The Cassandra Conspiracy

by Rick Bajackson

  Taking a blanket from a nearby chair, Payton clasped Janet’s hand and led her to the rug in front of the hearth. They knelt in front of the fire, and kissed again, long and hard. Gently, Payton lowered Janet to the floor. As his tongue caressed her, Payton unsnapped her bra.

  “Go slowly,” Janet beseeched him.

  Later, as the fire dried the sheen of their lovemaking, Payton took Janet in his arms. It seemed as if he wanted to share his feelings with her, but was unsure how to go about it. The pain splashed across his face.

  Sensing his dilemma, Janet said, “Steve, don’t talk. There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Right now, just hold me.”

  As the embers died out, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, secure for now.

  CHAPTER 10

  October 2nd

  The next morning, they awoke still snuggled in each other’s arms. Payton watched as Janet yawned. Then he thought how easy it would be to start each day this way. He pulled her close until Janet’s face flashed a look of understanding. He wanted her again, and she was ready.

  As their bodies joined, a great tidal wave of feeling washed over them. Unlike last night, when physical needs had ruled, this time their loving was gentle.

  “Is this how you plan to start every morning?” Janet asked when they were done.

  “Only if you’ll let me,” Steve said with a sly grin.

  Janet got up. “If we don’t get going, we’ll never get anything done.”

  Payton recognized defeat, albeit even a minor setback. He followed Janet into the bathroom.

  “Wait a minute, mister. Just because I let you have your way with me doesn’t mean we’re playing house. Out of here until I’m done showering,” she said pushing him back into the hall.

  “But my toothbrush,” Payton protested. The bathroom door opened and a hand waved his toothbrush in front of him. Wonderful, he thought.

  . . . . . .

  After breakfast, Payton decided to hike around the farm. When he returned, he found Janet in the dining room already busy at the computer. Payton walked over behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her on the neck. It was his way of telling her that he hadn’t forgotten about last evening.

  “Anything up?” he asked.

  “No. I’m just doing some electronic housecleaning.”

  “I’m going into town,” Steve said amidst the click of computer keys. “Today’s Tuesday, and I want to nose around a bit. The message mentioned something about a meeting today, remember?”

  Janet stopped typing and looked up. “Sure, but that doesn’t mean anything. The meeting could be at someone’s house, an office, who knows?”

  “I’ll give it a shot. Want to go?”

  Janet shook her head. “I’m in the middle of this, and it’ll be easier to finish it than to start again from scratch. I’ll see you when you get back.” He kissed the back of her neck, then headed for the door.

  On his way out, Steve stopped. “I might as well eat while I’m there. See you later.” Janet emerged from the world of bits and bytes long enough to wave him a good‑bye.

  He had only been back into town a few times since their arrival in Pine Lakes. The thought of having another meal at Pine Lake’s sole bar didn’t do much for Payton’s enthusiasm. Fortunately the café that had been closed when they first arrived was now open. As soon as Payton walked inside, the aroma of the fresh brewed coffee reminded him of his hunger and kicked his stomach into overdrive.

  Normally he would have taken a seat at the small counter, which had seating for about a half dozen people. Today however, Payton wanted to catch up with the rest of the world. He bought a copy of the Baltimore paper, and then headed over to a booth where he had room to spread out. Payton sat facing the door, but far enough away from the group at the counter for their banter not to distract him.

  The middle‑aged waitress’s nametag said Lois, and Payton wondered whether she owned part of the café or only worked there. It seemed hard to believe that she could make enough income unless she was also part‑owner. She ambled over to his booth with her order pad and a pencil in hand. From the size of the pad, Payton figured that everyone ordered only two or three things. Parties of two or more must get separate checks. He ordered a large orange juice, ham, scrambled eggs, and coffee, which Lois jotted down before filling his cup and going back to the kitchen. Payton returned to his paper.

  A short time later, and at least one refill of coffee, she returned with Payton's breakfast. She slid the plates, still hot from the warmer, onto the table and left with a simple “Enjoy”. Payton began to devour the ham and eggs with unusual fervor– hungry enough for him to have eaten anything Lois put in front of him.

  Halfway through the meal, Payton's attention was drawn to a man who was standing across the street. While Payton watched from the booth, the stranger looked at his watch, and then stepped off the curb, heading toward the café. As the man walked through the front door, none of the locals looked up. Odd, Payton thought. Even he had gotten a “good morning”.

  The man was rather tall, a little over six feet, and certainly not heavy–well under two hundred pounds. The two things Payton did notice were the high cheekbones that defined the man’s face, and his blue eyes–cold, devoid of emotion.

  ­­After looking around the room, the stranger took a seat in a nearby booth. His back was to the wall, and from where the stranger sat he had a panoramic view of the other customers, the door, and the front window.

  Payton sipped his coffee, still hot from the pot. Somewhere deep in his past, like the wheels of a slot machine, the man’s actions began to register. The damned message flashed in front of Payton's eyes!

  The stranger had no sooner finished his coffee than a Wingate Farms Jeep pulled up out front. He stood, dropped a few dollars on the table, then left, not bothering to look behind him. Once outside, the stranger shook hands with the driver. After which, he got into the Jeep. As they began to pull away, Payton's eyes and those of the stranger locked. A chill ran up Payton's spine.

  . . . . . .

  As soon as they were gone, Payton paid his bill and rushed back to the farm. He needed to talk to Janet.

  Payton found her sipping a cup of coffee at the kitchen table.

  “He was there!” Payton yelled across the room.

  “Slow up, Steve. What happened?” Intent upon hearing what he was about to tell her, Janet placed her cup on the table.

  “When I was in town, I stopped at the café–you know–the one near the post office.”

  Janet nodded.

  “While I was eating, some guy came in–a stranger. No one in the place knew him.”

  “So what? Even Pine Lakes gets its share of visitors.”

  “This guy had military written all over him. The way he moved, where he sat– he took a seat where he could see everything going on in the place–it all pointed to someone with a strong military background.”

  “Maybe he’s ex-Army,” Janet proffered.

  “He’s not ‘ex’ anything. This guy’s not some Vietnam vet who picked up a few life‑saving moves. He’s someone who lives this shit every single day. I got a quick look at him when he left. He’s got the coldest blue eyes I’ve ever seen–the eyes of a professional killer.”

  “Maybe he’s active military and home on leave.”

  “Not unless his family lives at Wingate Farms. One of their cars picked him up in front of the café.”

  CHAPTER 11

  October 4th

  Wingate’s security chief, Bill Parker, had been having another one of those days. Between problems with the estate’s security system and guards out sick, he’d been running the entire day. The unexpected had shoved aside everything on his list of things to do. Now he was a day behind in his scheduled work, and there was no time to make it up.

  Seven o’clock and he still hadn’t eaten. In spite of the hour, he wasn’t hungry. He flipped on the television, but found that all three networks were running the evenin
g news. After he had begun working for Wingate, the industrialist had suggested that Parker live in one of the estate’s guesthouses. Since his duties as head of security could involve him in late night work, staying at the estate made sense. If there was a problem, he’d be right there, and that was exactly where Parker wanted to be.

  Parker walked into the bathroom and turned on the water in the hot tub, one of the perks of his position. While the water flowed into the tub, Parker took three cold beers out of the fridge. He opened one and took a long pull from the can. The other two he placed alongside the hot tub.

  As the tub filled, he stripped. In spite of his position, Parker had managed to stay fit. Of course, some credit for that had to go to the fact that he was always on the move. If he wasn’t running from one corner of Wingate’s estate to the other, he was halfway across the country attending seminars on the latest security techniques.

  Wingate’s security director ran his hands through his blond hair, tweaked the end of his mustache, and then climbed in. Parker doubted that he had put on more than five pounds since his days in the military. His stomach was flat, and his biceps capable of pressing every bit of two hundred pounds. The constant hum of the exhaust fan, along with downing a second brew, lulled him into a state of almost hypnotic relaxation.

  . . . . . .

  Vietnam, 1971

  Parker had always been in reasonably good physical shape. He had been an avid basketball player and a cross-country runner in college. So for him, basic training hadn’t been all that tough.

  After he finished basic, however, the Army assigned him to Fort Benning for Special Forces training–a horse of an altogether different color. The Green Beret instructors worked their squads hard. The trainees greeted the sunrise having already been running or doing calisthenics. The days started early, ended as soon as their weary bodies hit the cots, and started again a few hours later.

  Everyone at Benning worked doubly hard to teach everything there was to know about weaponry, explosives, hand-to-hand combat, and intelligence gathering to the would-be Green Berets. Parker soon found himself intimately familiar not only with the U.S. issued Colt 45 and M16, but also the Soviet RPD, AK‑47, RPK, and PPS‑43. His explosives training soon made him an expert in things that went bang.

  Parker perfected his hand‑to‑hand combat techniques until he could disarm an attacker of his gun or knife–it made no difference which. The Special Forces instructors taught him so many different moves he was never sure whether he was learning judo, karate, aikido, or a combination of all the martial arts. After a while, they all came back automatically in a flurry of motion–all of which maimed or killed. When it was all over, Parker had earned his green beret and an assignment with the Army’s Studies and Operations Group, a euphemism for special ops.

  MACV/SOG got all the assignments no one else wanted. Since the SOG teams’ objectives were for the most part oriented toward the collection of intelligence, they worked under the direction, albeit indirect, of the Central Intelligence Agency’s Southeast Asia Group. The combat commanders needed accurate and timely intelligence about terrain, weather, and enemy forces if they were to make fast and accurate decisions pertaining to troop deployments.

  The team provided it for them. Each team had been specially trained and equipped to enter areas controlled by the enemy and report enemy dispositions, movements, and activities. The planning ranges for SOG’s missions were fifty kilometers out from the front lines. Although short missions were de rigueur, the teams could easily be in the field for six days without resupply.

  Intelligence gathering wasn’t their sole purpose in life. If the spooks needed to kidnap a North Vietnamese officer for later interrogation, SOG carried out the mission. If command wanted a particular North Vietnamese officer killed, special ops snipers got the call. It was into this crazy world that Bill Parker, former collegian and electrical engineering student, got thrown when he stepped off the plane at Than Son Nhut Air Force Base.

  Parker had been “in country” only a short time, but to him Vietnam was a full‑fledged nightmare. His indoctrination into the wonders of Southeast Asia began when he first stepped off the transport into the well over a hundred‑degree temperature that characterized monsoon season.

  Parker opened the door to the team’s hooch not knowing what to expect in the way of a greeting. He dropped his gear near the door and walked over to where his other two team members sat, field stripping their weapons. The smell of gun solvent overpowered the stench from the dampness.

  “Hi, I’m Bill Parker,” he said, his hand outstretched.

  Only one of the two rose to meet him. He was shorter than the other guy, but stocky built, hair trimmed in true military fashion. “I’m Charlie Wingate, welcome to Team Alpha,” the man said offering his hand.

  The other man continued ramming cleaning swabs down the barrel of his forty‑five and saying nothing. Without waiting to see if his teammate would rise to the occasion, Charlie Wingate made the introduction.

  “This is John Barron. You’ll have to forgive John. When he’s cleaning his toys, he’s too busy even to get laid.” Charlie Wingate laughed, trying to take the edge off.

  John Barron was several inches taller than Wingate, at least six‑two. The man was trim, well tanned, and in excellent shape. He probably worked out whenever they weren’t out on a mission. Barron’s eyes took in the whole scene, but didn’t give Parker any idea what the man was thinking. Finally, Barron nodded curtly in Parker’s direction, apparently the best greeting he was going to get.

  As Parker stowed his gear, Wingate flopped down on the bunk next to his.

  “Let me give you the lowdown,” Charlie said. “You’re the new guy on the block. The man you’re replacing walked headfirst into a VC ambush. They got him, and two others were wounded.”

  Parker nodded, unsure what to say.

  “When we’re at full strength, we’ve got six men. But VC attacks and rotations stateside have reduced the count to the three of us.”

  “You figure we’ll be getting some new blood?” Parker asked.

  “Sooner or later. The only question’s when. In the meantime, we’re it. After you get unpacked, meet me over the mess hall. I’ll spring for your first Vietnam coke.”

  As Charlie Wingate left the hooch, John Barron walked over to where Parker was trying to get settled.

  “So you’re our new team member,” Barron said, the sarcasm rolling off his lips.

  Parker nodded, waiting to see what was coming.

  “You might have gotten through Benning with flying colors, but that’s not going to buy you any slack around here. When we get out there...” Barron said nodding toward the door, “...what I say goes. You move when I say so, and you squat when I tell you. No recent Benning grad’s going to get me shipped home in a body bag, and don’t you forget it!”

  As Parker watched, dumbfounded, Barron blazed out the door. No instant camaraderie there. The man didn’t give an inch, not for himself, and definitely not for anyone else. He’d have to hang in there and see how things went. Maybe after they had spent more time together, Barron would ease up a bit.

  Thank God for Charlie Wingate. Likable and easygoing, Wingate was the kind of guy you felt that you’ve known for a long time even if you had only recently met him.

  . . . . . .

  For Parker, Vietnam was entirely something else. What the heat didn’t drain out of him, the humidity washed away. The lucky ones were the men who were in camp when the downpours hit. The less fortunate–those on patrol–sat wrapped up in their ponchos waiting for the storm to blow its last breath. Trails became mudslides; the elephant grass was impossible to get through. The guys caught out on a mission couldn’t even count on their well‑protected equipment. The water always won out. Jungle rot destroyed his feet in spite of his specially designed boots–a cross between the typical combat boot and a canvas sneaker that was supposed to dry faster than regulation boots.

  Sure, he hated the heat,
despised the humidity, and couldn’t tell the good guys from the bad, but none of that made any difference. Parker knew he’d survive.

  Not unexpectedly, Parker found himself gravitating toward Wingate not only when the team was in the field, but also when they were back at camp. He was surprised to learn that Wingate came from a wealthy and politically powerful family.

  Someone with that kind of clout rarely ended up in Vietnam. In‑country service was something that fell upon the shoulders of the poor, the drafted, and the career soldier–not the rich and well‑connected. Wingate explained that he ended up in Vietnam because he didn’t want anyone pulling strings for him.

  Over the course of the next several months, Team Alpha was inserted into one hot spot after another. They counted truck movements along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, and snatched prisoners for interrogation by intelligence. The war was heating up, and with each new mission, John Barron eased up on Alpha Team’s newest member.

  Not long after they returned from a particularly long and tiring mission, the men were looking forward to a few days of R and R. Unfortunately, intelligence needed information about VC troop movements along the various trails leading into South Vietnam from Laos and Cambodia. The easiest way to get current data was to kidnap a Vietcong guerrilla, then convince him or her to talk.

  The spooks had devised several interesting ways of convincing their newly acquired asset that it was in his best interests to provide the interrogators with the needed information. Alpha was tasked with finding a suitable candidate.

  They had been infiltrated three days earlier. Now they sat, well camouflaged, along a major trail used by the VC. Unfortunately, they had to find either a single VC guerrilla or a small group from which they could snare one soldier. The trick was to kill all but one guerrilla, then take the survivor prisoner. Patience, therefore, was the password.