The Cassandra Conspiracy (47 page)

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank all the people who helped me in the writing of this book.

My sincere
st thanks to Alan Glotzer for his multiple readings of the manuscript, and his countless suggestions as to how to make this a “better read”.

To Larry Kumjian for helping me with getting the Secret Service procedures
as well as everything else about the Secret Service righ

Also to Don Rossi for his words of encouragement and in reading the final manuscript.

My thanks to Dean Koontz. I gained a lot from Mr. Koontz’s HOW TO WRITE BEST SELLING FICTION.

And most of all, for my inspiration, best friend, and wife, Jenn.

If you like THE CASSANDRA CONSPIRACY, you may want to read the first chapters of THE PALADIN DECEPTION. This book is currently  available from Amazon.

Pocket  Veto

By

Rick Bajackson

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission from the author.

Copyright 201
3 Rick Bajackson

I welcome your comments, letting me know about any errors that you found in the book, and suggestions on this or any of my other books.
Email me at
[email protected]
. Better yet, visit my website (
http://rickbajackson.wordpress.com
/
).

Prologue

Jim Reilly shook the cobwebs from his head and reached for the thermos of now tepid coffee that sat beside him on the tractor-trailer’s console. He poured a half-cup of the coffee, but it had cooled to the point where it wasn’t worth drinking.

Reilly opened his window then tossed contents of the cup out into the night. The glow emanating from the instrument cluster combined with the intermittent flash as the tractor trailer passed the warm sodium vapor lighting along the interstate’s shoulder merging the dashed lines of the lane markers into one long ribbon.

Perched comfortably in the driver’s seat, he had been keeping a steady pace since he left North Carolina twelve hours earlier. His route would take him straight up Interstate 95 past Richmond, around Washington, and then directly into Maryland. For someone used to long trips, Reilly wasn’t sure why he was so damned tired. Stifling yet another yawn, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Reilly eased back on the accelerator, remembering the importance the company placed on safe driving. The last few hours, he had been maintaining a steady pace, averaging about ten miles per hour above the double nickel. The Kenworth’s power plant droned on; the engine noises mixing with the cacophony coming from the trucker’s citizen band radio and his omnipresent AM radio station.

Channel nineteen, long since abandoned by the four wheelers, was now the sole domain of the truckers who shared the loneliness of the black asphalt strip with their fellow compatriots. Instead of erasing the sleep from his head, the engine’s muted sound lulled Reilly into a state of tranquility. Struggling to keep the sandman from taking over, he hummed along with the country and western song coming across the nighttime airwaves.

Reilly’s load this trip consisted of four sets of Mactech airborne systems. He had looked briefly at the manifest before leaving the North Carolina plant. The single flimsy simply referred to the cargo as “Pocket Veto Drones”, which in military parlance came out to PVS-2. Reilly wondered what the “2” designation referred to–the second generation, an improved model? What difference did it make? He was the load’s custodian until he saw if off-loaded at the plant.

He had been working full time for Mactech Systems for over two years; the pay was good, the hours respectable. Before his buddy told him about the opening, Reilly had been an independent, going where the business was, away from home, his wife and six year old son more times than not.

And definitely more than he wanted. No more free-lance truckin’ for Jim Reilly. Sure some of the independents pulled down more cash when they were working, but when the economy nose-dived, work quickly became sporadic. Some of Reilly’s independent friends would have given their right arms for a chance at a steady job and a guaranteed paycheck.

Again Reilly tried to brush the sleep from his eyes, but the old sand man hung in there, refusing to cut him a break. After a dozen years doing long-haul, Reilly knew when it was time a coffee break. He glanced at his watch, ten after eleven. What the hell? Another half hour wouldn’t hurt his schedule one way or the other. He wasn’t on any deadline–save that the shipment had to be at Mactech’s loading dock before plant opening time tomorrow. That he’d easily do. The last of the four wheelers were still on the highway. In another hour, the interstate would be abandoned to the long-haul truckers.

From past trips Reilly knew that one of I95’s better truck stops was coming up. He eased the rig over into the deceleration lane. Less than two miles passed before he pointed the rig toward the exit ramp, downshifting to ease it’s speed.

As he pulled on to the truck stop’s parking lot, Reilly noticed that there were numerous tractor trailers, some with their power refrigeration systems running, parked side by side, front to back, along the lot.

A couple of the drivers were doing more than taking five as evidenced by fogged windshields and drawn curtains. The word was that a local prostitution ring was doing a bang up business at the stop in spite of the feeble attempts by the cops to clean up the place. What the hell? Boys would be boys. If the four wheelers didn’t like it, they could find somewhere else to eat and gas up.

Reilly found a suitable parking space toward the rear of the lot. He pulled in bringing the Kenworth to a stop. One more check of the manifest to be certain the shipment was classified–it wasn’t–and he’d be off.

If the equipment had been classified, there was no way that Reilly would have left the rig. Leaving classified electronics unprotected was a surefire way to find one’s employment with Mactech over.

Clambering out of the cab, Reilly locked the door behind him. Before heading for the diner, he walked over to a steel equipment cabinet welded to the rear of the tractor.

Two steel clad cables snaked from the bottom of the box. One looped off and went forward toward the tractor, while its cousin went through an access point into the trailer. From his ring, Reilly inserted a special key into a keyhole in the cabinet, and then turned it once to the right arming the rig’s elaborate electronic security system.

In a split second, the system’s microprocessor checked all the sensors and found everything set, a light on the panel lit up signifying that the trailer as well as all doors leading into the trailer and those on the cab were secure.

The system, also a product of Mactech Systems, protected the truck and its contents from everything short of a nuclear explosion. If anyone attempted to open any of the doors, the ones in the tractor or the double steel doors on the connecting trailer, all hell broke loose. Meanwhile a relay clicked open preventing anyone from starting the Kenworth’s diesel engine. Jacking the trailer or even deflating a tire caused the system to squawk.

At the same time, a specially coded message would be transmitted through the rig’s cellular phone system to Mactech’s plant north of Baltimore. Finally, Reilly’s miniature pager would beep telling him that someone was intent upon making off with his shipment.

Reilly recalled the security briefing he had received when he first started with the company. He was told that if the pager went off, he was first to see if anyone was around the rig. If he saw someone lurking, he was only to call the police, then observe the scene for license numbers and descriptions. He was to take no further action.

Mactech’s security chief made it clear--nothing the drivers carried was worth jeopardizing their lives over. In all the years that Reilly had been working for Mactech Systems, the pager had never gone off. And he didn’t have any reason to expect otherwise tonight. With the rig secure, Jim Reilly walked across the parking lot and into the restaurant.

Less than a half hour later, “Big Jim” Reilly returned to his rig. After deactivating the alarm, he climbed back into the truck and kicked the engine into life. He allowed the diesel time to come up to temperature before leaving the parking lot on his way back on to I95. To Reilly, the rig seemed different, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He wrote it off to not enough sleep coupled with too many miles under his belt.

He’d been back in the saddle only a few minutes when he noticed the sign announcing that a makeshift inspection station was less than a mile away. The Maryland State Police, not content to hassle the truckers during daylight hours, had gone to night inspections. Typically, those stops lasted only a few minutes, long enough to check the weight and perform a routine safety inspection.

Reilly glanced at his watch. Even if they held him up half the night, he’d still make it with time to spare. Off on the right shoulder, Reilly saw the trooper, flashlight in hand, signaling him over. He flicked the turn signal on and dimmed his high beams as he began the slow process of bringing the Kenworth to a halt.

“Good evening, officer,” Reilly said as he emerged from the tractor, his clipboard in his hand.

“Good evening, sir. We’re part of the Maryland State Police transportation unit, and we’re doing a spot check on those trucks that use the state’s highways. What’re you carrying tonight?”

“Electronic systems on consignment to Mactech Systems, north of Baltimore.”

“Mind if I take a look at your manifest?”

“No problem, officer,” Reilly responded as he handed over the paperwork.

While one trooper reviewed the manifest, the others set up the mobile scales. Road taxes were paid but they didn’t entitle the user to carry abnormally heavy loads. Reilly however wasn’t worried. He was well within limits. The PVS-2 had been developed under government contract, and God knows that everything developed by or for the Pentagon was weighed no less than ten times. He knew the weight of the cargo down to the pound. There wouldn’t be any surprises.

Ten minutes later, after several adjustments, the troopers had the gross vehicle weight. Reilly, having watched the process from the front of the tractor-trailer, was surprised to see the troopers congregate at the back of the trailer. Normally that meant that he was overweight, or they had found something else wrong and were debating how best to proceed.

Finally, one of the troopers approached Reilly. “There’s a problem . . .”

“Can’t be overweight, officer. I know the GVW coming out of Carolina and it’s well within limits. There’s no way . . .” Reilly implored.

“According to our scales, either you’re dragging an empty trailer or your cargo has up and disappeared. I think we’d better have a look.”

With the troopers behind him, Reilly unlocked the trailer. As soon as the door swung open, both troopers shined their six cell flashlights into the trailer. It was empty. Reilly gasped as he stared into the empty van.

He struggled, looking for something to say, but all that came out was, “What the hell?”

CHAPTER ONE

CH
The small, blue sphere ricocheted off the front wall and toward the racquetball court’s rear glass wall. Alexandra Davidson was in motion before the ball reached its intended objective. She moved toward the middle of the court, her body poised, legs perfectly positioned, her muscles tight.

As the ball flew from the back wall, she took possession of center court. Her racquet connected with the ball’s surface at just the right time, propelling it on a high-speed return trip to the front wall. It sailed in parabolic flight hitting the ceiling then sliding down the face of the wall, caressing it ever so slightly before bouncing twice before it dribbled across the floor.

Her opponent, one of her co-workers, never expected to see his last shot returned, much less to find himself totally off guard and thus unable to get into position in time for a return.

For weeks, Don Stark had watched Alex, as she preferred to be called, in the office
--the way she moved confident and self-assured, almost as if she was used to the countless pairs of eyes tracking her. Each time she had passed near Stark’s cubicle, his eyes rippled down her. His daydreams of Alex decked out in jogging shorts, her short hair framing a soft complexion running furiously after his serves kept Stark’s mind far removed from his assignment.

In the game’s opening parries, Stark’s aplomb had yet to be tested, and he still had time to lust after Alex as she moved around the court. Only later, when he found himself straining to keep up with his shapely opponent, did Stark forget about the face that haunted his dreams. He tried to bear down on her, but by then it was too late.

“Your point,” he conceded as he went back to the receiving zone at the rear of the racquetball court.

Alexandra bounced the ball against the floor as she returned to the service block located midway down the forty-foot long glassed
-in court. Deftly she bounced the ball one more time before striking it a glancing blow. The ball traversed the court hitting first the front wall only to carom off the wall and land with a single bounce between her opponent’s feet. His only chance at a return would have jeopardized the Stark family jewels.

Alex knew of Don Stark’s reputation
--both with respect to his racquetball prowess as well as his charm. In spite of his high self-esteem, she had decided to accept his invitation, only mentioning that she had played racquetball a few times during college. Stark didn’t think to ask, and Alex therefore didn’t volunteer that she had been the Harvard women’s champion two years straight.

Stark had been telling everyone at work how he’d mauled each and every new addition to the staff. Sooner or later it was going to be Alex’s turn on the courts. After a fair amount of teasing, some of which she wasn’t sure was in good jest, she acquiesced to the match.

Stark had begun by testing her as he tried to ascertain whether she played beginner’s or intermediate racquetball. His initial serves were lobs, easy to return. Alex quickly decided that two could play this game, so she gave back what he dished out. It wasn’t long before Stark found himself covering more and more of the court. As he struggled to reach Alex’s well-placed shots, he realized that he was badly outclassed. What he had first written off to beginner’s luck was no coincidence. Her aim was true, her positioning nearly perfect.

The match began with Stark taking the first game. Even then, it wasn’t by much. The second and third, Alex’s strong serve and well-placed shots gave her co-worker a tour of the court.

By now, Stark was used to Alex’s riveting shots--both when serving and during returns. They had agreed to play the best out of three games. The first two were a split. Alex needed the next point to salt away the match. She glanced over her shoulder checking Stark’s position. He stood ready, having positioned himself at the rear of the court all the way up against the back wall.

Alex bounced the ball once, and then lobbed it up toward the ceiling. The opposite of her power serve, the lob gracefully traveled to a spot high on the right side of the front wall. From the point of impact, the ball floated high in an arc, brushing the sidewall. The slight touch caused the ball to slow. When it landed in the backcourt, it literally died. Expecting Alex’s power serve, Don Stark stood there thunderstruck as the ball rolled along the floor.

“That’s game,” Alex commented in passing. Reaching up with the wristband, she wiped the sweat from her brow. “I think that does it. Besides our hour’s up.”

She didn’t comment, but it was obvious that Don Stark had expected to win handily. It wouldn’t do much for his ego when he explained that the scourge of the racquetball court had lost two of the three games. From Stark’s cold stare, it was obvious that he was busy trying to figure out what happened to him, losing much less at the hands of a woman. Oh well, he’d get over it.

As soon as they had exited the court, Stark mumbled something about a good game, and then headed for the men’s locker room. Alex stopped for a drink at the water cooler before opening the door marked “Women’s Locker Room”.

While she stripped off her sweat
-stained shorts and top, Alex wondered how Stark would explain his resounding defeat. Stark reveled in taking the office’s new additions out for a night of what he termed friendly racquetball. To the best of Alex’s knowledge, he had never lost a match–at least not until this morning’s.

Minutes later, she was standing in the shower stall, the hot water cascading down her back. For the last several months, since her assignment to the Baltimore office, she had been cleaning up some odds and ends. Finally the grunt work was over and she was ready for a real assignment. Not content with what they’d given her up ‘til now, she hoped that it would be a challenge.

Government service wasn’t at all what it was cracked up to be. There was the low pay, particularly when you compared it to the private sector, not to mention the hours. Well at least she had a job, which was more than she could say for some of her college friends who had opted for positions in private industry. With the recent economic situation, a number of them had been laid off and were collecting unemployment. At least, she didn’t have to worry about that.

Alex pulled her hair dryer from her exercise bag, plugged it in, and then began drying her hair. Like many other women who worked out frequently, Alex’s dark brown hair was cut short; her bangs just long enough to stop at the top of her eyebrows. As the dryer did its job, she brushed her hair slightly over toward the right side of her head. If it hadn’t been for her evident beauty, she could have been described as having a boyish look. Her last beau had told her that she reminded him of Meg Ryan, only with dark hair. She had considered that a compliment.

Alex finished dressing, and then checked her appearance in the full-length mirror. Her dark blue suit and white blouse presented the exact image she wished to maintain--cool professionalism characterized by a high degree of competency.

Carefully she applied her makeup, changing her mind about the shade of lipstick she’d wear today. She glanced around the locker room to see if anyone else had come in while she was in the shower. The room was empty.

From the recesses of her bag, she withdrew a .357 Sig-Sauer semi-automatic pistol, already in its holster, and clipped it to her belt. She then reached back in to the bag and removed a single fold black leather case. She wanted the thin leather case in her purse where she could easily reach it. Before placing the case inside, she flipped it open and glanced at the two cards and gold badge that identified her as a special agent of the FBI.