The Mercenary

by Dan Hampton

  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

  “Sonofabitch 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 th
e 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.”

  “Continental 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.