Surly Bonds

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “That thought hasn’t been dismissed yet,” Caldwell said. “It is unusual for him to use Mikeal, though. Mikeal is our no-shit emergency backup for Palovich’s own protection. Why would he use him like this?”

  “No telling, boss, but one thing’s for sure: his days doing our dirty work are numbered.”

  PALOVICH MERLOV SAT IN HIS OLD, tattered lounge chair, reading a day-old Pravda. The Russian newspaper never published any stories worthwhile; it still acted as an instrument of propaganda. Only now it had different handlers. Outside, the early evening changed from light to dark, the dim lightbulb overhead was all that lit up the room.

  At forty-five, Palovich looked sixty. He became Viktor’s driver fourteen years earlier after a shrapnel wound in Afghanistan forced him out of the Soviet army. His time spent in the meaningless war changed his thoughts forever on the dominance of Soviet power. He walked with a slight limp, but he managed to move well.

  He couldn’t remember when he was approached by Aaron Caldwell, or how Caldwell convinced him to become an agent for the Americans. It was the right thing to do. Yes, he had received money, but Palovich had been smart enough not to flaunt nor spend it. He squirreled his cash away for a better time. A time when Russia would be strong again, or he could move to Berlin.

  Distracted by movement, Palovich turned to see his wife enter. She was a large woman, and her presence swallowed the room’s emptiness.

  “Why do you sit there, worthless?” she said.

  “Woman, I work hard all day.” He knew where this argument would go: nowhere. She argued for the sake of arguing. The relationship was strained, and it took all his will to avoid her.

  Annoyed with her and the confrontation, Palovich pushed himself up from his seat and walked to the window.

  “Work? You do not work. You sit on your rear all day in a plush limousine and drive KGB agents around Moscow.”

  “It is not a limousine, and the KGB no longer exists.” He clenched his teeth and shuffled toward her.

  “I do not care what they call themselves . . .” Her voice trailed off as he stopped listening. He no longer paid attention to what she said. Out of the corner of his eye he detected movement across the room. A familiar movement, yet somehow out of place. Palovich focused on the small red dot that danced on the wall behind her, then on her head, then it disappeared.

  27

  September 6, 1995

  * * *

  LENNY STEPPED OUT OF HIS ROOM and saw Vince had waited for him. The two walked toward the grass field that led to the squadron. The sun began its slow climb out of the east as the wind picked up in the early morning chill.

  “I’m supposed to get all the tests,” Vince said.

  “Sorry, they only release one a week. The computer releases each test on a specific seven-day cycle. You—actually I—can only retrieve one test during each cycle.” Lenny tried to refrain from smiling and bit his lower lip. An attempt to hide his joy with his little lie.

  “What about the rest of the stan/eval tests?”

  “Same thing.” Vince scrunched his eyebrows and his lips tightened. “Look,” Lenny said, “this program is very concise and predictable when a specific event is going to be accomplished. That’s why it’s set up the way it is: to prevent people from doing what I’m doing.” Lenny continued with his story. Vince glanced at him occasionally as the two walked toward the squadron. Lenny did not know if Vince believed him, but at the time, he did not care.

  The two entered the building and made their way to the flight room. Lenny checked the scheduling board, they noticed it had changed from the day before.

  “Hey, buddy,” Lenny said, “looks like you’re on an instrument ride first period.”

  “Yeah.” Vince sat his desk. “What are you doing today?”

  “Contact solo. Second period . . . gonna slip the surly bonds and touch the fa—”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Scarecrow.”

  “Do me a favor, Vince. Can the ‘Scarecrow’ crap.” Lenny walked to his seat and set his books on the desk.

  They stared across the room at each other. Theirs was a friendship based on convenience, and it was a strained friendship at best. A time would come, when each of them must make a choice for their destiny. Lenny knew what his choice would be.

  JASON ENTERED THE FLIGHT ROOM ALONE. A few of his classmates milled around, but all the instructors were still in the flight commander’s office for the morning meeting. His re-check, called an eighty-nine ride, was scheduled for first period. He was relaxed and ready.

  When he walked across the room to his instructor’s desk, Vince turned to face him, a smirk on his face. “Good morning, Jason. Did you get a chance to study?”

  “Plenty, thanks,” Jason said. He could tell Vince wanted him to fail.

  Jason took his seat, then pulled out his notepad, T-37 checklist, and in-flight guide.

  Gus was right—I need to stay focused. I’m not here to make friends or find a wife. I’m here to become an Air Force pilot.

  PALOVICH WAS SURPRISED he could react so fast. Perhaps it was the American TV cop shows that gave him instant recognition and quick reaction. Regardless, he moved quickly and effectively. By falling to his right, he had saved his own life, but ended his wife’s. The bullet that pierced his living room window, barely missed his shoulder and found its way into her chest.

  She was killed instantly, as the .30 caliber slug struck her heart and exploded. Palovich could do nothing for her as he lay on the floor, out of sight of the unknown assassin. He pulled the lamp cord out of the electrical socket and the room became dark. His heart raced as he took a moment to assess the situation. The first sound was the shattered glass, followed by the impact of the bullet. The killer used a suppressor on his weapon. That meant he was close. He had to be for the weapon to be accurate.

  If they sent an assassin after him, they were on to him. Somehow, they knew he had supplied the CIA with information. Now they were after him. It left him only one choice.

  Run.

  Run now and run fast.

  Palovich scurried across the floor into his bedroom. Cautiously, he scanned the window from the floor, crawled to his bureau, and grabbed his wallet and all the rubles he had in the house. He slid the bureau two feet to the right, lifted a floor panel, and retrieved a small metal box. Inside, was fifty thousand American dollars in brand new one hundred-dollar bills with a rubber band wrapped around them. Palovich removed the cash and shut the lid.

  He placed the box back in the hole, closed the panel, and returned the bureau to its original place. As he put on his shoes and coat, he realized it would be a long, wintry night.

  Palovich opened his door and peered down the hallway. It was quiet for this time of night. He closed the door behind him and crept into the empty hallway. They would take the main stairs if they came for him. He would take the outside staircase around the corner. His key slid into the lock and secured the door to buy himself some time.

  WHAM! A door slammed on the first floor, its echo carried up the staircase. They were coming for him. The key rattled in the lock as he struggled to pull it free. Palovich could feel his heart accelerate as he pictured the torture they would impose on him if they found him alive. Killing him would be the nice thing to do, but they would be in no mood for that. Not after they missed their target.

  Their footsteps racing up the stairs echoed in the stairwell as the key pulled free of the lock. Palovich ran down the hall and around the corner to the window for the outside stairwell. By the time he reached the window, the voices were louder. With the window unlatched, he grabbed the handles at the bottom and tugged. It didn’t budge. He tried again. Nothing.

  The window stuck in place, frozen from the snow and ice outside. Palovich’s eyes blinked and his lips trembled.

  He was trapped.

  Palovich heard them beat on the door. When the kicking began, he knew his time was limited; they would search this hallway and he would be caught. The window was
his only option as he tugged at its base. This time he felt it give. Slowly, he made progress, as he rocked the window sideways to break it loose. When his apartment door ripped off the hinges around the corner, he gave the window a final pull.

  The window broke free and opened at least two feet. He crawled through the opening into the chilly night air. The wind on the fourth-floor metal staircase was brisker than street level, but he couldn’t afford to worry about the frigid temperature now.

  Palovich shut the window. On the ledge, he found the stick used in the summer to prop the window open. He placed it between the top of the windowpane and the window frame, wedging it closed. The assassins would not be able to open it from the inside.

  His heart beat faster now, and he climbed down the metal stairway toward the street. At the second floor, Palovich paused to button his coat and adjust his scarf. He had no time to grab his hat and gloves, important items if he had to stay outside too long.

  The ladder lowered to the sidewalk from the second floor, and he climbed to the ground. His lungs burned with each breath. Glancing up and down the street, no one appeared to search for him. Few people meandered on the sidewalk and even less cars were on the street. He walked briskly along the snow-covered path and pulled up his collar.

  “Palovich!” someone yelled into the night air. Several people stopped and looked at the men standing on the fourth-floor stairwell.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  One of them fired into the sky. The dramatic move had its desired result. People in the street either fell to the ground or ducked for cover. Palovich ran. That was a mistake.

  “There,” a voice cried out behind him. “There he is.” Palovich was at least sixty meters away. The sound of gunfire pierced the night air, as plots of snow and chards of sidewalk exploded around him.

  28

  September 6, 1995

  * * *

  JASON’S DAY HAD GONE WELL. From the briefing to pre-flight, ground ops, and the flight itself; everything fell into place. Typically, a make-up evaluation was stressful for students; the pressure too much. Not the case today. Jason did well throughout the sortie.

  As he taxied the jet back to parking, he stayed focused on his task, and didn’t allow his mind to wander. He raised the canopy on the taxiway. The cool air would have allowed them to taxi with it lowered, but the autumn breeze was refreshing.

  As they approached the red tail section of the ramp, Jason spotted the marshaller waving at them. He returned the wave and turned into the parking spot, clearing each direction as he did so, and taxied no faster than a brisk walk. He followed the marshaller’s signals and stopped when the man made an “X” with his arms. Jason went through the engine shutdown checklist, and the loud squeal of the engines came to a halt.

  The breeze against his head was comforting as he removed his helmet. Once his Mickey Mouse ears were in place on his head, he climbed out of the cockpit. He gave the aircraft a thorough walk- around as the check pilot exited the aircraft.

  “I’ve already filled out the forms,” the check pilot said. “Let’s get on back. This will be quick.”

  That was a good sign. Jason swelled with enthusiasm. He knew it was a solid ride, and he couldn’t think of anything he might have done incorrectly. The walk back to the life-support shack was short. When they reached the building, the glass double doors flew open and out strode Lenny Banks.

  “Hey, Jason! How did the ride go?” Lenny said.

  Jason acknowledged him with a simple, “It was okay,” but flashed his friend a grin and gave him a “thumbs up”.

  “Glad to hear it.” Lenny continued out to the flight line.

  Something seemed peculiar and Jason turned. “Hey Lenny,” he yelled.

  Lenny stopped and walked back, somewhat perturbed. “What? I’m in a hurry.”

  Jason slung his helmet bag over his shoulder, “Are you going flying?”

  “Yes, damn it! I’m supposed to take off in ten minutes!” Lenny pointed at the airplanes as he answered.

  A smile formed on Jason’s face, “That’s what I thought.” Lenny appeared confused. “You might want to take a helmet with you.”

  Lenny acted as if he snapped out of a trance. He followed Jason inside, cursing himself out loud along the way. Jason grinned at the mistake his friend made. Been there, done that.

  The ground evaluation ended quickly, the check pilot pleased with what he saw all day. Jason passed with an excellent write-up. On his way back to the flight room, he felt as if he walked on clouds. Baby steps.

  As soon as Jason entered, the scheduler asked, “How’d the ride go?”

  “Very well, sir. Feel free to schedule me as normal.” Jason set his pubs on the counter as he studied the scheduling board.

  “Fantastic. I’ll need you to be snacko in thirty minutes, so I can put Williams in a jet. Your buddy Andrews lost an engine while in Tinker’s radar pattern, and they landed there. Between him and our AWOL butter-bar, they’ve screwed up the entire schedule for today.” Tinker Air Force Base was a large logistics base located in Oklahoma City about seventy miles from Vance. Instructors frequently flew to Tinker for instrument training.

  “Vince? Is he okay?” Jason said, unsure if he was genuinely concerned.

  “Sure, they’re fine. Some maintenance guys are on their way to fix it. They should be able to fly it out this afternoon.”

  LENNY SCURRIED TO THE JET. The T-37 ramp was half-full, as the squadron schedulers took advantage of the clear weather and sent out the solo students. The noise of the Tweet engines pierced the air as Lenny adjusted the parachute on his back. His mode: full throttle—and it showed. Thankfully, the crew chief stopped him, or he never would have checked the Form 781. The aircraft required an exceptional release—a review from a rated pilot or maintenance supervisor for a minor write-up. Lenny never noticed it. If he took off without this, he could have hooked for ground ops on a solo jet. That would be the ultimate embarrassment. Hooking a solo ride resulted in instant humiliation.

  The pre-flight walk-around had been more like a run-around. Lenny didn’t glance at the checklist once; he checked the panels and wheel wells by memory. In no time, he strapped in and started the engines. The long taxi to Eastside came fast, and Lenny smiled under his oxygen mask.

  “Eastside, Scare Four-Three, number one, Contact,” Lenny told the controller.

  “Scare Four-Three, cleared for takeoff.”

  “Scare Four-Three.”

  Lenny pushed the power up and the jet lurched forward as he taxied into position. With the throttles to full power, all the engines looked good, and everything appeared ops normal. Lenny released the brakes, accelerated down the runway, and rotated ten knots early. He recognized his error and lowered the nose until he reached takeoff speed. As the aircraft started to gain airspeed, he visually confirmed the jet climbed away from the ground. Lenny verified the vertical velocity indicator (VVI) for a three-hundred-feet- per-minute climb rate and raised the gear handle.

  In a manner of seconds, the landing gear came up and entered the belly of the aircraft. The warning light in the gear handle went out, telling him the gear was up and locked. He moved his hand from the throttles to the flap lever and pushed it to the up position.

  Slowly, the flaps crept up into the wing and the aircraft gained more speed. Lenny kept the nose on the horizon to aid in the acceleration to the tech-order climb of one hundred-eighty knots. Five miles south of the field, he made the left turn to head back north to the training area. Scare Four-Three climbed to five-thousand feet.

  29

  September 6, 1995

  * * *

  YOU’RE HERE TO INVESTIGATE WHAT?” Colonel Jenson said. He rose from behind his desk, his nostrils flared, and his chest heaved. Colonel Benjamin Todd Jenson was an imposing figure. Six feet three inches tall, he maintained good physical conditioning by hitting the gym at least three times a week.

  The OSI agent sat across from Colonel Jenson. “I am here to investigat
e the theft of academic tests.”

  “What is your name again?”

  Alonzo looked at him blankly. “Jacobs. Mister Jacobs.”

  The colonel stood behind his desk in front of the vast window. A former F-16 driver, Colonel Jenson was a hard worker who played by the rules. Like most pilots assigned to Air Education and Training Command, he didn’t want to be there. Training Command was not his idea of career progression, but it did give him the wing commander slot which was necessary to get him his first star.

  “Well, Mister Jacobs, I am not aware of any test-cheating scandal on my base,” he said as he walked past his “hero wall” covered with plaques and pictures. “Would you care to explain this to me? It’s the first time I’ve heard about it. Just how is it Mister Jacobs, you know of this activity and no one here does?”

  “There is at least one person here who knows, Colonel. The one stealing the tests. You see, no one here is aware of it, because the tests were not stolen here. They were stolen from here, out of the main computer bank at Randolph.”

  “How did you discover this?” the colonel said, then sipped his coffee.

  Alonzo crossed his legs and explained in excruciating detail the theft of the tests. Colonel Jensen sat in disbelief.

  “Anyway, my computer man set up a trap for our hacker. The next time the hacker went to work, we tracked him here.”

  “Do you have any leads or ideas on how you are going to conduct this investigation?”

  “Based on the tests stolen, we believe it is a T-37 student. The guy stole them in order until this last transaction. He emptied the file on that one. I’d like to start with a list of all the students in the T-37 program, their room numbers, test scores, and flights they are assigned to. I think we can isolate it to a limited number of suspects. I’d like to propose we search each of their rooms.”