Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  They experienced the helpless feeling of being captured, bound, gagged, and subjected to harsh interrogation techniques expected in a hostile Middle East country. All but LeMarcus Leonard participated. He already completed that portion of the training.

  Yoder had been looking for a computer-savvy single black male who could pass a drug test and polygraph, and could do covert work in Africa. After a three-year search, Duncan Hunter met the hardworking assistant manager at the Jacksonville International Airport and felt he was a possible fit. He informed Yoder.

  Twelve hours later, Yoder flew into the airport and interviewed the quiet, composed man with no military experience but who could leverage a laptop computer to destroy Yoder’s credit rating or empty his bank account in five minutes, if he wished. Yoder, always a high-and-tight Special Operations soldier, didn’t like LeMarcus’ sweeping cornrows, but he didn’t articulate his displeasure with the ethical hacker’s hairstyle.

  After the drug test and polygraph came back negative, Yoder became a fan of cornrows, and LeMarcus became a fan of the man who quintupled his pay. By the end of the week, LeMarcus was in training with a small group of former US Army Delta Forces. In a highly compressed six-month schedule, LeMarcus Leonard conquered his fear of scuba diving and heights by jumping out of airplanes while training as a tier-one counterterrorism and special mission specialist. At the end of his immersion training, he could have reported for duty as a weapons specialist replacement in the vaunted 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta, cornrows notwithstanding.

  *

  Duncan Hunter entered the conference center to find Yoder and Lynche standing at the far end of the bar, each sipping a draft beer. The men lamented that the new DCI was a prick and how difficult he was to work with.

  “We wouldn’t have been able to create Wraith with this dickhead in charge,” Lynche said.

  Yoder looked at Hunter and neatly poked a finger into Duncan’s chest. “We hand-delivered the DCI a one-page white paper to kick off that program. This idiot requires a full, government-approved proposal. That’s what you get when you install an Air Force weenie as DCI,” Yoder said in disgust.

  He removed the offending finger and waggled it at Lynche.

  “I’m at my wit’s end. I can’t get in to see him, and he won’t take my calls. Greg, you have to talk with him, spook to spook.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but I don’t think he’ll listen to me, either.”

  They seemed to agree they had a plan and looked at Hunter for concurrence. There was an awkward pause, because Hunter had something else on his mind.

  “Art, please don’t take this wrong, but you look like shit. How are you feeling?”

  Yoder was about to drink more beer when he froze, put down the glass, and rubbed his eyes. Lynche thought Yoder might deck Hunter for such an insolent, direct question. Anyone who talked to Colonel Art Yoder like that never remained standing for long.

  “I do feel like crap. Thank you very much, Duncan. Not much I can do about it.” He drank beer and stared at his feet.

  Lynche's curiosity rose. He’d never before seen Yoder so disarmed.

  “Art, your color’s all wrong for you,” Hunter said. “I had a friend who swam in the waters of Kenya, and he picked up a parasite. He dropped weight, and his coloring looked like yours. Not meaning to pry, good Sir, but have you seen a doc?”

  Yoder gave Hunter an impassioned look, finished his beer, and said, “Let’s go into the office.”

  Stunned, Lynche followed the two men to the top floor of the conference center and into the director’s office. Lynche closed the door behind him.

  Yoder plopped into a big black judge’s chair and spun it to look out over the training center through the huge picture window. It was unusually quiet in the room. The only sound came from a Texas-sized, Texas-shaped wall clock.

  Without bothering to look at the two men, Yoder said, “I need a pancreas transplant on top of the damage done by two parasites that wrecked my kidneys and liver. Like your buddy, it looks like I picked them up while in Africa chasing some dumb-ass Muslim warlord. It’s amazing it took them twenty years to kill me.”

  After a moment, he swiveled to face Lynche and Hunter. “This was my last training session with the group. They tell me I’ll be dead in a month. Soon, all this will be yours.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  1230 December 30, 2009

  Roberts International Airport Monrovia, Liberia

  Airport manager LeMarcus Leonard stepped into the muggy sunshine and onto the parking ramp for a final walkabout. The jet reported its position to the control tower. They were forty-five minutes out. The tower supervisor reported an updated ETA to the airport manager every five minutes. Leonard wasn’t nervous. It was just another recovery and launch of a small jumbo jet on an international flight. He was aware, however, that everyone in Africa was watching or would hear of the flight.

  The US Transportation Security Administration’s small staff of observers was in place to monitor the processing of passengers and their baggage off the big jet as well as those booked on the returning flight. Her Excellency, the President of Liberia, would be the first one off the inaugural nonstop flight of a US air carrier. LeMarcus envisioned a string of Liberians and Americans would follow at a discrete distance and descend the stairs to the ramp. Then would come supporters who helped make the event happen.

  The US ambassador would follow shortly thereafter, then probably the tall, white banker who’d been with the President when they worked at World Bank. Probably after the banker would come the ultra-corrupt Director General of Civil Aviation who did everything he could think of to prevent that day from occurring, short of kidnapping LeMarcus Leonard and feeding him to the fish in the Farmington River. Probably the last one out of business class would be his boss. That was his way.

  LeMarcus scanned north, not expecting to see the inbound jet but to double-check the ramp for cleanliness. New red baggage loaders, new white tugs, and new blue baggage carts were neatly aligned and had words stenciled on their sides, Gifts from the People of the United States.

  Twenty baggage handlers in crisp tan coveralls awaited the signal to offload the jet.

  The only eyesore to the north was a decrepit YAK-40, a relic of the latter days of the civil war that ripped the country apart for almost fifteen years. Once the private airplane of Victor Bout, better known in the international press as the Merchant of Death, the three-engine Russian business jet sucked a white-headed crow into the upper engine during landing flare and was never repaired. It sat in the weeds a half-mile from the terminal. Sometimes, it was the only airplane on the field.

  LeMarcus nodded at the freshly whitewashed control tower. The six bullet holes that pockmarked the facade had been expertly patched. With new glass, radio antennas, and light gun, the Robertsfield tower looked like any tower at a small American airport. He glanced south at the flight’s approach end of the runway and smiled, knowing the jet would fly right over the little hamlet of Smell-No Taste. Few travelers on the jet were aware of the airport’s significance during World War Two, where Robertsfield was originally built by the US government as a staging area for aircraft to check the expansion of Axis powers in North Africa.

  When hundreds of American aircrews prepared for their flights north, Army cooks prepared hundreds of meals for the pilots, mechanics, and support personnel. The Liberians living in grass huts near the field and along the Farmington River smelled the food being prepared but couldn’t get the soldiers to surrender samples and let them taste the strange, odiferous concoctions the airmen ate.

  He sighed at the sight of the old main terminal building, embalmed in shrink wrap to hide the damage from the Liberian Civil War. “Still work to be done there,” he muttered.

  He noted the president’s limousine was ready at the VIP terminal just as a cacophony of yelling and applauding erupted. The jet turned over the Atlantic for its approach to the runway. LeMarcus crossed his arms and sm
iled, hearing a reporter behind him shout into his microphone.

  “The return of an American carrier and direct flights to the United States for the first time since Pan Am’s withdrawal is a major step in the recovery of not just the airport, but Liberia itself.”

  LeMarcus, chuckling softly, walked toward the baggage carts, marshaled and ready. The handlers stiffened as if preparing for inspection. He knew he wouldn’t be mentioned on the radio or in the print media as the ROB airport manager or the man who reversed the downward slide of Roberts International Airport, formerly Pan American’s hub and alternative landing site for the Space Shuttle. He did it despite the director general’s shenanigans. After one year, he and his boss kept their promise to the newly elected President, the first woman President on the continent, to return the airport to its former glory and usefulness.

  The hard part would be to get it approved for direct flights to and from the US. Her Excellency knew, for Liberia to grow and heal, a direct link to American was necessary. She articulated her view and strategic plan for Liberia to the US ambassador, who, of course, offered help. The newly appointed ambassador fired up the men and women of the Economics Section, including USAID and USTDA, to help reconstruct the country’s airports and aviation infrastructure.

  Finding someone who could transform a war-torn, decrepit airport into something usable and functional, capable of safely handling jumbo jets with hundreds of passengers and tons of cargo, seemed an impossible mission. The ambassador thought long and hard about the challenge thrown to her from Her Excellency when a faint, pleasant memory of airplanes and airports crept into her consciousness. She reached for the huge Rolodex on her desk, spun it, and stopped at the business card of a former colleague from the Naval War College who knew a few things about airports, airplanes, restaurants, and hot tubs.

  One month later, Duncan Hunter landed with an A&E team to assess the condition of the country’s airports. In a month, they developed an airport master plan, presented it to the President and ambassador, and won a modest contract to reconstitute the Roberts International Airport.

  While Hunter worked and entertained, Lynche and Yoder aggressively searched America for the right airport manager. Hunter found the young rock star manager languishing at the Jacksonville International Airport. LeMarcus Leonard was shocked that some unknown white dude would seek him out and offer him a unique, challenging project in Africa.

  His arms crossed, LeMarcus waited and worried at the thought something would go poorly on the president’s big day, when she brought America's biggest airline to Liberia.

  He stopped when he was underneath a professionally made banner that read Welcome to Liberia Delta Airlines. The crowd watched the big jet move toward and turn above the Firestone Plantation, leveling its wings over Smell-No Taste, and land halfway down the runway. Several minutes after touchdown and back-taxi, the Boeing 767, with The City of Monrovia stenciled on the nose, taxied to a stop at the terminal.

  The two monstrous engines drowned out any celebrations on the air side of the airport. When the engines stopped, fifty airport workers leaped into action, while dignitaries positioned themselves to receive their President. A mobile staircase was expertly positioned at the aircraft door. An airline employee ran up to check the gap between airplane and stair.

  The door folded into the fuselage, and out stepped the dignified Liberian President to a loud, worshipping crowd. Everyone else in the jet waited until she stepped onto her native soil.

  LeMarcus marveled at the pomp of the office while wanting to fuss with his employees over how they serviced and unloaded the plane, wondering when his boss would finally come out the door.

  When Duncan Hunter reached the bottom step, LeMarcus waited with open arms.

  “Look what you’ve done!” Hunter shouted, smiling and offering his hand.

  LeMarcus grabbed his hand enthusiastically, pumped it once, then the men hugged and stood back to admire each other.

  “Nice job, good Sir,” Hunter said. “Looks a lot better than last time. Did you put a giant condom over the old terminal building? That cover’s artwork is beautiful.”

  LeMarcus was so emotional he couldn’t speak for a moment. Hunter, seeing the man’s predicament, placed an arm over his shoulder to walk through the terminal toward customs.

  LeMarcus stopped. “Did you see what’s going on at the other end? The construction?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Looks impressive. It’s far enough from the runway that we could add a parallel runway, and they’d still have plenty of ramp space.”

  “Just like how you drew it up.”

  Their conversation was decidedly vague regarding the hangars and office spaces being built for US Special Operations Command.

  “I had help, but it’s incredible you’ve been able to get this far along. How’s the house?”

  “I’m still living in the compound, while the houses are refurbished.”

  “I’m sorry, but we had to refurbish them. The A&E team wanted to tear them down and add a hotel. I’m pretty sure those are the original Pan Am station manager’s house and his staff’s houses. They had too much historical significance to be destroyed. You’ll have to show me how they’re coming along. If we have time, show me the project, too.”

  “Can do easy.”

  “So how’s it going? Ready to come home?” Hunter tried an impish grin, but it came off as goofy.

  “No!” He shook his head. “This is an amazing job, Boss. Not a day goes by when I’m not totally exhausted. You asked if I wanted a challenge. This is definitely a challenge, but it’s unbelievably rewarding. I have 400 people counting on me every day. I meet Her Excellency every month. She treats me like I’m someone special. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”

  “She is an amazing woman. The last time I talked to her, she was thinking about adopting you.”

  LeMarcus knew there was a modicum of truth in that compliment. They stood quietly for a moment before LeMarcus Leonard spoke again.

  “Anyway, we’ve been doing really well since TSA approved the airport. Now we have a dozen air carriers landing throughout the week. Royal Air Muroc lands every other day. Brussels, Ethiopian Air, and Virgin Nigeria all have offices with weekly flights. We’re the only real moneymaking enterprise in the country, and we’re making a boatload. This year, we’ll make one million. Last year there was nothing.”

  Hunter, grinning, nodded at the director general of civil aviation waddling through the receiving line. “He can’t steal from the airport anymore. USAID sees you as a trusted agent and good steward of the US taxpayer’s money. They can see you making a difference. TSA is overwhelmed by what you accomplished. Without you and your leadership, there would be no Delta. You’ve done really well. You’ll get a nice bonus, too, though I don’t know what you’ll spend it on.”

  “Thanks, Duncan. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome. You deserve every bit of it. Did I see three new fire trucks in the firehouse?”

  “Four. And we received a bus and three mowers in the last delivery. The assholes wanted me to sign for the bus when it had missing engine parts and broken windows. I told them, well, basically….”

  “Fuck off and die? Get the damn thing fixed, and then maybe I’ll sign for it.”

  “Just about.” It was LeMarcus’ time to offer an impish grin. “You’re a national hero,” Hunter said.

  “Thanks to you.”

  “Nice try. By the way, your clearance came through—TS/SCI at Lynche's old place.”

  “That took awhile.”

  “Ten-four. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “There’s something new every month. My first day, when you busted those Filipino smugglers, I never saw it coming. I was so naïve. I thought you were joking about customs clerks sitting at a desk but not at the one with the sign No Bribes Taken at this Desk. I thought you were screwing with me.”

  “Real life is much more interesting.”

>   “You see it here. The Nigerians are always trying something, but the Chinese are the real masters. If there’s a Chinese in line, he’s got something. We check his bags, and sure enough, he’s smuggling diamonds. If I were back home, and the liberals knew what I was doing, their heads would explode.”

  “That would be a sight. There’s something refreshing when a liberal’s head goes pop. You can hear it like a melon dropped onto concrete.”

  “You’re bad.”

  “I know.”

  Hunter was the last person to clear customs, and his bag was the last one on and off the baggage carousel. LeMarcus told a security detail, “Take Mr. Smith’s bags to the car.”

  Hunter gave each man a dollar. It was time to monitor the outbound passengers for the return flight to Atlanta. LeMarcus and Duncan stood along the wall of the passenger lounge and observed Liberian security scrutinizing passports, tickets, and personal belongings going through the X-ray machine. Hunter watched six passengers pass through the magnetometer when a very tall black man with dark sunglasses queued for the inaugural return flight followed by a big-boobed woman in local dress.

  Hunter nudged LeMarcus’ shoe to get his attention. They watched the black man and others go through a double screening.

  “Hear anything about the Guinean President dying?” Hunter asked.

  “He was old,” LeMarcus said nonchalantly.

  “He was shot.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Greg still has contacts. Someone wanted him to hurry up and die. That’s the price you pay to be a politician or a warlord in Africa. Someone’s always trying to knock you off. I appreciate your being careful and living in the compound. I have visions of the director general trying to knock you off or feed you to the fish.”

  “You and me both.”

  “What do you think about the tall one?”

  “Just what I was thinking.” LeMarcus raised his hand, and the chief of security ran up.