Breach of Power (17 page)

A
breeze slid
down the mountain and across the small town of Butler, Tennessee. It was everything Ashley Regan had expected. She gazed across Watauga Lake and saw fishing boats and water skiers slicing through the calm waters. A serene lake where parents took their families on all-day outings, anchoring in a shady cove along the 106-mile shoreline and letting the kids swim while mom and dad enjoyed a cool drink on deck. Or perhaps, camping on one of the many islands inside the peaceful lake.

At one end stood the Watauga Dam, 318 feet tall and over 900 feet wide. Watauga Lake extended eighteen miles from the dam before the shoreline doubled back. At the base of the dam the water was 280 feet deep at the lake's fullest stage. But this year had seen a severe drought, the second year in a row, and the lake was nineteen feet below full stage.

This information was important to her after she spent the morning scanning the history records at the Butler Museum and talking to the old man at the Butler Country Store and Bait Shop. Five hours ago, when she and Christa Barnett drove from Banner Elk, North Carolina to Butler, it would have seemed like useless information. Now, it was worth over two million dollars.

At nine o'clock this morning when the two women arrived, Regan set out to do what they had done everywhere else, case the area to determine the location of the cemetery and grave. They also scouted the primary and alternate access points along with all highways and roads leading in and out of Butler. Careful preparation and planning were necessary to achieve her goal. What she found when the two of them arrived in Butler was totally unforeseen.

There was no grave for Norman Albert Reese, Jr. in the Butler Cemetery. As a matter of fact, the only Reese graves in the cemetery belonged to his parents, Norman, Sr. and Sarah Hawkins Reese, both who died over fifty years after their son was killed in the war. She scoured through the archives of the museum and found only one entry about Norman Jr.'s burial. According to the records, his family refused a military funeral and buried him on the family homestead where he grew up. She could find no further mention of Norman, Jr. or the Reese homestead.

The cemetery was a dead end, Regan pulled into a Butler Country Store and Bait Shop to get gas for the rental car. It had a rustic overhang and a single gas pump. Hanging on the screen door was a long, flat, plastic bag filled with water. She walked in and noticed an old man with a cane rearranging cigarette packs in the rack behind the counter. Two aisles were stocked with fishing gear—rods, reels, tackle, nets, paddles, life jackets, and more. The old building was musty. She heard a gurgling sound coming from a tank in the back of the store. Minnows in the tank with an aerator, crickets in a cage making annoying chirping sounds next to the tank, and a box of black dirt lined the back wall. The handwritten sign above the box read
Worms.

She grabbed two soft drinks and two bags of chips and took them to the counter. She looked at the screen door. "What's with the bag of water?" She motioned toward the door.

"Keeps the flies out." The old man never looked up.

"How's that?"

"When the flies get near it, they see their reflection. The bag makes their reflection look like a much larger bug so they fly away."

"Does that really work?" It sounded like country hocus-pocus to her.

"It wouldn't be hanging there if it didn't." He looked up at her for the first time. "Will this be all?"

She nodded and slid the items across the counter. While the old man took her cash she noticed several old wartime photos on the wall behind him.

She pointed to one on the wall. "Is that you in those pictures?" She asked.

"Eh?" He cupped his hand around his ear. "Speak up missy."

"The pictures." She raised her voice. "Is that you in the pictures?"

He turned around and looked. "That's me and my friend in all these pictures." He limped with his cane and pulled one off the wall, blew several years worth of dust off of it, and placed it on the counter in front of her. It was a picture of two men in uniform, barely old enough to be considered men. He tapped on the picture. "He's dead now."

"I'm sorry," Regan said. "How long ago did he die?"

The man grew silent. He rubbed his arthritic hands across the glass covering the photo. "One month after this picture was taken. We went off to war together." He paused. "I came home in a cast. He came home in a box."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." Regan genuinely felt sorry for the old man. She knew what it was like to lose someone close. Her parents died while she was attending college. During her freshman year, her mother got sick and battled breast cancer. While she was undergoing chemo, her father was diagnosed with Stage 4 prostate cancer and died two months later. Six months after his death, her mother died from an infection contracted during her treatment. "Which war was that, Korea?"

He didn't answer at first. She could tell his thoughts had drifted elsewhere. She guessed back to the war.

"World War II," he said. "We took a mortar round in our bunker. Landed five feet from Norm. Blew him to pieces. I was further away, but shrapnel still tore up my leg. Almost lost it."

Did he say Norm?
Could she be so lucky? "Norm? Was that your friend's name?"

"Yep. Norman Reese. Died one month shy of his twentieth birthday."

At first, she thought the odds of running into the one man who could help her locate Norman Reese Jr. were staggering. Then she remembered the sign said population 3977 and realized in this small southern town, the odds were probably pretty good if she talked to the elderly. People in this part of the country don't leave like they do in larger cities. Families had been here for many decades. Some, even longer.

In retrospect, this is exactly how she should have started her inquiries. This man knew more about the town than she could ever hope to find in the Butler Museum.

"That's horrible. He was so young. Is he buried in the cemetery here in town?" She knew he wasn't but it was a good leading question without tipping her interest in the man.

"Naw. His parents buried him on their old property. Had fifty acres on a bluff on the Watauga River. They buried Norm on a knoll overlooking the river and Old Butler. It was Norm's favorite fishing spot. He used to have an old tire swing hanging from an oak tree. We'd swing over the river and drop in. He was actually born under that tree." The old man went quiet again.

"It sounds like a very pretty place. Do his parents still own it?"

The old man looked at her without speaking. She felt like he was looking right through her, knowing that it was all a ruse. She had a rush of anxiety but covered it with a smile. The same smile she always gave Samantha whenever she wanted her to do something. Thinking of Sam Connors made her feel guilty. It had been two weeks and Sam still wasn't accepting her calls. She missed Sam and vowed to go back home and patch things up with her. And with any luck at all, going home a lot richer.

"Nope. They're dead."

"Are all of them are buried on the property?"

"You sure ask a lot of questions, young lady."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to sound nosy. You're such a nice man and your friend obviously meant a lot to you. I meant no disrespect." She stuffed her wallet back in her purse and turned toward the door.

"No, no. It's just that I haven't talked about Norm in such a long time. Brings back so many memories. Norm's parents died after the TVA flooded the valley, so they're in the cemetery down the street."

"TVA?" She turned around and walked back to the counter.

"Tennessee Valley Authority. You see, Watauga River used to flood a lot back in the day, and after the big flood of 1940, they decided to construct a dam and flood the entire valley. They started building it and then along came World War II, which put a big stop to that project along with all other domestic work projects, and the government's focus shifted to support the war. After the war was over though, the TVA came back in and started working on the dam. They tried to move Norm's body several times but old man Reese wouldn't let 'em. Every time they'd show up, he'd run 'em off with his shotgun. I think he might of shot one of 'em."

"So what happened to Norm's body?"

"Still in the ground on that knoll, far as I know." The old man picked up the picture, grabbed a dirty rag, wiped the rest of the dust from the top of the frame, and hung it back on the wall.

"Well if they flooded the valley, where is this knoll you're talking about?" Regan had gotten lucky. Extraordinarily lucky.

"Like everything else in Old Butler that wasn't torn down or relocated to New Butler, it's underwater. Been that way since 1948 except that one time they drained the lake to repair the dam." The old man reached below the counter and pulled out a map of Watauga Lake. He grabbed a marker and circled a small area on the map. "The old Reese place was somewhere around here. Under about sixty feet of water."

That was three hours ago and now she was sitting in the car staring at the map while Christa drove them back to Butler. She and Christa had just purchased scuba diving equipment from two different dive shops in the Tri Cities area. One in Kingsport and one in Johnson City. She had just spent over three thousand dollars to fully equip both of them with dive computers, buoyancy compensator vests, regulators, masks, fins, tanks, and dry suits. She figured three thousand dollars was a small price to pay compared to the cache she was about to extract from the grave of Norman Albert Reese, Jr.

"
T
here must be some mistake
," Jake said to the man behind the rental car kiosk. "I don't think my vehicle is supposed to come with a boat."

"Yes sir, Mr. Pendleton. That order is correct. I took the reservation myself. I've never had a special request quite like this one before so it isn't something I'd forget." He typed something into his computer terminal. "It says here the order was placed on your behalf by George Fontaine…and paid for by Commonwealth Consultants of Fairfax, Virginia. Does that sound right?"

"Yeah, that's right," Jake said. "I just don't understand the boat."

"There's an envelope on the front seat with instructions from Mr. Fontaine," the man said. "Maybe that will clear it up."

"I hope so." Jake thanked the man and walked across the lot to the rental, a white Chevrolet Tahoe with a nineteen foot Bass Tracker. A 90-horsepower Mercury outboard hung from the transom.

The big surprise was what he found in the back of the Tahoe—a full complement of fishing tackle, a dive bag of scuba gear, and tanks. Lying on the front passenger seat was an envelope with a note and a State of Tennessee Non-Resident fishing license. He unfolded the note. It read: 'Enjoy your fishing trip, call me when you're underway.'

Nothing more.

Jake folded the note, slipped it and the fishing license back into the envelope, tossed his backpack on the floorboard, climbed inside the Tahoe, and sat in the plush leather seat. Jake paired his Bluetooth headset to his phone then slipped it around his ear, started the SUV, and pulled away from the Tri Cities Airport.

The dash-mounted GPS screen lit up automatically displaying the distance and route to Butler. The woman's electronic voice called out, "Please drive the highlighted route."
Son of a bitch thinks of everything
.

Jake followed the voice's directions and pulled onto Bristol Highway, hit speed dial, and waited.

Two rings later Fontaine answered. "Been expecting your call. Hope you found everything satisfactory."

"What's the punch line?" Jake asked.

"About the scuba gear?"

"Nope. Got that figured out. Don't know that I quite understand the fishing gear unless it's to use as a ruse to get into a particular area. In case I'm stopped or something."

"A little more complicated than that, Jake. It is your cover to be there because there is a bass fishing tournament on the lake for the next two days. Keep that fishing license on you and play the part. In the bow of the boat you'll find compartments large enough to conceal the scuba gear—tanks and all."

"It's been a long time since I dove, George. I'm out of practice."

"Gee, Jake. According to your file, you were certified as a Search and Rescue diver in the Navy as well as certified to operate underwater communications equipment."

"I was, but it's been probably ten years since I strapped on a tank."

"Eleven years, five months, and twenty-one days according to your Navy records. Still, it's like riding a bike, right?"

"You hacked my Navy records? What else did you hack? Wait. Don't tell me. Do you know where I'll be diving?"

"I pulled the pre-flood land survey records from the TVA from October of 1946 when they recommenced construction on the dam. The grave of Norman Albert Reese Jr. is depicted on the survey. The family refused to let the TVA or any authorities move their son's body. Old man Reese even knew the valley was going to be flooded before he buried his son there so he had a concrete vault installed with a metal lid bolted onto it. He didn't want his son floating up after the flood. He also put a large marker in the ground at the head of the vault. That's what you'll be looking for."

"How deep is it?" Jake asked.

"As best as I can figure from the topographic and water table charts, should be around sixty feet. Give or take a few feet. Also the water temperature could be as low as the upper 40's. Research indicates the visibility can range anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five feet so that is in your favor. Another thing, according to the topo charts, the knoll where Reese is buried is only about fifty feet from the shoreline so you might be able to shore dive."

"How much of this intel do you think Regan and her friend have?"

"I can't say for sure, but I think it's unlikely they have anything very precise. I think they'll have to search for the grave. It could take them a while to find it."

"What about lodging, are they staying someplace in Butler?"

"Again, don't know for sure. According to the hotel in Banner Elk, the room was booked for two nights. Paid in advance. In cash. I'll keep a tracker on her cell phone. See if they stay in Butler or return to Banner Elk. You know, if the coast is clear, you might want to consider diving tonight."

Jake turned the Tahoe onto Interstate 26 toward Johnson City. He was already thinking the same thing as Fontaine. If he could find the grave first then he would be a step ahead of Regan and her friend. It would also give him something far more important.

Control.

There was another option, he could always follow and locate Regan before she had a chance to make a dive. Confront her on dry land, expose her illegal activities, hopefully acquire whatever she found in the glacier, and then determine what she was retrieving from the graves. But a public confrontation carried with it the possibility of law enforcement involvement, which had to be avoided at all costs—for President Rudd's sake. He'd already had a run-in with the Charleston Police Department and the FBI, fortunately it was handled without consequence to the President. Until he knew what he was involved in, he needed to avoid any volatile situations. Confronting Regan and her friend in public could turn volatile fast.

"Tell you what, George. Unless Regan decides to go after it tonight, I'll be doing just that." Jake paused. "There wouldn't by chance be a dive light in that bag, would there?"

"Not one
dive light, two of them. Along with one replacement battery."

"Looks like you thought of everything. Any thing else I should know before I let you go?"

"Couple of things, Jake." Fontaine said. "From what I've found on the Internet, most of the divers have reported a rather heavy layer of silt near the bottom of the lake. Up to eight feet deep in some places so stay away from the lake bed or you'll lose your visibility."

"What else?"

"I sent you some information on possible lodging in the Butler area. I hope it helps."

"Thanks, George. I'll take all the help I can get."

In Johnson City, Roxanne, the name he gave the woman's electronic voice from the GPS unit, instructed him to turn on U. S. Highway 321 to Elizabethton where he pulled over at a truck stop to take advantage of good cell phone reception. He wasn't sure how good the service would be in Butler.

He pulled his iPad from his backpack and downloaded the information Fontaine had sent him. He'd been thinking about lodging and decided to rule out campgrounds and B & B's because his comings and goings would be too noticeable. What he needed was a private place, preferably on the lake where he had quick access to the boat. A quick Google search under his favorite websites, VRBO.com and HomeAway.com, revealed nothing useful. Another search for fish camps, even though not as desirable, also turned up nothing. A third search under 'Butler, Tennessee lodging' hit pay dirt. Several sites he'd never heard of showed up but only one proved useful. He found several lakefront cabins but only one that wasn't booked. He figured it was because of the price, $450 a night. Most families weren't going to pay that price, especially this time of year during the middle of the week.

He called the number and secured the cabin from the owner for three nights using his Commonwealth Consultants credit card.

He plugged the cabin's address into his iPad and was pleased when he saw the cabin was just across Watauga Lake from the location Fontaine had identified as the site where Norman Reese was buried. Using his distance-measuring tool he realized the straight-line distance across the water was less than a mile. By road it was nearly fourteen miles from the cabin to the point where Reese was buried and another four miles to Butler itself. He needed to mull over the geographical logistics of his predicament. A visual of the area would help so he put the Tahoe in gear and pulled back on the highway toward Butler.

At the intersection of U. S. 321 and Tennessee State Road 67, Roxanne told him to turn left on SR 67, cross Watauga lake, and into Butler. The map on the iPad showed both the cabin and the grave site on the east side of the lake.

Jake wanted eyes on Regan and her friend first. The only way he could do that was with Fontaine's help. He pulled to the side of the road and called Fontaine.

Fontaine answered.

"Is Regan still in Butler?" Jake asked.

"According to her cell phone, she's at the
Pizza Place
and has been for the past fifteen minutes."

T
he waitress placed
the pizza on the table and asked if she could get them anything else. Regan shook her head and thanked her. She pulled two pieces of pizza from the platter and placed them on her plate and did the same on Christa Barnett's plate.

She sprinkled pepper seeds and Parmesan cheese on her pizza then looked at Barnett. "When should we do this?"

"It'll have to wait until tomorrow. I can't do it by myself and I don’t want to throw your ass in the water until we've had a chance to go through all the equipment. And I'm certainly not taking you down at night. Not on your first dive."

"Oh hell no. I'm not going underwater at night period." Regan paused. "Maybe we should just skip this one. I was excited at first but now…I don't know. I'm kind of scared. What do we do if something goes wrong?"

"Relax, Ashley. It'll be okay, I promise. Nothing will go wrong. We bought the very best equipment. The full-face mask will allow you to breathe normal and the communications system will allow us to talk when we need to. I'll be right there by your side. Besides, it'll be fun."

"Should we put the stuff on and get in the pool tonight? Maybe that would help."

"Might draw unwanted attention," Barnett said. "The last thing we want is for someone to remember us."

"No, no. Of course you're right." The room lit up when the front door opened. Rays of sunshine blasted across the floor then disappeared as the door closed. Regan noticed Barnett wasn't paying attention. "Christa. You're not listening."

"Check this guy out. He is H-O-T."

Regan looked. A man with dirty blond hair, jeans and a long sleeve button down shirt walked behind Barnett toward the counter. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows and he had a five o'clock shadow on his face. "Not interested."

"Are you kidding? He looks like Chris Pine. Makes for nice eye candy, right?"

"He's handsome, I guess. Hard to tell anymore. I haven't been on that side of the fence for a long time."

"Yeah, yeah, Ashley. Maybe it's time you gave men another try." Christa turned her head and watched the man while he placed his order at the counter. "Now that you and Sam are on the fritz, might be a good time to experiment."

As if she wasn't worried enough about scuba diving, Christa's remark certainly didn't help any. She was already concerned that Sam hadn't answered her phone in over two weeks. What if she'd moved out? Maybe back to Atlanta. Regan resolved that as soon as they were finished in Butler, she would go straight to Charleston or wherever Samantha Connors was, apologize, and try to reconcile with her.

J
ake recognized
both women from the photos. They were sitting together at a table sharing a pizza. The taller one, Ashley Regan, had long, thick brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, which was stuffed through the opening in the back of an Atlanta Braves baseball cap. Fontaine's report indicated she was 5' 7" tall but he couldn't judge her height while she was seated. She was very attractive but didn't fit the image he had in his mind.

Christa Barnett’s long black hair that didn't look natural compared with the rest of her facial features. He'd seen the photos Fontaine had sent him. Barnett was born a blonde, so the dark hair didn't compliment her tanned face. According to her file, she was an even five feet and barely topped a hundred pounds.

They were both wearing blue jeans and t-shirts.

Regan looked stressed, frown lines visible on her face from across the dining room. Barnett seemed to be reassuring her of something. He'd strategically selected his table and chair so he would be able to observe them while he ate. He noticed Barnett glance his direction several times and smile. Regan looked his way once and smiled, but it looked feigned.

His food came and he inconspicuously analyzed the two women while he ate. It was the visual threat assessment he needed to evaluate what he was up against and what, if any, element of danger the women might present.

The women finished eating first, paid the waitress, and left. Jake didn't move. He knew Fontaine would track their movements.

He made his decision.

Tonight, after he checked in with President Rebecca Rudd, he would make a dive to locate the grave of Norman Reese, Jr.