"Cotton picker nearly blew my ears off! That ain't no four-watt station!"
"Mercy, get that cotton-picking blunderbuss off the truckers' channel!"
"Break-a-break, leave the cotton picker alone. He be reaching down all the superslabs and pickin' ears all the way. Let's go Ten-twenty-three for the short-short."
"Break to that Ten-thirty-four breaker. You got the one Beaver Patrol at the malfunction junction at 285 south. We be idling here for beans and Z's, but we be wide awake now and on the side. Hurryin' Hoosier is in the pit and bringing up all the parked ears. It's the Beaver Patrol with a stationary convoy, standing by for that Ten-thirty-four."
"Break-a-break-a-break-break! It's the Georgia Cowboy again with that. Ten-thirty-four. Atlanta Rosebud Base please stand by for directional rebroadcast and let's get all the ears a-listening. All you cotton-picking eighteen-wheelers with trailers to or from the following depots, the Big B requests you run naked from wherever you are and leave the cotton-picking trailers in the grass. Here we go; stand by to copy; here comes the shit list. We got the Atlanta Cooperative Association, that's ACA. We got the Georgia Perfect Brewers. We got . . ."
Bolan turned off the radio and swiped at his eyes as he returned to the cabin.
"What's wrong?" Miss Superskate asked him. "Something in your eye?"
Yeah, Bolan had something in the eye.
He had pride in the eye, and affection, and genuine respect. They were some kind of guys. There would be money lost and hauls forfeited this night—but he had no doubt whatever that the embargo would work.
He thought of David Ecclefield and his remark about "joining the fraternity."
There were fraternities and then there were fraternities.
But this one, yeah, was some damned remarkable kind of fraternity—these knights of the road.
Damn yeah.
Break-a-break yeah.
They jointly agreed on a quiet motel nearby, and Bolan saw the ladies off, in the Corvette. Then he returned to his battle cruiser and tried the mobile phone combination to strike-force headquarters.
The guy was on the job and functioning, yeah, but testy and smarting like hell.
"How's the head?" Bolan asked him.
"Better than it has a right to be," young David snapped. "I never felt so goddamn foolish in my—"
"Save that for your old age, guy," Bolan advised. "There are still many games to be played. Sure you're okay?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. But what the hell have you got going down now in this town? The whole area seems to be in a state of panic: cops are running up and down the highways like tourists; trucks are sitting around all over the goddamn place; truck stops are all jammed and in an uproar; the whole damned town is—"
"Yeah, I know," Bolan said. "Turn on your citizens radio and you'll be in the know, too. Listen to me, first. It's the most remarkable damn thing since the discovery of electricity. You cops are missing a bet if you're not making use of this phenomenon. Pretty soon, friend, you're going to see semi trailers sitting on the grass along the interstates from coast to coast and from Canada to Mexico. If somebody's smart, they'll begin an immediate movement to tag, identify, and impound those abandoned trailers. They'll find hot merchandise of one kind or another in most of them."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute. What are we talking about, in terms of sheer numbers?"
"How would I know that, David? How many truckloads does it take to make a billion bucks a year worth of hot goods?"
"Steady traffic, I guess."
"Right. You're at the heart of the action, friend, so why don't you start making like a strike force? It's all in interstate commerce; it's your jurisdiction. Maybe you should get on the hot line and cue this thing around all over. It's a plum to make Sciaparelli look like small stuff. Get those trailers while they're all in the grass, David, and you'll break the back of this operation forever. They could never absorb the loss."
The Fed was evidently mulling that one over. "How'd you turn this?" he asked quietly.
"I didn't. My road buddies turned it. It's a game called break-a-break, like in cotton-picking eighteen-wheelers and super-slab jockeys. We simply released a shit list, David."
"I don't see how that could do what you're saying. Maximum range for those radios is fifteen to twenty miles, except in extraordinary conditions. I don't see—"
"It's called a Ten-five. In this case, a spontaneous relay. It's like a chain reaction. That shit list is probably already moving along the California highways."
"That is remarkable, yeah, if true."
"I believe it's true. I know a young lady who tried it once just to experiment. The message got back to her a bit garbled in places, but she assures me it made the round trip to Los Angeles in three hours."
"I can beat the hell out of that by telephone," the Fed commented dryly.
"Sure, but you can't hit every city and hamlet along the way."
"Maybe you've got something, mister. Okay. I'll send the alert. If what you say is true, though, I shouldn't have to. The local Smokies will already be onto it. They monitor the CB, you know."
Bolan chuckled soberly and said, "Yeah, I'm counting on it. But someone may as well get official credit. Get your thing on the wire, friend. It will relieve some of the sting of your recent loss."
"I'm not in it for credits," Ecclefield replied stiffly.
Bolan said, "They help when you're going in for budget dollars, guy."
"See what you mean. There are many games to play, aren't there? I guess I'm learning."
Bolan said, "You bet you are. I'll be in touch."
He hung up and immediately put the warwagon in motion. It was time to seal the action. The pressure was bound to erupt somewhere, and soon.
And Bolan thought that he may just know where.
19: Hammer Down
.
The town was in an uproar, all right. Every cop in the metro area must have been on duty, and in vehicles, and patrolling the interstates and arterial surface routes. Bolan knew for a fact, also, that most of those vehicles were equipped with CB receivers and that official ears were monitoring everything that went down on the truckers' channel. He would have to safe that with all possible caution.
Decatur was a rather typical small Southern town at the eastern edge of Atlanta. The situation here was much calmer, although Bolan found the "bears" patrolling in abnormal numbers even in this area.
He found the address without difficulty and also found the beautiful old black man awaiting him at the door.
"Is it Mr. Frankie?"
"It's me, Henry. I'm looking for Sciaparelli."
The old man chuckled. "You should have been here ten minutes quicker, suh. You could have saved Henry fifty dollars."
"He was here?"
"Sho' was. Taxicab carried him. He look like the death, Mr. Frankie. Borrowed all the money I had and took the car."
"What kind of car?"
"Blue-and-white Chevrolet, but the blue has turned mostly gray. I forget the year—must be '65 or '66. Henry's getting too old to be driving, anyway. How is Miss Susan and Miss Jennifer, suh?"
"Keep the home fires burning, Henry. They'll both be coming back very soon. Miss Jennifer said to give you seventy-threes, whatever that is."
The old man beamed and said, "That girl is a sight."
"Do you have any idea where Sciaparelli was headed?"
"No, suh. He just say it's an important appointment. He look like the very death, suh. He didn't say where; he just say urgent. I guess he knew those gentlemen were chasing him "
"Which gentlemen?"
"They was going around one corner while you came around the other, suh. Two new cars just loaded down. I 'spect Henry would feel urgent, too, Mr. Frankie, with those gentlemen looking for him "
Professionals, yeah, real professionals. Those guys would not miss a trick—and it was going to be a footrace for sure, to see who would be the first to catch the guy—Bolan or the headhunters.
&nb
sp; And it was part of the "class" of this old man to impart the information in just that way. Bolan understood that. Henry was well aware of what was going down.
"I been listening about you on the television, Mr. Frankie." He chuckled. "They don't call you that name, of co'se."
Bolan chuckled with him. "Thanks, Henry. I appreciate the information. I meant it, about the girls. They'll be home soon."
"Thank you, suh."
Bolan returned to his vehicle and made tracks away from there.
He was in a furious debate with himself, in a security sense, as he rolled back through the Decatur business district, then lost the argument when he saw the city-police car parked at the main intersection.
"How 'bout that local yokel at the curb," he tried, on nineteen.
He saw the guy lean toward the mike. "Yeeeaah, what you got there, citizen?"
"You know Henry Jackson? Black man about seventy or seventy-five?"
"Sure, I know Henry. What's he done?"
"He loaned his car out and I'm trying to find it for him. Did you see it go by here?"
"About ten minutes ago, yeah. White man at the wheel. Is it hot?"
"No, it's a family friend in the car, but Henry needs it back right quick. I just thought I'd look around, for him."
"Looked like he was headed for 285. You want me to do something about it?"
"Naw, thanks. I guess you guys already got your hands full, huh?"
"Full you never heard of before, citizen. I'm Ten-twenty-three; have a good day."
The cop had been eyeballing Bolan throughout that conversation. The light changed and the war-wagon cruised on. Bolan waved at the guy as he passed. The cop waved back.
It was a small tip in a very general direction. Interstate 285 was the bypass route around the Atlanta congested area. With a ten or so minute lead, the guy could be anywhere. By now, he could be running north or south, east or west, on any of a number of wheel-spoke routes.
There was but one option for Bolan. Bears with ears or not, he had to go for broke on this one. Urgent business awaited his attention in the far north; he could dally in Dixie no longer.
As he approached the interstate, Bolan thumbed the mike and gave it a what-the-hell shout. "I need some eyes on 285."
"We got a Ten-thirty-three in progress, good buddy. Please stay off the channel."
"This is part of it," Bolan came back. "I need an eyeball on a blue-and-white Chivvy, '65 or '66 model, white male at the wheel as lone occupant, last reported out of Decatur heading toward 285."
A third guy jumped in. "Don't answer that cotton picker! He's a Smoky!"
"Negatory on that Smoky," Bolan came back. "This is the Big B, guy, and I need help. Get me an eyeball on that Chivvy."
"Mercy me. What do I do? What do you think he is?"
It was another sort of friend-or-foe dilemma. The road buddies were suspecting an entrapment. They thought that Bolan was looking for Bolan.
He hit the ramp heading north and moved into the flow of traffic. Cops were wall to wall, up here. He pulled abreast of the cab of an eighteen-wheeler and lightly tapped his horn. The trucker glanced his way. Bolan shook the mike at the guy and started talking.
"This is the Big B and I need an eyeball on the Chivvy. Please do not identify my vehicle on the air. Will you help me?"
The guy was grinning wall to wall, and the mike was in his hand at Bolan's final word. "Mercy, I just eyeballed the Big B while he talked at me, and for sure he's not in no blue-and-white Chivvy. Hey, you cotton-pickers, give the man a hand. We want an eyeball on a '65 or '66 blue-and-white Chivvy. The driver is white and male. Let's take it way out and bring it on back. Come on; we waiting; we on the side."
One of the cops to the rear must have thought he had something in sight. His gum-ball machine began flashing, and he went around Bolan with the hammer to the ground.
The trucker, now at Bolan's rear, declared, "Mercy me! Mr. Smoky done found something."
The channel was in chaos as breakers all along that circular route began relaying the eyeball request. As quickly as it began, though, the chaos ended. In the distance, faint breakers could be heard "taking it way out," but there were no strong, close-by signals to disturb local communications.
The guy behind him called up, "Good luck, Mr. B. Give 'em hell."
Bolan risked a brief, "Yeah, thanks. You too." The guy laughed into his mike and said, "Mr. Bis an okay guy, cotton-pickers. Treat him right. Let's have that eyeball. Bring it on to the Delta Dynamo; we waiting; we on the side."
It was coming back along the other side of the circle, now. Bolan could discern through the chattering low-level interference the faintly excited report as it was passed and picked up and passed again and again.
A ten-minute lead should have meant a ten-mile separation, give or take a few. The normal CB range was about ten miles, except in difficult terrain. There, the side of a mountain could block a signal entirely. Sometimes the range was no better than a mile, less than that in unique situations. So there was no way of knowing what to expect from the gamble. But Bolan was expectant. And the reward was now working its way back to him He heard it in relay, faint and far away.
"Ten-thirty-four eyeball, it's running 285 west across the Sandy Springs exit."
The guy behind him boomed in: "Did you hear that twenty, Mr. B? That's at the top of the circle. His next sharp move could be to 75 north or south."
"Ten-four and thanks," Bolan clipped back.
"He got it, cotton-pickers. The B sends a big Ten-four. Keep that eyeball working. Let's see how it runs past 75."
The thing was set in motion. Bolan would not even need to touch his transmitter again. The eyeball watch would maintain itself.
It could, of course, mean everything or nothing. It did not have to be the same vehicle. Bolan trusted the seasoned road eyes of the truckers, but blue-and-white Chevrolets were anything but rare—and, particularly in this section of the country, the older models were still very much in evidence.
And even if it were the right vehicle, those Smoky Bears out there were undoubtedly listening with great interest to the search. They would have their own eyeballs working the problem and they would be setting up a dog watch on that blue-and white Chivvy, just waiting for the Big B to move on it.
Things were never hopeless, however. Mack Bolan had learned to quit questioning the movements of the universe. He could only play each move as it came and give his damnedest to it. He could not fore think beyond that.
But, of course, he did have access to other resources.
He consulted an automated display at his remote console to double check the local police radio frequencies, then set the scanners and threw the system on audio monitor. The console lights flickered as the scan began, and a new game was launched.
The Smokies were not the only ones with eavesdrop capability.
He told his trailing road buddy, "Bye-bye, Delta, we down, we thankful, we gone," as he put that hammer down and gave the cruiser her head.
The game was not yet lost.
20: Convoy
The chase led north, precisely back along the way he had travelled earlier to Decatur, reversing now onto 1-75 and hell-bent for Marietta.
He was only about two miles south of the Marietta marker when an urgent report was passed on a police frequency, indicating that the track was leaping westward at that point. A moment later, the same "eyeball" came down on the CB channel. The police frequencies then came alive with a flurry of new instructions and reassignments. The movement was now north on U.S. 41 out of Marietta.
Bolan was feeding the automated map display for the Marietta region when a familiar sound drifted through his CB speaker, a soft and whispery modulation caressing the break. It was a female voice that sounded like candlelight and wine, silk sheets and sweet scents, and hell, there was no mistaking it.
"You big guys on 1-75 make a girl feel very secure. I'm running on north toward the choo-choo city and hoping to find good com
pany along the way. It's the Superskate Lady looking for a back door. Bring it on back, honey."
A couple of guys jumped in quick, one of them harshly scolding "that cotton-picking flaky beaver, breaking the Ten-thirty-three," but Bolan immediately recognized that one, also. It belonged to a Georgia cowboy.
"Take it down to seven, flaky breaker, if you gotta talk," the cowboy said in his concluding remarks.
Bolan quickly switched to Channel seven and made the break. "I'll talk to the lady breaker," he said. "Come on, sweetness."
"Hi, superstud. Want to back-door me on up the superslab?"
Bolan asked, "How far you going, doll?"
"As far as you'd like to go, big man. Just follow the little red car."
Bolan told her, "Just try to shake me, sexy lady."
He was both glad and mad: mad because Miss Superskate was supposed to be safely tucked away in a cool motel for the duration of hostilities; glad because the good buddies had evidently tumbled to his problem and had stepped in to lend a hand.
The police chase had been diverted onto Route 41, by one device or another. Bolan suspected that a dummy vehicle had been rung in on them. The cops would hardly divert by CB reports alone. They had methods of their own and would not be easily thrown off by bogus radio signals.
By whatever device, the cops were running off on a tangent and Bolan had been discretely advised of the true track. So, yeah, he was plenty glad.
"Do you have me in sight, big man?" asked the sultry lady.
"Negatory. What's your twenty?"
"Just passed the Marietta marker. You're going to stay with me now, aren't you?"
"Ten-four, I'm about a mile behind and closing. Do we have a convoy?"
The cowboy came in to say, "Big Ten-four on that convoy. You've got the one Shaky Jake at the front door with the hammer down. Bring it on. We got it clean and green; not a bear anywhere and nothing ahead but a ship on the horizon."
The guy was playing it nice and cool, perfectly so. He'd changed his handle to offset identification from that very warm other channel—and that "nothing but a ship" coder could mean only the Ship.
Executioner 027 - Dixie Convoy Page 12