A Northern Thunder (42 page)

“Yes, I do,” said Krowl.

“Judge,” said Feldman, incensed by the cross-examination, “we will stipulate that the admiral had authority to act as an agent, but that’s moot because there was no contract.”

O’Mara leaned forward on the bench. “Admiral, the plaintiff ’s complaint refers to a mission in the DPRK. This would be North Korea?”

“Yes, Judge, and we’ll be asking the FBI to investigate this further,” said Krowl. “We know Parker did indeed travel to North Korea, but not on our orders. Of course, such travel would be illegal.”

Scott bent his head down, trying to hide his disgust. Krowl wasn’t just trying to end this case in the government’s favor, but suggesting that Parker was guilty of something amounting to treason.

“Anything else from this witness?” said O’Mara.

“No, Judge,” said Matthews.

“Anything else, Mr. Feldman?”

“No, Your Honor, except possibly the cross of Mr. Parker should he appear.”

“Mr. Matthews, this sounds convincing,” said O’Mara. “Do you have any testimony?”

Gary Matthews glanced down at his folder, apparently preoccupied. Krowl came down from the witness stand, his lips curved upward in a grin.

“Mr. Matthews?” said O’Mara.

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, yes, I do have a witness,” said Matthews. “A Miss Clark Ashby.”

Scott and Krowl looked at one other, equally perplexed. Feldman bent over to the admiral. “Who is she?” Feldman asked.

“No idea,” the admiral said.

A shapely redhead entered the courtroom, dressed in a black business suit with a high-collared white blouse.

“Please state your name,” said the marshal.

“Clark Ashby.” She sat down in the witness chair, placing a leather briefcase to the side.

“Ms. Ashby, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” said the marshal.

“I do.”

Scott, covering his mouth, leaned over to Krowl. “Admiral, what the hell’s going on? Who
is
this woman?” Scott said.

“
I
don’t know.” Krowl didn’t appear shaken. “But she can’t be a problem.”

“Please state your occupation,” said Matthews.

“Court reporter as certified by the State of Georgia and the United States government.”

“She can’t know anything,” Krowl whispered to Scott.

“Did you have occasion to be in the Vienna Courthouse in the early part of last summer when Admiral Krowl and Mr. Scott visited?” said Matthews.

“Yes, but I didn’t know their names then,” said Clark.

“These two men here?”

“Yes, those are the two.”

“Did you see them leave the courtroom with Mr. William Parker?”

“Oh yes, they left with him at the break in a trial we had.”

“Did you stay in that courtroom?”

“Yes.” As she spoke, Clark absentmindedly opened her briefcase. She pulled from it a small, rectangular black object.

“Oh, God,” said Scott, collapsing back into his chair.

“Scott, cool it.” Krowl grabbed him by the arm.

“Feldman, stop this now,” said Scott.

“What?” Isa Feldman looked bewildered.

“This is a matter of national security. Stop it now!”

“Your Honor, may we have a short break?” Feldman said, standing up, flummoxed by Scott’s outburst.

“Why now, Mr. Feldman?” the judge asked.

Feldman, confused, replied, “I’m told this may be a matter of national security.”

“Okay, ten minutes.” The judge, the court reporter, and the marshal left the courtroom, leaving only Clark, Matthews, and the Defense.

“Admiral, it’s all over,” said Scott.

“Scott, control yourself,” said Krowl.

“Admiral, you remember the trial down there?”

“Yes.”

“And our meeting in his office?”

Scott, standing now, leaned directly into his face. “It was bloody well recorded.”

The courtroom fell silent as Krowl let the thought sink in. During the summertime trial, Parker still had the recording device he had used in the drug trial. When he met with Krowl and Scott, the recorder was on.

“Oh my God,” said Krowl, turning an ashen white.

“She heard everything,” said Scott. It sounded like a statement, but in fact, Scott was looking for confirmation or denial from Matthews and Clark.

“Everything,” said Matthews in a quiet, assured voice, “and it was all recorded as well.”

“Mr. Matthews, we need to talk to Parker,” said Scott.

“Why?”

“To stop this.”

“Let’s go into the jury room.”

Scott led the way into a side room with a long government-style metal table surrounded by gray steel chairs. A few old, torn magazines were piled up at one end. At the other, out several windows, the roof of a red brick building, where pigeons roosted on the ledges, was visible. Krowl and Feldman, but not Matthews, followed him in.

Krowl sat down, his glasses in one hand, his other hand covering his face. He was an ugly man, only much uglier now, broken by his own ruthlessness. Feldman took the seat across from Krowl.

“What’s going on?” said Feldman.

“Parker’s complaint is all true,” said Scott, still standing. “I’m calling the Agency, and the director will have all the money wired to Parker now.”

As Scott spoke these last few words, Matthews swung the door open, and was followed into the room by Will Parker.

“Colonel.” Scott had the look of a guilty man who’d witnessed too much and let things go too far. “Tell us what you want.”

Will took a seat directly across from Julius Krowl.

“I want Krowl retired today.”

“Done.” Scott now dominated his side’s conversation.

“As an O-5.” A reduction to below the Navy rank of captain or colonel stripped Krowl of all honors of flag rank. It was the lowest officer rank for eligible retirement. For an Academy man known as a fast-moving flag officer, it would mean utter humiliation.

“No,” Krowl protested meekly.

“If not,” Scott said to Krowl, “you’re probably looking at charges of attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder, misuse of government equipment, fraud, and perjury—probably good for several life sentences served in Leavenworth.” Then Scott turned back to Will. “What else do you want?” asked Scott.

“That’s it.”

“Okay,” said Scott, moving away from Krowl. “Here are my terms. We’ll wire you the money within the next hour. This claim is dismissed with prejudice, then sealed forever. And you give me every copy of that tape.”

“Done,” said Will. Matthews nodded.

As Krowl remained slumped in the chair, his hands covering his face, Scott followed Will out of the courtroom, catching up to him on the stairs. “Colonel?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Why did you really do it? Take the mission?”

“Did you do your research, Mr. Scott?” said Will.

“I don’t know. What do you mean?”

“Did you know the flight that William and Debra Parker were on?”

Scott recognized the names of Will Parker’s parents. “One coming back from Europe.”

“Yeah,” said Will. “PanAm Flight 103.”

“God, Parker.”

Will Parker had been one of America’s first victims of terrorism.

“It took me a while to realize it, but. . .” He paused. “This war has been going on for a long time.” And it was very personal. North Korea supplied terrorists. Will had lost much to terrorism.

As he walked away, Scott called out again, “Colonel.” Will turned. “How did you know to record it?”

Will smiled tightly, turned away, and walked down the stairs to the waiting Clark Ashby.

T
he Central Intelligence Agency reported a firing of a multi-stage Taepo Dong-3X missile from the newly-discovered complex near the DMZ. The launch occurred shortly after the reported death of one of North Korea’s leading scientists, Peter Nampo. The missile failed to reach a geo-synchronized orbit of the earth, likely, according to the world’s scientists, because the payload’s weight unduly affected the rocket’s trajectory. The rocket disappeared from radar and was presumed destroyed upon re-entry.

In the weeks following the failed launch, Chinese sources reported an upheaval in the government of Pyongyang. The vice prime minister and several generals were absent from prominent activities, including the annual parade in honor of Kim Jong Il. Deeper intelligence sources revealed the homes of these leaders in the secret inner city of Pyongyang were vacated and their children missing from school. No other intelligence reports reflected the military leaders’ whereabouts.

Meantime, Kim Jong Il made another effort to engage in talks with the United States, China, and Japan. Famine still had a grip on the country, and well over one-fourth its children suffered from severe malnutrition. Despite these concerns, North Korea had not complied with requests to acknowledge the existence of secret underground research facilities near Kosan and in three other locations. North Korea remained committed to the development of a multistage Taepo Dong intercontinental missile, despite Western overtures aimed at prompting a dialogue with North Korea.

In the country of Somalia, a U.S. Delta Force attacked a suspected terrorist camp, finding a mobile rocket launcher equipped with an intercontinental missile. It bore no markings. The payload was missing, as were many of the terrorists believed to be connected with the remote desert site. The nature and extent of the planned operation remains a secret.

On December 21st at oh-eight-hundred five, the United States launched its third series GPS IIR-10 satellite, Number SUN47. The satellite became the latest of twenty-nine making up a worldwide GPS system, on which both the military and corporate America increasingly rely.

In local news, the
Honolulu Star Bulletin
reported the city morgue missing the cadaver of a homeless person with no known next of kin. No further information was available.

The Trident submarine U.S.S.
Florida
returned to its homeport in Bangor, Washington, several weeks after an incident off the coast of North Korea. A Marine colonel, unknown to authorities in the port, was seen at Pier 10A greeting the crew and a Marine team onboard.

I have done my best to make this story a fact-based web of intrigue with more than one puzzle that the reader might not catch on first glance. The characters would not carry their weight without a host of people who provide insights into why we all do what we do.

To the late Bill Steber, Ed Rodzwicz, the many Marines (all who served, but are never “former” Marines) of the BLET, and also the Marines of the Crisis Action Team at Marine Forces Pacific: each of you reminds me in your own way that the true heart of the Marine Corps are not the generals, but the corporals, the sergeants, the warrant officers, the new lieutenants, and the seasoned captains who cause the train to run.

To Bob Harriss, Jeff Casurella, and the late Dale Oliver, it is greatly appreciated that you took the time to read a manuscript that was too long and slow at the beginning.

To Lee and Bonnie Green, I appreciate the reminder that, when mobilized, there are many, many citizens who support the Reservist. Tom Ragsdale, Joe Sawyer, Bill Todd, Bill Buckley, and the many members of the Marine Corps Reserve Officers Association (now the Marine Corps Reserve Association) have been of considerable help in many ways. Cal Callier also served to consult on more than one draft and is gratefully acknowledged.

And for the encouragement of my late good friend, Gary Christy, I am much grateful.

Alan Clark has provided good counsel, which is sincerely appreciated.

Ty Elliott has served to inspire my effort to be a creative writer and, for that, I thank him. Both Bruce Bortz, Bancroft Press’s publisher, and his assistant, Harrison Demchick, have been a great help in focusing and fashioning the story. I also appreciate the effort of the many folks at the Iowa Writers Workshop.

J. Anderson Harp was born in a small Arkansas town on the banks of the Mississippi River. As a child, while hearing his father recount his colorful military experiences in the Pacific during World War II, he gained a lifelong appreciation for storytelling. As a youth, Harp’s cultural experiences expanded beyond the South when his parents moved to rural New Jersey. There, in a small town named Vineland, Harp had the opportunity for some unusual life experiences.