Authors: Dan Hampton
“Okay, okay,” Lee held up his hands. “Let's stick to the original thought.”
“You've never had one.”
“C'mon Axe . . .”
“Your thoughts come from the Joint Policy Manual . . . or from some general's ass.”
“Fuck you.” Lee stood up and leaned on the table. One vein on the side of his forehead was pulsing.
Truax jumped up too. “No fuck YOU, Jolly. You guys sit up there and dream up wild-assed stuff like this and, once again, expect someone like me to make it reality. “
“Damn it, Axe,” John Lee slammed the satchel down on the picnic table. “You're a fucking Neanderthal. There's more to being an officer than this black-and-white tactical utopia you live in. Unfortunately we don't spend our careers in combat. If we did, you'd be a general by now.”
“War is the only time this toy company of ours makes any real sense,” Axe interrupted. “It's the only time I've ever been completely sure of what I'm doing.” Both men stared angrily at each other for a few moments.
“Maybe,” Jolly nodded and sighed heavily. He'd never admit it, but Truax was pretty close to the mark. “But this is America we're talking about . . . and at the moment, right or wrong, this is important. It needs to be done and you're the one to do it.”
Doug Truax exhaled and stared out at the river. He could feel the angry, impotent thumping of his heart. More than anything right now he wished he was out there on a sailboat. A nice forty- or fifty-footer. Heading out beyond Hampton Roads into the Chesapeake Bay under full sail.
Two more years
, he told himself.
Two more years and I'm finished.
“Okay.” He gathered up the folders. “I'll go through it.”
Lee was relieved and managed a weak smile. “The idea is to do it quick. General Williams needs an answer for the Pentagon by close of business today.”
“If General Sturgis knew anything about fighter pilots he could answer this himself.” He waved the folders. “Tell me something, Jolly. Doesn't it bother you that the Air Force is so far gone that a bomber toad is the acting commander of Air Combat Command?”
Actually it did. John Lee agreed with him on that point. The USAF had lost a great deal when it became the unified collection of “equals” everyone pretended it was. How could a bomber guy know anything about the fighter world? And vice versa. Everyone was so transparently well-rounded these days that very few people knew anything in depth. It was mostly about looking good on paper.
“We'll argue the fine points of that some other time. After you review it, call me. We'll go across the street and see the general together.”
“Super. Remind me to floss first.”
D
oug Truax sat with his chin in his hands and stared from the conference room window. He'd first read the reports on the eighteen pilots that had been discounted and he had to agree. Except for one dead air force pilot, the three Jolly had shown him were, on paper, the most likely.
He still thought this was a CYA affair. The likelihood that this mercenary was a former American fighter pilot was still an unresolved issue in his mind at least. There were foreigners, the Dutch specifically, who could easily pass for an American on the radio. He yawned and stood up. No sense delaying the inevitable meeting with the general.
Five minutes later, he was standing outside the headquarters building waiting for John Lee. There were four young enlisted troops practicing their color-guard routine by the flagpole and they looked like a poster for Affirmative Action. The smell of newly cut grass filled the air, and every few seconds or so, he caught a whiff of jet fuel drifting down from the flight line.
The doors opened behind him and Axe turned, expecting to salute someone. But it was only Jolly.
“Great.” He waved him in irritably. “General Sturgis is waiting. He's been ducking questions from D.C. all day.”
Axe stepped into the big entryway and pulled out his ID card for the Security Police behind the glass. “I guess that's tough on his tee times today, huh?”
“I suppose you've formed an opinion?” Jolly ignored the jibe. Most people were either intimidated by generals or couldn't stand the sight of them. He'd never known Axe to be intimidated by anything.
“Yep.” The two officers walked into the atrium and started up the stairs. A huge photo mural depicting operational scenes from around the Air Force covered the wall. “Did you ever notice that there's not one picture of a fighter jet on that damn thing?”
“Yeah, I noticed. I've got to look at it all day.” He stopped on the landing halfway up and gripped Axe by the forearm. “Now listen to me. I know you don't like stars . . . and this one in particular, but don't fuck this away. Just answer his questions and let's get the hell outa there.”
“Right. Respect and honesty. That's me. Now let go of me.”
Lee gave up. At the top of the stairs they turned left and approached another set of double doors with
COMMAND SECTION
etched into glass. The doors swung open and another Bite stepped out. A major. Axe grinned in spite of himself. The officer was a spitting image of his general. Even down to the queer little spectacles. Bomber puke . . . had to be.
Go figure.
“The general's expecting you, Colonel Lee.” He ran his eyes over Axe, noting the not-so-shiny black shoes and slightly rumpled shirt. “Both of you. Please go right in.”
Jolly propelled Axe forward before he could say anything nasty. Walking past several desks occupied by Eisenhower-era secretaries, they came to The Door. The big fake wood door leading in to see The Man. He ran his fingers through his hair.
“You wanna breath mint?” Axe whispered.
“Eat shit,” he whispered back and knocked twice.
“Come in.”
The voice was deep, wellâmodulated, and inflected from somewhere in the south.
Like a TV evangelist.
Swell.
They stepped into the room, strode to the center, and saluted smartly. The officer behind the big mahogany-colored desk raised a hand in return.
“Please . . . sit . . . sit.” He got up then and walked around. They all sat around a low coffee table surrounded on three sides by bookshelves. It was supposed to project the library type of atmosphere a large, successful corporate office would have.
Axe thought the leather-bound books were probably fake too.
Lieutenant General Kenneth Allen Sturgis. Manicured, pedicured, and trimmed. Proud graduate of every non-combat school the Air Force could dream up. The Executive Development Program, the National Security Management Course, etc. Proof personified that an officer no longer needed to be a warrior to become a general in the New Air Force. Probably never didânot in peacetime anyway.
“Well, Axe,” Sturgis pivoted and gazed at him intently. He possessed that false charm that most generals and all politicians had. The knack for making you think they knew you personally and really cared about what you had to say.
Must all go to the same school
, Axe thought. He must also possess a good tailor, because Axe could swear the shoulders of the man's Class-A jacket were padded.
“Whaddya got?”
Truax held up the three folders. “Of these three my money's on the Marine, Dan Morgan.”
“I'd be interested to know why.”
Axe shrugged. “If I were picking a man for this mission he's the one I'd choose.”
“The one
you
would choose.” Sturgis said it slowly. He didn't like fighter pilots and never would. Too cocky and too smart. “As an authority on fighter pilots and combat.” Sarcasm had started early.
“That's right.”
He felt Jolly kick him under the table. The general didn't notice or didn't care. He leaned back and placed his fingertips together so Axe could see his big gold ring. Had to be either the Citadel or Texas A&M.
“What about the Navy Hornet driver?”
“Commander Len Fisher.” Axe didn't need notes after his research. “Flew Hornets off the U.S.S.
Ranger
during the first Gulf War. TopGun grad, did an exchange tour with the Kuwaitis and speaks Arabic.”
“Why not him?”
“Well, for one thing, he retired in 1994. He'd be almost fifty-five so probably too old for any real flying.”
The veiled insult did not go unnoticed. Sturgis stiffened a bit and glanced up sharply with his beady, close-set eyes. But Doug Truax was a study in innocence.
“Commander Fisher also has a known residence in Florida and it seems he owns a string of dive shops along Navarre Beach. His whereabouts are easy enough to confirm.”
“Go on then.”
“Dash Morgan separated from the Marines in the fall of 2003. He flew F/A-18s during Desert Storm in the Bengals . . . uh, VMFA 224, I think. He was back again for Gulf War Two with the Hawks from VMFA 533. “His second war”âAxe looked upâ“though like most of us he'd spent the majority of the last decade in the desert.”
Lee kicked him again.
“TopGun graduate. Went back to Fallon as an instructor at their Strike School in 1997. After leaving the Marines, he went to work as a private contractor. Last known location was flying OA-37s in South America.”
“And from the Air Force?”
“Dean Conway.”
General Sturgis frowned. “But I know about him. He played football at the academy. Wasn't he an aid to General Forrest?”
“That's right. Everyone called him GQ because he was an aid. I think he got his teeth capped.”
Sturgis didn't like that and frowned. John Lee shook his head slightly.
“He was also a squadron commander in Korea and a Weapons School grad.”
“Doesn't sound like someone who'd go bad.” The general plainly didn't like the idea of an Air Force officer becoming a mercenary.
Surprisingly, Axe agreed. “I think you may be right there, General.”
The general looked pleased, and smiledâwhich made his lips disappear.
“Why?” Jolly looked suspicious. Conway was his first pick and he actually knew the man. He'd said as much to the general, so Lee's own credibility was on the line.
“Because he's a pussy.”
Sturgis looked shocked. Bomber guys apparently didn't talk that way.
“Colonel Truax, that kind of comment is hardly constructive.” He looked at the pilot like he was a bug. “I seriously doubt if a man who graduates from the Weapons School and manages to become an aid to a senior general is some sort of weak sister.”
Truax shrugged. “No system is perfect, General. I know this guy. We flew together at Shaw. He's the only guy I know that busted so many rides at Nellis that he got a second course. All because General Forrest thought he looked good.”
John Lee frowned. That was unheard of. There were forty flights in that program plus three hundred hours of academics. The competition and stress were unbelievable. No one got a second chance.
“So what happened to him?” Jolly asked.
“Got caught dipping his wick in the waxâsome nineteen-year-old female maintenance chick. Like so many of those guys, he began believing his own press . . . thought he was bulletproof and that his general officer sponsor would get him out of anything.”
“Not true I guess.” Jolly shook his head.
“Not in this case. They tried to hush it up but the press got ahold of it. He was relieved of command and sent back to Nellis to the support squadron.”
“And what happened then?” The general asked. “Do we know where he went from there?”
“His wife divorced him and he retired at twenty years.” Doug Truax flipped the page over. “Says here he went to work as a consultant for some PMC.”
Private military corporations, or PMCs, had sprung up in the aftermath of the huge defense cuts of the late nineties. A clever move by Washington that left thousands of highly trained, highly lethal specialists looking for work. The Pentagon, ever a study in contradiction, then publicly denounced the use of professional mercenaries. Privately they used them in huge numbers in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Just then a side door opened and another young major walked in. Axe normally didn't scope out brother officers but this in case it was no brother. She was tall for a woman, maybe five feet eight, with copper-colored hair and dark skin. Not tan from a can either, but the real thing. Like a girl who spent most of her time outdoors. She had a hard, compact body and even managed to make the horrible Air Force blue uniform look sensuous. The major paused a moment, aware of the instant attention, then walked across the room.
“Ah . . . Karen.” The general was at last aware that the two pilots weren't utterly fascinated with him at the moment. “Gentlemen, one of my deputy execs, Major Karen Shipman. Please go on.”
Go on? Go on with what? Axe was thinking some extremely piggy thoughts. He glanced at the general and saw a quick flash of power lust in the man's eyes.
So that's how it is.
“Which PMC?” Jolly wanted to know, careful to not stare at the major's legs as she sat down.
“Global Resources International, based out of Roslyn, Virginia. They specialize mainly in creating and maintaining training programs for their clients. Very little operational fieldwork.”
“Very little?” The general leaned back and looked thoughtful. Axe glanced at his seven rows of ribbons and tried to keep his face neutral. His highest decoration was a Distinguished Service Medal. The “I am a General” medal given to all who are promoted past full colonel. The man was a Lieutenant General in the Air Force, had served for more than thirty years, and hadn't done anything more dangerous than landing a B-52. Perfect type of officer to lead the Air Combat Command.
“They do have a select number of former Special Forces officers and fighter pilots that can form small field teams, if required, for”âhe paused and looked upâ“direct intervention contracts.”