Authors: Dan Hampton
Slowing to 250 knots, he put the big jet into an easy left bank. The west end of the bay split into two arms, and following the southern arm, he picked up the black ribbon of highway that paralleled it.
There. Just at the extreme southern end he could see the telltale widening of the highway to accommodate the landing surface. There were also taxiways on either side of the road.
Good. Problem One solved.
He kept the turn coming and methodically searched the bay shore just beyond the north end of the highway strip. All the while, the mercenary watched for any other types of lights. Headlightsâeven cigarettesâcould be seen under the right conditions. Anything that might indicate a trap. Or, more likely, an unscheduled use of the alert strip.
But there was nothing.
He made another slow circle, this time descending to 1,500 feet. A yellow glow from the
CAUTION
panel caught his eye. He checked it against the plastic-coated translation on his kneeboard.
LOW FUEL
â1,900 pounds of gas. Minimum fuel by any standards, in this twin-engined monster. Time to land.
But not without his escape. Straining his eyes, he concentrated on the fuzzy shoreline. If the boat wasn't there he would fly toward Hong Kong and eject as close to the coast as he could get.
But there it was.
The cigarette boat was just where he'd been told it would be. Quietly purchased at twice the asking price from a Hong Kong smuggler, the boat had been the weak link in his chain. The smuggler might have delivered it to the wrong cove or he might have decided to keep the initial payment and contact the Chinese Ministry of Public Security. But first things first. At least the boat was here.
He quietly exhaled, pulled the throttles back and glided down to 1,000 feet. About three miles out he dropped the landing gear and the jet shuddered as it rapidly slowed down.
Seventeen hundred pounds. He did the math in his head and figured about 168 knots for a final approach speed.
Two and a half miles. Nosing over, he banked the fighter up in a hard left descending turn. The highway strip momentarily disappeared in the trees but as he rolled out on final it was barely visible again.
There obviously were no runway lights but the pilot wasn't worried. The goggles picked up enough ambient light to see and it wouldn't be the first time he'd landed on an unfamiliar darkened strip. At least no one was shooting this time.
Yet.
At a mile out he was about 300 feet in the air and much too fast. Leaving the throttles set he opened the speed brake wider and the SU-27 slowed to 170 knots. There was no question of doing any kind of instrument approach so, eyes flickering between the HUD and the highway, he simply flew by the seat of his pants. For an aim point he'd picked an intersection on the highway where a smaller dirt road ran off into the trees.
Power . . . speed brake . . . he constantly nudged the stick to correct the flight path. At 200 feet his peripheral vision began picking up details; speckled wave tops in the bay. Trees . . . a ditch beside the road. The sensation of speed increased with the ground rushing up but he ignored it and concentrated on the intersection.
Passing fifty feet, he pulled the throttles back and dumped the nose. Landing long and fast wouldn't be a great idea since there was nothing beyond the strip but trees and the bay. Out of long habit his eyes flickered one more time to the three lights indicating his landing gear was down and locked. The road was rushing up now and he could see the white painted center stripe. Steadying the jet, he nudged the stick gently forward and tugged the throttles back to idle.
For a long few seconds, the big jet floated. Then gravity overcame thrust and the main mounts slammed onto the highway. The pilot winced but pulled the stick back in his lap and kept the nose up. Craning his neck, he pushed on both rudder pedals to keep the fighter roughly centered on the faint white stripe. At 120 knots the nose dropped and he immediately fanned open the big speed brake. At 100 knots he smoothly applied the wheel brakes and the jet slowed quickly.
Glancing ahead now, he could see wide turnout aprons on both sides of the road. Fingerlike taxiways branched out from these and vanished into the trees. Slowing the jet down to walking speed, the pilot dropped his mask and exhaled again.
What a fucking night.
He swallowed and wiped his face. Retracting the speed brake, he angled over toward the left-hand group of taxiways. He knew from studying the layout that these ran off toward hardened bombproof aircraft shelters back in the trees. There were eight of these on the landward side and four by the bay, where he was now pointing. They were regularly maintained for any fighters the Chinese air force decided to employ. Taking the third taxiway. he swung the fighter left and crept forward until his eyes focused.
The wingtips barely cleared the trees on both sides of the taxiway.
Taxiway . . . It looked more like a cart path on a golf course. Using only the goggles and soft taps on the brakes, he inched his way through the trees.
Up ahead was the water, a shining gray surface beyond the trees. Suddenly, like tumbling backward from a funnel, the trees opened up on both sides of the taxiway. A semicircular pad about 75 feet across wound off to the left and at the far edge a mound rose out of the trees. The mound was actually an aircraft shelter and the blast doors were open. Stopping the jet, the mercenary saw nothing but empty space inside the shelter. He reached down anyway, closed one eye, and flicked on the powerful taxi light. For an instant the cavernous hangar was brilliantly illuminated. And utterly empty. Toggling the light off, he eased the fighter forward. Creeping through the opening, he knew there was no way to turn around, so he gently held the brakes and the fighter stopped.
Taking a deep breath, he sat back for a moment and looked around the cockpit. No trash or written materials. He'd kept his gloves on the whole flight so there would be no fingerprints. Couldn't do anything about hair or skin residue, but the mercenary doubted if the Chinese would try to DNA match him. It didn't matter anyway. He didn't exist.
Methodically shutting off the various displays and power panels, the pilot took one more look around, then pulled the throttles backward over their stops. As the big engines spun down he switched off the aircraft battery, unlatched the canopy and pulled out his flashlight. Flipping the canopy switch up, he quickly unstrapped from the seat as the cockpit slowly opened.
A wave of fresh, cool air hit him and he pulled the helmet off. The goggles he put in his G suit pocket and the helmet went into a black helmet bag along with his kneeboard, checklists, and the data cartridge. Even before the engines stopped, the pilot hung the bag around his neck, swung out of the cockpit, and paused on the canopy rail. He looked at the hangar floor, happy to see the jet wasn't rolling, then turned and hung from rail. Fully extended, he still dropped a good four feet and landed lightly on the concrete.
Scuttling immediately to the back wall of the hangar, he kept the fighter between himself and the entrance. Drawing the 9mm Parabellum from his vest holster, the mercenary crouched against the iron blast flue and tugged the goggles out of his pocket. Holding them to his eyes, he swiveled them left and right around the hangar, including the roof.
Nothing.
He waited. Waited until the engine whine disappeared and the sweat on his flight suit turned clammy. Waited until the only sound was the clicking made by hot metal beginning to cool.
Nothing. He was alone. But he stayed motionless for a slow five minutes and watched the entrance.
Then, slowly getting to his feet, he came back to the jet and walked down the FLANKER's long body, pausing by the tail. Russian designed maybe, and Chinese built, but it had still faithfully carried him there and back. Reaching up, he patted the warm engine nozzles.
Moving silently along the dark hangar wall, he ducked out of the entrance and slid into the night.
H
e slid over the warm, naked body beneath him, watching her eyes as he moved. They were slightly almond shaped and the color of green seawater. As he slipped into her they widened a bit, then half closed as she savored the feeling. Her legs came further apart and gripped his ribs tightly.
Lowering his face to hers, he kissed her deeply. Her arms came up along his back and he felt her fingernails rake his shoulder blades. The girl arched her neck and threw her head back as he slid into her again. This time he stayed fully extended and felt her curved inner walls clutch at his prick.
Running a hand up along her ribs, he squeezed her left breast. Her heart was thumping heavily beneath the smooth, taut skin. The girl's eyes were closed now and she moaned as he began to lightly pinch her nipple. Licking it lightly then, he saw her eyes crack open slightly.
“Oh yeah . . . that's good. That's so good . . .” She moaned again . . . deeper this time. He sucked the nipple all the way into his mouth and she gasped.
“Just like that . . . just like that.”
He ran his hand over to her right breast and kneaded it harder. Staring down at her hard, athletic body, his breathing quickened. . She was wet and warm and amazingly tight. Shifting a bit, he put his hands down behind her knees and leaned forward. Her legs came up over his shoulders and he braced his legs against the footboard.
She opened herself completely then and put both arms back over her head. Her breasts stretched out and her erect nipples gleamed wetly in the faint light. The girl was staring at him now, her eyes wide, trying to gulp air between his pounding thrusts.
“It's close . . . it's close.” Her hips came up to meet his movements and she grabbed his forearms to hold him in place. “That's it . . . close . . .” she panted.
He shifted then and rolled the girl even farther back on her shoulders. Grabbing the edge of the bed to keep from slipping he slid full length into her and felt his cock scrape her cervix.
“Oh . . .” Her head came back and her eyes closed. Half in pain, half in pleasure. “Oh . . . yesss!” The girl moaned heavily and her hands clutched frantically at the sheets as her orgasm struck. A dusky blush flowed down from her hairline through her cheeks and onto her chest. Her collarbone stood starkly out against the reddening skin and her breasts darkened. Clenching down hard with her legs she held him motionless and he felt her inner muscles twitch. Every movement he made sent spasms through her quivering body, so he paused and watched, enjoying her pleasure.
“Oh . . . my . . . God . . .” she gasped, opening her eyes and staring blankly at the ceiling. “Oh . . .” As her chest rose and fell, he reached down and gently twirled a nipple between his fingers.
“Ummm.” Her eyes slowly came into focus and shifted to meet his with that amazed look she always had after an orgasm. That look no one had seen but him. And he loved her for it.
But he couldn't wait any longer. His cock ached and his balls felt heavy and swollen. As if on cue she reached behind him and cupped them in her little hand.
“Yeah . . .” she breathed. “Give it to me.”
His thrusts became quicker and he felt the familiar feeling begin deep in his groin. His own breathing quickened at the sight of her. Spread out below him, her beautiful face flushed and her perfect tits bouncing with each thrust. Bracing his forearms hard against her knees he stared down between her legs. The sight of his cock buried in her neatly trimmed pussy did it, and the rush hit him. Grunting like an animal, he grabbed a breast as his head came back, and thrusting hard one more time, he spurted hard inside of her.
Collapsing on her chest he pressed his face against her neck and tried to focus his eyes. Her arms twined around his neck and he felt her lips in his hair. .
“Ummmmm . . .” she whispered. “More . . .”
Lifting his head, he looked into her eyes. “Tell me,” he whispered back, and she smiled.
With a start he woke up. He reached for the girl, reached for her warm body and opened his eyes to see her beautiful face.
But she wasn't there.
No one was there.
Then he knew. Another dream.
The girl wasn't with him. And she never would be again. His chest got heavy and his breathing quickened. Swallowing hard, the mercenary rolled over and stared at the ceiling. Anger boiled up from his chest and knotted in his throat.
They
took her. They let her die. He squeezed his eyes shut. It shouldn't have been like this. It didn't have to be like this.
He pressed a forearm over his eyes. The girl had brought him back to life. Back from the edge. For years he'd known he was there. He'd clung to normalcy in a life that was anything but normal. Four to six months of each year in a desert somewhere, shitting water and eating slop. People trying to kill you for more than a decade took its toll. The stress of living with death every single time he flew. Snipers through the wire, trucks with explosives blowing up around the compounds.
The wars. He'd been in every American armed conflict for the last twenty years. How many widows had he made? How many orphans? They'd been trying to kill him but he was the one who'd survived. He kept coming back when others didn't.
Despite his skill and sacrifices, he'd watched others who did much less reap the rewards. Men with shiny shoes and pressed flight suits who'd never been anywhere or done anything. He'd become cynical and hard. The only real joy came from the flying, and even that had drifted away on the wind of reality. Reality being the knowledge that promotion beyond a certain rank had nothing to do with fighting ability. It had everything to do with politics. Knowledge that those in power didn't really give a damn as long as they could claim the credit and collect the perks.
So he'd countered by doing the things that they couldn't do. Becoming indispensable through sheer competence and skill. So when they had a problem that couldn't be solved through PowerPoint, they came to him. Sarajevo, Baghdad, Yemen, and a half dozen other unpublicized missions that had to be done. So he did them more from personal pride than national duty. In the end, he'd been fading inside for years by the time the girl re-entered his life.
She'd changed everything. Made him remember again that the world had more in it than enemies and surface-to-air missiles and fighter jets. A world where he too could have a family. And peace.
She'd drawn him back from the edge and filled him with a contentment he'd forgotten. The anger and contempt had slipped away like dirt under a long, hot shower. He'd been happy.
He rubbed his eyes slowly and fought back the memories that haunted him. The mental pictures he still buried every day of his life. They attacked the back wall of his mind like crashing waves. Picture after picture.
The girl. His wife. Smiling that smile a woman only gives to the man she loves. Swimming together in the ocean. Bright cheeked and grinning on a Canadian ski slope. Her voice and her laugh. The smell of her skin. Warm . . . like fresh-baked bread.
That last Christmas and the girl's mischievous gifts. Her simple delight in doing something nice for him. A loving face glowing in the soft firelight as they quietly planned for the future.
And the child. His little girl.
And she was gone. And his baby. She'd died alone and afraid. He would never forgive the system and the men who had done that. Never. He wasn't even supposed to be there, at Langley. He'd had an assignment out. A training squadron in Arizona. It wasn't the front lines, but after three wars he'd had enough of that anyway. In a training outfit he'd be home every night. There would be no deployments. He could take care of a wife and children. But they'd canceled his assignment because their ambition meant more than his family.
Lying perfectly still for a few moments, he waited for the anger to pass. For it to slowly sink back into his chest. He waited until the hot flash of rage became the sullen, heavy hate that never left him. Opening his eyes, the mercenary stared at the pattern on the ceiling. He tried to count the revolutions of the fan, the spirals in the stucco. Anything to focus.
Eventually the emotions passed and he was empty, as always. Rolling out of bed, he pulled on a pair of baggy Arab cotton pants and walked to the window. Gazing out, he was struck, as always, by the contrast between the modern world and one much older. Satellite antennas and mosques. Suits and robes. Donkey carts and Mercedes. Leaning against the huge bay window, he yawned and let his eyes clear.
The door to the past was shut again.
Standing two inches over six feet, the mercenary had wide shoulders, long, thin legs and a deep chest. Dark skinned, he had an angular face with high cheekbones that ended at his eyes. Eyes that could shift oddly from light cloudy gray to hard gunmetal, and whatever thoughts lived behind them rarely showed. It wasn't a handsome face but it was an interesting face. Most important, it was a face that could be Arab or European or even American.
Catlike, he stretched and yawned again. Damn, his shoulders ached. It had been a long forty-eight hours.
He'd coasted into Victoria Harbor just past 0315 hours, Hong Kong time. It was just as deserted as it had been two months earlier during his reconnaissance trip to the port. Smelling like hot oil and salt water, the cigarette boat had been well provisioned and served him well. Eating several bananas and some jerky, the mercenary had some cold water then opened the leather bag he'd left with the boat. Idling offshore, away from the ferry lane, he'd delayed long enough to change out of the stale flight suit. After slipping on a pair of blue jeans, deck shoes, and a black turtleneck, he motored quietly up to the Pacific Club and tied up. The Kowloon dock was used exclusively for pleasure craft and at this hour was completely deserted.
Depositing his flying clothes, boots, and checklists into a canvas bag, he weighted it with the boat's extra anchor and dropped it overboard. The data cartridge had gone into the other black bag, which he hoisted onto the dock. Taking a last look around, the mercenary ducked below and opened the sea cocks. He stared a moment as the dirty dark water poured in, then stepped back up the companionway onto the deck.
Jumping lightly onto the floating dock, he untied the Tiger and shoved it backward. The big boat turned sideways and slowly drifted with the tide. Satisfied that it was settling in the water, he slung the bag over his shoulder and scanned the predawn waterfront.
There was a security gate at the club's dock entrance, but he knew it was only manned during the day. After hours it only opened out, to accommodate club members who arrived during the night. There were no cameras. Within minutes he'd passed beyond the gate and strolled up Kowloon Park Drive until he came to the park itself.
Entering on the western edge from Haiphong Road, he walked past the Lily Pond until he came to the circular Water Garden. The tinkling sound of the various fountains was muted by the surrounding woodland park. It would've been charming under other circumstances but the mercenary couldn't have cared less.
Just beyond the garden was a rectangle cut in the trees that contained a men's lavatory. These toilets contained showers and private stalls due to their proximity to the mosque at the southwestern corner of the park.
No one was moving about to notice him enter the park toilet a few minutes after four
A.M.
Taking a corner shower stall away from the door he hung his two bags on a wall hook and stripped, showered, and shaved. Toweling off with the turtleneck, he opened the larger bag. Slipping on a pair of black lizard-skin Mezlan moccasins, he then quickly dressed in a dark, beautifully tailored Caraceni double-breasted suit.
The black leather bag was now folded into a compact satchel holding the data cartridge and his shaving kit. His primary and backup travel documents were carried in both inside pockets of his suit. Concealing them in baggage was too risky these days as they would show up on airport scanners. The only way they could be discovered on his person was from a physical search. This rarely happened to well-dressed, polite businessmen, which was exactly how he appeared. In any event, he'd only fly commercial as a last resort.
Emerging from the toilet, the mercenary walked briskly past Bird Lake and exited the park to the north via the footbridge. Turning left, back toward the harbor, he entered the Kowloon Airport Express metro station ten minutes later. The Hong Kong Metro was clean, efficient, and fast. There was only one stop and no train changes, so he'd strolled into the Chep Lap Kok Airport station at eight minutes past five in the morning.
Buying a newspaper and hot tea, the mercenary spent the next thirty minutes unobtrusively studying the morning crowd. Convinced that nothing was out of the ordinary, he folded the paper and quietly walked outside to hail a cab. Twenty minutes later he walked through the doors of the Business Aviation Center on the south side of the airport.
Greeted obsequiously by the agent for JAC Jet Executive Charters, he'd been shown into a plush lounge. The agent politely requested his passport and apologized profusely for the tiresome customs requirements to screen outgoing passengers. Especially those who paid substantial sums in advance for the luxurious and efficient services JAC offered. In the old days, the agent said, such things did not happen. But it was a result of 9/11. The Global War on Terrorism, of course. The mercenary quite understood, and gave the man his passport.
Switching on CNN International, he noted that the “apparent gas pipeline explosion” outside Taipei the previous evening was being thoroughly investigated. That had produced the merest glimmer of a smile. Taipei knew. And China knew. And the Americans knew. And everyone knew that they knew.
It was a knowledgeable world.
By 0620 hours, two pilots dressed in black blazers, white shirts, and black ties had appeared to show him to the jet. A six-passenger Hawker with a 3,000-mile range. The agent fawned his good-byes and returned the passport. Priority departures were commonplace for exclusive private jets and the wheels came up precisely . . . at fifty minutes past six. As Hong Kong disappeared in the clouds beneath the Hawker's tail, the mercenary slowly breathed out a quiet sigh and settled down to sleep.