USA, Inc. (A Mike Wardman Novel: Book 1)
Page 1
USA, Inc.
Larry Kahaner
Bay City Publishers, Washington, DC
Also by Larry Kahaner
AK-47
Competitive Intelligence
Values, Prosperity and the Talmud
Cults That Kill
On the Line
Naked Prey (pseud. Larry Kane)
USA, INC.
Copyright © 2016 by Larry Kahaner
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Edition, December, 2016
Ebook edition: ISBN-10:0-9984203-0-1
ISBN-13:978-0-9984203-0-1
Bay City Publishers
Box 1051
McLean, VA 22101
www.BayCityPublishers.com
Visit the author’s website: www.Kahaner.com
Visit the author’s blog: www.non-fictionnovelist.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/USAIncthebook/
Author’s Amazon page: www.amazon.com/author/larrykahaner
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/172107.Larry_Kahaner
Twitter: @Larry_Kahaner
Cover design by Bespoke Book Covers
Interior design by 52 Novels
Contents
Also by Larry Kahaner • Copyright
Prologue
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 • Chapter 37 • Chapter 38 • Chapter 39 • Chapter 40 • Chapter 41 • Chapter 42 • Chapter 43 • Chapter 44 • Chapter 45 • Chapter 46 • Chapter 47 • Chapter 48 • Chapter 49 • Chapter 50 • Chapter 51 • Chapter 52 • Chapter 53 • Chapter 54 • Chapter 55 • Chapter 56 • Chapter 57 • Chapter 58 • Chapter 59 • Chapter 60 • Chapter 61 • Chapter 62 • Chapter 63
Epilogue
Acknowledgements • About the Author
Prologue
Surveyor Buck Walters had no idea why he had been sent here to recheck Mason and Dixon’s work. On this day, standing among weeds, smelling mud, swatting mosquitoes, and shooing the occasional black snake with his boot, Buck knew this was more than another no-questions-asked job. When he had gotten word of the assignment, he checked around—there was nothing to indicate a legitimate need for such a survey. As far as he could tell, nobody was planning to erect a shopping mall, army base, or highway cloverleaf.
This was consecrated ground. Here, neighbor had killed neighbor over a disputed property line. Blood was spilled. This line was iconic, the most famous boundary line in American history. Why was it being remeasured?
His walkie-talkie cracked the silence. “Buck, it’s hot. The bugs are in overdrive, and I have a life I want to get to.”
The irritated voice was Buck’s partner, Vincent Chapman, fifteen years his junior. The two traveled together in remote areas for weeks at a time, their most welcome diversions being small-town bars with the requisite pool tables, fried food, and cheap beer. Vince always tried his luck with the local ladies, but Buck had never strayed from his wife in twenty years of marriage, making him the worst wingman ever. Still, the two got along, developing a smooth-as-silk choreography over the years that allowed them to work as efficiently as possible.
Buck peered through the sight and focused on the crosshairs. He breathed in the sweetness of honeysuckle as he motioned with palms up for Vincent to raise the marker. A minute later, Buck signaled “all clear,” which was Vincent’s cue to move to another spot, where the procedure would be repeated until they’d collected enough data points to call it a day.
Buck’s suspicions continued to grow. He had been specifically ordered to rent a car instead of signing out a government fleet vehicle. He had been instructed to pay cash and use his personal surveying equipment. Why?
Grasping for clues, Buck again rolled around in his mind what he knew about the Mason–Dixon Line. It was not a line of demarcation between north and south to determine slave and free states, although this was the notion accepted by the majority of Americans. It was simply a way to settle bloody skirmishes between the Calverts and Penns. Its significance today was a curiosity to most, as most of the stones were gone, used to build houses and fences, or unceremoniously tossed aside to clear land for farming.
Vincent relocated himself about twenty yards to his right, effected a bored stance, and held the stick vertically, as he had done thousands of times before.
As he peered into the eyepiece, Buck saw a helicopter drone with a three-foot span come into frame. It hovered behind Vincent’s head, swinging side to side like a giant dragonfly. Buck knew the survey purchased these consumer flyers, and outfitted them for aerial survey work, but had never seen one in action. Was this all an elaborate practical joke from one of his colleagues at headquarters?
Buck watched through the lens as the drone lingered just above Vincent, who seemed oblivious to its presence. Buck stepped back from the lens to refocus, and Vincent and the pogo stick were gone. He was staring at an empty field.
He legged up on a nearby boulder, and could just make out his partner lying in the grass, pole cast to his side. As Buck jumped off and ran to Vincent, the drone continued to float in front of him. Before he could reach his prostrate partner, it hit him—the drone was not a surveyor, but a military quadcopter outfitted with weapons. That’s when he heard a pop.
A bullet hit Buck square in his forehead, and the drone drifted away.
Two minutes later, two men dressed in black uniforms and balaclavas padded their way out of the forest into the clearing. They scoured the pockets of the felled surveyors. One retrieved Buck’s notebook and signaled for the other to follow; then they left as quickly and silently as they had entered.
Chapter 1
One Week Later
Mike Wardman gunned the engines. The thirty-nine-foot cruiser groaned and hit a giant wave, powered over the crest, and landed with a deafening slap. He heard noises that promised his boat could break apart at any moment.
He eyed the radar. There was a single blip five miles ahead. A minute later, he was close enough to make out the Judy Bee’s masts. The fishing boat was dead in the water.
His stomach churned as he remembered that this particular captain was a hard case with a history of harassing female observers. This time, the man may have gone too far.
He checked his watch—thirty minutes since receiving Marilyn’s 911 text.
Mike pushed his boat even harder. Water shot over the bow and stung his face. He wiped his eyes clear.
He decided not to announce himself—no sirens or bullhorns. He climbed the Judy Bee’s steel ladder to the main deck. He slipped, grabbed the rail, and regained his footing. He heard the grinding of the icemaker below, but it surprised him not to hear any engines or smell diesel exhaust. Trawlers always drag in one direction or in large circles, and turning engines off was a sure way to foul lines, which required constant movement to keep from tangling. No captain would ever do that.
Mike pulled his badge, which hung from a neck chain, to the outside of his bulletproof vest. He unsnapped his holster strap.
He worked his way to the wheelhouse by ascending a narrow flight of met
al stairs. As he pulled open the sliding side door, he shouted, “Federal agent!”
He turned his attention to the captain’s quarters. He crouch-walked to the louvered white door, hesitated a beat, listened, and swung it open, gun trained ahead.
Empty.
Next stop was the salon. Mike peered through a porthole and saw a young man with black, unruly hair, slumped on the table as if he had fallen asleep. But a bullet hole in his temple and a stream of blood down his arm belied that story.
Fuck.
The galley revealed two more crew members, both on the floor, one on top of the other, arms bent in angles not available to the living. Mike checked their neck pulses. Both men were dead, but still warm.
Mike struggled to right his six-foot-one frame in the constricted galley as the boat rocked and jerked. The exertion made him sweat. Waves sloshed against the double hull, producing a tinny sound.
The engine room reeked of grease and diesel. The combined smells burned his nose. Lifeless engines still emitted heat, causing him to sweat even more. He checked the bunk area below deck, his movements now efficient and smooth, measured and precise. Fluid. There was only one more place on the ship where Marilyn and the captain could be.
If they were on the ship at all.
Most trawlers carry a small truck container on the aft deck. It’s used for storage, and is also where crews drink beer or smoke pot out of the captain’s view. The container’s metal door was ajar. Mike peered through the slit; he couldn’t see much.
He pushed open the door, pistol pointed ahead. He spied fishing gear, welding equipment, and a workbench with a vise, various pipes, and tools. There were no people in the container, dead or alive.
He walked the deck perimeter to make sure no one was hiding under a large coil of line or behind a hoist. He checked the anchor compartment, even though it was too small a space to hold someone.
Mike surveyed the entire fishing boat, concluding that there was no one else on the vessel.
Wait … there was one more place. But …
Mike ran for the ice hold in the middle of the deck and connected a cable hook to an eye in the hatch door. He pressed the ON button that started a winch. It turned slowly, for what felt like hours. When the massive hatch door finally lifted, he shouted down, “Police!”
There was no response.
He lowered himself into the hold and sank waist-deep into chipped ice and scallops. A ship this size could hold several tons of each. As he looked around, he saw one person face down in the snow, arms spreadeagled—the captain. Dead. Frozen.
A foot away, Mike heard a groan and saw fingers poking through the snow. He brushed aside frozen seafood and ice, and made out a face, a female face.
When the coastguardsmen arrived twenty minutes later, they stood over the opening and blocked what little sunlight was left. Mike sat in the white, manmade mountain of ice and snow, shivering, cradling Marilyn, telling her that everything would be all right. He didn’t know if she could hear him. He didn’t know if what he was promising would prove true. With great effort, she managed a few mumbled words before sliding into unconsciousness: “Contact her, contact her.”
Chapter 2
Mike Wardman sat in the office of his boss, Director Burke McCord, who was on the phone. He rolled his eyes to let Mike know he would rather be talking to him. Mike passed the time staring at an organizational chart on the wall, trying to figure out in which box he belonged. He was pretty far down. Lots of bureaucracy wedged itself between the secretary of commerce at the very top and the National Marine Fisheries Service Office of Law Enforcement at the very bottom. OLE was comprised of less than a hundred-fifty officers whose main job was to enforce thirty-five federal laws, statutes, and treaties. Agents rarely arrested anyone, and mainly drew their guns at the range. This is not to say they didn’t have exciting moments, but when a case got media attention, or bodies turned up dead, the FBI took over. This was only the third time in five years that Mike had pulled his weapon.
Burke held up a finger, letting Mike know that it would be just a little while longer, and that he would much rather be off the phone and finish going over the Judy Bee report with him.
Mike smiled halfheartedly. He liked Burke, an upstanding guy who went by the book but did well by his agents. He’d brought Mike into the agency after the FBI had “asked” him to leave. For that, he would always be grateful. When the wall chart no longer held his interest, Mike turned his attention out the window overlooking Silver Spring, Maryland, a suburb about ten miles north of Washington, DC. The small downtown area had been revitalized over the past few years, and some federal agencies took advantage of less expensive office space instead of inside the District proper.
Burke finally hung up. “Mike, I’m sorry. It was the commerce secretary’s office.” He made a quick notation on his computer. “First, I want to let you know what an outstanding job you did on the Judy Bee. You’ll be getting a commendation from Secretary Wickersham.”
“I didn’t do much except clear the scene.”
“I’m sorry about Marilyn. How’s she doing?”
“Visited her before I came here. Doc says it’s touch and go, but odds are in her favor.”
“Glad to hear that. She able to say anything?”
Mike shook his head.
Burke paced in front of a wall full of plaques and grip-and-grin photographs.
“There’s something else we have to discuss. For motives to which I am not privy, the secretary wants us to be part of the Judy Bee investigation. The FBI takes the lead, but Secretary Wickersham wants you to be our liaison, to keep an eye on how it progresses and lend any assistance.”
“What am I missing here? The FBI will send us vetted reports out of courtesy, because it concerns one of our own, but as far as me being involved …” Mike looked outside again, at the lunchtime crowd walking quickly along the sidewalk to escape the cold. Food trucks lined up curbside, wisps of steam rising from their roof vents. He stood and approached Burke. “What’s this really about?”
“I thought you’d be happy about this assignment, Mike. You can keep on top of the investigation … you know, because of Marilyn.”
“The secretary wants me to be his eyes and ears. Why? He can get anything he wants just by picking up the phone and calling the attorney general.” Mike felt that he was being set up, but for what, he didn’t know. “Why does he need me?”
Burke closed his office door. “I honestly don’t know, Mike. If I had to guess—and it’s only a guess—I would say that Secretary Wickersham believes there’s a disconnect between the FBI field office and the AG’s office. All Wickersham wants to know is why someone would try to murder a commerce employee on the job. We’re good guys, Mike. We save animals, draw maps, forecast the weather. But it seems that everyone has a grudge against the government these days.”
“What does the FBI think?”
“That’s what you’re supposed to find out. I’ll have your regular patrols covered,” Burke reassured.
“Who’s the FBI agent-in-charge?”
Burke hesitated, cleared his throat. “It’s Wally Hearst.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Mike said.
Chapter 3
Mike walked down the wooden pier, noting how each step yielded a hollow reverberation off the water below. He was not in any rush to see FBI Special Agent-in-Charge Hearst and his team as they combed over the Judy Bee. Why carnage befell this particular fishing vessel was anybody’s guess. For the second time, Mike saw the masts of the Judy Bee in the distance. But this time, he knew what to expect.
He didn’t have to produce his badge because the state police officer, whose job it was to keep gawkers away, recognized him. “Sorry about Marilyn,” he said as Mike climbed aboard.
Mike and Marilyn had often hit the after-work crab shacks on Fridays to toss a few back. Well, he had; she favored wine. Then they’d usually headed to her place, which was closer to the beach, for the rest of the weekend. Da
ys were spent exploring the nooks and crannies of the Chesapeake on Mike’s twenty-foot Boston Whaler or, if the weather was too cold, they’d take a drive into Washington or Baltimore or hunker down in front of a fire at home. For almost a year, they’d been inseparable, and everyone in Rehoboth Beach knew it.
Mike usually didn’t replay regrets, but breaking up with Marilyn was an exception. He still didn’t understand what had happened to them. Maybe he never would, although it was probably his fault.
As he reached the fishing boat, Mike felt growing rage at whoever had tried to murder Marilyn. His anger started in his stomach and worked north to his head. When he caught a faraway glimpse of Wally Hearst, his ire rose still higher, forcing the memory of his FBI tenure to the surface—how he had taken the blame for Hearst’s mistake.
• • •
The hostage situation clocked three hours, and FBI SWAT team leader Mike Wardman was keeping his mind in a state of readiness. Inside an office building at Dupont Circle, two Yemeni nationals held eight people hostage. Although MPD had first surrounded the area, FBI hostage negotiators and sharpshooters had taken their place when it was determined that the situation was a terrorist act.
“Mike, we need to go in now,” Hearst said.
“Why?” Mike answered.
“We need to go in. Is your team ready?”
“We’re ready but—”
Before Mike could respond, Wally switched to a group channel. “SWAT Team One, you’re going in.”
The operation went sour fast. In the end, the two hostage takers were dead, but so were four of the six hostages.
Mike sat in the back of an ambulance as an EMT shined a penlight into his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said, pushing the paramedic’s arm away. Mike shot Hearst a look full of rage, but didn’t say a word.