Black Ops Bundle: Volume One

by Allan Leverone

  “It most certainly would,” Anatoli agreed.

  “What is next? Find out where this Shane Rowley lives and force him to lead us to the girl?”

  “We could do that,” Anatoli said, “but why wait to take him at his home? This is a matter of no small importance, and, according to Colonel Kopalev, it is extremely time-critical. We know where and how Mr. Rowley will be spending his morning. Our instructions are to retrieve the letter absolutely as soon as possible. Since we don’t know when Shane Rowley will be alone again, I suggest we pay these investigators a visit and remove Mr. Rowley from his meeting. Once we have secured Rowley, we can find a nice, secluded location—that shouldn’t be difficult, there is nothing much in this wasteland but trees—and extract the information we need. Now, let us finish our delicious breakfast. It seems this will be a busy day.”

  23

  May 31, 1987

  8:20 a.m.

  Bangor, Maine

  Tracie’s eyes fluttered open and she felt a rush of intense panic. She saw no one. Recognized nothing. Had no idea where she was or how she had gotten here.

  She sat bolt upright in a strange bed, feeling stiff and sore, and then the memories came rushing back: Major Mitchell shooting his fellow B-52 crewmembers, Tracie returning fire and putting Mitchell down, the desperate attempt by a dying Major Stan Wilczynski to land the big jet in Bangor, Maine, the subsequent plane crash, and her rescue by air traffic controller Shane Rowley, who brought her to his apartment and cleaned and bandaged her injured leg.

  Then she had fallen asleep in his bed. She started to panic again as she looked for the letter she had to deliver to President Reagan from Mikhail Gorbachev. She snatched up her pillow, and there it was where she’d stuffed it, crumpled and sweat-stained, flecks of blood splattered across it.

  She grabbed it with a sigh of relief and then looked around, wondering about the time. A digital clock-radio on a dresser on the far side of the room said eight twenty. Tracie tried to remember the last time she had slept this late and couldn’t. Stretching, she eased off the side of the bed and gingerly placed a little weight on her injured leg. Her thigh throbbed but the pain was bearable. She leaned more firmly and finally took a couple of shuffling steps toward the bedroom door.

  Painful but not overwhelmingly so.

  She poked her head into the short hallway and looked around, seeing no one. She smelled fresh coffee and her stomach rumbled. Shane must be in the kitchen. She decided to take advantage of the opportunity for a shower and slipped into the bathroom. Splotches of dried blood covered her arms and she could feel more blood flaking off her face. Her hair was matted and stringy. She felt as though she had crawled through a mud puddle the size of a football field.

  She closed the bathroom door, put the letter on top of the toilet tank, and undressed, casting a critical eye at the makeshift patch job Shane Rowley had done on her leg last night, pleased to see only a slight discoloration of the Ace bandage at the site of the injury. There was no oozing or seeping of blood.

  She knew she should remove the bandage and clean the wound again, but didn’t want to take the time now. She’d do it later.

  Tracie eased into the shower, holding her injured leg awkwardly out of the tub in an effort to keep the bandage dry. It was uncomfortable standing like that, hard to keep her balance, but she turned the hot water up as high as she could stand, then showered quickly. She washed her hair with some shampoo she found in a hanging shower caddy and then got out, dripping water all over Shane’s floor while she searched for a towel.

  She found a stack of clean bath towels in a cabinet under the sink, dried off, and wrapped one around her body, now clean and pink from the hot shower. She wasn’t looking forward to getting back into her filthy clothes, but didn’t have much choice—her travel bag had been lost in the crash. She decided to delay the inevitable, instead picking the precious envelope up off the toilet tank, opening the bathroom door and limping down the hallway in search of the coffee.

  And, she had to admit, Shane Rowley.

  The kitchen was empty. So was the living room. A couple of blankets had been thrown carelessly to one side of the couch and a pillow lay on the far end. It was obvious Rowley had slept here, but Tracie’s assumption that her rescuer was anywhere in the apartment had been off the mark. She turned and wandered into the kitchen, finding a pile of neatly folded clothing on the counter. A handwritten note had been placed atop the clothes.

  Tracie furrowed her brow and unfolded the note. Good morning, Tracie, it read. I hope you’re feeling a little better. Sorry I’m not here, but I got called in to work. I have to talk to the NTSB investigators about the crash. They’re going to want to talk to you, too, but you looked so exhausted last night that I didn’t have the heart to wake you up before I left. The bureaucrats can wait.

  The coffee is fresh, and the water is hot if you’d like to shower. I made the assumption you’ll want clean clothes, so I dug out some of the stuff my ex-wife left behind in her rush to escape her boring husband and the backwoods of Bangor, Maine. You’re probably not exactly the same size, but I’m guessing it will fit okay. I have a feeling you could wear just about anything and look stunning.

  Make yourself at home, and if you’re so inclined, I would love to help you figure out your next move when I get back. If you decide to hit the road before I return, good luck to you, and thanks for my most interesting Saturday night ever.

  Shane

  Tracie finished reading, then rummaged around in the cupboard above the counter until she found a mug and poured herself a cup of coffee. She stood at the counter sipping it as she read the note a second time. I have a feeling you could wear just about anything and look stunning.

  She found herself smiling as she thought about the handsome young air traffic controller, and then shook her head at her foolishness. Something explosive was contained in the envelope she held in her hand, something someone was willing to go to great lengths to destroy.

  She sat down at Shane Rowley’s tiny kitchen table, thinking about secret communications and international diplomacy and who might have the desire—and more importantly, the ability—to commit murder in the interest of squelching a communique that only a handful of people in the world even knew existed. There seemed to be only one possibility, and if she was right, that possibility was terrifying.

  Tracie knew she needed to contact her handler, and she needed to do it before speaking to anyone at the NTSB, or even anyone from the Air Force. A U.S. military officer had brought down that jet last night and had murdered two fellow officers in cold blood, and the only entity Tracie could think of that possessed the reach to accomplish that—and the desire to do so—was the KGB.

  She limped back into the living room and flipped on Shane’s television. A local news reporter was doing a live broadcast from Bangor International Airport on last night’s B-52 crash, and in the lower right corner of the screen was a picture of Shane. “Our source tells us this man, Shane Rowley, an air traffic controller living here in Bangor, was on his way to work at the time of the crash and was able to rescue the as-yet unidentified woman. Her condition and whereabouts, as well as the whereabouts of Rowley, are at this time unknown, but our source tells us Mr. Rowley is scheduled to meet with NTSB investigators as well as representatives of the Air Force at nine a.m. at the control tower building here at BIA to assist in the investigation. More on this story as it develops. Jane Finneran, WBGR News 9.”

  Tracie stared, her heart sinking. Shane had called a supervisor last night to explain why he wasn’t at work, and that person, or someone close to that person, must have leaked details to the press.

  This was bad. She looked from the television to the letter still clutched in her hand. Whether it was the KGB or some other entity determined to prevent the communique from reaching President Reagan, they would have no reason to stop until they accomplished their goal, not after committing multiple murders and destroying an airplane worth tens of millions of dollars
.

  A chill ran down her spine. She glanced at a wall clock hanging over the TV. 8:50 a.m. She hurried to the pile of clothing in the kitchen, dropped her towel onto the floor, and strapped her backup weapon—now the only gun she had left, her main weapon had been lost in the B-52 crash—to her ankle in its holster. Then she stepped into the underwear, jeans and sweater as quickly as she could manage. The clothes were a little loose but would have to do for now.

  She took another look at the clock in the living room. Its hands seemed to be moving at double speed. There was a lot to do. She only hoped she wasn’t too late.

  24

  May 31, 1987

  8:50 a.m.

  Bangor, Maine

  Shane drove along the access road leading to the air traffic control facility at Bangor International Airport, a bumpy mess consisting of crumbling chunks of decades-old pavement that had at one time made up the runways and taxiways of the old Dow Air Force base. The field had originally been a small civil airport, but had seen three runways hastily constructed at the onset of World War Two, and then a massive 11,400-foot runway built during the darkest days of the Cold War. Dow had been used as a Strategic Air Command Base for two decades, launching B-52s and other military aircraft until its decommissioning in 1968.

  After it was taken over as a civilian airfield and renamed Bangor International, almost all of the runways and taxiways had been closed, deemed too expensive to maintain. The one remaining runway was long enough to accept any aircraft in the world, civilian or military, including the space shuttle.

  Many of those closed runways and taxiways were turned into access roads, resulting in some of the widest, if bumpiest, motorways a Maine driver would ever utilize. It was on one of these long-ago taxiways Shane was now bouncing along in his Volkswagen. The control tower loomed in the distance, ancient and drafty, sticking into the air like a giant’s middle finger. Next to the control tower was a base building, as old as the tower, which housed the TRACON—the terminal radar approach control facility—in addition to offices and conference rooms.

  About fifty yards from the facility, a Bangor Police Department officer had angled his cruiser across the pavement. The vehicle didn’t come close to blocking the wide access road, but Shane decided the sight of the officer standing next to his cruiser, hand resting lightly on the butt of his service weapon, made perfectly clear anyone approaching had better stop.

  Shane eased up next to the cruiser. Mirrored sunglasses hid the cop’s eyes and his face was impassive. He shook his head. “Sorry, pal, no access today.”

  Shane held his government ID up for the officer’s inspection. “I’m expected. My name is Shane Rowley. I work here, and I’ve come to assist in the accident investigation.”

  “Hold on,” the cop said, and opened the cruiser’s door, picked up a clipboard from the front seat, and glanced at it. After a moment he looked again at Shane’s ID, then nodded, his face still a mask. “Go right on ahead, sir.”

  Shane, curious, asked, “Have you had a lot of people trying to get up here?”

  A trace of a smile flitted across the cop’s face. “Not since I turned away the first couple of media vans. I’m sure they’re waiting until I get pulled out of here, then they’ll be on you guys like flies on shit.”

  Shane chuckled. “Don’t be afraid to shoot ’em if you have to.”

  As he was pulling away, he heard the cop mutter, “I wish.”

  ***

  The parking lot was almost full, with a half-dozen or so cars Shane didn’t recognize taking up the few available spaces. He found a spot close to the outer edge and parked, a light breeze ruffling his hair as he crossed the lot to the base building’s front entrance. He pulled open the heavy metal door and entered the building.

  A long hallway bisected the interior, with a row of doors running down each side. Immediately to the right was a small kitchen area, equipped with an ancient oven, a slightly newer microwave, a dual-tub sink, a coffeemaker, and a small round table nobody ever used. Twenty feet beyond the kitchen on the right a doorway opened into the radar control room, where on a typical workday a controller would spend half his time, with the other half spent working upstairs in the control tower.

  On the left side of the hallway were a series of administrative offices: first came the secretary’s, occupied during weekday business hours by a sweet, white-haired lady named Mrs. Sanderson, who was maybe sixty years old and had worked at the facility as long as anyone could remember. This being a Sunday morning, her office was empty.

  Beyond Mrs. Sanderson’s office were aligned the rest of the staff offices, beginning with that of the air traffic manager, Marty Hall. Hall’s name was just similar enough to the host of the popular game show Let’s Make a Deal, Monty Hall, that it was his fate to be forever known as Monty—at least when he wasn’t around.

  Shane lifted the carafe off the Mr. Coffee machine and sniffed warily. He could really use another cup of coffee, but the stuff inside the facility’s pot was usually so old it had the consistency and taste of used motor oil. Today was no exception, and Shane grimaced and returned the carafe to the hot plate. He decided he wasn’t that desperate for caffeine.

  He left the kitchen and wandered down the hallway, moving toward the sound of voices coming from Marty Hall’s office. He stopped at the open doorway and glanced inside. The facility manager was sitting behind his desk, and a half-dozen people Shane did not recognize were seated in folding metal chairs arranged in a semicircle around Hall’s desk. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, and for a moment no one noticed Shane.

  When it seemed like this stalemate might go on forever, and mindful that this was his day off, Shane cleared his throat. Finally Marty Hall noticed him and waved him in. Everyone stopped talking and turned to stare at the new arrival. Hall said, “Gentlemen, this is my controller, Shane Rowley, the man who witnessed the crash while on his way to work last night.”

  Shane nodded at the group while Hall continued. “Shane, this is the NTSB Accident Investigation team. They only just arrived about fifteen minutes ago. I’ll let each member of the team introduce himself.”

  They all did, Shane shaking hands with each in turn, and then the lead investigator pointed to an empty chair and said, “We’re still awaiting the arrival of the Air Force representatives. Obviously, they wouldn’t be part of the investigation if a military aircraft hadn’t been involved, but it’s their airplane and they will take part as well. It will undoubtedly complicate matters, but we welcome their involvement.”

  Shane sat, amused. It was plain by the tone of the investigator’s voice that he was anything but welcoming of more investigators, but that he knew full well there was nothing he could do about it. “How long before you expect the Air Force guys to show up?” Shane asked, picturing Tracie Tanner fast asleep in his bed back home. He felt a strong attraction to the beautiful—if enigmatic—young woman, not that he expected anything to come of it. She had made abundantly clear her desire to leave Bangor in her rearview mirror, and as soon as possible. But if nothing else, he wanted to see her one more time to say goodbye in person, and the longer this interview took, the less likely that was to happen.

  “They’ll be here soon,” the lead investigator said, glancing at his watch. Shane noticed for the first time that each of the men surrounding Hall’s desk had a plastic nameplate pinned to the lapel of his suit, like children on the first day of school, and the man addressing him was named Paul Fiore. “The Air Force investigators are flying here from Andrews Air Force Base and are in the air as we speak. But I’d like to start now and then catch the other folks up when they arrive. You’ll probably have to go over your statement more than once, but my guess is you’re going to be telling the story a few times, anyway.”

  “That’s fine,” Shane said, although it really wasn’t. There was no way he was going to get out of here any time soon.

  “So,” Fiore said, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. “Ta
ke it from the top. You were driving to work last night and the damned B-52 fell out of the sky next to you?”

  “Not exactly,” Shane said. “This part of Maine is so heavily wooded I didn’t actually see the airplane crash. I caught a flash of it almost directly overhead, much too low to be on a normal approach to Bangor, and then it was gone. A second or two later—barely enough time to register what I had seen—I heard and felt the impact and knew immediately what had happened. That was when I pulled my car to the side of the road and went into the woods to see if I could find the accident site.”

  The questioning continued, each investigator asking for clarification of various points at various times. After maybe twenty minutes, Fiore got around to the subject Shane had expected him to address right off the bat: “I understand you pulled a survivor out of the wreckage. I admire your bravery, Mr. Rowley. It is imperative we speak to this young woman also, and as soon as possible. We’ve checked all of the hospitals within a fifty-mile radius of Bangor and no one has any record of her. Where is she now?”

  This was the question Shane had been dreading. He understood the need of the investigators to question her. After all, who better to describe the circumstances of an airplane crash than someone who had been aboard the plane? But by the same token, the girl had made it quite clear she was in serious trouble and did not want to be found.

  Shane didn’t believe for a second Tracie Tanner had done anything to contribute to that B-52 going down, but he also wasn’t about to admit the subject of their search was even now sleeping, injured, in his bed. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, still with no idea what he would say, when a loud Crash! out in the hallway diverted everyone’s attention.

  And all hell broke loose.

  Shane craned his head toward the door, as did everyone in the room, just in time to see fellow controller Jimmy Roberts, on duty in the radar room this morning, stomp angrily past the office door in the direction of the facility entrance. “Who the hell do you think you are? And what the hell is up with all the noise?” he asked, continuing down the hallway and disappearing from view.