Turnaround

By Arnold Beckhardt

Roy Neely is a sixty-five-year-old widower. He is an ex Air Force Vietnam fighter-bomber pilot, former surveillance trainer in the CIA, and now head of the FBI Behavioral Science section. For the last ten years he had been analyzing terrorist attacks from around the world. Neely and his staff would analyze the data from the terrorist point of view to develop profiles. For many years Neely had been studying the work of psychologists in the technique of "reverse brainwashing". The technique was not fool proof but had a success rate of 50%. At this stage of his career, Neely is thinking of retirement but Eric Holloway convinces him to accept a field assignment to develop a relationship with the terrorists now in the States to uncover their support network. Neely determines that one of the terrorists is a possible candidate for turnaround.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arnold Beckhardt
• Release date: May 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476443393

Arnold Beckhardt

Arnold R. Beckhardt is a retired IBM engineering executive who specialized in the development of military weapon systems and space programs. He was a pilot in World War Two in China, Burma and India. Since his retirement Beckhardt is the author of political thrillers TURNAROUND, GOERING’S GOLD, BLACK GOLD, and MEXICAN GOLD. Roy Neely’s adventures continue in THE KASHMIR DILEMMA. He lives in Vero Beach, Florida with Greta, his wife of sixty-five years. Visit his website: www.booksbybeckhardt.com

Book preview

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Turnaround

A Roy Neely Novel

by

Arnold R. Beckhardt

This revised edition is published by Arnold R. Beckhardt at smashwords.

Copyright 2012 by Arnold R. Beckhardt

Discover other titles by Arnold R. Beckhardt at http://www.booksbybeckhardt.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Acknowledgements

Turnaround, my first novel was self-published by iUniverse in 2007. In 2006 I had taken a course in creative writing taught by John Mackie, author of great New York City detective stories. That course was my inspiration to take the chance to write this novel. As a friend and mentor he taught me about the differences in creating a novel from writing the technical papers, business plans and proposals during my fifty year engineering career. I owe him many thanks.

In the process of creating a new smashwords edition the many changes are the result of the continued development of my skills as an author of four subsequent Roy Neely novels. Experience is a great teacher of how to write better.

My wife Greta remains my favorite first reader and editor. She does a great job of encouraging me through the rewrite process of many revisions. When I first started to write this novel Stacey and Sandy stood on the sidelines and urged me to keep going as I got near the finish line. My Grandson Mark, who provided many pages of helpful rewrites and editorial corrections, was another big supporter.

In writing this first novel I chose a setting that I know very well, having lived in Vero Beach for so many years. When the scenes moved overseas I became dependent on the powerful support of the internet. Research through internet searches led me to The New York Magazine article about a reporter’s injuries after a car bomb explosion in Baghdad; the MSNBC Baghdad joke about Toyota; to descriptions of barbershops in Baghdad; and the Christian Science Monitor article about reading into the mind of a terrorist. Many different web pages provided flight school information; airline information; and the organization of the CIA and FBI. The Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life publications are a great source of information on islamic religions.

It goes without question that all errors, omissions, and dramatic license are my responsibility.

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PROLOGUE

It was a typical Florida thunderstorm over the lagoon. The month of May had seen several spectacular displays of Mother Nature at her worst and best. On this night bolts of lightning followed by imposing booms of thunder lit up the towering cumulous clouds. The rain started in a steady downpour as the storm drifted slowly to the West to soon cover the Treasure Coast from Sebastian to Jupiter. Two men were dressed in full wet suits as they pushed the twelve-foot boat into the lagoon. Water on their facemasks restrained their visibility and the one in the back of the boat was having trouble getting the outboard to start. The engine finally started with a roar from too much gas and both men looked around hoping that no one heard the noise. It was shortly before two in the morning and they covered the rocket-propelled-grenade with another piece of tarp to keep it dry. Hopping in the boat, the taller man started slowly out to the intracoastal channel. He spotted a marker and slowly increased the speed as he took the boat north. He had made this trip several times in the daylight but this was the first trip at night and the poor visibility made him apprehensive about finding the spoil island near the Fort Pierce nuclear plant. The other man sat quietly holding the tarp that covered the RPG. His worry was keeping the grenade and the C4 explosive dry so that they could get a firing.

As they continued north the thunderstorm around them kept up its intensity. The flashes of lightening gave the tall man a view of the spoil island that he was certain was their target. As the boat turned to go east, the wind blew the rain into his face so hard he lost sight of where he was going. He slowed the boat to a crawl and just avoided running into the island shore. Taking advantage of the lightening, he felt his way around the island. Cutting the engine, he went over the side of the boat into three feet of water. He grabbed the rope at the front of the boat and tied it around a tree. Motioning to the other man that it was time to get out of the boat, he gathered up the tarp. The more powerfully built man hoisted the RPG on his back as they splashed their way forward toward the glow on the horizon. The soft muddy bottom made walking treacherous so it was slow going. Twenty minutes later they spotted the high security fence surrounding the Fort Pierce nuclear plant. They climbed up a knoll and stopped to get their breath.

The man took the RPG from his back as the taller one held the tarp to keep it dry. The stronger man raised it to his shoulder and timed the firing with a clap of thunder. The rocket soared in an arc over the security fence and lit up the sky. There was a loud explosion as the rocket hit a small service building. The building burst into flames and they could see the tall nuclear reactor in the background. As they got in the water, lights and sirens came on over the whole plant area. He put the RPG on his back and the two of them started walking to the spoil island and the boat. Both men realized they had fulfilled their mission to hit the service building without threatening the reactor containment building or other infrastructure. The sponsors would be pleased with their work. The rain intensity slowed and as they got to the spoil island, they crawled into the boat and started up the engine and their way out.

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CHAPTER ONE

April 1, mid afternoon

It had been a tough week at FBI Headquarters. Lots of meetings about increased threat levels on the east coast, and besides, he had to finish his staff evaluations. They were not one of his favorite things to do. Roy Neely, GS15 behavioral analyst with the FBI, sat staring at his computer with his brain turned off. The combination of the sun pouring in his office window and the multicolored moon scene on his desktop had him staring hypnotically at the screen. He was in a strange, funky mood. For a guy turning sixty-five he still was in good shape. At 180 he was about fifteen pounds over what he weighed when he got out of the Air Force. Neely didn’t exercise as hard as he did twenty years ago, but most weeks he went to the FBI Academy training center at Quantico twice for a good workout. Neely had an intensity that came from his life’s experiences, experiences that left him with a gloomy view of the terrorist world. He had a rather narrow jaw and a broad forehead with thin gray eyebrows. There were times when Roy’s blue eyes looked everywhere except at the person talking but when he looked at you, you paid attention to what he was saying.

For the last ten years he had been analyzing terrorist attacks from around the world. He gathered all the data from the CIA, FBI, and cooperating country files that every investigator of the incident had ever recorded. Then Neely and his staff would analyze the data from the point of view of the terrorist. From the analysis he had developed a profile of patterns and the circumstances surrounding every attack he could find data on. The database of terrorist profiles that Neely and his staff had developed was the most extensive there was. Neely’s database had been used by many foreign intelligence agencies and there were terrorists in jails around the world who had been first identified as the result of Neely’s work. For many years he had been studying the work of psychologists in the technique of reverse brainwashing. He had been sent by the Department of Homeland Security to lecture at intelligence agencies in Germany, Britain, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia on the technique. Recently Neely had helped the Jordanian agency convert a young Al Qaida terrorist into a valuable asset. Neely never claimed that the technique was fool proof, actually, the success rate was never better than about fifty percent.

To shake the cobwebs out of his brain, Neely rubbed his almost bald gray head. It was about three thirty on Friday afternoon and Rosalie Tanner, his research and database assistant walked into his office smiling. Rosalie was brilliant and a hard worker, but she always looked like she was in another world. She came to the office with a different hairstyle every other week, her clothes didn’t seem to match her complexion or her new hair color. Neely could be impatient at times with Rosalie, sometimes even bossy, but he still liked to talk to her.

Rosalie took one look at Neely and said, You look like you could use a break from that desktop.

Neely turned from the computer screen, You know, Rosalie, I’ve been thinking. I’m 65 and what the hell am I going to do if I retire from the Bureau now?

Rosalie went to the coffee pot and poured a cup of the over-brewed java. She frowned at Roy. There’s no way in hell you can even think about retiring.

I can’t say I haven’t been thinking about it. Belle and I had some great trips. Roy said as he picked up a pencil and chewed it. We had forty five good years. I can’t believe it’s been three years since she died.

Three years? It doesn’t seem to be that long, how are the kids handling all this? said Rosalie as she turned to leave the office,

They’re fine doing their own thing.

Neely had been thinking a lot about retirement lately and what he would do. He could play golf more than once a week, but what else? There has to be something. I could take up painting? That’s crazy, I can’t even draw a straight line. How about pottery? Who needs it? I just don’t have any good hobbies. What the hell, I might as well keep working until they throw me out of here. I’m still one of the best analysts the Bureau has, and no one is pushing me to retire. They always make exceptions to the mandatory retirement age.

Neely got up and went for a cup of coffee. As he sat back down at his desktop he found he still couldn’t concentrate on the work in front of him. His mind kept thinking about how he got here. When he was eighteen Neely left home to study psychology in college. The Air Force ROTC program led to getting his wings in Texas and the tour of duty in Vietnam flying fighter-bombers. He had flown thirty-five missions without an incident when he was sent back to Langley Field in Virginia to train new pilots. He put in ten years of active duty and then stayed in the Air Force Reserves until he finished his twenty years. Neely thought about all his old Air Force buddies and then switched to thinking about the other jobs he held since he left the Air Force. Ten years as an instructor in the CIA and then ten years in the Behavioral Analysis section of the FBI would give him a good government pension. Neely and his family moved quite a bit, Langley Field in southern Virginia, to upstate New York, Alabama, Maryland, and now to the Virginia suburbs for the last four years while he commuted downtown to the Bureau fort on Pennsylvania Avenue. The kids grew up like gypsies but amazingly, both the girls turned out fine. They were independent souls and he had a good relationship with them and their kids. Roy always felt badly they had both divorced, but it seemed that was the way it was these days.

His mind wandered back to all the reunions with the other Vietnam pilots that kept those Air Force memories current. He had to admit that he was tired of hearing some of the same war stories. The moonscape on his screen made him think of Bill Ramsey who ended up working on the Apollo moon program after the Air force. Ramsey and Neely had flown many missions together, and he’d been disappointed that Bill had not shown up at the last reunion. Hard to believe he died of cancer so fast.

Turning back to the desktop, he shook his head and downed the cup of coffee. It really was time to get back to work. He decided to keep going for another couple of hours. No use fighting all the Friday commuter traffic. It was always a mess. Besides, inside the fort was like being in a library painted like a hospital. It was really quiet and he liked that. That’s one good thing about the relationship he had with his boss and the bureau. They knew he was good and generated good data working on his own schedule. He set his own hours, sometimes early in the morning, but recently he found it was better to come in around ten in the morning and stay until he felt like going home.

He looked again at the latest homeland security intelligence releases on his desk suggesting that a power plant, or a chemical facility, on the East Coast could be a possible next target. On this late Friday afternoon Roy pulled up all his notes on the computer one more time. He kept searching through a list of possible terrorist agents and started looking at his database on each one again. If the intelligence data meant anything it would have to be one of the best and smartest agents Al-Qaida, Hamas, or Hezballah ever trained. Somehow he had that gut feel that always made him take one more look. Roy kept coming back to the note referencing a contact from an undercover source in Jordan that his buddy Eric Holloway at CIA passed on to him. This source had passed on information that a Hamas agent in his database was seen in the terminal at Amman airport. The agent reported that while he was in the terminal there was an Air Jordan flight from Amman to Washington via London that had left at noon, but he had not seen the suspect get on board.

His mind wandered back to his days as an instructor at the farm, the CIA’s training ground in Virginia. He remembered teaching students to make surveillance detection runs to learn how to tell if they were being followed. Remember to look at the reflections in the store windows, retrace your steps, enter and quickly exit buildings, he would instruct his students. He wondered if the Hamas agent knew he was under surveillance.

Figuring it would be a good idea to check on the Air Jordan manifest, Roy closed up the desktop and decided to drive to Dulles before he went home. As he arrived at the airport, he wondered if the stop was worth it when he saw the crowded terminal. He almost decided to keep on driving home but just as he got to the international departure area, a taxi pulled out and left a spot so he pulled the car in, put the on duty sign in the window, and went inside the terminal. He proceeded to the Air Jordan ticket counter and flashed his FBI badge to a petite dark haired agent. I’d like to see the agent in charge.

The agent escorted him around the counter to a small office in the back. Looking at a very small desk with a very big man behind it, Neely flashed his badge again and said, I’d like to see your passenger manifest for today’s flight from Amman via London to Dulles.

The big guy was clearly used to such inquiries and raised no objection. He handed over the complete manifest and Roy glanced quickly through the names. Do you have any information on any connecting flights for these passengers? he asked.

The man went to his computer terminal and with a press of the keys said, Here is the list of the ones that were arranged through Air Jordan but we wouldn’t know of any who had made separate arrangements directly.

Looking at the passenger manifest and the computer screen, Neely couldn’t detect any obvious pattern. He was looking for any possible connection made to a city that was near a nuclear or chemical facility. Thanks for your trouble. Mind if I keep this copy of the manifest?

No problem. Let us know if you need any more from Air Jordan.

Roy returned to his car and decided everything would wait until next Monday when he’d try to figure out if any of this made sense.

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CHAPTER TWO

Two Years Earlier, Beirut, Lebanon, U.S. Embassy

Norm Hilliard had just finished his four-hour watch and he went to the locker room to change his clothes. One of the Marines in the locker room yelled at him as he opened up his locker, The orderly left a message that the Captain wants to see you in his office. Hilliard finished changing into his running gear thinking that the Captain wanted to rearrange next week’s schedule. He was humming to himself as he thought about having a good run on the beach. Hilliard was a big strong Marine not only physically but he was a thinker. When he looked at you with those dark eyes that seemed to penetrate your head you knew he was a real hard-ass bulldog. Some of his buddies kidded him that he looked like the recruitment poster. They also knew that there were times when he didn’t think like most of them. The 1993 World Trade Center bombing; then the 1998 terrorist bombs at U.S. embassies in Kenya and Tanzania that killed 224 people, including twelve Americans; finally the 2000 USS Cole bombing had really pissed him off. He just couldn’t sort out the logic of some of the U.S. government’s reaction to the attacks. What did the word democracy mean in the Middle East Muslim world? Many times, when the U.S. actions just didn’t make sense to him, he wasn’t afraid to express his opinion to the other marines he was drinking with.

Hilliard had been stationed in Lebanon at the embassy for two years. In that time he had met a lot of locals and they seemed to get along because he was no big bragger of how great the U.S. was. Hilliard thought that the American model of democracy really didn’t seem to fit some parts of the Muslim world. In one of the local bars that the Marines frequented he got into a big argument with a bunch of his buddies about how the local tribes had their own ways of controlling life and maybe it would be better if we just let them do it their way instead of trying to convert them to our way. Hilliard had a reputation with his Marine buddies as a sometime critic of the U.S. concept of democracy, and assimilation, imposed on all the ethnic groups around the world. He could become very vocal after too many beers about his life as a kid in the Philippines. He would tell stories of how the American and Chinese minorities controlled all of the economy and the native minorities lived like pigs in his expression.

Hilliard closed up his locker and walked down the hall to the Captain’s office. As he entered the office and saluted he noticed a civilian sitting by the Captain’s desk. The Captain didn’t say a word as he motioned Hilliard to stand at ease. The civilian got up slowly and walked toward Norm with his hand out.

Hi, I’m Eric Holloway from the CIA. Glad to meet you. I have a few things I would like to discuss with you. Why don’t you sit in this other chair.

Eric Holloway was an intense looking short man with a full head of red hair and a mustache to match. His voice was deep and he looked at you with a concentration on his face that made you feel he was all business. At forty-five, Holloway had been in the CIA for twenty years. He kept in shape by working out in the CIA Gym at least three times a week. Holloway had been a field agent for fifteen years and then was transferred back to Langley. As a field agent he had worked in the Middle East and developed some close relationships with Israeli intelligence. He had been forced to use weapons in the line of duty to kill more than once, the last time still a tough memory of an event in Bethlehem. No one dared to talk to him about that event because Holloway had never been able to make peace with his actions.

Holloway smiled at Hilliard, Let me begin by telling you what we know about your life. You were born in the Philippines while your Dad was in the service. You grew up as an Army brat and bounced around ‘til you joined the Marines. For the next hour with no interruption, Holloway continued to talk about Norm. He described his early childhood including a list of every school from elementary to high school that Hilliard attended. He talked about Hilliard’s friends at school and even described his girl friend from high school. Hilliard couldn’t believe his ears as Holloway talked about his life. Who ever this guy was, he obviously knew everything and more about Norm’s whole life since he was born, his politics, his foibles, his sex life, everything. It seemed to be more than Norm knew about himself. The Marine Captain didn’t say a word through all of this and just listened attentively

Finally Holloway got down to business. Now that I’ve demonstrated how much we know about you, we want to recruit you as an undercover agent here in Beirut. We have a great need for more human contact with Hezballah. There are many of their agents and followers here in Beirut. We are most interested in uncovering information about Hezballah ties to Syria and Iran.

Holloway could see the surprised expression in Hilliard’s face. He smiled as he thought this young guy has no idea what we have in mind for him. Holloway continued, You’ll be discharged from the Marines and decide to stay on in Lebanon as an ex Marine who has some strange political ideas. We will set you up in a job working for a bank as a courier which will give you cover for frequent trips out of Lebanon to Europe. You will endeavor to establish friends in the Hezballah organization. They won’t want to trust you but by playing up your political views, we hope that eventually they will try to recruit you as an agent. They will like your courier role since it would help them in providing cover for some of their contacts from Europe. It will take a while but when and if they do, you will accept such a role. There may be times when they will ask you questions about your trips to Europe. We can provide you with certain information that should keep them satisfied.

Hilliard wasn’t sure he heard this right. I’m just a sergeant in the Marines. You’ve obviously investigated my whole life. But I find this conversation almost unreal.

Holloway smoothed his mustache and looked at Hilliard with a frown. Believe me, this is for real. You’re right, before the CIA Director of Operations would let me have a conversation about recruiting you your capability to do this was examined in a variety of ways. There is no question that you are not the typical person we recruit for our field operations. But, we think you are an exception who has the skills to do this.

Hilliard’s reaction surprised even him. He still couldn’t decide whether this was a big hoax or whether Eric Holloway was talking about a real thing. Are you sure this is for real? he asked Holloway one more time.

Holloway stared at Hilliard with a stern face. Norm, we have investigated you every way you could ever imagine and we think you have the physical and mental stuff to pull this off. Operating as an agent has obviously many risks, but the rewards are plentiful. While you are undercover, $50,000 every year will be put in a closed account in your name in a Swiss bank. In addition, you will receive a salary from the bank that will cover your living expenses. I’d like to give you time to consider this but that’s not possible. The CIA needs to set this arrangement up quickly. We think you are the right man for the job. So what do you say?

Norm closed his eyes for a minute and thought about this incredible offer with a mixture of fear and excitement. He walked back and forth across the room while rubbing his hands together. It reminded him of how he felt in high school when he got called into the principal’s office over some prank he had pulled. Finally he looked at Holloway Well I don’t know exactly where all this will lead me, but lets give it a go.

Eric grabbed Norm’s hand, Son, you are doing a very valuable service for your country. You and I will get to know each other so well our minds will be synchronized. That’s what happens to the agent and his control at CIA in Langley. If the Captain will excuse us, you and I will go off and get down to the nitty gritty of how we stay in contact. The Captain will take care of all the arrangements with the Marines and get the story out of how you were suddenly called back to the States on emergency leave and then got your discharge. We’ll also get the story out of how you then returned and got this job at the bank. You’ll go to our training facility in Virginia for several months and if you do OK we will set up the assignment in Beirut. With that Norm and Eric left the Captain’s office and walked down the hall to an empty office. Holloway then spent the rest of the day explaining to Hilliard what was expected of him, how he would maintain contact and gave him reference material on Hezballah to study.

It had been a very tough summer. The six months Hilliard spent at the CIA farm in Virginia seemed like an eternity. The intensity of the training was worse than Marine boot camp. The physical training didn’t faze him as much as the class-room-work. Holloway had brought him into the program even though he was not a college graduate because of his Arabic language skills as well as his Marine training. Hilliard found that this new life required him to concentrate on studies like he had never done. His intellectual abilities and mental toughness were tested to the maximum. The training focused on fast moving, ambiguous, and unstructured problem solving. When he finished the training program Holloway was there to congratulate him. I’m proud of you. You really surprised a lot of people who didn’t believe you could do this. Now it’s back to Beirut for you.

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CHAPTER THREE

Fall, One Year Later, Beirut

For the next year, Hilliard made a daily part of his routine to go for a drink at a bar and coffee place that had a lot of local young people as regulars. It was kind of a dumpy place, just around the corner from the main drag where the bank was located. The place was narrow and dark but with a good long bar that had a selection of local and foreign beers, and passable food that Hilliard rarely ordered. The smell from the Turkish cigarettes always annoyed Norm, so, in defense he took up smoking American cigarettes. In the last year and a half his fluency in local dialects had enabled him to join in the conversations about the soccer scene or local politics and Syria’s occupation. Hilliard became friendly with several men who always sat at the same end of the bar or at a corner table. One of the older men was particularly friendly with Norm.