The Cassandra Conspiracy (12 page)

Thiesse had hoped for a protection assignment, but the Service worked in strange and sometimes not so wondrous ways. Someone in the Service’s upper echelon figured that if Thiesse had lived in the New York area while he was with ATF, then that would be the best place to send him. So Allen Thiesse was assigned to the Service’s largest field office as a “newbie”, the greenest member of the team.

Thiesse promptly found himself lost in the shuffle of routine work handled by the office, most of which centered on tracking the sources of counterfeit bills or tracing stolen government checks. But on occasion, when the President or vice President visited the Big Apple, Thiesse supported Protective Operations. In spite of its size, there wasn’t much excitement in New York. Two years later, the Thiesses found themselves packing their belongings:  the movers took the furniture and boxes; Thiesse and his wife drove the car. Their destination was Washington, D. C. He’d be working the vice President’s protection detail.

Soon the agent’s life had become one of pacing limousines and standing guard duty at whatever post the Special Agent in Charge (SAIC) or Assistant SAC (ASAIC) assigned him. He watched countless hands of faceless people until his head hurt. He was always on guard, looking for faces that didn’t belong–someone who was sweating when it was cold, or someone who was too cool in the heat of the day.

He looked for anyone who seemed out of place, always waiting for the radio message he feared most– “Gun Left” or “Gun Right”. Wanting to be certain he’d recognize any of these people if he saw them in the crowd, Thiesse memorized the faces of the active threat makers. He worked the crowd before the limo arrived, then continued his surveillance until the vice President was safely at his destination. There were other occasions where he arrived with the vice President. Thiess’s first act after getting out of the car was to unbutton his jacket. Nothing in the way of reaching his gun should the need arise.

Many agents assigned to Protective Operations “burned out” from the heavy travel, the long hours, and the pressure. These people were transferred off the high intensity Protective Ops teams. But Allen Thiesse seemed to flourish with each assignment. He learned how the Service protected the
President and the vice President, each new trip a challenge.

Throughout the time that he spent guarding the elected leaders of the United States, Allen worked hard on his marriage. Whenever he had time off, he and Diane spent it together. Fortunately Diane had her own career, so she wasn’t left “high and dry” while Allen “advanced” the next vice
Presidential trip. Their marriage became stronger. When he looked back on the years spent in Protective Ops, he credited Diane’s career with contributing to the glue that held their relationship together.

Election years posed the biggest problems for the Service, heavily taxing the agents. Every four years, the organization had to find extra agents to supplement those protecting the
President and vice President while they were on the campaign trail. And that didn’t include the details needed to protect the candidates.

Manpower limitations were severe, and stayed that way right through the general election. Although the candidates and their spin doctors looked forward to Secret Service protection, the Service didn’t provide round
-the-clock protection until after the man was a leading party candidate or until the White House ordered it. Every campaign manager coveted Secret Service protection. It was always more impressive when the candidate arrived in a Secret Service motorcade than in a private limousine.

Thiesse worked Daniel Varrick’s protection detail as ASAIC during the candidate’s campaign for the Oval Office. When personal illness resulted in the reassignment of the team’s top man, Thiesse took over as Special Agent in Charge. Throughout the remaining months of the campaign, Daniel Varrick leaned heavily on Allen Thiesse. Thiesse harbored no illusions about being appointed PPD’s SAIC, and was surprised when the
President-elect pushed for his appointment to the post.

Having a Secret Service protection team was entirely new to the candidate, who recognized that these people had a job to do. A modest man, Varrick felt there was little threat to his personal safety. Not wanting to make their job any more difficult than it already was, he cooperated fully with the Secret Service.

.   .   .   .   .   .

As the meeting broke up, the voices of the
President and his staff interrupted Thiess’s reverie. Thiesse checked his tie, and then placed the empty cup on the table adjacent to his seat. As the President left the conference room, the agent noted the haggard look on Daniel Varrick’s gaunt face.

The
President, shadowed by Thiesse, made his way forward. Before Daniel Varrick went into his office, he turned to Thiesse and said, “This is going to be a tough one, Allen. The nation’s business interests are not going to be happy with our new program.”

“I’m confident you can handle them, Mr.
President,” the agent said supportively.

The intercom buzzed as Thiesse watched the door close. He reached over to answer it. It was Col. Mark Haggerty, the Air Force One pilot. “Allen, we’ll be landing in about a half hour.”

“Thanks,” Thiesse said hanging up the phone.

Thirty minutes later, the most recognized symbol of the presidency gently rolled to a stop near the specially built operations and maintenance building. Thiesse waited patiently outside the
President's office for him to emerge. From Andrews, it would be a short helicopter ride to the White House South Lawn. Once the President was safely back in his private living quarters on the second floor of the White House, Thiesse could call it a night.

After the ground crew had maneuvered the mobile ramp to the front cabin entrance, one of the on
board crewmembers opened the door. Thiesse stood at the top of the ramp until the rest of his detail was in position. There had been plenty of times when Allen Thiesse wasn’t really sure why he put up with the hassles of his job and the strain on his marriage. But there were other, quieter moments like tonight, when he looked with pride at the dark blue letters spelling out The United States of America on the fuselage, and the Presidential seal next to the cabin entrance. They served as clear reminders of his weighty responsibilities to the man who led the most powerful nation on earth.

Thiesse checked to see that the agents were at their posts. Keying his two
-way radio, Thiesse commanded, “All posts say status.” As each agent checked in, Thiesse visually checked the positioning of the Air Force security officers who supplemented his people when Air Force One was at Andrews. The Sikorsky VH-3D that would ferry them back to the White House was only a few feet from the 747. The agents who accompanied him on the trip were already in position near the helicopter. Everything was secure.

Thiesse knocked once on the
President's door. “We’re ready when you are, Mr. President.”

As Daniel Varrick left the airborne Oval Office, Thiesse led the way to the forward cabin door. “We’re moving,” Thiesse spoke into the microphone in his sleeve.

CHAPTER 7

September 28th

John Grant’s ice
-blue eyes glanced down at the computer screen. They had agreed upon the encrypted message system during the project’s preliminary planning stages, and it had served them well, maintaining the security so essential to a successful mission.

Of the Committee’s entire membership, Grant knew the identity of only the Chairman. The reverse also held true, in that only Charles Wingate and his chief of security, Bill Parker, knew their hired assassin. Therefore all of Grant’s communications with the Committee went through its chairman, which was exactly how Grant wanted it.

When the Committee first decided to act, Wingate tasked Parker with locating the right man for the job. It took Parker less than a month to screen several candidates, finally deciding on Grant. Wingate’s initial contact with the assassin took place between two phone booths–both selected at random. The basic arrangements were made, the deal struck, and money transferred from one equally anonymous Swiss bank account to the other. Grant was a strong believer in “need-to-know”–if you didn’t need to know the information to do your specific job, then you didn’t have access to it.

Grant paused for a moment, letting the significance of their ‘go’ decision settle in his mind. He had ample money for his expenses. More important, he had a basic plan of action. He had only to complete his planning and begin the implementation stage. During the past months, he had reviewed the basic plan over and over again, and Grant didn’t anticipate many changes. He had spent countless hours working out the details and developing a plan that would swing the heavily weighted odds against their success into Grant’s, and thus the Committee’s, favor.

Grant had sifted through the mass of data provided him by his newest employer. Someone definitely had access to all the right information. Grant had been briefed on the target’s security arrangements, he knew what frequencies his security personnel communicated on, how they were deployed, not to mention how many people were used, and how they were equipped. A plan had slowly evolved in Grant’s head, taking shape over the following months. Then he polished it until there was nothing left to question. Finally, he could proceed.

He was not quite sure whether he was happy or sad. His reaction to the news surprised him in that he always was up for a mission, but this time it was different. Maybe it was the old score that would finally be settled. Maybe it was the gravity of the task he was taking on. Either way, he had to complete his detailed plans now if he was going to meet the Committee’s schedule.

He had already given some thought to his objective and how he could best carry off the hit. Selecting the approach was absolutely critical, and Grant always preferred a carefully placed rifle shot. His target was well protected, which meant he wouldn’t be allowed to get in close. Besides, even if he did manage to get within pistol range, he’d never escape. The target’s security also ruled out bombs. X-ray scanners and bomb sniffers–both electronic and four-legged–checked every parcel and envelope that made it to the target’s hands. Notwithstanding, Grant had an idea. He’d have to test the waters to see if it would work, but on the surface it looked promising.

.   .   .   .   .   .

Later that same afternoon, John Grant locked his motel room and went out to where he’d parked the rental car. He drove west along Interstate 70 from Baltimore, stopping along the way only at a truck stop for a quick cup of coffee.

Afterward, Grant followed the route that he had mapped out in his head until he found the turnoff that would take him north along the eastern edge of the park. He drove past the exits designating the beginning of the Cunningham Falls State Park, southern neighbor to the Catoctin National Forest, on the west side of the north
-south arterial.

He left Route 15 at the Route 77 interchange and took the westbound ramp onto Route 77, which tracked the border between the two parks. About a mile and a half on the right side, Grant found a sign directing him to the Catoctin Mountain Forest visitor center. He pulled past the single-story stone building and parked the car in one of the designated spaces.

Even so late in the season, the park drew many visitors; it was their last chance to commune with nature before winter set in. Hence Catoctin Mountain Forest was alive throughout the month with photo seminars, demonstrations, and nature hikes. They even had a special program that explained the art of making bootleg whiskey, complete with demonstrations using the park’s own still.

Inside the visitor center, the National Park Service displayed examples of the local flora and fauna. As he walked through the front door, a stuffed squirrel eyed him from its position on the “L”
-shaped glass counter. Grant already knew where he was going. Nonetheless, he picked up a fold-out map from the counter, wondering how helpful the park ranger would have been had he known Grant’s true purpose in coming to the park.

When he got back to the car, Grant unfolded the map, placing it across the hood. The park stretched approximately seven kilometers, or about four and a half miles, on the diagonal. At its widest point, slightly west of where Grant was, it ran for another 3.5 kilometers. The road the visitor center was on, Park Central Road, continued due north past an area called Misty Mount and then cut west, following a somewhat jagged path through the park.

He figured he’d find a spot to leave the car, and hike in from there. Before doing so, Grant wanted an overview of the park. From what he’d been told, he knew his objective’s southern perimeter was only yards from Park Central Road. Grant left the visitor center parking lot and turned right. He followed Park Central Road past Misty Mount. When he passed the signs for Hog Rock, Grant dropped his speed to twenty miles per hour. Almost immediately, he saw the signs warning against standing, stopping, or parking. He was in the right place.

Warning signs heavily marked the road into Camp Three. Closest to Park Central Road, the signs simply said, “Stop. Restricted Area. Do Not Enter. Violators Will Be Fined”. Further up the drive, the warnings took on a more ominous tone. “Warning–Restricted Area. Keep Out. Authorized Personnel Only” atop a detailed explanation of the authority under whose direction Camp Three was protected.

Through the trees, he could barely make out the chain-link fence. Grant speeded up, not wanting to draw the attention of the park police, who frequently patrolled the area. Grant stayed on Park Central until it tee’d into Foxville-Deerfield Road. There he turned right again, and continued north past Owens Creek toward Lantz.

A half mile south of Lantz, Grant found what he’d been looking for–a good place to stash the car. The side road dead
-ended at an abandoned house, and there were no signs that anyone had made use of the house or its driveway in quite some time. Grant followed the dirt road until he located a secluded spot, where he parked the car. From the trunk, he removed his backpack.

In the military, Grant had become accustomed to carrying seventy-pound packs for days on end. His pack, weighing in at thirty pounds, was an easy carry. He slipped his arms through the shoulder straps and made a few minor adjustments before heading off into the woods.

He could have approached his objective using a more direct route, but stealth was imperative, and his plan certainly gave him that. He checked his compass, and then took off in a south-southwest direction. According to his calculations, he had under a mile to go. Unfortunately the Park Service did not cut trails where Grant was going, which slowed him up. But then, there was no rush. The car would be safe, and staying off the park’s designated parking areas ensured that no inquisitive park ranger would run a license plate check on it.

En route, he stopped to take a drink of water. Off through the woods, Grant heard the sound of foraging
deer; probably a doe teaching her offspring a few final lessons before they went off on their own. He hooked his canteen back on his webbed belt and moved stealthily toward them. Grant checked the air currents and decided to approach the deer from downwind. If they were going to evade his pursuit, the deer would have to rely on their hearing. Conscious of every step he took, Grant carefully checked the ground before placing his foot down. Had he stepped on even one dry twig, his quarry would be long gone. He soundlessly moved aside any branches in his way, inching closer to the deer.

The three deer were grazing on the tender stalks of grass. Their white tails, which they wave in the air like distress flags, were hanging motionless–they were unaware his presence. Had he wanted to, he could have walked up and touched them. However, he was content to test his stealth abilities, using the techniques the Special Forces had taught him over twenty years ago. Not surprisingly, he hadn’t lost his touch.

One of the deer stopped eating, and turned to face him. It was a beautiful doe, ears up, scanning the forest for any sound of danger or man, the two being synonymous. The two smaller deer were, as he had expected, this year’s crop of fawns almost ready to forage on their own.

John Grant could line up his sniper scope on a man at five hundred yards, quarter the target, test the wind, and then squeeze the trigger sending a high-velocity round into the target’s head. But his quarry could kill him. It was not one
-sided. He was as much the hunted as he was the hunter. Silently so as not to disturb the family, Grant turned around and headed back to his original trail.

Grant continued in the same direction for another hour before he hit the taut wire marking the site’s perimeter. Signs suspended from the wire designated the area as U.S. Navy property, and warned all trespassers to stay out. About a hundred feet away, he could see a more substantial chain-link fence. Grant slipped under the wire, and slowly approached the inner fence.

If he were caught in the “exclusion zone”, he could always explain say that he was just an inquisitive hiker. As long as the police only ran a National Crime Information Center, or NCIC, check, he’d be fine. There were no wants or warrants out for John Grant. But he’d rather not chance it.

There had to be security outposts along the perimeter, most likely in the corners. Grant swung his field glasses left and then right, but didn’t see any manned positions. He surmised that he must be between two guard posts.

Carefully he inspected the fence fabric and its mounting posts. Had the fence been electrified, it would have been insulated from the ground, and the mounting posts likewise would have been mounted on large ceramic insulators. Grant had seen one nuclear weapons storage site in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where the entire fence line was “hot”. No one knew when the power was on or when it was off, but the current and voltage were more than sufficient to fry anyone touching the fence. He knew that whenever the government used electrified fencing, it always erected a triple fence, with the middle fence “hot”. Any other approach would have led to lawsuits initiated by the next of kin of those made into crispy critters. The fence posts were well-anchored directly into the ground, but absent were the telltale white ceramic insulators.

Grant next checked the fence for any electronic security devices. The government used several different types of intrusion detection systems to detect anyone touching, cutting, or climbing a fence. The fence in front of Grant was also devoid of detectors. It was neither alarmed nor electrified. Of course it was possible the government had used seismic or pressure detection sensors. But had they done so, they would have been inside the fence. Otherwise, every time a deer set off one of the sensors, the guards would come running.

Just because they didn’t have any intrusion sensors on the fence or adjacent to it didn’t mean there weren’t any television cameras. He knew security operators had a tough time keeping a wary eye on the multitude of cameras that brought back individual pictures to the security control center. The government’s own studies showed that after fifteen or twenty minutes, even the most conscientious operator missed subtle changes in the picture. The more cameras displayed in front of a given operator, the more apt he would be to overlook something critical.

Of course, the cameras could have been equipped with digital video motion detectors. These state-of-the-art units sliced the video coming back to the control center into tiny pixels, typically eight or sixteen thousand little squares. A computer monitored each pixel for any changes, such as those caused by someone moving through the picture. Once detected, the computer sounded the alarm. The only problem was that motion detectors couldn’t distinguish an intruder from leaves blowing in the wind, the sun rising or setting, or small animals moving through the area.

Grant doubted that any cameras in use were fitted with the feature. If they were, the cameras were most likely pointed parallel to the fence line, where there were fewer sources of nuisance alarms, and not off into the woods. Grant still scanned the area inside the fence for signs of closed-circuit television surveillance. Nothing untoward moved. Nothing caught his eye. More important, no alarm response teams were rushing to check out the fence line.

Most likely the security force would patrol the site’s interior areas. Methodically, he moved back deeper into the woods. Grant found a tree trunk that made a convenient
backrest, and took off his pack, placing it at his feet. From the pack he removed a spando-flage pullover head cover. This expandable camouflage netting expanded to over ten times its normal size. The form-fitting mask completely hid Grant’s face while providing him with more than ample ventilation.