Thirty minutes later, at half past five, Marcus arrived at the gate of Fort Wainright US Army post just north of Fairbanks, home of the 1/25th Stryker Brigade Combat Team. Rather than the Stryker Brigade, he was there to see a tenant of the base.
He pulled up to the guard shack, and a young soldier with an M-4 rifle slung over his in forward tactical position raised an arm, signaling him to stop. Marcus complied and showed his ID card to the guard, who smartly snapped to attention and waved him through the gate. Marcus followed Gaffney Road, the main road through the base. He drove past Basset Army Hospital, past the AAFEES BX/PX/Commissary complex, and past several sections of base family housing until he came to a non-descript concrete building nestled between a cluster of old barracks buildings near the airfield at the rear of the base. A ten-foot-wide by six-foot-tall wooden sign hung from two four-by-four posts.
3rd Platoon, E Company, 4th Marine Reconnaissance Battalion, Reserve
Marcus knew it was a long shot, but if no one was there, there should still be a contact number on the door for emergencies. He knew several of the men personally, including the commander and the senior NCO. Some of them had been his students at the Quantico sniper school or the Force Recon school. They may not be able to help him directly, but they could at least lend him some credibility and help get things rolling.
As he pulled up, Marcus saw in the yellow glow of an overhead lamp a Marine, in a digital camouflage uniform, step out from the door of the building. The man stopped in his tracks and watched as the Jeep pulled up and came to a stop next to him. The Marine was in his late twenties. He wore staff sergeant stripes pinned on his collar. The edge of a thick scar protruded above the neckline of the wool sweater he wore underneath his camouflage blouse.
Marcus got out of the Jeep and said, “Hey, Devil Dog. Who’s in charge here?”
“Who wants to know?” the Marine answered bluntly.
“Master Sergeant Marcus Johnson, 2nd Force Recon.”
“You got some ID?”
He showed the Marine staff sergeant his ID card. In the light of the lamp, the man looked at Marcus for a moment.
“I know you. You taught some classes I took at the SEAL school in Coronado a couple years ago.” He returned the ID and held out his hand to greet his superior. Marcus took the hand and shook it. “I’m Staff Sergeant Beckwith. I’m the S-3 here. Right now, everyone is deployed to parts unknown. That leaves me in charge. What do you need?”
“There’s live threat in action at the moment on Eielson, and I need to get the info to someone who can act on it.”
“Sir, if there’s a threat on Eielson, you need to contact their base security. I can’t do anything out there. Besides, I have no manpower.”
“I did contact Eielson security—they blew me off. I don’t have any standing there. I figure you may be able to hook me into the right contacts, Marine.”
The Marine eyed him cautiously for several seconds, weighing what he was being asked. Then he exhaled a cloud of steam that billowed from his mouth. “Let’s go back inside, Top.”
Marcus followed the Marine inside the building. Staff Sergeant Beckwith led him down a short hallway. Beckwith’s boots clopped heavily on the pale green linoleum floor. The thump echoed off the standard military eggshell-white walls. In the entire twenty years of Marcus’s career, he had witnessed only two other shades of paint used on military office walls: gray and one other shade of white. It was Spartan frugality in the extreme.
Beckwith turned to the right, opened a gray metal office door labeled “S-3”, and flipped on a light switch as they went in. He continued to a nineteen sixties-era metal office chair behind the sole desk in the room and sat down, motioning to another ancient chair for Marcus.
“What’s the threat, Top?” Beckwith referred to Marcus by this familiar term related to his rank of E-8 Master Sergeant, the second highest enlisted rank in the military.
Marcus went over the details of what he had witnessed on the trail. He ended the narrative with the encounter with the tobacco-chewing Air Force security policeman. “Of course, I can’t really blame him. Some guy showing up in the dark and claiming to see North Koreans lurking in the woods would throw me off, too.”
“Well, Top, it does seem somewhat far out there.” Beckwith adjusted in his seat. “But I know you, and your reputation, and will take your word for it. Like I said, though, there’s not much I can do myself. But … I do know some guys who might be able to look into it a bit further.”
He reached over to a black plastic telephone on the corner of his desk, pressed the speakerphone button, and dialed a six-digit extension. After a short pause, the line rang twice, then a voice answered in a typical rote military phone greeting.
“Ft. Wainright Naval Reserve Squadron. Good evening sir or ma’am, this is an unsecured line. How may I direct your call?”
“Let me speak to Chief Wasner. This is Staff Sergeant Beckwith.”
“Wait one.”
There was a pause, and then a different voice came on the line. “Wasner.”
“Hey Chief, hate to bother you after hours and what-not, but there is a situation your boys may like to be part of. You got time to meet with me and another Marine at your place?”
“What about?”
“Can’t say over the air, but it’s important. The Marine with me is Master Sergeant Marcus Johnson.”
“Johnson? From 2nd Recon?”
Marcus’s face lit up at the
