Shattered Legacy (3 page)

And Noah Gettleman took nothing for granted.

The droning of conversation became louder as the station techs continued their system check sequences.

Gettleman leaned over his console to speak to a tech seated in the console row below.

“Hey, Phil,” he called out. “How are we doing?”

The station chief glanced up. “The last of the personnel vehicles have returned.” He pressed his earpiece and nodded. “Okay, the runway is cleared and safed.”

“Excellent.” Gettleman straightened and glanced up at the countdown clock. He took a sip of his bitter coffee, swallowed, and grimaced as he felt his ulcer burn. He set down the mug, slipped on his headset, and pressed a finger against the earpiece. He looked up at the monitors. “All perimeter checkpoints are green,” he said over the broad channel. “Security reports the area as secure. Access roads are now blocked, and building lockdown is complete.”

He glanced down at the checklist he had already committed to memory. Before he could start reading, a voice called out for him over his headset.

“Doctor Gettleman. One moment, please!”

Gettleman frowned. He scanned the room to see who had the nerve to call him on his private channel. The security communication tech was waving from his station near the main double-doors.

“What is it?” Gettleman snapped as he walked to the platform railing.

He watched the tech speak into his microphone as he heard the voice in his earpiece. “We have reporters from CNN just outside the room,” the tech told him. “They'd like to film the launch preparations.”

“We let them do that during our test launch.”

“I wasn't aware of that, sir.”

“I put this building off limits.” Gettleman gripped the railing with both hands. “How did reporters even get
inside
the tower?”

“They just showed up, sir. What do you want me do with them?”

Gettleman tore away his headset and shouted across the room. “What do you
think
I want you to do? Get rid of them! No one comes in here when I'm working! You got that? Get rid of them
now
!”

The conversation level in the tower dropped a fraction. Only a few station techs glanced up; the rest ignored the outburst. Shouting was not a new thing in the Control Room - especially from Noah Gettleman, and especially within an hour of a launch.

“Hey,” Gettleman called out to the security tech. “That’s the last time these clowns slip past the guards. Understand?”

“Got it.”

“You better.”

The tech gave a timid 'thumbs-up' sign and sat back down.

Still red-faced and fuming, Gettleman stomped back to his desk. He switched his desk monitor to a live ground-level view of the runway. He could see that the observation stands were packed. A lot people were waiting to see history happen. He did not want to disappoint them.

He pressed his headset back to his ear and continued the checklist sequence over the broad channel. “I want to verify launch commit criteria.”

One station after another reported in rapid sequence. In these last minutes, there were so many things to keep track of and so many details to check that he felt like a traffic cop trying to direct an eight-lane interstate exchange.

“Hold on,” he said, checking items off on his clipboard. “All right. Confirm liquid level sensor checks.”

“Liquid level sensor checks complete.”

“Open loop check complete.”

“Launch readiness poll of orbiter launch team complete.”

“Are we ready for ingress of flight crew and seats?” Gettleman asked, glancing up.

“Hold on.”

Gettleman swiped a hand across the back of his neck as he waited for confirmation.

“Affirmative. We’re go for ingress.”

“Countdown clock holding at T-1 hour,” Gettleman said, breaking from sequence. His stomach churned again. “All right. Let's get the crew loaded and start this milk run.”

CHAPTER THREE

For as much research and development as Templar Enterprises invested in the name of space exploration, the company’s center of influence existed at a decidedly down-to-earth location in Midtown Manhattan.

Samson Tyler stepped from the elevator onto the thirty-sixth floor of the Yashamida building. Several people greeted him as he made his way down the carpeted corridor. He nodded back politely, distracted by his thoughts. He still could hardly believe that the Penraxis Corporation had tried to use a shell corporation in the sale of their fabrication plant. If they were capable of that deceit, what other surprises were they hiding? Better to never find out, he figured. It disturbed him that the prestigious law firm of Bryce, Holloway, would knowingly lie for their client.

Anything for money, he supposed.

Now it was time to tackle the second crisis of the morning.

The hallway opened to a sparsely-decorated reception area. A woman sat behind a large circular desk, clearly losing the battle against the growing stacks of files that surrounded her. Cindy Robertson was Tyler's legal secretary. She was in her late-thirties, though she could have passed for ten years younger. She wore a light, conservative dress that contrasted with her brown skin. Her black hair was pulled back with a red bow. She looked relieved as she saw him approach.

“These gentlemen have been waiting for you,” she said, standing up and gesturing to several men standing beside the file cabinets. Each wore a dark suit, and a grave, impatient expression.

Tyler nodded to the group. A broad-shouldered, middle-aged man stepped forward. His thinning blonde hair was combed straight back, revealing a high, furrowed brow. His jaw was set, lips drawn to a tight line. He was obviously the man with experience, the person in charge.

Tyler held out his hand. “Good morning. I’m Samson Tyler.”

The other man seemed visibly startled. He took a small step back and sized up the attorney. His mouth hinted at a smile, as if he half-expected a joke. “You’re the general counsel?” His voice was low, barely above a whisper.

“I am,” Tyler replied with a firm handshake. Because of his age, he got that a lot. It didn’t bother him anymore. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I'm Special Agent Andrew Lowell,” the man stated, flipping his wallet open to show his Federal Bureau of Investigation credentials. He nodded to the man who came up beside him. “This is Special Agent Ramirez. We're here on behalf of the Department of Justice.”

Ramirez was shorter and of slighter build. He wore rimless spectacles that seemed ready to slide off his thin, peaked nose. His black hair was cut regulation short. Compared with Lowell, Ramirez looked almost mousy. However, Samson Tyler knew better than to confuse looks with demeanor. The FBI was the investigative arm of the Department of Justice. That made this a serious matter.

“We have a search warrant for these premises,” Lowell said.

“This could have been scheduled,” Tyler told the agent. “It would have saved everyone time.”

Cindy broke in as she half-rose from her desk. “These gentlemen have been waiting for you for nearly half an hour.” She smiled over at them sweetly. “They've been quite patient.”

Tyler nodded. Cindy knew enough to handle the situation, though he wished he had been present when the agents arrived.

Ramirez handed Tyler the warrant. “We should be out of your hair in a few hours.”

Tyler glanced down at the papers. “Time is not a problem.”

“Then we’ll just get started,” Lowell said, cracking his first smile of the day.

Still scanning the papers, Tyler held up a finger. “Before you get too far, Agent Lowell, I’d like business cards from you and each of your associates.”

Lowell signaled for the others to comply. Tyler examined the cards as they were handed over. Lowell was from the FBI, as was John Ramirez. However, their companions were identified as members of the FBI’s Computer Analysis and Response Team. The last man was not even with the FBI. He was an agent of the Defense Criminal Investigative Service, an investigative arm from the Department of Defense.

Tyler handed the cards to Cindy. “Place a call to Ed Grayson and get our team down here.” He turned to the agents to explain. “Mr. Grayson is our outside counsel who handles criminal matters.”

“I've already tried to contact him,” Cindy replied. “Mr. Grayson is out on Long Island today. It may be a while before he gets back to us. I left a message.”

“That's fine.” Tyler reread the search warrant, ignoring the impatient stares of the agents. He noticed there were no supporting affidavits. That worried him, as it did not give him much insight as to who was behind this investigation. The warrant itself was limited to specific documents relating to purchase orders, bills of lading, and legal records, all regarding supply acquisitions over the last six months. It also requested hard drives and specific computer equipment containing that data. Everything seemed proper, but Tyler was not about to let these agents overrun his offices too easily.

He looked up at Lowell. “I’d like you to wait until I can speak with the Assistant U.S. Attorney.”

“This is a routine search, Mr. Tyler. We know exactly what we need. What's the point -”

“A name, please.”

“Rebecca Taber,” Lowell replied grudgingly. “Assistant U.S. Attorney for the Southern District.”

Tyler's eyes lit up. He gave the agents a sly grin. “Rebecca Taber lands a lot of high-profile cases these days. Is this going to become a media circus?”

“I wouldn't know, Mr. Tyler.” Lowell turned to his men, giving a nod for the group to proceed. As the agents walked away, he turned back around and held up his hands, palms out. “Don’t worry, Mr. Tyler, we’ll be gentle.”

Tyler made no move to stop the agents as they filed out of the reception area. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and said loudly, “On behalf of the company, its employees and its counsel, I object to this search.”

Lowell and the other agents paused mid-step.

Tyler continued as he walked over to Lowell. “This company is prepared to cooperate with the government in any investigation. There’s no justification for proceeding in this fashion.”

Lowell leveled a withering stare at the general counsel, who continued unperturbed.

“If you proceed with a search at this point, you will certainly be violating the constitutional rights of this corporation and its employees. Your actions will taint your investigation and any possible prosecution in this matter.”

“With all due respect,” Lowell growled. “I wouldn't start that routine.” Then he leaned close, so only Tyler could hear his next words. “Look, kid, anything you do to hold us up will only piss me off, and I’m a guy you really don’t want to piss off today.”

Tyler raised his chin. “I know the bureau plays it fast and loose these days, but I’m still a do-it-by-the-numbers kind of guy.”

The agent smiled back tightly. “I didn’t come here looking for a fight.”

“And I didn’t expect the FBI to storm our offices this morning. Listen to me, Agent Lowell. I don’t care if the Attorney General himself sent you here, I need to talk with someone before I let you people traipse through my offices.”

Lowell stuck out his lower lip and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Fine. I'll leave, and report that you wouldn't cooperate. We'll be back later, with more agents, and then we'll shut the whole
building
down to get what we need. How's that sound?”

Tyler threw up his hands in mock frustration. “Look, if you don’t want to wait a few minutes for a simple phone call, then ... what can I do?”

Lowell turned and signaled his men to disperse, but as Tyler resumed speaking, the agents paused once again, their faces simmering with frustration.

“By the way,” Tyler added loudly. “I should mention that your search includes privileged documents from our legal department. The fifth and sixth amendments and established attorney work-product privileges prohibit these types of searches. Once you violate those privileges, the only appropriate sanction is dismissal of any charges related to those privileges. But I'm sure you well-mannered agents know that already.”

Lowell threw his partner a glance. Ramirez returned a shrug. With an impatient grunt, Lowell crossed his arms over his chest. “All right, Mr. Tyler. Let’s get our Assistant U.S. attorney on the phone.”

Tyler brightened immediately. “Would you care to wait in my office? How about some coffee?” He turned to the other agents. “You guys hungry?”

The agents relaxed a bit at the mention of food, though Lowell kept a stony expression, studying the young attorney with a clinical intensity. Only when Ramirez tapped his partner on the arm did Lowell begin moving.

As the men entered his office, Tyler grinned and stepped back from the doorway. When he turned to face Cindy, his smile vanished. “Cindy, call the IT department and have them bring up some video cameras and recording equipment.”

Cindy whispered, “What's going on?”

Tyler’s face tightened as six more agents strode into the reception area. “I don’t know,” he told her softly, “but you’d better clear my morning schedule.”

CHAPTER FOUR


Other than the rusted barb-wired topped fence and an electronically controlled main gate, few would suspect that the roughshod concrete building on East Hanover Street in Leonia, New Jersey was a Department of Defense installation. The Coleman Complex had been a Defense Reutilization and Marketing Office since 1989, and was one of the largest of the one hundred seventy field offices in the DOD supply chain. Surplus government property from all over the East Coast was delivered here. Inside, employees established audit trails and reviewed demilitarization codes for each processed item before the material was either released for reutilization or sent to government surplus auctions.

Nestled within the twisted third floor corridors was the main computer room. Inside, the rumbling air conditioning system kept the air cool and dry as three-dozen print and file servers hummed away, their small indicator lights flashing as they stood side by side on large metal cabinets. Behind the racks and their tangle of connecting cables sat a small desk facing the corner. A large swing arm lamp illuminated the books, papers, tools, discs, and bits of hardware that cluttered the area.