Harry knew that the clear pin in Iraq had been some sort of covert government mission and that the one in Rwanda denoted a violent episode in his friend’s life. His whiskey-dulled eyes became a little sharper. “Where you heading?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you Hawaii,” Mercer smiled, “so I won’t.”
“So I guess the whole thing comes full circle,” Harry said softly, looking at Tish.
Mercer glanced at his watch and hoisted a nylon bag over his shoulder. “I’ve got to go. Give me your truck keys.”
Harry fished the keys to his battered Ford pickup from his pocket and tossed them to Mercer.
Mercer snatched them from the air. “I’ll be back in a few days; keep an eye on things.” He gave Tish a light kiss and told her, “You be good and don’t excite old Harry here.”
On his way out of the house, Mercer paused in the library and smiled wickedly at the stack of framed pictures on the floor. The top photo, an 8X10, showed Mercer and another man standing on the crawler track of a huge Caterpillar D-11N bulldozer. The handwritten caption read, “Mercer, you did it again; this time I really owe you one.” It was signed
“Debt paid, Danny boy.”
In the black night, the sentry post at Andrews Air Force Base in Morningside, Maryland, looked like a highway toll booth. Several small glass buildings supported a metal roof that stretched across the entire road and bathed it in fluorescent lights. Mercer brought Harry’s pickup to a stop, the ancient brakes squealing like nails drawn across a blackboard. The guard, an African-American barely out of his teens, regarded the decrepit truck with suspicion until Dick Henna, standing behind him, placed a hand on his shoulder. Through the open window of the truck, Mercer heard Henna reassure the young corporal.
Henna exited the small armored-glass guardhouse, walked to the passenger side of the pickup, opened the door, and slid in without comment. Mercer started rolling forward.
“I know that until recently you drove a Jaguar convertible,” Henna said at length, his voice nearly drowned by the blasting exhaust. “I expected your second car to be a little better than this.”
Mercer coughed as the Ford backfired and an acrid cloud of exhaust was blown into the truck’s cab. He grinned. “Something old, something new…”
“Something borrowed, something blue,” Henna finished the rhyme. “Got ya.”
“But I think, under all the rust, this truck is brown. I’m not sure.” Mercer looked at the large manila envelope in Henna’s hand. “Is that for me?”
“Yes.” Henna set it on the seat between them. “Two of the infrared photos from the spy plane, and contractor’s drawings of the homes of Takahiro Ohnishi and his assistant Kenji. What the hell do you want this stuff for? You know you’re only going as an advisor and observer.”
“Absolutely,” Mercer agreed quickly. “But when the assault occurs, I need some material to advise with, right?”
“Turn left here,” Henna directed as they drove further into the sprawling complex. “You’re one of the most ingenious men I’ve ever met, Mercer, but I’ve yet to figure out how you’re going to get off the
Mercer looked at him with mock astonishment, his face the picture of cherubic innocence. “Perish the thought, a cruise on an assault ship has always been a dream of mine. I have no intention of leaving the watchful eye of the navy. Seriously, Dick, you need someone out there who knows the whole situation and also understands something about bikinium. I don’t think Abe Jacobs is up to it. Besides, I found out about this whole mess and I just want to see it finished.”
Henna did not respond.
“Are you buying any of this?”
“No, I’m not.” Henna grunted.
“Good, because that’s about the worst line of bull I’ve ever thrown.” Mercer looked at Henna, the streetlights casting his face in either blinding light or impenetrable shadow. “If you know I’m planning to get off the
“Simple, I know you’ve withheld information from me.” There was no anger in Henna’s voice. “And that information is the key to ending this whole affair. You’re the only person who knows what the hell is going on and suicidal enough to try and stop it.”
“I appreciate your honesty and confidence,” replied Mercer sardonically. “But dying isn’t on my agenda of things to do and see on my Hawaiian vacation.”
“Turn left.”
Mercer swung the pickup and drove parallel to one of the base’s steel-reinforced concrete runways. The blue lights which bordered the tarmac flashed by in a solid blur. In the distance, a jet roared off into the night.
They approached several massive hangars, the powerful lights around the buildings reflecting against their corrugated metal sides. Men in blue overalls walked purposely in and around the hangars, carrying tools, binders, and other paraphernalia.
“Swing into the first hangar,” Henna directed.
Mercer slowed, passing several mobile generators used to jump-start the jet fighters. He pulled the truck into the hangar and stopped in a spot indicated by a grizzled chief master sergeant. The hash marks on his uniform sleeve, denoting years in the service, ran from his wrist to his shoulder.
Henna shook the chief’s hand. “Everything all set?”
“Yes, sir.” The chief said “sir” the way most men say “impotent” — either not at all or never above a bare whisper. “There’s an extra flight suit in the office and a KC-135 stratotanker’s ready to take off in Omaha. Another is standing by near San Francisco. Why the air force is paying for the transfer of a civilian in a navy aircraft I’ll never know.”
Mercer had seen the jet when he first drove into the hangar, but now took a moment to study his ride to the Pacific. The McDonnell Douglas F/A-18 Hornet rested lightly on her landing gear as if ready to pounce. She was like a leopard seated on its haunches, immeasurable power coiled up like a spring. The hard points under her razor- edged wings were bare of weapons, though two drop tanks clung there like fat leeches. Mercer took in her clean lines, the sharp needle nose, the twin outward-canted tails, the six stubby barrels of her General Electric gatling gun tucked under the canopy. She had two seats, which meant she was a training version.
“Ever been in a fighter before?” the chief asked with a patronizing smile.
“No,” replied Mercer.
“Oh, Bubba’s going to love you.”
Mercer looked down at the chief. He was a good foot taller than the air force man, but the chief’s wide shoulders and hard, thick gut made them appear physically equal. “Bubba?”
“Howdy,” said a voice that came straight from a dirt farm in southern Georgia.
Mercer whirled around. The speaker stood near an office tucked against one wall of the cavernous hangar. The man’s high-tech flight suit bulged where pads and air bladders would squeeze his body to keep him from passing out in the High-g world of the modern dog fighter. The pilot had a baby face and thin, mangled hair, and when he smiled, Mercer could see that a front tooth was missing. The helmet in his hand had “Bubba” stenciled between stripes of red, white, and blue.
The man looked nothing like Mercer’s mental picture of the pilot.
“Billy Ray Young.” The pilot extended a bony hand. “Jist call me Bubba.” He grinned around the plug of tobacco firmly held in one cheek.
“Mercer.” They shook hands. Henna couldn’t help but chuckle at the pallor that had crept into Mercer’s face.
“Kinda glad to have me some company on the flight,” Bubba said. “I been to the stockade fer a spell and didn’t talk to many folks there.”
Mercer looked over at Henna. The FBI director said nothing, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Come with me — ay’ll git ya geared up.”
Mercer followed the pilot to the office. Billy Ray kept up a solid monologue about his term in the stockade for flying his Hornet under the Golden Gate Bridge. His accent was so thick that Mercer understood maybe a third of the
