Ghost by Fred Burton

Author:Fred Burton
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781588367044
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2008-09-20T04:00:00+00:00

eighteen

THE BRONZE STAR ASSASSIN

November 1, 1987

Bethesda

This is one of those days I’ve needed for a long time. Day after day of craziness, threats, terror, bombings, death, and hijackings will drive any man over the edge sooner or later, unless he can take a sanity break. Today, Fred Davis and I finally got a chance to go fishing again. We left early and spent the day casting fruitlessly into the Potomac River, jawing about old times. He starts flight school in a few weeks, so it was good to see him before he heads down to Alabama.

After I got home, my wife and I actually got to spend some time together. It is a rare Sunday when we’re both free from work commitments, and by dinnertime, I almost felt happy. Now, with the clock just about to strike nine-thirty, I’m more relaxed than I’ve been since joining the DSS. Shoes off, Tyler Beauregard asleep on the floor next to me, we’re kicked back on the couch watching Chris Berman recap all the NFL action of the day. The ’Skins beat the Bills 27-7. Thank God the strike is over and the real players are back on the field. Of course, football hasn’t been the same since Joe Namath retired. Then the Colts broke everyone’s hearts when they stole out of town in the middle of night a few years back.

The phone rings.

Oh, God.

Part of me doesn’t want to answer it. Today was too perfect. It rings again. I hesitate. Duty compels me to pick it up, but is it too much to ask for one night to myself?

It rings again. I know it’s just in my head, but with each ring the tone sounds more insistent, like it is trying to warn me of a brewing crisis. By ring four, I’m off the couch. Sitting on a nearby table is my new STU-III secure phone. It takes up most of a small briefcase, and every night when I come home, I plug it in. It has replaced the old code cards, which were such a pain to use. Now, from the comfort of my own townhouse, we can scramble all calls from FOGHORN and talk up to top secret. It is a great invention, but right now, I hate it.

“Burton.”

It’s FOGHORN. I listen to the agent on the other end of the line. Then I say, “Okay, going secure.”

I push a button on the STU-III. After a pause, it switches into scramble mode. We can talk freely now.

“Okay, go,” I say.

His first sentence knocks the relaxation clean out of me. His second has me reaching for the car keys. When we end the call, I make a beeline for the garage. I hardly have time to say good night to Sharon, who looks on at my departure with saddened eyes.

Fifteen minutes later, I reach the office and dash down the hallway to FOGHORN.

The agents on duty watch expectantly as I burst inside our communication center’s inner sanctum. My mind is racing. We’ve got to act fast.

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