The Mercenary (29 page)

Chapter
22

“W
hat the
hell do you mean, he's missing? How is that possible with fucking satellites and
surveillance gadgets out the wazoo?” General Kenneth Allen Sturgis glared at the
FBI agent then at everyone else. “How?!”

David Abbot sighed and leaned back in the big
leather chair. “We don't have all that stuff pointed at NoWhere, Arkansas,
General. The information only came in this morning. Barely enough time to get a
field agent out there, much less change a satellite's orbit.”

Truax said nothing. He was still mentally reeling
from Karen Shipman's revelation about the American mercenary. It was 1:30
P.M.
on Monday and he wished he was on a boat
someplace drinking mai tais.

“So what do you know for certain?” Jolly Lee asked,
glancing at the general's red face. “I mean, we do know that plane was there,
right?”

“Right. SkyMaster N931SM landed at DeWitt Muni
around seventeen thirty, local time. The airport manager was getting ready to
leave for the night but said the pilot was very accommodating. Just wanted gas
and a cup of coffee.”

“So there's a fuel receipt?”

Abbot shook his head. “No. He paid cash and left a
big tip. Said he was in a hurry to meet a lady in Omaha.”

Sturgis snorted.

“What about a flight plan?”

“There was one filed. To Seward Airport, outside
Lincoln. But it was never activated.”

“Takeoff time?

The agent flipped a piece of paper over, then gave
it Truax. “I can't read these things.”

Axe scanned it rapidly. “Eighteen thirty local.” He
pulled the chart across the table. “Assuming this is our guy, he'd have to make
the approximate takeoff time in case the airport manager happened to check.
Also, any witnesses would say that a light twin did depart around that
time.”

“Why is that important?” Karen Shipman asked.

“To throw people like us off the trail.” Axe was
nodding his head. “I bet he even headed north before turning in case anyone was
watching.”

“Turning where?”

“That's the question, isn't it?” Axe extended his
pinky and thumb into a straight line and used his right hand like a ruler.
“Certainly not north, and why would he come back east? So my money is on south
or west. Four hours at two hundred knots gets him anywhere along this radius.”
He measured it out and slowly moved his hand in a circle, then abruptly
stopped.

“Son of a bitch . . .” Jolly whispered
softly.

“What is it?” Sturgis leaned forward to try and see
the chart, and David Abbot smiled.

“San Antonio, Texas.”

S
hit.
Captain Jon Matheson swore silently and slowed
down. He looked at the “no signal” message on his cell phone, glanced in the
rearview mirror, and swerved into the right lane. Pulling into Lulu's parking
lot just west of the base, he was rewarded with enough bars to call, and hit the
redial button. “Sorry baby.” He drove slowly around to the back and stopped.
“Listen . . . I should be back in a few hours. I didn't know anything
about it . . . It's a No Notice kind of . . .
evaluation.”

He was trying to sound upbeat for the woman on the
other end but was seething inside. He'd specifically taken leave for the next
week and his fiancée had flown all the way in from Alaska. Now this. He'd been
recalled, leave canceled, and told to report by 1400. As the squadron's weapons
and tactics officer, there wasn't anything he could do but comply. He'd have to
take whatever silly scenario they gave him and plan his squadron's response.

Wasn't it enough that he'd missed the past three
Thanksgivings and Christmases because of Middle East horseshit? Wasn't it enough
that he worked at least twelve hours every day and usually the weekends too?

Now this.

“Thanks . . . I'm sorry.” He listened and
smiled slightly. “You're a good sport. I'll call back as soon as I can.”

Hanging up, he sighed. She'd understood but the
disappointment in her voice was plain. Shaking his head with disgust, he pulled
around and caught sight of the blue staff car parked back in the corner.

“Fucking bastard,” he muttered. “Recall all of us
to the dirty work and you sneak off to Lulu's for pancakes. Prick.”

Dropping the phone on the seat, his mind now
occupied with the ORI, he drove off and promptly forgot all about the car.

C
indy
had received two manila folders with red and white covers marked
SECRET
, for the attention of the 20 FW commander.
It happened all the time and she always just handed them off to Colonel Halleck.
It was after quarter till two and she wanted to take a smoke break but couldn't
with the folders on her desk. Colonel Richards wasn't in either, so she heaved
herself to her feet and crossed to the commander's door.

Unlocking it, she peeked in, saw nothing and
waddled over to his desk, carefully placing both folders on the blotter. As she
left, Cindy pulled the door shut but it didn't close, and anxious to smoke, she
didn't bother locking it.

T
he
Sandman rounded a bend on Interstate 20 to the sight of an enormous
red-and-yellow sombrero sticking up above the trees. This gave way to a
yellow-painted tower and signs proclaiming you'd arrived at “Pedro's South of
the Border.”

He knew this place—well. It was a brilliantly tacky
collection of cheap hotels and bargain-basement shops for those who couldn't
afford a real vacation. Built directly across the border in South Carolina, it
provided gambling, fireworks, and other types of entertainment that were illegal
in North Carolina.

Passing the Mexico Shop, Rocket City, and the
Pedroland park, he pulled between the gigantic red legs of another Pedro sign
and parked next to a big pink flamingo. Pleased to see that the cyber café he
remembered was still there, the mercenary got out and stretched.

Yawning, he leaned on the hood and glanced around
like any weary traveler. Minivans and pickup trucks seemed to be the common
vehicle. Overweight women in tight clothes were everywhere, trying to keep hold
of rowdy kids—many of them barefoot. Most of the men wore goatees, cargo shorts,
and tank tops. They crammed food in their mouths and gawked at the shops and
other women.

Snapshotting as always, the Sandman saw nothing
suspicious. And why would there be? Given the confusion and the exercise at
Shaw, he was counting on at least two hours before Halleck was discovered. A
light breeze carried the smell of deep-fried food and warm, meaty burgers across
the parking lot as he turned and walked into Bordertown Cyberworks and
Coffee.

“W
hat
a load of horseshit.” Captain Matheson, also known as Toucan because of his
nose, stared at the map provided by the exercise mission planners. The scenario
was built around a fictitious country labeled Nobistan about to use nuclear
weapons in retaliation for an attack by Matzoland. Toucan shook his head. Why
not just say Iran and Israel? He hated this kind of silliness, especially since
it was keeping him from his fiancée. Matheson was trying not to think of her,
warm and sleepy and wearing one of his T-shirts, when a finger tapped him on the
shoulder.

“Little change to your lineup this afternoon.”
Major Ian Toogood, inevitably called Notso, leaned over the big table and
frowned at it.

Suppressing a sigh, Toucan looked at him and raised
his eyebrows.

“Colonel Halleck seems to be unavailable, so we're
sliding Lt (he pronounced it
El Tee
) Bradshaw in his
place.”

“Terrific. What happened to Halleck—early tee time
at the golf course? Little League game?”

Toogood chuckled. “Believe it or not, no one can
find the guy. Once the exercise started he disappeared someplace and left us to
deal with this shit.” Peering at the map for a half second, he snorted. “Iran
and Israel again . . .”

Matheson straightened up and arched his back. “No,
no. That might make someone feel bad. This is Matzoland and Nobistan. “Then the
major's statement penetrated his frustrated and horny brain and he remembered
something.

“Hey . . . I saw a staff car parked
behind Lulu's when I drove in.”

“Was it Halleck's?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. It was parked nose first.” The
captain frowned. “Come to think of it, there wasn't a plate on the back.”

“So how do you know it was his?”

“I don't. But who else drives staff cars and who
else would leave the base during an exercise?”

Major Toogood rubbed his chin. It didn't make any
sense for a wing commander to leave like that but no could seem to find him.
Maybe he passed out in his waffles. “Okay.” He nodded. “I'll see about it.” He
turned away, leaving the other pilot with his charts and maps.

“By the way—what were you doing behind
Lulu's??”

That earned him a bleak look. “Calling Liz
. . . since you made me come in for this goat fuck, I had to leave her
at home.”

“Sorry, man.” Notso chuckled again. They both knew
this was simply the breaks of the game. “I had no choice either. We were heading
to Charleston tomorrow.”

“Life's a bitch,” Toucan muttered unfeelingly and
went back to his planning.

S
cott
Richards walked into Wing Headquarters a few minutes past two o'clock. He'd just
come from the Command Post after receiving a phone call from the 77th Fighter
Squadron. Major Toogood told him that Colonel Halleck hadn't shown up for the
daily Mass Brief—an inviolable requirement for anyone on the flying schedule
that day. Even wing commanders.

The major had gone on to say that a staff car was
parked behind the restaurant just off base. Richards was surprised but not
alarmed. Wing commanders didn't answer to anyone within their own wing so
Halleck could do what he wished within reason. Though he disliked the man
personally, Richards acknowledged that Lucky Mike was a good fighter pilot and,
though a micromanaging bastard, a decent commander—as long as he wasn't
crossed.

Butting in on something that Halleck had going on
off base was an excellent way to cross him. The vice commander was old school
enough to believe that what men did off base was their own business as long as
it broke no laws. This included women, which is what Richards surmised his boss
was up to. But right now there was an exercise being conducted that was critical
to all their futures, and pussy could wait.

So when he saw the door cracked, Richards walked
over, knocked twice and pushed it open. Better to get it out of the way now, he
thought, and stepped into Halleck's office.

Nothing.

Then he noticed small, shattered pieces of ceramic
on the carpet. There was also a lampshade in the trash can. Striding to the
desk, he then saw the classified folders on the desk and his eyes narrowed.
Halleck would never do that. Colonel Richards shook his head— he'd have Cindy's
ass for this.

Exhaling, he looked around and noticed there was no
chem bag. Maybe he was off somewhere doing an impromptu, incognito inspection of
his people. Perplexed, Richards looked out and saw that the staff car was indeed
gone. But if Halleck was stuck someplace with engine trouble he would've
called.

Scratching his head, he turned to leave, then
decided to use the bathroom. What the hell, he thought. Stepping through the
door, his nose immediately crinkled. Shit.
It smells like
shit in here. What the fuck has Halleck been eating?

As he stooped to lift the toilet lid he saw a spot
of blood on the white tile. Then another. Looking up as the droplets trailed off
toward the shower he saw something dark through the opaque glass and thought it
must be a towel. Frowning, he opened the door and found himself staring into the
glazed eyes of Lucky Mike Halleck.

“T
hanks! No, I'll remember where it came from!” David Abbot hung up the
phone and turned toward Doug Truax with a smile. “That was the agent from our
San Antonio office who was running down our missing aircraft.”

Axe looked up and blinked. His eyes were tired and
even the sight of Karen Shipman's marvelous chest didn't arouse much interest.
“So it's good news or you wouldn't be grinning like the last village idiot.”

“He was about to leave, uh . . . Huber
Municipal or Regional or whatever it is—it was his third and last airport. There
had been a SkyMaster there but the tail numbers didn't match. He'd asked the
courtesy question we all do about anything else strange or unusual happening
. . .”

“And something did?'

Abbot got up and walked over to the little mini
fridge in the corner, opened it, and found nothing. “This place is really low
rent, Axe.”

“Get to the point.”

“Right. So the airfield manager says no, then says,
well . . . yes. A rental car was left here that no one can account
for.”

Karen Shipman looked up at that. “So he traced it
to . . . where?”

“The little town next to this airfield. Uh
. . . Seguin. So the Hertz lady is very happy about it but says the
car wasn't due back for a few days.”

“Trendco Logistics?”

Abbot shook his head. “No, unfortunately.” He
glanced at his notes. “A Daniel Tyler. Girl said he was a teacher in town for a
job interview at the local college.”

“And they said . . . what?” Axe
asked.

“They said they'd never heard of a Daniel Tyler
from Dallas, Texas.”

“Easy enough to check out,” Karen added. “You need
a driver's license to rent a car, so there had to be a number and address.”