Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  “I was a prior enlisted Marine,” Hunter said. “I did avionics, comm-nav tech on helicopters. After nine years, I got picked up on the Enlisted Commissioning Program and found out I was selected while on the New Orleans when we were between Honolulu, and the PI. Over the One MC, the ship’s captain said, ‘Congratulations to Staff Sergeant Duncan Hunter for his selection to the 116th Officer Candidate Course.’

  “After spending Christmas in Ologapo, we steamed west, and I was dropped off in Singapore and told to find my way to Washington, DC. I see you’re a Mustang, too.”

  “That was a long time ago. I’ve been a SEAL thirty of my thirty-five years in the Navy.”

  “The admiral left me with the impression, if you’re here, you’ll be promoted. I would have thought you’d have gotten this War College ticket punched long ago. I have a close friend, a Navy captain, who indicated it takes the right sponsor and a well-defined career path. I take it you’ll make admiral?”

  The man knew how to draw blood early. “Very unlikely. I’m amazed I’m here at this point in my career. I’ll probably stay on as staff or faculty after graduation. This will be the first time I actually have two or three years of shore duty and won’t have to deploy. I have two little girls who don’t really know me, and I’m looking forward to being a dad and watching them grow up. What’s the rest of your story?”

  “After I got my commission in ’82, I went to flight school in Pensacola and went on to fly F-4s.”

  “That’s my favorite jet. Isn’t it a little unusual for a Mustang to fly fighters?”

  “You have no idea. Scotty went to NECEP and got a degree. The Marines had MECEP but also had ECP. They took guys with some college but no degree and gave them a shot at a commission. My claim to fame was I was the only guy in DOD flying fighters without a degree. Some of my Navy instructors in Pensacola had issues with having a non-college grad in the flight program.

  “My skipper in the F-4 RAG, the training squadron, told me I was unique. In the fighter community, that type of unique isn’t a badge of honor. ‘Get your degree fast and don’t advertise you don’t have one,’ he told me.

  “So I got a bachelor’s and MBA from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. Flying F-4s was a kid’s dream come true. Just as I say today, I thought then I was the luckiest guy I knew.”

  “So how’d you wind up here? You a GS?”

  “I’m a 14. The short story is I’m an Air Force civil servant.”

  “The long story?”

  “I jumped out of a jet and survived. I had to deal with an uncommanded roll in my F-4 while on a live bombing hop. It’s a big deal to take live ordnance off a base. The jet has to go to the combat arms loading area in case there’s an accident. Tell me if this bores you—I won’t be offended.”

  “Not boring—I love the aviation stuff. My dad was a pilot.”

  “Ok. A few hours before you walk to your jet, the aviation ordnance shop loads triple ejection racks on the wing stations and then loads the bombs one-by-one. I was going to be dropping six Mark 82s, 500-pounders to get my live bombing qual. I was flying with the skipper leading, and I had an idiot in my back seat. His call sign was Goof, a perfect fit.”

  “We rode out to the CALA, jumped in, fired her up, and taxied into position. I did my takeoff checks when I discovered a problem with the roll channel of the stability-augmentation system. When I moved the stick side-to-side, it shuddered. I shut off the roll channel, and it was nice and smooth. When it was On, it shuddered.”

  “Doesn’t sound good.”

  Hunter shook his head. “I’ve lived by the code that if you aren’t happy with a jet, don’t take it. There are other training aids and other days to fly. There I was, in a hot jet with six Mk 82s, the skipper leading, sitting on the runway, and my jet isn’t working the way I liked.

  “I told my backseater, ‘I have a problem.’ Goof got on the radio and said, ‘Cheese, button two.’ I told the skipper, ‘With Stab Aug on, and I check the flight controls, the stick shudders in roll. I shut off the roll channel, it’s nice and smooth. It ain’t right.’

  “He said, ‘It’s probably the air system. Happens all the time. You can take off with Stab Aug on and shut it off when airborne.’ “I thought long and hard for about one second, not wanting to come across as a weak tit. Finally, I said, ‘OK.’ We flip back to tower, and tower’s screaming at us, because you can’t change freqs while on the active runway.

  “I thought, ‘That was stupid.’ It was quickly turning into a shit sandwich. The skipper was raring to go. We got cleared. Ten seconds later, I jam it into blower. I call out what I’m doing for the guy in the back like always.

  “Off the peg. 50, 70, 100, 150. We’re going flying. 180. Nose is coming up. Gear. Flaps. That was when I stopped talking. I was passing through 300 knots and started to bring the throttles out of afterburner before we hit 350. I thought I encountered some turbulence, as the jet started a slow roll to the right. I added more stick, and it kept rolling.

  “In slow motion, I programmed the stick all the way to the stops. I was now deflected all the way to the left. The roll stopped when I was completely inverted. I’ve come about 180 degrees. I probably looked like a Blue Angel, on my back with six green live bombs pointed skyward. Goof started screaming.

  “I took my left hand off the throttles and began to program the cyclic stick forward two-handed. As I was upside down, somehow I had the sense to try to get away from the ground. The jet has several clicks of nose-trim at takeoff, so when you’re inverted, that trim wants to pull the nose up, which meant it wanted to move toward the ground.

  “Still in AB, I’m fighting the trim, and the forward pressure on the stick puts a few negative Gs on the aircraft. I immediately floated off my seat about six inches, and my head hit the canopy. I remember glancing in the rearview mirror and seeing my RIO completely splattered in his canopy.

  “Just as I thought I saved it by arcing away from the ground toward vertical, I realized I was still in burner. I thought it was more important to depress the AFCS disconnect at the base of the stick when the Goof pulled the upper ejection seat handle and shot both of us out of the jet. Because I was fighting to control the jet, I was in an unusual attitude when he panicked and pulled the handle. The dumbass ejected himself into the ground. The 170-degree angle meant he shot across the highway we just flew over, like a flat stone skipping water. He never had a chance.

  “When I left the seat a little over a second later, the initiators jammed me into the seat. My torso, seat belt, and leg restraints pulled me in tight, but my head was a little out of position when I took the 20G rocket ride. I shot out parallel to the ground.

  “My chute opened parallel to the dirt, and I got one swing when I slammed into some orange trees in an orange grove across the highway. I should have broken my neck and back—at least a leg— but those trees saved my life. It wasn’t my day to die.

  “I was medically grounded for a spinal compression injury and became an aircraft maintenance officer until I retired. The window between life and death was the 1.5-second delay between when the rear seat leaves and the front seat starts to go. I’m the luckiest guy I know.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “Lucky, really. It took a year before I could run a PFT and get back in the racquetball court. I retired in ’93 as an aircraft maintenance officer. I looked for a year but couldn’t find work until January, ’94, and that was in Cleveland, Ohio. I have many interesting stories from my six months of working at Cleveland Hopkins International Airport, including how to scrape ice from inside my car.

  “In ’95, I went to work for the US Border Patrol, where I got the job as director of their aircraft maintenance program. I taught grad school at night at the local Air Force base for Embry Riddle. My students were shit-hot Air Force instructor pilots. Having a retired Marine fighter pilot for an instructor seemed to work for everyone.

  “In 1999, the base commander asked me to consider working for the
Air Force. I made the jump in 2000 as their deputy director of maintenance. Two years later, I’m at the Naval War College as an Air Force civil servant. I think it’s wild.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  “What about you? I know you were a SEAL for thirty years. Anything more and you’d have to kill me.”

  He smiled and the big black man looked away. “Yeah. Something like that.” Hunter smiled at the impressive man. He knew Agency guys were wary of strangers. It takes time to gain their trust and confidence. He could see from McGee’s face that the same level of wariness applied to SEALs too.

  “My bud was the CIA’s Chief of Air Branch. I get the same thing from him,” Hunter added. “I know he has some great stories, but he doesn’t share much of anything. At least, not often.”

  Captain McGee blinked three times, then he cocked his head like a dog trying to resolve the sound coming from an ancient music box. “You’ll have to tell me that story another time if I’m to get in my workout and get downtown to pick up my wife. Here’s one for you, though. My bride used to work in the Air Branch office when I was detailed to Langley.”

  “When was that?”

  “I met her in 1990 while working in the basement.”

  Pulling a 3x5 card and pen from his suit coat pocket, Duncan wrote quickly. “Here’s Greg Lynche's home number. If your bride worked with him, I know Greg would get a kick out of hearing from her. He’s a wonderful gentleman.”

  McGee looked down at the card, then up at Duncan. “You know, that’s a little spooky.”

  “Happens to me all the time Bill.” He gave the SEAL an informal salute. “See you later, Good Sir.”

  As Hunter walked toward the parking lot, McGee reversed direction and went straight to the Security Office.

  The petty officer behind the desk asked, “How can I help you, Sir?”

  The security officer stepped from his office. “May I speak with you?” McGee asked.

  Once the door was closed and pleasantries were exchanged, McGee asked for a full security brief on Duncan Hunter as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  1830 August 10, 2002

  Quarters #3, Coddington Cove, Middletown, Rhode Island

  “Hey, Baby,” McGee said. “Does Greg Lynche ring a bell?”

  “You mean my old boss at CIA? What about him?”

  “I met a fellow stud who says he’s Greg’s buddy but doesn’t have CIA creds. It was a little strange. He gave me Lynche's home number if you were interested in talking to him. I’d like to ask him about this guy.”

  “That’s incredible. I’d love to call Greg.” She picked up her flip phone from the table. “He’ll be shocked.”

  She dialed, and someone answered on the second ring. “Greg Lynche.”

  She recognized the voice instantly. “Greg, it’s Angela…Angela Hagerty.”

  “Angela? What a treat! My God, what’s it been? Fifteen years?” He turned away, and his muffled voice said, “Connie, it’s Angela!”

  For the next seven minutes, the two former intelligence officers caught up on their lives. Angela married “that sailor,” as Greg called him. She said Bill was back from the war, and they had two little girls. Greg told her about starting his own business after retiring and added he still had all his man toys—the Porsche, the sailboat, and the airplane.

  “Angela, that’s fantastic,” Greg said. “I can hear you’re happy. I’m glad things are going well for you. I’m a little curious how you got my number.”

  “Bill came home and said he met this guy at the Naval War College who said he knew you well. He gave Bill your number.”

  “That must be Duncan Hunter. I know he’s in Newport.”

  “Well, there you go. It’s a small world, isn’t it? Greg, Bill would like to talk to you about…Duncan. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Anything for you, Angela. My pleasure. You have my number. Let’s not lose touch.”

  “Absolutely. Give Connie a hug for me.” She handed Bill the phone.”

  “Mr. Lynche, I’ve heard a lot about you, but I never thought I’d get a chance to talk to you,” Bill said.

  “I heard so much about you from Angela and you guys usually kept to yourself,” Greg said. “I’m glad you’re doing well. She sounds very happy. I know she’s glad to have you home.”

  “I’m glad to be home. Thank you. Greg, what can you tell me about Duncan? He seems really different, but somehow, he’s wired into the IC.”

  “What I can tell you on this line is I met Duncan in late 1996. He could give you the exact date. He was working for the Border Patrol in Del Rio, Texas. After I retired in ’95, I started my own company and as the sales rep for an aircraft manufacturer. Duncan called the CEO, who directed him to me.

  “He was trying to get Border Patrol aviation out of the Stone Age, and I flew a demo into Del Rio for a bunch of Border Patrol agents and the local congressman. He and I hit it off immediately and have been very close friends ever since. We’ve worked together on some projects for my old place. He has all the tickets.

  “The longer story is much more interesting and would probably take a couple hours to discuss in a SCIF. I think Duncan’s a remarkable guy even if he doesn’t drink and is the pickiest eater you’ll ever meet. He’s probably a borderline genius, but he’s very down-to-earth. He plays a lot of racquetball and loves teaching for Embry Riddle. Also, he has the fastest reflexes of anyone I ever saw.”

  “I can tell he’s a little different. He carries himself like a SEAL or Delta but in more-subtle ways. You can spot those guys a mile off. When I asked who he was, I was surprised he had no SOF or IC background.”

  “Let me tell you two quick stories. I have to make this short. Connie and I have a dinner engagement. The first is that he’s like Sherlock Holmes and Isaac Newton rolled into one. He sees things other people simply can’t see. He uncovered some Border Patrol agents on the take. They were pilots, and what they did along the border didn’t make sense to Duncan.

  “He started collecting data. It showed something was really askew. It only made sense to him if the chief pilot was somehow on the take. He showed his material to the chief patrol agent, and that pilot and his deputy suddenly retired and moved to Canada.

  “The Sector Chief Patrol Agent was amazed that the chief pilot managed to hide his activities for so long. The new guy broke the code on him in short order.

  “The other time, Duncan and I were in Miami about two years ago. He came to help me run a display at a trade show. We got in late, and it was dark, and we headed for a restaurant near the hotel. Duncan’s always exercising and eating something.

  “We didn’t get far when a mugger jumped out from between two cars in the parking lot and tried to rob us. Duncan had a bottle of soda he just took a drink from when the guy jumped out and started to say, ‘Give me your money.’ Duncan threw the soda into his face, and I swear he went on the attack.

  “The mugger tried to shield his face from the soda. Duncan grabbed the guy’s revolver like Bruce Lee and slammed it into the guy’s face. The guy’s face was completely crushed. Blood was everywhere.

  “In one motion, Duncan kicked one of the guy’s knees and bent it completely backward. I heard it snap. That’s when the crook started shrieking. Duncan flipped him over and wrenched his arm up, dislocating it. The mugger passed out.

  “It took less than ten seconds. Duncan stepped over the body, tucked his shirt in his pants, and was ready to continue walking to the restaurant like nothing happened.

  ‘”Hunter,’ I said, ‘we have to call the cops.’

  “’What for?’ he asked. ‘I have his gun. OK. We’ll stop at the hotel desk.’

  “I’ll always remember what I said next and Duncan’s response. ‘I thought you were going to kill him.’

  “He said, ‘I tried. He had a hard head.’” Bill and Greg laughed.

  “Sounds like what one of my guys did down in Panama,” Bill said. “Anything else of note?”
<
br />   “There’s actually a lot. I can tell you he’s absolutely trustworthy and was instrumental in helping my old place track down Pablo Escobar. Soon after I met Duncan, I ran a check on him, probably like you did. Someone from Langley ID’d him early in his career in the Marines.

  “If you see him play racquetball, you’ll see he has the right mix of size, athleticism, and instinct that’s rare in any sport. My old place wanted to use him to try to put a tracking device on Escobar. Intel indicated Escobar liked to play racquetball in Cartengia. My old place got Hunter to Cartengia and somehow, Pablo met him, and they played. I understand Hunter kicked his ass, but he gave Pablo some lessons and showed him some tricks, too. Pablo was so impressed, he bought all of Hunter’s racquetball equipment—racquets, balls, gloves, and bag—for something like $5,000. Hunter didn’t have to try to plant anything on Pablo. Escobar got all the tracking devices when he bought the stuff.

  “That’s another thing. Duncan can make things happen when others can’t see how. If you get a chance to watch him play racquetball, tennis, or golf, you’ll see right away he’s a gifted athlete who doesn’t know the meaning of ‘quit’ or ‘give up.’

  “Anyway, three days later, my old place gave DEA a tip that led the Colombians to Escobar. I’m sure Hunter got a medal for it.”

  Bill exhaled deeply. “That’s really interesting, Greg. I certainly appreciate your time and consideration. Thank you, Sir.”

  “My pleasure, Bill. Please tell Angela she made my day. I had a great time talking with you and her. If you want to know more about Duncan, call anytime or just talk to him. Anyway, good night, Bill.”

  “Good night, Greg.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  1400 September 11, 2002

  Security Office, Naval War College

  Captain McGee received an e-mail announcing the data he requested on Duncan Hunter was at the Security Office. Commander Neal Mihelich, the Security Officer, waited for the SEAL captain. When he saw McGee, he swung open the half-counter door and followed McGee into his office. “Afternoon, Sir.”