The Mercenary (27 page)

The cop shook his head.

“Anyone?”

Axe looked around, and despite another glare from Jolly Lee said, “What about private aircraft and boats?”

“It's a long way to Texas on a boat.” Karen Shipman finally joined in.

“He doesn't have to go to Texas. Just out of state . . . say North Carolina or Maryland, then catch a flight from there while we're all searching Virginia.”

“That's pretty clever,” Lawson replied, and Axe tried to keep his eyes from rolling. The sky cop had no imagination. One of those who only thought in black-and-white, and colored inside the lines.

“He's a professional, Colonel. We can't afford to discount any of these possibilities.”

To his surprise, Sturgis was nodding his head. The general had just seen his nice tidy options blown away and knew he had to cover his ass. “Colonel Truax is right. Cover both angles.” He stood up and so did everyone else. “I'm done at noon and we'll meet back here then to hear what you've learned. And someone find the FBI by then.”

T
he Sandman passed an hour sitting quietly in a gazebo near the flight line. There were four or five of these, mainly for families, scattered between the OG building, fire department, and alert facility. A lieutenant colonel walking around an air base would get someone's attention, but sitting here within sight of the runway looked completely normal.

It was all familiar.

There were cars heading down the road toward the fighter squadrons, firefighters washing one of their trucks in the morning sun, and small groups of enlisted kids wearing plain white T-shirts running in formation.

And the spine-tingling whine of jet engines. Farther down the flight line, the morning missions had gotten cranked up. Crew chiefs surrounded each plane, checking and rechecking while the pilots ran through their myriad of systems checks. Strobe lights flashed and engines spooled up as other F-16s began the taxi to the runway.

He knew it all intimately.

He'd been out there once.

He'd been out there on a day like today when his wife died.

She'd called the hospital at Langley Air Force Base complaining of pains and bleeding. She was seven months pregnant with another baby girl. Young Sergeant Nobody had told her that she wasn't covered for any hospital other than Fort Eustace, an Army base thirty-seven miles up the peninsula. Langley, of course, didn't have the facilities. They were sorry, but it was, after all, her “primary provider.” TRICARE, the military answer to health care, said so. And the sergeant, like a lot of sergeants, was incapable of independent thought.

A newlywed and unfamiliar with the military, his wife thought she had to do what
they
said. And they never bothered to tell her any different. It wasn't in their Standard Operating Procedures. Their Brain in a Book.

And he wasn't there to tell them to fuck off. To hell with reimbursement and primary providers and all that bullshit. He was a colonel and could afford to send his wife wherever she needed to go.

He'd been flying and she couldn't call him. She wasn't due for another five weeks so it seemed all right. He'd gotten recalled in flight. Knowing it had to be his wife, he flew home just under the speed of sound and landed in a rush of speed brakes and smoking tires.

The rest was a blur. She'd hemorrhaged, they'd said, trying to drive all the way to the hospital at Fort Eustace. She'd managed to stop on the shoulder and call 911. He'd heard the tape. Heard it cut off by the tractor-trailer rig that had clipped the SUV and sent it, and his family, spinning into the James River. And no one had stopped to help her. All the good people of the world that he'd protected for so many years. They'd done nothing.

Oh, she'd been rushed to a real emergency room, not a military base, but it was too late. The little girl had drowned and the unborn baby, another little girl, had died with her mother.

He shouldn't have even been there. His assignment had been canceled and he'd been kept at Langley to test and evaluate the F/A-22. He'd told them all it was underperforming and overpriced—that it would never be the fighter attack aircraft they wanted it to be. His section chief, a lieutenant colonel; his division chief, a colonel; and the general in charge of his directorate had all ignored the data and recommendations. He hadn't realized that they were doctoring the test reports to give the Pentagon what it wanted—true or not. They'd canceled his follow-on assignment because no one knew that mission like he did. His professional credibility was beyond question and they needed that. He hadn't realized how badly the lieutenant colonel wanted eagles, the colonel wanted to be a general, and the general wanted another star.

He stared unseeingly at a taxiing F-16. There were three other hospitals within ten miles of their home. But they hadn't told her that because those hospitals weren't on the “approved” list. They would cost the government more money than was authorized for “dependent medical care.”

More money.

Each fucking F/A-22 cost upwards of $190 million and still didn't work as advertised. Yet people mattered so little to military that they went cheap on medical treatment. He'd looked it up months later—$119.26. That was the difference in cost to the government to use a civilian facility.

$119.26.

The mercneary breathed out slowly until his eyes focused. Two of the three were dead and the third one would be soon. Turning, he stared at the headquarters building a quarter mile away. Killing his target was never an issue. But altering his plan to get on the base now meant he needed a way
off
the base since he had no vehicle.

Mentally discarding options, he watched a group of medical folks setting up a simulated field hospital in the grass beside the headquarters. As a blue staff car pulled into the command parking lot and two officers in flight suits got out, a slow smile crossed the mercenary's face.

He knew what to do.

Chapter
20

“A
ll right,
that's it then.”

All around the long, polished table, men and women
pushed back their chairs and stood up. As they gathered up papers and Day
Planners, Colonel Mike Halleck slipped out and headed back to his office. One of
the perks of being wing commander was a private bathroom adjoining his big
corner office. A sanctuary where he could retreat, not answer phones and not
listen to the endless stream of complaints and demands on his time. It was 1020
and he had ten minutes before his next meeting—long enough for a cup of coffee
and trip to the head.

Nodding to Cindy, he tried to pass through the
outer office unscathed but had no such luck.

“Sir, there are messages . . .”

“Yeah. I'm sure the Rotary Club is desperate for me
to speak, some pro jock wants a photo op, and my wife called.”

Cindy regarded him through layers of makeup that
she still thought kept her perpetually twenty-eight years old. “No jocks, sorry.
Actually the Rotarians did call. So did General Sturgis.”

That stopped him. “Himself?”

“Well, no . . . it was his exec. But the
general would like to speak to you when you're done this morning. I told him
you'd call at noon.”

Must be some heads-up on the ORI, he thought,
nodding. Sturgis was a bomber toad and a prick, but he was also the ACC
commander. Halleck knew him from Langley, when they'd both been part of the
Directorate of Requirements.

“Right. I'll do it.” He ducked toward his
office.

“Oh, Colonel . . . your wife called.”

T
he
Sandman walked into Wing Headquarters a few minutes after 1100. Carrying his
black notebook like everyone else, he glanced up at the ceilings and hallway
corners as he made his way to the lavatory.

No cameras.

There hadn't been a few years ago, but the War on
Terror had changed many things. He washed his hands until the other two men
left, then looked at his watch. It was 1109. The last round of pre-lunch
meetings had started and most everyone was occupied.

It was time.

The building's interior was laid out in two
concentric squares. The outer square held the commander section offices on the
edge closest to the flight line. The other two corners were cube farms: lots of
people at computers doing vital stuff. The inner square was mostly the enormous
conference room, where Colonel Halleck now sat with twenty other officers
planning something crucial to the wing's combat readiness. Like a morale picnic
or sexual harassment training.

Lucky Mike Halleck.

Not so lucky today, he thought.

Stepping back into the hallway, the mercenary
walked a few feet into an alcove containing a coffee bar. This was mainly used
for visitors waiting to see someone in Headquarters. Everything was just as he'd
remembered it. A major wearing ACUs, the Air Force version of battle fatigues,
was stirring a cup of something when the Sandman walked in.

“Good morning, sir. Care for a cup?”

“You didn't make it, did ya?”

The other officer chuckled. “No sir. Kathy, our
secretary would shoot me if I messed with her pot.”

“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.

“W
hat
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?

“F
orty-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 trip. 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?”