Executioner 027 - Dixie Convoy

by Pendleton, Don

  She put the mike down and told Bolan, "Punch it. You're clean."

  He said, "So I gathered." But he was giving the 'Vette all the "punch" he wanted her to have. "We have plenty of time."

  "Chicken," she said playfully, "you didn't like my radio personality either, did you?"

  He shrugged and told her, "It must sound great on the other end."

  "It's just a fun game," she said, turning away from him to stare soberly at the windshield.

  "Hey—it's your radio and your car," he told her soothingly. "You don't need my approval."

  "That's right, I don't. Nor anyone else's. But what's wrong with it? Tell me. It's a game, and everyone knows it's a game. Why, I could never talk to a man like that, face to face. I'd bust out laughing if I tried. But this way, see—it's anonymous. The handle is just another form of alias. And that's what makes it fun. Do you use the CB much?"

  "Not much," Bolan replied.

  "Then that's why you don't understand."

  "I understand," he protested feebly.

  "No, you don't." She seemed to feel the need to vindicate her point—or perhaps herself. "I have a theory. I believe it reveals the basic nature of man."

  "What does?" he idly inquired.

  "The CB phenomenon. It is, you know. A phenomenon. I mean, in CB-land, it's nothing but good buddies everywhere. Everybody is kind and friendly, outgoing, helpful, and warm. I used to wonder about it. I used to think that only the best people had CB radios, because they were all like that. Then one day I had the shock of my life. I discovered that one of my good road buddies was the same horrible old man who lives down the street from me. I mean, he is a pill-grumpy, crabby, chases little kids off his lawn—just a horrible old beast. But, oh what a lover he is on the CB. Not just to me. It doesn't have anything to do with me. He's like that to everybody when he's in his car and talking to them on the radio. You know what his handle is? It's Pussy Cat. And that's just what he is, really, a pussy cat. He can reveal himself, see, on the radio—his true self—because nobody knows that he doubles as the Beast of Paces Ferry Road."

  "That's your theory, eh?"

  "In a nutshell, yes. Everyone would prefer to be kind and cheerful and friendly. That's the basic instinct. We assume nasty roles in life for various reasons that I'm sure the psychologists could explain. But when we can hide behind a handle, see, and we're nothing but a voice on a radio—nobody really knows who we are, see—then we have no use for the nasty role and we can just be our natural friendly selves. It's sort of like what you were saying about sleight of hand, except reversed."

  Bolan said, "That's interesting. I'll think about it."

  "Sex is the same way."

  It caught him a bit off guard. He said, "What?" for lack of anything else to say.

  "Sex is best when it's anonymous."

  He chuckled. "Well, I couldn't say. I've never tried that. Have you?"

  A bit defiantly, she replied, "Yes, I have."

  That was apparently all she had to say about it for the moment, and Bolan did not care to probe the subject—at the moment.

  They observed a silence until the airport lights came into view.

  "There you are," she said. "Take the next exit." He said, "Thanks."

  "Don't mention it. Do you have a CB handle?" He replied, "I guess not."

  "I could give you one. I'll bet it should be Superstud."

  Bolan said, "Thanks."

  "Don't mention it. Why are we going to the airport?"

  "I need to eyeball a head party."

  "What?"

  He explained, "Some people are coming down here to collect my head. I want to see who they are."

  She said, "Maybe not."

  "What?"

  "My theory. Maybe it doesn't apply to everyone equally."

  "Which theory, now, are we retracting?"

  "Both of them. I'll wait and see. I'll check you later."

  Bolan grinned and pulled onto the airport exit.

  The conversation with the lady had developed hardly any intelligence. But there would be time enough for that, later. The important thing, for the moment, was that a relationship of some confidence—however frivolous—had been established between himself and the sister-in-law of the boss of Atlanta.

  And, yeah, it was getting to be a hell of an interesting war.

  7: Eyeballed

  It was among the busiest airports in the country, sure, but there was very little bustle in any airport at this hour of the day. Bolan drifted along with the thin movement of people until he spotted a security cop. He grabbed the guy and manoeuvred him into a corner where he flashed an I.D. wallet as he announced, "I'm on short time and I need some quick info. Where would a private jet, a big jet, be likely to unload passengers?"

  The cop gave him a dumb look. "You'd have to check with the airlines," he replied.

  "I said private jet, guy. Where do they off-load the non-commercial flights?"

  "Hell, I don't—why don't you check with the office?"

  "Who's in charge of the shift?" Bolan snapped impatiently.

  "Captain Newly—Jim Newly—you take the—it's next floor down; go on around the corner and—"

  "I'll find it," Bolan growled. He studied the guy's badge in a rather deliberating fashion then dropped his voice to a low pitch to say: "Between us Indians, what do you think about Newly? Could I count on his cooperation for a Federal bust? I'm going to need help, and there's no time to get it elsewhere."

  The cop was hung somewhere between a smile and a frown. "Blow on his gun," he replied quietly. "He'll lead you anywhere."

  "Eager beaver, huh?"

  "That's putting it mildly."

  Bolan squeezed the guy's shoulder and went on, time was running away, and there was nothing to do now but follow the play. He found the security office at ten minutes before the hour. A couple of uniformed officers were checking notices on a bulletin board, and a young lady in a coffee-stained blouse was working at an open file cabinet. The door to an inner office stood open, revealing a guy in a rumpled wash-and-wear suit having coffee and doughnuts over the morning newspaper.

  Bolan sized the guy as he went on past the uniforms and walked into the office. He was somewhere on the sunny side of forty, medium height and build—a bit soft around the edges maybe but a face like a domesticated wolf.

  Yeah, maybe.

  "You Newly?" he asked, as the guy took note of his presence.

  "That's me. What'll you have?"

  Bolan opened the I.D. wallet and held it at shoulder level. "Mackey, Treasury," he identifiedhimself, closing the wallet and returning it to his pocket in one deft motion. "Don't get up—one quick request." He handed the guy a slip of paper. "It's a private jet, arriving from New York. Should be in the airport control zone right now. I'd like to know where she'll be off-loading her passengers."

  "That should be easy," the guy said. He reached for his phone and called the control tower, chatted for a moment, then hung up and casually passed the information on to his visitor. "What else will you have, uh, uh ..."

  "Mackey."

  "Right."

  Bolan seemed to be wavering over some decision. He said, "Well, it's just a routine surveillance. If you have a couple of men to spare, though, for a few minutes—uh, I'm not expecting any trouble but—uh, well, maybe just in case."

  The cop grinned and got to his feet. "No problem at all," he assured the visitor. "I'll go along, too. What'd you say your name is again?"

  Bolan told him again.

  "Right. Want a doughnut, Mackey?"

  Boland politely declined the hospitality.

  "Guess we better get going then," the cop said. He took his coffee with him and collected the two uniformed officers as he moved through the outer office.

  Once started, the guy was a fast mover. Bolan fell into step beside him and said, "I appreciate this, Newly."

  "Forget it. It's my territory. I wouldn't want anything going down without my look-see, anyway. Right?"


  "Right," Bolan soberly agreed with the eager beaver.

  "What is going down, Mackey? No bullshit, now. What is it?"

  Bolan was being very restrained about the whole thing. "We just want a make on those passengers," he assured the guy.

  "Yeah, bullshit," the guy replied to that."I asked you what is going down. What division of Treasury are you with? And don't say Secret Service because I can spot those guys from the end of a long runway."

  Bolan grinned and confided in the guy: "There's, uh, this very hot war, you know, in Ireland."

  Yeah With this guy, it wasn't what you said but what you didn't say. He had a quick mind, and it moved instantly to its own conclusion.

  "Guns, huh. You saying they're trying to move them through this airport?"

  Bolan kept the restraint intact. "I didn't say that, Newly. But there's a connection here, yeah—we're sure of that."

  "You want me to provide some muscle—here and now? Why not? We should have a look inside that plane."

  Already it was "we."

  "Nothing that obvious, no, not at this stage of the thing, Newly. Of course, while I'm eyeballing them, if you should happen to note a local violation of some sort ..."

  The guy had already taken the hook and now he was about to swallow it.

  "Just who are these people, Mackey? No bullshit, now. It's my airport, and I have a right to know what's moving through it. What's moving through my airport, Mackey?"

  They had arrived at the designated area. This part of the terminal was utterly deserted. A large window overlooked an aircraft ramp and service area; a metal door beside the window provided access. They were at ground level.

  "Will they be coming through that door?" Bolan inquired.

  "No. They'll exit to this side and walk around the tail of the plane to that other building. You didn't answer me, Mackey. Who are they?"

  "It's a mob operation, Newly."

  The guy was very impressed with that bit of news. He looked at his two uniformed officers with a quick grin and declared, "That's fair game, isn't it?"

  "It works both ways," Bolan suggested. "Don't try these guys, Newly."

  "How many people are we talking about?"

  "A bunch," Bolan assured him. "We think they're attending a regional meet."

  The guys eyes went to full red alert. The voice was low and controlled, though, as he said, "It figures. Have you heard about the wingding just north of here last night?"

  Bolan quietly replied, "Oh, yeah. We heard."

  The airport cop took a transistor radio from a belt clip and began calling for reinforcements.

  Bolan said, half angrily, "What the hell are you doing?"

  "Back off, T-Man," Newly growled back. "It's my airport and my responsibility to control it. You do your job and I'll do mine. And maybe I'll be doing yours for you. You came out to get an eye ball. Okay. Maybe I'll give you a good long one. How would you like to have fingerprints and the whole smear?"

  "You'll have egg on your face, Newly!"

  "So I love eggs; I'm crazy about them!" the cop snarled. "Stay out of my way, Mackey, and out of my hair!"

  The company plane was now in view, moving smoothly along the taxiway toward the unloading area.

  Uniformed cops were running in from every direction, and a couple of cars with flashing lights were on an intersecting course with the plane.

  Very quietly, Bolan told the hip-shooter, "This is all on your head, Newly. Unless you call off that horde of plastic cops, I have no option but to withdraw completely. I mean it."

  "I'll show you plastic cops," Newly growled. He began issuing crisp instructions through the radio—placing his men, setting it up.

  The guy may have been an eager sucker for a Bolan con job, but there was no taking it away from him—he knew his business. He went outside, still working at the radio, as the plane rolled to a halt.

  Bolan grinned, lit a cigarette, and took his ringside observation station at the big window.

  There would be no shoot-out here, Bolan was positive of that. The enemy knew their business, also—and it did not involve senseless gun battles with airport security cops. Not these boys, anyway. They would suffer the indignities and bulldoze their way clear with legal finesse, not with fireworks.

  The hassle, though, would take away their cutting edge for a while, imbalance their fine footwork, and perhaps provide Bolan with a crack to work on.

  He stood at his post and watched the Newly Patrol do their job as the debarkation of a head party began.

  The first guy down was packing a piece under his coat. Bolan mentally photographed that face and carefully watched the body language as the torpedo was roughly seized and frisked. Aloof from it all, yeah, above it—cool and self-possessed, a true pro from the head shed—quietly submitting with frozen face and uncommitted eyes.

  At twenty minutes past six, twenty-two carbon copies of the guy had been "processed" on the ground, and a couple of cops had entered the aircraft in search of more.

  Newly stepped inside and approached Bolan with a forgiving grin. "What, you still here, T-Man? I thought you had withdrawn."

  "You run a slick bust, Newly," Bolan complimented him. "Now what?"

  "Now nothing," the cop said airily. "They're all carrying court credentials and gun permits. Can you beat it? A Federal judge gave those torpedoes a license to kill. I'm going to search the cargo hold, just the same, and I'm going to document every damn thing I see. Come by the office tomorrow. I'll have copies made up for you."

  "Do that," Bolan said. His eyes had not left the window.

  "What are you waiting for?"

  "Someone's missing," Bolan told him. "The top dog hasn't come out yet."

  It was at that moment that Bolan spotted his man, just then emerging from the plane, sandwiched between two uniformed cops.

  A total stranger, yeah, but a black ace as surely as though an identifying label had been sewn to his coat lapel. The make was there in the stance, the way he moved, the cut of the clothes, the way the eyes focused nowhere but obviously saw everything.

  Gazes clashed, nevertheless, at the window for a brief instant, and Bolan knew that a double make, of sorts, had been made in that moment.

  "There's your guy, Newly," he said icily. "Run him through your grinder and don't miss a thing.

  Find out who he really is, and you'll never forget this day."

  The cop's gaze was travelling curiously back and forth between the man outside and the one inside, beside him. There was puzzlement there, in that gaze, growing gradually and trying to crystallize into some deeper understanding.

  Bolan respected the guy too, much to play him longer. He shook hands, said, "Good work, guy," and went quickly away from there.

  The war for Atlanta was heating up.

  Bolan needed to set his army and establish his lines before the enemy could outmanoeuvre him. He needed to do some scouting and develop some hard intelligence before the same-side soldiers closed off all his avenues. And he needed to fulfil the expectations of a couple of non-combatants who, unless he moved very carefully, could nevertheless become grim casualties of the conflict.

  He returned to the hot Corvette and told the sexy lady, "Okay, Miss Superskate, grab your radio.

  “Now it's time to punch it."

  Oh, yeah. It had become a very interesting war.

  8: Of Friends and Foes

  The new chief of the Federal strike force in Georgia may have been a bit young for the position, but none of his older and more experienced people had found cause to challenge his weight for the job. Sharp of mind and quick of step, David Ecclefield was a public servant who would neither allow moss to collect beneath his body nor cobwebs to gather inside his skull. And he was tough, yes—a very tough cop who would not be easily swerved aside by technicalities peculiar to his profession.

  All the same, it had been a frustrating assignment for "Young David" since his arrival in the Peachtree State. During a recent conference with his
superiors in Washington, he had thumped the table with exasperation while "educating the Wonderland Wizards" into the problems of crime-fighting in the new South.

  "Forget all that stuff!" he'd told them angrily. "This isn't the 'way-down-South land of cotton' we're talking about here! Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler are a hundred years in the past. The city of Atlanta today has a black mayor. The metropolitan population is ranked with the top twenty of the country. It's the industrial capital of the Southeast, a major distribution hub, and cultural center of the whole damned South.

  "It's not the home of Uncle Remus and ol' boll weevil—not anymore. It's now the home of Hank Aaron and the Atlanta Braves—not to mention the NFL Falcons, the NBA Hawks, and the NHL Flames. It's big city, gentlemen—a swinging town and entirely sophisticated. The area has more than a thousand manufacturing plants. And diversification? Try airplanes and fertilizers, automobiles and processed foods, steel and paper, chemicals and furniture. The city is served by three major interstate highways. It boasts one of the five busiest airports in the nation. There are three daily newspapers and thirty-eight radio and TV stations. It's a financial center, home of a Federal Reserve district bank. The national Disease Control Center is headquartered there. It is one hell of a complicated, complex, booming area. That's why the mob is there. Do you imagine that they came for ham hocks and grits?

  "The Atlanta metro area alone is made up of fifteen different counties and God knows how many small towns. Can you appreciate how many individual police agencies are tied into a hodgepodge like that? I don't have enough men to watch the cops! What the hell am I supposed to do with a handful of Federal agents and a couple of legal eagles? Why ask me why the crime patterns are enlarging? Take a look at your own statistics. On the Uniform Crime Index, Atlanta sits squarely between New York City and Washington. How many Federal cops do you have here in Washington? How many in New York?"

  Quite a speech, sure—daring if not exactly brilliant. It had brought him nothing but frowns, excuses, and vague promises. There would be no help from Washington. Those people up there had their own problems—very unique problems, as it were. The bureau had never been under heavier fire, from more diverse quarters. The entire Department of Justice was sinking into low profile. All the heads were simply trying to maintain the status quo now. The call everywhere was for less Federal government, not for more. So how could a lowly strike-force honcho from the Southland expect to get much more than unofficial sympathy, excuses, and vague promises.