Surly Bonds

by Michael Byars Lewis

  Vince glared at him. “Up yours, Conrad.” Vince stormed out of the room. He knows. That son of a bitch Conrad knows. He’ll finish boxing everything soon. When he’s done, Vince would begin his search.

  Vince returned to his room, angry about his situation. With Jason in the way, he couldn’t reach the tests and money—if they were still there. Lenny the loser probably lost it all gambling. But he had to find the tests. He needed the tests. He’d come too far, become too dependent on that information being provided for him; now was not the time to start on his own.

  The shrill ring of the telephone shattered the silence in his room. Vince leaned over the couch and snatched the receiver before the second ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Vincent Andrews?” a voice said. The tone serious, yet the voice unfamiliar.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you touched the face of God yet?” the man said.

  Vince’s heart raced. He began to turn pale. It wasn’t fear. It was more shock.

  “Who? What?”

  “You are a hard person to reach. The Mako. Oleg Stolovich. You are never home.”

  “Who are you?” Vince stammered at the unknown voice. “What do you want?”

  “The time has come, Mako. Time to go to work.”

  “No, I-I can’t. It’s too soon. I have too much to accomplish. I-I’m not ready.”

  “You are ready.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Don’t be a fool. Do you think there is a time when you do something we don’t know about? I am disappointed in you, Mako. I believe you are too comfortable in your current surroundings.”

  Vince’s hands shook.

  “He’s coming to see you, Mako.”

  “Who? Who’s coming to see me?”

  “He who hunts. He arrives Monday at the airport. I suggest you make arrangements to meet him.”

  “Wait, which airport? Why is he coming? It’s too soon. I’m supposed to have more time.”

  “You have as much time as we say you do,” the man on the other end said. “Will Rogers World Airport at 5 p.m. Arriving from JFK.”

  “Wait! I won’t be able to get away for that long. Have him rent a car and meet me in Enid at the Ramada Inn.” He paused, then said, “The room will be under the name Jason Conrad.”

  “I’ll pass the message.”

  Will Rogers World Airport. 5 p.m. Sweat poured down Vince’s forehead, his mind racing. He who hunts . . . Nikolai was coming.

  VINCE ANDREWS. THE MAKO. Otherwise known as Oleg Stolovich. The name he had not used in years, returned to haunt him. Oleg Stolovich grew up the son of a fighter pilot. His father spent many years in Hanoi during the declining years of the Vietnam War, an instructor for the North Vietnamese in the intricacies of air-to-air combat.

  At the age of two, his family moved to Moscow. His father came home from Vietnam the year after the Americans evacuated Saigon. While home, his father relished his adventurous and eager son. Oleg learned to fire the rifle and pistol, and by the age of thirteen became an expert marksman. He never showed much interest in school, but he excelled in sports, particularly wrestling. Oleg loved to fight, on and off the mat. He started to learn karate and judo, as well. His academic skills were far from up to speed, but Oleg’s father did not mind—except for his son’s English classes. He always insisted the boy work hard on his English. By sixteen, his father introduced him to the most influential figure in his life: Viktor Vasilyevich Kryuchkov. Viktor worked for the KGB, his father told him. His father said Viktor was a very important man. No one had to explain that to Oleg. He knew the importance of the members of KGB and had been thrilled to meet one in his own home. Viktor had been made aware of the boy’s skills; he also was aware of his hot temper. Viktor made his pitch.

  Oleg went to the university and mastered the English language. He studied America. More importantly, he learned to be American. If he did well, he would work for the KGB and hold a high status in Soviet society. Oleg had been excited and discouraged at the same time. He wanted to be a fighter pilot like his father, but it was not to be. His instructors were impressed with his progress in class. But not with his temper, however. He had, on several occasions, gotten into fights, and even been threatened with removal from training. His father counseled him on his actions and that had straightened him out for a while.

  After he graduated with degrees in American Studies and English, Nikolai Gregarin approached him about his future. Nikolai, young and well-dressed, did not represent the typical Soviet official in the KGB. Nikolai told Oleg about a potentially dangerous job, and he jumped at the opportunity. Nikolai interviewed Oleg for three days, subjecting him to a variety of tests. The selection had drained him, but he passed. Then his indoctrination into the realm of Section Nine began. Thus, The Mako was born.

  After his initial training, The Mako became Vince Andrews. Part of his training was to learn about this fictional Vince Andrews’ past: who he was, where he was from, and why he was here now. The real Vince Andrews had been an orphan, bounced from foster home to foster home. He grew into a young, street-level thief who took refuge in one of Los Angeles’ many homeless shelters. This facility, located two blocks north of Sunset Boulevard in downtown Hollywood, served as a Section Nine front. A well-run shelter, one of the better ones in the city. Section Nine stole lost souls and turned them into real people; trained killers who waited for the call. Real people like The Mako/Oleg Stolovich.

  Given the basic paperwork—birth certificate, Social Security card, driver’s license, and high-school diploma—Vince enrolled in a community college in Pennsylvania for two years. He then moved to Iowa and enrolled in Iowa State. He joined the Air Force ROTC program on a whim, to see if he could do it. His handlers at Section Nine were furious, but when his security clearance went through unscathed, they eased off the pressure. They began to appreciate the position he was in and encouraged him to earn a pilot’s slot. Vince was in heaven. He would never have had the opportunity in the Soviet Union to attend pilot training; therefore, he would learn from the Americans. Vince was the only member from Section Nine to be placed in the US military. The rest were civilians and government employees. Not that it made much difference. He was a mole, an assassin to be called upon at the right moment. He might be given one kill, he might be given several—it all depended on what his handlers dictated.

  While in Iowa State’s ROTC program, Vince began his strange but necessary relationship with Lenny Banks. It started innocently enough. Lenny borrowed money from Vince and lost it gambling on the school baseball team. Unable to pay Vince back, Lenny offered to steal tests out of the school’s mainframe for his final exams. Thus, a partnership born out of necessity; one that extended over the years until a few days ago. Now, Vince needed to find his tests, or he would flunk out of pilot training. But would that even matter now? Nikolai was coming.

  34

  September 8, 1995

  * * *

  ALONZO JACOBS SIGHED AND PLACED his hands on his hips as he glanced at the young Captain.

  “How many more are we going to do today?” Captain Harrison asked with a genuine curiosity. Alonzo could tell Harrison grew tired of the room-to-room search. They had covered twelve rooms and the process took far too long.

  “Two more, I guess. This is taking a little longer than I anticipated,” Alonzo said. His concern was that the memorial service took place this afternoon. When it ended, most of the students would be done for the day, and many would return to their rooms.

  The two men closed the drawers they searched and made sure they left the room as they had found it. This was painful, Alonzo thought. They walked downstairs to the next victim.

  “107,” Harrison said looking at his paperwork. “Conrad, Jason. Second Lieutenant. He’s a pretty good guy. I flew with him once.”

  Alonzo unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. “Great. This one should be quick. We’ll knock off one more, then I’ll buy you a beer.”r />
  “Sounds good to me,” Harrison said.

  As they entered the room, the light from the window illuminated the room. Out of habit, Harrison turned on the lights anyway. Alonzo left the door open, a standard procedure. The pair wasted no time and went right to work. Harrison checked the bed stands and bookcases; Alonzo moved to the desk.

  “No computer,” the flat-topped captain said.

  “Yeah. This kid’s a little neater than most,” Alonzo said.

  Harrison fished through the bookcase. “Yeah, maybe he should study more.”

  Alonzo shuffled through the items on the desk. “I always wanted to be a pilot. Wanted to fly helicopters. Must’ve been all those damn rides on the choppers in ‘Nam. My wife tells me I never did have any sense.”

  He opened the drawers of the desk, one by one, and found nothing unusual—standard pilot stuff. When he reached the bottom drawer, his eyes latched on to a large manila envelope. As he pulled out the contents, his heart skipped a beat. Alonzo skimmed through the stack of papers. He removed a second envelope filled with cash.

  “Must be our lucky day.” Alonzo flashed the tests and cash at the instructor. Harrison’s mouth fell open at the sight of the cash. Harrison grabbed the tests and flipped through them feverishly.

  “What the hell? This guy has everything. I’m going to get his ass thrown out of this program. Out of the damn Air Force.”

  Harrison was furious, days of searching took its toll. Alonzo tried to calm him. “Well, Captain Harrison, I appreciate your integrity and dedication. I’m sure the Air Force appreciates it, as well, but I’ll handle the situation from here on out. I think it’s time young Lieutenant Conrad and I have a little chat.”

  Cirrus clouds covered the sky that afternoon as the wind picked up and caused a brisk nip in the air. To the west, cumulonimbus buildups towered skyward, pushing toward the base. Figures moved toward the small white chapel that sat behind the Wing Headquarters, cutting through wind-kicked leaves that crossed their paths on the sidewalks. Inside, the pews filled up with the classmates, friends, and family of Lieutenant Lenny Banks. The base shut down for such an event, and personnel who didn’t know Lenny Banks turned out to pay their respects for the fallen aviator. Most of the students and younger instructors wore their flight suits, but the older personnel wore their blue Class-A uniforms. Many of the wives showed up teary-eyed, unsure why such a thing occurred, and prayed to God it never happened to their husbands. The third and fourth rows were reserved for the members of Lenny’s flight. They all sat in their olive-green flight suits, their heads bowed out of respect. In the front of the chapel, the base chaplain sat behind the podium with the squadron commander and the flight commander.

  Vince Andrews sat in the fourth row closest to the wall. He had been asked by both the flight commander and the squadron commander to speak at the memorial service to represent Lenny’s classmates. Vince declined both requests. Speaking at the service was the last thing he cared to do. Lenny wasn’t a friend—he was a tool, a source. And now that source was gone.

  Vince scanned the chapel as his mind raced. He had to get into Lenny’s room and find those tests. Did Conrad find them? He’s not very bright; if he found them, he might not realize what he had. He is the type who would run to the flight commander after such a discovery, but nobody had mentioned that had happened. Nikolai was coming, which meant he had a mission. If he were to stay after the mission, he’d need those tests.

  The Color Guard marched solemnly along the aisle and posted the flags up front. The chaplain then began to speak. The memorial service moved along at a moderate pace. All the wives shed tears, and their sniffles were constant. Captain Johnson, the flight commander, spoke after the chaplain finished his service.

  “Lenny Banks, Lieutenant, United States Air Force,” he began. “Lenny was an officer, a classmate, a son. He exemplified a hardworking, honest young man taken from us at too early an age.

  “No matter our relationship with Lenny, he was our teammate. All of us today, lost a member of our team. And each of us, must do our part to fill the void left by Lenny’s absence . . .”

  Vince’s mind drifted off as Captain Johnson spoke of Lenny’s youth and involvement in the Air Force. Bullshit. Lenny was a lying, stealing, little weasel who would have ended up getting himself killed either in an airplane or a bar. Sooner, rather than later.

  The squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Skip Baker, spoke next. He spoke in broader terms, about God, sacrifice, and how only the good die young. His eulogy didn’t say much about Lenny, but rather talked around him. Obviously, he hadn’t met Lenny, but he did his part as the squadron commander; his words were soothing and true. The chaplain ended the service after forty-five minutes. Just prior to the chaplain’s saying “Amen,” the four-ship of T-37s flew over the chapel at five hundred feet. The number three aircraft peeled out of the formation into a vertical climb toward the heavens. Though unable to see the jets, those in the chapel knew the flyover took place outside. Some thought the gesture was beautiful and some muttered about being inside. Vince Andrews thought it was a waste of four sorties as he glared at the back of Jason Conrad’s head. The bastard must have those tests. After tonight, I’ll know for sure.

  35

  September 8, 1995

  * * *

  JASON AND KATHY WATCHED THE SUNSET, the cool breeze blew in their faces. The afternoon thunderstorms filled the sky. Another cold front pushed its way across the plains through Enid. The orange-red sun slipped below the horizon and created a kaleidoscope of colors in the afternoon sky. A flat, gray cloud deck sat several thousand feet above the ground. A small puffy cloud could build into a towering anvil in less than an hour, only to imbed itself within the thick layers of stratus clouds. It was predictable. It happened every day. Nature had its way in the Midwest.

  Jason leaned against the rail post, still dressed in his flight suit and green nylon flight jacket. Kathy sat perched on the wooden fence, her barn jacket pulled up around her neck, unaware of the dust and grass that clung to her jeans and boots. She had tended the horses when he arrived. Although glad to see her, he wasn’t ready for a confrontation. Fortunately, neither was she.

  “I hope you don’t mind my coming over unannounced,” he said. “There are a lot of things going on at the base. I needed to escape all that for a while.”

  It had been the first time they had been alone since last Friday after the O’Club. No doubt she could tell something bothered him. She was aware of his problems in training, but after Lenny died and her visit with Vince. . .

  “Did you take your make-up ride yet?”

  Jason nodded, and stared at the sunset beyond the clouds on the horizon.

  “Yeah, I had it two days ago. It went fine.”

  “I’m glad. I knew you were worried. I knew you were going to do fine, though. You always do.” An uneasy silence lingered for a moment before she spoke again. “Did they ever find out what happened to Lenny’s plane?”

  “There are rumblings about the safety report, but the official word isn’t out. The word on the street is the cable that controls the elevator movement—the little horizontal wing on the tail—broke somewhere.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means when he moved the stick to make the airplane go up or down, nothing happened. Lenny didn’t have any control over it. If he went into a spin, which they are sure he did, he could not recover the aircraft.”

  “Why didn’t he eject?”

  Jason choked up. He remembered his busted check ride, and Lenny’s reaction to the cause. “Lenny couldn’t eject, although I’m sure he tried.” Jason hesitated. “He didn’t remove his safety pin from the seat. When he went to raise the ejection handle to squeeze the triggers, the handles wouldn’t raise.”

  “That’s horrible,” she said, then paused. “Jason, are you okay? I mean, are you upset with me or something?”

  Jason’s eyes locked on to hers before he glanced at the ground. �
�Do you mean, am I upset about Vince? Yeah, I guess I am. It took a lot for me to become interested in dating again. It’s hard for me to trust someone.”

  “We never had any set rules in this relationship. We never talked about dating each other exclusively.”

  “I realize that. I can’t be mad at you. I can be upset—call it jealousy or whatever—but I don’t have to like the situation.” His tone stern as his tempo picked up.

  “Well, you don’t have to live with the situation either,” she said.

  He took a deep breath as he returned his focus to the horizon. “Kathy, I didn’t come here to argue with you. And I didn’t come here to discuss our potential future, or lack thereof.”

  Kathy’s brow furrowed as she placed her hands on her hips. “Just what did you come here for, Jason Conrad?”

  He sat silent for a moment.

  “I needed a friend . . . someone to talk to. I don’t want any banter back and forth about relationships. Maybe I just want someone to listen to me; I need someone to listen to me. There are a lot of issues I’ve got to sort out. Someone at the base may be in trouble, and I can’t figure out what to do.”

  JASON DROVE BACK TO THE BASE after dark. As he passed the little red schoolhouse, he heard a loud roar and looked to his left in time to see the red and green lights of a T-38 zoom to the south. Night flying again. It made it hard to study. He didn’t like to think about an airplane he might never be able to fly, but it was better than thinking about Lenny and the stolen tests he found.

  The parking lot of his dorm was empty. He turned off the engine of his Mustang and walked to his room. It didn’t take long to notice the streak of light that spilled across the cement porch. His door was open.

  Jason’s body tensed. Did someone break into his room? Had he left the door open? He approached the doorway, his fists clenched into tight balls. As he peered through the opening, he noticed the lights were on and a large black man in a suit sat on his couch. Reading.