A Triple Thriller Fest (71 page)

He pulled in front of the first Suburban, radioed his night clerk that he was at Tuchman’s and was going to question the driver of a gray late model Suburban with no markings.  Walking up to the lead Suburban, Johnson knocked on the driver’s window.  The driver slowly turned his face in the direction of the knock and using his hands indicated that the window did not roll down.

Suddenly, Johnson felt the cold steel barrel of a Colt AR-15 pushing against the back of his neck and heard the distinctive metallic sound of a bolt seating itself.

A soft-spoken man said, “Don’t move; we don’t want to be provoked.  Please do as I say.”

“You can’t do this to me,” said Johnson.  “I’m the sheriff in this here county.  Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

At this point, Twoomey approached.  “Put that weapon down, trooper.  Sorry, Sheriff, my boys tend to take their jobs very seriously.  I’m Albert Twoomey, Office of Security, Department of State.”

“What in the blue blazes do you boys think you are doing?  What the hell are all these vehicles parked here in front of Tuchman’s?”

“The State Department got a message that one of its important staff members may have been murdered here and we were sent to investigate.”

“You mean that boy that was killed in the farmhouse fire?”

“Precisely.  Two of my colleagues are inside speaking to Mr. Tuchman right now.”

2130 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Inside Tuchman’s Funeral Home, Mankato, Minnesota

As the trio walked down the stairs toward the refrigerated basement that served as Tuchman’s cold storage room prior to embalming and preparation for burial, Tuchman said, “Hope you two aren’t too squeamish, the remains ain’t very pretty.”  Neither Smith nor Adams responded as they continued their descent.

In Room 2, Tuchman had already placed the black, charred remains of Winslow on a stainless steel gurney.  There was little semblance of the human state in the mass of burned tissue and white bone that lay on that gurney.

The stench arising from the gurney, a combination of wet wood ashes, burnt tissue, and death, was overpowering, but was abated in the chill of the room.  What remained of the head and skull graphically displayed the power of a .357 Magnum bullet.  Most of the right frontal and temporal portions of the skull and face were gone.  Eyeless sockets stared into space in anguish.

“Have you performed an autopsy or other examination?” said Smith.

“Don’t have to.  Just looking at him you can tell that he died of a gunshot wound.”

“Mr. Tuchman, did you find anything in or around the body that looked out of the ordinary?”

“No, like I said, there weren’t no need to go poking around with such an obvious cause of death.”

“Mr. Tuchman, we need to transport this body to Washington as soon as possible.  I have some men outside who can help you prepare the body.  We also have a special casket designed for travel.”

Tuchman looked up at Smith and then at Adams at that request.

“I’m not sure I can release him tonight.  We haven’t had a proper coroner’s inquest.”

“But you said the cause of death was obvious.”

“Don’t replace the inquest.  We’ve got to have an inquest.”

“How long will that take?”

“Probably two or three days.”

“I’m afraid that we can’t wait, this body must be in Washington this evening without delay.”

“Sorry, this body will be kept here until the formal inquest, government or no government.”  Tuchman folded his arms over his chest.

Just about this time, Johnson joined the three men in the cold room.  “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Tuchman?”

“Sheriff, these men seem to feel that they can take this corpse without a formal inquest.  I just cannot allow such a thing.”

Smith identified himself as a State Department official to Johnson.  “National security demands that we take immediate possession of the remains of Mr. Winslow.  I’ve been instructed to transport these remains to Washington, D.C., without delay.  I’m sure you can understand that, gentlemen.”

“I can’t let you take the body unless Mr. Tuchman agrees and it sure doesn’t seem that he agrees, ” said Johnson, as his right hand slowly undid the holster strap to his service revolver.

Johnson’s movement did not go unnoticed.  Just as deliberately, Smith reached inside his pants pocket and pressed the button on the paging device.  Twoomey’s pager beeped once and he immediately went into the funeral parlor following the loud voices.  Two Marines with their weapons followed him.

In less than ten seconds, Twoomey opened the door, dropped to a kneeling position and aimed his automatic right at the sheriff, who had his revolver drawn and was holding both Smith and Adams at bay.  Immediately behind Twoomey the two Marines fanned out to take positions on each side of Twoomey.  The Marines’ Striker 12 shotguns were fully choked for a tight shot pattern and the red beam of the lasers were aimed at Johnson’s chest.

Twoomey said, “Drop that weapon, Sheriff.  There is no way you can get all of us.”

Sweat poured down Johnson’s face.  His shirt was drenched from perspiration.  Nothing he had ever encountered had prepared him for this occasion.  The weapons themselves were unlike anything he had ever seen.  His trigger finger started to tighten.  His face flushed.  His eyes squinted both from fear and the salty, biting sweat that continued to bead down from his forehead.

“I don’ know who you are, but I’m pretty sure you aren’t who you say you are.  You just can’t just come here and demand things.  I ain’t gonna let you, no way.”

“Sheriff, you are making a big mistake.  I’m not sure who these fellows are either but I can tell you that George Smith is legit,” said Adams.

“Buddy, I don’t know who you are.”

“I’m Special Agent Herbert Adams of the FBI.  If you will allow me, I can get my identification card for you.”

“Don’t you dare reach for that.  I weren’t born yesterday.”

As Johnson’s attention was momentarily diverted, Twoomey was able to fire one shot, intentionally grazing Johnson’s right arm, which caused him to drop his revolver.  Tension filled the room as the two Marines started to squeeze the triggers of their Striker 12 Shotguns.

Instinctively, Twoomey said, “Hold your fire!”

The troopers responded immediately.

Johnson clutched his right arm with his left hand, a rivulet of blood streamed down his right arm.  Tuchman, who until this moment had been huddling in the corner of the room, rushed forward with some sterile gauze to staunch the flow of blood.  The two of them now looked at the intruders with nervous gazes.

“I’m sorry I had to fire, but you left me with no choice,” said Twoomey.  “Our instructions are that we will return to our base with the remains and that no one, I repeat, no one will prevent us from doing so.”  Twoomey held the small, pocket-sized communicator to his mouth.  “Bring the casket down into the cold room.  Use the service elevator.”

Tuchman, for all his years in the undertaking business, had never seen a casket quite like the one being pushed into the cold room.  Shaped in a half-cylinder, the casket was made of stainless steel.  The casket was hermetically sealable and there appeared to be a way to control its internal temperature.  Two small cylinders were attached to the outside of the casket.  Stenciled on the two small cylinders was the word, “Nitrogen.”  The cylinders were connected to the casket by copper tubing and gas valves.

The two men who pushed the casket in were dressed in blue and each wore a rubber apron and elbow-length rubber gloves.  Rolling the casket up to Winslow’s corpse, one of the men encoded an alphanumeric sequence onto a keypad on the side of the casket.  The casket lid slowly opened, revealing a bare, metallic interior.  Inside the casket lay a gray rubber body bag.

The two men took out the body bag and placed it on the gurney next to Winslow.  They unzipped the bag and gently lifted the charred remains of Winslow into the bag.  When the body was moved, the overpowering stench of wet ashes, burnt tissue, and death once again filled the room.  The odor subsided when the two Marines zipped the body bag shut.  The two Marines gently lifted the body bag into the stainless steel casket and secured the lid.  The atmosphere inside the casket was evacuated and replaced with nitrogen gas.  The temperature of the casket was set at zero degrees centigrade.

As the two Marines quietly pushed the casket out of the cold room, Smith said, “Mr. Tuchman. Sheriff Johnson. As far as you’re concerned this incident never occurred.  National security demands this extreme action.  I would rather not discuss what will happen if you continue to interfere with our mission.  Am I making myself sufficiently clear?”

Neither Tuchman nor Johnson reacted to Smith’s warning.  They stood in silence as Smith and Adams searched the cold room for any more items connected with Winslow and placed the items in plastic evidence bags.

Satisfied that nothing more remained in the cold room, Twoomey picked up Johnson’s revolver, took all the shells out of the cylinder and handed it back to Johnson.  Twoomey also relieved Johnson of his speed loaders.

Twoomey, Smith, and Adams left the cold room.  The two Marine guards left immediately behind them.  Outside, the stainless steel casket was loaded into the second Suburban.  The blue-clad men from the back, the front, and inside the building jumped into the three Suburbans and the gray caravan drove off at high speed.  In the cold room, Johnson and Tuchman sat looking at each other in shock.

Tomorrow morning, Johnson would discover that InfoNet would list no information on a body being found in a burning farmhouse south of Mankato, Minnesota.  His efforts at discovering the identity of the intruders would be equally fruitless.

Like the stranger said, it just didn’t happen.

1993: Ambush

0630 Hours, Saturday, June 12, 1993: Bachelor Officers Quarters, Newport News, Virginia

The incessant ringing jarred Mike out of a deep sleep.  After an enjoyable evening with his old friends, Gladys and Bob McHugh, Mike had turned in about 12:30 a.m.  Seeing his old friends had helped Mike forget about his other war, the one he had waged daily in posh offices high above the common crowd.  The warmth of this friendship with the McHughs was important to Mike, particularly with the drama now unfolding.  As a field grade officer, Mike rated a single room at the bachelor officers’ quarters.  Turning in, he had asked for a wakeup call at 0700 hours so that he could report to McHugh’s office at 0800 hours, as requested by the Admiral

Half asleep, Mike searched in the dark for the telephone.  I must be late, he thought.  Don’t they send orderlies around anymore like they used to?

McHugh was a stickler for punctuality.  Mike had sat through the discomfort of his fellow officers when they received an uncharacteristic dressing down for being even a few minutes late to a meeting with McHugh.  God, what a way to start this tour.  Mike shuddered at the thought.

Finally, Mike found the telephone and put the handset to his ear.  He heard McHugh’s deep voice.  “Mike, sorry to wake you, but we’ve gotten some bad news.  Can you get dressed right away and get over to my office?  A car has been sent for you and will be outside.”

Mike jumped out of bed, stripped off his pajamas and shaved.  He then headed for the shower in his private bath and gave himself five minutes to scrub his body and hair.  Afterward, he put on the uniform of an officer of the United States Navy.  Because of the requirement that he carry his Walther revolver, the uniform coat was cut fuller than normal.

Wearing his overseas hat with the silver oak leaf of a Commander in the United States Navy, Mike blinked as he stepped into the bright daylight.

A gray sedan was stopped in front of the BOQ.  A Marine in summer dress uniform stood at parade rest at the side of the car.  As Mike approached the sedan, the young Marine corporal snapped to attention and saluted Mike.

Fumbling, Mike returned the salute.

“Good morning, Commander,” said the young Marine as he opened the rear door of the sedan.  After Mike settled down, he was driven to the other side of the sprawling naval station to the CSAC Operations Center, located in a nondescript, white clapboard building.

Once inside the small, unpretentious foyer, Mike walked over to the counter, which was manned by two young Marines dressed in the sand-colored camouflage fatigues that had become popular since the Gulf War in 1991.  Mike had no doubt that despite the relative youth of these guards; they were battle-hardened veterans.

CSAC drew its military personnel primarily from the special operations groups of each of the armed services.  Marines came from their Special Operations Regiment, which was in many respects the United States’ answer to the British SAS.  Mike knew that many of the Marines in the Special Operations Regiment had served inside Iraqi lines throughout the Persian Gulf conflict and some had paid the supreme price.  None were ever identified.  Navy Seals were another prime source of talent for CSAC, as were the Delta Force and the Air Force Special Forces, the ones that wore the distinctive red berets.

“Good morning, Commander,” said the Marine behind the counter.

Stowed within easy reach under the counter was a Striker 12 shotgun, with the choke on maximum fire pattern.

“Commander, may I see your credentials?”

Margaret had packed Mike’s CSAC credentials in his suitcase.  Normally, CSAC agents carried no credentials whatsoever, until they had passed the stringent credibility tests at CSAC Operations Center.  Those credentials had to be returned upon leaving the CSAC facility.  Technology had advanced dramatically in terms of these identification cards.  Encoded with a silicon chip, the modern cards permitted the holder to access only those areas for which he or she was authorized.

Mike handed the identification card to the young Marine, who placed it into a special card reader.  The liquid crystal readout confirmed that the holder of the card was Mike Liu.  The Marine dutifully returned the card to Mike.  “Commander, we will still need the ReTek DNA Analyzer identification.”