by Trevor Scott
Kurt needed to talk with Leo privately. He knew they would be free to speak below decks in the hangar bay. The large, cavernous area where most of the maintenance took place without being exposed to the elements, hummed with power carts that allowed technicians to simulate flight postures in search of electrical problems. Normally, the night shift performed maintenance on the A-7 weapon and avionics systems. But this night they were flying, so half the crew did maintenance and the other half was on the deck waiting in case one of the aircraft had an avionics problem.
"Let's go to the hangar," Kurt said.
Without answering, they both got up and departed through the hatch and out of the compartment. Kurt was really an Ensign, but wore the rank of a Petty Officer Second Class. Leo was a Petty Officer Third Class.
When they reached the hangar, they applied auxiliary power to one of the A-7s. Leo got inside the cockpit and partially closed the canopy. With the power on and the cockpit ajar he could lean into the cockpit and speak to Leo without anyone else hearing them.
"What do you think of Shelby?" Kurt asked.
"Shelby's a cock sucker."
"Besides that," Kurt laughed. He already knew that Leo, and most everyone else, hated Shelby.
Petty Officer First Class Shelby Taylor was Kurt's prime suspect in the disappearance of numerous computer chips, manuals, and avionics components. The NIS had been alerted by a young supply sailor whose records failed to balance. The sailor had narrowed the disappearing items down to the A-7 squadron, since it was the only unit using the new avionics equipment. The NIS quickly had the sailor transferred before the Mediterranean cruise began, and placed Kurt in the light attack squadron to find out where the high tech components were going.
"Shelby Taylor is a sleaze ball," Leo said. "I've known him for about a year-that's about three hundred and sixty-five days too long. He's a clap-infested dude. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw his fat ass."
"So, you like him then," Kurt said with a smile.
Leo turned power on to the cockpit and the Heads Up Display lit up like a Christmas tree. He then began playing with the moving-map display-a navigational tool on the right console.
"You'd like to fly one of these beasts, wouldn't you?"
"I wouldn't mind, but I've seen some of the assholes who work on these things," Leo said, flicking on more switches.
Kurt was trying to find a way to get more information on Shelby's activities. Leo was Shelby's assistant when ordering supplies, but Kurt had already cleared Leo from any wrongdoing. But had Leo noticed anything strange?
"You know we traced the problem on the 06 Bird down to the Nav-Weapons avionics box," Kurt said. "I ordered a new processor from supply, and when it didn't come in after a few days, I gave them a call. They said they were all out...that Shelby had wiped them out last week. But I checked our work orders and supply bins and can't find even one," Kurt added.
Leo gazed up at Kurt. "That's not the only thing missing. Shelby's taken me out of the supply business," Leo said. "When I questioned him on it, the son of a bitch just said `Don't worry Bro, let me take care of supply this cruise'."
"What do you suppose he's doing with the stuff?"
"Shit if I know. Maybe he's selling the shit to the Russians."
Kurt didn't answer. That was a possibility. The avionics components were part of a classified retrofit. The chips that ran the entire system were even restricted from trade to NATO countries.
Leo hesitated for a minute while he played with the onboard computer. "Last week I went to run down a spark through the forward black box," he said, pausing for a moment, not sure if he should continue. "I went to get the manual to trace the schematic-it wasn't there...you know where we normally keep them. So I ask Shelby if he knew where it was. He said our sister squadron had it, and we'd get it back in a few days. I told him I didn't need the damn thing in a few days, I needed it now. He told me to shut the fuck up and work on something else."
"That's strange," Kurt said.
"Well it's back on our shelves now," Leo said, "and our sister squadron didn't have the damn thing. They've got their own. And, I called...they didn't borrow shit from Shelby."
Kurt fiddled with a few dials. Shelby must have taken the manuals down to a copier. But they were so thick, he could only make a few copies at a time without arousing suspicion. That would have taken a few days. The manuals are only classified Confidential and NATO restricted, but someone wanted them as though they were Top Secret.
Kurt left the hangar bay and returned to the shop to prepare for a stint on the flight deck. He donned his deflated life vest, helmet and goggles, and tool pouch, and proceeded to the catwalk with Leo following closely behind. One of the first things a good flight deck crewman learns about night operations, is to proceed slowly-stand by on the catwalk until his eyes have a chance to adjust to the darkness. Kurt knew this, so he instinctively stood and watched flight ops for about ten minutes before ascending the final metal steps to the dark, hard iron non-skid surface.
On the bow, just ahead of Kurt, an F-14 hit full afterburner, sending a set of flames back to the Jet Blast Deflectors, and then was catapulted forward and up away from the ship as a rocket launching out into space. Kurt kept his mouth shut and covered his nose with his hand to repel some of the nasty exhaust. But he knew his hand was never enough. After each shift, he would blow globs of black from his nostrils.
Kurt had heard once that flight deck work was the second most dangerous job in the world; only coal mining was worse. But he would have gladly been in some West Virginia mine on dark nights like this.
He remembered that when he had first worked the flight deck, he was virtually without communications. He got used to certain hand signals. But sometimes those were ambiguous in tense moments. He was grateful now to have a four-channel head set. He could talk to his shop, flight deck crew members, and pilots on the deck. He could also listen to the Air Boss in the Island Tower and the pilots in the air. Once the pilots were airborne, they switched to a different frequency. He could hear them, but not talk with them.
Kurt was standing by with Leo in case a pilot had a problem with one of his electronic systems. He knew he could troubleshoot most anything on the spot, and fix many things without replacing parts to keep the launch on schedule. Often the problem was just a circuit-breaker that had not been properly actuated by the pilot on preflight.
"Kurt, how many birds we workin'?" Leo asked over his headset.
"We've got one fired up aft, and two airborne," Kurt answered. "The one aft might not go. They think it has a hydraulic problem."
"At least it's not our problem," Leo said.
One of Kurt's A-7s flew low over the deck but didn't land. Its engine roared to keep it airborne at such a slow speed, its landing gear dangling like an eagle's talons.
Kurt switched to the airborne frequency to find out what might be wrong.
"See anything?" came a voice from Kurt's radio. He recognized the voice of a pilot from his squadron.
"It's really too dark to tell if your gear is locked or not," said the LSO, a pilot who stands in the aft, port catwalk and relays safety information to landing pilots.
"Permission to bingo," said the pilot.
A pause of static.
"Bingo to primary," said the Air Traffic Controller.
The primary diversion site for their current operating location was Camp Darby, a U.S. Army post near Pisa, Italy.
Kurt switched frequencies and relayed the information to his shop. The pilot had complained that his landing gear down and locked indicator wasn't lit. If the aircraft tried to land on the carrier and its gear collapsed, it could mean one hell of an accident. The pilot and flight deck crew had a much better chance of escaping injury if the aircraft landed on solid ground. Kurt surmised it was probably just a faulty indicator, but was pleased that the pilot wanted to take the safest route. He had experienced a few flight deck accidents, and they usually involved death.
"That's the Bingo King," Leo said.
"Ah, that's the guy," Kurt said. "The squeamish rookie you told me about." Leo thought he was afraid to land on the carrier, especially at night, because he diverted his aircraft to shore more than any other pilot he'd known. Maybe Leo was right.
CAMP DARBY, ITALY
The A-7J landed smoothly and taxied to just outside of an old U.S. Army hangar. There were six Blackhawk helicopters outside the hangar on the flight line.
The pilot brought his aircraft to a halt and cut power. He popped the canopy, collected his flight bag, and reached outside to the fuselage to release the steps and ladder. After climbing out and closing the canopy, he descended to the tarmac. Then he opened a large panel on the port side of the A-7, pulled a circuit-breaker on an avionics panel, and removed a large flight bag from between two black boxes. He quickly closed the panel and walked toward the hangar.
The inside of the hangar was dark; only a few red overhead lights attempted to illuminate the large space. The pilot set the bag he had taken from inside the panel and placed it under a work bench next to a 55-gallon drum of dirty rags. He then departed through the opposite side of the hangar and hiked toward Post Billeting for a room.
A man in civilian clothes emerged from the shadows within the hangar and picked up the flight bag. He unzipped the bag and felt inside. Satisfied, he zipped the bag and left the hangar. The man gently placed the bag in the trunk of his Fiat Uno and slowly drove off the Post.
* * *
CHAPTER 5
BIRKWALD, GERMANY
The afternoon sun had made a rare January appearance, but had now passed over the Eifel Hills and was on its way to the Atlantic.
Jake drove his rental green Passat slowly into town, pulled to a stop more than four blocks from the Gasthaus Birkwald, turned off the lights and waited.
The streets were nearly vacant. The street lights had come on, what few there were, but they did little to brighten the small, six-block town. An occasional car would come bolting in from the countryside, quickly decelerate, and turn into a side street, a driveway, or the Gasthaus Birkwald.
Jake had just come from Charlie Johnson's apartment on the western outskirts of Koblenz. His second floor one bedroom sat within easy hearing distance of the junction of Autobahn 61 and 48, two very popular routes. Autobahn 48 runs pretty much north and south, which eventually leads to Trier, Germany's oldest city, before dumping into Luxembourg. Autobahn 61 heads toward Bonn to the North, and ends near Heidelberg in the south, with quick connections to Frankfurt. It would seem strange for Johnson to live such a long distance from the air base.
But driving wasn't measured in distance in Germany. Time was the important factor when there were no speed limits on the outer Autobahns. Jake had found out nothing new at Johnson's place. The Chevrolet he had shipped to Germany wasn't in his garage, and his landlord, who lived on the first floor, said he had not seen him for days. He allowed Jake to walk through his apartment to be sure. There was nothing in there to indicate he wouldn't be returning.
That was a bad sign. If he was on the run, selling computer chips, he wouldn't have left a thick wad of Deutschemarks lying on the nightstand.
On a Friday evening, strange cars entering Birkwald weren't uncommon. Jake knew that people came from kilometers away for the substantial Schnitzel served at Birkwald's only Gasthaus. Charlie Johnson was a big eater, and Birkwald was just a short distance out of his way before reaching Autobahn 48 on his way home. It was only five o'clock; most Germans ate much later, so Jake knew the Gasthaus crowd would consist mostly of beer drinkers. But it was about the right time that Charlie would normally pass through. Jake didn't expect to find Johnson, but maybe someone had seen him recently.
After about ten minutes, he started his car and in the darkness slowly pulled forward and onto the cobblestone street-then turned his lights on. He cruised past the Gasthaus. He was a bit cautious after the morning encounter. Flying bullets, although infrequent, always put him on edge.
He pulled the Volkswagen around the back of the building to the guest parking area. It was a paved area with unnumbered slots. There were only twelve rooms in the Gasthaus, and only four occupied. The parking lot was equally vacant. He was fairly certain that the three men in the Fiat van wouldn't try to hit him at the Gasthaus. If they had wanted to, they could have done that last night as he slept soundly following the twelve-hour flight.
Jake entered through the back door with a guest key. He pushed on a timed light that gave him two minutes to reach the second floor and into his room without going off.
This time he stood outside the door until the light went out, and then he quietly slipped through the door. Inside, Jake clicked on a small desk lamp and scanned the one-room apartment. It had a full-size bed, a small desk with a phone, a tiny stove and refrigerator, and a bathroom with a tub, a sink and a water-preserving toilet. Everything appeared to be as he left it in the morning.
He had to call Portland. He punched in Milt Swenson's private number.
"Hello," came a voice on the other end.
"It's Jake."
"How's it going?" Milt asked.
"I went to Charlie Johnson's house. His landlord confirmed he's been gone for over five days. His car wasn't there either. I also talked with Blaise Parker at Bitburg. He doesn't know much except that Johnson has never been late for work in the ten years that he's known him."
"What about the police?" Milt asked.
"I haven't talked with the Polizei yet. I'll have them keep an eye out for his car. There aren't too many Chevys in Germany. They'll probably have me look at the morgues."
"Morgues?"
"Yeah, it's a possibility. I've got a friend who might be able to help me. I'll talk to him in the morning."
"What about the other tech reps?"
Jake wasn't sure how much to tell Milt. "Johnson told you one of his tech reps destroyed the bad chips, but according to Blaise Parker, Johnson got rid of them."
"Shit! Was Johnson selling them?"
"I don't know, but someone wants to keep me from finding out. Three men and a cute blonde tried to cut my stay in Germany short with enough lead to sink an aircraft carrier."
"What?"
"That's what I'm wondering. I just got here. Didn't even ask my first question. And someone tries blowing me away. How the hell'd they even know I was here?"
"Who do you think they're working for?"
"I don't have a clue. It could be a number of companies or governments," Jake said. "As you've said, the technology is an important breakthrough." Then Jake thought for a moment. "What if Johnson already sold the chips to someone else? Wouldn't whoever is buying these chips have everything they already need?"
"No! They can test the chip in an electronic environment and say, Yeah, this is one fast chip, but they still don't know how we make it so fast. I can't even tell you that, Jake. Only a handful of people at Teredata know that information."
"So, Charlie Johnson could be trying to sell something that isn't his?"
"Right! Charlie doesn't know enough to really hurt us. But we still can't allow these chips to be out in the market, because eventually someone could give away the rest of the formula."
"What next?"
"Find Charlie Johnson," Milt said. "We need to know who he's selling out to."
"Hey, Milt, I have someone shook and willing to blow me away," Jake said. "Do you want me to push further and see who I can shake from the bushes?"
"Don't take any extraordinary risks, Jake."
Jake was used to people asking him to take risks, and sometimes he even took them without being asked. But he didn't like people taking pot shots at him. "No problem, Milt. I can handle myself."
"I know! That's why I hired you."
There was a pause on the line.
"Give me a call if you find anything," Milt said.
"Sure." Jake hung up slowly.
His stomach growled as if on cue to him hanging up. He went
to the small bathroom, splashed some water on his face, and then pulled his shirt off over his head and replaced it with a fresh one.
Back out in the main room, he looked at his automatic pistol in its brown leather shoulder holster draped over the back of a chair. Reluctantly, he left it behind.
Downstairs the bar was crowded, a prelude to Fasching, the German equivalent to Mardi Gras. The carved wood faces on the walls stared at Jake as he entered through the door and took a seat at the end of the bar with his back against the wall.
He drank a beer and ordered his meal from the bar. Then, in his best German, he started asking people if they'd seen Charlie Johnson, flashing the man's personnel photo at each person.
Finally, the owner, Brunner Weiss, motioned for him to have a seat at his table. Weiss was a stout and brusque man with the thick forearms of an ancient seaman. His pipe was notched permanently in the side of his mouth. He ruled over his realm from the family's corner booth. He never had to say a word. A nod of the head, a crooked pointing finger, or a blink of the eye would send the waitress in the proper direction as if a whip had cracked.
Jack took a seat across from the man, dropping his beer on the oak table. He studied Brunner. "Do you know Charlie Johnson?"
The old man nodded. "Ja, he hasn't been by in a while."
"I heard he came here a lot," Jake said.
Brunner nodded and sucked on his pipe.
"Did he have any friends here?"
The old man shook his head. "No, he sat alone most nights. Once in a while with me. He ate his meal, had a beer and some scotch, and then left. It was common with him. He isn't a talker."
Jake stayed in the bar for a few more beers before heading upstairs. But he learned nothing about Charlie Johnson.
