by Rick Partlow
You can pay men and women to kill, but you can’t pay them enough to die.
Who had said that? He thought he remembered reading it, but there were too many memories jammed into his brain, and sometimes it was difficult to fish the right one out when you needed it.
Perhaps I said it. When I write the histories of these days, perhaps I will claim it as my own. After all, there won’t be a government around to contradict me.
The plane landed on an elevator platform set on a flat hilltop, the gear retreating into its shock-absorbent housings a few inches before recoiling back upwards. The rotors were still whining their way down the scale to immobility when the whole platform began to sink into the mountain with a jolt that shook the fuselage and shook him in his seat. He was glad he’d left the safety restraints fastened.
The elevator motors were louder than the plane engines had been and he decided to keep his headphones on. Which was why he caught the exchange between the pilot and copilot.
“Who the hell is this guy, anyway?” one of the two asked. He’d heard them both speak before takeoff, but the distortion of the headset intercom made it impossible to tell one’s voice from the other. “Does he work for those Russians that are supposed to be coming here next week?”
“I think so,” the other one responded. “Gary in transportation told me he flew out here from the East Coast to grease the wheels for the conference.”
“What are they supposed to accomplish anyway?” An amused snort. “I mean, the Russians ain’t getting shit past the Smokies and do we even want the East Coast back? It’s a shithole. I say, let them have it.”
“Yeah, you say that now, but what about when they start smuggling nukes in over the Mississippi?”
“If they could have, they would have. It’s easy putting one on a freighter and sailing it off the coast. Getting it out here, not so much. Ain’t no one gonna get past Cheyenne Mountain.”
“Famous last words, dude.”
Then the pair went silent, perhaps realizing their passenger might be listening in via the intercom system, and darkness swallowed them up as the elevator sank deeper into the mountain.
It took a solid minute for the elevator to come to a halt in the shadowed recesses of the underground hangar, then another before the crew chief received the okay to open the rear ramp. Franklin pushed himself to his feet, yanking off the headset and leaving it laying on the seat as his assistant preceded him down the ramp and toward the waiting team of MPs.
“Mr. Franklin?” their leader, a captain with soft, rounded features asked. But he was speaking to Franklin’s assistant and the man himself stepped quickly up and offered a hand.
“I’m Robert Franklin,” he corrected the man’s mistake.
The MP Captain shook the hand a bit uncertainly, as if he wasn’t sure if he should be touching someone who worked with the Russians lest he become somehow contaminated.
“Oh, great,” the MP said without even feigned enthusiasm. “Well, sir, if you’ll follow my team, we’ve been sent to escort you to your quarters. You’ll have a full suite with two bedrooms and built-in offices for the duration of the conference.”
Their boots clomped a chorus on the cement floor, clearing a lane through the human traffic in the hangar, technicians and pilots and engineers, outbound and incoming soldiers and bureaucrats and the blandly shady intelligence types. They carried their carbines barrels-out at high port, giving the appearance of an honor guard…but those weapons were loaded and ready for combat, and there was nothing ceremonial about the body armor the military police troopers were wearing. Someone wasn’t taking any chances.
They moved to an elevator and took it deeper into the bowels of the facility and no one, he noted, said a word. The MPs glanced at him, at his aid, at their captain, but none spoke. The Captain, whose name tape read Scott, was tight-lipped, barely willing to meet Franklin’s eyes. Franklin’s aid was closer to Scott than he was, and the MP officer kept glancing at him, as if he thought he recognized him.
The elevator pinged as it reached its destination and they stepped out onto what could have been an entirely different facility. Gone was the bare cement flooring and concrete walls slapped with sterile white paint. Down here, at the level where politicians and diplomats and those with real power lived and worked, the walls were polished wood, the floor marble, the paintings well-done copies of masterpieces.
There were no more shuffling maintenance techs and low-ranking enlisted dawdling from one bit of make-work to another. Here, men and women in well-tailored suits walked with confidence and soldiers with officer’s rank stepped carefully among them, looking as though they knew they didn’t belong.
All of them steered clear of the MPs, regarding the intrusion into their world with glances of annoyance and confusion until they saw Franklin. Some knew who he was, he could tell by the expressions on their faces, something of a subdued awe to them, poorly concealed. The others, the ones who didn’t, stared in resentment until the group passed and got on with their duties.
The place reminded him of an ant colony. He remembered visiting his grandfather’s ranch in Texas once, watching the old man pour gasoline into fire ant mounds and setting them alight. It wouldn’t kill all the ants, his father had confided well out of the old man’s earshot, but it was more viscerally satisfying than just spraying insecticide.
“Here’s your rooms, sir,” Captain Scott told him, motioning to a carved mahogany door, its knob antique brass. The security lock panel was somewhat newer and Scott offered up his thumbprint and passcode as a sacrifice to the demonic gatekeeper.
The suite was comparable to the best hotels in Europe, back when that had meant something. The carpets were thick and luxurious, the sheets Egyptian cotton and the offices were actual, separate rooms with their own communications and data terminals. After Scott gave them a brief tour, he backed out of the rooms with the assurance that if they wanted anything, all they had to do was use the comm panel beside the door and call.
Franklin’s aid set down their bags and gave him a look.
“Think the rooms are monitored?” Nathan Stout asked him.
Well…a Nathan Stout. Not the only one, of course. He couldn’t bring Svetlana, but there was one other person he trusted. One other person but dozens of duplicates of him.
“Of course,” Franklin replied, taking a seat at one of the communications terminals. “But there’s currently a computer simulation showing you and I doing totally innocuous things.” He sniffed a quiet laugh. “I believe you’re going off to take a nap while I grab a shower.”
This version of Nate…Let’s call him Nathan, just to differentiate…smiled thinly and pulled off his suit jacket, tossing it over a chair.
“And what are we really going to be doing?”
Robert Franklin laughed louder this time, remembering a line from a cartoon his father had shown him when he’d been a young boy.
“The same thing we do every night,” he quoted, wondering if Nathan would get it. “Try to take over the world.”
Afterword
We hope you liked the second book in the Broken Arrow Mercenary Force series!
We hope you’ll be back for more as the saga continues with Spoils of War; coming soon…
Dedication to James Fuller
When Rick and I began developing this series, the character FOG didn’t exist. In fact, some of the characters who appear in the series weren’t on my radar when the initial concept came to be. Svetlana was nothing more than a mystery character behind the scenes, but Rick had the great idea of bringing her into the light. Bob wasn’t in the picture as the big bad guy, but I won’t tell you who was because Rick’s idea to bring him back was genius. And FOG, James Fuller, wasn’t going to exist at all.
What changed? The scope of the story needed more characters, more depth, and more purpose. They barebones version of BAMF was nowhere near as exciting when it was my concept alone. Rick tends to give me a lot more credit than he should, but th
e cool thing about being the guy “in charge” is that I get to put little author notes in the back of the book and tell you my side of the story. I could wax on about how great Rick is for taking this journey with me, but he would roll his eyes and think I’m too sentimental.
So, I won’t do that, but I will give credit to someone who was instrumental in the development of FOG’s character.
James Fuller was a real person. We took some liberties with the character in the book, but anyone who knew James in real life would recognize some of the details we reveal about him. The appearance, the “tell it like it is” attitude, the voice that sounds almost like he’s smoked ten packs of cigarettes and then went for a run. But that stuff if superficial.
The real James Fuller was a kind man who worked his butt off and never got the recognition he deserved. It’s easy to say that after someone passes onto the next life, but it’s true.
I met James in 2001. I was a new airman in the Navy and I was assigned to VFA-83 Rampagers. James was a generator tech rep, and he often made his morning walkabouts to each squadron on the flight line. I was too new to really get involved in the conversations, but I recognized that he was a knowledgeable guy, and valuable as someone to seek information from. I saw a bit more of James as each of our roles changed over the years, but I really got to know him in 2015 as the USS Harry S. Truman prepared for deployment.
I was the Generator Shop Leading Petty Officer, and we had a bench which was used to test F/A-18 A-G aircraft generators. I could get into some specifics about why this was a huge deal, but I won’t bore you. Let’s just say that the bench I was responsible for was broken and we needed the esteemed tech rep to come out and help us fix it. I wish reality was so simple, but it actually took four tech reps and thirty days for us to figure out this bench. Either way, we had a few weeks to get to know James on a personal level, not just the tech rep version of him.
I already held him in high regard, but by the end of it, I had a lot of respect and appreciation for him. He helped guide my shop by mentoring us on information we would later use to do the impossible. My shop is the only one in the history of aviation to go an entire deployment without running short of available generators for the F/A-18 platform. It wasn’t leadership on that ship which made it possible (regardless of what my end of deployment award stated). It was what James taught us about the test bench and how to properly troubleshoot it that allowed us to be successful. His knowledge was passed onto each of us, even the junior sailors working for me.
James Fuller was a man who didn’t get the credit he deserved by many people, but I wanted to honor him in some way. So, I named a character after him, modeled it after him, and gave him the same call sign we used with the real James Fuller, because he was a “fucking old guy out there doing the young man’s work” as he liked to put it. I only tease the people I like, and James was one of them.
I wish I would have had the forethought to get a picture with him, but death never gives a warning. Instead, I’ll leave you with the only images I have with him, and a funny story. During the hellacious month of September 2015, I took a selfie with each tech rep as they fell asleep. I ultimately got one with everyone who worked for me. Besides, what are you going to do when your test bench doesn’t work, and you’re stuck in a cold shop with nothing to do?
The funny thing about James is, I got two pictures with him lol.
Hopefully, this series gets a few more people to appreciate a good man who had a positive impact on my life by knowing him.
He deserves the acknowledgement.
Thank you for reading.
Drew
About Rick Partlow
Rick Partlow is that rarest of species, a native Floridian. Born in Tampa, he attended Florida Southern College and graduated with a degree in History and a commission in the US Army as an Infantry officer.
His lifelong love of science fiction began with Have Space Suit---Will Travel and the other Heinlein juveniles and traveled through Clifford Simak, Asimov, Clarke and on to William Gibson, Walter Jon Williams and Peter F Hamilton. And somewhere, submerged in the worlds of others, Rick began to create his own worlds.
He has written 20 books in six different series, and his short stories have been included in nine different anthologies.
He is working on a sixth, new series for Aethon books, a six-volume military SF saga about a mercenary unit called Wholesale Slaughter. The first three books should be out this summer.
He currently lives in central Florida with his wife, two children and a willful mutt of a dog. Besides writing and reading science fiction and fantasy, he enjoys outdoor photography, hiking and camping. Learn more about Rick and his books by visiting his website at www.rickpartlow.com.
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More to enjoy from Rick Partlow
The Duty, Honor, Planet trilogy
Glory Boy
The Birthright trilogy
The Recon series
Last Flight of the Acheron
The Tales of the Acheron trilogy
The Psi War trilogy
Seeds of Gaia
About Drew Avera
Drew Avera is a Navy veteran, musician, and the bestselling author of the Dead Planet series and the Alorian Wars. He grew up in Mississippi with his nose in a stack of comic books when he wasn’t terrorizing the neighborhood practicing his trumpet or guitar. Eventually, he left small-town life and enlisted in the Navy at the age of seventeen. Since 2000, he has deployed on various aircraft carriers as an aviation electrician and has accumulated more than four years on the open seas.
Drew began his author career in 2012 with his book Exodus, and is best known for writing space opera, dystopian, and cyberpunk, though he enjoys writing in other genres as well. He lives in Virginia with his wife, daughters and two cats which may be plotting against him when he isn’t looking. For more information about Drew and his books, visit his website at www.drewavera.com.
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More to enjoy from Drew Avera
The Dead Planet Series
The Syndicate Series
The Alorian Wars
Chancerian
Skye Byrn
