by Dan Hampton
“C’mon with me and I’ll show you were the office is. You can clear customs there and then the dockmaster will grant the slip.”
So much for staying anonymous, the mercenary thought. But it didn’t really matter. Customs were usually a formality at a wealthy island club. They walked down the wide concrete dock and the Sandman glanced up. Above the waving treetops the sky was a flat gunmetal gray. Along the eastern horizon a black stain was slowly spreading upward as the edge of the hurricane approached. Big, heavy drops of rain occasionally plopped onto his face and he knew making harbor had been the right choice. In a past life he’d once ridden out a hurricane at sea and vowed never to do it again.
Past the dock with its orderly line of green lampposts and capped pilings they stepped onto a walkway. Manicured lawns led up to a pool and rows of condos huddled beneath the trees. Following the man past a bathhouse and laundry they came to a pleasant little yellow stucco building with windows facing the water. A white sign, lettered in green, identified it as the dockmaster’s office and they ducked inside.
A man in his early sixties stood with his back to the door, staring out the big windows, talking on the radio to a boat entering the channel.
“I’ll leave you here, sir,” the dockhand said cheerily and wiped the rain from his forehead. “I’ve a few things to tidy up before it gets much worse.”
“Thanks again.”
The dockmaster put the radio down and turned, muttering and shaking his head.
“Day sailors . . . a danger to navigation. That one”—he jerked his head in the direction of the channel—“that one’s in a snit over the rocks.” He pronounced it rahcks.
The mercenary smiled. “What rocks?”
The dockmaster peered at him. “Exactly. What fookin’ rahcks?” He had a broad accent that was originally probably British but had absorbed a lot of lazy island slang. “Daft bastard’s mistook the breakwater for shoals. Anyway”—he sighed and managed a smile—“you’ll be off that fifty-footer?”
“That’s right. I’ll need a slip till the weather clears.”
“Easy enough. A dollar forty per foot plus water and electricity. You need a pump out?” he asked, referring to the toilets.
“No—it’s fine.”
The man passed a clipboard. “Fill this out, please. We’ll worry about customs when the weather clears. You’ll not be gettin’ them out in the rain.”
“Good enough. Can I leave the boat where she is?”
“Aye. C-dock is safe enough. As of a half hour ago they say the storm’ll pass south of us and we’ll likely get her backside.” The dockmaster yawned and watched him write. “Yank?”
“No—Irish.”
“Hmph. Talk like a Yank.”
“I was born in Canada but left it for Ireland years ago.”
The man seemed to accept that and took the clipboard back. “Now . . . let’s run your card, and then if you want a hot meal the restaurant should be open now.”
The Sandman took out a roll of hundred-dollar bills. “Let’s see . . . dollar forty a foot at fifty feet is seventy dollars per day. How about five days to start with, plus fuel when you can.” He pulled out six bills and passed it to the man.
“I’d prefer a credit card, if you don’t mind.”
“Actually, I’d rather not.” The mercenary smiled disarmingly. “You see, my wife might object to the young lady traveling with me.”
The older man chuckled. “Showing her the islands are you?”
“That’s one way to put it. Heading down to Saint Bart’s next.”
The dockmaster shrugged. “I don’t imagine a man with a boat like that is going to slip out of port in the middle in the night.”
That’s exactly what I’m going to do. “Of course not. Not without settling my bill anyway.”
Leaving the office he found the pool bar and a surprisingly good meal of steamed conch and fried potatoes with a half carafe of icy Bernkasteler. The restaurant was busy with marina guests and a few owners who’d come down to secure their boats. One couple caught his eye since the young woman didn’t seem overly excited about being there. The husband was short, with a receding hairline and prim, self-righteous look the Sandman found irritating, even from a distance. The girl was a stunning brunette with almond-shaped eyes and a sleek, athletic figure. As the husband went through the show of praying for their meal, she lifted her head and stared directly at him. It was tempting but the Sandman decided against it. Bad enough that he’d been forced onto land at all; he didn’t need any more exposure.
After the meal, he slipped out of the restaurant and made his way back to the dock against the rising wind. Sharp clinks echoed everywhere as metal fixtures and hardware banged against masts. Choppy water slapped hulls and bumpers squeaked as boats rose and fell. Seeing that the dockhand had hooked up his electrical and water connections he climbed on board and slid down into the main salon, locking the hatch behind him. He had a landline hookup now for his computer and spent part of the night and the next day completing his arrangements. Leaving the boat only to stretch his legs, he kept to himself.
The storm did indeed pass off to the south and west, heading for the Gulf of Mexico. By late afternoon on the following day, the mercenary had made his final preparations, fueled both boat and dinghy, then slept. Shortly after midnight, with stars shining through scattered breaks in the clouds, he silently untied all but the stern lines and sat in darkness beneath the mast, watching. At one A.M. the Sandman switched on the quiet diesel, cast off and slowly backed the sloop out past the dock. Minutes later the Peregrine, a dark shape against a black sea, slid into Bell Channel and disappeared.
Four hours later, after the sun struggled above the horizon, the Sandman sipped a steaming cup of coffee and stared at the sky. Southwest of Walker’s Cay, he was about 75 miles off Florida, heading north with choppy seas and variable winds. All day he angled northeast and finally, about 40 miles off the U.S. coast, turned to parallel the eastern seaboard.
But the next morning dawned clear and as he laid out his paints and stencil, he thought about Freeport and decided the risk of any action from the dockmaster was minimal. In the first place, as a Bahamian official, he’d be in trouble with Immigration for not notifying them. Secondly, he’d been paid for five days plus fuel, so the Sandman figured the man was $200 richer and wouldn’t complain. And he’d told the man his destination was Saint Bart’s, which was southeast of the Bahamas, in the opposite direction.
Hove to, bow into the wind, he leaned over the stern and went to work. Stopping to let the paint dry and drink a bottled water, he basked in the morning sun, lulled by the warmth and gentle rocking. By noon he peeled the stencils off, tore them up and dropped the pieces overboard. Anyone looking for the Peregrine, a British boat registered in Tortola, would be disappointed. Surveying his work, he smiled; he was now sailing the Wanderer, out of Charleston, South Carolina.
Continuing northwest, the mercenary repeatedly rehearsed each step in his plan. Details were refined and he considered the likely contingencies. On the evening of the fourth day out of the Bahamas, he grilled a steak and opened a chilled bottle of Moscato. Watching the sunset, the Sandman allowed himself to remember details about a country he hadn’t seen in five years. The anger smoldered but he forced it back—there would be time for that later.
The next morning he sat shirtless and cross-legged on the teak deck and took apart the laptop. Carefully breaking the motherboard into small pieces, he dropped them overboard with the hard drive. The laptop shell went spinning into a wave and sank. Pulling the Stars and Stripes from a bulkhead locker he attached it to the gaff and gazed at the flag for a long moment, eyes hard.
It was time.
Spinning the wheel left, he brought the big sailboat around, and with the rising sun behind her, headed west toward the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay.
Chapter 10
The going-away party was vintage U.S. Air Force. A big white cake from the base commissary proclaimed GOOD LUCK! in blue and red letters. A dozen plastic-wrapped red roses, also from the base commissary, lay next to the cake, ready to compensate the colonel’s wife for all the long days and bad housing she’d lived in. There was a cheap paper program on every vinyl-covered folding chair. The program contained the colonel’s biography, assignment history, and list of decorations. Notably absent from the long list was anything earned in combat, although no one but the military officers knew that. A boom box with a CD version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” and “The Air Force Song” rested on the floor.
Junior officers who worked for the colonel hovered near the double doors waiting to escort female guests and family members to the front row of chairs. Other officers mingled in groups of twos and threes with cups of punch in their hands. The discussions were much the same. Deadlines, presentations, budgets—the stock in trade of the military staff officer.
They were mostly middle aged and had that soft, fleshy look of men who spent their days behind desks or sitting in conference rooms. The enlisted men present were senior non-commissioned officers, none below the rank of master sergeant. They were generally shorter than the officers, heavier and all had small mustaches.
Lieutenant Colonel Truax and another officer stood aside from the rest. They were also dressed in the unflattering, 1970-vintage Class-A blue uniform that the Air Force still thought looked good. But the similarity to most of the others ended there. Both men wore silver wings with the solid center shield of Air Force pilots. The younger one, Major Paul Mathis, had a star atop his wings denoting a senior pilot while Axe wore the star and wreath of a command pilot.
What really set them apart from the others were the top row of decorations on their chests. Truax had a Silver Star followed by a Distinguished Flying Cross and Valor device. Both were combat awards for gallantry and heroism, respectively. Neither was awarded for good staff work or flying around safe, stateside bases. Further down his chest, intermingled with the usual meaningless bits of peacetime cloth, were campaign ribbons from the both Gulf Wars and Kosovo.
The major also wore the blue-and-white-striped ribbon for the DFC with the Valor device. His had two small oak leaves attached, meaning he’d been awarded the DFC three times for heroism in combat. Next to it, rare for an Air Force officer, was the Purple Heart. He also had campaign ribbons for the second Gulf War and Afghanistan.
“This food sucks,” he mumbled, and dropped his carrot stick back onto the paper plate. “I only came for the food.”
Doug Truax chuckled but kept his eyes on the door. He was waiting for the general, who would officiate the farewell ceremony. Normally that wouldn’t happen, but the colonel, who was leaving, was a protégé of the general, who was staying.
Protégé. Stuck together at the hip was more like it. Axe sighed and tried not to hate his job too much. Sixty days . . . sixty days . . . he kept repeating in his head. Two months, then a quick requalification course, and he’d be back in the cockpit of an F-16, where he belonged.
“I hate the Staff,” Mathis groused, and tugged at the unfamiliar blue polyester tie around his neck. “And I really hate this fucking monkey suit.”
Most pilots grew very accustomed to the one-piece baggy flight suit that Air Force flyers wore as a daily uniform. It was a visible class distinction between themselves and the “shoe clerks,” the others who overwhelmingly populated the Air Force.
“You look great. Quite the poster child for the Air and Space and Information Dominance . . . Force . . . or whatever the hell we are this week.”
Mathis, inevitably named “Jonny” during his first tour in fighters, looked sour. The Air Force almost monthly restated its mission and spent hundreds of thousands of dollars reprinting posters and booklets advertising the new play on words.
“Just what I wanted. What the fuck are we doing here anyway?”
“You’re here because you work for this guy and were ordered to look happy and supportive. I’m here because my old boss left and forgot to take me along.”
“No . . . I meant, what are we doing here? We should be out flying or deployed somewhere hot and nasty. This sucks, Axe.”
Truax chuckled again. “And you’d still bitch about it.”
“Well yeah . . . but I wouldn’t really mean it. Whatever happened to Flying and Fighting?”
“Ah. That was the old Air Force. Why Fly and Fight when we can PAGE DOWN and ESC our way out of danger with unmanned aerial vehicles?”
Mathis pointed to the full colonel standing at the front of the room. “If you listen to him, the F-22 is the only jet we’ll ever need.”
“The mighty Raptor.” Truax shook his head. “Good thing the Air Force Chief of Staff and Congress covered for Lockheed Martin. If word ever got out how fucked up that thing is and how much it really costs everyone here would be shot.”
They both watched as Colonel Jimmy “Blitz” Neville moved from small group to small group. He smiled graciously. Appeared interested in everyone and what they were saying. His wife, a stout, uninspiring woman with badly highlighted black hair, dutifully followed him.
Axe hoped he wouldn’t be seen and angled away slightly to avoid eye contact. But it didn’t work.
“Axe! Jonny! Thanks so much for coming.” Neville strode over.
“Thank you, Colonel.” Truax couldn’t call him sir. “The general should be along shortly.”
Jimmy Neville glanced at the door and then back at the two officers. He also wore command pilot wings and had a long rack of ribbons. Not one of them related to combat. Short and stocky, the colonel always stood ramrod straight to stretch his five feet eight inches as far as they’d go.
“Good, good.” He pursed his lips and nodded enthusiastically. “I’m honored that he wanted to do this.” He had the short-man habit of rocking back on his heels to seem even taller.
I’ll bet, Axe thought, carefully keeping his face neutral. Another chance to kiss some ass. He watched Neville try not to scope out his ribbons. The little man quickly checked Truax over, his gaze lingering slightly on the Silver Star.
“Well, Jonny”—the colonel cleared his throat and glanced at Mathis—“shouldn’t be too long before we’re doing one of these for you. Whatcha think about that? “
“I think I’d rather sweep floors in a fighter squadron than have the best job on a staff, Colonel.”
Axe suppressed a smile as Neville’s face reddened. Jonny Mathis was nothing if not blunt.
But Colonel Neville’s inevitable terse reply was cut short by the arrival of Lieutenant General Kenneth Alan Sturgis. He strode through the door and halted, waiting to be recognized and announced just like a fashion model or politician.
The sergeant holding the door stiffened and brayed out the mandatory welcome of a general officer.
“Roooom . . . Atten . . . SHUN.”
Sturgis paused to let everyone react. Everyone in uniform came to attention and the women and civilians turned to look. After a two-heartbeat count, the general smiled and casually strolled into the room.
“Oh please, everyone”—he managed to sound apologetic—“at ease. Carry on please.”
Beaming with good cheer, Sturgis waved and stepped over. Just one of the boys. “Blitz!” He stuck out his hand and Neville took it. “Great job here . . . great job.”
We’ll be sorry to see you go, Axe mouthed silently. On to bigger and better things.
“We’ll be so sorry to see you go,” the general continued. “But on to bigger and better things, eh?”
The Air Force needs officers like you. That’ll be next.
“The Air Force needs officers just like you . . . more so now than ever before,” he added seriously.
“Thank you, sir.” Neville practically wet his pants. “And thank you for coming.”
Sturgis clapped him on the shoulder. “Not at all, not at all.” He held up his right hand and briefly flashed the big silver-and-blue Air Force Academy ring. “It’s the least I can do for one of the brothers.”
Neville smiled. He wore the same ring.
With that, the general moved off toward the front of the room, never acknowledging Truax or Mathis. Neville left too, floating in the general’s wake.
A few minutes later, a harried captain tapped the microphone and the chattering around the room faded. The lights dimmed as everyone found their seat. After a long moment the measured cadence of four pairs of feet thudded methodically from the darkness. The color guard, consisting of a black, an Asian, a white woman and a Latino, stomped carefully down the aisle. They wheeled and presented the colors.
With all eyes on the front of the room, no one noticed a sliver of light as the rear door cracked open. A man in uniform slid through and took a seat in the back row as the national anthem began to play. Just another officer.
Wheeling and stomping again, the color guard slowly walked out. The captain then introduced a long-winded protestant chaplain, who invoked the Almighty to take an interest in the proceedings.
Everyone sat.
A slide show began. Images of a younger and much skinnier Lieutenant Neville flashed across the screen. Neville on the ladder leading to the cockpit of his F-15. Neville bravely defending Kadena Air Base from the Chinese attack that never came. Neville sitting in brown battle dress importantly answering a phone in some desert air operations center. A Weapons School graduation picture of Captain Neville in his mess dress.
The Sandman, in the back row by the door, was not impressed. Jimmy Neville had always been somewhere other than where the fighting was.
The show ended with Neville, now a colonel, leaving Nellis Air Force base to come to Langley. “The Air Force Song” played and the lights came up a notch. The mandatory presentation of pins and certificates was next. Several officers added mandatory anecdotes about what a great boss Neville had been and how much good he’d done for the F-22 program.