Camouflage

By Tom Crone

A flash of energy ripples at light speed across a mile of southwestern desert. It alerts watchers who have waited for it over half a century, and the race is on to possess the secret to the most powerful force ever created.
Vernon Washburn is a retired assassin, now seeking a return to normal life, but success with his lifetime dream is suddenly being torn from his hands, his life is threatened, and the bad guys are making a world dominating move that he alone can stop.
Now, two years into living his dream, he is forced back into action. His task; obtain four artifacts he and his Special Forces HALO team brought home from Bosnia. His new life is turned upside down, and friends lives are being taken.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Crone
• Release date: Oct 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465991379

Tom Crone

Tom Crone is a lifelong devotee of magic and judo. He began doing magic as a young man, did it professionally for several years as an adult, and has written articles for Magic, Genii, and The Linking Ring. He is the author of Misdirection for Close-up Magicians. He began judo in college in 1960, co-founded North Star Martial Arts Academy in 1985, and attained seventh degree black belt ranking. He teaches for North Star and the credit class at the University of Minnesota. He and his wife Shelley live in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Book preview

Prologue

Bosnia – October, 1998

Vernon Washburn’s legs ached and his lower back was clamped in a vice of pain. Six HALO team men had jumped. All of them made it to the target point. Two died on the retreat from the sniper action that took out the targets, a general and two drug lords. They'd dragged their two dead comrades as far as they could then buried them with a GPS locator for later retrieval. Fritz Fitzpatrick was barely alive. He’d required nearly enough morphine to kill, and soon only a small amount remained. They'd been rationing as much as they could, knowing the pain could also put him into shock and kill him. Two hours remained to make their take-out rendezvous. LaBonne carried the rear of the ingenious fold-out med-evac stretcher, and Hart covered their backs. Washburn's feet were turning to stone. Hell, at least they didn't hurt anymore.

He heard the voices first. They carefully set Frisbee down and went forward. Ahead, they saw three men sitting seventy-five yards away at a small campfire, dressed in ratty mountain garb; each carried an AK-47, and one had a grenade launcher strapped across his back. Washburn’s HALO team’s camouflage was the best, but Washburn felt nervous sweat drip. He was sure the mountain fighters could hear it drop from his armpits. Any get-ready could trigger an instant alert. He motioned for his men to retreat. They backed off fifty yards.

We can’t get past them by going around them, he whispered. I don’t know how much more time Frisbee has.

No choice, Hart whispered back.

LaBonne whispered. I can’t tell if they’re good guys or bad guys, sir. Maybe I could make a lone approach, get a better feel, then give a hand signal.

Hart whispered louder. You fucking nuts? We ain’t the fucking diplomatic corps, Frenchy.

We’re going to take out three guys who maybe aren't the enemy? How the hell do we live with that? Vernon knew that hardship could make the conscience play tricks. LaBonne was as hard core as any of them.

Hart spat it out. Jeeee-zus! Reach down in your shorts and tell me if there’s a pussy down there.

Washburn put a finger to his lips. He checked the time. We aren’t debating this. It is on me, my orders. That’s how you live with it. Let’s go.

They left Frisbee and worked their way forward. The sound they made was negligible on the hard packed ground. Forests weren't silent. Silence in the woods sent an alarm. When the birds went still, it was your first clue that something nasty was afoot.

At sixty feet he could hear voices, and that meant they could, in return, detect his men’s approach. He knelt on one knee, raised his left hand in a fist. This is it. This was a trained team, and each man already knew without being told which enemy was his target. He brought his multi-purpose Russian Vinovka sniper rifle up and forward and aimed from the near sight, saw the middle man, locked in between the rear V, and raised the front sight, and ordered himself to stay calm, breathe in, hold it, pull smoothly, no rush. This would be over in a second.

A loud, wailing cry, like an animal suddenly caught in a trap, shrieked through the forest. The men around the camp fire leaped up, the grenade launcher aimed in their direction. Someone shouted in harsh Ukrainian dialect, pointed at them. Washburn settled his sights on the launcher man’s face and fought panic, squeezed the trigger. The grenade exploded from the launcher. It zoomed off target to their right by thirty yards, exploded its shrapnel through the trees with snicking, snapping, whining death sounds.

Another man stood, turned and brought up his AK-47. It flashed. Two shots from behind sharply echoed his. Washburn squeezed three times. The rattle of the AK fire was dull and hard. Another shot from behind him, and the three mountain men were dead. LaBonne did the approach. Washburn and Hart kept lookout. Hart examined the bodies. He looked up and shrugged. Another scream pierced the forest. Frisbee.

LaBonne pointed at the man who first raised his gun. What’s that? Hart rolled the man with his boot toe, and a rough leather pouch, almost invisible in the dirt, stuck out from under his upper chest.

Hart looked inside, scrabbled his hand around in it. Bunch a crap. Let’s get out of here. He looked at Washburn. Washburn held out his hand. Give me the bag and let’s go. This shooting might have alerted bad guys.

Hart clutched the leather pouch. Finders keepers.

Washburn held out his hand. For now, give it to me. If there’s intel, it’s my responsibility. That was true enough, and Hart’s perpetual greed had pissed him off for months now. Give it. Hart tossed it, short, and Washburn had to step to catch it.

Adrenalin was washing away, his ears were ringing, and he was hungry. He stuffed it in his rucksack and that was that for now. When they got to Frisbee, he was groaning and mumbling senselessly. Vernon turned to LaBonne, I think he really needs that morphine now.

He didn’t check out the satchel until dusk. No intel, nothing of value. The bag contained an old army style Russian watch with a broken strap, but still working; an extra magazine for a Polish P-64 Makarov pistol; an old, worn, leather covered Bible; a Zippo style lighter with a military insignia he didn’t recognize attached on one side, and two thick beef sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper. He sniffed them, and they smelled fresh and strong with horseradish.

Hart said, Let’s divide those up. I’m starving.

Washburn re-wrapped the sandwich in the waxed paper. They could be poisoned. He was half joking.

Hart scoffed. Mandrake, these guys weren’t expecting us. Poisoned, my ass.

It’s Sir Mandrake to you, sergeant fuck head. I’m tempted to let you be our taster, but I don’t want to haul two bodies. Put it back.

Aw, come on. I’ll take a bite.

Put it back wasn’t a suggestion. Get started. He turned away and knew Hart made some face or gesture. When they got back, he’d write the asshole up. He’d never do another HALO with him, and hoped nobody else would have to. He entertained the uncharitable thought that there were two of his men in the ground, either one of whom he'd gladly exchange for Hart. When the hole was done, he handed the sandwiches to Hart.

You know what to do with them.

He saw anger in Hart’s eyes as he took them, stepped back and saluted. It was mockery.

Hart?

Yes, Sir.

You just pushed all your chips into the pot for a fucking sandwich. And we have our own rations.

Berlin – 2008

Hermann Winter floated in air. He was vertical, arms out at a forty degree angle, palms toward his audience, his face calm and near trancelike. There was nearly a foot of empty space between the bottom of his feet and the table from which he’d ascended. The room’s twenty spectators were vacuum silent.

Greta Moran watched him float up from the table, knew her cue. He reached the top of his ascent, she counted to five, stood, and walked toward the table. Her moment in the spotlight was seconds away. She ran her palms down her dress, smoothed it carefully. She adjusted the simple silver and ruby necklace Hermann had given her for her birthday three weeks ago, making certain the emerald cut nine carat center ruby, surrounded by diamonds in a stylish heart shaped white gold setting, hung perfectly just below the notch where her throat and chest converged.

She had only one thing to do in her role as magician's assistant. Since there was no way she knew that she could do anything wrong, there was no reason to be worried, but she was always nervous that she could do something to spoil the routine. It was the grand finale, after all.

She was dressed for the part in an elegant, sleek, black dress, tiny enough to misdirect, but not so daring as to distract entirely.

The hour-long program concluded with this impossibility. No other parlor magician could do it. Hermann Winter, magician to Europe’s wealthy elite, presented his program, Beyond Belief, every Saturday night in the reading room of the library in the glamorous Berlin hotel where he and Greta also lived in a multi-room top floor suite. If the wealthy-beyond-rich spoke of seeing an elite or famous magician, a fitting retort might be, Yes. But have you seen Hermann Winter in Berlin? Then, they would talk of this levitation. His shows were booked months in advance.

Greta slowly walked to the far edge of the table and used both hands, widely spaced, to pick up a large silver hoop from a hook on the table's end. She stepped two small paces forward and froze in place. For a split second, Winter’s eyes shifted left, then back. Nobody would notice, but she knew his routine like the beat of her own pulse. She traced his focus to a man in the back row, two seats from the end.

Greta walked the length of the table behind Winter, passing the hoop over him, past his front and back, eliminating any chance of wire support from above, elevation from below. She looked at the audience once as she approached him and the hoop was almost at his side, and then passed behind him, careful to keep the hoop midway between his feet and the table. As she approached the end of the table she was looking ahead, but turned her face to them as she was almost at the end of the table. She stopped there for a split second then walked back to the center front of the table, the hoop held in front of her. She favored the audience with a brief smile. They had rehearsed the precise timing for the facial contact and the smile. He said it mattered. She had no idea why, and not knowing vexed her furiously. She would not ask him. Some people asked her if the hoop was rigged. She could reply very honestly that to the best of her knowledge, it was not.

She addressed the audience. As Herr Winter told you, you may come forward and observe closely. You must stay half a meter away, and please do not touch anything or reach out. Disturbing the cosmic forces that make the ascension possible could be seriously harmful to Herr Winter.

He’d warned her that some people might be inclined to come too close or try to touch him, wave a hand under his feet. She was to block them from that. That was why she still held the hoop. She did not enjoy this.

All but a couple of the audience members stood up and came forward, several going to one knee to peer beneath the table from a distance. There was no drape or concealment to block their view. Every single one bent at the waist to get a view beneath Winter’s feet. After a moment they shrugged or raised hands or shook their heads in submission to bafflement.

She kept an eye on the man from the back row, saw him come up and take an angle that could penetrate her defense. She could sense his intent, saw his eyes calculate. She moved the hoop to the left and took a sideways step toward the angle of intrusion. It was a subtle but clear message. I see you. Stop. The man smiled at her, took one more step and stopped.

Winter smiled, turned his palms downward and slowly descended to the table. When he settled there, he bowed his head slightly. He let the impact sink in.

After several stunned seconds, the audience applauded vigorously. Winter bowed his head. Thank you. He stepped down to the floor. That concludes this evening's performance of Beyond Belief. And thank you all for being a wonderful audience. He bowed from the waist and deeper. More applause came, and he bowed once more. Soft classical music sounded from speakers around the room.

As usual, the spectators mingled for fifteen minutes or so, and he socialized with them. Being personable was part of his marketing. He cultivated an approachable, friendly, easy-going demeanor. He told Greta he had worked on it for years, and crafted it as carefully as his magic. Now, as always, she watched to see the predictable bit of action he'd clued her in on. He told her, Watch the people. See how many will surreptitiously get themselves up close to the table and look, even touch, to see if there is some sort of device to lift me up. It never failed. The first one tonight was the man Hermann had checked out when she noticed him miss a beat. He walked up to the table, unabashedly ran his hand over the surface. He shook his head. Then, he came over to them, cleared his throat. Her curiosity compelled her to both move away and tune in.

In English, a British accent, the man said, Excellent performance, Herr Winter. I’m Leslie Charter, and a fellow conjurer, although an amateur. Excellent show.

Danke. Winter switched to English, American style with a German accent. I apologize for not recognizing you. I don’t get into magic circles much. I am glad you enjoyed the presentation.

I did. Very much. May I ask a question?

Asking is permitted.

Your levitation. It wasn't what either Blaine or Chris Angel do, was it?

"Jah. You are correct.

Charter pressed. So, it isn't King Rising? Nor Balducci, either?

Greta felt a raw dislike of this man. Winter said, It's my own. I call it Ascension. It's unpublished.

You must be a witch or warlock. That was impossible. Would you sell it?

Sorry. No.

For a half million Euros, would you?

No. And don’t bother raising the ante. I don’t need the money. I’m flattered you asked. Thank you. Greta heard an edge beneath his voice that overrode his usual diplomatic and restrained yet cheerful public demeanor. She wondered if she should ask him later, was there something?

Charter shrugged. Never hurts to ask. I hope you don’t plan to take this secret to your grave.

Well, Sir, that would depend upon when I go there.

Charter chuckled. I must say you are the best I’ve ever seen. The man bowed slightly from the waist.

Thank you again, Herr Charter, I’m curious. What is your occupation?

I am with Interpol, an investigator. Magic is a fitting hobby, don’t you agree?

Winter tipped his head forward. I do. Come again.

She saw the look in Hermann's eyes she'd come to realize was a look to fear. She hadn't personally had anything to fear from him, but he would get that look before he'd leave on his out of town missions, like another creature was stirring in his brain. She knew more about his out of town trips than he knew she did. She had a job to do, but she had become tangled in her own web. She loved him.

She smiled the smile she knew had trapped his heart. She put a hand on his arm. Shall I order us a late snack, or would you like to go out?

She understood the technicalities of the science and psychology behind the concept of love at first sight, that certain facial paradigm could cause an overwhelming response, and pheromones could do the same. Combined, the impression made from fifteen meters away was super-enhanced at three meters. If the personality matched the acceptance receptors, it was the hook, line and sinker result. For all three to happen with the same person was a long odds bet. Beyond all odds was the likelihood it would happen for both people. Then, the proverbial ties that bind became hoops of steel. Hermann Winter had been the hapless victim of science and psychology. She was not hapless, but she was equally a victim.

The guests were gone, the hotel staff had finished. He smiled at her, and his smile seemed slightly strained.

She put her sexy smile to work. Maybe we should skip the usual late dinner and revisit the boudoir.

I already put in an order for us. I called Montclair’s and asked them to put our favorite together. I’ll just drive over and get it, be back in twenty minutes.

Oh, fun. I’ll get my coat.

No, no. You stay here, crank up the sauna and chill the cold tub.

She exaggerated a disappointed face, pursed lips, eyes downward. Oh, all right. I was hoping for a brisk ride, top back, wind in my hair. She ran her fingers through her streaked brown and blonde hair, tossed it, playing the wind. Hurry back.

Hermann Winter turned and walked out the door.

Greta watched the street from the balcony, and soon the black jewel Jaguar drove into view, reflecting Berlin's night lights shooting off and sending diamonds into the sky. An arm waved at her through the open moon roof. She began her wave, froze. She saw it coming and yelled, Stop! Her foot slammed down on an imaginary brake.

The Jaguar slipped into the intersection on the green and a delivery van sped through the red light and T-boned the driver’s side with a massive, sickening whomp. The car flipped onto its right side, slid, sparks flew up from the street beneath it. The truck finally hit its brakes, rubber screeched on the pavement, and the truck stopped as the car continued sliding, metal and concrete gnashing in a death howl. In slow motion, a blue pool of soft light spread out around the Jaguar then rushed upward, turning red and yellow, accompanied by a shrill scream no metal on pavement could make.

Chapter 1

The Event – June 25, 2010

The event was barely visible to the unblinking human eye, even though it streaked across a mile’s distance of flat, barren desert floor. If someone had been watching and not blinked that early morning, that observer would have seen a heat shimmer, not uncommon to this desert landscape, except also never occurring until the sun had baked the hardpack for a couple of hours. It registered on specially designed sensors that sent tracking information to a satellite that relayed it back to a large hanger approximately four hundred miles from the event.

After technicians there had verified, re-verified, triple analyzed and made as certain a conclusion as possible, three cell phones rang in separate parts of the country. Vehicles with flashing lights delivered the cell phone owners to airfields and fighter jets took off with them in the second seat, their destination a camouflaged airfield adjacent to the hanger. They all arrived before noon. They were the Snark Beavers.

Chapter 2

Perseus wrenched himself out of the military jet’s cockpit, found the foot hold with his toe, carefully descended to the ground and stretched his legs, arched his back with his hands on his hips and rotated them, then his upper torso. Damn jet was confined and uncomfortable, and the flight suit was an added pain in the ass. He unzipped it and stripped himself out of it, let it stay in a heap on the tarmac for somebody else to retrieve. All he could think of was, Now what?

One did not just become a Beaver. There was no awareness of the Snark Beaver group; so aspiring to it wasn't something that could be done. Perseus and MacArthur and Lois Lane, as they called themselves, had been recruited. When Perseus was recruited, two others were already in place. Older people. The oldest, nearly ancient, called himself Crazy Horse, and the other was MacArthur. Crazy Horse was clearly a Native American. MacArthur was tall, rigid, and commanding.

Perseus had been invited to the home of Professor Harlan Crowley, the physics department head at the Ivy League school where he taught physics. He was fairly young then, and he feared the man's status. Many times, he'd felt that this icon had put him in jeopardy of losing his position, although he had no proof. The insidious politics of universities rivaled that of any corporation. Inside the man's home, a large, two-story red brick colonial with eighteen foot high main floor coved ceilings, seated on a plush chair in the spacious living room, he heard the most preposterous of stories.

Crowley asked him if he would be interested in an unbelievable opportunity. When he heard the man out, he realized the old professor was senile. He held back from scoffing, for fear of retribution.

I know you will think this is insane, Bob, the old man said, and ran a hand through his Einstein-like hair. He told him an impossible tale.

So, is that insane?

Bob Carver thought a moment, tickled the edge of his thumb along the thin line of his mustache, and figured what the hell? It's just plain goofy, Harlan. The whole idea is..."

Nutty, the professor said, Daffy, outlandish, far-fetched and also crazy. That, plus you're thinking, why you? Especially since we've never been exactly what one would call friends.

Carver wasn't sure if he was amused or frightened. He tried to sum up what he’d just been told. Let me get this straight. There are people who protect certain secrets developed by our country. Three people do this. Just three people. You are one of them. You are retiring, and you want me to take your place.

That's the gist of it, Bob. Not exactly just three, but that's the gist of it. Carver knew the man's tendency toward redundancy drove to distraction the graduate students who took his upper level theoretical physics courses.

Why don't you ask a person you are friends with?

And that would be who, Bob? Who?

Carver thought about it, and for the first time realized that his lack of friendship with the man wasn't an exclusive. The man had no friends.

Why me? If this really is real, why me?

This isn't as much my singular choice as it might seem.. You're a damn good physicist, and one member has to be stellar in that category. You are ambitious and proud of your reputation. You are callous. You don't mind being an asshole. You are single, have no family, and you have in the past expressed strong political philosophies of which we approve. In brief, you are much like me.

Carver wanted to make an immediate denial, then felt the thud of grim realization. It was all too true.

We'd have to set up some way I can check this out further before I can make any sort of decision.

We can take this one step further, and after that your decision will have to happen. You will have to make it happen.

The department head took him that further step, and it filled Carver with awe. He said yes. It was a couple of years into the Beaver work that Carver realized what would have happened if he'd said no.

Crazy Horse died right before they'd advised the newly elected forty-third United States President, George W. Bush, as to who they were, and told him they'd stay out of his hair unless absolutely necessary, with the implication that this would be a mutual arrangement. He surprised them by saying, "Don't worry. I know who you are. My father