Pendleton, Don - Executioner 018 - Texas Storm.

by Pendleton, Don

  Klingman stepped away from the desk.

  Bolan put the Beretta away.

  The big oilman stood in the centre of the room, swaying like a tall Texas pine in a stiff breeze, eyes raised to the ceiling.

  He grabbed the back of his neck in a big paw and said, "I started Flag Seven, you know."

  Bolan said, "I know. Now's your chance to bury it. It's gotten away from you, Klingman. Face that."

  "I've tried to," the Texan replied, sighing. "Over and over I've tried to face it. But—damn it—there has to be a way through!"

  "No way through," Bolan assured him. "You bargained with the devil, Klingman. I can almost admire you for that. You placed it all on the line, and I can understand that kind of commitment. But there are no bargains from hell. And now you have to face that truth."

  "I don't have to face anything!" the oilman roared.

  "You have to face your daughter," Bolan quietly reminded him. "Or you have to face me. That's your option."

  The Texan grinned, and Bolan saw in there the origins of Judith Klingman's gutsy humour. "I'd rather face the devil than either of you," the old man said. "I caught your television show. Very convincing. And the coyotes are howling all over Texas. Bolan, you can believe this or not. I have had no controlling hand in Flag Seven since the coyotes started prowling our flanks. You're right. It got away from me. A bargain with the sonsabitchin' devil—you're right there, too. But it started as a pure idea—or almost, anyway."

  Bolan glanced at his watch. "My time has run out here," he said. "We can talk while we travel. Let's go."

  "Where to?"

  "To face the devil, maybe."

  Klingman said, "Just a minute." He dragged a briefcase from a hook shelf and told the Executioner, "This will save a lot of talk. And it's the devil's truth, every word of it. Maps, plans, timetables, the whole thing. Take it and git. I'll just slow you down, and I can get Judith on my own."

  "We leave together," Bolan replied firmly. He took the pioneer Texan's arm and steered him toward the door.

  "And we'll probably end up in hell together," Klingman muttered.

  Bolan already knew that.

  He'd faced the devil, himself, many times.

  But never over the body of a defeated old man. Understandable pressures had turned Arthur Klingman—and some of the men with him—onto this detour to damnation. At least they had been men enough to place their souls on the line for an honest commitment. So it had turned sour—from too much seasoning in the pot. More than a dash of greed, a sprinkling of lunacy, and finally the big Mafia ham- bone.

  Despite the claims of his detractors, Mack Bolan did not play God. He neither judged nor condemned men like Klingman. Each man, he knew, was his own judge and his own condemnation.

  And maybe Klingman was right. Maybe the two of them would walk the bitter shores of hell together.

  But not tonight, hopefully. He dropped the old man at a safe point and went on to gather the next numbers of the night.

  With the face of the devil hovering all over the land.

  16: THE KICKER

  Jack Grimaldi's voice came across the line tense and nervous. "Man I'm glad you checked in. Something's wrong out at that motel. The chick has either flown or can't answer the phone. I've been ringing every five minutes since I got here."

  Bolan's response was slow in coming. "Well," he replied presently, "she's a free agent."

  "Maybe she's just afraid to answer the phone. I thought of that, too."

  "No. I told her to expect a call. Damn. I just sent Arthur Klingman out there. Well . . . he's a pretty capable old bird. I'll let him worry it from there. The other numbers are falling. Get the chopper ready."

  "She's ready. When and where do you want her?"

  "Not sure yet. I'm just laying back now and reading the opposition. But I want to be ready to spring with them. Stick close to that phone."

  "Will do. Uh, I have a piece of intelligence for you."

  "I told you to stay low, Jack."

  "I'm low. But, hell, can't just sit here and crack my knuckles all night. I was calling around, trying to pick up something—maybe some whispers about the Klingman chick. Nothing there, not a peep in the hen house, but I got something else may interest you."

  "Okay, unload it."

  "Lileo has sent a hard force out to that joint we hit this morning, Klingman's Wells. It seems that we missed something out there, something big. The story I get, there's about a square mile of camouflage netting strung up just west of there—and some mighty interesting things are supposed to be beneath that netting."

  "What sort of things?"

  "Crazy things If the intel is straight, it's a staging area for a paramilitary force."

  "Okay, I'll buy that," Bolan said. Sure, a sprinkling of insanity.

  "And more than that. They're stockpiling crude oil out there in concealed tanks. I hear they've also got a secret pipeline coming in from some refinery and they're storing gasoline and jet aviation fuel. This guy tells me they've got row upon row of military armoured cars under that netting. Also ammunition dumps and the whole military picture. No troops, though. They've got them dispersed and out of sight in the civil population. Now they're wanting to disperse the staging depot, too. So Lileo and Quaso have rushed this hard force out there to protect the operation."

  "Who'd you get this from, Jack?"

  "A guy close to the head shed, a crew boss with Quaso. Pushes Superchicks around Dallas and Fort Worth. You suspect it?"

  "I suspect everything," Bolan replied tiredly. "Well—if it's a plant then they've added a certain kicker. As the story goes, they're blowing up Klingman's Wells at dawn."

  "For what reason?"

  "To cover what they've been doing with those wells, I guess. I hear there's still enough crude down there to run the country's vehicles for a year. But they say they're going to blow them. Could they do that?"

  According to the intel from Klingman's briefcase they sure could. Bolan told his pilot, "Yeah, they could lift the whole lease clear off the face of Texas.'

  "Well, that's the kicker."

  "Some kicker," Bolan commented unhappily.

  "Well, who gives a shit if they blow up a few wells eh? You think they're trying to draw you out then with a threat like that? Who gives a shit?"

  "There's the problem, Jack. In a few months, I hear, the whole world will be giving one."

  "What's that mean?"

  "It means we're supposed to be moving steadily toward an energy crisis. Worldwide."

  "Oh, that. Well, you know, you hear stories everywhere."

  "Only this one is chillingly true, I'm afraid," Bolan replied in a wearied voice. "It's what this whole nutty Texas Plan is about."

  "What is that Texas Plan?"

  "Another chilling story. A preview, maybe, of what's going to be happening all over the world in a few more years. Territorial wars, Jack. No more fighting over political ideals, but fighting for survival a world fast running out of natural resources."

  "Hell you lost me somewhere between Texas and the world."

  "I'll fill you in later. But we have to go back to Klingman's, Jack. So get that bird hot and ready."

  "What the, hell has this got to do with the mob?"

  "They're the ants, Jack."

  "The what?"

  "At every picnic there's a swarm of ants. Right? And the biggest picnic in the country right now is Texas oil."

  "Hey! I'm beginning to get the—"

  "Right, it's a lot bigger than we thought. Stay ready, Jack. I'll be calling."

  Bolan hung up and returned to his vehicle, survival instincts as alert as ever but the intellectual side of his mind in the depths of thought.

  Sure. It could be the last picnic in Texas. And after that—where?

  Wherever oil was king, probably.

  And at the moment—or at a very early future moment, at least—whoever controlled the oil of the world would indeed control the whole world.

  Y
es, it was a chilling thought.

  No wars had been seen that would match the desperate ferocity of affluent nations battling for their share of industrial survival.

  And, yes, Mack Bolan "gave a shit" about the fate of a few wells in Texas.

  He would, if necessary, give his final heartbeat. While he lived, the mob was not going to muscle into the big picnic in Texas.

  Grimaldi's "intelligence" had a smell to it, sure.

  Inside information such as that does not simply drop from the skies, not unless somebody is pushing it with a purpose.,

  Would those dum-dums actually blow up those wells? Even if Bolan did not accept the bait? Or even if he did?

  Bolan had to shake his head over that one. He did know that the capability was there—the intel from Klingman himself verified that much. The entire Klingman Petro lease was wired for destruction.

  Yeah. The Executioner would have to go check that out—bait for hell or not.

  First, though, he had a couple of dates to keep. One with a man from Washington.

  And another with a crafty dude from St. Looey. The Executioner had a "kicker" of his own in mind.

  17: A SEVENTH FLAG FOR TEXAS

  Bolan halted at the main entrance to the Federal Building and flashed his lights.

  Harold Brognola moved casually to the sidewalk, opened the door, and slid in beside the most wanted man in America.

  "Some wheels," was his greeting.

  The Porsche moved smoothly from the curb and into the stream of evening traffic. The Executioner told the chief of the federal get-Bolan task force, "Mob money bought it. Tell them."

  Brognola grunted and lit a cigarette. He was a man of fortyish years, medium height and weight, with a deceptively amiable appearance. He might have been a shoe salesman, hurriedly preparing for a Christmas shopping rush but grimly determined to maintain the holiday cheer. He was, in fact, a federal agent with a law degree and many years of frustration in his chosen field—racket-busting. During the early days of the Bolan wars, Brognola had managed to make personal contact with the most effective racket-buster of them all and had subsequently launched a quiet campaign to give Bolan hush-hush support by the federal government—but Bolan himself had declined the arrangement.

  The one-man army had once told Brognola: "The tracks I make with my own blood are my tracks alone and my responsibility alone. I don't like the idea o dragging the whole country into hell with me."

  It was this side of the Executioner that commanded such respect from this man who had dedicated his life to "justice under the law." Even after Brognola had been officially accorded prime responsibility in the government's campaign to apprehend Mack Bolan, that respect had remained intact and had in fact created a troubling conflict of interests.

  "The guy is no mad dog killer," Brognola had once told his chief. "We can trust him to pick and choose the proper targets. He is the best weapon to come along in the battle against organized crime. The man deserves a portfolio."

  But "the man" would not accept that portfolio. And the governmental pressures on Brognola had become intense.

  At one particularly low point in their relationship, in Vegas, Brognola had personally gone a’ gunning for the Executioner, however regretfully. It had been a "mad dog hunt" at Vegas—both Brognola and Bolan had understood that clearly. Mack Bolan would not fire upon the law, Brognola knew that also. Only providence had averted a tragic ending to that Vegas encounter. Thereafter, Brognola had walked a delicate line between his sense of duty and his sense of respect and admiration for this committed hellfire guy.

  And now here they were, together again in a tense situation, friendly opponents and often grudging allies, with governmental pressures at an all-time peak of get-Bolan fever.

  Brognola worked at the cigarette through several nervous inhalations; then he told the big cool man beside him, "I want you to bow out of Texas. That's a personal request, and you can look at it any way you choose. Call it a collection on the debt of past favours. Call it love, fear, or just plain chicken shit. But I want you out of this state by midnight."

  The Porsche was cruising, flowing with the traffic. Bolan said, "I don't expect to be finished by midnight, Hal."

  "You're finished right now," the fed replied amiably. "You've done enough. The rats are fleeing the ship right now. Let us take it from here. You split. We'll pick up the rest of the marbles."

  "You don't even know where the marbles are," Bolan said in a flattened voice.

  "We may know more than you think."

  Bolan growled, "You're onto Flag Seven, then." "Flag what?"

  "So you're not," Bolan concluded.

  "Now hold it."

  Bolan chuckled. It was the sound of icicles shattering on frozen ground. "You want to move that deadline?" he asked.

  Brognola fidgeted and smoked. Presently he replied, "How much time do you need?"

  "It started at dawn," Bolan said. "I expect to finish it by then."

  The official head jerked in quick agreement. "Okay. I'll give my marshals a night's sleep. But that's as far as I can stretch. You've stepped on some big toes down here, friend. At dawn, my marshals go a’ gunning. Call that fair warning . . . from a friend. Now what is this flag business?"

  "They call it Flag Seven," Bolan explained. "Brain child of one Arthur Klingman, a big—"

  "I know the name," Brognola reported, sighing.

  "So does every hood in the country, now," Bolan said. "The thing ran away from the old man. It started as a simple reaction to a big squeeze from some of the giant oil companies Klingman saw the handwriting on the wall, figured the days of the independent oilmen were numbered. These native Texans are tough people, Hal. Especially those who grew up in a wildcatter's bunkhouse. Well, they organized into this secret operation which they called Flag Seven. A symbol of their independent spirit, I guess. But that's all it was at first—a symbol. And maybe a statement of determination to keep Texas independent from the big international manipulators. I could sympathize with that. But then the nuts began crawling out of Arthur Klingman's woodwork, and they flat took him over. A lunatic political fringe and a powerful economic power bloc combined to make Flag Seven the master plan for the new Texas Republic, and I mean for real. They even have a small paramilitary force and a handle on this state you wouldn't believe."

  "That explains Spellman, then," Brognola commented with obvious interest.

  "It does. Nat Spellman was their intelligence honcho. He has the whole damned state wired for sound, even the governor's mansion. Besides that, the guy engineered a really fantastic snoop-drop from the big national communications relay at El Paso."

  Brognola looked appalled. "That's crazy! What are they shooting for?—another civil war?"

  Bolan shrugged. "I don't know. This is the Looney part. I thought at first that they were just going for a political and economic takeover. But, hell . . . I have evidence now that there's a lot more involved than that. These guys are serious about this Seventh Flag over Texas. They're going for the big one—a revival of the Republic of Texas, no less."

  "It's crazy," Brognola said uneasily.

  "Crazy, but dangerous as hell," Bolan assured him. "It's the coalition of interests that just could make it work. They already had the strong political core and a fearsome economic base. And now that the boys have joined the picnic . . . well, this state is up for grabs, Hal."

  "It's still crazy. I don't see how they could hope to ..."

  Bolan's voice was tinged with incredulity itself as he moved deeper into the explanation. "I know. It sounds nutty. Especially for the mob. Those guys always have their feet squarely on the ground. But .. . most people probably don't realize how important Texas is to this country. Oil alone, hell. Do you know how much of our petroleum comes from this state? About a third."

  "Yeah. Hold it a minute, will you. Give me a chance to think into this." Brognola crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another.

  Bolan drove on in silence,
picking his way through the traffic and apparently doing some "thinking in" if his own.

  After a moment, Brognola exhaled a hissing column of cigarette smoke and said, "Yeah. A lot of little things . . . they're falling in now. You're right about Texas, of course. It's the richest political subdivision in the world. Not just for its oil, either. Hell its big in everything—in mineral production, chemicals, agriculture, manufactured goods—hell, yes. I don't find it too surprising that some large brains would like to carve it out of the 'subdivision' status and raise their own flag over it. But I don't see how they could pull it off. It's just too big, too ambitious to—"