The Darkest Shadows

By Arthur H Barnes

Several years before the United States intelligence agencies woke up to the fact that a deadly terrorist network was in the progress of destroying anything that represented the free world and other countries. The US President became concerned that he was not receiving important data and information from his own agencies, The Central Intelligence Agency and the National Intelligence Agency.

The present tasked Lt. Commander Brock to place a discrete specialist in the Middle East to keep him informed. Brock enlists a Chief Radio Specialist Art Fletcher for the job.

After a year of covert activity, Chief Fletcher learns about a mad man named Osama bin Laden.

Fletcher cooks up an insane plan to try and locate bin Laden’s training camps with hopes of thwarting the terrorists’ plans. Things really get exciting and frightening as Chief Fletcher and Lt. Brock go beyond “The Darkest Shadows” of Osama bin Laden’s hate for the free world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arthur H Barnes
• Release date: Jul 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781604145915

Arthur H Barnes

Arthur H. Barnes was born in Ventura, CA. He earned a B.A. in professional arts from Brooks Institute, Santa Barbara, CA. and an M.A. degree from Pepperdine University, Malibu, CA.While serving in the US Navy (1944 -1950) he survived a Kamikaze attack and earned a Purple Heart; and he served in Okinawa, Japan, which experience provided the source of many of the details and flavor of this story. He worked at the Data center of Edwards Air Force Base, CA., in the Major Company for 27 years.He lives with his wife Alvena in Bellingham, WA, a most beautiful city 22 miles south of the Canadian Border and overlooking the San Juan Islands. He has been married from 1950 to the present, and dotes on one “fabulous” grandson.

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Beyond the Darkest Shadows

Arthur H. Barnes

Smashwords edition published by Fideli Publishing Inc.

© Copyright 2012, Arthur H. Barnes

All Rights Reserved.

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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 person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The cover background map is courtesy of the US Air force.

Thanks to you for who all of you are.

One person cannot begin to do all

That is needs to be done if a piece of

Fictions to be completed.

Editing tested both my editor

And my own patience.

Therefore, I cannot thank my

Wife enough for all that she has

Contributed to this work if

One chooses to call writing

Work. Alvena, love of more than 55 years,

Thank you for putting up with all

My craziness.

Cast of Characters

The cast of persons who are the heart of Beyond The darkest Shadows:

Chief Art Fletcher, USN. A communications specialist in radio and Cryptography with sixteen years of perfect service.

Lt. Commander Brock, Intelligence Director appointed by the President for a special assignment to gather information only. He reports directly to the President, and only to the President.

Mr. Mohadid, the second most influential construction contractor in the Middle East.

Mahla, niece of Mr. Mohadid. One of the really beautiful young ladies of Egypt. Became seriously involved with Chief Fletcher.

Acbar, A bar owner that is a listening agent for Mr. Mohadid and one of his very special agents.

Domi, Mr. Mohadid’s most important agents. Head of Mohadid’s secret security and intelligence concerns.

Hasan, Osama bin Laden’s Cairo agent and strong-arm murderer.

Chapter 1

"Chief, I don’t understand it; your Navy record says that you have been 4.0 with a number of outstanding recommendations. For the past five months, ever since you came aboard, I have not seen any of the so-called outstanding efforts on your part. What’s wrong, don’t you like the Navy anymore?"

Chief Fletcher simply stood at attention, as the Exec had demanded. From the chief’s standpoint, Lt. Commander Short had been on his back from the moment he had stepped aboard the tin can, Mason. Each day there seemed to be a PA announcement, Chief Fletcher, report to the Exec. in the wardroom.

Lt. Commander. Short was an Annapolis grad and he let everyone know it. If you were a non-Annapolis man, a reserve officer, or an enlisted man, Chief, or what he considered a lowly seaman, he made it hell every moment that you were on board.

Chief Fletcher (Art) had joined the Navy straight out of high school and had devoted every fiber of his mind and body to be the best sailor in the whole Navy. He had been chosen for radio school and further had attended almost every communications school that was available. All with whom he had served spoke very highly of him. In all of his almost 16 years of service he had achieved the treasured rate of Chief Radioman and a specialist in technical communications. The Mason was his fourth ship and he had had no shore duty except when attending schools. On all three of his previous ships, the captains and communications officers had recorded the high marks in his record.

As the Lt. Commander ground on with nothing but negative complaints, Fletcher began to wonder just how he was going to be able to complete the required 20 years of service before he could take retirement. It had always been his plan from day one to make the Navy his life-long career and serve for at least 30 years. Even then he would be only 48 years old and with all his specialized training and technical experience, many private companies would pay top money for such a skilled person.

Again, the Commander began a new grind on the Chief. It seemed that everything that Chief Fletcher had done and was doing, was all wrong. Finally, dismissing Fletcher, the Exec. had one last parting shot. I will not put up with your attitude and poor performance. You had better think about it if you want to remain a Chief.

Chief Fletcher had never been dressed down in this manor in all his years in the Navy. With his head held straight, looking undisturbed, and in his finest manner, he slowly did an about face and departed.

Fletcher’s sleeping compartment was in the aft Chiefs’ quarters, three compartments aft of the midships passageway. He was not one of the so-called drunken sailors and could not spend the whole evening sitting in a smelly bar downing one beer after another, getting plastered. With the dressing down he had just had, that might not be a bad idea.

I think that I will just do that.

Changing into his best uniform with all his service ribbons, he felt just like going to war. As he left the ship alone, walking to the head of the dock where the waterfront street met the many docks, he had no idea where he wanted to go. He wasn’t even looking forward to the first drink. Fletcher almost smiled as he plodded on.

He had walked a number of city blocks when he remembered that the First Lt. on his third ship had been transferred to Washington. He had made the statement, If you are ever in DC, let me know, and gave him his new address on a small piece of paper.

Searching through his well-used wallet, he found the much-folded piece of paper that held his shipmate’s address. The numbers were barley readable. Stopping in front of a drug store, he wondered if the Lt. was still in town. If he is, great, and if he isn’t, well so much for that, I have nothing to lose.

Fletcher was about to hang up after the fifth ring when a voice that sounded short and almost out of breath gruffly shouted, Yes, whadya want? At first Fletcher wanted to hang up but asked for a Lt. Brock. This is Brock, whadya want?

After Fletcher identified himself, Lt. Brock’s voice became much friendlier. Just where in the hell are you Chief? Brock gave him his address and said, I will have a cold one waiting. It was a $6:00 cab ride to Brock‘s address and the Lt. was standing in the open door with two-and-a-half gold stripes on his uniform, and as promised, a cold beer in each hand.

Fletcher was really taken aback as he stepped through Brock’s door. The Lt. Commander grabbed him by throwing both arms around his shoulders and gave him a strong bear hug. Everything that the jerk Short, the exec of the Mason, had said to him before he left the ship faded into the mist.

The two of them enjoyed several good cold beers. Then Brock insisted that dinner was on him. I know of the very best seafood shack in all DC. Most of our group all but lives there. It’s called Hogates and is on the waterfront.

Brock’s next statement was a question, and for some reason unknown at the moment, the tone was in the form of an inquiry. As they drove through the city toward the restaurant Fletcher began to explain his past six month’s duty on the Mason. She is a good tin can but I have never been accepted by the Executive Officer.

Brock voiced a slight uh ha as he wheeled into the crowded parking lot. We will have to do something about that, he finally added.

Walking into the restaurant was like crashing into a thunderstorm. As usual with any really good place to eat and drink, it was overly crowded with everyone talking full volume at the same time. Immediately Brock was challenged to buy the next round of drinks. Come on Brock it’s your turn because you’re late.

Dinner was just as Brock had stated, very fresh and served with finesse and unusual waiter attention.

Fletcher began to suspect that Brock was more than well known among the rowdy bunch. Many of the younger men, some in street clothes and others in regulation Navy uniforms, stopped by to give friendly regards.

After the dishes had been cleared from their table, Brock finally got around to asking about Fletcher’s attitude and what Fletcher considered real problems with his new assignment, the Mason, and especially the real hard-nosed Executive Officer.

At first Fletcher was hesitant to really divulge everything that he felt was wrong. Brock sensed the pent up anguish in his friend. For several hours Fletcher and Brock aired all the details, with Brock casually stating that Fletcher was going to stay the night at his home, and no arguments. Fletcher reminded Brock that it was Saturday, he had no duty aboard, and his weekend was free.

Even though it was Sunday morning, both men being died in the wool Navy, awoke early and agreed to have breakfast at the officers club located at the old Navy gun factory, now the home and base for the Chief of Naval Operations.

Finding a remote corner in the dining room, Brock began a conversation that completely floored Fletcher. How would you like to be assigned directly to me? Fletcher had no idea in what part of the Navy ashore Brock was serving.

Then Brock became very direct, asking a series of unusual questions regarding Fletcher’s past service, like all the different radio, communication schools he had completed, especially cryptographic systems. There was one final question. What level of security do you hold? I know that unless you have screwed up, you had a top secret need-to-know clearance because I signed for it a long way back.

As far as I know my security status is the same unless that damn Short has also fouled it up. He is really hard on my case as well as on some of the crew. I don’t think that he could get away with such a devilish thing without some help. Can you check?

The next big surprise, Brock calmly answered that he already had issued classified orders that Chief Art Fletcher be immediately transferred to his office, the Office of Embassy Intelligence. Now Fletcher was really confused and responded, Just like that, huh?

In conclusion, Brock told him that a set of classified orders for Chief Fletcher would be delivered by noon that day even though it was on a Sunday. They would be directed to the Captain, requiring the Captain’s signature and would make things very interesting for Lt. Comdr. Short. They were directed ‘for the Captain’s eyes only.’ That will really grind that bastard of an exec. There was a grin on Brock’s handsome, but serious, face.

Just before noon Fletcher, feeling as though tons of cement had been lifted off his shoulders, stepped back on board the Mason. The OOD, Ensign Penson instantly let him know that some kind of hell had broken out and that the Captain wanted to see him the moment he was back on board. The Exec. is so pissed off that he won’t leave his cabin. Boy is he mad.

Quickly, Fletcher checked the state of his dress. He made his way up the port side deck and knocked on the wardroom door before opening it. Rogers, the Steward’s Mate, said nothing but pointed to the Captain’s stateroom and smiled. Even though Fletcher knew what was about to happen, he was almost wishing that he did not have to stand before the Captain. Knocking on the Captain’s stateroom door, a voice with authority invited him to enter.

Commander Wesley Grimes was at his desk kinda bent over addressing the never-ending ship’s paperwork. Well Chief, it seems that someone needs you much more than this ship does. At the same time he picked up a dark blue envelope that was open and withdrew a three-page document.

Looking up at Fletcher, the Captain asked him if he had any idea what the pages contained. The Captain knew very well that the Chief’s hands were all over the documents and the Chief calmly said, yes.

What’s the matter Chief, aren’t you happy aboard the Mason? Your past record was one that showed a great love for the Navy and your past Commanders and even some of the senior officers praised your attention to duty as being far above the average. I am sorry that I have not had the proper time to become better acquainted, but managing this ship is very time consuming. What went wrong?

Standing almost at attention, Fletcher felt like telling the Captain of the constant haranguing by the Exec. but caught himself, remembering how closely tied most officers were, especially those who had come out of the Naval Academy.

All but biting his tongue, Fletcher slowly but briefly explained to the Captain his aspirations, his goals and dreams of a full Navy career. "I knew that if I did all the right things well, worked hard and treated all the men with whom I served with respect and carried out my duties to the best of my ability, Master Chief would be in my future. Even before I came aboard this ship I studied long and hard to qualify for Master Chief.

Now, based upon certain attitudes aboard, I feel that will not happen. Yes, I am aware of the orders in that document and the person responsible for them. He was the Lt. on the last ship I was on before coming to the Mason. I renewed our friendship last night and was offered this different opportunity. He is now Lt. Commander. Brock and has a very influential position in the intelligence community. Captain, as you might know, I have some very highly classified training and experience in cryptography. Maybe with this new assignment, it will be useful.

The Captain fumbled with the blue documents for a brief moment, then in a somewhat sad tone stated, I was becoming aware that undo and unreasonable pressure was being placed on you and several others of the crew but I was hoping that it would go away. Regardless, I am sure you will do well in this new assignment. Good luck. Fletcher then was handed a single page of the signed orders.

Within the hour, Chief Fletcher had packed all his personal gear. It would have been in less time except many of the crew continued to stop by his quarters to say goodbye. As pleased as he was, saying goodbye to many of his shipmates with whom he had worked, trained and been confessor to, was not easy. It was time to go.

Chapter 2

"Are you the Chief of Communications, Mr. Fletcher? A navy gray sedan with the passenger door open was at the ready. The sailor informed the Chief that he had been sent to deliver him to his new duty and to the special quarters set aside for unmarried staff of the security agency. You will really like the setup; it has everything but dancing girls."

They had driven some 30 minutes before turning into what looked like a series of private up-scale houses. The area was enclosed with at least ten-foot-high chain-link fencing. The open gate was not guarded and there appeared not to be any military or civilian security anywhere. They slowly passed five of the well-cared-for buildings, stopping in front of the sixth house. This is your new home Chief. At the present there is only one other person sharing the house and he is a full Lieutenant. I have not seen much of the guy but so far, he seems regular.

Fletcher was becoming concerned. In one way, overwhelmed, and very impressed in another. He was going to be living in the upper echelon of navy protocol and one that he had slightly envied but had no real passion to be a part of. They were usually real stuffed shirts. In just a few hours, his fortune or maybe his misfortune had changed. Time was about to tell.

The sailor took command of Fletcher’s bag and without any comment led the way into the building. There are no room assignments. There are four private quarters in each complex. You can choose any of the three that are vacant. The room farthest to the back was Fletcher’s choice. He liked the quiet environment and peaceful time to dwell on important thoughts. The room was very large with a patio sliding door to a party-equipped immaculate back yard: a medium size swimming pool with a covered cabana, two stainless steel fronted refrigerators and a Bar-B-Q that could roast a half of a cow.

The sailor asked Fletcher if he needed any help in getting unpacked, with a quick, no from the Chief. The sailor then invited the Chief to walk through the remainder of his new home. There is a full bath with an oversized shower and what is called a Roman bath tub, a really big one, enough room for two people to splash around, if you get my meaning.

So far the Chief had been just listening. Sitting down in one of the large lounge chairs and as stern as he could be, he urged the sailor to do the same. What the heck gives here? You seem to be aware of a lot that goes on around here. How about filling me in? I am really in the dark about what all this security business is and what I might be doing, so how about letting me in on at least some of the activities?

The sailor addressed the Chief as casually as one would talk and act with a best shipmate or special friend. "Chief, my name is Carl Stevens and I am a Radioman First-Class in this crazy lash up. I understand, like you, I was more or less shanghaied into coming here. Now that I am here, I wouldn’t trade it for any duty or service in any place. Brock’s staff is all Navy and as you can guess, hand picked by him. There are so darned many of what are so-called perks that it has no semblance to any sea duty that I have ever heard of.

I am the adjutant to Lt. Commander Brock, or better yet, his, and only his, gopher. By the way, the Commander expects you in his office just as soon as I can get you there. Let’s go. There was no comment from Petty Officer Stevens to the question the Chief had asked.

As they made their way to the car, Fletcher put his hand on the sailor’s shoulder and informed Carl, I was Chief Art Fletcher, but those I work with and respect, call me Fletch. I think that you and I will get along just fine if you just call me Fletch.

The military looking building had the usual flagstaff flying the great American flag and the Navy ensign for all to enjoy. Marine guards in stiff formal posture stood at the front door. Just in front of the main entrance were several specially marked parking spaces with one labeled, parking only for, and a series of numbers that Fletcher had never before seen on a plaque. They had to be just for Lt. Commander Brock’s vehicles. Stevens pulled into a space without making any comment.

Passing through the main door, they were challenged by three serious Marines demanding their identification. Stevens pulled an unusual-looking laminated card from under his blouse that had a number of different colored discs attached on the back. The senior Marine held the card and examined it front and back before saying that they were Commander Brock’s boys. May I ask just who this handsome Chief might be?

Chief Fletcher, USN reporting as directed. Fletcher handed the Marine the orders that Brock had sent. The Marine, smiled politely. We were informed just about an hour-and-a-half ago to look out for you. I think that Brock and some of his staff are waiting for you. You had better get a move on.

Follow me, was all that Stevens said.

Down a long quiet corridor, turning left into another one, which ended with another pair of equally serious-looking Marines at the door. They asked the same questions. Just who are you and who do you want to see?

Before any further comments could be made Stevens turned to Fletcher and said, These guys are under strict orders to check and double check, question everyone regardless of how many times everyone pass through here. It is hell to pay if just one step slips by. Brock’s orders. He goes through the same thing, sometimes five or six times a day. The Marines stand their guard 24 hours a day, four on and eight off. Kinda monotonous duty.

Chief Fletcher was beginning to wonder just what he was in for when the door opened and Lt.Commander Brock shouted. Here is the new member of our great dark world of crazy information gathering, called intelligence. Come on in and meet just some of the great people you will be joining.

Around a somewhat paper scattered large table sat a mixture of officers, enlisted men and, not too surprising, three navy female personnel; two Lt. Junior Grades and one wave Chief, all with, glad to meet you," smiles on their tired looking faces.

Brock, without stating Fletcher’s name, addressed the group. The Chief will go through our regular indoctrination program and then we will put him to work. That was all. A few more comments about small problems and that the upcoming weekly schedule was firm. See some of you bright and early Monday morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed, dismissed.

Brock, taking Fletcher aside, asked if there had been any problem with his leaving the Mason. Fletcher, as briefly and concisely as he thought he could, explained that the Captain was disappointed in his leaving but wished him well in his new assignment and that was all. There was no Exec. ranting or raving. He didn’t even show his face but some of the crew said that he was really pissed.

Had lunch? It’s on the wane side of noon, how about something light? I want to go over some important information with you so that I can put you to use as soon as you are ready. Being Sunday, late afternoon, the officers’ club was a mess of every rank and even some enlisted personnel were scattered around in their dress whites. It was summer and whites were the uniform of the day. Formal dress whites were demanded after the sun had reached the yardarm. (Cocktail hour.)

Always a cold beer. Brock took it upon himself and ordered both of them roast beef sandwiches.

Several of Brock’s friends stopped by and gave a brief, Hello, how are things going?

When the sandwiches arrived and no more visitors disturbed their table, Brock added a somewhat caustic note. "Those assholes have no idea of what really goes on with all our group. Because we are labeled intelligence community,’ they run scared most of the time. They think that we are looking down their throats. Better that they do not know just what we really do.

Now Chief, as you must have noticed, when no outside gold braid is present, we are all very informal. None of this ‘yes sir, no sir’ stuff. We do not have time for that kind of formal bull. None of this rank first. We usually go by a nickname or some kind of short version of the person’s name. I have always been called, Brock. That is what I like and I know that when we were on the ship together, most of the officers and crew called you Fletch. I kinda like the sound of that and when you begin working, it will lend itself to a call or reference sign. If it’s OK with you, it’s Fletch, Fletch from now on.

Continuing on, Brock began to lay out a very concentrated hard two months of learning the ropes. "First, beginning tomorrow, two of the people whom you just met in our meeting, will begin to give you a very detailed and comprehensive understanding of just who and what we are all about. I know that you have already grasped what we are and some of what we do. What we do is extremely classified and under the direction of the CNO and the President. Your security status was checked before I sent the orders to have you transferred to my office. You have been looked at from your shoelaces up to the stuff you use on your hair, and everything in between. You will be re-interviewed by some joker from the Central Intelligence community because in some of what we do, we are not responsible to them and their crazy business.

"Our job is not like theirs. We simply look for and gather certain kinds of important information and support that kind of activity through, and with, our Embassies. That’s a broad scope of our purpose. We do fudge sometimes when the cause is to our advantage.

If you don’t have any plans for the evening and would like to hob-knob with some of the political jokers, you might like to join me in civvies and do some of the town. Really not in town, but here in the general area. There are 40 to 50 political parties going on all the time. You game?

Sure why not, right now I feel very privileged to be cavorting around with a somewhat high ranking officer who seems to know everyone of importance.

They had driven around to some five different activities and bellied up to their bars and shared food and drink. In all, it seemed that a food and drink orgy was in full progress. Brock said many hellos to different unimpressive people before he said, Let’s get out of this lowlife part of political hangers-on and go up town. I know of a good party that seems to be going on 24 hours a day on the weekends. Some real nice rich broad that has many of the congressmen’s, and some of the women’s, attention, is always hosting a real friendly shindig. I just happened to have met her and she gave me her private card and number that basically says, Come over to my place anytime you want. Let’s go."

Chief Fletcher was beginning to understand that his new boss was much more than he had ever thought him to be.

Brock was right. Congressmen and some of the more noted women from very important committees seemed to attend the same events. They just happened to be running all the complex issues of our country.

Fletch was doing just fine, chatting and hobnobbing with a few elite characters until he was introduced to a congressman who happened to be the chairman of the committee that oversees all of the intelligence and security communities. He began with, I noticed that you are with Lt. Commander Brock, is that right? He is one of our brighter boys. You must be part of his operations or you would not be shepherded around by him with such obvious approval. Am I right?

Fletch did not know just how he should respond but he realized that the congressman wanted to learn just who he was. Holding out his hand for a friendly handshake, I am Chief Art Fletcher, USN, newly added to the Lt. Commander’s staff. I have a lot to learn.

The congressman was not satisfied with just Fletcher’s name and rate. What special background do you have that attracted Commander Brock to con you to join him? The word con got to Fletcher and he wasted no time in letting the old political horse know that no one conned anyone.

The Commander offered me a great opportunity within my background and training, plus some 16 years working experience in high-level communications as a communications specialist. I want to broaden my service to our country, my country. It seems like a better way to be more useful than being just another division chief on tin cans.

The congressman smiled and as he turned to greet another important-looking guest, he added another remark. You will do well with Brock, damn well.

Monday morning at 7:30, Fletch struggled through the three security checkpoints in his new place of duty. Each of the Marines, dressed to the hilt in their dress uniforms, addressed him as he approached as Chief. Someone was really trying to make him feel at home.

Fletch started to enter the meeting room where he first came face to face with his other new shipmates, when the most ornery looking of the wave Lt.jg, s stepped out from a hallway cubicle, calling him by his rate, and informing him that he was her property for about a week. All kinds of mean thoughts quickly passed through his head. One good look at the wave instantly erased the negative thoughts. She was stern and her tone was one of command.

For the full day the Lt.jg. carefully, page by page, line by line and word by word, read and then questioned Fletcher on the basic operations and security doctrine of Lt. Commander Brock’s command. She was very direct when asking Fletcher if he understood what she had just read to him. Do you fully understand? There would be no getting by with anything with this lady.

When it seemed that both of them were nearly at collapse time, not ready for a friendly comment, she held out her hand and announced, Great, that was the hardest part. I am Karen Baker and it is my job to let you know, and be sure that you understand, what we, you, are all about. We will begin to get into the more specific issues tomorrow. How about I treat you to a good cold one and talk about some of our past duties. I think that you will be a great addition to the Brock gang.

As usual the beer was ice cold and Karen was full of a great deal of general information. She let Fletcher know that even though he had a top-secret clearance, he was being looked at by the strictest measures of any security requirement. We have had some very embarrassing traitors sell extremely critical data to the Russians and I assure you that we don’t want any more incidents like that to happen. You will be given a special top secret with a need-to-know status and some colored discs to tell everyone just where you can and cannot go. We have a dark green disc, like this one, that identifies our particular clearance. As I just said, it tells anyone who might be concerned, that the bearer has open access to all areas with a need-to-know basis, but should be checked out anyway.

They chatted about some of their different duty stations and ships, but nothing earth shattering. As the last of a second beer was drained from her glass, Karen said that she still had some important work that had to be finished before she could end the day, and quietly departed.

Fletch ordered another beer. That was unusual for him because he was a two-beer drinker. He slowly sipped the cold beverage and began to think back to all that had happened to him in just three days. Saying to himself, I still have no idea of what hell I am supposed to be doing, or where I will be going. I’m not sure, but I think that I will like this intelligence crap.

The next three weeks were a whirlwind of indoctrination, individual lectures by just about everyone, and still Fletch had no idea of the exact type of work he would be involved with. In the middle of the fourth week, Brock called him into his office and said, I have some work for you. How would you like to go on a trip? Fletch was ready for anything after being bombarded with all the security stuff.

I need to have some important papers delivered to the Embassy in Berlin. I think that it would be good if you had a change of scenery and got a taste of what some of our duties are all about. You will have three days in Germany to do some sightseeing and maybe make a few new friends. Your plane will leave from Andrews tomorrow morning. It’s a regular Air Force flight. We bum transportation on them every chance we get. The clerk down the hall will give you a travel advance to cover any expenses that you might incur. When you arrive in Berlin, you will be met and driven directly to the Embassy and turn over your folder to a Ms. Clare Olsen. She will sign for it and tell you where you have a reservation for a hotel. It’s just that simple. Regardless, you will keep in close touch with Ms. Olsen for I expect a return pouch that you will carry back. See yah in about five days.

As daylight was just peeking over the George Washington monument, Fletch was standing outside of the transportation office at Andrews AFB. When he first arrived, it seemed that everyone was expecting him and no big deal was made, as if he was just another passenger. At exactly the scheduled time, the DC 9 was loaded and charged down the runway. Fletch was on his first so-called secret mission.

The flight was pretty routine and had good flying weather all the way. As the plane touched down in Berlin, he was amazed at all the different color-painted aircraft. Planes from all over the world were parked at various gates that made up the airdrome at Templehoff. The excitement began to grow in Fletch. He had never been to Germany, now he could do what he usually did, go seeking some of the history of this new democracy with such items as some of the best beer, German sausage, pretty ladies and still a few diehard skin-headed Nazis. I guess there have to be trouble makers in every country - just like ours.

As he walked from the plane, an army, dark-camouflaged staff car pulled up alongside. Get in Chief Fletcher. the lady driver said. The driver was a sharp and very attractive looking woman and she offered very little in the way of conversation as they motored through the tight streets to what were the out skirts of the upscale part of Berlin. Turning into a very wide park-like highway, the driver offered her name and said she was part of the staff of the information group at the Embassy. Her name was Helen and she did not offer a last name. The remaining drive was very pleasant, as it had to be the garden spot of the vast city. Beautiful well-kept lawns with finely trimmed shrubbery in every yard and complex. The area had to be Embassy row. Fletcher finally asked, Are we in some special area of Berlin?"

Not taking her eyes off of the forward direction, she indicated that most of the more influential countries, those with lots of money, had long ago established their Embassies along the highway that they were traveling. Some of the wealthy German citizens have also built very fine homes. It is considered the best part of all Berlin in which to do political business and covert activities - a strange mixture of intrigue and information exchanges - some willingly, and some not so."

She let Fletcher know that the US Embassy was just around the corner and up a hill. Our work place is about the finest complex of all the Embassies. It is a show place with political entertainment going on about every night and big doings on Saturday. Like God, we try to rest on Sunday.

Like any good program, as Chief Fletcher entered the work entrance of the building, he was met by a very stately person who quickly informed Fletch that she was Ms. Olsen. The briefcase-like pouch that had been handcuffed to Fletch’s left wrist had been very cumbersome. He was not about to let it go until he was sure that Ms. Olsen was the real Ms. Olsen. He asked her if they could step inside of her office first so he could see the proper identification that would assure him that she was the right person. Ms. Olsen just smiled.

You are making your first delivery and you are following the hard rules just the way you are supposed to. Good boy. The short GI haircut bristles on the back of his neck immediately came to an abrupt attention. He was not anyone’s boy, good or bad. With as much delicacy as he could muster, he informed Ms. Olsen that he was Chief Art Fletcher and not someone’s good boy."

Coming right back at Fletch, she commented, just a little touchy aren’t we?

No, said Fletch, I give nothing but the proper respect and ask only for the same.

Touché, I meant no offense.

The pouch had a stainless steel chain bound inside of the enclosure that went to the single handcuff. A simple key-type lock, one that anyone with a hairpin could easily open, secured the outside zipper. Attached to an inside zipper was another much stronger combination lock that only the receiver had the combination to open. During Fletch’s so-called indoctrination, no one had said anything about the different types of brief cases or pouches that were used and this one really intrigued him.

He had read as many spy stories as anyone, but this time it touched him personally. Just how important was the message inside? To whom was it going? Surely, Ms. Olsen was just a staff secretary or something like that. His mind had begun to ask all sorts of questions that might have something to do with what he was now involved in. He made it an objective to ask more about the Embassy functions, and some of the staff that seemed to be busy, but far too many darned people. Maybe it took that many to run such a crazy place.

With the proper identification confirmed, Fletch let Ms. Olsen unlock the cuff that secured the pouch from his wrist. Just having the darned thing removed was a great weight lifted. For some reason, Fletch knew that Ms. Olsen was not going to open the pouch with him present. She turned and left the room. Just stay here and I will be right back. In about ten minutes she returned and gave him the address of a quality hotel that she said was their main place for transit personnel. "You could stay here in the Embassy but I don’t think you would like it. Now, here are the two very important phone numbers that you will keep on your person at all times. Do not go out of the main area of Berlin for we might need you at a moment’s notice. Phone me at regular intervals and talk to only me.

"Also, here is a list of several very good restaurants that have good food and the entertainment is not too naughty. Remember, Berlin is a hot bed of all European countries and you can never tell what you might run into, or what might run into you. Also remember that you are now very important to us, so stay safe. Have you a schedule of places that you would like to see? If you would like,