The Peabody Connection: An Action Fiction Novel

By Bill Knussmann

Not too far in the future, Matthew Kittle, an investigative reporter for a Washington, DCbased national newspaper uncovers a scheme that could shake the foundation of the United States Government if it were to become public knowledge. Besides being a reporter, Kittle had an alternative motive in doing the research on this particular operation that was being carried out under the radar of the United States government. People in the higher hierarchy of the government were directly involved in this scheme. A few days before Kittle is to release the story for publication, he is found dead at his home in Washington, DCapparently from a suicide. His paper decides to turn Kittles investigation over to two cub reporters, Stan Barton and Sarah Jameison, neither of whom would draw attention to their real intent. Stan and Sarah discover from Kittles notes that key elements are missing that would tie the parts of the puzzle together. Apparently Kittle kept the missing pieces locked away mentally. They decide to retrace step by step the investigative process Kittle took to expose the international operation that was detrimental to the security of the United States. Their investigation takes them to several locals in the United States and around the globe. Once the operation is exposed, it has a profound impact on the US government as well as other parties that were involved in the scheme.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504906234

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM

FALL

Located in the basement of the West Wing of the White House is a 5,000 square-foot conference room and intelligence management center, The White House Situation Room. It was first created in 1961 by President John F. Kennedy. After the failed Bay of Pigs invasion, which Kennedy attributed to a lack of real-time information, The Situation Room was built to ensure secure communications, both incoming and outgoing.

Staffed by senior officers from various agencies in the intelligence community and the military, five Watch Teams provide 7-day, 24-hour monitoring, and prepare the Morning Book for the President, Vice President and the most senior White House staff. Typical activities also include arranging the President’s phone calls and other sensitive communications.

A comprehensive renovation began in August 2006, when the complex was rebuilt from the ground up. Three secure video rooms were added to the two already in place. The complex was revamped to make future technological upgrades easier, and sensors were installed in the ceilings to detect cellular signals to prevent unauthorized communications and bugging.

It is not to be confused with the Presidential Emergency Operations Center (PEOC) located below the East Wing of the White House, and which also possesses televisions, telephones and a communications system. Originally constructed for President Franklin D. Roosevelt during WWII, it is presumed to be designed to withstand nuclear blasts, and is likely to be the President’s evacuation point in the event of an incoming ICBM. An adjacent Executive Briefing Room was occupied by the Vice President and senior staff during the Sept. 11, 2001 attacks.

Stan Barton and Sarah Jameison, reporters for the Washington Union Tribune, Greg Franklin, national editor for the paper, and his friend, Diane Emery, sit at the large cherry conference table of The Situation Room across from the President of the United States, Richard Hatfield. The President is flanked by his National Security Advisor Mike Evans, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff George Atkins, CIA Director Henry Stokes, the FBI Director Charles Peacock, Director of Naval Intelligence Ed Andrews, his Chief of Staff Jonathan Meyers, and White House Press Secretary Harry Giles.

Just a month ago I was a cub reporter, and now I’m briefing the President of the United States on this unbelievable situation so he can decide what action he must take, Stan thought. Sarah and I may hold the fate of the country in our hands, and we’re finally here ready to tell what we know. The cost has been great, especially because of the death of a fellow newspaper reporter.

While Sarah began telling the President their amazing story, and how it had unfolded, Stan’s mind drifted back to the beginning, and what he knew about all that had transpired and especially about the people who had been involved and affected.

CHAPTER TWO

SATURDAY 3:34 P.M.

FLYING OVER NORTHERN VIRGINIA

Matthew Kittle peered out the window of the United Boeing 767 from his seat in the coach section of the morning Las Vegas flight to Washington, D.C.

He kept a tight smile on his face as he thought, "Finally, after almost eighteen months, I’ve got a scoop nobody ever dreamed had the slightest chance of existing. Here I am, an investigative reporter for the Washington Union Tribune, possibly approaching the end of my career, and working on the story of a lifetime. It’s taken a long time to dig up all the factual material with solid numbers to substantiate that Uncle Sam was a victim of the biggest inside sham in the country’s history. This could be the last, most memorable and rewarding story I’ve ever worked on. What’s so funny, the game was segmented to the point that the left hand dosen’t know what the right hand is doing. Each dot of the puzzle does not really know how the other dots fit in the picture and what their part of the overall operation was."

The tight smile broke into a broad grin as he continued his thoughts. He was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for exposing a kick-back scheme in the Pentagon Procurement Division. That was during the Carter years when morale was low, and everybody was scrambling just to keep their head above water; desperate people doing desperate things.

It seems like yesterday when I was left an orphan at the young age of four, he mused. My parents were killed in an auto accident involving a freight train at a railroad crossing in St. Louis. There were no known relatives at the time, so the state of Missouri placed me in an orphanage on the North side of the city, where I spent the next fourteen years attending public grade schools and high school.

He had to admit he was lucky to have played high school football, basketball and baseball, and that had resulted in his earning a partial football scholarship. He also recognized his pensive side – daydreaming, and writing short stories. So he decided to pursue journalism as a major, and one he thought would provide a discipline he believed would keep him on track.

It didn’t matter that he was primarily a bench warmer at football games. That allowed him to concentrate his academic efforts in newspaper reporting. After graduating from the University of Missouri, he took a reporter’s job with small town newspaper in Kirksville, MO. He recalled that he had been no more than five months out of school when he received his draft notice.

The Vietnam War was raging, and I really didn’t want to go into the Army. So I joined the Navy, went to officer candidate school and received a commission as an ensign assigned to the intelligence staff in Saigon, South Vietnam. Over the course of four years I did two tours of duty in Vietnam, his reverie continued.

"At the age of twenty six, I went to work for the St. Louis Globe-Democrat as a cub reporter. When the Globe went under, I was lucky enough to land a job as a metro reporter with the Tribune. I’ve been there almost thirty years, and I’m their chief investigative reporter, he thought with satisfaction. Little did I dream that I would somehow still be connected with Navy Intelligence. Today, what I have in writing, witness statements, and stored in my head is going to be a haymaker of a headline in the Tuesday edition!"

He had wondered briefly if he should inform someone in government intelligence about his findings and then realized immediately…no-o-o that would be a big mistake.

The Boys Club would have a heart attack if they knew what I had dug up. They would never let me go to print with such an explosive story. On balance, this has to be exposed not just to government intelligence, but to the general public of this country. They have a legitimate right to the truth. No sugar coating by government press releases. I’m doing the right thing, he assured himself.

The intercom announcing the final approach broke his train of thought, with the sultry female voice attracting his attention.

Please fasten your seat belts, and put your trays in the upright, locked position, seat backs up and your window shades raised as we make our final approach to Dulles International Airport, she directed.

Matthew continued his thoughts as he looked out the window at the approaching sky line of Arlington, VA off to his left.

Once I hit the terminal, I better call the boss, and let him know that I finally have the goods for an explosive story. The problem with that conversation is that he doesn’t have a clue about what I’ve been working on or what I was able to uncover.

He knew that Franklin always stressed, I don’t want to know anything about your investigation, your findings, who you talk to, collaborations with snitches, police authorities etc., until the copy is on my desk ready to go to the typesetters.

That was his modus operandi. As long as he was in the dark, the paper was safe from lawsuits. His involvement before the scoop was literally ‘in the can’ with presses ready to roll could cause trouble for the paper, and also handicap a good investigative story.

Besides, Matthew recalled. He always said I was on my own with these undercover endeavors and that he trusted my judgment.

The Boeing wide body banked gently, and then leveled to line up its final approach to the runway. The familiar swoosh of air entering the fuselage cavity just vacated by the lowering of the gear tickled Kittle’s feet.

Five minutes later the big jet came to a stop on the parking apron. The passengers were loaded on the Jet-Tram for the three-minute run to the jet way for gate 37.

As Matthew disembarked and headed for baggage claim, when a thought jarred him. These last couple of days I’ve been so busy putting the pieces together on this story, that I haven’t given a thought about whether I am being watched or followed.

He quickly doubled back towards his arrival gate, slowly drifting his eyes from side to side, sweeping the walkway for anyone who might display more than a casual interest in him. He strolled past gate 37, feigning a search for a lost item in the waiting area seats, then rejoined the line of passengers shuffling to baggage claim. Nobody was giving him a second glance. But then, why would they? Kittle enjoyed an irreverent pride in his daily attire of baggy slacks and wrinkled, short-sleeved sport shirt. He was never in danger of making the best dressed list for Calvin Klein. And, he would be the first to admit that -- he didn’t care.

The line rambled on slowly as passengers reached for a bevy of smart phones, more intent on texting and talking into earpieces than retrieving their bags. As Kittle passed a wall being refurbished where dangling pay phones once hung, he was reminded that he needed to call his boss, Greg Franklin, National Editor of the Washington Union Tribune. Kittle flipped his cell phone, and placed it near his ear, waiting for the connection. Now he got a look, but it was the usual eye rolling from techies about the use of his ancient device. Kittle was just as stubborn about this sort of thing as he was about his wardrobe. Being a step behind in technology was his way of purposely snubbing his nose at people who chased upgrades every six months.

As the phone made the connection, he thought about his boss, the rapport he had with him and the mutual respect each had for the other. Greg Franklin was in his early sixties, like Kittle, and the generation similarity helped cement a certain mutual respect. When you first encountered Franklin, you would experience a stalwart steeped in his own tradition, albeit different than Kittle. Daily, he would arrive at the paper donned in a short-sleeved, white dress shirt accessorized by a real bow tie. The ubiquitous unlit cigar set in his chiseled jaw completed his persona. There was a weekly office betting pool on how long he would chew the same cigar, before heaving it like a three point shot at the waste basket during a fit of anger; anger usually directed at a cub reporter over a simple mistake in copy caused by inexperience. After a bad miss he would open the top right drawer of his desk, and pull out another ‘rag’ to chew on from a box of cheap cigars given as an office gift on his last birthday. Greg was a throwback professional. Add a crew cut, roll up the shirt sleeves and dangle a slide rule, and he would look equally at home at a Houston console monitoring a Mercury space flight as he did at his Tribune desk.

Yes, Greg Franklin was one-of-a-kind; someone you could trust. He was also a person of the highest character who would back his subordinates’ actions, even if it meant going to the top. For a man his age, he had tremendous forearms and biceps hanging on his five-foot-six-inch frame. The son of a Wyoming coal miner, his muscular frame had been developed working in the mines during summer months off from his college studies. He was proud that his hard labor had put him through journalism school at the University of Wyoming. Since graduation, his one and only job had been with the Washington Union Tribune working his way up from copy boy to National Editor.

After several rings, Matt heard the gruff voice at the other end, Franklin.

Greg, I got the goods on you-know-who, Matt announced.

I don’t know a you-know-who, Greg growled. And the only goods I want sitting on my desk are in the form of copy backed by facts. Are you certain you have the facts this time on whatever story you’ve been working on for the last -- how many years?

Boss, I’ve got ’em. There’s no way the facts can be disputed or compromised. It’s been nearly two years, but I bagged a trophy. Get ready to light that victory cigar. It’s time you smoked one instead of chewing it to look like a day old brown lunch bag.

Kits, you’d better not be wasting my time. Remember what happened the last time you had the goods? Let’s see, the Secretary of State of the last administration forced the paper to print a retraction, and apologize to a list of people so long it included several names for God. I’m not looking forward to another story about a cabinet member allegedly in bed with Arab nations to corner the market on parts suppliers for U.S. Air Force fighter aircraft. We’ll never live that one down.

Listen Greg, Matt insisted. This is the holy grail of scandals. At the center is our national security. I’ve got them in the crosshairs—corruption of the highest magnitude. Just like you demanded when I took this assignment, I have a verifiable source for every pertinent piece of the puzzle.

Bring everything on Monday, and I mean everything including the labels on your underwear. I want it rock solid like Gibraltar, and stacked higher than El Capitan. No more retractions. After I retire, I want to be fly fishing the Snake River in Idaho, not making license plates in a Federal Penitentiary. This is the last time I stick my neck out. Got it?

Got it – Monday. Save me two columns on the front page of Tuesday’s edition.

I’ll give you the two. Get some sleep. Clear your head. I want the first shot across the bow to be strong. Oh, and Kits, in Monday -- sober, warned Franklin.

I won’t let you down. You stuck by me over the years, now it’s my time for pay back. Monday, bright eyes, coffee in hand. Matt once again assured him.

Well, I hope for your sake, you’ve got all the facts–solid facts, no dream world stuff. It better be solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. Go blow off some steam tonight and I’ll see you Monday,

Greg’s click signaled that the conversation was over. Matt flipped his phone shut, grabbed his briefcase, and continued on to baggage claim. On the way he stopped at a postal drop where he slipped a white business envelope into the letter slot.

Matt hadn’t noticed the young redhead standing across the aisle observing him during the phone call with Greg. She’d been reading his lips. She knew exactly the one side of the conversation that counted -- Matt’s. Matt also didn’t notice that the redhead was on his flight from Las Vegas, as evidenced by the boarding pass she tossed into the trash.

When Matt’s call to Greg ended, the redhead scrolled and tapped her smart phone, then stepped in behind him to baggage claim.

He is picking up his luggage. I assume he is going home, she reported into her phone earpiece. Her accent was hard and difficult to place. He thinks he has discovered something. He wishes to write a story Monday morning for the Tuesday edition of the newspaper. I will follow him with the rental car. If he goes out in public, you will know.

The redhead waited for a reply.

There was a pause and then a muffled response in a similar accent, Do not lose him -- it must be done before Monday.

No problem, she reassured the person on the line and added, He dropped a letter in the postal slot on his way to baggage claim.

He has been doing that ever since we have been keeping tabs on him, the voice replied.

The redhead disconnected and headed to the car rental counter.

Matt grabbed his suitcase from the luggage carousel and headed for long-term parking. Once again, he didn’t set class standards when it came to his selection of cars. Out in the far corner of the lot, where he thought it was in the open and safe, sat a 1986 Volvo 440 four-door. Sixty percent of the original white, clear-coat body paint was covered with gray primer and body patch. As this four-wheel nightmare approached passers-by on the streets of Washington, it wasn’t a far stretch to suspect it was used for target practice at Fort Benning.

Anyway, what counted was that Matt thought it had class and it was