by Dan Hampton
Dropping the phone on the seat, his mind now occupied with the ORI, he drove off and promptly forgot all about the car.
Cindy had received two manila folders with red and white covers marked SECRET, for the attention of the 20 FW commander. It happened all the time and she always just handed them off to Colonel Halleck. It was after quarter till two and she wanted to take a smoke break but couldn’t with the folders on her desk. Colonel Richards wasn’t in either, so she heaved herself to her feet and crossed to the commander’s door.
Unlocking it, she peeked in, saw nothing and waddled over to his desk, carefully placing both folders on the blotter. As she left, Cindy pulled the door shut but it didn’t close, and anxious to smoke, she didn’t bother locking it.
The Sandman rounded a bend on Interstate 20 to the sight of an enormous red-and-yellow sombrero sticking up above the trees. This gave way to a yellow-painted tower and signs proclaiming you’d arrived at “Pedro’s South of the Border.”
He knew this place—well. It was a brilliantly tacky collection of cheap hotels and bargain-basement shops for those who couldn’t afford a real vacation. Built directly across the border in South Carolina, it provided gambling, fireworks, and other types of entertainment that were illegal in North Carolina.
Passing the Mexico Shop, Rocket City, and the Pedroland park, he pulled between the gigantic red legs of another Pedro sign and parked next to a big pink flamingo. Pleased to see that the cyber café he remembered was still there, the mercenary got out and stretched.
Yawning, he leaned on the hood and glanced around like any weary traveler. Minivans and pickup trucks seemed to be the common vehicle. Overweight women in tight clothes were everywhere, trying to keep hold of rowdy kids—many of them barefoot. Most of the men wore goatees, cargo shorts, and tank tops. They crammed food in their mouths and gawked at the shops and other women.
Snapshotting as always, the Sandman saw nothing suspicious. And why would there be? Given the confusion and the exercise at Shaw, he was counting on at least two hours before Halleck was discovered. A light breeze carried the smell of deep-fried food and warm, meaty burgers across the parking lot as he turned and walked into Bordertown Cyberworks and Coffee.
“What a load of horseshit.” Captain Matheson, also known as Toucan because of his nose, stared at the map provided by the exercise mission planners. The scenario was built around a fictitious country labeled Nobistan about to use nuclear weapons in retaliation for an attack by Matzoland. Toucan shook his head. Why not just say Iran and Israel? He hated this kind of silliness, especially since it was keeping him from his fiancée. Matheson was trying not to think of her, warm and sleepy and wearing one of his T-shirts, when a finger tapped him on the shoulder.
“Little change to your lineup this afternoon.” Major Ian Toogood, inevitably called Notso, leaned over the big table and frowned at it.
Suppressing a sigh, Toucan looked at him and raised his eyebrows.
“Colonel Halleck seems to be unavailable, so we’re sliding Lt (he pronounced it El Tee) Bradshaw in his place.”
“Terrific. What happened to Halleck—early tee time at the golf course? Little League game?”
Toogood chuckled. “Believe it or not, no one can find the guy. Once the exercise started he disappeared someplace and left us to deal with this shit.” Peering at the map for a half second, he snorted. “Iran and Israel again . . .”
Matheson straightened up and arched his back. “No, no. That might make someone feel bad. This is Matzoland and Nobistan. “Then the major’s statement penetrated his frustrated and horny brain and he remembered something.
“Hey . . . I saw a staff car parked behind Lulu’s when I drove in.”
“Was it Halleck’s?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. It was parked nose first.” The captain frowned. “Come to think of it, there wasn’t a plate on the back.”
“So how do you know it was his?”
“I don’t. But who else drives staff cars and who else would leave the base during an exercise?”
Major Toogood rubbed his chin. It didn’t make any sense for a wing commander to leave like that but no could seem to find him. Maybe he passed out in his waffles. “Okay.” He nodded. “I’ll see about it.” He turned away, leaving the other pilot with his charts and maps.
“By the way—what were you doing behind Lulu’s??”
That earned him a bleak look. “Calling Liz . . . since you made me come in for this goat fuck, I had to leave her at home.”
“Sorry, man.” Notso chuckled again. They both knew this was simply the breaks of the game. “I had no choice either. We were heading to Charleston tomorrow.”
“Life’s a bitch,” Toucan muttered unfeelingly and went back to his planning.
Scott Richards walked into Wing Headquarters a few minutes past two o’clock. He’d just come from the Command Post after receiving a phone call from the 77th Fighter Squadron. Major Toogood told him that Colonel Halleck hadn’t shown up for the daily Mass Brief—an inviolable requirement for anyone on the flying schedule that day. Even wing commanders.
The major had gone on to say that a staff car was parked behind the restaurant just off base. Richards was surprised but not alarmed. Wing commanders didn’t answer to anyone within their own wing so Halleck could do what he wished within reason. Though he disliked the man personally, Richards acknowledged that Lucky Mike was a good fighter pilot and, though a micromanaging bastard, a decent commander—as long as he wasn’t crossed.
Butting in on something that Halleck had going on off base was an excellent way to cross him. The vice commander was old school enough to believe that what men did off base was their own business as long as it broke no laws. This included women, which is what Richards surmised his boss was up to. But right now there was an exercise being conducted that was critical to all their futures, and pussy could wait.
So when he saw the door cracked, Richards walked over, knocked twice and pushed it open. Better to get it out of the way now, he thought, and stepped into Halleck’s office.
Nothing.
Then he noticed small, shattered pieces of ceramic on the carpet. There was also a lampshade in the trash can. Striding to the desk, he then saw the classified folders on the desk and his eyes narrowed. Halleck would never do that. Colonel Richards shook his head— he’d have Cindy’s ass for this.
Exhaling, he looked around and noticed there was no chem bag. Maybe he was off somewhere doing an impromptu, incognito inspection of his people. Perplexed, Richards looked out and saw that the staff car was indeed gone. But if Halleck was stuck someplace with engine trouble he would’ve called.
Scratching his head, he turned to leave, then decided to use the bathroom. What the hell, he thought. Stepping through the door, his nose immediately crinkled. Shit. It smells like shit in here. What the fuck has Halleck been eating?
As he stooped to lift the toilet lid he saw a spot of blood on the white tile. Then another. Looking up as the droplets trailed off toward the shower he saw something dark through the opaque glass and thought it must be a towel. Frowning, he opened the door and found himself staring into the glazed eyes of Lucky Mike Halleck.
“Thanks! No, I’ll remember where it came from!” David Abbot hung up the phone and turned toward Doug Truax with a smile. “That was the agent from our San Antonio office who was running down our missing aircraft.”
Axe looked up an
d blinked. His eyes were tired and even the sight of Karen Shipman’s marvelous chest didn’t arouse much interest. “So it’s good news or you wouldn’t be grinning like the last village idiot.”
“He was about to leave, uh . . . Huber Municipal or Regional or whatever it is—it was his third and last airport. There had been a SkyMaster there but the tail numbers didn’t match. He’d asked the courtesy question we all do about anything else strange or unusual happening . . .”
“And something did?’
Abbot got up and walked over to the little mini fridge in the corner, opened it, and found nothing. “This place is really low rent, Axe.”
“Get to the point.”
“Right. So the airfield manager says no, then says, well . . . yes. A rental car was left here that no one can account for.”
Karen Shipman looked up at that. “So he traced it to . . . where?”
“The little town next to this airfield. Uh . . . Seguin. So the Hertz lady is very happy about it but says the car wasn’t due back for a few days.”
“Trendco Logistics?”
Abbot shook his head. “No, unfortunately.” He glanced at his notes. “A Daniel Tyler. Girl said he was a teacher in town for a job interview at the local college.”
“And they said . . . what?” Axe asked.
“They said they’d never heard of a Daniel Tyler from Dallas, Texas.”
“Easy enough to check out,” Karen added. “You need a driver’s license to rent a car, so there had to be a number and address.”
“There was. And Mr. Tyler of Dallas was surprised to learn that he’d rented a car in San Antonio since he’s permanently paraplegic and living in an assisted living facility.”
Chairs creaked as they all thought about that.
“So, it’s our guy,” Axe said at last.
“Just to be sure I sent the agent to the regional Air Traffic Control Center and they could find no flight plan or communications record on a SkyMaster leaving anywhere around San Antonio within the past forty-eight hours.”
“A pilot can take off VFR—visually—then file a flight plan once airborne. Were there any in flight pickups for the same period?” Axe was awake now and thinking.
Abbot shook his head. “I asked for anything pertaining to a SkyMaster and there was nothing.”
“So he’s gone again.” Karen didn’t see what the excitement was about.
The agent shook his head and so did Doug Truax. “True. But we’ve got his new N number. N9818M.”
Axe thought a moment, scribbled on the desktop and nodded. “I suspect when we find the plane we’ll see that the original three and S were made into eights, probably in Arkansas.” He pointed at his handiwork.
Jolly Lee walked in looking stern and sat down.
“We’ve also got something else we didn’t have.” Abbot smiled. “A picture off the Tyler license. It’s being sent from Texas right now. “
“But he’s still two or three steps ahead of us,” Karen Shipman persisted. “Each time we have a lead it’s a dead end. We still have no idea where this guy is or who he’ll kill next.”
“Wrong.” Jolly Lee sighed and they all turned to look at him. “Wrong on both counts. He’s in South Carolina . . . and he’s just killed the commander of the 20th Fighter Wing.”
The Sandman came out of the cyber café and walked directly to the car, thinking hard. Several things had happened that gave him pause. First was Rama Buradi—or whoever was using Buradi’s email accounts to entice him into a meeting. The Sandman was fairly certain the Chinese were behind it and he had no intention of playing along. There’d be time enough to resolve that when he was done here.
He got in the car and started it. Did the Chinese know he was in the United States? It was possible, of course, and he would remain on guard, but he doubted it. The Chinese still hadn’t overtly moved—no further bank deposits had posted—so he was convinced they would move covertly.
The second concern was Everett Womack. Despite the forger’s precautions, the mercenary was well aware of his true identity and location. Womack was the weak link in the chain—he’d undoubtedly kept records and copies of each legend transaction he’d finished and if those fell into Federal hands . . . the Sandman’s eyes narrowed at the thought. There was no reason to believe anyone in the U.S. government had made a connection between the mercenary they sought for the Taiwan raid and whoever was killing Air Force officers.
Still.
He’d have to think about that. Womack wasn’t answering email either, but there could be many reasons. In any event, the Sandman was well aware that Womack would eventually have to be permanently retired.
The other email was equally troubling.
Sam is chasing your shadow. Payback. Thanks again . . .
That was it. The sender was 27moago.
27moago. It had to mean 27 months ago. The Sandman had been in involved in Africa at the time and had saved another American mercenary from evisceration. Morgan . . . that had been his name. This had to be from him and it was a warning. Sam meant “Uncle Sam”—some branch of the U.S. federal government. Chasing your shadow probably meant they knew about a mercenary but did not have a name. He smiled. Nor would they.
The federal angle was, he admitted, of some concern since Everett Womack had prepared the identities he was using now. He didn’t doubt for a moment that they knew a killer was among them. Still, there was no real record beyond corporate visas and the Texas driver’s license to tie him to any of the killings, and he’d left enough dead ends to frustrate anyone trying to track him. The Tobin identity he was now using hadn’t been activated until he left the SkyMaster in Missouri and the Latham Consulting credit card was a virgin, as they called it. As far as the world was concerned, Matt Tobin and Latham Consulting had originated in Atlanta, and there were no connections to Virginia, Texas, the aircraft, or his first rental car.
Eventually they would probably be uncovered—they almost always were—but by then he’d be out of the country and beyond reach. Besides, he had two sets of escape documents: the Irish identity locked in the Virginia bank box and the Lebanese passport safely hidden on his boat.
Pulling out, he threaded back slowly through the parking lot and stopped, facing the intersection. Facing him across the road was an enormous pink storefront with six-foot ice-cream cones built onto the façade. Traffic meandered past, people slowing to look at the sights, and the Sandman looked to the left. He knew he could stay off the Interstate by following Highway 301 back south. It was an easy drive to Wilmington, North Carolina, and the coast. Anywhere from there up to Cape Lookout, he could buy a boat and be in Bermuda in four days, leaving the American authorities pounding their cluttered desks in frustration.
For ten long seconds he stared at the southbound road and the way out. Then, smiling a little, the mercenary pulled out and joined the traffic back onto I-95 heading north.
Chapter 23
“So one of these guys could be the mercenary.” General Kenneth Allen Sturgis peered at the four expanded photographs on his desk.
“Could be, sir.” Colonel John Lee and Major Shipman were standing behind the general, looking over his shoulder. There would be another meeting to discuss the manhunt progress as soon as Sturgis was brought up to date on the Taiwan situation. Though both officers could plainly see the investigation of an international mercenary was rapidly taking second place to a person who deliberately killed military officers.
“Woma
ck’s additional files were a gold mine as far as the FBI is concerned. But these are the most likely in my opinion.”
“Why?” Sturgis tried to focus but the news from South Carolina had unnerved him. Another dead officer . . .
“If we continue assuming this guy was a U.S. military officer, then it’s reasonable that he might use American places and names—maybe even locations he was familiar with,” Karen said.
“I think that’s a stretch.” Jolly Lee was staring at the pictures.
She nodded. “Probably, but not something to be discounted. Also”—she pointed at one of the pictures—“this is the oldest so it’s likely the first one he used.”
“From the Caribbean . . . Nevis and St. Kitts,” Sturgis muttered.
“Right. And the DIA has information that this guy was an American. And these other pics”—she tapped one of them—“all appear to be the same man.”
The general leaned forward, frowning, and Jolly Lee did the same. The chin, he thought. Something about the chin tugged at his memory.
“See, several have glasses and the hair is parted differently. This one’s head is turned at a slight angle and this one’s head is lowered a bit.” She looked up. “All simple techniques to subtly change an appearance.”
Sturgis nodded somewhat absently. “I think I see that.” He leaned back and the other two moved to the sides of the desk. “So where does that leave us?”
Major Shipman started to reply, when there was a knock at the door.
“Come.” Sturgis raised his head and Doug Truax walked into the room, shutting the door behind him. “We were just discussing this mercenary,” Sturgis continued. “Major Shipman has some pictures, courtesy of the FBI, and they all seem to think this person is American. I seem to recall a possible Dutch suspect you had mentioned.”
Sturgis nodded as Truax gestured toward the coffee. “That’s true, General. Timo van Oste was a very likely candidate. Problem is, The Hague says he went missing in Syria during the uprising. He’d been employed by Assad’s government as a sort of advisor. Several MiGs have been shot down so it’s possible he was in one of them. In any event, if he was there he could hardly be responsible for the Taiwan raid.” He walked toward the desk. “Pictures?”
