The Making of Blackwater Jack

by Roy F. Chandler

  “He’s now living in that huge house over on the ridge that, from what I hear, ought to be in Hollywood and half of Harrisburg already comes to his parties.

  “He employs a lot of locals, and hell, Shooter, people like him better all of the time.

  “Worst of all is that he bought ridge-top land for his castle, or whatever it is, just a few hills over from my place. His construction people used this road to get in and out. God, Shooter, I’ll have him and probably a barracks full of his thugs for neighbors.”

  “I hadn’t heard about him moving in.”

  “That’s because you’re gone so much you aren’t really a Perry Countian anymore.”

  “Let it go for now, Jack. Dig out that new pistol you have been blatting about. I’ve never heard of such a useless piece of crap. Where’d you get it anyway?”

  “That’s classified, Galloway, but it’s made in Germany. It’s called a Grossen Pistole, and its magazine holds thirty rounds. They made only a few of them. This one came out of England where anyone can own a silencer, but no one can own a gun to put one on. Worse than here where it is just the opposite.”

  Galloway handled the pistol. “What a dopey idea. No wonder they only made a few of them. And they only shoot .22-caliber, rim fire shorts? Good Lord, does anyone make those cartridges anymore?”

  “Of course they do. .22 Shorts are used in international competition where the last thing you want is recoil. Give me my gun back, Galloway.”

  “Do you have this suppressor registered?”

  “Of course not! I don’t announce that I own this piece.”

  “Why do you have it? You couldn’t kill a flea with a .22 short.”

  “You could if you knew how to shoot, but it’s not for killing, Galloway, it’s for stinging and discouraging.

  “You’re hunting rats now?”

  “Not four-legged rats, I plan to shoot three nasty bastards in the legs and butt while they run for their lives.”

  “Oh god, you are sending messages again.”

  “Yep. I found out that they’ve got a lookout spot over on Mahanoy Ridge where they sit in that big Mercedes and glass my place hour on hour. The farmer who owns the land keeps an eye on them for me.

  “I’ve made a package that from a distance will look like Saltz’s missing box. I’m going out back, where they will be sure to see me sneaking around and bury the thing. When they come to dig it up, I’ll be waiting, and I will pepper them good.”

  Galloway glowered. “That isn’t funny even to listen to, Tim. You try a stunt like that, and the fooling will be over. They, or maybe some that you’ve never seen, will waylay you and shoot you dead. They might even bomb you, that’s pretty popular these days.”

  Blackwater pretended to sulk, “I’m sorry I told you. You ruin everything, Galloway. Anyway, I just don’t like sitting here when I ought to be getting on with the main plan—which is to get to Afghanistan and put that Sheik down for good and pick up that box that’s been waiting for me to come after it. I can’t see that I have made any progress toward my goal since I started waiting for you to help figure things out.”

  Shooter shifted himself as if uncomfortable.

  “How you are acting is pushing me a little faster than I would like, Jack, but you are right in at least one thing, if you are going to go back to Afghanistan and drill that Sheik a third eye you had better get at it.

  “We are pulling forces out of the Middle East at a terrific rate. Right now, well, it won’t get easier getting in and out than it is right now.

  “So, I will tell you exactly how I can help.”

  Shooter again twisted as if he were being cramped. “One last time. Won’t you put it all on a back burner for a decade or so, or better yet, just forget the box, the sniper rifle, and the Sheik? There are other things to do and other ways to begin getting at Saltz, who somehow remains almost unmentioned in most of your tough guy talk.”

  “The long answer is, ‘NO.’ I want the Sheik, and I intend to get him, soon, I hope!

  “As to why I don’t talk about Saltz is that the Sheik is in the way, and the contents of the box might explain everything, if I can just get the damned thing.”

  Galloway sighed. “All right, hard head, then forward it is.

  “First we are going down to Blackwater and you are…”

  “I’m not taking more courses, Galloway. Get that in your noodle and believe it.”

  Galloway shook off obvious annoyance and continued. “We are going to Blackwater to complete arrangements and pay for your ride to Afghanistan and back. I’ve got it worked out that … “

  Jack was instantly enthusiastic. “Blackwater can do it? I thought they were out of business over there.”

  Shooter again sighed. “Jack, Blackwater, as it once was, is gone. The center has another name now, but it still trains shooters and provides men and some materials.

  “The Blackwater Air Force still flies, under other names, of course, and they can, if they choose, which means if it is profitable, go into places other companies can’t get near. One of those areas is yours, where you stashed Saltz’s box.

  “Here’s how it can work. You will be flown from Blackwater via, hell, I don’t know the route, but it will end up in Afghanistan. You will be dropped off at your old air base. That belongs to Afghanistan now. A helicopter run by, ah, let’s stick with the Blackwater label, will take you out the road and into the mountains and set you down anywhere you choose—which should be within easy walking distance of your hideaway.

  “You will have an ERB, in this case the letters mean Emergency Radio Beacon. When you finish what you are trying, and when the coast is clear—which will have to be within a week—you will turn on the beacon, and the chopper will come and pick you up. They will fly you and whatever you recover to your old military base where you will reenter your big airplane and you will eventually arrive home at Blackwater.”

  Jack said, “Yeah!” and pumped his fist.

  Galloway was disdainful. “Juvenile!”

  Then he went on. “You will pay an initial one hundred thousand dollars. Carry blank checks and more than a few thousand in cash, in case things turn ugly along the way.”

  “Right.”

  “Additionally, you will ask no one who they are or anything else of substance. Do not memorize the plane’s numbers or appearance. Make it a point to remember nothing. If ever asked, you will deny everything to everyone.”

  “Understood.”

  “Now, Jack, this outfit is not our old band of brothers. Colonel Rock is not involved, nor is McMillin or Cameron. If you recognize anyone, say, ‘Hello’ and keep moving.

  “If you buy in, you will leave two days from now. Don’t bring military gear and dress like a hunter not a soldier. Leave your pistol at Blackwater. No guns allowed, by you that is. You are a paying customer. You are not part of any team or any organization.”

  “How will I get my stuff through customs coming back? I mean … “

  Galloway shrugged. “I haven’t been told. Possibly the same way we often do, which is with everything plopped into an inviolate diplomatic pouch. Who arranges such stuff, I don’t know, and don’t you try to find out, either. Just be grateful and pay in full whatever is asked.”

  Jack asked, “What is my cover story?”

  Shooter’s mouth was grim. “You don’t have one. You are to go in and get out without explanations. If that fails, you won’t be likely to see the outside of a prison for years, if ever.”

  There was an extended silence before Jack said, “All right. That is how it will be.”

  There was again silence before Blackwater Jack shook his head as if he had been solidly punched. “Damn, Galloway, I’ve got to admit that once underway you move fast. Two days? I’ll be ready.

  “No guns? God, I’ll feel naked. Can’t that be negotiated a little?”

  19

  Blackwater Jack kept his packing simple. He used only an old Army Cargo Pack. He included what he needed but
only what he needed. His binoculars went in, as did 60 rounds of Black Hills 175-grain 7.62 NATO ammunition.

  He fit the ammunition into the pockets of a Vietnam War rifle ammo bandolier, as the great sniper Carlos Hathcock had done those almost forgotten decades past.

  Those cartridges and the five rounds already stored in the magazine of the XM3 rifle stashed in the rock cave would be all that he had and more than he could need, even if things went badly.

  His was a mission of stealth and, when possible, extremely accurate shooting, probably during the black of night. If he ended up in a wide-open infantry battle, his only hope would be to escape as swiftly as he could manage. Jack did not dwell on such a hopeless situation.

  He packed a camouflaged space blanket, two empty canteens and an equally empty Camel Back water bag. He brought seven ancient MRE rations. One for each day he planned to be out.

  Thin rations? Very thin, but a soldier could travel a long way for nearly a month on virtually nothing to eat. Water was the necessity. He would carry what he could, but water weighed about seven pounds per gallon. His canteens and his Camel Back would have to do.

  For entertainment, Jack included paperback novels. Two were Lee Child’s Jack Reacher stories; another was a Vince Flynn spy tale. The last was an old Robert B. Parker yarn he had read more than once. Ah that Spencer, his sort of guy.

  A basic first aid kit sounded reasonable, but infantry had fought dozens of wars carrying only a single pouch containing a long bandage. Jack attached one to his pistol belt.

  There was no pistol. He had been warned—no ordered—not to bring a firearm. Jack was uncertain who was ordering, but at best, his ride into Afghanistan was a black operation. He doubted he would ever learn who was giving orders and making arrangements.

  Whomever Shooter Galloway had employed gave the orders, and Blackwater Jack shut his mouth and his mind, and he followed those orders to the letter. If he had not, he had been warned, he would be abandoned where he stood and left on his own, wherever that might be.

  As per telephoned instructions, Jack had driven his car to the entrance of Blackwater Training Center. He had been met by an unmarked SUV that had escorted him to an obscure parking area where he left his vehicle with the keys in the ignition.

  He had spent the night in a single room in what, during his time at the center, had been the bunkhouse. Perhaps it still was. He had seen almost nothing of the relatively new Blackwater, which now went by another name.

  He ate alone in the same old dining room with the familiar serving line, but the food offered was severely limited, and his meal was rushed. No one offered conversation, and that informed Jack that none was desired. He kept silent and returned to his bunk where he read and slept the hours away.

  Before dawn, he was roused and driven to an airstrip. He assumed it was the company strip from which countless aircraft had departed carrying so-called “Contractors” to unannounced destinations.

  Blackwater Jack’s orientation was brief. The man who gave it knew about him, but to his knowledge he had never previously seen the man.

  A plane waited on the strip, and they immediately boarded.

  The man said, “Here is how this will work, Jack. You will be transported to where you want to go. Make the trip in silence, unless spoken to. There will be others aboard now and then. Do not seek them out, and do your best not to study them. Their business, too, is private.

  “Your route will be long, and you will change aircraft and aircraft crews. Ask no questions and do your best not to reason through or discover various stops or terrain features.

  “When you approach your destination, you will be given a GPS broadcaster. You will not engage the device until you are ready for pickup.

  “Now, Jack, that pickup must be no longer than the seventh day following your release from your helicopter.

  “When you activate the signal, expect a pickup within hours. You will have to choose a practical landing zone. If the pilot cannot safely land, he will leave, and he will not be back.

  “Following the seventh day, no one will answer your GPS signal, and no one will come looking for you. If you manage to return on your own to familiar ground, you are unlikely to find anyone who will know who you are or why you are wandering about in their country.

  “In addition to the GPS, we have a decent night vision device that you do not need to return. It is not American.

  “We note that your binoculars include range measuring ability, so we will not offer any sort of ranging device.

  “We suggest that you do not acquire a flashlight or even matches or a cigarette lighter. Nightlights will attract instant attention because they have again become rare and are seldom encountered in those mountains.

  “We have camouflaged toilet paper for you. Take it and use it. Anything white would be a complete giveaway.”

  Jack had himself included a handful of new double-A batteries. The sniper rifle’s UNS night sight would need new batteries. Because of the dry, desert-like conditions, he did not fear decay and rust ruining the sight.

  Finally, the orientation was finished. The rugged-looking man giving instructions rose and wiped his hands on his thighs.

  “Unfortunately, your insertion and extraction will cost more than expected. You will please pay an additional fifty thousand dollars to me, at this time, or we will not be able to continue.

  “I am told that you expect such additional charges, and there will likely be more although of significantly smaller amounts. Be prepared to pay them. They are not negotiable, and, as you have probably heard, some of those involved are less than friendly. They cooperate for profit and nothing else.”

  The speaker paused as if mildly embarrassed before adding, “I have no idea what your mission is, Jack, but going where you are heading is beyond dangerous, which is why such serious money is being demanded.

  “I wish you the best of good fortune.”

  Jack paid by personal check without speaking, and he was left alone.

  Within moments, a number of young and strong-looking men came aboard. They seated themselves far from Jack. Pilots appeared and moved into the cockpit—closing and locking the door behind them.

  Jack supposed that his first plane was an old Boeing 707, but he had little interest in aircraft and could not be sure.

  They flew, southward, Jack observed, for only two hours before landing at an obviously little used strip that’s asphalt runway was seriously crumbling.

  His new jet was a handsome looking Lear. He boarded immediately and so did his companions. The Lear’s window curtains were closed, and remained so throughout their journey.

  They flew south for hours before refueling. Jack could roughly judge direction by the sun shifting as it came through his curtained window. The Lear again took off and swung east, Jack was pretty sure, and later, he had glimpses of water far below, finally crossing the Atlantic, he assumed.

  He was fed, basic field rations, and there was water and beer available. Jack chose water. He drank a lot of it. He was desert bound, and he would hydrate as much as possible before entering the parched lands.

  Jack removed his artificial foot, which was wearing well, but that always profited from rest and a simple massage. He read and slept, and later he saw a bit of land, so far below he could detect no features. Africa? Probably.

  He supposed that, to make the water crossing as short as possible, the Lear had left the American continent somewhere on the eastern swell of South America.

  They landed and took off, landed again, sat around, and then flew some more. His silent and private companions departed at one stop and unseen cargo came aboard. Other passengers boarded for short distances, but none appeared to notice him—or each other.

  Jack slept some more and devoured one of his paperback novels. He revisited the aircraft’s toilet and began to wish they had paused long enough to empty the waste tanks.

  There were mountains. He judged their heights and foliage, if any, through the sl
it of his window covering. Nothing was helpful. He hadn’t a reasonable clue to where on the earth’s surface he was.

  They let down on concrete, Jack could tell that. The aircraft taxied into heavy shade and the engines closed down. As sure as he could be, Jack believed they had cut their engines within a hanger. Had they arrived?

  They had. Jack was ushered from the plane with his limited gear. A new face, an Afghan face, glared at him. His elbow was seized, and he was marched to a water faucet.

  An American-speaker, probably an Afghan said, “Fill your water containers now. This will be your final opportunity.”

  He was home—in a perverted sense. Little had changed. His recognition of his old base in Afghanistan was instantaneous. An American helicopter with unknown marking waited with blades slowly turning.

  He was hustled aboard, and the chopper, a model Jack could not name, leaned ahead and soared toward the nearby mountains. Blackwater Jack had not been on the ground a half hour.

  The only man he had heard speak—the English-speaker—sat in an adjoining jump seat. He held out a paper bag. “Here is your satellite broadcaster. When you are ready to be picked up, turn the locator on, and this helicopter will appear within a few hours.

  “If you have picked a practical landing site, and we find no surprises lurking, we will pick you up and return you to the aircraft you just left. Choose poorly, and we will continue our flight and your survival will be in your own hands.”

  The man still looked completely PO’d. Many Middle Easterners always looked enraged, so Jack paid the glaring only marginal attention

  He asked, “What time of day is it?”

  “What?” Jack’s simple question appeared to almost unhinge the unhappy Afghan.

  “I have been in an airplane for days, I have crossed oceans and mountains. I am in a different time zone. I need to know whether it will soon get dark or whether I have many hours of useful daylight.” Jack allowed himself to show a little irritation.