Chapter 1. Taipei, Taiwan
A well dressed oriental man, briefcase in hand, paused in the shadows of the high grass and underbrush, which surround the Taipei airport. In the distance the last strands of twilight created a ghostly silhouette against the city skyline.
As darkness began to fall, "Honcho" Matsu was somewhat apprehensive. Last night about this time MIG fighter planes from the Chinese mainland had come screaming across the airfield at low altitude. They had not fired a shot, but seemed to be taunting and enticing as if they were waiting for an aggressive response from their "renegade" kinsmen.
Honcho's late grandfather had been a devout servant and confidant of Generalissimo Chiang Kai‑Shek, who was considered the father of nationalist China. His grandfather had said to him many times, "The day will come when we will have to fight our mainland brothers or be swallowed up by them".
Earlier in life Honcho had been a decorated fighter pilot in the Republic of China Air Force. Now at age 38, he was a respected businessman in Taipei. Honcho's mother was Chinese and his late father had been a Japanese businessman who had lived in Taipei. His father had become wealthy in the booming electronics manufacturing business in the 70s and 80s.
The name "Honcho" was a handle that he received when he was a kid, because of his propensity to take charge of any situation. Since he did not like his given name of "Yoko", everyone just called him by the nickname.
Now much of the electronics business had been swallowed up by the Mainland Chinese, with their cheap labor. Most everything you picked up said "Made in China". He remembered vividly the time when the dominant logo was "Made in Taiwan ROC". Honcho had been forced to cash in his father's holdings, but was now well established in the lucrative Import/Export Business. He was very patriotic toward his homeland. Now standing and scanning the airfield, he thought, We are very much loaded for bear, and are not about to cower down.
He also knew that even though his country was well equipped with American military hardware, that in an all out confrontation, they did not stand much of a chance against their communist cousins. Honcho was ready to fight, even though he had other options. He could easily escape to his father's homeland and fit right in the more docile Japanese culture.
As he thought of the broken promises of their American "friends", he grimaced. Anger began to rise in him, competing with the steamy, humid summer air around him. Honcho glanced at the tarmac where rows of F‑16s and F‑5 Freedom Fighters were sitting. They were armed and waiting.
Just beyond the corner of the south hanger he glanced affectionately at the cowling and propeller of his Piper Saratoga. He had just finished tying it down. For a moment he felt the urge to go back to it, fire it up and head far away. But no, he wouldn't, for he had bigger fish to fry.
Moody AFB, GA. Two weeks later.
The humid summer days in South Georgia were especially brutal this year. It was early June, and already Shawn Brubaker had been forced into taking his daily jog around the Air Force Base, later in the evening than he preferred, especially tonight.
The Braves and Orioles were about to square off at Camden Yard, in a contest that was sure to be interesting. It was one of the few inter-league games and provided Shawn a rare opportunity to see both of his favorite teams in action. The problem was, who do you root for when you like them both?
He quickened his pace as he passed the Moody AFB Golf Pro shack and headed up the hill toward the military housing complex where he resided. The streets were lined with tall Georgia pine trees and the hot wind whistled in the needled foliage. In the distance a low rumble hinted that a thunderstorm was in the making. The thought of rain was encouraging; he wouldn't even complain about having to cut the grass.
Shawn paused momentarily, surveying the skyline and decided that it was safe for the time being. Suddenly he heard a "Screech...! Kaboom...! Screech..." It was the distinct sound of squealing tires. He looked back toward the main gate, just in time to see a big eighteen-wheeler skidding to a halt. Simultaneously an old pickup truck swerved wildly and careened toward the side of the road.
Shawn reversed his direction instinctively and then sprinted the two blocks back toward the gate. Huffing and puffing, he slowed his pace as he approached the intersection, where the state highway passed the main entrance to the Tactical Air Command facility.
About the time of his arrival on the scene, a Security Police car sped up. SSgt. Joe Lockery hopped out and together the two airmen approached the semi. Suddenly the driver jammed the gears and beat a quick retreat up the road toward Ray City, amidst yells from Shawn and cursing from Joe. Joe started to scramble back to the SP car to give chase, but Shawn yelled, "Let him go Joe. I got his tag number. We can give it to the Georgia State Patrol guys".
After a moment’s hesitation, Joe decided that Shawn was right. He really didn't have jurisdiction outside of the base anyway.
"What happened to the other truck?" asked Shawn.
The Security Police supervisor looked at him questioningly, "What other truck?" "There was an old beat-up-looking pickup here a minute ago. I guess he made his break too."
"Yeah, I wish they would ban those big log trucks from coming through here. They are just an accident waiting to happen."
"Uh Huh. You wanna' take this tag number, Joe?"
"Yeah, sure thing. By the way, are you going to be working in the morning?"
"Good Lord willing and if the creek don't rise, grinned Shawn. Say have you heard the score on the game?"
"Yeah, 3 to zip Braves."
Shawn groaned, "Guess I'll see if I can catch the last part. I gotta see my man Cal play."
"Yeah, the O's are going to miss him next year.”
"You've got that right. Take care, Joe, OK? "
"You bet, "Cap'n", see you tomorrow."
As the SP duty sergeant departed, Shawn turned back toward his quarters. He walked more slowly this time. There was something that bothered him about this little "almost collision", but he couldn't say why. It was just a gut feeling.
Shawn seldom wore a military uniform at work unless something special was going on that required formality. He was the Senior Agent in the Air Force Office of Special Investigation (OSI) at Moody. He had grown up in Texas, and had gone through OCS after graduating from college at Texas A&M.
He enjoyed his work immensely and was a real professional. Sometimes though he wished that he were assigned to a larger installation. It had been really slow lately, and there were even rumors that Moody AFB was on the infamous DOD chopping block for closure. That would definitely send him somewhere else, if it materialized. Exactly where though was anyone's guess.
Suddenly his rambling thoughts were interrupted by a large hairy body jumping out of the shadows. Initially startled, he stooped down and patted his black lab, Bear. "Let's go home Bear, and help out those O's, OK?"
Brunswick, GA. Two days later.
The Federal Law Enforcement Training Center (FLETC) at Brunswick was built on property that used to be a US Navy training center. The old navy base now provided classrooms and staff facilities where various federal agencies received training. State Police personnel went there for specialized training as well. Agent Rab Jacobson had recently transferred into the FBI field office in Jacksonville. He had been a special agent for eight years in Baltimore before this move to the Jax office. He had not really gotten to unpack completely, when the boss informed him that he had enrolled him in a training course at FLETC.
The class was on the "Use of Computer Technology in Criminal Investigations." Rab had a degree in Computer Science and was already a pretty well-versed Cybercop. Now here he was, stuck in Brunswick for a week of rather boring training. He'd much rather be out where the action was, or at least setting up his new office. But, regardless, he took notes and tried to do what was right by the guy who was teaching the class.
The instructor was a retired federal agent. Perhaps the best part of the course was when one student or another got him off of the subject material. Then he would usually describe a memorable experience or escapade from his time as an agent. He had chased some of the noted gangsters in Chicago during his tour of duty.
The students informally took turns luring him off the subject, and thus they made it through the day. At day's end the instructor would state emphatically, "OK Guys, you gotta remember this," then he would highlight the material for the day. Rab knew instinctively, that these "highlights" were going to show up on the review test at the end of the week.
Rab knew some of the Agents in class with him from previous contacts on the job. Others were greenhorns just out of Quantico. On Thursday evening, Rab and several of his buddies went out to nearby Jekyll Island to treat their taste buds. This part of coastal Georgia is famous for sweet, succulent jumbo shrimp, which are harvested by the local fishermen. These South Georgia "cooks" really knew what to do with them, and so did he.
Between Rab and the others at their table they must have depleted half a boatload for some shrimper. While the others were drowning their crustaceans in beer, Rab ordered his third refill of diet coke. "Gotta, give those critters something to splash around in", he told the beaming waitress.
She had been making regular trips serving this bunch, but she didn't mind. The guys from FLETC were always good tippers. So she could put up with their letting off a little steam. Their hilarity was interrupted by the sound of someone’s beeper and all of the agents instinctively checked theirs.
"It's mine," groaned Rab. Holding up one hand. "You've gotta' save the punch line 'til I get back guys", he insisted, excusing himself from the table.
He found the phone near the men's room and fumbled for his AT&T calling card. That number on his beeper was from Florida. While wondering what was going on for them to bother him in school, he punched the phone keypad.
After a couple of rings the familiar raspy voice of James Brown, his supervisor, came on the line.
"Rab, didn't you tell me that you had a college buddy up in Valdosta?"
"That's right, Jim. What's going on?"
"What time do you think you will be able to get outa' class tomorrow?"
"Should be about noon, Jim. I should be back in Jax by early evening."
"Listen, here's the deal Rab. There's been some trouble over at Moody AFB. I'd like you to go by there and check with the Air Force OSI office, OK?"
"Sure, no problem. What gives, Jim?"
"Do you remember the little incident up at Beaufort last month?"
"Yes...I do," Rab confirmed.
"OK, Don't discuss it on this phone, but something similar has happened at Moody. They'll fill you in, OK?"
"Sure... I guess so. I did have plans for the weekend..."
"Sorry, they will have to wait, Rab. Do you have appropriate supplies and equipment with you?"
"Sure, no problem there."
"I'll want a full report on this situation on my desk early next week, say Monday COB."
"This sounds hot. Anyway I'll drive up early tomorrow afternoon. In the mean time, if it's anything urgent, I'll beep you back in Jax. Otherwise, I'll plan to be in on Monday, OK?"
James Brown was a good supervisor, but Rab, was a little annoyed that he hadn't sent someone else. He had personal plans that he'd made commitments on. So what's new, work came first, always.
"That sounds like a plan. Take care of yourself, and drive careful, Rab."
As Rab hung up the phone his mind was racing. He rejoined his associates and was immediately quizzed about the phone call.
"Good news or bad news, Rab?" asked one of his buddies.
Rab grinned, "Neither, just a new project to keep me out of trouble." He quickly changed the subject and the other agents instinctively knew to back off, especially here in a public place.
On his way back to the hotel in his car, Agent Jacobson reviewed mentally what he had heard about the Beaufort incident. Rab was blessed with an extraordinary ability to remember details. But he had learned long ago that nothing took the place of current research and the latest case facts. As he recalled, someone had penetrated the perimeter of the Marine Corps Air Station at Beaufort, South Carolina and made off with quite a few cases of grenades, rockets and launchers from an underground small arms storage bunker.
To date, no trace of the munitions had turned up, nor were there any concrete leads in the investigation. Rab turned into the Ramada parking lot with his newly issued Dodge Intrepid. He opened his trunk and took a quick survey. Fortunately, he had stashed most of his equipment in the trunk. The only trouble was he had not had a chance to organize it yet. He normally kept all of his stash in perfect order, but this trip for training had caught him a little off guard. He grabbed his laptop and briefcase and a locked box of media. He had a hunch that this was going to be a short night.
As he came into his room on the second floor, he noticed the telltale blinking of the red message light on the phone. He locked the door, latching the dead bolt and chain behind him. As he did so, he thought that little chain would be no obstacle for an intruder. It would however, keep the maid from walking in unannounced though.
He decided to get comfortable before getting to work, so he shed his coat and tie and pulled on a pair of gray cotton sweat pants. A quick check of the hotel voice mail confirmed that his boss had called the room about 30 minutes prior to beeping him at the restaurant on Jekyll Island.
Opening his laptop computer, he routinely plugged it into the spare data jack next to the desk. Moments later the modem made it's familiar garbled sound as he connected to the headquarters WAN home page.
Verifying his on‑line status, he then pulled a security keycard from his briefcase to check the current password. With the keycard he could access the full FBI and other government databases. The password changed minute by minute and was synchronized in time with the main network at the J. Edgar Hoover Building in DC.
Rab put his personal account number and password into the keycard, and it faithfully responded with the current system password. He quickly entered it in the laptop, skipped past a cautionary reminder, and in moments, access was granted.
He only had a matter of seconds to complete the entry, and any erroneous entry would totally lock you from the system. It was a very safe system. Although a good hacker can break most codes, this one changed so often that it was unlikely. Additionally all communication processes were cryptologically scrambled.
Once in the system, his first stop was to check to see if there was anything new concerning Moody AFB. Bingo! There it was. An intrusion had occurred two days ago, but details still were sketchy. He then looked at the Government’s closed access Phone directory and found the entry for his old roommate from A&M. He printed out the listing of phone, fax and beeper numbers for Captain Shawn Brubaker.
It was after 2300 hours and he considered momentarily whether Shawn might still be up. He decided to go ahead and try his beeper, and punched in the number for his SkyPager.
Rab then returned to his computer screen and reviewed the route for driving to Moody. Just as he was queuing a print-out of the map, the phone began to jingle.
"Hello", he spoke into the receiver.
A sleepy-sounding voice said, "You beeped me? Who's this?"
Rab made it a practice to never give his name when answering a call (never knew who was on the other end). "Hey Shawn, I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, this is Rab."
"Rab Jacobson, where are you? Wow, it's been a year! I thought you'd dropped off of the face of the earth!"
"Well, not quite," laughed Rab. "Actually I'm only a couple of hours from you right now. Shawn, I need to talk to you. Any chance of seeing you tomorrow evening?" "Any chance! You Aggie maggot! If you are this close, you had better, if you want to stay healthy! I'll grill us some T‑bones and Susan can make some of her famous Pineapple pie. How does that sound?" Shawn was now fully alert and excited at the thought of seeing his old friend.
"Sounds great!" agreed Rab. "Although I must warn you it is not JUST a pleasure trip. However, you just sugar coated it quite a bit, I'd say! I hope to be there about 1800 hours. Will that fit?"
"You got it "Rabbi"! Susan and I will look forward to it!"
After saying good-bye and hanging up the phone, Rab chuckled to himself. It would be good to see to his friends Shawn and Susan.
He just wished he had Evie with him, and Kim. Evelyn, Rab's estranged wife, and his daughter, Kimberly, lived in St. Augustine. They were the reason he jumped at the opportunity to transfer from Baltimore to Jacksonville. He would only be about half an hour's drive from them.
He had never stopped loving Evie, and he thought she still loved him, at times. Interrupting his thoughts he glanced at his Seiko and decided to call it an evening. After setting the alarm for 0530 hours, he turned the TV on softly and lay down..........
