by Dan Hampton
Sliding over to the passenger side, the mercenary reached into the backseat and retrieved a soft sided black leather bag. Quickly slipping out of the blue uniform, he pulled on a pair of jeans, green docksides with no socks. A plain black T-shirt with a tan ORVIS bill cap completed the outfit. His uniform went into a garment bag that he laid over the seat and he removed the small key he’d retrieved in the BVI from the bag’s zippered pocket. The mercenary also pulled out one of the Nokia TracPhones he’d purchased and stuck it in his pocket. The dark glasses remained on.
Moments later he was back on Main Street and after a hundred yards pulled over to park. Locking the car, he thumbed two quarters into the meter, took the key and walked into the post office. Numbered boxes lined the anteroom and, finding the correct number on a little brass tag, he opened it. Withdrawing three yellow claim tickets, the mercenary walked into the service area. Taking a local information newsletter from the stand he kept his head down slightly, like any casual reader, while waiting his turn. After making an illegible scrawl on the receipt, he exchanged the tickets for three sealed envelopes: one legal sized and two smaller ones.
Pausing outside, he leaned against the brick wall and looked up and down the street. It was a fine day. Clear and warm. Schools were still in session so there weren’t any children. The people window-shopping were mostly women, alone or with a few friends. Housewives, out spending money and meeting lovers while their husbands worked The green canvas pendants hanging on one side proclaimed Suffolk to be “Everyone’s Neighborhood.”
Satisfied that all was well, he got back in the car and continued down Main Street, pulling over in front of the Java149 café. It was a pleasant Bohemian sort of place; none of the tables matched, but they were nearly full. Like distorted white butterfly wings, newspapers were spread out before steaming cups of coffee while people read, talked, and cautiously sipped.
Opening the biggest envelope, he dumped the contents on the seat beside him. There were two passports, one blue with the United States Eagle on the front and the other with the burgundy cover of Canada. He opened them both and noted with satisfaction that both had several entry and exit stamps for European countries. Both also had seemingly authentic U.S. entry stamps, Chicago and Boston respectively, dated from last week. Each passport had a valid International Driving License in the same name clipped to the back cover. The licenses appeared slightly worn and had been issued the previous year. The other plastic cards he put aside for the moment.
One of the smaller envelopes yielded four credit cards for business bank accounts he’d set up from the boat while cruising the Bahamas; two VISAs and two MasterCards issued against corporate accounts that were completely legitimate. Green Mountain Transport and Trendco Logistics from Delaware with Blue River Literary and Latham Consulting issued from Wyoming. Using a disposable cell phone, the mercenary activated the cards, then slipped them into a flat travel wallet that fit against the small of his back. He’d reorganize later.
The other plastic he picked up and examined closely.
The Texas driver’s license and retired U.S. military identification card were both in the name of Daniel P. Tyler. The Texas card was real, issued via online renewal for an existing license. If a policeman scanned the barcode he’d find out everything he wanted to know about a Dan Tyler of Dallas, Texas. There was a also a Maryland driver’s license and a current, active duty CAC—Common Access Card—issued to Matthew Tobin.
Both military IDs were real cards; however, the barcodes on the backs were gibberish. There was no way to access the DEERs system used by the government that encoded the identification, so they were a calculated risk.
The smaller envelope held a single piece of paper with typical Google Map directions. There was a little key taped to the bottom of the page.
Satisfied, he reached into the smaller of his two bags, withdrew the Irish passport, International Driving License and credit card that he’d used to fly into the Caribbean. These went into the empty legal envelope and he carefully peeled off the mailing label. Locking up again and feeding the meter, he strolled back down Main Street, across Market Street, and into the Wells Fargo Bank carrying the envelope inside his newspaper. There were two lines open and only one other customer. A plump, middle-aged female teller was leaning against her counter and she smiled brightly as he walked in.
“Good morning, sir, how may I provide with you excellent service?”
Returning her smile, the mercenary stepped up. “Withdrawal, please.” He passed her the Green Mountain Visa and his new U.S. passport. She typed in the credit card number.
“Certainly. How much would you like that for?
“Fifteen thousand. In hundreds please. And that should leave a balance of five thousand, right?”
Glancing at the screen she nodded. “Ah . . . five thousand twenty-six dollars and twenty-two cents, to be exact. If you’ll wait a moment, sir, I’ll make the withdrawal.”
“Take your time.” The Sandman returned to reading his newspaper, head lowered but not obviously so. A few minutes ticked by, several customers came and went, and he stifled a yawn.
“Here you are, sir,” a voice behind him said. Turning, he smiled again as the chubby teller passed him a full envelope.
“Thanks very much.”
“Of course. Is there anything else?”
“Not at the moment. I’ll come back next week to get a company safety-deposit box.”
She smiled again. “Anytime, sir. You can actually apply for it online and just bring in the papers when you a have a moment.”
The Sandman already knew that but nodded. “That’s good to know, and thanks again.”
Outside, he walked back down the street, past the café and into the Bank of Virginia. It was more crowded but had a commercial teller. The man ahead of him had scuffed work boots, a faded blue bandanna tucked in his back pocket, and a dirty bill cap on his sweaty head. His hands were massive and also dirty. Some kind of farmer, the Sandman thought, and suppressed a sigh.
Still, he was ahead of schedule and wasn’t worried about interference from Langley. They’d spend two hours locking down the base, blundering around the O’Club and convening a Tiger Team to study the problem. The FBI would get involved since a military base is a federal installation, but the Sandman knew their methods as well. They’d screen airports, train stations, bus terminals, and car-rental agencies. However, to do any of this they needed a face and a name—and they had neither. In the meantime, he was simply another anonymous American citizen going about his business.
“May I help you, sir?”
The farmer had ambled off and the teller, a petite brunette with a very pretty face, was smiling at him.
“Good morning.” He drew out a folded piece of paper and put it on the counter. “I received this email confirmation for a company safety-deposit box. I’ll sign for it and I’d like to see it, please—I need to make a withdrawal also.”
The teller unfolded the paper and compared it to the computer screen. “Green Mountain Transport?”
“Right.” the Sandman grinned disarmingly and filled out a slip for his withdrawal. “Not very glamorous, but folks always need cardboard shipping boxes, don’t they? We supply smaller food markets and a few moving companies.”
She laughed. “I think anything that makes money is glamorous. But don’t spread that around,” she added, and nodded toward the row of offices against the far wall.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” the mercenary replied, sotto voce.
“I’ll need some identification, please.”
He withdrew the corporate card and Texas license he’d just retrieved from the post office. “Certainly.”
Like the other teller, she checked the license against the authorized signatory on the box. She then verified that the box belonged to the company on file and that the company credit card matched the account. She not
ed that the box had been paid for a year in advance. After signing for it, the Sandman received a key in a little red envelope and they both walked to a room at the rear of the bank. Rows of keyed, bronze-faced boxes lined three of the walls and a full desk, complete with office supplies, occupied the other wall.
“Here it is, sir. Box 1906. Just press the button by the door when you wish to leave and I’ll have your withdrawal for you up front.” He thanked her and she left.
The box was one of the medium-sized types, about six inches high and twenty inches deep. Placing it on a console table, he removed the envelope of cash from his waistband and the larger mailer from inside the rolled-up newspaper.
The Irish passport, International Driving License, and his European-issued Visa card went into the box. He also counted out $10,000 in cash and placed it beside the documents. The remaining cash, Texas license, credit cards and military IDs went into the travel wallet. Locking the box, he put the key in the wallet and fastened it around his waist beneath the shirt. Pulling scissors from the desk, the Sandman cut up the Virginia license and credit card he’d picked up in Tortola. Dropping the pieces in his pocket he then pressed the buzzer, opening the door, and went back into the lobby. The pretty brunette gave him a parting smile and another envelope containing his withdrawal. He strolled out of the bank at 12:30.
He now had two complete identities, called legends, that would enable him to travel anywhere in the United States. Rapid, secure funds were available from the business credit cards and with the $25,000 dollars in cash he now carried. His return passport, credit card and cash were safely buried behind corporate anonymity and banking secrecy. Any faint trail that his Virginia persona had left would end with a nearly empty bank account at Wells Fargo. He was now Matt Tobin of Dallas, Texas, and he could prove it. Easing out into Main Street traffic, the mercenary slowly drove off.
Crossing the bridge on the south side of town, he tossed a handful of the plastic cuttings from the window and noted the change of scenery immediately. Little houses with peeling paint were clustered together like warts. Yards of weeds and rusting appliances were filled with old black men on torn sofas, preferring the outdoor heat to the indoor heat. Groups of sullen teenagers with their underwear showing and silly “do-rags” on their heads stared hatefully at the passing cars.
A few miles south of town, the squalor ended in an industrial park. Long lines of chain-link fences, broken only by gated guardhouses, stretched back from the road. Slowing, he flicked the remaining plastic pieces out and turned left at a small white sign that read SUFFOLK AIRPORT/GENERAL AVIATION.
Straight ahead lay the terminal, a long one-story white building with a large parking lot. Left of the terminal were several tan hangars with unpainted metal roofs, and beyond lay the runway.
Several people came and went from the terminal and one maintenance cart rolled toward the hangars but no one paid the slightest attention to the silver SUV. Why should they? People came and went from here all the time.
Parking as close to the terminal as possible among the other vehicles, the Sandman took a last look around the car, propped a sunshade up on the dashboard and got out. Still using the big vehicle to shield him from the terminal, he pulled the case and valise out and left the garment bag hanging in the back—the car was rented for two weeks and by the time it was discovered he’d be long gone. Locking the doors, the mercenary picked up his bags and walked calmly toward the terminal.
“Good Gawd almighty,” General Sturgis smacked the polished cherrywood desktop. His southern accent always got thicker when he was angry. And he was angry. Anyone who got in his way made him angry. Anything that might cast even a glimmer of shadow over his carefully arranged and polished career made him angry.
A full colonel being murdered during his own farewell ceremony was bad enough, but it had happened while he, K. A. Sturgis II, was down the hall in the same building. How in the hell was that going to look?
“How in the hell is this going to look?” He glared around the room, his small beady eyes almost disappearing into his saggy cheeks. “Someone answer me, dammit!”
The other general officer in the room, a two-star general named MacDonald, cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Neville is in shock, apparently. She’s been taken to the base hospital and . . .”
“Do I give a shit?” Sturgis interrupted angrily. “She’s alive, isn’t she? She’ll get a big monthly check from the Air Force and probably write a damn book! Make a million bucks and her problems are over!” He plopped back in the chair and put his arms behind his head. “Good Gawd almighty,” he said again. “What about me?”
Doug Truax leaned forward and opened his mouth to speak but caught a warning look from General MacDonald. Personally, Axe was appalled. As an officer, Jimmy Neville had been a jackass and an embarrassment. But Sturgis’s only visible reaction was how it affected him.
How did the Air Force survive with guys like this running things? In any large organization shit was bound to float upward, but one hoped that the military, and especially the officer corps, would be a bit less self-serving. He suppressed a sigh and focused on the tree outside the general’s window.
“What’s been done about the damn press?” Sturgis wanted to know.
“Nothing, sir,” General MacDonald replied. “No one outside the base knows anything about this yet.”
Sturgis put his stubby fingertips together and looked thoughtful. “Then this could go down as some sort of undiagnosed health problem that no one knew he had.”
Axe’s jaw dropped and General MacDonald cleared his throat. “Ah . . . I . . . don’t think that’s very likely, sir. I mean, his neck was broken.”
“But no one knows that except us.” Sturgis leaned forward.
“That’s not exactly true, General,” Doug Truax replied carefully. “There’s the EMT crew that responded to the call and certainly the hospital staff will know and . . .”
“They can be contained.” Sturgis snapped. “They’ll do what they’re told. National security. “So he slipped on a wet floor.”
“I’m against that, sir. For the record.” Bill MacDonald shook his head. “Too many people are involved and certainly Neville’s widow will know soon enough.”
General Sturgis sighed and stared out the window. MacDonald was a problem. The others were too junior to have any impact but the other general was different. A fighter pilot, which irritated Sturgis, and a warrior. He’d have to think about that.
While he did, there had to be a way to put a positive spin on this for himself. He’d always avoided controversy and being anywhere around the shit that splattered on others. Or at least he’d always managed to deflect it onto someone else.
Facing the group he said, “All right. Put together a Tiger Team: OSI, Security Police, someone from the CAG, and you, Bill, officially notify the FBI.” He needed time to sort this.
They all rose, happy to be doing something and, as the other officers filed out, Sturgis managed a tight little smile. There was always a way.
Less than six hours after Neville’s body had been found on the toilet, a twin-engined SkyMaster touched down at a small municipal airport in rural Arkansas. It was 4:42 in the afternoon, central time. Taxiing clear, the plane turned toward the General Aviation parking ramp on the north side of the field. The Sandman pulled onto the concrete apron near the fuel pumps, goosed the power to swing around, then shut down the engines. Unstrapping, he pulled back the locking handle and opened the cabin door.
Enjoying the relative silence after four and a half hours of propeller-driven vibration, the mercenary stretched his neck and gazed thoughtfully at a golf cart approaching from the little operations building.
Putting on the sunglasses, he tugged on the bill cap and crawled over the seat. Closing the clamshell doors to the cockpit, the mercenary walked around behind the aircraft and up the other side. Ostensibly
making a post-flight inspection, he was also calmly surveying the airport.
“Afternoon!” The man popped out of the cart and stood, hands on hips, looking over the plane.
“How ya doin?” All smiles now, the Sandman came around the cowling, hand outstretched.
“Nice plane. Need fuel, huh?” The man was about sixty, with a full head of white hair. He was wearing jeans, tan work boots, and a bright yellow polo shirt spotted with coffee stains. There was an enormous key ring jangling from his belt.
“Yep. Won’t make the next leg without it.”
The man rubbed his chin. “I was just closin’ up for the night. How ’bout we do this in the mornin’?”
The mercenary pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. “Goin’ up to Nebraska.” He winked. “Don’t like to keep the lady waitin’. How about we do it now and you keep this for the trouble.” He slowly waved the money back and forth.
“You got it.” The manager grinned. “Just throw some chocks under a wheel.” He walked back to the pumps and unlocked them. “You gotta grounding wire?”
“Nope.”
“S’all right. Pull one outa the cart there.”
For the next few minutes they busied themselves refueling the plane. The mercenary held the ladder, straightened the hose and politely listened to the man’s chatter.
“Hey,” the pilot finally got a word in. “I need the can. Also need to check the weather.”
The manager stuck the nozzle in the other wing port and nodded over his shoulder in the direction of the building. “Go ahead. I can finish ’er up.”
Walking across the apron, he glanced around the surrounding countryside. It was flat and green, broken at intervals by low tree lines. There was an outer screen door, complete with several ragged holes, which he pulled open and stepped through. Inside was typical. Thin wood paneling covered three of the four walls. The big desk faced the door and was backed by two rows of windows that faced the runway. One wall near the desk had a white board covered in multicolored scribbling and several clipboards hanging from nails. These were notices, called NOTAMS, concerning runway closures, bad weather alerts and any special conditions that affected flying. Running his finger along the sheets he saw nothing concerning his destination. Walking around to the computer, the mercenary tapped in a few letters and pulled up a flight-planning website. Entering several four-letter identifiers, he checked the weather and conditions of each. Pausing at the last one, he stared at the screen. Morning fog.