The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  Khalib nodded. “As I said, Dokhan, we serve different constituents, but we have the same enemy. Yes, I will help you, but first I must know all the details of your plan.”

  The two men continued along the footpath, guarded by their flankers with automatic weapons.

  Tuesday, September 17,

  the island of Hawaii

  “It is not unlike the foothills in the Plaine des Jarres,” Lon said, “only cooler and a little more open. And here, there is only one big mountain. It appears that there is less rain here than along the coast.”

  Steven Fagan nodded. He too remembered the Plaine des Jarres, the broad highland plain in central Laos, and it sent a chill through him. It was there that his Hmong and the Lao nationalists had been defeated by the North Vietnamese. More than two NVA divisions were required to beat them, Steven reflected grimly, but it had spelled the beginning of the end for CIA-backed irregulars and a free Laos. No, this is entirely different; this bears no resemblance to those dark days in Laos, he told himself. Steven shook away his memories and pulled himself into the jeep behind the wheel. Lon climbed back in alongside him, and they continued along a well-maintained gravel road that twisted up the side of Mauna Kea.

  The land had once belonged to the Parker Ranch before Joe Simpson purchased it almost twenty years ago. Most of it was steep and unsuitable for grazing, and too remote for residential use except for the most reclusive individuals. A single road led up from the lower valley and along the northwest slope of the big mountain. There were a few clearings, but most of the land was thick with scrub trees and hackthorn bush. An occasional stand of eucalyptus or tangleberry trees gave some relief from the ravines and shallow draws that cut down from the higher elevations. The property, some twenty thousand acres, was bordered on the east by a portion of the Parker Ranch and on the west by a treacherous, inhospitable lava flow. Above them to the south rose the upper reaches of Mauna Kea—all federal land. Below them was more Simpson property that was leased to the Parker consortium for grazing, although due to the poor quality of the land, there were few animals on it. It was largely rugged, isolated, semiarid terrain—not the most hospitable land at all. Yet it was perfect for what Steven Fagan had in mind.

  As the road snaked up through the central portion of the property, they passed through the four-thousand-foot level and came to a large clearing. Here, two small bulldozers were busy filling and leveling the terrain. On the Big Island, a source of crushed rock and lava was never more than a few feet beneath the surface. On one side of the clearing, stacks of lumber and building materials waited under heavy canvas tarps. A single structure stood alone while workers air-nailed wooden siding on the frame and moved sheets of metal roofing into place. Another crew busied themselves with the foundation platform of a second building. None of the workers paid the slightest attention to the jeep that came to a stop a short distance away.

  “They seem to be working very fast,” Lon observed. “Are they Hawaiian?”

  “Indonesian construction workers under contract from a company in Singapore. They will work fourteen hours a day, seven days a week, to complete the camp. The company that hired them will be paid a substantial bonus to finish this work in three weeks. When they are finished, the crews will then be driven from here directly to the Kona airport.” He took a sheaf of blueprints and rolled them across the hood of the jeep. “This area will hold the barracks, galley and eating facility, classrooms, a small armory, an obstacle course, a recreation complex, and”—he pointed to the far side of the clearing—“a helicopter landing pad.” He traced a finger over the map to where the contour lines were very dense. “South of here, backing up to the steeper elevations, we are building the firing ranges and mountain training areas. Crews are working there right now.” He rerolled the plans and glanced about with a critical eye. “Hard to believe that it’ll all be finished within thirty days. What’s even more amazing is that we started only a week ago.” But then, he reflected to himself, he had a very generous budget to make it happen.

  Lon slowly surveyed the area and spotted a small group of tents in the shade of a eucalyptus grove at the edge of the clearing. “So you will also live here?”

  He gave her a coy smile. “I’ll show you my quarters in a little while. Let’s take a look at the rest of the facility. I want to see how the construction on the ranges is coming.”

  Later that day, Steven drove them down the mountain and into the little town of Waimea, a cross between a picturesque Hawaiian village and a cow town in western Montana. They paused to stroll through a craft fair at a small shopping center near town. Lon was impressed by much of the artwork. Then they treated themselves to some shaved ice and drove on through the small business district.

  Outside the village, Steven took a narrow, paved road whose flanks were riotous with windmill jasmine and Hawaiian wedding flower. Soon the blacktop gave way to crushed lava. He swung the jeep into a circular pea-gravel drive that served a neat, freshly painted white cottage. The drive, front yard, and cottage were shaded by several huge banyan trees. It was a dated structure built well off the ground, with latticework skirting its post-and-pillar foundation. A short flight of wooden stairs led to the generous sitting porch. The grounds were spacious and well tended. A healthy stand of tough island grass covered the rich clay right up to the mature flower beds that ringed the house. Blue sky flowering vine climbed the trellis by the porch. It was a scene from a tropical vacation brochure.

  “Whose house is this? Someone you know?”

  He grinned. “This is our home—our second home. It’s where I will stay when I’m not at the site or traveling. It’s where you can stay any time you like.” He watched her take in the house and the grounds. “Of course, that assumes that you can take some time from Larkspur and your civic duties there to spend time here with me.”

  Without a word she got out and began to explore, first the grounds, then the house. He was waiting on the porch when she finished, seated comfortably in a generous wicker chair. She took a seat next to him, reached over, and took his hand.

  “It’s lovely; thank you, my husband. And even if it were only a barracks like you are building on the mountain, I would want to be here with you.” Neither spoke for a few minutes, enjoying the bird sounds and the aroma of the late afternoon. “It’s so perfect; how did you find it? When did you find the time to furnish it so well? It is exactly what I would have chosen.”

  “I didn’t do any of those things.” He frowned slightly. “My employer did this. He said it was here for us, or that we could find something different. Do you want something different?”

  “No, my husband.”

  He again grinned. “Neither do I.” Yet it bothered him slightly that Joe Simpson had been so accurate in finding the perfect place for them and furnishing it exactly to their tastes.

  • • •

  The next evening, Steven sat at a quiet table just off the bar area of the Kona Surf Hotel. Lon was in Waimea, settling into the new home. It was still early, and the bulk of the evening crowd would not arrive for another hour or so. Scattered across the dining area were a few tourists, dressed in T-shirts, shorts, and fanny packs. Some of them glowed pink from a day in the sun. Most were camped around fruit-colored drinks in chimney glasses, adorned with flowers and long straws. Steven looked more like a local in his cotton slacks and tasteful aloha shirt. He was already starting to think of himself as a local. The town of Kailua was a bustling tourist town. The largest town on the Kona coast, it had a near-mainland variety of shopping and dining, if not mainland prices. Steven sat with a tall glass of tonic, enjoying the warm afternoon and reading a thick file. He attracted little attention; people with his background seemed to blend in easily and naturally almost anywhere.

  He glanced at his watch. The man he was meeting would just now be landing at the Kona airport. It would take him at least thirty minutes to deplane and take a taxi to the hotel—perhaps a few minutes more if he dropped his bags by the room ahea
d of their meeting. This was the last of the three meetings Steven had scheduled this week. From the file in front of him, it appeared to be the most promising. Steven was looking for a reliable man with an extensive special-operations background and current experience. There was no shortage of candidates, for the U.S. military trains large numbers of them and deploys them regularly. Thanks to the Freedom of Information Act and Steven’s CIA contacts, the initial screening had gone rapidly, and Steven needed to move prudently but quickly. The trick was now to find the right one, and that could take some time.

  Two days ago he had interviewed a former Army Special Forces major who was a veteran of the Gulf War, Kosovo, and Afghanistan. He had all the tickets and solid language skills, but Steven had not taken to him. He came across as rigid and inflexible—too military. And there was a touch of bravado that Steven didn’t care for. The CIA had been burned on more than one occasion by hiring retired military types with inflated egos. Paramilitary work, even in support of a direct-action mission, required cool judgment, and often an inconspicuous presence.

  Steven had thoroughly read Garrett Walker’s file last night and wanted to review it prior to their meeting. His military record was impeccable; he had the right balance of leadership and operational experience. He was retired from the Navy on medical grounds because he couldn’t pass a diving physical. Fagan didn’t need divers; he needed men on the ground who could think and lead. Walker’s short tenure as a civilian combat-shooting instructor was as impressive as his military record. Steven had tucked the file in his briefcase and was thinking about this when Garrett Walker appeared.

  “Excuse me, are you Gary Bethke?”

  Steven rose and offered his hand. “Yes, and you must be Garrett Walker. It’s nice to meet you, Garrett, and thank you for coming. Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Garrett sat and turned to the waiter who had followed him to the table. “Could you please bring me a glass of iced tea?”

  “Did you have a good flight?”

  “It was long, but the connections were excellent, and I travel light. The accommodations are very nice, thank you.”

  Steven appraised him quickly. Garrett Walker was a confident, self-assured man, but very polite. He wore a freshly pressed long-sleeved dress shirt, tan cotton slacks, and sensible walking shoes. As information in the file suggested, he looked very fit. If he were curious about this meeting or the sketchy nature of the employment circular Steven had sent him, he gave no indication. Steven had not needed a résumé, for his file was very comprehensive, yet he asked for one. What Garrett had sent him was straightforward and accurate.

  “Have you been to the Big Island before?”

  “Several years ago. There’s a military recreational facility near Kilauea Crater, not far from the Volcanoes National Park. I came over with some friends to do some mountaineering. Good country—rough country. And the diving around Kealakeku Bay is excellent.”

  The waiter arrived with Garrett’s tea and brought Steven another club soda. After he left them, Steven turned to Garrett. “I’m sure you’re curious as to why I brought you here and what kind of work we may be doing on this project.”

  Garrett gave him an easy grin. “I certainly am. An airplane ticket to Hawaii, per diem, and a nice hotel room. Who do I have to kill?”

  Steven observed him closely. The easy grin was still there, but his eyes said, Let’s get the cards on the table.

  “No one just yet,” Steven replied, still watching him. “But before we get to the specifics, let me say that I represent an organization that will contract for a certain range of security services—activities that may be considered interventionist in nature. None of this activity, other than the training of personnel, will be conducted within the United States. The work will be paramilitary in nature and perhaps dangerous. Of course there is a great deal more you need to know, but first I will ask you to sign an agreement of confidentiality.” Steven smiled honestly. “I’m not sure how this agreement would stand up in a court of law, but the attorneys who drew up this document charged us a pretty hefty fee. Basically, Garrett, I want you to have a fair read on the kind of work we do, and what you will be doing if you become an employee. If there is no interest on your part, or ours, then we’d like you not to talk about it. For now and until you sign this, I can tell you no more, other than we are not the Mafia, and we are not the United States government.”

  Since he arrived at the hotel, Garrett had done what he could to study this man. He had immediately checked his carry-on bag with the concierge, then carefully approached the bar. Garrett watched Steven for a full ten minutes before he approached the table. He saw him put the thick file into the briefcase and concluded that this stranger probably knew a great deal about him. When he introduced himself, all his antennae were up. Yet he found this quiet, poised man strangely likable. He was affable, yet Garrett sensed he was a professional and highly intelligent. And no hint of bravado. Garrett had interviewed with several security consultants and military subcontractors. They were either bureaucrats who talked in terms of customer relations and billing rates, or macho ex-military types. This man was different. Garrett read the document, signed it, and pushed it across the table. Steven glanced at the signature and set it to one side.

  “Thank you. I am the chief executive officer for Guardian Systems International. I’m currently its only permanent employee, but all that will change in the very near future. GSI is a privately owned firm incorporated in the state of Hawaii. Ostensibly we are in the business of providing trained security personnel and armed guards worldwide. We plan to do that, but the full range of our services will be a little more extensive.” Steven paused to measure him. “Garrett, have you ever heard of a company called Executive Outcomes?”

  Garrett furrowed his brow. “South African, right?” Steven nodded. “Mercenary work?”

  Steven ignored the question and plunged ahead. “In 1995, Sierra Leone was another African catastrophe. Tens of thousands of civilians were killed or mutilated by street gangs operating loosely under the banners of competing warlords. There seemed to be no end to the chaos. After the debacle in Somalia in 1993, we essentially stood on the sidelines in Africa, where we have chosen to remain. Executive Actions was hired by the government of Sierra Leone to stop the slaughter. For a fraction of the cost of a western military expedition, Executive Outcomes restored order and stopped the killing. As you probably would expect, their rules of engagement were a little more liberal than those of a western military force or UN peacekeepers. They were able to do this with less than two hundred men. Executive Outcomes is no longer in business, but there is a British-based firm called Sand-line that performs much the same function, usually on a consulting basis but not always. There are a few American players, but most of the firms are South African or European.

  “I believe there are conditions when an armed contract force is the best and only solution. This especially applies in the early stages of a crisis or when the target is a limited number of people and covert in nature. The force we wish to employ could be only a few people or a company-size element—perhaps larger, if the need arises and we can control it. We feel that in certain phases of a dangerous and volatile situation, a direct-action strike force could prevent escalation. Generally speaking, our business at GSI will be the precise and surgical application of force by a team or teams of highly trained specialists. The current war on terror only confirms our belief in this concept. Perhaps a quick action by a surgical force can prevent a larger-scale military deployment. And force may not always be called for. We intend to practice a number of disciplines, including a broad range of covert action.”

  “Ah, forgive my interruption, but from what little I know of mercenary work, it has never been a commercially successful enterprise unless it had the backing of a government. Or more specifically in Africa, a lean on the mining revenues that the civil disturbance threatened. In the old days, Mike Hoare and
Robert Denard tried a few ventures on their own, but they came to no end. Does GSI have government backing?”

  “It does not. In fact, the for-profit appearance of the company is largely for public consumption. Guardian Systems is in fact a subsidiary of a well-endowed nonprofit organization.”

  Garrett regarded his companion dubiously. “You mean…some sort of a philanthropic mercenary force?”

  Steven smiled. “I know this sounds far-fetched, but that’s not far from the truth. Let me start at the beginning and tell you how this all came about, where we are now, and what we envision for the future.”

  For the next several hours, Steven told Garrett of his plans and the work completed to date. For the most part, he was accurate and forthcoming, but at no time did he mention names or exact locations. After dinner, they walked along the inner harbor breakwater. The evening was mild, and a light offshore breeze carried a sweet scent of hibiscus and jasmine down to them from the hills above Kailua. Garrett asked an occasional question, but for the most part he listened. Steven carefully skirted the nature or origin of the project’s funding, saying only that it was more than adequate. Just after nine, they found a comfortable bench at the end of the promenade on the city dock near the Hilton Hotel.

  “That’s really about all I can tell you at this juncture, Garrett. From what I know about you and what you’ve told me, you seem like an individual we would like to have with us on this project. By that I mean, if you’re still interested, I’d like to show you our facility and training camp tomorrow.”

  Garrett hid his surprise that this man was ready to hire him and that there was some sort of a training facility on Hawaii. He regarded this quiet, unassuming man.