The Shadow Government

By Ray Derby

The Shadow Government is a spell-binding novel depicting a very true-to-life picture of what the future may hold as the world moves into the 21st Century. When Norm Shepard, an ex-Marine, is found shot in the back only minutes away from the nation's capital, this sets into motion an investigation that reveals a chilling discovery. The terrorists are already here-not only in Washington, D.C. but throughout the U.S., the plan is set, and the biological agent is on its way.
Emergency meetings are called, but it becomes clear that the U.S. is totally unprepared for a crisis of this magnitude. As the enormity of the threat and its ramifications set in, President Robert Hardy assigns Ross Chambers, an intelligence officer, another mission-the closest guarded secret in Washington-the Bluelight Project.
The President, without the knowledge or consent of Congress, has been secretly funding the construction of underground protective relocation facilities. Ross is racing against the clock and the very future of the country is at stake. Either the terrorists are apprehended before they can strike or the Bluelight Project must be fully operational before they do-or there may no longer be a United States of America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 31, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469753881

Ray Derby

I was born in Sioux City, Iowa. After graduating from school, I joined the U.S. Navy. That started my career of traveling all over the world. Just before my enlistment was up, I flew around the world in seven days. On returning to Sioux City, I married, raised four children and began a career in emergency management. I started as a volunteer emergency civil defense worker, then a full-time civil defense director, and a civilian disaster preparedness officer for the U.S. Air Force. For 26 years before my retirement, I was a federal emergency coordinator for several federal agencies. Over the years, many people have asked why I chose this profession, and I always give the same answer. If I could save one life, all of it would be worth it. What I did not say was that I was out to save thousands of lives if a major disaster should occur. I have never regretted the path I chose. It was a remarkable career that led me right to the steps of the White House. My first novel, THE SHADOW GOVERNMENT, was written in 1999, two years before the 9-11 attacks and the actual activation of the shadow government program. It's a story of fiction that has in many ways become reality. Even so, it's a story that needed to be told. I now live in the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia with my wife and man's best friend...Sassy Lady. I continue to write and find myself busier now than when I had a nine-to-five job. On second thought, I never really had that type of job because I was always on stand-by for what might happen. I find deep satisfaction in writing and hope you enjoy my books.

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All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Ray Derby

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Advantage

an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address: iUniverse 2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100 Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-23468-2 (Pbk)

ISBN: 0-595-74617-9 (Cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-4697-5388-1 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

FOREWORD

AUTHOR S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THE BEGINNING

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

THE SECOND PHASE

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

THE ACTIVATION

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

THE ATTACK

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

THE WARNING

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

AFTERMATH

This book is respectfully dedicated to the men and women, both young and old, who work as civil servants at all levels of our government and in particular those who have dedicated their careers to emergency management. They are the ones who will make a difference, if a major crisis should ever occur.

FOREWORD

Not since Tom Clancy’s early U.S. military techno-thrillers has anything come along to parallel the incredible, fast-moving suspense of this first-time novelist.

The great strength of Ray Derby’s storyline is that he professionally understands from first-hand experience, as few others do, the developing new age terror of chemical and biological weapons in the hands of terrorists, the large public threat they pose to the United States and other nations in the 21st Century and of the dedicated people trying to protect us from them.

His story has attained more credibility and verisimilitude since the events of September 11, 2001 has made the unthinkable now the reality in this new age of international terrorism.

Shadow Government is one of those rare works of which it is honestly said—I couldn’t put it down.

ARTHUR W. ARUNDEL Former U.S.M.C. paramilitary officer in the Vietnam War and Publisher, Times Community Newspapers

AUTHOR S NOTE

The nuclear threat has diminished, although it is far from gone. In the early 1990s, the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, in an unclassified briefing to one of the select committees of Congress, warned that the single most critical threat the United States would face in the next ten years would be in either the chemical or biological arena. The delivery method for those types of agents could well involve terrorist organizations. Presidents and members of Congress have been briefed and are aware of this threat that faces the country.

With more than forty years of experience in the emergency management field, I have watched our preparedness slowly erode, yet the threat continues to grow. This book is a work of fiction, but sometimes fiction makes into reality.

Ray Derby

******

In December 1999 when I wrote these words, I had no idea what was in store for the United States on September 11, 2001. In some ways this book has, I am sorry to say, now become reality.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would be remiss if I did not give special thanks to Arthur W. Arundel for his support and encouragement in bringing this book to print. His advice and counsel were always positive, and to my Canadian friend Mike Charrier who used his red pen and made the pages bleed in order to make it a better novel, and finally, to my wife Miss Bea who had to suffer through all the anguish in order to see this book published.

THE BEGINNING

CHAPTER 1

The winter’s ice had disappeared from the Potomac, and the swollen river now rested safely inside its banks. Fishing boats of all shapes, sizes, and colors dotted the tranquil scene and bobbed in harmony, as if performing a symphony with the gentle, rolling waves. A rowing team gracefully edged their sculling shell through the water; its youthful crew, from a nearby university, straining against the oars.

One boat stood off by itself on the south shore. It was anchored in a small cove almost hidden behind a group of trees that blocked the view from the highway in front of Arlington National Cemetery. The occupants of the boat, dark, swarthy men in their thirties, appeared to be enjoying this beautiful spring day like all the other fishermen in the area—at least to the casual observer.

Abdullah motioned to his younger brother, Nassar, to open the red box between their feet, well out of sight of anyone who might have an opportunity to look in their direction. The box was a miniature weather observatory with instruments that provided information on wind direction, speed, temperature, and pressure. As Nassar read aloud the information, his brother duly noted it in a journal. The brothers had been collecting this information for two weeks, and today would be their last day in this area.

Throughout the day, the men continued to observe the traffic pattern across the river with the Lincoln Memorial as a backdrop to the vehicular and pedestrian traffic. A voice from behind startled the two, who turned to see a middle-aged black man, sliding down the bank.

Norm Shepard had been fishing this area of the river for several years—at least at every opportunity he could take from his job as a brakeman on the Norfolk Southern Railroad. He immediately felt the men’s hostility as he continued his approach, and his instinct caused him to quickly scrutinize the scene in front of him. Although both men had fishing rods, neither had lines in the water. Not only that, but he could see, in the bottom of the boat, a strange-looking red box with dials on it—this definitely was not part of an ordinary fisherman’s gear. Whatever they were here for, he had a hunch that it certainly was not to fish.

Norm had spent a number of years in one of the Marine’s elite special force units and the sight of two Middle-Easterners acting suspiciously near the nation’s capital sounded alarm bells in his mind. It’s time to get your ass out of here, Norm thought to himself.

As he looked at the men, both staring back with cold black eyes, he involuntarily shuddered as if someone had suddenly slid a piece of ice down the back of his shirt. It was too late though to quietly disappear, so he pushed back his apprehensions and spoke casually to the men.

You fellows have any luck? he asked. I’ve seen you fishing here for the last few days, and there are some nice deep holes a few yards down stream. If you work it right, you might catch some big fish in that area. As neither of the men spoke, Shepard said, Well, I wish you luck, and he turned to climb back up the bank.

The older of the brothers reached into his waistband, pulled out a revolver, and calmly shot Shepard twice in the back, just as he was reaching for the top of the bank.

Norm felt the impact of the bullets just before his body slammed against the dirt, and slowly began to slide down the bank. A white-hot pain seared across his chest, like lightning. He knew immediately that he had been shot, even though he had not heard a sound. From the recesses of his brain, he knew the man had used a silencer, but all that his mind could focus on, as he gasped for air, was why? His consciousness dimmed as his body slid to a stop at the edge of the water.

Abdullah cautiously looked around to see if anyone had noticed what had transpired. He was relieved to see that no other boats or fishermen were in sight.

Why did you not just let him go? Nassar asked.

You fool, did you not hear him say he had been watching us for the past several days? We have come too far to be denied our destiny. Move the boat to the bank, quickly! We need to dispose of the body before someone else comes along.

As Nassar maneuvered the boat toward shore, Norm slowly and painfully became aware of the low, menacing whine of the boat’s engine. He silently cursed himself for not listening to his gut instinct. Now, all he could do was try to get out of this alive. As he watched the men through half-closed eyes, he fought back nausea and tried to focus on what they were doing. His mind was working, even if his body was not responding to the messages, and he knew that once they reached the shore, he was a dead man. He thought to himself, Norm, use your Marine training. There’s always a chance, so don’t blow it—play dead. It’s what these bastards expect to see. Give it to them.

When Nassar reached the bank, he leaped out of the boat and ran to Shepard, rolling him over onto his back. Allah is good. The man is dead, he said as he turned to his brother.

Shepard held his breath, thinking, give me a gun and I’ll show you who’s dead.

Shall we put his body into the water?

No, he will float and someone will find him. Take the anchor and wrap it around his body. He will sink to the bottom of the river and no one will ever find him.

The sound of an outboard motor could suddenly be heard coming up river, close to the south bank—too close. Both brothers turned toward the sound.

Abdullah hissed, There is no time to tie him up. Pull the body under that bank and cover it with brush. We need to leave, now, before it’s too late.

Nassar grabbed the man’s arms and pulled him close to the bank, rolled him into a depression and covered him with brush.

Norm was so racked by the agony of being pulled across the rough, uneven ground that he fought back wave after wave of strength-draining nausea. His mind and body joined in one silent mind-bursting scream until, finally, he found relief in the welcoming warm darkness of unconsciousness that covered him once again.

Nassar climbed into the boat as Abdullah started the outboard motor, and they moved into the upstream current, toward the river’s north bank and the landing at Fisherman’s Wharf. Looking over their shoulders, they saw the small fishing boat that they had heard down river, pass the south shore and continue upstream. The brothers smiled. Their task was almost done, but they had to be sure they left no trail. The car and boat, they had used for the past two weeks, must be disposed of, and the information collected had to be delivered on time.

Growing aware of the razor-sharp pain pulsating throughout his body, Norm slowly and reluctantly returned to consciousness. With his face buried in dirt and too injured to move, he deliberately and methodically forced his mind to focus on his predicament. He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious—it could have been minutes or hours, but he knew if he did not receive help soon, he would die. He could feel the sticky substance, that seeped through his shirt and onto the ground around him. The weakness of his body, his labored breathing, the dull throbs radiating throughout his chest—all pleading to slip back into that cool darkness of oblivion. In the meantime, his mind was screaming move, move! Slowly, he lifted his head and through half-closed eyes surveyed the river. No boat, no men—it was time. The bank in front of him seemed like a mountain as with great difficulty he inched his way toward the top—only to slide back and try, try again. Finally, with his lungs on fire and his chest heaving, he collapsed onto the flat surface at the top. His mind kept on pushing him to keep going. But to where? He heard the sound of traffic and slowly crawled in that direction. All of a sudden, he could see the traffic on the George Washington Memorial Parkway; if only he could make it there in time. He edged on, foot-byfoot, by sheer determination until at last, he was at the edge of the road.

The first car Shepard saw was a convertible, and he made it half way upright, waving his hands before he fell back onto the roadside, depleted, giving in to his pain. He saw the faces of four young white males, as they drove past. Surprise registered in their faces and then fear. He was just another drunken black man who probably got the beating he deserved. In despair, Norm tried to sit up but had no strength left. With the earth spinning around him, he rolled onto his back and let the sun warm his face. Is this it, he thought, is this what it’s like to die? Suddenly, in the murky depths of his consciousness, he heard a car pull over to the side of the road and then the sound of footsteps approaching.

As he looked up, he saw the Marine uniform and the stars on the man’s collar. Without thinking, Norm said, Semper Fi, General, I’ve been shot. Then he willingly gave in to that peaceful sleep that had been beckoning him.

It was close to 2 a.m., and storm clouds were gathering. Angry arrows of lightning streaked across the sky above the abandoned quarry pit as if Zeus himself were condemning the two lone mortals below. Just a few miles from Harper’s Ferry in West Virginia, the two men watched as the car, boat, and trailer plunged off the high embankment and settled slowly into the deep, dark water. They turned and walked to the navy blue Jeep that Nassar had driven to the quarry. They drove slowly without lights to the gate where they stopped and re-snapped the padlock. They turned onto Highway 340 and made their way toward Washington.

Shepard woke instantly, as had been his custom during his military career, although he kept his eyes closed. He felt the bandages around his chest and the cool starched sheets beneath him. He instinctively knew someone was in the room with him. He slowly opened his eyes. He recognized the uniform of a Marine, and more important were the two stars on the collar, which was the last thing he remembered before he lost consciousness alongside the highway. How long ago was that? How long had he been here? His immediate reaction was to try to rise and stand at attention but the sharp pain that spread across his chest made him fall back.

The voice was mild with just a hint of humor when the general said, At ease, Marine.

Shepard obliged happily as he sank back into the bed and looked at the general standing at the foot of his bed. There was something vaguely familiar about him. He was not tall, probably about five foot seven inches, typical GI crew cut, ramrod straight, and although he appeared to be thin, he also appeared to be all muscles. When Shepard looked into his eyes, they were like gray steel. He introduced himself as Major General Douglas McKay.

Fighting McKay was known throughout the Corps as an enlisted men’s officer. He had come up through the enlisted ranks himself and was given a battlefield commission during the African War. He was said to be a brilliant tactician and absolutely fearless, no matter what the situation. He would ask no man or woman enlisted or officer to do something he wouldn’t do. But God help those who did not give 100 percent to any task the general assigned.

The last time Shepard had heard of General McKay was six years ago when both men were involved in a bitter little war in South America. At that time, Fighting McKay was a full colonel. He had come a long way in the last six years, but that did not surprise Shepard. What surprised him was that General McKay was standing in this room.

General, what are you doing here and where, by the way, is here? Shepard asked.

I will answer your second question first, McKay said. You are at Bethesda Naval Hospital. As for your first question, you mind telling me why I find one of my men lying along side the highway, a stone’s throw from the Pentagon, with two bullets in his back?

First, general, with all due respect, I am no longer one of your men and second, why should you give a shit what happened to my black ass?

The general’s eyes flashed and that steel was apparent in his voice. Major Shepard, I don’t give a shit whether your skin is white, black, yellow, or green for that matter, but you are a Marine and that’s all that counts. So, don’t bullshit me. I took the liberty of having your service jacket pulled when I found out your name. You should never have given me the Marine slogan back on that road. It triggered my curiosity.

McKay pulled a thick, brown folder from under his arm and opened it. Let’s see, Major Shepard, you enlisted in 1999, moved quickly through the ranks, applied for bootstrap school in 2004, graduated at the top of your class, and served at various duty stations around the world, rising to the rank of captain. You served with valor in three minor brush wars and were promoted to major just before the Panama War. Upon completion of that conflict, you abruptly decided to quit the Marine Corps and return to civilian life. You want to tell me why?

Shepard looked the general straight in the eye. No, general, I do not.

General McKay smiled. Well, one thing that can be said of privileged rank is that if you want to find something out, all you have to do is ask and I asked. In 2010 you had a very interesting discussion with one Senator Bill McBride, who at the time served on the Senate subcommittee on Military Affairs, who by the way now chairs that same subcommittee. During those hearings, you apparently nailed the bastard’s hide to the wall in front of God and country. If I am not mistaken, you called him a traitor to our country, a bigot, and a man with no honor—strong words for a lowly Marine. And if the story was told correctly, when the good senator started to scream, you turned your back on him and walked out of the committee chamber. Shortly thereafter you resigned your commission rather than have the good senator apply the screws to the Marine Corps. Your jacket also indicates that you have two years left on your inactive reserve status.

McKay slowly turned the pages and finally closed the packet. Looking Shepard straight in the eyes, he said, You received two Purple Hearts, the Bronze Star, Silver Star, Navy Cross. And with a quiet, proud voice he added, And the Medal of Honor. So, don’t tell me you’re not one of my men. Cut the bullshit and tell me why I found you with two bullet holes in your back. If anything, I would have expected them to be in the front.

Shepard looked at the general. I really don’t understand what happened, then recalled as much of the incident as he could for the general.

McKay never let his eyes leave the patient and slowly shook his head when Shepard said, That’s all I know, but if I ever get a chance at those two, you can bet I won’t turn my back on them.

McKay smiled. I bet you wouldn’t either. He moved to the side of the bed. Major Shepard, you are lucky to be alive. The doctors tell me the first bullet passed through your right shoulder, a clean shot. The second bullet was deflected by something in your backpack and caused minor damage to your left shoulder. If it had not been deflected, it would have pierced your heart. I repeat, you are a lucky man. With that, McKay reached over, pressed an object into Shepard’s hand, and walked out of the room.

Shepard raised his hand and opened it to see the Medal of Honor with a deep crease across it where it had taken the bullet.

CHAPTER 2

Evelyn Pace had just sat down at her desk in the Pentagon when she heard a noise and a mumbled oath coming from the inner office. She sighed and looked at the clock on the wall. Most federal employees would start arriving at 8:00 but lately no matter how early she arrived at the office, it seemed her boss was already there.

In the five years she had worked for Ross Chambers, he usually was the first one in the office but since his wife had died 18 months ago, he was spending even more of his time there, always the first to arrive and the last to leave. Evelyn, on several occasions in the last few months, tried to talk him into going out with a friend of hers, but he always politely and firmly refused.

She, as well as the rest of his staff, was ferociously loyal to the boss, and all of them were concerned that he was thinking about retiring soon. Although he had not said anything directly, the signs were there, the calls to the personnel office, the retirement books on his desk, and now the Department of Defense was hinting that buyouts might be available within the next few months.

She knew that if Chambers retired, the government would lose one of its most experienced and respected civil servants in the emergency management field. These days, though, it seems the government could not care less. Downsizing still was the protocol, a throwback to the Clinton years when Vice President Gore went on a crusade to restructure government, and Congress enthusiastically supported personnel reductions. In the last twenty or thirty years, more than 400,000 of the 2.1 million civil servants had retired or left government service, and the loss of that experience and knowledge was felt in every branch of government.

Ross looked up as Evelyn came through the door with a steaming cup of coffee. As she carefully placed it on his desk, he smiled. That’s not what the government pays you for.

Evelyn smiled back. If you don’t tell, I won’t.

Ross looked at Evelyn and the thought came to mind, why is she still working for me? If he remembered correctly, she was only twenty-five years old at the time he hired her. Over the years she had received promotions to the GS-13 level, as his special assistant. She didn’t receive those promotions because she was a minority but instead for long hours, hard work, and the ability to know what her boss wanted— sometimes even before he did. Evelyn was not only intelligent and articulate but she knew her way around the government and was liked and respected by management and peers alike. Ross also knew she had offers from other federal agencies, within the last two years, which would have given her a promotion, but she had turned them down.

He had asked her once why she had turned down an opportunity to transfer to another agency, and she had just laughed and said, I’m having too much fun where I am.

As Evelyn turned to leave, she said, Don’t forget that you have a 10 o’clock appointment with that nice young man from Senator McBride’s staff.

Ross scowled and thought, nice young man indeed. More like a barracuda. The senator’s goons would just as soon cut your throat if you gave them a chance, so, why am I doing this? I could retire and not have to put up with this crap. He had been considering doing just that, especially in the last year.

Chambers leaned back in his chair and reflected on his career. He had a photographic memory so it was easy for him to pull up the past in detail. Life never had been easy in the career field he had chosen. He had worked his way up to his present position as Director of Research Analysis for the Department of Defense, and the next step was the Senior Executive Service. Ross knew many of these positions were political, and he had no interest in going that route.

Director of Research Analysis was a bogus title. Ross’ job was in what was called the black side of the government. He and his small staff were buried deep in the Department of Defense budget, but his primary mission was to analyze all threats to the country, both internal and external. Chambers and his staff were privy to almost all the back channel intelligence from most of the intelligence agencies in the government, as well as many other countries. It was his task to sort through the daily intelligence reports, analyze and separate fact from fiction. The accuracy of his staff ’s calculations and judgment was phenomenal. Rarely did they misjudge a threat.

Every morning his office produced a situation report (better known as a sitrep) to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was not unusual for Ross to pass on warnings directly to his counterparts in other federal departments and agencies if he felt it was important, although it was not a requirement. Ross was aware that some of his superiors often frowned upon his generosity in this area. Chambers had so many security clearances that he could not remember them all. He had been granted the standard ones many years ago—Secret, Top Secret, and Q. He now had at least ten compartmental clearances as well. These were granted to individuals who either worked on or had access to special classified programs.

He was having a difficult time this morning determining what should be included in the sitrep to his boss, General Rick Postan, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. His mind was just not focused, and he knew that was how mistakes were made. In his business one could not afford to make mistakes. As he was getting