Special Operations
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PRAISE FOR W.E.B. GRIFFIN’S ALL-TIME CLASSIC SERIES,
BADGE OF HONOR
W.E.B. Griffin’s electrifying epic series
of a big-city police force…
“DAMN EFFECTIVE…He captivates you with characters the way few authors can.”
—Tom Clancy
“TOUGH, AUTHENTIC…POLICE DRAMA AT ITS BEST…Readers will feel as if they’re part of the investigation, and the true-to-life characters will soon feel like old friends. Excellent reading.”
—Dale Brown, bestselling author of
Day of the Cheetah and Hammerheads
“COLORFUL…GRITTY…TENSE.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“A REAL WINNER.”
—New York Daily News
“NOT SINCE JOSEPH WAMBAUGH have we been treated to a police story of the caliber that Griffin gives us. He creates a story about real people in a real world doing things that are AS REAL AS TODAY’S HEADLINES.”
—Harold Coyle, bestselling author
of Team Yankee and Sword Point
“FANS OF ED MCBAIN’S 87TH PRECINCT NOVELS BETTER MAKE ROOM ON THEIR SHELVES…Badge of Honor is first and foremost the story of the people who solve the crimes. The characters come alive.”
—Gainesville Times (GA)
“GRITTY, FAST-PACED…AUTHENTIC.”
—Richard Herman, Jr., author
of The Warbirds
THE CORPS
W.E.B. Griffin’s bestselling saga of
the heroes we call Marines…
“THE BEST CHRONICLER OF THE U.S. MILITARY EVER TO PUT PEN TO PAPER.”
—Phoenix Gazette
“A BRILLIANT STORY…NOT ONLY WORTHWHILE, IT’S A PUBLIC SERVICE.”
—The Washington Times
“GREAT READING. A superb job of mingling fact and fiction…[Griffin’s] characters come to life.”
—The Sunday Oklahoman
“THIS MAN HAS REALLY DONE HIS HOMEWORK…I confess to impatiently awaiting the appearance of succeeding books in the series.”
—The Washington Post
“GRIFFIN’S BOOKS HAVE HOOKED ME…THERE IS NO ONE BETTER.”
—Chattanooga News-Free Press
“W.E.B. GRIFFIN HAS DONE IT AGAIN!”
—Rave Reviews
“ACTION-PACKED…DIFFICULT TO PUT DOWN.”
—Marine Corps Gazette
BROTHERHOOD OF WAR
A sweeping military epic of the United States Army that
became a New York Times bestselling phenomenon.
“A MAJOR WORK…MAGNIFICENT…POWERFUL…If books about warriors and the women who love them were given medals for authenticity, insight and honesty, Brotherhood of War would be covered with them.”
—William Bradford Huie, author of
The Klansman and The Execution of Private Slovik
“Brotherhood of War gets into the hearts and minds of those who by choice or circumstances are called upon to fight our nation’s wars.”
—William R. Corson, Lt. Col. (Ret.) U.S.M.C.,
author of The Betrayal and The Armies of Ignorance
“Captures the rhythms of army life and speech, its rewards and deprivations…A WELL-WRITTEN, ABSORBING ACCOUNT.”
—Publishers Weekly
“REFLECTS THE FLAVOR OF WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE A PROFESSIONAL SOLDIER.”
—Frederick Downs, author of The Killing Zone
“LARGE, EXCITING, FAST-MOVING.”
—Shirley Ann Grau, author of The Keepers of the House
“A MASTER STORYTELLER who makes sure each book stands on its own.”
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“GRIFFIN HAS BEEN CALLED THE LOUIS L’AMOUR OF MILITARY FICTION, AND WITH GOOD REASON.”
—Chattanooga News-Free Press
TITLES BY W.E.B. GRIFFIN
HONOR BOUND
HONOR BOUND
BLOOD AND HONOR
SECRET HONOR
BROTHERHOOD OF WAR
BOOK I: THE LIEUTENANTS
BOOK II: THE CAPTAINS
BOOK III: THE MAJORS
BOOK IV: THE COLONELS
BOOK V: THE BERETS
BOOK VI: THE GENERALS
BOOK VII: THE NEW BREED
BOOK VIII: THE AVIATORS
BOOK IX: SPECIAL OPS
THE CORPS
BOOK I: SEMPER FI
BOOK II: CALL TO ARMS
BOOK III: COUNTERATTACK
BOOK IV: BATTLEGROUND
BOOK V: LINE OF FIRE
BOOK VI: CLOSE COMBAT
BOOK VII: BEHIND THE LINES
BOOK VIII: IN DANGER’S PATH
BOOK IX: UNDER FIRE
BOOK X: RETREAT, HELL!
BADGE OF HONOR
BOOK I: MEN IN BLUE
BOOK II: SPECIAL OPERATIONS
BOOK III: THE VICTIM
BOOK IV: THE WITNESS
BOOK V: THE ASSASSIN
BOOK VI: THE MURDERERS
BOOK VII: THE INVESTIGATORS
BOOK VIII: FINAL JUSTICE
MEN AT WAR
BOOK I: THE LAST HEROES
BOOK II: THE SECRET WARRIORS
BOOK III: THE SOLDIER SPIES
BOOK IV: THE FIGHTING AGENTS
BOOK V: THE SABOTEURS
BOOK VI: THE DOUBLE AGENTS
PRESIDENTIAL AGENT
BOOK I: BY ORDER OF THE PRESIDENT
BOOK II: THE HOSTAGE
BOOK III: THE HUNTERS
W.E.B. GRIFFIN
SPECIAL OPERATIONS
SECOND IN THE BADGE OF HONOR SERIES
Originally published under the pseudonym John Kevin Dugan
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
SPECIAL OPERATIONS
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 1989 by W.E.B. Griffin.
Originally published under the pseudonym John Kevin Dugan.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
; a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-4406-3523-6
JOVE®
Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “J” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For Sergeant Zebulon V. Casey
Internal Affairs Division
Retired
Police Department, the City of Philadelphia.
He knows why.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
SPECIAL OPERATIONS
ONE
Mary Elizabeth Flannery first came to the attention of the Police Department of the City of Philadelphia at 9:21 P.M., June 29, 1973, when an unidentified civilian called the Police Emergency number and reported that as she and her husband had been driving through Fairmount Park, going down Bell’s Mill Road toward Chestnut Hill, they had seen a naked woman, just walking around, on the Chestnut Hill side of the bridge over Wissahickon Creek.
The call was taken in the Police Radio Room, which is on the second floor of the Police Building in downtown Philadelphia. The operator who took the call was a civilian, a temporary employee, a twenty-two-year-old, 227-pound, six-foot-three-inch black man named Foster H. Lewis, Jr.
Foster H. Lewis, Sr., was a sergeant in the Eighteenth District. That hadn’t hurt any when Foster H. Lewis, Jr., had appeared three years before in the City Administration Building across from City Hall to apply for a part-time job to help him with his tuition at Temple University, where he was then a premedical sophomore.
Foster H. Lewis, Jr., who was perhaps predictably known as “Tiny,” had been at first more than a little awed by the Radio Room, with its rows of operators sitting before control consoles, and made more than a little uncomfortable by the steady stream of calls for help, often from people on the edge of hysteria.
Alone of America’s major city police forces, Philadelphia police respond to any call for help, not just to reports of crime. It is deeply imbedded in the subconscious minds of Philadelphia’s 2.1 million citizens (there are more than five million people in the Philadelphia metropolitan area) that what you do when Uncle Charley breaks a leg or the kid falls off his bike and is bleeding pretty bad at the mouth or when you see a naked woman just walking around in Fairmount Park is “call the cops.”
Tiny Lewis had worked in the Radio Room two, three nights a week, and weekends, and full time during the summers for three years now, and he was no longer awed by either the Radio Room or his responsibilities in dealing with a citizen who was calling for help.
For one thing, he was reasonably sure that this citizen’s call was for real, and that the citizen herself was neither hysterical or drunk, or both.
“May I have your name, please, ma’am?” Tiny Lewis asked, politely.
“Never mind about that,” the caller snapped. “Just help that poor woman.”
“Ma’am, I have to have your name,” Tiny Lewis said, reasonably. Sometimes that worked, and sometimes it didn’t. It didn’t now. The phone went dead.
“Joe!” Tiny Lewis called, just loud enough to catch the attention of the Police Dispatcher, a sworn police officer named Joe Bullock.
Joe Bullock had had sixteen years on the job when he pulled a drunk to the curb on the Baltimore Pike in West Philadelphia. He had him standing outside his car when another drunk had come along and rear-ended the stopped car. Neither civilian had been seriously injured, but Joe Bullock had spent seven months in University Hospital. The Department had wanted to put him out on a Thirty-Two, a Civil Service Disability Pension for Injuries Received in the Line of Duty, but Bullock had appealed to the Police Commissioner.
The Police Commissioner, then the Honorable Jerry Carlucci, had found time to see Officer Bullock, even though his time was pretty much taken up with his campaign to get himself elected mayor. Commissioner Carlucci only vaguely remembered Officer Bullock, when Bullock politely reminded him that he used to see him when the Commissioner had been a Highway Sergeant, but he shook his hand warmly, and assured him that as long as he was either Police Commissioner or mayor, the expletive-deleted paper pushers on the Civil Service Commission were not going to push out on a Thirty-Two any good cop who wanted to stay on the job and had a contribution to make.
Officer Bullock was assigned to the Radio Division as a Police Dispatcher.
“What have you got, Tiny?” Officer Bullock inquired of Tiny Lewis.
“A naked woman in the park at Bell’s Mill and Wissahickon Creek, around the Forbidden Drive,” Tiny said. “I think there’s something to it.”
“It could be some girl changed her mind at the last minute,” Joe Bullock said.
Forbidden Drive, despite the ominous name, was an unpaved road running along Wissahickon Creek, used in the daylight hours by respectable citizens for horseback riding, hiking, and at night by young couples seeking a place to park a car in reasonable privacy.
“I don’t think so,” Tiny said, repeating, “I think there’s something to this.”
Joe Bullock nodded. He knew that Tiny Lewis had a feel for his job, and very rarely got excited. He knew too that the location was in Chestnut Hill. It was said that ninety-five percent of Philadelphia was owned by people who lived in Chestnut Hill, very often in very large houses on very large pieces of property; the sort of people who were accustomed to the very best of police protection and who could get through to the mayor immediately if they didn’t think they were getting it.
Bullock went to his console, and checked the display for the Fourteenth Police District, which was charged with maintaining the peace in the area of Northwest Philadelphia including Chestnut Hill. He was not surprised to find that an indicator with “1423” on it was lit up. The “14” made reference to the district; “23” was the Radio Patrol Car (RPC) assigned to cover Chestnut Hill. He would have been surprised if 1423 was not lit up, signifying that it was on a job, and not available. Chestnut Hill was not a high-crime area, or even an area with a traffic problem.
“Fourteen Twenty-Three,” Joe Bullock said into the microphone.
There was an immediate response: “Fourteen Twenty-Three.”
“Fourteen Twenty-Three,” Joe Bullock said to his microphone, “report of a naked female on Forbidden Drive, in the vicinity of Bell’s Mill Road and the bridge. Civilian by phone.”
“Fourteen Twenty-Three, okay,” Police Officer William Dohner, who was cruising his district on Germantown Avenue, near Springfield Street, said into his microphone. He then put the microphone down, flipped on the siren and the flashing lights, and turned his 1972 Ford around and headed for Forbidden Drive.
As this was going on, Tiny Lewis was writing the pertinent information on a three-by-eight card. At this stage, the incident was officially an “Investigation, Person.” He then put the card between electrical contacts on a shelf above his console. Doing so interrupted the current lighting the small bulb behind the “1423” block on the display console. The block went dark, signifying that Fourteen Twenty-Three had a job.
Joe Bullock’s Police Radio call vis-à-vis the naked woman in Fairmount Park was received as well over the radios installed in other police vehicle
s. Almost immediately, a 1971 Ford van, EPW 1405, one of the two-man Emergency Patrol Wagons assigned to the Fourteenth District to transport the injured, prisoners, and otherwise assist in law enforcement, turned on its flashing lights and siren and headed for Forbidden Drive. So did Highway Nineteen, which happened to be in the area. So did D-209, an unmarked car assigned to the Northwest Detective District. And others.
It had been a relatively quiet night, and a naked female on Forbidden Drive certainly required all the assistance an otherwise unoccupied police officer could render.
Joe Bullock’s call was also received over the police-bands shortwave radio installed in a battered, four-year-old Chevrolet Impala coupe registered to one Michael J. O’Hara of the 2100 block of South Shields Street in West Philadelphia.
Mr. O’Hara had spent Sunday evening having dinner with his widowed mother, who resided in the Cobbs Creek Nursing Center, in the Mr. and Mrs. J. K. McNair Memorial Dining Facility. Mickey was a dutiful son and loved his mother, and made a valiant effort to have dinner with her twice a week. It was always a depressing experience. Mrs. O’Hara’s mind was failing, and she talked a good deal about people who were long dead, or whom he had never known. And about fellow residents in the Cobbs Creek Nursing Center, who, if she was to be believed, carried on sinful sexual relations that would have worn out twenty-year-olds when they were not engaged in stealing things from Mrs. O’Hara. The food was also lousy; it reminded Mickey of what they used to feed him in basic training in the army.
After pushing his mother’s wheelchair down the polished, slippery corridors of the Cobbs Creek Nursing Center to her room, Mickey O’Hara usually went directly to Brannigan’s Bar & Grill, two blocks away at Seventieth and Kingessing, where he had a couple of quick belts of John Jamison’s with a beer chaser.
Tonight, however, he had gone directly home, not because he didn’t need a drink—quite the contrary—but because there was a recent development in his life that left him feeling more uneasy than he could ever remember having felt before. And Mickey knew himself well enough to know that the one thing he should not do in the circumstances was tie one on.