The Mercenary

by Dan Hampton

  Better.

  Showtime.

  “Broadsword, this is Scar.”

  “Scar . . .” the reply was immediate. A calmly desperate voice with an edge only found in combat. A man realizing he was probably going to die . . . unable to accept it but professional enough to continue doing his job. Mostly because he needed something to hang on to.

  “Scar this is Broadsword . . . We need them now, dammit!” The FAC sounded strained. Who could blame him? Trapped down in the shit with the grunts facing a mass of pissed-off Iraqis.

  “Copy all . . . we’ll try.”

  Just then the radio erupted again. “Attention on the net . . . attention on the net . . . this is Broadsword on guard . . . Emergency! Air support needed at north . . . thirty-one . . . twelve . . . fifty-two . . . east . . . forty-six . . . twenty-eight . . . eighty-seven . . . repeat . . . troops in contact . . . they’re coming from the . . . from the north and east . . . they’re . . .”

  The voice abruptly broke off and the radio crackled.

  “Broadsword this is Scar . . . overhead Nasiriyah . . . ready to play . . . request Five-Line.”

  Nothing.

  “Broadsword . . . Scar . . . acknowledge!”

  They were over the city now. Looking off the rail he could see lines of vehicles on the main roads leading up to the city from the south. That would be the Marines, he knew. The First Marine Expeditionary Force had been given the delightful job of fighting its way up the river valley to Baghdad. The problem with that is most of the people in Iraq lived in the valley and there was a shitty little pissant town every few miles along the road. Each shitty little town had its own collection of shitty little “freedom fighters” determined to die as martyrs. Nice.

  He shook his head and looked at Nasiriyah. From the air it was a bewildering spiderweb of roads and canals. The buildings looked like they were cut from a mold. All the same height, shape, and color. And viewed through the smoke, sand, and haze. And at least he didn’t have a CAS map.

  Swell.

  He set up a big left-hand wheel and toggled the autopilot back on. His wingmen fanned out comfortably and throttled back also. This was a good administrative type of formation that allowed everyone freedom to maneuver, save gas, and scope out the target area. Giving up on Broadsword, he switched back to the Chieftain frequency and keyed the mike.

  “Chieftain . . . Scar . . . no contact with Broadsword . . . overhead Nasiriyah and ready to play.”

  The FAC came back immediately. “Scar . . . Chieftain . . . Broadsword’s off the air.” The pilot felt a lump in his throat. They were too late. “Contact Grizzly on Violet Six.”

  “Copy Violet Six.” He rifled through the plastic phone book but couldn’t find it. “Ah . . . Chieftain . . . how about just giving me the freq.”

  Surprisingly, he did. Passing it to his flight, the pilot stared over the wing line as they arced east of the target area. There were hundreds of sparkling flashes on both banks of the big canal that cut through the town. There were several bridges and he could see armored vehicles on the south side. Occasionally a bigger white smoke trail would shoot across from the northern side as the Iraqis tried to get one of Marine tanks.

  “Triple-A . . . ten o’clock . . . level!”

  His Number Three man’s voice stabbed through the helmet and he looked up to the left. Sure enough . . . a whole popcorn cluster of white puffys. Fifty-seven millimeter anti-aircraft fire. He instinctively dumped the nose and dropped down to 20,000 feet while checking the flight further north. The pilot knew it would take some minutes for the gunners to recalibrate the change in altitude and heading.

  “Grizzly this is Scar . . . Grizzly this is Scar.”

  “Scar . . . thank God . . . this is Grizzly . . . say your position!” The FAC sounded nearly frantic.

  “Grizzly . . . Scar is overhead Nasiriyah . . . four Fox-Sixteens . . . ready to play!

  “Scar . . . stand by Five-Line . . . call ready . . . call ready!”

  The pilot could hear the same small-arms crackle in the background. This guy was close.

  “Grizzly . . . Scar . . . I need a talk on . . . we don’t have CAS maps . . . repeat . . . I need a talk on.”

  A talk on took time but was absolutely necessary if friendlies were fifty yards from the target. He’d never whacked a good guy yet and had no intention of starting now. Besides, this was the first taste of combat for his three wingmen and they couldn’t afford a mistake.

  “Grizzly copies . . . tell me what you see!”

  Shit hot, the pilot thought. The guy knows his business. That was always the way to start.

  “I see an east-west canal cutting the town in half. I see an north-south canal bordering the town to the west.”

  “Okay . . . do you see the three bridges across that east-west canal?”

  The pilot rolled up on a wing and stared down into the muck. One . . . two . . . only two! Where was the third one? The crisscrossing arcs of tracer fire had intensified . . . there wasn’t much time.

  “Ah . . . Grizzly . . . I only see two.” He checked the altitude. Time to shift again. He pulled the fighter up again several thousand feet to confuse the gunners and continued staring at the ugly brown city.

  “Scar . . . do you see the bridge closest to the north-south canal?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Triple-A . . . left eight and drifting aft.” Number Three on the VHF freq again. He clicked, or zippered, the mike in reply.

  “Okay . . . use the distance from that canal to the first bridge as one unit of measure.”

  “Continue.” A unit of measure was almost always established. It was often the fastest way to get a pilot’s eye onto a target.

  “Go one unit east and look on the north bank of the canal . . . what do you see?”

  He did. There was a blockhouse or something like it hunched on the bank. Even as he watched, a ropy strand of orange tracers spat over the canal from the building.

  “I see a blockhouse . . . and tracer fire.”

  “Scar . . . that’s your target. We’ve got wounded friendlies on the bank . . . no evac possible until that thing goes . . . copy?”

  He flipped his Master Arm switch to ARM. “Scar copies all . . . I’ll run in from the south and egress west.”

  That would keep his Maverick from hitting any Marines on the way in and put him directly in the sun on the way out.

  “Makes sense Scar . . . with positive ID you are cleared in hot . . . call ‘in’ . . . abort will be in the clear . . . acknowledge!”

  “Scar copies all.”

  He keyed the VHF. “Scar Two . . . stay west of the north-south canal and stay above twenty K . . . Scar Three and Four stay east of the canal above twenty K.” He’d neatly split up the flight. Now they could watch the target area without worrying about flying formation.

  He glanced at the map and used his fingers to measure the distance to the nearest tanker track. It was called Twitch South, just over the Iraqi border in Saudi Arabia . . . and 150 miles away.

  “Scar Three . . . call up Luger and see about getting the Twitch tanker moved north if we need it.”

  The mike clicked. The pilot leaned forward against the seat straps and stared at the battlefield. More vehicles had moved up from the south and spread out along the canal and side streets. Even from 15,000 feet he could see the tiny specks of men as they darted back and forth. Tracers still shot both ways across the water in skinny bright arcs. Molten blobs from the heavier weapons moved slower . . . seemingly more deliberate as they smashed into buildings and men.

  Flying by feel alone, he didn’t take his eyes off the blockhouse. The cockpit smelled like hot nylon, old sweat, and urine. He’d removed the white leather flight gloves and his fingers played lightly over the stick and throttle. Without really thinking, he changed displays, checked the eng
ine instruments, and quickly scanned the radar. There were always other jets tooling around and they frequently didn’t talk to anyone. Navy usually.

  He dropped the nose and descended as he passed through southwest in the arcing left turn. Large numbers of trucks and cars were pouring into the outskirts of the city from the north carrying Iraqi reinforcements and supplies. There was even a school bus.

  “Scar . . . this is Grizzly!” The man sounded out of breath. “We’ve moved . . . falling back on the bridge . . . probably have to bug out to . . . on the south bank of the . . .”

  He pushed the throttle up and descended to 10,000 feet. The haze made it hard to see.

  “Scar . . . we’re bugging out!”

  A small knot of men burst from the outbuildings and ran for the bridge. Even as he watched, an Iraqi personnel carrier spotted them and began careening down the street.

  Bastard’s trying to cut them off . . . the pilot’s eyes narrowed and he immediately flipped the jet over and dove out of 10,000 feet. The little group had made it to the bridge but they weren’t going to make it across before the APC caught them. It was about a half mile up the road and coming fast.

  Three thousand feet and dropping fast. He pulled the throttle back and stole a glance at the Maverick video display . . . focusing back on the HUD, he put the big bore cross on the truck and released his thumb. It wandered off and went sideways.

  Two thousand feet. He cracked the throttle back more. Sweat ran down from his forehead and into his right eye. Blinking furiously, he squinted and tried to lock the Maverick again.

  Passing 1,000 feet he suddenly caught a flicker of movement from the right side of the road. Two multi-wheeled vehicles bounced out of the rocks and up the embankment to the road.

  Shit. . .

  Instantly adding power, the pilot pulled back hard on the stick directly toward them. Bristling with gun barrels, both ZSU-23-4s, called Zooces, slid to a stop.

  Bunting forward, he booted the rudder and lined up the Maverick cross on the nearest Zooce as its turret lurched to a stop. Mouth dry, he released the switch and the missile locked around the vehicle. As the four guns began to lift, he mashed down on the pickle button and the Maverick kicked hard off the rail.

  Rolling hard left, the pilot slammed the stick forward and his helmet thudded hard against the canopy. Reversing and pulling back, he shoved the throttle into afterburner as both Zooces started firing. Bunting wildly, the first deadly streams of 23mm tracers passed over and behind him. At 400 feet, he popped the F-16 up and yawed it sideways to keep the Triple-A guns in sight. pressed hard against the cockpit bulkhead, he called up the second Maverick, rolled the jet on its back and pulled toward the other Zooce. As the jet’s nose lined up on the dirty brown vehicle, the pilot snap-rolled upright and the first Zooce disappeared in a nasty orange-and-black flash. In a freakish moment of time distortion, he saw the intact turret catapult into the air, flipping end over end into the desert.

  Fingers dancing, he wriggled the fighter’s nose until the big missile pointing cross touched the remaining Zooce. Slapping the throttle back out of burner, he let off the Gs to stabilize the lock and saw the turret spin in his direction.

  Eyes flickering between earth, HUD, and the Zooce, he released the switch passing 300 feet. . .

  Son of a bitch! It wandered off and he immediately slewed the cross back and tried to re-acquire as the guns roared to life. Letting go of the stick, he smacked the bulkhead countermeasures button and chaff shot out behind the jet. Kicking hard left, the F-16 skidded sideways as the Zooce opened fire. Bunting savagely, the pilot bounced off the bulkhead and pulled straight up for half a second, then bunted forward again and reversed to the right. Tracers passed exactly through the place he’d just been and tired to correct—like a water hose. rolling out, he released the cross and saw it hold steady on the Zooce. The tracers were walking back to him and he saw the bright orange balls pass over the wingtip. . .

  Now!

  The last Maverick came off the rail but as he started to pull, violent blows struck the F-16 and rocked him sideways. Icy fear shot through him and he tried to pull up . . . up away from the earth and the firing Zooce . . . up . . . but the jet continued mushing toward the ground, smoke filling the cockpit.

  “WARNING . . . WARNING . . .”

  All the caution lights were lit up. ENG FIRE . . . OVR HEAT. . .

  The horizon vanished as the ground rushed up. The Zooce was pointed directly at him as acrid black smoke watered his eyes. As the Zooce fired, he pulled the ejection handle and tensed. . .

  Nothing. . .

  Oh, my God . . . he groped for the arming lever but it was down where it should be. Oh, my GOD . . . the fighter was coming apart as the guns fired and he pulled again . . . nothing!

  In rage and desperation, the pilot opened fire with his own cannon as the shattered jet fell out of the sky and the Maverick hit the Zooce. Brown earth . . . people running and fire everywhere. Bushes, rocks. . .

  “Ahhhhhh . . .” he screamed as the F-16 pancaked into the ground, cannon spitting shells. . .

  “Ahhhhhh . . .” The Sandman rolled out of bed, covering his face with his arms and thumping onto the floor, breathing hard. Gulping for air, he scrambled into the corner and tried to press himself against the wall.

  Firm and cold. Dark.

  The faint hum of air conditioning. A heavy thumping in his chest.

  No fire. No Zooce. No smashed jet and mangled body in the desert.

  Very slowly, the mercenary lowered his forearms and opened his eyes. Staring into the semidarkness, he saw lights from outside reflected on the big flat-screen TV. Carpet. He was sitting on carpet, not the rocky soil of Iraq. Gradually his eyes focused and his breathing slowed. Drapes, television . . . a big bed.

  Hotel.

  Then he remembered. Of course it was a hotel. The Ritz Carlton in Atlanta. Exhaling, he straightened his legs and leaned his head back against the wall as the thumping subsided.

  Closing his eyes, the mercenary lifted a hand to his forehead and wiped away the sweat. For several long moments he sat perfectly still and listened. It wasn’t the worst dream he had but it was close—a nightmare combination of a real mission with real fears and his mind’s horror at what could have happened.

  “ . . . and we’re up! Good Monday morning to you, Atlanta!” The clock-radio alarm burst to life and he glanced at the glowing red numbers: 2:35. “Weather today will light rain giving way to scattered clouds and, you guessed it, humidity. Temps will—”

  He turned it down and stretched. Walking to the blinds, the mercenary pulled one side back and stared outside. Low clouds covered the tops of neighboring buildings and even at this hour there was traffic on the streets.

  The dream.

  Sighing, he pushed it back down and felt the last clinging horror leave him. It was, he’d decided long ago, some sort of psychological price for the life he’d led. In any event, it didn’t interfere with life now or with what he had to do next.

  Showering, he shaved and dressed in the new jeans and deck shoes, and slipped on the dark windbreaker over a black T-shirt. His bags were packed and waiting by the door, so after tugging on a Chicago Bears cap, the Sandman left the room. Taking a newspaper from a table by the elevators, he kept his head slightly down and read. Crossing the lobby, apparently engrossed in the headlines, he left by the side entrance and ambled casually across the parking lot.

  Minutes later he accelerated onto I-75 south back toward Atlanta. With little traffic the mercenary followed the yellow lights around the city and merged onto Interstate 20 heading east toward the South Carolina border. It was 3:20 A.M.

  Chapter 18

  Governments employ all sorts of people for the special skills they possess. Hackers, smugglers, arms dealers, and of course mercenaries. They also employ forgers.

  Everett Womack was one o
f these. Raised during the computer revolution, he was a Gen Xer through and through. Physically unimpressive, with weak blue eyes, large hips, and narrow shoulders, he was the sort you see in alternative bookstores and coffee shops. The kind of misplaced and misunderstood genius who either makes a fortune or works in a convenience store.

  Shy and introverted, Womack had never formed a close friendship, played no sports, and never had a real girlfriend. His father, a mining engineer, had little tolerance and even less use for a boy he didn’t understand. Everett left home at eighteen and never went back.

  Unlike most of his kind, he also loved art. He’d studied commercial art during his brief college career but dropped out and returned to his native Denver, Colorado. Working as night janitor at the Denver Mint, he’d amuse himself by sketching new designs for coins on the production floor. He did beautiful multi-dimensional renditions in plain chalk, then washed them off as he cleaned.

  One night the assistant supervisor for Dies and Engravings worked late and watched, dumbfounded, as the sloppy young man in coveralls created line drawings, by hand, for a proof set of coins.

  Recognizing the talent for what is was, the supervisor promptly arranged for the young man’s career change. Everett learned computer-aided drafting, a smattering of metallurgy, and the latest biometric security procedures. Astounded that some good luck had come his way, he happily continued working at the mint, designing and manufacturing the dies.

  Finding a girl, he was actually content for once in his life. That is, until the mint became a private enterprise in 1995 and he was let go. The girl left him and in the span of few weeks he found himself out of work and alone.

  Bitter and unemployed, Everett remembered several high-profile counterfeiters that mint employees had been warned about. One of them, after paying his debt to society, actually lived in nearby Evergreen, Colorado. Everett Womack paid the man a visit one day and his life was never the same again. The counterfeiter no longer actively worked but was still angry enough to help the younger man. More important, he still had contacts, and Everett Womack, with his computer and artistic skills, was suddenly in business.