The Mercenary

by Dan Hampton

  He crossed over 5th Street again, cut through another parking lot, and headed down B Street. He was now parallel to the Sandman and going the opposite direction back toward the center of the base. Cutting through the same parking lot, the mercenary was turning onto B Street when the staff car stopped beneath the trees in front of the Visiting Officer’s Quarters.

  The Sandman eased to the curb several spaces back and parked as well. There were two such identical VOQ buildings, each in the shape of a C with the open end facing the street. They were beautiful old buildings, remnants of a more dignified time. Wide porches covered with deep overhangs kept the entrance to the rooms cool and shady. Each room, the mercenary knew from experience, had a drawing room with a fireplace that opened onto a large bedroom. Bachelor officers used to live here and it was quite comfortable. Unable to part with this aspect of its past, the Air Force had updated the buildings and kept the suites for distinguished guests like general officers.

  Fowler got out and strode up the walkway to the farthest building. The Sandman had no trouble keeping him in sight since all the rooms were accessed from the verandah. Noting the general’s suite, the mercenary sighed and settled back to wait. Besides gym clothes, he’d made several other purchases at the BX. A roll of duct tape, an extra set of thick athletic socks, and a pizza box sat on the seat next to him. Though several hours old, the pizza still smelled good and he slipped a piece into his mouth, remembering the man he’d followed.

  Herbert Fowler had scraped through school in some Midwest fly-over state with perfectly straight borders. In a place like Iowa or wherever he’d come from, there hadn’t been any competition, so Fowler managed to get a commission as a second lieutenant. Incredibly, he’d also been able to apply for flight school. However, now faced with talented contenders from real schools, Fowler couldn’t make the cut and ended up in navigator training. So for nearly five years he rode around in the backseat making a pest of himself and building up his supply of volcanic resentments. These were directed at anyone he perceived as more fortunate or capable than himself—or taller. He burned with envy toward young officers who came from good schools and became pilots right away.

  Finally, due to timing and shortfalls in Air Force manning, Fowler’s repeated application for pilot training was accepted. As a captain, he was the senior officer in his pilot training class and, like many of those who have been ignored or overlooked their entire lives, he reveled in minor authority. As with most ambitious but mediocre people, Herbert Fowler learned the value of politics and connections.

  Though largely a meritocracy, the military certainly possesses its political side. Young Fowler used this, along with his relative seniority, to get a fighter assignment out of pilot training. He flew F-15s in Alaska and Holland, gaining a well-deserved reputation as a conniving twit. Fighter pilots reject such men like nature rejects the weak or deformed. At each new base, once his true colors inevitably showed, Fowler found himself shunted around into positions no one else wanted.

  In the winter of 1991, as the war with Iraq approached, Major Fowler saw himself leading hundreds of men into combat and fulfilling his destiny. At least as he saw it. Through pulling strings and cashing in favors to get sent “over there,” a compromise was reached. Fowler was indeed sent to the war zone—but as a safety officer. Assigned to a base that had no aircraft, he spent the war making coffee for generals and offering tactical opinions no one cared to hear.

  After the war, with squadron commands going to recent combat veterans, Fowler was all but forgotten. He limped off a staff job to repair his flagging career and became a favored pet rock to several generals. Making coffee well and kissing ass expertly, Fowler was promoted to lieutenant colonel and sent to a fighter wing for a command. Unfortunately, another protégé of a more important general got the command and Fowler had to bite his tongue, bide his time, and play second fiddle.

  Now, if there was any type of fighter pilot that Sebastian Herbert hated most it was a Weapons Officer—literally the best of the best in tactical aviation. However, since Fowler had lucked into fighters and only survived through politics, there was no way under heaven that he had ever been considered for that elite, prestigious course. Even if he had, he would’ve been psychologically and physically unable to live through it.

  It ate at him more poignantly than all his other carefully hidden failures. And here in this wing, newly arrived from Nellis, was a young graduate of the very course that exemplified Fowler’s professional shortcomings and personal desires. At last he had a target for his jealously and insecurity.

  However, much to Fowler’s shock and dismay, the youthful fighter pilot was in no way cowed or impressed by him. In fact, he had the audacity to publicly disagree with Fowler over several significant tactical changes. The wing commander, a brigadier general and also a former Target Arm, happened to agree with the young captain. Never one to admit an error, Fowler waited until the general was transferred, then used his own connections to try to prevent the captain’s early promotion to major. He also attempted to derail the other man’s career at every opportunity. He didn’t succeed but he did muddy the waters in a spiteful, petty fashion. It wasn’t until years later, when the captain, now a lieutenant colonel himself, was due to command a fighter squadron of his own, that Fowler was able to interfere. Quietly, behind the scenes, he called in favors and manipulated the system and the command went to someone else.

  Behind his flat, gray eyes, the mercenary stared at the building. If it had only been that he could’ve let it go. He was accustomed to envy and though most fighter pilots were above it, he’d always considered the source and laughed it off. But when Fowler’s interference cost him a command he went off to a staff tour—the tour that lost him a wife and daughter. If Fowler hadn’t interfered, then the mercenary and his family would’ve been somewhere else. Similar malicious interference had cost Jimmy Neville his life and would cost Fowler his.

  As he watched, Herbert Fowler emerged from the shadows beneath the verandah and walked down the steps. He’d changed into a flight suit and the Sandman knew that meant the Officer’s Club. No fighter pilot, even a pretender such as Fowler, would go into a club wearing blues.

  The staff car pulled away and the he watched him go. If the general did anything but turn left, then he’d follow. As it crossed Northeast Drive, the car turned left and the mercenary stayed where he was. Park Drive cut through the concentric rings of the housing area and headed directly to the club. The mercenary smiled; now all he had to do was wait for the general to return. Fowler wouldn’t be too late; he certainly wasn’t a gambler or a Crud player. The man was also a teetotaler and that pleased the mercenary. He wanted the general conscious for what was going to happen.

  “Did you ever play much, General?” The colonel next to him shouted over the music and pointed toward the billiard table.

  Herbert Fowler glanced at the Crud game, shrugged his shoulders and shouted back. “Sure—dudn’t everyone?”

  Actually he didn’t play. Crud was synonymous with the drinking games, dice, and song-singing part of fighter-pilot life that he detested. For years he’d had to go along with it and pretend to love the raucous side of being a combat officer. “Work hard, play hard” was more than just a cliché—it was gospel.

  But he’d hated it.

  When he’d finally gotten a command of his own he immediately began a personal crusade to make his officers better men—men like him. The first thing he’d done was to close the squadron bar down and make it into a coffee lounge. He also got rid of the “Hog Log,” a daily journal of mishaps, large and small, that any pilot could scribble in. It was a sarcastic, irreverent, and, in his opinion, humiliating tradition. Finally, his squadron’s patch featured a pair of dice, which Fowler found so offensive that he lobbied the Air Force to change it.

  However, since that squadron—and its patch—had been around since 1917, the powers that be ignored the requ
est. Not surprisingly, Fowler’s efforts killed morale; his men won none of the periodic competitions that kept fighter pilots sharp. They performed miserably on evaluations and no one asked for tour-of-duty extensions.

  Fowler, of course, placed the blame squarely on the shoulders of his subordinates. The wing commander knew exactly what was happening, managed to shorten Fowler’s tenure and get him promoted and transferred out. Everyone threw a party when he’d gone, but the damage had been done. S. Herbert saw none of it, being absolutely convinced of his own righteousness.

  “I think we did a good job here, sir,” the colonel ventured tentatively, referring to the selection board.

  Fowler knew the man had purposely sought him out and was sucking up to him and he didn’t mind in the least. It was part of the game. He’d done it and now he got to enjoy the attentions of others.

  “I think we did the best possible job for the Air Force.” He replied primly and took a sip of his Coke. He always ordered a Coke with a little shot glass of rum on the side. Fowler never drank it and managed to discreetly pour out the rum, but it looked like he was “one of the boys.” Appearances were important, after all.

  Tossing back the Coke, he smacked his lips and stood up. The colonel immediately stood as well but Fowler clapped him on the shoulder. “Sit. I’m outa here. Early flight home tomorrow.”

  “Yessir. Have a good trip back.”

  The Officer’s Club crowd was mostly younger pilots and lots of girls. The music was loud and couples were grinding away on the dance floor. Smaller groups of men, those without women, stood everywhere, drinking and talking with their hands. The general edged his way through it all, fighting back a petulant frown. Officers should behave like gentlemen and most of these definitely weren’t living up to that, he felt. If he commanded this base he’d shut this place down. Except for Sunday brunch, of course.

  As he lumbered up the stairwell, a wave of fresh air hit his sweaty round face and the general smiled. That was a pleasant thought, to command here. Have to work on that one, he thought, making his way to the vehicle. Fowler reveled in the small things, the trappings of military life, so he paused a moment and stared at the blue staff car parked importantly in a General Officer Only spot right up front.

  Preoccupied with himself, Fowler didn’t see the man watching from another car across the street. He also didn’t notice the headlights that stayed thirty yards behind him on his way back to the BOQs. As the staff car parked, the Sandman continued toward the flight line, did a U-turn and pulled into the B Street parking lot. Picking a dark corner away from the streetlamps, he sat a moment as the engine ticked while the general strode up the sidewalk to his room.

  Figuring that the man would call his wife and take a shower, the Sandman waited forty-five minutes before moving. Shrugging into a cheap, BX-brand tan windbreaker, he put several objects in the pockets, tugged on a red baseball cap, and got out. Reaching over to the passenger side, the mercenary picked up the pizza he’d purchased earlier, then shut the door. Holding the box with one hand, he calmly walked up the sidewalk toward the BOQs, no different from the dozens of other pizza guys who’d visit the base that night.

  Rather than take the center walkway under the lights, the Sandman approached from the side and stepped onto the verandah in the shadows. About halfway down, he suddenly heard laughing and three people came around the far corner. Two women in their early twenties were hanging on the arms of a man in a flight suit.

  To do anything other than continue straight ahead would’ve looked suspicious, so the mercenary did just that. As the trio approached they saw him, and the girls, both wearing jeans and tight halter tops, giggled. With a quick, all-encompassing glance, the Sandman saw the officer was a captain wearing fighter-squadron patches. He had slightly glazed eyes and a pleased smirk on his face but seemed alert enough. The mercenary lowered his head and smiled shyly as they passed.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  The girls giggled again, and the pilot threw his head back and laughed. “It is now!” Then they were gone. It saved their lives.

  Stopping to fiddle with the pizza box, the Sandman managed to watch them as they staggered down the verandah. They could’ve cared less—the pilot was definitely not from the Air Education and Training Command, which explained the interest from the girls, so he wasn’t assigned here. In any event, he wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning anyway.

  Walking slowly and softly, the mercenary continued down the wide, dark porch and stopped at Fowler’s door. A faint light shone under the drawn shades and he heard the muted sounds of a television. Listening a moment, he was satisfied that all was quiet, then shifted slightly to put the nearest outside light behind him.

  Gently opening the screen door, the Sandman rapped three times, pulled his cap down over his face, and pretended to study the receipt stapled to the pizza box.

  The door opened and Herbert Fowler stared calmly up at his guest.

  “Yes?”

  “Evenin’ sir.” The mercenary thickened his accent and tapped the box. “Got yer pizza . . . large cheese with pepperoni.”

  Fowler smiled indulgently. “Wrong room, son . . . I didn’t order anything.” He was dressed in a pair of blue Air Force shorts, a silly Hawaiian shirt, and white socks. Typical.

  Perplexed, the mercenary studied the receipt. “Suite One eighty-three . . . General Fowler. One large pizza.”

  “That’s me. But—”

  “Wow,” the Sandman interrupted enthusiastically. “General. I never delivered to no general before!”

  Fowler’s smile broadened. The great man dispensing a favor on the riffraff. “Well, it’s a living.”

  Not for long. But the mercenary grinned, his head still slightly down and face obscured, then dropped the receipt. As Fowler stepped back and reached down for the paper, lights exploded behind his eyes as a knee hit his forehead and sent him toppling back into the room. Instantly stepping inside, the Sandman pulled the door shut, spun the security bolt and dropped the pizza box on an oversized green chair.

  Fowler was out cold, spread-eagled on his back with his dirty white socks pointed at the door. The general’s beach shirt was open, revealing the pudgy belly and undefined chest of a man who never visited the gym. A VIP room like this had two large sections: the sitting room portion they were in had a large couch, several chairs with a coffee table, and a desk. Switching off the desk lamp, the mercenary crossed into the bedroom, checked the blinds, and left the TV on.

  Returning to the sitting room, he pulled a roll of duct tape from one windbreaker pocket and an eight-inch hunting knife from the other. Standing for a long moment, he looked down at S. Herbert Fowler and slowly smiled. The man’s head moved to the side and he groaned.

  Squatting down, the mercenary tore off several strips and taped Fowler’s mouth shut, careful to leave his nose clear. He then ran the roll around the chubby ankles four times and cut the tape. Flipping him over, he taped the wrists together in a figure eight pattern that was impossible to break.

  Fowler groaned again. Pulling the desk chair into the bedroom, the Sandman then lifted the general and sat him in it. Quickly running the tape around the man’s chest and then his ankles, he finished by taping the chair securely to the bedpost so it wouldn’t roll. Satisfied, he straightened up and slapped Fowler hard across the face.

  As he revived somewhat, the general’s eyes focused slowly on the figure leaning against the wall. Blinking rapidly, he tried to move his arms but couldn’t. Straining against the duct tape, he whipped his head back and forth several times, then stopped, glaring angrily.

  The Sandman merely watched, then removed the ball cap, raised his chin and stepped into the light. For a long moment the two men stared at each other. Fowler’s eyes slowly widened, and the mercenary saw recognition spread across the other man’s face.

  “That’s right . . . it’s me.”
He saw the astonishment in the man’s eyes and the unspoken question. “Do you really have to wonder why? I know you thought, and certainly hoped, that I was dead, but even you must’ve had some doubts.”

  The mercenary sat down in the other chair, facing the general, and stared into his face. “You’re one of the most worthless individuals I ever met. A self-centered, self-righteous, narcissistic piece of shit. You meddled with my career and in my life—a career, by the way, that you never had the balls or hands to have. In fact, it was because of your interference that I ended up in a place I wouldn’t have otherwise been.” His face hardened. “I lost a family that would be alive today if I’d been sent somewhere else.”

  Fowler’s angry little eyes had been red with rage but now showed a bit of alarm. The mercenary saw it and smiled. “You should be afraid. You’re going to die tonight. In fact”—he stood up—“you’re going to die right now.”

  “MMPHHH!!!” Fowler thrashed back and forth and screamed against the tape across his mouth. “MMPHHH!!”

  Lights burst again under his eyelids and his head felt thick and heavy; Fowler slumped forward, his jaw broken, and a smoky taste filled his mouth. Fingers seized his hair and yanked his face upright. As his vision cleared, Fowler stared into the expressionless gray eyes he remembered so well and hoped he’d never see again. Very deliberately, almost gently, the mercenary leaned the other man’s head back against the chair.

  Maybe he’s done . . . maybe it was a bluff . . . maybe he just wanted to humiliate me . . . Fowler’s mind raced. When I get free I’ll have him hunted down. I’ll. . .

  He felt his shorts being torn away and snorted in alarm. The aching slap caught him by surprise and snapped his head sideways, and he faded into unconsciousness from the pain of his broken jaw.

  It was nothing compared to what happened next.

  Searing, burning fire shot up from his groin and Fowler’s back arched, his eyes popping against the agony. Mucous streamed from his nose as he tried to scream and breathe at the same time. Involuntary tears streamed down his cheeks and he slumped forward again. Feeling the wetness, the general slowly raised his head and tried to focus on the shiny object moving slowly back and forth under his eyes.