The colonel had converted his entire basement into a small machine shop. Workbenches and tools stretched from one wall to the other, while several drill presses stood against the sidewall next to a lathe. In spite of the amount of equipment, everything appeared to be in its right place. A pegboard was mounted to the wall behind each workbench, and each tool was in its own place.
The colonel had divided the basement up so that large milling and machining was done in one part, assembly in the other. A large double door Mosler safe sat against the far wall.
The colonel walked over to the safe and turned the steel lever retracting the bolts from their secured position. With the lock disengaged, he swung the doors open. The inside of the safe was separated into compartments. On the right, the colonel kept his collection of rifles and shotguns, each stored in its own rack apart from the others in the compartment. On the left side of the safe, shelves held a panoply of handguns and accessories. The lower shelves contained submachine guns and machine pistols, each in its own box.
“This is still your old standby, isn’t it?” The colonel asked as he handed over the Smith & Wesson Model 469.
Grant nodded. “I’ve been carrying that nine millimeter for four years. I like the way it handles and its increased firepower. I did convert the factory sights over to the Trijicon three-dot system, so I don’t have to worry about setting the front ramp in the vee. Just line up the dots and squeeze the trigger.”
Grant looked the weapon over, but didn’t see any modifications. “There’s nothing special about this gun, so you can stop trying to figure out what mods I might have made. I want to introduce you to the Glaser Safety Slug.”
The colonel removed the Smith’s magazine and taking bullets from a box on the bench, loaded the clip. “A California company manufactures the bullet, and they’re expensive. The nine-millimeter version runs about two dollars a shot, but well worth it. Tests have shown the bullet has a ninety to ninety‑five percent kill rate.”
“Jesus, a hit almost anywhere, and the target’s history,” Grant said, staggered at the bullet’s lethal effect.
“The slug’s composed of the case, powder, primer, and a special thin‑walled copper jacket containing lead shot. The shot is suspended in liquid Teflon and the whole assembly is held in place by a frangible plastic tip. When it hits, the entire bullet penetrates the tissue. Then pressure on the tip rapidly decreases, and the bullet disintegrates, releasing the shot in a cone‑shaped pattern.
To say it causes massive trauma is probably an understatement. The manufacturer’s claim, and I believe them, that the fragmentation causes one hundred percent of the available energy to be transferred to the target. The nice thing about this slug is there’s no evidence left for a ballistics match. Even if the medical examiner’s careful, there won’t be enough left to determine the caliber, much less do a match on the rifling.”
The colonel finished loading the clip, and then slid it into the Smith & Wesson. “When Kennedy bought it in Dallas, the rumor was that there were three shooters. One was positioned in a low building behind the Presidential limousine. Another was on what everyone calls the grassy knoll, but he was really situated behind a small picket fence. I don’t know where the third shooter was. All three were contract killers working out of Marseilles, and all three had direct ties to the Corsican Mafia, which had taken out a contract on Kennedy.”
“Where did you get that information?” Grant asked shocked at what he was hearing. Over the years, he heard many theories about the 1963 assassination, but never had anyone spelled it out in such detail.
“Let’s say that people with worldwide contacts managed to find out some of the facts. Besides, you don’t have a need to know.” the colonel said with a chuckle. “At any rate, the Corsicans were given the contract by the Chicago mob. Who ordered the hit, no one knows.
Or if they do know, they’re not saying. The Corsican shooting from the grassy knoll used frangible bullets. They weren’t Glasers, but they literally exploded when they hit the target. If you’ve seen the Zapruder film or any of the autopsy shots, Kennedy’s head was literally blown apart by a single shot.”
“I thought it was odd the Government said the damage was done by a single metal jacketed bullet. There was too much damage for it to be a standard steel jacketed slug.” Grant remembered how the Warren Commission had described a magical bullet that first hit the President, then Governor Connolly, and finally ended up on a stretcher in Parkland Memorial Hospital. He had seen photos of the magic bullet, and after all that, the bullet was in pristine condition–much too convenient to be true.
“Right, and that’s because the government couldn’t and wouldn’t own up to the truth. For a single shot opportunity, you’ve got to have a bullet that does maximum damage.”
“How accurate is the round?” Grant asked.
“Better than normal ammunition, and the recoil’s less. Makes for better accuracy.”
“What about operation in semiautomatic and automatic weapons. I’ve heard that some new hot rounds won’t chamber correctly.”
“You’re right. Some hollow points won’t seat properly in the barrel, but so far there haven’t been any problems with the Safety Slug. It also exhibits less ricochet tendencies, so you don’t have to worry about one of your shots coming back at you or taking out some innocent bystander.”
Both men put their earmuff‑type hearing protectors on. The colonel took two large pieces of salt pork from a nearby refrigerator.
“What’s that for?”
“Part of the demonstration. Pork is close in consistency to human flesh, so the tissue damage you’ll see here will approximate the round’s effect on the human body.”
The colonel walked downrange and attached the two pieces of meat to the bullet backstop up against the far wall. After he got back to the firing line, he loaded the 469 with a normal hollow-point bullet. Taking careful aim, he squeezed off the shot. The meat on the right took the hit. A person would have been hurt, and hurt badly. Then he reloaded with the Safety Slug. Again the colonel took aim, this time at the meat on the left, and fired the gun.
Grant was shocked at what happened. When the round hit, the target literally exploded. It looked as if someone had stuffed a cherry bomb inside it, then set it off. In all his years, Grant had never seen such massive tissue damage.
When they left the range, Grant asked the armorer, “And this is the type of round you’re planning to fabricate for me?”
“Yes. You need an edge, and this...” he said holding up a Glaser slug, “... will give it to you. Glaser doesn’t make the Safety Slug in fifty caliber, because most people don’t go around using a fifty caliber rifle for self-defense, so I’ll hand -assemble five rounds of ammunition specifically for you. Those bullets may not have the same construction as the Safety Slug, but they’ll function in virtually the same way.”
Grant knew he had made the right decision in coming to his old friend. The colonel would work and rework the fifty-caliber rifle until no further gains in accuracy were achievable. The scope would be perfectly matched to the weapon, the bullets devastating.
Grant enjoyed his visit, but he wanted to get back to the airport. There was still a lot to do, and the clock was running. He thanked the colonel for his time, and the introduction to the Safety Slug. On his way out of the door, the colonel handed Grant a small box.
“What’s this?” he asked his friend.
“Call it an early Christmas present. Better put it in your bag, and check it through. I don’t want to read about you in tomorrow’s Miami Herald.”
Grant thanked him again and taking the small box, walked back to his rental car. When he got a few miles up Highway 1, he pulled into a shopping center parking lot. Grant took out the small cardboard box he’d been given, and using his pocketknife, sliced open the tape that secured one end.
He slid the small plastic tray out of the box. Inside, each in its own special hole, were fifteen rounds of nine-millimeter Glaser
Safety Slugs. Grant smiled, closed the box, and placed it back in his suitcase.
CHAPTER 9
October 1st
The couple had spent the better part of three days getting the farmhouse stocked with the supplies they’d need for their stay. They checked out the barn, and found that Ted had left his aunt’s old but still running Chevy pickup parked there. Payton turned the key.
After a few sputters, the engine’s throb signaled that the old girl hadn’t yet given up the ghost. He checked the fuel–they had a good three quarters of a tank–then watched to see if the old Chevy would overheat after a few minutes of idling. It didn’t. Payton smiled, shut off the engine and placed the key over the visor. The pickup might come in handy.
Once there was an adequate supply of food in the pantry, Steve and Janet set about cleaning. A layer of dust covered every horizontal surface while hundreds of dust bunnies scurried across the floor. Finally, Janet declared the house livable.
As they walked about surveying their temporary digs, Janet said, “This place is almost like home.”
“Only if your definition of home includes a kitchen out of the Ice Age, a heating system that produces more racket than warmth, and floors that creak at every footstep.”
“Stop complaining. At least we’ve got a roof over our heads. Why don’t you see if you can find some firewood while I set up the equipment.” It wasn’t a suggestion. Payton grabbed his jacket, and then headed out the front door.
By the time he got back, Janet had converted the dining room table into a multifunctional workstation. Linguini‑like wires and cables snaked around the table, then dropped to the floor. He found her seated at the keyboard, the computer’s screen filled.
“What’s going on?” Payton asked as he draped his jacket over one of the chairs.
“This,” Janet said, “is what the well-equipped computer analyst takes on a weekend in the country. Seriously, I brought my notebook computer and two modems–one for connection to the telephone line and one that works with a cellular hookup.”
“I don’t understand,” Steve said. He knew about the landline modem hookup, but not the cellular one.
“I almost left the cellular modem home, but I decided that since I couldn’t count on the quality of the local telephone service, it made sense to bring both units. That way, if we have a problem, say the local service won’t handle the baud rate or service is interrupted too much, we can switch over to the cellular hookup bypassing all the local equipment.”
“Pine Lakes has cellular coverage?”
“I checked it right before you walked in. According to the signal strength meter, we’ve got seven out of eight dots–as good a situation as we’d have in the suburbs. I’ve logged on to UniNet and established my own E‑mail box. That way, their security people can stay in touch with me day or night–even if we’re not here.”
“While we’re here in scenic Pine Lakes, what are they doing?” Payton inquired.
“Checking out all the E‑mail addresses above and below yours. If that message got to you by mistake, then it’s possible that the address was off by only a number or two. The problem is that they have to check all the addresses above and below each digit of your address. Then by cross checking the messages sent to that address, UniNet security just might be able to identify the sender. With any luck at all, we’ll be in business.”
Janet rose, and walked over to where Steve stood in front of the fireplace. “Now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity, what have you done to keep me warm?”
“I found the woodshed, which fortunately for us was stocked with aged oak. It’ll burn like crazy, and should keep your fingers and toes from frostbite.”
. . . . . .
After they had eaten, Steve said. “I was thinking. . . I’d like to check out the area.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea.”
They left the house and drove out onto the single-lane road. As they toured the surrounding countryside, it seemed that most of the farms were relatively small. Of course, some they passed were considerably larger, with several barns and a sprawling house. Payton was surprised at the thriving farms along the route. The papers, television stations–even CNN–all had run stories about how family farming was dying in America. It seemed that throughout the American Midwest, large conglomerates were swallowing up the family farms, and Payton anticipated seeing the same thing in northern Maryland. But for the most part, smaller, family‑run operations–apparently successful–dotted the Pine Lakes area.
After fifteen minutes, he noticed that on both sides of the road concentric wooden fences–both professionally installed–partitioned the countryside. The fence posts had been set into the ground plumb, each rail attached at perfect right angles to its fence post, and the paint job near perfect. As he drove, Payton noticed there were no weeds growing along the bottom of the rail fence. That alone was a clear indication the owner had a full time staff trimming along the bottom of the fence and around the fence posts.
Slowly they wound their way up the road, and Payton saw that the field received the same degree of care. The land on both sides of the road, between the road and the outer fence as well as between the two fences, and then beyond, was well manicured. You didn’t keep a spread this large in such pristine condition on a shoestring budget. Someone had money, and plenty of it.
When they reached the place where the road forked, Payton, his curiosity piqued, turned right and followed the fence line. He traveled another half to three quarters of a mile before the fence changed from wood to black wrought iron, the latter higher than the wood fence.
Each iron stanchion began within a few inches of the ground, and rose to a height of eight feet, where the pickets curved inward like a large candy cane. Along the bottom, and again at about six feet in height, a horizontal supporting rail further fortified the structure. In the middle of what was evidently the entrance to the estate, were two full-height gates fabricated in the same wrought-iron design. Electric operators controlled both gates. An elaborately crafted metal sign with “Wingate Farms” on it hung from the left gate. A second sign, no less evident, said “No Trespassing”. Beneath the warning was the Wingate Farms logo.
“Hey, I think I’ve seen that around Pine Lakes,” Steve said, pointing to the sign. “As a matter of fact, I’m sure that logo was on a few of the cars and trucks in town.”
“I’m not surprised. From the fence line, Mr. Wingate must own over a thousand acres.”
“Probably a gentleman’s horse farm,” Steve said, wondering where the horses were.
Payton had already slowed to the point where he might as well have stopped to look around.
As he started to get out of the car Janet asked, “Why are we stopping?”
“I’m going to look around a minute. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
The estate’s blacktop driveway snaked its way through the trees planted on either side. In the distance, Payton could barely make out the Wingate mansion. Two lights stood to the left and right of the main gate, with smaller post lights providing nighttime illumination of the road. An intercom system on an aluminum pole adjacent to the gate provided a means for visitors and delivery people to call the mansion. Mounted on top of the light post on the outside the gate was a closed circuit television camera, which swept back and forth, allowing whoever was watching to see anyone approaching the gate.
Wingate certainly relished his privacy, but that in it self was not uncommon. Usually the more money people had, the more closely guarded their affairs. Nonetheless Payton found it odd that, in spite of his years in Baltimore, he knew nothing about Wingate and his various enterprises. For some unknown reason, Wingate Farms intrigued him. Payton walked back across the road to the car, got in, and headed back the way they had come.
. . . . . .
That evening it was Payton's turn to do the dishes, a task he did his best to avoid at the condo where at least he had a dishwasher. Here he was it. After he was done, Pay
ton walked into the living room to find Janet sitting on one of the overstuffed couches, her legs curled under her.
“No work tonight?” Payton asked. It was the first time since they had arrived that she wasn’t either cleaning the house or at work on the computer.
“Nope. I decided that we needed the evening off,” she replied. “In light of which, I propose that we toast our enterprise.”
“Sounds great, but I do believe our bar is empty.”
“Not quite,” Janet said as she raised a yet-to-be-uncorked bottle of champagne. “Want to do the honors?” A rhetorical question in light of the smile on Payton's face.
As he reached for the champagne, Janet said, “On second thought, wait just a minute. You promised me warmth, yet there’s no fire in yon hearth.”
Payton withdrew his hand and headed for the back porch, where he had stacked some of the firewood from the woodshed. In minutes, Payton had the fireplace ablaze.
Janet stretched her arms out, her palms facing the fire. “That’s much better. Now for the bubbly.”
The cork flew off the bottle like a pistol shot, hit the far wall, and then bounced onto the floor. Amazingly, not much of the champagne was lost in the process. Payton filled two juice glasses, then handed one to Janet. Then he took a seat on the couch.
“Here’s to our success,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.
“To our success,” Janet echoed.
The first glass quenched their thirst. The second, they sipped slowly. Suddenly, Janet sneezed. “The bubbles got to me!” she exclaimed, glancing at Payton from behind the rim of her glass.
Payton placed his glass on the coffee table. He slid over next to Janet, then took her glass and placed it next to his. Any questions he might have had were answered by the look in Janet’s eyes.
Payton put his arms around her, and kissed her softly. He could taste the champagne on her lips.
As her unleashed passion spilled over, Janet pulled him closer. Like a couple of teenagers on their first sexual expedition, they eagerly explored each other’s bodies. In minutes, buttons came undone, zippers unzipped.
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 12
