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  "Two weeks! That's not much time," Jake said. "Have you also heard about my fees?"

  "Yes," Milt said. "I'll double your standard fees and your expenses to cover the foreign travel. This is extremely important to us."

  "Sounds good."

  Jake and Milt shook hands, and then Jake nodded with Steve Carlson on his way out the door.

  As he left the modern glassed building in the heart of Portland to retrieve his car, he couldn't help feeling nostalgic returning to Germany. He knew he'd have to report his findings to the U.S. government if he found the restricted chips had been sold to another country. Before hearing about the chips, he would have guessed his first theory correct. A girl. But Milt's concern was far too grave for simple solutions. And something in the back of his mind told him that Milt was still holding back information. Regardless, he would definitely need the full two weeks.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 3

  BIRKWALD, GERMANY

  A persistent fog had frozen overnight turning trees into crystalline works of art and transforming rolling green hills into a convoluted tundra.

  Jake Adams cranked over his rental Audi A4, and as the engine slowly warmed, he thought about the personnel files on the Teredata tech reps he was on his way to talk to. After arriving at Frankfurt International yesterday, he acquired a new CZ-75 9mm automatic pistol with a few boxes of ammo. Then he headed straight for the Gasthaus Birkwald, perched on top of a hill in the Eifel region of Rhineland-Pfalz. Jet lag had caught up with him, though. So he spent the rest of his arrival day and the evening in the Gasthaus eating, drinking good beer, and sleeping. But mostly sleeping.

  Jake shifted in the wide bucket seat, strapped the shoulder harness across his black leather jacket, and clicked the seat belt in. As he waited for the heater to clear the windshield, he looked into the rear view mirror at his tired brown eyes. Red spiders streaked the whites. He hadn't bothered to shave; dark stubble crackled as he scratched the right side of his face. He ran his fingers through his dark brown hair. How did it get so long?

  He looked across the street and noticed a blonde woman sitting erect in a small red Ford Fiesta. She glanced over at Jake and then quickly forward again. She was a beauty. Silky blonde hair. High cheek bones. It was strange, though. Her car was running and parked on the opposite side of the road facing the wrong direction. Then she quickly pulled away from the curb and sped off.

  The windshield now clear, Jake signaled, pulled out onto the main road that dissected the small village, and took off in the same direction as the blonde.

  Shortly, he rounded the last corner before entering the village next to his, and quickly down shifted into second gear. Then he saw the blonde again. He slowed down even more for a better look.

  As he slowly passed the blonde, she smiled. Jake found himself smiling and then looking over his shoulder and in his rear view mirror as the distance grew between their cars.

  He wondered why she turned around and sat at the intersection. She was probably on her way to work and forgot something at home. Yet, it did make him a bit suspicious. He moved slowly through the gears now, taking the corners smoother.

  A dark blue Fiat van with three men sat among a group of thick pine trees with a view of the winding German country road. The driver, a robust man with high brow ridges and thick black eye brows, worked feverishly to keep the windshield defrosted. The engine ran at idle, but the breathing of the three men fogged the windows.

  Gunter Schecht sat next to the passenger door with his 9mm Uzi cradled across his wide lap. "Dummkopf!" Gunter yelled at his driver. "How do you expect to complete this job if you can't even keep the damn windshield clear?"

  The driver grumbled under his breath. The middle man, not quite as stout as the driver, his eyes closed, smiled broadly.

  Gunter had briefed his men on Jake Adams. He only hoped they took him seriously.

  "He's coming," said a soft, female voice over the Fiat's radio. The three men made last minute preparations. On Gunter's command, they all chambered rounds.

  Jake fiddled with the Audi's radio trying to come up with a station that played classic Rock and Roll, but the rolling hills bounced the FM signal every which way but to his antenna.

  He shifted into fifth gear after clearing a small hill, and once again took his eyes off the road to search for a station. He looked up for a second and noticed a blue van a kilometer ahead pull from a small dirt road. Shifting down to fourth gear, anticipating he would have to pass the van, he looked at his radio again.

  As Jake looked up again, "Shit!" He slammed on the brakes and clutch simultaneously as both arms tightened to the steering wheel.

  The car quickly decelerated.

  He jammed the stick toward first gear, but it wouldn't slide into place.

  Flashes from the guns flickered furiously without noise.

  He dove to the passenger seat, straining against his seat belt. His feet slipped from the clutch and brake and stalled the Audi with a great lurch forward.

  The windshield shattered and thousands of tiny pieces of glass rained down on Jake's back.

  The van sat broadside in the road, with three men crouched next to it. They continued to empty their Uzis into the front of Jake's car from fifty meters away. Only the sound of lead hitting metal and glass broke the silence.

  "Son of a bitch!"

  Jake brushed broken glass from the seat and worked his way back behind the wheel.

  He peeked over the dash. Three men. The largest man quickly opened the front door of the van and squeezed behind the wheel. The other two were changing the clips in their guns.

  Jake twisted the keys and the four cylinders cranked over but didn't start. He tried again. This time they kicked in. He cranked the wheel, jammed the gas pedal to the floor, and popped the clutch. The Audi's tires dug in, but he couldn't make a full U-turn without first coming to a stop, putting it in reverse, and then forward again.

  Just as he pulled the gear shift back into second, a new barrage of 9mm slugs shattered the back window and the trunk of his car. He crouched as low as he could. By the time he hit third, he was down the hill and out of range.

  His car was riddled with holes.

  He drove to the first crossroad, took a right, then sped toward an isolated spot between two villages and turned down a small dirt road. In a few hundred meters of bouncing dirt road, he cranked the wheel and smashed into a group of small bushes. He removed his newly scratched leather briefcase from the floor of the passenger side, and abandoned the Audi. Then he quickly ran two kilometers to the nearest town.

  When he finally had time to think about what had just happened, he sifted through his mind for a reason. The blonde was obviously a lookout. But who were the three with the silenced Uzis? They knew where he was staying and where he was going. But how? He'd have to think about that. In the meantime he needed a new car.

  BITBURG AIR BASE, GERMANY

  Jake Adams showed the gate guard his ID and the rental contract for his new Volkswagen Passat. The rental company had sent it from the Frankfurt Airport after he reported the Audi missing.

  His papers were in order. The stern-faced guard waved him on base. Jake knew the routine from his days as an officer in Air Force Intelligence. In fact, he had been stationed near Bitburg for three years.

  He drove slowly to the end of an old hangar near the flight line. The corrugated metal building, painted Earthtone brown, had been slapped up in the 50s to provide maintenance space for U.S. fighter aircraft. It had long since been replaced by hardened individual shelters that resembled long concrete igloos. The old hangar would have been condemned if Teredata had not needed the space.

  Teredata International Semiconductors was a sub-contractor on nearly every aircraft in the Air Force and Navy arsenals. Charlie Johnson, until his mysterious disappearance, ran a team of five men, all ex-Air Force technicians, on the new avionics retrofit to the F-15s at Bitburg. The project was on the cutting edge of technology. The Top Secre
t security clearances required by the tech reps proved that.

  Jake sat in the parking lot for a moment to think. In a situation like this he always felt like an actor preparing to perform on stage, so his first impression was important. He hoped someone would know where to find Charlie, but realized he was probably dreaming. A quick fix wasn't in the cards on this trip. The three men with silenced Uzis had just assured him of that.

  He got out and walked toward the building, stopped outside the metal door to the hangar for a moment, and squeezed his left arm against his 9mm automatic. It was always a comforting feeling knowing it was there.

  He entered the small office at the North end of the old hangar. He recognized the man sitting behind the large gray metal desk from his personnel photo as Blaise Parker, second in charge of the Teredata Bitburg operation.

  The man glanced up at Jake, but didn't look him in the eye. His long gray hair stuck up in places. His white shirt with red and blue vertical stripes bulged over his belt. He appeared more as an unsuccessful car salesman than one with a great deal of technical information.

  "I'm Jake Adams." Jake reached out to shake his hand. "I'm sorry I was...delayed. I assume Milt Swenson mentioned I'd be coming by."

  Blaise Parker still refused to look him in the eye. Parker, like Johnson, had over twenty years prior service in the Air Force before Teredata hired him. Both men knew the F-15 inside and out. Nothing unusual showed up in his background.

  "Mr. Swenson sent a Fax saying someone would be coming by," Parker finally said in a slow southern drawl. "He didn't mention your name. It's not like Charlie taking off like this. I've known him for ten years, and he's never been late for work, let alone gone for days."

  "So, you're the one who contacted Milt?"

  Parker nodded. "Yeah, I told the security police and OSI, but they said they don't have jurisdiction over civilians."

  That was true. The Air Force Office of Special Investigations worked with the German Polizei on matters dealing with military personnel on or off base-mostly drug cases. The security police only handled base security and minor infractions like DWIs. "And the Polizei?" Jake asked.

  Parker finally shifted his gray eyes at Jake. "They said they'd look for his car, check the local morgues, and that's about it."

  "They could find him. But in the meantime, I'll be looking for him. I'll need a list of all his associates and friends in Germany. Local hangouts. Favorite habits he has. Anything that could help."

  "Sure." Parker thought for a moment and then scribbled on a piece of scratch paper. "This could help."

  Jake scanned the note. "This is it?"

  Parker nodded. "He likes the huge schnitzel at the Gasthaus Birkwald. He stops there every night on the way home from work."

  "Anything else?" Jake asked. "Any German friends?"

  "No. He's a loner. Once in a while we all get together, but that's about it."

  Jake realized he didn't have much to go on. "What about the other Teredata tech reps?"

  "I've talked to all of them. They have no clue. They're all out working on a bird in the hangar. If you'd like to ask them yourself, I'll go fetch 'em one by one."

  Jake thought for a moment. "Sure. But first tell me about the recent failure rate of the chips."

  Parker looked up quickly. "I don't know how to explain it. It just started happening."

  "Do you have any of the bad chips?" It was a question Jake already had the answer to, but it was worth a shot.

  He shook his head. "Nope. Charlie destroyed them."

  Now that was interesting. Charlie told Milt that one of the other reps destroyed them inadvertently. "If another one fails, make sure you hang on to it," Jake said, although he didn't expect that to happen.

  "I will! Mr. Swenson already briefed me on that."

  Parker let Jake use the office to talk to the rest of the tech reps, but as he suspected, they were of little help. Charlie Johnson was a loner. He worked hard, but the consensus unanimously pointed to his being a basically boring individual after work. Time would tell if that theory held up.

  Back outside in his car, Jake realized that Blaise Parker and the other tech reps would probably be of no further help. He already knew that Charlie Johnson frequented the Gasthaus Birkwald. That was the reason he took a room there. Maybe Charlie's apartment would reveal something. He started the car and headed toward Charlie Johnson's apartment on the outskirts of Koblenz.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 4

  USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT

  As the massive carrier turned into the wind, salt spray showered over its bow. High, dense clouds hid the glow of the early January stars. The Mediterranean was dark and desolate.

  Kurt Lamar braced himself against the starboard catwalk, waiting for the first jet lights to appear over the horizon. Leaning against the gray metal barrier, he glanced down at the choppy waves nearly seventy feet below. The forty knot winds over the deck, cold and bitter, reminded him of his early morning deer hunts back home in Wisconsin. The first red and green aircraft lights flickered in the distance from the stern of the ship.

  The muffled voice of the Air Boss sounded: "On the flight deck, all hands get into a complete and proper flight deck uniform. Clear the port catwalks; standby to recover aircraft. A-7 at one mile."

  The aircraft's lights got closer and closer until the outline of its wings and fuselage could be seen. The sucking of intake air and roaring of engine exhaust, laboring toward landing speed, finally reached his ears. Kurt could tell now from the tail markings that it was an A-7J from his squadron.

  The engine screeched as the pilot slowed his aircraft more and descended toward the heavily pitching deck.

  Moving his legs further apart for stability, and grasping a metal railing, Kurt flexed his muscles, and his heart pounded with excitement and fear. He could never get over the feeling of helplessness involved with watching flight ops.

  With a crash, the tail hook grabbed one of four arresting cables. The tires and struts of the rear landing gear compressed under the tremendous weight of the aircraft. The nose gear, hitting the metal deck last, also compressed, jerking the pilot forward in the cockpit. The arresting gear cable reeled out over sixty yards before the A-7 came to a halt.

  Within seconds the pilot retracted his tail hook, the cable reeled back in its place, and the plane taxied toward the bow to be launched again. The flight deck crew directed the aircraft forward and attached its launch bar to the catapult.

  The Jet Blast Deflectors rose from the deck behind the A-7. The pilot pushed his throttle forward sending hot, foul exhaust over the deflectors and high into the air.

  Kurt watched the meticulous crew prepare the aircraft for launch.

  The pilot saluted the deck crew, the cat officer signaled the pilot, and the jet roared to the bow and soared up and away from the ship and into the darkness. Only the faint, fading flames of exhaust disturbed the night.

  Kurt had seen enough to satisfy his curiosity. Although he was a veteran, it had been nearly two years since his last flight deck experience. When he became an officer with the Naval Investigative Service, he thought he had given up that dangerous vocation. But he knew it was his prior experience that led the NIS to select him for this mission.

  Carefully, Kurt stepped down the metal ladder, swung the latch secure on the hatch, and opened the heavy metal door. All of the deafening flight deck noises were muffled with the slamming of the hatch behind him.

  He worked his way through a maze of passageways and compartments until he reached the shop that he'd call his home-at least until his investigation was complete.

  Inside he was still a stranger. The Electronics Technicians had crossed the Atlantic together, but were far from shipmates. Over thirty men worked out of a small twelve-by-twelve compartment in two twelve-hour shifts. Kurt had asked for nights, which allowed him time for his real mission there.

  Leo Birdsong was the only friend he had made. They had become close in such a short time-Kurt
knew that often happened with sailors. Kurt dreaded the day when he'd have to tell Leo the truth about why he was really there.

  "About time you got your ass off that deck," Leo said.

  Kurt flipped his goggles up and removed his helmet. "I love the smell of jet exhaust in the evening," Kurt said.

  In the two weeks they had known each other, they had entrusted each other with a lot of their background. Leo, who grew up in Denver, had joked that he must be the only Black man who had never tried grits. But he also knew that not many Black men could ski like him. Kurt had opened up as well, not telling lies, but not telling the whole truth-more like selecting bits of information from his youth and prior flight deck experiences.

  "Fuckin' A," Kurt said. "No matter how many times I watch flight ops, I'll never get used to it. It must be twenty degrees up there, but the fuckin' exhaust will still curl your hair and fry your ass."

  Leo laughed. "Shit. You're gonna start lookin' like me."

  Kurt sat next to Leo. He was flipping through a Skiing Magazine, dreaming about the Alps and the ship's first port of call in Genoa, Italy. Kurt wanted to ski with Leo, but he knew he had work to do while in port.

  "Did you get to see Corsica this afternoon?" Kurt asked. Working nights for nine days while crossing the Atlantic, and another six since entering the Mediterranean, Kurt longed for a daylight view of the aqua blue Ligurian Sea and the rocky Corsican coast.

  "No. I couldn't drag my butt out of the rack," Leo said.

  "I just had to see the sun," Kurt explained.

  Leo nodded. "Need my beauty sleep. You're only twenty-five now. You keep this shit up, and you'll start looking like those thirty-five year old lifers who look sixty." He quickly flipped his eyes toward an obese man laying in a crumpled heap among a large pile of clean rags.

  Kurt smiled. The man who nearly everyone had learned to hate in a short period of time, Petty Officer First Class Shelby Taylor, snored loudly over the muffled flight ops on the deck above. His face was a contorted mess. His cheeks a cross between that of a chipmunk and a bulldog. Some in the shop believed Shelby could sleep on command. Even while standing. But nobody complained. There was far more harmony while he slept.