Dorfman’S Army

By Phil Gardner

Alex Dorfman and his retired mercenaries have to go back into action when their accrued wealth comes under attack by a mysterious and powerful group. They re-form and train a mercenary army to take back what is theirs but find themselves pitted against a fanatic from deep in Dorfmanns past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524672942

Phil Gardner

Phil Gardner resides in Upstate New York with his wife of many years, Christine. He served in the military for 24 years, which provided the basis for his story “K-TOWN CHRISTMAS.” After leaving the military, he worked various jobs, including 10 years as a bookstore which inspired another story, “WAS JESUS A BOOKSELLER? Five Days At A Bookstore.” He has also written “KING’S RANSOM,” “KING’S PRESS” and “UFO: THE GRIFFISS CONNECTION.”

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2017 Phillip Gardner. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/22/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7295-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7294-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

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1

1979

I t was an acutely uncomfortable feeling. Based on his actions, the newcomer gave no indication that he was a threat. But still the bellhop was uncomfortable in front of him. They made their way along the brightly lit carpeted corridor towards the room. The newcomer did not speak.

The bellhop, struggling with the four pieces of luggage, thought the man behind him was quiet, yes, but it was more than just quiet. Silent somehow seemed a better description. Several times the bellhop turned to make sure the man was still there. Even accounting for the lush carpet, the man’s movements were abnormally hushed. Not a breath, no rustle of clothing. Nothing.

Without knowing why, the bellhop was afraid. Some dormant animal instinct rose up and identified the man as dangerous. The bellhop knew, without reserve or qualification, that the man moving noiselessly behind him was a killer.

They reached the room, one of the better ones. With an expertise born of much practice, the bellhop inserted the key and got the door open without setting down any of the luggage. At this point he hesitated and then, sensing the man did not want to pass in front of him, went into the room. After arranging the luggage in a neat row, he straightened to face the man.

Anything else, Mr. Dorfmann?

The lights, said Dorfmann, put on all the lights. And close the curtains.

His voice, like the rest of him, was quiet but there was no mistaking the command quality there. The bellhop hurried to comply. Dorfmann nodded his satisfaction and pressed a crumpled bill into the bellhop’s hand. The bellhop exited quickly, aware of relief as the door closed, putting a barrier between him and the strange man.

Once alone, Dorfmann relaxed perceptibly. For many moments he stood still, sharp eyes on the door as though it might open again and catch him off guard. When he was sure the bellhop was gone, he crossed quickly to the door to test the lock. Then he went around the room seemingly without aim but with a subtle methodical manner. An astute observer would have recognized it as a routine. The room and the adjoining bath were empty with all windows curtained and locked. Dorfmann then completed a second circuit of the premises, poking into flower bowls, lamps, radiator grills and other favorite places for microphones. This second search took longer and again the results satisfied him.

Only after this ritual was completed did he peer about the room with an aesthetic eye. Dark and comfortable, with the mass-produced stylishness of hotels the world over. A quick hand on the mattress found it passable.

Dorfmann moved to the window and opened a slim gap in the drapes with one finger. For another space of time, he scrutinized the street seven floors below. Yet again, the results seemed to satisfy him.

Several more degrees of relaxation softened him. He examined the house phone, found nothing untoward, and used it to order coffee, lots of it. It might be a long wait. He spun an armchair into one corner where his back would be protected by the solid walls and he would have an unimpeded view of the door.

He was busy arranging the bed pillows on the armchair when the knock sounded. He stepped to one side of the door and opened it fractionally. A waiter stood irresolute in the hall, hovering over a small trolley. Dorfmann widen the door and beckoned.

By the chair, please.

The waiter was not a perceptive man and attached no significance to the fact Dorfmann remained behind and to one side of him. He pushed the trolley across the room and arranged it within easy reach of the chair.

Thank you.

The waiter bowed slightly and left, an incurious man.

Dorfmann crossed to the chair, picking up his black briefcase from the luggage row on the way. Then, very gently, he settled into the pillows and cushions on the chair. By degrees, he loosened the rigid posture of his back until he was completely settled in. He pursed his lips with approval, pushing a small breath out. There had been very little pain. He had learned to live with pain and to be thankful for lesser degrees of it. A life of no pain might be a long way off. The two 9mm slugs had been successfully removed from his shoulder but the doctor had warned of nerve damage and a slow healing process. The pain could very well be a lifelong companion.

Two bullets in the back was a high price to pay, even by the standards of Dorfmann’s world. Depending what transpired that night, it might be an acceptable exchange. Or something close to it, anyway.

Setting the briefcase down, he poured a large mug of coffee with cream and rather a lot of sugar. After two or three satisfying sips, he complimented the excellent coffee with an American cigarette. The combination of the two was a treat, things he’d done without for quite some time. Finishing the cigarette, he set aside the coffee to complete his preparations.

From the briefcase he extracted a 9mm Beretta. After checking the load, he drew out the long and ungainly silencer and wound it down over the threaded extended muzzle. Beside the chair was an ornate pole lamp which he switched off. The effect was to throw his chair and the corner into comparative darkness while the rest of the room appeared highlighted.

He cocked the Beretta and disengaged the safety, actions which would save him two or three seconds, if needed. He had come to know the often fatal difference two or three seconds could make. The Beretta was gently lowered until it cradled on the seat cushion next to him.

Now he was ready.

He regained his coffee cup, lit another cigarette, and continued to savor the pleasure of them both. His eyes alternated from the door to the Beretta and back again. He was quite comfortable but sharply alert. In this manner, he would wait.

Wait all night if it was necessary.

2

H is full name was Alex Dorfmann and had he been prone to such things, he might have experienced a sense of Deja-vu. It was two years, almost to the day, when he was sitting in another hotel room in another city, waiting.

At that earlier time his contemporaries knew him as Colonel Dorfmann and his back was uninjured. Among other subtle differences, the coffee was missing then, in its place a bowl of real clam chowder, a rare commodity in the jungles of South America. There was no Beretta at his hand. In those days it had been a big, bulky Colt .45 automatic, U.S. Army issue.

The silencer, though, had been fashioned by the same German machinist, an old friend.

As a rule, Dorfmann had little use for cities, especially American cities. What he called home was a thatched beach hut in northern Venezuela, far removed from habitation. There, mostly alone, he enjoyed the fruits of his specialized labor and personally saw to most of his needs. Other needs were met by a striking Polynesian girl in her mid-twenties. Under those conditions, he might never leave the hut, except to fish or lounge about the lagoon.

But Milling’s cable had been urgent, so he came.

He paused suddenly, a spoon of chowder suspended over the bowl. There had been the ghost of a sound from outside the door. He might have imagined it. He carefully set the spoon into the bowl and picked up the .45. Then it came again, faint spectral scratching, metal on metal. Someone was picking the lock.

Dorfmann smiled faintly. This would be Milling’s idea of a joke.

The door swung open and it was Milling, attempting to sneak in, halting abruptly when he eyed the massive bore of Dorfmann’s silenced pistol.

Dorfmann lowered the .45. Nice try.

I’ll be go to hell, growled Milling, slamming the door in disgust. Must be losing my touch.

Milling lumbered further into the room and settled his vast bulk onto the edge of the bed. Then the two men spent many moments regarding one another, seeking changes, if any. Their last job together had been nearly four years ago. It had been the last time they had seen one another. It was supposed to have been the last time they’d ever meet.

In appearance, the two were about completely opposite. Dorfmann was tall and wiry, clean shaven and moderately fussy about his appearance, a small fetish he carried with him always, even into the deepest rain forest or vastest desert. His bearing was distinctly military, his movements measured and catlike. In other circumstances, it would be plain he was the commander and Milling the subordinate.

Milling was a huge, rambling man. He was nearly as tall as Dorfmann, but his vastness seemed to overfill any confined area. His unruly head of coal black hair contrasted with Dorfmann’s neatly groomed silver-streaked chestnut brown. His red, drinking man’s face was almost totally hidden by a ragged beard the same coal black as his hair.

Milling’s entire manner seemed clumsy and benign. The ham-like hands and thick, short fingers would appear useless for delicate work of any kind. Nothing could be further from the truth, as witnessed by the short work he’d made of the hotel door lock. Dorfmann knew, from countless manifestations in the field, that Milling was also far from harmless.

At the moment, the two were off-duty, as it were, and enjoyed an easy camaraderie. Had they been on a job, the rift between them would have been all but unbridgeable. On the job, if Milling attempted or presumed to bridge that rift lightly, it could have very easily netted him a bullet in the head. Dorfmann commanded his people equally and fairly but without mercy. In the field, his word was law.

But for now, the .45 was laid aside and Dorfmann was eating the chowder, speaking between spoonfuls. You’re looking good. Retirement would seem to agree with you, no?

Milling shrugged, a massive gesture.

Hear anything from the others? Dorfmann probed.

Here and there.

Milling obviously had something on his mind and was disinclined to small talk. Conversely, he was wary of speaking his mind without some sort of groundwork being laid. He fidgeted uncomfortably.

How is everyone? Dorfmann said, drawing him out.

Before answering, Milling plucked a flask from somewhere in the voluminous folds of his trench coat. Dorfmann assumed the flask held that peculiar Eurasian red poison which, at times, seemed to be the core of Milling’s existence. He pulled long on the rough wine cum vinegar, and replaced the flask.

Well, let’s see, Millings said, digging fingers into the unkempt beard. Olivia’s out west, still playing with her dynamite. Something for the oil companies, he added in vague explanation. Dorfmann nodded.

Ko’s back in South East Asia, somewhere. Got some kind of business there. Drugs, probably. I guess he does the odd contract here and there, just for pocket money. Milling tugged at his beard, his mind searching for details. They’re making out, I guess, he trailed off uncertainly.

The Doc? Dorfmann asked, pushing aside his empty chowder bowl. And Minicozzi?

Oh, yeah, Milling nodded, yeah. Christ, how could I forget them? The Doc and the wop, right?

The two enjoyed a gentle laugh of warm remembrance, a tiny release from the gathering tension.

Doc’s lost himself down in the Bayous, somewhere, Millings said. Raising snakes, of all the goddamn things.

He’s particularly suited for it, Dorfmann said.

A fact, Milling agreed, a fact. Does quite well with it, too. Bunches of money from some medical institute or other. He waved a hand, indicating his ignorance of such things. As for Minicozzi, he’s bought himself a sizable chunk of Kansas wasteland. Built a big hangar on it, where he keeps his planes. Doesn’t work, as far as I know. Just tinkers with them damn airplanes.

They always were his passion.

Yeah, Milling said.

An awkward silence followed. After a space, Dorfmann sought to break it. So, everyone is well?

Oh, sure, yeah, sure.

And yourself? Dorfmann asked. How is America treating you?

Can’t complain, Milling said. It’s a good life.

A bit dull perhaps? Dorfmann ventured.

A long time passed before Milling answered. Not as dull as you might think.

Dorfmann waited. It was coming to a head.

You remember our arrangement? Milling asked.

Yes. All the friendliness in Dorfmann’s tone had been replaced by ice.

And my part in it?

Yes.

Milling drew a huge breath to steady himself. He didn’t fear many things in this world, but he feared Dorfmann.

That is why I called you here.

The fund! Dorfmann said sharply. It has to do with the fund!

Yes, sir, Milling snapped automatically.

Dorfmann eyed him a granite gaze for several moments. Then he lighted a cigarette with slow, deliberate movements.

I think you’d better tell me all about it, Sergeant Milling.

Yes, sir.

3

T hey never had a particular name or codeword. They were known among themselves and their clients as simply, The Army.

In its beginnings, The Army had a staff numbering twenty permanent personnel. They had hand-picked temporary subordinates on a job-by-job basis, depending on what needed to be done. For twenty years, they profited hugely from the troubled world around them, a world of toppling governments and constantly changing regimes. They were available to the highest bidder and their track record was impressive.

In