Mercenaries of Panama, Book One: Frank

Chapter One Time: The Present The autumn in Virginia stirs nostalgia for those disposed to a past life. I’ve always had the strangest feeling that somewhere, at some time, I’ve lived here before. It was before the time of Washington and Fairfax; it was during the early days of this exciting colony. It was during a time when the aboriginal people lived and hunted on this land. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t believe in reincarnation; as a matter of fact, I don’t believe in the afterlife, whatsoever. It’s just a feeling I get when the leaves begin to display their myriad colors. The air is crisp and clear, and the smell of winter intermingles faintly with the left-over humidity of the past summer. Frank Junior is gone. Out of the two-hundred and forty-three passengers on Flight 534, two-hundred and forty bodies were recovered, but Frank’s was not one of them. I still have not resigned myself to the reality of my son’s death. I can accept the fact that Frank is missing or gone, but not dead. I am somewhere between grief and hope. When the telephone rings, or when the mail is delivered, I almost expect to receive word that my son is alive somewhere and doing the things that we both dreamed about him doing. Twelve days after the aircraft disappeared off the radar scope just outside the Rome Airport, an investigation determined that a bomb caused the disaster. That made the tragedy even more impossible to bear. Who could have done such a thing? What kind of animal would kill innocent people? What does such a heinous act accomplish? I didn’t have any answers to those questions. No one did. Not the airline, the authorities, or the President of the United States. Two-hundred and forty-three people died for nothing, or at least nothing readily identifiable. I had to know. I had to find out why my son was sacrificed on this altar of terrorism. It was time to go to work. Since that night in August, I have not been able to get myself together and get started in any specific direction. However, that time came this morning when, for the first time in two months, I got up, got dressed, got in my car, and drove to work. The drive into the city was the usual traffic gridlock. It was an overcast day. The announcer on the radio was reporting rain in the forecast for the afternoon drive. I was to meet Alberto on the corner of Tenth and F Streets in Washington, D.C., near the old Ford’s Theater. Lincoln had been shot in that building near the end of the Civil War, and that thought crossed my mind as I drove by there. As usual, Alberto was on time. He got into the passenger seat, and we proceeded toward New York Avenue. “What is on the agenda?” I asked as he settled down for the ride. “The important thing Frank, how are you doing? Are you ready to get back to work?” Alberto’s interest in my persona was typical. In our business, there isn’t any room for surplus baggage. Performance is everything. There is never any room for error. “I’m fine! I’m ready! I need to get back into the mainstream.” “Good. That’s good, Frank. I’ve missed not having you around. (After a slight pause) Take us to Route 50, East.” We started to drive out of town toward Annapolis. Jokingly, I said, “Where are we going, Al, to see the Governor?” “Not exactly. We are going to the Naval Academy, Frank. There is somebody there I have to see.” Frank is a handsome middle-aged man with a slight, but muscular build, and stood six feet in his stocking feet. Alberto on the other hand had the appearance of a Washington Redskins linebacker. Alberto was handsome in a masculine sort of way. He was about the same age as Frank. He was slightly taller and carried his 220-pound frame like an athlete. His demeanor projected his military profession and training. In our line of work, meeting someone at the Naval Academy might seem completely incongruous. But Alberto always knows what he’s doing, and for the most part this morning, I was just along for the ride. We drove up to the Marine guard at the gate and stopped. Alberto put down his window. The guard on duty said, “Sir, are you here on business or just sightseeing?” “Sightseeing,” replied Alberto. “Sir, if you’ll just park your car in the lot marked visitors. You may walk from there anywhere around the campus.” We drove to the signed lot and parked. “Where are we going, Al?” “Dahlgren Hall. There’s a restaurant there where I’m planning to meet someone.” Dahlgren Hall is one of the older buildings still in use on the campus. It was built around the turn of the 20th century. Until the early seventies, it was used as an armory. Recently, it was converted into a student union facility for the Brigade of Midshipmen. The building also houses an ice arena where the Navy hockey team hosts visiting college teams every Saturday and Sunday during the winter season. As we proceeded around the ice rink, a restaurant came into view. We entered and sat at an empty booth. As we sat down, Alberto asked, “Do you want something to eat?” “Coffee would be great!” Frank replied. Alberto stood and walked toward the galley section of the facility where food and beverages were available for sale. After a moment, he came back to the booth with two cups of coffee. For a few moments, we just sat there drinking the coffee. “Who are we meeting?” I asked. “I think you will be interested in this one, Frank.” I didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about, but my curiosity was aroused. After a few minutes, a tall, young midshipman, entered the restaurant as if he were looking for someone. Alberto raised his hand to signal him. As the midshipman walked toward us, I noticed his features were very Middle Eastern in appearance. “Is your name Alberto, Sir?” the midshipman asked shyly, and with a strange, but distinct accent. “Please be seated, young man,” Alberto said. The midshipman removed his hat, and he sat next to me. Alberto’s eyes turned in my direction as he continued. “This is the associate I referred to on the telephone when we spoke. Please feel free to discuss anything you have to tell me in front of him.” “We cannot speak privately here, Sir,” the midshipman said, looking around to see if anyone could overhear their conversation. Alberto nodded. “Where would you like us to go?” “Let’s move outside, Sir.” “All right,” Alberto said matter-of-factly as we all stood from the booth. We followed the midshipman out of the restaurant, and up white marble stairs that led outside. As we walked through a parking lot, the dome of the Naval Academy Chapel loomed in front of us. “There is a gazebo across from the chapel,” the midshipman said. “We can talk freely there.” We were close to the famous Herndon Monument. It’s a well-known obelisk where the plebe midshipmen attempt to climb after it has been greased, and an admiral’s hat placed on top. The activity is a long-standing tradition and a sort of rite of passage into the upper class. Alberto, the mysterious midshipman, and I stepped into the center of the circular structure facing one another. For a moment no one spoke. Finally, the midshipman turned to Alberto and said, “My father asked me to give you this message: ‘Everyone on Flight 534 did not die.’” “Who are you?” I asked as my eyes glanced down to the name tag elegantly displayed on his white uniform. He looked me in the eye and said, “My name is Elihu Amman. I’m an exchange student from Egypt. My mother was on Flight 534. She was the target. She was a negotiator during the Carter, Begin, Arafat talks at Camp David in the seventies. For a long time, she had been on a…he paused for just a moment...list of people who were to be eliminated. My father is an extraordinarily rich man. He has instructed me to offer you one million dollars in U.S. currency to neutralize the persons responsible for my mother’s death. On the other hand, if my mother is a hostage, liberate her.” Alberto gave me a quick look, and then he said, “We will have expenses.” “Everything will be taken care of, including your expenses.” “What do you mean not everyone died on Flight 534?” I asked. I could not help wondering how he knew there were survivors. The best American intelligence in the world was working on the downing of Flight 534. No one has reached that conclusion. If there was any possibility my son was alive, I would listen to anyone who might offer that kind of information. “My father is well-connected. He knows exactly how who, and why Flight 534 was destroyed. He wants the persons responsible to pay the ultimate price. My father was told that this is your business. That you are the best people to take care of these matters.” After a slight pause, “Are you interested, or not?” “What else can your father tell us?” asked Alberto as he stared off across the campus. The midshipman removed his hat and took from it a small envelope. He handed it to Alberto. “Everything my father has learned is written on a paper in this envelope.” Alberto put the small envelope in his inside coat pocket. “We always get paid in advance,” Alberto said, without looking at the midshipman. “You are to give me the instructions for payment. I will see that the information gets to my father.” “Tell your father that I want one-hundred-thousand dollars, in advance, as a down payment,” Alberto said, looking at the midshipman for the first time since they had arrived at the gazebo. Alberto reached into his pocket, and he produced a business-like card. He handed it to the midshipmen. “There is an account, transmittal number, and phone number on the back of that card. When the bank informs me that the money has been deposited, we will go to work.” After a slight pause, Alberto said, “Are we to report our progress to you, or your father?” “Progress reports will not be necessary,” the midshipman said. We will know when the job has been completed.” Alberto looked at me, and said, “Do you have any questions?” “No! Not at this time,” I stated. My mind once again had short-circuited. It was reminiscent of that night in August. I could reflect on the night the airline contacted me. I was informed that Frank Junior was on Flight 534 which exploded outside of Rome. Ever since that night two months ago, I didn’t want to believe my son was dead. I was hoping it was a mistake Now, suddenly, that hope had the possibility of becoming a reality. Alberto shook hands with the Midshipmen, and we all left the Gazabo. Alberto and I started back the way we came. The brigade of midshipmen must have been changing classes. Suddenly there were hundreds of them all around us going in all directions. As we drove out of the Naval Academy gate, the Marine guard snapped to attention, and saluted, as a Navy vehicle drove through the gate the other way. As we drove through the old colonial town of Annapolis toward Route-50, my whole life in the military flashed before me. I thought about my ROTC education, my flight school training, my two and a half years as a POW in Hanoi, and my assimilation back into civilian life. For the first half-hour of our trip back to Washington, Alberto didn’t say anything. I waited for him to break the silence. As we passed Freeway Airport that fronted Route-50, he said, “Do you still have that Cherokee?” referring to the private airplane I used to fly on weekends a few years before. “No. I sold it shortly after Antoinette died. She loved to fly. Somehow, after she died, there were too many memories. So, I grounded myself.” “I am sorry to hear that Frank,” he said, without displaying any emotion. “Take the Beltway toward Frederick. We need somewhere quiet to sort this out.” We drove for almost an hour without saying another word. I was wondering what information was written in those instructions the midshipman had given to Alberto. I was thinking Alberto knew more than he shared with me. I wanted to pull off to the side of the road and confront him. But over the years, I have gotten to know Alberto well. I knew he would tell me when he was ready. We drove past Frederick, Maryland, and continued up Route-70 past Hagerstown. “Where do you want to stop, Al?” He looked out the window and saw a sign that read, “Five miles to Fort Frederick.” “Take the next right to Fort Frederick. There are few people there this time of the week.” We turned off Route70 and followed the alternate roads to the fort. We drove into the park and followed the signs to the parking lot. We parked and just sat there for a moment. Alberto broke the silence again. “What do you think, Frank?” “I need to know more about it, Al.” Al reached into his pocket. He produced the paper the midshipman had given him. He opened it and began to read its contents. After a moment, he looked up, turned to me, and said, “I must know, Frank. Are you up for this job? I can’t let your personal feelings get in the way.” “If these are the people that are responsible for my son’s death, I need to be part of this. You can’t deny me that, Al,” I said. He opened the car door and got out. I got out the other side. As he headed toward the path that led to the old fort he said, “Let’s take a walk.” I followed him, with thoughts still rolling around in my head about the possibility of my son being alive. There was so much to consider, yet the decision was easy. I was going, and nobody and nothing could stop me. I owed it to my son. We walked up the path that wound through a pine forest for about a half-mile. Finally, the old fort came into view. The old structure dated back to the French and Indian War. We walked up to the gate of the fort and went in. Just inside the gate, Alberto stopped walking and turned to me. “You are the best aviator we have in the organization. There’s nobody more professional. Can I depend on you to do only what we are being hired to do, and nothing more?” “I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at Al?” I stated. We started to walk across the parade field toward the old barracks. “They are not interested in the ‘Why’, just the ‘Who’, Frank.” “How can you separate the two?” “That’s not for us to decide. And under any other circumstances, Frank, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” “Let me see if I have this straight, Al,” I said with a bit of agitation in my voice. Even though my mind was spinning, I was still a professional who could do the job. I ran a hand through my hair and swallowed before I continued. “We are just going to eliminate the person, or persons, who did this act? We have to ignore whatever it was that motivated them?” He stopped and looked at me. “That is the job, Frank. We do not get involved in politics.” In everybody, there lurk at least two people. I am no different. There is one side of me that is the ultimate professional. I always do the assignment exactly as directed. But then there is this other side of me too. That is the side of a father. I am a grief-stricken father who had lost his son to a senseless act. I had to know everything. I was not sure I could settle just for the individuals involved. I wanted to know who or what the reasons were behind the bombing of Flight 534. Alberto was waiting for an answer, but thoughts swirled through my head as the silence lingered between us. Alberto met me about the time Antoinette had recruited me, thirty-plus-years ago. Somehow, Alberto had gotten hold of my service records, and he knew about my torture sessions in Hanoi. When I was captured, I had been injured badly during the ejection process. My femur was fractured. When I hit the ground, it became ‘Compounded. Villagers took me, prisoner. They nearly beat me to death before the North Vietnamese Regular Army troops intervened. Soldiers threw me onto the back of a small pickup truck, and they drove about forty miles to Hanoi. I was put into a cell for three days without food or water. They finally shipped me to a hospital, set the femur, and attempted to use me for propaganda purposes. When I would not cooperate, they abandoned that idea and took me back to my filthy cell. Over the following three months, they conducted nightly interrogation sessions. They would ask me stupid questions like what kind of aircraft was I flying, or what was my mother’s maiden name. They knew the answers to their questions, but they wanted me to respond. It became a war of wills. It became a game. A painful game for me, I might add, but I refused to tell them anything, except my name, rank, serial number, and date of birth. I had resolved myself to the fact that I was going to die. After a while, they just gave up on me. I was just an Air Force first lieutenant, and there were bigger fish to fry. After what seemed like a lifetime of living in hell, I was released. The Air Force sent me home. A year and a half later, I was a civilian again. I didn’t have a job. My life was without direction.