She was holding her purse loosely by the strap, so I grabbed it out of her hand. Her eyes narrowed; she thought about slapping me—actually shifted her weight to do it—then decided against it.
There was a small, round, poured-concrete picnic table there beside the Burger King for mothers to sit at while watching their kids play on the gym equipment, so I sat down and dug her wallet out of the purse. It contained a couple hundred in bills, a Colorado driver’s license—she was twenty-eight years old—a military ID, three bank credit cards, an expired AAA membership, car insurance from USAA, a Sears credit card, and an ATM card in a paper envelope with her secret PIN number written on the envelope in ink.
Also in the wallet was a small, bound address book containing handwritten names, addresses, telephone numbers, and e-mail addresses. I flipped through the book, studying the names, then returned it to the wallet.
Her purse contained the usual feminine hygiene and cosmetic items. At the bottom were four old dry cleaning receipts from the laundry on the German base where she was stationed and a small collection of loose keys. One safety pin, two buttons, a tiny rusty screwdriver, a pair of sunglasses with a cracked lens, five German coins and two U.S. quarters. One of the receipts was eight months old.
I put all this stuff back in her purse and passed it across the table.
“Okay,” I said. “For the sake of argument, let’s assume you’re telling the truth—that there really is a terrorists’ conference scheduled at an old pile of Foreign Legion masonry in the middle of the goddamn Sahara seventeen days from now. What do you propose to do about it?”
“I propose to steal a V-22 Osprey,” Julie Giraud said evenly, “fly there, plant enough C-4 to blow that old fort to kingdom come, then wait for the terrorists to arrive. When they are all sitting in there plotting who they are going to murder next, I’m going to push the button and send the whole lot of them straight to hell. Just like they did to my parents and everyone else on that French DC-10.”
“You and who else?”
The breeze was playing with her hair. “You and me,” she said. “The two of us.”
I tried to keep a straight face. Across the street at my filling station people were standing beside their cars, waiting impatiently for me to get back and open up. That was paying business and I was sitting here listening to this shit. The thought that the CIA or FBI might be recording this conversation also crossed my mind.
“You’re a nice kid, Julie. Thanks for dropping by. I’m sorry about your folks, but there is nothing on earth anyone can do for them. It’s time to lay them to rest. Fly high, meet a nice guy, fall in love, have some kids, give them the best that you have in you: Your parents would have wanted that for you. The fact is they’re gone and you can’t bring them back.”
She brushed the hair back from her eyes. “If you’ll help me, Mr. Dean, I’ll pay you three million dollars.”
I didn’t know what to say. Three million dollars rated serious consideration, but I couldn’t tell if she had what it takes to make it work.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, and got up. “Tomorrow, we’ll have lunch again right here.”
She showed some class then. “Okay,” she said, and nodded once. She didn’t argue or try to make the sale right then, and I appreciated that.
My buddy, Gunnery Sergeant Bill Wiley, left the filling station at ten that night; I had to stay until closing time at 2 A.M. About midnight an older four-door Chrysler cruised slowly past on the street, for the second or third time, and I realized the people inside were casing the joint.
Ten minutes later, when the pumps were vacant and I was the only person in the store, the Chrysler drove in fast and stopped in front of the door. My ex-cash register man, Candy, boiled out of the passenger seat with a gun in his hand, a 9-mm automatic. He and the guy from the backseat came charging through the door waving their guns at me.
“Hands up, Charlie Dean, you silly son of a bitch. We want all the money, and if you ain’t real goddamn careful I’m gonna blow your fucking brains out.”
The guy from the backseat posted himself by the door and kept glancing up and down the street to see who was driving by. The driver of the car stayed outside.
Candy strutted over to me and stuck his gun in my face. He had a butterfly bandage on his eyebrow. He was about to say something really nasty, I think, when I grabbed his gun with my left hand and hit him with all I had square in the mouth with my right. He went down like he had been sledgehammered. I leaped toward the other one and hit him in the head with the gun butt, and he went down too. Squatting, I grabbed his gun while I checked the driver outside.
The driver was standing frozen beside the car, staring through the plate-glass window at me like I was Godzilla. I already had the safety off on Candy’s automatic, so I swung it into the middle of this dude’s chest and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Oh boy!
As I got the other pistol up, the third man dived behind the wheel and slammed the Chrysler into gear. That pistol also clicked uselessly. The Chrysler left in a squall of rubber and exhaust smoke.
I checked the pistols one at a time. Both empty.
Candy’s eyes were trying to focus, so I bent down and asked him, “How come you desperate characters came in here with empty pistols?”
He spit blood and a couple teeth as he thought about it. His lips were swelling. He was going to look like holy hell for a few days. Finally one eye focused. “Didn’t want to shoot you,” he mumbled, barely understandable. “Just scare you.”
“Umm.”
“The guns belong to my dad. He didn’t have any bullets around.”
“Did the driver of the car know the guns were empty?”
Candy nodded, spit some more blood.
I’ll admit, I felt kind of sorry for Candy. He screwed up the courage to go after a pint or two of revenge, but the best he could do for backup help was a coward who ran from empty pistols.
I put the guns in the trash can under the register and got each of them a bottled water from the cooler. They were slowly coming around when a police cruiser with lights flashing pulled up between the pumps and the office and the officer jumped out. He came striding in with his hand on the butt of his pistol.
“Someone called in on their cell phone, reported a robbery in progress here.”
I kept my hands in plain sight where he could see them. “No robbery, officer. My name’s Dean; I own this filling station.”
“What happened to these two?” Spittle and blood were smeared on one front of Candy’s shirt, and his friend had a dilly of a shiner.
“They had a little argument,” I explained, “slugged each other. This fellow here, Candy, works for me.”
Candy and his friend looked at me kind of funny, but they went along with it. After writing down everyone’s names and addresses from their driver’s licenses while I expanded on my fairy tale, the officer left.
Candy and his friend were on their feet by then. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dean,” Candy said.
“Tell you what, kid. You want to play it straight, no stealing and no shortchanging people, you come back to work in the morning.”
“You mean that?”
“Yeah.” I dug his father’s guns from the trash arid handed them to him. “You better take these home and put them back where they belong.”
His face was red and he was having trouble talking. “I’ll be here,” he managed.
He pocketed the pistols, nodded, then he and his friend went across the street to Burger King to call someone to come get them.
I was shaking so bad I had to sit down. Talk about luck! If the pistols had been loaded I would have killed that fool kid driving the car, and I didn’t even know if he had a gun. That could have cost me life in the pen. Over what?
I sat there in the office thinking about life and death and Julie Giraud.
At lunch the next day Julie Giraud was intense, yet cool as she talked of killing people, slaughtering t
hem like steers. I’d seen my share of people with that look. She was just flat crazy.
The fact that she was a nut seemed to explain a lot, somehow. If she had been sane I would have turned her down flat. It’s been my experience through the years that sane people who go traipsing off to kill other people usually get killed themselves. The people who do best at combat don’t have a death grip on life, if you know what I mean. They are crazy enough to take the biggest risk of all and not freak out when the shooting starts. Julie Giraud looked like she had her share of that kind of insanity.
“Do I have my information correct? Were you a sniper in Vietnam, Mr. Dean?”
“That was a war,” I said, trying to find the words to explain, taking my time. “I was in Recon. We did ambushes and assassinations. I had a talent with a rifle. Other men had other talents. What you’re suggesting isn’t war, Ms. Giraud.”
“Do you still have what it takes?”
She was goading me and we both knew it. I shrugged.
She wouldn’t let it alone. “Could you still kill a man at five hundred yards with a rifle? Shoot him down in cold blood?”
“You want me to shoot somebody today so you can see if I’m qualified for the job?”
“I’m willing to pay three million dollars, Mr. Dean, to the man with the balls to help me kill the men who murdered my parents. I’m offering you the job. I’ll pay half up front into a Swiss bank account, half after we kill the men who killed my parents.”
“What if you don’t make it? What if they kill you?”
“I’ll leave a wire transfer order with my banker.”
I snorted. At times I got the impression she thought this was some kind of extreme sports expedition, like jumping from a helicopter to ski down a mountain. And yet … she had that fire in her eyes.
“Where in hell did a captain in the air farce get three million dollars?”
“I inherited half my parents’ estate and invested it in software and internet stocks; and the stocks went up like a rocket shot to Mars, as everyone north of Antarctica well knows. Now I’m going to spend the money on something I want very badly. That’s the American way, isn’t it?”
“Like ribbed condoms and apple pie,” I agreed, then leaned forward to look into her eyes. “If we kill these men,” I explained, “the world will never be the same for you. When you look in the mirror the face that stares back won’t be the same one you’ve been looking at all these years—it’ll be uglier. Your parents will still be dead and you’ll be older in ways that years can’t measure. That’s the god’s truth, kid. Your parents are going to be dead regardless. Keep your money, find a good guy, and have a nice life.”
She sneered. “You’re a philosopher?”
“I’ve been there, lady. I’m trying to figure out if I want to go back.”
“Three million dollars, Mr. Dean. How long will it take for your gasoline station to make three million dollars profit?”
I owned three gas stations, all mortgaged to the hilt, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. I sat in the corner of Burger King working on a Diet Coke while I thought about the kid I had damn near killed the night before.
“What about afterward?” I asked. “Tell me how you and I are going to continue to reside on this planet with the CIA and FBI and Middle Eastern terrorists all looking to carve on our ass.”
She knew a man, she said, who could provide passports.
“Fake passports? Bullshit! Get real.”
“Genuine passports. He’s a U.S. consular official in Munich.”
“What are you paying him?”
“He wants to help.”
“Dying to go to prison, is he?”
“I’ve slept with him for the past eighteen months.”
“You got a nice ass, but … Unless this guy is a real toad, he can get laid any night of the week. Women today think if they don’t use it, they’ll wear it out pissing through it.”
“You have difficulty expressing yourself in polite company, don’t you, Charlie Dean? Okay, cards on the table: I’m fucking him and paying him a million dollars.”
I sat there thinking it over.
“If you have the money you can buy anything,” she said.
“I hope you aren’t foolish enough to believe that.”
“Someone always wants money. All you have to do is find that someone. You’re a case in point.”
“How much would it cost to kill an ex-Marine who became a liability and nuisance?”
“A lot less than I’m paying you,” she shot back. She didn’t smile.
After a bit she started talking again, telling me how we were going to kill the bad guys. I didn’t think much of her plan—blow up a stone fortress?—but I sat there listening while I mulled things over. Three million was not small change.
Finally I decided that Julie’s conscience was her problem and the three million would look pretty good in my bank account. The Libyans—well, I really didn’t give a damn about them one way or the other. They would squash me like a bug if they thought I was any threat at all, so what the hell. They had blown up airliners, they could take their chances with the devil.
Three
We were inside a rain cloud. Water ran off the windscreen in continuous streams: The dim glow of the red cockpit lights made the streams look like pale red rivers. Beyond the wet windscreen, however, the night was coal black.
I had never seen such absolute darkness.
Julie Giraud had the Osprey on autopilot; she was bent over fiddling with the terrain-avoidance radar while auto flew the plane.
I sure as hell wasn’t going to be much help. I sat there watching her, wondering if I had made a sucker’s deal. Three million was a lot of money if you lived to spend it. If you died earning it, it was nowhere near enough.
After a bit she turned off the radios and some other electronic gear, then used the autopilot to drop the nose into a descent. The multifunction displays in front of us—there were four plus a radar screen—displayed engine data, our flight plan, a moving map, and one that appeared to be a tactical display of the locations of the radars that were looking at us. I certainly didn’t understand much of it, and Julie Giraud was as loquacious as a store dummy.
“We’ll drop off their radar screens now,” she muttered finally in way of explanation. As if to emphasize our departure into the outlaw world, she snapped off the plane’s exterior lights.
As the altimeter unwound I must have looked a little nervous, and I guess I was. I rode two helicopters into the ground in Vietnam and one in Afghanistan, all shot down, so in the years since I had tried to avoid anything with rotors. Jets didn’t bother me much, but rotor whop made my skin crawl.
Down we went until we were flying through the valleys of the Bavarian Alps below the hilltops. Julie sat there twiddling the autopilot as we flew along, keeping us between the hills with the radar.
She looked cool as a tall beer in July. “How come you aren’t a little nervous?” I asked.
“This is the easy part,” she replied.
That shut me up.
We were doing about 270 knots, so it took a little while to thread our way across Switzerland and northern Italy to the ocean. Somewhere over Italy we flew out of the rain. I breathed a sigh of relief when we left the valleys behind and dropped to a hundred feet over the ocean. Julie turned the plane for Africa.
“How do you know fighters aren’t looking for us in this goop?” I asked.
She pointed toward one of the multifunction displays. “That’s a threat indicator. We’ll see anyone who uses a radar.”
After a while I got bored, even at a hundred feet, so I got unstrapped and went aft to check the Humvee, trailer and cargo.
All secure.
I opened my duffel bag, got out a pistol belt. The gun, an old 1911 Colt .45 automatic, was loaded, but I checked it anyway, reholstered it, got the belt arranged around my middle so it rode comfortable with the pistol on my right side and my Ka-Bar knife on the left. I also
had another knife in one boot and a hideout pistol in the other, just in case.
I put a magazine in the M-16 but didn’t chamber a round. I had disassembled the weapon the night before, cleaned it thoroughly, and oiled it lightly.
The last weapon in the bag was a Model 70 in .308. It was my personal rifle, one I had built up myself years ago. With a synthetic stock, a Canjar adjustable trigger, and a heavy barrel custom-made for me by a Colorado gunsmith, it would put five shots into a half-inch circle at a hundred yards with factory match-grade ammunition. I had the 3x9 adjustable scope zeroed for two hundred. Trigger pull was exactly eighteen ounces.
I repacked the rifles, then sat in the driver’s seat of the Humvee and poured myself a cup of coffee from the thermos.
We flew to Europe on different airlines and arrived in Zurich just hours apart. The following day I opened a bank account at a gleaming pile of marble in the heart of the financial district. As I watched, Julie called her banker in Virginia and had $1.5 million in cold hard cash transferred into the account. Three hours after she made the transfer I went to my bank and checked: The money was really there and it was all mine.
Amazing.
We met for dinner at a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant a few blocks off the main drag that I remembered from years before, when I was sightseeing while on leave during a tour in Germany.
“The money’s there,” I told her when we were seated. “I confess, I didn’t think it would be.”
She got a little huffy. “I’d lie to you?”
“It’s been known to happen. Though for the life of me, I couldn’t see why you would.”
She opened her purse, handed me an unsealed envelope. Inside was a passport. I got up and went to the men’s room, where I inspected it. It certainly looked like a genuine U.S. passport, on the right paper and printed with dots and displaying my shaved, honest phiz. The name on the thing was Robert Arnold. I put it in my jacket pocket and rejoined her at the table.
She handed me a letter and an addressed envelope. The letter was to her banker, typed, instructing him to transfer another $1.5 million to my account a week after we were scheduled to hit the Camel. The envelope was addressed to him and even had a Swiss stamp on it. I checked the numbers on my account at the Swiss bank. Everything jibed.
Combat Page 3