Arctic Wind

Chapter 2 Plans

The compound had taken forever to get right. Chemically, it was more complex than the professor had ever seen, but then, the final mixture had been done under an electric charge. The result was a polymer-type string that could be wound on a spindle. The compound kept making and making until finally, thirty minutes later, the string stopped. In just a few minutes, it began to glow. Placing the strings in a loom, the men began to weave the string into a sort of blue glowing cloth. Unfortunately, their loom was a small one and what came out was only the size of a common washcloth. The cloth was spread across a steel plate and the student applied a light coating of resin. A second sheet was spread over the resin and coated again. Then the metal plate was heated. Immediately, the glow got much brighter — enough to light a room. As the men watched, the resin hardened into a solid sheet while the light increased.

Just as they were about to pronounce the experiment a success, the glow suddenly stopped. The radio, which had been playing softly in the background, went silent. Another man, on his cellphone in the far corner suddenly stood and looked at his phone. He shook it and tried to redial a number. His curses could be heard through the room.

“Damn it! That was an important call,” he said to no one in particular.

“Oh well, let’s try it again,” the Professor said to his student. “Maybe we don’t heat it as long as the last one.”

After the resin coated sheet cooled, the student used a spatula to slide under the now hardened plate of resin and material. When it popped free, the radio suddenly came back to life.

“Hold on a minute,” said the student. He placed the sheet back down on the metal table. Once the bottom fibers made contact, the radio went silent again. The student and professor looked at each other in amazement. “What did I make,” the student asked.

On Friday morning, Hammond summoned Jeffers into his office. “Rod, we have been invited to dinner tonight. Since you picked up your car yesterday, do you mind doing the honors?” he asked.

“Sure, Admiral. What time is dinner?” Jeffers asked.

“About seven, but we probably need to be there about six thirty. Our host will want to meet you and say hello and we have some times to catch up on. We can go in service dress whites, so let’s plan on leaving here around four to get ready. If you can pick me up at six, we’ll head over. It’s across the river and I can get us there,” Hammond said.

“Who is the host?” Jeffers asked.

“Just a guy I know that works in government. We go back a ways,” Hammond said cryptically.

“No problem, sir, I’ll come by around six. Just hope you don’t mind riding around in my old beater of a car,” Jeffers said.

Hammond noticed a strange twinkle in his eye, but ignored it. “I’ve had my shots. Now what’s next on the schedule?”

The rest of the day was the same bureaucracy as previous days, meeting with other military types or contractors. During one of the breaks, Hammond noticed a phone message on his desk from a Tim Maxwell. He picked up the phone and dialed Jeffers’ number. “Rod, what is this message from a Maxwell?”

“Admiral, I’m not quite sure, but he says he was aboard the Iowa when you were the CO and said it was very important,” Jeffers said.

A look of pleasure spread across Hammond’s face. Fireman Maxwell had been the one man to put out a fire on the boiler face in the number two fireroom aboard Iowa. He remembered talking to the young man and thanking him for his work. Every time he had gone down into that fireroom, he had been there smiling up at him. “Oh yes, I remember him now. Thanks,” he said.

Hammond dialed the number on the message and after two rings a familiar voice answered the phone. “Maxwell, how are you doing!” he nearly shouted into the phone.

“I’m doing fine, admiral. It sure is good to hear your voice again,” Maxwell said.

“Same here. What are you up to?”

“Well, sir, I am getting my degree in chemical engineering at UNC Charlotte and I have come up with something that I think you might be interested in and I need some help in testing. Is there a way you can help me test this stuff out?” Maxwell asked.

“What is it?” Hammond asked.

“Well, sir, I developed a compound that can be pulled into a sort of string. I won’t go into the details, but when woven into a mat and heated, it appears to absorb all RF energy,” Maxwell said. “I heard you had gotten your new job and I figured you might be able to get some of the testing people to check it out.”

“You say it absorbs the energy? Like in radar and radio?”

“Yes sir. Like in it sucks it in from all around it. Nothing gets through. I just don’t have the stuff down here to really check this out, but if it does like I think, we could render a fleet invisible to radar.”

Hammond stared at his phone a moment. This would be the answer to a lot of stealth prayers. “Tim, I’ll call over to David Taylor R&D Center and see what I can do. Can you get this written up and bring a sample we can test?”

“Already done, sir. Whenever you are ready I will drive up there.” Of course one of my professors may come with me,” Maxwell said.

“I don’t really care how many you bring. Let me make a call and I’ll call you back,” he said. After a few more words he hung up the phone and punched in Jeffers’ number again. “Rod, get me the number to the head of David Taylor across the river.

A few minutes later the phone rang. “Admiral, Dr. Harry Thomas, the head of David Taylor is on line one,” Jeffers said.

Hammond picked up the phone. “Dr. Thomas, this is Roger Hammond,” he said. After some back and forth to get acquainted, Hammond got to the point. “Actually, Doctor, I need a favor.”

“What do you need, admiral?”

“Don’t you have one of those rooms where you test antennas and transmitters over there?” Hammond asked.

“Yes, we have an anechoic chamber. It’s a pretty good sized one, at that,” said Thomas.

“I just heard from a young man down at UNC Charlotte who needs to test some sort of material he has developed. He says it absorbs any and all RF energy. He’s being very careful because he says they just don’t have the equipment to really test it, but he is willing to bring it up here if we can check it out. If it works, I don’t have to tell you what it might mean,” Hammond said.

There was some rustling of paper on the other end of the line before Thomas spoke. “Can he bring it up this weekend? The chamber is open and I can have a guy there to give it the once over. If it works, we want in on it, if not, no harm done,” Thomas said.

“That’s great, doctor,” said Hammond. “I’ll get him up here tomorrow morning. If we can get in after lunch, is that enough time?”

“Plenty for the initial test. Of course, if it works, we will need to classify this stuff.”

“Agree. This could change the way we do some things. He says his professor will accompany him. I’ll get what information I can and get it all set up. I’ll call you back with the information and see you on Saturday.”

“Looking forward to meeting you, Admiral. I’ll have everything ready,” Thomas said as he ended the call.

Hammond punched the number for Jeffers again. “Rod, looks like we’ll be working for a while tomorrow,” he said.

“I don’t care what he did, we need to use the situation to our advantage,” screamed Bugayev. An older man had been fired from his job at a local bus company, the MPK, when he could no longer pass a driver’s test. The old man was sixty nine. There had been several older men retired from their jobs lately. Nearly all had been from the old Soviet Union and had come to Poland when the state assigned them there. It was a part of a program the state had to insure a thorough integration of “good Russians” throughout the Warsaw Pact nations.

“We must use any means to garner sympathy for our cause. If we can cause a strike or a number of protests where we are headlining anti-Russian thought, it will help in our plans. Tomorrow, I need you to begin talking to the other workers. Complain that he was really fired because he used to be from Russia. That will strike notes with many in the company. But you need to stress that the next ones fired might be them for some other reason. Portray the leadership and cold and heartless, how they only want higher salaries for themselves. We keep pushing until the general unrest spills out to the media and into the streets,” he said harshly to the men assembled. “Now what of the people at the brewery?” he asked of another man.

“The plan is for them to strike against the management for unfair treatment beginning on Wednesday. We need the time to get things printed up and organized a little more. Everything else is in place,” the man said.

Bugayev smiled. “That is better. It guarantees media coverage and a lot of actions around the streets and the brewery. Just make sure they know what to say,” he said pointing his finger at the man.

“They know. We are going over it again with them Monday night. Will you be there?” he asked.

Bugayev nodded. “I will, but I’ll be watching from the back. If I see something we can take advantage of, I’ll call you,” he said. “Is there any other business?” The room remained quiet. “You have all done well. We are making fine progress. Now, we must keep it up until the stage is set. We will meet again Tuesday night to go over last minute plans,” he said curtly as he turned and left the room.

Bugayev didn’t like these men. They were weak. Besides, they had already deserted Mother Russia and should not be trusted. Unfortunately, they were necessary, at least for the time being. Once his homeland had conquered this nation again, they would ultimately be dealt with.

He made his way out of the building and down the street where he caught the tram towards where the old bus driver lived. After a ten minute ride, he stepped off and made his way down a dingy back street to the old Soviet-era apartments which were now no more than slums. The old man’s flat was on the fourth floor. Of course, the elevator in the building didn’t work. The walk up four flights of stairs didn’t tire him so much. He knocked on the door of the old man’s flat.

Ivan Ileneovich answered the door by the second knock and peered from behind the security chain. He didn’t recognize the young man standing there smiling at him. “What do you want?” he grunted.

“Mister Ileneovich, I am Boris Blonski from the MPK. The directors asked me to talk to you about returning to work,” he said with a smile.

Surprised, Ileneovich slid back the chain and invited the man in. The prospect of getting his old job back was much more than appealing; it would mean the ability to live again. He ushered Bugayev into the small, but neat sitting room and asked if he would like some tea. He turned to heat a pot. Once his back was turned, Bugayev sprung up and clubbed Ileneovich in the head with his pistol. He pulled the old man up to sit in a chair. Placing the pistol in Ileneovich’s hand, he turned the pistol so that it was sticking into the old man’s mouth. Waiting until the nearby tram was noisily clunking along the road, he pulled the trigger.

The bang was not so loud to be overheard over the sound of the tram. The blood had sprayed against the wall behind the table and the old man’s lifeless body was left slumped on the table in an ever spreading pool of his own blood. Bugayev took a towel from the bathroom and cleaned his own hands before he made sure everything he had touched was wiped clean. He left the gun in the old man’s hand. The suicide of a dejected and hurt old man would only inflame the rest of the workers and the public sentiment.

Quietly, he checked to make sure the hallway was empty before making his way down a staircase on the other side of the long hall. Exiting from a rear door, Bugayev made his way into the streets of Krakow. There, he grabbed the next tram and then blended into the crowds, stopping only to get something to eat from a street vendor before making his way back to the apartment.

Hammond exited his set of rooms in the Senior Officers Quarters and waited for Jeffers. He had made sure to get a fresh shower and clean uniform to be ready for this meal. He just hoped the ‘beater’ Jeffers was driving was relatively clean. He saw a vehicle round the corner and come toward him.

Even in the early evening light he could tell this was no ‘beater.’ It was a large convertible, deep blue in color with a white top and interior. It glided silently and effortlessly down the street with only the occasional crackle from the pavement when the tires rolled over something. The car was more than distinctive. It glistened in the late afternoon sunlight, especially off the Palladian style grill topped by the figurine called the ‘Spirit of Ecstasy.’ It proudly proclaimed the car to be a Rolls Royce. Riding with the top down, Jeffers eased the car in front of his admiral and grinned.

Hammond nodded approvingly. “This ain’t no beater,” he said as he opened the door and slid into the soft leather seats. “Where did you get this beauty?”

Jeffers placed the shifter into drive again and eased the car around the circle and back onto the road. “I had always wanted one of these,” he said. “By the time I was ready for graduation, I had saved over $10,000 for a new car. A friend of my father had this car and wanted another. Between my money and a little help from Dad, I got it. It’s my baby. I call her the ‘beater’ so that people won’t be on me all the time for me to drive them around,” he said.

The car left the Navy Yard and Hammond instructed him to take “M” Street until it became Maine Avenue. The two sat back and savored the luxury as they sped along. Even the usual potholes of the DC streets didn’t faze this car. Eventually, they came up to 14th street and turned right. Then they turned left onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Jeffers suddenly got a strange look on his face. “We’re not going there are we,” he asked, shocked.

Hammond chuckled. “Pull right into that gate. They are expecting us,” he said as he pointed the direction.

The guard at the gate stepped out and broke into a wide grin. “Admiral Hammond! It sure is good to see you on the grounds again,” he said as he reached for their IDs. Another guard ran a mirror under the car.

“Jack, it’s good to see you too. How are the kids?” Hammond said with a smile.

“Really good. I hear you have a new one.”

“Growing like a weed. I guess our kids are around just in time to watch us grow old,” Hammond said.

The two men laughed. Finally the guard lowered the gate to let them through. “You two have a great time tonight. On the way out, let me have another look at this thing. She’s a looker,” he said as he waved them through.

As the car entered the grounds, Hammond showed Jeffers where to go. “Jack was here when I was on the staff. He’s a nice guy,” Hammond said.

The car pulled into the front portico where the two men got out and a staff member got into the car and drove it away. The two men walked to the front door of the White House where a man in formal attire ushered them to the family dining room.

President Steve O’Bannon and his wife, Janie, walked up and embraced his friend warmly. “Roger, I am so glad to see you again. How’s Patricia?” he asked.

“She’s fine Steve. I’m hoping she and Little Steve can come up here in a couple of weeks. She’d love to see you two,” Hammond said warmly.

“Well, when she does, the three of you should stay here,” said Janie O’Bannon. “Sitting alone in a hotel room is no way to treat your wife. Besides, I’d like the company,” she said with a smile.

“Better child proof the house,” Hammond warned.

“Oh, I think we can manage. Now who is this?” the President asked as he turned toward a stunned Jeffers.

“This is my Flag Lieutenant, Rod Jeffers,” Hammond said. “He’s the guy tasked with keeping me in line,” he joked.

Everyone laughed and the President extended his hand. “I think you have your hands full,” he said with a wink.

Jeffers broke into a wide smile. “I never argue with the President,” he said taking his hand.

Everyone laughed again as the Chief of Staff, Jim Butler, shook the hands of his old friend. He was joined by his wife, Jessica Butler, who gave Hammond a kiss on the cheek. “I know I had my hands full, and I was his CO,” Butler added as he shook Jeffers’ hand.

Jeffers had never experienced what he was going through. The power of the people in the room could almost be physically felt, yet, they talked and joked like just regular people. The President included Jeffers in all the conversation and he found that he was getting to like the man more than he had the President. On several occasions, the two shared experiences and he found that he and the President had a lot of things in common. By the end of the meal, Jeffers felt more relaxed than he had in a lone time.

After a little more polite conversation, the women went off for a moment and the President turned to Jeffers with a grin. “You ever been in the White House before?” he asked.

Jeffers smiled. “No, sir, it’s actually my first time in Washington,” he said.

“Well then, why don’t I take you around a minute while Roger and Jim talk a while,” he said standing. “You two visit while I take our new friend around some. We’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said as he motioned to the Secret Service agent standing at the door. The agent opened the door and the two walked out of the dining room and into a hallway.

Jeffers felt a little uneasy being treated this way by the President, but felt he could not say no. “Sir, you don’t really have to do this,” he said.

O’Bannon slapped him on the shoulder. “Rod, it’s not often that I can just be a friend to someone. You’re a nice guy, and during dinner you didn’t get hung up on me being the President. You acted like a regular guy. So, like it or not, you are now a part of my inner group of friends. I can see why Roger chose you as an assistant. You’re smart, have a great sense of humor and from what I can see, are loyal to your friends. He needs that kind of guy around him to bounce things off of. Like me, he doesn’t need some political flunky who just says yes all the time. So, I encourage you to be that kind of guy for him. As I’m sure you have seen, things are getting a little dicey around here right now. If I’m not mistaken, it’s going to get serious really quickly. So, the two of you need to be ready. There’s one thing you can do for me, though,” he said as he stopped and looked at Jeffers. “If Roger is having trouble, something really wearing him down, give me a call,” he said. “Roger is one of the most capable people I have ever known, and I think the world of him, but, now he’s in the hornet’s nest. I can’t let him get burned out or cut down by some of the shenanigans that go on around here.”

O’Bannon reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. It only had a telephone number on it. “I can be reached at any time at this number,” he said. Then he smiled again. “And every so often, call and just let me know you two are just fine. I would really appreciate it,” the President said.

Jeffers took the card. “Mister President, I like my boss, and I’ve come to like you. I’d take care of him anyway, but knowing I can call for help makes me feel better. Should I tell him of our conversation?”

The President shook his head, “Hell no. If he thought I was spying on him he might call out a strike on me instead of some enemy!” he proclaimed. After a chuckle he placed his hand on Jeffers’ shoulder again. “Let’s just keep it to ourselves. He’s always been there when I needed help, and if I can, I want to return the favor,” he said.

“I’m happy to help, Mister President,” Jeffers said.

“When we’re alone, call me Steve,” the President said as he opened a door and let Jeffers into the room. The Oval Office seemed to shine around the two men. “Behold my prison,” the President said.

The two men walked around talking about personal experiences and a little of the history of the house. When they rejoined the others, Jeffers found he had made a new friend. Just before they left, he pulled out his phone and had Hammond take a picture of himself and the President. He turned to the others and said, “Have to prove it to my Mom and Dad.”

The car was pulled up and everyone said their good-byes. Even the President was impressed as the dark blue Rolls silently pulled away.

The old man had been found four days later when the apartment superintendent had gone in to check on what some neighbors had called a terrible stench. The media had arrived along with the ambulance and immediately began asking questions about who he was and why he might want to commit suicide. They quickly found out about his termination from the MPK. The company refused to discuss the matter, but a few of the drivers who knew him, and asked for anonymity, told them about how the company had discriminated against the old man because he was an ethnic Russian. Nothing was said about the man failing the driving test. Instead, the local television and newspaper articles deplored the practices of discrimination, especially against people who had come to Poland during the Soviet era. By nightfall, there were growing crowds of people standing below the old man’s apartment holding candles and laying flowers in a makeshift funeral service. The American networks took interest, with CNN proclaiming its own outrage that such things would happen these days. By morning, the flowers covered the street in front of the building. Over the next few days more people came to show their support and outrage that the MPK, a city organization, would do such a thing. Ivan Ileneovich had become a martyr for justice.