The Mercenary

by Dan Hampton

  “In that case I’ll take a cup.”

  As he poured the mercenary saw the man take in his patches. Nodding, the major smiled and ducked out. Leaning against the table, the Sandman stared at the big corkboard on the far wall. It was a mix of silly Air Force slogans and generally useless information. And, just as expected, there were paper clips scattered around the floor and on the table next to the stapler. Picking one up, he pulled the coffeemaker cord out of the wall and slipped the clip over the prongs on the plug. Listening for a few seconds and hearing nothing, the Sandman jammed the plug back into the socket.

  Sparks flew and there was a large crackle, smoke, and the pungent smell of burning plastic. The lights also flickered and went off. The reaction outside was immediate: at least one female shriek, a few curses, and several bursts of laughter. That stopped as he pulled the fire-alarm handle next to the entryway.

  “RRRIIIINNNGGGG . . .”

  The noise was deafening in the little room. Swiftly yanking the appliance plug back out, he winced and dropped the hot paper clip on the floor. Leaving it in place would’ve been an immediate clue that the alarm was false. Stepping back into the hallway, the mercenary saw that the LED emergency light at the end of the corridor had switched on and added a weird, red glow to figures pouring toward the exit.

  “All right—everyone out!” He shouted over the din. “This way . . . this way . . .” the Sandman waved his notebook toward the door. Men and women, uniformed and not, blundered past. As someone opened the front door he could hear the outer siren wailing, adding to the confusion.

  Walking away from the exit doors, he made a show of directing traffic and getting people to safety. All anyone saw was a tall officer taking charge of a bad situation. If someone had been watching, they would’ve seen him round the corner and disappear in the direction of the Command Section.

  Pausing by the darkened office door, the Sandman stared inside and saw nothing. The secretary, he knew, was a permanent fixture in this place. Nothing short of a mandatory evacuation would’ve cleared her out. But she was gone. Everyone was gone. Crossing the floor, he was gratified to see that the wing commander’s door was cracked open. There hadn’t really been time for Halleck to lock it but it could’ve been done—not that it would’ve stopped him from getting in. Easy was better. He smiled and slid into the dark inner office.

  “What a goat fuck.” Colonel Mike Halleck almost kicked the front door open as everyone began filing back into the building. “Thirty fucking minutes wasted when anyone can see the place isn’t on fire.”

  “They gotta do what they gotta do.” Colonel Richards shrugged his shoulders.

  Halleck stepped to the side, once through the doors, and pulled his vice with him. “Listen . . . I’ve gotta call Sturgis at ACC by noon. That means about now. So have everyone wait in the conference room and we’ll finish up as soon as I’m done.”

  “And the exercise?”

  Halleck hated to be pushed and hated sharing information with subordinates. Waving a hand irritably he replied, “Early afternoon. I’ll decide after talking with Sturgis. Go on and keep them busy for a few minutes.”

  The fire chief wanted to talk to him but he simply said, “See Colonel Richards,” and strolled toward the back office.

  “No interruptions,” he barked at Cindy and shut his door. Sitting down, Halleck selected the speakerphone option and hit the fast-dial line to Langley and got Sturgis’s exec.

  “Sorry, sir . . . the general wasn’t expecting your call till after twelve hundred. He’s in a conference.”

  Sighing, Halleck said, “Okay, Major . . . let him know I called and will call back in fifteen minutes.

  Hanging up, he stared at the wall and frowned. Was nothing going to go right today?

  “Forty-seven private aircraft left the Tidewater area within twenty-four hours of Neville’s death. Of these, thirty-two were local flights, and all returned.” David Abbot glanced down at his notes. “Of the fifteen that didn’t come back, seven have been verified as legitimate cross-country flights through the pilot or owner.”

  “By telephone or face-to-face?” John Lee asked. They’d all met back in General Sturgis’s office at 1130 to receive the FBI agent’s update.

  “Face-to-face. Now, concerning the remaining eight.” he spread out a TPC (tactical pilotage chart) of the Virginia Peninsula with circles drawn on it. “Colonel Truax and I discounted four more.”

  “How?” Sturgis asked, leaning over the table. The others craned their necks to see.

  Axe cleared his throat. “We drew a two-hour radius from Langley and assumed that this guy wouldn’t go any farther than this if he was in a hurry to get away.” He tapped the big black circle centered around Langley Air Force Base.

  “Why is the top cut off?”

  “I don’t think a man in a hurry would try to escape up I-64. Too many delays. So I cut the northern part off at Williamsburg.”

  They all nodded. They’d all been through the I-64 hell before.

  “Okay,” he continued. “That said, we also discounted the big commercial airports like Patrick Henry, Richmond, and Norfolk. Also the military fields at Langley and Oceana.”

  “That left eight airfields. One of the four remaining aircraft took off out of Chesterfield County, on the other side of Richmond, so we discounted him.”

  “That leaves three.” Jolly Lee looked up. “Where did they come from?”

  “None of them filed flight plans. A Cessna 310 from Hampton Roads Executive, a Beech Baron from Chesapeake Regional and a SkyMaster from the Suffolk Executive Airport. The 310 and the SkyMaster are both corporate registered. Billings Medical and Trendco Logistics respectively—we’re digging into those. The Baron belongs to a local doctor.”

  “So he’s out.”

  “Not necessarily,” Abbot replied. “It could’ve been stolen. Incidentally, there were no reports of any aircraft stolen within seventy-two hours of Neville’s death.”

  Axe pointed at the largest circle. “This is the normal unrefueled radius of a Cessna 310 and the Skymaster—about eight hundred fifty miles. So we, that is the FBI, are searching for the registration numbers in the FAA database and contacting the airfields at two-thirds the radius and beyond to see if anyone has seen them.”

  “But there must be hundreds of places they could’ve landed.” Sturgis frowned. “Talk about the proverbial needle . . .”

  “True,” Abbot answered. “But we’re starting with the most likely paces. Those with fuel facilities and night lighting to begin with.”

  “Also those without a control tower. If I were this guy, I’d want as few witnesses as possible.”

  For a minute no one said anything, they just stared at the map. Jolly Lee broke the silence. “Of course, we’re assuming he went by airplane . . . that’s a big assumption in my book.”

  “I agree.” Axe nodded. “But if we’re thinking that this murder and those in Texas are connected, there’s no other way for him to get there in time but by air. And the commercial flights all turned up negative, as did the railroad. He couldn’t have driven it but the rental cars also turned up with zilch. No.” He tapped the chart. “Air is the only way.”

  “He could’ve chartered a plane,” Sturgis volunteered.

  “Yes—but that involves other people and more clues left behind. The only two charter questions we had were resolved—the mom-and-pop company took their own plane to West Virginia for a camping t
rip. Besides”—Abbot looked up—“we’ve already established that this is a guy who knows air bases and has no trouble blending in on one. So it’s not too far-fetched to suppose that he might be a pilot himself.”

  They didn’t like that.

  “Still a needle in a haystack,” Sturgis persisted.

  The FBI agent straightened. “Every investigation has to have a starting point. Most crime scenes have an abundance of clues—or a motive is obvious. This one has neither. This airplane angle is the most reasonable place to start”—he looked around—“and if we can tie one of these aircraft to both crime scenes, we have a suspect and a focus for all these combined federal resources.”

  “So what’s next, then?” The general sounded testy and for once Axe couldn’t blame him.

  “It shouldn’t take too long to run these companies down and get answers back from the airfields. Amazing the effect a badge has on folks.” He smiled a bit. “So we’ll let you know as soon as something turns up. In the meantime, the local cops are still running down a few missing folks from the trains. And I’ve got the other information you requested.” He looked at Axe, then at the general.

  “Right.” Sturgis sighed and waved at the door. “Colonel Truax, you and the major remain, please. You too, Jolly.”

  After the others left, David Abbot pulled a file from his briefcase and dropped it on the coffee table. “These four files were scanned and sent thirty minutes ago from Colorado.”

  “Right—the four most promising mercenary files from that turd Womack.” Sturgis leaned forward and leafed through them.

  “Complete with pictures.”

  Axe stared at them. “Pretty crappy pictures.” They were grainy and vague.

  “Yes, well, the Caribbean authorities aren’t noted for their attention to detail.”

  “All four?” Karen Shipman frowned and looked at the pictures. “All four are Caribbean-issued passports?”

  “One each from Barbados and the Caymans. The third from Aruba, so it’s really Dutch. The last is from Nevis and St. Kitts.”

  Axe and Jolly looked up, then looked at Karen Shipman. They all had the same thought. Sturgis saw it and was irritated. “What?”

  “Aruba is a Dutch possession. One of our prime suspects for this rogue mercenary is Dutch,” Shipman answered.

  “Timo Van Oste,” Axe muttered.

  “Could be a coincidence,” Jolly said.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Sturgis replied. “I’ll get on to USAFE Headquarters and have them talk to The Hague. We should have a picture of this Van Oste within a few hours.”

  He rubbed his fleshy little hands together and smiled for the first time that day. “What did you do to Womack? You’re not really going to move him are you?”

  David Abbot smiled humorlessly. “Oh, we always keep our word. He’ll be moved, just as we agreed. For exactly twenty-four hours. Then straight back into Florence. We don’t deal with traitors.”

  Halleck glanced at his watch and decided against ducking back into the meeting. Unlike most fighter pilots, he actually enjoyed meetings—as long as he was in charge. Standing, he turned and glanced out the window. The medical unit had erected several big dark green tents to simulate a field hospital and were hammering in the last stakes now.

  ORIs could either be highly effective or a colossal waste of time, depending on how much simulated bullshit was permitted. The safe play was to simulate as much of the ground stuff as possible and go with conservative tactics in the air. It was all a numbers game and he intended to see that the numbers worked out.

  Stretching, he decided to take a long, slow call of nature, then call Langley back. Yawning, he opened the door, then stopped. His first reaction was shock that there was a man in his private bathroom. Then indignation.

  “What the fu . . .”

  Then recognition.

  “You!” His face darkened and he immediately understood. He was moving into a defensive position when the pain came.

  Lucky Mike Halleck was fast, strong, and a born fighter. But he lost a critical second in reaction time because he was taken by surprise.

  The Sandman had no such issue. His left arm shot out and his hand, thumb spread, caught the other pilot’s throat in a vicious “V” strike that sent Halleck tumbling backward into his office. The colonel hit the ground hard but managed to roll sideways and came back up. Staggering into a half crouch, one hand holding his throat, he faced the mercenary.

  Eyes gleaming with hate, Lucky Mike opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t. Throat crushed, he was trying to snort air in through his nose when the Sandman’s foot shattered his right kneecap. Toppling sideways, he crashed into the desk, knocking the lamp off.

  Surprisingly, he came up again, one leg dangling. Arms apart, he gave the classic “come on” gesture with his right hand and the mercenary smiled.

  “What would be the point? You’re a dead man, Lucky.”

  Gagging and spitting, Halleck shook his head furiously. But his skin was already graying and the colonel grabbed the desk for support. Swaying, he stared at the mercenary, mouth opening and closing.

  “Why?”

  . “You know why, ,” The Sandman answered calmly.

  Halleck slipped to his knees, the hate fading to fear as he realized he couldn’t get enough air through his nose to stay conscious. Or alive.

  “They died. There shouldn’t have been an accident because we shouldn’t have been there. You prick.”

  His hand shot out again and this time shattered Halleck’s nose. The colonel collapsed on the ground, real panic in his eyes. He couldn’t breathe at all now.

  Suddenly there was a knocking at the door. Halleck’s eyes rolled toward the sound but he couldn’t do anything about it.

  “Colonel Halleck,” Cindy called. “Are you all right, sir? I heard a noise.”

  Clearing his throat loudly, the Sandman called back gruffly. “S’okay . . . just dropped my lamp over. I’ll clean it up.”

  “Uahhh . . . uahhhh . . .” Halleck gasped, staring wildly up at the man standing over him.

  “All for your fucking career . . . and a jet that didn’t work anyway. And my family is dead.”

  “Ahhhhh . . .” the air wheezed out of the colonel’s ashen face and the light faded from his eyes. The Sandman knelt down so the dying man could hear him.

  “And now you are too, asshole.”

  “Hhhhhh . . .”

  Mike Halleck’s chest gave one convulsive heave, then shuddered, deflating like a balloon. Head lolling sideways, his sightless eyes fixedon the ceiling.

  Remaining where he was for a moment, the Sandman looked at the dead face and remembered other times. Flying with this man, drinking and singing with him—even going to war with him. There should’ve been a loyalty between them that nothing could break. As he watched a thin stream of blood trickle down Halleck’s cheek, the mercenary remembered the soul-killing feeling he’d had when Halleck betrayed him. The utter disbelief that a man he’d trusted had done what he’d done.

  Eyes hard, the mercenary stood then. It wouldn’t change anything, but it was justice. The thought of Halleck and the others living out happy lives while his had been torn apart was unimaginable.

  “Colonel Halleck!” Cindy’s voice penetrated the door and brought him back to the present. “Sir . . . General Sturgis’s office is on the line.”

  Rapidly crossing to the door, he locked it, then
stepped back to the bathroom.

  “Sir?” Cindy called again.

  “Yeah, all right,” the Sandman snapped irritably from the bathroom. He hoped the distance, the door and the slight echo would mask his voice. “I’ll call in five . . .”

  There was no chance of walking out the front of this place. Confusion got him in and he knew confusion would get him out. Stepping over the dead man, he picked up the phone and hit the button marked CP, for Command Post.

  “Twentieth Fighter Wing Command Post, Airman Giles speaking . . . how can I help you, sir or ma’am?”

  “Colonel Halleck here . . . put the duty officer on.”

  A moment later a deeper voice answered. “Major Bennett.”

  “This is Colonel Halleck with an exercise input . . . you will go to Alarm Red immediately, followed in five by Alarm Black. StartEx is”—he looked at his watch—“1207 hours.”

  “Yessir. Alarm Red immediately. StartEx.”

  He hung up the phone. Grabbing each of Halleck’s ankles, the Sandman dragged Lucky Mike into the bathroom. There was a single shower against the far wall and he opened the door, hefted the corpse by the armpits, and dumped it into the stall. As he shut the door, the mercenary heard the Giant Voice, the base public address system, come to life.

  “EXERCISE, EXERCISE . . . ALARM RED. REPEAT ALARM RED.”

  Walking back into the office, he pulled Halleck’s B-4 bag off the sofa and opened it. A large duffel bag, it was used in this case to carry chemical response gear. “Alarm Red” meant that the base was under attack. “Alarm Black” meant the presence of chemical weapons and everyone in the area had to don protective gear and gas masks. It was totally silly and unrealistic, but it made the exercises that much more miserable, therefore, by perverse military logic, more realistic.

  “EXERCISE, EXERCISE . . . INCOMING . . . INCOMING . . . ALARM RED!”

  He heard scuffling and muffled voices outside and ignored them. Civilians like Cindy didn’t have to dive under desks or wear chem gear, but they did have to remain at their workstations—another reason he couldn’t just walk out the front door. Pulling on the pants and snapping them around his waist, he then donned the jacket and walked to the window.