The Mercenary

by Dan Hampton

  His specialty was documentation. Driving licenses from any state, national identity cards, academic transcripts—whatever was needed to build a “legend,” a complete alternate persona. There are many forgers but what made Womack so valuable was his ability to forge electronically. Perfect copies of documents were all well and good until the computer age but now a document can always be verified against a database somewhere. Everett could not only create perfect paper, but he could also hack into virtually any database and create the supporting files.

  And so he did. Working from a small but meticulously equipped studio outside Santa Fe, New Mexico, Everett Womack developed a small but regular clientele who needed the best—and would pay for it. Having just finished a set of documents for a regular customer, Womack had decided he’d made enough to live comfortably and anonymously for the rest of his life.

  Then, several months ago, the old counterfeiter, his mentor, asked him to complete one further contract. Several wealthy and discreet individuals needed documentation, they claimed, for a financial venture in South America.

  Womack did a masterful job and delivered the Bolivian passports, entry visas, and beautifully executed InterPol clearance letters one month ago. The only problem was that both men were ICE agents, and for the second time in his life, Everett Womack had the floor fall out from beneath him. America after the 9/11 attacks became nationally paranoid regarding terrorists and terrorism. A man such as Everett Womack, who could create untraceable false identities, was viewed as a high threat and a danger to the security of the United States. Instantly cooperating, he’d even turned over a partial client database. It didn’t appear to matter to the Feds, however, because he was still sent to the U.S. Federal Correctional Complex in Florence, Colorado. Deemed high risk, he was placed in the USP (High) facility to await trial.

  This facility is adjacent to the Florence ADX, or Supermax, as it’s also known, home to the most dangerous prisoners and having the tightest controls in the United States. Described as a “cleaner version of Hell,” ‘Supermax’ was home to Timothy McVeigh before his departure to the real hell. Former FBI agent and traitor Robert Hanssen is an inmate, along with assorted terrorists, drug traffickers, and Mafiosi. Humiliated and terrified, Everett Womack lived a nightmare every day. He would’ve gladly killed himself if there had been a way to do it, but even that opportunity was denied.

  However, once in a great while, even at the bottom of a hole, something unexpected happens to restore a spark of hope. And so it was for Everett Womack on this bright Monday morning, when two federal agents, accompanied by another man and a woman, flashed their creds and walked into the holding area where he waited. Since his capture, Womack had nurtured the hope that someone in the government might decide he was more useful to them on the outside than rotting in a cell.

  “Morning, Everett.” The taller agent sat on the edge of the table and took a sip of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. “We’d like to talk about your client list.”

  Everett blinked several times. Maybe, he barely allowed himself to think, maybe this was it. He thought about green grass and sunlight. Maybe even a real hamburger again.

  Actually, he knew, this was better.

  The Sandman passed south of Lake Murray and entered the outskirts of Columbia, South Carolina, at 6:15. Stifling a yawn, he considered stopping for breakfast but decided to beat the morning rush hour first. Taking the I-26 loop around the city, he followed the signs for I-77 and took the Garner’s Ferry Road exit east of Columbia.

  Stopping to fill up, he paid cash for the gas and sat down at the attached diner for breakfast. It was surprisingly good: eggs over crisp toast, lean bacon, and a perfect cup of black coffee. No grease, grits, or hash browns. The others at the long counter were a mix of hardworking locals, truck drivers, and several men in suits. They were all chatting amiably enough amid the clinking of dishes, hiss of frying bacon, and the low babble of the television.

  The Sandman remembered mornings like this. On his way into the base he’d sometimes stop at a diner for a breakfast. How right everything had seemed with the world then—at least his world. He’d been at the top of a profession he loved, had a wife and child and a pretty good idea of what he was doing with life.

  It was a long time ago. Forcing himself back to the present, the mercenary pushed the memories back before they bubbled up. Now was not the time. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he left a tip and slid off the seat. Once again, no one took the slightest notice. Pulling out, he continued east on Garner’s Ferry Road through the low-country swamps of central South Carolina. It was ten minutes till seven.650.

  “Great day to fly, isn’t it?”

  Colonel “Lucky” Mike Halleck, the 20th Fighter Wing commander, looked up from his desk. Scott Richards, the Vice Wing commander, was leaning against the doorjamb with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

  “Damn straight. And of course, today we get to cancel everything on the schedule to play war.”

  Richards nodded glumly. A hurricane that pummeled the Caribbean had left several weeks of bad weather in its wake and shattered the complex training schedule that all flying wings lived by. The 20th was badly behind their yearly numbers and needed good weather to make it up. Good weather that happened to coincide with an Operational Readiness Inspection, or ORI. Air Combat Command (ACC) Headquarters loved them. They were supposed to give a quantitative assessment of a wing’s ability to go to war.

  “Are the evaluators here?”

  Halleck leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “They got in last night. Skip Cranston is running their show.”

  “You know him?”

  “Not since we were captains.” The commander shrugged. “He was a good guy then but who knows now? People change.”

  Scott Richards, himself a full colonel, watched Halleck thoughtfully. That, he knew, was very true statement. No one should be more aware of it than the man sitting at that desk. They’d known each other for years and, though professional colleagues, certainly weren’t friends. They’d flown together in Europe and the Far East, slowly moving up the endless ladder of promotions and better jobs. Their paths diverged when Halleck had been selected for the Fighter Weapons School and Richards did a flying exchange with the Royal Canadian Air Force. Lucky had stayed on at Nellis after getting the Patch, the mark of a graduate, as an instructor.

  “So we start this sometime later today?”

  “Or tonight. Haven’t decided yet.” Halleck shuffled some papers together on his desk. “We have to give them a minimum of forty-eight hours for the eval, but I want to get the morning meetings out of the way at least.”

  Every military organization was suffused with meetings. And more meetings. The 20FW took care of all its administrative items for the coming week on Monday morning. There was another, shorter round of operational meetings on Wednesdays, but Monday was worse.

  “I hate these things.” Scott Richards shook his head. “I always thought the Air Force should just do No Notice evaluations. It’s always worse when we have some time to prepare—everyone starts overthinking things. What a pain in the ass.”

  Colonel Halleck looked at his vice impassively. That attitude, he knew, was why Scott Richards would retire as a colonel. You played the hand you were dealt, realistic or not. Those who could do it wound up with stars on their shoulders. Those who couldn’t faded into oblivion.

  “Be that as it may, we will ace this pain in the ass. You might pass that along to the Ops Group commander and the others.” As if they didn’t know it. He met Richard’s gaze. “The consequences for fucking this up are career-ending.”

  “Yessir. I think everyone’s aware of that.”

  Halleck’s eyes were steady, black, and impassive. “See to it.” He reached for the phone. “And shut the door, please.”

  Richards backed out of the doorway into the anteroom that separated his office from the w
ing commander’s. Normally an executive officer, sort of a military secretary, sat here. He took care of protocol and ran interference for the commander. The anteroom opened onto a much larger outer office containing several leather couches and chairs—and Cynthia.

  She’d been here probably since the Vietnam War and handled everything else relating to the business of commanding a fighter wing. No one got past Cynthia. She wasn’t in yet, nor was the exec, so he got his own coffee refill, then entered his own office to QC the wing’s response to the evaluation scenario. Somewhere along the way, Mike Halleck had changed from first-rate fighter pilot to careerist. The vice wing commander had never suffered at his hands but knew of others that had been walked over, stomped on, and thrown under a bus on Halleck’s way up. Staring out of his window at the flight line, Colonel Scott Richards decided that he wasn’t going to be one of them.

  At 7:26 the Sandman came over a low hill and saw the overpass ahead. Joining the cars exiting to the right, he slowed down and stared at the main entrance to Shaw Air Force Base. There was a line of cars to his left going over the overpass that was met by another stream of vehicles coming to the base from the nearby town of Sumter. Inching up to the stop sign, he saw that the little strip mall he’d remembered to his right had expanded. Lulu’s, an old familiar coffee and pancake joint, was hemmed in by a convenience store, a bar, and a bank outlet. As he watched, several officers in flight suits got out of a car and walked in for breakfast.

  The mercenary followed a silver pickup slowly across the overpass. Most of the vehicles were SUVs of one color or another. There were also the Mustangs and Camaros favored by enlisted men mixed in with a few minivans. Officers were usually easier to spot in Audis or the odd Lexus. Then a black Porsche flickered in and out of traffic across the highway and darted into the front of the line. It was too far away to see the driver’s face but one arm, with a flight suit sleeve pushed up to the elbow, rested on the open window. Some things never changed.

  Coming over the rise, the Sandman started to pull out his ID card, then froze. Fifty yards ahead were two security policemen, as expected. What he didn’t expect during rush hour was to see them passing ID cards under the their handheld scanners.

  That would never do since the bar code on the back of his ID was gibberish. As the line crept forward, he ran through options in his head and only came up with one solution. Twenty yards before the gate there was a turn lane to the left that would put him back out on Garner’s Ferry Road heading west. Rather than do a U-turn, which might attract attention, the Sandman eased over, signaled, and slowly accelerated back down toward the highway.

  The digital dashboard clock said 7:39, so he still had plenty of time. But how to get on the base? There were two other gates, but he assumed that if IDs were scanned at one then they would be for all. Also, there were cameras everywhere around military bases and the same car turning around in front of another entrance would get someone’s attention.

  Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he had an idea. Another half mile ahead was a turnabout connecting both sides of the highway and he took it. Heading back eastbound again, he pulled into a rest stop about a mile from the gate, turned the car around and backed into a corner facing the road. Traffic zipped by between the trees but no one turned in.

  Yanking the larger of his two bags into the front seat, he pulled out the rolled-up flight suit and flying boots with plain white socks inside. Removing his jeans and docksiders, he left the black T-shirt on and slipped into the flight suit. Twisting sideways in the seat, he tugged on the socks, laced up the boots and straightened the undershirt. Zipping his pants and shoes into the bag, he pushed it into the backseat.

  Glancing in the mirror, the mercenary checked his patches and transferred his ID and money into the little shoulder pocket. The blue flight cap with a silver oak leaf on one side was already in his left leg pocket. Lastly, the Sandman loosened his watch and turned it around, pilot style, with the face on the inside of his wrist.

  Pulling back onto the highway, he took the base exit again and followed the cars to the stop sign. This time, however, he turned right into the strip mall. Pulling around to the side away from the street and restaurant, he got out and stretched a moment, eyes flickering beneath the dark glasses.

  There was still a steady stream of traffic onto the base. Across the highway near the runway, he caught flashes from the strobe lights on a pair of fighters waiting to take off. Bending down to tighten his bootlaces, the mercenary stuck the car keys up under his front bumper then stood up, put his hat on and strolled toward the restaurant.

  Chapter 19

  “You look like shit,” Colonel John Lee said cheerfully as he walked into Doug Truax’s office.

  Axe looked up bleary-eyed and said nothing. He didn’t have to—his expression said it all.

  “Ouch.” Jolly kicked a swivel chair from under a desk and plopped down in it. Truax looked at him distastefully. Jolly, of course, was wearing clean Blues, looked like he’d just gotten a haircut, and his teeth sparkled. Oh, and his shoes were perfectly shined.

  “I hate you.”

  “I know.”

  Axe stretched painfully, then lifted a stained coffee mug to his mouth and sniffed carefully. He and Karen Shipman and the FBI agent, David Abbot, had come straight back to Langley from Colorado yesterday afternoon. They’d immediately gone to work analyzing the forger’s information. The biggest problem was that it was all verbal—Womack had realized that he really had something the Feds wanted and wouldn’t provide any backup hard data until he was out of Florence. This was something Abbot had to arrange with D.C., and he was across the street now using a classified line trying to do just that.

  “Here’s a transcription of the recording we made during the interview.” He yawned and tossed a sheaf of papers across the desk.

  Jolly ruffled them. “Anything?”

  Axe got up and walked to the windows, cracking one open. The parking lots were beginning to fill as Langley came to life. Balancing coffee cups and cradling briefcases, men and women were funneling into the big red brick buildings. Disappearing from reality for another day. Forcing himself to concentrate, he turned and sat on a desktop.

  “In the past five years, this little shit Womack did twenty-three document sets. We’ve eliminated nineteen of these so far.”

  “How?”

  “Six were women, two were African and four have been confirmed dead by InterPol.”

  Jolly rubbed his chin. “And the remaining ones?”

  “If we’re assuming that this guy is either European or American, we can knock off four South Americans, two Indians and one giant Swede.”

  “Leaving four.” John Lee picked up several pieces of paper and waved them gently. “These guys, I guess, since you put big purple stars on them.”

  Truax nodded and Jolly scanned them. After several minutes he looked up. “Shit.”

  “That’s right.”

  “It could be any of these.”

  Axe yawned again. “He could also be a non-American or non-European. He could also be an Agency asset that turned bad. If that’s the case, we won’t have anything on him because his legend was prepared up the road.” He jerked his head toward the north and the other Langley.

  “We need pictures.”

  “Exactly. And the fingerprints that had to go with the original application. He couldn’t fake those, or any Customs officer would nab him with a mismatch. With that stuff we can search every database in the world.”

  “Okay.” Lee stood up. “And that’s what Abbot went off to do?”

  “Yep. He expects authorization within an hour. The local Fibbies in Colorado will get the data from Womack and email it across the street. Hopefully”—Axe glanced at his watch—“we’ll have pictures in a few hours.”

  “Then?”

  “Then we send them to each of the services, here
and abroad, and see if anyone turns up. Also the FBI and its counterparts around the world.”

  “Good enough.” Jolly looked around. “Where’s the major?” Meaning Shipman.

  Axe nodded toward the small office at the back of the room. “Asleep.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Actually, very well. She sent copies of the transcript to her DIA buddies hoping they might pick up something we missed. Smart girl behind that colossal chip on her shoulder.”

  Lee chuckled. “No bigger than yours.”

  Doug Truax stretched his aching shoulders, then stopped. Something from the conversation rang a tiny bell. A connection to something else. What was it?

  Jolly paused and looked back. “Nothing more you can do at the moment. Get some rest yourself.”

  Axe stared at him and tried to think. Like that was going to happen.

  “Mornin’ fellas.” The Sandman sauntered up to the booth with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Sit . . . sit.” He waved a hand as the three other pilots, all captains, started to stand up.

  “Morning, sir,” the one closest to him replied, giving the polite smile required to an unknown more senior officer.

  “Mind if I join you?” He slid onto the leather bench without waiting for a reply as the others all shook their heads. Dishes clattered and the low hum of conversation mixed with CNN filled the room.

  Sipping his coffee, the mercenary knew their eyes were on him and he gave them a few seconds. The oldest-looking pilot cleared his throat. “Are you here for the ORI, sir?”

  “What makes you think that?” The Sandman smiled and continued watching the TV.

  The others laughed.

  “Maybe the ACC STAN EVAL patch on your shoulder gave you away, sir.”

  Standardization and Evaluation on any air base was responsible, among other things, for giving check-rides—aerial exams—to all pilots. It was a very necessary part of flying fighters, but the evaluator pilots, called SEFE’s (Standardization and Evaluation Flight Examiners) understandably made most people nervous.