The Shadow Government is one of those rare works of which it is honestly said—I couldn’t put it down.
--Arthur W. Arundel Publisher, Times Community Newspapers
The Shadow Government
By Ray Derby
Copyright 2002 Ray Derby
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold 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.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
INTRODUCTION
The nuclear threat has diminished, although it is far from gone. In the early 1990s, the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, in an unclassified briefing to one of the select committees of Congress, warned that the single most critical threat the United States would face in the next ten years would be in either the chemical or biological arena. The delivery method for those types of agents could well involve terrorist organizations. Presidents and members of Congress have been briefed and are aware of this threat that faces the country.
With more than forty years of experience in the emergency management field, I have watched our preparedness slowly erode, yet the threat continues to grow. This book is a work of fiction, but sometimes fiction makes into reality.
CHAPTER 1 - The Beginning
The winter’s ice had disappeared from the Potomac, and the swollen river now rested safely inside its banks. Fishing boats of all shapes, sizes, and colors dotted the tranquil scene and bobbed in harmony, as if performing a symphony with the gentle, rolling waves. A rowing team gracefully edged their sculling shell through the water; its youthful crew, from a nearby university, straining against the oars.
One boat stood off by itself on the south shore. It was anchored in a small cove almost hidden behind a group of trees that blocked the view from the highway in front of Arlington National Cemetery. The occupants of the boat, dark, swarthy men in their thirties appeared to be enjoying this beautiful spring day like all the other fishermen in the area—at least to the casual observer.
Abdullah motioned to his younger brother, Nassar, to open the red box between their feet, well out of sight of anyone who might have an opportunity to look in their direction. The box was a miniature weather observatory with instruments that provided information on wind direction, speed, temperature, and pressure. As Nassar read aloud the information, his brother duly noted it in a journal. The brothers had been collecting this information for two weeks, and today would be their last day in this area.
Throughout the day, the men continued to observe the traffic pattern across the river with the Lincoln Memorial as a backdrop to the vehicular and pedestrian traffic. A voice from behind startled the two, who turned to see a middle-aged black man, sliding down the bank.
Norm Shepard had been fishing this area of the river for several years—at least at every opportunity he could take from his job as a brakeman on the Norfolk Southern Railroad. He immediately felt the men’s hostility as he continued his approach, and his instinct caused him to quickly scrutinize the scene in front of him. Although both had fishing rods, neither of the men had lines in the water. Not only that, but he could see, in the bottom of the boat, a strange-looking red box with dials on it—this definitely was not part of an ordinary fisherman’s gear. Whatever they were here for, he had a hunch that it certainly was not to fish.
Norm had spent a number of years in one of the Marine’s elite special force units and the sight of two Middle-Easterners acting suspiciously near the nation’s capital sounded alarm bells in his mind. It’s time to get your ass out of here, Norm thought to himself.
As he looked at the men, both staring back with cold black eyes, he involuntarily shuddered as if someone had suddenly slid a piece of ice down the back of his shirt. It was too late though to quietly disappear, so he pushed back his apprehensions and spoke casually to the men.
“You fellows have any luck?” he asked. “I’ve seen you fishing here for the last few days, and there are some nice deep holes a few yards downstream. If you work it right, you might catch some big fish in that area. ”As neither of the men spoke, Shepard said, “Well, I wish you luck,” and he turned to climb back up the bank.
The older of the brothers reached into his waistband, pulled out a revolver, and calmly shot Shepard twice in the back, just as he was reaching for the top of the bank.
Norm felt the impact of the bullets just before his body slammed against the dirt, and slowly began to slide down the bank. A white-hot pain seared across his chest, like lightning. He knew immediately that he had been shot, even though he had not heard a sound. From the recesses of his brain, he knew the man had used a silencer, but all that his mind could focus on, as he gasped for air, was why? His consciousness dimmed as his body slid to a stop at the edge of the water.
Abdullah cautiously looked around to see if anyone had noticed what had transpired. He was relieved to see that no other boats or fishermen were in sight.
“Why did you not just let him go?”Nassar asked.
“You fool! Did you not hear him say he had been watching us for the past several days? We have come too far to be denied our destiny. Move the boat to the bank, quickly! We need to dispose of the body before someone else comes along.”
As Nassar maneuvered the boat toward shore, Norm slowly and painfully became aware of the low, menacing whine of the boat’s engine. He silently cursed himself for not listening to his gut instinct. Now, all he could do was try to get out of this alive. As he watched the men through half-closed eyes, he fought back nausea and tried to focus on what they were doing. His mind was working, even if his body was not responding to the messages, and he knew that once they reached the shore, he was a dead man. He thought to himself, Norm, use your Marine training. There’s always a chance, so don’t blow it—play dead. It’s what these bastards expect to see. Give it to them.
When Nassar reached the bank, he leaped out of the boat and ran to Shepard, rolling him over onto his back. “Allah is good. The man is dead,” he said as he turned to his brother.
Shepard held his breath, thinking, give me a gun and I’ll show you who’s dead.
“Shall we put his body into the water?”
“No, he will float and someone will find him. Take the anchor and wrap it around his body. He will sink to the bottom of the river and no one will ever find him.”
The sound of an outboard motor could suddenly be heard coming up river, close to the south bank—too close. Both brothers turned toward the sound.
Abdullah hissed, “There is no time to tie him up. Pull the body under that bank and cover it with brush. We need to leave, now, before it’s too late.”
Nassar grabbed the man’s arms and pulled him close to the bank, rolled him into a depression and covered him with brush.
Norm was so racked by the agony of being pulled across the rough, uneven ground that he fought back wave after wave of strength draining nausea. His mind and body joined in one silent mind-bursting scream. Finally, he found relief in the welcoming warm darkness of unconsciousness that covered him once again.
Nassar climbed into the boat as Abdullah started the outboard motor, and they moved into the upstream current, toward the river’s north bank and the landing at Fisherman’s Wharf. Looking over their shoulders, they saw the small fishing boat that they had heard downriver, pass the south shore and continue upstream. The brothers smiled. Their task was almost done, but they had to be sure they left no trail. The car and boat, they had used for the past two weeks, must be disposed of, and the information collected had to be delivered on time.
~~~~
Growing aware of the razor-sharp pain pulsating throughout his body, Norm slowly and reluctantly returned to consciousness. With his face buried in dirt and too injured to move, he deliberately and methodically forced his mind to focus on his predicament. He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious—it could have been minutes or hours, but he knew if he did not receive help soon, he would die. He could feel the sticky substance seep through his shirt and onto the ground around him. The weakness of his body, his labored breathing, the dull throbs radiating throughout his chest—all pleading to slip back into that cool darkness of oblivion. In the meantime, his mind was screaming move, move! Slowly, he lifted his head and through half-closed eyes surveyed the river. No boat, no men—it was time. The bank in front of him seemed like a mountain as with great difficulty he inched his way toward the top—only to slide back and try, try again. Finally, with his lungs on fire and his chest heaving, he collapsed onto the flat surface at the top. His mind kept on pushing him to keep going. But to where? He heard the sound of traffic and slowly crawled in that direction. All of a sudden, he could see the traffic on the George Washington Memorial Parkway; if only he could make it there in time. He inched his way by sheer determination until he finally reached the edge of the road.
The first car Shepard saw was a convertible, and he made a half way effort upright, waving his hands before he fell back onto the roadside, depleted, giving in to his pain. He saw the faces of four young white males, as they drove past. Surprise registered in their faces and then fear. He was just another drunken black man who probably got the beating he deserved. In despair, Norm tried to sit up but had no strength left. With the earth spinning around him, he rolled onto his back and let the sun warm his face. Is this it, he thought, is this what it’s like to die? Suddenly, in the murky depths of his consciousness, he heard a car pull over to the side of the road and then the sound of footsteps approaching.
As he looked up, he saw the Marine uniform and the stars on the man’s collar. Without thinking, Norm said, “Semper Fi, General, I’ve been shot.” Then he willingly gave in to that peaceful sleep that had been beckoning him.
~~~~
It was close to 2 a.m., and storm clouds were gathering. Angry arrows of lightning streaked across the sky above the abandoned quarry pit as if Zeus himself were condemning the two lone mortals below. Just a few miles from Harper’s Ferry in West Virginia, the two men watched as the car, boat, and trailer plunged off the high embankment and settled slowly into the deep, dark water. They turned and walked to the navy blue Jeep that Nassar had driven to the quarry. They drove slowly without lights to the gate where they stopped and re-snapped the padlock. They turned onto Highway 340 and made their way toward Washington.
~~~~
Shepard woke instantly, as had been his custom during his military career, although he kept his eyes closed. He felt the bandages around his chest and the cool starched sheets beneath him. He instinctively knew someone was in the room with him. He slowly opened his eyes. He recognized the uniform of a Marine, and more important were the two stars on the collar, which was the last thing he remembered before he lost consciousness alongside the highway. How long ago was that? How long had he been here? His immediate reaction was to try to rise and stand at attention but the sharp pain that spread across his chest made him fall back.
The voice was mild with just a hint of humor when the general said, “At ease, Marine.”
Shepard obliged happily as he sank back into the bed and looked at the general standing at the foot of his bed. There was something vaguely familiar about him. He was not tall, probably about five-foot seven-inches, typical GI crew cut, ramrod straight, and although he appeared to be thin, he also appeared to be all muscles. When Shepard looked into his eyes, they were like gray steel. He introduced himself as Major General Douglas McKay.
Fighting McKay was known throughout the Corps as an enlisted men's officer. He had come up through the enlisted ranks himself and was given a battlefield commission during the African War. He was said to be a brilliant tactician and absolutely fearless, no matter what the situation. He would ask no man or woman enlisted or officer to do something he wouldn’t do. But God help those who did not give a hundred percent to any task the general assigned.
The last time Shepard had heard of General McKay was six years ago when both men were involved in a bitter little war in South America. At that time, Fighting McKay was a full colonel. He had come a long way in the last six years, but that did not surprise Shepard. What surprised him was that General McKay was standing in this room.
“General, what are you doing here and where, by the way, is here?” Shepard asked.
“I will answer your second question first,” McKay said. “You are at Bethesda Naval Hospital. As for your first question, you mind telling me why I find one of my men lying alongside the highway, a stone’s throw from the Pentagon, with two bullets in his back? ”
“First, general, with all due respect, I am no longer one of your men and second, why should you give a shit what happened to my black ass?”
The general’s eyes flashed and that steel was apparent in his voice. “Major Shepard, I don’t give a shit whether your skin is white, black, yellow, or green for that matter, but you are a Marine and that’s all that counts. So, don’t bullshit me. I took the liberty of having your service jacket pulled when I found out your name. You should never have given me the Marine slogan back on that road. It triggered my curiosity.”
McKay pulled a thick, brown folder from under his arm and opened it. “Let’s see, Major Shepard, you enlisted in nineteen ninety-nine, moved quickly through the ranks, applied for bootstrap school in two-thousand-four, graduated at the top of your class, and served at various duty stations around the world, rising to the rank of captain. You served with valor in three minor brush wars and were promoted to major just before the Panama War. Upon completion of that conflict, you abruptly decided to quit the Marine Corps and return to civilian life. You want to tell me why?”
Shepard looked the general straight in the eye. “No, general, I do not.”
General McKay smiled. “Well, one thing that can be said of privileged rank is that if you want to find something out, all you have to do is ask and I asked. In two-thousand ten you had a very interesting discussion with one Senator Bill McBride, who at the time served on the Senate subcommittee on Military Affairs, who by the way now chairs that same subcommittee. During those hearings, you apparently nailed the bastard’s hide to the wall in front of God and country. If I am not mistaken, you called him a traitor to our country, a bigot, and a man with no honor—strong words for a lowly Marine. And if the story was told correctly, when the good senator started to scream, you turned your back on him and walked out of the committee chamber. Shortly thereafter you resigned your commission rather than have the good senator apply the screws to the Marine Corps. Your jacket also indicates that you have two years left on your inactive reserve status.”
McKay slowly turned the pages and finally closed the packet. Looking Shepard straight in the eyes, he said, “You received two Purple Hearts, the Bronze Star, Silver Star, Navy Cross.” And with a soft proud voice he added, “And the Medal of Honor. So, don’t tell me you're not one of my men. Cut the bullshit and tell me why I found you with two bullet holes in your back. If anything, I would have expected them to be in the front.”
Shepard looked at the general. “I really don’t understand what happened," then recalled as much of the incident as he could for the general.
McKay never let his eyes leave the patient and slowly shook his head when Shepard said, “That’s all I know, but if I ever get a chance at those two, you can bet I won’t turn my back on them.”
McKay smiled. “I bet you wouldn’t either.” He moved to the side of the bed. “Major Shepard, you are lucky to be alive. The doctors tell me the first bullet passed through your right shoulder, a clean shot. The second bullet was deflected by something in your backpack and caused minor damage to your left shoulder. If it had not been deflected, it would have pierced your heart. I repeat you are a lucky man.” With that, McKay reached over, pressed an object into Shepard’s hand, and walked out of the room.
Shepard raised his hand and opened it to see the Medal of Honor with a deep crease across it where it had taken the bullet.
CHAPTER 2
Evelyn Pace had just sat down at her desk in the Pentagon when she heard a noise and a mumbled oath coming from the inner office. She sighed and looked at the clock on the wall. Most federal employees would start arriving at 8:00 but lately no matter how early she arrived at the office, it seemed her boss was already there.
In the five years she had worked for Ross Chambers, he usually was the first one in the office but since his wife had died 18 months ago, he was spending even more of his time there, always the first to arrive and the last to leave. Evelyn, on several occasions in the last few months, tried to talk him into going out with a friend of hers, but he always politely and firmly refused.
She, as well as the rest of his staff, was ferociously loyal to the boss, and all of them were concerned that he was thinking about retiring soon. Although he had not said anything directly, the signs were there, the calls to the personnel office, the retirement books on his desk, and now the Department of Defense was hinting that buyouts might be available within the next few months.
She knew if Chambers retired, the government would be losing one of its most experienced and respected civil servants in the emergency management field. These days, though, it seems the government could care less. Downsizing still was the protocol, a throwback to the Clinton years when Vice President Gore went on a crusade to restructure government, and Congress enthusiastically supported personnel reductions. In the last twenty or thirty years, more than 400,000 of the 2.1 million civil servants had retired or left government service, and the loss of that experience and knowledge was felt in every branch of government.
Ross looked up as Evelyn came through the door with a steaming cup of coffee. As she carefully placed it on his desk, he smiled. “That’s not what the government pays you for.”
Evelyn smiled back. “If you don’t tell, I won’t.”
Ross looked at Evelyn and the thought came to mind, why is she still working for me? If he remembered correctly, she was only twenty-five years old at the time he hired her. Over the years she had received promotions to the GS-13 level, as his special assistant. She didn’t receive those promotions because she was a minority but instead for long hours, hard work, and the ability to know what her boss wanted—sometimes even before he did. Evelyn was not only intelligent and articulate but she knew her way around the government and was liked and respected by management and peers alike. Ross also knew she had offers from other federal agencies, within the last two years, which would have given her a promotion, but she had turned them down.
He had asked her once why she had turned down an opportunity to transfer to another agency, and she had just laughed and said, “I'm having too much fun where I am.”
As Evelyn turned to leave, she said, “Don’t forget that you have a ten o’clock appointment with that nice young man from Senator McBride's staff.”
Ross scowled and thought, nice young man indeed. More like a barracuda. The senator’s goons would just as soon cut your throat if you gave them a chance, so, why am I doing this? I could retire and not have to put up with this crap. He had been considering doing just that, especially in the last year.
Chambers leaned back in his chair and reflected on his career. He had a photographic memory so it was easy for him to pull up the past in detail. Life never had been easy in the career field he had chosen. He had worked his way up to his present position as Director of Research Analysis for the Department of Defense, and the next step was the Senior Executive Service. Ross knew many of these positions were political, and he had no interest in going that route.
Director of Research Analysis was a bogus title. Ross’ job was in what was called the black side of the government. He and his small staff were buried deep in the Department of Defense budget, but his primary mission was to analyze all threats to the country, both internal and external. Chambers and his staff were privy to almost all the back channel intelligence from most of the intelligence agencies in the government, as well as many other countries. It was his task to sort through the daily intelligence reports, analyze and separate fact from fiction. The accuracy of his staff’s calculations and judgment was phenomenal. Rarely did they misjudge a threat.
Every morning his office produced a situation report (better known as a sitrep) to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was not unusual for Ross to pass on warnings directly to his counterparts in other federal departments and agencies if he felt it was important, although it was not a requirement. Ross was aware that some of his superiors often frowned upon his generosity in this area. Chambers had so many security clearances that he could not remember them all. He had been granted the standard ones many years ago—Secret, Top Secret, and Q. He now had at least ten compartmental clearances as well. These were granted to individuals who either worked on or had access to special classified programs.
He was having a difficult time this morning determining what should be included in the sitrep to his boss, General Rick Postan, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. His mind was just not focused, and he knew that was how mistakes were made. In his business one could not afford to make mistakes. As he was getting started on the final draft, there was a knock at his door and Jim Woods, his most experienced analyst, walked in carrying a large envelope stamped SECRET.
Chambers watched Woods walk toward him with that gleam in his eye that said, wait till you see this. Ross thought to himself, how long has it been since Jim came to work for me, six or seven years ago? He was a brilliant analyst—few could compare with him. Evelyn was one of those few, and the two of them had an uncanny ability to work as a team, even though they were completely opposite in the way they thought. It was a rivalry that benefited both of them. Thank God, it was friendly competition with no backstabbing—just mutual respect.
When Ross appointed Evelyn as his special assistant, it had been a tossup between her and Jim, but Jim had not wanted the job. Ross still could see him grinning when he said, “I like being an analyst and don't want to clutter my mind with the other crap you have to put up with.”
Jim handed him the envelope. “You had better take a look at this. My instincts say we might have a problem.”
Chambers sighed. Normally Woods was right—in fact, he was always right. Chambers pulled three sheets of paper out of the envelope. The first thing he saw was the Joint Chief’s of Staff symbol, in the upper right hand corner, and Major General McKay’s initials. He leaned back in his chair; slowly reading the contents and feeling the tension begin to build inside him. When he had finished, he looked up at Woods who was still standing in front of the desk, watching him intently.
“Well, what do you make of it? And sit down, you make me nervous when you stand there like that.”
Chambers could almost hear the wheels go around in Jim’s brain as he put his thoughts together.
“At first glance, it appears like a bizarre sequence of events, involving a shooting but, hell, that happens every day in this city. However, General McKay did not get where he is by being dumb, and he is asking for answers. If his facts are right, I have the feeling that something is rotten in Denmark—no pun intended. What interests me is the fact that two individuals, apparently of Arabic descent, go through the trouble of pretending to be fishermen, spending days—weeks even—in a boat in front of the Arlington Cemetery. When a stranger naively stumbles upon them, they shoot him in the back—with a silencer no less. And they leave him for dead. Why? And what the hell was in that red box that they were using—or hiding—in the bottom of the boat? I can see no rhyme or reason to it, but I have this feeling, call it intuition if you like, that we had better find out what really happened and why.”
Chambers shook his head. “I agree with your assessment, but I don't have time to work with this just now. I have a sitrep to get out and a meeting at ten with one of Senator McBride’s goons—I mean staff.”
Woods laughed. “Well, watch your back. Those guys would like nothing better than to lift your scalp.”
Chambers asked, “Why don’t you and Evelyn take a drive over to Bethesda and talk with this former Marine? I know that’s not on your watch, but you may find out something that did not wind up in this report. Besides, I want to cover all my bases. I don’t need General McKay breathing down my neck on this.”
Again Woods grinned shaking his head. “I think he already is. I did some checking this morning after I received his package, and it seems our former Marine has two more years on his inactive reserve status. The good general has his staff right now cutting active duty orders for Mr. Shepard. It gets even better. Guess where he is being assigned—none other than the general’s staff. One other thing you need to know. Our Mr. Shepard, it appears, is one hell of a Marine. He’s even a recipient of the Medal of Honor.”
Ross stared at Jim’s back as he walked out the door.
CHAPTER 3
Abdullah and Nassar had spent the better part of two days compiling the information they had gathered in the past two weeks so it would be ready when the courier arrived. The first part of the plan was in its final stages, and Nassar was becoming restless.
He looked at his brother. “When do you think he will arrive?”
Abdullah shook his head. “Only Allah knows. Have patience, my brother, he will come.”
Nassar looked out the window, and all he could see were trees and the winding road. The cabin, they had rented more than a year ago, sat back half a mile from the main road, Route 522, in the Blue Ridge Mountains. The neighbors, what there were of them, knew the brothers as amateur photographers who had rented the old Gibson cabin to photograph the wild life in the area. Little else was known of them, but that was not unusual in these parts. People who lived in the area tended to mind their own business. Their closest neighbors, the Jenkins, lived three miles down the road. Occasionally, the brothers would see Mr. Jenkins in his old Dodge pickup. Last fall, they had seen several hunters in the distance, but they always gave the cabin a wide berth. Other than that, they usually had the area to themselves.
Nassar thought of his homeland and felt a wave of homesickness. He was actually feeling the hot wind on his face and seeing the beauty and solitude of the desert when his thoughts were interrupted by his brother's voice.
“It’s time to check in. Bring your camera equipment. I want to be back by four o'clock.”
As the brothers slowly worked their way to the top of the mountain, they stopped along the way to take pictures. They were good at their trade. They even took their film to a photo shop in nearby Leesburg to be developed for appearances. As they neared the top of the ridge, they glanced in all directions to make sure they were alone. They listened for a while to the birds singing and the wind gently blowing before they finally were satisfied that there was no one else roaming the mountainside. Abdullah sat down by a large boulder and lifted the edge of a small blanket covered with three inches of dirt. Nassar stood watch.
Abdullah pulled a large metal box and short rods out of the hole and began to assemble a small antenna which he placed in a tree. He then ran a cable to the box and plugged it into a coupler on its side. He opened the lid, turned on the switch, and watched the dials as they moved. This always was a worry for batteries could never be 100 percent dependable. There was no way they could charge them up here, so every other week they had to bring new ones up and take the depleted ones down for recharging.
The dials continued to rise. Allah was great. They still had a good charge. Abdullah looked at the radio and marveled at its capabilities. It was called a meteor burst communication package, something the United States had known about for years, yet had never taken advantage of. The key was that it could transmit and receive under any type of conditions, regardless of the weather or even after a nuclear explosion, when no other communications were usable. There are millions of meteors in the upper atmosphere, and all one had to do was transmit a message to the sky where it would hit a meteor and bounce back to a receiving station on earth. Abdullah knew it was almost impossible to detect. He picked up the small keypad, typed his message, and transmitted it. A few minutes later, he received his answer. He scowled, slowly put it in his pocket, and repacked the radio. The brothers covered the blanket with dirt and leaves and returned down the mountain.
Just before they reached the cabin, Abdullah said to his brother, "There has been a set-back in the development of the product. It will not be completed for two to three weeks. Do not despair, little brother, our time will come.”
~~~~
Norm Shepard was sitting up in his hospital bed. He was tired of the doctors and nurses poking at him, so he was not in the best of moods when Evelyn Pace and Jim Woods walked into his room. His heart almost stopped beating for the woman standing before him was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. She was, he guessed, about 5-foot, 5-inches tall with dark hair that fell to her shoulders, highlighting her ebony skin that seemed to glow. However, it was her eyes that held his attention. They were so striking with what seemed like the ability to look right into his soul, and yet they sparkled with life and laughter. She wore a plain, white blouse that accented her full breasts and a short black skirt that showed off her slender waist and long slim legs.
Jim was aware of the effect Evelyn had on men. He smiled for he also knew that this did not particularly please her. What surprised him was the look on Evelyn’s face—this he had not seen before. He could feel the magnetism between the two and he thought, oh, oh, Evelyn might have just met her match.
Her eyes were immediately drawn to the man in the bed. She involuntarily held her breath as his eyes met hers. My God, she thought, he is handsome. She willed herself to look away and to act casually, but with his eyes following her she felt almost weak.
Wood’s voice broke into Shepard’s thoughts. “Pardon me, what did you say?” Shepard asked.
With the smile still on his face, Woods replied, “Major Shepard, my name is Jim Woods and this is Evelyn Pace. We would like to talk to you about the events leading up to the shooting you were involved in, if you don't mind.”
“First, my name is Mr. Shepard not major, and second, the police were here this morning. I told them all I know so if you’re news people I have nothing to say that would interest you.”
His voice was low and conveyed a hard edge of resentment. Pace could see the strength and pride in this man and also the bitterness at the mention of the news media. As she came closer to the bed, Shepard caught a scent of her perfume, almost like lilacs.
“We are not with the news media, Mr. Shepard. We work for the Department of Defense and are following up a report sent to us from General McKay,” Evelyn said.
“Look, I am not in the military. I’m a civilian, and General McKay does not owe me anything. So, why is the military getting involved in a civil incident?” Shepard asked.
He saw the grin on Jim’s face. “Did I say something funny?”
“No, I apologize. My mind was on something else.” And he thought to himself, young man, you are about to get a rude awakening. When General McKay wants something or someone, he usually gets it or them.
Evelyn spoke again. “Mr. Shepard, we have some concerns about those two individuals who shot you, and what they were doing so close to the Pentagon. We would appreciate your cooperation. We will not take up much of your time.”
Shepard thought to himself, honey, you could take as much of my time as you want, but answered, “OK, go ahead.”
~~~~
After they had left, Shepard thought, those two are very smart individuals. He also wondered what he really had stumbled into. Their primary interest was the red box, but there wasn’t really that much he could tell them about it. The two men had done a good job of keeping it out of sight. He had only caught a glimpse of it before one of the men closed the lid.
With Evelyn’s patient prodding, he had remembered that there had been a short rod with something like a spoon or cup on the end of it in the case. He had no idea what it was or what it could be used for but the very reason that they tried to hide it was enough to make him wonder. Shepard didn’t miss the quick glance between his two visitors either, which told him that they might know more than they were willing to say. At least they had a better idea than he did. Neither would acknowledge anything, though, when he asked if they had any clues.
Woods and Pace also wanted information on the type of boat they had used. He remarked that like any other fishing boat in the area, it was a wooden flat-bottom, 16-to-18-feet long. It had a small gasoline engine, a Mercury 5 HP, he thought. He also told them he had provided that information to the detective this morning for all the good it would do anyone because there must be hundreds, if not thousands, of those outboard motors in the area.
Woods asked whether he remembered the color of the boat.
Shepard blinked. “You know, now that I think about it, it was almost the same color as the water, bluish gray or something like that. There were registration numbers on the upper front side. Funny how things like that come back to you." And with his eyes closed, he added, “I think the last three numbers were eight-two-seven, but I can’t be absolutely sure.”
They had thanked him and left, leaving him to wonder how and why they were interested. He did know this much. If the military was investigating this, they had to believe that there was some kind of national security threat. He felt almost guilty when he realized that his thoughts had drifted from the national security threat to his own—Evelyn Pace. How was he going to find her in the Pentagon where thousands of people worked? One thing he did know for sure, and that was he would find her. After he found her, he had no idea what he would do. He would worry about it later.
The knock on his door brought him back to reality and he answered loudly, “Come in.” He was hoping it might be Pace returning.
The man was in the uniform of a U.S. Marine. The eagles on his shoulders gleamed, accenting the rows of ribbons on his chest—and there were lots to emphasize!
He looked down at Shepard for a moment as if he were analyzing a specimen in a jar. “Major Shepard, I am Colonel Blake of General McKay's staff.”
Shepard sat up, not without quite a bit of discomfort. “Jesus! I don’t need any more help from the general. Tell him thanks and I do appreciate his stopping and helping me, but he has more to worry about than a shot up civilian. And why do all of you insist on calling me major? I repeat, ‘I am no longer in the military.’”
The colonel stood quietly until Shepard had finished, then said, "Don't give me that bullshit. Once a Marine, you’re always a Marine, but you're right, you are no longer a major. I am here to advise you that effective one minute after midnight tonight, your civilian status will be changed to active military duty with the U.S. Marine Corps.”
“What?” Shepard shouted, wincing as he sat straight up in the bed. The pain in his upper torso reminded him again of the consequences of sudden movement. “You can’t do that!”
The colonel just continued to look at him.
Shepard said, “Look, there must be some mistake. The Marine Corps just can’t call me back to active duty because they feel like it. I have rights.”
A faint smile crossed Colonel Blake’s face. “First, you have two years and three days left on your inactive reserve status. Second, under the National Security Act there are provisions for recalling personnel back to active duty and third, and most important, General McKay has a special task for you. That’s all that counts. Here’s your set of orders.” And he laid them on the stand next to the bed.
“You will report to room B-one-thirty-four at the Pentagon for processing three days from now and, at zero seven-hundred hours the following day, you will report to General McKay’s office where you will be assigned to his staff.”
As he started to leave, he added, “Lieutenant Colonel Shepard, the general told me to tell you to get the hell out of that bed. Those scratches you received shouldn’t keep a good Marine down for more than a day or so.” He turned and left the room.
Shepard slumped down in the bed. His mind was reeling. Scratches hell, he had two bullet holes in him! What’s this national security bullshit and why did he address me as lieutenant colonel? Shepard was growing more and more frustrated. His life was rapidly getting out of control. He had many questions, and no one was around to give him answers. Well, he would get it straight in a couple of days. He would not allow his life to be turned upside down like this—General McKay or no General McKay!
A young Navy doctor came in, smiled, and looked at Norm’s chart. “I understand you are being discharged at zero-eight-hundred tomorrow. Take it easy for the next week or so, and if you should have any problems call me here at this number.” After writing the number on a prescription sheet, he left.
Shepard growled and stared at the ceiling thinking, that damn general thinks of everything.
~~~~
Evelyn glanced over at Jim as she drove through the Washington traffic. “I think we have a major incident here, Jim, and it scares the hell out of me. What do you think?”
Jim nodded in agreement.
“Well, we had better set up a meeting with the boss as soon as we get back,” she said.
CHAPTER 4
The meeting with Senator McBride’s special assistant had not gone well, but Chambers mused that he had not really expected it to. It seemed the good senator was about to set his hooks into one of the presidential advisers and Ross Chambers wondered what Nate Sems had done to bring the wrath of the senator down on him. The senator was going after Nate in a big way. McBride was digging for information as to why the national security adviser was pushing a program involving key congressional personnel on internal domestic intelligence programs, and more important, why he was being left out.
Chambers was aware of the program and its intent, but he was not about to provide any information to Senator McBride or anyone else for that matter unless Nate wanted him to do so. When the senator's aide insinuated that Ross’ future budgets might be in jeopardy if he did not cooperate fully, Chambers lost his temper and told him to get the hell out of his office.
Well, Ross old buddy, he thought, that was not very bright of you. All he needed was to have Senator McBride on his case. He thought the hell with it. Let him try to have me fired. Of course, he would have to go through General McKay first and that idea alone made Chambers laugh. There was no love lost between General McKay and Senator McBride, none at all.
What had surprised him was that the attack had come not from the budget side of the Senate, but from the political side. If there was one thing Ross had learned, it was that no matter how good you did your job, you made damn sure that you covered the political side. If not, then your program was dead. He learned that lesson the hard way, and he was not about to forget it.
Nate and Ross’ paths had crossed a number of times in the last 15 years. A bond had grown between them, although few were aware of it. Sems was in his early forties and was what was known as a “fast burner." He was a graduate of Harvard with a master’s degree in government. He moved easily in the political circles of power and was generally liked by most in both political parties for his honesty, professionalism, and integrity. It was for that reason that President Robert Hardy, the former governor of Montana, had selected him to be the national security adviser for his administration.
A number of years ago when Nate was assigned to the Central Intelligence Agency, Chambers had provided him with some intelligence information that helped him break up a major terrorist organization. It was information that Ross could have kept to himself. When he provided it to Nate, he had asked for nothing in return which was highly unusual on this turf. That action alone started the long-standing friendship between them. Not only did the two have a mutual professional respect for each other, but they discovered that they both were avid fishermen. So at least once a month, in fishing season, they would meet and the fishing competition would begin. The winner would have to buy dinner. Ross had learned to always make sure that he brought along his credit card because the dinner usually was on him.
Chambers pushed the button on his intercom. When his secretary answered, he hesitated for a second then said, “Kathy, see if you can find Nathan Sems for me. Will you?”
“Yes, Sir, but you need to know that two of your staff have been prowling around my office for the last twenty minutes and are in the process of trying to take your door apart.”
Ross laughed. “OK, send them in.”
When Pace and Woods walked in his office, Chambers could feel the tension. They sat down in chairs next to his desk.
Pace spoke first, “You want to hear the good news first or the bad?”
“OK, I gather you had your interview with Mr. Shepard. From the way you are looking at me, I assume you found something you didn't like. Let’s start with the good news.”
“Oh, that’s easy," Woods said. “I think the young major has a crush on Evelyn.”
“What?” Pace asked astounded. Ross was a bit surprised to see her blush.
She looked at Jim and with eyes flashing said, “I think we should concentrate on the business at hand, Jim.”
Chambers held up his hand as he implied they had to get back to business. Evelyn gave Jim a glance that expressed her annoyance and embarrassment. Woods pretended not to notice, but he had a smile that did not go away.
“Ross, he provided us with some new information. With Evelyn grilling him, who wouldn’t?” Jim said.
She gave him another look that said don’t push it, and Jim reluctantly dropped the subject.
“He saw something in that red box, and he remembered three of the numbers on the side of the boat they were in,” Evelyn said.
Chambers continued to look at them and finally said, “OK, now, what's the bad news?”
“We talked about it, Jim and I, and we feel that in all probability the red box those two men had could be a miniature weather monitoring station. I have seen them before in some special covert operations the Special Forces have been involved in. The boxes are very distinctive and from the major’s description, as well as the location of that boat, a weather monitoring station seems like a real possibility for someone who was trying to determine the weather characteristics in the Washington area at this time of the year.”
As he listened, Chambers could all but feel the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise.
“If that is the case,” Pace continued, “then the obvious questions are, why would anyone need to use a miniature weather monitoring station, especially at the location they chose? Why so close to the nation's capital? Why shoot someone in the back, using a silencer, and more important, just what are they preparing for? Quite honestly, none of the answers can be good, so whatever these two men were doing, I think that we or someone had better find out and soon.”
Chambers looked at Woods, “What are your thoughts, Jim?”
“Ross, if I were a terrorist and I wanted to get even with somebody in a big way, I would use a nuclear weapon for obvious reasons—its destructive power. However, if I did not have such a weapon, then I would use a chemical or biological agent. In reality, it could cause even more damage because normally it affects only people. Kind of like the Sun Tsu strategy—you kill all of the people, but leave the buildings standing. And finally, to be really professional, I would need to know the weather conditions to use the agent to its most effective advantage. And something tells me that these two guys are professionals.”
Chambers had spent a number of years working in emergency management before becoming involved in the intelligence community. His biggest fear had always been an attack by a terrorist group using chemical or biological agents. He knew only too well that the U.S. was totally unprepared to combat such a threat. Even though the risk had been high for the last ten years, Congress had refused to even acknowledge the possibility of a chemical attack, let alone expend the large amounts of money required to protect the government, much less the citizens.
In the last year and a half, President Hardy had started a number of classified programs, using what are called Presidential Decisions or Presidential Directives to upgrade continuity-of-government (COG) programs. These programs were intended to ensure that some vestige of the government would survive in the event of an all-out war or some other major catastrophe. Few people understood the concept except for the emergency preparedness personnel assigned to each federal agency. Their political supervisors, however, provided little or no assistance and, in most cases, meager funding. Senator McBride consistently fought any initiative involving continuity-of-government programs with all the skill and finesse of a righteous politician, calling it a Shadow Government that was just waiting for an excuse—or opportunity if it were—to take over running the nation. Chambers wondered what McBride would do if he or his family was at risk, but that probably was unfair. He felt perhaps all of them were at risk.
“I agree with both of you—hopefully we are wrong, but this definitely needs looking into. We need to turn over all the information we have to the FBI. They will have to determine if this is enough of a threat to pursue. And if so, is it a domestic or foreign intervention? The FBI has the jurisdiction, but that doesn’t mean we will completely step out of the picture. We just won’t tell them or anyone else, right?”
Both Pace and Woods smiled for they knew that when Chambers decided to follow through on a project, few people could stop him—most didn’t even try.
“OK, put a report together, Eyes Only, and I will set up a meeting with the FBI and some of their counterparts. Have it ready by four-thirty today, and I want both of you with me. So forget about going home early.”
Pace thought, well, there goes my dinner date tonight. As they turned to leave, Woods asked where the meeting would be held.
“Probably at the J. Edgar Hoover building.”
“They have lousy food in their cafeteria,” Woods called over his shoulder.
“So do we,” Chambers smiled.
As he stood up, the intercom beeped and Kathy said, “I have Mr.Sems on line three.”
“Nate, sorry to bother you but I had a very interesting meeting this morning with one of Senator McBride’s aides. I think you had better watch your head because the good senator is looking to scalp it. What did you do now to provoke the bastard?”
Nate listened to Ross’ revelations and thanked him for the information, but gave no hint as to why he was on the senator’s hit list. "By the way, Ross, don’t forget our fishing trip Saturday, same place, same time, don’t be late. I need a free dinner." And he hung up.
Chambers looked at the phone and thought, something is going on. We don’t have a fishing trip scheduled for another two or three weeks—or at least we didn’t until now.
He picked up his phone directory and scanned the list until he found the number for Jean Parson. She was the acting deputy director of the FBI and had been for several months while the Senate fought over her confirmation. Again, McBride was the major holdup and had stalled a final vote that she would win hands down with the other committee members. Chambers picked up the phone and dialed her private number. They had been professional friends for years.
~~~~
The room was small and almost sterile—one long table with a dozen chairs and a small side table that held a very used coffeepot and ice water. Located in the basement of the FBI building, their meeting room had no windows and only one door. It was accurately called the screen room because no one could eavesdrop on discussions held there. Its walls looked deceptively simple, but beyond the paneling, ceiling, and floor tile, people in the room were in a concrete box lined with lead at least an inch thick. All connecting wires and pipes leading into the room were shielded. The guards, stationed permanently outside the door, carefully searched anyone going into the room, ensuring that any unauthorized person never entered under any circumstances. Chambers had been in a number of these rooms over the years. Almost every federal agency involved in national security had at least one such room and usually more, and so did the military.
Ross waited, holding a laser pointer in his hand. Six people were in attendance besides Woods, Pace, and himself. He knew all of them except one.
Jacob Husler looked like a tailor, which his father was by trade. He was short, bald, and just a little overweight, but his trademark was there—an open shirt, no coat or tie, and an empty pipe in his mouth. He was one of the best, if not the best, intelligence analyst in the Central Intelligence Agency. Mark Towns, the Defense Intelligence Agency's senior chemical, biological, radiological expert, sat talking with Tim Black, a division chief in the Federal Emergency Management Agency, better known as FEMA, and responsible for emergency planning in the federal community. Joyce Winter stood pouring a cup of coffee and talking with Clay Holman. She was one of the leading experts from the Centers for Disease Control, Public Health Service, and Clay was the director of the Nuclear Energy Search Team Program. That left the tall thin man in his early forties sitting by himself, and Jean Parson who sat at the end of the table.
Jean was forty-five years old, but looked much younger. A small woman—she was not much over five-feet-two-inches tall and weighed around one-hundred-ten pounds. Her red hair flowed down to her shoulders, and her eyes changed from blue to almost a deep gray, depending on her mood. Men never failed to notice that she was a good-looking woman, striking even, with quite a shapely figure. Nevertheless, Chambers knew she was one hell of a professional. She had climbed up through the ranks, never married, but not from lack of suitors over the years. She could match wits with the best of them and, more often than not, come out on top. He knew her struggle had not been easy, but she was one tough lady and was respected by most senior managers. The few who didn’t like her kept their distance. She could fight with the best of them, and they knew it.
She looked at Ross and he saw her eyes were almost gray. She nodded and, in a soft but confident voice, asked everyone to take a seat.
She glanced at Chambers. “Before we start, let me introduce Mr. Gene Tate to the group. Mr. Tate is in charge of the Counter-terrorism Program for the Washington, D.C. Police Department. When I talked to the mayor this afternoon, it was his recommendation that Mr. Tate acts as his representative for this meeting, and I agreed. So, with that accomplished, Ross, would you like to tell the rest of us why we don’t get to go home at a decent hour tonight?”
No one smiled for they knew Ross Chambers was not the type to yell wolf needlessly.
When he finished speaking, he could see that everyone in the room felt the same chill as he had when he first heard the story from Evelyn and Jim. The impact of his briefing was quite apparent to all at the table.
After what seemed an eternity of silence, Jean was the first to speak. “OK, let’s set up some procedures on how we can address this situation,” she said, as she went over to a blackboard. “First, we need to determine if Ross’ threat assessment is serious enough for this group to pursue. If so, then I need to prepare a situation report for the director so he can send it to the National Security Council. I am sure they will want to include it in the president’s daily sitrep tomorrow morning. With that said, are we all in agreement we should continue to evaluate this potential problem?”
All members of the group nodded their heads in agreement, except for Detective Tate who hesitated for a second before giving his approval.
“All right, then the next item will be the composition of the committee. I intend to chair this myself until we have a resolution, but each of you may designate another individual within your organizations if your schedule is too full for you to participate. If that is the case, please state so now before we proceed any further.”
No one spoke.
“All right, we have our committee with the exception of you, Ross. I know it is your office that has provided us with the information, and we certainly appreciate it, but your jurisdiction is with the military side of the house, not the civil side. I’m not sure there is anything further you can contribute now that it has been brought to the attention of the appropriate authorities. So, unless you can give me a very good reason why you should remain, you and your staff are no longer required.”