Will pulled out his CAC identification card and handed it to Scott.
Scott next reached to his chair and took a black briefcase from the floor, which he opened, revealing a slim, metallic-looking computer inside. Scott opened the computer, pushed a button, typed in a code, and then passed Will’s identification card through a slot on the machine. Will had been issued the new identification card—a card with a holographic seal of the United States and, more importantly, an encoded chip that held every essential detail about him as a Marine.
“Colonel, you attended college as an undergraduate at the School of International Service at American University in Washington, D.C.?”
“Yes.”
“You speak Spanish and Russian fluently and graduated with honors with a degree in international service?”
“Yes.”
“And at the Defense Language School you picked up Mandarin and Arabic.”
“Correct.” Will knew that this assortment of language skills made him one of less than half a dozen who were on active duty and had the same capability.
“You were raised in Georgia.”
“Yes.”
“Both parents lost in an airplane crash.”
“Yes.”
In 1988, for their wedding anniversary, Will’s parents had gone to London for a week. The 747 crash gave Will nightmares for years, and he’d developed the lifelong habit of showing little emotion.
It was interesting, he thought, that the record only showed them as victims of an airplane crash.
“During your freshman year, you roomed at McDowell Hall, a freshman dormitory on campus?”
“Yes.”
“You lived on the second floor?”
“Yes…” Will thought he knew his résumé well, but these seemingly insignificant facts had him puzzled. Who would track this kind of information, and why on earth would it matter?
“You served with the First Marine Division, with an initial primary military occupational specialty of 0802—artillery officer?”
“Yes.”
“You served as a forward observer with Fox Battery 2/11?”
“Yes.”
“And then attached to First Force Recon and then First ANGLICO?”
“Yes.”
“You served as an Arctic survival instructor at the Advanced Mountain Warfare Training School in Bridgeport, California?”
“Yes.”
As to Bridgeport, they were light on their information. Will had been the Marine Corps’ expert on cold weather survival and warfare. During the years following Vietnam, this was a rare specialty. Well into the 1980s, the Marine Corps focused on jungle warfare, as did all the services. But one general at 1st Marine Division had recognized that the Marine Corps needed to have expertise in other environments. The Korean War veteran had remembered the hundreds of casualties from the cold of the peninsula and was determined that young Marines would be well-prepared for all types of climates.
“Did you undergo training also at Fort Greely in Alaska?”
“Yes.”
A young captain at the time, Will was chosen the Marine expert on cold weather environments because of his reputation as an outdoorsman capable of survival in any circumstance. Pulled out of the 1st Marine Division, he’d been sent, almost alone, to the Arctic survival course at Fort Greely, Alaska for several months of deep-winter training.
At Fort Greely, Will had learned to live off the land in temperatures reaching fifty, sixty, and sometimes seventy degrees below zero. Surviving in ice caves stuffed with pine boughs, he would disappear for days at a time, living off the resources of the land.
The senior officer of the Army school loved to pick on the young Marine. Once, he had a CH-47 helicopter carry Parker and two other Marine lieutenants deep into the Arctic Circle. They were given the barest of supplies and given a week to return to base over the hundred miles of snow and ice. Parker’s team returned in two days.
An expert skier and an experienced mountaineer, Will knew how to get around in a cold, mountain environment.
“At First Force you were a platoon commander and at First ANGLICO you were a firepower control team leader?”
“Only for a brief time.”
“Long enough that you were awarded two Purple Hearts and a LOM with V.”
The last comment touched a nerve and Will felt his face flush. The original decoration had been downgraded after a run-in with a general at a combat operations center.
“Would you agree with the following characterization? Your record reflects a highly resourceful Marine who prefers lone wolf or small-unit type of operations.”
“Yes, sir.” Will considered the last comment his badge of honor. “Excuse me, sir,” he said to the admiral. “I know my résumé. What’s this all about? And who’s this fellow asking all these questions?”
“Mr. Scott works for a branch of the U.S. government. At present, that is all you need to know. As to why we are here, let me ask you one other question.” Krowl paused intentionally to create suspense and to gauge the impact on Will. “Do you remember a man named Peter Nampo?”
This was the last name Will ever expected to hear, particularly from a U.S. Navy admiral. Peter Nampo had had no connection to Will’s legal career, or, for that matter, his Marine career. It was also a name he’d have preferred never to hear again.
“I knew Peter Nampo.” As an American University freshman, Will had been assigned Nampo as a roommate in McDowell Hall. Peter Nampo was the son of a Japanese executive who had made a fortune in cigarettes. Nampo’s father’s family was ch’ongryong. The ch’ongryong, a large and growing people of Japan, were historic descendants of Korea, many of whom kept their original family ties. Many had gone on to great financial success in Japan.
Nampo was there to learn life in America. He was to become an engineer, but the father wanted him to experience a year or more in America and, with American University being in the capital, it seemed best. He was to learn capitalism.
Peter Nampo, however, was no capitalist. For whatever reason, Nampo hated his millionaire father and he elected to show it by rebelling in a fairly overt manner, constantly criticizing America and the American way of life.
It didn’t take Will long to realize that he and Nampo were like oil and water. Before the freshman year was half done, Nampo had moved out of the room and then disappeared. The move may have come just in time, too. Will later learned that Nampo, increasingly active in his subversive efforts, had been under FBI investigation and about to be deported.
“Engineering nerd” was another apt description of Nampo. He had spent countless hours working with computers, sometimes well into the early-morning hours, and he had a bright, scientific mind. He was obsessive and fanatical about his work, and constantly nervous.
“Finally, Colonel,” said Krowl, “my most important question by far. In fact, I would not be overstating it to say that your answer to the next question could have an impact on world events. Could you pick Peter Nampo out of a crowd from a distance, say, of three-hundred to five-hundred meters, using a telescopic camera?”
Will thought for a moment, picturing Nampo. Surely, the CIA or some other intelligence agency could find Peter Nampo and, if need be, get closer to him than 300 meters. Couldn’t they?
Will nodded. “Given the right opportunity…yes, I could pick Nampo out of a crowd.” He thought of the one characteristic of Peter Nampo that would not have changed after all these years—one subtle quirk you might notice only after living with the man.
Admiral Krowl continued to stare directly into Will’s eyes. “Well, then, Colonel, I have a proposal for you…a most unusual proposal.”
Chapter 5
A Telephone Call
From his four years of active Marine Corps duty and fifteen years with the Reserves, Will knew one thing: Admirals didn’t com
e to Marine reservists in rural Georgia and make them proposals of any kind.
The telephone rang before he could respond. “Yes?” Will said into the receiver.
It was Connie. “Boss, the judge is on the line. He wants to talk to you…about hunting, I think.”
“Tell him I’ll need to call him back.”
Connie hesitated, obviously shocked that Will would put off Judge Roamer or, for that matter, any judge, so brusquely.
“Is there a problem?” she whispered over the line.
“Everything’s fine. Just hold all my calls…and call Gary Matthews and tell him I need to talk to him about a Court of Claims case this afternoon.” For many years prior to becoming a civil attorney, Gary Matthews had been Will’s fellow prosecutor. He was someone Will could trust—always.
“What Court of Claims case?”
“Connie.”
“Okay, okay. Oh, and Clark is on her cell. She wants to talk to you now.”
“Tell Clark I’ll get back to her.”
He turned back to the admiral as he hung up the telephone. “Admiral, we will not be disturbed again. About this proposal…” He leaned back in his chair and placed both hands into his coat pockets.
“Colonel Parker, if you accept this proposal, there will be many further details given to you at a later date.”
“Yes, sir.” Despite himself, Will Parker felt the thrum of excitement in his veins. The thrill of a hunt entering in his blood.
“The United States Government needs you to go deep into a very hostile environment and take a photograph of Peter Nampo. He has been cooperating with a certain unnamed enemy in the development of certain dangerous technology. Despite our best efforts, we’ve not been able to identify him with absolute accuracy. And, particularly in the present environment, we must be able to clearly determine what he looks like.”
More things made sense to Will now. Even in the brief months he knew him, Peter Nampo refused to be photographed. At the time, Will thought it an absurdity, but perhaps Nampo knew more about his possible future than Will appreciated.
“Colonel, you are a reservist. Even as an active-duty Marine, you could not be ordered to undertake such a mission. At the very least, the effort will require several months of training and preparation.”
Will thought that, even with several years of training, this mission’s success sounded uncertain. A “very hostile environment?” A mission the Marines and CIA themselves couldn’t take on? The U.S. had assets aplenty in both China and Russia. One could buy virtually anything in those countries for the right price.
No, this had to be a rogue nation with limited access and limited ties. Iran? Syria?
“The U.S. Government is willing to train you,” Krowl continued, “insert you into the country with a highly capable team, and…”
Will noticed a hesitation on Krowl’s part.
“…allow you to claim a reward under the RFJ.”
Scott leaned forward, his hand over his jaw, masking his reaction.
“RFJ?” Will asked.
“The State Department’s Reward for Justice Program.”
“The one that offers rewards for terrorists?”
“Yes. If sent under orders, you could not claim a reward. Under our proposal, you could.” The RFJ program had existed for years, but after 9/11, the State Department had enlarged the list and substantially added funding. Several targets on the list had bounties of 25 million dollars on their heads.
This mission must be totally off the wall, Will thought.
“And?” He spoke the word softly. He knew that a pause and silence could sometimes be a powerful tool in getting others to talk. Krowl took the bait.
“Nampo is one of the targets with a twenty-five-million-dollar reward on his head. He is deemed a grave potential terrorist threat. He is not a disclosed, listed person, but we warrant to you that he is on a private, approved list.”
Will shifted in his seat. “You’re talking about a mission requiring much preparation. I’d have to resign as district attorney. I’m an elected official and a leave of absence is not doable,” Will said. “Also, if the mission is as secret as you suggest, I may not even be able to return to this town, or this way of life. People would say I might disappear again at a moment’s notice, and leave their case hanging—leave them hanging. My credibility would be shot. I won’t be able to tell anyone in this town what I’m doing or why. I’m sure of that. Never mind the danger involved.”
Krowl sat back, letting his silence have the same effect on Will.
“I take it this mission is of the highest national urgency and that you must have an answer immediately,” Will said.
“That’s correct. In fact, we must have this mission completed by thirty-one January.”
Will nodded. “I’ll do this, but I require absolute, total control over how the mission is accomplished. And you will supply me whatever and whomever I need.”
Krowl nodded. Apparently, this demand had been expected.
Scott turned to Will as if on cue. “We’ll have an aircraft waiting to pick you up at the Cordele airport next Friday at twenty-three-hundred hours.” Cordele, another small town, lay less than seven miles down the road and was the only nearby community with an airfield.
Less than an hour before, District Attorney Will Parker had been in the final stages of a major criminal trial. Now, he would be stepping into another world. It didn’t matter when they sent the airplane. With a visit by two strangers to his office and his resignation to the governor shortly thereafter, Vienna would have plenty to talk about for years to come. A private jet landing at the local airport at midnight should finish the stories off nicely.
A knock sounded on the office door, and Will opened it to find Connie. “Will,” she said, “the jury’s back and they’re waiting for you.”
“Thanks, Connie. Tell the deputy I’ll be there in half a minute.”
Will turned back to his two guests. “I take it I’ll get a full briefing this weekend?”
“And I take it that you have accepted our offer.” Krowl stuck his hand out and Will grabbed it. The grip was like a vise for both men, but ever so subtly, Will’s hand consumed Krowl’s grip.
“Yes, sir. As they say in law school, we have reached a meeting of the minds, consideration has passed, and we have a contract.”
“Yes,” Krowl said, “indeed.” He had a fierce smile that Will had already come to dislike.
Will turned toward the hallway and bounded down the stairs to the courtroom. At the back door, Judge Roamer was smoking a cigarette, his black robe open and unzipped. He wore a white shirt, blue jeans with an oversized western buckle, and pitch-black alligator boots.
“Judge, you look like you’d rather be on the farm today than trying this case.” No matter the response, Will knew he was right.
Roamer was a man Will had great respect for. A linebacker at Georgia on one of the early teams Vince Dooley coached, Andy Roamer slept under red and black sheets at night—a Georgia Bulldog whose loyalty ran deep. He was a man who looked you in the eye and gave you an iron grip of a handshake.
“You know it,” he said, “and I understand you had a visit from some DEA agents.”
It didn’t take the town long to put a spin on this, Will thought. But he actually liked the idea.
“Yes, sir, but please don’t tell anyone. The U.S. attorney general wants me to help prosecute a major drug case against a Colombia drug cartel. It probably means I’ll have to resign.” Will liked the “don’t tell anyone” touch. As much as he liked Anderson Roamer, he knew the news would be all over town in less than an hour. The judge would call his wife while his secretary listened through the cracked door. It was the nature of small towns, the opportunity to share gossip a special treat for a resident of a sleepy place like Vienna.
Roamer looked at him for a mo
ment. “Well, I don’t want to lose you, but I can’t think of anyone better to do a job like that.”
“I told ’em I’d think about it. And I appreciate that comment.”
Roamer turned and pushed the half-smoked cigarette into the sand of an old, dented ash can full of half-smoked cigarettes he’d put there during trial breaks. “Well, let’s get this case finished.” He zipped up the robe and strode into the courtroom as the deputy sheriff jumped up from his seat.
“All rise, the court is now in session,” the deputy bellowed.
Will sat down at the prosecutor’s table. Probably for the first time in his career, he failed to listen as the judge read the charges against the defendant.
As he sat on the stiff wooden chair, Will thought instead about his dangerous new mission, trying to identify Peter Nampo in a country that afforded little opportunity for U.S. spies to get near enough to take a photograph. And what made Peter Nampo so dangerous?
Will was sure of one thing: The money wasn’t important to him. This mission would be a huge personal challenge—one that tested every part of his ability to think and survive. It was the challenge that drew him.
* * * *
As the black car pulled away from the courthouse, Krowl reached for a small black object in the wooden compartment between him and Scott. He dialed a number and pressed a small red button that scrambled the signal. The Leprechaun SINCGARS radio sent the voice over an encrypted, narrow band that jumbled the conversation into digital bits that could only be put back together by another similar SINCGARS band receiver. It would be impossible for anyone to tap into this conversation.
“Chief, this is Admiral Krowl. Patch me into the J-3 secured line.”
The chief petty officer, as communications expert, sat in the admiral’s Gulfstream jet parked at the airfield in Albany, some thirty miles away. “Yes, sir, I’ll connect you through now.”
Krowl heard two clicks. “Joint Staff, J-3 vice director’s office, Captain Kyle speaking.”
“Kyle, this is Admiral Krowl. Connect me on a secure net to General Kitcher at U.S. Strategic Command.”
Northern Thunder Page 3
