Corporate Spy

By Stan Yocum

P>Tyler Stone is hired by Thor Research to build a new surveillance satellite to search out existing terrorists that the United States military doesnt want around anymore. Unfortunately, he finds himself hired as a corporate spy and quickly transitions into the employment of MDT, the main competition, and begins secretly providing valuable information to Thor.

His ineptness is quite evident. One person that finds Stones appearance at MDT quit surprising is DeBurg, head of security, who puts forth a full effort to uncover Stone as a corporate spy.

One mistake leads to another, and Stone finds himself racing through to streets of San Francisco with DeBurg close on his heels. One thing Stone has discovered is, you dont want DeBurg to find out that youre a corporate spy.

It usually means your death!

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532022654

Stan Yocum

Stan Yocum is a writer who has written suspense/thriller novels, and also general fiction and love novels. He also raises assistance dogs to help physically disabled adults, children and veterans. He is married, has two daughters, two grandchildren, and resides in Palos Verdes California. Other novels by Stan Yocum: The Price of Admission Unrelenting Nightmare Without You Hostile Takeover Corporate Spy Reflection of a Hero Please visit: www.stanyocum.com

Book preview

ONE

S MALL beads of sweat had already formed above the man’s upper lip as he exited the brick office building and stepped out into the rain. He took a frantic look back over his shoulder as he unconsciously reached up and wiped his mouth nervously. Shielding his eyes from the rain, he looked around in growing panic. Where now? he wondered despera tely.

He was certain that he had been seen and was now being followed. He also feared about who was following him. If his hunch was right, that was the one person he really didn’t want catching him. Not with what he had inside the breast pocket of his coat. So find a place to hide and fast, he ordered himself. There, over in the assembly building!

The assembly building was a huge, forty-five foot high structure used for the production of the new F-24A Scorpion jet fighter the company was building for the Air Force. The man figured there were a number of places to hide inside, assuming he could get there before being seen.

Peering through the driving rain, he spotted a side entrance door illuminated by a single light, and mentally calculated the time it would take to traverse the distance. He pressed his hand against his coat, feeling the contents inside. Whatever you do, he warned himself, don’t get caught with these. He then quickly dashed down the stairs and ran across the open lawn toward the building.

By the time he made it across the soggy lawn his clothes and shoes were sopping wet. When he reached the door he was panting, less from physical exertion and more from the onset of pure panic. His imagination had taken hold, and he’d begun conjuring up all sorts of horrible possibilities that awaited him if he was caught.

He took several glances over his shoulder toward the brick office building as he fumbled with his keys, trying to locate the one that opened the door. Unconsciously, he emitted soft whimpering sounds as he fumbled with the wet keys, the pounding of the raindrops on the concrete at his feet keeping perfect rhythm with the rapid beat of his heart.

Jesus, you should have been more careful, he thought, continuing to insert key after key into the lock with no success. You know he’s been watching you. How could you be so stupid? You can’t let him catch you with these papers, he reminded himself once more.

The sixth key finally slid into the lock. He unlocked the door and swung it open. Taking one final glance over his shoulder, he visibly shuddered when he saw the main entrance door of the brick office building across the way swing open. Terrified, he quickly ducked inside and closed the door.

Lightning momentarily punctuated the night sky as a man stepped through the main entrance of the brick office building and out into the driving rain. Unlike the first man, this man was perfectly calm, standing still with no panic in him whatsoever. He remained in that position as the rain beat against his face, surveying the surrounding area for any movement or indication of where the person he was following might have gone.

It took him about twenty seconds to notice the footprints imbedded in the soggy lush lawn heading toward the side entrance door of the assembly building. His lips slowly formed a smile. Another flash lighted the sky, followed immediately by a loud clap of thunder. The man tilted his head back and looked up at the falling rain as he pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck. He then descended the stairs, but unlike the man he was following, he used the sidewalk that framed the perimeter of the lawn. It wasn’t the most direct path, but then he was in no hurry. He had a sense of satisfaction knowing that this time he had finally caught his prey in the act.

Once he reached the side entrance door, he used the overhead light to select the correct key. He opened the door and stepped through, just as another round of lightning pierced the night sky and the rolling crash of thunder deafened the area for miles around.

The panicked man was inching his way through the relatively dark assembly building, the only source of light coming from a few strategically placed safety lamps. His eyes were suddenly drawn back to the side entrance door when it suddenly opened, just as a brilliant flash of light and defining clap of thunder rushed through. He almost gasped when he saw the darkened silhouette of a man framed in the open doorway. He unconsciously pressed the papers tightly to his chest as he stood perfectly still, staring at the figure until the door closed. Then, as quietly as possible, he moved off further into the cavernous, semi-dark building.

Then a thought suddenly seized him. Maybe he should abandon the papers and come back and retrieve them later. That way, if he were caught, at least he wouldn’t have incriminating evidence on him. He would, however, have to explain why he was inside the assembly building at midnight.

As he passed a large production table, he spotted a roll of duct tape and stopped as a thought came to him. As quietly as possible, he ripped two pieces of the tape from the roll and taped the papers to the underside of the table. The table had a four-inch overhang on the leading edge. So he figured unless someone got down on their knees and purposefully looked under the table, there was no way the papers could be seen. I can come back and get them tomorrow, he thought, or the next day, whenever it’s safe.

Okay, he wondered as he rose to his feet. Now find a place to hide.

As he looked around the vast, open building, things didn’t look promising. Then he remembered the overhead, bridge crosswalk that linked the assembly building with the parts warehouse next door. The warehouse would be a much better place to hide, he decided. The parts warehouse wasn’t as open, and there were rows upon rows of storage shelves he could take cover behind.

The man looked for the door to the outside crosswalk. It was on the mezzanine level, approximately thirty feet above the production floor. He searched around for the stairway and finally spotted it about midway down the assembly building about a hundred yards away. Besides the distance, he could tell there were more than fifteen jet fighters in various stages of construction on the production floor. That would be tricky to negotiate in the semi-darkness, he figured. No telling how many things he might bump into giving his position away.

There has to be another way, he thought as panic once again started to edge its way into his consciousness.

He anxiously glanced around before spotting the catwalk above him. It gave access to the overhead cranes hanging from the ceiling. More importantly, however, the catwalk also tied into the mezzanine floor. His eyes darted around and finally found a ladder that gave access to the catwalk.

Another flash of lightning scorched the sky as the man quickly headed off for the ladder.

When the second man entered the assembly building, he closed the door and then waited in order to give his eyes time to adjust to the dim light. He lowered his collar and listened intently for any sound that might indicate where his prey was. Then he thought he heard something. It sounded like a very faint, almost imperceptible ripping sound. Yes, there it was again, coming over from the left.

When his eyes could clearly make out objects in the dim light, he moved off. He hadn’t gone twenty feet when he noticed wet footprints on the floor.

This really is too easy, he thought with a soft chuckle.

Cautiously, he followed the wet prints, which, not surprisingly, headed toward where he had heard the ripping sounds. Just as the footprints started to fade, he noticed a collection of them in front of a table. Obviously, his victim had stopped there, but why? Then he saw the roll of duct tape and connected the sound. He stood there for a second, and then got down on his knees and looked under the table.

A moment later, another flash of lightning came through the skylights, illuminating the inside of the building with an eerie grayish-green haze. In that moment of partial light, the man’s peripheral vision caught movement off to his right. He turned and saw the man he was pursuing climbing a ladder that led to the catwalk. Instinctively and without hesitation, he jumped to his feet and raced from the building.

The sound of pounding footsteps from below paralyzed the man on the ladder. He found himself gripping the steel rung of the ladder so tightly that his hands began to ache. He looked in the direction of the hammering feet and could make out someone running across the production floor toward the side entrance door and then disappear outside.

Oh shit, he thought, was that him? Did he see me? But if he did, why did he run off?

Not wanting to spend any time figuring the peculiarity out, the man continued up the ladder. He lost his footing twice because of his wet shoes, and only prevented himself from falling by hanging on desperately. When he finally reached the catwalk, he made his way cautiously across the metal structure. A thought struck him as he swung open the small metal gate that gave access onto the mezzanine. Was more than one person following him? Had one of them dashed off in order to get additional help?

The man took a peek down at the production floor some thirty feet below and scanned the area. He saw no one, or any kind of movement at all. This confused him. Why did the person run from the building?

Don’t dwell on it, he told himself. Just get the hell out of here.

Decision made, he took off down the mezzanine corridor to the exit door that gave access to the parts warehouse crosswalk. He yanked the door open and instantly froze in place. Standing in the pouring rain, his wet, black hair plastered against his forehead, was the one person he feared had been following him. At that moment, unrestricted panic took over as he took a frightened step backwards.

Once more the night sky came alive with a volley of lightning, immediately followed by yet another deafening clap of thunder. The ghostly brilliance momentarily illuminated the face and eyes of the man standing in the rain. The scared man’s stare was instantly drawn to the set of eyes that glared at him, for those two eyes had always unnerved him. They were a mismatched set; the left one was pale blue, the right one jet black.

Good evening, Mr. Turner, the man with the mismatched eyes said coldly.

Turner took another step back. What do you want?

The man came in out of the rain and closed the door. I’d like to know what you’re doing climbing around inside the assembly building at this hour of the night.

I, uh … Turner stammered as he began backpedaling.

You, uh … what? the man questioned, continuing to come forward.

Turner stopped when he bumped against the mezzanine railing. He took a quick glance over the edge. I was, well, I mean …

The strange eyed man continued pressing forward, causing Turner to slide along the railing until he reached the gate opening onto the catwalk.

You mean what, Mr. Turner? No, wait, because I don’t need you to tell me what. You know why, Mr. Turner? Because I already know.

Know what?

That you’re a corporate spy, Mr. Turner, and that’s why you were running from me.

Corporate spy! You can’t be serious.

No, really, I am. In fact, I’ve thought that for some time now, ever since Quadcor underbid us on the Pulsar contract last year. That really was amazing when you think about it. Quadcor wasn’t even in the running when, low and behold, at the eleventh hour they submit a revised bid and end up winning the damn contract. What are the odds of that?

I’m not a spy for Quadcor, I swear.

Sorry, but I think you are.

I’m not! But if you think I am, then go ahead and call the police. Let them sort this out.

Noooo, I don’t think I will, because, you see, you still might somehow manage to get what you’ve stolen to Quadcor. And even if you were found guilty, Quadcor would probably only get slapped with a fine, and you’d probably only spend minimal time in jail. No, I really think the punishment for spying should be much more severe.

I didn’t steal anything, and I swear I don’t work for Quadcor. This is ridiculous. Besides, you can’t prove anything.

I can’t? Really? Well then, what about these?

He held out the four sheets of paper, which Turner stared at in stunned silence. Still attached to the papers were strips of duct tape.

Funny thing, I found these taped to the underside of a table down on the production floor. And I’ll bet a year’s wages that if we take fingerprints, we’ll find some that match yours perfectly.

Turner tried to move away, but the man blocked his path. I … that wouldn’t … Turner stammered.

These are Xeroxed copies of the schematic drawings of our new four phase, turbine-thrust rocket engine we’re developing, the man said as he bumped his chest into Turner, causing him to take a step back through the gate and onto the catwalk. The actual drawings these copies were made from are top secret, and aren’t kept anywhere near the department you work in. You obviously had to go to a great deal of trouble to get your hands on the actual drawings.

No, you, uh, you’ve got this all wrong. I, uh, I …

What have I got wrong, Mr. Turner? the man said as he continued to forcibly press Turner with his chest further down the catwalk. It’s perfectly clear to me. You’re a goddamn corporate spy. And I don’t like spies. It was you who informed Quadcor what our bid was going to be on the Pulsar contract. That means you personally caused this company to lose hundreds of millions of dollars. I know you’re a spy, Mr. Turner, so don’t keep denying it.

No, it … it was someone else, I swear. I, uh … I’m not a spy for Quadcor. You have to believe me.

Who knows, Mr. Turner, maybe you don’t work for Quadcor. But one thing is definitely certain. You’re a goddamn spy for someone!

Listen, please, I can make this worth your while.

The other man suddenly stopped pressing Turner with his chest. Make what worth my while?

Uh, all this. You know what I mean.

The mismatched eyed man slipped his hand holding the papers around Turner’s shoulders. Turner drew back in fear, but the man held him tightly.

Exactly what are we talking about, Mr. Turner? How much money are you proposing to make this worth my while?

Uh, I don’t know. Ten thousand?

A measly ten thousand? That’s all?

I said I don’t know. You tell me what it will take.

At least a hundred thousand, Mr. Turner.

Okay, a hundred thousand.

Boy, that’s a lot of money. Where are you going to come up with that kind of dough?

I can get it.

From Quadcor?

No. I told you, I don’t work for Quadcor!

Then who?

All that matters is I can get you your money.

Just for me to forget this whole thing, right?

Yes.

The man suddenly smiled, his arm holding the papers still clutching his prey. You smoke don’t you, Mr. Turner?

Uh, yeah.

Can I bum a cigarette while I think about it?

Sure, okay.

Turner anxiously reached in his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He gave one to the man and lit it.

The man took a drag and then let out a stream of smoke. You know, I hate fucking cigarettes. They’re disgusting. He crushed the cigarette out on the catwalk railing and then flicked it at Turner. Just like you and your ridiculous offer!

With that, he closed his arm tightly around Turner’s neck, pressing the papers over Turner’s mouth. Turner’s eyes shot open in terror as he dropped the cigarette lighter on the catwalk. The man then gave Turner’s head a quick, violent twist that resulted in a snapping sound coming from within the victim’s neck. Turner’s body immediately went limp in the man’s arms, who then hoisted the body up onto the catwalk railing, balanced it there briefly, and then pushed it over the side. The man watched in fascination, his mismatched eyes straining to see through the semi-darkness, as the body plummeted the thirty feet and slammed into the partially completed F-24A fighter. It hung there momentarily and then slowly slid off, leaving bloodstains down the side of the fuselage.

So long, Mr. Turner.

The man glanced at the papers still crumpled in his hand. He then bent down and picked up the cigarette lighter and set them on fire. The papers burned brightly for a few seconds and then the man let them fall over the edge, the glowing embers drifting quietly down to the production floor.

Looks like Quadcor, or whoever you work for, isn’t going to get the drawings of that turbine-thrust rocket engine after all.

The man stuffed the lighter in his coat pocket and took one final look at the body. Then he turned and calmly walked from the building.

Lightning spiked the sky once more. The safety lights flickered and then went out just as the following thunder roared its presence. The inside of the assembly building was once again void of any movement, and left in a state of darkness as ominous as the night outdoors.

TWO

T RAILING arbutus plants were in full bloom with the aroma of the white and pinkish flowers scenting the campus of MIT. Four people slowly walked down a path that meandered through the storied university. They culminated their leisurely stroll under the shade of a nearby magnolia tree, heavily laden with dark green leaves that absorbed the afternoon sun and provided the group with a cooling repr ieve.

One of the individuals wore a black cap and gown, with a distinctive graduation drape over the shoulders, the customary accessory of a student receiving a doctoral degree. The special graduation ceremony exclusive for doctorate recipients had only moments earlier been concluded. The graduate wore a broad smile, more from relief than a sense of accomplishment. Now, finally, after four years of graduate studies, not to mention a doctoral dissertation that had definitely turned some heads, Tyler Stone had received his PhD in the field of advanced laser technology.

The eldest gentleman in the group also had a PhD. He was Tyler’s father and a renowned professor of economics at the University of Southern California. He stepped forward and put an arm around his son, adding a squeeze.

I am so proud of you, he said. Third in your class. That’s absolutely outstanding, Ty.

What? Tyler said with a broad smile. Did you doubt I’d make it?

Not for a second.

Tyler’s mother reached out and lovingly patted his arm. With your smarts, never.

Dad, Mom, Tyler said seriously, I want to thank you for all your support. I could never have made it without you two.

I just wish I could have managed to finagle a full scholarship grant for you instead of only a partial one, the elder Dr. Stone said. Indicates that my influence in the world of academia is slipping.

The young lady in the group, who had her arm linked with Tyler, looked up at him with genuine affection. And I’m also proud of you, Ty. Just think, my husband, Dr. Tyler Stone.

Tyler leaned in and kissed her. Hey, you know, with doctor finally attached to my name, maybe I can take advantage of my father’s fame. Should open all sorts of doors for me, at least until they realize that I’m a bit too young to have accomplished all that he has.

Don’t sell yourself short, Dr. Stone piped in. Once your ultrasound laser surgery idea hits the market, the Dr. Stone everyone will remember will be you, Ty, not me.

Being able to sell my idea is a big assumption on your part, Dad.

Dr. Stone gave his son a curious look. Would you ladies please excuse us for a moment? There’s something I’d like to talk to Ty about.

The elder Stone took his son by the arm and led him away. The two ladies took a seat on a nearby bench and began watching the various families, with their respective graduates in tow, leisurely wander by.

When the two men were out of earshot of the women, Dr. Stone stopped and faced his son. The comment you just made back there makes me believe that you don’t have confidence in your ability to market your laser surgery idea.

I don’t, Dad.

Why not?

I don’t know. It’s just that … well, I’m not sure it’s going to be viewed as being practical, that’s all.

Not practical! Are you kidding?

Don’t forget, Dad, my concept is way out there. It scares some people.

I’m sure CAT and MRI scans scared people when they were first introduced.

I know, but I’ve also done some poking around, and the people I’ve talked to have said that unless I have a working model of the laser, finding interested investors will be difficult. I’ll be marketing only a concept.

Don’t you have the laser you developed here?

That’s not mine, it belongs to MIT. Besides, it was a miniature model used on mice and rats.

Couldn’t you borrow it?

Probably, but it’s not the same thing, you know that. Investors are going to want to see if it can work on the human anatomy, not on a rat.

I guess you’re probably right. Dr. Stone placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. Listen to me, Ty. A working model would definitely help, but don’t let not having one keep you from marketing your concept. You and I both know that the health care industry would benefit greatly from your idea. I’ve discussed your laser with some of the doctors at the USC Medical School and they all say it would revolutionize how surgery would be performed in the future. Except for transplants, and some other types of complex procedures, doctors will be able to perform surgery without ever lifting a scalpel, since it’s completely noninvasive. So don’t give up on your idea before you’ve at least tried to market it, that’s all I ask.

Tyler forced a smile. I won’t, Dad. I promise.

Good. Now these doctors at USC have also told me that they will be more than willing to help set up some interviews for you. I’ll give them a call. And when you go on these interviews, and if they tell you they can’t buy into your idea because you don’t have a working model, then we’ll build one.

Tyler gave his father a dubious look. Uh, Dad, I don’t think you know how much it would cost to build a prototype.

I imagine a fairly substantial amount. That’s not the point, though.

No, that’s exactly the point, and a big one. For your information, it would cost in the range of fifteen to twenty million dollars.

If Dr. Stone was shocked by the amount, he didn’t show it. He took a moment to think and then said, I can try to get the money, Ty. Don’t forget, USC has some very wealthy alumni. They’re also very astute business people; they know a good thing when they see it. Maybe I could talk some of them into investing in you and your idea.

Tyler shook his head adamantly. No, Dad, I don’t want you to do that. You’ve already had to pull strings to get me into MIT and then to get me the partial grant. I don’t want you to now feel obligated to run around and hustle up people to invest in your son’s idea. You’ll wear out your welcome real fast. If I can’t sell my idea on its own merit to a company willing to invest in the concept, then I’ll just have to go out and get a regular job, that’s all. I have a doctorate degree in engineering. If I can’t market my idea to someone in health care, then I’m sure I can find work in the aerospace industry.

Is that what you want, to work in aerospace?

Not really, but it will put food on the table for Cynthia and me and also allow me to start paying back my student loan. But as I promised you, I won’t give up on my idea just yet. So if it’s not too much trouble, I will take you up on your offer to try and set up some interviews for me.

Dr. Stone smiled. I’ll make some calls first thing Monday morning. He then took Tyler by the arm and slowly began walking back to their wives. That brings up another point. In regards to putting food on the table, I sure hope it won’t be too long before you and Cynthia will need to feed another mouth.

Whoa! Way too soon for that, Dad. Sorry. Maybe in five years or so. After I establish myself in some form of a career.

All I’m saying is your mother and I would sure like grandchildren. Hmmm, maybe I can bribe Cynthia.

Won’t work, Dad. Cynthia agrees with me on that issue. Her dream is to go back to college so she can complete her degree in business.

Yes, I know. She mentioned that to me a while back. Oh well, can’t fault a hopeful grandfather for trying.

Father and son returned to their wives, finding them in conversation with another joyous family, the special graduate politely accepting the congratulations being bestowed on her.

The conversation broke up when Dr. Stone reminded his clan that they had dinner reservations and needed to get a move on if they didn’t want to be late. An hour later the Stones were seated at a table in a very nice restaurant. Celebratory champagne was served and then Dr. Stone stood and proposed a toast.

Ty, here’s to you and a job well done. You got through MIT with distinction and made all of us very proud of you. The world now awaits you son. Go get it!

Here, here! Tyler’s mother added.

Everyone hoisted glasses. Dr. Stone remained standing after the celebratory drink and turned his gaze to Cynthia.

Cynthia, Louise and I want you to know how much we love you. You are an absolutely wonderful daughter-in-law and the best thing that ever happened to Ty. We also know how hard you worked to support the two of you while Ty went for his doctorate. Now, Ty has informed me that there is no way I can convince, coerce, or bribe you two into having children, not yet anyway. As painful as that is, he let out an animated sigh, I want you to know I accept your decision. Which brings me to what I wanted to say.

Finally, Tyler piped in.

Dr. Stone gave his son a playful glare. Now, you two have never asked for one dime from us, even though we’ve offered from time to time. Cynthia, I know that one of the reasons you don’t want to have children right now is that you would like to go back to college, and that’s exactly what you should do. Now I have no idea what your personal financial situation is, but it’s my guess you guys don’t have bundles of cash lying around. That makes me think that you plan to take out another student loan. Am I right?

Yes, that’s what we’ve discussed, Cynthia responded.

Well, Louise and I paid for our son’s undergraduate degree. What we would like to do now is pay for our daughter-in-law’s undergraduate education, too.

Cynthia shared a look with Tyler.

You don’t have to do that, Dad, Tyler said earnestly.

I know we don’t, but we want to. Cynthia is very special to us. This isn’t like us offering you money to live on. I know how you feel about that and I respect you for it. This is for her betterment, as a person, and as your wife. Please let us help.

Cynthia sat her champagne glass down. My parents couldn’t afford to pay for my college education, so when I enrolled at Cal I had to get a full time job. It took me over three years to get through my sophomore year before it became too much. Still, I have no regrets. If I hadn’t attended Cal, I would never have met Ty. Yes, finishing my college education is very important to me, but I know it will put a financial burden on us. Ty thinks we can do it, although, I’m not so sure. She turned and looked at Tyler. I was thinking about telling you that I’m willing to postpone going back to college a while longer, until you get better established in your career.

Dr. Stone sat down and took hold of Cynthia’s hands. That won’t be necessary, if you’ll let us help. Don’t forget, I still have some pull in the educational environment. So whatever college you decide to attend, maybe I can get you a partial grant like I did for Ty. The rest, we’ll pay for, he said, putting his arm around Tyler’s mother.

Cynthia turned and looked once again at her husband. I really do want to go back, Ty. And if I didn’t have to wait, that would be wonderful.

I know. Tyler turned to his father. Are you sure about this, Dad?

Absolutely!

Tyler turned back to Cynthia. Then I guess it’ll be all right. Besides, if I don’t accept his offer then he’ll expect us to start popping out grandchildren pronto.

Cynthia mouthed Thank you, to her husband. Then she leaned over and warmly embraced her father-in-law. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me.

I think I do, Dr. Stone whispered softly in her ear.

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GENERAL Bernard Wheats entered the room inside the Pentagon with a swagger and an attitude reserved exclusively for those whose self-importance was paramount in their own mind. Plastered across the left breast of his uniform was an assortment of bars and metals depicting the accomplishments the three-star general had achieved during his illustrious career in the Air Force.

The other two generals in the room, along with an admiral, stood when he entered. Not only was General Wheats the ranking officer amongst the gathering of military higher-ups, he was also the head honcho of a special task force. This particular meeting had been scheduled in anticipation of the task force receiving word as to whether they would be allowed to proceed with a very important project. A project so important that it had the potential to loosen the grip terrorism had on the world.

The special task force had been directed to examine the feasibility of creating a global spy satellite network capable of maintaining constant surveillance on known and suspected terrorists. The United States, tired of escalating terrorist activities around the world, deemed it necessary to devise a method whereby the military and the CIA could keep track of terrorists on a 24/7 basis. Thus, CrossScan was born.

CrossScan was the brainchild of General Bernard Wheats. His diligent efforts in promoting the project would finally pay off if Congress voted to sanction the project and authorize the U.S. military to independently contract for the construction of twelve spy satellites.

Even though there were a number of high-tech spy satellites already hovering above the earth, they relied on state-of-the-art photography. CrossScan would depart from this form of technology and be equipped with sophisticated thermal lasers, capable of reading the internal thermal pattern of a person and, thus, establish a unique thermal signature specific to that person. Much like a fingerprint, each person’s thermal signature would be distinctive to that individual and no one else. Thereafter, CrossScan satellites in orbit would be able to zoom in on an individual and identify if that person was a terrorist by cross referencing their thermal reading to a database of thermal signatures of known or suspected terrorists.

To say the least, CrossScan was a very ambitious undertaking. The most daunting problem to overcome, and the key to whether CrossScan would ever come to fruition, was the thermal laser. Could such a laser, capable of taking precise and intricate thermal readings deep within the human body from so far away, actually be developed? The United States government, including the military branch and the CIA, believed that it could. Thus, the fate of the free world lay in the hands of corporate America and the ingenuity of its vast network of highly capable engineers.

One additional requirement of CrossScan was that the system be able to identify a selected target even if that target was positioned inside a building, a car or armored vehicle, an airplane or boat, even a cave. The only possible way of avoiding detection was if the target was more than 50 feet below ground, housed inside three foot thick cement walls, or barricaded inside a 2 inch steel reinforced shelter. Whatever the case, it was fairly certain that at some point in time the target would venture outside and then, bingo, CrossScan would have him.

A vital element of CrossScan