Code Bravery

By Ken Sewell

“Buckle up for a tight seat-belt roller coaster ride through the world of international espionage. The business of international spying has not ened. It has just begun.” Tom Moore, writer and TV director.

“Great plot with dynamic characters and terrifying action.” Marshall Chase, an avid thriller reader.

Dr. Kevin Kozar enjoyed a Need to Know in an important position at one of the country’s most respected aerospace firms. His assignment? Development of the new super-secret super-stealth fighter bomber, the XF-47. Dr. Kevin Kozar had everything a man could want. A coveted assignment in the aerospace industry, a loving faithful wife, and a beautiful teenage daughter. He had a comfortable home in the suburbs near north Dallas’ aerospace telecommunications corridor with friends who shared his interests, and a very promising prospect for a long and fruitful career.
But then so had his friend, neighbor, and colleague on the XF-47, Leon Sanders. Now Leon was dead. His own blond teenage daughter had been kidnapped by white slavers and his widowed wife had become the perverted human novelty of the evening for an Asian General- Dictator want to be. Kevin’s own life becomes a nightmare when he and the security of the XF-47 are compromised during an tour of Christian Holy sites in Israel. What was once a wonderful predictable existence suddenly becomes one of clandestine meetings with Mideast mercenary terrorist, the FBI, and finally the CIA.
This pulse pounding, page turning tale of international espionage and provocative intrigue takes the Reader on a hopscotch trip at ultrasonic sound from Paris to Israel to Korea to the Oval office of the President.
The very existence of the world as Kevin once knew it may be at stake. Can this quiet scientist who possesses deep spiritual feelings match up with professional terrorists to save his own family?
Get ready when you sit to read this intriguing novel. It demands to be read in a single sitting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Sewell
• Release date: Jul 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301804184

Ken Sewell

Ken Sewell, with a PhD in physics has extensive experience in the aerospace industry working on our most advanced fighter-bomber aircraft. He has traveled through most of the free world working with military and government personnel on design and utilization of modern military equipment ranging from night scopes to laser designator to missile warning sensors. He has applied this extensive experience to formulate this techno-thriller novel.

Book preview

Chapter One

March in Paris, France

The cold rain dripped from his black umbrella and balled up on the shinny black shoes as Mostafa walked briskly toward the five star hotel. A gendarme nodded as they passed, bringing a glimmer of a smile to Mostafa’s lips. If the policeman only knew who he was, but of course the gendarme had no chance to recognize Interpol’s most wanted terrorist. He had not been to Paris since leading a Hezbollah bomb team which killed thirty-six and wounded twice as many Parisians. Since that visit, a plastic surgeon unhawked his nose and squared his receding chin. The surgeon could not change the cold back eyes, eyes so black that the boundary between pupil and iris are indistinguishable.

As he neared the entrance, the doorman quickly opened the door and bowed as Mostafa passed though. Obviously, he considered Mostafa another of the hotel’s wealthy guests. Dressed in a dark blue pin-striped suit, a glistening white shirt, and a tasteful red, white, and blue striped tie, he looked like a successful American businessman. Exactly, the image Mostafa wanted to portray.

As he walked toward the house phone, he saw his right hand man sipping a cappuccino at a lobby table. Kaleef was dressed in an Italian-cut suit with a large black sample case sitting next to his leg. Neither man exhibited any form of recognition, but his presence boosted Mostafa’s confidence. He knew the black bag contained plastic explosive and an Uzi machine gun with three extra clips of ammunition. Enough to take out the people Mostafa was meeting if it was a trap. Kaleef would spring into action if he did not receive the proper signal ten minutes after Mostafa entered the elevator.

Mostafa lifted the house phone and said in perfect English, I am here. He listened for a moment and replaced the receiver. When he entered the elevator he said, 1401 please. Kaleef laid down his paper, signifying he heard the room number.

The elevator did not open into a hallway, rather into a lavishly decorated living room. Two large Asian men stood beside the doorway. As the elevator door closed, the man on the right asked politely in heavily accented English, Are you armed?

Mostafa answered, No.

Please raise your arms, the man said, and proceeded to rapidly and carefully pat Mostafa’s body. Satisfied, he motioned toward a plush chair fronted by a glass-topped coffee table containing a china tea set.

The other man walked toward a closed door and rapped three times softly. A moment later, a short, barrel-chested man opened the door and entered. He smiled graciously as Mostafa rose. Although the smile curved the lips, it never creased his eyes. Both men bowed slightly, and then sat.

It is good of you to come, the man said.

What can I do for you?

You act as an American, with no time for pleasantries. Would you care for coffee or tea?

Tea would be nice, Mostafa answered. What shall I call you?

Until we have our discussion and come to agreement, You may call me General.

Mostafa nodded. He already knew the man’s name. General Rhee, commander of all North Korea’s armed forces. Kaleef had supplied him with pictures of six possibilities, and there was no mistake, this was General Rhee. A round face topped by thinning gray hair and dominated by widely spaced eyes that stared unblinking into Mostafa’s. Evil, lying eyes, Mostafa thought.

General Rhee raised his hand, one finger slightly higher than the others. One of the large men quickly brought a teapot and two cups. When Rhee waved him away, both guards exited the room. We will let the tea steep for a moment. Since you are a man in a hurry, let me quickly tell you about the mission I have in mind. The purpose of this mission is to strike America and to cause all Western nations to abhor them. I think you would like that.

Indeed, replied Mostafa. He hated America because they supported Israel, and Israeli bombers had killed his wife and parents in a retaliatory raid on their refugee camp. On that day, he swore to dedicate his life toward taking revenge on Israel and America. He had struck significant blows such as bombing Pan Am flight 101, firing the missile that brought down TWA 700, and planning many bombings in European cities.

Are you still a part of Hamas? Rhee asked.

No. They are too radical and too ready to die. I work alone.

Good. This plan does not need martyrs; it needs intelligent planning and execution.

What do you want me to do?

Your job will be to recruit an engineering team and maintain security during the project. The engineers are to build two copies of the newest U.S. stealth fighter, the XF-47.

I do not know how to build airplanes. I have never heard of the XF-47. Mostafa protested.

Yes, I know. Only a few Americans know about the airplane. However I have secured the complete drawing set for the airplane. The engineers will provide the know-how, you will provide the security.

Mostafa glanced at his watch, then asked, May I use your phone? I must call a colleague.

The general smiled, Of course.

Mostafa dialed the operator and said, Please page Mr. Stephan Black to call room 605.

So, you have protection. I like that, a man who covers all angles. He poured tea into the cups, then continued, My Soviet friends have provided me a list of several top engineers who are disgruntled. They believe the engineers will be eager to assume such a task.

If I make them the offer, and anyone refuses, do you want me to kill him?

Of course. My plan must not be compromised.

The two men continued their discussion for another hour, before reaching agreement. Mostafa felt good. Not only would this be a serious body blow to America, he would receive five million U.S. dollars plus expenses. Each of the five engineers would receive one million dollars and an American passport. An additional five million would be allotted for the second tier engineers. Mostafa was already formulating a plan to keep all fifteen million. He could live the lifestyle he wanted and have power to raise funds for additional strikes against his hated enemies.

When the elevator door closed behind Mostafa, General Rhee retired to his private sitting room. Standing in front of the mirror, he admired his image. The years had broadened his face and his stomach was larger. He thought he looked more like the twenty-one year old lieutenant who led a column of tanks into Seoul in 1950 than his father who actually did that. It had taken only three days after they burst across the U.N established boundary between North and South to enter the capitol city. They would have achieved total victory if the United States had not responded as quickly as they did.

The Korean War provided Lt. Rhee rapid battlefield advancement, so he was a colonel when the armistice was signed. He gloried in his achievements, never mourning the three million people killed. The 37-month war was terrible only because they failed to achieve victory. He had filled his son with hatred for America who robbed him of his glory. Now, the new General Rhee was determined to capture his father’s lost glory.

The war also provided contact with Zhang Chi Ming, now the third most powerful man in China. His father served with General Rhee’s after the Chinese troops entered the war and together they pushed the American troops out of North Korea. The two boys maintained contact through the years and now the link is invaluable in executing the plan.

He continued to admire himself as he considered Mostafa’s reaction. What was his motivation, revenge or greed? Probably mostly greed, he concluded. He laughed out loud. He would never pay the money. He had it, but it is easier to kill than pay.

Soon, he would rule both North and South, and would declare himself to be Emperor of Korea. The playboy, Kim Jong Un now recognized as Dear Leader, would be dead. He, Rhee, would assume all the powers that Great Leader Kim Jong Il enjoyed in ruling North Korea. Once he had captured the factories of the South, he would build an army the entire world would respect and fear.

Chapter Two

A year later in the White House

Bill Batson, Director of the FBI, groaned to himself. He didn't like anyone jerking him from his favorite pastime for a command performance. And especially, he didn't like it from General McKay, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Batson felt the General lived for glory, and he expected today's performance to be another grandstand.

When the tall willowy brunette said they could enter, Batson followed the general and Fred Franklin, Director of the CIA, into the world famous oval office. Batson always experienced a wave of pride at being so close to this seat of power.

The President stood and walked around the desk to meet the three men. Batson frowned when he saw George Stemmons, the Chief of Staff. In Batson's book, George Stemmons was the most incompetent, unpleasant scoundrel in the White House. Maybe Raymond Kerr required a bulldog since Kerr was such a pleasant gentleman.

General McKay, dressed in Air Force blue, barely let the normal pleasantries be exchanged before he opened his brief case and extracted a red folder marked Top Secret. If you are ready, Mr President, we can get right down to business.

Even though he didn't like the man, Batson did respect General McKay. Of the five men, Batson considered only himself and the General as true professionals. The others were just political hacks. Powerful political hacks, but still hacks.

President Kerr smiled. He evidently had experienced the General's intensity and impatience with normal conversation. Very good, General. Let's all sit over here. He led them to a sofa and three chairs all gathered into a conversation pit.

Now General, what is this urgent matter?

I have just received a report from the National Science Advisory Board Number 214. They have been reviewing critical technologies in view of our latest battle plan, Battlefield 2013. The Chairman, James Olson, was very insistent that I bring this to your attention.

Ah, yes, the President said, James Olson. He's a good man, and I value his opinion. What does he have to say this time?

Batson noticed Franklin grimace as he heard the topic of today's briefing. I was right, it is another grandstand play for increased budget, Batson thought. And I'm missing the Yankees and Orioles.

If the General noticed the grimace, he showed no reaction. The Board, the General said in hushed tones, has concluded that our country's stealth technology is far ahead of everyone. They want to stress the importance of maintaining that lead and protecting our information sources. I agree. This is our most critical technology.

Refresh my memory, President Kerr said. Just what does stealth do for us, other than make airplanes cost a billion dollars each?

Right on, give it to him, Batson thought and had trouble suppressing a small smile as he waited for the General's reply.

Stealth provides major military force multipliers by reducing radar signatures of aircraft, ships, and vehicles. This means that we can get much nearer to the enemy's radar units before being detected. This weakens the enemy's defenses in two ways. First, it shortens their warning time of an impending raid. Second, it opens holes in their radar coverage.

Holes? What do you mean? the President asked.

Everyone designs radar nets to provide overlapping coverage to be sure that no intruder can get through undetected. When stealth reduces the radar’s effective range, it eliminates overlap. And if the aircraft's signature is low enough, there are holes punched in the net where it can fly through undetected.

Can't they just add more radars? Stemmons interrupted in his normal rough and crude manner.

The General glanced impatiently at the civilian. Batson immediately felt closeness with McKay.

Of course, McKay said, but reducing the detection range by a factor of ten, means they must add seven to ten times as many radars, depending upon the planned coverage overlap. The cost becomes prohibitive. And, by the way, we can reduce the signature by a much larger factor than ten. If enemies get this technology, they can sit outside our reduced radar net and launch either nuclear or conventional weapons. Our first notice of attack would be when the bombs explode.

Not a pretty thought, the President said. We could be facing a staggering defense budget to rebuild the net.

Right, General McKay said, It could easily double or triple our total deficit.

Batson moaned, his momentary closeness with McKay destroyed. The General certainly knew how to get the President's interest. Kerr was just the latest President with no former Federal Government experience. Somehow, they all thought that managing a small state or county qualified them for the world scene. Batson had yet to see one that was. This President rode the nation's desire for a balanced budget all the way to the White House. So far, his main target had been defense and the CIA. The FBI was probably next on his list.

What about more advanced radars? President Kerr asked.

We are working on several approaches, but none hold much promise. There may be a breakthrough tomorrow, but we must live with what we have today. Most of the new technologies are very expensive. Clearly, the most cost-effective solution is to protect our secrets and our lead.

The President nodded as he turned toward Batson. Bill, how are we doing in this area?

Very well, sir, Batson replied. We haven't had any major leaks.

Any leak is major, the General said.

Shove it, Batson thought.

What about your intelligence sources, Fred? the President continued. Do you concur with the Board's assessment?

We know that Russia still has over twenty six thousand nuclear weapons capable of launch within a few minutes.

He’s trying for more budget too, Batson thought.

Yes, I know, the President said without a hint of impatience. What about people looking for stealth data?

Our agents have recently sent messages warning that we need to stay alert. The Soviet Union has collapsed, but espionage is not dead.

You wouldn't know a foreign agent outside a movie if you ran into one on the street, Batson thought. Franklin had zero experience in intelligence work. He was Director only because it was very difficult for Kerr to get any competent appointees approved though Congress. So Kerr had selected Franklin, a worn out and reformed, alcoholic ex-Senator.

Bill Batson interrupted, We have seen a flurry of activity in industrial espionage. Not only are the Russians still very active, but our friends have intensified their efforts. The arms market is very large and the French, English, Germans, and Israelis want our technology to promote their competitive position. The most active groups right now are Chinese, both the PRC and ROC. Stealth technology could be one of their targets. It could be a real seller in the arms market. Of course, North Korea, our latest actor would love to get their hands on the technology, but we haven’t seen any evidence of activity.

How can we beef up security? the President asked.

I suggest, the General said, that we send letters to all of our contractors notifying them to tighten down in this particular area. They will generally shrug off a general notice to tighten up, but will adhere to specific ones.

Very good, the President said. Fred, will you see to it?

"It's not my area, but yes sir, I'll handle it.

By the way, General, the President said. Who has this technology?

All the aircraft primes. In my opinion, Texas Aerospace has the clear lead. They were developing the F25 Air Superiority Fighter, and now they are developing the XF-47. It will be more stealthy than the B-2.

Texas Aerospace, Kerr mused. My friend Ed West runs that shop. He'll take good care of the secrets.

Chapter Three

About the same time inside a mountain.

The men, divided into two groups, sat on opposite sides of the large, sparsely furnished room. One group wore blue uniforms, the other conservative business suits. Conversation did not breech the groups, but a nervous chatter ran through each.

Don't drink too much of the coffee, Herr Doctor, a slim man whispered to his companion. The grounds are deep in the bottom. I just got a mouthful.

The recipient of the warning, a tall, blond man, nodded appreciation. Dressed in a woolen European cut business suit, he looked about thirty-five, only a trace of gray tinged his temples. Fit and alert, he raised the small china cup to his lips and carefully sipped the contents.

It is strong and good, but I would enjoy a cup of good Russian coffee, he said. When will General Rhee be here? I'm tired of waiting. Don't these people ever keep appointments?

The contingent of business suits included four other men. The blond man, Dr. Hans Meister, a graduate engineer from the University of Moscow, sat near an overhead projector. The projector faced a large screen which sat opposite an elegant velvet chair mounted on a raised platform. Hans twisted a pointer nervously in his hands, anxious to get on with the lecture. Born in East Germany, he, as his frame depicted, loved athletics. The fact that his mental agility in mathematics matched his physical prowess had been duly noted by the Communist party. At age thirteen, he was shipped to Moscow along with other promising students to begin his technical education. Meister, like most of the young people transported from their homes, dedicated himself to Communism. Excelling in school, he graduated at the top of the class.

His first assignment as a graduate engineer was at the company operated by the top two Russian aircraft designers, Artem Mikoyan and Mikhail Gurevich. Mikhail Gurevich quickly recognized his talent and took the young communist under his wing. Meister proved to be an apt student, steadily climbing the technical ladder.

When the Berlin Wall fell, Meister felt his career and ideology crumbling. Through discussions with test pilots who had been to the Paris Air Show and seen Western technology first hand, he was painfully aware that American technology outstripped the Soviet's. Confident he could build airplanes that could fly as well or better than the Americans, he was distraught that his product could not compete in the international market place because of the avionics. Modern avionics, the science of designing aircraft electronics suites, is based upon special computer chips. Such chips are unavailable in Russia. When his former professor approached him with an offer of a new challenge, it only took him thirty seconds to accept.

Hans looked toward his mentor. Herr Professor, is the General always this late?

The short and plump professor was thoroughly Russian, and in his late fifties. His body was as unfit as his mind was agile. Wearing a crumpled suit and off-center tie, he looked like many of the brilliant U.S. university professors. Meister knew that Professor Brezhnev's involvement in technical thought overrode concern about his appearance. Aerodynamics was his first and only love. Never had he found a woman who could match the excitement of advancing technology.

The Professor astounded the world when his latest design introduced the Cobra maneuver at the Farnborough Air Show in 1989. Until the Sukhoi built Su-27 demonstrated the astounding ability to fly at an angle of attack greater than 90 degrees, the aviation world thought such a maneuver impossible for a high performance jet. The smooth transition back to normal flight was the talk of the British air show.

As the Professor quietly emphasized to the reporters, the Cobra was much more than an air show maneuver. It permitted the airplane to hide its exhaust from a heat-seeking missile locked on to its hot tailpipe. The smooth transition also allowed the Su-27 to come back into firing position on the astonished attacker whose plane could not change speed so quickly.

A shame, he had complained to Meister, that the Iraqi pilots were too unskilled to take advantage of the full capability of the airplane. Otherwise, the Su-27 would have claimed many victories in Desert Storm.

Meister knew the Professor’s primary goal was money. Rising prices had quickly eroded the pension earned by working thirty years for the Soviet military establishment. He, like most of the elderly Russians, feared that in a few months their pension would not supply even the necessities of life, much less the few niceties the professor desired.

The professor grunted, and then said, In this country, Generals keep whatever schedule they want. So we wait.

Frustrated, Meister looked along the wall at the other men. They were all highly qualified engineers, well-suited for this project. When he had been selected as chief engineer, he was given the dossiers of each member of the team. There was only one man, Meister really liked, the one who warned him about the coffee grounds, Ottmar Schulte. Although he liked Ottmar, Meister didn't trust him. In fact, he trusted no one, not even the professor. Lack of trust was a product of the Communist regime that for so long had controlled his every thought and action.

Meister glanced at Ottmar, a slim man in his early thirties. His dress was in stark contrast to the rumpled professor. A neatly tied tie perfectly color matched with the crisp blue suit and offset by a heavily starched white shirt gave him the appearance of a successful businessman. Schulte always preached that men should dress the role they wanted to play. An expert in stability and control theory, his rise at Messerschmitt B & B stopped abruptly when a jealous colleague published a photograph taken at a Neo-Nazi protest demonstration. The German government quietly lifted his security clearance. The loss of the security clearance translated into dull, unchallenging assignments. Burdened with a high degree of dissatisfaction, he readily consented when offered a lead role in this project. At the moment, Schulte appeared drowsy, but Meister knew the relaxed exterior masked intense thought.

Dr. Schulte's greatest achievement was the design of the flight control system of the EFA, European Fighter Aircraft. An aerodynamically unstable aircraft, the EFA required the most complicated computer ever placed into a tactical fighter to keep the plane flying. Those skills made Schulte a critical member of this team.

Moving his gaze to the Frenchman, Meister wrinkled his nose. Unkempt hair, unkempt clothes, no morals. Does the man ever bathe? Raoul LeGrande, a specialist in aircraft structures had been on the fast track at Dassault Breguet until he found his boss's wife irresistible. They had carried on the illicit affair for seven months before the husband found them in his own bed during his birthday party. No matter how far LeGrande tried to distance himself in Dassault Breguet, his reputation followed him. He had violated France's unwritten code of keeping infidelity and work separated. Losing his position with the Rafale aircraft program, he, too, saw this project as an escape from boredom. The promise of a million U.S. dollars didn’t hurt.

At the end of the wall, near the door the General would enter, sat Mostafa, the leader of the project. Tall, dark, and sporting a black bushy moustache, his appearance contrasted with the group of European engineers. Women termed him handsome while men referred to him as impressive. A natural leader, he carried the charisma that focused all eyes upon his person whenever he entered a room. Now, he nervously watched the door, ready to leap to his feet at the first sight of the General.

Though he was the driving force behind the project, Mostafa lacked technical skills. Instead, he was a leader and organizer of men. He had personally recruited every man on this team, and now he consistently encouraged them to press on toward the goal. Dr. Hans Meister, former MiG 29 Assistant Chief Engineer, knew Mostafa selected him as technical leader at the recommendation of Professor Brezhnev. Mostafa never questioned Meister's judgments in technical matters, however, if one of the workers made a mistake. his anger ignited instantly. Meister thought one first hand encounter with Mostafa's anger would be enough for a lifetime.

As Meister uttered another impatient oath under his breath, the door opened. The military and Mostafa sprang to their feet. Mostafa frantically beckoned to his men to rise. They rose in a ragged line as a small smiling man, dressed in a crisp navy blue uniform strode into the room. Gold braid decorating his hat and shoulder boards were the only differences between the General's uniform and the lowest officer present. They all wore Mao type formless coats with four pockets over equally shapeless trousers. Meister had quickly learned that all officers’ coats had four pockets while noncommissioned officers’ uniforms only had two. Usually, that was the only way to know which was which. The communist military did not believe in displaying rank, although the General behaved differently.

Looking neither to the right nor to the left, General Rhee marched directly to the chair. His aid and son, also a general, stationed