The Cassandra Conspiracy

by Rick Bajackson

  Vietnam–so long ago, yet still so much part of his life.

  . . . . . .

  Vietnam, 1973

  During basic training, it quickly became evident to the marksmanship instructors they had someone special on their hands. Some recruits had grown up in the back woods of rural Mississippi or Arkansas, where they hunted from the time they were able to hold a rifle. These boys came into the service and knew how to handle a rifle. Some became snipers, and for them it was the thrill of the stalk, except this time the hunted were Vietcong commanders or North Vietnamese officers.

  Barron was different. He had never hunted, nor did he share any interest in hearing the hunting epics some others told. Nonetheless, his marksmanship was right on target. If the bullet could carry the distance, Barron could place the shot in the kill zone. He seemed to have an innate ability to judge distances and determine the effect of crosswinds and temperature on the bullet’s trajectory.

  When Barron joined up with the other two members of his recon unit in Vietnam, he had yet to kill his first enemy soldier. Before each mission, Barron wrapped a bandoleer of high-powered rifle rounds around his waist, but inside his shirt. He didn’t want the sunlight reflecting off the sheen of the special factory-produced bullets, and he didn’t want them nicked or damaged before he loaded them into the sniper rifle’s breech. Besides the rifle and ammo, he also carried a combat fighting knife and the regulation Army .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol. Barron had been taught the art of assassination, and he’d do his best to perfect his talents.

  With Barron on the team, they performed flawlessly. It didn’t make any difference whether they were out to count trucks along some godforsaken road the Vietnamese called a highway or to check troop movements in their unit’s area of operations. The team performed their mission and reported back. If their orders were to avoid contact, they stayed out of the way of the Vietcong and North Vietnamese patrols. Everything went fine, and Barron earned his sergeant’s stripes. Then, on a single mission, everything went to hell in a flash.

  The team had been inserted about fifty miles northwest of Hue in the A Shau Valley, their orders to monitor the traffic along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The first day was uneventful. Just before dusk, they moved off the road to bivouac in the jungle far enough away for it to be unlikely that any enemy patrols would accidentally run across them. Since no one knew they were there, no one would be out looking for them.

  As darkness fell, the team heard screams coming from somewhere up ahead.

  “Jesus Christ, what’s that?” their team leader asked.

  “Sounds like Charlie’s got himself a downed jet jockey or maybe a GI, and is asking some questions,” Barron responded. He knew that the VC were as harsh and inhumane with their prisoners as were the South Vietnamese. Torture was torture– plain and simple. Barron started to take his sniper rifle out of its jungle‑proof case. When he was in the bush, the target rifle received the most protection of any of their equipment except the radio that was their link to a dust-off.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” It was part question, part order.

  “I’m going to get that guy out of there.”

  “Don’t be an asshole. You don’t know what we’re up against. There’s nothing we can do for that poor soul, and getting ourselves killed won’t help.”

  Barron didn’t say a word; he just sat there, wiping down the Remington. Their squad leader, in an attempt to drive home the point said, “And remember, we’re under strict orders to avoid enemy contact.”

  Barron made no reply. The screams continued through most of the night.

  When dawn broke, Barron was gone, leaving the two other team members to hold their position. With the area ripe with VC activity, they couldn’t take the chance of going after him and getting caught up in a firefight. They knew that if an enemy force engaged them, they would be forced to abandon Barron and call for an extraction. They could never do that, so they hunkered down and waited.

  When Barron got to a position where he could see the Vietcong campsite, he was horrified by what he saw through his binoculars. The captured American was tied to a crudely erected bamboo frame in the center of the camp. The prisoner’s shorts were covered with blood. Sometime the previous night, the interrogator had castrated his captive.

  While Barron watched, the Vietcong officer continued the interrogation, beginning the slow methodical process of skinning him–inch by inch. The GI kept screaming, pleading with the officer to kill him quickly. Barron put down the binoculars. Their orders had been specific: avoid contact at all costs.

  Barron slid the Remington from its case. Nestling the rifle in his arm, he removed five rounds from his bandoleer. Carefully, he loaded the cartridges before uncapping the telescopic sight. He’d get only one shot. He could kill the interrogator, but the Vietcong’s return fire would prevent him from ending the GI’s pain. Or he could end the soldier’s suffering, allowing the animal who tortured him to live. Neither was acceptable.

  Barron removed a small sandbag from his kit and placed it on the log lying in front of him. Because the sniper weapon was sighted in for greater distances, he carefully adjusted the point of impact. Barron moved his head so that he had a full field of view with no shadows, muttered a short prayer, and lowered the crosshairs on to the dying soldier. Slowly he quartered the target, placing the reticle directly in the center of the GI’s chest. Barron squeezed the trigger, silently willing the bullet to end the man’s suffering.

  The rifle’s report galvanized the VC encampment into action. Enemy soldiers bolted from their mats. Barron yanked the rifle bolt, ejecting the spent round and chambering a fresh one. The flurry of activity prevented him from taking his time with the VC interrogator. He brought the rifle up, while keeping his eyes on the target. As soon as his target came into view, he fired.

  The bullet’s impact jerked the Vietcong officer off his feet. He was dead before he hit the ground. It was too good a death for that animal, but a death nonetheless. Unsure of the sniper’s location, the Vietcong opened fire. Their Kalashnikovs on full auto, streams of hot lead tore through the jungle canopy. Where a few minutes earlier there had been only the normal sounds of the jungle, now utter chaos reigned.

  Barron bellied back from the spot where he had shot the VC officer as 7.62 millimeter rounds ripped over his head. For a minute he was sure that he’d been seen, but there was no concentrated fire directed at his position. As quickly as he dared, Barron retreated. When he got back no one asked him what he’d done. They all knew. The team also knew they were in trouble.

  As they scrambled toward a rendezvous point, their radioman called for an emergency dust-off. Command responded that they had a UH‑1B close to the team’s position; it would be vectored to them immediately. Although they were less than two klicks from the clearing where they’d rendezvous with the chopper, it seemed like miles.

  With Barron covering their retreat, the men plowed through the dense underbrush. Branches slapped against their faces and tore at their clothes. Normally caution caused by the fear of running across any enemy mines would mark their passing, but with the VC hot on their trail, caution was tossed aside.

  When Barron’s team reached the exfil point, they set up a rearguard action in case the marauding VC got to them before the chopper. Finally, they heard the whomp of the UH‑1’s rotors. As the helicopter came in for a hot landing, the sound of close-in gunfire echoed through the jungle.

  The chopper’s port door gunner opened up with the M‑60, providing covering fire as they threw themselves on board. Hot shell casings clattered on the chopper’s deck, their rattle unheard over the machinegun’s clattering. All three men crouched down on the deck of the now ascending helicopter, each praying that they’d make it back to camp in one piece.

  Later, Barron made no apologies for what he’d done. Like the others, he knew there was going to be hell to pay when the team landed. He was right.

  CHAPTER 8

  September 2
9th

  “Guten Tag.”

  “Good afternoon,” Grant said glancing at his watch. The Swiss were six hours ahead of Miami time. “This is Miura,” Grant said, using the code word for his numbered account at the Zurich bank.

  “Would you please hold for a moment?” the banker requested as he accessed Grant’s records on the bank’s computer. A few seconds ticked by.

  “How may I be of assistance, sir?”

  “I would like to confirm the last transfer into my account,” Grant requested.

  He read off the account number long ago committed to memory. A few seconds later, Grant thanked the banker and returned the phone to its cradle. His account had been the recipient of a transfer totaling two and a half million dollars, the agreed-upon down payment.

  Grant packed his overnighter and went to check out of the motel. He paid the balance, pocketed the bill, and went over to the bank of pay telephones on the wall. Inserting the correct change, Grant punched in a second phone number. He waited until he heard the voice of his old friend on the other end of the phone. “I’m here, and I’m on my way. See you soon.”

  He smiled as his friend said, “Same here.” He hung up the phone, conscious that no one else in the lobby had overheard his brief, innocuous conversation or, for that matter, even paid him any attention. He left the lobby and went out to the parking lot to collect his rental car.

  Miami’s inbound rush hour was in full swing, which left the turnpike’s southbound lanes relatively clear. He’d have a straight shot to Homestead. Grant turned on the car’s FM radio, searching for classical music. With the Hispanic influence, most of the local stations played the lively sounds from south of the border. He tuned the radio, listening for a station that would allow him to relax for a few minutes. Finally, he found a suitable station and adjusted the volume until it drowned out the traffic’s noise.

  Twenty minutes later, Grant pulled into the driveway and proceeded back to a ranch‑style home built in the late sixties. He was confident that the man he came to see, already knew he had arrived.

  The colonel greeted John Grant enthusiastically. “Jesus, John, it’s been years since you’ve paid me a visit. What’s it been three, four...?”

  “More like five years since we last tilted a few,” Grant said in response. Grant carefully appraised his soft-spoken friend. The years since they had both left the jungles of Vietnam had taken their toll. No longer a lean, mean fightin’ machine, the colonel walked as if arthritis had invaded his body. Unlike that of a lot of vets, the colonel's physique had not gone to fat. Instead he appeared frail, his grip not withstanding. As they spoke, the colonel led Grant into the house.

  The interior of the house showed signs of a woman’s touch, yet Grant never knew anything about the colonel's wife, nor even if he was married. On the mantel, were several pictures, some showing his friend with a woman. There were also photos of several children, obviously the grandchildren he had referred to on the phone. After drinking a few beers and sharing some war stories, they got down to business.

  The colonel leaned back in his easy chair. “You didn’t come all this way on short notice to see how an old Army friend was getting along in his retirement. What can I do for you?”

  “I need a long range weapon for a special assignment. I don’t even know if what I want to do is possible, and if it is, what’s best for the job.”

  For several years after he got back from Southeast Asia, the colonel had worked for the Central Intelligence Agency as one of their armorers. He had stayed current on weapons technology, and was exposed to most of the state-of-the-art weaponry, including chemical and biological ones. When he retired to Florida, the colonel had developed a small part-time business doing the same thing he had done his entire life, providing custom and special weapons to people whose jobs required their use. Over the years, Grant had been a good customer.

  The colonel knew Grant farmed out his services for what he called “special assignments”, taking only those consistent with his personal ethics. Since Vietnam, the colonel had heard rumors of Grant’s skills being used against a Colombian drug lord, the barbarous head of the secret police for a South American dictator, and at least one Corsican gangster.

  “What’s your range to target?” the colonel asked, taking out a pad and ballpoint pen.

  “Somewhere between fifteen hundred and seventeen hundred yards.”

  The colonel scribbled a quick note. “Will the target be in any kind of vehicle?”

  “No. Out in the open.”

  “Good, because the choice of weapons is limited if there’s any significant physical protection around the target.”

  The colonel thought for a while before asking his next question.

  “Will the target’s security people be close by?” If they were, Grant would be able to get off only one shot.

  Grant nodded. “Close, but when this goes down, he won’t be cloaked in security.”

  “I presume you’ll need optics to match?”

  “Right. I’ll go with laser, standard high‑power scope–whatever.”

  “The first round is going to have to do the job. Given the distance and the target’s security, it’s unlikely you’ll be able to get off a second shot. Even if you could, I doubt you’d have much of a chance of placing the round on target. That means that the first shot is going to have to travel the full range, hit the target, and take him out. You can forget about a headshot, which, as you know, is a sure kill. It’s going to have to be a body shot.”

  “Can it be done?” Grant’s whole approach to filling the contract depended on the answer. If the colonel could provide such a weapon, Grant would meet his employer’s schedule. If not, he’d have to begin planning all over again.

  “I think so. But it’s going to take a special rifle, a damned good set of optics, and a steady hand.”

  The colonel took a briar pipe off the hatch cover he used as a coffee table, and tamped tobacco into the bowl. “Gave up the old coffin nails and switched to these things,” the man said holding up the pipe. “Now unless I’m home, I don’t smoke. Pipes are too damned much trouble to fool with unless you’ve got all the accessory stuff, like pipe cleaners, with you.” The colonel's gray eyes danced. The old man may have aged physically, but his spirit was well intact. After the pipe was going strong, he continued.

  “In the last days of the war, the Marines were fooling around with a fifty caliber round for use by their snipers. I think it was the Browning machine gun load. They built a single shot sniper rifle that chambered the round. I’m not sure how much use they got out of it before the war ended, but a few armament companies have gone on to refine the weapon.”

  It looked as if Grant’s technical problems might be solved. Patiently, he waited for the colonel to continue.

  “A fifty caliber, if you can put it on target, will hit like an express train even at the distances you’re talking about. Even a torso shot’s a mortal wound. There’s a gunsmith in the Midwest who has a line on scopes that can be mounted to the gun. One of those will give you the optimum sight picture.” The colonel gave Grant a chance to think about what he’d said before continuing.

  “The rifle I have in mind doesn’t require any license. I can buy it through a nominee, and by using a few cutouts, dead end anyone interested in its history. Will you need any type of special packaging?” the colonel asked, referring to whether he would have to find some way to disguise the gun.

  “No. I’ll walk it in. Afterward I’ll take it out the same way. I’ll need a padded case, but that’s it. How long do you figure it will take to get the rifle, scope, and some ammo?”

  “I can probably obtain the rifle and make the necessary mods in about two weeks. The scope should be here about the same time. The ammo’s something else. In light of your mission, I’d like to make up some special loads–something with a frangible bullet, maybe patterned after the Glaser Safety Slug–something that will ensure a kill no matter what. That might take me longer
to come up with since each round will have to be handmade. I’ll have to fabricate each bullet, and then test it with the gun.”

  “Two questions. First, why the Glaser? I thought those were only used by apartment dwellers that didn’t want their shots tearing through their neighbors’ walls. Secondly, about how long will it take, assuming I give you the go ahead?”

  “Rather than tell you, I’ll show you. As to your second question, figure two weeks until I turn over everything to you. How’s that?”

  “I need to move on this, but I don’t want to rush things to the point where I go in half-assed. Plus I’ll want at least a week to become familiar with the gun.”

  “Can I get hold of you, or would it be easier for you to call me back?”

  “I’ll call you, say, two weeks from today. By the way, how much is this going to cost me?”

  The colonel took out a small pad from his shirt pocket and wrote down a few numbers. He then excused himself while he went down to his workshop. A few minutes later, he returned to the living room.

  “Around eighty‑five hundred dollars, but definitely not more than ten thousand. All right?”

  “It’s a deal.” Money was obviously not an object, but Grant wanted to be certain that he’d have sufficient cash when he returned to pick up the weapon.

  “You’re going to need some way to accurately measure the range to the target,” the colonel added. “The old approach of using graticule markings won’t hack it, not at that range. I’ll come up with something.” Grant watched as the colonel added a few notes to his pad.

  “You planning to leave this afternoon or will you be staying over a few days?” the colonel asked as they rose from their chairs.

  “I’m flying back today. I didn’t know how long our meeting would take, so I held off booking my return flight. Figured I’d get back to Miami International, and then catch whatever flight was available.”

  “Before you go, let me show you my shop,” the colonel said, leading the way to the basement steps.