Thorpe knew that anyone who thought the Gulf War had been about freedom was naive. There had been no great deployment to Somalia after the bodies of U.S. soldiers were dragged through the streets. But threatening to cut off the flow of oil had led to the greatest U.S. deployment since the Vietnam buildup.
In fact, being a soldier and studying the history of war, he knew that almost every war was based on economics — hell, the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor only after the U.S. had imposed an economic blockade on the island kingdom, just one of many examples of the mighty dollar leading to bullets.
Thorpe saw the monument at the side of the airfield built to commemorate the Berlin airlift. Even that had been about economics and war had only been averted when the West had been able to keep West Berlin alive economically.
Thorpe followed Kinsley to the main terminal to check in. He smiled as he saw a tall, thin man sporting a faded green beret waiting inside the terminal. The man walked through the crowd, people stepping out of his way, making a beeline for Thorpe.
"Major Thorpe." The man held out a callused hand.
"Master Sergeant King," Thorpe read the man's name tag and gripped the other's hand. "How the hell are you? Dan Dublowski sends his greetings."
"Yeah, I talked to him on the phone yesterday," King said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I've got transport — how much gear you got?"
"Just the ruck."
"Wait a second." Colonel Kinsley stepped between the two men. "What's going on?
"I've got orders to escort Major Thorpe, ma'am," King said.
"Escort him where?" Kinsley demanded.
"I'm not at liberty to discuss that, ma'am."
"Orders from who?"
The edge of King's mouth twitched as he fought back a smile. "General Schaeffer, ma'am."
"Major Thorpe!" Kinsley spun from the NCO to face him. "What is going on?"
Thorpe shrugged. "Don't know, ma'am, but as you've told me, orders are orders."
"Major, I don't—"
Thorpe leaned close so King couldn't hear. "Ma'am, I'm a reservist. There isn't much you can do to me. And I'm going into a hornet's nest. All you could do was get yourself involved in something I don't think you want to be involved in. So my advice is steer clear and let it go."
Thorpe didn't wait for a response. He shouldered his ruck and followed King without a backward glance.
Lieutenant Colonel Lisa Parker disembarked a plane at Fayetteville Airport at approximately the same moment that Thorpe met Master Sergeant King: midafternoon in North Carolina to the late evening of Germany.
The small airfield that serviced Fayetteville was used to military personnel coming in TDY — temporary duty. Parker quickly had her rent-a-car keys in hand and strode out into the lot, looking for the assigned vehicle.
She drove out of the lot and toward post, taking Ail-American Freeway most of the way, bypassing the numerous strip joints, tattoo parlors and pawnshops on Bragg Boulevard. The freeway ended on post and she headed for Moon Hall to check in.
Those following her had used two different cars to mask their surveillance and already knew what room she would be assigned. The two cars parked in the lot across the street from Moon Hall, the men inside masked by tinted windows.
Takamura stopped at the Class VI store for a six-pack of beer on his way home. Then he headed west across Fort Bragg. He knew the military police usually staked out Chicken Plank Road, which he was on, trying to nail speeders.
Takamura pulled one of the cold cans out and popped the top, feeling a strange thrill at the illicit act. He wasn't completely foolish, though, keeping his speed exactly at the posted limit as other cars pulled out and passed him every so often.
His eyes shifted between the rearview mirror, to make sure the MPs didn't sneak up behind him, and the road ahead, searching for speed traps. Every time he was sure he was clear, he would take a quick, furtive sip of beer.
By the time he got to his trailer he'd gone through two beers, was buzzed, and felt more alive than he had since his high school prom and his date had allowed him to feel inside the top of her dress. Despite working at Special Operations Command for two years, the most exciting thing he had done was requisition some reservist experts for an element of Delta Force deployed overseas one time. He'd had no idea why they needed the experts, even though he'd checked the news diligently for weeks afterward looking for any sign.
He'd called Dublowski at the Delta Force Ranch during duty hours. Talking to the sergeant major had made what he was doing real, and necessitated the trip to the Class VI store and the beer for Takamura to keep going. Takamura turned on his computer before he turned on the lights in his trailer. The large-screen TV came alive with the images of the operating system loading. Takamura opened his third beer as he put the rest in the refrigerator.
He sat down in his recliner and put the keyboard on his lap. He adjusted the headset until the pointer was aligned with his straightforward gaze.
"Time to rock and roll," Takamura said out loud. He opened the arm of the chair and pulled out a remote. He pointed it at the stereo system resting on racks on the wall of the trailer and punched buttons. The CD player whirred and the music blasted out of the speakers: Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, heavy programming music for Takamura.
The list he had given Thorpe had contained over three hundred names. He pulled the profile Thorpe had given him. It was short and to the point:
Male
18–28
White
Higher-than-average IQ
Only four parameters, but Takamura knew they were more than enough to winnow the field down considerably. He began working the program to do exactly that as the music vibrated the walls of the trailer. He got up and retrieved another beer halfway through.
He paused in his programming and brought up the six photos. He lined the right side of the screen with the girls' visages. Terri Dublowski was the second one from the top.
Then he brought up the other missing girls from the military posts in the United States and put them on the left side. He took a sip of his beer and almost spit it out. Suddenly it didn't taste as good. Takamura blinked and shook his head, trying to clear it.
He forced himself to continue on the program. When it was done, he accessed the DOD database, sneaking his way in like he had the previous time. The green bar glowed at the top of the screen as the program began sifting through the records. The beer sat ignored on the arm of the chair.
Forty-two soldiers fit the profile and the assignment progression.
A large number, but better than before. He downloaded the names onto a disk.
Takamura's hand reached for the beer, but paused. He stared at the screen. He was missing something. Dangling at the edge of his programmer's mind. A link that hadn't been made.
He thought of the program he had used to initially get the names. The lines of programming, the flow.
Then he had it, or at least the beginning of it. He'd had an instructor once who had beaten into them that they always had to check their program by reversing the parameters.