“It’s in there,” Ammon reassured him.
Ammon turned to leave, then stopped and pulled out his wallet. Without even counting the money, he took all of the bills that were tucked inside and dropped them into Kim’s cardboard box. Kim immediately sensed the presence of the cash. Without so much as a nod, he reached out with unseeing hands, extracted the folded bills, and stuffed them into his shirt.
“Next time, bring me more ketchup,” he demanded as Ammon turned and began to make his way back down the street.
Ammon walked to the base, flashing his identification card to the guards that manned the sidewalk gate. Then he went back to his quarters to sleep. Normally when he flew at night, he didn’t take an afternoon nap. But tonight he wasn’t scheduled to take off until 11:38, which meant he wouldn’t land until after 3:00 A.M. By the time he finished debriefing and had completed the required paperwork, he wouldn’t be back to his room until nearly sunrise. He figured a little afternoon siesta would help him get through the long night.
It was somewhat unusual for him to fly such a long sortie.
Normally he would fly about an hour, maybe two hours if he did air refueling. But tonight he would climb up behind a tanker to get gas not only once, but twice. Both times he would meet up with his tanker just off the western coast of Korea and refuel as they flew out over the Yellow Sea. After topping off his tanks for the second time, he would turn back toward home, knowing he had enough fuel for several practice instrument approaches before he would have to land.
Inside his Q room, Ammon stripped to his underwear and settled himself onto his bed and tried to sleep. But although he felt very tired, sleep did not come. After laying on his bed for an hour, Ammon gave up and turned on the television to a rerun of ‘The Beverly Hillbillies.” “The Hillbillies” were a favorite of the Korean people. It reinforced their concept that all Americans were somewhat dim, but rich nonetheless. It was laughable to watch the voice-overs that mismatched the actors’ lips. Although Ammon couldn’t speak Korean well enough to follow the story, the familiar sight of Granny and Ellie May brought him some comfort when he was so far from home.
At four o’clock Ammon picked up the phone. He dialed the international code for the United States, then a California area code and number. It took several seconds for the call to go through. When it did, the phone on the other end of the line only rang three times before an answering machine clicked on. Ammon listened to the message, then waited for the beep.
“Jesse, I’ve got bad news,” Ammon said quickly. “I’ve been trying to call you since yesterday, but you haven’t been home. My father is sick. I think he’ll be okay though. Reggie is with him now. Don’t worry. I’ll call you when I can. You have my word.”
He immediately hung up and looked at his watch. It only took twenty seconds to make the call. Less than the required thirty seconds it would have taken to trace the number he had been connected to out in California. Good. That was extremely important. After checking his watch, he reached down and dialed again. This time he talked a little bit longer, but he didn’t really care. It was to a number that couldn’t be traced.
Fifteen minutes later, Ammon was stepping out of the shower to shave. He studied his face in the mirror, looking for any signs of the stress or anxiety he was feeling. Nothing showed. In his reflection he saw only the same trusting smile and even features that had served him so well in the past.
Richard Ammon was not tall, only a fraction of an inch above six feet. But at twenty-nine, he was still solid, his shoulders and back sculpted into graceful lines by frequent workouts at the gym. He had tan skin and blond hair, which he wore in the same tight cut as most of the other pilots in his squadron. His teeth were white and straight. His jaw was square and taut. His face was friendly, for he frequently laughed, which helped to soften the intensity of his hard black eyes.
Ammon quickly shaved and then sat down on the edge of his bed to dress. Opening his nightstand drawer, he took out a long elastic sports bandage and wrapped it tightly around his left knee. He put on a clean flight suit and pulled on his boots, then grabbed the flight bag which he kept by the bedroom door. The last thing he did was stuff a plastic Ziploc baggie into his pocket. He then walked out of the room without turning out the light.
He drove to the fighter wing complex where he parked his battered Isuzu in front of the wing intelligence building. He punched the keys to the cipher lock on the side entry and greeted the Sergeant who let him in. As one of the squadron tactics officers, he had an office inside the building. He quickly made his way down the wide corridor of the empty building to his door, where he paused for a moment before pushing it open. He shared the room with two other officers, and was relieved to find himself alone as he slipped into the darkened office.
He glanced around. Government-issue metal desks faced each other in the center of the room and three large file cabinets lined one wall. The only decorations were the standard framed pictures of various military aircraft and a two-foot model of an F-16 hanging from the ceiling. Because the occupants of the wing intelligence building always dealt with classified documents, the structure had been specifically designed with security in mind. None of the rooms had any windows, and all the doors were sealed and soundproof. Every room had a built-in safe or vault to store classified material. On the rare occasion that a visitor was allowed into the building, a bright red light flashed in every room and corridor as a warning for the occupants to protect their secrets. With sealed doors and no windows, the air in Ammon’s office was always stale and cold.
Reaching into his flight bag, Ammon pulled out a pair of rubber gloves and quickly put them on as he walked to the three desks in the center of the room. Passing by his own, he sat down at his friend’s, Major Billings. He unlocked. the Major’s desk with a stolen key, pulled out the center drawer, and, with a practiced hand, began to feel under-neath for the sheet of microfilm. His fingers quickly explored the underside of the drawer, running along the corners in an effort to find the thin piece of film. He felt his heart quicken and his head began to pound as his hands groped along the underside of the drawer. Then he found it. The slippery film was stuffed way up in the right hand corner, exactly where it had been left the day before.
With a careful tug he pulled the film away from the tape and quickly placed it inside the baggie he had pulled from his pocket. After he sealed the plastic bag, he checked it to ensure it was airtight, then pulled up the leg of his flight suit and stuffed the bag under the wrapping around his knee.
Walking from the building, Capt Ammon stifled the urge to run as he made his way to his car. He glanced over his shoulder. No one was there. Nothing was amiss. And yet one thought continued to turn in his mind. If he were discovered with the microfilm in his possession, he would almost certainly die in a South Korean interrogation cell. The South Koreans, while trustworthy allies, were very intolerant of those charged with treason.
Tucked inside the baggie was a microfilm that contained the codes and frequencies that were used to guide the CBU-15 optically guided bomb. This precision weapon was one of the most powerful and useful American Air Force bombs. And since the Americans had invested billions of dollars in the weapon, they had to rely heavily on its performance, particularly during the first and most critical opening days of a war.
But the CBU-15 was a very vulnerable weapon. If the enemy ever discovered the radio frequencies that were used to guide the weapon to its target, the bomb could be easily jammed. And once it was jammed it went from an extremely smart and accurate weapon to a very expensive stupid bomb.