Chapter 1
A Flight Westbound, August 2011
“Is this seat 8A?”
Dr. Myler Harbinger looked up to see a young Asian-American man standing in the aisle. “Yes, I guess it is,” Harbinger said, glancing at the window seat beside him.
“Thank you,” said the stranger, who looked like one of Harbinger’s graduate students, no more than half the professor’s age. “If you’d rather have the window, I don’t mind.”
Harbinger had no preference. He simply wished to remain undisturbed. “No, I’ll stay here. Thank you.”
Wrinkled and disheveled, with reading glasses on his gray, bushy head and an unlit pipe in his mouth, Harbinger looked every inch the professor he was. He had hoped the flight from Washington, D.C. to San Francisco would provide him an opportunity to work on his most recent research project. He had treasured the promise of five hours of quiet time in the air, and he hoped his seat neighbor would quickly end the small talk. The muscles in his jaw flexed as he chewed on his favorite pipe, turning his attention back to the small pad he always carried. He had it placed on top of a worn leather satchel on the seat table, which was serving as his desk.
The young man took off his leather jacket, wiggled past the table and Harbinger’s knees, sat, and began reading a newspaper.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harbinger noticed the newspaper’s odd lettering. It was clearly from some other language.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a flight attendant, “but you’ll need to stow the table for takeoff. May I take that briefcase?”
“Yes, thank you.” Harbinger handed the satchel to her and, as she put it in the overhead bin, the tag hung out of the bin door:
Dr. Myler Harbinger, Ph.D.
121 Briar Street
Berkeley, California
“And your coat?”
The young stranger hesitated briefly, then handed it to her. It would be much later that she remembered the oddity of the jacket. It had no tags in it, as if the owner had cut them out with some specific purpose in mind.
“And, Professor, you do know you cannot light that pipe?”
“Yes” he replied. “Professor? What gave it away?”
“Just a wild guess.”
The man next to the professor also knew Dr. Myler Harbinger’s occupation, but not from his luggage tag. He knew where Harbinger taught, how he dressed, what he liked and disliked. In fact, for several months, the man had researched every minute detail about the man sitting next to him, including the precise airplane seat assigned to him on this flight. A PhD in mathematics and the world’s leading mind on the development of GPS—the global positioning satellite network—Dr. Harbinger stood as the Grace Hopper of his time. Like Hopper, the famed naval captain, genius, and inventor of the COBOL computer system, Myler Harbinger was a decade ahead of all his peers—except, perhaps, one.
“Where do you teach?” the young man asked once the flight attendant had left.
“I’m at the engineering department at Berkeley.”
“Oh, a very fine school. And engineering—I thought the computer eliminated our need for mathematics and engineering.”
Harbinger kept his eyes on his pad of paper and humphed in response.
“I work in cable television in South Korea,” the man continued. “Without the satellite, we couldn’t exist.”
The comment hit strangely close to Harbinger’s work. Suddenly, he felt uncomfortable.
“What brought you to Washington, Doctor? Or do you prefer Professor?”
“A meeting on satellites at NASA.”
“Oh, really?” the stranger said as he leaned over, peering at the doctor’s notes.
Harbinger, feeling the man’s body enter his space, leaned back in his chair. “Excuse me,” he said.
“Sorry,” said the man, “I didn’t mean to cause you alarm. I was just curious. I find satellites most interesting. I cannot imagine a world without them. And the military—I would think it could be paralyzed if a satellite failed.”
Harbinger did not mention that this secret conference had been, curiously enough, on that very subject. He did not mention the representatives from U.S. Space Command, nor their concern that space debris, whether natural or intended, could destroy a satellite—nor the effect that would have on the military and its aging, costly fleet of satellites.
It became quiet again and, not long after, the stranger turned away, placed a pillow under his head, and fell asleep.
It was several hours before the flight attendant interrupted Harbinger. The other passenger was just emerging from a sound sleep.
Harbinger glanced at the man’s pale white hand. There was a scar covering the top of the right hand. It was a clean, deep scar with a sharp, clear edge—probably a knife wound, as if the man had protected himself from a blow.
He also noticed the ring on his other hand—unostentatious gold, and twisted in the shape of a dragon. To him, it looked out of place on the hand of a man who dressed so simply.
“Gentlemen,” the stewardess said, “we have about an hour until we reach San Francisco. I apologize for the late meal. Would you care to have the chicken or the steak for dinner?”
“I believe I have a special meal ordered,” said the professor. “Would you mind checking on that?”
“Certainly.” She turned to Harbinger’s seatmate. “And you, sir? What would you like?”
“Steak would be fine.”
Harbinger’s special request was a poor choice for his final meal.
* * * *
As the flight attendant cleared away their two trays, the young stranger struck up another conversation.
“Did you know the United States wastes more food in a week than the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea consumes in a year?”
Harbinger had taught long enough at Berkeley to know how to interpret a comment like that. To the rest of the world, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, or DPRK for short, was known simply as North Korea. South Korean businessmen did not refer to North Korea as the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Only someone from across the border of North Korea would refer to it that way.
“I’ve heard that North Korea has had a difficult time,” Harbinger said.
The stranger nodded. “Thirty-eight miles from Seoul, children are dying from malnutrition. They lie there, gasping for breath, a short drive from one of the largest, best-fed cities in the Pacific Rim.”
As Harbinger looked for a way to shift or stop the conversation, the pilot announced that the plane had been cleared for approach into San Francisco’s International Airport. The professor was thankful for the interruption. This young man was more than a cable television businessman from South Korea, and the more Harbinger heard, the more he wanted the flight to end.
He looked at his watch. His wife had agreed to pick him up at the airport. She was always perfectly on time. The landing could come not soon enough.
Thirty minutes later, as the aircraft taxied to the gate, Harbinger tried to turn his thoughts to the class he had to teach tomorrow.
The rush of people to the front of the aircraft caused a bottleneck in first class, and Harbinger did not notice his row-mate twisting the gold ring on his finger as he got up from his seat.
“Well, I hope your remaining journey is pleasant,” Harbinger said, trying to show some civility. He gestured for the young man to go ahead of him.
“You too, Doctor.” As the man passed Harbinger, he patted the professor lightly on the shoulder.
Harbinger felt a small prick as he joined the crowd surging toward the exit. They seemed to be moving more quickly now; the Korean was walking far ahead of Harbinger, who suddenly realized that he was holding up the passengers behind him. He tried to step forward but, as he did, pain struck his chest, as if a sledgehammer had knocked the breath out of his body, and he crumpled to the ground, his satchel plopping down beside him.
His fellow passengers found their anger turning to alarm as he fell, but none realized that Myler Harbinger, a world leader in micro-electronic technology, had a highly concentrated dose of sodium nitroprusside surging through his veins. His heart had frozen like an engine suddenly out of oil. The professor had been dead even before his body slumped to the aircraft floor.
Chapter 2
Outside of Vienna, Georgia
Across the nearly deserted country road stood a defunct gas station, a large sign declaring the availability of Diesel $.59/Gallon and Boiled Peanuts. The signs had bleached with time, and the price of the fuel gave some indication of the number of decades that had passed since it had last filled the tanks of its customers, but a small shack on the property still functioned as a store for locals.
“Where the hell is he?” the old man asked, wondering why the driver was taking so long to get directions.
In military parlance, the senior ranking officer was always the “old man.” For this “old man,” the scorching heat and humidity made everything unbearable—even sitting in the glossy black executive car with the air-conditioning at full blast.
The other passenger leaned forward and said, “I don’t think he’s been to Vienna before.” A faint British accent was evident in his words. Black sunglasses hid part of a scar running down his cheek.
They had stopped on the edge of Vienna, a small town in south Georgia not much larger than the one-block town square framed by the redbrick courthouse. Locals had come up with a special pronunciation: VEYE-anna. Any comparison to the Austrian city ended with the identical spellings.
“I don’t give a damn where he’s been or not been before,” Admiral Krowl told his companion. “I told the Marine Corps to have their best driver available—at least somebody who knows where to go.” The gas station’s screen door banged and a young Marine with lance corporal stripes jogged over to the car, hopped in, and shifted into drive.
Krowl leaned forward. “You know where to go now?”
“Yes, sir. Only seven more miles down on the right.” The lance corporal’s well-creased uniform was beginning to show signs of the heat, and perhaps of his high-pressure passenger.
Rear Admiral Julius “Jig” Krowl could not stand waiting, whether in a car in rural Georgia or in a Pentagon briefing room. He also hated his nickname, but it had stuck. In his first week at the Naval Academy, “Julius” had been shortened by an old Marine mustanger who’d served in both World War II and Korea. “Julius? Bullshit,” the captain had barked. “Henceforth, you will be ‘Plebe Jig.’” The Marine was referring to the old phonetic designation for the letter J.
While he couldn’t change his nickname, Krowl, a high-ranking military official for a long, long time, had grown accustomed to getting his way on everything else.
“I can’t believe we have to resort to this,” he grumbled. “Surely, Langley could give us a better option.”
Beside him on the seat lay a thick folder marked Top Secret: CIA. Over its center was a large seal marked SCI, followed by a bright red warning that fines and imprisonment were the penalty for unauthorized use.
“If Langley had any other option,” said the other companion in the vehicle, “we would have used it.”
Krowl turned to him. “And this doesn’t work? Who will they go after?” Krowl was angry, not so much about the proposed idea, but that the CIA might rob him of the credit. As soon as he was sure this plan was a winner, Scott would be shoved to the background.
James Scott had heard admirals spout off before and, frankly, couldn’t have cared less. A career officer with the Agency, he’d learned a long time ago that the mission was primary. He had met the admiral only the day before, but Scott took pride in his ability to size up people quickly, and he sensed Krowl was a man to keep a close eye on.
When he answered Krowl, his words were slow and deliberate. “From our discussions in the EC yesterday, you know this is the best choice we have. We bloody well need him, and we need him badly.”
The EC, or executive center, was little known—even by many military insiders. In the Pentagon, no sanctum was more secret.
During their meeting the day before, even James Scott had been impressed. He’d seen many secret facilities during his years in intelligence, but this one was unique. The EC was the Secretary of Defense’s private war room. Soundproofing on all sides prevented any eavesdropping. An eye-scanning device had a limited history of those few it would let in. The assault on that infamous September day had had no impact upon the center. It remained impregnable.
As Scott had entered the steel vault, he had been met by an armed sentry—a Marine armed with a 9mm Beretta in a shoulder holster—behind a small, green-tinted Plexiglas opening. The lines of his green utility clothing betrayed a bulletproof vest beneath.
He identified himself crisply to the Marine.
“I need to see additional photo verification.”
“You have the eye scan.”
“Yes, sir…but this briefing has the highest classification—top secret, need to know only, SCI.” No superior would complain if the sentry refused to allow someone into the top secret facility who lacked all the proper identification. To enter, even the most senior executive at Defense had to comply with all requirements.
Scott pulled out his identification card. The sentry inserted it into a scanner.
“Now, sir, please place your right hand here.”
Scott put his hand onto a small black box. A red light flashed as the machine hummed and he heard a click as the system registered its approval.
“You’re clear, sir. You’re to go to the conference room, third door on the left. Admiral Krowl is waiting for you.”
“Thank you, Marine.”
Scott had walked the short distance down the small hallway to another set of steel doors. As he stepped near the front of the third door and his foot touched a thick gray carpet pad, he heard another click.
Above the door was a lit sign in a small metal box: TS…SCI…Conference in Session.
A voice came over a wall speaker. “Yes?”
“James Scott, CIA.”
The second door clicked.
A short, graying, heavyset man in an admiral’s uniform stood just inside. His thin, round gold-metal eyeglasses accentuated coal-black eyes and eyebrows.
“Scott, I’m Rear Admiral Julius Krowl, repping the Joint Chiefs. This is General Louis McCain of the Marine Corps and Mark Wolf of DIA.” The Defense Intelligence Agency, or DIA, was one of the U.S. military’s main providers of intelligence, much of it obtained from spy satellites. DIA was the eavesdropper capable of snooping electronically anywhere in the world. Telephone conversations, whether from landlines, cell phones, or satellite phones, fell within the electronic scope of DIA surveillance, as did emails.
McCain, a three-star general, commanded the Marine Forces Reserve, more commonly referred to as MAR FOR RES. Based in New Orleans, the entire reserve force of the Marine Corps was under his control. Though the Reserves were playing a greater role nowadays in frontline defense, it was unusual for a MAR FOR RES rep to be at such a meeting. Scott knew, however, why the reserve commander’s attendance was appropriate.
The admiral pointed to a high-backed leather executive chair, one of four surrounding a small shiny, fine-grained, reddish-brown mahogany table. Scott sat down, taking in his surroundings: A small room with red striped drapes on three walls, there to further reduce sound and obscure any conversations. Sounds seemed to drop off at the end of each spoken sentence. On the fourth wall hung three screens surrounded by drapes. And above the screens were six clocks, one marked Seoul, another Honolulu, another Washington, another Beijing, and the last two London and Moscow.
“Mr. Scott,” said Krowl, “Admiral Williams, Commander of USPACON, is with us by satellite.” USPACON, short for U.S. Pacific Command, was responsible for all Defense Department matters in the Pacific.
On one of the screens appeared a four-star Navy admiral with graying, close-cropped hair and a well-tanned face. “Hello, gentlemen,” said Admiral Williams. Based in Hawaii, he was the lead commander in any crisis that might occur in that part of the world. His was an enviable job. Admirals throughout the Navy fought for the chance to be Commander, USPACON. With hot spots such as China, North Korea, Pakistan, Vietnam, India, Cambodia, and the Spratly Islands within his purview, Admiral Williams was guaranteed plenty of CNN exposure. Only Central Command provided commanders more media attention. With enormous areas of ocean lying within the Pacific Command, the post always had gone to an admiral.
“Gentlemen,” Krowl said curtly, “there are to be no notes. This is need-to-know only.” He didn’t care about Wolf or Scott, and considered McCain no threat. “Admiral Williams, naturally you’re exempted, sir.”
Krowl had turned to Scott. “Now, Mr. Scott, what is so urgent that we needed to get together?”
“Admiral, the Yongbyon project has gained new life. After the Taepodong-2 failure, they changed their team, acquiring someone who we believe can put it all together for the first time, and he has gone straight to the multi-stage next generation. It will have a range of ten thousand-plus nautical miles and carry a five-hundred-plus load.”
“Shit,” Williams muttered.
“He’s also working on a sixth-generation weapon.”
Silence hit the room. Everyone knew the potential impact of a soon-to-be operational missile with a range that crossed the Pacific. Virtually every city in the continental United States would be within its reach. Several sixth-generation nuclear weapons could be carried by a 500-kilogram load-capacity missile.
And that was how Scott had found himself here, with Admiral Krowl, in this small town, looking for the one man who could pull off the mission at hand.
Chapter 3
A Courthouse in Vienna, Georgia
As everyone in the courtroom stood, Judge Anderson Roamer, a barrel-chested bull of a man with dark, thick horn-rimmed glasses, took the bench, sitting well above the floor of the cavernous old courtroom. The courthouse, built with the detailed craftsmanship of the 1930s, now had large, hand-sized strips of paint peeling off the walls and ceilings.
After shuffling some papers, Judge Roamer looked down at the two attorneys.
He pushed his glasses up with a finger, stained brown from years of smoking. “We have heard from the defense. Is the State ready for closing argument?”
Will Parker stood up. “The State is ready, Your Honor.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Parker.”
“Folks,” said Will to the jury, “we just met two days ago, so let me reintroduce myself—I’m William Parker.”
As he spoke, a door squeaked open in the rear of the courtroom. Everyone glanced toward the two dark-suited men who entered. The older one sat in the last row of benches—a balding head, heavy, dark eyebrows, and bright gold glasses that framed a pair of dark eyes. The other man, who had a military-style haircut, wore dark sunglasses even inside the courtroom.
Will turned back to the jury. He looked each juror in the eye through thin glasses that framed his own sky-blue eyes and created the impression of a teacher. This, in contrast to his demeanor, which seemed more like that of a neighbor talking over a fence. His blond-brown hair had a high part, and his tall, athletic frame dominated the jury box. A small scar over his left eye did more to accent his face than to distract. Will had a calm presence, speaking with a voice more of a judge than a prosecutor, more of a general than a sergeant.
“I was born in this town. Except for school, the Marine Corps, and the Gulf, I have stayed in this town. Like each of you, I care for this town and the people who live their lives here.” His voice was quiet but sincere. He smiled and as he did, a small dimple appeared on his cheek.
Will turned to the table across from the jury box and picked up a small, square black object with a short, slender black wire attached. The wire, like an antenna, extended an inch from the object. He slipped it into his pocket, turned back to the jury, and looked directly at one juror.
“This case has been about the illegal transport and offer for sale of an illegal substance—four hundred kilos of cocaine, to be exact,” said Will. “Using recorded conversations, we have proven that this defendant, David Ikins, possessed cocaine when he secretly flew into the Dooly County airport in the early morning hours of July third—on a twin-engine Cessna 401 seen in a coastal airport in Colombia, South America, the day before. And we have shown that the defendant flew the drugs here, to our country, to our home, for the purpose of selling them to Ham Aultman.”
Will turned toward a thin man in the seats beyond the trial area. Ham Aultman, dark and ill-shaven, sank into his seat as the courtroom’s attention shifted to him. His tie crumpled up the collar of his off-white shirt like a laundry bag pulled too tight. Oversized clothes notwithstanding, Ham had apparently done his best to clean up for court.
“Ham Aultman is a convicted felon…a thief…a drug dealer. Not someone I especially like, but in this particular instance, he is the state informant who made this case. Before the defendant landed, Aultman had been caught in a drug bust. As soon as he was booked on that charge, Aultman, to gain leniency, bailed on the Ikins scheme and agreed to wear a wire. In reality, he was merely a mule for some of the kilos. He didn’t have the financing or the nerve for such a big load, so he squealed on his deliveryman—the next one up the ladder. The U.S. Attorney in Macon saved Aultman several decades in prison in return for his cooperation in the much bigger Ikins case before you.”
Ikins, with long, dark hair tied in a ponytail, glared at Will, who returned the look. The sharp, custom-tailored attorney sitting on Ikins’s side stared forward, trying to ignore Will’s glare and the jury’s attention.
“And,” continued Will, “Mr. Writesworth has done an excellent job as defense counsel in showing each of us that Aultman is, in all likelihood, a dislikeable, unbelievable person. But this is not about your believing Ham Aultman or his word under oath.”
With that, Will turned back to his table, walked over to the low black box, and flipped a red switch. A clear, audible voice emerged—his own, from a few minutes earlier. “This case has been about the illegal transport and offer for sale of an illegal substance—four hundred kilos of cocaine, to be exact.” Several of the jurors smiled.
Will flipped off the play button. “This case is about the reliability and credibility of modern electronics. If you doubt the reliability or credibility of our recordings, then you need to return your verdict for the defendant. Otherwise, you need to find for the State.” Will stopped at the corner of his table and turned back to the jury. “Thank you.”
Judge Roamer straightened in his chair, and the jurors shifted their attention to the bench.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the judge, “I have the responsibility to give you instructions on the law, or as we call it, the charge of the court. Before doing that, though, I must ask the marshal to gather the evidence, and I will need to talk briefly to the attorneys. Since it’s nearing lunch hour, I’m going to call a recess at this time and we’ll reconvene at one-thirty. Please do not discuss this case with anyone, or even with each other, until I tell you to do so.
“Marshal, you may take custody of the defendant. We are in recess until one-thirty.” Judge Roamer cracked his gavel, and the jury left. He turned to the lawyers. “Gentlemen, I need your proposed instructions of law before lunch. Any questions?”
“No, Your Honor,” the two attorneys said in near unison.
“I’ll see you back here at one-fifteen.” And with that, Roamer slid his chair back and quickly left the courtroom. The marshal touched the defendant on his shoulder. Ikins stood and walked to the side door.
“Clark,” Will said to the young court reporter sitting beside the judge’s bench, “I’m going up to my office.” Clark Ashby was a tanned, freckled redhead with a petite but well-shaped body—a runner who took pride in her ability to outrun most of her competitors. Some thought she had taken up running with a specific. . .
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