October’s Ghost
An Art Jefferson Thriller
Ryne Douglas Pearson
Published By Schmuck & Underwood
eBook Edition Copyright © 2011 Ryne Douglas Pearson
First Edition Copyright © 1994 Ryne Douglas Pearson
Published By Schmuck & Underwood
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author, except for brief passages used for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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http://www.rynedouglaspearson.com
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The Art Jefferson Thriller Series
Cloudburst
October’s Ghost
Capitol Punishment
Simple Simon
Table Of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Twenty Two
Twenty Three
Twenty Four
Epilogue
About The Author
“The Soviet government has reached certain accords with the American government. But this does not mean that we have renounced the right to have the weapons we deem convenient and to take steps in international policy we deem convenient as a sovereign country.”
Fidel Castro, January 2, 1963
“Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.”
John F. Kennedy
PROLOGUE
BRINKMANSHIP
The Cuban sharpshooter, aiming from a rise above the clearing, trained the crosshairs first on the green shoulder boards that adorned his target. These he could not identify by color in the low moonlight, but to see them at all was sufficient. It was less a confirmation than a final, purposeful act of disrespect for the entity that the unit insignia represented. A smile formed as he brought his aim point up, centering on the back of the head. He said a silent curse and increased pressure on the trigger. Quite fittingly, the KGB would be the first to die.
Ten Mosin-Nagant rifles, accurized for use as sniper weapons, fired within a split second of each other from the jungle on the east side of the bulldozed oval of earth. There were only seven “primary” targets, and all were hit at least once. One KGB guard, a junior officer, survived the first volley, as his intended killer’s shot was low, striking him in the shoulder blade, but a quick follow-up shot felled him before he could lift the Kalashnikov and fire.
The guardians of the prize were now gone. Just its keepers remained.
Twenty-two heads turned in unison as the fire erupted from the jungle behind. They had formed up just a moment earlier in an inspection line as a courtesy for the final visit of the Cuban colonel, whose unit had provided perimeter security for them during their stay. He, to repay the show of respect, drew the American-made .45-caliber pistol from his side and shot their commander, a young captain of raket artillery, in the side of the head as he looked to the east.
Turning back at the sound, the missile crewmen, none of whom had felt any need to take their weapons from the equipment truck, saw their commander fall into a heap. Half of them froze, while the other half bolted away from the scene, running for the only safety in sight. Safety, however, was nowhere to be found.
From the vegetation at the clearing’s north and south sides, short, controlled bursts from the Cuban Kalashnikovs caught each fleeing crewman as he neared. Some slowed as the flashes ahead lit the collapsing bodies of their comrades, but that only hastened the inevitable. Other shooters concentrated on these easier targets.
In the clearing the Cuban colonel pointed his pistol at those who had chosen to offer some kind of surrender, which, of course, would not prevent that which had already been fated. The even dozen crewmen backed toward the weapon they had stewarded as their country came to the aid of the tiny island nation in its fight against the imperialists to the north. They slunk lower as the colonel, now joined by two better-armed soldiers from his unit, advanced closer. Finally they were on their knees, their heads just below the trailer that held the weapon, the prize, that they still had not gathered was the cause of their demise.
“Someday Premier Khrushchev will join you in hell,” Colonel Juan Asunción said in forceful, if imperfect, Russian. “When he does, tell him the Motherland is a whore!”
The Russians’ eyes went wide at the blasphemous comment, but whatever rage it might have motivated was left no time to manifest itself. Asunción squeezed his shots off carefully and was joined by the soldiers at his side. Single shots, several for each crewman, finished the job that the colonel was honored, and more than happy, to carry out. And with that the killing was done. Almost.
“Inform the presidente,” Asunción ordered, which sent one of the soldiers scurrying off to the unit’s radio. From the jungle he saw the remainder of his men emerge. They went to each body and ensured that the job was finished. It was. No coup de grace shots were necessary. Not yet, at least, the colonel knew. It was a cost of success he had come to accept.
Asunción waited for the bodies to be dragged away from the weapon and placed in a neat row on the damp earth before approaching it. A dark green tarpaulin covered the entire missile, which rested horizontally on its Transporter/Erector/Launcher. He ran his hand along the slippery covering that hung from the weapon as he walked slowly from the tail to the nose. There he stopped. The moment was mystical, almost as he imagined it would be. Magical even. Just beyond his reach, but now within the grasp of the nation—and the man—he served, was the power that had been promised them by their “brother Socialist” ally, which was now bowing to pressure from the yanqui imperialists in the name of peace. Ha! Asunción nearly strangled on the taste the thought of such cowardice brought to his mouth. Looking to the ground, he saw the bloodied cap of a fallen crewman, the proud hammer and sickle surrounded by golden boughs of wheat forming the emblem on its front. With force the colonel spit on the emblem before driving the cap into the soft earth with the heel of his boot.
Asunción turned as the sound of engines racing drew closer. Headlights, their beams dimmed by slit covers, appeared from the access road and pulled into the clearing, more than twenty soldiers of the presidential guard jumping out and securing the area before the presidente arrived.
That he did a moment later, riding in the passenger seat of an open-topped Jeep of American manufacture, hundreds of which were still in service after their capture from the Batista regime overthrown just a few years before. The vehicle pulled into the clearing through the gauntlet of soldiers and came to a crisp stop next to a rigid Asunción, his right hand at his forehead in an arrow-straight salute.
“Presidente Castro!” The hand came down and swept toward the weapon in a gesture of offering. “I present to you this gift.”
Fidel Castro Ruz, founder of the Revolution, a man who had climbed the muddy Sierra Maestras and led a tiny band of guerrillas in a fight to bring prosperity and honor to the people of Cuba, could now also give them true power. The power
to deter aggression without the worthless promise of protection from a weak and boastful ally. The power to never fear the threats of the Western World. Before him was that power, and its deliverer.
“Colonel Asunción!” Fidel shouted gleefully, his hands coming together as he bent over in a joyous, almost childlike expression. “You have done it!”
Asunción knew of no higher praise than to be entrusted with such a great responsibility by this man, for whom he would go to the ends of the earth. “For you, Presidente.”
Fidel looked over the covered weapon, then to the row of bodies in the distance. “And no damage?”
“None,” the colonel responded with pride. “The men performed excellently.” It is such a shame...
Fidel needed only to see the colonel’s eyes to know what emotions had not been expressed by words. It would be a loss, but a necessary one. “Yes. Excellently.”
Asunción followed his leader as he walked along the TEL. Fidel avoided the urge to peer under the tarp, realizing, correctly, that the physical appearance of the weapon was quite secondary to the importance of it being under his control. Looks meant very little in the game he had begun to play.
Asunción waited until they were to a spot out of earshot of the others. “The premier is being notified?”
“Raul is doing so as we speak,” Fidel said, referring to his brother, General Raul Castro, leader of the nation’s military. “It will be just a short message.” A wry smile spread across his face. “Just to tease and make him twist. I will finish the humiliation in the morning.”
Asunción nodded. Anything to make the bastard squirm. “You believe he will remain silent.”
“He will. He has no choice.” Fidel noted the smiles on the faces of the soldiers. “He will do as we will to maintain the secret. For him exposure will mean death. For us...” His shoulders came up. “We will not have to worry about that. You have chosen those to trust?”
“Two men,” Asunción confirmed. “Single, no family, and fiercely loyal. They and I will debrief my men and your guard troops individually before the sun is up.”
Fidel nodded soberly. More must die. He looked beyond the row of those who had already been sent to their supposed maker. The four tank trucks attached to the unit were being driven into position near the corpses. “A mighty explosion it will be.”
Asunción heard the comment but did not connect it to the presidente’s meaning. For the briefest second he thought that... “Yes,” he agreed with relief. “Nothing will remain. Just pieces.”
“The perfect excuse,” Fidel observed. It wasn’t, he knew, but it would suffice.
The colonel noted that all was ready for the next phase. “Presidente, we must go now. The missile must be moved.”
“Yes. A moment.” Fidel took some steps back and let his eyes fall upon the weapon. What was at its top interested him most. The power of a million ordinary aircraft bombs in a device that weighed no more than three of them. A beautiful piece of engineering, made possible by the application of years of brilliance toward a common goal to harness the power of the inner universe. Yet that was applicable only to the so-called superpowers, technological behemoths who had acquired their strength through much testing and sweat. Fidel Castro Ruz had engineered his nation’s entry into the realm of true power with the sacrifice of blood.
That in itself was cause for celebration, though it would be only of a personal nature. For the power to be of the use he intended, it must remain in the deepest, darkest shadows of existence, removed for use only to protect the Revolution. Would that ever be necessary? Would the secret be revealed? Fidel hoped not, thought not, content himself to know that the island nation of Cuba, in the early-morning hours of a fateful autumn day that would end with the world breathing a collective sigh of relief, had become the fifth member of the nuclear club, not by way of technical mastery, but by a calculated act of thievery.
CHAPTER ONE
EVENTS
“There he is.”
Jorge leaned forward against the van’s dash, looking to the left past Tomás. The man was walking with the crowd in the pedestrian crossing, hands pushed deep in his pockets and his balding head moving from side to side. “Right on time.”
“He looks nervous,” Tomás commented.
“He has reason to,” Jorge said, sitting back.
Tomás scooted forward in the driver’s seat, his slight paunch pressed against the steering wheel, and removed the revolver from his back waistband. He kept it below the window line and slid it between his legs, the barrel pointed bravely backward. He would not do the same with the semiautomatic pistol under his coat. It was cocked and locked, ready to fire, with the safety on, but he trusted safeties as much as he did weathermen. The nice thing about revolvers was that they went off only when one wanted them to, without the risk of jamming, features that still made them popular with many nostalgic American policemen, and equally popular with men in his line of work.
“Going inside,” Jorge reported. He, too, was armed, carrying the identical mix of weaponry, though he left his concealed for the moment. There was no rush. The time would come soon enough.
* * *
“One for lunch?” the hostess inquired.
The man’s eyes searched the room. ¿Dónde está? He wasn’t there.
“Sir?”
“Yes. No. I... I am meeting someone.”
The hostess smiled politely, her blue eyes twinkling benignly below the perky blond coiffure. Fucking immigrants. She had to work her ass off just to survive while attending UCLA, and these people came over the border and somehow ended up with all the money they needed. His accent wasn’t Mexican, though. Probably a fucking chiropractor or something trained in Guatemala. Her smile widened as she led him toward a table at the back corner of the restaurant. If I have to work two jobs just to make it through pre-med, you can live with some kitchen noise.
“Will this be all right?”
“Yes,” the man answered. “Very fine.”
He watched the hostess walk away. She was young and might have received closer attention at another time, but his gaze soon shifted outside, through the window on his left. He felt somewhat more comfortable where he sat. The entire dining room was visible, as was the entrance.
“Water, señor?”
“Si. Gracias.” He looked up at the busboy and slipped him a dollar. It was truly the underlings who deserved the tips.
“Gracias,” the young Salvadoran said, his eyes beaming. “Gracias!”
The man lifted the glass to his lips but jumped at the sound of dishes falling behind. A splash of water leaped from the glass and spilled on his trousers, drenching the left side. He quickly grabbed the napkin from the table and set it on his lap.
But it wasn’t the clothing he was concerned with.
* * *
“Are you ready?” Jorge asked.
Tomás nodded, straightening himself as much as possible in the seat and tucking the revolver in the front of his waistband. He buttoned the coat next.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
He was killing himself. There was no doubt about it. Frankie watched him put the end of it in his mouth. It was only a matter of time.
“Mmmmm.” Art Jefferson bit into the bacon-chili cheese dog with a satisfaction he had avoided for almost six months.
Frankie Aguirre shook her head and sipped her flavored seltzer. “You gonna make me watch you do this? Huh? Is this so I can testify at the probate hearing? ‘Yes, Your Honor, I saw him do it.’ ”
Art heard his partner’s protest but continued anyway, chewing the first bite until swallowing was a necessity. “Ooooh. That is good!”
“Yeah, right.” Frankie drained the bottle and set it down on Pink’s streetfront counter, her fingers picking at her chips.
Special Agent Thom Danbrook nursed his root beer and took in the good-natured exchange as an eager observer. “Does he always eat this stuff?”
“Hey, twice a yea
r,” Art said, explaining before his partner could do his culinary reputation harm. “That’s what I give myself. Kinda like a vacation from boring food.”
“From healthy food,” she corrected him.
He did plenty of that, Art could say, eating healthy and all. Lots of salads and fruits, chicken, pasta, veggies till his mouth tasted like broccoli all day. Bush had it right on that green hunk of nutrients, he believed. It had been just over a year since the heart attack, and he was doing fine. Even his cardiologist said an occasional divergence into cholesterol land was acceptable. The whole idea was moderation, something his partner exhibited little of in the area of overprotectiveness.
But that’s what partners were for, inasmuch as the Bureau had ‘partners’ (the correct term was ‘team’), and Special Agent Francine—‘Don’t call me that’—Aguirre was top-notch. She and Art had been paired since he left desk duty and returned to real work, as he called it. A true Bureau street agent, just the way he began his career in the days of old J. Edgar. It was also the way he wanted it to end. Three more years to a full thirty, and he was damned glad he’d gotten out of the bureaucracy end of things. That would have killed him. The heart attack had been a very clear warning that the stress of command and his screwed-up personal life was too much, and Art had heard it loud and clear.
“I could just shoot you, if you want,” Frankie offered.
Art brought his right elbow down against his side in a reflexive action, the hard grip of the Smith & Wesson right where it should be. “I’ll take the slow way out, if you don’t mind. Okay, pardner?”
“Art, trust me, you’ll never get used to ‘Mother’ here,” Danbrook informed him. He had been teamed with Aguirre for two of his first three years fresh out of the Academy before transferring to the San Francisco field office, giving her up to Art.
“I hear you,” Art said between chews. “So, you think old Barrish will go down this time?”
“That’s why I’m here.” Danbrook was back in his old Bureau stomping grounds in order to testify in the case of United States of America versus some white supremacist asshole. He hated to dignify the man by using his name; ‘the suspect’ would do just fine. “This place have any burgers?”
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