Concord

By William C. Jeffries

The unexplained murder of afusion scientist in Grenoble, France and the abduction of a beautiful colleaguein Montreux, Switzerland, propel West Point graduate, Colonel Christian Madison,into action against an international cabal of terrorists who seek to steal cyber and plasma technology from the US government and fusion technology from ITER in southern France. As Iran and Russiaare on the verge ofprecipitating World War III, Madison, and a band of patriots known only as Concord, must confront a group of left-leaning socialists who have recently been elected to power in Washington, DC, whoareignoring the terrorist threat, disrupting the free market system, andundermining the principles of the US Constitution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 28, 2009
• ISBN: 9781449052652

William C. Jeffries

William Jeffries is an international consultant and trusted executive coach, who works with prominent business and political leaders in over twenty countries.A prolific writer, he has written several books on leadership, business high performance, psychology, team building,and personal mastery, as well as other novels set in Southeast Asia, Virginia Beach,and Qatar. Having graduated fromWest Point with a degree in engineering and serving for over twenty years in the military, including teaching assignments at West Point and the National Defense University, Bill is well versed injoint military operations and Washington political intrigue. His graduate and post graduate studies at Duke University were all in language, literature, and values and helped prepare him for his work with the many university graduate programsand Fortune 500 Companies where he curently teaches leadership and Executive Development.

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Contents

Montreux, Switzerland

Bethesda Naval Hospital

War in space is inevitable.

Villard-de-Lans

Puberty of the Mind

Body, Mind, and Spirit

Morning in the Mountains

Ski Season

DARPA

Wine Country

La Valleé du Rhône

Bandits Grill

Provence-Alpes-Côte-d-Azur

ITER

In the Belly of the Beast

Nickie’s Nightmare

Gabriel’s Demons

Breakfast at ITER

The Riviera

The Tombs

73 La Croisette

FBI Academy—Quantico

Room Service

Confessions at Eglise Notre Dame Esperano

Tyva Region, Siberia

On the Road to Nice

Foggy Bottom

Palace of Delights

Flintlock Headquarters

Cyberwar

Mustangs and Burros

Window Wizards

Rambo Ramlu

George’s Restaurant

At the Beach

The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Concord Compatriots

Kittens, Bears, and Amateurs

Golden State Antics

Heads You Lose

The Blue Jewel

Plum Bush Inn

A Cold Day in Hell

Croissants at the White House

Hoover Hearing

California Dreaming

Oval Office

Bears and Cats

Third World Deliverance

Jack London Square

The Kat’s Meow

Lopping Lizards

Quick Change Artists

Devilish, Divilette

Linens and Less

Unassing the AO

Ramlu’s Lair

I love Paris

A Gathering of Eagles

Travel Headquarters

The Two am Phone Call

The Situation Room

April in Paris

Dominique’s Dénoument

Ramlu’s Rebuttal

Planning to Plan

Roadside Assistance

Concord’s Concave

The Eve of Destruction

Wake Up Call

The Cabinet Room

Thawing the Freeze

Copyright Information

Dedication

For my family

May they always live in the Land of The Free

Montreux, Switzerland

The Grand Hotel de Paris is neither grand nor is it in Paris. It is, however, a fairly cozy hotel in the heart of Villard-de-Lans, France, about 34 kilometers west of Grenoble. The still quaint hotel is situated about two blocks from the main square, which features numerous restaurants, bars, souvenir shops, and sweet-smelling boulangeries, all surrounding a magnificent statue of a brown bear.

It had been several years since I had visited there. I had been assigned to a detail in Villard-de-Lans a decade earlier, shortly after retiring from the service, helping U. S. Special Forces teams and French operators from the Groupe d’Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale, more frequently referred to as the GIGN, learn how to spot a bag drop, make undetected contact with a foreign agent, or unobtrusively trail an elusive contact in the bustling crowd. The GIGN, before French President Jacque Chirac began to emasculate the service and gut its funding during his administration, was one of the finest and, as I had come to discover, busiest counter-terrorist units in the world. Having consulted for Delta Force, SAS, and GSG9 over the years, I suppose I was a natural choice to work with the GIGN to bolster their surreptitious skills as well.

They and four teams from the Fifth and Tenth Groups just needed some of the specialized training in observing people that I could provide. It was all part of then Defense Secretary Rumsfeld’s plan to teach counter-intelligence and surveillance techniques to US Special Forces, under the working assumption that they could do a better job than the CIA in planning for the insertion of Special Forces teams. While the quaint village is fairly well known to skiers and backpackers who frequent the Grenoble area, it is relatively remote and serves as the perfect place to teach undercover tactics.

This, time, however, when I heard from Villard-de-Lans, it was less than a pleasant communication. I was on a corporate consulting assignment in Montreux, Switzerland. I had been working with a marketing team from a division of Bayer, AG, helping them to build a more effective leadership team for the previous two days, when I heard the disturbing news. I decided it best to take the express train to Geneva and then board the next flight from the Aéroport International de Genéve, directly across the street from the Cornavin Train Station, to Lyon. That would leave me with a 130-kilometer drive through the twisting mountain roads leading me northwest to Villard-de-Lans. Since I planned to let Swissair ply me with some French pinot noir during the brief flight, I called Serge Gielbartowicz, a limo driver and entrepreneur based out of Grez-Doiceau, Belgium, whom I had met several years earlier outside Brussels, to arrange for a car service to meet me at the airport in Lyon and spare me the potential embarrassment of driving my rental car off the winding road.

Serge was one of those clever, ubiquitous guys who had family and friends everywhere in Europe. He himself was a Turk, but he spoke excellent Flemish, German, English, Russian and French as well. I had met him in the bar at the Chateau de Limelette several years earlier while working with an international sales group based in the general area of Brussels. Nestled on three hectares of beautiful park, the Chateau, a sumptuous 19th century hotel at 87 rue Charles Dubois, and its glass-enclosed Balneotheraputic Centre spa, was just about 20 minutes from the Brussels International Airport, a trip which, during my weeklong stay, Serge made several times.

After three days of sales training, the participants had departed for their homes in The Netherlands, Germany, Belgium, Czechoslovakia, and France. I was left alone until I was scheduled to fly out to the States the following day. Because the hotel was mostly empty, the hotel’s four-star restaurant was closed for the weekend. As a result, I was the only person dining in the hotel bar that Friday evening and saw the bartender playing chess with an intriguing looking chap who turned out to be Serge. After I had consumed the main course, I took my creme brúlée and sidled over to the table next to them, engaging them in some casual banter from time to time. Over some excellent French Bordeaux, provided pro bono by the under-worked and very bored bartender, we discussed Flemish politics, the emerging Russian middle class, European socialism, the rise of Muslim fundamentalism in Turkey, the then nascent EU, and private schools in Belgium, which one of Serge’s daughters, recently having arrived from Turkey, attended. With less than a high school education obtained in Ankara, he was more conversant with world affairs than a Harvard political science graduate student.

Wherever I was traveling in Europe, I could ring up Serge and have him arrange for a cousin or brother, or other relative of dubious lineage, to meet my flight, exchange my US currency in the car for the local franc or Euro, and deliver me safely to my location. Should the nature of my trip require it, so I could fly unencumbered without checked luggage or prying TSA eyes, Serge could always have a Sig Saur or Glock waiting for me in a package in the back seat. This time he had promised me a .357 Sig P556, his French cousin’s favorite traveling companion.

During the brief flight to Lyon, I occupied myself with fond memories of my blackjack triumphs at the Montreux Casino the day before and the delightful looking young women who would bicycle or skate along the Avenue des Alps and Rue de Lac between the casino and the Gran Hotel Suisse Majestic, where I was lodging during my all too brief visit. One of these charming ladies had particularly engaged my interest over the previous week.

Montreux is one of those quaintly elegant European shore resorts you hated to leave. To the southwest lies the beautiful Lake Geneva and behind the city, surrounded by hundreds of acres of vineyards, rise the majestic snow-capped Alps. In the early mornings and just before dusk, colorful para-sailors can be seen launching from the top of the mountains that frame the village and coasting over Montreux and the bay fronting the town to the far shore of Lake Geneva, alighting on the grass near the edge of the Corniche Lavaux Vineyards behind the Chateau de Chillón. Just across the bay, lies Evian, France and the crystal pure springs that bankroll its economy. Every season offers tantalizing holiday greeting card vistas.

The young single women who find their way to the resort aren’t the brassy, scantily clad, gum-chewing flirts you would normally find trolling the beachfronts in San Diego, California or Panama City Beach, Florida. They are routinely athletic-looking, slender French and Swiss women who exude a sense of European sensuality and class as they bike or skate along the sparkling waterfront. They would laugh and throw their heads back as their smiling eyes flashed in your direction—Caught you watching, didn’t I?

One extraordinarily hot young woman, whose name I soon discovered was Dominique, had particularly caught my attention my first day in town, as I stood bare foot on my balcony, garbed only in my hotel provided bathrobe, coffee cup in hand, looking out over the majestic Lake Geneva. When I had gone for a jog along the lakefront towards the Chateau de Chillón that evening, she was there again, jogging easily next to a beautiful golden retriever. Curiously, she showed up again my second evening at the casino, trying her hand at blackjack, just as I was strolling off with over four thousand Swiss Francs, with which the house had been good enough to let me abscond. A few minutes later, she followed me to the posh bar at the rear of the casino, slid her luscious pale pink nylon stocking-clad thighs into the chair next to mine, and opened the conversation with,

The dealer just took my last two hundred francs. Would you like to buy a poor girl a drink? You always seem to enjoy watching me, as I skate by your balcony.

Guilty as charged, I replied sheepishly. "You are difficult not to watch: exquisitely sculptured body, skin tight black shorts, white lace trimmed fuchsia socks, and a miniscule yellow halter top, as I recall.

By the way, the aging golden retriever wearing a matching fuchsia collar trotting next to you looks like a real sweetie."

Wow, she began, I didn’t think American men even knew the word ‘fuchsia’ and most wouldn’t admit it in public. You aren’t gay, are you?

No, I chuckled. Not by a long shot. I am a flaming heterosexual. Observing details is just an occupational curse. By the way, the mole on your left shoulder and the tattoo of a Chinese ideograph peeking out the back of your shorts were also attention getters. My Chinese is a little rusty. What does the ideograph translate to?

I’ll save that for later, she cooed. It’s a new tattoo and still healing. Maybe we will have a chance to speak Chinese some other time. My dog’s name is Aimée, and yes, she is my one true friend. I can always trust her to be there when I need support. For now, I could really use a glass of merlot, she continued, as she flashed a wide Julia Roberts smile in my direction. Why are you giving me that look? she twinkled.

No reason, in particular, I lied. It is just that a friend of mine claims the wine you drink can say a lot about the kind of person you are. I was just thinking about you and merlot.

Catching the eye of the bartender, I said: Please bring the lady a glass of your best merlot.

"That would be our Chateau Pichon Lalande Pauillac, 2004, Monsieur, he said skeptically. It is trés chére, pretty pricey, you know."

That is fine, I added, as I waved him off. The lady looks like she deserves it.

So, what does the choice of merlot say about me? she enquired.

Right now, it says you are an expensive pick-up. My friend would probably say that you are nurturing, personable, and idealistic. You are very interested in self-actualization, but may suspend your own best interests to save the world, one person at a time. Tonight, I am hoping that person might be me. I am routinely in dire need of saving.

"All that from a glass of merlot. Wow, I am truly impressed! Actually, I think I prefer merlot because I like the aroma and color, nothing more. What does the pinot noir that you are sipping say about you?

She would say that I am fiercely independent and a perfectionist at heart. I do not tolerate incompetence in myself or in others, and may appear cool and aloof from time to time. As she tells it, the pinot noir grape also enjoys that kind of cool climate. Of course my friend exaggerates. I am a really sweet, engaging sensitive good guy. I would claim that I like the flavor and the relatively cheap price. It doesn’t come in a cardboard box or sport a screw top, but I can usually afford it.

Her infectious laugh that echoed through the elegant casino launched an exciting week. Ah, yes, I adore American men with class.

Nickie had been my increasingly seductive companion for the four days since meeting her. When I had to depart peremptorily, earlier this evening, she had accompanied me to the elevated train station in Montreux and, much to the surprise of a few giggling school children, several dozen fairly staid commuters, and a covey of Catholic nuns waiting under the overhang, wrapped her lithe, athletic body around mine for several minutes before I had managed to unpeel her and give her a most tasty kiss goodbye. I promised to call her later from the heart of the French Alps.

All that seemed very far away, as the hum of the French-manufactured General Electric engines and the sudden drop as our Airbus 320 hit an air pocket on our descent into Lyon-Saint Exupery

Airport, ricocheted me back to the present.

Bethesda Naval Hospital

The recently appointed Secretary of Defense was greeting the other guests who had been invited to the award ceremony for some of our wounded warriors returning from Afghanistan, as my Blackberry vibrated in my jacket pocket. I had been invited to attend because of my work with the Special Operations Warrior Foundation. The proceeds from one of my novels, Spirit of the Oryx, went entirely to that charity, and I, and some of my consultants from the Tidewater area, volunteered our time to work with returning vets at Bethesda as well as at the National Abilities Center in Park City, Utah. Others in attendance were there for purely political or visibility reasons. Because of the SecDef s presence, the secret service had seized everyone’s cell phones before entering the ward. I had demurred, claiming I didn’t carry one, and no one had patted me down, so it was still there lingering as an ever-present reminder that life outside the paranoid Washington, DC circle went on.

I reached into my left breast pocket to still the vibration and discovered a piece of paper that I was pretty sure was not there when I had entered the room. As I began to speculate how that paper had materialized, I recalled one olive-skinned man accidentally bumping into me as we had exited the ward. He had simply said, Oh, pardon me, Sir and exited into the hallway with the rest of us. I had assumed he was secret service or one of DOD’s rent-a-cops, owing to his earpiece, detached demeanor, and cheap dark suit. Now, I was not too sure. I moved away from the press of the crowd and opened the folded paper. The strange printing was distinctive and a little eerie, and the words inscribed in black ink were perplexing, if not chilling:

War in space is inevitable.

I refolded the small piece of paper and stashed it in my pocket and procured a glass of champagne and a canapé from a passing waiter. As

I sipped the bubbly golden liquid, I tried to recall the features of the man who had bumped into me and also began to recall some disturbing conversations I had recently had with several contractors who work with DARPA’s black programs. To all of them, it was quite clear that World War III had already begun and that it was a cyber war. Several of my evening conversations over drinks at the Sheraton Hotel and Conference Center in Raleigh-Durham, with business leaders working with CISCO Systems federal programs, had confirmed that conclusion.

So far there had been several forays into our defense IT systems by hackers based out of North Korea, China, and Russia, but nothing that would amount to a real attack. That would come, I had been told, in space: maybe outer space or maybe cyber space. The new President, in an effort to expand his control over the population and trump democracy with his warmed over version of socialism, had already appointed another of his rapidly reproducing Tsars to be the chief cyber geek. With a Cyber Tsar in place, who knew what restrictions she would be sending our way. Since she was appointed, not elected, she would be free to run as wild as the IRS in depriving US citizens of our constitutional rights. Certain changes, for sure, that we could believe in, would be new restrictions on our 1st Amendment rights and a tax. The only question was how much and how soon.

A devastating attack on the US would no longer have to involve a nuclear device or even occur by an indirect attack with electromagnetic pulse generated from a detonated high altitude weapon. All the enemy would need—whoever that might be these days—was a satellite weapon that could wipe out our communications and GPS technology. Anybody with a functioning rocket and an orbital satellite had the potential to cripple the US and global business. Since the new President had stopped all laser and missile system defense research in the first 100 days of his administration, we would have no protection against such an attack. We had our eyes on several potential adversaries from Iran to Pakistan to North Korea, to China to the resurging and increasingly feisty Russians. But who was trying to tell me something, and what was that person trying to say? Why me? What were they trying to find out?

What we needed, my friends at DARPA told me, was some kind of electromagnetic or plasma shield that could protect our electronic and cyber communications, not to mention our weapons systems, from attack. They told me they were very close to succeeding. The new administration was totally disinterested in expanding the military and needed instead to shift existing military funding to social initiatives in order to pay off his various interest groups that put him in office. Taking over major American automobile businesses would not sate his avaricious appetite. Who knew what business the President would try to take over next? The cacophony of concerns in corporate boardrooms and military officers clubs had grown to levels I hadn’t heard in decades.

He would soon increase taxes, redistribute wealth, attempt to destroy small businesses that had failed to support him in the previous election, and launch a European style single-payer medical system that would cripple the US economy and destroy the best medical system in the world. The SecDef seemed to be in his camp and shared the President’s oligarchic tendencies. As evidence to that change, DARPA had already been stripped of major funding, so their ability to develop new systems had vanished. Once again, our country would be more or less prepared to fight the last war but incapable of responding to any significant future threats.

Recognizing that gap between potential threat and current and future capabilities, some of the scientists at DARPA had purposely leaked much of the highly sensitive technology to private companies outside the beltway to be developed outside of federal scrutiny. What was most troubling to me was that high-ranking friends in the Pentagon and several retired generals had already spoken to me about their fears of having an activist socialist in the White House. The country was not on the verge of revolution yet, but several mid-level military officers had begun to discuss Jefferson’s injunction to overthrow any government that subverted the Constitution. They believed with Jefferson and other founding fathers that law, not empathy, should govern American behavior.

The new President had appointed several old hands and political cronies from K Street, who had been hanging on since the Carter and Clinton administrations, but insulated himself and the American public from their influence by a bunch of snot-nosed kids with Ivy-League MBA’s and law degrees. Like their former Russian namesakes, these tsars were accountable to no one and acted imperiously when questioned by the lackadaisical and mostly complicit media. Most were so inexperienced, they had never run so much as a lemonade stand; yet, the President had installed them as some of his three dozen tsars to run financial institutions, banks, car companies, and cyber technology. One was even setting policy on remuneration—how much business leaders were allowed to earn: so much for free enterprise. They won’t stop with those businesses that received Tarp funds. By the time they are done, they will try to limit the incomes of anyone making more than the President thinks is appropriate—shades of the Third Reich. As President Sarkozy of France described the new President at the recent G-8 summit, he is a child caught in a man’s job.

Villard-de-Lans

As we had prearranged, my driver met me at baggage claim in the Lyon Airport. I was expecting someone with a sign that said C. Madison, but instead a neatly unshaven gentleman wearing a plaid vest and khaki trousers just sauntered up and, with a slight brogue, asked, Colonel Madison? Christian Madison?

That’s right, I said. And you would be…?

My name is McGonaughy, he began. My cousin, Serge, told me what you looked like, so I took the liberty of just watching for you instead of advertising your presence in Lyon with a placard. I have a package in the car waiting for you. May I help you with your bags, Colonel?

Thank-you, no, McGonaughy. I have no other luggage; just this roll-on that I have with me. Please call me Chris. The ‘Colonel’ needn’t go any further. By the way, how does a Turk like Serge with a Polish last name living in Belgium wind up having a cousin with your, what, Scottish name? By the way, do you have a first name?

Aye, Colonel., oops, my apologies, Chris; our family is scattered widely across this little blue marble. In our business, it pays to have contacts from several cultures. Please follow me. Our car is just across the street, in the first lane of the parking lot. And no, I have no first name, just McGonaughy; I’m kinda like Moses or Cher. My friends, though, call me Mac.

Climbing into the back seat of the black Mercedes sedan, I spotted the anticipated brown bag stapled at the top. As I undid the flap, I slid out the Sig Sauer P556 and four loaded 12-round mags that Serge had provided. He had also thoughtfully provided me with a leather shoulder holster, so I could carry my little friend inside my jacket. I felt instantly at home. There was also a thermos of hot black coffee, a fresh baguette, and a block of aromatic Fourme d’Ambert waiting for me, as I began to unwind in the plush black leather seat. As I was slicing the cheese, Mac ducked into the sedan, and announced,

Please make yourself comfortable, Chris. The drive to Villard-de-Lans is about 2 hours. We will be there in an hour and a half, he said, as he flashed me a knowing smile. I am a very experienced driver.

As we hit the road, I dialed up my old friend Flash, who had called me earlier that day from Villard-de-Lans. I hadn’t expected to hear from him and was surprised that he was so close. The last time I had seen him was the previous month in Georgetown and he hadn’t mentioned an impending trip to Europe. It seems he had been on holiday, skiing in nearby Grenoble, when he had been shot by someone in a speeding van and run off the road on the way back to his hotel. His girl friend had been killed in the accident and Flash left for dead. A passing farmer found him and took him to the small clinic in the village. That was the emergency to which I was responding.

Flash had given me very few details but said he had to speak with me immediately. He said he was feeling much better and should be released in a couple days and wanted to know if I could join him in France for a bottle of wine. He said he had several important things to talk over with me. That is all I needed to know, because he was always calm and cool and never exaggerated problems. We had served together in the 5th Special Forces for nine years and had seen each other through numerous life and death situations. If he needed me, he really needed me. That is all I had needed to know. His telephone rang four times to no result and then dumped me into his voice mail: Fred isn’t here. Leave a message. Be brief. He was, as usual, his charming self, even over the phone. I left a quick message, saying, Get better, I’m on the way—be there tonight.

Having struck out with Flash, I decided to brighten up my evening by calling Nickie, as I had promised. As I was dialing the number, the alluring Chinese ideograph climbing down into her shorts popped into my mind’s eye. Sadly, the number she had given me turned out to be no longer in service. I contacted the local operator in Montreux, and she confirmed that the number I had dialed had been cancelled. As a last resort, I called the hotel where I believed she was staying and was told she had checked out. The hotel staff was very concerned because she had left Aimée, her golden retriever, in the hotel’s kennel. This wasn’t my day! Suddenly the narrow winding road through the stark Auvergne Mountains seemed more desolate, and the dense evergreen forests standing silent sentinel all along the highway seemed more sinister. Even the deep volcanic caves bored into the sides of the cliffs high above the roadway to hide resistance aircraft in WWII seemed threatening.

I closed my eyes for a few minutes and tried to consider my next steps. Apparently I had dozed off despite the strong coffee, and only jarred awake as the limo bounced across the cobblestones