And, yes, there was quite a bit of material already that deserved preservation.
Bolan told him, “The babysitter is working on one right now. We’ll drop it in the Z file.” The Z file was a special computer bank in Washington, to which Bolan had access from the Warwagon.
“Do that,” Brognola said heavily. Then, a bit more on the upbeat: “Watch the swinger, pal.”
“Always,” Bolan replied, chuckling, and terminated the contact.
April commented, “He sounded worried.”
“He’s a realist,” Bolan told her. “I think he’s worried more about the L.A. cops than anything else. Probably trying to run some interference and they snapped his tail off.”
“No, he said he wasn’t …” Her eyes said she’d blown it. “Damnit, Mack. Don’t look at me like that.”
“You knew he was in town, eh,” he said, very quietly.
“Not exact—well, sure, I knew he was close by.”
“Why didn’t I know it?”
“I guess it just never came up,” she replied innocently.
“Who’s with him?”
“Oh … I guess … a bunch.”
A bunch, sure. Brognola usually traveled with a strong mobile strike force of federal marshals, whom he generally preferred over the usually stiff-necked FBI agents.
“How close, April?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, a bit irritably. “They’re not going to crowd you. Mr. Brognola knows that you like plenty of room.”
But he did worry about it. Bolan was always very much concerned about the identity of those whom he may encounter in the combat zone. It was problem enough keeping friends and innocents out of the heat even when he knew whom and where.
“Get him back,” he requested.
“Get who back?”
“Brognola.”
“What makes you think I know—”
“Get him!” Bolan insisted.
The girl sighed, made a face, and got him back via mobile phone connection.
“Whose nickel?” asked the familiar voice.
“Guess,” Bolan growled.
“Okay. Okay.” Honestly defensive. “Try to do a friend a favor and all you receive in turn is hostility.”
Bolan said, “You’ve got me wired. Right?”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“Sure I do,” Bolan replied coldly. “You’re standing on my shadow, friend. It hurts. What’s the separation?”
There was resignation in that responding voice. “Call it two minutes. Now how the hell could that hurt?”
“You want to do favors, eh?”
“At your service, sir.”
Bolan said, “Okay. I’ll be dropping the babysitter in precisely one minute. Mark it. One minute. I want you to pick her up.”
April cried, “That’s not fair!”
Brognola said, “That’s easy. Do I get a reason?”
April yelled, “Damn you!”
Bolan said, “She’ll explain it to you. And, Alice—another request—get off my shadow.”
April flounced about in her seat, turning her back to him.
Brognola said, “Don’t be so touchy. We are remaining physically clear of your territory.”
“Physically?”
“Yeah. Physically. But don’t ask us to turn the heart off, guy.”
That was genuine and moving. Bolan’s voice was warm in the reply. “Okay. Just be advised. I will not be looking for friends in the bushes.”
“We are so advised,” Brognola replied.
Bolan said, “Thanks,” and terminated.
April turned a woebegone face his way and said, “That’s the lousiest …”
He growled, “Knock it off, April. I have a job for you. Damned important so forget the sillies. I want you to query every government computer you can find. I want a complete package on McCullough—all of it—his investments, his connections, his marriages, all the troubles with his kid, everything. And I want—”
“But I can do that from here!” she protested. “Can’t I?”
“No you can’t,” he replied firmly. “It would tie up the equipment at a crucial time. Besides, I’d rather you work it on a clean line. Brognola can help with that. Also he can help with the accesses. Several federal agencies have had McCullough under scrutiny off and on for the past couple of years. Hal will know what I need. Be sure you understand completely—then, damnit, get me a full package.”
Her expression had softened. “Then it really is an assignment? You’re not just …”
“Of course it’s an assignment,” he said brusquely. “And I expect you to work your tail off on this. I want the package within an hour or two. Bank it in the Z file for me and send a hit to the floater when it’s ready.”
“Then I can come back?”
“Soon as possible. Sure. Why not?”
“I thought you were … upset with me. Because of …”
He said, “Sure I’m upset. But not enough to slap your ears down. Anyway, we’re partners. Eight?”
Her eyes were revealing a certain confusion but she replied, “Okay. I guess I understand what you want.”
“Get ready for the drop,” he said.
She was at the door ten seconds later when the cruiser pulled to the shoulder.
He blew her a kiss.
She caught it and stuffed it down her blouse as she disembarked.
Her image in the rearview mirror as he pulled away looked small and vulnerable. Yeah, especially vulnerable.
She could have used the onboard computer, sure. And Bolan really did want that package. Even more, however, he’d wanted that girl cleared to the safe zones.
The combat spine had been sending new messages.
A hell of a fight was shaping up. And damn quick.
CHAPTER 14
COMING TOGETHER
The track continued past the city of San Fernando and began to climb toward the high mountains beyond. When it swung abruptly northeastward at State Route 14, pulling toward Soledad Pass, the Bolan spine was at full shiver. He was being drawn into very rugged countryside, into the San Gabriel Mountains and the Angeles National Forest. On the other side lay Palmdale and the Mojave Desert. Edwards Air Force Base was up that way—also China Lake, site of a Naval Weapons Center. Also a junction with U.S. 395, the main route between Southern California and Sierra Nevada country. Or a guy could link up with Interstate Route 15, the mainline to Las Vegas.
Where the hell were they headed? It was not comforting to contemplate the possibility that they were headed nowhere—that he was being sucked into the boonies and away from where the real action was going down. But that did not seem to fit the circumstances.
Just when the shivers were beginning to spill into the gut, his floater beeped the announcement of an incoming call.
Bolan intercepted the call at the recorder and routed it to the con.
It was Leo Turrin, his inside friend in New York.
“I’m here,” Bolan announced. “What’s on?”
“Can you get to a landline?”
“Not unless it’s a matter of life or death,” Bolan told his closest friend.
“Well, maybe it is,” the little guy replied worriedly. “How far have you gone with that blind date I sent you?”
“All the way,” Bolan said. “She was easy.”
“Yeah, well, maybe that’s what’s bothering me. Too easy, if you know what I mean. I think maybe she’s infected. I need to talk to you about that.”
“If it’s safe on your end, go ahead. I can’t EVA right now—maybe not for quite awhile.”
Turrin sighed and thought about it for a couple of beats, then said, “It’s okay on my end, sure. I’m downstairs. Listen. The whole place has been going bananas all afternoon.” Meaning the headquarters operation for La Commissione. “They are in executive session right now. It all has to do with your blind date. They had me doing the hot squat for thirty minutes or more. The guy in Jersey denie
s everything. Says he never heard of your man and that he hasn’t seen or talked to me for over two weeks. Said that right in my face at council. It stinks, Striker. I think it’s a setup. I think—”
Bolan said, “Wait, let me get it straight. Do they know you sent word west for an intrusion?”
“Hell no. That never even came up. I told you before, you know, that they were still considering the request. Well, suddenly it seems to be very hot, after laying cold all this time. I don’t know what caused the heat. I just know it got suddenly hot. They called in the guy from Jersey. He played it dumb. Said I must have talked to some other guy. And, of course, said nothing about the word I sent him last night. So I didn’t, either—naturally. But the whole think stinks like—”
Bolan interrupted to inquire, “Where does all this leave you standing, buddy?”
“I’m okay,” Leo growled. “You know me. I always land on my feet. We sent the guy back to Jersey and I told the men the whole thing stinks. I recommended we pretend no word was received, forget the whole thing.”
“How did that go down?”
“They said okay, sure, forget it. But they didn’t. They’re still up there—making phone-calls by the dozen and sending for this guy and that. They’re still working it, Striker.”
“Those phonecalls—local calls?”
“Not all, no. One to Vegas, a couple to Los Angeles, one to Palm Springs.”
“Who’s in Palm Springs?”
“Bunny Cerrito.”
Cerrito was an elder statesman who’d retired years ago. Bolan said, “Uh huh. Is Bunny keeping a hand in, here and there?”
“Not that I’ve ever seen,” Leo replied. “Hell, he’s about eighty. But you know these old guys, Sarge. They’re never completely out of it until they’re in the grave. I believe Bunny still does diplomatic work, now and then. You know—a call here, a word there.”
Bolan said, “Yeah.” He was trying to fit the pieces. None of it worked. He told his old friend, “I think you’re right. Something’s out of joint. Could you disappear, gracefully, for the rest of the day?”
“Sure,” was the wry reply. “If you think I really should.”
“I think so, yeah,” Bolan said. “And don’t go back into the water until you’ve tested it thoroughly. Eight?”
“Right,” said Turrin. “Well, it’s past four o’clock here. How’s Tuesday shaping up for you?”
“Terrible,” Bolan replied.
“Anything I can?…”
“Where do the San Gabriel Mountains grab you?”
“Nowhere.”
“China Lake?”
“What’s that?”
“How about the Mojave Desert?”
“Big graveyard a la DiGeorge. That’s all it ever meant to me.”
Bolan sighed tiredly and said, “You’re no damn help at all, buddy.” He was getting a deviation signal from the navigation console. The quarry had abandoned Route 14 at North Oaks to swing south again. “Got to go. Drop off, Striker. Play it cool ’til you hear from me or Hal.”
“Right, gotcha. Stay hard, guy.”
Bolan deactivated the communicator and turned full attention to the track.
The back of his mind, though, was playing with the realization that the radio signal feeding the mobile phone had grown steadily stronger throughout that conversation. It should have been growing weaker, if anything, since the linkage was via Los Angeles Bell and the track had been moving steadily away from Los Angeles. Maybe it was the increased elevation that was helping the signal. Or maybe Bell’s transmission towers were …
That last thought froze into the gray matter.
Linkage. Microwave relays—transmission towers …
Hell! Something was coming together!
It had to do with space age technology and the communications revolution—with magicians playing wondrous tricks with ultra-sophisticated equipment—linkage!
The California Concept?
Maybe.
And maybe Mack Bolan had stumbled onto the caper of the century.
CHAPTER 15
FACES
It was a new asphalt road, unmarked except for notations to the effect that it was private and closed to unauthorized traffic. It ran straight and level for only about two hundred yards, then began a twisting climb with numerous S-curves and switchbacks. Bolan had penetrated for approximately a mile some of the roughest terrain in recent memory when he began receiving disturbing wave patterns on the telemetry. He quickly killed the radar sweep and all other electronic systems and pulled off the road at the first hospitable point.
A cautious EVA exploration confirmed all suspicions.
High fencing and a heavily guarded vehicle gate stood just around the next curve. Worse, a strangely configured antenna system was mounted on the roof of the guard house and was sweeping the approaches—a weird double-dish affair that looked a bit like radar and a bit like microwave, but not really like either. Two men in SecuriCom uniforms manned the gate. Two more sat in a landrover parked nearby. All were packing automatic weapons.
The obvious goal lay about a mile inside that fence—and perhaps a thousand feet above it—visible now and then through the mists only as twinkling red lights atop a nude mountain peak.
Yes, April … linkage.
A large medallion on the vehicle gate was in the shape of two worlds in close conjunction and banded by the inscription:
FACES
Bolan returned immediately to his cruiser and fired up the communications channel to Brognola. It was a necessary risk. He did not want that task force blundering in and setting off alarms. “Keep it short and quick,” he cautioned the chief fed. “Are you still on me?”
“Yeah,” was the quick response. “Sort of. Where’s the party?”
“Top of the world,” Bolan told him. “It’s called FACES. I believe that’s an acronym. It’s hot-wired so stand down right where you are. Turn off all electronic gear.”
“What’s the gig?”
“Ask the babysitter. Tell her it looks like the master link. Shut down everything that radiates. Radios, engines, everything! I’m gone, bye bye.”
Bolan terminated the contact and quickly began preparations for heavy EVA. He chose blacksuit, heavy boots, binoculars, ordnance chestpack, utility backpack—the AutoMag at the right hip—M-16 over’n-under slung to the rear—Ingram “room-broom” dangling to the waist on a neck cord—various other light utilities and weapons—and, finally, as a promised concession to April Rose, a small radio transceiver.
It was quite a load. The ordnance alone weighed forty pounds. But he knew that he had to make the first trip count. There was no way to know what he may encounter inside that fenced area. Only one thing was certain: a long cross-country trek up a mountainside awaited him. He had to be prepared for most anything once he penetrated and made contact. So he EVA’d as a pack mule, leaving the cruiser in good cover and approaching the fenceline well south of the road.
The weather was perfectly miserable. Light rain, patches of fog, chilly. Not much to cheer about if a guy was looking for animal comforts. Bolan was not looking for that—and he gladly accepted the weather conditions as a comforting ally.
He approached warily and made contact at the south corner of the barrier. It was heavy chainlink topped with six strands of barbed wire. And it was instrumented. It was also electrified—and bore warning signs to that effect. Fairly new, too. The fenceline through the rough terrain had been cleared very recently—apparently with mechanized equipment. Tread marks left by a bulldozer were evident and the earth was raw in a six-foot clearance to either side of the fence.
The rain had caused some minor washouts in the steeper spots along that line. This circumstance appeared to offer the best hope for a quiet penetration. Bolan followed the fence westerly, looking for a severe washout. The search was rewarded some ten minutes later where the fence crossed a steep gulley. Tons of rock and dirt had been dumped along the fence line to build up the eroded are
a and provide a suitable base for the fencing. The attempt had not been entirely successful. New erosions had carried away several yards of fresh dirt from beneath the fence, leaving only the rock and shallow gaps at several points.
Bolan lay his burdens aside and went to work at the most favorable spot, removing rocks and forming a burrow beneath the fence. Five patient minutes of this labor produced a passage large enough for safe entry.
He tied garrotes to his gear and pulled it through then concealed it in bushes inside the compound, proceeding from that point some eighty pounds lighter with only the AutoMag and the Ingram for company.
There was still a hell of a long way to go—and the return trip could seem even longer with all of SecuriCom on his back.
But he needed some visibility.
He needed to know what was here, and who was here—and why any of it was.
Deep in his gut, though, he knew that he had found the California Concept. It was large, and it was heavy, and it was scary as hell—whatever it was.
Apparently Rickert had brought in reinforcements. To protect what? From whom?
Faces.
What the hell could it mean?
Bolan damned sure intended to find out—before he committed himself to open combat on this enemy turf.
A guy at least liked to know what he was dying for.
CHAPTER 16
EPITAPH FOR TWO
The two big tour buses had proceeded on beyond the exit to the private road and were now idling in a small roadside park a quarter-mile or so farther on. Both were outfitted with tinted, one-way glass and bore legends of a sightseeing tour. But the occupants were not tourists and none were particularly interested in the views of this scenic area.
One of the buses was largely given over to electronic equipment. The driver was a federal marshal. Besides Harold Brognola and April Bose, it carried as a standard complement six project technicians with backgrounds similar to April’s.
The other bus was comfortably loaded with heavily armed marshals, stoic professionals who knew how to play the waiting game and did not mind it a bit.
Brognola had thoroughly debriefed his female operative regarding the “master-link” cryptogram supplied by Bolan in that most recent radiophone contact. And he was liking none of it. They had, of course, blanked all systems in response to Bolan’s request for a total electronic shutdown, but the technicians had continued to monitor and measure the electromagnetic emissions of the area with their sensitive devices. They had not assured the chief that their present position was well clear of the disturbance area, which had so alarmed Bolan.
Terrible Tuesday Page 9