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Stark hung up the phone and closed his office for the night.

“Caroline is going to be worried sick,” he said as he headed out the door. It was nearly ten o’clock.

1. Chapter 5
   

Richardson Highway

Salt Jacket Alaska

17 December

21:44 Hours

Trooper Lonnie Wyatt pressed the disconnect button on her secure cell phone and snapped it back into the cradle on the dash-board of the white turbo-charged Ford Crown Victoria police cruiser as she drove down the Richardson Highway toward Johnson Road.

Her mind reverberated with the name Commander Stark had mentioned: Marcus Johnson. The name of the man she had been in love with since high school, the man who had proposed to her. The man she rejected because he wouldn’t leave the Marines for her.

“I’ll kill Dad for not telling me he was in town,” she said out loud. She found herself shocked by the sound of Marcus’s name on her own lips. “Come on, girl. You’re an Alaska State Trooper. Keep it professional and get the investigation over with.”

Born Sukmi Kim, Lonnie was the adopted daughter of Eugene and Leslie Wyatt. The couple had taken her into their family while stationed with the US Army in South Korea in 1975. She was six years old when she had been orphaned after a relatively peaceful demonstration for student’s rights escalated into a nightmare as North Korean Communist infiltrators shot it out with South Korean soldiers and police. Her parents, graduate students at Yonseh University, had been on their way to pick Sukmi up from her grandmother’s house. They got caught in the crossfire and died huddled in each other’s arms.

Sukmi’s grandmother’s health declined rapidly after the loss of her only son. She had a stroke two weeks later and Sukmi found herself left to a neighbor. When it became clear that her grandmother’s condition would not improve, the neighbor took Sukmi to live in an orphanage. Because of her age—most people adopted babies—the little girl stayed there for nearly a year.

Then along came Eugene Wyatt, a twenty-two-year-old sergeant in the Communications Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division, at Camp Casey. The Army base was located in the small city of Dongduchon, nestled in the mountains just north of Seoul. It was only thirty miles south of the demilitarized zone where North Korean soldiers faced off daily with their South Korean and American counterparts across a tense, three-hundred-yard-wide, land-mine-studded border manned by heavily armed soldiers from both sides.

Eugene had always wanted a family. He and his wife, Leslie, found that they could not have a child of their own. The couple decided that adoption was their best choice, and South Korea at the time was practically overflowing with children waiting for homes.

They drove forty miles to the city of Seoul and found the Blessed Angels Catholic Orphanage in the midst of the bustling metropolis along the banks of the Han River. When the Wyatts entered the courtyard, the children all stopped what they were doing and stared at the white-skinned, round-eyed Migook who walked past them. Looks of hope sparked on some of their faces, while others seemed to know that once again, they would be passed up. They turned away and sullenly continued their games. Eugene and Leslie had initially, like most couples, wanted a baby.

Six-year-old Sukmi sat alone on the concrete steps that led to the massive, dark wooden front door of the stone-and-timber-frame three-story building. The little girl had a single, thickly woven braid of long, black hair hanging down to the middle of her back. She looked up at the kind faces of the man and woman who approached. Her eyes were filled with the pain of a life broken, of hope nearly crushed. As they approached, Sukmi’s pleading gaze captivated both Eugene and Leslie as if her fragile soul cried out from within the tiny body, begging to be redeemed from the misery her life had become.

Eugene was immediately overwhelmed with compassion for the pretty little girl. Inside the building, he asked the nun who spoke with them about the girl on the steps. Once they heard her story, he and Leslie agreed that if she was willing to come with them, they wanted to give her a new home. The girl was brought in to meet them, and although they were not able to communicate with more than hand gestures and Eugene’s minimal, broken Korean, hope again sparked in her eyes as Sukmi realized that this Migook couple really seemed to care, that they truly wanted to rescue her.

Over the course of a month, the paperwork was done, the fees paid and cute little Sukmi officially became their daughter. Six months later, the Army moved them to Fort Wainright in Fairbanks, Alaska. The American name “Lonnie” was chosen because it was easy to spell and say in both English and Korean. Sukmi thought it was pretty. She told her new parents that the name “sounded like flowers and sunshine” to her.

The Wyatts liked Fairbanks, a small city of about thirty thousand at the time. Eugene and his wife were originally from Oklahoma. However, when they got out of the Army, the couple decided to stay where they were. He got a job as a lineman with Tanana Valley Electrical Cooperative. They settled into a new home in the Graehl neighborhood on the east side of Fairbanks.

Lonnie’s childhood in Alaska was peaceful and comfortable. Her parents had decided that she should not lose the knowledge of her Korean heritage, so they joined a small Korean Presbyterian church located near their home and made sure she was tutored in her native language and culture. By the time she was an adult, she had retained natively fluent Korean and unaccented English and moved easily both in Korean and American social circles.

She met Marcus during a cross-country track meet at Lathrop High School in 1984. Lonnie was a contender for the All Alaska title in the girls’ 5K event. Marcus was the current state champion in the boys’ 10K. He had clean, golden-brown skin topped by a thick layer of wavy black hair closely cropped on the sides and combed back over his head. His features, a gentle mixture of black and Athabaskan native, gave him an appearance that was at once strong and tender. Throughout the race that first day, she could not take her eyes off him. He noticed her constant glances and reciprocated in like manner.

They dated all through the rest of high school until he joined the Marines after graduation in 1986. While in college at the University of Alaska Fairbanks, where she majored in mathematics, Lonnie waited for him to finish his six-year commitment and come home. She envisioned them getting married and settling down to a normal Alaskan life of enjoying the great outdoors, having children, and taking an occasional trip to some remote tropical island in mid-winter.

Marcus constantly wrote romantic letters and postcards to her from wherever he was stationed. He often penned beautiful poems for her. Those were her favorite part of his writings. He had the ability to explain his thoughts in ways more real than she understood her own feelings. Every time he wrote to her, she felt as if she was looking into his soul. She wished she had the same ability. Her strength lay not in poetry, though, but in the analytical thinking of math and hard sciences.

Several times, Marcus sent her money to fly down to see him wherever he was stationed, and once even brought her to Europe, to take part in Linus and Cara’s wedding in Norway. It was there that he asked her to marry him. Lonnie had thought about it during the previous years. She knew that eventually he would ask. She had worked over her response many times. Her answer came with a stipulation. It sounded logical to her. His love for her would be proven by his willingness to submit to this one simple request.

Lonnie knew Marcus would be a good husband, but the idea of sharing him with a job that constantly called him to distant places and faraway lands did not fit her vision of a happy couple. That their marriage could suddenly end with a chaplain knocking on the door to inform the young wife of the sad news of her husband’s heroic death was more than she thought she could handle. If he would leave the Marines, she would accept. From the moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them.

He told her he understood, but hoped she would change her mind. He could not leave the Corps. It had become his identity. He was a “poster Marine,” the model of a compassionate warrior recruiters used to draw new men into their brotherhood. Lonnie continued to write to him and he wrote back. As time went on, the romantic allusions in his letters gradually disappeared.

Lonnie graduated from UAF and became a math teacher at the school where she and Marcus had met. As she taught, she became increasingly distressed by the problem of drugs and crime that was growing among the teenagers of the region. When a tragic accident involving drugs took the life of one of her favorite students, Lonnie’s heart prompted her to become more pro-active in stemming the tide of moral decline she observed. She joined the State Troopers in 1996. In her new job, Lonnie discovered what it was that Marcus saw in the Marines, a life not unlike that of a trooper.

While Marcus was in England on a tour with the Royal Marines, she wrote and explained her new understanding. Her heart leaped with joy when she received his response that let her know he still loved her and looked forward to seeing her again. Marcus told her he was leaving on a peacekeeping mission to Africa. They would talk about it when he got back.

Marcus disappeared in Sierra Leone. He was reported as missing and presumed killed in action. The story was in all the papers. Local hero gives his life defending an orphanage ravaged by guerillas. While his hometown mourned the loss of Marcus Johnson, Lonnie Wyatt mourned the loss of her soul.

Jerry entered her life a month after she heard of Marcus’s death. They met in a bar and fell into a fast-moving relationship as she tried to escape the gnawing pain of her loss. Lonnie got pregnant, and a short time later, they were married with little ceremony by a justice of the peace. Jerry was no Marcus, but he was moderately handsome and was willing to take responsibility for their child.

Four months later, Lonnie learned that Marcus had escaped, and was alive. When he wrote the promised letter full of hope and vowing to keep himself for her alone, she was devastated. Lonnie wept for days. She did not tell Jerry why. He assumed it was a hormonal thing with the pregnancy.

The baby miscarried the week after receiving the letter. In time, so did the marriage. Trooper work was too demanding. Especially when the wife is the trooper and the husband works a nine-to-five cubicle job on the military base, surrounded by pretty young women feeling their first years of freedom from their parents.

Lonnie discovered that Jerry had been having an affair with a nineteen-year-old Air Force office clerk named Tonya for more than a year. The girl had been fresh at the base and only two months past her eighteenth birthday when they met. By the time they ran away together, he was thirty-five and she was still not legally allowed to drink alcohol. Jerry didn’t even bother to leave a note. Instead, Tonya text-messaged Lonnie after they had crossed the border into Canada to say that she could keep all of her soon-to-be ex-husband’s stuff.

Lonnie was glad to see him go. Jerry, as the years revealed, was a conceited, self-absorbed whiner. He was exactly nothing like Marcus, who still appeared in her dreams and walked into her thoughts at random. She was still in love with her Marine.

The sound of the frozen pavement rumbled under the tires of her cruiser as she drove down the highway toward Salt Jacket and the dreaded reunion.

“How am I going to talk to him?” she muttered to herself.

She would first check out the witnesses at the pump station on Johnson Road. The glow of the pipeline’s security lights shimmered in the distance through the tops of the spruce trees that hid the pump station buildings from view. Three massive five-ton concrete barriers were placed in a pattern twenty yards in front of the gate. Drivers were forced to zigzag through the obstacles in order to reach the gate. Moving through the barriers, she lowered the window of her cruiser. A uniformed security officer stepped from the guardhouse, an MP5 submachine gun slung around his shoulder. One hand rested on the pistol grip of the weapon as he held the other out, signaling her to stop.

“Good evening, ma’am. How can I help you?”

The guard spoke with a hint of caution in his voice as he eyed her over, peering into the cruiser as if to verify it was real.

“I’m Trooper Wyatt. I need to talk to Officer Bannock about some men he saw back at the TVEC substation a few hours ago.” She handed him her AST ID card to verify who she was.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he replied as he took the card from her hand and studied it in the light. He wrote down her name and badge number on a piece of paper attached to a clipboard. Anyone could get a badge and uniform made up, and maybe even steal a police cruiser. The pipeline was one of the nation’s most valuable assets. Terrorism was not just something they heard about on TV. It was a real threat to these guards. They double-checked everything and everyone. He handed the card back and pointed into the gated compound.

“Over there is the watch room. Bannock is on duty at the cameras right now. I’ll phone ahead and let him know you’re coming.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

The officer stepped back to the guard shack, and the electric motor of the chain-linked gate slowly pulled the barrier open. Once it was wide enough, Lonnie snaked her cruiser through a couple more concrete barriers squatting silently inside the fence. She made her way over fifty yards of open area to the small, corrugated metal building the gate guard had pointed out.

Trooper Wyatt opened the door and rose from her cruiser into the cold evening air. Her left hand habitually adjusted the flashlight and nightstick in her utility belt as she straightened. Lonnie’s right hand rested briefly on the butt of her pistol as she scanned the surrounding area. Starting from the guardhouse to the left and behind her, her eyes ran over everything she could see until they came to rest on the door of the building nearby. She turned from the vehicle and pressed the record button on the small digital recorder kept in the right breast pocket of her parka. She always recorded investigative interviews.