Tom Clancy's HAWX

Chapter 43

If walking into San Sebastian two weeks ago had been a culture shock for Troy, then setting foot in a real city was a culture concussion.

In the nearly five months since Shakuru had crashed into the jungle, the world that he had blissfully ignored had been turned upside down. For the first time since he had disappeared from radar — literally and figuratively — Troy had gotten his hands on an English-language newspaper and had a chance to surf the Web at an Internet cafe.

To Troy, it felt as though he had been away for years, not mere months. Political discord reigned. Al-Qinamah, the enemy with whom Troy had battled when he had flown with the U. S. Air Force, now reigned in Sudan — as well as in Eritrea and Ethiopia. It was a war that he and the others had fought in vain.

In Malaysia, the government was now essentially a wholly owned subsidiary of Sandringham Partners, Ltd. It was another war that Troy had fought in vain.

In Europe, governments were collapsing. Italy was on its fourth government in less than a month. France and Portugal were both considering outsourcing most essential services to organizations modeled after the PMCs.

The United States was not immune. Washington, D. C., was in turmoil. Pundits from both poles of the political spectrum insisted that the U. S. government was out of control. Some said it was because of the PMCs. American foreign policy was in shambles because the Defense Department was now nothing more than a manager of extranational PMCs. Others insisted that the United States ought to do as Malaysia, France, and Portugal had done and essentially turn governmental operations over to the PMCs.

What stunned Troy the most was what he found when he was waiting in the office of Fred Dobbs's "guy in Managua," waiting to be fixed up with a plane ticket to the States.

The guy was in his private office with another customer, and Troy was waiting patiently on a tattered blue Naugahyde couch in the waiting room. The guy operated a travel agency of sorts, and there were posters for various regional destinations on the wall. There was one for Costa Rica with a large toucan on it and even one for the Peten rain forest.

Troy had spent part of his five hundred dollars on clean clothes, a haircut, and a cheap duffel bag. Soon he would have his ticket to Los Angeles and, hopefully, a new life in an old place.

As he waited, Troy idly began leafing through the inevitable pile of magazines that was on the low coffee table. He recognized the red border of a Time magazine and pulled it out.

Troy's mind did a double take at the cover photo: a head-and-shoulders shot of Raymond Harris!

Troy's mind did a triple take at the caption printed in bold letters across the cover. It identified Harris as The Voice of Reason.

Raymond Harris?

The Voice of Reason?

How could the man who had tried to kill him for exposing a conspiracy be remotely considered The Voice of Reason?

Inside, the journalists had profiled Harris, now back at Firehawk's Virginia headquarters and now the CEO of the PMC. He was described in the article as the steady hand, the man who was calmly negotiating with the polarized political factions in Washington.

President Albert Bacon Fachearon was in trouble. Overwhelmed by the job, he seemed paralyzed by indecision. Congress called for action, but Fachearon faltered.

It was Raymond Harris who had calmly spoken of outsourcing the management of the U. S. government "until the crisis period had passed."

Troy was aghast. It was all coming true. The Transition that Harris's document had described. Worst of all, the media was buying it.

Harris was the man with the calm hand — at least in comparison to other PMC CEOs, such as Layton Kynelty of Cernavoda Partners, who had been a bit more assertive about taking control. By comparison, Harris did seem like a voice of reason. According to the article, opposition to Harris, even in Congress, was depicted as strident, even a bit irrational.

Troy couldn't believe his eyes.

Just as he thought he had seen it all, Troy turned the page. There were several photographs of Harris at a memorial service. Apparently, the magazine's editors wanted to show the human, "personal" side of Raymond Harris and had sent a photographer to cover him at the funeral of a fallen colleague.

It was only when Troy recognized his own mother in one of the pictures that he realized that this was the Troy Loensch memorial service.

The man who had tried to kill him was comforting his mother, who thought he was dead!

That duplicitous son of a bitch!

At that moment, the door to the guy's inner office opened. His previous customer smiled at Troy as she left clutching a ticket folder.

"Mr. Loensch, I presume," he said in Spanish-accented English. "I have your documents ready…. please step into my office."

He smiled proudly as he handed Troy a U. S. passport with a photo Troy had taken in a drugstore kiosk the day before.

"It looks real," Troy said, suspiciously.

"It is real," the guy said, sounding a little disappointed that Troy would imagine him dealing in counterfeit passports. "I know a young lady at the embassy."

"I see."

"They're using nongovernmental contractors over there now," the guy explained. "It's much more efficient."

"Of course it is," Troy said.

"And here is your ticket to Los Angeles."

"Thank you," Troy said, clutching the colorful ticket folder. "But I've just been having some second thoughts."

"Second thoughts?"

"As much as I would really like to go back to L. A., there is somewhere else that I really think I need to be." "Yes…"

"How hard would it be to exchange this for a ticket to Washington, D. C.?"

"Washington… hmmm…"

"How much?" Troy interrupted.

"Let's say… hmmm… a hundred dollars U. S. would take care of the exchange."

"That's a good deal…"

"I know a young lady at the airline." The guy smiled.