The Mercenary

by Dan Hampton

  Jackknifing down again, he kicked for the bottom and held his dive watch to his face. Peering at the luminescent compass rose, the Sandman adjusted his heading, noted the time and methodically kicked away into the blackness.

  “Repeat that!” David Abbot snapped into the phone, then listened, the frown deepening across his face. Axe and Karen Shipman had been joined by Jolly Lee in the Langley Command Post. Everyone was keyed up and watching the agent closely. He wasn’t happy.

  “What about a body?”

  Axe glanced sideways at Karen and she raised an eyebrow. Her hair was neatly combed back and tied and even in a sweater with jeans she looked like a major. He, on the other hand, felt grubby and bleary-eyed, and smelled like sex.

  “Okay,” Abbot sighed. “Update me in half an hour.” He clicked off and sat down, facing them. “The boat they were tracking blew up. The SWAT team was airborne and maybe ten minutes out . . . the Coast Guard had two boats within several miles and they saw the whole thing.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the east. “Right out there near the entrance to Back Bay.”

  “So he was coming for Langley.”

  The agent shrugged. “Who knows? It’s gone. They’re collecting pieces.”

  Convenient, Axe thought. An explosion at sea. Hard to gather much forensic evidence from that. He met Karen Shipman’s eyes and saw she thought the same thing.

  “Damn Coasties had their lights on,” Abbot went on. “The tactical unit screamed at them and they shut off but not before they were seen. Our mercenary tried to make a run for it.”

  “And the explosion?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “No idea. Diesel engines can get over pressurized pretty easily. We’ll have to wait and see.” Abbot’s phone buzzed and he picked it up. “Whatcha got?” He stood and walked away a few steps.

  “Kane’s done this before,” she said quietly.

  “What—blown himself up in a boat?”

  “A death.”

  Axe shook his head. “He had God knows how many months to plan that airplane trick. He had no idea what was going to happen tonight.”

  “How do you know what he knows? This is a very, very clever man.”

  Axe sighed and popped his neck. “Yeah. But how could he know anyone was on his trail?”

  “How did the FBI know where he was?”

  He stopped then and met her eyes. That was a very good question. Abbot walked back over then, and perched on the edge of the desk.

  “Well—it didn’t turn out like we wanted but it’s not too bad, after all.” He looked at them both, a small smile on his face. “The Coast Guard has a dead man . . . or what’s left of one.”

  The “dead man” the Coast Guard thought they found cautiously surfaced a half mile from the wreckage. With just his face above water, the Sandman stared back out into the bay. There were at least four ships now, searchlights overlapping on the dark water as they looked for him. Smiling, he flippered steadily toward shore on his back, watching.

  There were still some burning patches of debris, bobbing up and down in the waves. Several motorized inflatables were weaving back and forth, presumably picking up the pieces. Since no one appeared to looking toward the shore, the Sandman decided to stay on the surface. It conserved the air in his tank and made navigation a no-brainer. It was also faster.

  Although he was in excellent physical condition and reasonably well rested, the wounds to his legs slowed him down considerably and it took nearly forty-five minutes to reach the breaker line. Treading water about fifty yards off the beach, the Sandman felt the rip current increase dramatically. Angling in at 90 degrees to the beach, Kane realized immediately that it wouldn’t be enough. He was being swept down closer to the condo lights. There was no beach there, just a half mile seawall made of immense boulders that would smash him to pulp.

  Aiming up the beach, he ignored the burning in his legs and started deep, powerful kicks. Still being carried toward the rocks at an alarming rate, he began a freestyle pull with his arms until he felt the breakers catch him. Gasping for breath, he gave a few more kicks that got him free of the current and into the surf. Trying to maintain balance with the heavy tank, the Sandman lost a fin, tumbled onto the beach and dug his fingers into the sand.

  The receding surf tugged at his lower body and he felt himself slipping back toward the water. Clawing his way through the sand he stopped about ten yards up on his hands and knees, sucking air. After a minute he rolled over and collapsed on his back, staring up at the faint crescent moon and trying to breath normally. For several minutes he lay there, listening to the waves and letting his eyes focus before holding his watch up and squinting at the numbers.

  12:35.

  Sitting up, Kane surveyed the beach and realized he was on the strip of curved beach about 100 yards north of the condos. Remembering the map, he could either find the little dirt path that led around behind the homes or take a chance, climb the seawall and cut directly through the little community.

  He decided on the latter choice. From where he sat, the entrance back into the Salt Ponds lay a mile due south, and by going straight down the beach he figured he could make it by 1:15 or so. There was no way to know how the authorities would react or when they’d get around to searching the beach, so the sooner he was out of the area the better.

  Removing his remaining fin he got slowly to his feet, walked to the end of the beach and was pleasantly surprised to see that the seawall tapered off to a three-foot-high line of rocks. The mercenary kept everything else on till he got over the wall, then shrugged out of the BCD. Removing the tank, he tossed it into the high grass, slung the vest over one shoulder, and surveyed the area ahead of him.

  He was in a dark, unlit patch of rough ground maybe thirty yards from the nearest house. Another row of homes was closer to the water on his left so there must be a street of some kind between them. There were no street lights, just the ambient light from the houses. Trying to sneak around the development would be risky, since he didn’t know the terrain, and time-consuming.

  He’d chance it.

  The likelihood of anyone seeing him after midnight on a weekday were slim, so he just walked up through houses and down the dirt road. A casual figure returning from a stroll on the beach.

  “Thank you, Mr. Abbot,” General Sturgis was borderline exuberant. “Wonderful news. And may I congratulate your Bureau on a very professional and well-run operation.” He was being overly magnanimous in victory but felt good—for the first time in a week.

  “Thank you, General. We still have some questions to answer, however, and—”

  “No doubt, no doubt,” Sturgis interrupted. “But our part is complete. Thanks again and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  David Abbot sighed and put the cell phone in his pocket. “He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Big surprise there,” Axe yawned. “They find anything else?”

  “Part of a life preserver, lots of fiberglass fragments . . . a few papers. Enough to confirm the boat as the Wanderer.”

  “And the body,” Shipman asked. “How much of that?”

  “Not much. Part of the head, but no jaw or teeth. A piece of lower torso down to one knee.”

  What a shitty end to a fine officer and pilot, Axe thought glumly. He was still a bit suspicious about the whole incident but couldn’t see how John Kane could set up something like that. So he kept quiet.

  “So what’s next?”

  “What we do have will be taken to Norfolk, bagged, analyzed, and written up.” He yawned too. “We’ll continue to search for the plane, fit the puzzle together, and hopefully close the book on the mercenary—and John Kane.” Abbot looked at the two of them. “And tomorrow?”

  Karen shrugged. “I, at least, have to be here for the opening of the Commander’s Conference in the morning at 0830. So it’s bed time for me.”


  Doug Truax shot her a look that Abbot saw. Then he remembered they’d come in together, with Axe wearing the same clothes he’d had on all day. Well, why not? The agent was looking forward to getting up the peninsula to his own home and waiting wife.

  As they stepped outside, both officers stopped and inhaled deeply. Fresh air. Axe closed his eyes. It tasted wonderful after the stale reconditioned stuff in the Command Post. Sweaty clothes, old coffee, and body odor.

  He shivered and opened his eyes. Karen Shipman was stretching, arms over her head and those magnificent breasts rising with the sweater. She saw him staring and smiled. “Well? Are you coming back?”

  He grinned. “Have to.”

  “You don’t have to do anything.”

  “Sure I do,” Axe put his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. She put her hands on his chest and looked up into his eyes. “I forgot my boxers . . .”

  Chapter 27

  He’d slept like a dead man.

  Returning to the dock a few minutes past 2 A.M., he’d locked the companionway from the outside, then squeezed down through the forward hatch, locking it in turn. So to all intents, the Bluefin looked like any other boat secured for the week. Pulling all the curtains, John Kane had stripped off the wetsuit, cleaned his wound, then wrapped himself in a thick blanket and passed out.

  Voices outside and footsteps on the dock awakened him around 10 A.M. It appeared to be a boat-to-boat search and he lay perfectly still when there were knocks the companionway hatch and someone jiggled the padlock. Eventually, the voices faded and he drifted back to sleep. Cold, hungry, and stiff, the Sandman woke again as the sun was going down. Listening again for some minutes, he ventured a careful look through the forward hatch and saw nothing.

  Eating two cans of canned spaghetti, John Kane thought through his night. He’d seen a few cars on the beachfront road, but none close. Passing through the neighborhood, it had been a straight shot down the deserted beach for a half mile until coming to the entry channel for the Salt Ponds. He’d swam it at the narrowest point and came up on the other side. Another quarter mile walk on the beach brought him to the dock access walkway and then to the Bluefin.

  Tonight he could either sail away immediately and disappear, secure in knowing that the Chinese couldn’t find him and the Americans thought him dead. Or he could finish this, once and for all, then leave forever. It was risky in that he’d have to cover the same routeas last night but, he reminded himself, he’d never gotten into the Back River, so no one at Langley or the FBI should have figured out his intent. Even if they had, they’d think the danger past because he was dead.

  Rummaging through his bag, he slipped into oversized cargo shorts and a big T-shirt and went on deck. The diesel fuel tank was a little over half full—not ideal, but it was enough—and the engine started on the first turn. Letting the motor idle, he checked over Bluefin’s dinghy as blue smoke drifted up from the stern. It was smaller than his had been, about ten feet overall, but full of fuel. It was big enough for two people.

  Casting off forward, he crawled over the main cabin to cast off the stern lines. This particular Beneteau had an aft cockpit and twin wheel configuration that he was grateful for, given his injury. The boat had been backed into the slip, so in a matter of minutes, he was off the dock and heading down the channel. Some type of reception was being held, as there were small groups of suits and gowns standing on the long L-shaped pier in front of the clubhouse—they waved and he returned it.

  Threading his way slowly and carefully down the half-mile channel, he finally came to the funnel-shaped entry, spun the wheel right, and brought the sailboat out into the Chesapeake Bay.

  “Beautiful view sir,” one of the young colonels pointed at the river and Sturgis nodded. “Always loved Langley,” he added with a slight note of hope in his voice. Kenneth Allen Sturgis smiled at that. This was the part he enjoyed most—having the destiny of others in his hands, bestowing favors or punishment as he saw fit.

  “Yes. Today especially.”

  He stared along the dark river and its winking lights. Across the river on the far side, there was a faint gleam off some sailboat’s hull. Lucky bastard, the general thought. Someday.

  The colonel nodded appreciatively even though he had no idea what the general was talking about.

  “General Sturgis?”

  He turned to find Major Shipman behind him, drink in hand.

  “Ah, Karen . . . great to see you.” The general had had a few drinks and his latent lust suddenly surged. “What a week, eh?”

  “And it’s not over yet, sir.” She was wearing black slacks with heels and a very snug-fitting turtleneck sweater. She looked delicious. “I’d like to talk to you about the Taiwan incident.”

  His little eyes were bloodshot and kept bouncing from her face to her chest. “Not tonight, Major. I’ve had my fill of global affairs and indreegue . . . intrigue, sorry, for one week.”

  Maybe, he thought . . . maybe tonight is the night to discover her career potential. The thought made him smile even wider. But it faded abruptly as Doug Truax materialized beside her. In fact, it slid off his face entirely when she put her arm through his.

  So . . .

  Suddenly, his career-long inferiority complex and hatred of fighter pilots came bubbling up. What was Truax? A lieutenant colonel . . . so fucking what? So he wore the Patch and had more real decorations than Sturgis would ever wear. He, Kenneth Sturgis, was a general. A mover and shaker. A Decision Maker for the Warfighter.

  “Looks like the FBI saved your buddy Kane from the Bay.” He grinned and took a long drink of bourbon. “Or some of him.”

  Karen Shipman opened her mouth to speak but Axe beat her to it. “He was coming for you, you know.” He’d had a few drinks himself and frankly didn’t care.

  A dead threat made Sturgis brave and he stood up straighter, still shorter than Axe by five inches. “If he had, then he’d be dead sooner.”

  Axe burst out laughing. Really laughing at that absurd statement. Sturgis blushed and his lips tightened. Karen gave Axe’s arm a squeeze. “Let’s go,” she said quietly, but the pilot didn’t move.

  “Dead or alive, he was ten times the man you are.” Axe weaved a little, but his eyes were clear and hard. “You couldn’t have killed him with a bazooka.”

  Sturgis’s lip curled and he wanted to punch the smug fighter jock right in the mouth. Then his face relaxed and he took a deep breath. There was a better way. “Well, now . . . that’s dangerously close to insubor . . . insu . . . disrespecting a superior officer,” he said, smiling. “You will report to my office at oh-eight hundred tomorrow.” A year-long remote assignment to Afghanistan and this asshole would be a lot less cocky.

  “And”—Sturgis nearly winked at Major Shipman—“I have a witness.”

  “I didn’t hear a thing, General.” She took Truax’s arm and pulled. “C’mon, Axe.”

  They melted back into the crowd and left him fuming. That little bitch, he thought, and finished his drink. Well, we’ll see how it really is when Truax is rotting in Kabul and she needs an OPR endorsement. That, he knew, would be a sweet revenge. To fuck the woman while her boyfriend was dodging Taliban mortars. She’d see. She’d see who really had the power.

  After midnight everyone had left and Sturgis poured himself another drink. The conference today had been a victory, he thought. Fences mended and a new round of commanders paying homage. He was particularly proud of his success keeping the F-22 and F-35 program
s alive—it was one of the more subtle knives in the backs of the fighter world. By supporting those programs, he deflected criticism that he was anti-fighter pilot while continuously lobbying to replace “legacy” systems like the F-16 and F-15 with the newer jets.

  Everyone was about saving money and he could prove that smaller numbers of more capable jets saved money—he had the charts. What Sturgis knew was that the planned “Spiral” expansion and upgrades to the Raptor and Lightning would never take place.

  But by that time it would be too late and many thousands of fighter pilots would be out of a job—which suited him just fine. UAVs like the Predator had been a wildly successful angle in the undermining of the old “fighter pilot mafia” that had held sway for so long. Why pay and maintain expensive jets and their narcissistic pilots when unmanned aerial vehicles could be used?

  It was a persuasive argument and one that had many advocates among budget hawks and non–fighter pilots. The fact that it assumed America would always deal with low-tech threats like Afghanistan mattered not a bit to him. That, he reasoned, was what the anti ballistic missile defense system and Space Command were for.

  Burping periodically he made his way to the big glass-enclosed sunroom covering the back half of his house. From here he could enjoy the view without the mosquitoes. Dropping heavily into an oversized wicker chair, Sturgis sighed contently and took a big sip of his drink as his thoughts turned to Karen Shipman. True, she was twenty years younger than he was, but that only added spice. For him to take a prize like her away from younger men made him feel good. Made him feel like the man he thought he was.

  And dealing with that asshole Truax. He’ll be next. First thing tomorrow he’d have that prick on the carpet at attention and Axe would be on his way to Bagram Air Base or some other shithole for a year. Sweet, he mused. That would be sweet. Not as sweet as watching John Kane’s career end five years ago, but satisfying nonetheless. Kane simply hadn’t cared—he’d been monumentally unimpressed with the Big Picture and with Kenneth Allen Sturgis. Well, the general chuckled thickly, he’d gotten the last—