Chapter 29: // Scorched Earth
The Major stepped off the rear loading ramp of a C-130 transport plane and onto the tarmac of a deactivated U.S. Army airfield near the town of Rolla in northern Missouri. It was hot and humid. Three uniformed KMSI soldiers stood ready to greet him with sharp salutes—the center one stepping forward, extending his thick paw.
The Major knew him well—a towering, powerfully built South African, handpicked for this operation. They’d fought in more insurgency campaigns and covert wars in more countries than The Major cared to remember.
“Major. Everything is in order, sir.”
“Colonel Andriessen.” The Major shook his hand. To the uninitiated it no doubt seemed odd to hear a colonel giving deference to a major—but The Major’s nom de guerre was just that. He had long ago outstripped his last formal rank.
“Your undergarments are showing, sir.” He pointed.
The Major glanced back into the cargo hold at the closest of ten identical pallets covered in green canvas tarps. A corner clasp had broken during landing, revealing the bricks of twenty-dollar bills beneath, wrapped in cellophane. One hundred and eighty million dollars a pallet—one point eight billion dollars in all.
The Major nodded. “Get some forklifts out here.” He started them walking briskly toward a white Toyota Land Cruiser waiting nearby.
“Shall we cover it first, Major?”
“Don’t bother. It won’t be valuable for much longer.” He turned to the Colonel. “So get the payments out to the strike teams soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
A driver in KMSI BDUs was standing next to the Land Cruiser. He opened the rear door and saluted. “Welcome to Missouri, sir.”
The Major ignored him and got in, the Colonel right behind him.
As they drove across the airfield The Major could see three C-130 cargo aircraft parked near hangars, either loading or unloading equipment with forklifts. It was hard to tell the way logistics teams were milling about and pointing instead of actually doing something. Soldiers. Private or government issue, they were always bitching about something.
There were also scattered squads of heavily armed men in civilian clothes standing around near civilian vehicles. He’d much rather they stayed under cover, but it was tough to keep these guys in hangars on a hot summer day like this. It was probably over a hundred inside those metal buildings. With a seat-of-the-pants operation like this, best to let the mercs cool off.
Before long the Land Cruiser pulled up to a tired-looking brick administration building done in art deco style. Some of the windows were boarded up, but there were several generator trailers nearby with thick black cables running out the edges of the front door—which was propped open. Two guards with Masada rifles stood in the entryway in full body armor—the KMSI logo on their breast pockets.
They saluted The Major as he walked into a musty-smelling hallway, the Colonel leading the way.
“Ag, you caught me just coming back from an inspection on those Slovak bastards. They got shot up pretty good. We’re missing a few.”
The Colonel brought them down the vandalized but recently patched hallway, gesturing to the far end. “We’re back here. Not much to look at.”
They passed several sets of uniformed guards, and each office they passed was filled with command staff and lots and lots of laptops, radios, and satellite phones. Officers were busy orchestrating the movements of strike teams and making sure all necessary materiel was arriving as and when needed.
“Did they ever find that Loki fella who kept messin’ with your schedule?”
The Major shook his head. “He’s still MIA, but it’s too late for him to stop this—even if he has any power left.”
In a few moments they reached the end of the corridor and entered what was most likely the old base commander’s office, replete with a secretarial anteroom. There, a uniformed male assistant was pecking away at a laptop, while two high-strung-looking men in immaculate casual business attire stood up from folding chairs the moment the hulking South African colonel stepped through the door.
The first of these men had on an expensive-looking, large-faced chronometer and an impressive tan to go with it. He extended his hand to Andriessen. “Colonel Andriessen, I’m Nathan Sanborn, chief executive officer and chairman of Halperin Organix.” He offered his embossed business card and pointed to the other man, who carried a small black attaché case. “This is Sanjay Venkatachalapthy, our senior counsel.”
The Colonel laughed. “Ag, you’re bloody joking, right? This kefir’s got more name than a German viscount.” He looked to his assistant. “Corporal, are we letting anyone into my office now? How did these men find me?”
“Colonel, these gentlemen are well-connected in Washington.”
Sanborn interjected himself. “Look, I’ve been speaking with General Horvath and Admiral Collins—I think there’s a grave misunderstanding, gentlemen. I’ve been trying to get someone on the phone or to reply in e-mail for a week now, and I don’t appreciate having my calls dodged.” He gestured to the office. “Can we speak in private, please?”
The Colonel looked to The Major. The Major didn’t budge or respond.
The Colonel turned back to Sanborn. “We’ve got urgent business to attend to, Mr. Sanborn. Everyone here is cleared top secret. Everyone but you.”
Sanborn looked like he considered getting angry, but decided against it. With one more glance around he threw up his hands. “All right then. I’ve been given to understand that the blatant patent infringement being perpetrated against my firm is being used as a pretext for what can only be described as a paramilitary police action.”
“It’s not your concern, Mr. Sanborn.”
“No. That’s where you’re wrong—and by the way, I’m not entirely comprehending why you’re South African. Why is a South African in charge of what’s going on here? This is Missouri, not Capetown, Colonel Andriessen.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a racist, Mr. Sanborn. We Africans have had a long struggle against such prejudice.” The Colonel chuckled and looked at The Major.
Sanborn fumed.
The Colonel continued. “The global economy provides for a efficient competition. You of all people should appreciate that.”
“So what I’m not understanding is whether this is a government operation or—what is going on here?”
“Get on your fancy jet and leave, Mr. Sanborn.”
Sanborn got into the Colonel’s face—or at least his neck, given the Colonel’s height. “I’m not some pipsqueak you can push around, Colonel. I’ve got a thirty-billion-dollar company and a fiduciary responsibility to defend both its brand and its reputation.” He gestured to the nearby lawyer. “Both of which we fully intend to protect.”
“So you’re going to sic your lawyers on us then, Nate? Is that it? Every syllable of Mr. Venk-kachanky-whatever here?”
“I am deadly serious, Colonel. We have significant influence in Washington.”
The Major looked at his watch. “We’ve got a timeline to meet, Colonel.”
Sanborn pointed. “Who the hell is this guy?”
The Colonel interposed himself. “Surely this conversation can wait, Nate.”
“No. It cannot wait. Our investigators tell us that there are armored cars coming in by rail. There are military helicopters without markings being stationed at retired air bases like this across the Midwest. I’ve been watching the news—watching what’s been going on out here. This is insane. This is America, not some crack-pot dictatorship. People in government have told us that a justification is being made for these operations in defense of intellectual property held by Halperin, and I’m here to tell you that yes, we do have claims, and we are mounting lawsuits, but legal action is the course to resolve this problem. This is not a police matter—or whatever the hell you’re making it into. I’m telling you that what you’re doing is not authorized by us in defense of our business interests.”