Mission Earth Volume 3: The Enemy Within

by L. Ron Hubbard

  He had his call. “This is Bury of Swindle and Crouch. What NATO units do you have right this minute in the New York area? . . . What? . . . What is your name? . . . Sheridan. General Sheridan.” He was writing in his notebook. “I don’t think you heard me, General Sheridan. This is Bury of Swindle and Crouch. . . . Oh. . . . Well, match your (bleeping) voice print, then. My God!” He underscored what he had written in the notebook.

  He fanned the door. He looked out at me. “We’re going to get this Madison yet, Inkswitch.”

  Some gawkers weren’t as cowardly as the rest. I pushed them on, poking them somewhat with my placard.

  Bury was talking again. “All right, I’m glad you are satisfied it is really me. Now answer my god (bleeped) question. . . . Ah. A NATO tank squadron giving a show at the Seventh Regiment Armory tonight. They will have to do. Have them meet me three blocks south of Pier Ninety-two at 8:30 tonight, all equipment, tanks and combat ready. . . . General, I don’t happen to care if it wrecks their show. And I don’t care if they are British. Get onto the Supreme NATO Commander at Strasbourg at once and get your clearance and right now! Issue the god (bleeped) order!”

  He underscored something in his notebook. “All right, General. There is now one more thing. Do you have an aircraft carrier in the Brooklyn Navy Yard?. . . You do? . . . The USS Saratoga . . . General, I don’t care if she is in dry dock. Issue orders at once transferring her for the next twenty-four hours to NATO command, Europe. . . . Well, get the god (bleeped) Secretary of the Navy out of the god (bleeped) dinner party and get it done! . . . No, I haven’t got time to tell you why. . . . Yes, it is in the national interest! Good!”

  He jiggled the phone hook. He turned sideways to me. “We’re making progress on Madison.” Then he was back on the phone. “Miss Goog? No, god (bleep) it, your pants are not ready and this isn’t the Yorkville Dry Cleaners! Miss GOOG! . . . Listen, (bleep) it, stay on this line. Now connect me at once to the Commanding Officer of the USS Saratoga in the Brooklyn Navy Yard.”

  Bury looked at his watch. “Time, time,” he said sideways to me. “All this is taking time. But we’re making progress on Madis . . . Hello. This is Bury of Swindle and Crouch. . . . How do you do, Captain Jinx. Captain, you will shortly be receiving confirmation from the Secretary of the Navy but you are not to wait for it. You and all your crew have been transferred to NATO command for the next . . .”

  A train roared in. Bury shut the door so he could talk.

  A mob seemed to be gathering. There were two tough-looking fellows who wanted to get through the picket line and at Bury who still wore the sign on his back. Some others tried to join the picket line.

  I fended them off with various pokes and sorties. One timid-looking fellow seemed to have gotten caught between the mob and the phone booth. He had an overcoat the same color as Bury’s. I hoped Bury would finish up quickly. This was getting tight. The mob was increasing. Instead of the placards fending them off, they seemed to be attracting them. These were a different crowd—blue-collar workers. An ugly situation was in the making.

  Bury finished!

  He hung up the phone and opened the kiosk door.

  I acted, quick as a wink.

  I took the sign covertly off Bury’s back and put it on the timid man’s back. I hissed into his ear, “They’re after you! Run for your life!”

  My, did he run! He went tearing down the platform and away!

  The crowd, confused in the dim light, attracted as they should be by the motion, saw the CIA MAN sign vanishing out of their clutches!

  They sped in a howling torrent after their quarry!

  Their savage cries were deafening! They receded.

  “What was that?” said Bury.

  “Joggers,” I said.

  We left the impromptu emergency world-command post of the Rockecenter planetary proprietorship.

  The phone was ringing. Probably Miss Goog wanted more quarters. We ignored it and left.

  PART TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chapter 5

  Mr. Bury glanced at his watch. “We had better take time to eat. This schedule will be pretty tight later.”

  We went into the Jewish delicatessen at the top of the subway stairs. There was a greasy, white-topped table at the back. Mr. Bury said, “I hate these places normally. I’m dead set against Jews making money, but that applies generally to other races, of course.”

  We sat down and he looked at the menu in big letters on the wall. The Klan had spray-painted a swastika with a KKK over it. “I think all they have here is kosher hot dogs. No wonder our Ku Klux Klan attacks them.”

  “You finance the Klan?” I said.

  “Of course. They make social trouble, don’t they? Hey!” he yelled at the little Jew back of the counter, “two hottee doggies, you savvy?

  “Blasted foreigners, they don’t speak English, you know. But they’re all right if you put a dash of bicarbonate of soda on them.”

  I was very contrite. I realized I had shot two of their Klansmen. Not very brotherly of me. Well, I wouldn’t tell Bury.

  We got our kosher hot dogs. Mr. Bury, eating one, was working on his notebook. I didn’t interrupt him. He was being very careful and neat about it, making his rough notes written in the kiosk legible. I knew he must be rounding off the administration details to make it all right with the powers that be.

  “I think we have a very good chance of getting Madison,” he said. “Hatchetheimer sure is bright. I just hope we have enough firepower.” He made a couple more notes. “Well, that will suffice to give my office staff something to handle. Got to keep them busy. How does this look to you?” He turned the notes around so I could read them. I was touched by his confidence and his seeking my opinion.

  The notes said:

  1. Send Peeksnoop’s wife a box of chocolates.

  2. Account for one bag of change, IRT Subway System.

  3. Rebuild Fort Apache using taxpayer’s money, order one squadron of horse cavalry to it, transfer General Sheridan to command it and order him to chase Geronimo until he reaches retirement age.

  4. Demote Miss Goog, Chief Operator New York Telephone Company, to track polisher New York Subway.

  5. Debit three hot dogs to expense account.

  6. Promote Captain Jinx of the USS Saratoga to rear admiral if he comes through on time.

  7. Tell the British they can choose the next NATO commander if their tank squadron does its job.

  8. Send the mayor’s wife a dozen long-stemmed American Beauty roses and appoint her president of the Metropolitan Opera.

  I said, “It seems all right to me. But I don’t get this last one.”

  He looked at it. “Oh, heavens. You’re right, Inkswitch. I forgot to call the mayor.” He hastily stuffed the last of his hot dogs in his mouth and rushed to the pay phone.

  I didn’t hear what he was saying. He came back looking the usual disillusioned look of a Wall Street lawyer.

  “It was just as I suspected. I hate politicians. All I asked him to do was use every squad car in Manhattan to block all entrances and exits to Twelfth Avenue and the West Side Elevated Highway from West 17th Street to West 79th and prohibit all other traffic on it between 8:30 and 9:30 tonight. That’s territorial US so it’s all legal to use them as long as they are not actively engaged in the assault—we have to close all loopholes to a possible Madison appeal on technicalities.”

  He thumped his fist on the table. “And (bleep) him, I knew he would balk. So I had already figured my way around it. That’s what the flowers were for. I told him we were after a member of the Corleone mob. It’s his wife, you see. She and Babe Corleone were chorus girls together at the Roxy Theater and they hate each other. You have to know the ins and outs of local politics as well, Inkswitch. So, of course, he issued the order instantly and Madison won’t escape on any side streets. So we leave the flowers on the list.”

  Bury rubbed his hand wearily over his prune face. Then he gave his narrow, snap-brim New Yorker’s hat a tug. �
��We might as well be going, Inkswitch. This is likely to be a pretty violent assault and I told my wife I’d be home by ten.”

  He paid for the hot dogs with a handful of change out of the IRT bag. I noticed he had forgotten his sheet of notes. I caught up with him outside. I gave them to him. He wadded them up and threw them in the litter basket by a lamppost. “Don’t litter, Inkswitch. We have a campaign going right now. ‘No Littering.’ Lets us pick up all the anti-Rockecenter leaflets and jail the offenders, without being charged with violating the First Amendment of Free Speech and Press. You have to know these things, now that you’re a member of the family. But I will say that you won’t find it easy. People like us, we work and slave, cogwheels in the machines of the mighty, unappreciated and ignored no matter how devoted to our duties. I think I have indigestion. Did I put bicarbonate of soda on my hot dog?”

  I didn’t recall that he had and he settled it by remembering he didn’t have any with him.

  We made our way to the rendezvous with the Gods of battle.

  PART TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chapter 6

  It was about 8:20 PM. The deadly zero hour was rushing upon us.

  Bury and I alighted from a cab: it could not get any closer than a block away. We sped on foot toward our rendezvous with fate.

  Ahead were masses of vehicles. The black night was foggy blue with glowing lights. The Hudson River lay to our left hand like a plain of pitch.

  Bury was muttering, “Aircraft carrier, sixteen M-20 latest model battle tanks, assault rifles, bazookas . . . I hope we have assembled enough firepower to handle Madison. But one cannot actually tell. He’s tricky beyond belief!”

  We were going through police lines, squad cars blocking everyone off the coming battleground. A huge hulking figure barred our way. It was Police Inspector Grafferty.

  He looked closely at us and then he backed up with a smart salute. “I see it’s you, Mr. Bury. I had a notion it might be. No one else could take every squad car in New York off its patrols. Want us to look the other way at anything?”

  Bury was concentrated on getting through the squad cars and police mob and to our first destination. But he answered, “No, this is all legal tonight.”

  “Oh?” said Grafferty, honestly stunned with surprise.

  “It’s an international matter so don’t let your men get involved in anything but the traffic block. I wouldn’t want any Americans up before the International Court of Human Rights.”

  Grafferty agreed hastily. “No. They wouldn’t stand a chance on that one.”

  We got through. Ahead was what Bury wanted.

  Grouped in battle formation were sixteen M-20 tanks, hulking monsters, all polished up and ready for a show.

  Standing about them were their crews, all in dress uniforms, very British and smart.

  NATO pennons flew from their aerials and a huge NATO flag was staffed behind the turret of the lead one.

  It was a thrilling and martial sight!

  A brigadier in his dress uniform and beret, swagger stick tucked under his arm, came up. “I say, are you the chaps to whom we were told to report?” He gave his military mustache a twirl. There was obviously a question in his voice: possibly he had expected a high-ranking, bemedaled NATO general.

  I filled in the breach quickly. “This is Mr. Bury of Swindle and Crouch. He represents the Rockecenter interests.”

  Oh, my Lords! That brigadier came to a salute so stiff his arm vibrated and quivered. Without turning, he cried, “Crews, Ho-o! Sa-loot fohmahtion! Roy-yall!”

  There was a shattering hammer of boots upon the pavement. The mob turned into a tight, impressive formation behind him, every eye stiffly front, every body at tense attention.

  “Roy-all sa-loot! HUP!” cried the brigadier.

  Every hand rose as one in the most impressive salute I have ever seen.

  “TWO!” cried the brigadier. All hands and his own came down.

  “At yo’ ser-vice, SUH!” cried the brigadier and did a one-two-three-four foot stamp the way the British do.

  Bury stood there in his narrow, snap-brim, New York hat and civilian overcoat. He raised his right hand ever so slightly. “If you would call your officers,” he said, “we will have a consultation in camera.”

  On the brigadier’s crisp command, they were shortly clustered. They synchronized their watches. Bury took out an Octopus map of Manhattan. He issued orders so fast, it was a blur to me. He told them exactly what he wanted them to do.

  The brigadier barked. Crews of fifteen tanks raced to their monsters and with military precision, scrambled in.

  The brigadier produced a small walkie-talkie from his blouse. He barked orders into it by the number.

  With roaring, snarling engines, fifteen tanks surged ahead and rushed northward on Twelfth Avenue.

  The brigadier then courteously handed the walkie-talkie to Bury and with gestures and a salute, offered Bury the sixteenth tank.

  Presently, with the brigadier somewhere inside, with Bury standing in his little snap-brim hat in the open command turret and with me standing on an exterior tread cover, we began to roll slowly northward.

  There was a handhold on the turret side. I held on with some misgivings. But Bury had no misgivings. He was standing there in the turret, his Wall Street lawyer eyes alert to everything ahead, the walkie-talkie held in his left hand.

  We stealthily crept to a position about fifty feet short of the entrance to Pier Ninety-two. We stopped.

  To our left rolled the black river. Before us stretched the deserted street. And there was the silent lair of our quarry, the blackly gaping warehouse.

  Bury looked at his watch. We were in plenty of time. Bury looked down at me perched precariously on the tread cover. “Brilliant man, Hatchetheimer. He rapped off this plan, just like that. A masterpiece. I hope it works. Too bad he chose the wrong side more than three-quarters of a century ago. A loss to the world. Eighteen different countries want him as a war criminal. It makes it difficult to send him supplies for his terrorist activities. In the next half-hour, we’ll know the best or the worst. The loosing of the dogs of war is always a chancy thing. But ‘Cry havoc,’ I say. When the courts fail to return a favorable verdict, there is always the bazooka to decide the last event. You should remember that, Inkswitch. In your present position you have to get used to these times that try men’s souls. In minutes now, the case goes to the final judge and we either stand, weapon-shorn, before the last tribunal or we will have that god (bleeped) Madison safely in our clutches. The prosecution rests.”

  His attention was now fixed upon the center of the river and so I looked in that direction.

  Someone from below in the tank passed him up some infrared binoculars. He began to sweep the river with them.

  “Ah!” he said at last. He handed the binoculars to me.

  Speed launches! But they were not speeding. They were creeping into position out on the black water. They had USS Saratoga on them. There was some activity on the far side of them. I could not make it out.

  Bury looked at his watch. He took the glasses back and began to watch the end of Pier Ninety-two. Then suddenly he began to nod. He handed me the glasses.

  Out of the water, lines were shooting. Grapnels were clutching at the far edge of the pier.

  Then black figures were slithering out of the water, going quietly up the lines. They had assault rifles across their backs! And a bazooka!

  Bury took back the glasses. “Frogmen,” he said. “US Navy SEALS. The carrier must have had a contingent of them aboard. Clever Hatchetheimer!”

  He had evidently signaled the brigadier in the armored guts below. We rolled silently ahead, very slowly.

  “My main worry now,” said Bury, “is his god (bleeped) car. It’s an Excalibur. It’s a replica of a 1930 open touring phaeton, mostly chrome. But totally deceptive. Just like Madison. An Excalibur’s total machinery is as modern as a jet. Cadillac engine, biggest ever built. It can outrun this tank like a rabbi
t can outrun a turtle! Ah, I hope this works.”

  We had halted again. We were just beyond the south edge of the open door of Pier Ninety-two. It was dark where we were. I could see inside. Lights showed a sign at the far end:

  FREE ZONE!

  INTERNATIONAL TERRITORY!

  KEEP OUT!

  Cargoes could be unloaded into it and picked up without ever entering US Customs.

  A huge case, the kind you ship autos in, a big sign on it:

  EXPORT

  It bulked in the dimness at the extreme outward end. There seemed to be a frail, small figure advancing toward it. His mother! She had a lunch basket in her hand.

  One could not see any US Navy SEALS in the far darkness, but one knew they must be there, moving into position, getting ready, cocking and pointing weapons.

  Bury had his eye on his watch.

  Zero!

  With a stuttering roar a wall of savage flame burst out of the far dark! Automatic weapons! Deafening!

  I cringed down!

  My Gods, we were right in their line of fire!

  Bury was not ducking! What a brave man!

  To keep me from running, Bury barked at me, “Those are blanks. Stay still!”

  The rush, flash and roar of a bazooka! It wasn’t a blank! It hit the back side of the huge case!

  Above the shattering din, a car engine burst into a roar!

  The front of the box burst apart!

  The Excalibur hurtled out!

  The flame from the guns flashed upon its chrome exhausts!

  Blue flame was shooting out behind it!

  The frail woman went down! The lunch basket flew!

  The open touring phaeton roared toward us!

  The automatic weapon fire redoubled!