THE CYGNUS AGENDA
Richard Martin
Copyright © 2020 Richard Martin
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Also by the author:
The Hydrax Gamble
My sincere thanks to Hanna Attwell for her sterling work in copy editing and proof reading to such a high standard.
Also to Robert Elsey for his plot guidance and character development.
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
COPPERHEAD CANYON
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 1
They hadn`t stood a chance. And they didn`t even know it.
It had been seven against three, no problem for the three, at least under normal circumstances, but not tonight.
In a rain-soaked parking-lot of The Parakeet Bar, a ramshackle dive on Route 59, north-east of Linden, Texas, two men were dead. The third was in a comatose state, unlikely to survive for long and now being rushed to the ambulance on a gurney.
All three were Marines and built like them, but as Sheriff Crane gazed down on their broken bodies, pummelled to an unrecognisable state by heavy boots, he couldn`t believe it. Not only were they Marines, they were the elite guys, Special Forces, the most proficient fighting machines in the military. Pulling the cover-sheet back over the bodies he straightened and felt the disgust go right to the pit of his stomach.
As he surveyed the crime scene, officers and ambulance crews operated in the glare of eight State Police cruisers, their pulsating roof lights adding to the pervading sense of alarm. Floodlights were being hooked up to a generator truck, metal stakes hammered into the ground to hold the yellow cordon tape, a ring of State troopers already forming a human perimeter. Three ambulances stood by, doors open, awaiting an occupant, but none was forthcoming. Two bodies were in no need, the coroner having been summoned; the third Marine now in the hands of paramedics who had stopped the gurney and were in a desperate battle to save him. The police officers, pumped with adrenaline, were shouting out orders to each other as the crowd of onlookers stood by in silence, staring at the frantic activity, all of them captured by a sense of shock.
With a background of howling dogs, all fired up by the preceding violence and locked in their owner`s pick-ups, the state trooper had to raise his voice to be heard. “Seems like these boys were on leave,” he said to the Sheriff, “heading back to their home town in Tennessee. They stopped for a couple of beers and ran into the Benson brothers who were in real whack-job condition, all juiced up on crack according to the bartender.”
The Sheriff, built like an out-house and short on temper control, could barely contain his rage as he shouted in response. “These Marines could take them down one handed, so how the hell did that bunch of redneck motherfuckers get the drop on them?”
The trooper took a step back and wiped some rain drips from the rim of his hat before answering. “The Bensons were helped by two other crack heads, and one of their girlfriends really hit off when the Marines went down, jumping all over them, stomping as hard as she could according to a witness who said it was the most savage thing she`d ever seen. That witness is sat in my patrol car, crying her eyes out and shaking like hell. Her man`s with her and he ain`t no better.”
“Well nobody leaves here until I say so. You go tell them that. Everyone is going to make a statement and I`m not taking no for an answer. Didn`t see nothing ain`t going to cut it on this one, you got that? Now get the bartender over here.”
The bartender, with a well worn face and eyes that didn`t miss much, looked to be in a daze. “Never seen anything like this is in all my years,” he said to the Sheriff, “tried to stop it but got beaten back every time. The Benson`s were all cracked up, probably on meth, went totally nuts when the Marines wouldn`t fight back.”
“What do you mean wouldn`t fight back?”
“Started in the bar and the Marines didn`t want to know, got their ass out of there quick. But they got caught out here and then just cowered down, put their arms up to deflect the blows, didn`t stand a chance. And once they went down they were done. The Benson`s got all crazed up, called them boys yellow livered cowards while they were booting the hell out of them. And all because they wouldn`t fight back, made me sick.”
“These Marines were trained to take down guys of their own calibre, beat a dozen Bensons without breaking sweat, and you`re telling me they wimped out, all three of them? Just let those meatheads beat on them. The hell`s going on here?”
“Don`t know, Sheriff, whole thing`s freaked me out, but these boys sure didn`t fight back, not one bit.”
“Then you don`t know jack shit about Special Forces Marines, no way do they back off, never!”
“I know that, and it makes no sense, Sheriff, but that`s what happened.”
His angry eyes narrowing into slits, Sheriff Crane`s tone became aggressive. “I`ll tell you what makes sense; these boys` drinks were spiked and the tox report will confirm it. So give it up, whatever the hell your name is and don`t try to bullshit me. Who spiked the drinks and with what?”
“Name`s Roy, and I ain`t had so much as a speeding ticket in my life, so I`m not the bad-ass you`re looking for. No way were the drinks spiked, no way in hell. They drank beers
in bottles, so unless there`s something going down at the brewery you`re way off, Sheriff.”
“Well, we`ll see about that, and if you`re holding out on me I`ll come throw your lyin ass in jail, then let my boys show you how to respect the law.”
“I ain`t lyin, Sheriff, it went down like I said. I`ve stared into enough drugged up eyes in my time and I swear to God theirs were as clear as a mountain stream.”
As they exchanged an unbroken stare the Sheriff made it clear he was cutting nobody any slack tonight, and was no way giving the bartender a break as hostility crept back into his tone. “You look like a man searching for a lie to tell. Reckon I`m dumb enough to buy that? Tell me the truth, boy!”
“It is the goddamn truth, I swear!”
Sheriff Crane kept up the intensity of his cold stare and let the bartender sweat a bit more. “Okay, I`ll buy that, for now. So who are the other assholes that joined in the savagery? I want names!”
“One I`d never seen before, real mean looking dude, black hair all spiked up. The other was Johnny Red, shacks up with one of the Parker girls over in Aimesville. Reckon that was her did the stomping, crazy-assed bitch. Both the guys lost it as well, went into an uncontrolled rage, beating on them boys. The meth or crack cocaine was doing it, but the marines not fighting back seemed to take their violence to a whole new level.”
“The girl must be Jenny Parker,” said the Sheriff, spitting on the ground. “Fucking lunatic, always knew she was a psycho. Now you stay here until I say so, got that? Because I ain`t through with you yet.”
Receiving a compliant nod, the Sheriff turned and walked away leaving the bartender standing astride a pothole filling with water as more rain began to fall. Sheriff Crane`s disgust with what had gone down on his patch was eating him up, and now a feeling of revenge was beginning to replace his sense of justice. In over thirty years on the job he had seen his share of sickening crime scenes, but this one had gotten to him.
“McGill!” he shouted to his sergeant, “get your ass over here.”
The heavy set sergeant trundled his considerable frame across the noise filled parking lot and stopped a little too close to the Sheriff. “What are you my girlfriend, back the hell off, McGill, I don`t want to smell your breath. Now listen up. Get some muscle together, get over to the Benson place and drag these motherfuckers out of there. By the balls if you have to, in fact preferably. I want these boys to show clear signs they resisted arrest. You get my drift, sergeant?”
“What if they stick a bunch of shotguns through the window and threaten to shoot?”
“Jesus H. Christ, has nobody around here got any cahunas? Blast their ass to hell if they come up with any of that shit. They`re murdering sons of bitches, so on this one there ain`t no rules sergeant, got it?”
McGill seemed to get it pretty quick, smiling as he realised the power he had been given and the chance to play out a long held fantasy. “I`ll get these mothers for you, Sheriff, don`t you worry.”
On hearing McGill`s fired up words the Sheriff began to re-think his instructions, wondering if it had been irresponsible. It only took a few seconds to decide. “The hell with it, these murdering bastards deserve what`s coming to them. Go to it McGill, tear them up!”
Surveying the frenetic activity which seemed to be feeding on itself, the Sheriff turned his head away and watched the arrival of two more patrol cars, mud and pebbles kicked up as they skidded to a halt. He understood the adrenaline pumping response of his officers, their morbid fascination, and then their anger when told what had happened. He had been like that once, but tonight it was different: the savagery, the evil of such a gratuitous act, and right now all he could think about was quitting. Moving back to the third ambulance and staring in, he glanced at the medic sat by the third Marine. A shake of the head indicated that a triple murder was going to be tomorrow`s headline.
Looking up at a break in the fast moving, angry clouds, he caught a faint sliver of illumination from the quarter moon then trundled wearily back to the police car, threw his rain-soaked hat on the seat next to him and sat in silence. As he watched his sergeant spin the wheels of his cruiser and take off to round up the Benson brothers, two other patrol cars on his tail, he laid his head against the back-rest and reflected on what it all meant. His experience told him this was the start of something big, and that it would be an investigation which wouldn`t include him. It would be kicked up to a higher level, and after what he had seen, that suited him just fine. With the bizarre nature of the Marine`s slaying he knew that people further up the food chain would use a nationwide story like this for all sorts of purposes, their objectives entirely self serving, truth and justice a secondary consideration.
It was a week after the attack on the Marines that the national press frenzy got its first political move to latch on to. Crammed into a makeshift Press Room on a hot, humid day in Washington DC, the reporters cursed a set of ceiling fans that were fighting a losing battle, leaving everyone sweaty and agitated. The delay was now promoting a rumble of anger, the journalists given only scant information and left unsure who might be addressing them due to a last minute change. With speculation rising and rumour being given undue credence, some seemed puzzled, others convinced they were facing a snow job.
Nervously pacing off-stage was Senator John Carlucci who had been nominated to front the announcement, a keenly awaited response by the government to what was now a daily headline matter. People had been angered by the Texas incident and its irresponsible social media comments, fake news pouring fuel on the fire. The bludgeoning to death of three Marines had caused nationwide revulsion at the depths to which human depravity could sink. But questions were now being asked about the Marines themselves and their refusal to fight back. The demand for answers and accusations of a cover-up involving the military had now reached a stage where government action was unavoidable, and the Senator had drawn the short straw.
As Senator Carlucci prepared himself for the challenge by rehearsing his opening remarks, he monitored the awaiting Press-pack, their mood a clear indication of deepening hostility at government inaction. And now he could feel a burning sensation in his stomach as he prepared to take up position at the lectern. Every year for the past three he had played the long game, political cunning and expediency paying off; but today presented a unique opportunity, though a dangerous one. It meant sticking his neck out, a make or break pitch that he had kept from his top aide, knowing her disapproval was guaranteed.
Dabbing perspiration from his forehead he turned to her. “That`s a lynch mob out there. Menacing is the word that springs to mind. How the hell did I let myself get into this?”
His aide, Elizabeth Strom knew why, but she also knew it was the wrong time for a right answer. “You want the next job up then this is where it starts, you take the heat at this level. But tread carefully Senator, and no risky promises, okay?”
“Wouldn`t mind if the Defense Committee chairman could be trusted for the pay-back, but we both know he can`t, so this could be a sacrifice for nothing.”
“The chairman didn`t get to his position without knowing how to exploit people, he`s a master at it. Look what happened to his long time aide, Edward Mertz. He was thrown to the wolves. Congress is a community of the self interested, Senator, and you know that. Any reward in this game you`ve got to grab for yourself, no one`s going to hand it to you. So if you`re looking for any kind of thanks then you need a reality check.”
“And if I was to tell you that I do care about getting justice for these three Marines you`d turn away and laugh behind my back, that what you`re saying?
“Something like that,” Strom said. “Just don`t come across as incensed by the situation and get carried away in a wave of moral outrage, makes you look demented.”
“Your honesty is refreshing young lady, but would it be such a challenge for you to occasionally sugar-coat your remarks?”
Carlucci smiled and straightened. “I`m no Mertz, Elizabeth. I`m younger, more handsome.”
“Agreed, but he was elderly and a little wanting in the looks department, so I wouldn`t put much value on the comparison.”
“You don`t find me handsome?”
“Not going there, Senator, no way!”
“I`ll take that as a yes then.”
She cast him a rueful smile and shook her head. “Just watch out for the female reporters.”
“Why?”
“They`re not that keen on you.”
“You kidding? Why`s that?”
“Your history.”
“What about it?”
“Three divorces!”
“Okay, I`ll give you that one,” he said, tightening up his tie.
Pulling himself straight he took a deep breath. “Well here goes, into the pit of press-pack hell. I`ll give them my usual sweet-talk, emphasise how seriously the committee is taking this matter. See how that goes down, take it from there.”
Strom was right on it. “What! Try that and they`ll burst out laughing.”
“You reckon?”
“Yes I reckon. A committee investigation on something like this will promote deep skepticism and probably outright derision. Everyone knows it`ll be dragged out, go on forever then quietly sneaked out over a holiday weekend. Reality check, Senator, give them that bullshit and they`ll tear you up.”
He grinned. “Don`t see you ever passing the diplomacy test, Elizabeth.”
“Nor you,” she replied instantly.
Bracing himself, Carlucci took another deep breath. “Okay then, time for some leadership, take this thing head on, give them hell.”
The Cygnus Agenda Page 1
