The Mercenary (32 page)

Truax glanced at Sturgis. The man was
expressionless. He went on. “Nothing, outwardly. I mean, he wasn't emotional
anyway . . . not the kind of guy you could ever really read. But
. . .”

“But
you
knew him,”
Karen said, her eyes softer than he'd ever seen them.

Axe nodded. “I suppose so. Better than anyone else
anyway. I mean, he wasn't unfriendly and the guys liked him. Just always a bit
. . . aloof, I guess. But yeah, I knew him. He was torn up—bad. You
see, Stefanie had made a human out of him, and the little girl—Rachel was her
name—she was everything to him.”

“When I was over at their home a few times, he was
a different man. Relaxed, even joking. I was amazed 'cause I'd never seen that
side of him. But when they died . . . well, he just kind of checked
out”—Axe tapped his chest—“here. I never saw him smile again,” he added.

“That's a terrible story,” Karen nearly whispered.
“How would you get over something like that?”

“I don't have to,” Axe answered. “And he never
did.”

The agent had listened carefully. This explained a
great deal—at least by way of motives. But he still had questions. “You said at
first that Kane was dead. How did he die?”

“Flying accident, the first report said. Fuel
starvation or spatial disorientation.”

“But you don't believe it?”

Axe snorted. “John Kane could fly a jet fighter in
the worst combat conditions imaginable and come out okay. I saw him do it. No, I
don't believe it. A guy like that isn't going to get turned upside down in a
Cessna and fly into the water.”

“That's what happened?” Karen sat back and tried
not to look at General Sturgis. She'd actually admired him at one time for his
apparent dedication and drive. Now she realized it was a sham that covered a
much worse man than she'd have thought possible.

“That's what the FAA initially supposed. He'd taken
off from someplace around here, at night, under an IFR flight plan. About thirty
minutes later they lost contact with him, though the plane stayed on radar,
flying a big, slowly descending circle.”

“Where?'

Axe pointed over his shoulder toward the coast.
“About five miles that way . . . at the entrance of the bay. Then they
found the wreckage. Some of it anyway. The pilot's door had a bullet hole in it
that the crime scene wizards said was fired from inside. So he became a suicide.
That's what the second report concluded.”

“But a body was never found?”

“No body. But that's where the Chesapeake Bay and
Atlantic Ocean come together, so no one was expecting it. As for the suicide”—he
looked away—“I don't know. Under any other circumstances I'd emphatically say no
. . . but Stormy was never the same after . . . after the
accident. I mean, he still functioned, but it was more by rote than anything
else. And he became even colder than he'd been before. Even to me.”

Everyone was silent, absorbing what had been
revealed.

David Abbot looked up, a thoughtful look on his
face. “The Smiths . . . who were killed two days ago. Where were they
during all this?”

“Randolph.” Sturgis spoke and they looked at him.
“Heidi Smith was the woman who brought the charges against Colonel Kane.” He
sighed and swiveled around to look out the window again. “She was always
. . . loose. But we didn't have any reason to doubt her, in this
case.”

“Except there were three other witnesses who said
Heidi was drunk, pawing at Stormy and finally openly belligerent when he gave
her the brush,” Axe retorted. “He let me read the report. Besides, if there had
been anything to it, he would've been hammered legally, not just kept here
against his will.”

Sturgis flushed but said nothing.

“You were the general at Langley her husband
called?” Abbot asked.

He nodded slowly, then became conscious of the
stares and his face hardened. “The man was a loner . . . not a team
player. He resented authority . . . he . . .”

“ . . . was someone you needed here,” the
FBI agent replied.

“Service Before Self,” Axe said bitterly.

“That's right!” the general snarled, spinning
around and glaring at him. “There were bigger issues at stake here beyond one
man's career. It's not like he was going to be a general someday. The needs of
the Air Force come first.”

No one said anything to that. Axe was plainly
contemptuous and Karen Shipman looked appalled. Even Jolly Lee, company man that
he was, seemed uncomfortable.

“Halleck and Neville's butts were on the line
because the Raptor was such a cluster fuck. Kane was their way out. Except it
didn't work out that way, did it?” Axe nearly spat it out. He was dangerously
close to insubordination but frankly didn't care.

Sturgis didn't reply.

“Why not?” David Abbot asked. “What happened?”

“Stormy wouldn't play ball,” Axe replied. “He
wouldn't massage the data and give them the bullshit evaluation of the Raptor
that they wanted.”

“I never knew that was him,” Jolly looked
thoughtful. “I heard about all the big stink it caused but never knew who was
responsible.”

“Big stink.” Sturgis sat up. “Damned near cost us
the whole program. All because some pissant lieutenant colonel wouldn't see the
big picture.”

“You mean an aircraft that will actually work in
combat?” Axe replied.

Sturgis's eyes went all piggy as he stared at
Truax. “Those issues would've been fixed.” He was angry now, and raised his
voice. “Everything would've been fixed. But we had to keep the program alive to
do that. Kane”—he stabbed a finger at Axe—“was just like you! A black-and-white
kind of guy . . .”

Abbot was surprised and it showed. Karen Shipman
was too. Dwyer looked openly shocked at seeing his boss lose his cool. The
general stood up, breathing hard, then abruptly strode out of the room. It was
suddenly very quiet except for the methodical clipping of a gardener outside the
window.

“Wow,” Abbot finally said and looked at the
military officers. “Guess you don't see that every day.” Standing up, he walked
over to the coffee bar and poured a cup in the plain white mugs the Air Force
loved so much.

“Most of this makes sense now. So here's what we
know. We know the ‘who,' certainly the ‘how,' and now we know the ‘why.' We
don't know exactly how he got from Texas to South Carolina and probably won't.
Nor do we know where he is at the moment. Abbot turned, stirring his coffee and
looked at them. “But if we assume this was all motivated by revenge, then we now
know where he'll go next.”

“Right here.” Lee said bleakly. “No wonder General
Sturgis is worked up.”

“Simple enough,” the agent replied. “He just gets
out of town.”

Major Dwyer spoke up then. “He won't do it. He
can't.”

“Why is that?”

“The ACC Commander's conference starts Wednesday
morning and General Sturgis is giving the keynote address.”

“And that's more important to him than his
life?”

Dwyer shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn't answer
that. But his participation sets the schedule and without him there's no
conference. It's the centerpiece of his tenure at ACC.”

“Is there any safer place for him to be than on a
military base?” Lee mused. “I mean, now that we know about Kane, how could he
get on a base that's alerted for him?”

“I dunno.” Axe got up stiffly and stretched. He
hated offices. “But he's been a few steps ahead of us the whole time, so I
wouldn't doubt he's already considered that.”

“Not a comforting thought,” Karen Shipman remarked.
“But I think you're right. In any event, we can't take the chance with a man
like this. How did he know where all these people were going to be anyway? Seems
an awful risk to take on speculation.”

A man like
this. . .

Axe's head came around sharply and he stared at
her. She'd said that before. His eyebrows knitted together . . . what
was it? Suddenly, his eyes widened at the thought; the implausible, utterly
simple answer to both questions.

“Fuck me,” he whispered.

To her credit, Major Shipman didn't kick him. She
just looked surprised. “
What
was that?”

Axe blinked. Then blinked again and realized he was
holding his breath. “ ‘A man like this.' That's what you said.” They were
looking at him like he was crazy. Shaking his head, he turned to the FBI agent.
“Your folder, with the Womack files . . . lemme see it.”

“Stupid,” he muttered, flipping through the pages.
“Fucking stupid.”

“What?” Abbot demanded.

“ . . . right here all the time
. . . stupid.”

Jolly frowned and the others just stared at him.
“Here!” Axe triumphantly pulled a piece of paper from the back of the folder.
Running his eyes over it, he tapped a section and again shook his head in
disbelief. “Right here.”

“You gonna share this or keep it to yourself?” Lee
sounded irritated.

Axe looked up, his eyes bright. “The name John Kane
used in Texas. Do you remember?”

“Tyler,” Karen Shipman sat up, staring intently at
him. “Dan Tyler.”

Waving the paper slowly back and forth, Axe nodded.
“And Womack made a complete legend for a Daniel Tyler . . . from
Dallas, Texas.”

“But . . . that . . . that's
the mercenary file,” John Lee stammered.

David Abbot, however, sat back down and swallowed
hard. “Shit,” he breathed out slowly.

“Exactly,” Axe leaned against the desk, gripping it
hard with his free hand. It was so impossible that he didn't doubt it for an
instant. It was also the only answer to all their questions, in both cases.

“John Kane is the mercenary.”

Chapter
25

T
he Sandman
emerged from the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel just past sunset. Passing Fort
Monroe, he was able to exit on Mallory Street just before traffic stopped in the
normal I-64 rush-hour gridlock. He'd detoured long enough to swing through
Suffolk and retrieve the Irish identity papers from the his bank box. The delay
had put him squarely in peak traffic. Turning continuously north and east, the
mercenary worked his way through Phoebus toward Buckroe. Passing through the
park, he turned on First Street to head north with the beach and the Chesapeake
Bay off his right shoulder.

The houses were typical beachfront. Mostly wood,
generally old, and too close together. This part of Virginia was old by American
standards and Buck Roe Plantation had been used for silkworms and tobacco as far
back as 1619. As he drove past a quaint bed-and-breakfast, the trees and tight
neighborhoods suddenly opened up onto the Salt Ponds. In the daytime, the fuzzy
green earth ran right up to the beaches and the bay. A constant salty breeze
mixed with the smell of fish for a distinctly Chesapeake landscape. But now the
bright lights of expensive waterfront homes were reflected off the placid waters
of the pond and it was completely dark.

A few hundred feet farther, the Sandman turned left
and entered the marina. Following the roundabout, he drove slowly past the main
pool and offices to the back of the parking lot. The light poles were only at
the corners, which created a dark zone in the middle of the lot. Stopping on the
back row, he parked facing the Water's Edge Bar and Grill.

Sitting for a few moments with the lights off, he
just watched. Several cars came into the lot but their occupants got out and
headed into the restaurant. A couple, fairly tipsy and obviously feeling no
pain, stopped to grope each other by a white Jaguar before tumbling inside and
driving off. Sliding out of the car, the Sandman stretched his cramped muscles
and took a few deep breaths of the heavy sea air.

Pulling his bags from the trunk, he checked the
car's interior, then locked it. Cars were left here all the time by the
yacht-club crowd and boaters, so one more would attract no attention. Slinging
the larger bag over his shoulder, the mercenary walked down past the white
painted resort buildings and, avoiding the lights, entered the slip area.

Several boats were lit up and the sound of laughter
carried easily across the water. One man, dressed in a light blue windbreaker
and shorts, was coming toward the clubhouse and they nodded to each other as
they passed. Another couple, dressed for dinner, also passed and greeted him.
There were five floating docks arranged in typical T fashion and the Sandman
calmly strolled to the fourth one. There, at on top of the T, was the
Wanderer
.

S
everal hours later, after a hot shower, three
potpies and a liter of Pellegrino, the Sandman finalized his preparations in the
main salon. A black wetsuit was laid out on the polished wood deck, complete
with booties, mask, and fins. He then brought out the diving gear and carefully
checked the BCD, regulator, and tank. Into a fine mesh dive bag he dropped a
roll of duct tape and a waterproof case containing a pair of night-vision
goggles.

Then he went to work on the failsafe. This was an
emergency escape option that he always had, in any situation, in case the shit
hit the fan. In the past five years he'd only used it once, but knew, with no
doubt, that it had saved his life.

In this case, the mercenary unstrapped the
emergency signaling case from the bulkhead and opened it. Leaving the
breech-loading pistol alone, he removed two of the 12-gauge flare shells from
the padded lining as well as a single Mk -7 handheld flare. Taping the two
shells halfway down the flare's body, he then cut several lengths of heavy-gauge
wire and reinforced the tape. He now had a simple but very effective detonation
device that, if dropped into one of the
Wanderer's
two engine scavenge ports, would cause a massive explosion.

Sitting back on the padded bench that ran along the
starboard side, the Sandman opened another Pellegrino and looked around the
salon. He'd grown up with boats and had always loved them. A boat was a refuge.
A boat was independence and freedom of movement.

Knowing the military, he was assuming that all
sorts of alerts had gone out and security had tightened to a stranglehold. It
was the sort of heavy-handed overreaction they did best.

Which was precisely why he would take the boat
around Floods Hole into the Back River. There used to be moorings all along the
Brittain Point side of the river and if not, he'd simply anchor. Either way, it
was less than a six-mile sail from where he now sat. A bare half mile from
there, right on the water, lay General's Row, home to Kenneth Allen Sturgis.

John Kane took another sip and stared at the
bulkhead. Sturgis was the last one. He could've overridden Halleck and Neville
all those years ago, and more to the point, he could've immediately dismissed
Heidi Smith's phony accusations.

But he didn't.

The mercenary could picture the man, rubbing his
fat little hands together over the whole thing. A perfect reason to keep the man
he needed around, regardless of the personal impact. And a chance to stick it to
a fighter pilot. Everyone was well aware of Sturgis's most obvious dislike—he
did little to hide it. Still, the thought that a general would do this to an
officer who'd given so much over the years was unimaginable to Kane himself.

The shock of it, the betrayal, had left him hollow.
He'd always believed in the brotherhood of fellow flyers, even those who weren't
fighter pilots. They'd all still taken the same oath and wore the same wings. To
have that shattered and discarded in the name of politics was a body blow. It
had been replaced by a cynicism and coldness that would never leave.

He had decided to put his papers in and retire.
He'd done enough for the Air Force and the country, so it was time to live free
of all that. Maybe go to the airlines or one of the big defense contractors—just
get away and live life with his family.

But they'd taken that too.

Neville, the Smiths, Halleck . . . and
Sturgis.

Exhaling, he forced the latent rage back down and
swallowed hard. He knew Sturgis had to give the keynote address at the
Commander's Conference tomorrow. The general would never miss a chance to stand
up and be important. His ego wouldn't let him miss it. So he'd be at home on
General's Row, secure on the base, surrounded by people who would protect
him.

The bulkhead clock read 2105—five minutes past nine
P.M
. Stifling a yawn, he got up slowly. Time
to check over the dinghy and then get underway by eleven
P.M.
, as it would take about two hours to cover
the distance and anchor the boat. He'd plan on visiting the general anywhere
between 0130 and 0200.
Wanderer
could clear Flat Gut
to the Chesapeake Bay by 0430, and they'd be through Lynnhaven Roads and out in
the open waters of the Atlantic by 0700.

Topside, he paused at the top of the companionway
and listened. The faint echo of music drifted down from the yacht club and
countless metal stays clinked from the gently rocking boats. Shoeless, he
climbed up on deck and made his way forward to the dinghy. Once he was under
way, it would trail behind the boat on a thirty-foot line, but in the narrow
confines of the marina that was impractical.

A fourteen-foot Zodiac with a 50 hp motor, the
dinghy had an aluminum floor and was painted dark gray over black. Flashlight in
hand, he checked the engine and made certain the fishing gear was securely
stowed. Night fishing was common along the bay so no one would notice one more
dinghy trolling for croakers.

Removing one of the three detachable extra fuel
tanks, he carefully moved forward along the port side. The Gulfstar had a big
center cockpit which also gave direct access to the engine room. Opening the
hatch, the Sandman carefully climbed down and lashed the five-gallon tank back
in the tool compartment.

Back up in the cockpit, he closed the hatch and
bent down to fasten it, then smelled the man. A nearly imperceptible whiff of
old cologne that didn't belong there. It saved him.

“
Pffttt . . . pffttt
. . .”

As he threw himself sideways, two silenced shots
thudded into the decking where he'd just been. There was a whisper of movement
from the starboard entryway off the dock, and catching a glimpse of a dark shape
crouching on the deck, the Sandman rolled out of the cockpit onto the aft deck,
grabbing a winch handle as he did so.

The unknown assailant was very, very quick. Instead
of trying to fire over the big boom, he dove under it onto the deck, forward of
the cockpit. Coming up in a classic crouch, the gun was lifting as the Sandman
threw the heavy winch and immediately launched himself to follow it.

“
Pfftt
. . .”

The iron handle hit the man a split second before
he fired, spoiling the shot. Then Kane crashed into him, sending both men
thudding against the boom. The assailant dropped the pistol and savagely chopped
at the mercenary's head. Wincing from the hastily aimed blow, Kane drove his
hand up in a vicious throat strike.

But the other man had regained his footing and
slapped the hand away, raising his other arm up for a hammer blow. The Sandman
instantly kicked for the kneecap and, as the assassin twisted away from it, his
foot caught a piece of trim and he tumbled down into the salon.

Dropping through the companionway like a cat, the
mercenary landed on his toes and blinked in the soft light. It was the man from
the dock . . . the one he'd passed earlier with the blue windbreaker.
He was crouching, but favoring his right leg. The light showed him to have
regular features, dark hair and to be very fit. There was no expression on his
face nor did he speak—a professional.

Stepping forward on the left, the Sandman forced
him to pivot on his hurt leg. Suddenly the man's right hand went behind his back
and came out with a six-inch combat knife. Spreading his fingers out, palms
down, the mercenary circled to the left. As the man's weight shifted, Kane
lashed out with his left foot and the assassin backed away. Immediately dropping
down, the mercenary kicked straight out with his right leg but the man turned
and the foot glanced off his shin instead of shattering a kneecap.

The knife slashed down and Sandman felt the cut
even as he yanked his leg back. Instantly reacting, Kane uncoiled from the
crouch and drove hard into the assailant's chest, pressing the knife hand across
man's body. Locking it with his own right hand, Kane slammed them into the
bulkhead. Off balance, the assassin tried to twist away, but his injured leg
lacked the power.

The Sandman bent the man's wrist back and slid his
own fingers up around the knife, wrenching it loose. The assailant shifted again
and as the right knee shot up toward the mercenary's crotch, Kane half turned
and felt his thigh go numb from the blow. The other man's left hand clawed
toward the Sandman's eyes so he bent back away, bringing his own left elbow
around to smash into the assassin's temple.

As the man's head snapped back against the
bulkhead, the mercenary thrust the knife hard up under the sternum and, pressing
the assassin against the bulkhead, shoved again with all his might, driving the
blade even deeper. The man's eyes widened in shock and he opened his mouth. Kane
twisted the knife back and forth, his face inches from the other man.

Convulsing powerfully, the assassin almost broke
the grip, his good leg kicking against the hull. But the Sandman held tight with
all his strength and turned the blade again.

“Ahhhrrhh . . .” The assassin made one,
horrible gurgle, then went limp, but Kane didn't relax. He shifted his footing
again for better traction, then, his hand wet with blood, thrust upward
again.

The assassin gave one final convulsion, then sagged
heavily against the Sandman. Certain he was dead, Kane gasped for breath but
kept the knife buried in the man's chest until his own breathing slowed.
Withdrawing the knife, he flipped it out of reach and immediately brought his
right hand up to the man's chin. As his left hand pulled the head back, he
jerked the chin hard sideways and felt the vertebrae snap. Then, and only then,
did he drop the body and back away.

“S
o
what else can we do?” Axe hung up the phone, crossed the last name off his list,
and looked at David Abbot. He'd just finished personally calling a dozen Air
Force and Air National Guard wing commanders on the East Coast. They now all
knew about the increased Threat Condition and why, though Kane's real identity
had been kept out of it. They, and every state police headquarters from Florida
to Maine had been given each of the aliases from Everett Womack's files,
including the Americans Daniel Tyler and Matt Tobin, along with a Canadian named
Bonville.

“Nothing.” Abbot shrugged and looked at Colonel
Lawson. “Assuming you're all squared away.”

Lawson nodded. “No one gets onto Langley without
two forms of ID, and the best pictures we have of Kane have been circulated to
all three gates.”

“And General Sturgis?” Karen asked.

“We have a marked unit outside his official
residence and he's agreed to call our CP if and when he leaves, which he has no
plan to do until eight
A.M.
tomorrow
morning.”

“What about his wife?”

“He's divorced,” Lawson replied.

“Okay then . . . I'm outa here.” Axe got
up and rubbed his eyes. He hated this job. “You staying?”