B.B.U.S.A. (Buying Back the United States of America)

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  About The Authors

  Forthcoming Titles

  East Wind : True Story

  East Wind : Africa

  East Wind : Chapter 1

  Social Media Links

  B.B.U.S.A.

  Buying Back the United States of America.

  Fiction: Suspense/Thriller & Action/Adventure.

  Lessil Richards & Jacqueline Richards

  This book is dedicated to my son, (Jacqueline’s grandson), Dante Richards.

  Dante, I admire you. You are my proudest accomplishment. You truly are my hero!

  Acknowledgments

  The authors’ express gratitude and appreciation for the assistance, information, ideas, encouragement, motivation, and patience of Dante and Amanda Richards, Bill and Carol Sharp, Merri Halma, Elsie Sharp, Marcia Redfox, Gerardo Lopez-Meza, Helen Thorpe, Scott and Susie Curtis, Jennifer Halma, Florin and Vickey Caileanu, Helen Malmberg, Chris Quantrell, Luke and Ylonda Hays, Matthew Witulski, Clinton Jackson, Joan Garcia Martinez, Cory Vachon, Logan Voller, and Dennis J. Smith.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. The B.B.U.S.A. Organization is fictitious. As far as the authors’ know, no such organization exists. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Sale of this book without a front or back cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “unsold or destroyed” and neither the authors nor the publisher may have received payment for it.

  Copyright © 2011 by Lessil E. Richards & Jacqueline E. Richards

  ISBN-13 978-1468159233

  ISBN-10: 1468159232

  BISAC: Fiction / Action & Adventure

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the authors, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Chapter 1

  The mist in his face and the cool ocean breeze seemed so familiar to him. The soft, lapping sound of the waves splashing gently upon the dark and sandy shoreline soothed him. He slowed his pace to take in a deep breath of chilly air and nervously looked over his shoulder. What could he do? Who could he trust? At least now he had the security of familiar territory.

  In the distance he saw the twinkle of dancing lights penetrating the black depths of the ocean. Once he reached the pier that stretched out above the water, he’d feel somewhat safe. He remembered all the nights he spent fishing from that old jetty as a kid; watching the mist roll in, pass before the moon, and eventually clear out again. He never knew what would be at the end of the line. The ocean was so vast, so mysterious, sort of like a giant gift box. Sometimes he caught salmon or halibut, other times lobster or trash fish. Once he’d even caught a shark!

  The faint flicker of a distant cigarette lighter brought Leo back from his reverie. The chase was still on. Partially refreshed, he started jogging towards the twinkling lights that highlighted the old pier. He was confident that he could easily outrun his pursuers, but how long would he have to remain on the run?

  As he approached the large, smooth, rounded black boulders piled on either side of the jetty, the sounds of some chuckling fishermen carried over the black oily water. Someone had pulled up a small squid. A faint grin appeared on Leo’s face. As he cautiously stepped up onto the slick planks of the old pier, the smell of fish and salt filled his nostrils. The stench, combined with blood, scales, and internal organs strewn upon the edges of the plank walkway, was, initially overwhelming. The scent seemed more powerful every fifteen paces, as a yellowish jetty light illumined the ample supply of fish remains.

  He looked at his watch and was not entirely surprised to find it nearly four in the morning. He should have been exhausted from all the running, but his pulse still reflected the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He realized that he would need to cause some sort of diversion in order to escape his followers should they continue to pursue him on the pier, for there were only two possible exits. Surely they wouldn’t think he would be so careless. He was gambling his life that they would turn towards town, and would not venture out on the jetty.

  Alert, he sat down on a bench at the far end of the pier, adjusting his eyes to the semi-darkness around him. He squinted to look down the length of the three-hundred-yard jetty to ascertain if his followers were still chasing him. He knew that they would probably not stop until he was dead. He glanced out at the ocean and observed that the tide was receding, which meant that there was only one viable exit off the jetty. Even the strongest swimmer would not stand a chance against the receding tide on this part of the coast. Perhaps he should not have gambled that his pursuers would turn east towards town once they reached the pier. He still felt somewhat safer on the pier in familiar territory, and relatively confident that Bob and his men would not come looking for him here.

  Nearby, a fisherman was slowly and cautiously pulling up a hand held line. The line seemed heavy, yet it was not fighting nor struggling. Most on-lookers would guess that the man was merely pulling up a mass of seaweed, but Leo knew that he was illegally fishing for lobster. Leo looked out to sea, only watching the man with his peripheral vision. Satisfied that he remained undetected, the gloved man carefully removed five adult lobsters from his make-shift bait filled pantyhose fishing line.

  When Leo was a boy, there had been a shallow reef at the end of the pier that always seemed to have an endless supply of lobster for those brave enough to take the risk of illegally fishing it. He was happy to know that lobster still flourished on the shallow reef. The penalties for illegally catching lobsters were extremely strict. Hopefully, that would prevent most people from ever taking such a risk. A burglar would get off easier than someone caught illegally catching lobster off the old pier. What fortunes of fate would bring this older fisherman to the pier so late at night to risk so much?

  The night’s darkness was receding. Soon it would be light enough to pick out a victim with a spotting scope and equally easy to end his life with the squeeze of a hair trigger. The early morning breeze tugged lightly at his jacket sleeves, allowing some chilly moist air to rush up his arms. Now damp and cool, his muscles began to cramp up from all the running. It was time for a warm shower, shave, a g
ood meal, and a safe place to sleep. How much longer should he wait? How much longer dare he wait? He slowly rose off the bench and stretched his tired legs. Judging from the horizon, it would be light enough to use a scope within thirty minutes. He didn’t think they had one with them, but they might have sent someone back for extra gear. Reluctantly he started heading back towards the coastline, anxiously eyeing every fisherman he passed.

  Chapter 2

  Bob realized his companions were slowing their pace and breathing harder. To keep from outpacing them he slowed down to a trot. John was gasping for air, and his lungs were making loud wheezing sounds. Even in the moonlight he could clearly see John’s split lip and swollen jaw. John licked the corners of his mouth with a dry tongue, then hunched over like he was preparing to vomit, but instead only put one hand on his side and panted like a long-haired dog on a hot summer’s afternoon. Bob stopped, turned, and faced the small contingent of tired men. “Let’s take a breather.”

  Only Ervin responded, “Good, I could use a smoke.” Bob looked at his men. It was a mystery to him, how Ervin managed to perform such physical endurance tasks, while smoking so much. He must be an athlete to his core, Bob thought, since so many cigarettes seemingly had no visible physical effect on him.

  Then there was Florin, always calm, quiet and thoughtful, actually too quiet for Bob’s liking. He often wondered if he had his full undivided loyalty. Perhaps it was just because Florin was a first generation American, and still strongly valued his Romanian heritage and culture. He contemplated how Florin really felt about the B.B.U.S.A. Organization, but his martial arts talents were unquestionable. Even Bob, who stood six-foot-three and weighed two hundred thirty pounds, and possessed his own black belt in Kempo, was no match for the five-foot-ten inch one hundred sixty-five pound man.

  Florin was lean, hairy, handsome, and so graceful he appeared feminine in his ease of motion. All movements were fluid, almost cat like and seemingly without effort. His Kung Fu abilities that he had learned as a young man in Romania gave him a distinct advantage over every opponent he ever faced. Bob remembered when he first started recruiting agents in California. All possible team recruits had to participate in vigorous physical and endurance tests and finally, hand-to-hand combat sparring tests with Bob himself. He could remember a few people getting a lucky punch or two in on him, and even being knocked down once when heavily outnumbered back in his CIA days, but he had never been so humiliated as he was the day he tested Florin. Worst of all, it was done in the presence of four other prospective future employees, some of which would have made good team members.

  Unfortunately, Bob knew that after his sound defeat at the hands of the humble, dark complexioned man half his size, the rest of the recruits that day would never again have the necessary respect he demanded from his team members in order to be an effective group leader. He respected Florin for his martial arts abilities and many times considered a re-match, but realized that Florin was not only half his size and twice as fast; he was also half his age. He used his experience to be the wiser and avoided any further physical combat with Florin. Still, he despised himself for avoiding the challenge, as he had never backed down from anyone or any challenge. He was a bulldog and never let go of anything he set his sights on. Well, he may not have been an “Einstein,” but he did possess common sense. He knew he could never physically beat the young Romanian and reluctantly gave up any false pretense of attempting to do so.

  Florin’s talents were so remarkable; he simply had to have him on his team. One day Florin would be worth his weight in gold. Few opponents could provide a challenge in physical combat skills to the thoughtful young man. Bob admired his gentle ways, as Florin was extremely confident, but never cocky; he was always humble and somewhat cautious.

  Bob leaned against a pile of wet black boulders that had purposely been positioned along the coast to prevent the waves from reaching the city during high tide. He could taste the salt on his lips from the streaks of perspiration that ran down his face. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his slightly soiled suit jacket, and then rearranged the belt that held up his now muddied tailored dress slacks.

  Each man had his own expertise, though all were above average fighters. Fighting was not originally the most important skill to possess in order to be placed on Bob’s personal team. He needed educated men with intelligence and expertise in computers, finances, accounting, government security, problem solving, and self-defense. All men having contacts with high government offices and wealthy businessmen automatically received bonus points. Florin did not possess important contacts like some of the other men, but made up for it with his undeniably superb combat skills, problem solving abilities, and superior intelligence. Placing Florin on his personal team might save his life someday.

  He looked down at the shoe prints on the wet beach floor. The tracks were not showing any signs of a slower pace. The footprints were still far apart with several feet in between each shoe print. Bits of mud and sand were pitched behind each track, indicating power in the gait. It would still be some time before they would catch up to him.

  Bob secretly respected Leo, and in his opinion, he was a good, honorable man. He was busy and ambitious, with loyalty to his beautiful wife and two handsome sons. He actually envied Leo, who always seemed so trusting; accepting everything conveyed to him as nothing but the truth, so help him God. He seldom questioned Bob, merely looked at him with those big brown puppy dog eyes, eager to please his master. He thought of him as a good loyal companion, a bit like a favorite hunting dog. He was just a fortunate man with a lovely family, in the right place at the right time, and had the courage to take some financial risks that provided exceptional returns.

  Leo had unquestionably believed Bob when he told him about the B.B.U.S.A. Organization, created by a Congressional Committee, which supplied matching funds in the form of grants, to private citizens wanting to help buy back the United States of America from a multitude of foreign investors. The B.B.U.S.A. had to be secretive and extremely selective with whom they chose to work. The very success of the program depended on being discreet in order to avoid media attention. Making the program public would get worldwide attention preventing the very success of the organization. Bob was convinced that Leo bought every word, hook, line, and sinker. He had seemed mesmerized about the existence of such an astonishing business venture during that first meeting with Tim, Leo’s wife Sarah, and Bob. He had probably seen dollar signs pass before his eyes, and simply trusted the legitimacy of the organization. He had worked with Tim for several years, and since Tim was involved and Leo was so trusting, he simply did not question the B.B.U.S.A. He felt it was his patriotic duty to help.

  Of course, this is exactly the way the founders had envisioned the organization six years earlier. The Senate Arms Committee secretly created the B.B.U.S.A. and funded it through a slush fund in the CIA. The organization was nearly exposed in the second year when billions of dollars came up missing in the CIA. Fortunately, the Senate Arms Committee used their vast influence during the investigation and like so many other news headlines, it eventually got swept under a rug and forgotten after its five minutes in the spot light.

  Why did corruption and greed infiltrate the best of institutions and organizations, and why did Tim have to go poking around with his private investigation? Bob stood shaking his head while lost in his thoughts, wondering where it all went wrong, so very wrong. No one was supposed to get hurt, or strong-armed. How could a few little screw-ups create the current snowball effect? Darn it! Why did Tim have to pry? Tim was a good man. He was one of the first in the west to participate.

  Tim had introduced Leo and Sarah to Bob. Together they had made excellent progress in the western region over the past few years, all getting fairly wealthy themselves in the process. He wished he could just walk away from the whole mess, but that wasn’t in his nature. He was partly responsible and had to see it through. He wished he could just have a “do over,” as
he knew he could do a better job managing the western states. If only he could go back in time. He truly wished that the last two months could just be erased, and he be given another chance. It had gone too far now. Tim was dead.

  His thoughts wandered back to the previous Fourth of July weekend when Leo and Sarah had invited him to the BBQ at the park. He remembered Sarah’s smiling face as she handed him another double cheeseburger with all the trimmings. Her long brown hair framed her high cheekbones and penetrating hazel eyes. She moved with the grace of a dancer. Men turned their heads when she walked by. She was lovely to watch. Bob imagined her on Broadway performing in “Cats.”

  Leo’s youngest son had asked him if he could poke his head through the small space between the boy’s thumb and index finger. Chris had created a small circle with his two fingers. Bob had said something to the effect that the only way he could accomplish such a feat would be to transform his head into Jell-O in order to squeeze through such a small space.

  The boy lit up with smiles of joy. Chris then placed the circled hand up to Bob’s forehead and proceeded to poke his head through the circle with his other index finger, all the while giggling in amusement. He thought that Leo had the perfect family that day. Leo played Frisbee with his sons in the park while he watched, wondering what it would be like to have a family of his own someday. Bob watched Leo’s oldest son, Traykie, with interest. He was fast, athletic, and strong for his age. He made a mental note to watch his career as a possible future recruit for the B.B.U.S.A., if all worked out well.

  The organization wasn’t sure how much Leo knew, but they simply could not risk having him take up where Tim had left off. Now was not the time to get analytical, teary eyed, or soft, or let his conscience bother him. Hell, in his previous line of work at the CIA, he’d become calloused and forgotten that he once possessed a conscience. This was a job, an important job of which he was in charge. Many vastly more important men than himself were relying on him to get his region under control. Men who had power, wealth, and contacts that could easily eradicate him. The current mission was of such importance that it unfortunately would grind away any obstacles in its path. Whether he had regrets or not, he had to get his act together and accomplish the mission, using any means necessary. He understood the situation and his mission was clear. He sighed out loud then cleared his throat. “Life is fickle.”