WIP Excerpt: Plain View

May 30, 2012

The recent news story from Miami about the naked man cannibalizing another man made me do a double-take.  Police are suggesting that the perpetrator may have been high on a new designer drug which goes by the innocuous name, “bath salts.”  It is a designer drug which may even be legal as it is sold with the label that it should not be ingested.  Described as having the worst features of LSD, hallucinogenic mushrooms, and angel dust, the drug apparently  gives its user super human powers and elevates his/her body temperatures to extraordinarily high levels.  why did I do a double take?  I have been working on a segment of my follow on novel to Falling Star that incorporates such a drug for about ten years:

The Excerpt:

Project Gabriel had started as an ordinary drug interdiction coordinated by the Drug Enforcement Agency and the United States Coast Guard.  The object of the task force was to stem the flow of a new powerful recreational drug, Alowfin, which induced a euphoric state of mind in its users.  Enthusiastically endorsed by its users as a non-addictive high, the drug had quickly spread through the urban drug culture, attracting users from every socioeconomic level.  Alowfin was not a “street drug” as the term is commonly used.  Dealing was often done discreetly by what seemed to be a loose confederation of users.  However, something was not right with this synthetic drug.  An increasing number of users would become erratic and often destructive.  Most often these episodes would pass quickly and the victim would fall into a deep slumber.  When they awoke, it was as though there had been no negative effect from the drug whatsoever.

The report went on to say that Alowfin was very similar to the drug Scopolamine, a tropane alkaloid drug, derived from the fruit of the borrachero tree in Colombia.  Scopolamine is considered a powerful drug that causes its user to lose their free will while outwardly acting normal.  In this state the victim can easily be directed to do things against their own interests and have no knowledge about the episode thereafter.  Alowfin was worse than Scopolamine, it had an edgier effect and could result in a total loss of the cognitive state in the user, an effect denied by those who pushed for this drug.

A more grisly aspect of the Alowfin trade was recently discovered in a brownstone in Brooklyn’s Park Slope neighborhood; a middle-aged professor of antiquities was found murdered in his apartment.  The body was artfully displayed by his slayers holding one of his pre-Colombian objects, his robe was straightened up and, for all intent and purposes, the professor looked as though he had fallen asleep while examining the object.  The one disconcerting aspect of this tableau was that his throat had been slashed open and his tongue now hung out from the wound.  This particular method of execution was called a “Colombian Necktie.”  Apparently, the distributors of “Devil’s Breath” as Scopolamine was called on the street, were not going to sit idly while the more up-scaled purveyors of Alowfin encroached on their trade.  With this gruesome death of the professor, a firestorm of criticism was launched against the perception that the federal government wasn’t doing enough to stem the violence of Colombian drug lords.

Operation Gabriel was the federal response to this looming drug war between upscale recreational drug users (and distributors) and the street gangs who owned the Devil’s Breath franchise.  Started as an initiative of local authorities, the FBI, and the Drug Enforcement Agency, the U.S. Coast Guard was brought in to provide marine interdiction.

In the course of trying to contain this new drug threat, certain contaminants were found in drugs seized during Operation Gabriel.  These contaminants were microscopic specks of some crystalline-like substance.  These contaminants were considered byproducts of the pharmaceutical process that made Alowfin and were summarily discarded as inconsequential by the analysts.  The touted benefit of Alowfin was that it did not cause its users to go into a catatonic state according to street talk.

In the rare case, the manic state would persist and the victim had to be hospitalized for observation.  Users of Alowfin attributed these rare cases as the price to pay for what seemed to be a “harmless” recreational drug, often attributing the prolonged state to underlying psychological problems.

There was, however, a disturbing discovery in the relatively few, but increasing, cases where the user of Alowfin was accidentally killed while in a manic state.  During autopsies of these victims, examination of the brain would yield a small strange mass in the frontal lobe of their cerebrums.  While not microscopic, these masses were so tiny that they initially escaped detection in early autopsies.  In fact, the masses were initially discounted by forensic pathologists as insignificantly small benign tumors; recorded and forgotten.

One medical examiner, however, was intrigued on finding what appeared to be a benign tumor in the part of the otherwise normal and unremarkable brain that controlled emotions and critical thinking.  She decided to find out whether these “tumors” could have affected the victims altered state.  Rather than discarding the mass, the medical examiner decided to microscopically dissect the one “tumor.”  Her findings were unremarkable and consistent with benign tumors, though remarkable from the standpoint that it was found in the frontal lobe of the cerebrum.  She made a note of her findings and closed the file as another drug-related accidental death.

Because of their relationship to Alowfin, the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta was asked to review the approximately two dozen accidental deaths across the country.  A sharp-eyed lab technician at the CDC observed strikingly similar pathologies of the Alowfin related victims.  He noted that in each case where Alowfin was implicated, the same small benign tumor was present.  When this finding was presented to his department head, the technician was asked to run a statistically controlled sample of accident victims of similar race, age and gender; the results were startling.

The control sample did not have one instance of a tumor, benign or otherwise, being found in the frontal lobe of the cerebrums of non-Alowfin related accident victims.

As a result of this discovery, medical examiners around the United States were asked to look for the small tumor-like mass in autopsies that were related to Alowfin, including ones that were due to natural causes.  As the results trickled in to the CDC, it became increasingly evident that Alowfin related autopsies uniformly would find one of these masses.  Funds were made available to determine exactly what was the mass or tumor and how was it implicated in the manic state exhibited by its users.

A list of governmental and non-governmental laboratories was drawn up to receive tissue slices of the suspect masses for examination; including the biomedical center at CSAC.  The sending of a tissue sample to CSAC did not mean anything more than the fact that the CSAC biomedical center was one of the government’s most advanced laboratories.

When the tissue sample was initially received by CSAC, it was not given any priority as, frankly, CSAC was not in the business of drug interdiction or determining causes of drug-related deaths.  But this was to soon change.

Part of CSAC’s protocol was to run a DNA scan of any tissue it received for analysis.  This was merely standard protocol.  The use of DNA in forensic evaluations was at its early stages in 1996, the FBI was in the process of developing its own system.  CSAC, having access to almost unlimited funding had one of the best DNA laboratories in existence.  Although the CSAC analyst did not expect anything earth shaking, when he received the report back he dropped everything and literally ran to his department supervisor.  Why?  DNA analysis of the tissue sample was unlike anything that the analyst or anyone else had ever seen before.  Instead of standard chains of DNA or RNA, the report on the Alowfin tissue sample showed new structures.  Geneticists uniformly stated that such an occurrence was not just unlikely, but it was impossible and criticized the CSAC analysis.

Within CSAC, there was a more alarming response.  The fact that extraordinary and possibly alien elements were found in the tissue sample was enough to alert exobiologists in the agency to drop their other projects to look at these structures.  Their conclusion was that the tissue from the strange “tumor” was possibly extraterrestrial in origin and this finding was duly reported to Admiral McHugh.

McHugh’s response was to order a CSAC investigation of the Alowfin situation.  He turned to William Johnson, a Level One agent at CSAC and an active duty officer in the Marine Corps.  Bill Johnson had graduated from the U.S. Navy Academy in 1980 and had a spectacular rise in the marines, when he was assigned to CSAC to coordinate the Marine Corps role following the epic events of 1993.  As with any other trusted CSAC agent, Johnson was given other duties at the pleasure of Admiral Robert McHugh.

The first step was to have Johnson assigned to the marine detachment that was part of the strike force on Operation Gabriel.  Colonel Johnson was to be a liaison to the task force, ostensibly from the Marine Corps, and whose assignment was to prepare a report for the Commandant, USMC, on the effectiveness of the marine detachment to Operation Gabriel.  In reality, Bill Johnson was to try and learn all that he would about Alowfin, its manufacture, its sources, and its distribution network.

Mike put the secured browser on his computer on pause to get some dinner.  All that he had were microwavable dinners in his freezer and he popped one in for nuking and watched as his dinner pirouetted under the dim light.  He thought to himself that it would be so much better if the infernal machine would play a song, a waltz maybe, instead of that monotonous drone.  With a hellish squeak, the microwave announced his dinner was ready and Mike took the paper tray back into his secured work space.

Apparently the U.S. had enlisted the help from its allies across the pond in its attempts to identify the source of Alowfin, which was snuck into the country through Latin America, but seemed to be too sophisticated for the South American drug cartels.  MI-6 had assigned one of its top agents. Clifford Rashkin…

Mike paused on seeing the name of his old friend, Rashkin, in this report.  Clifford was an exchange student at the University of Virginia when Mike first met him.  They had kept in touch through the years as they each followed their own distinct, yet similar career paths.  Clifford’s wife Mirabelle, was a nursing student at the University.  She was from Fredericksburg, Virginia, but her parents had emigrated from Britain before her birth.

The report went on to say that MI-6 had been brought in because there were indications that a South African company, iEnzani, was somehow involved in the illicit trade.  This was vehemently denied by both iEnzani and South African officials.

Mike made a mental note to have Eric Johanson do some research into iEnzani, Eric joined Smedleys in 1993, during the intense CSAC activity in 1993.  Mike had taken a liking to the Minnesota native, a graduate of St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota.  In the three years, Eric had worked for Mike, he had matured immensely from the naïve new grad and was now a trusted associate in Mike’s team.

 

Enroute to Guam — WIP Plain View

May 19, 2012

Onboard the USNS Navajo, Enroute to Guam

 

 

            “Captain, we have a problem.”

            “I saw the reading on the inclinometer.”

            “I think that the tow is taking on water.”

            “What do the deckhands at the towline see?”  Ocean going tugs in the United States Navy are manned by a civilian crew with four naval officers in command.

            “It looks like the tow is sinking.”

            “Shit,” said Lt. Commander Joseph Sinecki as he told the helmsman to hold a steady course and he hurried to the stern of the Navajo.

            Sinecki was joined by his XO and Engineering officer at the towline.  Sure enough, the Benthic Rangers was sitting low in the water.  After connecting the tow, the external floatation had been taken off following an examination of the vessel’s hull integrity.  The external floats would have increased drag on the Navajo and it seemed to be the correct course of action.

            Sinecki called the bridge on his intercom,  “Radio Guam to tell them we have a problem.”

            Even before Sinecki could finish his instruction, the Benthic Ranger started rapidly sinking, causing the towline to go taunt.  With the sudden sinking of the Benthic Ranger, the Navajo, itelf was in danger of taking on water.  As the blue-green waters of the South Pacific started washing over the deck of the Navajo, Sinecki gave his order.

            “Cut the towline, Now!”

            The Japanese tuna fishing boat that had been tracking the tow took note.

A Benthic Ranger is Recovered – More WIP

May 15, 2012

Off-shore, Kairiru Island, Papua New Guinea

 

 

            “Permission to come aboard.”

            “Permission granted, Captain Mannington,” stated the young RAN lieutenant, as he returned the salute.  The RAN lieutenant was the acting officer of the deck abroad the Bentano.  “Commander Hastings is waiting for you on the bridge.  I will escort you, sir.”

            Mannington followed the young officer to the bridge where he was warmly greeted by Commander Hastings.

            “That boat yours?” inquired Hastings as he and Mannington stood on the bridge of the Bentano.

            “Yes,” replied Mannington as he looked at the Benthic Ranger now grounded on the shoals.

            “I guess that it is a research submersible, care to elucidate me?”

            “I’m sorry commander; I am not authorized to say anything more than it is a submersible and it is ours.  The United States thanks you for finding our lost ship.”

            “What are you going to do now?”

            “We have a special team coming to Papua New Guinea that can safely retrieve the submersible.  Barring any diplomatic snafus, it should be here in a few days.  Once the craft is freed from the reef, an ocean going tug will take it to our base in Guam.”

            “But is that necessary?  Guam is almost 1,300 nautical miles from here, we can certainly accommodate you yanks in Australia.  The South Pacific can be unpredictable.”

            “Thank you commander, but we have special facilities in Guam.”

            As predicted by Mannington, a small group of U.S. Navy vessels appear on the horizon fairly shortly thereafter.  The USNS Navajo, a Powhatan class ocean-going tug, stationed in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, would take the Benthic Ranger in tow.  She was accompanied by two destroyers, which seemed curious to the RAN officers on the Bentano.

            “You certainly don’t want anyone messing with this tow, do you?”

            “I guess Washington just doesn’t want anything to go wrong with this vessel,” replied Mannington.  “Can I quarter some of my divers and their gear on the Bentano?  There will be five of them.”

            “Sure can, mate,” replied Hastings.  “They can bunk with my clearance divers.”

            “Thank you, commander.”

            Unbeknownst to the Australians, the small flotilla was also shadowed by the USS Greeneville, (SSN -772) a fleet attack submarine that was recently commissioned in Hawaii.  The Greeneville was specially outfitted to deploy and retrieve U.S. Navy Seal teams underwater.  As the three surface ships approached the RAN group already in place, the Greeneville deliberately fell back and went silent.  There was no reason to let the Aussies know that an American attack submarine was in the area.

            Lieutenant Eoghan Thorson, USN, reported to Mannington along with his four man team on board the Bentano.  All five of the men stood about six feet tall and were lean and muscular.  The distinguishing characteristic of the team was seen in their quiet disposition; none of the men except Thorson spoke anything more than pleasantries during the introductions to the Australian clearance divers.

            Eoghan Thorson’s team would take the lead in securing the Benthic Ranger with a flotation collar and check the vessel for seaworthiness.  They would not attempt to enter the vessel.

            The Australian clearance divers were somewhat put off by the taciturn Americans, but chalked it up to the fact that the five man team would have to dislodge and float a “hot” vessel.  They could understand that the Americans were concerned and focused on their assignment that carried a potential for radiation poisoning.  What the Australians didn’t know was that Thorson and his men were members of the elite S.E.A.L. group and were working undercover.

 

 

 

 

 

Recovery –

 

 

            Lt. Thorson secured his craft to the Benthic Ranger and his team dove in to examine the vessel and attach the tow harness and flotation gear that they had carried with them.  After making sure that everything was solidly connected, Thorson backed off the stranded vessel and inflated the flotation bags.  The Benthic Ranger gave a shudder and rose from its bed.  Once afloat, two of Thorson’s crew dove underneath to make sure that there no glitches and that the bottom of the vehicle was undamaged..

            Mannington and the Australians stood on the bridge of the Bentano and watched the operation using binoculars.  The Australian officers were impressed with the speed and precise orchestration of the operation.

            “Your chaps sure have that down pat,” inquired Hastings.

            “They have a lot of experience at this,” replied Mannington.

            “Aren’t they concerned about radiation poisoning?  We found some fairly high readings around that craft and that is why we pulled our CDT off the scene.”

            “They know the risks; they’ve trained for this many times,” replied Mannington unsmilingly.  Besides they were given precautionary doses of iodine before boarding your vessel yesterday.  Anything they get should pass through their systems quickly.”

            As Thorson and his team floated the Benthic Ranger into deep water, the Navajo moved in closer to the action.  Eventually, a line was carried to the Navajo and using that line, a tow rope was feed out to the Benthic Ranger.  Once the shackle was secured, the dive team’s work was done and they motored over to one of the destroyers.

            As Mannington noted that the Navajo had taken the Benthic Ranger in tow, he bade farewell to his Australian host.  “Commander Hastings, please accept my personal and my government’s appreciation for assisting us in the recovery of this research vessel.  Now that my dive team has finished their work, I will join them on the destroyer for the journey to Guam.  With your leave, I would like to have my men gather the dive team’s belongings and join me on the launch.”

            With that Mannington gave Commander Hastings a smart salute and he retired to the launch that would take him to the American ship.

            Hastings watched the American convoy head over the horizon.  Without directing his comments to anyone in particular, he said, “Damn Americans, it would have been a lot quicker taking that thing to Darwin.”

            The departure of the Navajo with its package in tow was also observed by the various and sundry commercial vessels in the vicinity.  In particular, a tuna fishing ship had been trolling the sea off of Kairiru Island.  As the Navajo disappeared over the horizon, the tuna fishing vessel also broke free from the other tuna ships in the area and seemingly headed north toward Japan.

            “Is that your vessel?” inquired the captain of the tuna vessel to his companion on the deck.

            As their equally pale blue eyes met, the other person replied, “Yes.”

Another Chapter from Plain View (WIP)

May 12, 2012

CHAPTER ____: FOUND

 

 

 

 

Kairiru Island, Papua New Guinea

 

 

The little boy ran as fast as he could through the thick mangrove trees lining the shore and into the dense rainforest.  There was terror is his dark brown eyes as though he had seen a ghost.  What he had seen was something that his eight year-old eyes had never seen before.  He had been fishing in the shallow beach when he first saw the glint of the object, far off in the breakers.  It was monstrous.

Finally, he reached the small encampment of straw thatch houses.  He made a bee-line for the home of his maternal grandfather.

“Papa, Papa”, he screamed uncontrollably as he ran.  Breathless, he stopped at the doorway to his grandfather’s house.

“That is the matter, child”, his grandfather asked, worried about the timbre in his youngest grandchild’s voice.  His grandfather had been sleeping when he heard the child come rushing into the village.  The ruckus had drawn a small crowd around the grandfather’s home.  He was one of the elders of the small village and its inhabitants looked to the grandfather for guidance on all matters.

“Come quickly”, the child cried.  “There is something in the water and it looks scary.”

A small crowd followed the young child and his grandfather through the rainforest and mangroves to the pristine, white sand beach.  The clear azure waters extended for some distance, but the villagers could see the white object off in the breakers.  It was not any use trying to reach the object without sturdy canoes.  There were some encampments along the shore that had canoes, but tribal disputes were such that even a request to borrow a canoe would often take days of negotiation and often resulted in violence and bloodshed.  Even in this age, the Sepik remain a highly territorial, tribal society.

The grandfather turned to his villagers and said, “Let us go back to the haus tambaran.”

Leaving two teenage boys to stand guard, the men of the village walked back to their village to consider this event.  Once back in the relative security of their village, the men gathered at their sacred meeting lodge, the haus tambaran to discuss their dilemma.

“Elder”, addressed one of the younger men to the Grandfather.  “I have seen many ships on the horizon, but this is unlike anything that I have ever seen.”  This sentiment was uniformly agreed by all the men of the village.

After much discussion about what they should do, the grandfather said, “Two of you will go to Kairiru and seek out the advice of the officers there.  The others will take turns watching this object, whatever it is.  This may be a gift from the gods, but it may also be evil and approaching it without proper precautions would be foolhardy.”

The little boy watched these proceeding with wide open eyes; this was the first time that he had been allowed to sit with the men in haus tambaran.

Two of the strongest young men in the village were appointed to go to Kairiru, the main settlement on the island.  The trip would take several days, mainly because of the perils that awaited them on the journey of both the animal and human kind.  The women of the village packed meals of sacred yam to sustain them on the journey and the grandfather said a special prayer for their safe return.

 

 

Settlement

 

 

Casper Whitbey was taking a mid-afternoon nap when he heard a rustling in the forest near his small bodega.  Whitbey was used to how the Papua New Guinea natives would appear mysteriously on you when you were most unaware.  However, he was not worried, because he made it his purpose to treat the natives fairly and with respect, something that other traders living on Kairiru did not necessarily do, some of whose decorated skulls now rested in haus tambarans in remote villages deep in the jungles of Papua New Guinea.  Having studied anthropology at university, Whitbey had stayed on after the war in the Pacific to set up a trade store.

So it was no surprise to Whitbey when two young Sepik men showed up as silently as jungle cats on the prowl.  He got up and faced the young me, who were unknown to him.  Whitbey’s years on Kairiru equipped him with fluency in Nok Pisin, the pidgin language spoken throughout the islands.

“Good afternoon,” said Whitbey.  “Welcome to my home.”

“We have traveled far and we are hungry,” said the older of the two.

“Then we shall eat, and then we shall talk,” responded Whitbey as he went into his shack to find some suitable food.

After eating their fill, the two young men told Whitbey about the mysterious white object grounded on the breakers near their village and that the elders had sent them to him for help.  Whitbey went directly to his short-wave radio and reported the incident to mainland police.  Afterwards, Whitbey provisioned the two messengers and sent them home.

 

 

 

Off-shore, Kairiru Island, Papua New Guinea

 

 

The people of northeastern Kairiru Island had never seen such a vast armada of naval vessels and helicopters before in their entire lives.  Australia, responding to the request of the Papua New Guinea Navy had dispatched a small fleet of vessels.  Two of them, the HMAS Betano and the HMAS Brunei were amphibious warfare rated vessels capable of dispatching smaller vessels that also could reach the stranded object.  They were assisted by the HMAS Benalla, a catamaran used principally for hydrographic research.  The Benalla had a relatively shallow draft and could also reach the mysterious craft, but was not as maneuverable as the smaller boats from either the Betano or the Brunei.  Sitting further off the shoreline was the HMAS Darwin, an Adelaide Class, escort frigate.  A Sikorsky S-70B-2 Seahawk helicopter had been deployed by the Darwin and now hung motionless in the air above the beached white vehicle.

“What do you make of it?” asked Commander Jeremy Hasting, RAN, as he stood in the deck of the Darwin and looked at the activity around the strange white object.

“It’s a mystery, sir”, replied Timothy Blandings, a lieutenant commander in the Royal Australian Navy and the executive officer on the Darwin.  “I’ve never seen anything like it; I wonder whose it is.”

Blandings stood alongside Hasting and also watched the events unfold through binoculars.

Through their binoculars, the two officers watched members of Clearance Diving Team 4 who had been dispatched from the Betano who were already at the mysterious vessel.

“Do we have a patch?”

“Aye, Sir,” replied Blandings as he signaled to the bridge to direct radio transmission from CDT4 to the two officers.

“Damnedest thing I ever saw, Mate,” quipped one of the clearance divers.  “It looks like a submersible, but there aren’t any markings.”

“Hold on, the thing is hot.”

“Get the radiation detector out,” replied another clearance diver.

“Aye, Sir,” replied the first clearance diver.  “Positive.”

“Get that clearance team out of there” said Hastings.

Blandings replied, “Aye, Sir.  Darwin to CDT4.  You are ordered to pull back.  Do you understand?”

“CDT4 copies.”

The four man clearance team backed away from the mysterious vessel grounded off of Kairiru Island and sped back to the Betano.

“Have the team launch over from the Betano and come to the wardroom when they get back onboard, Jeremy,” said Hastings.  “I want a debrief on what they were able to find.”

“Aye, Sir.” Replied Blandings as he left his commanding officer standing on the deck.  Hastings continued observing the white object through his binoculars.

After CDT4 changed on the Betano and had been brought over to the Darwin, they proceeded to the small wardroom of the oceanographic research vessel.

As Commander Hastings entered the room, all the assembled officers and ranks snapped to attention.

“As you were,” said Hastings as he took the head chair of the conference table.  “O.K. what do we have?”

The first to speak was Sub Lieutenant Jeffery Townsend, who led the four man team to the stranded vessel.  “Sir, we approached the object from the beach side of the location and took photographs of a white vehicle which appears to be intact despite having gone through the breakers and been beached; remarkably without any scratches or other damage.  It looks like a submersible of unknown manufacture.  There were no visible markings on any part of the vehicle.

“As we got nearer to the vessel, we saw that it has portholes and a fairly large front window.  However, all the windows have been darkened and we could not see inside.  There does not appear to be any passengers in the vehicle.  We did not see any hatchways on the upper part of the object.

“I dispatched CPO Waterson to swim under the vessel.  Upon surfacing, Waterson reported that there is a hatch and locking mechanism on the underside.  Again, there were no markings to indicate the country of origin.

“We measured the vessel and the readings came out most logically in English measurement.”

“What do you mean, ‘English’ measurement? asked Hastings.

“Sir, the craft measured out in feet and inches and there is only one country that still maintains that system of measurement.”

“The United States,” uttered Blandings.

“Aye, Sir.  I think we have a United States vessel.  Given the size and lack of markings, I suspect that it is from their Navy.”

Chapter One – Plain View

May 9, 2012

            Beginnings –                                          

 

 

            “He was killed by a hit and run jogger.”

            “What?!”

            “That’s not really funny you know,” said the third man at the table.

            “Yeah, but damn it you just can’t get morose.  As far as we can tell, Colonel Johnson was waiting for a cab at 21st and Pennsylvania when a man in a jogging suit bumped into him.  After the two collided, witnesses saw the jogger run off and Colonel Johnson fall to the ground in a heap.  He lapsed into a comma and never recovered.”

            “What happened to the jogger?”

            “In the confusion, he got away.”

            “Didn’t anyone give chase?”

            “No, happened too quickly.  Every there rushed to help Johnson.”

            “Was there an autopsy?”

            “Yes.”

“And?”

            “The toxic scan revealed a large amount of curare mixed with a neurotoxin of unknown chemistry in Johnson’s tissue samples.”

            “Were there any physical signs?”

            “Nothing except for a puncture wound, like a large hypodermic needle, with skin discoloration around it.  You know, like a botched up injection.”

            “Sounds like the Bulgarian attack on one of its exiled diplomats in London in the Sixties,” commented Mike Liu, who was sitting at the table in the coffee shop of the Four Seasons Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, near 29th Street on the fringes of Georgetown.

            “Yeah, that’s right,” replied Tom Jamieson, shifting ever so subtlety as he casually glanced about the small coffee shop.

            The third man at the small table who had been listening to the tale of Colonel Johnson’s demise was George Smith, the security chief for CSAC, an interagency group whose existence was a closely held secret of the United States.  Both Mike Liu and Tom Jamieson were Level One Agents of CSAC.  They had been called to this breakfast meeting by George Smith on orders from the Old Man, himself.

            Smith was dressed in a dark blue suit, black wingtip shoes, starched white shirt, and striped necktie.  His dark brown hair was closely cut and neatly combed in place.  The familiar scent of a popular aftershave hung over George Smith.  Smith’s eyeglasses were constructed of heavy black plastic, some say as a political statement harkening back to the presidential campaign of 1964.  Secretly, George wore these glasses in an attempt to copy the look of singer Roy Orbison, whom George greatly admired.

            Mike, in Washington to attend a conference on Independent Energy Producers, was a Managing Director of Franklin Smedley & Associates, a major investment bank in New York City.  He was the partner in charge of the investment firm’s project finance practice.  Because Mike’s practice was international he had to travel extensively around the world working on various project financing assignments, which served as an excellent cover for his long time clandestine relationship with CSAC.  As a Level One Agent, Mike could be called at any time by the Old Man to serve in the defense of his country.  In the past, these assignments have ranged from domestic matters to international matters of state.

            Mike was dressed in his customary dark gray pinstriped suit, brilliantly shined plain toed black shoes, a white buttoned down cotton broadloom shirt, and red and blue necktie.  His graying hair was combed severely back on his head.  Mike’s tanned countenance was the product of both heritage and hours spent fishing, his one secret vice.  Mike did not carry a scent, having decided some years ago to put his lime cologne in his closet where it was promptly forgotten.  Mike had been a member of CSAC since his days as a junior naval officer serving under Robert McHugh.  Admiral McHugh was now the Chief of Operations at the super secret agency.

            McHugh kept his Chinese-American protégé as a Level One Agent even after Mike finished his active service tour in the early Seventies to go work in private industry.  Mike remained a reserve officer in the United States Navy and now held the rank of commander.  However, his occasional duties for CSAC did not normally require activation.  For example, during the tense three week period five years ago in the Red Army affair, Mike was called to investigate and cauterize leaks in a secret government laboratory even though he was ostensibly there on a privatization study.  His duty was discharged with, as they say, “extreme prejudice.”  The leaks went away, far away, even as Mike concluded that the privatization did not make sense for his investment group.

Mike didn’t know nor did he care to know exactly what being a Level One Agent for CSAC entailed.  He just knew that he was accountable to no one except the Old Man.  That was enough for him.  Whenever the Old Man had an assignment for Mike, the beautiful and willowy Margaret Marston was always there with his orders and his .38 caliber seven shot Walther PP.  The automatic pistol had been Mike’s to use for the last twenty five years.  Despite the fact that Mike had “retired” from the agency in the mid-seventies, Mike had been seconded regularly by McHugh to work with civilian agencies such as the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Central Intelligence Agency.

            Mike was intrigued by the tale of an army colonel killed by a hit and run jogger.  “What was Johnson doing that was so interesting?”

            After quickly glancing to satisfy himself that no eavesdroppers were about, George Smith replied quietly “Bill Johnson was with a special Marine detachment assigned to Operation Gabriel.”

            “Operation Gabriel?” asked Mike.

When George called to set up a meeting, Mike explained that although he was going to be in Washington for the Independent Energy Producers Conference, he was not going to be able to get up to CSAC headquarters, but he could meet Smith for breakfast at the Four Seasons.  Curiously, George jumped at the chance to meet Mike at the relatively open, and certainly not secure, coffee shop.  Mike had been taken aback by Smith’s eagerness to see him there rather than at the CSAC Washington Headquarters in Northwest Washington.

            “We’re not at liberty to describe Operation Gabriel unless we are secure,” interjected Tom Jamieson.

            Tom Jamieson, whose cover was as an international free lance stringer for the networks, was dressed in a brown wool tweed jacket, despite the warm weather in Washington.  He wore a blue all-cotton broadloom buttoned down shirt from his favorite sports apparel company.  His khaki cotton twill trousers were neatly pressed and were held on by a brown leather belt with hand cut patterns.  His brown loafers covered green cotton Argyle socks.  Jamieson preferred a popular aftershave, the scent took over the small booth in which the trio sat.

            Tom’s sandy colored hair was a bit on the long side, which annoyed the much more conservative Smith to no end.  Underneath his tweed jacket, a Beretta sat in a brown leather shoulder harness.  Tom had been called upon to use his seven shot Berretta many times during his career with CSAC, as did all other Level One Agents.  The training received by Level One Agents was among the most grueling of any in the world.  The Agents were taught to shoot first, ask questions later.  They were accountable to only Robert McHugh, Chief of Operations – CSAC.

            “Yeah,” joined in George Smith, as he pushed a manila envelope over to Mike.  “You will find out more in these declassified briefing papers.”

            “So what do we have to do?” asked Mike Liu.

            “The Old Man wants to know your availability,” replied George Smith.

            With that final comment the three parted company, Mike to attend the IEP conference and George Smith to CSAC headquarters in Northwest Washington.  Jamieson walked down Pennsylvania Avenue toward H Street, and after casually glancing back to make sure he was not followed, he stopped briefly to make a call at a corner pay phone.

            “Hello, Jamieson here.”

            “Yes.”

            “We had our meeting.”

            “O.K.”

            Jamieson’s pale blue eyes stared at the telephone for a moment.  He then turned and quickly continued his walk up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House.

Written Over Twenty Years Ago, Falling Star Still Tells It Like It Is

April 28, 2012

According to an article in the Washington Post today, terror expert Peter Bergen used the following characterization to describe Osama Bin Laden’s compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan:

“It was as if the compound’s inhabitants were living at a makeshift but long-term campsite.”

Readers of my novel, Falling Star, may find this description eerily similar to how one of my characters described the living accommodations of a terrorist:

“Mildred went through the few possessions of Julie Davenport. She was amazed at the lack of personality in the room. It was almost as if Davenport had been camping out.

Maybe, thought Mildred, that is exactly what Julie Davenport was doing.”

But Falling Star was written in 1990-1991 and released in 2010.

Sometimes I scare myself by the prescience that Falling Star contains, such as the Russian spy ring discovered in 2010 (and the reason that I finally decided to self-publish) and the huge mysterious object that was found on the floor of the Baltic Sea by Swedish explorers in 2011.

If you haven’t read Falling Star, you might want to if only to see what else is coming down the pike for us in real life.  You can check it out as part of A Triple Thriller Fest, a box set with co-authors Michael Wallace and Gordon Ryan at http://amzn.to/ATripleThrillerFest or on its own at http://amzn.to/Falling-Star

 The Washington Post story can be found at http://wapo.st/IaPvzN.

A Triple Thriller Fest

March 1, 2012

A Triple Thriller Fest

I have teamed up with Michael Wallace and Gordon Ryan to produce a Boxed Set, called A Triple Thriller Fest. It is now available at Amazon. If you read any of these three novels already and posted a review, we would be very grateful if you would Cut and Paste your review into this book page so it gains visibility quickly. Thanks for supporting us. http://www.amazon.com/A-Triple-Thriller-Fest-ebook/dp/B007FKSFFK

My Apology

February 2, 2012

My Apology

I don’t know how else to say it: It’s my fault.

We are experiencing an unusually warm winter; thousands of high temperature records are melting away like the scant snow falls that we have had this winter. Learned climatologists and other atmospheric and environmental scientists are saying that it’s due to climate change and global warming. There is, however, a more prosaic reason — and it is my fault.

Millions of children will be denied the chance to sled down hills, build snowmen and snow castles, and throw snowballs at each other. Young urban professionals will not be able to go skiing on the weekends and nosh during intimate après ski gatherings. Poets and lovers will not be able to take soulful walks in the driving snow with ice crystals stinging their faces. There is no excuse for hot mulled wine; you would rather have a nice cool drink. Why? It’s my fault.

In my over sixty-seven years, I have lived most of the time in the Northeast, Mid-Atlantic and Rocky Mountain regions of America. I have suffered through blistering winters and even a six foot high snowfall in Minneapolis (over three days) that forced me to practically tunnel to my car. Even when I briefly lived in the San Francisco Bay Area, it snowed that year. For four years, I lived in South Africa, high on the plateau where temperatures were always warm and the sky is sunny. You guessed it; a rare snowfall while I was there. Through it all, I soldiered on with snow shovel in hand, bravely flirting with a coronary to dig a path to the street. But I did something this year that was terrible.

You see, I just moved to Michigan. I was told by the older residents that annual snowfall would be daunting and I did something that I had never, ever, done before. I went out and bought a snow blower. Yes, I actually bought a two-stage snow blower to help me through the pending winter. A brand new, never been used snow blower. The offending machine (above photo) has never blown one flake of snow and sits in my garage, gathering dust, and providing a home for Charlotte to build her web and raise her family. So now you see why it is my fault. I bought a snow blower; it will never snow again. I’m sorry.

On Point Review of Falling Star

January 30, 2012

I just got this “on point” five star review of my very realistic Science Fiction Thriller, Falling Star:

“This is the kind of science fiction I enjoy reading. It is credible and creates a tangible suspense that keeps you thinking throughout. Solidly written, a captivating storyline, I highly recommend it not only to true sci-fi readers but also to those approaching the genre for the first time. The only reserve I have is that at times it becomes too descriptive when there is no real need, but some might enjoy the detail oriented structure of the book and it does in no way take away from the enjoyment of the story. A very satisfying read, indeed!”

Falling Star has received 54 four and five star reviews across the various online stores in which it is offered, including 27 in Amazon US and UK alone.

I hope that you will check it out and share this post.

Thank you,

Featured Writer this Month in Buggie4books

January 23, 2012
I am featured this month in Buggie4books! Hope you will check it out. http://buggie4books.blogspot.com/2012/01/author-of-month-jan-2012-philip-chen.html

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