"So you're still flying. That's a good thing. Great that you're able to get the hours. I wish I could spend more time in the cockpit myself."
"Looks like you've done okay as it is, sir," Troy said, nodding at a picture of Harris with the vice president.
"We've had some challenges, but we've built a solid business," Harris agreed. "Tell me about what you're doing."
Troy explained what he was doing for Golden West, and about how he liked being able to fly at least four days a week.
"Ever wish you could be back in jets?" Harris asked. "Of course," Troy answered. "But I like my job better than dealing with commercial airline schedules." "What are they paying you?"
When Troy told him, Harris leaned back and thought for a moment.
"What if I double that and throw in a bonus for overseas operations?" Harris asked.
"Mmm," Troy said thoughtfully. "Tell me more."
"Okay, here's the deal," Harris said. "Without going into operational details, let me say that the world that was always full of bastards is still full of bastards. Uncle Sam's government, which used to be in the business of taking on and taking down the bastards of the world, has grown squeamish about such things and finds it easier to outsource the dealing with bastards. That's where the PMCs come in. For Uncle Sam, it's like calling in a cleaning service to clean up a problem… or an exterminator. They don't ask… don't have to, or want to ask… how it's done. We just tell 'em when it's done."
"That's a novel idea."
"Actually, it's not new at all. Up until the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, a lot of the armies fighting in Europe were professional armies that had no political connection at all to the country they were fighting for. For small countries, it was a lot cheaper and more efficient than having a standing national army. That's how the Hessians ended up fighting in our own Revolutionary War."
"How does this work?" Troy asked. "You don't read much or see much on the Net about PMCs."
"The guidelines are pretty simple," Harris said. "As authorized by the United Nations and ratified by more than a hundred countries, PMCs can act as international and independent entities, although we have to be contracted by a sovereign state to get involved in a conflict. They then have the status as official combatants, but we're required under the UN resolution to use our own equipment to fulfill our missions."
"That includes jets?" Troy asked.
"Because we're required to use our own stuff, we're authorized to purchase heavy equipment on the international arms market. With a few exceptions, such as nukes and a few other things, PMCs are exempted from restrictions on conventional weapons sales."
"That was sort of how Coughlin and Munrough explained it to me," Troy said. "They said there was a lot less red tape."
"The concept is as old as before the eighteenth century, when the Hessians were hired out to fight for the Brits, but at the same time, PMCs are the way of the future for peacekeeping forces," Harris said. "Fewer political entanglements and quick response times…. which theoretically makes us the perfect first responders to crises and humanitarian missions."
"And you're running airpower as well as ground forces?" Troy asked.
"Firehawk is mainly air," Harris confirmed. "Other PMCs do ground, blue water, covert stuff, whatever. Others do cyber warfare… everybody sorta specializes."
"What sorts of jets?" Troy asked, glancing out the window.
"You won't see them around here." Harris smiled, noticing Troy's glance. "They're all based at remote sites, or forward deployed to where we need them. We run a mix of fixed-wing aircraft. Can't say exactly which, but I will say you'd be able to step right in."
"Where did you get F-16s?" Troy asked, noting Harris's comment about "stepping right in."
"Can't confirm that Firehawk operates 16s," Harris said. "But there's a lot of good used equipment on the market around the world if you know where to look. We can get our hands on whatever is for sale on the international market. Mainly it's older, previously owned stuff, but you'd be surprised. Remember that guy a few years ago who was selling a Soviet-era nuclear submarine?"
"Did you guys buy that one?" Troy asked.
"No." Harris smiled. "But we've done some deals with the same broker who was handling it."
Troy nodded. He knew there was indeed a lot of high-tech hardware on the used-equipment market.
"What if I said I was interested?" Troy asked after Harris had spent about fifteen minutes giving him an overview of how Firehawk worked, and for whom.
"I'd ask when you could start."
"And if I said I needed to give three weeks' notice?" "I'd get you to fill out some paperwork, y'know, a nondisclosure and all the usual stuff, and tell you where to report in three weeks."
"Where would I be reporting?"
"Pack for the tropics." Harris smiled. "And don't worry much about dust storms."
Chapter 22
As the Gulfstream 5 banked hard to line up with Runway 28, Troy Loensch could see the red roofs of the town of Flores tightly clustered on an island in the middle of Lago Peten Itza, the second-largest lake in Guatemala. Flores is the capital of the state of Peten, one of twenty-two states, but one that accounts for about a third of Guatemala's land area.
After a two-week refresher course in a T-38 trainer at one of Firehawk's remote sites in eastern Colorado, Troy had been handed his first assignment, which consisted merely of orders to report to a nondescript hangar at the Denver Airport. It wasn't until he boarded the Firehawk Gulfstream that he was handed his briefing packet, or that he knew he was headed to Guatemala.
It seemed that the Zapatista Army of National Liberation, which had been trying for years to overthrow Mexican government rule in the Mexican state of Chiapas, had decided to also try to overthrow Guatemalan rule in neighboring Peten. The U. S. government didn't want Guatemala to be destabilized but could not have intervened directly. When the Zapatistas started using jet attack aircraft against the poorly equipped Fuerza Aerea Guatemalteca — the Guatemalan Air Force — Guatemala called for help.
When Troy had boarded the Gulfstream last night, the pilot asked as a courtesy whether he'd like to take a turn at the controls. However, he soon nodded off and did not wake up until they were an hour out of Mundo Maya, which served as the airport for Flores.
As he was waking up with a paper cup of strong coffee, Troy looked out across the endless green of the Peten jungle. What a difference from Su6n, with its endless dirt and gravel landscape. With an area about the same size as West Virginia, Peten had fewer people than Charlotte, North Carolina, but twelve hundred or so years ago, millions of Mayans lived here and it was one of the most densely populated places in the world. What a dif ference a dozen centuries can make, Troy thought as he read the background page in the briefing book.
As the G-5 taxied to an unmarked hangar across the runway from the main terminal, Troy saw two unmarked vans driving to meet them.
"Buenos dias, Captain Loensch," said a man in a Fire-hawk Windbreaker who greeted Troy as he emerged from the cabin. "I'm Jose Turcios, but most people call me Joe."
"Buenos dias, Joe," Troy said, shaking the man's hand. He recognized Joe's name from the briefing book as the Firehawk station chief in Peten. "Most people call me Troy. By the way, your English is flawless."
"That's probably because I was born and raised in Pasadena." Joe laughed. "Learned Spanish from my grandparents."
"Great," Troy said. "I'm from Northridge."
"Small world," Joe said. "Twenty miles from me. Let's get you situated. We have a safe house in town, but I need you and Andy to bunk here at Mundo… come on into the hangar and meet Preston. He's gonna be your wingman."