The Mercenary (17 page)

“How in the hell is this going to look?” He glared around the room, his small beady eyes almost disappearing into his saggy cheeks. “Someone answer me, dammit!”

The other general officer in the room, a two-star general named MacDonald, cleared his throat.

“Mrs. Neville is in shock, apparently. She's been taken to the base hospital and . . .”

“Do I give a shit?” Sturgis interrupted angrily. “She's alive, isn't she? She'll get a big monthly check from the Air Force and probably write a damn book! Make a million bucks and her problems are over!” He plopped back in the chair and put his arms behind his head. “Good Gawd almighty,” he said again. “What about me?”

Doug Truax leaned forward and opened his mouth to speak but caught a warning look from General MacDonald. Personally, Axe was appalled. As an officer, Jimmy Neville had been a jackass and an embarrassment. But Sturgis's only visible reaction was how it affected him.

How did the Air Force survive with guys like this running things? In any large organization shit was bound to float upward, but one hoped that the military, and especially the officer corps, would be a bit less self-serving. He suppressed a sigh and focused on the tree outside the general's window.

“What's been done about the damn press?” Sturgis wanted to know.

“Nothing, sir,” General MacDonald replied. “No one outside the base knows anything about this yet.”

Sturgis put his stubby fingertips together and looked thoughtful. “Then this could go down as some sort of undiagnosed health problem that no one knew he had.”

Axe's jaw dropped and General MacDonald cleared his throat. “Ah . . . I . . . don't think that's very likely, sir. I mean, his neck was broken.”

“But no one knows that except us.” Sturgis leaned forward.

“That's not exactly true, General,” Doug Truax replied carefully. “There's the EMT crew that responded to the call and certainly the hospital staff will know and . . .”

“They can be contained.” Sturgis snapped. “They'll do what they're told. National security. “So he slipped on a wet floor.”

“I'm against that, sir. For the record.” Bill MacDonald shook his head. “Too many people are involved and certainly Neville's widow will know soon enough.”

General Sturgis sighed and stared out the window. MacDonald was a problem. The others were too junior to have any impact but the other general was different. A fighter pilot, which irritated Sturgis, and a warrior. He'd have to think about that.

While he did, there had to be a way to put a positive spin on this for himself. He'd always avoided controversy and being anywhere around the shit that splattered on others. Or at least he'd always managed to deflect it onto someone else.

Facing the group he said, “All right. Put together a Tiger Team: OSI, Security Police, someone from the CAG, and you, Bill, officially notify the FBI.” He needed time to sort this.

They all rose, happy to be doing something and, as the other officers filed out, Sturgis managed a tight little smile. There was always a way.

L
ess than six hours after Neville's body had been found on the toilet, a twin-engined SkyMaster touched down at a small municipal airport in rural Arkansas. It was 4:42 in the afternoon, central time. Taxiing clear, the plane turned toward the General Aviation parking ramp on the north side of the field. The Sandman pulled onto the concrete apron near the fuel pumps, goosed the power to swing around, then shut down the engines. Unstrapping, he pulled back the locking handle and opened the cabin door.

Enjoying the relative silence after four and a half hours of propeller-driven vibration, the mercenary stretched his neck and gazed thoughtfully at a golf cart approaching from the little operations building.

Putting on the sunglasses, he tugged on the bill cap and crawled over the seat. Closing the clamshell doors to the cockpit, the mercenary walked around behind the aircraft and up the other side. Ostensibly making a post-flight inspection, he was also calmly surveying the airport.

“Afternoon!” The man popped out of the cart and stood, hands on hips, looking over the plane.

“How ya doin?” All smiles now, the Sandman came around the cowling, hand outstretched.

“Nice plane. Need fuel, huh?” The man was about sixty, with a full head of white hair. He was wearing jeans, tan work boots, and a bright yellow polo shirt spotted with coffee stains. There was an enormous key ring jangling from his belt.

“Yep. Won't make the next leg without it.”

The man rubbed his chin. “I was just closin' up for the night. How 'bout we do this in the mornin'?”

The mercenary pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. “Goin' up to Nebraska.” He winked. “Don't like to keep the lady waitin'. How about we do it now and you keep this for the trouble.” He slowly waved the money back and forth.

“You got it.” The manager grinned. “Just throw some chocks under a wheel.” He walked back to the pumps and unlocked them. “You gotta grounding wire?”

“Nope.”

“S'all right. Pull one outa the cart there.”

For the next few minutes they busied themselves refueling the plane. The mercenary held the ladder, straightened the hose and politely listened to the man's chatter.

“Hey,” the pilot finally got a word in. “I need the can. Also need to check the weather.”

The manager stuck the nozzle in the other wing port and nodded over his shoulder in the direction of the building. “Go ahead. I can finish 'er up.”

Walking across the apron, he glanced around the surrounding countryside. It was flat and green, broken at intervals by low tree lines. There was an outer screen door, complete with several ragged holes, which he pulled open and stepped through. Inside was typical. Thin wood paneling covered three of the four walls. The big desk faced the door and was backed by two rows of windows that faced the runway. One wall near the desk had a white board covered in multicolored scribbling and several clipboards hanging from nails. These were notices, called NOTAMS, concerning runway closures, bad weather alerts and any special conditions that affected flying. Running his finger along the sheets he saw nothing concerning his destination. Walking around to the computer, the mercenary tapped in a few letters and pulled up a flight-planning website. Entering several four-letter identifiers, he checked the weather and conditions of each. Pausing at the last one, he stared at the screen. Morning fog.

Glancing outside, he saw the manager had finished fueling and was walking around the plane with a clipboard. The pilot knew he was noting the “N” number, the North American registration number assigned to every aircraft operating in the United States. His eyes narrowed as the man peered through the window. Well, let him look. There's nothing obvious there and to act concerned would arouse suspicion. Even here. Pilots and airplane enthusiasts were a basically friendly bunch. Clearing the history on the computer, the Sandman quickly typed in a different set of four-letter identifiers ending at a small airport outside Lincoln.

He was casually leaning against the desk when the manager stumped in.

“Thanks for gettin' me fixed up.” He laid the fifty-dollar bill on the desk.

“No worries. I'll write you up an invoice. What kinda card you usin'?”

The mercenary grinned. “How 'bout cash and a discount?”

The manager beamed. He'd charge slightly less with cash and pocket the difference. “Shore. We can do her that way.” This had turned out to be a good thing. Fifty dollars plus another twenty or so he could skim off the top. He scribbled out the paperwork and the mercenary handed over the cash.

“Any trouble with the computer? Sometimes she's a bit slow.”

“Nope. Flight plan's all filed.”

The manager looked pointedly at the wall clock. “I'd stay and help you launch . . . but . . .”

Again, grinning disarmingly, the pilot shook his head. “No need. I know I caughtcha at the end of the day. How about a cup of your coffee for the road, and I'll be outa here.”

“Good enough.” The man was relieved. “Lights come on automatically at sunset for an hour. After that you gotta do it manually on the common frequency.”

Five minutes later, holding a paper cup of steaming bad coffee he watched the manager's little white pickup truck roll down the road. It turned left at the end and headed toward the town the mercenary knew was a few miles northwest.

Standing on the concrete next to the fuel pumps, the mercenary quietly surveyed the airfield and sipped his drink. Dusk was approaching, crickets chirped, and he heard a tractor in the distance. Crossing to the plane, he opened the cockpit and pulled a small canvas bag from behind the seat. There were three stencils, a roll of tape and two cans of fast-drying industrial-grade spray paint—one blue and one black.

The day before killing Neville, he'd taken advantage of American convenience and run some errands. He'd accessed a storage unit he'd had for years to retrieve the blue Class-A uniform and a flight suit with patches he'd need. He'd also visited two big home-improvement stores in Newport News and purchased disposable TracPhones from several retail stores.

Taking the tape and one stencil he stepped back to the tail boom. Precisely aligning it over the existing registration number, the mercenary taped the stencil in place and retrieved the blue paint. Scanning the little airport one more time he shook the can. Lightly dusting over the numbers once he stepped back again, nodded, and then heavily sprayed over the numbers.

Carefully removing the stencil he did the same thing on the other boom, then finished the coffee while the paint dried.

N931SM was now N9818M.

Quickly preflighting the aircraft in the fading evening light, the mercenary then repacked the paint and stencils, looked around the airfield one last time, and crawled into the cockpit. Eight minutes later, the SkyMaster lifted off and headed northeast, its lights twinkling against the darkening horizon. If anyone was watching or curious, the plane's flight matched the flight plan on the airport manager's computer. North to Omaha.

If he was actually going to do this he'd simply climb up to about 5,000 feet and contact Little Rock Air Traffic Control Center. The controller would assign him a “squawk,” an electronic code, and ask him his destination. He'd then be handed off from controller to controller until reaching Omaha.

But the mercenary didn't do any of that. He stayed at 1500 feet until five miles away, then flipped the aircraft lights off and began a right turn. Pulling out the night-vision goggles, he powered them on and tugged them over his head. Giving the municipal airport a wide berth, he passed well to the east, then brought the SkyMaster around southwest toward the Texas border.

Chapter
12

“S
onofabitch just can't disappear.” General Sturgis was thoroughly
pissed off. Not only was he sitting in his office at nine o'clock at night but
he now had to deal with the Feds. The Air Force Office of Special Investigations
was bad enough but at least he could somewhat control them. He had no control
over the FBI and, like most professional military officers, he was a control
nut.

“The base has been cleared, sir,” the Security
Forces commander, a lieutenant colonel named Lawson, interjected hopefully.

“What does that mean exactly?” The FBI agent
asked.

“All outgoing vehicles were stopped and searched.
All noncritical base personnel were ordered to remain in place for an
accountability check that was verified through their superiors. Pass and ID has
provided a list of all temporary passes issued with an expiration date of today.
All civilian personnel were similarly detained until they could be accounted
for.”

Bet they loved that, Axe thought. The guy sounded
like he was reciting a checklist. Probably was.

“You said all noncritical base personnel had been
checked. What about mission essential folks?” The OSI agent wanted to know.

Colonel Lawson, like most uniform-wearing regular
officers, manifested a deep distrust of military types who wore civilian
clothes. It showed.

“We've asked the flying squadrons for an
accountability check and they're . . . getting around to it.”

“How about your people?” Truax asked innocently. “I
suppose they've all been cleared?”

Lawson stiffened, obviously offended at the
suggestion that the killer could be a policeman. “Yes.”

“Well, it seems obvious to me that we're dealing
with a guy who knows Langley. I mean, Neville wasn't killed by mistake, was he?
No one here thinks this was a random act, right?” Axe looked around. Lee nodded
but everyone else just listened.

“So Neville got whacked by a guy who knew about the
ceremony, who knew how to get on a base and could pass himself off as one of
us.”

“What's your point, Colonel?” Sturgis sounded
testy.

“General, my point is this: everyone's certain this
guy is still here but it's just as likely that he got away before the base was
locked down.”

Colonel Lawson nodded slowly. “Possible. But he'd
have to have known exactly where to go and move very quickly.”

“So what?” Jolly jumped in. “we're talking about
someone who could get onto a military base and kill an officer without being
caught. If he could do that then he knows enough about how we operate to plan an
effective escape. I don't think this man is too worried about your security,” he
added.

Lawson blushed and started to reply but Sturgis
waved him silent. “What about all this electronic and surveillance equipment
I've spent so much fucking money on? Isn't there anything there?”

“There aren't any cameras at the Officer's Club.
The closest one is on a light pole here,” he tapped the base map laid out on the
coffee table. “At the entrance to General's Row.”

General's Row was a long tree-lined street running
down from the club to Air Combat Command Headquarters. It was quite scenic, with
the river on the other side of its manicured lawns and graceful two-story brick
homes. Axe wasn't surprised that the generals wanted the street under
surveillance. After all, they were all high-priority targets for the legions of
terrorists clustered outside the gate.

“And nothing showed up, right?” Sturgis leaned
back.

“No sir. Just folks passing under the trees on the
way to the O'Club.”

“So he got lucky.” The general sounded disgusted.
“Fucking needle in a haystack.”

“Yessir.”

“Or,” Axe finally spoke. “He knew about the camera
and avoided it.”

Everyone looked at him like he'd farted in
church.

“This also narrows the field considerably,” the FBI
agent added quietly. “Instead of your haystack full of needles you're actually
looking for a current, or former, officer with a grudge against Colonel
Neville.”

“Who is, or was, probably stationed here at some
point.” Sturgis was rubbing his chin now. “Makes sense. Anyone know someone with
a hard-on for Jimmy Neville?”

“Get in line,” Axe muttered.

Sturgis shot him a nasty look.

“I have a suggestion.” The FBI agent was a short
redhead with intense green eyes named David Abbot. They all turned and looked at
him. “I think the obvious way to proceed would be to have the OSI run down all
leads on any active service members here at Langley who might have killed the
Colonel. The notion that this person may well still be here on the base is very
plausible. Why would he run if he got away with this? That would only draw
attention.”

“Best place to hide a tree is in a forest,” Sturgis
remarked. The two pilots rolled their eyes.

Abbot continued, “The Bureau's resources would be
best utilized by concentrating on the possibility that this man did leave the
base and is out there someplace.” He waved a hand in the direction of Hampton
Roads.

“But who will you look for?” Axe asked. “You need a
name.”

“True.” The agent nodded. “So while we wait for you
to give us that, we start with ‘persons of interest.' Anyone suspicious at
airports or train stations or car-rental agencies . . . that sort of
thing. Then anyone you turn up that's missing. Anyone with an unexplained
absence. You two,” he looked at the OSI agent and the Security Forces commander,
“might review the security cameras at the gates for anything out of the ordinary
and check out the list of temporary pass holders. Once you have a name, or
names, then we can really go to work. Until then we eliminate
possibilities.”

No one spoke for a long moment. “Seems a bit slow
to me,” Sturgis finally said. He'd been hoping for a quick arrest so he could
claim the credit.

“It's the only way,” the FBI agent replied evenly.
“Running about helter-skelter would waste time, resources and draw attention to
all of this.”

“So what about the press?” Sturgis asked. “How is
that dealt with?”

“Outside of this room, who knows Neville was
murdered?” Abbot asked.

“Only the two policemen who initially responded to
the call, the paramedics, and Mortuary Affairs,” Colonel Lawson was quick to
respond. “It can be contained.”

Even Sturgis looked doubtful at that.

Terrific
, Axe thought.
So you've only got to lock down the hospital and the
Security Forces. And all their friends, of course, and everyone else they've
talked to.

“And Mrs. Neville?” The FBI agent asked.

“She'll be told he suffered a massive heart attack
and was air evac'ed up to Walter Reed.”

These guys are out of their
skulls.
Axe fought to keep his face impassive. This wasn't Kabul or
Baghdad. It was mainstream America and things like this weren't just contained
indefinitely. Colonel Lawson was suitably dubious. “So at the most this buys us
what, forty-eight hours? Maybe a bit more?”

“What can we do with that?” Sturgis also looked
unhappy. As well he might. The murder of an officer in broad daylight on a
military base was a hardly a boost to his career.

The FBI agent stood up and looked around at each of
them. His gaze lingered a fraction longer than it should have on Doug Truax.
“Catch a killer.”

“C
ontinental 814, Houston Center copies . . . you're deviating
southwest for weather. We have reports of a line of cells from Austin northeast
to Shreveport. Report resuming original heading.

Distant lightning lit up the horizon like
flashbulbs under a dark blanket. For a brief second the earth below was revealed
in blacks and dark grays. He was low enough to pick up the red pinprick blinking
of lights atop towers and other obstructions. The plane bounced every few
seconds in the unsettled air, but the Sandman was unconcerned. He'd flown all
over the world in worse weather. Checking the autopilot, he took a bite of an
apple and listened to air traffic control vector planes around the weather.

Easily picking up the thunderstorms through the
night-vision goggles, he'd simply angled off farther south. It suited him fine,
since this part of central Texas was sparsely populated and he could fly into
his destination from the east. At 1,200 feet he was high enough to clear any
towers but below radar coverage.

They could see him, if they cared to look, but
legally he wasn't required to talk to anyone, provided he avoided controlled
airspace around major cities. So he'd remained well east of Austin, stayed north
of Houston, and picked up Interstate 10 just south of La Grange.

Switching off the autopilot, the Sandman steeply
banked up to the right, descended down to 800 feet and slowed to ninety knots.
The highway below him was lit at regular intervals and headlights zipped back
and forth in both directions. At this altitude and airspeed, only a military
radar could pick him out from the cars below. Shifting in the seat, he raised
the goggles and stared at the sprawling glow of San Antonio, some fifty miles
ahead.

There was a major airport there with radar and air
traffic control. Also, about ten miles east lay Randolph Air Force Base, one of
the busiest jet training facilities in the U.S. military. Fortunately the T-38s
and T-6 Texans were only unarmed trainers that rarely flew at night or in bad
weather.

Kelly Air Force Base, inside the city, was home to
the 149th Fighter Wing of the Texas National Guard. If any of them were flying
they'd be much farther to the southwest and, in any event, they were Guard
pilots. Even with F-16s, weekend warriors didn't worry the mercenary one bit.
They'd be doing well to find their way back to land, much less track a low, slow
civilian plane at night.

Toggling through his electronic maps, he found the
one he needed and compared it to the terrain in front of him. Huber Air Park was
about fifteen miles east of Randolph, outside the little town of Seguin. Just
beyond the fringe of controlled airspace, it was long enough to land, quiet, and
had small scale commercial operations. It was a perfect solution for the next
phase of his plan, which was why he'd selected it weeks ago in Ireland. On the
downside, it was unlit, deserted at night, and only a few miles from one of
Randolph's auxiliary practice fields.

Pulling the NVGs back down, the Sandman found the
dark patch north of the little town and dropped to 500 feet, still at ninety
knots. Eighteen miles from Seguin he saw the first strobe light higher up off
his left wing. Engaging the autopilot, he focused the goggles again and saw the
other one. Fast moving and angling away from him. So either he'd been seen and
those were fighters from Kelly scrambled to intercept him or it was something
else.

It had to be something else. There'd been no radio
calls, he wasn't squawking an IFF code, and picking out his radar return from
the clutter all around would be next to impossible. Even as he watched, the
leading strobe slowed, turned and he caught a white flash at least five miles
away. The Sandman relaxed. It was a landing light. Those jets had to be T-38
Talons from Randolph using the auxiliary field for night training. He chuckled;
so the Air Education and Training Command had grown some balls and gone night
flying. It didn't matter since they'd never see him.

Looking ahead, he saw the bend in the highway
around Seguin and stared at a tiny cluster of lights on the north side of the
highway. From his planning he knew there was a nice line of hangars on the west
side of the north-south oriented runway. Squinting and leaning forward, the
pilot saw what had to be the buildings. At the far north end was a well-lit
concrete area with several larger structures. That, he knew, would be the
fueling and operations area. He couldn't see the runway but no matter. The area
was clear enough.

Flying down the highway, just under five miles from
the airpark's little runway, he caught the flash of landing lights again. The
lead trainer had turned onto final for the aux field with the second jet a few
miles behind him. Eyes flickering back toward the airpark, the Sandman gauged
his own position and frowned again. Staring out off the right wing, he saw where
the runway must be. Extending the landing gear, the pilot pushed up the
throttles to hold ninety knots and looked back at the jets. The landing light
was out on the first T-38 and a small blue afterburner flame was visible in the
darkness. The trainer had low approached and was on the go around—directly
toward the SkyMaster.

The Sandman calmly lowered his flaps and eased the
plane lower. Mentally projecting the jet's flight path, he figured it would pass
slightly behind him and high. It wouldn't be a factor and T-38 pilots didn't fly
with night-vision goggles, nor did they have a radar.

Overbanking, he dropped another 100 feet and turned
to line up on the hangar lights about a mile in front of him. As he did, the
fast-moving strobe light of the T-38 blinked past as it headed northeast around
Seguin. Ignoring the other trainer, he concentrated on finding the unlit piece
of concrete a mile off his nose. Leveling off at 200 feet, eyes straining under
the goggles, he stared at the ground next to the hangars.

There! A faint, straight edge that had to be
concrete. Setting his aim point along the line just to the right of the last lit
hangar, the Sandman ran his fingers over the cowl flaps, gear handle, and flap
lever. They were all as they should be. As he got closer, the little runway was
plain to see against the glow from the hangars. A rain shower must've passed by
within the last few hours, because the concrete looked wet and was easy to see.
Touching down abeam the first hangar, the mercenary let the nose drop and the
SkyMaster slowed quickly.