by Bob Mayer
Skibicki laughed, a low growl that held no mirth.
“We had the double-dealing motherfucker on film: one of our LLDB agents, Ta Chon, meeting with North Vietnamese in uniform. We brought the son of a bitch in and wired him up to the polygraph and he flunked it. Shit, he was sweating bullets and we knew that he knew we knew.”
Skibicki paused and Boomer and Maggie both impatiently waited for him to continue. The sergeant major took a deep breath, then picked up the story.
“I was ready to pop Chon right then and there. Hell, I’d lost friends on those teams he’d compromised. Rison was down in Saigon at some damn meeting, so he was out of the net. The FOB executive officer.
Lieutenant Colonel Killebrew, wasn’t authorized to make such a command decision, so he went to the CIA for instructions. In reality, he wanted to turn Chon over to them and he knew that would take care of that. We’d done it before. The spooks liked fresh meat. Plus there was always the possibility the Company could triple Chon and turn him back against his own people and we could scarf up the rest of his buddies.
“But what Killebrew didn’t know was that the CIA was wired in with The Line and they were waiting for something like this. I didn’t know it either when I went to the CIA safe house outside Nha Trang with Chon.
The asshole I talked to wouldn’t take Chon. He suggested to me that we’ eliminate Chon ourselves since we had such strong evidence. Hell, he didn’t suggest it, he practically ordered me to do it.”
Skibicki stretched out his massive arms and glanced at the other two occupants of the room. The only sound was the wind blowing off the porch moving a chime back and forth.
“We took Chon back to the FOB. Then me and another guy, we shot Chon up with morphine, took him out into the bay, cut a vein so that the sharks would find him, and I popped him twice in the head with my High Standard .22.
We weighed the body down with chains, and dumped him overboard.” Skibicki said it all flatly, like he was describing a trip to the laundromat.
“It was all said and done by the time Rison got back to the FOB from a MACV command and staff meeting in Saigon. I went in with Killebrew and briefed Rison on what had happened. I think he knew right away that something stunk about the way the CIA spook had reacted, but fuck the body was already a body. Couldn’t resurrect the son of a bitch. We made up a cover story to explain Chon disappearing.
We said we sent him on a cross-border op and we never heard from him again. And that wasn’t that far out because, like I said, we were losing lots of people over the fence.
“The shit hit the fan the next day. Somebody, and to this day I swear it was the CIA, even though they produced some low ranking, non-S-F Intel clink to go public, blew the whistle.
“That’s all the general in Saigon needed. He called Rison up and asked him what happened. Rison gave him the cover story. The general blew a gasket, since he already had heard the true story and had Rison arrested. In the middle of a war, our own people arrested a full bull colonel in the U.S. Army!
They also picked up Killebrew, me, and the other fellow who helped me, a guy named Harry Franks. We were charged with murder.” Skibicki shook his head, still incredulous after all these years.
“Here we were, in the middle of the most fucked-up war you’ve ever seen, and we’re getting charged with murder for wasting a double agent.
It was enough to make you cry.
“Well, even the general couldn’t keep a lid on it. The press got a hold of the story and it hit the headlines all over back in the states.
There was a big public outcry over Americans getting jailed, even if we did kill someone. Hell, John Wayne had made a movie about the Green Berets, people liked us. And by then most everyone was sick of the war and it looked like we were just being set up, which we were, except no one in the public knew the real reason.
“So it didn’t work out quite like the general wanted. He didn’t get to see Colonel Rison and the rest of us go to jail, but he did at least get the colonel out of the way. Rison’s career was over. Never mind the murder, there was still the fact that he had lied to the general when he gave him the cover story. After all,” Skibicki’s voice dripped sarcasm, “we were only supposed-to kill people, not lie about it.
“The real thing that got us off, though, was what had started it in the first place — the CIA. They wouldn’t allow their people to testify, so that sort of stalled the whole thing out. After all, my defense was that I’d been told to waste the little motherfucker by the spook. There was no way the Company was going to put one of their own on the stand under oath.
“The general didn’t waste any time in trying to get Special Forces in-country under his control, though. Rison was still in the brig down in Saigon when the general appointed some leg colonel from his staff to take over the FOB. The son of a bitch tried to put on a green beret and not only was he not S-F-qualified, he wasn’t even jump-qualified.
The FOB sergeant major, old Terry Hollihan, a good man, had a fucking fit. He told the sorry SOB to take the goddamn jump wings and beret off.
The colonel then tried to get around S-F by going down to the LLDB jump school and getting airborne-qualified by doing a few chopper blasts. It was a real shame when he broke his leg on the third jump.”
Skibicki grinned a wicked smile.
“Of course that might have had something to do with Hollihan’s jumpmaster inspecting the colonel’s gear just prior to the jump. I guess the man was lucky he was alive. I’d have cut his damn static line.”
Skibicki’s face turned serious.
“But all that’s a roundabout way to get you to what you really want to know. We got off. They dropped the charges. But Rison knew that he had to do something or The Line would kill Special Forces.
“So he came to me and Harry and Lieutenant Colonel Killibrew and we talked about it. We needed something on them. Something to act as a countermeasure. There wasn’t much the officers could do. Rison had to go back to the States. His career was over. Killibrew was reassigned in e country. But before he left, Rison pulled a few strings and Harry and I disappeared into the Studies and Observation Group under deep cover with one last mission assigned to us by our former commander: get something on The Line.
“We went after the only lead we had, the assistant division commander of the Americal who had come to Rison in the beginning of the whole mess. We went down to the Americal AO and followed that officer everywhere. Hell, that unit was so screwed up, we could have wasted the man and the rest of the Division staff and it would have taken them a couple of days to realize it. We just put on regular fatigues, sewed an Americal patch on the shoulder and meandered around the big shit pile they called Division headquarters.
They had so many ash and trash men there, it was amazing they could put a squad in the field. Everyone just figured we belonged and no one questioned us.
“It took us five weeks before we got what we were looking for. Some V.I.P from the States flew in to Saigon and then came up to the Americal. He went straight to the ADC — didn’t even talk to the Division Commander, who spent most of his time drilling holes into the sky in his command and control helicopter, getting his rocks off listening on the radio to people dying five thousand feet below.
“We knew this V.I.P was something special. He wore unmarked fatigues and he was old. And he wore a big-ass ring on his left hand. Ain’t no mistaking one of those Hudson High rings. So I left Harry with the ADC and followed this guy back to Saigon. He was staying at the MACV compound in V.I.P quarters. I did some checking and found out his name: retired Brigadier General Benjamin Hooker on special assignment from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I told you about meeting him in’nam,” Skibicki added defensively as Boomer glared at him.
“Officially, he was retired and working for the Joint Chiefs. But in reality he was checking up on The Line’s little war.”
Boomer stood up and walked over to the window, then came back, his mind churning.
“What happ
ened?”
“I waited until Hooker was at a meeting at the MACV compound and I broke into his room. I was looking for anything. I still didn’t even really know about The Line or who Hooker was. I hit paydirt. Right there in his locked briefcase.”
“What did you get?” Boomer asked, unconsciously leaning forward.
“His diary. Starting from 1926, the year he entered the Academy through 1969.”
Boomer whistled.
“What did it say?” Maggie asked.
Skibicki held up a hand.
“Whoa, slow down. I only glanced at it to make sure it was something we could use.
I didn’t have much time. I got out of the BOQ and went over to a friend of mine who worked in an office there at one of the MACV buildings. I made a copy of the diary page by page, but I didn’t read it. I checked a few pages here and there and what I saw scared the shit out of me.
You won’t believe some of the stuff this guy was involved in.
“Anyway, that same day I packed the original in a secure pouch and gave it to a S-F guy I trusted who was rotating back to the States with orders to hand deliver it to Rison.
I sent the copy by FOB’ courier to Killebrew. Then I went back to the Americal headquarters, gathered Harry in, and we went back to CCN to our job fighting the real enemy.”
Skibicki fell silent.
Boomer waited a little bit, then felt compelled to ask questions.
“Is that what Trace is after? The original diary?”
“I don’t know,” Skibicki said.
“If Rison sent her for proof, I imagine that’s what he would send her after. It’s what he must have been using all these years to keep The Line off his back and from tearing Special Forces apart.”
“But why is it at West Point?” Boomer asked.
“The purloined letter theory,” Maggie suggested.
“You know, hide it in the last place people would look for it.
Right at the place it all started.”
“What did Rison do with the diary back in 1969?”
Boomer wanted to know.
“Why didn’t he expose The “Expose The Line?” Skibicki repeated incredulously.
“We were trying to save our ass and Special Forces’ existence. The best Rison hoped for was a truce. A Mexican standoff.”
“What about Killibrew? What did he do with his copy?”
“Killibrew didn’t do shit with his copy,” Skibicki said, and for a moment Boomer mistook the bitterness in Ski’s voice as being directed at his former executive officer.
“Lieutenant Colonel Killibrew is officially listed as missing in action. Two days after I got the copy of the diary to him, he disappeared while on a flight from Nha Trang to the FOB. I find it rather curious that the plane he was on was a contract one flown by a were in the employ of the Company.
The mere pilot was supposedly lost in the crash also, but I wasn’t very surprised when I just happened to spot him two years later in Bangkok while I was on R & R.”
“Did the mercenary tell you what happened to Killibrew?” ‘ Boomer asked.
“Before he died, he did.” Skibicki looked Boomer in the eyes.
“They killed Killibrew, and that’s one of the reasons we’ didn do’ anything. Rison took care of the original and took care of dealing with The Line. They backed off and we backed off and that’s the way it’s been for twenty-six years until you showed up here in Hawaii and Trace started writing her book. And now the Colonel’s dead too.”
FORT SHAFTER, HAWAII
2 DECEMBER
6:50 P.M.LOCAL 450 ZULU
Skibicki parked the jeep on Radar Hill Road, one street removed from the tunnel. In between the two streets a lava ridge separated Boomer and him from their destination.
“We’ll leave it here. I want to see if anyone’s in the tunnel first and going up a dead-end street isn’t my idea of going in smart,” Skibicki said.
“The fake DIA guys have to have our names by now from the cops so I wouldn’t be too surprised to see company waiting for us.”
Boomer didn’t say anything. His mind was occupied with thoughts of Trace and what had happened to her today. He was less than thrilled about her going to West Point tomorrow, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it and that was what rankled him the most. He had thought he’d be getting her out of harm’s way by sending her back to the States.
They went up the ridge, getting down on their bellies as they came up to the crest. Peering over the top, they could see that the parking lot in front of the TASOSC tunnel was empty. Skibicki scanned the surrounding terrain in the fading light.
“Looks clear. Let’s go.”
They stood and made their way down to the vault door.
Skibicki picked up the phone that was on the concrete wall to the left of the door.
“What are you doing?” Boomer asked.
“On the weekend and at the end of each duty day the tunnel alarm is activated by the last person to leave. I have to call the Provost Marshall’s office to have them turn the alarm off.”
Skibicki dialed the number and talked to the duty sergeant.
Then he punched in the code on the numeric keypad and pulled the door open. There was a rush of air as the pressure equalized and they stepped in, letting the door lock behind them.
Skibicki led the way to his desk where he pulled out a large keyring.
“Keys to everything in here,” he said.
“So the enlisted people can clean everyone’s office,” he added.
They went to the end of the first tunnel and he opened Colonel Coulder’s office. Boomer watched as Skibicki began spinning the dials on the secure filing cabinet behind the commander’s desk.
“You have his combination?”
“Vasquez is security manager for the tunnel. She has all the combinations,” Skibicki said as the tumblers clicked and he opened the top drawer.
“So, naturally, that means I have all the combinations.” He quickly began scanning the folders inside.
“Since Coulder was in on the brief with Decker, I have to assume he’s in on whatever’s going on.
He’s a ring-knocker, too.”
Boomer searched the colonel’s desk while Skibicki worked the files. He looked up when Skibicki slapped a folder down on the desk.
“The rest of the President’s schedule. What wasn’t in the OP ORDER in the conference room.”
“And?” Boomer asked.
“The night of the sixth. After the President attends the fundraiser downtown. A national command and control exercise is scheduled.”
Skibicki considered the information he had just read to Boomer.
“We’ve been focusing on the ceremony in Pearl Harbor, but that sounds like a good time for The Line to make its move. They’ll have the President on their turf.
Most likely on Looking Glass,” he added, referring to the modified 747, E-4B command and control aircraft.
“I heard one of them was flying in, but I assumed that was simply because the Joint Chiefs were coming.”
“Maybe,” Boomer said.
“But I’ve got to tell you, despite everything that’s happened the past several days, I find it hard to believe that there is a plot against the President.”
Skibicki threw down the folder.
“You’re the one who said your mission you were on in the Ukraine was a setup.”
“Yeah, but there’s a big difference between that and a plot directly against the President. In the history of our country there has never been—”
“Fuck!” Skibicki exclaimed.
“Listen, Boomer, get your head out of your ass. First off, we’ve had the military go against the government numerous times before. Remember MacArthur during the Korean War? Some of the generals during the Civil War?
“You may have been behind the fence at Bragg for the past couple of years,” Skibicki continued, “but I’ve been out here in the real Army. People are not happy. They haven’t
been happy for years. In fact, they’re downright pissed. Our benefits are getting eaten up by fat cats sitting in Washington. They’ll cut our benefits but not their own.
“We don’t have a contract guaranteeing any of the things we enlisted for. If Congress wants to change retirement benefits for the Army, they simply pass a law. As they did a couple of years ago by changing the base pay computation for retirement pay. Not a big deal by itself, but when you start adding in all the piddly shit over the past ten years, it comes to a lot. There’s been a betrayal of trust.
We put it on the line for this country, expecting that the benefits we enlisted under would be there when we retired and they’re not.”
Skibicki was on a roll. Boomer had never seem him so agitated.
“The President’s flying out here to make a speech at Pearl Harbor, over the graves of men who died because their peacetime military had been cut to the bone after World War I. It’s not so different today.
“Add it up. Boomer. The cutbacks. Hard Glass getting sliced. The Backfire incident. The bullshit missions that have killed soldiers and kept thousands away from their families for months on end: Bosnia, Somalia, Haiti. Pile on top of all that the MRA and you have a pile of C-4 just waiting for a fuse to be dropped in and ignited.
“The thing you’ve got to accept. Boomer, is that people are scared,” Skibicki said.
“They will never admit it, but they are. They’re threatened — from the Joint Chiefs down to the lowest snuffy. Scared people don’t act according to logic. And sometimes they act in ways that are destructive all around. That’s what I think we’re seeing here.”
“You seem to have thought about this a lot,” Boomer said.
“I haven’t exactly been overwhelmed with work here the past year or so,” Skibicki said.
Both their heads snapped up as they felt the air pressure change.
Boomer had his Browning High Power out.
“It’s probably Vasquez,” Skibicki said, but he had a gun in his own hand also. They waited until a figure turned the corner at the end of tunnel one. They both relaxed as they recognized the newcomer.
Vasquez was wearing biker shorts and a sleeveless shirt, both of which accented the sleek lines of her sculpted muscles, but her tousled hair and drawn face looked like she had had a rough night. She had a can of soda in her hand and popped the top as she entered Coulder’s office.
