With that, and without asking Troy for a mission debrief, he turned and strode out of the room with Joe Turcios.
"What was that all about?" Troy asked Andy Preston.
"I'm not sure," Preston replied. "He was pacing the floor for about an hour after you launched this morning, then he got a phone call. He had the driver take him somewhere. He came back all excited, ran into the radio room, and contacted you to stand down."
"Why?" Troy asked. "I was in the middle of fighting that guy in the Frogfoot."
"We're not here to ask questions, man," Preston said. "We're here to follow orders, and my last orders from him were to pack my gear and get ready to move out tomorrow. He said that the same applies to you."
Rory's steak house, as its American-accented name implies, is one of those places that caters to gringos and to the members of the Guatemalan elite who find themselves in the provincial city of Flores. If nothing else, the prices on the menu — printed in English and Spanish, with English first — keep the riffraff at bay.
As with all such places in less-than-stable corners of less-than-stable banana republics, Rory's has high security, with razor wire atop the pinkish, hacienda-style wall that surrounds the palm-studded compound.
Subtly armed security welcomes guests, and the only people carrying weapons inside are bodyguards who have been prescreened by Rory's and issued photo IDs.
Beyond the perimeter, Rory's is just a typical Spanish-colonial style restaurant, with ceiling fans and heavy, dark wood furniture.
Harris had booked a private room in the back. Margaritas had already been poured when Troy and Andy Preston arrived, whisked from the Firehawk hangar in one of the bulletproof cars leased by the company. In all their weeks in Guatemala, the short drive from Mundo Maya was the only time that either of them had seen anything that could be construed as the "real" Guatemala. Certainly Rory's could have been anywhere in Florida or Southern California.
A dozen people were standing around in the room. In addition to the two pilots, Harris, and Turcios, there were four other Firehawk employees, including two mechanics, the radio operator, and another man to whom Troy had never been introduced. The four others were men whom Troy had never seen:
"Nice party," Troy said, approaching Joe Turcios. "I hear that we're headed out tomorrow."
"Yes, the steaks are really good here in this place." Turcios nodded. "Really a cut above what we're used to out at Mundo."
"So are you pulling up stakes tomorrow, too?" Troy asked.
"I expect so," he said, glancing at Harris, who was across the room talking to one of the men whom Troy had not previously seen. "My orders haven't quite been finalized."
"This deployment sure ended kinda suddenly, didn't it?" Troy asked, hoping to elicit some sort of clarification from Turcios.
"It sure did." Joe nodded as he stepped away to refill his margarita glass.
The head waiter entered the room, announcing that it was time for everyone in the room to take their seats and open their menus.
Troy picked the bone-in rib eye, which was listed a few price points below the one he'd eaten on Firehawk's tab in Las Vegas, and turned to the man seated next to him to make idle conversation. His name was Aron Arnold, and he was from near Orlando, Florida. He was a slender man with dark, short-cropped hair who looked to be about Troy's age. They had gotten past exchanging pleasantries and had ascertained that they both had served in the U. S. Air Force as pilots when Raymond Harris stood up from his place at the head of the table, tapping the back of his steak knife against his water glass.
"I'd like to thank all of you for coming tonight." He smiled. "But I think the prospect of a free steak dinner was ample inducement."
Everyone chuckled at the lame humor. The Firehawk people were there under orders, and yes, the prospect of a free steak dinner was ample inducement.
"Some of you know already, but for the benefit of all concerned, I'd like to take this opportunity to announce the merger of Svartvand BV and Firehawk, LLC. From this point forward, Svartvand will be known as the Svartvand Division of Firehawk, LLC. Let's all raise our glasses in celebration."
Troy was stunned. Less than seven hours earlier, Fire-hawk and Svartvand had not merely been competitors, they had been at war. Troy had been on the front lines, risking his life.
"With this turn of events, I'm pleased to announce a full cessation of air combat between Zapatista forces and the Guatemalan government. If diplomats could cut deals as easily as we do in the private sector, there would be a lot less war in the world."
There was a murmur of chuckles around the room at Harris's second attempt at lame humor, although on second take, the Firehawk people realized that he meant it.
"I'd like to introduce Enrique Girarcamada of Svartvand, who has a few words."
Another Enrique? Troy growled to himself. He had bad memories of the other Enrique in Culver City, and he had bad recent memories of Svartvand, the company that had tried to kill him.
"Thank you so much, Raymond; it is such a pleasure to be here with you and your people tonight," this Enrique said in polished but accented English.
Pleasure? Troy couldn't get out of his mind all of what this guy represented.
"The merger of our two PMCs is an important step forward for us, but especially for our customers. The diversification of capabilities brought about by this…"
Troy tuned out and took another sip of his margarita. Enrique sounded like he was reading from a press release. He probably was.
Soon the blah-blah-blah was over and there was a polite but halfhearted round of applause.
"This is a good steak," Aron Arnold said as he and Troy dug into their dinner. "I haven't eaten like this in months. Sure hits the spot."
"Don't you know it," Troy said, savoring a slice of the nice, lean beef. "How long you been with Firehawk? I haven't seen you around."
"Oh, I've been with Firehawk for about seven hours," Arnold said. "And you?"
"About four months," Troy said. "So if you've been with Firehawk for seven hours, that means that…"
"Yeah, I'm a Svartvand guy. I've been working up in Chiapas."
Troy stopped chewing and just stared at the guy. Svartvand? Pilot? Chiapas?
"We met earlier today." Arnold smiled. "Now that we're both on the same side, I look forward to flying with you someday."
Chapter 28
"Troy Loensch to see Jenna Munrough."
She surprised herself by how quickly she was on her feet when she heard his voice in the outer office. In the eight months since the Svartvand takeover and the termination of operations in Guatemala, Loensch had been on two high-profile assignments for which he had become somewhat of a legend within Firehawk.
"Hail the conquering hero." Jenna smiled, stepping out of her private office.
There he stood, the tall, muscular hunk who had become the worst enemy of Cambodian MiGs over the Gulf of Thailand during those past few months.
"I heard you were in the building," she said, giving him a hug. "How come y'all didn't send me an e-mail lettin' me know you were coming in from the field?"
"Wasn't sure of my schedule," he said. "Didn't really know until yesterday when I'd be coming in."
"Well, your reputation precedes you," Jenna said. "I want to hear all about it. Let's go get a cup of coffee."
In those eight months, she had sat at her desk and at boring meetings over at the Pentagon, reading the communiques of his exploits and jealous that she was at the controls of nothing more powerful than a Porsche 997 Carrera. Of course, a car that can do zero to sixty in less than five seconds is not just a car.