Tom Clancy's HAWX

Chapter 21

It hadn't taken Troy Loensch long to find the place. Herndon is practically in the shadow of Dulles Airport.

Firehawk's unmarked and nondescript headquarters building was a seven-story steel and glass structure, set amid a landscape of steel and glass structures that make up the office park sprawl along Highway 267 between Leesburg and the nation's capital. On the wall of the lobby was a stylized aluminum rendition of the company logo, a bird's head surrounded by flames.

"Troy Loensch to see—" he started to explain to the receptionist.

"He's expecting you, Captain Loensch," she interrupted in a crisp, efficient tone. "Fill out the sign-in sheet, don't forget your social, and show me some ID, if you please."

These formalities done, she handed the retired Air Force captain a badge, directed him to an elevator away from the other elevators, and told him to push seven.

The seventh-floor lobby was clean and corporate modern, trimmed in light wood with large photographs of soldiers in the field wearing very clean uniforms that carried the Firehawk logo as a shoulder patch.

Just as he started to look around for a seventh-floor receptionist, a door swung open.

"Well, hello, Falcon Three, it's good to see that y'all finally made it to Herndon."

It was Jenna Munrough. It was the same Jenna Munrough he had seen in Las Vegas: the one with lips the color of rose petals and with the long blond hair. It was the same Jenna Munrough who had made him almost defy his better judgment — and wish later that he had. She was wearing a straight, businesslike skirt with her photo ID clipped to the waistband.

"Good to see you too, Munrough." He smiled, extending his hand.

"Glad you could make it," she said, ignoring his hand to give him a polite hug and a quick I-haven't-forgottenour-last-meeting-even-if-you-pretend-you-have pinch.

She escorted Troy to Harris's office, and after an exchange of pleasantries, she smiled and left, closing the door behind her.

The room befitted the image of a military man gone corporate. There was a flagpole and the obligatory 1/32-scale mahogany models of aircraft that Harris had flown, as well as framed photos of him with various notable people.

"Please sit down, Captain," Harris said, using Troy's last military rank and gesturing toward a comfortable-looking chair. Harris seemed in good form. He was a big man, but Troy noticed that he seemed to have lost a little weight, as though he had been working out. "I appreciate you coming to see us."

"Let's say I was intrigued, General." Troy smiled, politely using his host's last military rank.

"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."