by Dan Hampton
“Super. Remind me to floss first.”
Doug Truax sat with his chin in his hands and stared from the conference room window. He’d first read the reports on the eighteen pilots that had been discounted and he had to agree. Except for one dead air force pilot, the three Jolly had shown him were, on paper, the most likely.
He still thought this was a CYA affair. The likelihood that this mercenary was a former American fighter pilot was still an unresolved issue in his mind at least. There were foreigners, the Dutch specifically, who could easily pass for an American on the radio. He yawned and stood up. No sense delaying the inevitable meeting with the general.
Five minutes later, he was standing outside the headquarters building waiting for John Lee. There were four young enlisted troops practicing their color-guard routine by the flagpole and they looked like a poster for Affirmative Action. The smell of newly cut grass filled the air, and every few seconds or so, he caught a whiff of jet fuel drifting down from the flight line.
The doors opened behind him and Axe turned, expecting to salute someone. But it was only Jolly.
“Great.” He waved him in irritably. “General Sturgis is waiting. He’s been ducking questions from D.C. all day.”
Axe stepped into the big entryway and pulled out his ID card for the Security Police behind the glass. “I guess that’s tough on his tee times today, huh?”
“I suppose you’ve formed an opinion?” Jolly ignored the jibe. Most people were either intimidated by generals or couldn’t stand the sight of them. He’d never known Axe to be intimidated by anything.
“Yep.” The two officers walked into the atrium and started up the stairs. A huge photo mural depicting operational scenes from around the Air Force covered the wall. “Did you ever notice that there’s not one picture of a fighter jet on that damn thing?”
“Yeah, I noticed. I’ve got to look at it all day.” He stopped on the landing halfway up and gripped Axe by the forearm. “Now listen to me. I know you don’t like stars . . . and this one in particular, but don’t fuck this away. Just answer his questions and let’s get the hell outa there.”
“Right. Respect and honesty. That’s me. Now let go of me.”
Lee gave up. At the top of the stairs they turned left and approached another set of double doors with COMMAND SECTION etched into glass. The doors swung open and another Bite stepped out. A major. Axe grinned in spite of himself. The officer was a spitting image of his general. Even down to the queer little spectacles. Bomber puke . . . had to be.
Go figure.
“The general’s expecting you, Colonel Lee.” He ran his eyes over Axe, noting the not-so-shiny black shoes and slightly rumpled shirt. “Both of you. Please go right in.”
Jolly propelled Axe forward before he could say anything nasty. Walking past several desks occupied by Eisenhower-era secretaries, they came to The Door. The big fake wood door leading in to see The Man. He ran his fingers through his hair.
“You wanna breath mint?” Axe whispered.
“Eat shit,” he whispered back and knocked twice.
“Come in.”
The voice was deep, well–modulated, and inflected from somewhere in the south.
Like a TV evangelist.
Swell.
They stepped into the room, strode to the center, and saluted smartly. The officer behind the big mahogany-colored desk raised a hand in return.
“Please . . . sit . . . sit.” He got up then and walked around. They all sat around a low coffee table surrounded on three sides by bookshelves. It was supposed to project the library type of atmosphere a large, successful corporate office would have.
Axe thought the leather-bound books were probably fake too.
Lieutenant General Kenneth Allen Sturgis. Manicured, pedicured, and trimmed. Proud graduate of every non-combat school the Air Force could dream up. The Executive Development Program, the National Security Management Course, etc. Proof personified that an officer no longer needed to be a warrior to become a general in the New Air Force. Probably never did—not in peacetime anyway.
“Well, Axe,” Sturgis pivoted and gazed at him intently. He possessed that false charm that most generals and all politicians had. The knack for making you think they knew you personally and really cared about what you had to say. Must all go to the same school, Axe thought. He must also possess a good tailor, because Axe could swear the shoulders of the man’s Class-A jacket were padded.
“Whaddya got?”
Truax held up the three folders. “Of these three my money’s on the Marine, Dan Morgan.”
“I’d be interested to know why.”
Axe shrugged. “If I were picking a man for this mission he’s the one I’d choose.”
“The one you would choose.” Sturgis said it slowly. He didn’t like fighter pilots and never would. Too cocky and too smart. “As an authority on fighter pilots and combat.” Sarcasm had started early.
“That’s right.”
He felt Jolly kick him under the table. The general didn’t notice or didn’t care. He leaned back and placed his fingertips together so Axe could see his big gold ring. Had to be either the Citadel or Texas A&M.
“What about the Navy Hornet driver?”
“Commander Len Fisher.” Axe didn’t need notes after his research. “Flew Hornets off the U.S.S. Ranger during the first Gulf War. TopGun grad, did an exchange tour with the Kuwaitis and speaks Arabic.”
“Why not him?”
“Well, for one thing, he retired in 1994. He’d be almost fifty-five so probably too old for any real flying.”
The veiled insult did not go unnoticed. Sturgis stiffened a bit and glanced up sharply with his beady, close-set eyes. But Doug Truax was a study in innocence.
“Commander Fisher also has a known residence in Florida and it seems he owns a string of dive shops along Navarre Beach. His whereabouts are easy enough to confirm.”
“Go on then.”
“Dash Morgan separated from the Marines in the fall of 2003. He flew F/A-18s during Desert Storm in the Bengals . . . uh, VMFA 224, I think. He was back again for Gulf War Two with the Hawks from VMFA 533. “His second war”—Axe looked up—“though like most of us he’d spent the majority of the last decade in the desert.”
Lee kicked him again.
“TopGun graduate. Went back to Fallon as an instructor at their Strike School in 1997. After leaving the Marines, he went to work as a private contractor. Last known location was flying OA-37s in South America.”
“And from the Air Force?”
“Dean Conway.”
General Sturgis frowned. “But I know about him. He played football at the academy. Wasn’t he an aid to General Forrest?”
“That’s right. Everyone called him GQ because he was an aid. I think he got his teeth capped.”
Sturgis didn’t like that and frowned. John Lee shook his head slightly.
“He was also a squadron commander in Korea and a Weapons School grad.”
“Doesn’t sound like someone who’d go bad.” The general plainly didn’t like the idea of an Air Force officer becoming a mercenary.
Surprisingly, Axe agreed. “I think you may be right there, General.”
The general looked pleased, and smiled—which made his lips disappear.
“Why?” Jolly looked suspicious. Conway was his first pick and he actually knew the man. He’d said as much to the general, so Lee’s own credibility was on the line.
“Because he’s a pussy.”
Sturgis looked shocked. Bomber guys apparently didn’t talk that way.
“Colonel Truax, that kind of comment is hardly constructive.” He looked at the pilot like he was a bug. “I seriously doubt if a man who graduates from the Weapons School and manages to become an aid to a senior general is some sort of weak sister.”
&n
bsp; Truax shrugged. “No system is perfect, General. I know this guy. We flew together at Shaw. He’s the only guy I know that busted so many rides at Nellis that he got a second course. All because General Forrest thought he looked good.”
John Lee frowned. That was unheard of. There were forty flights in that program plus three hundred hours of academics. The competition and stress were unbelievable. No one got a second chance.
“So what happened to him?” Jolly asked.
“Got caught dipping his wick in the wax—some nineteen-year-old female maintenance chick. Like so many of those guys, he began believing his own press . . . thought he was bulletproof and that his general officer sponsor would get him out of anything.”
“Not true I guess.” Jolly shook his head.
“Not in this case. They tried to hush it up but the press got ahold of it. He was relieved of command and sent back to Nellis to the support squadron.”
“And what happened then?” The general asked. “Do we know where he went from there?”
“His wife divorced him and he retired at twenty years.” Doug Truax flipped the page over. “Says here he went to work as a consultant for some PMC.”
Private military corporations, or PMCs, had sprung up in the aftermath of the huge defense cuts of the late nineties. A clever move by Washington that left thousands of highly trained, highly lethal specialists looking for work. The Pentagon, ever a study in contradiction, then publicly denounced the use of professional mercenaries. Privately they used them in huge numbers in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Just then a side door opened and another young major walked in. Axe normally didn’t scope out brother officers but this in case it was no brother. She was tall for a woman, maybe five feet eight, with copper-colored hair and dark skin. Not tan from a can either, but the real thing. Like a girl who spent most of her time outdoors. She had a hard, compact body and even managed to make the horrible Air Force blue uniform look sensuous. The major paused a moment, aware of the instant attention, then walked across the room.
“Ah . . . Karen.” The general was at last aware that the two pilots weren’t utterly fascinated with him at the moment. “Gentlemen, one of my deputy execs, Major Karen Shipman. Please go on.”
Go on? Go on with what? Axe was thinking some extremely piggy thoughts. He glanced at the general and saw a quick flash of power lust in the man’s eyes. So that’s how it is.
“Which PMC?” Jolly wanted to know, careful to not stare at the major’s legs as she sat down.
“Global Resources International, based out of Roslyn, Virginia. They specialize mainly in creating and maintaining training programs for their clients. Very little operational fieldwork.”
“Very little?” The general leaned back and looked thoughtful. Axe glanced at his seven rows of ribbons and tried to keep his face neutral. His highest decoration was a Distinguished Service Medal. The “I am a General” medal given to all who are promoted past full colonel. The man was a Lieutenant General in the Air Force, had served for more than thirty years, and hadn’t done anything more dangerous than landing a B-52. Perfect type of officer to lead the Air Combat Command.
“They do have a select number of former Special Forces officers and fighter pilots that can form small field teams, if required, for”—he paused and looked up—“direct intervention contracts.”
“Meaning wet work.” Sturgis tapped his fingers together knowingly and glancing sidelong at Major Shipman, pleased he could contribute an operational phrase.
Axe looked away. Sturgis must have picked that one up during one of his numerous school tours like the Joint Flag Officer Warfighting Course. This was a room full of impeccably tailored generals and admirals, all with shiny shoes, sitting in a lecture hall at Maxwell AFB, theorizing about combat. Warfighting course. In a classroom.
“Direct intervention contracts are operational missions. You know.” He looked at the general. “Combat.”
“That happens to be illegal,” the general said tersely. “Our government has never advocated the ‘loaning’ of American military personnel to foreign nations for actual fighting. Unlike some of our so-called allies,” he added primly.
“Well, at least not since the RAF Eagle Squadron and Air America, “ Axe replied.
Jolly rolled his eyes.
“So”—the general got up and walked to his window—“assuming this madman is an American and received his training in our military, we’ve come up with these three possibilities.”
The two younger officers said nothing. Sturgis was obviously making a case of some sort. Probably practicing for the Congressional hearing.
“And that’s it?” He turned and stared at the lieutenant colonels. “We bet the farm on this?”
Meaning my ass is at stake and therefore so are yours.
“Actually, the two best candidates aren’t on your short list,” Axe replied quietly.
“Why is that?” Major Shipman could speak too. Actually, it was a nice voice. Low and serious. Deep for a chick but not masculine.
“Mostly because they’re dead.”
Axe caught what might have been a smile flit across Shipman’s lips and cleared his throat. “General, these are the most likely pilots from our military who fit the bill. Additionally,” he glanced at Jolly, “I took it upon myself to research another possibility.”
“For instance?”
“Foreign pilots that have done fast-jet U.S. exchanges with the Air Force or naval aviation.”
“Anyone turn up?” Jolly asked.
“A Dutch pilot. Major Timo van Oste.”
“Why him?” The general looked interested. A way to get the USAF off the hook.
“He spent seven years in the States. Pilot training at Sheppard, and he later came back for an exchange tour at Hill AFB in Utah.” Axe looked up. “LANTIRN and goggle qualified.”
Sturgis sat down again and poured himself a cup of coffee. “That’s the low-altitude night stuff right?” He clucked disapprovingly. “What a waste of training. Going low was always a bad idea.”
Axe looked away again. This from a bomber guy who bravely attacked things from 40,000 feet. Or would have if he’d ever been to war.
“Well, General . . . it seemed to work out okay in Taiwan the other night.”
The coffee cup froze in mid lift. “And you’re one half-assed remark away from a year in Korea with the Army.” The general stabbed a finger at Truax. There was entirely too much testosterone in the room.
K. Allen Sturgis fixed Axe with a beady stare. His short hair seemed to bristle and his jaw hardened. It was meant to be menacing but Axe struggled mightily not to laugh. That would get him sent to Korea. From the corners of his eyes he saw Major Shipman look away.
“Sir,” Jolly sounded like he was being strangled, “I think Colonel Truax meant that the man we’re looking for would almost certainly have had that type of specialized training. It narrows the field a bit.”
“All right, all right.” Sturgis held up his hand. “But why would any of these guys turn . . . mercenary?” The word obviously tasted bad to him.
“Two reasons. First is the money. Being a mercenary pays more than being a professional military officer.”
“A slimy way to earn a few dollars,” the general interjected disdainfully. “Not really the American way.” The general was trying not to stare at the major’s legs but wasn’t hiding it well. Wonder if he’s fucking her, Axe thought and stole a look at Shipman’s face. Intelligence, determination . . . that was to be expected. But something else too. Something hard around the eyes. She didn’t look like the overambitious type that slept her way to the top, but you just never knew.
“It’s more than a few dollars, General. The ones that survive are all millionaires.”
Lee stepped in again. “And the second reason?”
Doug Truax looked up. “Rev
enge.”
“Meaning what?” Karen Shipman crossed her legs and three sets of eyes were pulled downward to her calves. Muscled. Must be a runner. He noticed the buttons on her blouse seemed to be having a hard time keeping her breasts contained. The General noticed too. Bastard.
“Many of these guys might have some sort of personal grudge against the service they came from,” Axe replied. “Maybe even against our country.”
“Traitors.” Sturgis spat the word. “They’re breaking the law and deserve life behind bars.”
“Actually, General, treason still carries the death penalty. I have to point out,” he added, “that none of these pilots have been involved in direct action against the United States. They’ve taken contracts against our allies in several cases . . . but not directly against us.”
“Harming U.S. interests is the same as attacking America.” He sounds like a paid political ad, Axe thought wearily. Too much time learning slogans at the JFK School of Government and no time on the front line. Axe would never condone treason of course, but he knew that the disillusionment among the officer corps was widespread and endemic. He also knew why. Part of it was sitting across from him now.
“So as I see it, sir”—Jolly also stood—“Dan Morgan and this Dutch pilot, Van Oste, are our most likely choices.”
“What have we done to locate them so far?” He turned and leaned against the window.
“Nothing yet, sir,” Jolly replied. “I wasn’t sure of the authorization or to what level you wished this elevated.”
“Elevated?” Sturgis snorted. “This came down to us from the Pentagon. “The Chief of Staff wants this resolved and damn fast, especially if the pilot responsible is one of ours. Once the full report leaks out, and it will leak out, there will be seven kinds of hell to pay from Congress.” He rubbed his chin. “Imagine a rogue American pilot responsible for the biggest diplomatic setback and threat to Asian security in thirty years. There are certain Congressmen who’d just love that.”
Axe could imagine that. The upper levels of the military were still smarting from a series of nasty scandals. Then there was the quagmire in Iraq and the embarrassment of several high-profile weapons systems failures. The F/A-22 fiasco alone had cost the Air Force most of its credibility.