by Trevor Scott
“Did you check out the old chips to see what happened?” Jake asked.
Milt glanced at Steve and back slowly. “Charlie told us one of his guys mistakenly destroyed them in the base incinerator while getting rid of some classified data,” Milt said.
Jake nodded. “So you think there was really nothing wrong with the chips and Charlie may be hawking them to someone else?”
“Maybe.”
“The discretion you’re asking for could land my ass in jail,” Jake said. “I take it you haven’t notified the government?”
“I have nothing to report,” Milt said emphatically. “The chips are officially destroyed.”
“And the chips themselves aren’t really classified, but restricted from trade,” Jake said.
“Right. But the avionics contract is classified,” Milt conceded. “So, we’re not really required to report a leak in our own chip technology unless it involves the avionics system.”
Jake thought about it for a minute, looking carefully for some sign or reason to trust Milt and Steve. Milt’s logic was straddling the fence a bit. But Jake was used to borderline propriety. Since going private, he found himself swaying in the breeze on that fence more times than not.
Jake rose from the chair. “When do I leave?”
“As soon as possible,” Milt said. “I have tickets for you to leave tonight on Northwest Flight 125 to Frankfurt. I’ve made copies of the personnel files on Charlie Johnson and his men. You can read them on the plane.”
“Anything else?” Jake asked.
Milt hesitated. “Unfortunately. A delegation of the Senate Armed Services Committee will visit us here in two weeks to observe our progress on the retrofit. We’ve had nothing but glowing reports in the past, and I was hoping to give them a similar report. As you know, budgets can be cut at any time. They could make or break our contract bid for the Joint Strike Fighter.”
“Two weeks. That’s not much time,” Jake said. “Have you also heard about my fees?”
“Yes,” Milt said. “I’ll double your standard fees and your expenses to cover the foreign travel. This is extremely important to us.”
“Sounds good.”
Jake and Milt shook hands, and then Jake nodded with Steve Carlson on his way out the door.
As he left the modern glassed building in the heart of Portland to retrieve his car, he couldn’t help feeling nostalgic returning to Germany. He knew he’d have to report his findings to the U.S. government if he found the restricted chips had been sold to another country. Before hearing about the chips, he would have guessed his first theory correct. A girl. But Milt’s concern was far too grave for simple solutions. And something in the back of his mind told him that Milt was still holding back information. Regardless, he had a feeling he would definitely need the full two weeks.
3
BIRKENWALD, GERMANY
A persistent fog had frozen overnight turning trees into crystalline works of art and transforming rolling green hills into a convoluted tundra.
Jake Adams cranked over his rental Audi A4, and as the engine slowly warmed, he thought about the personnel files on the Teredata tech reps he was on his way to talk to. After arriving at Frankfurt International yesterday, he acquired a new CZ-75 9mm automatic pistol with a few boxes of ammo. Then he headed straight for the Gasthaus Birkenwald, perched on top of a hill in the Eifel region of Rhineland-Pfalz. Jet lag had caught up with him, though. So he spent the rest of his arrival day and the evening in the Gasthaus eating, drinking good beer, and sleeping. But mostly sleeping.
Jake shifted in the wide bucket seat, strapped the shoulder harness across his black leather jacket, and clicked the seat belt in. As he waited for the heater to clear the windshield, he looked into the rear view mirror at his tired brown eyes. Red spiders streaked the whites. He hadn’t bothered to shave; dark stubble crackled as he scratched the right side of his face. He ran his fingers through his dark brown hair. How did it get so long?
He looked across the street and noticed a blonde woman sitting erect in a small red Ford Fiesta. She glanced over at Jake and then quickly forward again. She was a beauty. Silky blonde hair. High cheek bones. It was strange, though. Her car was running and parked on the opposite side of the road facing the wrong direction. Then she quickly pulled away from the curb and sped off.
The windshield now clear, Jake signaled, pulled out onto the main road that dissected the small village, and took off in the same direction as the blonde.
Shortly, he rounded the last corner before entering the village next to his, and quickly down shifted into second gear. Then he saw the blonde again. He slowed down even more for a better look.
As he slowly passed the blonde, she smiled. Jake found himself smiling and then looking over his shoulder and in his rear view mirror as the distance grew between their cars.
He wondered why she turned around and sat at the intersection. She was probably on her way to work and forgot something at home. Yet, it did make him a bit suspicious. He moved slowly through the gears now, taking the corners smoother.
●
A dark blue Fiat van with three men sat among a group of thick pine trees with a view of the winding German country road. The driver, a robust man with high brow ridges and thick black eye brows, worked feverishly to keep the windshield defrosted. The engine ran at idle, but the breathing of the three men fogged the windows.
Gunter Schecht sat next to the passenger door with his 9mm Uzi cradled across his wide lap. “Dummkopf!” Gunter yelled at his driver. “How do you expect to complete this job if you can’t even keep the damn windshield clear?”
The driver grumbled under his breath. The middle man, not quite as stout as the driver, his eyes closed, smiled broadly.
Gunter had briefed his men on Jake Adams. He only hoped they took him seriously.
“He’s coming,” said a soft, female voice over the Fiat’s radio. The three men made last minute preparations. On Gunter’s command, they all chambered rounds.
●
Jake fiddled with the Audi’s radio trying to come up with a station that played classic Rock and Roll, but the rolling hills bounced the FM signal every which way but to his antenna.
He shifted into fifth gear after clearing a small hill, and once again took his eyes off the road to search for a station. He looked up for a second and noticed a blue van a kilometer ahead pull from a small dirt road. Shifting down to fourth gear, anticipating he would have to pass the van, he looked at his radio again.
As Jake looked up again, “Shit.” He slammed on the brakes and clutch simultaneously as both arms tightened to the steering wheel.
The car quickly decelerated.
He jammed the stick toward first gear, but it wouldn’t slide into place.
Flashes from the guns flickered furiously without noise.
He dove to the passenger seat, straining against his seat belt. His feet slipped from the clutch and brake and stalled the Audi with a great lurch forward.
The windshield shattered and thousands of tiny pieces of glass rained down on Jake’s back.
The van sat broadside in the road, with three men crouched next to it. They continued to empty their Uzis into the front of Jake’s car from fifty meters away. Only the sound of lead hitting metal and glass broke the silence.
“Son of a bitch.”
Jake brushed broken glass from the seat and worked his way back behind the wheel.
He peeked over the dash. Three men. The largest man quickly opened the front door of the van and squeezed behind the wheel. The other two were changing the magazines in their guns.
Jake twisted the keys and the four cylinders cranked over but didn’t start. He tried again. This time they kicked in. He cranked the wheel, jammed the gas pedal to the floor, and popped the clutch. The Audi’s tires dug in, but he couldn’t make a full U-turn without first coming to a stop, putting it in reverse, and then forward again.
Just as he pulled the gear shift back into second
, a new barrage of 9mm slugs shattered the back window and the trunk of his car. He crouched as low as he could. By the time he hit third, he was down the hill and out of range.
His car was riddled with holes.
He drove to the first crossroad, took a right, then sped toward an isolated spot between two villages and turned down a small dirt road. In a few hundred meters of bouncing dirt road, he cranked the wheel and smashed into a group of small bushes. He removed his newly scratched leather briefcase from the floor of the passenger side, and abandoned the Audi. Then he quickly ran two kilometers to the nearest town.
When he finally had time to think about what had just happened, he sifted through his mind for a reason. The blonde was obviously a lookout. But who were the three with the silenced Uzis? They knew where he was staying and where he was going. But how? He’d have to think about that. In the meantime he needed a new car.
BITBURG AIR BASE, GERMANY
Jake Adams showed the gate guard his ID and the rental contract for his new Volkswagen Passat. The rental company had sent it from the Frankfurt Airport after he reported the Audi missing.
His papers were in order. The stern-faced guard waved him on base. Jake knew the routine from his days as an officer in Air Force Intelligence. In fact, he had been stationed near Bitburg for three years.
He drove slowly to the end of an old hangar near the flight line. The corrugated metal building, painted Earth tone brown, had been slapped up in the 50s to provide maintenance space for U.S. fighter aircraft. It had long since been replaced by hardened individual shelters that resembled long concrete igloos. The old hangar would have been condemned if Teredata had not needed the space.
Teredata International Semiconductors was a sub-contractor on nearly every aircraft in the Air Force and Navy arsenals. Charlie Johnson, until his mysterious disappearance, ran a team of five men, all ex-Air Force technicians, on the new avionics retrofit to the F-15s at Bitburg. The project was on the cutting edge of technology. The Top Secret security clearances required by the tech reps proved that.
Jake sat in the parking lot for a moment to think. In a situation like this he always felt like an actor preparing to perform on stage, so his first impression was important. He hoped someone would know where to find Charlie, but realized he was probably dreaming. A quick fix wasn’t in the cards on this trip. The three men with silenced Uzis had just assured him of that.
He got out and walked toward the building, stopped outside the metal door to the hangar for a moment, and squeezed his left arm against his 9mm automatic. It was always a comforting feeling knowing it was there.
He entered the small office at the North end of the old hangar. The man sitting behind the large gray metal desk was Blaise Parker, second in charge of the Teredata Bitburg operation.
The man glanced up at Jake, but didn’t look him in the eye. His long gray hair stuck up in places. His white shirt with red and blue vertical stripes bulged over his belt. He appeared more as an unsuccessful car salesman than one with a great deal of technical information.
“I’m Jake Adams.” Jake reached out to shake his hand. “I’m sorry I was...delayed. I assume Milt Swenson mentioned I’d be coming by.”
Blaise Parker still refused to look him in the eye. Parker, like Johnson, had over twenty years prior service in the Air Force before Teredata hired him. Both men knew the F-15 inside and out. Nothing unusual showed up in his background.
“Mr. Swenson sent an e-mail saying someone would be coming by,” Parker finally said in a slow southern drawl. “He didn’t mention your name. It’s not like Charlie taking off like this. I’ve known him for ten years, and he’s never been late for work, let alone gone for days.”
“So, you’re the one who contacted Milt?”
Parker nodded. “Yeah, I told the security police and OSI, but they said they don’t have jurisdiction over civilians.”
That was true. The Air Force Office of Special Investigations worked with the German Polizei on matters dealing with military personnel on or off base—mostly drug cases. The security police only handled base security and minor infractions like drunk driving. “And the Polizei?” Jake asked.
Parker finally shifted his gray eyes at Jake. “They said they’d look for his car, check the local morgues, and that’s about it.”
“They could find him. But in the meantime, I’ll be looking for him. I’ll need a list of all his associates and friends in Germany. Local hangouts. Favorite habits he has. Anything that could help.”
“Sure.” Parker thought for a moment and then scribbled on a piece of scratch paper. “This could help.”
Jake scanned the note. “This is it?”
Parker nodded. “He likes the huge schnitzel at the Gasthaus Birkenwald. He stops there every night on the way home from work.”
“Anything else?” Jake asked. “Any German friends?”
“No. He’s a loner. Once in a while we all get together, but that’s about it.”
Jake realized he didn’t have much to go on. “What about the other Teredata tech reps?”
“I’ve talked to all of them. They have no clue. They’re all out working on a bird in the hangar. If you’d like to ask them yourself, I’ll go fetch ‘em one by one.”
Jake thought for a moment. “Sure. But first tell me about the recent failure rate of the chips.”
Parker looked up quickly. “I don’t know how to explain it. It just started happening.”
“Do you have any of the bad chips?” It was a question Jake already had the answer to, but it was worth a shot.
He shook his head. “Nope. Charlie destroyed them.”
Now that was interesting. Charlie told Milt that one of the other reps destroyed them inadvertently. “If another one fails, make sure you hang on to it,” Jake said, although he didn’t expect that to happen.
“I will. Mr. Swenson already briefed me on that.”
Parker let Jake use the office to talk to the rest of the tech reps, but as he suspected, they were of little help. Charlie Johnson was a loner. He worked hard, but the consensus unanimously pointed to his being a basically boring individual after work. Time would tell if that theory held up.
Back outside in his car, Jake realized that Blaise Parker and the other tech reps would probably be of no further help. He already knew that Charlie Johnson frequented the Gasthaus Birkenwald. That was the reason he took a room there. Maybe Charlie’s apartment would reveal something. He started the car and headed toward Charlie Johnson’s apartment on the outskirts of Koblenz.
4
USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT
As the massive carrier turned into the wind, salt spray showered over its bow. High, dense clouds hid the glow of the early January stars. The Mediterranean was dark and desolate.
Kurt Lamar braced himself against the starboard catwalk, waiting for the first jet lights to appear over the horizon. Leaning against the gray metal barrier, he glanced down at the choppy waves nearly seventy feet below. The forty knot winds over the deck, cold and bitter, reminded him of his early morning deer hunts back home in Wisconsin. The first red and green aircraft lights flickered in the distance from the stern of the ship.
The muffled voice of the Air Boss sounded: “On the flight deck, all hands get into a complete and proper flight deck uniform. Clear the port catwalks; standby to recover aircraft. A-7 at one mile.”
The aircraft’s lights got closer and closer until the outline of its wings and fuselage could be seen. The sucking of intake air and roaring of engine exhaust, laboring toward landing speed, finally reached his ears. Kurt could tell now from the tail markings that it was an A-7J from his squadron. The original A-7Es from his squadron had given way to the F/A-18 Hornet years ago, but they had been assigned three modified A-7s with enhanced experimental avionics. So, it wasn’t like the A-7 about to land could have been anything but theirs.
The engine screeched as the pilot slowed his aircraft more and descended toward the heavily pitching deck.<
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Moving his legs further apart for stability, and grasping a metal railing, Kurt flexed his muscles, and his heart pounded with excitement and fear. He could never get over the feeling of helplessness involved with watching flight ops.
With a crash, the tail hook grabbed one of four arresting cables. The tires and struts of the rear landing gear compressed under the tremendous weight of the aircraft. The nose gear, hitting the metal deck last, also compressed, jerking the pilot forward in the cockpit. The arresting gear cable reeled out over sixty yards before the A-7 came to a halt.
Within seconds the pilot retracted his tail hook, the cable reeled back in its place, and the plane taxied toward the bow to be launched again. The flight deck crew directed the aircraft forward and attached its launch bar to the catapult.
The Jet Blast Deflectors rose from the deck behind the A-7. The pilot pushed his throttle forward sending hot, foul exhaust over the deflectors and high into the air.
Kurt watched the meticulous crew prepare the aircraft for launch.
The pilot saluted the deck crew, the cat officer signaled the pilot, and the jet roared to the bow and soared up and away from the ship and into the darkness. Only the faint, fading flames of exhaust disturbed the night.
Kurt had seen enough to satisfy his curiosity. Although he was a veteran, it had been nearly two years since his last flight deck experience. When he became an officer with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, he thought he had given up that dangerous vocation. But he knew it was his prior experience that led the NCIS to select him for this mission.
Carefully, Kurt stepped down the metal ladder, swung the latch secure on the hatch, and opened the heavy metal door. All of the deafening flight deck noises were muffled with the slamming of the hatch behind him.
He worked his way through a maze of passageways and compartments until he reached the shop that he’d call his home—at least until his investigation was complete.
