by Dan Hampton
“So.” Sturgis opted for the edge of his desk, his wide butt spilling over the side. Running a disapproving eye over Doug Truax, he smiled at Karen Shipman, who, incidentally, was also wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. “What’s the FBI news?”
Abbot cleared his throat. “We’ve narrowed the still shots down to three persons of interest that were taken within the forty-eight hours following Neville’s death. We’re digitally enhancing the pictures now.”
“How are you eliminating suspects?”
“We don’t eliminate anyone. We’ll verify each pairing, then establish an identity and finally ascertain their purpose for being at both locations.”
“They are both military bases,” Axe noted dryly. “There are valid reasons for traveling to both.”
“Precisely,” David Abbot nodded. “But that’s also easy enough to verify.”
Karen Shipman added, “Also, just because someone had a legitimate reason to be at both bases doesn’t preclude him from being a murderer.”
“We considered that too. However, if any of these three are investigated to that level it would be very difficult to hide. Besides, there may be fingerprints, DNA matches, et cetera, at that point.”
Sturgis pursed his lips, then nodded. “Right. And all the commercial exit points are still negative?”
Abbot shrugged. “No face, no name, and therefore no matches. However, if one of these three turns out to be the man, then we can possibly correlate that to a commercial surveillance picture.”
So what, Axe thought, and stifled a yawn. It wouldn’t really matter then how the guy got away and to Texas because they’d know who he was. Glancing at Karen, he was rewarded with a slight smile and figured she was thinking the same thing.
They’d had a nice, relaxed dinner at the Crab Shack and talked. It had been pleasant sitting there on the water as the sun went down over the James River. He hadn’t done that with a woman he liked in a long time. He was certain there was some interest on her part, especially after that last remark she’d made.
But the woman was definitely a bit aloof and very hard to read. That, he had decided, was a by-product of living and working in the still very male world of the military. So he’d decided to let her make the move. A woman, he knew, would find a way to let a man know she was interested. Giving up the chase, so to speak, had actually loosened him up, and he was surprised how easy she was to talk with.
“When do you expect to finish analyzing the pictures?” Sturgis wanted to know.
“We’ll have the enhanced copies back by morning.”
He smiled slightly. “Fortunately the military moves a bit quicker. Dwyer!”
Looking pleased with himself, the major opened a folder on his knees and pulled out several pieces of paper.
“Through AFPC and Personnel here at Langley we discovered several interesting connections.” Everyone perked up a bit at that. “Colonel Neville and Colonel Smith were stationed together twice. The first time was at Kadena Air Base twelve years ago. The second time was at Randolph—Neville worked in the Fighter Assignment Branch and Smith was the Deputy Mission Support Group commander.”
“When?” John Lee asked.
“Four years ago, sir. Neville worked his own assignment to come here and Smith eventually took over command of the support group.”
“Is there any evidence that they knew each other?” Axe asked. “Randolph’s a big place.”
Dwyer smiled that flute-playing little smug smile of his. Like he’d been waiting for the question. “Actually, yes. They both sat on a lieutenant colonel promotion board while there. Neville was the board president.”
“Okay, so they knew each other. Doesn’t mean anyone had a grudge against them both unless some passed-over major went psychotic and whacked them. Or is that what you’re suggesting?” Axe tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
Dwyer smiled again. “Actually, that’s one possibility. Once Mr. Abbot gives us a face and name, we can compare it to any of the majors that year who weren’t promoted. There were a few pilots who didn’t make it,” he added, looking up at Truax.
“Well, they’d certainly be your best bet,” Axe replied smoothly. “Angry support pukes or space geeks certainly couldn’t kill anyone.”
Karen Shipman and the FBI agent chuckled. Even Jolly smiled at that. Dwyer blushed.
“Enough.” Sturgis glared at him, then looked back at his aid. “Go on.”
The major adjusted his spectacles and continued. “There’s no evidence that Brigadier General Fowler knew Colonel Smith. Though he and Colonel Neville might have known each other since they were fighter pilots.”
“They both flew fighters; that’s not the same as being as being a fighter pilot,” Doug Truax said. “Besides, Fowler flew Vipers and Neville was an Eagle driver. They wouldn’t have crossed paths much.”
“What about the wives?” Jolly Lee asked. “Any ties there, or were they just innocent bystanders?”
“With regard to Smith’s wife, I don’t think her best friend would call her innocent.” Major flipped a page over. “Heidi Smith, née Cosgrove. Three documented DUIs on various bases. Her husband managed to hush things up. Two more DUIs off base; one in Nebraska and the other in Texas. Nothing he could do about that. Several Officer’s Club altercations, at Randolph, and at least one affair—there were likely others.”
“Whaddya mean?” Sturgis asked, perking up a bit.
Dwyer continued reading. “Eight years ago, while her husband was TDY, she apparently got involved with an A-10 pilot—younger man, a captain. He’d been sent back to Randolph for PIT.”
Pilot Instructor Training. The Air Force’s little course to teach pilots how to instruct basic flying training. Fighter guys sometimes got nabbed for this.
“So this guy, who’s single, is seen several times visiting her house on base, and Ms. Smith, who can’t hold her liquor, is also seen pawing him at the O’Club. All of this is sufficient to warrant an investigation.”
Axe shook his head and looked away. A typical Training Command solution. Rather than just pull this guy aside and tell him to keep his wick dry they blow it all up and cause a big stink. Axe didn’t condone it of course, but neither did he share the military’s enthusiasm for butting into personal lives.
Sex within one’s chain of command or sex between officers and enlisted folks definitely caused problems and, unlike the civilian world, had to be dealt with for good order and discipline. Sexual harassment, real sexual harassment, was also something no one should have to deal with. But Heidi Smith was hardly harassed. In fact, by all accounts, she’d take it as a compliment.
“So?” Jolly asked. He too appeared annoyed.
“She denied the whole thing. Just friends, mentoring—all the normal explanations. The captain was asked directly and answered directly. Admitted the affair and was given an Article Fifteen.”
“So the Air Force loses an expensive and talented pilot for screwing an older woman who came on to him . . . gee, I wonder why we have a retention problem?”
Sturgis stared at him, his pudgy forehead crinkling into horizontal lines. “That’s enough, Colonel. Rules are rules and there for a reason. Go on, Major. “
Axe shut up and sighed. Crashing a jet, killing someone by accident . . . these were rules he could understand. But the mania for outward morality by officers with monk complexes surpassed understanding. The military should have more important issues to worry about than screwing.
“Colonel Smith refused to believe his wife was implicated, and after the A-10 pilot confessed he wanted to have the guy court-martialed. The colonel thought the Article Fifteen was too light a punishment for someone slandering his wife.”
Even Sturgis looked doubtful at that. If this woman really was as wild as rumored, then kicking over the hornet’s nest would be a truly stupid thing to do. Apparently the judge adv
ocate at Randolph felt the same, which was why the A-10 pilot was offered non-judicial punishment in the form of an Article 15.
“How did it end?”
“The fighter pilot made a statement to his lawyer that if a court-martial was directed, then it wouldn’t be for himself alone. That he knew of at least a half dozen other affairs this woman had admitted to and they involved several men who were now general officers.”
I’ll bet that shut them up, Axe thought.
“So it ended there. Colonel Smith was given a new command to keep him quiet and Heidi Smith went back to seducing pilots at the O’Club bar.”
“And the Hog pilot?” Lee asked.
“He did his three-year tour in the Training Command, got passed over for major because of the Article 15, and separated from the Air Force.”
“Sounds like a man with a grudge,” General Sturgis mused. “Could he have done this?”
Major Dwyer answered slowly, not wanting to offend his boss. “Sir, I don’t think so. He, uh . . . joined the National Guard and flies for the airlines now.”
Making twice the money for half the work and none of the bullshit. Axe chuckled. Dwyer was correct. Why would a guy risk all that for some older slut?
“Was there any connection between him and Colonel Neville . . . or General Fowler?”
“None.”
“Well, that ‘s it then. Just a coincidence.”
“So where does all this leave us?” Sturgis didn’t look too happy.
No one answered. Something about that story tugged at Axe’s memory. He frowned, trying to remember, but it wouldn’t come. Then David Abbot of the FBI spoke up quietly.
“General, unless this man is a complete psychotic and unbelievably lucky, he’d need false ID to be roaming about the United States killing people.”
“Why is that?” Jolly Lee asked. “We don’t know his name, so how could anyone else? And why would he use false ID if his works fine?”
Abbot looked thoughtful and added, “Because these killings weren’t random. They were all carefully planned to the point where law enforcement in two states have got zip. Stands to reason that a man who can do that isn’t some sensationalist whacko looking to get caught or killed.”
“So he would’ve carefully considered his escape.” Karen Shipman nodded. “And planned accordingly.”
“Exactly.”
Sturgis shrugged. “Okay—it’s a possibility. You’ve just added another unknown to the pot here, so how does that help us?”
“The Bureau, and others, share an extensive database of forgers, document brokers, and the like. Some of these people are in prison and might talk to us.”
“Why would any of them help?” Axe wanted to know.
“Possibility of a reduced sentence. A move to a better location. I admit it’s a remote shot that we’ve got the guy we need—he may not even be an American—but we still might get some cross talk, pick up a hint or two that may help.” He shrugged. “It’s another angle to pursue.”
Truax thought about that and glanced at Karen, who nodded slightly. It was no different than talking to Dan Morgan about other mercenaries. “I suppose this is a pretty small field. I mean, for the really good ones.”
Abbot looked at him. “That’s right. Top-notch document brokers, those who can manipulate bar codes and electronic threads and hack into databases, are a special breed. And there aren’t that many.”
Sturgis folded his arms across his chest and yawned. “Well, go ahead if you think it will help. In the meantime, we’ll continue searching for common denominators among these victims and”—he motioned to Major Dwyer—“we’re thinking of raising the threat condition at all air bases within the continental United States.”
“What’s the advantage of that, General?” David Abbot frowned. “As I understand the THREATCON matrix, elevating it doesn’t change the entry requirements, just the response structure. I think we’d be tipping our hand to this guy and he might fold up and disappear.”
“So we let him kill again?”
“No. I think the best chance of catching him is letting him believe he’s undetected while we pursue these courses of action.”
The general rubbed his chin. “I don’t like leaving our people vulnerable like this.”
John Lee and Doug Truax looked at each other. Lee spoke up. “Sir, I don’t think the U.S. Air Force should go into lockdown mode over one man. We carry guns too,” he added.
Sturgis stared out of the window. The Air Staff had made this his problem since the initial incident happened on his turf. Like all political animals, he was keenly aware of pros and cons to him personally in any situation. There were, Sturgis knew, enemies in the Pentagon who would love to see him fail and then quietly shuffle him off into obscurity. The trick with any ambiguous or risky scenario was to ride the fence until a dominant position emerged. He would then support it decisively or condemn it as it best suited his ambitions. If he condemned anything, he always found a scapegoat. Or created one. He glanced at Colonel Truax. It was a formula that had always worked.
Until now.
Now, he was starting on one side of the fence and either had to bring everyone over the top. Or solve the problem.
“Okay.” He stood and so did everyone else. “Forty-eight hours. Or another incident. In the meantime”—he looked at Lawson and Dwyer—“get me a picture.”
“And the forger?” Lee asked.
“If he’s out there, then find him.”
Squinting as the afternoon sun lanced through the cockpit, he smoothly pulled back on the stick and began a climb. No need to check on his wingmen—he knew they’d be there. That was their job today. His was to get them to their targets and home alive.
“Scar is inbound . . . two by Fox-Sixteens . . . thirty minutes of play . . . Mavericks and Guns . . .”
“Copy all Scar.” The controller on board the AWACs sounded like he was 200 miles away. He actually was . . . which is why they were generally so useless in this conflict. Amazing how fucked up things still were.
“Proceed to Eighty-four Alpha Whiskey. Contact Chieftain on Zinc Eighty-four.”
He shoved up the visor and took a quick swig of water. It was nearly 1500 hours, three in the afternoon, and he’d been airborne for five and a half hours already. Hell, it took well over two hours to get into the air, up to the Iraq border, air refuel, then fly to Baghdad. Squinting at the map, he eyeballed some rough coordinates close to the right part of Iraq and typed them in.
“Scar, push Zinc One.” He keyed the VHF auxiliary radio and got clicks from his three wingmen as they changed radio channels.
One hundred twenty-two miles to the point, his system said. About fifteen minutes. Too long. Whoever was in trouble down there could well be dead by then. Bunting the fighter over at 25,000 feet he leveled off and shoved the throttle forward to full MIL power. He could get there faster with the afterburner but wouldn’t have any fuel left to be of any use. Even heavily laden, the F-16 was still able to creep up to 514 knots.
Staring over the canopy rail, he tried to match visible features against the shitty map. It was hard at that altitude . . . the haze from the big rivers and blowing dust almost always left a milky film over the ground. Even worse, to the southwest an immense wall of chocolate-brown sand had been climbing into the sky since noon. Somewhere in the deserts of Saudi Arabia and Jordan the wind had begun to blow strangely enough to form this mess. Far below, the mottled green and brown earth of Iraq glided by and he tried to rub the fatigue from his eyes. Combat flying was like that. It took hours, sometimes days, of preparation to get to the right place at the right time. It was then you usually found out you had the wrong weapons or the wrong target. Things changed. That was the essence of combat airpower: adaptability. Even when zipping along at the speed of a rifle bullet deep in bad-guy land and running out of fuel.
Nada. Nothing except the continuous low-intensity crackle in his headset. CHIEFTAIN was a sort of information relay agency that decided where to send fast movers like him with lots of ordnance. Theoretically, they worked like a big air traffic center and had the latest and best information to pass on.
Swiveling around and staring back behind the wing line, he found his three wingmen. The other F-16s, called Vipers, were strung out to about three to four miles in a big wedge shape. Nice and loose. Good for fluid combat maneuvering.
“SCAR Seven One, this is CHIEFTAIN.” He jumped a little as the voice came through loud and scratchy.
“Go ahead.”
“Scar . . . confirm Fox-Sixteens?”
“Affirmative . . . four by with Mavericks and Twenty Mike Mike.” He glanced at the digital fuel readout. “We’ll have about thirty minutes of playtime when we get there.”
Where was “there”? he wondered. They’d just passed the Euphrates River at Diwaniyah. The ground became richer as the fertile crescent area between the two great rivers spread out before them like a green quilt.
“Scar . . . proceed to the center of Eighty-four Alpha Whiskey and hold at Base plus six . . . contact Broadsword on Bronze Twenty-nine.”
He clicked the mike in reply. Broadsword would be the forward air controller, or FAC. Some poor bastard of a fighter pilot assigned to the army precisely for this reason. To speak to airborne pilots in their own language and talk them onto a target.
He switched the flight over to the new frequency and checked the distance: 69 miles. Quickly removing his helmet, he poured some water on his head and scrubbed it into his itchy scalp and flat, matted hair. He splashed more onto his face and into his dry eyes, blinking away the burning. Shrugging his shoulders, he eased the ache a bit, then replaced the helmet.