War Tactic. Don Pendleton

of those webcam things, talking about how the American government is going to ice you? It’s only a matter of time after that happens, you know, when they find somebody to cry ‘rape’ and then bring you up on charges. It happened to what’s-his-name, the internet guy.”

      Rhemsen started to say something when the phone on his desk rang. Glaring at Fitzpatrick, he picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. There was a pause. “Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, Mr. Lao. I’d like to meet to discuss with you those matters that have…occupied us previously…Yes…Yes, of course…All right. My secretary will apprise you of the time and location.” He hung up the phone.

      “You doing online dating now?” Fitzpatrick quipped.

      “Shut up, Jason.” Rhemsen sounded tired. “Just do your job.”

      “When have I not?”

      “Just… Fine. Let me worry about my ‘exit strategy,’ Jason,” Rhemsen said. “What I need from you is to find out just which branch of the government I need to throw money at next. Get those field agents to talk. Once they do, make sure nobody finds the bodies. That should be simple enough, even for you.”

      “Man, you are grumpy today.” Fitzpatrick sneered. “You stay up here in your ivory tower for as long as you like, Harry. I’ll go do the dirty work.”

      “See that you do.”

      Choking back another retort, Fitzpatrick figured he had needled the King of Plastic Surgery enough for one day. He left Rhemsen’s office and sauntered down the hall, taking the elevator down to the subbasement level. He was now on the east end of the substructure. All the way on the opposite wall, the west end, was the interrogation section.

      Rhemsen didn’t like it when Fitzpatrick called it “the dungeon,” but that’s what it really was, and for the first time in a long time, it was being put to its intended use. The “storage closet” had never really been used for storage. Rhemsen’s manufacturing facilities were all elsewhere. This building was nothing but offices full of engineers and bureaucrats, operatives and con artists. That’s how all the suits looked to Fitzpatrick. He took a dim view of any profession he did not really understand, figuring that if he couldn’t tell what a man did after ten seconds of explanation, then what that man did was probably bull.

      Fitzpatrick liked to keep things simple.

      At the thought, he cracked his knuckles again. He was really going to enjoy this. Growing up, he’d always been “hyperaggressive” or so the counselors had called it. With few prospects for college and a dismal high school record marred with disciplinary problems, it was only a matter of time before he’d ended up charged with assault and battery as an adult. He just liked fighting too much. So he’d joined the Marines.

      That had lasted only as long as boot camp, where a savage fight with another recruit had ended in his washing out. He’d tried to join the Army after that, but whatever black mark was on his record had kept him out. He was actually marching out of that Army recruiting center, mad as he’d ever been, when one of Blackstar’s recruiters had appeared out of nowhere to chat him up.

      So he wanted to fight for his country, did he? Well, there was a way he could still do that. All he had to do was sign on with Blackstar. The pay was good and the questions were few. All he had to be able to do was follow orders.

      Well, Fitzpatrick didn’t give a damn about fighting for his country. He just wanted to fight, and he wanted to be paid for doing it. Blackstar or, more correctly, the company that would become Blackstar several name changes later, was happy to have him. Fitzpatrick rose quickly through the ranks. It helped that, eventually, he’d learned to channel his urge to smash people and things. Being able to hold that impulse in check, most of the time, allowed him to advance in the company’s ranks and assume even greater positions of authority.

      Now, he had a reasonable amount of autonomy. Blackstar didn’t care what he did as long as he got things done. The company’s management was busy for the most part just fielding and evading various congressional investigations, so they didn’t care what was happening with him as long as the money flowed. Rhemsen paid well and he needed a lot of manpower. And so the cash came in, Fitzpatrick stayed employed, Blackstar’s management left him alone and everybody was happy.

      But it looked as if that all might come thundering to a close, if they couldn’t get a handle on what was really going on. Rhemsen’s weapons sales were the only thing keeping the company going, keeping it profitable. Rhemsen had slipped up and admitted that much to him before. The money spent in research and development on the Thorns, the GGX drop charges, the EM pulse taggers, the portable torpedoes…it was a lot. And apparently government contracts, combined with all the controls and regulations the government expected RhemCorp to follow, meant that the company couldn’t manage a decent profit level. At least, that’s what Rhemsen said. Who knew what that margin was supposed to be? Harry had expensive tastes, from what Fitzpatrick could see. No dude who was addicted to plastic surgery could be trusted around money, if you asked Jay Fitzpatrick. There was something just…wrong…about that guy’s face. He was probably skimming profits from the company.

      Either way, for the cash to keep flowing to Blackstar and thus into Fitzpatrick’s pocket, RhemCorp’s illegal arms sales, and the shipping pipelines that sustained them, had to stay open. Fitzpatrick wasn’t privy to all the details in the South China Sea, but Rhemsen had alluded to big markets over there. Whatever his hired pirate crews were doing had something to do with all that. That was why Rhemsen had risked arming the pirates with RhemCorp’s own hardware. It wasn’t just an expedient means of accomplishing his goals in that part of the world. It was also some of the only leverage Rhemsen had, with the rest of his cash tied up in hiring muscle like Blackstar and the pirates themselves.

      What a tangled web. That was what people said, right? The thought brought Fitzpatrick back to what Rhemsen had said about China and its government. What the hell had that been all about? And who was Lao? Could be Rhemsen was reaching out to the money men in China to back some of his losses. That didn’t seem like a smart strategy to Fitzpatrick, using China to debt-roll RhemCorp’s operations, but Fitzpatrick only cared so much. His interest in RhemCorp’s financial health extended only as far as how much of Rhemsen’s money was going into Blackstar’s coffers. Even that was a relative thing. Jason Fitzpatrick wasn’t really the loyalty type. He just knew not to crap where he ate.

      He would do the job Blackstar needed him to do, and even enjoy it, as long as they kept paying him. If anything changed he’d find another outfit to take him. Private contracting was all the rage these days. Wars were expensive and outsourcing was economical. The business world had discovered that a long time ago. For that matter, hiring mercenaries to do the dirty work was a long-standing tradition in the history of war. He wasn’t exactly a student of history, but he knew that much.