Shattered Legacy

by Shane R. Daley

Dusty cleared his throat. “Hello, Jacob,” he said, stepping inside the large corner office and closing the door.

  Jackson’s head snapped up. He blinked once and swallowed thickly. Dropping the file he was holding back into the drawer, he eased back into his leather chair and calmly faced his visitor from across the desk.

  “Dusty,” the older man said with a forced smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “I think you know why I’m here.” Dusty glanced over at the television on the bookshelf. Though the sound was muted, he could see that it was playing a news report on Samson Tyler’s press conference.

  Jackson stared the television for a moment, and then looked back at Dusty. Slowly he reached out for the cigar box on his desk, lifted the lid, and picked up a cigar. Dusty watched as Jackson calmly bit off the end of the cigar and produced a silver lighter. Then Jackson lit the cigar and reclined back, puffing a few times. He snapped the lighter closed and tossed it back on the desk.

  The older man sucked on the cigar and blew a thick mass of smoke toward the ceiling. “You know,” he said slowly, “after everything I've done for this company, you'd think they'd have let me smoke in my own office. Do you think I'll set off the fire alarm?”

  The blue cloud drifted before Dusty. “I think that would be the least of your problems, Jacob.”

  The older man shrugged. “I suppose it would.” Then he shook his head slowly and sighed. With one hand he pushed aside a stack of papers and set the cigar down on the edge of his crystal ashtray. “Tell me something, Dusty.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. “Do you think I'm a crook?”

  “Jacob, I don't know what to think. Apparently someone has been running an inside trading scheme using this company’s purchasing and distribution systems. I have it on good authority that you, Jacob, are somehow mixed up in this situation.”

  “If I fill you in on the details, can you help me?”

  Dusty shook his head. “I work for the company, not for the employees.”

  “Fair enough. It doesn't matter now, anyway.” Jackson laughed; it was a rough, harsh sound.

  “Call your attorney,” Dusty said. “You’re going to need one.”

  Jackson was staring ahead, his eyes slightly out of focus. “You know, Samson was supposed to be a pawn - a patsy, if we needed one. That’s why we created evidence to implicate him. I just didn’t think Merrick would release it all so quickly...”

  Dusty took a step forward. “I’m serious, Jacob. Whatever you tell me will not be kept confidential.”

  Jackson’s focus returned and he grinned wolfishly, his voice dropping to a conspirator level. “I helped Sinclair Dorian get this company on its feet. The man may have been a dreamer, but we both knew damn well the reality of getting our project off the ground. We knew we could never raise enough money for the venture if people knew just how expensive it would be. Our most optimistic projections didn't project us to break even for at least a decade. So when we went public, we -”

  “Jacob -”

  “- cooked the numbers like a day-old pot roast. But this was never about the money; in the beginning it was about raising public awareness and support.” Jackson shrugged. “By all rights, the SEC should have nailed us, but thanks to some clever bookkeeping, nobody was able to quite put things together. I think some of our legal team was suspicious, though.”

  Dusty nodded slowly. The pieces were coming together. “But Samson Tyler stayed, and you rewarded him with a promotion to general counsel? Did Samson known about the fraud?”

  “Nah,” Jackson replied with a shake of his head. He picked up his cigar and gestured with it. “Samson Tyler was an associate back then. He did a lot of the grunt work. We told him we were innocent, and at the time he had no reason to think otherwise. Anyway, after the SEC trouble, Sinclair and I both agreed to play things straight.”

  Dusty pursed his lips.

  “And we did play it straight, for a while,” Jackson said in response to Dusty’s unasked question. “Over the long haul, though, we didn't have enough cash or credit to pull us through the first orbiter launch.” Then he looked away, and his expression softened. “Merrick approached me about a year ago. She just sort of ... appeared in my life. She was very charming, very straightforward, and very attractive. We struck up a friendship. Soon it became something more. She used me, and I let her.” His expression suddenly sobered. “How did Samson connect her with me?”

  “I don't know,” Dusty replied. “Maybe she told him.”

  “I doubt it. She was a secrecy nut. She blackmailed me, you know. She knew everything that the company had done, everything we had done to cover our tracks. She said that she had proof in her possession. She told me that if I didn’t give her access our purchasing systems, she would tip off the authorities.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I told her to go to hell,” Jackson said, glancing up. “So then she told me that she would sweeten the deal by guaranteeing cash into Templar's coffers - and I mean a lot of cash. At the time, Templar was going over the edge financially. The money she provided was easily laundered through our accounting systems. How could I refuse? It was like the perfect present, all gift-wrapped with a pretty bow.” He frowned and shook his head. “Don't look at me like that, son. The money wasn't for me. It was for the company. No one was getting hurt. Only when the government watchdogs started to sniff around did Merrick panic and decide to shut everything down.”

  “And that's when she approached Samson Tyler,” Dusty said.

  “Samson was the only person who could figure out what was really going on.” Jackson gave the attorney a grim look. “We tried to keep him off-balance by suggesting that the investigation was politically-motivated. He didn’t bite, so Merrick decided to throw some obstacles in his way. That’s why she set fire to his apartment and sent the fake death threats. Even then, he kept putting things together. In the end, the leaked documents implicating Samson were just an act of desperation.”

  “And what does Sinclair Dorian know?”

  Jackson snorted. “Sinclair is a tired, sick man. I control this company, Dusty. I've been running things here for a long time now.”

  “Yes, you have. Right into the ground.”

  Jackson smiled bitterly.

  Cindy rushed into the office. “Dusty, I tried to find you, but -”

  Half a dozen FBI agents followed her inside and spread throughout the office.

  “You are to immediately cease all operations at this facility,” Agent Andrew Lowell announced as he strode through the doorway. His mouth was half-curled up in a smile. “We have a court order.”

  Dusty took the paperwork from Lowell. “Whatever you need,” he said grimly. “You'll have our complete cooperation.”

  Lowell turned to Jackson, who was still seated behind his desk. “Jacob Jackson, you are under arrest.”

  Jackson didn’t seem to hear the agent as he stared at his smoldering cigar in the ashtray.

  “Mr. Jackson?”

  Finally, he looked up with a curious expression on his face. “I’m glad you’re here.” He stood, held up his hands, and offered them to the nearest agent. “I’d like to discuss entering a witness protection program.”

  “That may be a bit premature, Mr. Jackson,” Lowell said. He turned to Dusty. “We need to see Samson Tyler.”

  “He’s on his way back from New Mexico. He gives his regards.”

  Jackson walked around his desk as Agent Ramirez flashed a pair of handcuffs. Jackson did not resist as his hands were bound behind his back and Ramirez read him his legal rights.

  “Why don’t we do this here?” Jackson asked. “I’m ready to talk now. I’ll tell you -”

  “Jacob,” Dusty interrupted. “Don't say anything.”

  “Look, I've already admitted everything to Dusty,” Jackson told Lowell. His eyes went wide as he looked at the other agents in turn. His voice rose in pitch. “It was just Merrick and me. No one else knew what was going on. I swear to
God!”

  “Not another word,” Dusty warned.

  Jackson exhaled a long breath, and then his knees buckled. Two agents reached out to catch him by the arms and gently turned him aside. Jackson glanced up at Dusty with a strange half-smile. He blinked away a stray strand of hair that fell over his eyes.

  Then the agents gently prodded him to the door and led him through the knot of employees that had gathered outside.

  Shoulders slumped, Dusty followed them out. He pulled loose his tie and collar. The hard part was just beginning. The FBI was taking over the offices. News of Jackson’s arrest would be public within the hour.

  Cindy was standing in the corridor, watching the agents leave with Jackson. She approached Dusty as the crowd started dispersing.

  “Do you have something for me?” he asked quietly.

  “It’s all here,” she replied, handing him a thick folder. “Samson added his own notes. It's a pretty damning story.”

  “I know,” Dusty said as he turned away. “And it’s not over yet.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The Naiad blazed through the atmosphere at seventeen thousand miles per hour. The aft steering jets, controlled remotely from the Thomas Dorian Space Center, were keeping the orbiter at a forty-degree attitude. Friction from air molecules was heating the bottom of the orbiter to a temperature of almost three thousand degrees. At this most critical stage, the hot ionized gases surrounding the craft would soon prevent radio contact with the ground.

  In the Control Tower, Noah Gettleman paced the upper command deck, his eyes fixed on the wall monitors and the scrolling readouts. The computer telemetry controlling the orbiter’s flight angle and speed was keeping the Naiad's port engine cooler than it would have been normally, reducing the chance of reentry heat potentially destroying the engine. Once the communications blackout began, a quickly-written guidance program would automatically take over. There had been little time to calculate an accurate simulation, but the engineers had given it their best shot. If their numbers were correct, the orbiter would come out of the blackout period with both engines intact. If they were wrong, it was likely that they would never hear from the spacecraft again.

  Only after the blackout period would they know if they were successful.

  That meant seven minutes of waiting. Seven minutes for everything to go wrong.

  Gettleman was so lost in thought that it startled him to hear a burst of static and Commander McManus's voice over the open channel.

  “Control, this is Naiad. We are at entry interface. Ready for loss of signal. Over.”

  To Gettleman, the entire control tower seemed to fall silent, as if his people were waiting for him to speak. The situation was out of his control now; he knew that as well as anyone. Still, they looked to him to give their spacecraft a farewell, and so he did.

  “Roger,” he said into his microphone. “Control out.”

  There was now nothing more to do but to wait and hope. Gettleman walked down the platform steps and approached the nearest station tech. He looked over the tech’s shoulder and pointed at the screen. “When the orbiter exits the blackout, let me know if pressure readings on the fuel manifolds have dropped. If they’re leaking residual propellant, odds are it will ignite during the second roll reversal.”

  “Dr. Gettleman?” called a voice from across the crowded room.

  He looked up to where a station manager waved for Gettleman’s attention. She signaled to Gettleman with her hand - two fingers and a closed fist. Gettleman nodded in recognition; he was on his way.

  “Noah,” called another voice, louder and closer. Gettleman heard the approaching sounds of footsteps behind him and turned to face Jack Kroft.

  “What’s the word, Noah?” The agency director did not look happy.

  “The orbiter just entered the blackout period,” Gettleman answered. He glanced up at the observation room windows, wondering what could have made Kroft leave his precious guests. “What can I do for you, Jack?”

  Kroft leaned close. “I want to talk to you about how you plan handle our little … misunderstanding.”

  Gettleman raised his hands and immediately started to back away. “I am not discussing that right now.”

  Kroft folded his arms over his chest and leveled Gettleman a steady gaze.

  Gettleman scowled. “I have a spacecraft that is in danger of being destroyed, and you’re asking me what kind of report I’m going to write tomorrow? Go back upstairs to your friends.”

  “I could have you have you removed from this room, Noah.”

  “Really?” Gettleman lifted his eyebrows. “And who's going be your flight director?”

  “There are plenty of qualified -”

  “Go ahead and get them,” Gettleman challenged. He took another step back and spread his arms. He spoke grandly, loud enough for everyone around to hear. “Right now I am the only person you're going to find in the next thirty minutes who is capable of getting our bird back on the ground. So unless you have something important to contribute here or you can do my job better than me, please shut the hell up and leave.”

  A few people glanced up, but no one said a word.

  Kroft’s eyes widened. For a long moment, both men eyed each other warily. Finally, Kroft glanced away and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “So, what are the odds?” he asked quietly.

  Gettleman glanced at the ever-present clock on the far wall. “We have five minutes until the orbit exits the blackout period. The reentry heat brings the worst danger, but we won't know their status until we reestablish communications. I’m thinking now that we should double the emergency safety radius.”

  Kroft frowned. “You mean, move the spectators?”

  Gettleman frowned back. “You mean to tell me that there are still people in the observation decks? We didn’t evacuate them the moment those satellite photos came in?”

  “Those people paid good money to see that ship land.”

  “They didn't pay to have their safety at risk. Our procedures state -”

  “They're far enough away, Noah. God forbid, even if the spacecraft exploded on the runway, no one would be in danger.”

  Gettleman leaned close and looked the administrator in the eye. “Jack, I want the spectators removed from the property.”

  Kroft studied the senior flight director, as if to gauge his true intentions. Gettleman was completely serious about clearing the stands. Besides the physical risk of anyone being too close, they both knew it would be better for spectators not to view a mishap firsthand.

  Kroft swept a hand over his chin. “All right,” he said softly. “Do it.”

  Gettleman motioned to an aide. “I want the observation decks cleared immediately and all civilians evacuated from the spaceport.” As the aide turned to leave, another thought struck him, and he added, “Also, have all our reserve units help the runway crew prepare for an emergency landing.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  It was all over.

  The preparation, the months of careful execution, and the continuous sheer attention to detail had all been wasted. Samson Tyler had ruined everything with a two-minute speech.

  Damn him!

  Alone in the elevator, Merrick gritted her teeth, silently acknowledging that she had underestimated the young attorney. Not only had he dealt with everything thrown at him, but he managed to turn the tables on her. And he had done it in such a devastatingly simple way.

  She felt the weight of Lanton’s stolen pistol in her pocket and scowled. With her cover blown, there was no time for subtlety. She needed to escape the space center and figure out the fastest way out of the country. She needed to get to the private hangar of the Vehicle Assembly Building. That was the safest place to steal a car or even a plane, if one was available.

  Though she would have been happy to have simply walked away from Templar Enterprises, Tyler’s actions now forced her to take a scorched-earth approach.

  First, she needed a distraction.


  The elevator doors opened onto the main floor. She strode out and immediately bumped into another person, who cried out and stumbled back, her cane clattering to the floor.

  It was an older woman. She was in her late sixties, thin, with white hair tied back in a bun.

  Merrick reached out and grasped the woman by the arm, keeping her from falling to the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” Merrick said. Because she was rattled, she made the stupid mistake of nearly knocking down an elderly woman.

  “No, excuse me,” the woman replied, putting her hand out to the wall. “I shouldn’t have been standing in front of the doors like that.”

  “No harm done.” Merrick reached down to pick up the woman’s fallen cane. As she handed it back to the woman, she frowned. “Where are you headed?”

  “Downstairs to the computer center.” She smiled. “Clerical work, not technical. I’m actually not that good with computers, if you can believe it.”

  Merrick smiled back grimly. “Well, you might not want to take this elevator. It seems to be having problems. I was going to go tell someone about it.” Merrick pointed to the far end of the hallway. “You might want to take the stairs instead.”

  The old woman sighed. “Better walking the stairs than getting stuck in the elevator, I suppose. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Merrick nodded at the woman’s cane. “And take your time.”

  As Merrick strode away, she couldn’t help but grimace.

  Lanton was right. She was getting soft.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the detonator. Lanton was probably still in the closet, unconscious. Even if he was awake, he was probably still bound up with the flex cuffs.

  Too bad for him.

  Then she flipped the safety, ran her thumb over the transmit button, and pressed it.

  Two seconds later, the bomb detonated in the utility closet in the basement. In that first half-second, shrapnel erupted through the cement wall of the utility room, completely obliterating the main electrical conduits and power controls. The accompanying shock wave blew apart the adjacent wall in the computer center, destroying rows upon rows of computer hardware and backup power supplies.