As Scott had entered the steel vault, he had been met by an armed sentry—a Marine armed with a 9mm Beretta in a shoulder holster—behind a small, green-tinted Plexiglas opening. The lines of his green utility clothing betrayed a bulletproof vest beneath.
He identified himself crisply to the Marine.
“I need to see additional photo verification.”
“You have the eye scan.”
“Yes, sir…but this briefing has the highest classification—top secret, need to know only, SCI.” No superior would complain if the sentry refused to allow someone into the top secret facility who lacked all the proper identification. To enter, even the most senior executive at Defense had to comply with all requirements.
Scott pulled out his identification card. The sentry inserted it into a scanner.
“Now, sir, please place your right hand here.”
Scott put his hand onto a small black box. A red light flashed as the machine hummed and he heard a click as the system registered its approval.
“You’re clear, sir. You’re to go to the conference room, third door on the left. Admiral Krowl is waiting for you.”
“Thank you, Marine.”
Scott had walked the short distance down the small hallway to another set of steel doors. As he stepped near the front of the third door and his foot touched a thick gray carpet pad, he heard another click.
Above the door was a lit sign in a small metal box: TS…SCI…Conference in Session.
A voice came over a wall speaker. “Yes?”
“James Scott, CIA.”
The second door clicked.
A short, graying, heavyset man in an admiral’s uniform stood just inside. His thin, round gold-metal eyeglasses accentuated coal-black eyes and eyebrows.
“Scott, I’m Rear Admiral Julius Krowl, repping the Joint Chiefs. This is General Louis McCain of the Marine Corps and Mark Wolf of DIA.” The Defense Intelligence Agency, or DIA, was one of the U.S. military’s main providers of intelligence, much of it obtained from spy satellites. DIA was the eavesdropper capable of snooping electronically anywhere in the world. Telephone conversations, whether from landlines, cell phones, or satellite phones, fell within the electronic scope of DIA surveillance, as did emails.
McCain, a three-star general, commanded the Marine Forces Reserve, more commonly referred to as MAR FOR RES. Based in New Orleans, the entire reserve force of the Marine Corps was under his control. Though the Reserves were playing a greater role nowadays in frontline defense, it was unusual for a MAR FOR RES rep to be at such a meeting. Scott knew, however, why the reserve commander’s attendance was appropriate.
The admiral pointed to a high-backed leather executive chair, one of four surrounding a small shiny, fine-grained, reddish-brown mahogany table. Scott sat down, taking in his surroundings: A small room with red striped drapes on three walls, there to further reduce sound and obscure any conversations. Sounds seemed to drop off at the end of each spoken sentence. On the fourth wall hung three screens surrounded by drapes. And above the screens were six clocks, one marked Seoul, another Honolulu, another Washington, another Beijing, and the last two London and Moscow.
“Mr. Scott,” said Krowl, “Admiral Williams, Commander of USPACON, is with us by satellite.” USPACON, short for U.S. Pacific Command, was responsible for all Defense Department matters in the Pacific.
On one of the screens appeared a four-star Navy admiral with graying, close-cropped hair and a well-tanned face. “Hello, gentlemen,” said Admiral Williams. Based in Hawaii, he was the lead commander in any crisis that might occur in that part of the world. His was an enviable job. Admirals throughout the Navy fought for the chance to be Commander, USPACON. With hot spots such as China, North Korea, Pakistan, Vietnam, India, Cambodia, and the Spratly Islands within his purview, Admiral Williams was guaranteed plenty of CNN exposure. Only Central Command provided commanders more media attention. With enormous areas of ocean lying within the Pacific Command, the post always had gone to an admiral.
“Gentlemen,” Krowl said curtly, “there are to be no notes. This is need-to-know only.” He didn’t care about Wolf or Scott, and considered McCain no threat. “Admiral Williams, naturally you’re exempted, sir.”
Krowl had turned to Scott. “Now, Mr. Scott, what is so urgent that we needed to get together?”
“Admiral, the Yongbyon project has gained new life. After the Taepodong-2 failure, they changed their team, acquiring someone who we believe can put it all together for the first time, and he has gone straight to the multi-stage next generation. It will have a range of ten thousand-plus nautical miles and carry a five-hundred-plus load.”
“Shit,” Williams muttered.
“He’s also working on a sixth-generation weapon.”
Silence hit the room. Everyone knew the potential impact of a soon-to-be operational missile with a range that crossed the Pacific. Virtually every city in the continental United States would be within its reach. Several sixth-generation nuclear weapons could be carried by a 500-kilogram load-capacity missile.
And that was how Scott had found himself here, with Admiral Krowl, in this small town, looking for the one man who could pull off the mission at hand.
Chapter 3
A Courthouse in Vienna, Georgia
As everyone in the courtroom stood, Judge Anderson Roamer, a barrel-chested bull of a man with dark, thick horn-rimmed glasses, took the bench, sitting well above the floor of the cavernous old courtroom. The courthouse, built with the detailed craftsmanship of the 1930s, now had large, hand-sized strips of paint peeling off the walls and ceilings.
After shuffling some papers, Judge Roamer looked down at the two attorneys.
He pushed his glasses up with a finger, stained brown from years of smoking. “We have heard from the defense. Is the State ready for closing argument?”
Will Parker stood up. “The State is ready, Your Honor.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Parker.”
“Folks,” said Will to the jury, “we just met two days ago, so let me reintroduce myself—I’m William Parker.”
As he spoke, a door squeaked open in the rear of the courtroom. Everyone glanced toward the two dark-suited men who entered. The older one sat in the last row of benches—a balding head, heavy, dark eyebrows, and bright gold glasses that framed a pair of dark eyes. The other man, who had a military-style haircut, wore dark sunglasses even inside the courtroom.
Will turned back to the jury. He looked each juror in the eye through thin glasses that framed his own sky-blue eyes and created the impression of a teacher. This, in contrast to his demeanor, which seemed more like that of a neighbor talking over a fence. His blond-brown hair had a high part, and his tall, athletic frame dominated the jury box. A small scar over his left eye did more to accent his face than to distract. Will had a calm presence, speaking with a voice more of a judge than a prosecutor, more of a general than a sergeant.
“I was born in this town. Except for school, the Marine Corps, and the Gulf, I have stayed in this town. Like each of you, I care for this town and the people who live their lives here.” His voice was quiet but sincere. He smiled and as he did, a small dimple appeared on his cheek.
Will turned to the table across from the jury box and picked up a small, square black object with a short, slender black wire attached. The wire, like an antenna, extended an inch from the object. He slipped it into his pocket, turned back to the jury, and looked directly at one juror.
“This case has been about the illegal transport and offer for sale of an illegal substance—four hundred kilos of cocaine, to be exact,” said Will. “Using recorded conversations, we have proven that this defendant, David Ikins, possessed cocaine when he secretly flew into the Dooly County airport in the early morning hours of July third—on a twin-engine Cessna 401 seen in a coastal airport in Colombia, South America, the day before. And we
have shown that the defendant flew the drugs here, to our country, to our home, for the purpose of selling them to Ham Aultman.”
Will turned toward a thin man in the seats beyond the trial area. Ham Aultman, dark and ill-shaven, sank into his seat as the courtroom’s attention shifted to him. His tie crumpled up the collar of his off-white shirt like a laundry bag pulled too tight. Oversized clothes notwithstanding, Ham had apparently done his best to clean up for court.
“Ham Aultman is a convicted felon…a thief…a drug dealer. Not someone I especially like, but in this particular instance, he is the state informant who made this case. Before the defendant landed, Aultman had been caught in a drug bust. As soon as he was booked on that charge, Aultman, to gain leniency, bailed on the Ikins scheme and agreed to wear a wire. In reality, he was merely a mule for some of the kilos. He didn’t have the financing or the nerve for such a big load, so he squealed on his deliveryman—the next one up the ladder. The U.S. Attorney in Macon saved Aultman several decades in prison in return for his cooperation in the much bigger Ikins case before you.”
Ikins, with long, dark hair tied in a ponytail, glared at Will, who returned the look. The sharp, custom-tailored attorney sitting on Ikins’s side stared forward, trying to ignore Will’s glare and the jury’s attention.
“And,” continued Will, “Mr. Writesworth has done an excellent job as defense counsel in showing each of us that Aultman is, in all likelihood, a dislikeable, unbelievable person. But this is not about your believing Ham Aultman or his word under oath.”
With that, Will turned back to his table, walked over to the low black box, and flipped a red switch. A clear, audible voice emerged—his own, from a few minutes earlier. “This case has been about the illegal transport and offer for sale of an illegal substance—four hundred kilos of cocaine, to be exact.” Several of the jurors smiled.
Will flipped off the play button. “This case is about the reliability and credibility of modern electronics. If you doubt the reliability or credibility of our recordings, then you need to return your verdict for the defendant. Otherwise, you need to find for the State.” Will stopped at the corner of his table and turned back to the jury. “Thank you.”
Judge Roamer straightened in his chair, and the jurors shifted their attention to the bench.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the judge, “I have the responsibility to give you instructions on the law, or as we call it, the charge of the court. Before doing that, though, I must ask the marshal to gather the evidence, and I will need to talk briefly to the attorneys. Since it’s nearing lunch hour, I’m going to call a recess at this time and we’ll reconvene at one-thirty. Please do not discuss this case with anyone, or even with each other, until I tell you to do so.
“Marshal, you may take custody of the defendant. We are in recess until one-thirty.” Judge Roamer cracked his gavel, and the jury left. He turned to the lawyers. “Gentlemen, I need your proposed instructions of law before lunch. Any questions?”
“No, Your Honor,” the two attorneys said in near unison.
“I’ll see you back here at one-fifteen.” And with that, Roamer slid his chair back and quickly left the courtroom. The marshal touched the defendant on his shoulder. Ikins stood and walked to the side door.
“Clark,” Will said to the young court reporter sitting beside the judge’s bench, “I’m going up to my office.” Clark Ashby was a tanned, freckled redhead with a petite but well-shaped body—a runner who took pride in her ability to outrun most of her competitors. Some thought she had taken up running with a specific purpose in mind. District Attorney Parker was known for his success in marathons. Looking into Will’s eyes, she did not disguise her thoughts.
“If that’s an invitation, I’ll be happy to join you.”
As he smiled, the sly dimple again showed on his face. “Well, if I ever want to review a trial transcript in detail, I’ll do it with only one court reporter.”
“I was hoping for more than a transcript…”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Will, brushing back the hair from his forehead. “I’ll chill a bottle of champagne and move some of the appellate briefs off my desk.” He enjoyed the banter.
“Will…” Clark paused. She enjoyed this, too.
He turned at the door. “Yes?”
She laughed but said nothing. She might just come by his office—to see if the champagne was there or the desk had been cleared. He knew she didn’t expect either to be true. Perhaps a cold Coke, though.
Will all but hopped up the two flights of stairs to his office. Always proud of keeping in shape, he had just won his second marathon—a much longer distance than the races he won in college. The Marine Corps had instilled in him the pride of accomplishing any challenge he gave himself, and running the 26.2 miles in a marathon had become the challenge.
After many years of successfully prosecuting criminal cases, Will still wanted challenges. He had seen the dregs of society—and sent many of them to jail—but others constantly took their place. The process had become monotonous, repetitious. He would see the same criminals sentenced, serve part of their time, then commit the next crime while on release. A constant cycle of catch, try, and release, then catch again. The game had become boring. Will knew the criminal code better than anyone in the state, but he would never find a way to truly win it.
The closest thing he had to a real victory was his reputation for successful convictions. Drug dealers had begun to avoid Vienna. Most would skirt the town and Dooly County altogether just to avoid him. But newcomers still broke the law in Dooly County. The county had U.S. Interstate 75, a direct connector from Florida to the north, so the pipeline continued to flow.
Running had become Will’s new form of competition. His first marathon, for which he’d trained two years, had pushed him to the edge, the way prosecuting criminals no longer did. He had always achieved a first-class score on his Marine fitness tests, but the marathon tested his ability to endure the pain and challenge of a two-hour-plus race. After ten miles, the salt would hit his eyes; fifteen miles and he would see runners stop, withering in pain. The best marathoners tended to be thin, wiry small men, but Will, an exception, was larger and more muscular. It was his inner strength, he believed, which often surprised his competitors at the twenty-mile mark, where he passed many of them on the way to the finish line.
As he passed through the front door of his office, his secretary was standing up.
“What’s going on?” Will asked.
Connie Graham, who’d worked for Will for several years now, had seen him threatened by some of the worst criminals in Georgia. As a district attorney, he had prosecuted and put more than twenty on death row. Will was not easily excited and, after a dozen of these threats, neither was Connie. But her face had a different look now.
“There are two very strange men waiting for you in your office.”
“What do you mean by strange?”
“Definitely not from Vienna—or Georgia, for that matter. One has a different accent. The heavier one acts like he’s doing his best just trying to be nice. He asked for a cup of coffee and then basically ordered me to put two scoops of sugar in it. I thought they were some of your Marine buddies.”
“What do they want?”
“They asked to meet with you privately for a minute, so I put them in your office.”
“Thanks,” said Will. “Send the Ikins jury instructions down to Judge Roamer and don’t disturb me unless he calls.”
Chapter 4
The District Attorney’s Office
As Will stepped through the door marked District Attorney—Private, the two men turned around. The older one had been looking at a wall photograph of Will, taken with his ANGLICO unit in Iraq. ANGLICO, short for Air Naval Gunfire Liaison Company, was a small, elite Marine unit assigned the job of calling in instructions for specific naval gunfire targets. Often, W
ill’s team, a small patrol of six Marines, would travel well beyond the front lines, deep into the enemy’s territory. Usually, they were dropped there, under cover of darkness, by Marine helicopters, or else they parachuted in from AC-130 aircraft.
“Colonel Parker?”
“Yes.” Will immediately knew the men were not here on a criminal matter. In his civilian world, he was rarely, if ever, addressed as Colonel.
“I’m Admiral Krowl and this is Mr. Scott.”
As the introduction was being made, the dark, younger man slid past Will, closed the door, and turned the lock. Will’s curiosity went up another notch.
“What can I do for you?”
Scott pulled out a brown folder with a striped, bright red cover marked Top Secret.
Krowl pulled up his chair.
“Before I answer that, Mr. Scott needs to ask you a few questions. This won’t take a lot of time, but the matter is quite sensitive. I hope you won’t mind.”
Will tried to place the name Krowl. When he went through SEAL training in San Diego, he had heard about a former Navy SEAL admiral named Krowl, who was not well regarded. Will had been surprised to hear SEALs disparage an admiral and fellow SEAL, which was why the name must have stuck in his mind.
“Forgive me for these simple questions,” Scott said as he opened up the folder. “You are Colonel William Parker, United States Marine Corps Reserve, Social Security number 140-44-4802?”
Will noticed Scott’s slight British accent. “Yes.”
“You’re forty-two.”
“Yes.”
Scott raised his eyebrows. Will knew why: He was one of the youngest colonels in the Marine Reserves.
“Do you have your common access card with you, Colonel?”
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