The Tenth: Bruce Highland

By Alex Ryan

Take a base of Don Pendleton, stir in some George Orwell, and sprinkle with a dash of Upton Sinclair. It's a post-pandemic slightly dystopian era in the very near future, as Bruce Highland is called in to investigate the threat of a series of state level political assassinations. He struggles with conflicting personal convictions as he sorts through a tangled web of deception, corruption and conspiracy, in a race against time to discover and unfoil the plot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Ryan
• Release date: Aug 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393383123

Alex Ryan

Alex Ryan is an American author based in Northern California that has authored a series of action adventure novels in the Bruce Highland series, and the Rex Muse series. Bruce is a former US Army Infantryman, post-graduate degreed engineer, pilot, gym rat, bicyclist, and barbecue extrodinaire. He draws on personal experience in his creation of characters and plots.

Book preview

Prologue – The American

Haiphong, Vietnam – 1954

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Où ira l'Américain? They watched him as they whispered to each other. Where is the American going to go?

Paul Stark sat on his duffel bag in a corner on the deck of the tramp steamer, partially sheltered from the light rain that had settled in the port. It would quickly pass through. He struggled with a metal lighter, and finally got it to catch. The cigarette was stale and dry; it burned hot and too quickly. Stark was an idealist. He had only seen six months of the Korean conflict before his involvement ended. Things just didn’t end quite right. There was unfinished business. A stalemate is not a victory.

Same deal here. Except this time, the commies won. There was no stalemate. The colonial forces finally capitulated after being mercilessly besieged by Ho Chi Minh’s Viet Minh forces, using weapons appropriated from the Japanese and the French themselves. That left the Legionnaires in an unpleasant predicament. Elite they were, but large enough in number, they were not. Stark’s unit earned an unspoken badge of disgrace, even though it wasn’t their decision to surrender. Legionnaires don’t surrender. Period. Stark couldn’t help but have a level of respect for the Viet Minh. He was undecided where he stood with the South Vietnamese. In the ensuing weeks, treaties would be drawn up between the communist ruled North Vietnamese, and the French led South Vietnamese, which would result in the splitting of the country into two at the 17th parallel.

The South Vietnamese were never on board with Ho Chi Minh’s plan to expel the French and replace them with a communist Vietnamese regime, because it necessarily meant rule by the North Vietnamese, and the South Vietnamese preferred French rule that dates back to the old days prior to when the French arrived in the mid 1800s. The French were expelled from North Vietnam, and allowed to stay in South Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh’s forces were adequate to best a few thousand angry French, but not a few million angry South Vietnamese. His ultimate plan was to acquire an army sufficient in size to overcome the South Vietnamese, and any Western pushback that might occur during a re-take of the country. Ultimately, the French would read the writing on the wall, and leave South Vietnam. History would eventually re-write itself once the United States stepped in to help the South Vietnamese establish a form of government, the infrastructure of which left with the French. Stark wouldn’t know that quite yet. He would probably be too old to re-enter for the conflict in 1963, and definitely too old for the draft in 1969.

He could overhear the mumblings of some of his fellow Legionnaires. Futures were uncertain. Would the Legion reassign them? Discharge them? Stark had technically committed treason by joining the Legion. But, it’s not like he told the State Department exactly what he was doing in France either. The Legion wasn’t going to share that information, and they all got new identities when they joined anyway.

Despite the cool dampness, his throat was parched from the foul, dry cigarette. He might as well have smoked a sheet of paper. In the corner of his eye, boarding with a group of families, was unmistakably, Marie Artois. She had slender, blonde, angular features. And she was unmistakably alone. She was the nurse he saw when he took a small fragment of a ricocheted bullet to his leg. The cliché of ‘it’s just a flesh wound’ was lost on her, as he smiled, in an attempt to engage her in conversation. Or maybe it wasn’t. The deliberate un-gloving of the left hand to reveal the ring was a signal. Back off. At least she spoke English, which was refreshing. The ship was full. If you were lucky enough to be one of the first boarding groups, you got space down below decks, if you call that luck. The overcrowded mass of humanity was going to push sanitation and stench to the limits. Fortunately, this boat wasn’t going directly back to France. The plan was to disembark at Danang, and re-board other waiting ships. The trip should not take more than a day and a half.

Marie looked around, confused, for a place to sit. She settled on one of the last open spots next to Stark. Mind if I sit here? She asked, clearly recognizing Stark.

It was a civility. It was a rather rhetorical question, as she could tell the way Stark had looked at her in that large room of hospital beds. Be my guest.

She knew the difference between the colonial soldiers and the Legionnaires, who were mercenaries. Professional soldiers with no alliance to country other than a required vow to fight for France. She scoffed at them. Where are you men going next?

I don’t actually know, Stark replied. You? Stark looked at her hand. I see you have a ring, but where is your husband?

She held her hand up and gazed at the ring. Fiancée. Former fiancée. It seems that he was reassigned to a hospital in Saigon last month, and he managed to marry a Vietnamese girl last week. He didn’t even have the guts to come back to reclaim his ring. I would have returned to him.

So, what happens next, after you get back home?

Obviously, I’ll try to land a job at a hospital. Hopefully Marseilles, as I have an aunt there. My only surviving relative.

On a scale of one to ten, Marie, was about a nine point five. Granted, Vietnam has some beautiful women, but damn, to give that up, Stark pondered mentally. He pondered the possibilities. He was a young, wild stallion, living on adrenaline and adventure. Marie was clearly about home and stability... although she did come out to the colony. I see, Stark replied, fishing for another stale cigarette.

Terrible habit, Marie said, waving the smoke away from her face.

Harmless.

"No, it is not harmless. That is a popular misconception."

Have you ever thought about giving up this life of war?

And go back to my family orchard in California? That’s what is waiting for me if I go back home. I came out here to escape all of that.

A ruddy looking sergeant meandered over to Stark. Monsieur Stark. I just got word. We have all been transferred to Algeria for the campaign there. Please pass the word.

Oui, Stark replied. He turned back towards Marie. Well, there we go. It looks like you and I will be parting ways at the next stop.

––––––––

This is a stupid idea. Paul Stark nursed a beer in front of a small café in the port of Marseilles. It had been three years, and two conflicts in North Africa before he decided to call it quits. Actually the decision had been made for him. A Legionnaire is apolitical. His vocal, outspoken distaste for certain leadership elements within the ranks earned him disciplinary action, reduction in rank, and finally discharge. He just couldn’t keep his trap shut. The Legion is where the idealists go? Express idealism and see where that gets you.

A bearded man in a trench coat approached him and sat down at the table under the canopy as a light rain set in. He slid a small piece of paper across the table. Voilà monsieur. Quinze mille francs s'il vous plait, he said with a bright smile.

Stark stared at the name and address handwritten on the paper. Êtes-vous sûr?

Oui.

Stark sighed. Merci. He stripped fifteen thousand francs from his wallet and gave it to the man. That wasn’t cheap. He threw some money down on the table without finishing his beer and hailed a cab.

He stared at the massive wooden double doors at the base of the massive four level building at 40 Rue Saint-Jacques. You don’t just walk into this place. If you live here, you have a key. If you don’t live here, you have an appointment with a first level business of which you signal with a buzzer on the side. A small girl on a bicycle stopped, rang a buzzer, and entered the door shortly after. Stark followed her in, walked past her, and boarded the open cage elevator and took it to the third level.

He straightened his collar. Who would answer? The détective privé only offered an address; the assessment of personal situation would have been another fifteen thousand francs. Fifteen thousand francs would buy a hell of a lot of remorse beer in a worst-case scenario. After a sharp rap on the door, he heard a series of locks disengage, and a chain rattle as the door edged open. The figure behind the door studied him for several seconds. Paul? She asked.

Yes, Marie, it’s me.

She sighed heavily. You can’t just, come in like this, unannounced. How long has it been, five years?

Three years and two months. And a day. Wait, no, last year was a leap year. Okay, two months even.

That is funny. She did not laugh.

Look, I realize a lot has happened in three years. I mean, if it’s bad for me to be here right now, just say so and I’ll go.

Wait here for a few minutes. I’m only wearing a bath robe. She closed the door, and a couple minutes later, Stark heard the chain undo and Marie opened the door. Come in. Please excuse the mess. I have a busy schedule. Can I get you maybe a coffee or a tea?

Well, a beer would be nice, but maybe some water?

It’s a bit early for a beer, don’t you think?

I’m going to guess that you aren’t married yet.

Just so you know, I do have a date this evening.

Stark grinned. Let me guess. Some older guy with a family, who is seeing you on the side.

Marie slapped him as tears welled up in her eyes. How the hell did you know?

"Jeez, I was only joking! I wasn’t serious."

A knock on the door startled them. Non! c'est mauvais. Il est tôt!

He’s early, huh, Stark commented. I guess I’m going to be hard to explain.

Please, hide in the closet.

Stark stood in the darkness, wedged between the dresses and slips. He could hear indistinct conversation, which lasted several minutes. Then there was heated shouting, and the angry slam of a door.

Marie opened the closet door. You can come out now.

I’m am going to go out on a limb and guess that your date plans have changed.

Marie dried her tears and took several breaths. It’s for the best. It was an illusion. I live for the dream of a happy relationship to the point I fail to see the reality.

Tell you what. How about say... I be your planned date tonight?

That’s impossible. You are unplanned.

Okay, fine, unplanned date then.

Whatever. Marie threw her hands up in frustration. But what about you? A mercenary? A hired killer? You have nothing to offer me.

The Legion discharged me. Frankly, I’ve kind of lost the fight in me anyway. That stuff gets old. Besides, I didn’t know me offering you something was on the table.

I don’t think you came all the way over here to say hello and have a beer together, only to turn around and go home, or wherever your next opportunity arises.

Tell you what. Forget about that. Deep stuff. Is there a good place to eat around here?

This is France. That’s like asking if there is water in the ocean. Unless you consider those things... what do they eat in America? Hamburgers? To be good food.

You clearly need to experience a hamburger.

We can walk to the Café Bourgeois.

I saw that place. Looks like a hole in the wall. What about that nice looking place a couple blocks up the street?

Unless you want to come face to face with Gillard, I would recommend against it.

No, no, café is good. Hole in the wall is good. Do they have wine?

Marie blinked at him, stone faced. Is that a real question?

––––––––

The baby blue Ford stepside pickup bounced up the rough gravel driveway. It stopped in front of a two story farm house, and a man with a clipboard approached the door. He pulled a rag out of his overalls and mopped his face. The door opened before he could knock. He looked inquisitively at the tall blonde woman. Dan around? He asked, trying to peer through the door past her.

No, I’m afraid he is at the hospital with my husband.

Okay. I’m sorry to hear. Got a delivery. A couple five pound tins of DDT.

She stepped outside and looked around. A baby could be heard crying in the background. Just put it over there in the open shed.

Yes’m. Right next to the tractor. I know the drill. The man compulsively wiped his face again. Not a day too soon either. Bug season is gonna be something fierce this year.

Excuse me, but I need to attend to my son.

No problem ma’am. Can you please sign for the delivery before you go?

Of course.

Okay, who is signing?

Marie Stark.

Huh. Who, um... who is your husband?

Paul Stark.

"Well I’ll be doggone darned. I haven’t seen that boy since he was a boy. How long y’all been back?"

We’ve been living here for two years.

Shows you how much I get out. You have a little bit of an accent; can’t quite place it. You ain’t from around here, are you?

No, I’m from France.

Well I’ll be. You give Dan my best. ‘Till next time. The door of the pickup clattered, and the man drove off down the dusty road.

Marie went back inside and scooped up the crying baby, gently rocking him. Sleep, little Kyle. Sleep.

Chapter 1 – Preparations

Sacramento, California – 2024

The trees rustled as a south wind pushed hot, dry air across the capitol corridor. Jack Byron was dressed in a pair of no-nonsense blue overalls with his state issued ID badge dangling from his left pocket as he surveyed the mid-rise building on the Southeast quadrant of the Tenth and N Street intersection. It was a state owned building that housed the state assembly caucus, among other tenets. He entered the front lobby, and approached the security desk.

He flashed his identification card and announced, State building inspector. Just here for a routine audit.

The guard pressed some keys on a terminal behind the kiosk. Nothing scheduled, and our facilities director is off on a training seminar.

Correct, it is an unscheduled audit. I don’t need your facilities director. I just need a staff person that has access to your stairwells and elevators.

Right. Hold on a second. Let me speak with my supervisor. The guard had a brief indistinct conversation over the telephone. All right. We will have someone here in a few minutes. You can hang out in the lobby if you want, but mind your social distancing.

Right. Several minutes later, a young Middle Eastern woman in a facilities uniform and a head dress appeared. You must be the inspector?

Byron cringed as he looked at the woman. Is that a niqab - traditional Afghani head gear? Byron asked.

Yes. She replied. Very perceptive. I’m impressed. Most people confuse it with a burqua.

Yeah, well, I spent a little time in your neck of the woods.

I was born here, actually, in Los Angeles.

Really. Well, let’s get to it. I want to start in your basement.

She used her keycard to take a service elevator to the bottom lower basement level. It was a maze of pumps, pressure pipes, gravity drainage pipes, and old, antiquated electrical switchgear. What are you looking for, anyway?

Safety, safety, safety. Safety is everything, right?

Ohhh kay. Sure. To be honest, nobody comes down here. There’s no real reason to. All the electrical switchgear and mechanical equipment is on the upper basement level.

I see. The lower basement level was clearly partitioned off from the rest of the building. This thing continue on the other side of the concrete?

No, this is the only location in the building where we have a second lower level. I don’t even know why it’s here.

I do, Byron said. Look at this brick work. This existed before the present building was constructed. Instead of filling it in, they just left it.

There was a padlocked steel door on one the South brick basement wall. You have a key for this?

The girl looked at the lock. I doubt it. Look at it. It’s old and rusted shut.

Get your bolt cutters and a replacement lock. Safety code issue here. We can fix it on the spot.

Ten minutes later the girl returned, and struggled with the bolt cutters. Byron grabbed them and snapped the lock free. The creaking steel plate door resisted against the rusty hinges. He peered inside the tunnel with awe.

Well, I’ll be damned, Byron murmured. You know, back in the 1800s, Sacramento flooded whenever the river overflowed. Eventually, the first level of most of the city was filled in, and new streets were constructed on the new second level. That is why so many of the buildings in Old Sacramento have stairways at the ground level that go into a basement. That was the original first level. But since the buildings themselves weren’t filled in, that left a network of tunnels crisscrossing the city.

I did not know that.

Hand me that lock. You can go put your bolt cutters back. The girl scurried off. Byron wanted badly to explore the tunnel, but there wasn’t enough time. He found a length of pipe laying in a small pile, and used it to snap the ancient iron hasp from its backing. He carefully closed the door, and wedged the hasp back in place, and then secured the lock on to the broken hasp. That would work for future access. In the meantime, he examined the rest of the basement. There was a good three foot space between the service elevator and the elevator shaft itself, with a steel ladder, with stops at every floor for shaft access. That was huge.

Several minutes later the girl returned. Where next?

Take me to the top. The service elevator ascended to the top of the building.

This is the roof access through this room, she explained.

Let me pop my head out. The roof was clear, but there were security cameras out the ying yang, both pointing outward and downward, and back on to the roof itself. That was a huge no-go, but also more or less par for the course. This was not the slum tenement section of town. Okay, let’s go a level down.

The girl took the elevator down a level. These are executive offices here.

Okay, let’s go down one more.

This level isn’t really used at all. It’s mostly just storage.

Byron surveyed the empty hallway. Fuckin’ bingo.

Where now?

Images flashed through Byron’s mind of the girl bent over a desk in an unused room, trousers at her ankles, as he held her head by the niqab, relentlessly pounding away. It was so ironic that such hairy, butt ugly men could have such beautiful women. But, a mission was a mission. After literally months of searching, he may have just found the perfect place. Maybe not perfect, as there is no such thing as perfection, but it’s the best option that he’s run across so far. This one may possibly be a go. I’m running a little short on time. I’ll have to pick this up later.

She studied Bryon intensely. Something seemed a off about the impromptu inspection. Okay.

What’s your name?

Kashm.

Mythical Persian princess.

You know that?

Yeah. Say, you wanna get together and talk about that later? Byron smiled.

The girl blushed. Sorry, but I’m not available. I am to be married in two weeks by arrangement. In fact, I will be relocating back to Los Angeles.

Right. He walked away at the lobby, then turned back to Kashm. You drive a Smart Car. I peg you for a Smart Car kinda gal.

Wrong you are! She grinned. I don’t drive. I ride a bike. But I can actually walk here from home.

Being a sniper can be the most exciting work, and also the most boring, all at the same time. When the action is on, it’s all adrenaline. When the target is in sight, it is like being in a trance. But the wait can be god awful painful and boring. It takes a lot of self-discipline to remain motionless, in the