PMadriani 12.5 - The Second Man (5 page)

Joselyn certainly didn't want that to happen.

They headed back to the car. As Akers pulled out of the lot, he turned and headed north.

“I thought the airfield was the other way.”

“It is,” he said. “First, I want to show you something.” He turned left onto a side road, then right and went north for about a half mile. They pulled into a parking lot in front of sprawling old adobe. It was covered by Spanish tile, its red color bleached to a rusted hue by two centuries of scorching sunlight. There were two crosses on top, a smaller one on the outer sculpted facade in front, and another larger one at the peak of the main building behind it.

“It's an old mission,” said Joselyn. “What's it doing on a military base?”

“San Antonio de Padua,” said Akers. “Most ­people never see it because it's inside the guard post. They assume they can't get to it. It's open to the public, they just don't know it. And the Army doesn't advertise it.”

“It's beautiful.”

“According to experts, it's probably the most authentic because of the pristine setting. The land around it hasn't changed much since the old friars and conquistadors whipped the Indians to build it. That was in the late 1700s,” he said.

“I wish I had my camera.”

“We can come back later, you can get some pictures if you like.”

“Thank you,” she said. Joselyn turned and smiled at him. “There is a softer side to you after all. You need to show it more.”

“Stick with me, sweetheart, and I will.” He leaned over, kissed her on the cheek. Strange as it seemed, even to her, Joselyn didn't move or make any effort to pull away.

They headed to the airfield, a heliport on the western perimeter of the base. Akers drove the Escalade into a dirt parking area that bordered the tarmac. Several large military helicopters were parked out on the asphalt apron. Between them was a small van. Beyond that, out on the shortened helipad runway, was a large, sleek UAV. Joselyn could see that it was good-­sized and jet-­powered.

I
T LOOKED LIKE
nothing so much as a giant white porpoise, a bulbous head up forward where the camera's optics, infrared, radar, and other surveillance systems were arrayed. It had two long, slender, glider-­like wings reminiscent of the old U-­2 spy plane, and a v-­shaped tail. On top, near the aft section, was a single large jet intake. The craft was sleek, curving, and had very few sharp angles. To Joselyn it looked as if it might possesses cloaking or stealth properties once airborne. Her attention was fixed on the underside of the nose of the UAV, looking for anything that might suggest a new system of home or structural invasive radar.

“It looks bigger than the Triton,” she said.

“It is,” said Akers. “Long-­distance, high-­altitude, and with STAL capabilities. Short takeoff and landing. Best part is, it can stay in the air over a target four times longer than anything we currently have. And can carry a full complement of ordnance.”

“I'd like to take a closer look,” she said.

“Sure, gimme a minute.” He reached into the backseat and pulled a pair of field glasses from the floor. He quickly scanned the area around the runway near the UAV. There were three men standing near the aircraft. “I know two of them. Third one I don't recognize,” he said. He noticed another vehicle next to it in a dirt lot. It was a small light blue sedan with federal-­government license plates, and lettering on the door:
FOR
OFFICIAL USE ONLY
. “Somebody else is here, but I can't be sure who it is. Let's go ahead, take a chance. Just follow my lead,” he told her.

Joselyn opened her door and got out. She was anxious to get up close. A photo, even if she had to snap it with her cell phone, would have been priceless The legal penalties for such activity could also put her in prison for espionage. She didn't dare. Not unless they gave her permission. She knew there was little hope of that. There was no question the UAV was highly classified.

Akers put the glasses down and opened his door. Just as he did it, he looked in the rearview mirror and saw a Humvee with two MPs drive onto the dirt parking area at a good clip. They pulled up behind him in a cloud of dust. Before he could get out of car, one of the MPs was already moving toward his door. The other one walked quickly toward Joselyn, who was already outside.

“Ma'am, get back in the car,” the MP told her.

The other one looked at Akers through the open door. “Sir, may I ask what you're doing here?”

“Can I get my ID?” said Akers.

“Go ahead.”

Akers pulled out his wallet, opened it, and slipped a heavy plastic ID from the inside. He handed it to the MP, who looked at it, studied it for a second, looked at Akers's face, and said: “Sorry, sir. Didn't mean to hassle you.” He handed the card back to Akers. “Who's your friend?”

“She's with me. I'll take full responsibility,” he told the kid.

“Yes, sir. No problem.” He saluted Akers. “Have a nice day.” The MP looked at his partner, and they both headed back to the Humvee.

As soon as they pulled away, Joselyn, her hands shaking, turned to Akers, and said: “I was sure they were going to arrest us. How did you do that? That wasn't your driver's license you gave him.”

“No.”

“What was it?”

“My SEAL ID from DEVGRU,” he said.

“I don't understand. You are out of the military.”

“Yes, but I never turned in the card,” he said.

“How did you do that?”

“Told them it was lost.”

“What if he had checked? Called in your name,” said Joselyn.

“He didn't.”

“But what if he had?”

“I knew he wouldn't.”

“Why?”

“Alpha principal,” said Akers. “Kid stationed out here. I doubt he's ever seen action. Minute he sees that card, he knows I swim in it. He can sniff my ass, but that's as close as he wants to get. Now he can go back to the mess, tell his three buddies and the cook how he met somebody from Team Six.”

“So you're a celebrity,” said Joselyn.

“If you want to call it that. Like it or not, I made his day. Hell, a kid stuck out here who has to drive for an hour to catch a movie, I probably made his whole year,” said Akers.

“You do like the edge, don't you?”

“Gives me a rush,” he said. “Seems like the only thing that keeps me alive. Let's go take a look at this bird.”

 

Chapter 11

H
ERMAN AND
I
finally find Akers's house. It's a small, ranch-­style bungalow on a quiet side street in Chula Vista. The yard looks as if it has hasn't been mowed or watered in a ­couple of years. Dead palm fronds from a tree next door litter the front of the house. There is a weathered
FOR REN
T
sign, its red lettering faded to pink, wired to the chain-­link fence along the sidewalk.

“Are you sure this is it?”

“It's the right address,” says Herman.

I park at the curb, turn off the engine, and we get out. We make our way through the gate out front, close it behind us, and walk ten feet to the front porch. There are a few children's toys stacked up in one corner next to a small bicycle and a skateboard with one of the wheels off.

Herman tries the doorbell. We hear it ring inside, a single quick “ding-­dong” and what sounds like a dog barking somewhere way off in the distance. We stand there waiting. There is no sound from inside. Herman punches the button again, and we wait. “Looks like nobody's home.”

I look out from the porch across the front of the house. The attached garage is at the end of a short driveway outside the chain-­link fence on the right side as you face the house from the street.

“Let's see if there's a car inside,” I say.

We head out through the gate. Herman goes down the driveway and tries the garage door, but it's locked. He looks along the side of the garage for a window, but there isn't one. “Wanna go around the back, take a look?”

Just as he says it, a woman comes out of the house next door. “Are you looking for Allyson?”

She is kind of frumpy, heavyset, with dishwater-­blond hair dried-­up and frizzed out by enough bleach that it looks as if it's been struck by lightning.

“We're looking for Mrs. Akers,” I tell her.

“She's not home,” says the woman.

“Do you know when she'll be back?”

She shakes her head. “No. Have no idea where she went.” The woman makes her way slowly from her front porch across the lawn to where I'm standing in the driveway. “Her kids didn't show up at the school bus stop today or yesterday. It's right across the street. I can see it out my front window. No one's been around for a ­couple of days. Usually, Allyson calls if she's going away. Sometimes she has me watch their dog. But she must have taken it with her. I'm Joanna Boggs.” She holds out her hand. I take it and shake it.

“And you are?” she says.

“I'm Paul.”

“Does Paul have a last name?” she asks.

“Madriani.”

“Thank you. Very melodious,” she says. “I'm thinking she probably went up to see her sister. Lives up north somewhere. Could've taken the kids and the dog with her. She's done that before.”

“Have you seen Mr. Akers?”

“No. I haven't seen him around for quite a while. Last time was right after they moved in.”

“But he lives here, right?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Not that I know of. He hasn't been around for, I'd say at least two months now.”

“You mean they're separated?”

“Can I ask what your business is?” she says.

“I'm a lawyer. I have some business with Mr. Akers.”

“Is he in trouble?”

“Not that I know of. You wouldn't happen to know where he lives?”

“Can't help you there.”

“When did they break up?” I ask.

“I don't know how much I should tell you. Are you his lawyer?”

“Not exactly. I just need to talk to him, that's all.”

“Can I ask what it's about?” she says.

“It's confidential.”

“I see. Well, like I say, I probably shouldn't say anything, but they were having some troubles. Young ­couple. It's a shame,” she says. “Allyson is a real nice girl. And the two kids, Cam Jr. is eight and little Jamie is gonna be six in another month or so. Cute kids. Real nice. I don't know all the details, and I really probably shouldn't be telling you this, but Allyson, I think, has had just about enough.”

“Enough of what?” I ask.

“I think it's his job. I don't know exactly what type of work he does. Her husband, I mean. She wouldn't tell me. I know he was gone a lot. But whatever it is, it's dangerous.”

“How do you know that?”

“About two months ago, she told me she thought some ­people were after him, trying to kill him. I'm thinking maybe he's into drugs or something. You know, the border being this close and all. She told him to stay away from the house. When he wouldn't listen, she got a lawyer and went to court. I told her she was doin' the right thing.”

“You mean she filed for divorce?”

“No. At least I don't think so. God only knows why not,” she says. “She got a piece of paper says that he can't come near the house.”

“A restraining order.”

“Yeah, I think that's what she called it. He can't see her or the kids without special permission, and he has to stay clear of the house. I'm sure that's why he's not around.”

“That would probably do it,” says Herman.

“She was very worried. I think she loves him. But what are you gonna do? She's got the two kids. She's gotta protect them.”

“You don't happen to have a phone number for her?”

“I tried her cell phone, but there's no answer, and her voice mail isn't set up. You know how you get that message every time you call?”

“Yeah, I hate that,” says Herman. “She's lucky to have a neighbor like you.” He glances at me, a sly smile passing across his lips.

“I feel sorry for her,” she says. “I do what I can.”

I pull a business card from my wallet and hand it to her. “Listen, will you do me a favor? If you see her or hear from her, can you give me call at that number? I'd like to talk to her if I could.”

“Sure.” She looks at my card. “If I hear from her, I'll let you know.” She smiles pleasantly and heads back to her house. Herman and I turn and walk toward the car.

“It's a good thing we weren't looking to whack him,” says Herman. “With a neighbor like that, you wouldn't need to set up surveillance. Ask her nicely, she'd probably shoot him from her kitchen window for you.”

“Why don't you check the courthouse and see if you can find the file, any information on the application for the restraining order,” I tell him. “We need to find out what the hell's going on.”

 

Chapter 12

A
KERS SHOOK HAND
S
with two of the men standing near the large UAV. One of them was a Stanford researcher he had worked with on other visits. The other was from Grumman, the aircraft manufacturer. The third man he didn't know. There were smiles all around.

Joselyn couldn't hear everything said because of the persistent, high-­pitched whistle from the craft's idling jet engine. If they kicked it up, she would have to plug her ears or lose her hearing.

Cam kibitzed around for a few seconds until the guy from Stanford introduced him to the third man. Joselyn edged in closer, trying to hear.

“Charlie here's from Langley. He's out visiting.”

“I take it you're the money?” said Akers.

“Part of it,” said the man.

“Good to meet you. My name's Cam.” Akers held out his hand.

The other guy hesitated.

“He's OK,” said one of the other guys. “He's with DEVGRU.”

“Ah!” The mystery man loosened up. “Good to meet you. I'm Chuck Henley.” They shook hands. Henley was tall and lean, about six foot two, a shock of short, sandy-­colored hair that stood up on top of his head like a stiff-­bristled brush. He wore tan slacks, a red polo shirt, and a light blue windbreaker zipped about halfway up his chest, as if he might lose the thing later in the day when it turned warm.

Joselyn was surprised how many ­people didn't know that Akers was out of the military. But then, as she thought about it, it made sense. Unless the military sent out some kind of an all-­points memo, how would ­people know? He'd been out only a short time, a few months. It would take a while for word of mouth to get around.

“Who's your friend?” Henley looked over Akers's shoulder.

“I'm Joselyn.” She reached out and took his hand.

“She's a friend,” said Akers. “We were out for a ride heading up the coast, thought we'd stop by. You don't mind, do you?”

“You're here now. So I suppose it doesn't matter. Just don't take any pictures,” he told them.

“How is she doin'? Have you seen her in flight?” Akers turned the question toward one of his friends from Stanford.

“Had her up yesterday, testing out some of the avionics, shook out some of the bugs,” said the guy. “Sent her down to Palmdale, from there over to Edwards and back. Climbs right up to altitude. Gonna have to send her back to Palmdale tomorrow for some maintenance.”

“We're working off a list of fixes,” said the man. “But she's coming along nicely. Some programming stuff. The usual glitches.” He looked toward the guy from Grumman, and said: “Why don't we cut the engine and check it out?”

The other man turned toward the van parked out on the apron not far from one of the helicopters. There was a small dish-­antenna array on the roof. He made a gesture—­the fingers of one hand drawn across his throat. A few seconds later, the drone's jet engine began to die. It took a few more seconds, then went silent. Joselyn could finally hear clearly again.

“Well, we know that works,” said Akers.

“Let's hope we don't have to use it when it's airborne,” said Henley. “From what I can see, the glide ratio on this one's not great. I don't want to have to call home and tell 'em they just lost a billion in R&D against a hillside in California.”

“I take it your background is Air Force?” said Akers.

“Who else would the ‘Company' hire to monitor this beast?” said Henley.

The CIA recruited from all of the military branches, depending on the expertise they needed. They recruited regularly from DEVGRU, turning SEAL operators into field agents in battle theaters and elsewhere.

“So I take it you're the project manager?” said Akers.

“Guilty,” said Henley.

“Lemme guess; you're over budget and past delivery date?”

“That doesn't take a crystal ball,” said the man from the CIA.

“You flying it out of there?” Akers gestured with his head toward the parked van.

“For the time being. But I'm trying to get them to move flight control to one of the hangars over at Moffit, so we can give it a more thorough test.

“We're getting there,” said the guy from Stanford. “Just give us a little more time. You can't rush these things.”

“Oh, you can,” said the Grumman man, “it's just the results may not be pretty.” He motioned with his hand like a plane flying into the ground.

Joselyn looked toward the engine mounted in the rear. It looked similar to the Triton and the Global Hawk. She assumed it was the same power plant, a single large fan-­jet. What looked different were vents underneath the fuselage, what appeared to be rotating nozzles, probably directional jet exhausts that would give the vehicle lift on takeoff for short runways. She wanted to ask, but she didn't dare. If she could see it take off, she would know.

“Excuse me.” The Grumman man moved toward a closed compartment at the rear of the drone. She moved aside to let him get by.

Joselyn already had a list in her mind of at least a dozen questions, the first being about radar. But she knew that if she asked, the man named Henley would give her the third degree, want to know what she was doing here before he handed her over to the MPs. Better to play the dumb date. In the meantime, she glanced toward the underside of the UAV at the nose, the round ball turret with its various lenses and data-­gathering gizmos. The radar was not likely to be there. Assuming it functioned in the traditional way, it was more likely to be housed inside the fuselage behind a protective dome, either in the porpoise-­like nose or the underbelly.

“Don't let us get in your way,” said Akers. He motioned for Joselyn so that they could move to the other side of the aircraft, where they might get a better look and get away from Henley.

As soon as they were out of sight, Henley started talking to the Stanford engineer. “I don't mind the SEALs, but I wish they'd keep their frog hogs at home,” he said.

“What's a frog hog?” whispered Joselyn.

“Shhh!” Akers didn't want to tell her it was a term used to describe a female SEAL groupie.

“Who is he?” said Henley. “Guy didn't give me a last name.”

“That's Akers. I told you about him. He helped us a lot in the early going, some of the early craft with field tests. Guy that went to Abbottabad.

“That was Cam Akers?”

“Yeah. I thought you knew.”

“I know the name. I heard he got wounded. Something about a medical discharge.”

“Apparently not,” said the man from Stanford.

Akers leaned into Joselyn's ear, and whispered: “I think we better go. Come back tomorrow. Maybe he'll be gone.”

Joselyn didn't want to leave. She wanted to see the thing fly. But Akers had her by the arm, with a grip that was cutting off circulation.

They went around the back of the aircraft this time. Joselyn could tell that Akers didn't want to talk to Henley anymore.

When they cleared the v-­shaped tail fin at the rear of the drone, the guy from Stanford looked over and saw them. “Cam,” he said. “You didn't take a wound on a recent mission, did you?”

“No. That's a rumor goin' around. Don't know who started it, but if I find him, I'm gonna kick his ass,” said Akers. “Listen, we gotta run.”

Henley turned and looked at him. “Good to meet you. You too, miss. Have nice ride up the coast.”

“Where are you staying?” asked Akers.

“Here on the base,” said Henley. “Place called the Hacienda.”

The sigh from Akers was palpable. Joselyn could feel the hot exhaust as it came out his nose.

“How long you gonna be around?” asked Cam.

“Not sure yet. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering. Take care. Have a good flight back.” Akers and Joselyn moved toward the car. “That cuts it,” he said.

“Cuts what?” she asked.

“Never mind. Tell you about it later,” he said.