The Mercenary (6 page)

Two hours later, the jet dropped smoothly into the tiny sultanate of Brunei, on Malaysia's north coast. He'd awoken with the change in altitude and casually strolled up to the cockpit. Professing an interest in aviation, he'd managed to stand behind the pilots during most of the descent. Listening to the radio transmissions to air traffic and watching the instrument approach, he was satisfied that everything was normal. There would be no unwelcome reception waiting for him.

JAC provided a limousine to the main terminal, and by 10:15
A.M.
the mercenary was through security and waiting in the Royal Brunei Airlines business-class lounge. From there he'd made two communications. First to one of his Lichtenstein clearing banks, which informed him that no wire transfer had occurred within the past twenty-four hours. This bank was a conduit to other offshore accounts where his considerable fortune was hidden beneath various corporate fronts.

The second communication was made just before boarding. A simple message in plain English to an email forwarding service in Bangkok. It would automatically resend the message directly to an unclassified computer belonging to the Chinese staff intelligence officer in Luqiao. It read:

HUIFENG. CARTRIDGE TO YOU WHEN XFER CONFIRMED. SANDMAN.

Royal Brunei Flight 873 lifted off precisely on time, at 12:30, and the Sandman relaxed with a hot gourmet lunch. Rewarding himself slightly with a half carafe of wine, he'd tried to get interested in the private movie selection, but Tom Cruise's latest hyperactive short-man antics put him fast asleep instead. Ten hours and twelve minutes later, the mercenary stepped off the jetway in Amman, Jordan, more than twenty hours since he'd landed the FLANKER in China.

Standing now at the window of his suite at the InterContinental Hotel, the Sandman felt reasonably well rested. He'd arrived at the hotel at six
P.M.
, showered, and ordered room service. Sending his suit down to the valet for a press, he'd eaten hummus and spiced lamb, then gone straight to bed.

Glancing at his watch, he saw it was just after ten
A.M
. Quickly dressing in his dark suit and a clean burgundy shirt, the Sandman took the mirrored elevator to the ground floor. Strolling through the lobby, he walked onto the stone-tiled forecourt. Three sides were enclosed by an arcade with various shops. A double row of enormous date palms stood like sentries amid rectangular reflecting pools and fountains. It was a clear, hot morning and he paused a moment beyond the big doors. Unmistakable, he thought, sniffing the air. A faint, slightly sweet odor of burning trash, dust, and roses. Middle Eastern cities were always an assault on the nose. Each one was different and, in its own way, exotic.

He nodded to the two security guards in their dark suits and ties and stepped out into the arched walkway. Lining the promenade, before the security checkpoint, were several upper-end clothing stores, and he spent the next hour buying what he needed from Benetton, Pal Zileri, and Ralph Lauren.

Afterward, in the suite, he dressed in his new athletic clothes, draped a towel over his shoulder, and then returned to the lobby. There was a separate elevator to the health club and within minutes he was walking through the tunnel that connected the spa to the hotel. The InterContinental had a state-of-the-art health club. Real free weights. Man weights. And the place was almost always empty since Arabs rarely worked out.

For an hour he worked out the kinks and then enjoyed a massage. By three
P.M
. he was showered and casually dressed in baggy tan linen pants, sandals, and an oversized white cotton shirt.

Taking a small table by a pillar in the enormous lobby, he ordered an orange juice and ostensibly scanned the two papers in front of him. No one noticed the casually dressed gentleman reading his papers. But he noticed everyone. After thirty minutes he slipped out and took the stairs down to the pool.

It was moderately sized and not over-landscaped like most pools in luxury Middle Eastern hotels. Surrounded on three sides by the hotel and spa, the courtyard was a pleasant place. There was sun if you wanted it, shade if you preferred, and a full bar against one stone wall. The pool itself was kidney shaped and very deep so the water was always cool. There was an irregular stone fountain near the shady end with little alcoves for leaning or dozing. The hot tub was a huge teardrop near the bar with four wide steps leading up to it.

Admiring the female scenery from behind his dark glasses, the mercenary walked to the bar for a plate of appetizers and a drink. He paused there, enjoying the warm sun on his face and faint music wafting through the foliage. There were three blond women, all about six feet tall, with Penthouse Pet bodies and thong bikinis sitting at the hot tub. They looked Swedish or Danish. Scandinavian definitely, and almost certainly flight-attendant types. Or were they cabin managers? Whatever.

A brunette woman with hip-length straight hair and flawless, mahogany skin strolled past on her way to the chaise longues. A very nice package with small, tight breasts and superb legs, she glanced demurely at him but kept walking. Probably Indian, he thought, watching her receding figure with interest. Two perfect little spheres in a blue, one-piece suit slit up past her thighs.

I never did like blondes.

There were several couples swimming together or talking in the shallow end. One European or American pair who managed to do a complete circuit of the pool without letting go of each other. He eyed them bleakly. The Happy Family and Loving Couple act meant nothing to him. A faint memory better forgotten.

Then there were the wolves. Mostly Middle Eastern men in their standard uniform of tiny Speedos and dark Ray-Bans. Swaggering around the pool in twos and threes, bellies wobbling over their banana hammocks, they all seemed to have a cigarette and at least two gold chains around their necks. Most of the attention was focused on the blondes and the mercenary was amused to see that the girls were responding.

Ah well, he thought, money talks. He dipped the pita wedge into a saucer of hummus and ate it. Sitting down in the shade he leaned back in the wicker chair, took a sip of ice-cold mineral water and considered his evening.

There would be no written response to his email message. If the balance of his $7.5M payment was credited to his bank, he would know they'd accepted. If not, well, he knew of several defense contractors who would pay handsomely for the data cartridge. Not seven millions' worth, but enough. He was also just as certain that the Chinese would not accept the fact that he was roaming about with their property. So they would pay him off. Or try to kill him.

That brought a cold smile to his lips. Killing was not the most profitable of options because they would know that he'd never keep it with him. So they'd have to trap him somehow and try to make him talk. Also a bad bet. Not that they could trap him anyway. But one never knew. He never planned on the most favorable outcome in any situation, which was why he was still alive in a business that did not forgive carelessness or overconfidence.

The mercenary yawned again and stretched languidly. He wriggled his toes around in the new sandals and unbuttoned another button on the big white shirt. The workout and massage had gone a long way to erase the tension from his back and shoulders. But he needed something more. The Sandman rarely drank in the field but there were other diversions. He'd caught several more glances from the Indian girl across the pool and risked an open smile. She flashed her teeth in return, then looked away.

Good enough.

Sliding to his feet in an easy, fluid movement, the mercenary strolled to the bar. In the reflection from the big picture window fronting the pool, he saw the girl turn and watch him. Taking two Grey Goose martinis, he turned and met her gaze. Smiling disarmingly the Sandman wound his way through the tables toward the girl. He'd found what he needed.

Chapter 4

L
ieutenant Colonel Doug Truax hated his life.

Well, not generally, he admitted to himself. Generally he was okay. Excellent health, nice toys to play with, and a relatively distinguished military career. His divorce was final, he had a beautiful home on the James River and, within a year, would get the hell out of this place and back into a cockpit where he belonged. But this specific part of his life sucked. This groundhog day that he'd lived every day for the past twenty months.

His butt hurt. His eyes hurt. Any semblance of a suntan had long since faded. He was in the worse place a fighter pilot could be. Beyond purgatory. Beyond the gates of hell.

He was a staff officer.

The staff was an immense, bloated bureaucratic collection of generally nonessential people trying desperately to appear essential. It was a place on the far side of the River Styx that all career officers eventually served some time in. But any tactical pilot worth a damn hated every minute. Staffs existed, theoretically, to serve the needs of the warfighter—combat pilot.
Warfighter
was another word Truax despised.

A word created in the purple, politically correct world of the 1990s because
warrior
was no longer in vogue.
Warrior
implied a person capable of actually fighting, killing people, and doing damage. This notion sent the computerized, globally linked military into a panty tangle because they were obviously excluded. A Warfighter, on the other hand, could conceivably be anyone who contributed in any way, real or imagined, to the people who pulled the triggers. It made the REMFs, rear echelon motherfuckers, feel better. And the modern Air Force was all about feeling good with no hurt feelings.

Truax snorted and sipped his lukewarm coffee. The word caught on in the Air Force because with unmanned aerial vehicles, computerized smart weapons, and, of course, the Space Command, you didn't need to be a warrior to be a “warfighter.” This suited the geeks with thick glasses who ironed their flight suits and had never been in a cokcpit. The same geeks who feared and hated pilots because they could never be pilots. The same geeks that were taking over the Air Force because their Xbox type of warfare had been sold to the Joint Chiefs as a viable alternative to jets and guns.

He sighed. It was going to be a long day.

In reality, staffs existed to perpetuate the need for a staff. A giant self-licking ice-cream cone.

Swell.

He yawned at the bad coffee and stared distastefully at his computer screen. He had four sitting positions to cycle through and switched to the second one. Right Buttcheek Down.

Mondays were the worst, here at the second biggest pile of poo in the U.S. Air Force. Air Combat Command Headquarters, where one was required to wear “Blues” every Monday. A stunning ensemble of polyester matched with polyester, Blues were the Air Force's answer to corporate America. To project a “professional” image. Right, maybe in 1975.

Known as Axe, inevitably, Doug Truax was part of a dying breed in the Air Force. A fighter pilot who was content to be so. One of the few who did not view operational flying assignments as an inconvenience between staff tours. Risking life and limb to help the Polyester Princes of ACC and the Pentagon rise a bit higher on the ladder. He snorted again.

ACC Headquarters.

It was what was called a “MAJCOM”, or major command. As opposed to what, he'd always wondered? A minor command? MAJCOMs dealt with flying wings and other associated pieces and parts under its responsibility. Because these organizations were operational, they were called combatant commands.

Euphemistically. The distinction was made because most of the Air Force dealt with logistics, research, and weight-loss programs. Although—Axe grimaced—it could be uglier and fatter. It could be the Army. Sighing again, he glanced at the row of his former fighter squadron patches stuck to the wall and mentally saluted happier days.

ACC included, but was not limited to, most of the flying wings inside the Continental United States, or CONUS.

Or Comfortable Officers Never Under Stress. Bulging generals who never deployed themselves but had no problem sending others in harm's way. They had shiny shoes.

Unlike the hard core of professionals who never left the Middle East after the first Gulf War. Who missed Christmas and birthdays, didn't know their kids and all got divorced in the name of duty. That made him think of the ex-Mrs. Truax and he smiled. Ding, Dong the Bitch was Dead.

Ah well. He shook his head. You sign on the line and take your chances.

Still, it could be worse, he mused, and sipped the bad coffee. Rotting away at the Pentagon would be infinitely more terrible. The Five-Sided Puzzle Palace, as it was known, was the really big shitpile in the Air Force. Actually in the entire Department of Defense.

So with the prospect of an exhausting day of emails and staff summary sheets ahead of him, Truax settled back and tried not to think about flying.

Shift. Left Buttcheek Down.

“Looks thrilling, Axe. You certainly do good staff work.”

Doug jumped and half turned. Lieutenant Colonel John Lee, better known as Jolly, was standing behind him with a bemused expression on his face. His immaculate blue uniform looked liked it had been spray painted on.

His shoes were shiny.

Axe dry-cleaned his blues once a month and never shined his shoes. He smelled like the gym because that's where he spent most of his time.

“Fuck off, Jolly.” He swiveled all the way around to face him. “Who untied you from under the general's desk?

The other officer smiled and casually leaned against the wall. The two pilots had known each other for more than a decade. While not exactly friends, they'd flown together in the same fighter wing and deployed several times to the Gulf.

“I'm allowed out to see the sun twice a day so I'll keep growing. As long as I pick up more creamer and sugar for the coffee bar.”

“Good to see you've got career prospects.”

Truax pointed at the mug in Lee's fist. It sported a fanned-out hand of cards, all sevens, with an F-16 flying out of the middle. The patch was from the 77th Fighter Squadron. “Great outfit. Wish I was back there right now.”

“Makes two of us.” He nodded his head toward the headquarters building. “You think it sucks here . . . try that fuckin' place.”

Jolly worked for the CAT. The Commander's Action Team. Also inevitably and somewhat less charitably known as the “Pussies.”

CAT. Pussy.

Their job was to be annoying. To basically run around and meddle in everyone's chili. They got to discover answers to questions only a general would be out of date enough to ask. They all had capped teeth and the right hair.

And shiny shoes.

“Hey, you wanted it.” He pointed at Lee's epaulettes. “Chance to turn that oak leaf into an eagle.”

That much was true. The CAT guys all worked for generals and got lots of face time. They also typically got promoted fast out of the job. It was another way to get ahead when you couldn't cut it as a pilot. Jolly actually flew okay, he was just into politics. And he wanted to be a general someday.

Lee shrugged and grinned. He knew Axe was right and there was no sense denying it. He also knew that the only way to change things was to get placed high enough to have an impact. He was willing to sacrifice certain things to do that and be in that position someday. He also knew Axe never would and he was glad of it. The Air Force needed them both. But even Jolly would admit that the warrior types were becoming increasingly rare.

“So what are you really doing over here?”

Jolly sipped his coffee and smiled toward the door. “Let's go for a walk.”

“Why not?” Axe yawned and got up. He winced as the kinks in his back unkinked.
Damn, I hate this job.

The two officers walked out of the secure area of Building 200 into a hallway that hadn't been painted since Hitler surrendered. Plaques lined the wall. “Warrior of the Week” was always one of Doug Truax's favorites. Usually some sergeant from Administration whose hobbies included attending church and reading general officer biographies.

Waves of coffee-scented air wafted from various doorways. As it mixed with the pine-scented cleaner beloved by government housekeepers, Axe felt his stomach turn. Or maybe it was the never-ending stream of polyester and wide-bodied secretaries waddling down the hall.

He and Jolly stepped out the back and naturally walked toward the marina. It was unavoidable unless one wanted to go across the street and hang out in the main headquarters building. Axe would personally prefer an arrow through the neck.

“You see the news last night . . . or this morning?” Jolly asked.

“Nope. Just bad news now. Gas at three fifty a gallon and Tom Cruise is getting even smaller.”

“You're truly a modern man, Axe. So it's safe to assume you know nothing about Taiwan?”

“
Au contraire,
mon frere
. It was originally called Formosa and settled by the Dutch East India Company, who ruled it ever so gently. They were kicked out in sixteen-something by a Ming rebel named Jing.”

“A Jing named Ming?”

“Nope. A Ming named Jheng actually.”

“That's not what I meant, Axe. How 'bout recent history?”

“Probably started in about 1949, when Chiang Kai-shek managed to move China to Taiwan.”

“Axe . . .”

“Yeah. He had to. The big China now belonged to the Communists and was colored red on everyone's maps. He fit that whole big country into that little island. Neat trick, huh?”

“Axe . . .”

Truax was on a roll. “Okay, it was really just the name. But it was called the Republic of China. The ‘Rock.' But then a few years later, in the seventies, the United States breaks ties with the ROC and instead pals up with the People's Republic of China. Communists. The same people we fought all those years in Vietnam. Go figure.”

“That's confusing.”

“No. Confucius. He's pretty important there. Wanna hear about him too?”

“I want you to shut the fuck up and listen to me.” They'd gotten down to the marina and walked out on the dock. “There was an explosion outside Taipei yesterday night, their time. Right on the coast.”

Axe nodded. “CNN said it was a natural gas line from a pumping station.”

“Bullshit. There is no pumping station there.”

“So what blew up?”

Jolly gazed out at the water a moment. “A PAC-3 site.”

Doug Truax stopped chewing his gum and stared at the other officer. PATRIOT Advanced Capability 3. The latest and supposedly greatest. Taiwan's defense against China. America's answer to China.

“Patriot sites don't just blow up, Jolly. Even you know that.”

Lee ignored the jibe. “That's right, they don't. This one had some help.”

“I'm all ears.”

“Apparently someone attacked it,” he turned toward the other pilot. “From the air.”

Axe was surprised and his face showed it. He thought about that a moment. To attack Taiwan. Only one country would want to do that. And to engage a Patriot site and win, well, that took some man-sized stones to pull off. He hadn't thought the Chinese were capable of it, actually.

“What would the Chinese hope to gain from that?”

“Well, for one thing, it would shake up things considerably in Taipei. Undermine confidence in the government and give the People's Republic loyalists something to bite down on. It would also cut our credibility off at the knees at a time when we can least afford it. And all of that has happened,” he added.

Axe rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Might also drive Taipei back to the bargaining table with Beijing.”

“And we wouldn't want that.”

No, the White House definitely did not want that. Taiwan was to China what England was to Occupied Europe during the Second World War. A big, unsinkable aircraft carrier within striking distance of their coastline. A constant thorn in the side. And, most important, a national justification for the U.S. military to be in the East China Sea. Not that the world's only remaining superpower needed to explain its actions, but justification meant security and defense requirements that permitted enormous military budgets. Appropriations and defense contracts that spelled Big Bucks.

No. We wouldn't want that.

“Okay,” Axe nodded. “But to attack a Patriot site at night. And get away with it.” He shook his head. “Guess I better reconsider our Chinese adversaries. We never did rate their pilots very highly.”

“We still don't.”

Axe looked up.

“He wasn't Chinese.”

Truax stared at the other officer a moment, then gazed out over the water. A nice forty-foot sailboat was slowly heading downriver toward the Chesapeake and Axe wished he was on it. Sipping iced vodka and eating shrimp. He sighed.

“So what kind of madman would the Chinese find to do this?”

Lee shrugged. “A mercenary . . . who else?

“Some renegade Russian?”

“Russians don't fly like that.” Jolly looked at him. “Even you know that.”

Ouch.

“Touché. So he's a westerner.”

“There's no shortage of western-trained pilots for hire. Even a few Americans.”

“That's our government's fault,” Axe replied bitterly. “Could be a European.”

“True,” Jolly agreed. “But academic. Still, we're not talking about some former grunt with more muscles than brains.”

“No. Just a fighter pilot with more balls than brains.”

“You don't believe that any more than I do. Someone who could pull this off is no ordinary fighter pilot.” Lee shook his head. “And that narrows the field considerably.”

True enough. Axe rubbed his chin. But there was still something else going on here. “Yeah. So what does all this mean to you and me? And why are you telling me about it?”