Seminole Bend

By Tom Hansen

When the cause of two midair disasters over the skies of South Florida are investigated, the FBI and NTSB are at odds whether the crashes were merely a coincidence or a criminal act. Is it possible that the United States is in grave danger and no one seems to know, except perhaps the president and his cabinet?

Seminole

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cultural Unity Publishing
• Release date: Nov 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781732818248

Tom Hansen

Tom Hansen is a native of New Richmond, Wisconsin, and has worked in Saudi Arabia, Iowa, Florida, Wisconsin, and Arizona (where he now resides). He dedicated most of his life to education as a teacher, principal, college professor, program director, and state consultant before retiring to explore world regions and cultures. Tom has lived in or traveled to eighty-two countries and all fifty states. This is his fourth novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The Jackson Brothers

1940s and 1950s

R

ay Jackson was two years older than his brother, Roy, but they were best friends. Mammy and Pappy Jackson owned a used car lot in Pahokee, Florida, a small town of about 4,000 hard-working, but low-income folks on the eastern banks of Lake Okeechobee. All four of the Jacksons lived in a one-bedroom trailer that doubled as the sales office. To makes ends meet, Mammy and Pappy opened the store seven days a week and told little Ray and Roy to play elsewhere during business hours.

The boys began their life of crime at an early age, five and seven to be exact, when to pass time they stole bubble gum from Kuppa’s Convenience Store so they could read the cartoons wrapped inside. They enjoyed cartoons so much that they elevated their plunder to Dell comic books. A few years later, as Ray and Roy were moving into the age of adolescence, Playboy hit the newsstands, and the boys would steal several copies and sell them to their wide-eyed pubescent pals. The crime spree continued until Ray was caught his junior year in high school by Pappy as he tried to steal a Pontiac sedan right off his father’s own car lot. Ray planned to sell it to Betty Wills over in Clewiston, a young lady he happened to run into while they both were burglarizing Jake’s Standard Oil gas station in Belle Glade one night. Pappy kicked Ray out of the trailer and told him never to come back. Roy packed a bag and left home with his older brother.

Ray and Roy hitchhiked to Cocoa Beach and enrolled in Causeway High School by forging their parents’ names on the registration documents. They built a hut made from palm fronds on Cape Canaveral and went to school using a stolen Harley Davidson motorcycle. Instead of completing homework assignments, their nights were spent robbing stores and burglarizing homes.

Ray’s first of many murders began after Principal Loughten, an ex-congressman from Florida and a single man in his late forties, told Ray after school one day that his grades were not sufficient for him to graduate with his class. By that time, Ray and Roy had raided every pawn shop in central Florida and had a collection of guns and weapons that would rival most police stations. Later on, the same night that Ray was told of his academic fate, Principal Loughten was snoring soundly in his bed. Moments later, his face was smothered by a foam pillow and blasted into eternity from a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun.

When teachers and staff heard the news of their principal’s murder the next morning and were grieving together with bereaved students in the gym, Ray Jackson was forging out a new permanent record in Loughten’s office. His F’s had miraculously transformed into A’s, and he added his name to the list of honor students who would be wearing gold tassels the night of graduation.

But Ray struck gold when he found an old piece of stationery from Principal Loughten’s days in Congress next to the paper he used as a Cocoa Beach Causeway school administrator. Using the stationery with United States Congress emblazed on top, Ray typed out a letter of recommendation to the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. After falsifying Principal Loughten’s signature once more, he left the office and joined his mourning classmates. One week after graduation, Ray purchased a mailbox in the local post office, then mailed a letter of application to the Naval Academy with a copy of his falsified transcript and Principal Loughten’s recommendation enclosed in the envelope. Three weeks later, Ray was accepted into the Naval Academy’s Officer Training Program. It was there where he met Oliver Harfield.

The day Ray graduated with honors from Causeway High, his little brother Roy officially dropped out of school. During the last two months of his sophomore year, Roy was able to lift more than $500 from the purses of every female teacher at the high school. After methodically plotting the times for after-school faculty and grade level team meetings from the bulletins posted next to the office door, Roy would sneak into the teachers’ classrooms, pull out their billfolds from their purses and take only a couple of ones or fives. Not one teacher reported a theft because no one realized the money was missing.

In June of 1955, Roy Jackson bought a Greyhound ticket to Milwaukee. He wanted to work in a brewery surrounded by hops and yeast and alcohol. Roy got off Bus 149 in Cincinnati at midnight to change to Bus 167 that would take him to the city of suds, but instead, he accidentally boarded Bus 197 to Pittsburgh. The driver wasn’t paying much attention, and Roy was fatigued from the long ride north from Florida, so he found the first open seat and collapsed into a snore-laced stupor. He awoke outside of Wheeling, West Virginia, but didn’t have enough geographical sense to know he was traveling in the wrong direction. US Geography was taught in eleventh grade at Causeway High.

The next bus to Milwaukee isn’t until ten tomorrow morning, said the attractive brunette Greyhound ticket agent in Pittsburgh. You’re kinda cute, kid, so I won’t charge you anything for the mess up. The ticket agent smiled and winked at Roy.

So what’s there to do in this city? asked Roy as he looked at his watch, not noticing that the googly-eyed ticket agent was making passes at him. It was mid-morning, and he had the day to kill. "You know any cheap place I can bunk down for the night.

It’s such a nice day, you should walk downtown and stroll along the three rivers that come together here. There’s the Monongahela, the Allegheny, and the Ohio. Very pretty, I must say.

The gal was so sweet that Roy didn’t want to offend her by letting her know he wasn’t much for strolling. Okay, that sounds like fun. So do you have any cheap hotels around here?

The agent thought a moment and pondered her next response carefully. Well, there’s no need for you to waste money at some dirty hotel. Why not stay at my apartment? My husband sells insurance, so he’s out in Harrisburg today, and we have plenty of room for guests. That was a stretch. The young lady actually lived in a one-bedroom apartment about the size of a large treehouse.

Roy finally got the hint and was anxious to confirm spending the evening with this beautiful gal who looked to be just a couple of years older. He wrote down her address and directions. She got off work at five.

Roy left the Greyhound station, checked the city map the cute ticket agent had given him, then walked a few blocks southwest down Grant Street. He noticed a green section on the map that indicated Mellon Park Square was located just a block away up Sixth Avenue, and he decided to hunker down there to kill some time before checking out the Allegheny River.

Wow, what a place! whispered Roy to himself. He was looking at greenery and fountains that had just been erected on top of a parking garage. Then, he sat down on a park bench and gazed across the street at a skyscraper. It too looked new. Fifteen minutes later, Roy decided to check it out. There was a sign next to the entrance of the building that said: Pennsylvania, Ohio, and West Virginia Aluminum Company World Headquarters (Built 1953).

The revolving doors were a novelty that Roy had never experienced. He started toward the open wedge of the door, but then stopped. The door was revolving quickly, and he wasn’t sure his timing was just right. But then he got a nudge on his shoulder.

Come on, buddy. I don’t have all day. A man in a dark gray pinstripe suit, white shirt, and a narrow silver and black-striped tie gripping a black leather briefcase stood waiting impatiently for Roy to make his move. Roy jumped into the next opening and tiptoed quickly until the door opened on the other side, and he emerged into a grand lobby. He stopped and looked up and down and all around, stunned by the beauty of this towering superstructure.

Roy wondered if working here would be better than scrubbing and polishing copper fermentation vessels at Pabst Blue Ribbon. He had nothing to lose, so he strutted up to the receptionist.

Roy was wearing faded blue jeans, a red t-shirt, and worn down tennis shoes. The receptionist gave him a once over and decided whoever this young man was, he needed to go. But Roy had a different plan.

Howdy, young lady, Roy said with sheer confidence. My name is Roy Jackson, and I am the head of marketing for Clyde Hayes Western Wear, and I have an appointment with your personnel department manager.

The receptionist looked back at him incredulously. You have an appointment with Marvin Adams? Is that the way you always dress for an interview?

Yes, ma’am! This is how Clyde Hayes wants us to present ourselves, just like we want our customers to look.

You’ve got to be kidding, right? sputtered the receptionist. Oh well, okay, but I need to give Mr. Adams a few minutes to get up to his desk. He was the man right behind you when you came through the revolving door.

Roy’s face turned bright red. Oh sure, yes, I thought that was him, he lied. I’ll just take a seat over here. Roy sat down on a fabric chair by the window and picked up a copy of Life Magazine. He wanted to appear literate.

Ten minutes later, the receptionist motioned for Roy to approach her desk. Mr. Adams says he has no appointment scheduled with you, Mr. Jackson.

You’re right, I lied. But I know my experience working with Clyde Hayes is something that could be very beneficial to POWVAC.

Is that right, replied the receptionist with skepticism. You said you work at Clyde Hayes’ headquarters, Mr. Jackson. Where exactly is that?

Roy had to think quickly. He wasn’t prepared for that question. Well, it’s in Milwaukee, of course.

Is that so? Sorry to tell you this, but Clyde Hayes Western Wear is headquartered in San Francisco. I just got off the phone with their personnel department. They have no record of a Roy Jackson being employed there. After a moment of dead silence, the receptionist added, Is there something you want to say? If not, I suggest you leave.

Yes, ma’am, I am very sorry that I wasted your time. But I am motivated by this company and would really like to work here someday. By any chance, could you get me Mr. Adam’s business card?

The receptionist looked around and saw that no one was waiting for her assistance. Roy had already checked that out, too. She reluctantly decided to go to the personnel department and grab Marvin Adam’s business card from his secretary. Customer service is what her company was all about, and she aimed to please, regardless of how much she loathed the customer.

Alright, Mr. Jackson. Please have a seat again, and I’ll be back soon. The receptionist locked her desk and headed for the elevators.

Roy looked around again. Still, no one was in the lobby. He reached in his pocket and took out his multifaceted Swiss Army knife. Nary a teacher’s desk at Causeway High School had survived this trusty tool. Roy picked the receptionist’s desk in less than a minute and had ducked down where no one could see him. Her purse was in the bottom right file drawer. As luck would have it, she had two crisp hundred dollar bills tucked into a hidden compartment that only petty thieves like Roy Jackson would know where to look. He closed the purse, shut the drawer, and waited as patiently as possible for the receptionist to return. Three minutes later, she returned and handed Roy the business card while bidding him farewell. The revolving door bumped his ankle, and he stumbled to the ground face-first onto the Sixth Avenue concrete sidewalk. People covered their mouths to hide their laughter.

Roy strolled aimlessly, trying to find a clothing store. On the other side of Mellon Square, he found the Union Trust Building. In an old railroad ticket office on the corner of Oliver and William Penn, Roy saw a luxury clothier with the name Larrimor’s posted above the entrance. He looked in the huge picture window and saw a black suit fitting superbly on an equally superb manikin. A placard hanging from the ceiling just above the dummy said: Made from 100% washable Dacron.

Roy walked in the store and fifteen minutes later walked out wearing a dark blue Dacron suit, white shirt, red tie, a pair of Frank Brothers shoes, and a dollar bill he received in change from one of the stolen hundred dollar bills. He tossed his t-shirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes into the garbage can by the door and walked out, proudly raising his chin in the air due to his new-found opulence.

Having no destination in mind, Roy walked northwest on Oliver Street for a block until he came to Smithfield Street. Looking to his right, he saw another skyscraper with many offices. He crossed the street and entered the Henry W. Oliver Building with a strut as dapper as his dress. To his left were the offices of Marks, Taylor, and Smith, Attorneys at Law. Why not? Roy thought with a grin of confidence smeared all over his face.

Roy walked over to the men’s room in the lobby and pulled out his Swiss Army knife once more. One of the gadgets that was tucked into it was a small metal file. He pulled out the POWVAC business card, unfolded the filing instrument, and scratched off Director of Personnel underneath Marvin Adam’s name. Then Roy dipped his forefinger in water and lightly rubbed the flakes off the card. He used the electric hand dryer to remove the moisture, then held the card up to the light. Not bad, if I do say so myself, whispered Roy.

After exiting the bathroom, Roy walked purposefully through the doors of Marks, Taylor, and Smith and straight to Doris Doth’s reception desk. Doris was an attractive, middle-aged lady with curly blond hair and wearing a smart, yet elegant navy blue dress. Roy wished he had a briefcase. It would have looked much more professional. He smiled and handed the business card to Doris.

Hello, gorgeous, cajoled Roy. My name is Marvin Adams, lead attorney for POWVAC. He added a wink to his smile.

My, my, replied Doris, totally flattered. You look awfully young to be a lawyer.

Yes, I’ve heard that before. Personally, I don’t see it, but I sure appreciate the compliments.

Doris handed the business card back to Roy. So how may I help you today, Mr. Adams?

Please call me Marvin, thanks. Yes, is Mr. Marks or Mr. Taylor available this morning? If not, perhaps I could speak with Mr. Smith?

I’m sorry, Marvin. All three partners are in Minneapolis this week.

Ah, the Minny Apple, are they? What are they doing there?

Northwest Orient Airlines is our biggest client, and they are still involved in a lawsuit over the crash that happened back in 1950. The family of the house that was destroyed is suing them.

Interesting, proclaimed Roy thoughtfully. What is your defense strategy? He wasn’t sure that was the right lawyer talk, but it sure sounded good.

We believe there was some sort of malfunction in the control tower’s radar system. I only hear this second hand, you know, in the lounge at lunch, but the talk is that some unknown radio wave accidentally interfered with the tower’s communication to and from the airplane. So the plane had to land on its own in a snowstorm with very little visibility.

Well, that’s just plain awful! exclaimed Roy as he was pondering his next move. So getting back to my visit, is there someone I can talk to for a few minutes about a lawsuit we are involved in? We might like some assistance from your firm on this one.

Certainly, Marvin. I think Hank Daughtry would be available. Hank’s our new associate. Fresh out of Yale, but you’ll have to listen closely when he speaks because he still talks with a southern accent. He’s from somewhere way down in Florida. Anyway, Hank is doing scientific research for the Northwest case.

Well, that would be splendid, Doris. Thank you very much.

Doris picked up the phone and dialed Hank’s office. Roy sat down in the visitor’s chair and stared at a picture of the three partners that were framed on the wall. He was in deep thought. Perhaps this Daughtry fella could be duped. He had nothing to lose by trying. If Marks, Taylor, and Smith didn’t work out, there were plenty of other law firms nearby.

Hank Daughtry appeared a few minutes later, introduced himself to Roy, and led him up two floors on the elevator to his office. Roy looked around at the messy room. Boxes of files were scattered everywhere, and Roy saw only two personal items, both hanging on the wall behind Hank’s desk. Roy walked up and looked at the diploma from Yale, then glanced over to the picture next to it. It was a photo of Hank wearing Yale shorts and t-shirt uniform holding a soccer ball in his left hand while his right arm was draped around the neck of a dark-skinned teammate with curly black hair.

Who is this? asked Roy as he pointed to the teammate.

That’s my college roommate and best friend, replied Hank. We were the captains of the Yale soccer team. His name is Yussef Jasur, the son of a prince from Jasurbia.

Jasurbia? Isn’t that the place where there’s supposed to be a bunch of oil? As soon as Roy said it, he wished he hadn’t. He didn’t think a lawyer would use the word bunch, but it just slipped. He needed to step up his game, and he wished now that he had studied those twenty vocabulary words he was supposed to learn in grade school each week.

More than just a bunch, Mister, uh, oh, I’m sorry. I forgot your name.

This was Roy’s chance for the switch. If he were to be employed in a law firm, it would be much easier using his real name.

Jackson. Roy Jackson is my name, and there is absolutely no reason to apologize. It happens all the time.

Yes, thank you, Roy. As I was saying, SoCal discovered an abundance of petroleum in Jasurbia back in the thirties, and a few years later, King Mustafa ibn Jasur and his family became very rich. The king’s son, Adil Al Jasur, sent his son, Yussef, to America to learn about petroleum engineering at MIT, but Yussef excelled at soccer and wanted to play for an Ivy League team. He ended up at Yale and received a BS in electrical engineering, then transferred to MIT and got a master's in physics. Smart man, if I do say so myself!

Sounds like it. So you’re new to Marks, Taylor, and Smith? Are you enjoying it here?

Well, I just started a few weeks ago. Down the road, I’d like to get into politics, but for now, this will help me pay off my student loan.

I see, said Roy. Hank was very amiable, but Roy noticed he was giving him the once over. Roy suspected that Hank was curious about his age. Yes, I just graduated from Penn. I, too, have a large amount of debt. Roy hoped that Penn had a law school.

Well, I must say, Roy, you certainly look awfully young to have a law degree.

Yes, actually, I’m much younger than most. You see, I was accelerated through junior and senior high school and graduated when I was fifteen. Got a BS degree from Florida in two years and finished law school in three.

That’s quite impressive! So, are you from Florida? I’m from Haines City.

Well, what a coincidence. I’m from a small town on Lake Okeechobee called Pahokee. Ever heard of it?

Can’t say that I have, but I’ve fished the Big O many times. Best bass fishing around, right?

Sure is, Hank. Roy guessed that Hank had bought his string of lies.

So, how can I help you today, Roy?

Well, I understand you are conducting some research into the crash of that Northwest flight a few years back, right? asked Roy, and Hank affirmed with a nod. Hank had no idea that Roy received that information from Doris. I just started as an attorney over at POWVAC, but the aluminum industry doesn’t exactly excite me. My bachelor’s is in aeronautical engineering, and I would like to assist you in your research if you happen to have an opening. Now Roy hoped that the University of Florida had an aeronautical engineering program.

It’s your lucky day, Roy. This case is huge, and Mr. Marks called me this morning saying I should hire an assistant to help me out. He wanted me to work with someone who has a science background. You must be my gift from God!

I can start today, Hank. I just need to run back to POWVAC and give them my resignation.

That fast? You don’t need to give them a two-week notice?

I’m sure I can work that out, replied Roy. So, where do I fill out my employment paperwork?

Doris can take care of that, said Hank. Well, welcome aboard Roy. I sure look forward to working with you!

I’ll be back first thing in the morning, Hank. Thank you so very much! Roy left Hank’s office and went back to Doris’ desk. Hank had called down to her, and she had the paperwork in hand. He needed to list a home address, so he wrote the address of the Greyhound ticket agent’s apartment. Roy would open a post office box as soon as he left Marks, Taylor, and Smith, and then would change the address tomorrow. But tonight he would celebrate his good fortune.

With the few dollars he had left, Roy bought a bottle of fine champagne and searched for the Greyhound agent’s apartment. She lived in a worn-down building on Mittenberger Street, just east of Duquesne University. The young lady was very impressed with Roy’s new threads and the bottle of Veuve Clicquot, but she wondered where he found the money to pay for it. He told her he met up with his rich Aunt Mamey, who inherited a fortune from her late hubby, Uncle Mel. Roy claimed that he was always Aunty Mamey’s and Unc Mel’s favorite nephew. The naïve young Greyhound ticket agent bought it: lock, stock, and barrel. Tomorrow her husband would return from Harrisburg, but tonight she would enjoy being wined and dined in style.

They ate at Tuscan’s, an expensive Italian restaurant on the riverfront overlooking the Monongahela. The bill arrived in a leather binder from a waiter wearing a black tux. Roy put a dollar bill inside and closed the binder without his date noticing. The gorgeous gal and Roy left the restaurant and thanked the waiter on the way out. As soon as the door closed behind him, Roy suggested that they walk briskly back to her apartment. He claimed to be overstuffed from pasta and needed a bit of exercise. In reality, he wanted to be as far from the restaurant as possible when the waiter realized he had been stiffed.

With the one night stand successfully completed, the young lady kissed Roy and said she would see him at the Greyhound station a little before ten so he could catch the bus to Milwaukee. Roy nodded, but then got dressed and walked quickly to Marks, Taylor, and Smith for his first day of work. At ten o’clock, the bus pulled out from the station and headed west to Wisconsin. The ticket agent was bewildered that Roy hadn’t shown up, then became disconsolate with the thought that she may never see him again. But the memories of last night would never fade, especially nine months later when her only son would be born.

CHAPTER 2

House of Jasur

1940s and 1950s

L

andlocked and surrounded by Iraq, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia is Jasurbia, a wasteland country of windswept sand dunes and a smattering of date palm oases containing a few patches of fertile soil. Once oil was discovered in the 1940s, no one cared much about the dates.

Prince Adil Al Jasur was given his name because it meant fair, honest, and just in Arabic. He was anything but. His father, King Mustafa ibn Jasur, relishing the newfound oil riches, proceeded to provide a lavish lifestyle for the Jasur family, building extravagant palaces in each of the five Jasurbian provinces. The king’s oldest son, Hakim, flaunting his wealth around Europe, built a mountain chalet in the Swiss Alps and a gambling hall in Monte Carlo. Prince Adil craved the same lifestyle as his brother Hakim but was jealous that the crown prince had received all the family attention. When Adil turned fifteen, he was sent to govern the Al Qadir region of Jasurbia while Hakim became the Minister of Defense. Prince Adil was fascinated with the new attack planes built by the United States and was hoping his father would have named him to oversee the defense of his country instead of his brother. He had always been envious of Hakim, and he vowed to someday embarrass his brother in hopes that his father would reassign him to the defense position. Adil made this his life mission, and he didn’t care how long it took to accomplish. Meanwhile, he was a powerful prince in an adolescent boy’s body, and it was time to build his harem. By the time he was sixteen, Adil had twenty wives and a countless number of concubines. He was never lonely!

Yussef, born in 1933, was the oldest son of seventy-six children fathered by Adil and was the prince’s pride and joy. Yussef was a soccer star by the age of six and wanted to be just like his Italian idol, Giuseppe Meazza, when he grew up. But Yussef was intellectually gifted in the sciences, and Adil saw an opportunity to use his son’s brainpower to finally unseat Hakim as Minister of Defense. The House of Jasur was wealthy beyond imagination with petroleum reserves in abundance under the arid desert just waiting to be tapped.

Prince Adil sent Yussef to America at the age of fourteen to learn engineering skills from American professors in the hopes that his son could find a way to prevent enemies from attacking Al Qadir Province by air. Well, at least that’s what he told Yussef. Actually, the prince’s motive was to collapse the novice Jasurbian military aviation industry that his brother had implemented as a means of national defense. If successful, his father, King Mustafa, would surely replace Hakim’s ministerial position with himself. Yussef passed Yale’s entrance exams with perfect scores while his daddy sent a donation for one million dollars to the Yale Scholarship Fund, which prompted Yale administrators to welcome the youngest Ivy League student ever with open arms. Yussef played soccer at Yale and left three years later with a bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering, then transferred to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to specialize in physics. One summer, he was employed as a consultant for Marks, Taylor, and Smith, a law firm in Pittsburgh.

Upon graduation, Yussef returned to Jasurbia and was appointed Al Qadir Province Chief Science and Technology Officer by his father. Prince Adil wasted no time asking him to design some sort of device that could disrupt air traffic control communications with airplanes. Yussef thought his father wanted him to create a new defense system for Uncle Hakim in Fayez, the capital of Jasurbia. He had no idea that his father was trying to depose the crown prince from his ministry position by finding a way to bring down Jasurbian military planes.

CHAPTER 3

April 15, 1960

W

hen Ray Jackson learned that his baby brother had been working at a law firm in Pittsburgh as an attorney for the past four years without a law degree or even passing the Pennsylvania state bar exam, he laughed uncontrollably. That little con artist, Ray said, shaking his head. He was sitting at the Officer’s Club in Annapolis drinking with Oliver Harfield.

How did he get that job anyway? asked Oliver in between sips of Miller draft beer. He and Ray had been living the Hi-Life themselves for some time, as well. Both had graduated with honors from the Naval Academy: Oliver because he was smart and Ray because he was a master at cheating. Now officially ranked as ensigns, the two friends were awaiting orders for their first command position.

Some lawyer name Daughtry hired him to help research an airplane crash investigation. Their biggest client is Northwest Orient, and there was some sort of radar malfunction in Minneapolis back in 1950. They finally settled out of court last week. Roy said a Jasurbian prince’s kid was hired as a consultant to help out with all the technical stuff.

Should have hired us, joked Oliver. I’m sure we know more about radar malfunctions than a spoiled rich kid from Jasurbia. Shoot, they don’t even have airplanes over there. I don’t think they even have electricity!

Our training with naval radar functions is top secret, Ollie. I don’t think we should be talking too loud here with all these officers hanging out.

Yep, you’re right, Ray. But you know, I bet there’s a lot of money that changes hands when an airplane crashes. Lawsuits galore! Ray looked up from what was left of the foam head in his glass and met eyes with Oliver.

I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, Ensign Harfield?

Well, I might just be, Ensign Jackson. Any chance your little con artist brother, Counselor Roy, would like to take a nice vacation to Maryland someday soon? Sure would like to chat with him. Oliver and Roy toasted each other and ordered up another round.

* * * * *

On May 1, 1960, the USSR shot down an American military U-2 reconnaissance jet that was searching for nuclear weapons over Soviet territory. Suddenly, the Central Intelligence Agency shifted from a fledgling spy service to the fundamental organization used to protect America from foreign adversaries.

Those cadets and midshipmen who had graduated with honors from West Point and the Naval Academy were swiftly recruited into covert duty and assigned to an international location by President Eisenhower himself. Ensigns Oliver Harfield and Ray Jackson were given orders to report to a secret CIA research laboratory stationed underneath the Al Raha Bayt Hotel in Jeddah, then locate and convince a Jasurbian radio electronics expert named Yussef Jasur to come work for the CIA in the Saudi Arabian facility. Their mission was to oversee and assist the Yale and MIT grad in finding a way to prevent the Soviet Union’s military from shooting down American reconnaissance planes. But on the flight to the Middle East, Harfield and Jackson had a better idea, one their bosses must never know about. After all, treason was still punishable by death in the United States.

* * * * *

Oliver and Ray received no resistance signing a deal with the devil. Prince Adil gladly offered up his oldest son, Yussef, and all the cash necessary to successfully carry out Harfield and Jackson’s newly created master plan.

How dastardly! thought Prince Adil as visions of himself ruling the world danced in his head. Why didn’t I think of that myself?

All the prince wanted in return for loaning out Yussef was a piece of the action and a chance to bring down one of the world’s two superpowers—the mighty US of A. Then he would prove to his father, King Mustafa, that he, not his brother Hakim, should have been appointed Crown Prince and the next ruler of Jasurbia.

Yussef was sent to Jeddah and set up shop in an unused rat hole of a cellar built underneath the Al Raha Bayt Hotel that the CIA called a laboratory. Working around the clock, in a few short weeks, Yussef was close to inventing a radar jamming device that could scramble and falsify air traffic signals. All he needed was a little more time to test it and tweak it.

Oliver lied to President Eisenhower and told him that the special assignment was sadly going absolutely nowhere, but he would continue to monitor Yussef’s progress and report back to Washington every week. The president was disappointed and considered ending the project. Oliver was running out of time.

To successfully complete the task and tie up loose ends quickly, Yussef asked to have an MIT buddy who majored in electromagnetism, Abdul Samad, join him on this project. Abdul had returned to Jasurbia and started up the first Radio Shack franchise in the country. Oliver and Ray agreed that Yussef could use some help, and Abdul was happy to partner up again with his old friend.

Laboring relentlessly nonstop through twelve-hour days, five weeks later, Yussef and Abdul finalized the creation of a small, electrical instrument they believed would jam radar functions if the correct frequency were located. But it would need to be installed in a flight control tower’s computer mainframe to work.

Pretending to hold written orders from President Eisenhower, Harfield and Jackson commanded a low-ranking rookie CIA agent to break into a Soviet military aircraft center and position the jammer into the mainframe. A daunting task, but it could be done. Bringing down a MiG jet would be the ultimate test.

CHAPTER 4

July 3, 1960

Y

ussef and Abdul knew an important piece of Oliver and Ray’s plot was missing. Simply put, jamming the radar and providing false data signals between the control tower and airplane would not necessarily cause an accident. A well-trained MiG pilot would be able to see that the radar data feed was inaccurate and attempt to land visually. If the weather and visibility were terrible, the jamming device would most likely work just fine, but at other times―it was just a crapshoot.

Years earlier, while working on an end of semester project at MIT, Abdul had invented a remote control instrument that could infiltrate automobile steering functionality using radio band technology, thus controlling cars from a long-distance away. The automobiles required the newfangled power steering option to be installed in the vehicle for the remote control to work. Abdul had used a 1951 Chrysler Imperial in his experimental tests at MIT. He believed that the same type of apparatus could be used to guide aircraft from a remote location. It was time to sell the idea to Oliver and Ray.

Mr. Oliver, please, sir, Abdul and I have something to discuss with you, Yussef uttered politely as he bowed his head and did not look Oliver or Ray directly in their eyes. He knew the CIA traitors would not be happy about another delay necessary to efficaciously complete their grand scheme.

What is it, Yussef?

You are planning to secretly install our new jammer into a Soviet military base control tower next week, correct? asked Yussef with a bit of trepidation. What makes you think that will bring down a MiG-21 jet?

What are you getting at, Yussef? Oliver was puzzled. You know damn well what our plans are!

Well, sir, if successfully placed into the Soviet’s computer guidance system, I’m sure the jam will scramble signals effectively. However, the MiG pilot can still land the aircraft using his own visual acuity.

Go on, said Oliver, now listening carefully. He and Ray had thought about that possibility but guessed that jamming would occur only on a foggy or stormy night when visibility was deeply hampered.

Abdul explained in great detail his remote control experiment at MIT and how, in theory, it could be used to pilot aircraft from a long distance away. It would require some sort of video guidance system so that the operators on the ground could have eyes in the air. Used together with the radar jamming device, Oliver’s master plan would be fail-safe.

Oliver and Ray talked about it, then Oliver went to the phone and called the CIA operative who was awaiting orders at Baranovichi Air Force Base in the Belarus Republic. He ordered him to stand down and wait for further instructions.

Two days later, Oliver and Ray were sitting cross-legged on huge, silk pillows and sipping tea served from a brass pot as honored guests of Prince Adil of Al Qadir Province. The prince had just written a check to each man in the amount of one million United States dollars drawn from a Swiss bank account. The House of Jasur now had a finger in the pot of American espionage, albeit with rogue agents hell-bent on personal gain.

CHAPTER 5

November 7, 1960

O

n November 7, 1960, Oliver Harfield phoned CIA Director Alex Dulles to tell him that he and agent Ray Jackson were forced to execute Yussef Jasur after they caught him red-handed selling secrets to the USSR. It was a lie. Harfield claimed that Yussef was providing Soviet KGB agents with technical information that would be used to crash Air Force One during President Eisenhower’s trip to New York to celebrate Richard Nixon’s anticipated presidential win over John F. Kennedy. They telegraphed a completely fabricated official report detailing the KGB’s use of implausible technical advancements that were going to be used to bring down the world’s most famous airplane.

Coincidently, the report also appeared to demonstrate Harfield and Jackson’s extraordinary heroics in the face of immense danger to protect the president. Director Dulles and President Eisenhower discussed the shocking details of the apocryphal report and immediately promoted Oliver Harfield and Ray Jackson to CIA Supervisors.

Harfield’s first assignment was to head up intelligence operations in the Bahamas and Caribbean Islands, but use Florida as his home base due to the covert activity passing between Cuba and the Sunshine State. Meanwhile, Ray Jackson was assigned to oversee operations in the northern countries of South America. Harfield and Jackson needed to solidify their credentials, and for the next two years, they were exemplary employees of the nation’s clandestine spy agency.

* * * * *

MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa had morphed into a Tactical Air Command facility in the 1960s when the fear of a nuclear attack by Russia raised the blood pressure of many Americans, military personnel, and citizens alike. But with the possibility that the Cold War would soon become hot and espionage out of control, it was time to ramp up America’s surreptitious warmongering efforts.

Nike missile bases had been constructed throughout the United States to protect our homeland from mass destruction. On October 29, 1962, the day after the Cuban Missile Crisis ended, President Kennedy ordered the covert development of an underground nuclear weapons control facility in Gainesville, Florida. From that secret command center, atomic weapons located in Nike bases around the country could be aimed and launched at enemies of the US. The current command center located at the Pentagon would be decommissioned and used only as a decoy.

Kennedy dispatched fifty-five high-ranking Corps of Engineers officers, architects, construction supervisors, electricians, and communication experts to create and assemble a subterranean structure in Gainesville. They would be required to handle the manual labor involved in excavating the dig and shelling up the concrete and triple-reinforced steel structure. Due to the top-secret nature of the project, Kennedy wanted only trusted officers deployed to complete the mission. The men began by erecting a thirty-five-foot opaque canvas fence around the perimeter of the site. Two digging cranes and a bulldozer were transported in by Army flatbed semis, as were steel beams and construction materials. The president ordered two recently promoted top CIA staff members to oversee the mission. Chief Supervisor Oliver Harfield and Senior Supervisor Raymond Jackson were assigned by the new CIA Director, John McCone, for this duty.

The project location was selected because it was a vacant area within the environs of the University of Florida. Director McCone explained to President Kennedy that by constructing on the college campus, residents of Gainesville would assume the university was merely building another dormitory or classroom building and would suspect nothing out of the ordinary. College administrators were told that the Corps of Engineers needed to construct an underground sewage pumping station to enhance drainage during times of flooding. Kennedy himself had issued the letter and assured the university that the federal government would pick up the tab, and the project would be completed in less than a month. College officials were perplexed that the president would write the letter personally, but seeing they didn’t need to provide any funding, and the construction zone was in a vacant area of campus, they were satisfied and did not question any further.

Construction of the subterranean facility was completed in twenty-five days, but the trench wasn’t finished for another month. The Corps of Engineers was building dedicated railroad tracks for military use only that linked all Nike bases throughout America for the transport of missiles and nuclear warheads. The tracks had already been completed from Site TU-79 in Albany, Georgia, to Site HM-97 in Homestead, Florida. Those tracks ran directly through the city of Gainesville and less than a quarter-mile from the new underground command center. Electrical engineers carefully ran one-inch-thick cable wire from the facility to a connection box next to the military tracks. From there, cable ran along the rails to every Nike site in the United States.

On December 25, 1962, ignition switches were ready to go that could fire an electrical impulse from the new secret command center to each Nike base, and within minutes there could be the total destruction of Moscow, Havana, and any other city we didn’t like. Merry Christmas!

Early in the evening on the 25th, CIA supervisors’ Oliver Harfield and Raymond Jackson thanked the fifty-five men for their service and provided Army transportation to MacDill AFB so they could be home with their families for what remained of the holidays. The Lockheed military transport plane crashed into the Gulf of Mexico shortly after takeoff, killing all on board. Harfield and Jackson watched the news report on the black and white television from a barstool in Gainesville’s Oldfield Saloon. They raised their glasses of spiked eggnog and lightly tapped each other’s until a small clang could be heard.

Cheers, Oliver.

Yes, cheers to you, too, Raymond.

CHAPTER 6

December 26, 1962

A

fter the military transport plane crashed off the Gulf Coast killing all fifty-five Corps of Engineers soldiers on Christmas Day in 1962, President Kennedy was devastated. On December 26th, the day after the tragedy, Kennedy met with CIA Director John McCone. McCone recommended CIA supervisors Oliver Harfield and Raymond Jackson be assigned to oversee operations at the new underground nuclear launch command center.

Because of its ultra, top-secret nature, McCone ordered Harfield and Jackson to keep silent, both within the intelligence agency and outside of it. Only McCone, Harfield, Jackson, and President Kennedy were now aware of the existence of the subterranean facility that could control the fate of the world.

As a diversion, Kennedy purposely leaked to the Washington Post that the nuclear command center lay several floors beneath the Pentagon and was untouchable by enemy missiles. Russian President Nikita Khrushchev ordered his US-based spies to devise a plan that would destroy America’s nuclear launching capabilities, and because of the Post’s article, the espionage focus was centered around the Pentagon. The diversion was successful. Oliver Harfield, if authorized to do so by President Kennedy, would push the button that could start World War Three. But Oliver Harfield had a better idea. Power. The world had controlled him for too long, so now it was time for him to control the world. He and his colleague Ray Jackson had been ordered around by McCone long enough. This was their chance.

CHAPTER 7

January 1, 1963

O

n New Year’s Day, 1963, Oliver Harfield invited Ray Jackson’s brother, Roy, and his colleague Hank Daughtry to a housewarming party at Oliver’s new mansion built amidst palm trees and green pastureland near Seminole Bend in south-central Florida. Oliver paid for a chartered Lockheed JetStar flight from Pittsburgh to Orlando for his guests and provided ground transportation in a limousine from Orlando to Seminole Bend. Needless to say, Hank and Roy were impressed! But they were astonished to see another limousine pull up right behind them, and a dark-skinned man with two-armed bodyguards exit the vehicle. The obviously Arab man was wearing a white, gold-embroidered thobe that hung like a bedsheet from his neck down to the leather sandals on his feet. Wrapped around his pate was a red and white checkered kufiyah that was tucked neatly under a black agal. It was pressed snuggly against the wealthy Arab man’s forehead. Oliver invited everyone into his home and cordially introduced his highness, Prince Adil, to Roy and Hank.

* * * * *

Oliver and Ray had been planning and patiently waiting for this day since leaving Adil’s Jasurbian palace two years earlier. Now that the prince’s son Yussef’s radar jamming device and Abdul’s video remote controller were successful in bringing down the military transport plane on Christmas that disposed of fifty-five potential witnesses to Oliver and Ray’s scheme, the two CIA chiefs ramped up their efforts and initiated the masterplan. Once the second chocolate raspberry martini had been consumed by all guests, Ray brought out a wooden easel with a thirty-by-twenty-five-inch lined paper attached. Using a red marker for emphasis to strongly suggest plenty of blood be spilled, the plan was outlined on six sheets of the oversized paper and in great detail.

Hank Daughtry had never been involved in any criminal activity, and he was hesitant to start now. He had been fooled into believing this trip to Florida was simply a party to ring in the New Year and welcome Roy’s brother’s friend into his new house. But once Oliver handed him a briefcase with 10,000 crisp one hundred dollar bills, Hank decided it was time to change his career path! In truth, he had no choice. If he had turned down Oliver’s caseload of Benjamins, Hank would have been the first meal of the new year for a family of alligators sunning themselves in the backyard. The scheme was actually doubly enticing for Hank, who had a lifelong desire to get into politics. The first step in Oliver’s plan would be to get Hank elected as governor of Florida. Prince Adil’s Swiss bank account would fund his campaign. It would be a slam dunk.

If all went as planned, Hank Daughtry would assume the office of governor of the great state of Florida on January 7, 1975, twelve years and six days from today. Once he became governor, Daughtry would appoint Sam Dulie as the new South Florida DNR supervisor in Homestead. Thanks to the CIA’s covert operative skills, no one would know that Sam Dulie was really Abdul Samad, a graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology who actually knew nothing about protecting natural resources. Sam would use his office as a decoy for a communications facility.

Daughtry would then secretly transfer government-owned swamp and grazing land to Ray Jackson’s little brother, Roy. Roy’s new massive ranch would serve as the distribution center for the radar jamming equipment being assembled in Columbia and the remote control devices air freighted from Jasurbia. Meanwhile, Ray would construct an electronics factory in the mountains between Bogota and Medellin, disguised as a secret underground surveillance building used to track the new drug cartels that were springing up throughout the country.

Ray assured CIA Director McCone he could successfully lead two significant projects at the same time. He would fly back and forth from Columbia to Gainesville and oversee both the South American intelligence operations and Florida’s nuclear missile command center at the same time.

Al Qadir oil revenue would flow freely from Prince Adil’s Swiss bank account directly into Rancher Roy’s bank account in Seminole Bend. The mission would be complete once the United States of America was held hostage firmly in the grips of Oliver Harfield and the Jackson brothers, and then a ransom of one billion dollars was paid in cash or gold. Prince Adil had