The Making of Blackwater Jack

by Roy F. Chandler

  Inside his house, number four, the last warning, rang a very loud bell. Thirty seconds later a handsome Jeep vehicle with three men aboard wheeled into the yard.

  Jack muttered to himself, “I can’t believe it,” and he was instantly thankful that Galloway was on hand—and ready.

  The Jeep used Jack’s over-large yard to u-turn so that the passenger side was closest to Jack. It stopped, and the driver and someone riding in back piled out. The passenger took his time, and once standing, he faced away from Jack to study the view.

  When satisfied, he turned and came closer. He did not offer a hand, and Jack thought that a wise choice.

  Colonel Frank Saltz said, “I heard you had returned to our county, Carlisle, so I am here on a friendly visit.”

  Jack leaned into his words. “You have no friends here, Saltz. What do you want? And make it short before you head back down the mountain.”

  Saltz’s lips tightened, but his voice remained calm and slightly amused. “Now, Mister Carlisle, you should be less crotchety. You would have more friends, and you would not have to hide up here in the wind.”

  “So, what do you want, Saltz?”

  Saltz’s voice hardened, “What I want, Corporal is what I will get.” One of the hired men shuffled his feet as if irritated and impatient with the verbal sparring.

  From the clearing’s far side, the hidden Shooter Galloway worked the action on his pump gun. The racking sound of a shotgun chambering a shell had been used as an attention getter in a thousand movies. It always worked, and it did this time.

  The foot shuffler spun to face the challenge of a shotgun’s loaded presence, and Saltz’s demeanor altered remarkably. His voice became that of a military commander, and Jack gave him credit for measuring up at least in that area.

  “Hold it! Everybody, hold it!

  “I am not up here to observe a gunfight. I am here to make an announcement and to bury a hatchet that has been an irritant for far too long.

  “You with the shotgun. Put on your safety and remain calm. My men are disciplined, and they will not engage unless fired upon.”

  He swung his eyes to Blackwater Jack who had not even straightened from his post leaning. “I hope that your side can do as well.”

  Jack gave no quarter. “Say your piece and leave, Colonel.” He fought a smile imagining Galloway snickering at his “B” Western demand. God, that “Say your piece” must go back to William Boyd playing Hop Along Cassidy.

  Saltz’s jaw was still tight, but he made his voice conciliatory.

  “Carlisle, we have had differences, mostly because of the box I entrusted to Lieutenant Gold’s care. That box contained important material, and I admit to its loss affecting my determination to treat the matter in a professional manner.”

  Saltz visibly gathered himself. “Harsh words have passed between us, but I would like to entomb them in the past and move on.

  “I am leaving the world of business and entering political life at state level. I intend to run for our Senate.

  “As you may have heard, I have had difficulties with various law enforcement organizations, but those misunderstandings have been resolved, all to my satisfaction.”

  Blackwater Jack feared his own jaw might drop. Saltz had been cleared? Despite the many agencies Galloway had reported investigating the man?

  Impossible! Everyone knew he was closely aligned with notorious city people, and that his fist lay heavily on most of the area he now wished to represent. How could he run, much less be elected? Jack was eager to hear more.

  “So, Jack. May I call you, Jack? I am told that is the title you prefer.”

  Saltz did not wait a response. He continued.

  “As a State Senator, I will be positioned to assist my constituents in many ways. Some assistance will no doubt be quite personal and certainly rewarding.

  “The other and obvious side of the coin is that I will also be able to discourage, perhaps in some cases severely discourage, those who oppose or offend my office.

  “So, consider for a moment, Jack, which side you would rather be on? Remember, as you weigh your choice, that the old saying ‘You can’t fight city hall’ has more than a little validity to it.

  “I am offering you the opportunity to start fresh with serious political influence, I wish only to permanently clear all hard feeling between us.”

  Saltz stopped, but Blackwater Jack waited him out. A man in Saltz’s position would not waste time on a relative nobody like Blackwater Jack Carlisle, who had no political or social status and lived in a weird little house on the top of an insignificant ridge in the middle of nowhere. The big point had not yet been made.

  Finally, Saltz got down to it.

  “I have received news that my Afghanistan contact, you undoubtedly heard referred to by Lieutenant Gold as The Sheik, has passed on. His death ends the danger and threat, if you will, of the box contents that Maloney was delivering.

  “My single request is that you reveal to me the location of that box clearly enough that I can re-acquire its contents.

  “If you grant me that scrap of information, our differences will be forever healed and forgotten. If you play your part in this simple misunderstanding from so long in our pasts, your future will be bright, and you will have gained a powerful supporter in an important position.”

  Jack thought, Bull Shit! Pure and deep BS. He decided to stretch the moment before he delivered his own position in his strongest terms.

  Jack asked, “Since it no longer matters, Colonel, what was in that box? I have always wondered, of course.”

  Saltz did not blink, but his jaw again tightened. “Mostly paper from the Saddam Hussein era in Iraq, Jack. Documents that can mean much to me with my Middle East contacts, but that have no national, international, or banking interests for that matter.”

  Jack allowed himself to nod as if in understanding. Then he added, “You harassed me for years, and you burned my house down for papers that were only of interest to you, Colonel? Now you suggest that I just write all of that off, as if it never happened?”

  Saltz’s patience was wearing thin. Unused to pretending humility, he struggled on.

  “Most of those unfortunate incidents were unplanned by me, Jack. Unfortunately, I employed ill-disciplined men who acted as they imagined I might wish.

  “What had I, a man of influence and wealth to gain from burning a former hen house in a Perry County village? Would such destruction encourage you to reveal what I wish to know? Of course not.

  “I might add, Jack, that those who may have been responsible for your house fire were themselves struck down when their vehicle, my car actually, went over a cliff on Mahanoy Ridge and killed all three. No doubt you know of the accident.

  “If we were to measure, it would seem that you came out best of all of those involved.”

  Jack decided that he had heard enough from ex-colonel Saltz. Now it would be his turn. He straightened from his slouch against the porch post and stood like a non-com with his feet spread and his hands fisted on his hips.

  “First thing first, Colonel Saltz.

  “As I have told you repeatedly for years, I do not know what happened to your box. Assuming it did not burn up in the Humvee, I cannot tell you where it ended up. I cannot help you there.

  “Second, I will never accept that those thugs who died in the fall off the cliff worked on their own. They were your creatures, Saltz, and whatever they did, you must have ordered.

  “Finally, I warned you once to stay away from me. I extend a second warning. Do not come here. Ignore me on the street, and I will be pleased.

  “I know what you really are, Saltz, and I see nothing good in you or coming from you.

  “Load your goons and get off my property.”

  Jack turned his back, entered his house, and firmly closed his door. His nerves, especially those in his back, twitched for a long minute, but Saltz gave orders and the Jeep ground its way downhill.

  The alarms went off
in reverse order, but not until the last did Shooter Galloway return to the porch.

  Leaning the shotgun against the house wall Shooter sat in his favored porch rocker. Jack came out and joined him.

  Jack offered a cold can of Mountain Dew and asked, “Did they all go to the bottom?”

  “Yep, I watched them the whole way. It looked to me as though Saltz said only about five words the whole way, and nobody got out. They went east on the main road, moving fast.”

  “Working that action was a great move, Shooter. There is something about that pump gun sound that impresses.”

  “Credit Hollywood, Jack.

  “You have got to do something about Saltz, Blackwater. He will never forget, and he will never believe your box story. He can’t, the loss is too tremendous for him to shrug off. Keep in mind that he knows about the fortune in that box. So far he believes that you do not. That acceptance could change at any time, and he could send men to square up for being told off by an ex-corporal that he wishes were dead.”

  “If he is running for the senate, he will be scratching for money from every possible source. Every time he gets short of cash, he will think of me and his jewels.”

  “You mean documents, don’t you, Jack?”

  “Yeah, I watched his eyes closely while he was pitching that windy. He is a good liar, but that story smells too high for anyone with half a brain to accept.”

  “It was no contest, Jack. You are by far the most convincing liar. You should be proud.”

  “Thanks, Galloway. Just don’t reveal my skills to others who might still believe I am a straight shooter.”

  “So, what do we do about Saltz? You can’t just ignore him, Jack. He will come again. Maybe this winter, perhaps next spring. It may depend on how his fund raising goes.”

  “I’m working on it, Jack. I have been planning and plotting since I got back from Afghanistan. This house is my first move.”

  “Well, you have good fields of fire, but perched on this mountain you won’t have any backup.”

  Jack said, “Did you notice Saltz enjoyng the view?”

  “Yeah, so what? We’ve got great views all over the county.”

  “Look way over on that distant hilltop. See the big house that looks like a castle? Recognize it?

  “You don’t? Well, that is Saltz place, and it is more than a mile away, as the crow flies. By road it is a bunch of miles. He didn’t even make a connection.

  “Did you really think I just happened to choose this particular house over all of those for sale in the county?”

  Galloway thought for moments before he exclaimed, his voice full of amazement and more than a little excitement.

  “Good God, it could be done.” Then he thought some more. “But, Jack, assuming you are not considering an 81mm mortar attack, think of all you have to do.

  “Finding the right rifle in the right cartridge and working, working, working so that a one shot kill is certain will be one hell of a job—especially since you will be keeping all of it a secret.

  “You will never get a second chance, Jack, and if you miss, pardner, it will be open season on your bony butt.

  “Preparing will take months and months of study and calculation plus hundreds of rounds of super long range firing.

  “I’ve never seen that kind of dedication in you or many others. No matter how hard you work, you won’t be ready until next spring, and … “

  Jack’s response was cold and determined.

  “Well, you will see it starting now, Galloway. I’m not moving to California or worrying that Saltz might show up years from now. This needs finishing.

  “The problem isn’t just making the shot, pal. I have to be one hundred percent positive that no one, no matter how good they are, can trace anything back to me, and that will take some managing.”

  His tone lightened. “Let’s not speak about it unless it is necessary.

  “Plausible Denial, Shooter. Weren’t we working on that basic principle?”

  31

  Using a rifle, snipers have killed men at more than 2500 yards. Shooters marvel at such hits but too often fail to remember the misses.

  Failures should be recorded because long range riflery is always demanding, and even the best marksmen regularly miss man-sized targets over one thousand yards away.

  The range for Jack’s shot would be just a few feet under or over two thousand yards—depending on exactly where Frank Saltz chose to stand. If Blackwater missed or only wounded, there would be no second try, and months of preparation would be wasted.

  N. A. Rock down in Jacksonville, North Carolina manufactured the finest sniper rifles in the world. Says who? Says Soldier of Fortune magazine and more than a few Marine Corps, Army, and law enforcement shooters who use them.

  Still, Rock’s sniper rifles fire the normal .30 caliber, match-grade cartridges. For two thousand yards, Blackwater Jack needed something far more powerful and flat shooting. That meant a big rifle with ferocious recoil that would weigh too much for infantry use and be so large, so long barreled, and so unusual looking that it would catch too many eyes.

  None of that would matter. Blackwater Jack’s special rifle would not travel. Only a few would know of its existence, and its shooting purpose would remain thoroughly disguised.

  Among gun-men, the heaviest accurate bullet moving the fastest and delivering the most energy wins hands down, so the .408 Cheyenne excels.

  Those few details would be more than enough for most, but an ultimate argument clincher for Blackwater Jack was that the velocity of a conventional sniper bullet drops below the speed of sound and begins unpredictable wobbling at about 900 yards. The .408 Cheyenne is still moving straight and true at supersonic speed beyond two thousand yards, which happened to be the range from Blackwater Jack’s house to ex-colonel Saltz’s immense back porch.

  To fire the massive .408 Cheyenne cartridge with its utmost accuracy, N. A. Rock’s special rifle used a rare Earl Redick action.

  The rifle was bolt action. Bolt guns are inherently the most consistently accurate. The rifle weighed thirty-pounds including the almost two-foot-long suppressor screwed to the barrel’s muzzle.

  The thunderous crack of an unsilenced .408 Cheyenne would surely gain attention. However, in rural Perry County, Pennsylvania where this rifle would be used, most men are hunters and the report of an ordinary rifle, or a heavily suppressed .408, would gain about as much attention as another crow calling.

  Overkill? Perhaps, but why not? If you intend to eliminate an important and wealthy personage who approaches celebrity and to safely walk away, you should be careful. Very, very careful!

  Almost daily since the rifle had arrived and he had completed its break-in and basic zeroing requirements, Blackwater Jack fired a single round into an aluminum pie pan hidden in the brush along Saltz’s approach road. When needed Jack drove to the shot-up pan and replaced it with a fresh pan. If his bullets were in the pan, he was content. A miss was worrisome, but over the months, practice made more perfect, and misses became rare indeed.

  It was not coincidental that the distance from pie pan to his rifle’s muzzle was exactly two thousand yards. Just the distance from Jack’s living room sliding doors to Frank Saltz’s back porch.

  — — —

  Winter had finally departed. Warm sunlight flooded Jack’s front porch, and for the first time in too long the wind was gone. Zero wind conditions.

  Crap, he had lived so long with his rifle and his planning that he invariably thought in terms of shooting long distances.

  His eyes sought the Saltz mansion, so distant few ever noted it. So close that if Saltz came out, Blackwater Jack was prepared to drop him in his tracks—assuming everything went right.

  There was that grim possibility, of course. He could miss. The weather might fool him, or he could simply blow his shot.

  Even the best marksmen blew shots, and Jack did not consider himself among those often-famed elites who could do magical things with s
mall arms.

  However, on this particular target, Blackwater Jack could believe that no one living could be as sure of hitting as he was. If practice made perfect, Senatorial Candidate Frank Saltz was virtually dead meat.

  How many rounds had he pumped into pie pans placed in Saltz’s brush, now long buried in an out of the county landfill or perhaps recycled? There was a lot of that going on.

  All was not preparing to drill a new hole in Frank Saltz, of course. It had been a busy winter that included settling the diamond disposal problem, so that he would profit immensely, but in a professional manner that would insure that he would remain one hundred percent unidentified.

  His new cell phone chirped. He was becoming a modern man! Galloway was due, and it was Shooter calling.

  Jack said, “You may speak.”

  “I’m about to turn up your alpine trail, and I didn’t want you putting on your wooden leg when your J. C. Penney alarms began going off.”

  Damn, how did Galloway know he would be relaxing with his prosthetic foot off? He was getting too predictable.

  But, the sun did feel good on his stump. To hell with Galloway, but Jack began fitting the calf-high leg into place.

  Jack resumed his remembering. Months ago, he and Galloway had again slipped onto Michael Maloney’s land and dug up the jewel box. They had gone together to seal the deal with Shooter’s boss, father-in-law, and mentor in the business of safely moving valuable items.

  As expected, Bob Robinson, the name he normally assumed, had been impressed by the quality of Galloway’s sample diamond. He was doubly impressed when he examined the entire horde.

  Robinson said, “We are handling millions of dollars, Jack. I am not an appraiser, but over the last forty years we have transported tons of jewels. Still, I have never seen diamonds such as these in quantity.

  “Before I commit to distributing these gems and seeing to their proper sale, which will take years to safely accomplish, I wish to know their background.

  “If they are Nazi loot hidden since the 1940s, that is one thing. If they were the property of one of our many tribal or nit-shit National Middle Eastern leaders, I really need to know.