Firebase Seattle

by Don Pendleton

  Take that same type of superbusinessmen and give them the Mafia mentality, spread them across the globe in a multinational network of financial manipulations that could reach into every monetary system, every national and international market—give them the absolute, raw power that comes from the control of economic life or death for entire industries and whole nations—and what do you have?—sure, you have Cosa di tutti Cosi.

  They’d been dreaming of it ever since Capone—nibbling at it with guys like Cohen and Lansky—now, somehow, by some handle, by some freakish turn of world circumstances, they’d managed to actually start putting it together. Apparently they had the kicker. But what was it? The worldwide energy crisis? The international crunch in virtually every critical commodity? The paralysis of international inflation? The contagion of political crises in just about every nation of the world?

  Was that combination of circumstances the kicker?—or was it, conversely, an immediately visible effect of a take-over already in progress?

  Was the creation of a secret super world bank the next logical step in the pattern?—or was it simply another kicker?

  The cross-town conversation in Bolan’s war machine was concerned with those considerations, and more.

  Brognola told the others, “It hurts my brain, I don’t want to think about it any more right now.”

  To which Leo Turrin retorted, “You’ve just got battle fatigue from round one, in Washington. It won’t help to close your eyes and retire to a neutral corner. The mob boys love that—they’ll just swagger over and keep on kicking the shit out of you.”

  Tiredly, Bragnola admitted, “Okay, so I’m getting neurotic. Haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in months. Striker—what are you thinking? How far has the thing gone? How much time is left?”

  “I have the easy part,” Bolan muttered.

  “How’s that?”

  “I don’t have to think about it. You call me Striker. Right? You don’t call me Thinker.”

  “That simple, eh?”

  “For me, yeah. There’s inductive and deductive logic—right? One form generalizes from particulars. The other particularizes from generalities. In my language, that’s simply the difference between strategy and tactics. You guys handle the strategies. Eight now I’m busy as hell with tactics.”

  Brognola and Turrin exchanged glances.

  Turrin grinned.

  Brognola said, as though Bolan were not present, “Sometimes I dislike that son of a bitch.”

  “You envy him,” Turrin argued.

  “Same difference,” Brognola replied, sighing. “I’d just like to go kick the shit out of somebody, myself.”

  Turrin said, “He’s right, you know. We’re sitting here trying to solve the problems of the world. But the only problem we can touch is right here. Right, Sarge?”

  Bolan commented, “Even right here, all we can do is try.”

  Brognola asked him, “What do you expect to find in that warehouse, Tactician? Not gold or silver, surely.”

  Bolan smiled thinly. “No. But maybe the logistics for it.”

  “Oh hell, now he’s a logistician,” Brognola growled.

  Bolan chuckled. “I’ve been holding out on you guys. I do have some rather heady stuff to tell you. But first I want a look inside that warehouse.”

  Turrin said, “This is where the contraband has been going. Bight?”

  Bolan nodded. “Martialing area, anyway, I think. It has been moving on, I’d say quite steadily. But I want a look-see. I believe those shipping manifests were generally correct I think it’s been mostly machinery. The kind of machinery nobody wants traced to its ultimate use. Most of that stuff I’d think they could have picked up here in this country—maybe even locally. Take those weapons, now. It’s a special case, sure, but the same logic applies. Hell, they were made in this country. But look at the route they took to Puget Sound. Legally exported to Europe. Exchanged through three different legitimate brokers before finally disappearing from view. Then they pop up here, in a marine crate marked for Expo ’74.”

  “For most stuff,” Turrin said, “there’d be no tracks, no tracks at all.”

  “Yeah. Super secret. These guys are sparing no effort, in that sense. You’ll see why, if I can tie it all together.”

  “But don’t call him Thinker,” Brognola said, smiling.

  “What’s the big mystery, Sarge?” asked Turrin. “A new gold mine in Alaska?”

  Bolan chuckled and said, “That may not be far wrong, either. If our people ever start hauling that oil from the new fields up there, anyone sitting here on Puget Sound is going to be in a hell of a good position to cash in on all sorts of trade. That’s what built Seattle in the first place.”

  “Commerce, huh?” Brognola said.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Turrin. “Or harassment.”

  “Why would anybody want to harass that?” Brognola asked disgustedly.

  “Are you crazy?” Turrin shot back. “That’s the favorite occupation of the nickel and dime boys.”

  “We’re not talking about nickels and dimes.”

  “How do you think they got to the Cosa?” Turrin argued. “Numbers, bimboes, protection, smack, alcohol, vending machines, pinballs, jukes, bandits—you name a nickel or a dime, I’ll give you the name of the guy that rolled it into a million dollar territory.”

  “Sure, sure—but I’m saying that none of that anywhere approaches the magnitude of potential commerce from millions of barrels of crude a day.”

  It was a pointless argument, and both seemed to realize it—but on it went.

  “Ah hell, they play both sides of the street, Hal—you know that. One guy’s territory is commerce, the other guy’s is knockdowns. As an example, look what Luciano did with the—”

  “Hell, forget Luciano. That’s old history. It’s the now that counts.”

  “It’s the now I’m talking about. Luciano’s empire didn’t die with the man. Just look at …”

  Bolan turned off the banter from the friendly antagonists, recognizing it as sheer nervous release.

  Both these men spent their lives balanced precariously on the edge of a knifeblade. This was probably the first chance in months for either to let the hair down a bit, to unwind just a turn.

  Bolan ordinarily translated his own tensions into action.

  These guys had to sit and fester with it.

  Which was another reason why Bolan would accept no concept of “secret portfolio”—undercover sanction and amnesty for past “crimes.” He’d play his game his way, thanks, for as long as the game could last And he would die the way he’d lived—with blood on his hands and unpardoned scars on the soul.

  The American writer Elbert Hubbard had once observed: “God will not look you over for medals, degrees or diplomas, but for scars.”

  Bolan would carry his own scars to his own judgment.

  Right now he was simply trying to carry them to the next zone of combat. And the going was getting rough, with the interstate route now behind him and the atmosphere out there getting thicker with every turn of the wheels.

  Brognola and Turrin suddenly became aware of Bolan’s intense concentration into the problems of navigation. They fell silent; Turrin chewing on his cigar, the man from “paradise” bent forward and massaging his knuckles as he peered into the misty shrouds of that night in “that other” Washington.

  It was to be one which none of them would ever forget.

  18: FIRETRACK

  The impressive vehicle was totally darkened, engine idling quietly, sitting just in off the road at about dead center, maybe fifty yards from the building.

  As warehouses go, it seemed small. Floodlights marked the corners at roof level but were barely visible in the choking mists.

  “I can’t see a damned thing,” Leo Turrin complained.

  “Relax,” Brognola suggested.

  “It’s two thirty. He’s been out there about ten minutes.”

  “He knows what he’s doing.”
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  “Sure.”

  Both men were peering tensely through the wet windshield. Brognola’s .38 lay on the seat beside him. Turrin was not armed. He said, “He’s right, you know. This is his element. Me, I have two left feet. And I even get dizzy in my own bedroom if all the lights are out.”

  “Relax, Leo. That’s a hell of a man out there. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “Hell, I know that. I just wish I knew what he’s doing.”

  “I’d settle for knowing why,” Brognola said. “What d’you suppose he’s really stumbled onto, Leo?”

  “It could be anything. The guy has an uncanny sense of things. All he needs to get started is a smell.”

  “I’m just afraid he got quite a nose full, this time.”

  “Looks that way, doesn’t it. Do you really think …?”

  Brognola sighed heavily and turned away from the glass. “Hell, I don’t know, Leo. I’m getting so I don’t trust my own guts anymore. They’re tied up so often, over so much—sometimes I wonder if I’ve just gone full paranoid and the rest of the world is really sane and beautiful.”

  “Well, sure, a guy gets to that. But I don’t think you’re paranoid, Hal.”

  “From one suspect to another, eh? Thanks for nothing.”

  Turrin chuckled.

  A misty draft swirled into the vehicle. Brognola scooped up the .38 and whirled smoothly toward the midsection then relaxed with a relieved sigh as a black-clad figure materialized there and the door slid shut.

  “Home is the scout,” Turrin greeted him. “What’s the lie out there?”

  The federal official holstered his pistol and stepped back to make room for Bolan’s entry into the cockpit.

  The “scout” dropped into the command chair and immediately began doing things at the mini-console. “Very close out there,” he reported. “Visibility’s about five feet, and I’m giving that the benefit of some doubt. Here’s the setup. It’s a hard house. No windows. No personnel doors. Just a big cargo door at the center, roll type, big enough to admit a semi-trailer. Similar door on the water side. Short pier over there for smallcraft. Very quiet, all around.”

  Brognola asked, “Did you get inside?”

  “Not yet.” Bolan was flipping switches, operating levers. A viewplate about the size of a small portable television screen swung into position, glowing reddishly. “Guard shack just outside the rolldoor,” he continued. “There was a sentry in there, a Franciscus type.”

  “Was?” Turrin asked absently, gazing with interest at the glowing screen.

  “Yeah, was. And there’s still a vehicle at the end of the building, north side. People inside but I didn’t try for a headcount. It’s a crew, though.”

  Brognola tapped the viewplate and asked, “What’s this thing?”

  “Monitor for the optics capability,” Bolan explained. “Watch, now, and I’ll give you a look at that guardshack.”

  He punched a button and made a lever adjustment. A resolution of focus resulted, then a small reddish beam appeared at center screen. After another minor adjustment, the front wall of the warehouse appeared in a weirdly red-tinged circle, then the guardhouse leapt into resolution.

  “Be damned, Turrin muttered. “Infra-red.”

  “Laser-supplemented,” Bolan said.

  “How far can you see with that thing?” Brognola wondered.

  “In this atmosphere, that’s about maximum range. I can get a mile in reasonably dry air.”

  “I’ve heard of these,” the official said. “Some police agencies are getting into it. On a smaller scale, I would imagine—nothing this elaborate.”

  Turrin said, “People out there don’t even know you’re spotlighting them.”

  “Not unless they have receptors,” Bolan said. He was busy at another set of controls. “Seeing’s nice, but it’s not always enough. I’m going to—Hal, you may not want to be around while this is happening. Step into the toilet if you’d rather not.”

  “To hell with that,” Brognola growled. “I’m staying.”

  The JD official was “staying” for a rather mind-boggling demonstration of the warwagon’s combat capabilities.

  A rocket launcher was built into the roof of the vehicle—normally retracted and concealed from view beneath flush-fit panels. Upon command from below, the motorized swivel-platform raised and locked into position for firing.

  Targeting was entirely controlled from the command position below, operating through electronic circuitry tied into the regular optics system. A floor-mounted, foot-controlled device which Bolan labeled “a rock-and-press trackfire” provided control of both targeting and firing without using the hands.

  Reloading, Bolan explained, was not practicable during the heat of combat, though. It was a “four-shot system.” Within that limitation, however, a guy with a supple ankle and a steady foot could unleash considerable destruction.

  Bolan brought the system on line by depressing the “Fire Enable” button on his miniconsole. A small amber light began flashing, in an indication that the launch platform was being raised. As it locked into place, a green light signalled that event and immediately the optics were taken over by the Fire Control System. Rangemarks then became superimposed on the viewscreen, and the system was “Go.”

  Explaining the operations in terse reportage to his companions as he went through the steps, Bolan rocked the floor control into azimuth and range corrections, centering the rangemarks on the warehouse door.

  “Last chance to tell it goodbye,” he said quietly.

  Turrin muttered. “I will be damned. How do you fire it?”

  “Like this,” Bolan replied. He banged his knee with a fist. A “whoosh” and momentary brightness signalled the departure of the “hot bird.” It flashed into the foreground of the viewscreen and whizzed straight along the horizontal beam on a tail of flame to impact almost immediately on target with thunder and considerable lightning. That heavy atmosphere out there was momentarily torn by a flash that briefly illuminated the mists with white-hot incandescence and set the night trembling into retreat.

  Brognola growled, “I’m impressed.” It was an understatement. He could not look away. As viewed through the optics, great puffing flame-lined clouds had replaced the warehouse door as well as substantial adjacent areas.

  And the “picture” was changing rapidly now as Bolan realigned targeting on a starboard scan—halting suddenly, correcting and centering on the nose of a vehicle just then emerging at high speed around the corner of the building.

  Bolan thumped his knee again to depress the foot-control, and another whizzer streaked along that tunnel of red light. With the resultant flash in the target zone, electrified faces flared into high resolution for perhaps one flashing impulse of electronic vision before disappearing into eternity behind another firecloud.

  Leo Turrin wheeled away from that with a queasy, “My God!”

  “Their God,” Bolan growled fiercely. “Let it eat them.”

  A martialing area, sure. Also, if the evidence could be correctly read, some sort of an assembly plant.

  Empty crates and cartons were stacked almost to the ceiling at one end of the building. At the other end were greasy work benches, heavy tools scattered about, chain lifts, equipment dollies. Elsewhere scattered throughout the building were unopened crates of various sizes, all stacked in neat rows, each of which were identified by crude, hand-lettered signs attached to the end cases.

  Brognola was poking about the “unopened” area, taking notes.

  Turrin had gone with Bolan to the “trash area” for an assessment of the empties.

  Bolan remarked, “I’m more interested in what has already moved through here.”

  Turrin agreed with that and pointed to a heavy crate near the bottom of the pile. “Air compressor,” he noted. “What the hell would they want with a compressor that big?”

  Bolan shrugged and said, “Maybe they’re planning some underwater work,” and continued on with a systematic vi
sual scan of the evidence. Not all the boxes were marked, but enough were that a pattern began very quickly to emerge. He took Turrin by the arm and growled, “That’s enough for me. Let’s go.”

  As they rejoined, Brognola kicked a large, flat crate on the floor beside him and remarked, “Here’s our bank. Or part of it. That one box must weigh a ton or more. Know what it is? Door for a vault.”

  “Bingo,” Turrin said solemnly.

  All three men seemed a bit awed by their discoveries. They were standing beside a handmade placard which had been thumbtacked to a shipping skid, identifying “Security Components.”

  Brognola said, “Looks like you’re batting a thousand, Striker. They’re building something, somewhere, that’s for sure.”

  Bolan replied, “They’re building Laneley Island.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Within a rifle shot of here,” Bolan said. “Let’s go back into the wagon. Want to show you something.”

  He took the men to his plot table and first showed them the chart of Puget Sound, relating the island to the overall area—quite insignificant, really. Then he showed aerial photos taken from Grimaldi’s first overflight and, finally, the sketches he’d made during the soft penetration.

  Bolan did not ordinarily work this way—in cahoots with the law. He’d made occasional exceptions to that rule, of course, and this time was a very important exception. Too much was at stake here to stand on personal game rules.

  “They’re still excavating over there,” he pointed out. “The room I was in is obviously a command bunker of some type. I should have looked further while I was there. There could be a dozen rooms completed and ready for use. These tunnels go off from there like the spokes of a wheel. If you’ll note some of the angles they make, it would certainly suggest more vaults either completed or planned. They’ve moved a lot of watertight stuff, air compressors and the like that could even suggest airlocks for tunnels out into the Sound!”