A Message to Garcia

By Otto Oldenburg

One minute former U.S. Marine Jackson McGuigan is doing his job as a government engineer, the next he is running for his life. In the heart of New York City, Jackson stumbles on a century-old conspiracy of global proportions - and the people pulling the strings are not happy! As Jackson tries to wrap his head around what is going on, he learns that some of those closest to him are involved. Omar Cribb, sadistic strongman and twisted henchman of the conspirators, is determined to pursue him to the death to protect the secret. But who are these people? How far does their power extend? Who can he trust? Before Jackson can figure this out, he must stop Cribb from mounting a ruthless attack on New York City that will kill thousands of people and leave major portions of the City unusable for years - and in the process keep himself alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456725754

Otto Oldenburg

Otto Oldenburg was born and has lived in and around New York City for most of his life. He earned degrees in electrical and environmental engineering at Hofstra University and Manhattan College, respectively, and studied IT management at Columbia University. As an avid outdoorsman and sportsman, Otto played rugby for many years in NYC, studies Shaolin kung fu, has been an avid rock climber, and ran the NYC marathon. Otto has traveled to South Africa, Germany, China, Australia, Ireland and the UK. In quiet moments, Otto enjoys spending time with his girlfriend and cat, in that order, as well as gardening and attempting to grow pumpkins.

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Contents

Chapter 1 – The Enemy

Chapter 2 – The Good Old Days

Chapter 3 – Ruy Lopez

Chapter 4 – The Middle Game Needs Work

Chapter 5 – Watch for the Bishop

Chapter 6 – Queen’s Bishop to King’s Knight Four

Chapter 7 – Attack of the Pawns

Chapter 8 – Pawn on the Run

Chapter 9 – The King’s Castle

Chapter 10 – Does Anyone Have a Bishop I Could Borrow?

Chapter 11 – Who Does That Bishop Belong To?

Chapter 12 – Kasparov vs. Deep Blue

Chapter 13 – King Me!

Chapter 14 – Another Rook in the Soup

Chapter 15 – The Omega Gambit, a.k.a., The Cheshire Cat Gambit

Chapter 16 – I Knew a Man Named Gambling Bob…

Chapter 17 – Sometimes You Have to Play Checkers

Chapter 18 – Black King to King’s Bishop Two

Chapter 19 – Even a Pawn can be Trouble

Chapter 20 – King vs. King

Chapter 21 – Check

Chapter 22 – Open Play

Chapter 23—Was Bobby Fisher Ever Happy?

Chapter 24 – Draw

Chapter 1 – The Enemy

The secret of man’s being is not only to live but to have something to live for.

– Dostoyevsky

Omar Cribb was an ambitious man. He had long labored for the Harriman family and was now a trusted associate. He was known as a man who could get the dirty things done and gained his current post by killing his predecessor, Jay Corn. Corn was foolish, believing in national patriotism and that the United States Government ran world affairs. Most people believe this as well. They couldn’t be more wrong. Corn also believed there was some sort of company loyalty. His murder was, of course, approved from the top. ‘How foolish and idealistic Corn was,’ Cribb thought, as he stood over the dark pit below him, stooping to open a bag beside him. ‘Well, at least the dogs will enjoy what is left of him.’ He laughed aloud as he pulled Corn’s head from the bag and tossed it into the pit, the unseen dogs growling and fighting for the scrap in the pit’s blackness.

Cribb’s laugh was guttural and coarse: He was about 6 foot, 270 pounds, and had a ragged mustache. His appearance was sloppy, like a garbage man that had just come from drinking in a bar all night and gone straight to work. But make no mistake: there was a deep, cold, calculating intelligence behind his dark brown eyes. Part of the danger of Cribb was his common appearance. However, anyone having been in his presence will tell you they could feel his malevolence. You knew you were in the presence of pure malice. Such is the man.

He mused at killing Corn, reveling in the act itself. Cribb had snuck up on him in his upscale Northern Bergen County, New Jersey home. He’d waited for Corn and his wife to come home late that night from a Company party. They were a little drunk, so the advantage was his. Corn’s wife came into the bedroom first; unseen he struck her from behind knocking her unconscious, quickly following up with an injection to immobilize her. She would not wake up until tomorrow. He did the same to Corn when he entered the room, except that his injection was a little bit different. He wanted Corn awake when he killed him. He dragged the couple onto the bed and laid them next to each other, Corn’s eyes fixed on Cribb, paralyzed and unable to speak.

Corn knew Cribb well. Cribb had worked for him a few years and knew that this day would come. Cribb was dressed in a tyvek moon suit and rubber gloves to make sure none of his own DNA was left behind as evidence. He looked over at Corn’s wife and thought ‘She is attractive, nice body.’ Cribb was tempted, but there could be no DNA evidence. It was all about business. Cribb left the room and came back with a large chef’s knife and sharpener from the kitchen. He slowly and deliberately sharpened the knife in front of Corn. This was to be a painful and purposeful killing and he wanted Corn to agonize over the last moments of his life.

‘What was that Winnie the Pooh passage?’ Cribb thought. ‘Christopher Robbins says Pooh, what is the best thing in life?’ Well, said Pooh, what I like best"—and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn’t know what it was called.’ But Cribb knew the answer, ‘sweet anticipation!’ Cribb took in the moment, breathed in deeply as if someone smelling a hot apple pie cooling on a window sill and as he began to hum the theme to Winnie the Pooh, he clinically severed the head of Corn from its living body. Cribb raised the head in front of him and looked intently into Corn’s face. With a look of disappointment Cribb slowly stuffed the head into a waterproof stuff sack and walked out the door. Cribb chuckled to himself ‘Mrs. Corn will have a nice surprise waiting for her when she wakes in the morning.’

Cribb walked out of the barn on his secluded estate in southwestern Connecticut. The night air was cool and clean. He thought, ‘An interesting career path I’ve taken these long years. The dogs are fed and I’ve a new position with a nice raise. But one must keep an eye out—this was after all, about client service. What has happened tonight can happen again. But maybe one day I will be giving the orders…’ Cribb is ambitious.

His cell rang.

Cribb? said the voice on the cell.

Yes Sir, he said in a deep, passive voice.

Come to the office, we’ve got something for you.

On my way.

Cribb hung up and placed the phone back on his belt.

‘Ah, yes,’

Cribb thought,‘…this is why I make the big bucks!’

He smiled and reckoned himself to be the luckiest man in the world to have such a job. He headed into the house, with only the sound of the dogs joyfully fighting for the scraps of their tasty treat to disturb the evening.

Chapter 2 – The Good Old Days

Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being.

– Albert Camus

Hi, I’m Jackson McGuigan and I’m the Remedial Project Manager representing the US Environmental Protection Agency at Rogers Island in Fort Edward. Welcome to today’s Public Meeting.

The meeting was being held in a small auditorium at the Fort Edward Town Hall. Fort Edward was an old industrial town and like many others was built along the Hudson River over a century ago when many industries set up shop on its shores to use the natural resource it provided. Although old, the town was quaint and kept neat. The people here liked where they lived and took pride in it. It is, in fact, a particularly beautiful stretch of the Hudson River Valley. The Town Hall itself had that sort of 60’s architecture to it—painted cinder block, spartan, nothing opulent, a Town logo in the entryway. There were about twenty to thirty people in the room, including representatives from Federal Design, EPA’s designated Potentially Responsible Party for the site. Federal Design had dumped well over a million pounds of PCBs into the Hudson River over the course of 50 years. They are quick to remind you that it was all done legally.

Jackson continued, Today’s meeting is to inform you about the results of the sampling survey on Rogers Island. There are some areas along the shore that show elevated levels of PCB’s. We plan to do a removal on public areas and at homes where residents will allow us to do so.

The kindling had been lit. Shouts came in from the floor.

Mr. McGuigan, why is it that Federal Design has been allowed to get away with leaving these PCB’s in the River?!

Why doesn’t EPA just make Federal Design clean up the River?!

My children are being poisoned!

McGuigan! Why are polluters like Federal Design allowed to conduct these studies and cleanup operations themselves? It’s not in their best interest to find anything wrong or do a good job on the cleanup!

Jackson cut in before the hysteria truly got out of hand. Raising his hands, he commanded PLEASE! Everyone, we are here today to address only those questions directly relevant to PCB removal on Roger’s Island. For those of you interested in potential contamination on your property, we will be available after this portion of the meeting to discuss EPA’s removal plans. There is a press packet on the table at the back of the room for the press.

The room started to calm, but Federal Design’s Spokesman Bob Barnes picked this moment to contribute to the conversation. It has not conclusively been proven that PCB’s pose a threat to human health!

It was at that moment the chair flew across the room and caught Barnes on the bridge of his nose sending him sprawling to the floor, much in the way Geraldo had once caught a chair on his nose on national television only a few years ago. The room erupted into chaos, a mini riot. Jackson and his supervisor, Moe Ehrlichmann—Moe being short for Moshe—ran for the door as the local police came into the room. As they jumped over Barnes, Moe let fly a well-placed kick to his ribs and quipped, Looks like the meeting is over!

Jackson quietly looked at Moe as he drove his government car, the G car, home. Moe had been with EPA for 20 years. He knew the ins and outs of the Agency and had seen many Administrators and Regional Administrators come and go. He was a very no nonsense kind of guy and he’d tell the Pope he was full of it if need be. Some thought him brash, but Moe was the best of many worlds, both old and new. He was Jewish but didn’t hold it against you, was easily moved to laughter, and was not afraid to tell anyone to shinny up a pole. And he knew just where to go to get the best deal on anything and where the best delis in the City were—Jackson’s favorite deli in the world was Katz’s Deli. Katz’s was well over a hundred years old and at the turn of the century the owners used to hire the bums off the Bowery to serve the meat. Where else could you get a sandwich with the still-steaming pastrami piled a mile high and a cold cream soda that was perfect every time? The place was a museum, having pictures of every famous person that ever walked through its doors on its walls. Send a Salami to your Boy in the Army! Jackson smiled. But Moe had a peanut fetish—he never stopped eating them. What was up with that? In any case, Jackson viewed Moe like a father figure and looked up to him.

As they cruised down the Thruway back to the City, Jackson thought about the meeting. The last question asked before total bedlam had erupted had been one in which Jackson had always wrestled with himself. ‘Why ARE polluters like Federal Design allowed to conduct the studies and cleanup operations themselves? It’s NOT in their best interest to find anything wrong or do a good job on the cleanup.’

Moe... said Jackson, with just the slightest hint of a quick New York accent.

What? Give me some peanuts, answered Moe, with the same quick, New York speech.

Crack! He cracked open a peanut.

Something about that meeting bothers me... Jackson cracked open a few peanuts and handed them to Moe.

You didn’t like it when Barnes got hit with the chair? Moe laughed aloud and tossed some peanuts into his mouth.

It was beautiful! Jackson replied chuckling. I wish I would have thought of it—what a whiney pain in the ass that guy is…

Crack!

That was hilarious! They both were laughing. Try not to kick him so hard next time! But that last question about why polluters are allowed to conduct the studies and cleanup operations themselves. It isn’t in their best interest to find anything wrong or do a good job on the cleanup. Why is the system set up that way? In all the time I have been here this has never made any sense to me and no one has ever given me a good answer.

Moe said, These are concessions made to keep industry in control while seemingly letting the public think everything is legal and right.

Crack!

My father used to say that if it doesn’t make sense or doesn’t seem right, it isn’t. Almost as an afterthought, Jackson followed, Somebody somewhere is making money.

Incredulous, Moe replied, And this surprises you? I’ll tell you what. It just so happens that I am supposed to go to this shindig tonight. It’s at the Waldorf Astoria—catered, booze, food—the whole thing. The Director invited me along with several other supervisors to the event. There’ll be plenty of government officials and industry mucky-mucks there. It’s supposed to be a mixer for government officials and industry stooges so everyone can get to know one another—a real love-fest! Why don’t you ask them the question?

Fair enough. Pick me up at 8.

Give me some more peanuts.

Crack!

Chapter 3 – Ruy Lopez

Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.

– Leo Tolstoy

When Jackson got home, he was thinking about a lot of things. He was thinking about his father, Jackson, Sr., and how much of a common sense approach he had to life. He often said, If it doesn’t make sense, somebody’s hiding something. The way EPA went about things just didn’t make sense. Superfund Law didn’t make sense. Most sites were never cleaned up to the satisfaction of anyone—not to EPA’s, the public, environmental groups, polluters or industry. The insane part about Superfund Law was that the polluter studied and cleaned up the contaminated sites themselves. The public and the environmental groups were always pissed. If it got real bad, EPA might knuckle down and force them to clean things up, but that was rare.

As he showered and got dressed, Jackson’s thoughts drifted to his military career prior to leaving and joining the EPA. He had left as a Lieutenant in the Marine Corps, and had a high security clearance level. He hadn’t wanted to join the FBI like so many of his Marine buddies because he didn’t want to carry a gun anymore. While on duty in Bosnia, he and his squad had come across a bombed out house suspected of hiding some of Milosevic’s henchmen. When they entered, one of the fugitives started firing using a child as a shield. There were other children in the room and Jackson knew that if he didn’t get this guy they might all get killed. Jackson ended up killing the fugitive, but also the child. He was cleared following an inquiry but he