Based on his experience as a Marine Corps officer and interest in current affairs, Marchetti was familiar with military officers being made scapegoats for administration and defense department failures. Most felt it was SOP–standard operating procedure–for covering up colossal blunders by others.
“So Scovell wasn’t responsible for what was happening over there?”
“Hell, no… not that I could see. The problems we had in Afghanistan were a result of the president’s poor decisions, not Scovell’s. But McHugh had to blame someone, so Scovell and others were sent packing. Major General Lance Berkner, Army Chief of Staff, was another example. A Medal of Honor winner and Delta Force commander, he made the mistake of being openly critical of his troops’ battle readiness. After a long and distinguished career, he was given a humiliating dressing down and summarily relieved of command by one of the president’s henchmen who’d hadn’t worn a uniform since Cub Scouts.”
“And all this was happening on a broad scale?”
He nodded. “In my ten years of staff and command assignments, I’ve never seen or heard of so many senior officers basically being fired at the same time. Not just flag officers, either. A lot of us were staff officers–light and bird colonels, navy commanders–next in line to move up in rank when our flag-officer superiors retired. We were purged as well.”
“Were you and the others being openly critical, too?” Tom asked.
“Some were, absolutely, and the president didn’t like it.”
“There’s no First Amendment in the military, that’s for sure,” Marchetti said.
“To what were you and the others objecting?” Tom asked.
“A lot of things. Recent changes by the Pentagon to combat rules of engagement–changes, we felt, that would result in higher casualty rates. Major cuts in military spending that’d weaken our forces’ readiness. Using troops for politically correct social experiments. Those’ll do for starters.” He paused for another swig of coffee. “And if a senior officer dared offer an opposing view, he’d be gone in a matter of weeks–often sooner–his career pretty much over.”
“So did you give Vaughn the information he was looking for?”
He shook his head. “We talked about it some and were supposed to meet a second time after I’d checked some of my notes. But then he died on the way to see me.”
“You figure this false flag idea came from the Pentagon, or the civilian side?” Marchetti asked.
He again paused to gather his thoughts. “Let’s just say neither. I’d like to think our military leaders would balk at sending troops into battle when it didn’t present a serious threat to our country, but you know how it works.”
Marchetti and Tom both looked at him with obvious skepticism.
He shrugged. “Most of the time anyway.”
“Who then?”
“I see this kind of operation as more a product of one of the intelligence services–in concert with hawks in the administration.” Marchetti and Shannon looked at each other, measuring each other’s reaction. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he added.
“Agreed,” Tom said. “Mike and I were discussing the Gulf of Tonkin example just last night.”
“Yep, but there were others. Iranians working for the CIA in the Fifties, for example, posed as Communists and staged bombings in Iran to reinstall the Shah. And we had Operation Northwoods in the Sixties.”
Tom nodded. “A Joint Chiefs’ plan to commit terrorist acts on American soil and blame it on the Cubans.”
“Right, to justify invading their country. President Kennedy ultimately rejected the idea, but our use of false flag operations in the past is well documented.” He slowly sipped his black coffee. “So such a plan in a modern context would not be hard to imagine.”
“Though phony as hell,” Marchetti said.
Kendall smiled. “The threat doesn’t have to be real; we only have to believe it’s real. Americans will accept losing their civil liberties, whatever it takes, if it means greater security for their families.”
“I might argue with that.”
“Point taken, but many in the military disagree. General Tommy Franks, after retiring in 2003, said that if another major terrorist attack were to occur in the United States, the Constitution would likely be discarded in favor of a military form of government by popular demand.”
“So had the US actually put this false flag plan into operation?” Marchetti asked.
“They were about to. It would have been best, of course, if the Iranians acted first–the deadlier the better–so the US could cite that action as provocation for subsequent airstrikes.”
“But wouldn’t other countries see through the facade knowing how badly the US wanted to provoke an attack?” Marchetti asked.
“Right, which according to Vaughn is one reason it was scrubbed.” He paused for a moment, then continued, “Vaughn argued the administration decided to dump big money into covert action to encourage regime change in Iran, in hopes they’d openly retaliate against the US and other ‘mischief-makers.’ We would then frame that retaliation as an act of aggression and respond accordingly.”
“What happened to the plan?” Tom asked.
“The CIA had few personnel in country, covert or otherwise, and the Iranians they’d been counting on for intelligence were summarily executed. The agency considered having another country do the dirty work–Israel, most likely–if the US would guarantee them military intelligence and financial assistance. But when details of the plan leaked out, the CIA again changed plans.”
“But still endorsing the false flag idea?”
“Sure. That’s what Brad was following up on when he died. It was to be similar to a plan they’d come up with earlier: sail a warship from the Persian Gulf up the Shatt al Arab; have a couple of small boats stationed nearby painted and outfitted to look like Iranian boats with SEAL team members aboard. Gunfire would break out, they’d crank up a bunch of phony radio traffic, and a simulated Iranian attack would ensue.”
“Which would fool Congress?”
“As far as getting us into war with Iran, absolutely. The US and Iran have little ongoing communication, so the danger of misinterpreting the incident and actual danger it presented would be immense.” He took a bite of muffin and continued. “Iranian warships confront our boats every day in and around the Strait of Hormuz, so an actual attack would not be so hard to believe. But Admiral Scovell and others I’d worked with opposed it–felt, in the long run, it’d backfire.”
“Why is that?”
“Hardliners in Iran would become hardened further, they felt; Iran would speed up its development of nukes; and any chance of democratic reform would be ended. We’d also be faced with economic disaster of huge proportions because of oil shortages, and hundreds of thousands of American lives would potentially be at stake–all because of a contrived attack. But they pressed on anyway, until they realized Brad was about to go public with it.”
Marchetti nodded. “And there goes any hope of surprise.”
“Right.”
“So you think Bradley Vaughn had all the facts of this proposed false flag operation down pat and may have been killed because of it?” Tom asked.
“It’s certainly a possibility. He knew everything about the plan except for Israel’s possible role in it. We were going to discuss that when we met a second time–this time in Waimea. When he didn’t show, I knew there’d been trouble.”
“Did Brad feel his life was in danger?”
He thought about it for a moment. “He definitely suspected someone had been following him, so he stayed close to the St. Francis for the most part. Even thought about flying back to Southern California for a while but figured the feds–whom he assumed were the ones tailing him–would locate him there, too.” He held out his cup when the waitress came by to offer a refill, then waited until she moved to the next table. “Beyond that, I have no idea. Seems logical, though.”
“Where did Brad’s accident
happen, exactly?” Tom asked.
“West of here,” Kendall explained, “about two hundred feet past the twenty-mile road marker on Route 50, just past where the road crosses a stream. He veered left, hit the bridge, then careened back across the highway into the sand and dirt on the north side. That’s where he hit a power pole with the right front side of his car.”
“How’d you hear about it?”
“On the news that night.”
Marchetti jotted down a few notes and then asked, “You know anyone named Hollingsworth–K. Hollingsworth?”
He thought for a minute. “No.”
Marchetti shrugged. “Just a name we saw in Brad’s notes.”
Before parting, Marchetti asked about a possible subsequent meeting. Kendall shook his head and started gathering his things. “Sorry, but I’ve got a lot on my plate the next few weeks. I shouldn’t be seen talking to you anyway. Wish I could help, but I’m afraid you’re on your own.”
The three shook hands, they thanked him, and Kendall left.
Marchetti paid the bill and motioned for Tom to tear himself away from the pie display case and join him in the parking lot.
As they walked back to the car, Marchetti said, “If Kendall’s telling the truth, he may have been out on a limb even discussing it with us. So I can understand him not wanting to get involved.” He thought again for a few moments. “But see what you can find out about Commander Kendall anyway: his previous duty posts, and Barking Sands.”
On the drive toward Waimea, Tom noted the mile marker Kendall mentioned. Marchetti slowed when they spotted the bridge. As they got closer, Tom pointed to the right. “Over there.”
Marchetti pulled off the road and braked to a stop. They exited and slowly walked to where it looked like the tire tracks mowed through the grass and dirt on the north side of the two-lane, macadam highway.
“The pole’s new all right,” Marchetti said and took a few photos with his cell phone. “I’d like to see photos taken immediately after the accident so we could compare them.”
“Kalani may let us look at them, but I doubt he’ll cooperate beyond that.”
The two studied the ruts in the sand and looked back down the road toward the east. “No curves to worry about.”
“Hell, straight as a drag strip through here,” Tom said. “Had to be some reason he veered off the road at high speed.” He walked back to the paved road and looked around while Marchetti studied the pole a few minutes longer and then joined him. “Something strange, though,” Tom mumbled, as he stared at the pavement.
“Strange how?”
“No skid marks,” Tom said. Marchetti looked around but didn’t make the connection. “Janine said that according to the accident report he was doing about eighty when he bounced off the bridge and left the road. So unless he was unconscious or lost brakes for some reason, he would have been braking hard at this point; there would have been skid marks.”
Marchetti thought for a moment and nodded.
Tom walked in circles on the highway for a few minutes before he walked back to where Marchetti was standing at the side of the road. “I can’t say for certain what happened, but the absence of skid marks suggests one of two things: suicide or murder.”
Marchetti studied the pavement again. “I don’t see how…”
Tom continued, “One wild-ass possibility is that most modern, drive-by-wire cars can be hacked into quite easily.”
“And do what?”
“Remotely disabling the ignition system, immobilizing the brakes, any number of things.”
“Seriously?”
“Absolutely. A journalist back on the mainland named Michael Hastings was killed in much the same way not that long ago. He’d written a story for Rolling Stone on General McChrystal and was researching one on General Petreus. He, too, had uncovered incriminating information about a high-level military officer–in his case, someone involved in NSA’s domestic spying project–right before he died.”
“Interesting.”
“He was also working on a story naming the CIA director as the driving force behind a government agenda to silence investigative journalists critical of the administration.”
“A ticket to a short life if there ever was one.”
“Right, and he died in a crash similar to Brad’s. A security video showed a flash of light right before his car hit a tree, suggesting his death may have been caused by an explosion. Friends of his claimed army brass had threatened to kill him if he continued writing stuff they didn’t like, but I guess he didn’t believe them.”
Marchetti looked back at Tom. “Then I’d say we need to take a close look at the car Brad was driving.”
On their way back to Princeville, Tom and Marchetti continued discussing possible causes of Vaughn’s crash.
“What if he’d simply fallen asleep?” Marchetti asked.
Tom nodded. “Or had been drugged.”
They both agreed there could have been some other cause and wasted no time trying to find out what it might be. Marchetti dialed Janine’s work number. When she answered, he said, “We’re on our way back to the hotel. Where did you say you were keeping Brad’s car?”
“In our equipment and vehicle storage facility, about a half-mile from the hotel.” Janine explained she’d arranged to have the Corolla taken there after the accident investigation had been completed, and it hadn’t been moved since.
“Who does the mechanical work on your vehicles?”
“The Toyota dealer in Lihue. Service manager’s name is Ekewaka Kealoha... though everyone calls him Ed.”
“Can he be trusted to go over the car top to bottom and keep the results strictly between the four of us?”
“Sure,” she said. “He’s handled our cars for years and never blabbed anything about our business, as far as I know.”
He scribbled Ed’s number in his notepad and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. “We’ll see you back at the hotel tonight. In the meantime, please call Ed and tell him we’ll be bringing the car to him tomorrow. Ask him to cooperate with us in any way he can.”
“You bet.”
“And until we’ve had a chance to look into this further, don’t discuss Brad’s accident with anyone, under any circumstances.”
14
Kauai, July 5th
Tom arranged to have a tow truck meet them at the hotel storage facility where Janine kept the Toyota Corolla Brad was driving. He and Marchetti arrived at the fenced-in storage yard just as the driver pulled up. A stocky, dark-skinned Hawaiian man dressed in a blue, flowered shirt and khaki shorts stepped from the cab and introduced himself as Johnny Mamoa.
Once they’d discussed where he’d take the car, he leapt back into the cab and maneuvered the truck to a position between the storage building and chain link fence. Tom raised the storage door and guided Johnny back close to the unit.
Marchetti and Tom both cringed when they saw the condition the Toyota was in. The right fender was indented the width of a utility pole; the right front wheel sat cocked and broken off its axle mount. The steering wheel was contorted and bent off the steering column; the air bag hung limp, covered with dust.
Johnny backed up the truck to within a few feet of the vehicle. He lowered the hooks under the front bumper of the black sedan. Satisfied he’d secured the chains, he operated levers on the side of his truck to hoist the front of the car up high enough for the wheels to clear the concrete. Once he’d pulled the car clear of the storage bay, he lifted it further to place the front wheels firmly on the back of the truck.
Mamoa put the truck in gear and swung out of the tight spot through the gate and onto the narrow gravel road serving the storage units. He paused briefly for Tom to relock the gate behind them and again eased forward. Marchetti and Tom followed close behind as they slowly made their way through the twists and turns of the semi-residential neighborhood toward the main highway.
Fifty minutes later, Johnny pulled up in back of the dealer’s ceme
nt-block building into one of three large work bays. Two mechanics in adjacent spaces looked at each other and laughed as a Don Ho song blared from Mamoa’s radio and bounced off the building’s metal rafters.
Service Manager Ed Kealoha met them as Mamoa pulled away from the service bay. “Good grief,” he said when he saw the damage to the car. “No one walked away from that one, guaranteed.” He ran his hand over the right front fender and briefly peered underneath at the chassis. “What have we got here?” he asked.
Marchetti related what Janine and Commander Kendall told them about the accident, how Brad Vaughn crashed into a power pole fifty feet off the road at an usually fast speed for a safe, mostly slow-footed driver. Toxicology tests indicated no drugs or alcohol in his bloodstream; no skid marks on the road, and no witnesses to the crash.
“We were wondering if someone might have sabotaged the car,” Marchetti said.
Ed pried open the crumpled hood and braced it open with a three-foot length of two-by-four. After a cursory look inside the engine compartment, he raised the car high enough on his lift that he could walk around clear of the tailpipes and mufflers. He grabbed a work light from a nearby tool rack and peered at the undercarriage. Once he’d studied it a few minutes, he lowered the car back down.
“Can’t say as I see anything obvious besides collision damage,” he said. He opened the driver’s side front door and pushed the airbag out of the way. Then he slid on his back under the steering wheel while holding the work light in his left hand.
Marchetti and Tom watched closely as Ed squirmed and muttered to himself.
“See anything?” Marchetti asked.
Ed slid back out from under the steering wheel. “Not yet, but can you come by in the morning? That will not only give me time to go over it more closely, but the Toyota tech rep will be here, too. I’d like him to look at it.”
The Omega Covenant Page 8
