A Northern Thunder (16 page)

“No.” He pointed to the elevator as he spoke, indicating he didn’t want to talk, especially in front of the two sentries.

“Oh, Colonel, you forgot your pass,” said the younger of the two, who handed Will a blue card with a red stripe across it and a magnetic strip on the back. The guards kept the pass at night. If Mi had not held the elevator door open, Will would have had to swipe it through a magnetic reader both to open and close the elevator door. The ninth floor was accessible only by pass.

The doors slid closed.

Will wore a white running tee shirt that hung loosely over his black running shorts. “Peachtree Road Race” appeared on the shirt’s front and back. Will had made the Atlanta run every Fourth of July—until this year.

Mi was looking at the shirt’s peach logo when she first noticed the small red stain by the right side of Will’s stomach.

“What happened?”

He pulled up the shirt to reveal a blood-stained bandage near his appendix, then held his finger over his lips.

Outside, as the early-bird FBI students walked by en route to the cafeteria, Will and Mi stretched like serious joggers. Scott would be satisfied to know they did not draw attention. Two more FBI agents also seemed to be heading out for an early run.

The route for Will and Mi took them out of the FBI campus toward The Basic School and back to the campus via another road. The six miles usually did not take long, and they’d already gotten into the habit of running it twice. He hadn’t pushed it very hard yet, but was already impressed with Mi. She was dedicated to staying in shape—yet another thing Will liked about her.

“So what happened?” She repeated the question in Hanguk, as they ran in the yellow pre-light of dawn. Every word, every conversation they had, was in Hanguk, at least initially, and Will appreciated her dedication.

A black Chevrolet Suburban followed them a hundred meters behind. Will didn’t mind the nonstop surveillance as much as the nuisance of running with the vehicle’s lights constantly shining on them.

“I was at the dentist for most of the day.” He stumbled on the Hanguk word for “dentist” and finally said it in English. “They said knocking me out was the least painful way to get the dental work done. After I woke up, I found this incision.” He patted his right side as they ran.

Mi was shocked that it had little physical effect on Will. Once they began running and he got into the pace, Will attacked the hills as fast and ferociously as before.

“What is it?” She asked the question but already had a good guess.

“Scott says it’s a marker.” The marker was a small locator chip that allowed satellites to trace Will everywhere he went. They could already follow him visually, by photo or by heat, but the marker allowed them to trace him, even inside buildings or caves.

At that very moment, only fifty miles to the north, the Agency was already following him. Buried well within the walls of the CIA, the last of the graveyard shift of technicians watched a large, rectangular panel screen, where a blinking light showed Will over an outline of Virginia. The light had a small number, “AGT4444,” below and to the right. Quadruple four was Will’s designation.

“The chip even has Soviet markings,” he said as he ran.

“Yes, I would expect that.”

“They said the microprocessor was from India,” Will said. “The Soviets would likely use an Indian microchip for something like this.”

But why was Will telling Mi? Her answers to his questions all seemed hesitant, as if she always had to hold something back. He had to assume that Krowl was pulling her strings, that she knew about the marker ahead of time and reported everything back to Krowl. But Will had to trust someone. Time was running out and he needed someone on the other side. He had to risk it. He felt a chemistry of sorts with Mi, and he trusted his judgment of people.

They picked up the pace as they neared the Marine Basic School. Platoons of faces with boot camp haircuts ran by in tight formations, chanting cadence. Each was dressed in the same gray sweats with a black “USMC” embroidered on the jerseys. Only their running shoes were different.

Will smiled as he noticed the widely varied running shoes. When he had gone through The Basic School, everyone ran in black boots and utilities. Later, as the running craze took hold, the military hierarchy relented and permitted individual running shoes.

Individuality was not prized at The Basic School. For six months, Will was taught infantry tactics for the individual rifleman and up through the squad and platoon levels, and he excelled. His fellow Marine officers respected him. When Will completed the three-mile physical fitness test in less than fourteen minutes, senior officers began to favor him. All the instructors wanted to recruit Will to their specialty, including the most prestigious—infantry. Finishing at the top of his class, based on graded tests and leadership, Will had the option of selecting whatever military occupational specialty, or MOS, he wanted. All thought he would select infantry, the most direct route to the rank of general.

But Will surprised them all on the last day, when he chose another MOS.

“O802.”

“Artillery?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But, why, Lieutenant Parker?” The company commander was pitching for infantry. A couple of years in an infantry battalion, and Will could easily move up to Forces Reconnaissance.

“Sir, I think it ultimately gives me more options. It won’t hurt to know more.” He was referring to the ability to call artillery fire. Artillery was the high math of the military. Gravity, winds, weather, and a host of other influences can cause an artillery shell to leave the cannon’s tube and land down range, far away from the intended target.

Will liked the mental challenge involved. An individualist, he also liked surprising management. For him, the Marine Corps was just a way to express his individuality.

“One more lap?” Mi said in Hanguk

Will didn’t understand the Hanguk word for “lap.” “What?” he asked.

“Go around again?” she said in Hanguk.

“Oh, yes,” Will said.

They ran the second lap at a faster pace. He would let her lead, but as they came to a hill, Will would surge past her. The lead danced back and forth between them.

As she ran, Mi slowly became like the rock she remembered seeing on the Taeback Mountain coast as a child. It jutted out from the shoreline, directly facing the brunt of the ocean, but with a gaping hole through its middle. The ocean had worn it away in the center. Krowl expected her to call every morning immediately after their run. She had been an agent for two countries, but now, she didn’t have any other options. With the fall of the Iron Curtain, the intelligence unemployment line had gotten longer.

Besides
, she thought,
I like this country.
The years of propaganda washed away in only a few days after she realized there were very few Admiral Krowls in America. It was, in reality, a land of good people who often used their great success and wealth for the good of others. But Krowl was the American she had been raised and trained to hate.

It was just her unfortunate luck to be working for him.

“Don’t ever forget,” he had hissed once, “I can make you an undesirable alien with one phone call.” Then, grabbing her arm, he warned, “Or I could simply let a certain someone know where you are.”

A
t the different Pentagon entrances, the shift change of the Department of Defense security guards occurred every day, seven days a week, at ten a.m. Thousands of workers passed through their posts—desks that overlooked scanners—sliding their passes through the detectors. The security guards, in white starched uniforms and bright gold badges, reviewed a list of factors.

Scott’s DOD/CIA pass was in order as he ran it through the scanner, but Scott looked angry and the guard could tell.

Oh, boy, whoever he is, this one is hot
, the guard thought as Scott pushed against the gate before the computer could process the scan.

Scott thought he always disguised his emotions well, but not this time. “This bloody gate!” Scott exclaimed as the magnetic reading did not go through and the gate remained locked. To further aggravate him, a small panel light illuminated the failure.

“Sir, try it again.”

He ran the card through again as people began to back up behind him. He was like a derailed locomotive stalling the remainder of the train. Fortunately, the gate opened this time.

“Officer, J-3 of the Joint Chiefs? Perhaps you could tell me where,” said Scott.

“Do you have a name?”

“Yes, Krowl. Admiral Krowl.”

“He’s at 4E512, but that’s in the JCS area. Are you expected, sir?” The guard was referring to a second security system within the Pentagon. Another set of military guards restricted access to many of the Joint Chief of Staff ’s workspaces.

“Yes, I’m expected.”

“Then you’re not very far,” said the guard. “Go to the left, not up the stairs, and through the glass-paneled doors. You’ll see the JCS security booth there, and he can tell you where to go.”

The River entrance, unlike the many others, was paneled in a rich, dark mahogany, and the fittings were all in bright brass. Names on the various doors were in a gilded gold, and the hallway was alternately lined with paintings of ships and portraits of various secretaries of war. The men in the portraits, like the ships, were easily dated by their age and style. Multi-masted frigates hung near white bearded men in their stiff, high-collared uniforms.

The pace in this section of the Pentagon seemed so different. And far fewer employees dressed formally here.

From behind the thick-glassed security booth, the Air Force sergeant looked up at Scott.

“Yes, sir?”

“Scott for Admiral Krowl.”

“Your pass, sir.”

Scott’s pass, on a chain around his neck, had become entangled with the collar of his overcoat. The weather was beginning to change as fall settled into Washington. This day was rainy, damp, and cold. Scott’s raincoat, tailored for him by a London shop, fit perfectly over his charcoal pinstriped suit and dark blue tie. He seemed more like a finely-dressed funeral home attendant than a corporate executive.

Scott pressed the pass against the glass.

“Yes, sir.”

Two glass doors with the logo of the Joint Chiefs of Staff slid open to the inner hallway.

“And where is Krowl’s office?” said Scott.

“Two doors down on the left, sir,” said the sergeant.

“Thank you.”

Pulling off his raincoat, Scott quickly passed down the hallway to a door marked J-3 Deputy. He straightened his tie, looked down at his brightly shined shoes, and swung open the door. In the field, Scott would wear far less, but in battles with management, he had learned to send all the signals of authority.

“Yes, sir.” The Navy lieutenant looked up from her desk, which seemed almost ceremonial—it lacked papers, notes, and all other evidence of work. She had that exceptional look that would cause men to pause and turn their heads, but in an athletic, outdoorsy, well-tanned way. Only a dedicated athlete would be so tanned now that the weather had begun to change in Washington

“Scott for Admiral Krowl.”

“Oh, yes, you’re expected. Coffee or something to drink, sir?”

“No.”

“I’ll tell them you’re here.”

Scott didn’t expect the “them.” Instead of taking a seat, he continued to stand, taking in his surroundings. A royal blue couch with gold tridents served as the centerpiece of this outer office. On each end of the couch were darkwood end tables and tall brass lamps.

Scott was more interested, though, in the photographs hung in groups on the walls. One series showed Krowl as a young officer in jungle fatigues in Vietnam. The man was far more impressive then—much thinner, with a smile more devious than happy. Another group of photos showed Krowl wearing the desert camouflage of the Gulf, a few years and many pounds later. Again, that same smile. All of the photographs were of him alone.

“Mr. Scott.” The inner door swung open and a bald Navy commander stuck out his hand.

“Yes.”

“I’m Commander Sawyer, the admiral’s assistant,” he said. “Please come in.”

“Yes,” said Scott.

Sawyer was Krowl’s handyman. He often did the admiral’s unpleasant work, Scott had learned, and gave Krowl protection. All flag officers, for better or worse, had a “Sawyer” to deliver their messages or to snoop out the status of certain sensitive matters. If a general was caught in an affair, the Sawyers of the military always found out first.

The inner office was a cavernous, wood-paneled chamber with two picture windows looking out on a boat harbor that led into the Potomac River. Any Pentagon office on the outer, or E, ring was valuable real estate in the world of military power. This remained true even after the attacks of September 11th and the destruction of certain E ring offices. An office view gave the appearance of power. And even though this location posed a greater risk, most power-seekers would happily accept it.

Admiral Krowl had two small couches facing each other and a square mahogany coffee table, bright brass hinges built in. Behind his desk was an enormous oil painting of two Revolution-era sailing ships engaged in battle.