nothin’.”
Main shook his head. “My god, I didn’t know it was that bad. What else happened?”
“Well, I remember in 1996 Muhammad Ali went to Cuba to meet Castro, who he said he admired. That same year some politically correct captain invited Ali aboard USS
“You gotta be shittin’ me!”
“No lie, GI.” Keegan gave a sardonic grin. “The U.S. Fucking Navy catered to a brain-dead celebrity who seeks out communist dictators. Finally Clinton’s SecNav decided enough was enough and gave his blessing to Tailhook in 2000.”
“The admiral tried to help you?” Main could easily envision Derringer supporting people he valued.
“Yeah, he really did. I wrote him, not really expecting very much, but we’d had a good relationship on deployment. When he wanted somebody to follow a contact at night and maybe a high sea state, my crew usually got the call. By ‘92, almost a year after Vegas, it was obvious I had nothing to lose.”
“Could he help?”
“Not much. He saw the handwriting on the wall and was already starting SSI. But my point is, he tried to help me and a couple of other pilots. Far as I know, Mike Derringer did more than any three active-duty flags. He called in markers, bent arms, and generally kept up the heat. I’ve heard that some admirals still resent him because he made them feel like wimps.”
“I guess a lot of aviators are still bitter.”
“Damn right. I was so disgusted that I changed my registration to Democrat and, so help me, I voted for Clinton in ‘92. I don’t care who knows it.”
Main grinned. “What about ‘96?”
Keegan shrugged. “Why bother? The difference between the parties is more a matter of degree than substance.”
“Geez, you sound like the man without a country.”
Keegan thought for a moment. “Yeah, there’s something to that. Not many guys will say so, but what th’ hell — I got no retirement at stake. Some of us feel that we have a government more than a country. That’s why our loyalty goes to SSI. If the UN do-gooders are worried about PMCs taking the place of established governments, maybe they’re right. Not that it’ll happen, because at least forty percent of the population has been co-opted by perks and benefits. But I tell you what: in this outfit, loyalty up gets loyalty down. Mike Derringer says that his people come first, and he walks the walk. I could tell you a couple of stories—” Keegan slipped a knowing grin and left the sentence hovering.
Which reminded Main of his mission. “The admiral said I might be able to help you.”
“Oh! Yeah.” Keegan laughed at himself. “I get spooled up about what happened to us and the whole female thing.”
“Roger that.” Main was enjoying the male bonding, even with a squid.
Keegan picked up a manual. It was a translation of the pilot’s instructions for the Russian Mi-17 helicopter, code name Hip H. “Reading the book is one thing but flying the bird is another. I know this is a stretch, but do you know if Fort Rucker or anyplace else has one of these machines? If we have to use ‘em in… well, wherever we go, it’d be a big help to have some stick time beforehand.”
Main leaned back, rubbing his chin. “Geez, Terry, that’s a pretty big request, especially on short notice. It’s also out of my league. If you wanted to drive a T-72, I could probably arrange it.” He thought for a moment. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”
“That’d be great, Dave. I really appreciate it, and so would the admiral. Oh, by the way, the Mi-8 would be almost as good. The 17 is the export Hip with the tail rotor on the starboard side. I’d be happy with either one.”
The Lamunyon house was a low, rambling residence, a style that once would have been advertised as “ranch,” but that description had long fallen into trendy disfavor. The rental car exited off Route 24 onto Alvarado and turned onto Hillcrest Road. Apparently the Lamunyons lived in the political-cultural no-man’s-land between the Clairemont Country Club and the Berkeley-Clark-Kerr campus.
SSI’s investigators were former bureau colleagues of Wolf’s. James Mannock had finally resigned in disgust over repeated scandals in the crime lab, choosing to sell his skills in the private sector. Sherree Kim had graduated in the top ten percent of her academy class and, in the politically correct era of the ‘90s, seemed destined for success. But she had bumped against the FBI’s glass ceiling and decided to look elsewhere rather than spend her most productive years fighting an entrenched male culture.
“Think they’ll still want to talk to us?” Mannock asked.
Kim shrugged. “I dunno, Jim. Mrs. Lamunyon sounded more interested than her husband.”
Mannock looked down at the five-foot-five Kim. He winked. “You’re good on the phone, Sherree.” She gave him a slight nudge in retaliation. It was a matter of faith in SSI that Ms. Kim had the silkiest voice in the firm.
Kim rang the doorbell as Mannock stood behind her. Without discussing details, both realized that a young Asian woman with an appealing manner would be more warmly received than a six-foot-one, balding ex-wrestler with a Joe Friday demeanor.
The door opened partway and a matronly woman’s face appeared behind the screen. “Yes?”
Kim took the initiative. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lamunyon. I’m Sherree Kim. We talked on the phone again last night.” She did not need to mention that Mr. Lamunyon had ended their first conversation on his wife’s behalf.
“Oh, yes…”
Kim allowed Mrs. Lamunyon no chance to end the discussion so abruptly. “We really appreciate your taking time to talk to us, ma’am. This is my assistant, Mr. Mannock.” Before the burly former athlete could kick her from behind, Kim pressed on. “May we come in for a moment?”
Marian Lamunyon opened the screen enough to look up and down the street.
“I promise we’ll only be a few minutes, ma’am. And we’ve had
It worked.
Mrs. Lamunyon invited the visitors into the sitting room. While Kim worked her people skills, Mannock pretended to be interested in the family photos on the wall. Apparently Jason had a teenage sister — something of a babe — and the family swarmed with pets. In truth, the ex-fed knew that there were ways of gaining information without asking questions.
“I don’t really know what more I can tell you,” Marian began. “We already talked to those government investigators.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re just trying to be thorough and maybe pick up some details that could help tell you more about Jason’s, ah, last few weeks.”
“Well, Keith talked to the detectives more than I did.” She leaned close, feeling more comfortable with the friendly young woman. “He’s still embarrassed that Jason went and joined those Muslims.”
“Detectives, ma’am?”
“Well, I guess they were detectives. They had badges and everything. They wore suits, not uniforms, you know.”
“Were they local police or federal agents? Maybe FBI?”
Marian sat up straight. “Oh, you’re right. They were FBI men. I’m just used to those TV shows. Like
Kim and Mannock exchanged knowing glances. Both managed to avoid smiling.
“Mrs. Lamunyon, we think we can help you the most if we know more about Jason’s time in Arabia and Pakistan. For example, where did he stay? Who did he see?”
“Keith gave those detec… er… FBI men a list of where Jason went. At least what we knew. But really, Miss Kim, I don’t know much beyond that. We hardly heard from him after he left. Just a couple of notes.”
“Did the other investigators take them?”
“What? The notes? Oh, no. Keith wouldn’t talk about those. He told me not to mention them.”
Mannock abruptly turned from the photo gallery and sat beside Kim. She decided to go for broke. “Ma’am,
