Shattered Bone (3 page)

Greed is an evil thing, she thought, as she made her way across thc ramp toward her aircraft. Sometimes people do stupid things for money.

But maybe things wouldn't have to change. In fact, if she were careful, everything would turn out just fine. She would hear the terrible news when she reported to work in the morning. Then she would mourn with the others. Tears of pity and grief would stain her cheeks, but that was as far as it would go. There would never be any suspicion. No evidence. Nothing to trace back to her. If she were careful and did exactly as she had been told, none of the tragedy would affect her directly.

Airman Derby walked up to her aircraft and gently patted its nose. This one was her baby. Aircraft number 87-341 had not flown the night before because of a faulty generator and Airman Derby had spent the morning troubleshooting, trying to find the source of the problem. Around ten o'clock, she had discovered a fault in one of the relays. Once she knew what the problem was, she could have fixed it within an hour. But she didn't. Instead she tinkered and puttered around, always trying to look busy. She had to delay until the evening flying schedule was posted at twelve o'clock. She had to check on something before she completed the job and called her aircraft back in the green and ready to fly.

Just before noon, she left her toolbox by the aircraft and walked into the hangar that housed Maintenance Control. There she found the newly posted evening schedule, written in bright red marker on a large sheet of Plexiglas mounted on the hallway wall. Derby quickly scanned the schedule, looking for her aircraft. She found it on the eighth line down. Aircraft number 87-341 was scheduled for a 23:38 local takeoff. It would be loaded with four Mark 82 bombs and two sidewinder missiles. Its pilot was Capt Richard Ammon.

That was what she needed to know. After checking the schedule, Airman Derby stopped by her locker to get her lunch. She also picked up a small package containing a box of cigarettes. Derby had only recently begun to smoke, a nasty habit for which she seemed to take unending guff from her supervisor, but though still a rookie, she had learned early to keep her cigarettes inside a tin box to protect them from being crushed as she crawled around the aircraft. Stuffing the tin of cigarettes into her front pocket, she closed her locker door and began to walk back to her jet.

Forty-five minutes later, she finished the work on the faulty generator. She then began to replace the aluminum panels that covered the aircraft's electrical systems. When that was complete, she took an inventory of all her tools. If anything was missing, she would have to ground the aircraft until the missing tool could be found. More than one accident had been caused by a missing pair of pliers or a screwdriver that had been left behind, only to get jammed in an aircraft's flight controls.

When Derby had accounted for all of her tools, she walked around the entire jet, opening access panels and doors to ensure that everything was in order.

The last thing Airman Derby did was climb on top of the aircraft and open the slip door that covered the air refueling receptacle. But before she climbed onto her jet, she glanced up and down the flight line to make certain that her supervisor was not around. Then, with a quick jump she climbed onto the fighter's wing and stepped over to the fuselage to where she could reach the small door that covered the air refueling port. Before pushing the door open with her left hand, she glanced around once again.

Working quickly, she pulled the tin of cigarettes out of her pocket and peeled back the wrapper with her teeth, exposing a strong adhesive which she used to attach the tin box to the inside of the slip door. Then, very slowly, she removed the last cigarette from the tin box. This activated a tiny switch which armed two ounces of plastique explosives. The explosives would remain armed until the slip door was opened during flight for air refueling. Once the door slid open, micro-sensors inside the box would sense the change in air pressure and send a fire signal to the explosives.

And while two ounces of plastique explosives were hardly enough to down an F-16, she had been assured that, given the close proximity of the explosives to the aircraft's fuel system, it would more than do the job.

Airman Derby looked around once more before allowing the door to spring closed, then climbing from the aircraft, she gathered up her tools and headed back to Maintenance Control. As she walked across the flight line, she found herself deep in thought once again. Knowing she would soon be very rich she found herself wondering. What was it going to be like to have so much cash? How could she possibly spend so much money?

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OSAN AIR FORCE BASE, SOUTH KOREA

C
APT
R
ICHARD
A
MMON DIDN'T REPORT TO WORK UNTIL LATE AFTER
noon. He slept in until nearly ten, then spent the morning browsing through the tiny shops that lined the narrow streets of Song Tan City. For lunch he ate at the closest McDonald's, where he paid the equivalent of eight dollars for a Big Mac and chocolate shake. Silently he nibbled on the burger and sipped at the frozen chocolate, forcing himself to eat, knowing that if he didn't, by tonight he would be very hungry. But still, the burger made his stomach roll and turn. Lifting the bun, he stared at the soggy meat and marveled once again at the Koreans' ability to make even one hundred percent beef taste like fish.

Before he left the restaurant, Ammon walked back to the counter and ordered another Big Mac and fries. Hc packed three tiny bags of ketchup and a couple napkins into the paper sack, then turned and walked out onto the busy street. The dank vapor of sewer and mildew filled his lungs. But he didn't notice. After sevcn months in Korea, he no longer noticed the smells.

Half a block down the street, he found Kim La Sung. The old man sat at his usual location, his back propped against a crumbling brick wall, his bare legs and dirty feet stretched out into the sidewalk. The man stared straight ahead, holding a small cardboard box filled with hand-carved wooden toys.

“How ya doing ol' man?” Ammon asked as he approached the wretched street vendor. His Korean was barely understandable.

The man's face brightened at the sound of Ammon's voice, but he didn't turn his blind eyes away from the street.

“Hey there, you ugly American,” he replied through tea-stained teeth. “Bring me anything to read?” The old man chuckled. It was the standard greeting between them, a personal joke that stemmed from the first time they had met.

“Not today, Kim,” Ammon said. “I'm in a bit of a hurry. I'm flying tonight, so 1 don't have much time.”

“Okay, Captain Richard. But next time come and stay awhile.”

“I will, old man,” Richard Ammon replied as he placed the bag of food next to his friend. The blind Korean immediately smelled the grease-soaked fries. He reached down and located the bag with his right hand and gently tore it open.

“I hope you didn't forget the ketchup,” the old man said.

“It's in there,” Ammon reassured him.

Ammon turned to leave, then stopped and pulled out his wallet. Without even counting the money, he took all of the bills that were tucked inside and dropped them into Kim's cardboard box. Kim immediately sensed the presence of the cash. Without so much as a nod, he reached out with unseeing hands, extracted the folded bills, and stuffed them into his shirt.

“Next time, bring me more ketchup,” he demanded as Ammon turned and began to make his way back down the street.

Ammon walked to the base, flashing his identification card to the guards that manned the sidewalk gate. Then he went back to his quarters to sleep. Normally when he flew at night, he didn't take an afternoon nap. But tonight he wasn't scheduled to take off until 11:38, which meant he wouldn't land until after 3:00
A.M
. By the time he finished debriefing and had completed the required paperwork, he wouldn't be back to his room until nearly sunrise. He figured a little afternoon siesta would help him get through the long night.

It
was somewhat unusual for him to fly such a long sortie.

Normally he would fly about an hour, maybe two hours if he did air refueling. But tonight he would climb up behind a tanker to get gas not only once, but twice. Both times he would meet up with his tanker just off the western coast of Korea and refuel as they flew out over the Yellow Sea. After topping off his tanks for the second time, he would turn back toward home, knowing he had enough fuel for several practice instrument approaches before he would have to land.

Inside his Q room, Ammon stripped to his underwear and settled himself onto his bed and tried to sleep. But although he felt very tired, sleep did not come. After laying on his bed for an hour, Ammon gave up and turned on the television to a rerun of ‘The Beverly Hillbillies.” “The Hillbillies” were a favorite of the Korean people. It reinforced their concept that all Americans were somewhat dim, but rich nonetheless. It was laughable to watch the voice-overs that mismatched the actors' lips. Although Ammon couldn't speak Korean well enough to follow the story, the familiar sight of Granny and Ellie May brought him some comfort when he was so far from home.

At four o'clock Ammon picked up the phone. He dialed the international code for the United States, then a California area code and number. It took several seconds for the call to go through. When it did, the phone on the other end of the line only rang three times before an answering machine clicked on. Ammon listened to the message, then waited for the beep.

“Jesse, I've got bad news,” Ammon said quickly. “I've been trying to call you since yesterday, but you haven't been home. My father is sick. I think he'll be okay though. Reggie is with him now. Don't worry. I'll call you when I can. You have my word.”

He immediately hung up and looked at his watch. It only took twenty seconds to make the call. Less than the required thirty seconds it would have taken to trace the number he had been connected to out in California. Good. That was extremely important. After checking his watch, he reached down and dialed again. This time he talked a little bit longer, but he didn't really care. It was to a number that couldn't be traced.

Fifteen minutes later, Ammon was stepping out of the shower to shave. He studied his face in the mirror, looking for any signs of the stress or anxiety he was feeling. Nothing showed. In his reflection he saw only the same trusting smile and even features that had served him so well in the past.

Richard Ammon was not tall, only a fraction of an inch above six feet. But at twenty-nine, he was still solid, his shoulders and back sculpted into graceful lines by frequent workouts at the gym. He had tan skin and blond hair, which he wore in the same tight cut as most of the other pilots in his squadron. His teeth wcre white and straight. His jaw was square and taut. His face was friendly, for he frequently laughed, which helped to soften the intensity of his hard black eyes.

Ammon quickly shaved and then sat down on the edge of his bed to dress. Opening his nightstand drawer, he took out a long elastic sports bandage and wrapped it tightly around his left knee. He put on a clean flight suit and pulled on his boots, then grabbed the flight bag which he kept by the bedroom door. The last thing he did was stuff a plastic Ziploc baggie into his pocket. He then walked out of the room without turning out the light.

He drove to the fighter wing complex where he parked his battered Isuzu in front of the wing intelligence building. He punched the keys to the cipher lock on the side entry and greeted the Sergeant who let him in. As one of the squadron tactics officers, he had an office inside the building. He quickly made his way down the wide corridor of the empty building to his door, where he paused for a moment before pushing it open. He shared the room with two other officers, and was relieved to find himself alone as he slipped into the darkened office.

He glanced around. Government-issue metal desks faced each other in the center of the room and three large file cabinets lined one wall. The only decorations were the standard framed pictures of various military aircraft and a two-foot model of an F-16 hanging from the ceiling. Because the occupants of the wing intelligence building always dealt with classified documents, the structurc had been specifically designed with security in mind. None of the rooms had any windows, and all the doors were sealed and soundproof. Every room had a built-in safe or vault to store classified material. On the rare occasion that a visitor was allowed into the building, a bright red light flashed in evcry room and corridor as a warning for the occupants to protect their secrets. With sealed doors and no windows, the air in Ammon's office was always stale and cold.

Reaching into his flight bag, Ammon pulled out a pair of rubber gloves and quickly put them on as he walked to the three desks in the center of the room. Passing by his own, he sat down at his friend's, Major Billings. He unlocked. the Major's desk with a stolen key, pulled out the ccnter drawer, and, with a practiccd hand, began to feel under-neath for the sheet of microfilm. His fingers quickly explored the underside of the drawer, running along the corners in an effort to find the thin piece of film. He felt his heart quicken and his head began to pound as his hands groped along the underside of the drawer. Then he found it. The slippery film was stuffed way up in the right hand corner, exactly where it had been left the day before.

With a careful tug he pulled the film away from the tape and quickly placed it inside the baggie he had pulled from his pocket. After he sealed the plastic bag, he checked it to ensure it was airtight, then pulled up the leg of his flight suit and stuffed the bag under the wrapping around his knee.

Walking from the building, Capt Ammon stifled the urge to run as he made his way to his car. He glanced over his shoulder. No one was there. Nothing was amiss. And yet one thought continued to turn in his mind. If he were discovered with the microfilm in his possession, he would almost certainly die in a South Korean interrogation cell. The South Koreans, while trustworthy allies, were very intolerant of those charged with treason.