User Guide

1902 Hours
The hollow crack of gunplay fractures
the deep evening stillness. I leave my
crustless bologna and mustard sand-
wich (provided by you-know-who) in the
hanger and brush past some bored-
looking junior pilots to see what the
commotion is about. The sky is dark
now, except for a last strip of red hug-
ging the horizon. I stumble over the
uneven ground, following the intermittent
sound, until I discover Tex standing by
the flight tower/control complex, a .45
calibre Taurus in his hands and a grin on
his face. I ask what he’s doing. He explains.
“Well, see, I like to hunt. Now, there
ain’t no proper game to speak of in
Istanbul. But we sure do get a lot of rats.”
He points them out to me, little shapes
skittering across the roof, silhouetted
against the sky as the sun goes down.
“They pretty much hide during the day,
but come dusk, man they’re all over the
place. Big ugly sombitches. They come
over from Uskudar. Filthy place, I mean,
someone needs to tell those folks it’s the
twenty-first century, and that means you
don’t dump your shit in the streets. Do
rats eat shit?” I shrug. “They must. I
mean, look at all of them.” He pulls off
another shot, misses.
“Virgil ordered poison, but that don’t
do diddly,” he continues. “The straight-on
approach is always best. I don’t like to
mince around, like some people around
here.”
I ask him what he means by that.
“I mean, anyone who gets into the
merc business and then turns down jobs
because they’re dirty is a trifle confused,
if you get my meaning.”
“Then why do you stay?”
Tex rubs the back of his neck
meditatively a moment. “I respect Stern.
Don’t get me wrong. I think he’s got some
screwy ideas, but he’s also one of the
finest men I’ve ever known. I reckon one
day he’ll retire, though, and then we’re
gonna see some changes.”
“What kind of changes?”
“Listen, it’s only a matter of time before
I wind up in command of the Wildcats. It
won’t take me long after that to convince
everyone it’s time to start making some
serious money.”
“You think the Wildcat commitment to
moral operations will disintegrate after
Stern’s gone?”
He nods. “And I’ll be there to pick up
the pieces.” Tex looks down at his pistol.
“Y’know, once I was shootin’ around the
hangar and I put a hole through one of
the fuel tanks. Everyone hit the roof,
Stern was mad as hell, and he ordered me
not to shoot rats again.”
“He forbade it?”
Tex nods, and pulls off another shot. A
crooked grin spreads across his face. “Got
him. Did’ja hear him squeak?”
I shake my head. “Not over the
gunfire.”
Tex shrugs.
“Kind of a acquired talent, I reckon.”
2040 Hours
Our convoy of jeeps reaches Selim’s. I
still haven’t seen Stern (he evidently drove
on ahead alone), but the rest say I’m
certain to catch up with him in the cafe.
Sure enough, as the Wildcats linger in
the bar or merge into shadowy corners
that breed questionable exchanges, I
catch my first glimpse of Stern. He is
seated at a table, bargaining with an
uptight executive-type, who keeps
glancing nervously about, as if afraid of
being caught in some disgusting act. Lyle
Richards is seated at a table alone,
several rows behind Stern. From his
watchful, tense posture, I get the feeling
he’s covering Stern, though no weapon is
SUDDEN DEATH •
July 2011
15
A familiar nightspot, Selim’s