The Mercenary (10 page)

“Meaning wet work.” Sturgis tapped his fingers together knowingly and glancing sidelong at Major Shipman, pleased he could contribute an operational phrase.

Axe looked away. Sturgis must have picked that one up during one of his numerous school tours like the Joint Flag Officer Warfighting Course. This was a room full of impeccably tailored generals and admirals, all with shiny shoes, sitting in a lecture hall at Maxwell AFB, theorizing about combat. Warfighting course. In a classroom.

“Direct intervention contracts are operational missions. You know.” He looked at the general. “Combat.”

“That happens to be illegal,” the general said tersely. “Our government has never advocated the ‘loaning' of American military personnel to foreign nations for actual fighting. Unlike some of our so-called allies,” he added primly.

“Well, at least not since the RAF Eagle Squadron and Air America, “ Axe replied.

Jolly rolled his eyes.

“So”—the general got up and walked to his window—“assuming this madman is an American and received his training in our military, we've come up with these three possibilities.”

The two younger officers said nothing. Sturgis was obviously making a case of some sort. Probably practicing for the Congressional hearing.

“And that's it?” He turned and stared at the lieutenant colonels. “We bet the farm on this?”

Meaning my ass is at stake and therefore so are yours.

“Actually, the two best candidates aren't on your short list,” Axe replied quietly.

“Why is that?” Major Shipman could speak too. Actually, it was a nice voice. Low and serious. Deep for a chick but not masculine.

“Mostly because they're dead.”

Axe caught what might have been a smile flit across Shipman's lips and cleared his throat. “General, these are the most likely pilots from
our
military who fit the bill. Additionally,” he glanced at Jolly, “I took it upon myself to research another possibility.”

“For instance?”

“Foreign pilots that have done fast-jet U.S. exchanges with the Air Force or naval aviation.”

“Anyone turn up?” Jolly asked.

“A Dutch pilot. Major Timo van Oste.”

“Why him?” The general looked interested. A way to get the USAF off the hook.

“He spent seven years in the States. Pilot training at Sheppard, and he later came back for an exchange tour at Hill AFB in Utah.” Axe looked up. “LANTIRN and goggle qualified.”

Sturgis sat down again and poured himself a cup of coffee. “That's the low-altitude night stuff right?” He clucked disapprovingly. “What a waste of training. Going low was always a bad idea.”

Axe looked away again. This from a bomber guy who bravely attacked things from 40,000 feet. Or would have if he'd ever been to war.

“Well, General . . . it seemed to work out okay in Taiwan the other night.”

The coffee cup froze in mid lift. “And you're one half-assed remark away from a year in Korea with the Army.” The general stabbed a finger at Truax. There was entirely too much testosterone in the room.

K. Allen Sturgis fixed Axe with a beady stare. His short hair seemed to bristle and his jaw hardened. It was meant to be menacing but Axe struggled mightily not to laugh.
That
would get him sent to Korea. From the corners of his eyes he saw Major Shipman look away.

“Sir,” Jolly sounded like he was being strangled, “I think Colonel Truax meant that the man we're looking for would almost certainly have had that type of specialized training. It narrows the field a bit.”

“All right, all right.” Sturgis held up his hand. “But why would any of these guys turn . . . mercenary?” The word obviously tasted bad to him.

“Two reasons. First is the money. Being a mercenary pays more than being a professional military officer.”

“A slimy way to earn a few dollars,” the general interjected disdainfully. “Not really the American way.” The general was trying not to stare at the major's legs but wasn't hiding it well.
Wonder if he's fucking her
, Axe thought and stole a look at Shipman's face. Intelligence, determination . . . that was to be expected. But something else too. Something hard around the eyes. She didn't look like the overambitious type that slept her way to the top, but you just never knew.

“It's more than a few dollars, General. The ones that survive are all millionaires.”

Lee stepped in again. “And the second reason?”

Doug Truax looked up. “Revenge.”

“Meaning what?” Karen Shipman crossed her legs and three sets of eyes were pulled downward to her calves. Muscled. Must be a runner. He noticed the buttons on her blouse seemed to be having a hard time keeping her breasts contained. The General noticed too. Bastard.

“Many of these guys might have some sort of personal grudge against the service they came from,” Axe replied. “Maybe even against our country.”

“Traitors.” Sturgis spat the word. “They're breaking the law and deserve life behind bars.”

“Actually, General, treason still carries the death penalty. I have to point out,” he added, “that none of these pilots have been involved in direct action against the United States. They've taken contracts against our allies in several cases . . . but not directly against us.”

“Harming U.S. interests is the same as attacking America.” He sounds like a paid political ad, Axe thought wearily. Too much time learning slogans at the JFK School of Government and no time on the front line. Axe would never condone treason of course, but he knew that the disillusionment among the officer corps was widespread and endemic. He also knew why. Part of it was sitting across from him now.

“So as I see it, sir”—Jolly also stood—“Dan Morgan and this Dutch pilot, Van Oste, are our most likely choices.”

“What have we done to locate them so far?” He turned and leaned against the window.

“Nothing yet, sir,” Jolly replied. “I wasn't sure of the authorization or to what level you wished this elevated.”

“Elevated?” Sturgis snorted. “This came
down
to us from the Pentagon. “The Chief of Staff wants this resolved and damn fast, especially if the pilot responsible is one of ours. Once the full report leaks out, and it will leak out, there will be seven kinds of hell to pay from Congress.” He rubbed his chin. “Imagine a rogue American pilot responsible for the biggest diplomatic setback and threat to Asian security in thirty years. There are certain Congressmen who'd just love that.”

Axe could imagine that. The upper levels of the military were still smarting from a series of nasty scandals. Then there was the quagmire in Iraq and the embarrassment of several high-profile weapons systems failures. The F/A-22 fiasco alone had cost the Air Force most of its credibility.

So Congress retaliated by closing bases and raping funding during their Quadrennial Defense Reviews. Another nail in the military coffin would suit some of them just fine.

“So I want you to find him. Now.”

Axe was getting a bad feeling about this. “Which one, general?”

Sturgis walked to his desk and picked up a blue folder. “Whichever one did this.” He took a single page from the folder and held it up. “This is a blanket authorization to utilize virtually any Air Force resources required to close this event.”

Close this event? Now what the hell did
that
mean? Do what has to be done as long as the problem goes away and the general is kept out of it?

Swell.

“You want
me
to hunt these guys down?” He sat back and stared at the general, not going down without a fight
.
“I thought that's what the spooks were for.”

“Well, they'll assist of course. And they have already. Just as you need their expertise to find these individuals they need yours to know where to look and whom to look for.”

Good God. Talk about needles and haystacks. Doug Truax shook his head slightly. Sturgis wanted a scapegoat, that's what this meant. Someone's head other than his own that he could dangle to the Air Staff when this mercenary disappeared into the mist. Axe could hear it now: “Well, I put Truax on it. Fighter pilot, Patchwearer, and the best I had. If he screwed it away, that's not my fault.”

The general stood and so did Shipman and Lee. Axe looked up and saw they were all watching him expectantly. He belatedly got to his feet.

“You will report to Colonel Lee, and he will report to me.” Sturgis stretched himself up to his full, substandard height and was annoyed that he still had to look up at Axe.

“Questions?” he barked in a tone that didn't require a reply. Nodding curtly, he then pivoted and stalked shortly out of the office.

Jolly blew out a long sigh and sunk back onto the couch. Major Shipman poured herself a cup of coffee and Axe tried to keep his head from spinning.

“Whaddya think?” Lee was wary. He knew Axe.

“What do I think? I think I'm the fall guy. I think I just got put on the cross so the Air Force doesn't take the rap. I also think if you ever kick me again I'll be mailing your foot back to you.”

Major Shipman leaned against the bookcase and said absolutely nothing.

Jolly smiled. “Just trying to keep you off the Rock,” he said, meaning Korea. “So get off your tail and find this guy.”

“Oh . . . okay.” Axe strode to the window and looked out. The color guard was gone. The greenskeepers had moved elsewhere and a momentary calm had settled over the brick buildings clustered around headquarters. It was called depression.

“I'll just run right out and do that, Jolly.” He shook his head disgustedly. “This is a job for a cop or a spook, not a fighter pilot.”

“As it so happens, we've got someone just like that to help you out.”

“Great. Some slippery, hairy Neanderthal with six different passports to lead me on a global goose chase.”

“Actually”—Karen Shipman smiled for the first time and lifted her perfect ass off the shelf—“I only have two passports. And I shave my legs.”

He stared at her a moment and she met his gaze calmly. Lee waved and left.

“O
kay,” Axe popped the top on a Coke and sat down on the stone picnic table. They'd walked down to the marina and he and the major were facing each other across the table. “So what do we have here, and why you?”

Major Karen Shipman was used to male hostility. Despite slogans, Equal Opportunity, and all the other silly military programs designed to change centuries of attitudes overnight, it hadn't really happened. And the funny thing was that she agreed with most of the old notions. The military was, by its nature, a man's world. Combat was a nasty physical event, and males were better designed for it in most cases.

Things began to unravel when technical leaps allowed machines to do what used to be done with muscle. Then it became brains that were important, not physical strength, bravery, or the athleticism that marked past generations of warriors. This was the twenty-first century in a nutshell. Face it, if Bill Gates had been born in the middle ages, he wouldn't have survived past adolescence. Wrong set of talents and skills. As it was, he was the richest man in the world.

“I guess someone thinks I can help,” she sipped her Coke noncommittally. Doug Truax wasn't hostile but he wasn't exactly friendly either. “Maybe I can even learn something from you, sir.”

“Cut the crap, Major.” He looked at her and she could see he wasn't buying it. A man not interested in flattery. Interesting. “Answer the question.”

“It was the general's call. I suppose he thinks I'm useful.”

“No doubt of that.”

Karen's head came up. That was one thing that did get to her. The implication that all successful women screwed their way to the top.

“I resent that,
Colonel
,” she snapped. “My brain matches my tits.”

“Gray and soft?”

“You know damn well that's not what I mean.”

“You've got two brains?”

This man was infuriating. “If your dick was as big as your mouth I'd be looking forward to this assignment.”

Ouch.

Hit a guy where he lives. Dickie Gozenya didn't care for that remark. Now, normally majors did not speak to lieutenant colonels that way. But Karen Shipman was a field-grade officer too, a woman,
and
she'd been specially appointed by the three-star prick in charge. Axe couldn't decide whether to put her in her place or ask her out to dinner. So instead he grinned.

“Okay . . . pax. Means peace.” Try some charm instead.

“
Sane lingua Latina dico.
”

Whoops. Axe grinned again. Latin too. She wasn't kidding about the brain.

“Look, Colonel . . . I didn't ask for the job.” Axe wasn't sure about that. “But I've never failed yet and I don't intend to start now.” That was certainly true. Shipman was gathering steam. “Now if you'd stop staring at my ass maybe we could get to work.”

Caught. Perception and brains. A truly evil woman.

But enough was enough. “Sit down and shut up.” He straightened up and stabbed a finger at her. She bristled but Axe rolled on. “You
ever
talk to me that way again, we've got a problem not even your three-star sponsor can bail you out of.”

Several other patrons turned curiously and he lowered his voice. “I've no doubt you're a competent officer in your own field but this is not making PowerPoint slides or ordering invitations for a general's party.”

She sat and opened her mouth but Axe waved her off. “If I've got to roam around the damn planet tracking this guy down I can do it. I've done it before,” he added surprisingly. “But I can't do it with an amateur trailing around behind me.”

“I am
not
an amateur.” Ms. Major Karen Shipman turned a nifty shade of red right at the cheekbones when she got angry. “I was DIA for three and a half years.”