A Northern Thunder Read online

  At Fort Greeley, Will had learned to live off the land in temperatures reaching fifty, sixty, and sometimes seventy degrees below zero. Surviving in ice caves stuffed with pine bows, he would disappear for days at a time, living off the resources of the land. An expert skier, and an experienced mountaineer, Will knew how to get around in a cold, mountain environment.

  “Were you later assigned to a Force Reconnaissance Battalion?”

  “Yes.”

  Along with a few other mountaineering Marines, Will had been detached to the Mountain Warfare Training Center at Bridgeport in the High Sierras of California. There, they taught Marines how to survive and fight in the extreme cold.

  Bridgeport was a small, secluded base high in the Sierra Mountains, some sixty miles from Lake Tahoe. Although close by helicopter standards, it was, in winter, a million miles away from Tahoe and civilization. To this base in this valley, battalions of Marines, many of them from the 1st Marine Division at Camp Pendleton, would come for several weeks of cold, exhausting winter training.

  Scott knew more than he let on about Will’s cold weather expertise, and all his experience for that matter, but he had learned a long time ago that each Marine, despite their reputations and resumés, had to be judged individually. Now that he’d met him, Scott found it likely Will was the tough, smart fighter his profile indicated.

  Will turned to the admiral. “Excuse me, sir, but I know my resumé. What’s this all about? And who’s this fellow asking all these questions?”

  A typical Marine, Krowl thought, full of brashness and self-confidence— traits he usually liked. But a Marine could be dangerous if he could not be controlled.

  “Colonel, Mr. Scott works for a branch of the U.S. Government. At the present time, that is all you need to know. As to why we are here, let me ask you one other question.” Krowl paused, intentionally, to create the greatest suspense, and to gauge the impact on Will. “Do you remember a man named Peter Nampo?”

  This was the last name Will ever expected to hear, particularly from a U.S. Navy admiral. Peter Nampo had had no connection to Will’s legal career, or, for that matter, his Marine career. It was also a name he preferred never hearing again.

  “I knew Peter Nampo.” As an American University freshman, Will had been assigned Nampo as a roommate in McDowell Hall. A gifted athlete, Will had received offers of full athletic scholarships from quite a few colleges and universities, but he wanted to attend one that had a school for international studies, and American University had a very good one. But the school, relatively small back then, did not have an athletic dorm, and randomly assigned its athletes to other freshman dorms.

  One of the freshmen assigned to McDowell Hall was Peter Nampo, the son of a Japanese executive who had made a fortune in cigarettes. Nampo’s father’s family was ch’ongryong. The ch’ongryong, a large and growing people of Japan, were historic descendants of Korea, many of whom kept their original family ties. Many had gone on to great financial success in Japan.

  Peter Nampo, however, was no capitalist. For whatever reason, Nampo hated his millionaire father, and he elected to show it by becoming a hardcore radical and Stalin-style communist—a determined activist who opposed everything Will stood for.

  It didn’t take Will long to realize that he and Nampo were like oil and water. Before the freshman year was done, Nampo had moved out of the room and left AU. The move may have come just in time, too. Will later learned that Nampo, increasingly active in his subversive efforts, was under FBI investigation and about to be deported.

  “Engineering nerd” was another apt description of Nampo. He had spent countless hours working with computers, sometimes well into the early morning hours, and he had a bright scientific mind. He was obsessive and fanatical about his work, and constantly nervous.

  “Colonel,” said Krowl, “this is most important. In fact, I would not be overstating it to say that your answer to the next question could have an impact on world events. Could you pick Peter Nampo out of a crowd from a distance, say, of three-hundred to five-hundred meters, using a telescopic camera?” The Admiral stared directly into Will’s eyes.

  Will thought this all very strange. He had heard that Nampo had left the States years ago. But, surely, the CIA or some other intelligence agency could find Peter Nampo and, if need be, get much closer to him than three-hundred meters.

  “Admiral, given the right opportunity. . . yes, I could pick Nampo out of a crowd.” Will thought of the one characteristic of Peter Nampo that would not have changed after all these years—one subtle quirk you might notice only after living with the man.

  Admiral Krowl continued to stare directly into Will’s eyes. “Colonel, I have a proposal for you. . . a most unusual proposal.”

  Chapter 5

  From his four years of active Marine Corps duty and fifteen years with the Reserves, Will knew one thing—admirals don’t come to Marine reservists in rural Georgia and make them proposals of any kind.

  The telephone rang just as he came to this realization. “Yes?” Will said into the receiver. It was Connie. “Boss, the judge is on the line. He wants to talk to you. . . about hunting, I think.”

  “Tell him I’ll need to call him back.”

  Connie knew Will never told Anderson Roamer he would call him back. He always treated Judge Roamer, or, for that matter, any judge, with the highest priority.

  “Will, what’s the problem?” she asked. “What’s going on in there?”

  “Connie, don’t get excited. Just hold all my calls. . . and call Gary Matthews and tell him I need to talk to him about a Court of Claims case this afternoon.” For years prior to becoming a civil attorney, Gary Matthews had been Will’s fellow prosecutor. He was someone Will could trust—always.

  “What Court of Claims case?”

  “Connie, I love you because you follow my instructions so well.”

  “Okay, I can take a hint. Oh, and Clark is on her cell. She wants to talk to you now.”

  “Tell Clark to hold on. I’ll get right back to her.”

  He turned back to the Admiral as he hung up the telephone. “Admiral, we will not be disturbed again. As you were saying. . .” He leaned back in his chair and placed both hands into his coat pockets.

  “Colonel Parker, if you accept this proposal, there will be many further details given to you at a later date.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Scott knew the details of the mission, but had no idea what the Admiral was referring to when he used the term “proposal.” He turned his chair to face the Admiral.

  “Colonel,” Krowl began, “the United States Government needs you to go deep into a very hostile environment and take a photograph of Peter Nampo. He has been cooperating with a certain unnamed enemy in the development of certain ultra-dangerous technology. Despite our best efforts, we’ve not been able to identify him with absolute accuracy. And, particularly in the present environment, we must be able to clearly determine what he looks like.”

  More things made sense to Will now. Even in the brief months he knew him, Peter Nampo refused to be photographed. At the time, Will thought it an absurdity, but perhaps Nampo knew more about his possible future than Will appreciated.

  “Colonel, you are a reservist. Even as an active duty Marine, you could not be ordered to undertake such a mission. At the very least, the effort will require several months of training and preparation.”

  Will thought that, even with several years of training, this mission’s success was uncertain, if the goal was so difficult the Marines had to rely on a reservist like himself. And he was pondering the term “very hostile environment.” China had opened itself up to more and more access. Although he was sure that parts of the country remained inaccessible, surely intelligence could use the accessible areas to develop ties and sources. And, in Russia, one could buy virtually anything for the right price. So where exactly was Peter Nampo to be photographed?

  No, this had to be a “hardcore” country with limit
ed access and limited ties. Iran? Syria? Nampo was a devout Stalinist—a hard-edged communist, not a religious fanatic.

  “Colonel, the U.S. Government is willing to train you, insert you into the country with a highly capable team, and. . .”

  Will noticed a hesitation on Krowl’s part.

  “. . . allow you to claim a reward under the RFJ.”

  Scott leaned forward, his hand over his jaw, masking his reaction. The RFJ, he thought, had no rewards for photographing a North Korean.

  “RFJ?” Will asked.

  “The State Department’s Reward for Justice Program.”

  “The one that offers rewards for terrorists like Bin Laden?” Will said. “Yes. If sent under orders, you could not claim a reward. Under our proposal, you could.” The RFJ program had existed for years, but after 9/11, the State Department had enlarged the list and added substantial funding. Several on the list had bounties of twenty-five million dollars on their heads.

  This mission must be totally off the wall, Will thought. Otherwise, what is Krowl doing? Will tried to look Krowl directly in the eyes. The admiral kept looking down and would only give him an occasional direct glance.

  Will, Krowl knew, had been awarded the Legion of Merit in the Gulf, with a “V” for valor in combat. Will’s regimental commander, he also knew, had nominated him for the Navy Cross, but a general at the Pentagon downgraded it. Odd, Krowl thought, that a general, and in this case one who had never seen combat, would downgrade the award.

  But the U.S. seemed to operate two distinct militaries—the actives and the reserves—and members of the reserves, like Will, were treated like second-class citizens. Was Will someone who would do anything to be awarded a medal? Probably not. So the admiral could only guess at how to motivate him.

  Why not simply ask me to do this for the safety of our nation? Will wondered. Or make some other patriotic pitch?

  Scott was more astonished than Will. Money was nothing new to the CIA. More warlords and allies had been bought and sold by the Agency than the public ever needed to know, and while it was clear that this particular man was absolutely needed, Scott was still not sure what Krowl was thinking.

  “And?” Will spoke the word softly. He knew that a pause and silence could sometimes be a powerful tool in getting others to talk. Krowl took the bait.

  “The reward for locating and identifying Nampo is twenty-five million. He is deemed a grave potential terrorist threat.”

  That much Scott agreed with. Nampo was more of a threat to middle America than half the terrorists on the RFJ list. The problem was that Nampo was not on the public list. It wouldn’t take long for Will Parker to figure that much out.

  “He is not a disclosed, listed person, but we warrant to you that he is on a private, approved list.” Krowl spoke the words just as Scott thought of the problem.

  “Admiral, you’re talking about a mission requiring months of preparation. I’d have to resign as district attorney. I’m an elected official, and a leave of absence is not doable,” Will said. “Also, if the mission is as secret as you suggest, I may not even be able to return to this town, or this way of life. People would say I might disappear again, at a moment’s notice, and leave their case hanging—leave them hanging. My credibility would be shot. I won’t be able to tell anyone in this town what I’m doing or why. I’m sure of that. And it will be very dangerous, even deadly.”

  Krowl sat back. He had a game plan and was sticking to it.

  “I take it this mission is of the highest national urgency and that you must have an answer immediately,” Will continued.

  “That’s correct, Colonel. In fact, we must have this mission completed by thirty-one January of next year.” Although time was critical, Krowl actually had set no specific deadline. He was simply pushing for a decision.

  “Admiral,” said Will, “I will do this, but I require absolute, total control over how the mission is accomplished. And you will supply me whatever and whomever I need.”

  The money was of no concern to Krowl. Compared to other ways of accomplishing this mission, $25 million would be a bargain. The firing of several million-dollar cruise missiles could not guarantee success. Worse, they would leave an international trail. Every satellite in the world could pick up a cruise missile strike and quickly determine who had launched it. And Will Parker was a long way from filing a claim for the reward.

  “Colonel, I will commit the U.S. Government to pay the RFJ reward upon your locating and photographing Dr. Nampo.”

  In twenty years at the Agency, Scott had often played fast and loose. Krowl was taking things to a new level. If Nampo was not on the list, and Scott did not think he was, what was Krowl thinking?

  Scott turned to Will as if on cue. “Colonel, we will have an aircraft waiting to pick you up at the Cordele airport next Friday at twenty-three hundred hours. It might cause a little less attention that way.” Cordele, another small southern town, was less than seven miles down the road, and the only nearby town with a local airfield.

  Less than an hour before, District Attorney Will Parker had been in the final stages of a big criminal trial. Now, he would be stepping into another world. It didn’t matter when they sent the airplane. With a visit by two strangers to his office and his resignation to the governor shortly thereafter, Vienna would have plenty to talk about for years to come. A private jet landing at the local airport at midnight should finish the stories off nicely.

  A knock sounded on the office door, and Will opened it to find Connie. “Will,” she said, “the jury’s back and they’re waiting for you.”

  “Thanks, Connie. Tell the deputy I’ll be there in half a minute.”

  Will turned back to his two guests. “Admiral, I take it I will get a full briefing this weekend.”

  “I take it, Parker, that you have accepted our offer.” Krowl stuck his hand out and Will grabbed it. The grip was like a vice for both men, but ever so subtly, Will’s hand consumed Krowl’s grip.

  “Yes, sir. As they say in law school, we have reached a meeting of the minds, consideration has passed, and we have a contract.”

  “Yes,” Krowl said, “indeed.” He had a sly smile that Will had already come to dislike.

  Will turned toward the hallway and bounded down the stairs to the courtroom. At the back door, Judge Roamer was smoking a cigarette, his black robe open and unzipped. He wore a white shirt, blue jeans with an oversized western buckle, and pitch-black alligator boots.

  “Judge, you look like you’d rather be on the farm today than trying this case.” No matter the response, Will knew he was right.

  Roamer was a man Will had great respect for. A linebacker at Georgia on one of the early teams Vince Dooley coached, Andy Roamer slept under red and black sheets at night—a Georgia bulldog whose loyalty ran deep. He was a man who looked you in the eye and gave you an iron grip of a handshake.

  “Yeah, Will,” he said, “and I understand you had a visit from some DEA agents.”

  It didn’t take the town long to put a spin on this, Will thought. But he actually liked the idea.

  “Yes, sir, but please don’t tell anyone. The U.S. attorney general wants me to help prosecute a major drug case against a Colombia drug cartel. It probably means I’ll have to resign.” Will liked the “don’t tell anyone” touch. As much as he liked Anderson Roamer, he knew the news would be all over town in less than an hour. The judge would call his wife while his secretary listened through the cracked door. It’s the nature of small towns. The opportunity to share gossip was a special treat for a resident of a sleepy little place like Vienna.

  “What do you think, Judge?”

  “Well, I don’t want to lose you, but I can’t think of anyone better to do a job like that.”

  “I told ’em I’d think about it. And I appreciate that comment.”

  Roamer turned and pushed the half-smoked cigarette into the sand of an old, dented ash can. It was full of half-smoked cigarettes he’d put there during prior trial
breaks. He thought back to his many and long experiences with Will, recalling the time he accompanied Will, a skilled outdoorsman, on a southern quail hunt. The hunters would walk through the scattered brush of a pine tree forest, following trained dogs that shifted back and forth over a field, hoping for a sniff of the birds. Occasionally, a dog would jump the covey, causing the quails to fly up in several directions. In an instant, the hunter had to pick a target and fire. The judge would hear a single shot from a shotgun, but two birds would fall. The accuracy required to fire one shot to down two crossing birds was like that of a golfer sinking a hole-in-one, but Will did it several times that day.

  Following the loss of his parents, Will became more of a loner, and Roamer, on more than one occasion, tried to change that.

  “Well, let’s get this case finished.” He zipped up the robe and strode into the courtroom as the deputy sheriff jumped up from his seat.

  “All rise, the court is now in session,” the deputy bellowed.

  Will sat down at the prosecutor’s table. Probably for the first time in his career, he failed to listen as the judge read the charges against the defendant.

  As he sat on the stiff wooden chair, Will thought of his dangerous new mission, trying to identify Peter Nampo in a country that afforded little opportunity for U.S. spies to get near enough to take a photograph. And what made Peter Nampo so valuable?

  Will was sure of one thing—the money wasn’t important to him. This mission would be a huge personal challenge—one that tested every part of his ability to think and survive. It was the challenge that intrigued him. It might give him a chance to resolve a great deal.

  • • •

  As the black car pulled away from the courthouse, Krowl reached for a small black object in the wooden compartment between him and Scott. He dialed a number and pressed a small red button that scrambled the signal. The Leprechaun SINCGARS radio sent the voice over an encrypted, secure narrow band that jumbled the conversation into digital bits that could only be put back together by another similar SINCGARS band receiver. It would be impossible for anyone to tap into this conversation.