a bit more passenger-friendly than the C-130s in his past, but that was not to be. The cargo bay was a vast empty space with straps of all shapes and sizes arching from ties in the exposed airframe. Ready to hold down anything from a crate of medical supplies to a small fleet of Humvees. A pallet track ran the length of the bay and along each side wall, web seats hung to accommodate the plane’s lucky passengers.

  His escort pointed to a location on the left side near the middle of the bay. Braxton pulled out the seat and made an effort to get settled. “Comfortable” wasn’t even close.

  “Since this is your first flight with us, Mr. Greystone,” his escort began, “let me make some suggestions. If I were you I’d settle in and try to get some sleep. It’s a long flight. Flying time is eleven hours, more or less. Should be smooth, but you know what that means on a cargo plane. And I wouldn’t expect any conversation with our other guests. Everyone is here for a reason and most of those reasons aren’t open for discussion. Are we clear?”

  “Yes,” Braxton responded. “Very clear. But where are we going?”

  The man glanced back at him and curled his forehead. “Oh. You don’t know. We’re hopping the pond tonight. The captain will give you all the details when he comes through.” He reached for the backpack that Braxton had been clutching since he arrived at the base. “I’ll take that pack now.”

  “I’d prefer to keep it with me,” he replied, pulling the pack back from the man’s hand.

  “Sorry, sir. We can’t have any items that might come loose during the flight. It will be quite safe.”

  Braxton reluctantly handed over his pack.
The man took it to the front of the bay and secured it in a large container.

  He walked back past Braxton, down the ramp and into the night.

  Hopping the pond? We’re going to Europe? What the hell is Slattery doing to me?

  There were only three other guests on this flight. In the front of the plane, another lone passenger sat quietly in his seat. Arms resting on his thighs, looking straight ahead, he appeared more like an anxious job interviewee than a spook.

  More what Braxton had expected was the pair sitting across from him. Broad shouldered with crew cuts, dark beards and serious faces, they looked like they had just stepped off a SEAL Zodiac. They were relaxed and animatedly chatting and laughing. At least they had someone to talk to.

  So here he was, an accused murderer on the run from the authorities, being whisked out of his country on what he assumed was a CIA-funded transport flight. The image of a deranged Mel Gibson piloting an Air America plane over Laos flashed in his mind. He shuddered.

  After about fifteen minutes, a third member of the Atlantic Aviation family—Braxton could tell from the “uniform”—appeared at the front of the cargo bay. This brother was Black, with a shaved head that seemed to glow under the light of the bay. He slowly made his way to each of the other passengers and finally stopped in front of Braxton.

  “Mr. Greystone. I’ll be your pilot this evening.” The pilot had an odd accent. A small gold ring hung from his left ear.

  He grabbed Braxton’s cross-straps and gave them a yank. “Looks like you’re settled in, mate. I understand this is your first flight with us. Best to stay hydrated. There’re bottles of water in the bin up there,” he pointed to a large container at the front of the bay, “and there’s a washroom up front as well. As the big blokes say, though, keep your seat belts on at all times. Can’t tell when it might get a little bumpy, eh?”

  Now Braxton had it. He was a Canadian.

  “Can you tell me where we’re going?” he asked.

  “Of course. Rome. Rome, Italy. Actually Ciampino International. It’s just south of Rome.”

  “Rome’s a long flight for a Hercules isn’t it?” Braxton asked, recovering from his surprise.