Northern Thunder

by Anderson Harp

  “International A-26,” she said.

  “And where is Delta?”

  “I believe they’re in concourse B.”

  The flight attendant was a thin wisp of a Korean woman—beautiful, too—who bowed every time he spoke to her.

  “If we got in early, I was hoping to catch a different connecting flight,” said Will. “Official business,” he added, indicating the Marine uniform. “I appreciate the airplane being early, but my original connection is not for several hours.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Would it be possible for me to move down to the door after landing so I might have a chance to make that earlier connection?”

  American carriers would not likely be so hospitable, but Korean Air took great pride in its reputation for excellent customer service.

  “Of course, sir,” she said. “As soon as we touch down, you can come down to one of our crew chairs near the door.”

  “Thank you.”

  Shortly thereafter, he felt the float as the behemoth aircraft raised its nose on final landing rotation. In his mind, he could see the pilot pulling back on the yoke as the tandem wheels came down onto the tarmac.

  The engines went into a high-pitched whine as they reversed their thrust. As soon as the aircraft’s forward momentum slowed, Will unbuckled his seat belt and headed down the short flight of stairs from the bubble to the main deck. There, the attendant waited near the door, signaling him to an open, adjoining crew seat.

  Will sat down, straightening his Marine uniform, and inspected his enlisted cover. His highly-shined Corfam shoes glistened in the daylight. The flight attendant gave him an awkward smile as the 747 taxied across connecting runways, finally reaching its gate.

  “I’ll open the door and get you going,” said the flight attendant.

  He smiled at her again. “Kamsa hamnida,” he said in thanks.

  “Ch’onmaneyo.”

  It would have been different if Mi were here, Will thought. The seat next to him, through the night, had been very, very empty. It was hers. The thought only steeled his will.

  The giant door swung open just as the aircraft came to its final stop and Will, glancing over his shoulder, saw the passengers in both first class, behind him, and coach, to his side, begin to bunch up in their surge to the exit after their ten-hour flight.

  Will bolted, leading the crowd out of the jet way.

  “Welcome to Los Angeles, Gunny,” a KAL attendant said, greeting him at the end of the hall. “U.S. Customs is to your left.”

  “Thanks,” said Will. He looked behind him and saw that the black-jacketed man was heading for U.S. Customs as well.

  Will moved down the hallway to a massive open room with lines of desks and Immigration officers. One line was marked for U.S. citizens.

  “Yes, sir. Welcome back,” said the Immigration officer as Will approached.

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you on a passport?”

  “No, I’m returning on orders from a military conference in Korea,” said Will.

  “SsangYong already?” The customs officer was a plump, redheaded woman with an healthy dose of freckles.

  “You bet,” said Will.

  “Anything to declare?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Okay, thanks.” She passed him through.

  Will began to walk away, but then stopped. “Miss?” he said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “There was a man on the flight—I hate to say this about anyone…”

  “That’s okay. You can’t be too careful. If you’re concerned, we are, too.”

  “He’s about ten back in this line, black leather jacket, gold ring.”

  She glanced, trying not to be obvious. In a fake gesture, she seemed to be counting the people through the line, as if assessing how much work was left in the day. “Yeah?” she whispered.

  “He may be carrying some drugs.”

  “Thanks.”

  Instead of going to baggage claim, Will crossed to an escalator outside customs that headed up to the main terminal. He didn’t have much time. As he rode up the escalator, Will watched a mother and her young child ride down. Will looked at his watch, an unneeded reminder.

  At the top of the escalator, he crossed over quickly and purchased, at a small tourist shop, an L.A. Dodgers jacket and hat and a copy of the Los Angeles Times. The headline North Korea’s Leader Dead covered much of the front page. The loss of the missile was on page ten.

  “That will be five-fifty.”

  Will smiled at the young Hispanic clerk and she gave him a shy grin back.

  “Hey,” he said, “could I ask a small favor?”

  “I don’t know,” said the clerk.

  “I have to make several telephone calls,” said Will, “and it would be a big help.”

  “For?”

  “For me to give you this ten and you give me that five-dollar roll of nickels.” The cash register had several rolls of coins.

  “Oh, no problem,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  Will walked quickly from the international terminal to a restroom just above the escalator. His heart was beating rapidly again, as if he were back in North Korea. In one of the back stalls, he pulled off his Marine sweater and cover and put on the oversized Dodgers jacket. He absentmindedly bent the bill of the cap, pulling it down over his eyes, and then bundled up the sweater. As he headed out, Will spotted the door to the maintenance closet, tried the handle, and opened it. He stashed his sweater and Marine cover behind a box of paper towels.

  At the top of the escalators, he found a bank of chairs. He began reading the Times, waiting.

  * * * *

  Rei reached the Immigration desk a few minutes after Will. From the eyes of the Immigration officer, he sensed that something was wrong.

  “Your passport, please,” she said.

  He handed her the blue and gold U.S. passport.

  “Mr. Nagota of San Francisco?”

  “Yes.” His English was perfect.

  “Do you have anything to declare?” she said.

  “No, not this time.”

  “Why did you return to Los Angeles if you’re from San Francisco?”

  “It was a more convenient flight.”

  “I thought KAL had several flights to San Francisco that left the same time as this one.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that.” Rei, nervous, twisted the ring around on his finger. Another Immigration officer arrived, this one with the body of a football linebacker, his hand on a holstered Glock 40-mm pistol.

  “Mr. Nagota, I must ask you to accompany this officer. It’s nothing unusual. We’re just required to make random inquiries with occasional U.S. citizens.”

  “No problem,” said Rei.

  “Follow me, sir.” The larger officer walked ahead, slightly to Rei’s side, and kept his weapon holstered but available. They passed baggage claim on their way to an office marked immigration. Rei walked in silence, smiling. As he passed a pile of bags on a cart, he deliberately caught his foot and stumbled to the ground.

  “Get up now, sir.” The officer didn’t fall for it. He kept his distance as Rei stood up and brushed off his clothes.

  “I’m sorry,” said Rei.

  “No problem. Let’s go.”

  Rei turned his back to the officer, but then swung around, catching the man’s hand with the ring’s point.

  “Damn it,” said the officer. As he reached for his pistol, his body seized in a spasm and he fell to his knees.

  Rei backed away. “Help! This man is sick!” he screamed.

  The crowd, along with several other officers, turned toward the fallen man. Rei backed out, turned, and headed up a hallway to the escalator. He tried not to show the smile on his face, intentionally staring
downward as he hid his ring hand in his jacket pocket. With his other hand, he held onto the escalator rail. He glanced about quickly, smiling at another man descending.

  What a silly jacket, Rei thought, observing the man’s blue and white jacket and matching hat.

  Will turned his left shoulder toward the man riding up, then braced his left foot on the lower step, his right foot above.

  The swing of his fist, reinforced by the roll of nickels, caught Rei squarely on the nose and crushed his nasal and cheekbones. Lifted off his feet by the force of impact, Rei fell down the stairs in a heap. The blood from the subdural hematoma pooled almost immediately beneath his skull, pressuring the sensitive brain. He looked like a Raggedy Andy doll as he landed at the base of the escalator, one leg bent behind the other.

  Will couldn’t tell whether Rei was conscious when he stepped over his body and rode the escalator back up. He didn’t expect it to matter.

  * * * *

  Airport security found their suspect near death, bleeding profusely from his nose and left ear.

  Meanwhile, Tom Pope thought he and his team would arrive early enough to catch Rei—until they learned KAL flight 17 had arrived nearly an hour ahead of schedule.

  Rei had already been transported to the UCLA Hospital head trauma unit, where he was diagnosed with a massive brain injury. With tubes inserted into his throat, he lived for only two more weeks. Neither the FBI nor the LAPD identified any suspects in his death. Tom Pope couldn’t ask any questions of, or get any answers from, the dying man. From the beginning, he had been comatose; then he was dead. All Tom knew was that his search for the killer was over.

  Chapter 48

  The E Ring of the Pentagon

  “Admiral.”

  Krowl, working in his Pentagon office, looked out over the leafless trees standing between him and the Potomac River. It was another frigid day during another cold Washington winter. Frost outlined the edges of the glass panes.

  “Yes?” Krowl watched two bundled-up joggers fighting the wind as they made their way down the popular bike path. Clouds of breath appeared in the cold. Krowl, feeling his protruding stomach, had given up running a long time ago.

  “Mr. Feldman of Justice is here,” said Krowl’s secretary.

  Krowl considered the appointment a major inconvenience. Some low-level assistant attorney general had called about a matter well below his pay grade.

  “Tell Commander Sawyer to join us,” said Krowl.

  Whatever Justice wanted, Sawyer could handle it. It was probably nothing more than gathering environmental data for some JCS exercise. We probably killed too many birds in Puerto Rico. The gunnery range was always a hotbed of complaint.

  A man entered the room. “Admiral, I’m Isa Feldman.” Little gray hairs accented the sides of Feldman’s bold and determined face. A sweater and an old herringbone blazer covered his white shirt and tie. A tobacco-shop smell permeated his clothes.

  “Mr. Feldman, this is my aide, Commander Sawyer,” said Krowl as Sawyer entered.

  “Hey, Commander. Never spent time in the military, but I appreciate all you guys,” Feldman said in a thick New York accent. He had a broad smile of yellow-stained teeth. He looked little like the toughest and brightest litigator in the Justice Department’s civil division.

  “What brings you to this side of the river, Mr. Feldman?” Krowl rocked back in his chair as he directed Feldman to take a seat.

  “Well, it’s just bizarre.”

  “Yes?”

  “You see, we got this claim against the government filed down in Georgia,” said Feldman. “It’s in the U.S. Court of Claims under the RFJ program.”

  Krowl continued to rock in his chair, showing little more than casual interest in the conversation. Sawyer had brought his notepad, foreseeing some data-gathering task one of the young lieutenants could handle.

  “Should this go through DOD’s legal office?” said Krowl.

  “Oh, Admiral, normally it would. And I’ve already talked to them about this. That’s not the problem.”

  “Okay.” Krowl kept rocking.

  “It’s that the allegation by this Matthews guy—he’s the attorney for the plaintiff—mentions you by name.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Some nut, I’m guessing.”

  “So why is this my concern?” asked Krowl.

  “Well, the allegation is that you acted as an agent for the old U.S. of A. in making a contract with a man,” said Feldman. “He says you told him a guy was on the RFJ list and that if he photographed this guy, he would qualify for the reward.”

  “That’s not likely.”

  “Oh, I thought not.”

  Krowl continued to rock, but now at a somewhat faster speed.

  “Anyway,” said Feldman, “we prepared a motion for summary judgment, and the old judge down there set it in for a hearing next week.”

  “Great. Anything else? I do have a busy schedule.” Krowl’s tone clearly changed.

  “Well, yes, sir. I think we might need you at that hearing and Jim Sizemore agrees.”

  “Is that really necessary? The Joint Chief of Staff’s office doesn’t have time for frivolous local lawsuits.”

  “Well, normally we could do this by affidavit, but the attorney on the other side has already requested that you be there,” said Feldman. “I’m thinking we can nip this all in the bud by going down there this once, proving there’s nothing to it, and shutting the whole thing down right away.”

  “Come on, Feldman. I really don’t—”

  “Well,” the lawyer interrupted. “Here’s the thing: If you don’t appear voluntarily, they have a subpoena for you.”

  Krowl stopped rocking and leaned forward. “What a waste of time.”

  “Admiral, we agree. In fact, we’re going to ask this judge to sanction the plaintiff and his attorney for bringing this frivolous action.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “The plaintiff and his lawyer will have to pay money out of their own pockets.”

  “Good,” said Krowl.

  “But I do need you and the other witness in Albany, Georgia, next Wednesday.”

  “The other witness?”

  “Yes, sir, someone with the Central Intelligence Agency named James Scott,” said Feldman.

  “Scott?”

  “Yes, sir. Had to bring him back from overseas. Apparently, he was recently reassigned out of the U.S.”

  Krowl paused. “One second here. Who’s the son of a bitch who filed this suit?”

  “The plaintiff is a W.N. Parker.”

  Chapter 49

  The Courthouse

  “All rise.”

  The deputy of the United States Court of Claims looked sternly over the courtroom as Judge Richard O’Mara took his seat.

  “We have a motion in the case of W.N. Parker versus the United States of America. Madam clerk, please call the case for motion.”

  “Yes, sir. W.N. Parker versus the United States of America, a case for breach of contract,” said the clerk. “Mr. Matthews for the plaintiff and Mr. Feldman for Justice.”

  “I’m Gary Matthews, Your Honor,” said Matthews.

  “And I’m Isa Feldman.”

  “It’s my understanding,” said the judge, “that Justice has a motion for summary judgment.”

  “And,” added Feldman, “an assessment of costs and fees for this baseless and frivolous claim. I also have with me Admiral Julius Krowl of the staff of the JCS and Mr. James Scott of the CIA.”

  Krowl was decked out in full military honors, with a chest full of medals and gold leaf on the sleeves of his Navy blue jacket. With his gold-rimmed glasses and cocky air, Krowl contrasted sharply with the unassuming Feldman and also with James Scott, who was dressed in a dark, conservative pinstriped suit and striped burgun
dy tie. Scott had a pad and pencil and doodled nervously on the pad’s edges, looking distinctly out of place and uncomfortable in the courtroom environment.

  “Aren’t they potential witnesses?” the judge asked of Krowl and Scott.

  “Yes, sir, they are,” said Feldman.

  “Mr. Matthews, do you want to invoke sequestration?”

  “No, Your Honor.” Sequestration required witnesses to wait outside the courtroom so as not to hear another witness’s testimony and potentially change their own. It was highly unusual for Gary Matthews not to take advantage of the rule. “I think it may be to everyone’s benefit for them to hear the testimony.”

  “And where is the plaintiff, Mr. Parker?” asked Feldman.

  “If need be, I’m sure he’ll be here,” said Matthews.

  “Are you sure you have a plaintiff?” Feldman asked.

  “Why would you believe otherwise?”

  “Your Honor, we believe this to be an action filed by an unstable man, previously in the military, but who, according to Admiral Krowl, was last known to be outside the United States and probably dead.” Feldman was barely taller than the mahogany podium that separated the plaintiff’s table from the defense table.

  Gary Matthews sat alone with a single blue manila folder before him. With his gray-vested suit, salt-and-pepper hair, dark blue tie, and starched white shirt, he radiated confidence and professionalism. “Judge,” he said, “this is a summary judgment motion in which the defense is requesting that the court dismiss this claim. They have the burden to prove it’s baseless and you’re required to believe every word of our allegations.”

  Matthews was correct and O’Mara knew it. The judge also knew Matthews’s reputation—he did not bring frivolous lawsuits. “I’ll hear the motion, but the plaintiff will need to be available for any further matters on the lawsuit,” said O’Mara.

  Isa Feldman didn’t expect any more from the judge at this point. He was simply establishing the groundwork.

  “Mr. Feldman, it’s your motion,” said O’Mara.

  “Yes, Your Honor. In brief, the United States Government never entered into a contract with Mr. Parker to do anything. Admiral Krowl, one of our military’s most distinguished leaders, did meet with Mr. Parker, very briefly, in Vienna, Georgia, last summer to ask him some questions regarding a matter of national security. Mr. Scott attended that meeting. No promises were made,” said Feldman. “Now Mr. Parker has brought this preposterous claim that he was assigned to locate a man on the RFJ list. He wasn’t and the list did not even include the man in question. Admiral Krowl will testify under oath that a matter of national security was discussed, but no more, and Mr. Scott will corroborate that testimony. And without Parker, their testimony will go unchallenged. Even with Parker’s testimony, theirs will be more credible.”