The Omega Covenant

by Richard Holcroft

  “Certainly not serious enough to get Brad Vaughn murdered,” Tom said.

  “Let’s put the McNeil stuff aside for now and see what else we come up with.”

  They reviewed every remaining item, sorting through pieces of information by subject matter and date, until satisfied they’d covered his work product for the last few months.

  Marchetti came across articles Brad had done on the Washington, DC, mayoral race but didn’t see a connection to either the General O’Neil case or an alleged CIA cover-up in Afghanistan. Tom spent a half hour studying Vaughn’s notes about defense contractors using large sums of money to buy influence with congressmen but saw no dramatic revelations in those notes, either. He tried logging onto Brad’s MacBook but failed without a password.

  They’d been pouring over Brad’s material for nearly three hours when Tom tapped a black, loose-leaf binder he’d laid open on the table in front of him. “Voila,” he said.

  Marchetti looked up. “What’ve you got?”

  “Brad’s notes dated May 26th... roughly a week before he died.” He picked up the binder and leaned back in his padded chair. “Handwritten items about wanting to interview someone named K. Hollingsworth at a place called Plantation House here on Kauai. In parentheses he’d added the words ‘check second house.’ He laid out a working theory involving plans drawn up by the Joint Chiefs of Staff and CIA that Janine talked about, in which the CIA and Mossad would ratchet up covert action against Iran in hopes the regime would retaliate.”

  “Against whom?”

  “Against one of our ships in the Persian Gulf. Brad figured the CIA and Pentagon would be willing to sacrifice one of our small boats–including crew, if necessary–in interests of putting Iran’s nuclear ambitions away for good and perhaps producing regime change in that country, as a best-case scenario.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  “Yeah, but it makes sense if you think about it,” Tom said, tapping the binder. “A way to get us into a war when the public or Congress wouldn’t otherwise approve–like the Gulf of Tonkin deal we talked about.”

  Marchetti nodded. “And if they get the result they want, it doesn’t matter to them that a bunch of innocent people get killed in the process.”

  “Right.”

  “Makes Brad sound like a conspiracy nut, though.”

  Tom shrugged. “I’m guessing these kinds of things happen more frequently than we’d think; the media just doesn’t expose them.”

  Marchetti nodded and texted Janine to ask if she knew Brad’s laptop code. She answered back a few minutes later and said she’d found it in a small, red notebook. In it, she said, Brad had listed a number of personal codes for social media sites, bank accounts, news sources, and Apple devices. They started shuffling things around the table, looking for the red notebook.

  Marchetti continued going through material stacked at the far end of the table, including two hard plastic file boxes filled with legal size folders and a well-worn leather briefcase. He opened the briefcase and leafed through its contents, consisting mostly of old bills and a copy of Brad’s previous year’s tax return, which was being audited.

  “I spoke with Susan last night,” Tom said, as they continued their search. “Says to say hi.”

  Marchetti nodded, happy his former secretary and Tom were still getting along well. “How’s she doing?”

  “Fine. Ready to finish up business and head home. A little annoyed I’m in Kauai and she’s in Chicago.”

  “Gee, can’t imagine why,” Marchetti said. “Listen, I don’t want to be responsible for relationship problems between you and Della Street. So if all this is awkward for you–”

  “No, it’s all right. She said, ‘Fine, do what you want.’”

  Marchetti looked over at him and winced. “Now that’s a mistake, Thomas. If a woman ever says ‘fine, do what you want,’ do not under any circumstances, do what you want.” He continued perusing the file boxes. “It’s a trap.”

  Tom thought about it for a moment. “Maybe I’ll send her a ticket and suggest she come over as soon as she’s finished.”

  “Good idea.” Marchetti found the red notebook tucked into one of the pockets of Brad’s briefcase, along with a packet of credit cards.

  As he flipped through pages of the red, three-by-five, spiral pad, he found the laptop passcode they were looking for and copied it down. “Keep at it,” he said and showed Tom the code. “I’m going to log in and see what I find.”

  Tom nodded.

  Marchetti logged into Brad’s MacBook and spent the next two hours examining a more extensive draft of his false flag story. Brad’s theory was that the military would provoke Iranian gunships into firing on a US destroyer somewhere in the Persian Gulf. He quoted an unnamed naval officer with the Sixth Fleet who apparently had intimate knowledge of naval operations in the Middle East and gave him specific details of the proposed operation. He made reference to the Joint Chiefs being aware of the upcoming series of articles about the Iranian plot. He again scribbled the words “plantation house” and finished with a cursory note in bold explaining that while the original plan had been compromised, there was “something else in the works.” No mention anywhere in the tablet about what that might be, however, or meeting someone the day of the crash.

  Marchetti shut down the laptop and made a quick call to Janine. “Know anything about a place called Plantation House?” he asked.

  After a brief pause, she said, “Yes, I was there once for a business meeting and reception. It used to be a working sugar plantation–one of several on Kauai–but now has just a small amount of sugar cane growing on it–barely enough to cover Tom’s sweet tooth for a week.”

  “What’s it used for?”

  “A private residence belonging to a guy named Kent Hollingsworth, a wealthy businessman who spends part of his time in California, the rest of the year on the island.”

  “Know anything about this Hollingsworth guy owning a second property on the island?”

  “No.”

  Since Janine was sure Brad had mentioned he was on his way to the south side of the island to meet with someone regarding his story, Marchetti picked up Brad’s notebook and again began flipping through it. On one page, Brad had jotted down the name “Operation Omega” and expressed concerns about being followed. He didn’t suggest who he thought might be tailing him, though, other than his guess was the feds. He also had several phone numbers listed in the small book, but one in particular caught Marchetti’s eye, since it was underlined: Kendall, Barking Sands.”

  He checked the time–quarter of four–early enough, he thought, to take a chance someone might answer.

  He dialed the number using his cell. After a few rings, a man picked up. “This Mr. Kendall?” Marchetti asked.

  A hesitant voice said, “Yes, Commander Kendall.”

  “My name’s Mike Marchetti. I’m calling about Brad Vaughn.”

  The voice at the other end stammered for a few moments and then said,” I’m not sure I know who that–”

  “He died in an auto accident on his way to see you.” He let the words sink in for a few moments, then continued, “We’re trying to tie up a few loose ends concerning his death, hoping you can help.” Tom looked across the table at him and nodded.

  “How did you get my number?”

  “Found it in Brad’s material and took a chance you may be the person we’re looking for.”

  “And how could I help?”

  “A friend of his is not convinced his death was an accident.”

  “Who’s the friend?”

  “Janine Nichols. She manages the St. Francis Resort in Princeville and wants to find out what happened to Mr. Vaughn.”

  There was a long pause at the other end of the call. “You’re just a strange voice on the phone to me. How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t–but that works both ways. Give us an hour of your time, and we’ll find out together.”

  He again h
esitated. “Where are you?”

  “At the St. Francis.”

  “I’m on the other side of the island in Waimea. How about we meet tomorrow somewhere in-between–Kalaheo, perhaps?”

  He scrambled to find a map of Kauai in Vaughn’s belongings. “I don’t know where that is, but we’ll find it and be there.”

  “It’s about fifteen miles west of Lihue. There’s a little bakery in town called Marie’s Café near the convenience store. Meet you there at ten in the morning.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Marchetti said, before he hung up. With an appointment that hour of the morning, he figured, they’d have enough time to see Vicki at the hospital before they continued on their way to meet Kendall in Kalaheo.

  13

  Lihue, Kauai, July 4th

  After breakfast Marchetti dialed Tom’s room from the hotel lobby and suggested they get moving. “Bring your Glock. We can register it at the police station in Lihue before we go to the hospital.”

  They drove fifty minutes to the Kauai Police Department. Tom filled out multiple forms and endured safe firearm lectures from a fuzzy-cheeked corporal manning the registration desk. He couldn’t carry it concealed or loaded, the corporal explained, and a clerk down the hall would take his photograph and fingerprints.

  Marchetti couldn’t help smirking. Although Tom was carrying a weapon before the corporal was born, Shannon nonetheless bit his tongue and politely answered the officer’s drawn-out and repetitive questions.

  When the officer finally stamped the forms and handed back the pistol, Tom slipped the handgun into a leather carrying case, and he and Marchetti hustled out the door of the station into Tom’s rented 4Runner for the short drive to the hospital.

  The two spent an hour in Vicki’s room, chatting with her and getting details about her current condition from the doctor making rounds. All her attending doctors agreed she’d improved steadily but cautioned she still had a long way to go before being well enough to be discharged.

  Vicki was anxious to get out of bed, however, and start her twice-daily ritual of walking the hospital floor to build up strength. She also wasn’t surprised to see Tom standing at her bedside, since Janine had come to see her the night before and filled her in on their plans.

  “Stay out of trouble,” she said and tried to smile. “The last time you two got together you ended up bloodied, almost killed, and shut down DFW Airport for three hours.”

  Tom nodded at Marchetti. “I’ll keep an eye on him, don’t worry.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said and rolled on her side to take a sip of water. “You might as well stay occupied, though. I’m going to be here for a while. Five or six more days in the hospital they tell me, then a couple of weeks of rehab at the hotel. Only then will they even think about letting me fly home.” She winced and paused for a few moments to catch her breath. “So fill me in on what’s going on.”

  Marchetti sat beside her and caressed her arm. “We’re meeting this morning with the last person Janine’s boyfriend presumably talked to before he died. We’re hoping he’ll be able to give us some information about what Brad was working on and the circumstances of his death.”

  She nodded. “Anything more about the two guys in the car?”

  “The shooter’s name was Albert Gautreaux,” he said. “Served time in Louisiana for federal firearms crimes and second degree murder. Nothing on him recently, though, and no information as to why he was after us. Sergeant Kalani is trying to find out more about him now. Nothing yet on the driver, but they figure he’s got to be injured pretty badly.”

  Vicki nodded.

  “The car was in Gautreaux’s name,” Tom added, “so it might be tough to figure out who the other guy was, unless he shows up in a hospital or the morgue. I’m guessing the latter.”

  “I’m hoping he’s still alive,” Marchetti added. “He may be the only link to what this was all about.”

  “Police found two shell casings on the road and one on the backseat of their car,” Tom said. “Gautreaux was still holding the rifle when he died–a Tavor TAR-21.” Vicki didn’t recognize the name. “An Israeli-made assault rifle. Short and reliable, with ejection ports on both sides so it can easily be configured for left or right-handed shooters. In this case he was firing left-handed.”

  “Probably not a weapon you’d buy at your local gun shop,” Vicki said.

  “No,” Tom said, “though not that hard to get, either, if you know the right people.”

  They talked awhile longer, until Marchetti kissed her goodbye. He and Tom then left the hospital for their planned meeting with Kendall.

  A man who looked to be in his late thirties sat at a corner table sipping coffee and reading Kauai’s daily newspaper, The Garden Island. Dressed in island civvies he looked like one of the locals, but his clean shave and high-and-tight haircut gave him away as a military type.

  Marchetti and Tom approached him and introduced themselves. The blond stranger rose to shake hands. “David Kendall,” he said, “Commander Kendall, US Navy. Have a seat.”

  Marchetti asked, “Where are you stationed, Commander?”

  “At the missile range, right here on the island.”

  “We’re new here. What missile range is that?”

  “Officially, it’s called the Pacific Missile Range Facility, Barking Sands, Kauai, but everyone here just calls it Barking Sands.”

  “Weird name for a beach,” Tom said.

  Kendall smiled politely. “It comes from a particular characteristic of the sand nearby that causes it to give off a barking noise if you step on it when it’s wet.”

  Tom found that interesting and planned to check it out when he could. “What’s your position there?” he asked.

  “Base executive officer.”

  “And what’s your mission there at Barking Sands–besides firing missiles, I mean?” Marchetti asked.

  Kendall stirred his coffee for a few moments. “Much of it is classified, of course, but basically we’re the world’s largest instrumented, multi-dimensional testing and training range. The only range in the world where subsurface, surface, air, and space vehicles can operate and be tracked simultaneously.”

  Marchetti nodded. “Impressive.”

  Kendall nodded. “So tell me again who you are.”

  “I’m an attorney; Tom’s a private investigator. Both from Dallas.”

  A young waitress with a white apron tied around her thin waist took their orders of eggs and coffee and disappeared behind the counter near the kitchen. They talked for a while, until the naval officer turned serious. “I’ve got to be back at the base by noon. What is it you’re after?”

  “Information mostly,” Marchetti said. “A friend of mine and I had just arrived on Kauai when someone tried to gun us down on the road to Princeville.”

  Kendall looked at Marchetti as if he was not sure he’d heard right. “What?”

  “He’d been watching us at the Tiki Lounge and followed us after we left to drive back to our hotel. Once we reached a deserted stretch of road, they pulled beside us, and the passenger started firing.”

  Kendall looked him over. “You escaped relatively unscathed I see.”

  “Yes, but Vicki wasn’t so lucky. She’s in serious condition at Wilcox Memorial.”

  “And you don’t know who they were?”

  Marchetti paused for a moment. “They crashed, and the shooter died upon impact. His name was Robert Gautreaux, according to his driver’s license. Don’t know anything yet about the driver or what it was all about, but I suspect it had to do with an encounter we had with a group back in Dallas.”

  He shook his head. “Didn’t know life as an attorney could be so interesting–and dangerous.”

  “It’s not, usually,” Marchetti said, shaking his head. “Which is how we’ve gotten involved in the Bradley Vaughn case. Janine Nichols, an ex-roommate of Vicki’s, and Mr. Vaughn were good friends. Janine told us about Brad’s death, and since Tom and I were going to hang ar
ound the island anyway while Vicki recuperated, she asked if we’d take a look at Brad’s accident. She mentioned he was on his way to see you that day, so when I found your name and number in his personal effects, I decided to call.”

  Tom asked, “What were you and Brad supposed to talk about?”

  Kendall said, “Apparently he was writing a series of articles about a false flag operation the administration had planned. He thought I might be able to furnish information he needed to fill in the blanks–mainly about the proposed timing of the plan.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “The content of classified communiqués between the Pentagon and Mossad on how and when the operation would take place.”

  “And you had access to those?”

  “Yes. I was a staff officer at the Joint Chiefs, an aide to Rear Admiral Thomas Scovell.”

  “And Brad knew who you were and your position there?”

  “Right. A contact of his, also with the Joint Chiefs, suggested I’d be a good person to talk to. It’d be convenient for him, too, since I’d recently been reassigned to Barking Sands.”

  “What was Scovell’s position at the Joint Chiefs?”

  “Director of Intelligence for Chief of Naval Operations... until the CNO was abruptly reassigned to a new position as head of Naval Flight Training, Pensacola.”

  Tom shook his head. “Sounds like a demotion to me.”

  “Exactly,” Kendall said. “An interesting post, no doubt, but definitely an emphatic demotion.” He took a swig of coffee and carefully set his cup back on the table. “He wasn’t the only one. Several other flag officers received similar treatment–purged by the administration and asked to resign for nebulous reasons, or relieved of duties and reassigned to less sensitive or career-oriented positions.”

  “And why was that?”

  Kendall shrugged. “A few were for cause–personal misconduct in one case. But for most of the others, I saw no justifiable reason. Admiral Scovell’s dismissal was especially egregious. A Naval Academy graduate, he’d been awarded the Navy-Marine Corps Commendation Medal, three Meritorious Service Medals, citations for service in Iraq and Afghanistan, and was considered an expert in anti-terrorist operations.” Kendall clenched his jaw. “Next thing I know he’s transferred out of the Joint Chiefs for ‘lack of confidence’ based on some sort of informal inquiry never defined. Near as I could tell, it was because things were going badly in Afghanistan, and he was made a scapegoat.”