A Northern Thunder (2 page)

A
long the nearly deserted country road was an old run-down gas station, a large sign declaring the availability of “cheap gas” and “boiled peanuts.”

“Where the hell is he?” the “old man” asked, wondering why his driver was taking so long to get directions.

For the “old man,” the scorching heat and humidity made everything unbearable—even sitting in the glossy black executive car with the air conditioning roaring away at full blast. In military parlance, the senior ranking officer was always the “old man.”

The other passenger leaned forward and said, “Admiral, I don’t think he’s been to Vienna before.” A faint British accent was evident in his words. Black sunglasses hid part of a scar running down his cheek.

They had stopped on the edge of Vienna, a small, square town in south Georgia. Locals had come up with a special pronunciation—VEYE-anna. Any comparison to the Austrian city ended with the identical spellings.

“I don’t give a damn where he’s been or not been before,” Admiral Krowl screamed at his companion. “I told the Marine Corps to have their best driver available—at least somebody who knows where to go.” The gas station’s screen door banged and a young Marine with lance corporal stripes jogged over to the car, hopped in, and shifted into drive.

Krowl leaned forward. “You know where to go, Marine?”

“Yes, sir. Only seven more miles down on the right.” The lance corporal’s well-creased uniform was beginning to show signs of the heat, or maybe of his high-pressure passenger.

Rear Admiral Julius “Jig” Krowl could not stand waiting, whether in a car in rural Georgia or in a Pentagon briefing room. He also hated his nickname, but it had stuck. In his first week at the Naval Academy, “Julius” had been shortened by an old Marine mustanger who’d served in both World War II and Korea. “Julius? Bullshit,” the captain had barked. “Henceforth, you will be Jig.” The Marine was referring to the old phonetic designation for the letter “J.”

While he couldn’t change his nickname, Krowl, a high-ranking military official for a long, long time, had grown accustomed to getting his way on everything else.

“I can’t believe we have to resort to this,” the admiral mumbled. “Surely, Langley could give us a better option.”

Beside Jig Krowl was a thick folder marked, “Top Secret: CIA.” Over its center was a large seal marked “SCI,” followed by a bright red warning that fines and imprisonment were the penalty for unauthorized use.

“If Langley had any other option,” said Krowl’s companion in a low grumble, “we would have used it.”

Krowl turned to him. “Listen, Scott, if this doesn’t work, who will they go after?” Krowl was angry, not so much about the proposed idea, but that the CIA might rob him of the credit. His every decision and plan had an angle, and as soon as Krowl was sure this one was a winner, Scott would be slipped to the background.

James Scott had heard admirals spout off before, and, frankly, couldn’t care less. A career officer with the Agency, he’d learned a long time ago that the mission was primary. He had met the admiral only the day before, but Scott took pride in his ability to size up people quickly, and he sensed Krowl was a man to keep a close eye on.

When he answered Krowl, his words were slow, deliberate. “Admiral, from our discussions in the EC yesterday, you know this is the best choice we have. We bloody well need him, and we need him bad.”

The EC, or Executive Center, was little known—even by many military insiders. In the Pentagon, no sanctuary was more secret.

During their meeting the day before, even James Scott had been impressed. He’d seen many secret facilities during his years in intelligence, but this one was unique. The EC was the Secretary of Defense’s private war room. Soundproofing on all sides prevented any eavesdropping. An eye-scanning device had a limited history of those few it would let in. The assault that infamous September day had had no impact upon the center. It remained impregnable.

As Scott had entered the steel vault, he was met by an armed sentry—a Marine armed with a 9-mm Beretta in a shoulder holster—behind a small, green-tinted plexiglas opening. His green utility clothing seemed fuller, as if the outer garment covered a bulletproof vest.

“Sir, are you Mr. Scott with the CIA?”

“Yes,” he said forcefully.

“I need to see additional photo verification.” No one would pass this sentry without meeting all the requirements, and Scott immediately sensed that.

“You have the eye scan.”

“Yes, sir. . . but this briefing has the highest classification—Top Secret, Need to Know Only, SCI.” No superior would complain if the sentry refused to pass into the top secret facility someone who lacked all the proper identification. To enter, even the most senior executive at Defense had to comply with all requirements.

Scott pulled out his identification card. The sentry inserted it into a scanner.

“Now, sir, please place your right hand here.”

Scott put his hand onto a small black box. A red light flashed as the machine hummed, and he heard a click as the system registered its approval.

“You’re clear, sir. You’re to go to the conference room, third door on the left. Admiral Krowl is waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Marine.”

Scott walked the short distance down the small hallway to another set of steel doors. As he stepped near the front of the third door and his foot touched a thick gray carpet pad, he heard another click.

Above the door was a lit sign in a small metal box: “TS. . . SCI. . . Conference in Session.”

A voice came over a wall speaker. “Yes?”

“James Scott, CIA.”

The second door clicked.

A short, graying, heavy-set man in an admiral’s uniform stood just inside. His thin, round, gold-metal eyeglasses accentuated coal-black eyes and eyebrows.

“Scott, I’m Rear Admiral Julius Krowl, repping the Joint Chiefs. This is General Louis McCain of the Marine Corps and Mark Wolf of DIA.” The Defense Intelligence Agency, or DIA, was one of the U.S. military’s main providers of intelligence, much of it obtained from spy satellites. DIA was the eavesdropper capable of electronic snooping anywhere in the world. Telephone conversations, whether from land lines, cell phones, or satellite phones, fell within the electronic scope of DIA surveillance, as did e-mails.

McCain, a three-star general, commanded the Marine Forces Reserve, more commonly referred to as MAR FOR RES. Based in New Orleans, the entire reserve force of the Marine Corps was under his control. Though the Reserves were playing a greater role nowadays in front-line defense, it was unusual for a MAR FOR RES rep to be at such a meeting—they were not regularly admitted to this inner sanctum of decision makers. Scott knew, however, why a reservist at this briefing was appropriate.

The admiral pointed to a high-backed leather executive chair, one of four surrounding a small wooden table. Scott sat down, taking in his surroundings—a small room with red striped drapes on three walls, there to further reduce sound and obscure any conversations. On the fourth wall were three screens surrounded by drapes. And above the screens were six clocks, one marked Seoul, another Honolulu, another Washington, another Beijing, and the last two London and Moscow.

“Mr. Scott,” said Krowl, “Admiral Williams, Commander of USPACON, is with us by satellite.” USPACON, short for U.S. Pacific Command, was responsible for all Defense Department matters in the Pacific.

On one of the screens appeared a four-star Navy admiral with graying, close-cropped hair and a well-tanned face. “Hello, gentlemen,” said Admiral Williams. Based in Hawaii, he was the lead commander in any crisis that might occur in that part of the world. His was an enviable job. Admirals throughout the Navy fought for the chance to be Commander, USPACON. With hot spots such as China, North Korea, Pakistan, Vietnam, India, Cambodia, and the Spratly Islands within his purview, Admiral Williams was guaranteed plenty of CNN exposure. Only Central Command provided commanders more media attention. With enormous areas of ocean in the Pacific Command, it was natural the post would always go to an admiral.

“Gentlemen,” Krowl said curtly, “there are to be no notes! This is Need-to-Know Only.” He didn’t care about Wolf or Scott, and considered McCain no threat. “Admiral Williams, naturally you’re exempted, sir.”

Krowl turned to Scott. “Now, Mr. Scott, what is so urgent that we needed to get together?”

“Admiral, the Yongbyon project has gained new life. After the Taepo Dong 2 failure, they changed their team, acquiring someone who we believe can put it all together for the first time, and he has gone straight to the full range TD-3X. It will have a range of ten thousand-plus nautical miles and carry a five hundred-plus load.”

“Shit,” Williams muttered to himself.

“He’s also working on a sixth generation weapon.”

Silence hit the room. Everyone knew the potential impact of a soon-to-be operational Taepo Dong-3X. Virtually every city in the continental United States would be within its range. Several sixth-generation weapons could be carried by a missile with five hundred kilogram load capacity.

And that’s why, now, Admiral Krowl and Scott found themselves here, in this small town, looking for the one man who could pull off the mission at hand.

A
s everyone in the courtroom stood, Judge Anderson Roamer, a barrel-chested bull of a man with dark, thick, horn-rimmed glasses, took the bench, sitting well above the floor of the cavernous old courtroom. The courthouse, built with the detailed craftsmanship of the 1930s, now had large, hand-sized strips of paint peeling off the walls and ceilings. A new courthouse was stranded at the bottom of the county’s list of capital project priorities.

After shuffling some papers, Judge Roamer looked down at the two attorneys below.

He pushed his glasses up with a finger, stained brown from years of smoking. “We have heard from the defense. Is the State ready for closing argument?”

Will Parker stood up. “The State is ready, Your Honor.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Parker.”

“Folks,” said Will to the jury, “we just met two days ago, so let me reintroduce myself—I’m William Parker.”

As he spoke, a door squeaked open in the rear of the courtroom. Everyone glanced toward the two dark-suited men who entered. The older one sat down in the last row of benches—a balding head, heavy, dark eyebrows, and bright gold glasses that framed a pair of dark eyes. The other man, who had a military-style haircut, wore dark sunglasses.

Will turned back to the jury. He looked each juror in the eye through thin glasses that framed his own sky-blue eyes and created the impression of a teacher. His personality, though, seemed more like that of a neighbor talking over a fence. His blonde-brown hair had a high part, and his tall, athletic frame dominated the jury box. A small scar over his left eye did more to accent his face than to distract. Will had a calm presence, speaking with a voice more of a judge than a juror, more of a general than a captain.

“I was born in this town. Except for school, the Marine Corps, and Desert Storm, I have stayed in this town. Like each of you, I care for this town and the people who live their lives here.” His voice was quiet but sincere. He smiled, and as he did, a small dimple appeared on his cheek.

Will turned to the table across from the jury box and picked up a small, square black object with a short, slender black wire attached. The wire, like an antenna, extended an inch from the object. He slipped it into his pocket, turned back to the jury, and looked directly at one juror.

“This case has been about the illegal transport and offer for sale of an illegal substance—ten kilos of cocaine, to be exact,” said Will. “Using recorded conversations, we have proven that this defendant, David Ikins, possessed cocaine when he secretly flew into the Dooley County airport in the early morning hours of July 3rd—on a twin engine Cessna 401 seen in a coastal airport in Colombia, South America the day before. And we have shown that the defendant flew the drugs here, to our country, to our home, for the purpose of selling them to Ham Aultman.”

Will turned toward a thin man in the seats beyond the trial area. Ham Aultman, dark and ill-shaven, sank into his seat as the courtroom’s attention shifted to him. His tie crumpled up the collar of his off-white shirt, like a laundry bag pulled too tight. Oversized clothes notwithstanding, Ham had apparently done his best to clean up for court.

“Ham Aultman is a convicted felon. . . a thief. . . a drug dealer. Not someone I especially like, but in this particular instance, he is the state informant who made this case. Before the defendant landed, Aultman had been caught in a minor drug bust. As soon as he was booked on that charge, Aultman, to gain leniency, bailed on the Ikins scheme and agreed to wear a wire. In reality, he was merely a mule for the ten kilos. He didn’t have the financing or the nerve for such a big load, so he squealed on his delivery man—the next one up the ladder. The U.S. Attorney in Macon saved Aultman several decades in prison in return for his cooperation in the much bigger Ikins case before you.”

Ikins, with long dark hair tied in a ponytail, glared at Will, who returned the look. The sharp, custom-tailored attorney sitting on Ikins’s side stared forward, trying to ignore Will’s glare and the jury’s attention.