The Empty Cocoon

About the Book:

Abandonment issues have riddled my life; of late, Lady Luck joining the list. My name is Toni Starr, my new profession, private investigation.

In hindsight the irreversible shift in my life was triggered by one little accident; a bullet wound with vital consequence. This led to my being out of work and available, that in itself quite unique for me. Then a favor in good grace launched me into a drama unparalleled, as my sister called me to watch the family investigation business while she vacationed in Puerto Vallarta. A mundane chore proved more than I’d expected, and I was quite unprepared for the emotional trauma that accompanied the twists and turns I was to encounter.

The unknowing keeper of secret information targeted Starr Investigations, and as I followed up on open cases, power hungry factions unwittingly moved forward with a vengeance. Devious plans were set in motion; plans that had four years earlier plucked my uncle from our lives; plans that threatened the well-being of millions.

Fast-stepping the FEDs and this New World Order group became common-fare for me. And to boot, romance sneaked in to exercise emotions I’d long forgotten.

Join me for a whirlwind adventure; my first in a long series...

Preview:

Simple explosives - they were plaguing my life. Quantity - the difference between a headache and a pair of wings.

Aviation petrol provides a substantial flash-fire blast. Nowadays the cause can be established by sifting through the debris. Altitude determines the radius, and ground surface the ease of retrieval. In this case, the plane was said to be on the final approach at a few hundred feet, and the surface was water, salt water. A picturesque vacation spot in the tropics of Peru claimed the Aero Commander in question. The authorities’ investigation was quick, ours in depth. Both revealed one startling fact. There were human remains, though strangely not the original pilot’s: the man who filed the VFR flight plan, my uncle. This was 1997.

Unanswered questions plagued us. If the DNA wasn’t his, whose was it? And most importantly, what happened to him?

Toni Starr, here. Private detective. Weary, exhausted, and fatefully dogged by missing persons; all over some obscure file, evidently highly prized and eagerly sought.

******************************

In May of 1966 Hurricane Te Sing raged 70 miles east of Da Nang, South Viet Nam. Palm fronds ripped wildly in the gale force winds, an arrogant gesture to the battle that would soon ensue, the antagonist building force as it spun in fury offshore. Frothing seas bubbled like a caldron filled with ghosts, itching to loose themselves for a spin of havoc, while anxious eyes searched the sky for his partners’ plane.

“Should be here by now. Come on, you guys. Where the hell are you?” He swore under his breath, anticipation intensifying with the hurricane winds.

The distant drone of the twin props was drowned by the constant clatter of rusted corrugated roofing, flapping sharply with each gust. He wiped his forehead and sweat splattered to the ground. The barometric pressure rose on. The inevitable was approaching, no longer stalled by the high pressure north of town.

“There!” he shouted, sound stifled in the choking wind. The plane dipped and bobbed hurrying homeward just ahead of the looming blackness. He held his breath with expectancy, the plane nearing touchdown.

“Yes,” he yelled. “Flawless as usual.” He nervously waited as the plane taxied closer. In perfect timing he was off on a sprint, and soon they were securing the plane, fastening down the wheels with weights and roping the wings.

“Hope that'll hold her,” Dan shouted. His companion gave a thumbs up. Bent, they scurried, gear packed under arms, toward the Quonset hut. The door was slammed and the bolt shoved tight, a marginal refuge against the savage winds. In haste packs were tossed to the floor.

Excitement charged, Jonco yelled, "Helluva storm! What’d you find out?"

They both shook their heads. Dan said, "It's not good. We were right. They're spraying our troops too." He fished out a bottle from the army-green pack and held it up, bright orange contents visible.

“Gotta get that to the lab,” Jonco said, “though I suspect its Agent Orange.”

They both laughed. “What tipped you off?” Dan said. Then carefully his partner laid a white metal briefcase on the table. Cautiously it was opened, exposing a small metal cylinder. “This, however, is not a simple bio-warfare concoction,” he said.

“What is it?” Jonco asked.

“We’re not too sure, but it’s deadly. We’ve seen it work,” the other replied.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Well, my friend, that’s yet another story,” Dan said. “Though I suspect this is what our government has been looking for, the real reason we're here. This little file tells it all,” he said, pulling out a small white envelope.

“Then it looks like our job’s done, right?”

“Yeah, and I think we’d better get the hell out of here as soon as possible!”

******************************

“Cummins, please set up the satellite for a meeting at noon,” General Henry Creston ordered briskly, as was his way.

“Yes, sir,” Cummins answered with respect. He efficiently marched out of the surveillance room enroute to the communications department, wondering who would be in this, yet another, secret meeting. He knew important things were decided every day by his general and the group of associates, but never did Cummins allow himself too great a latitude of thought. After all this was a good paying job, he felt secure with the general’s decisions, and the goings-on were none of his business, really.

At eleven fifty-eight Cummins adjusted the equipment and left quickly, the padded door closing effortlessly on the soundproof room. At precisely twelve, Creston entered and switched on dual satellite screens. Two groups of prominent people from all over the world. were gathered: one in Sydney, the other in London.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,“ he said, and nodded a hello. Turning toward the other screen, he nodded again.

The General stood front and center, the digital camera logging gigabytes and transmitting to satellite, as he addressed the groups during the short dissertation. With confidence he spoke to their faces on the screen as if they were in the same room.

Appearing taller than his actual height, he officially addressed his colleagues. “You'll all be pleased to note that Project Vapor Trail is right on schedule. This time next year we will see our reaped benefits.” His tone was daunting as he scrutinized the faces, slightly blurred by the pixels on the large screen.

“General.”

Creston recognized the familiar voice and turned toward the London group’s screen. He sensed an inflection, maybe a note of question and leaned forward in anticipation. After a pause, the elder man continued, “I still ask myself about the validity of this measure. Is it truly effective?”

“Proven by years of scientific research,” Creston answered, “Russia being the first to test on human subjects in the fifties. In fact, this strain has undergone success just two years ago in South America.”

The General gave a cynical chuckle. “As we can all see, life as we know it is on a collision course. Something has to be done soon, or our earth will be teeming with ignorant and diseased people. Now is the perfect timing for this next step.”

Another prominent spokesman had been sitting quietly, assessing the scope of the project. He spoke up. “General, from what I read in the provided report, hundreds of thousands could be affected by these bio-warfare type organisms. Can’t the weather patterns change the course, and possibly allow this to get out of hand?”

Curiously, Creston’s hands formed a church-like steeple as he answered. “There may be some unplanned casualties, but anyone of note will be safely out of range. We have a vaccine as protection. You’ve all received your portion. Besides, this particular strain was developed with a pre-determined life span while airborne, limiting the target area. There’s nothing to worry about.” In assurance he added, “It’s all about control, Ladies and Gentlemen.” For effect he repeated, “Control.” Then with a calculated tone he stated, “Fate's plan was set in motion eons ago; set in motion by those in power throughout history."

The General was obviously on his soapbox again ** and a dangerous one at that. Members of the group had witnessed the welding of power in this decade with an undercurrent of remorse stabbing some gut-deep, like tiny dueling daggers. Uncertainty plagued those few concerning the scientific findings that Creston had produced for their review ** reports that were the sole foundation of a plan that would require the lives of millions to comply with The Project.

In conclusion, the General smiled triumphantly. “I’ll contact you with the results later. Good-bye.”

As the screen turned black, the elder man realized he’d been holding his breath. Bottled up consternation, he thought. A long sigh escaped, punctuated by a tiny cry from his chair as he stood. Stealthly he slipped out of the conference room, having nothing more to say to his cohorts, not wishing to air his objections.

Purchase