“Russia never had such a general,” he said. “And you never will.”
Suddenly, as if tired from the torture, the man reached into his belt. Dmitri gasped as the man raised a pistol and shot her in the head. “No!” he screamed, clutching his hair in his hands. This was the woman he had loved all his life. And he just saw her murdered.
The video ended; the television evolved into a snowy pattern. Dmitri sobbed as his hands fell to his side, his shoulders sagged. He turned on wobbly knees toward Nikolai, his face streaked with tears. It was one thing to hear of her death—to watch it was unbearable. His emotions poured out.
“Agent Vodianova was kidnapped, interrogated, and murdered. We want you to avenge her.”
Dmitri stopped sobbing and stood a little straighter. He wiped his eyes and, in a moment, felt himself start to smile. Killing this murderous bastard who brutalized Irena would be a pleasure.
For the first time since the tape stopped, he pulled his shoulders back, his jaw clenched, his eyes locked on Nikolai’s. “Do we know who the man is?”
Again, Nikolai nodded.
“What is his name? I will kill everything he cares about. I will dismember him and spread his body parts across the country.”
Nikolai pursed his lips as his eyes squinted. “Jason Conrad.”
2
April 25, 1996
PERSPIRATION DRIPPED down and around the oxygen mask sealed tight against his face. Jason Conrad focused on the circular attitude directional indicator (ADI) in front of him. The large gyroscopic ball identified if his aircraft was in a climb or descent, in a turn or level flight. The second lieutenant breathed short, quick breaths; his focus on keeping the localizer needle centered. Flying an instrument landing system approach—otherwise known as an ILS—was difficult enough for a student in his stage of training. Flying to the lowest possible altitude on an instrument approach—in this weather— increased the difficulty. The fact that he had an engine shut down took the situation to another level.
He had always been told, “Be careful what you ask for—you just might get it.” Jason had wanted to fly the T-38 more than anything. During the T-37 phase of pilot training at Vance Air Force Base (AFB) in Enid, Oklahoma, he doubted if it would ever happen. He had placed too much pressure on himself in the early stages. Now here he was, nine months later, a recent solo student flying a single-engine instrument approach. His six-foot frame fit much better in this jet than the tiny T-37 primary jet trainer. In the T-38, everything happened much faster, which made it a more difficult jet to fly, but Jason always loved a challenge. At least he thought he did.
The glide slope started to descend from the top of the case, and Jason centered the two needles in the middle of the ADI. The flight director worked as advertised, and Jason intercepted the path toward the runway.
Damn. He almost forgot to extend the landing gear.
“Gear clear,” he said, lowering the gear handle.
The light in the handle glowed red, as did the landing gear indications until they were down and locked and would turn green. Jason wiggled his fingers and toes, attempting to relax. Not possible. Airflow in the front cockpit seemed non-existent, and Jason’s perspired incessantly. The view out the windscreen showed nothing but dark gray—no sign of the ground anywhere. The center runway heading south at Vance—17C—was 9,217 feet long and 150 feet wide. He should spot the short-sequenced flashers at the end of the runway before the runway popped in view. It shouldn’t be hard to miss. Jason continued to adjust his pitch and roll to center the needles.
He added power on the good engine to keep his speed up for the single-engine approach. Asymmetric power wasn’t too much of an issue on the T-38. The centerline thrust of the two engines only required the slightest touch of rudder, if at all, to keep the jet tracking straight. Jason loved this jet. The Northrop T-38B Talon—the U.S. Air Force’s advanced supersonic jet trainer, had been in service since the 1960s, designed to be the introductory jet for the Century series fighters. While those jets were retired long ago, the T-38 remained the most versatile and reliable trainer in the world.
Until now.
Jason focused on the altimeter; the instrument that told him how close he was to the ground. He passed through 2,100 feet. The runway sat a little over 1,200 feet above sea level; he was nine hundred feet above the ground. If he didn’t break out of the weather by two- hundred feet, he would execute a missed-approach. Procedure dictated he would go to his alternate airfield.
The closer he came to the ground, the harder he had to work to center the needles. They became more sensitive as he approached the runway. His breathing increased as he worked to get the jet on the ground.
At three hundred feet above decision height, he saw nothing. Drifting above his glide path, he nudged the stick forward to prevent going further above and recaptured the path. His speed accelerated, and he reduced thrust to compensate. Once his speed came back, he adjusted his throttle to hold it.
Two hundred feet above decision height and he was still in the weather. He struggled more as he approached the runway.
One hundred feet above decision height. Nothing. His pitch became erratic, and he dumped the nose.
When Jason reached decision height, he was slightly below the glide path. That could be dangerous, but he didn’t see any runway indications necessary to permit a landing.
“Go-around,” he said, the procedure ingrained into his habit patterns.
Jason pushed the throttle to military power and raised the jet’s pitch. Returning his focus to the ADI, he climbed to his missed approach altitude and keyed the mic button on the throttle.
“Colt 42 is missed approach.”
“Colt 42 fly the published missed approach,” the controller said in his headset. “Say request.”
“Standby,” Jason said.
He reached over and raised the gear handle and returned to his cross-check of the ADI and the altimeter. The missed approach altitude was 4,000 feet. He had another 1,700 feet to go.
When he moved the flap handle up, he noticed the red light in the gear handle, and one of his landing gear indications remained red.
One of his gear was stuck down.
Jason’s heart rate accelerated. Think, think. What to do next? Okay. Aviate, navigate, communicate. Fly the jet.
The jet climbed through 3,200 feet when it rolled slightly to the left. Jason, unsure what happened, glanced at the flap gauge. One of the flaps was stuck at fifteen percent, causing the aircraft to roll.
Jason concentrated on the ADI, fighting to maintain straight and level flight. That lasted about five seconds when the ADI began to tumble. His initial reaction was to follow it, but it happened so fast and violently, it was disorienting.
He had lost the ability to fly the jet.
With no ground references, a failed engine, one of his landing gear stuck down, and one of his flaps partially extended—it was time to give the jet back to the taxpayers.
Jason flattened his spine against the seat, pressed his helmet back, tucked his chin, brought his elbows against the side of his body, grabbed the ejection handles, and pulled.
Everything in the jet froze.
“That’s enough fun for the day, Lieutenant,” a voice said inside his helmet. It was his instructor sitting behind him in the simulator, finally speaking after being silent for the past ten minutes.
“Yeah,” Jason replied. “Fun.”
The cockpit stabilized as the simulator settled on the hydraulic mounts. When he opened the front canopy, the bright lights made Jason wince.
“Sorry about that,” his instructor chuckled. “I needed to grade you on an ejection. You were doing well so I thought I’d challenge you. You did a pretty nice job.”
“Thanks.” Jason gathered his gear and put his helmet in his helmet bag. He quickly ran a comb through his sandy blond hair, then tucked it back into the breast pocket of his flight suit.
“The sim controller said there’s a message for y
ou up top. I’ll meet you there.”
“Yes, sir,” Jason said. A message? What the hell about?
Jason walked up the stairs to the controller’s desk where the balding civilian handed him a handwritten note, at least an hour old. His eyes scanned the paper: Report to the Wing Commander’s office ASAP.
His teeth clenched, his face flush with anger.
Damn. Not again.
3
April 25, 1996
JASON STRUMMED his fingers on the arm of the chair in the reception area outside the wing commander’s office. It was déjà vu all over again. He’d been here many times before. The never-changing cream-colored walls annoyed him, and the chair he sat in was extremely uncomfortable, as always. Decades-old Air Force prints of different jets hung on the walls, the matting around them curling with age. It was a lifeless setting except for the small plant sitting on the secretary’s desk. There was no background music. Hell, there wasn’t even background noise. Jason could literally hear each tap on her computer keyboard across the room. For a work environment, it was depressing.
The secretary had offered him coffee or water. He declined. She glanced at him with sad eyes, aware of the game being played. They were alone for about fifteen minutes until a blond-haired captain slipped out of the wing king’s office. He was one of Colonel Jensen’s executive officers, a T-37 IP. Jason didn’t know him personally, but he seemed to be a nice fellow.
The executive officer saw Jason waiting. “It’s going to be a few minutes,” he said.
Jason nodded. “Yes, sir. I know the drill.”
The executive officer sat at his desk, a grim look on his face. He didn’t seem to appreciate Jensen’s tactics either. The situation frustrated Jason. Ever since he was a cadet, all he ever heard about was “the Air Force family.” But what he’d experienced in his active duty career was that the first time there was controversy or trouble—the first time an officer needed their support—the family ostracized the member in question. In this case—him.
It had been crazy a few months back. The events at Vance AFB were unprecedented. It was the first time anyone admitted—privately —a Russian agent had breached the Air Force officer corps. It shocked everyone when they learned the guy who claimed to be Vince Andrews had been a student pilot. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine the damage he could have done if he’d been assigned a fighter or bomber out of pilot training.
Andrews was involved in a test-cheating scandal. His partner in the scam was yet another classmate, who died in a plane crash. That event is what got Jason caught up in the middle of all this mess. To make matters worse, Andrews murdered another of their classmates. No one was sure why he did that.
The door opened, and Colonel Jensen walked out with some papers in his hand.
“Alice, I’ve signed these. Go ahead and send them.” He set the papers on her desk. “Pull up my calendar, will you?”
She typed some keys on her computer as Jensen stood behind her, looking over her shoulder. The wing commander never acknowledged Jason was there. Instead, he talked to her a few more minutes about his schedule and other mundane details. Jason looked at the executive officer, who sensed the awkwardness of the situation and shrugged his shoulders.
Jason understood why the commander was pissed, but none of that was his fault. The fact he went AWOL was, however, and that is what Jensen held on to. He only went AWOL because the Russian spy shot a CIA agent and was on his way to San Antonio to assassinate a presidential candidate. A candidate who happened to be Jason’s father. Jason stopped the assassination and the spy was killed.
After such a high-profile, selfless act, there was no way Jason was getting kicked out of pilot training. The Air Force brass was too busy bragging about its hero. Jensen, however, despised the fact that Jason’s fate was determined by someone with four stars on his shoulders in the Pentagon. What made it worse, was somehow, someone in the Beltway found out Jensen didn’t like the new celebrity at Vance. That led to weekly inquiries for months on his status. Jason thought it was supposed to be a goodwill gesture, but it only angered the old man more.
He sat in the chair for another hour and a half before Jensen called his secretary on the phone. She hung up with a faint smile.
“The colonel will see you now,” she said.
Jason stood from the chair and stretched his back muscles. Adjusting his posture, he approached the door and gave it two solid raps.
“Enter,” Jensen yelled from the other side.
Jason opened the door, stepped in, and shut the door behind him. He did an about-face and marched to Jensen’s desk, rendering a sharp salute. It was a drill he’d done so many times the past several months that he knew how many steps it was to the colonel’s desk and when to snap his arm upward.
“Sir, Lieutenant Conrad reporting as ordered, sir.”
Jason focused straight ahead. He tried not to look at the numerous plaques and model planes positioned around the room. The colonel’s “I love me wall” was legendary. He had photos and certificates, plaques and awards, posted everywhere. The guy truly loved himself. Perhaps that was why it was so dreary in the reception area. If he spent more time there, it would be littered with his accolades.
The wing commander said nothing for almost a minute, staring at him the entire time. Jensen eventually returned the salute.
“At ease, Lieutenant.” Jason relaxed from his attention stance, but not much. He glimpsed at the colonel and swore he could see his nostrils flaring. “I don’t know who the hell you know . . .” Jason wanted to roll his eyes but maintained his military bearing. It was how most of his meetings with Colonel Jensen began. The truth was, Jensen was damn aware of who he knew. His father was a U.S. Senator and former presidential candidate.
“It appears,” Jensen continued, “someone outside this base, once again, knows how to run things better than I do.” Jason recognized the sarcasm. He just waited for the punchline. “You have been confined to this base for your own safety. Someone in Washington seems to think it is now safe for you to wander off base.”
“Sir?”
“I’m telling you, Lieutenant, that the order restricting you to the base is rescinded starting at 1700 hours tomorrow.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank whoever’s ass you’ve been kissing in Washington.”
“But sir, I haven’t—”
“This isn’t a conversation, Lieutenant.” Jensen paused, a frustrated look clouding his face. Jason turned his head slightly as he watched the old man. “The commander-in-chief thinks it’s important that you attend the White House Correspondents’ Dinner next week.” His voice echoed a subtleness, as if he’d been defeated in the argument. “You’ll receive orders to depart here Wednesday afternoon and return Sunday. That’s three days of training you’ll miss. You’d better make up the slack.”
Jason wasn’t concerned about missing days—he was further ahead on the timeline than any other student. But he sure as hell didn’t want to go to Washington, D.C.
“Sir, with all due respect, I’d rather stay here and fly.”
Wrong statement. The colonel stared at him with a new boost of energy. “Well, hot damn, Lieutenant. I’m so glad you let me know just what the hell you’d like to do. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
Jason stiffened, eyes forward, saying nothing.
“Let me make myself clear. If you step out of line one time—so much as a traffic stop—I’ll have you restricted to the base again while I work on throwing your ass out of this program. Do you understand?”
Jason paused before he answered. “Yes, sir.”
Colonel Jensen said nothing as he stared at him for a few moments. “Get out of my office and stay out of trouble.”
“Yes, sir.” Jason snapped to attention, saluted, and did an about-face out of the office. He bee-lined through the reception area with only a courtesy nod to the secretary and executive officer.
Once outside, the fre
sh air and sunlight reinvigorated him. A myriad of thoughts raced through his mind as he strolled back to his quarters. How would he handle this newfound freedom? The isolation had been good for him. It forced him to focus solely on flying, which helped him recover from the break in training during the T-37 phase. It also kept him focused on the books in the T-38 phase, and he was off to a great start in that jet.
What to do tomorrow night? Chicaros? Maybe. The local hangout was always waiting. The timing for this was good—his mother and father were supposed to come to town for his birthday this weekend. They were flying to Oklahoma City on Saturday, separately of course. Divorced since before he was born, he never knew his father until after he saved his life in the San Antonio incident eight months ago. Jason realized his mother must have told his father Jason was restricted to base, and the senator made a phone call. His mother was smart that way. Better a private call than a confrontation in the commander’s office in front of his staff. He’d surely find a way to take that out on Jason.
Chicaros. Yes, Chicaros was his destination of choice Friday night. He missed the camaraderie of the place. It would be the best way to assimilate back into the brotherhood. He’d tried to block that place out of his mind since the San Antonio incident. Chicaros was where he met her. The one he let get away. Kathy Delgato.
She had been a waitress there, and bumped into him, spilling beer onto his pants. The memories came flooding back—her alluring eyes, perky smile, and the rosy scent of her perfume. She had reminded him of the actress Janine Turner, from the television show Northern Exposure. Yes, she was beautiful; the prize catch of northwest Oklahoma. Her personality and intelligence were a bonus.
The Right to Know Page 2
