“Where’s the knife?” Sam demanded.
“Spring release in the forearm.”
“Nice trick.”
Schiller glanced at the guard sprawled on the floor, his forehead split open, bleeding profusely. The girl hurried to his side. “I’m sorry about that,” Schiller said. “He looks like a good man.”
“Forget it,” Sam told him. “You taught him a good lesson. He’s supposed to be the best. I’m curious, though. With your qualifications, how come you play teacher to a cripple?”
Steve wondered if he should take offense, decided not to. He knew enough already to recognize a test. And Marty was doing beautifully on his own.
To answer Sam, Schiller stood up slowly. “The trousers. Pull them up.” He saw the wary look in the eyes of the other man. “No sweat. I stand still.”
Sam leaned down from his seat to raise the trouser legs and reveal legs made of steel and bolts and nuts and plastic.
‘Lost them in Nam,” Schiller said. “Land mine.” He waited until Sam resumed his seat, then went back to his own chair.
“What about the head?” Sam asked.
“Shrapnel. Chewed away the top of the head. Steel plate up there. Special cushioning. The top of the skull, just beneath the hair, is steel-knobbed.”
“You’re a real sweetheart.” He studied both men. “In fact, the two of you make quite a pair.”
“We may even get married someday,” Steve told him.
Sam almost smiled. “You two got more tin between you than a sheet metal factory. Austin, here, he flies like he’s got an angel up his tail. And you, Schiller, in a few seconds have just dumped a man who once killed seven—seven—men who hit him all at the same time. You two ought to rent out for bedtime stories. What are your plans now?” he asked them.
“That’s pretty much in your hands, I’d say. The way it looks from here, it’s your party. I mean,” Steve said, “from what we’ve seen, the Phantom and the MiG, that old Charley Fifty-Four and this bird, the base facilities, that comsat tie-in beneath the tents . . . it looks to be quite a set-up.”
“What about me?” Sam said. “You got any ideas?”
“SAC? For starters.”
Sam chewed his lip. “Not bad. You can tell me more later. We’re on the way in now. By the way, don’t sweat about air piracy charges. It’s been worked out. Libya has granted both of you political asylum. Your 707 is already on the way back to the States, flown by a picked crew, and is being returned undamaged to Pan American. You’re off the hook—unless, of course, you’re ever dumb enough to go back to the States.”
“You’re something else, Sam,” Steve said.
“We aim to please. You ever get to Sardinia in your travels?”
“No.”
“Take a look outside. You’re about to discover it.”
CHAPTER 11
Whatever they had seen at Goddua in the African desert was modest compared to the sprawling immensity of the base on Sardinia that spread before Steve this night—and not only was nothing hidden, full attention was being called to the presence of the huge installation.
They flew a wide pattern about the airfield, and Steve’s practiced eye took in the long runways, the veinous spread of taxiways, the rows of hangars, and an incredible dispersion of supporting buildings and facilities. As they taxied from the runway Steve had full opportunity to see hangars capable of holding a Boeing 707 in their capacious interior. That meant enormous engineering, and he found himself looking for telltale signs. They were there, all brilliantly illuminated: power stations and substations, thick cabling, antenna, fuel farms, fleets of trucks and stations with crash vehicles, special buildings surrounded with barbed wire and armed guards, security police cruising the area . . . all elements of a huge base. Within a taxiing distance of about a mile Steve was able to make out the forms of several hundred airplanes.
Not even the night, broken as it was by hundreds of bright lights, could disguise the extraordinary number and diversity of airplanes. Fighters, bombers, transports, antisubmarine warfare planes, trainers, executive jets, old cargo ships. They taxied past a huge maintenance hangar, where Steve saw fighters with Italian markings, French markings, American, and with other insignia he couldn’t identify.
He glanced ahead of their plane. An island of light pushed away the darkness and as they came closer he saw several hangars with floodlights around them—and row on row of jets, including at least twenty or more 707 and DC-8 models. Each hangar bore a huge sign that read PENTRONICS, INC.
They were advertising? This same outfit that had showed up out of nowhere with an American and a Russian fighter, that bounced along the desert in an old C-54, that concealed its modern computer-run communications beneath tents, that ran executive jets was now revealed in floodlighted splendor. They couldn’t be hiding anything—what they had here could be seen and photographed in detail not only by a high-flying reconnaissance snooper but by the Samos satellites as well. And you don’t run up a towering electric bill trying to be inconspicuous.
He reviewed his conversations with Jackson McKay and Oscar Goldman . . . “It takes an organization to carry out what’s happening. A big organization that reaches around the entire world. The key to their operations is the very nature of their organization.”
This Pentronics outfit could actually be what they had been talking about only theoretically. An open operation. You couldn’t hide something this big, and why bother? Out there, rolling past them as they taxied, was an operation known throughout all of Europe and the rest of the world, for that matter. Pentronics was the outfit that had cornered the bulk of maintenance, overhaul, repair and modification to the air fleets of NATO.
The Grumman parked in front of an operations building, and they found a station wagon waiting for them. Standing for a moment on the outside step, Steve made out at a distance, in a compound isolated from other activity on the field, several English Electric Lightnings—among the best fighters turned out for the Royal Air Force—all of them with missile armament, as if on combat alert.
The variety of aircraft and their national origins seemed appropriate for an organization that did much of NATO’s modification and overhaul work. Likewise for just about everything else, including ground security. But not so for interceptors on combat alert. Steve would have offered odds those Lightnings were not flown by RAF pilots, nor had anything to do with the RAF.
All about him sprawled an enormous organization. But it was public knowledge. It was known to the NATO governments. Obviously it was also well known to the Russians and their allies as well. No secret outlaw operation there.
But what if you functioned as an organization within an organization? An international criminal organization at home inside and behind a known legitimate one.
You needed jet fighters. Pentronics dealt with hundreds of jet fighters, and who was to stand around counting noses? You needed huge jet transports. Okay, the field was filled with them, and you couldn’t tell what was inside an airplane by looking at it parked on the ramp. You needed an operational system through the main airways and byways of the world. Excellent. Pentronics was the parent outfit, and within or at least under the control of Pentronics you had subsidiary organizations that dealt with cargo and charter flights, with aerial survey work, with pipeline and other activity, with photography and rental and special service operations.
And the best way to keep something secret is to wave it under the noses of everyone looking for it so hard they’ll never see what they’re looking for.
Steve in a brief glance had already seen enough to paint much of the picture (of course, he knew enough to look for it). The MiG-21 and the Phantom, the activity in the desert, the swift flight to this base on Sardinia, and above all, the obvious strength and command of Sam . . . Steve knew that McKay and Goldman would have liked to have seen for themselves. But they would also have been pleased things were beginning to shape up as planned.
As for himself, from here in it woul
d be freelance, move with the tide, until . . . He went with Marty and Sam into the vehicle waiting by the airplane. They drove quickly along a winding road columned with trees. He almost laughed to himself, realizing he suspected even tree trunks and branches, especially if artificial, of housing surveillance systems, including closed-circuit television, as well as means of stopping any vehicle dead in its tracks—an unobtrusive security web.
They drove through a high archway into a courtyard framed by thick concrete walls. Steel gates closed behind them. A tall dark man in a business suit was waiting for them. Steve caught the name Kali in the brief exchange between Sam and the stranger. He judged him to be an Arab, or from somewhere in the Mediterranean area. The building they entered was solid as a fortress, essentially a steel-and-concrete cube. From the look of air and exhaust systems Steve suspected he was in the equivalent of an iceberg, with only the tip of the building visible to the eye. They walked along several corridors, went through doors of thick bulletproof glass, were checked by unseen observers and electronic systems.
Finally they entered a luxuriously appointed apartment. The tall Arab (if that’s what he was) left. Sam went to a bar, asked their choice, poured drinks. Steve glanced at the expansive living room, noted that it had no windows. Sam took a long pull at straight Scotch, motioned them to seats. No more preliminaries now.
“We’ve been checking you out,” he said. “We need good men. You two seem to fit, each in your own way. Interested?”
“That . . . that depends,” Steve said slowly. Slowly? He could hardly talk. He turned his head to Schiller and found the movement required enormous effort. What the hell? Were their drinks drugged? He found himself staring at Marty, beginning to speak, but the words seemed impossibly heavy, refused to come past his lips.
“Don’t try to talk”—the sound came from an impossible distance. “If you think you’ve been given a drug, you’re right. I’m amazed you’re still conscious. The drug, by the way, isn’t in your drink. It’s a gas and I’ve been immunized against it. Your friend is out cold. The drug is harmless. In about two hours it will wear off. You should . . .”
The words began to echo until they became a jangling reverberation. His eyesight began to fade. It all seemed familiar. Like pulling too many g’s in a fighter. Or a centrifuge. The instructors explanation at the time . . . Blood drains away from the head. Eyes need blood the most, gray out when blood begins to drain away . . . You can black out while you’re still conscious, you’re awake but without blood and oxygen to the eyes they lose vision . . . And he had only one eye and it was all very damned familiar. He was paralysed. Like pulling all those g’s in the tank going around and around. The gray was going darker when he saw a door open across the room. Figures in white moved into his line of vision, wavered and then melted into a single blob of whiteness that swiftly darkened and—
CHAPTER 12
He lay quietly, eyes closed, not moving. He was strapped down, legs, arms, midsection. He put some strain into his neck. Locked solid. He thought of using the extraordinary strength of his bionics legs and left arm to tear loose. What good would it do?
None, except to demonstrate his own stupidity. He doubted if they’d caught on to the unusual power harnessed in his body. Why waste what might be a critical advantage? He opened his eyes, eye . . . even if it seems to be two eyes . . . stared straight ahead. Side vision was limited because of the head restraints to what was visible by moving his eye within the confines of its socket.
He saw men and women in white hospital gowns. Strapped down, a bright light directly overhead, figures in hospital gowns—examining room. Cool air across his body. He was naked.
A man’s face moved closer, directly in front of and above him, compensating for his restricted head movement. And one eye. This fellow was considerate. A doctor of some sort. They had been studying or examining him, Steve knew. A neat way to put someone out. He must compliment Sam on that. Gas, odorless and tasteless and invisible. Temporary block in the nervous system. No after-effects, no struggle.
“My neck is killing me,” Steve said. The doctor nodded.
Moments later the restraints were gone and a sheet was placed over him. Steve moved his head from side to side. He was stiff and sore. “How long have I been on here?”
“Two hours, Colonel Austin. You’re amazing. We knew about your accident, of course. And since your escapades on television we did as much research as we could. Not much, I’m afraid. But when you were brought in here we did a thorough examination—direct probing, fluoroscope X rays. We’ll probably frame the X rays.”
Well, they didn’t know as much as they thought they did, which was a good thing. The servomotors in his legs and his arm; they knew about those. But there was a world of difference between servomotors to produce so-called normal responses and strength and the systems that made up the cyborg Steve had been transformed into. If they suspected his true capabilities, well, these straps would never have been released. They’d probably have used steel bands.
“Where’s my friend?” Steve asked. “Marty Schiller.”
“Safe,” replied the doctor.
“That’s not saying where,” Steve pressed. He wondered how far this could go, how much clout he might have because of Sam’s strong interest in him.
“Mr. Schiller has also undergone an examination. He is in another room, much like this one. He is in no way harmed.”
Steve had no choice but to settle for that now. Time enough for the hero routine when and if it ever became necessary.
“Would you mind some questions, Colonel Austin?” Then, quickly, the doctor added: “Professional questions.”
Steve knew that what he said would be used in the evaluation Sam had set up on him. So far he’d managed to keep to himself his tremendous strength and speed, the unique capabilities he enjoyed as a cybernetic organism. Only Marty Schiller was aware of his powers. Still, he knew he could slip in what he said to this doctor or anyone else probing in the area of his medical, bionics and related modifications. If he told everything except his overwhelming strength and related superiority to the average person, he could keep matters as they were.
So he discussed the Hufnagel valve that had saved and improved his heart system. There was much discussion about the special ribs, the artificial bone and cartilage, the plate in his skull that provided additional cushioning for his brain. The system of modification to nerve, muscle, tendon, sinew and bone endings where they had been severed, and their subsequent connection to the bionics limbs. It all had to fit what they had learned through their meticulous examination of his body while he lay unconscious. This exchange, as well as Steve’s demonstrated ability with the 707 as witnessed by Sam, to say nothing of his background as a test pilot, fighter pilot and astronaut—well, Steve guessed he’d come wrapped in the right package to induce Sam to buy.
“By the way,” Steve said, “where’s Sam?”
“Sam? I didn’t realize you two—well, I imagine Colonel Franks will be here any moment.”
Steve nodded. Colonel Sam Franks. So that’s who he was! Put together, it was a name Steve knew, and now it was all coming back in a rush. Not that he remembered meeting the man. There had been so many in uniform. But he remembered what had happened to Colonel Samuel A. Franks. Crack pilot in the Strategic Air Command. One of the best—tough, natural leader, headed for general’s rank. And what he did with old B-52s out of Thailand against North Vietnam was rewriting the rule books of air war. He was a genius at tactics and electronic countermeasures. He hit targets in North Nam without losing a ship. In late 1972 and the first days of 1973 Nixon had sent the big bombers in against Hanoi and Haiphong. Franks had led in many of those planes.
But something was different this time. The B-52s were going in along the same routes, again and again. Missiles began finding their targets and B-52s started going down. Before he knew what was happening Franks saw ten percent of his entire bomber fleet blown out of the air. He did everything possib
le to stop the slaughter. He screamed to Washington to change the routes, let him use the old B-29 tactics developed against Japan back in the “big war.” He wanted to put an umbrella of fighters over the B-52s and go in on the deck with heavy loads. The Pentagon nixed it, the losses climbed.
Franks was up one night in a formation of six bombers. The SAM missiles bracketed them—and Franks raged as five huge B-52s went down. He blew his top and shoved the nose of that 200-ton airplane down, pushing her right to the wall, and he kept going down faster and faster, the North Vietnamese gunners believing all the time they’d scored a hit on his plane as well.
Franks pulled out just over the trees in a wild flight that scared his crew more than the missiles had ever done. He went over Hanoi at rooftop level, the airplane sounding like a wave of thunder. He dropped bombs in a long string. When he hit the coast he went even lower, stunning the defenses. He didn’t go straight home. He made a rush for Haiphong, and when he hit that town, he dumped the rest of his bombs along the harbor. A big Russian freighter lifted out of the water, broke in two, sank.
They cashiered Sam Franks. They did it rough. Sam knew he was a sacrifice to the gods of new diplomacy, but that didn’t make it easier to take. He disappeared from sight.
And here he is, thought Steve, working out his bitterness. Except by now it had to be cold, hard hate . . .
Almost on cue with the end of his mental run-through, Sam Franks came into the room. He nodded to the doctor. Steve sat up on the table and the doctor handed him a robe as another man entered the room and came up to Franks. About five feet ten, slight build, fair complexion. Seemed to wear a brooding expression, gave off a mixture of suspicion and self-confidence.
Cyborg 02 - Operation Nuke Page 9