The Mercenary

by Dan Hampton

  Overbanking, he dropped another 100 feet and turned to line up on the hangar lights about a mile in front of him. As he did, the fast-moving strobe light of the T-38 blinked past as it headed northeast around Seguin. Ignoring the other trainer, he concentrated on finding the unlit piece of concrete a mile off his nose. Leveling off at 200 feet, eyes straining under the goggles, he stared at the ground next to the hangars.

  There! A faint, straight edge that had to be concrete. Setting his aim point along the line just to the right of the last lit hangar, the Sandman ran his fingers over the cowl flaps, gear handle, and flap lever. They were all as they should be. As he got closer, the little runway was plain to see against the glow from the hangars. A rain shower must’ve passed by within the last few hours, because the concrete looked wet and was easy to see. Touching down abeam the first hangar, the mercenary let the nose drop and the SkyMaster slowed quickly.

  It was well past 9 P.M. and he was certain the airpark was deserted. Even so, he wanted to be motionless and quiet as soon as possible. Taxiing to the north end, the mercenary turned off at the edge of the fueling pad and cut the throttles, rolling to a stop next to the pumps. Unbuckling his harness, he powered down the avionics and shut off the battery. Sitting now in total darkness, the pilot watched the buildings for any sign of movement.

  As expected, there was none.

  Taking a deep breath, he opened the clamshell cockpit door and breathed in the warm, wet Texas air. For another five minutes he waited, hot metal ticking as it cooled, and watched the roads north and south of the runway. Nothing. Sliding out then, the Sandman walked to the tail section, jumped up on the starboard boom and forced the plane’s nose off the ground. Grunting against the weight, he swung the SkyMaster around on its main gear until it was pointed back toward the runway. Pulling a pair of chocks from the rear compartment, he placed them under the left wheel, stood back and stretched.

  Walking slowly over to the operations building, he massaged his neck and yawned. It was half past nine and the sun was due up in about eight hours. A sign on the door announced that Brenner Aviation was open for business at 0730. Lessons, fuel, and rentals were available.

  But the Sandman already knew that.

  Strolling back to the plane, he took his bags out and sat them on the concrete. Transferring a pair of Corcoran boots, a tightly rolled flight suit and his workout gear to a plain tan backpack, he also tugged out a black sports jacket and draped it over the passenger seat. The Texas license, military ID, and one corporate Visa went into his money clip. His other ID, passport, and credit cards were taped flat beneath the lining of the larger travel case and would not be found from a casual search. A professional would discover them but if it came to that he had other problems. Repacking the bags, he locked the compartment and pocketed the key. Setting his watch alarm at 4 A.M., the Sandman climbed into the rear compartment, pulled the clamshell shut and stretched out to sleep.

  Throughout the night, law enforcement officials in Virginia and their military counterparts reviewed surveillance tapes, ran down leads and eliminated possibilities. As dawn broke over the Chesapeake Bay, Doug Truax stared at his cold, bad coffee with distaste. The only thing he knew for certain was that he’d missed a night of sleep.

  “Nothing yet?” A sleepy voice behind him asked. Jolly Lee was yawning and squinting at the bright bars of light shining through the window slats.

  “State and local law enforcement have zip.” Axe rubbed his eyes. “Same from the sky cops and OSI here. We also haven’t heard from our new FBI buddy yet, but if he had anything I’d like to think he’d tell us.”

  Lee snorted. “Right. The government is so forthcoming with information.”

  “We’re the government.”

  “Good point.” He yawned again. “How goes the research?”

  Truax thought he must be talking about the mercenary incident.

  “I think the Marine and the Dutchman are the best bets, but it’s to the point now where they need to be met face-to-face.”

  ““The OSI can do that.”

  “The OSI doesn’t know a pitot tube from a twenty-millimeter cannon.”

  “So you want to do it?”

  Axe shrugged and looked around blearily. God, he hated this place. “Who else?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. You’re better suited for that anyway, rather than playing detective.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Besides, “Lee tipped a coffee cup up and sniffed at the contents. “If this maniac killer of ours was gonna do it again he probably already would have. I think”—he put the cup on the desk and began tucking in his shirt—“that the worst is behind us.”

  Up . . . UP!

  He rolled the fighter and pulled for the sky, straining every muscle, every sinew. Sweat leaked from under the oxygen mask and he felt it slide on his cheeks as the G forces pressed him into the ejection seat.

  Another flash of yellow caught his eye and a faint gray streamer broke free of the mottled brown earth. Mouth dry, he forced the jet through the horizon, then snap-rolled into the surface-to-air missile, trying to close the distance. Another flash! Groping for the countermeasure switch, the pilot swallowed hard, blinking the salty sweat from his stinging eyes as his warning receiver told him what he already knew.

  “BEEP . . . BEEP . . . BEEP . . .” More missiles.

  Trying to pull harder, his gloved hand slipped off the stick! Harder . . . his breath was ragged as grabbed the slippery stick again. The jet waffled and the SAM corrected to point at him . . . it was close enough to see the fins. Move! The veins in his neck stood out and the Gs had trapped his head back against the seat . . . pull!

  “BEEP . . . BEEP . . . BEEP . . .”

  Sitting bolt upright, he reached for a stick and throttle that weren’t there. Eyes wide, the mercenary gulped air and stared at the back of a seat, an aircraft console . . . a door.

  Texas.

  He was in Texas. In the back of the SkyMaster.

  “BEEP . . . BEEP . . . BEEP . . .”

  Swallowing, he felt for the watch alarm and turned it off. Taking a deep breath, the Sandman peered outside at the little parking area and the fuel pumps. Huber Airpark. Wiping his forehead, he closed his eyes and forced the memory back. When his breathing slowed, he pulled himself forward and opened the clamshell door. Gingerly working out the kinks, he glanced at his watch: 0401.

  Feeling better, he massaged a shoulder, yawned, and shook his head slightly. After only being back on American soil for five days, he was surprised at how natural it felt. Familiar. Looking around the little airpark, he inhaled the morning Texas air, heavy with dew, wet grass, and steamy warmth left over from the night. Across the road, a row of meadowlarks huddled on telephone wires that sagged between leaning poles.

  Scribbling a note on a piece of paper, the Sandman walked over to the office and stuck it in the screen door. Back at the plane, he exchanged his jeans for brown khakis and changed shirts. Slinging the backpack over one shoulder, he carried the sports jacket and walked out across the little runway. At 4:15, everything was still dark, but he knew the road to town was on the east side of the field. Five minutes later, munching on two packets of trail mix and an orange, the mercenary stepped onto the asphalt and headed south toward Seguin. He’d given himself two hours to cover the three miles, but a few minutes after six he was passing a row of repair shops with Spanish names onto Austin Street. />
  Strolling south a few blocks, he turned right at Kingsbury Street and walked into El Taco Tejano. Sitting near the door, the Sandman ate a huge breakfast of chorizo and eggs, washed down with black coffee. An hour later the local traffic was beginning to stir, so he walked south for another two hundred yards into a little red auto-repair shop that doubled as a Hertz rental-car agency.

  “Mornin’ sir.” A chubby Hispanic girl got up from behind a computer and lumbered over to the small counter. “How may I help you?”

  Smiling disarmingly, the Sandman laid two pieces of plastic down. “Good morning. I believe you have a reservation for Tyler.”

  The keyboard clicked. “Yes . . . a Daniel Tyler for five days. Drivers license and a credit card, please.” He handed over the Texas ID and the Blue River credit card.

  “That’s right. I’ve got an interview at Texas Lutheran later today.”

  She looked up. “Oh. Are you a professor?”

  “Associate professor. Medieval theology.”

  The girl chuckled. “I barely made it through high school.” After running the credit card, she handed it back to him. After the litany of insurance and five signatures, a set of keys was passed across. “So you need a map?

  “Yes, please.”

  Handing over a sheaf of rental papers, she pointed behind him. “It’s the green Camry.”

  Thanking her, the mercenary left the building and slid into the car. Ten minutes later, he turned north on State Highway 46, then merged onto Interstate 10 heading west toward San Antonio.

  With the window down, the mercenary sniffed the morning air again and gazed at the mottled green fields rolling off in all directions. Twenty minutes later, after crossing the Guadalupe River, he took Exit 587 and found himself on the 1604 Loop. This bypassed San Antonio toward Universal City and Randolph Air Force Base.

  Farmland changed to tacky strip malls, auto shops, and, of course, fast-food joints. Flipping through the radio stations he was surprised to hear rock ’n’ roll mixed in with the usual country songs about dead dogs and unfaithful wives. Traffic picked up and there seemed to be more motorcycles on the road than he remembered. At 8:25, he joined the long line of cars entering the main gate and slowed to a crawl. Timing his arrival to coincide with the morning rush, the Sandman would almost certainly not be remembered.

  The entrance to the base was immaculate. Manicured grounds ran off from both sides of a wide, divided road and the morning sprinklers were on. As he rolled down the window, the smell of wet grass mixed with jet fuel wafted over in the light breeze. The security policemen were efficient, taking ID cards and handing them back, saluting officers and waving in the others. Some vehicles were waved over for inspection or other paperwork problems, but as he’d counted on, no scanners. Randolph was a headquarters base and very busy. Lots of colonels and generals. Lots of retirees.

  The skinny black cop took in the car and the well-dressed man behind the wheel. Seeing the relatively short hair and civilian clothes, he visibly relaxed a bit as the Sandman passed over the retired military ID and rental-car papers.

  The kid compared the license number then looked at the ID card. Instantly stiffening a bit, he simultaneously threw his hand up in a salute while snapping to attention.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Morning.” He casually returned the salute.

  “Off to play golf, Colonel?”

  The mercenary grinned. “Later. I’m going up to see General Pruitt; we’re old friends.” Pruitt headed up the Training Command and the Sandman wouldn’t know him if he fell over him. But the cop would know the name.

  “Have a nice day, sir.” Retirees, the cop thought enviously, and passed the documents back. Must be nice to have a colonel’s pension and nothing to do. The Sandman waved and eased through the gate.

  Named Randolph field back in the 1930s, the base was laid out like a lollipop between two huge parallel runways. The “stick” led up from the gate to the Taj Mahal, a cream-colored building with wide, dark porticos and a red roof. An octagon tower soared upward, was capped by a gold dome.

  A roundabout split traffic and he took the road around to the right. The base exchange complex, commissary, and most of the nonessential base functions were on this side. The center of the lollipop was the Officer’s Club complex and enormous, oval-shaped pool. Concentric rings spread out from this, joined by tree-lined streets like spokes on a wheel. General officers and colonels had houses here, with a sprinkling of lieutenant colonels and majors.

  He’d get to that later.

  Turning into the BX parking lot, he found the Starbucks and parked. He had nowhere to be until this afternoon and needed to kill time unobtrusively. Checking into a hotel off base hadn’t been an option since he needed to slip inside the gate during the rush. With his retired military ID card he could chance a Visiting Officer Quarters room but there really was no need. The fewer people who saw him directly the better. Yawning, he sighed and rubbed his eyes. First a coffee and then to the fitness center. It was the perfect place to spend hours where no one would get suspicious. There were also lockers and showers.

  Getting out, he stood for a moment and casually stretched in the morning sun. Across the rooftops, he could hear the whine of aircraft engines and saw the scene in his memory. Buildings full of eager, intense young men; some were huddled in flight briefings scribbling notes on line-up cards. Others were in class, dissecting hydraulic systems or absorbing advanced aerodynamics. Some were walking out in pairs to the rows of clean, brightly painted T-38s and T-6 Texans.

  Locking the car doors, he stared a long time toward the thick, green mass of trees rising over the club area and officers’ housing. Children played and couples strolled along the wide tree-lined streets and manicured lawns. Men came home each night from various offices or the flight line. They wore uniforms but nearly all of them would do nothing more dangerous than cross the street or fly a T-38 around the Texas countryside.

  They were safe here. From wars, from danger, and from the deadly world of the fighter pilot. A world that he, himself, had come from. These men here wore the uniforms and embraced the trappings of the military, but most had no clue about combat and the few men who did it. Well—the Sandman smiled a little—there would be a brief and final introduction to at least one of them tonight. Turning then, he mingled with others walking into the BX and disappeared inside—just one of the crowd.

  Chapter 13

  They began trickling out of the big, white building at four o’clock. Men slipping away with gym bags over their shoulders and briefcases in their hands. Most government offices emptied out early and this was especially true on a Friday. Some went to the fitness center, others headed home or to the Officer’s Club.

  From the parking lot across the street, the mercenary watched them all. Military officers traveled a great deal—TDY, or temporary duty, as it was called. It was normally very difficult to say with any certainty where a particular man would be on any given date. However, courtesy of his informant, the Sandman knew this man would be here today.

  This week Randolph Air Force Base had convened a Central Selection Board to promote captains to major. In this case, the members of the board would all be at least lieutenant colonels or colonels, and of particular interest was the board president. By law and policy, a brigadier general must preside over such a promotion board, and this particular man’s identity, as well as the date of the CSB, had reached the Sandman in Amman.

  Ten minutes after five, a small group of men left the
building and slowly walked down the stairs. The one in the middle was obviously the senior officer as the others remained at a careful distance—close, but not too close.

  Eyes narrowed, the mercenary watched the man come down the steps. He was older, of course, and his sandy blond hair was thinning at the sides. Years before, he’d been slightly built, with a spring in his step, but this had given way to paunchy middle age. The neck looked thick and his movements had the corpulent stiffness of someone who’d spent too many years behind a desk. But it was him.

  Brigadier General Sebastian Herbert Fowler.

  The officers crossed the street and stopped beside a blue staff car in a VIP space nearest the street. They talked briefly, then saluted as a group and broke up. Fowler tossed his briefcase into the backseat, eased into the front and slowly drove off.

  Getting here, to this place at this time, was relatively predictable. Some logistics and a great deal of skill had been involved, but it was a situation the Sandman could control - right up to the second Fowler drove off alone. Following twenty yards back, the mercenary wondered what the general would do: the gym or maybe back to his Distinguished Visitor Quarters. He might even drive off base for the Riverwalk or to visit a friend.

  But the staff car crossed Northwest Drive and passed behind the Taj Mahal, probably ruling out the fitness center or BX as destinations. Fowler didn’t follow Northeast Drive around the big circle but continued on C Street toward the east flight line.

  Pausing at 5th Street, he crossed and entered the parking lots next to the T-38 Training Squadrons. The mercenary turned right into another parking area and slid to a stop, watching. The general had flown AT-38s years before, so perhaps he intended to visit a friend. Not that that was likely though: S. Herbert Fowler wasn’t the type to have any close friends. The blue car traveled slowly up along the buildings but never stopped.