Fire Eaters

by Don Pendleton

"Not safe?" Bolan said to the kids. "Isn't that the point? To prepare you for risk?"

  No one answered.

  "Leonard?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What do they call you?"

  A couple of students snickered. One mumbled, "Jailbird."

  Leonard spun to look for the culprit, then turned back to face Bolan again, his cheeks red with anger and embarrassment. He was about five feet nine inches, a little thin, intelligent looking. "They call me Lenny sometimes," he said.

  "Jailbird, jailbird," a couple of boys chortled from the back of the group.

  "I'm speaking to Lenny right now," Bolan told the group sternly. "Anyone else wants to talk can drop and give me a hundred push-ups right now. Volunteers?"

  No one spoke.

  "Lenny, what's the purpose of the 'clothesline'?"

  "It's a confidence test, see. It allows the candidate to negotiate an obstacle that seems harder than it really is while at the same time conditioning him or her physically."

  "Very good. Now if that rope was only eight feet above the pool, any student walking the rope handover-hand would practically have their toes skimming the water."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Now that's not too scary, is it?"

  "No, sir."

  "So doing it wouldn't really build confidence, would it?"

  "No, sir."

  "Thank you. Any questions from the rest of you?"

  Silence.

  A reluctant hand at the back.

  "Yes?" Bolan asked. "Your name?"

  "Bodine, sir. Jennifer Bodine." She was barely five feet, her long blond hair braided and pinned into knots on top of her head. She was a little plain looking, but with features that Bolan could tell would bloom into striking beauty within five years. She spoke slowly, carefully enunciating her words. Bolan figured she was probably one of the top English students in the school.

  "Yes, Jennifer."

  "Will you have us break into boy and girl groups?"

  "Is that what Mr. Lester did?"

  "Yes, sir. For the girls, he lowered the rope and shortened the distance we had to go."

  Bolan thought that over, then asked, "Is that what you want me to do?"

  Jennifer looked at the other three girls, then back at Bolan. "No, sir."

  "Okay then, let's get started."

  In the beginning everyone seemed scared. Leonard Harwood went first, though Bolan suspected he volunteered to prove something to the others. He made it across with very little difficulty. Jennifer Bodine went next. There were some catcalls from some of the boys, rude suggestions about stringing a "sissy net" for the girls, but she traversed the rope with remarkable confidence and agility.

  Only two of the group actually fell, and they splashed harmlessly into the water, more embarrassed than injured. Both were encouraged, though not forced, by Bolan to try again immediately. Both did, and completed the task to the sound of their classmates' applause.

  They finished the drill with twenty minutes to spare before class ended. Bolan told them they could take a break.

  "Really?" Jennifer Bodine asked, astonished.

  "Yes, really. Why?"

  "Well, whenever we finished early, Mr. Lister would make us march in formation or stand at attention until the period ended. He said it was good discipline."

  Bolan smiled. "When my troops do a good job, they rest. Any objections?"

  "No, sir!" everyone chorused as they scattered.

  "Stay within the area," Bolan called. "And if I see any cigarettes, you'll eat them." He watched them drift into little groups, sitting on the ground talking and laughing.

  One boy produced a small stuffed leather ball that a few of them kicked back and forth, careful never to let it touch the ground. Leonard Harwood sat by himself, staring off across the ocean.

  "What's up?" Bolan asked, sitting on the ground next to him.

  "Nothing, sir."

  "What's with this 'jailbird' thing from your pals?"

  "Nothing."

  Bolan shrugged. "Your business, Lenny. And most of the time it's best to keep your own counsel. But sometimes it makes sense to share things, discuss them so you can better get control of them."

  "Yeah, right," he said sarcastically. "I heard about you, Mr. Cummings."

  "What have you heard."

  "About you wiping out that guy in the parking lot yesterday. You don't seem to me the kind of guy who goes around pouring out his guts to everybody."

  "Not everybody, no. You have to be selective. I have one or two friends who always have a sympathetic ear when I need one. And I'm damn glad of it." Bolan didn't say anything else. If the boy wanted to talk, he would.

  A few minutes passed. Both of them continued to stare out at the ocean.

  "You know who I am?" the boy asked.

  "Leonard Harwood," Bolan answered.

  "Not really. That's my code name. My real name is Senator Harwood's Son. At least that's how everybody refers to me. 'Senator Harwood's Son did this. How will that affect the senator? That's what I hear all the time. Every morning when I was home I got the same speech: 'Remember, Lenny, anything you do reflects on your father. I mean, Christ, when does what I do reflect on me?"

  Bolan knew who Senator Harwood was, a pompous, but powerful voice who was angling for a presidential nomination. Senator Harwood had twice publicly condemned Mack Bolan as a dangerous menace and suggested a bounty be offered on Bolan's head.

  "Anyway," Lenny continued, "last year I marched in a demonstration in front of the White House protesting the apartheid policies of South Africa. I was arrested, got my name, Senator Harwood's Son, plastered across all the papers and TV stations. So my dad sent me here to straighten me out." He looked up at Bolan. "Okay, let's hear it."

  "Hear what?"

  "Come on. The speech, lecture, advice, whatever you want to call it. About how it's childish or naive or anti-American to protest. We heard you were in Vietnam, so I imagine you're particularly peeved at protestors."

  "Not at all. This country was born out of protest, Lenny, by people with the courage to say something was wrong and do something about it other than complain. As to the Vietnam protestors, yeah, some of them bothered us, the ones who were shouting and screaming only because they were afraid. Hell, we were all afraid, but we still went. But there were some sincere people, some of them kids your age, who withstood harassment, beatings, even jail, because they really believed that what they were protesting against was wrong. I respect them for their courage."

  Lenny looked surprised.

  "Thing that bugs me," Bolan said, "is when people expect change to come about just because they demand it. You think because you got out there and protested for what you believe in that you deserve to be treated like a saint?"

  "No, I just…"

  "That's not how it works. You want change? Fine. Just be prepared to make some sacrifices. You have convictions? Great. But they'll cost you. Speech may be free, but results cost and cost plenty. So you protested apartheid and you were punished by being sent here. And your buddies all know about you being in jail so they tease you. That makes you bitter because they don't see you as Saint Lenny. Right?"

  Lenny's face was gripped with anger as he stared at Bolan. Then slowly his face began to relax. He smiled and nodded his head. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I guess I have been acting like some kind of self-righteous martyr."

  "I know the feeling," Bolan said. "But when we indulge in that, we lose sight of the original goal. For you it's wiping out apartheid."

  "What is it for you?"

  "Justice."

  "You mean like law? You studying to become a lawyer?"

  Bolan smiled. "Something like that. At night."

  "Night school, huh?"

  Bolan stood up and called to everyone. "All right, back to the locker rooms to shower and change. Tomorrow I'm giving you a test on the first ten chapters of the survival guide textbook you've been using."

  There were the expected groans
of protest as everyone filed back to the buildings.

  Bolan walked with Lenny. "I heard you had some excitement here last week. One of your classmates murdered his father."

  Lenny nodded sadly. "Gregg Danby."

  "You know him?"

  "Sure, we all knew him. He and I buddied up sometimes, I guess because we'd both been jailed."

  "What was Gregg busted for?"

  "They found some grass in his locker when he was still attending public high school. Got probation and counseling."

  "So you two were the only ones at this school who were ever arrested? That's hard to believe at a military academy."

  "Oh no, we weren't the only ones busted, just the only ones to actually spend any time in a cell. Lots of the kids have been picked up by the cops for drunk driving or possession or stuff like that. But a lot of the kids here come from rich and powerful families."

  "So do you."

  "Yeah, but they're smart enough to sit quietly and wait for Daddy to straighten things out. I kicked one cop in the nuts and hit another on the arm."

  Bolan laughed.

  "Gregg was like that, too. I don't mean committed to a cause or anything, but he was tough and independent, especially for a fifteen-year-old."

  "How'd he get along with his dad?"

  "That's the weird thing. I mean, there was some tension, just like with all teenagers, I guess. But Gregg really respected his dad, always talked about him like he was a nice guy. Hey, he was in Nam, too."

  "So was Bob Hope and I never saw him once." Bolan pointed at the school. "This place doesn't seem so bad to me. I met some of the teachers this morning. They seemed pretty sharp."

  "Yeah, some of them are real good. Make you work hard, but that's okay. Major Forsythe is a little stiff, but I kinda like him."

  "What about General Lowrey? He runs the place, doesn't he?"

  "Officially. But he's never here except for ceremonies or stuff. Colonels Dysert and Fowley actually run the school."

  "I'm going to meet them in half an hour. What are they like?"

  Lenny looked away and shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

  Bolan didn't press the boy. He could see there was a limit to how much he'd confide. But it was clear he didn't care much for the two colonels. Bolan patted Lenny on the back. "Go take a shower. I don't want you late for your next class."

  "Don't worry, Mr. Cummings. Next class is lunch and I'm never late for that." He hurried off.

  Bolan hadn't learned anything new, but he had confirmed that Gregg Danby did not hate his father. Yet something had made him pull that trigger, kill his own father.

  "Howdy, Philip," the familiar voice called.

  Bolan spun around. Denise Portland was leading a line of thirteen-year-old girls back to the locker room.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked.

  She smiled, winked and led the girls into the locker room.

  10

  "Have you signed all the papers?" Major Forsythe asked.

  "Yes," Bolan said.

  "They explained the employee benefits? Insurance, health care and so forth?"

  "Yes."

  "Good." Major Forsythe's brisk stride led the way across the campus, up the drive and into the administration building. The major entered the building as if he had just captured it and was about to deliver terms of surrender.

  "One question," Bolan said. "I saw Denise Portland a few minutes ago."

  "Yes," Major Forsythe said without expression. "Ms Portland had a rather expensive attorney phone the school yesterday to inform us they were considering a sex discrimination suit. One they couldn't possibly win, of course."

  "But it would cost the school a lot of money."

  "Worse. Bad publicity. Our students come from families that could not publicly be linked with an institution accused of discrimination of any kind."

  Bolan nodded. "So you gave her a job."

  "Indeed." He looked at Bolan, almost smiling. "Almost gave her your job, Mr. Cummings."

  "Why didn't you? She would have done well."

  "I quite agree. Only you were more qualified. And I had already promised it to you. I never go back on my word."

  Footsteps behind them caused both men to turn. Denise Portland strode down the corridor.

  "Talking about me?" she asked.

  "Your ears burning?" Bolan said.

  "I told you I'd see you around." She fell into step between Bolan and Major Forsythe. "I guess it's time to meet the head honchos, eh?"

  "We do not refer to Colonels Dysert and Fowley," Major Forsythe said stiffly, "as head honchos. They are the chief administrators of Ridgemont Academy."

  "Oh," she said with a bright smile.

  They entered an ornate office complete with oak wainscoting and a six-foot-high portrait of a General Thomas Achilles Ridgemont. The general wore a Civil War uniform and held a saber in his hand.

  "Our founder?" Denise asked.

  Major Forsythe didn't answer her. He walked over to the secretary, a husky woman in her forties whose right hand was in a cast. She was trying to type a letter using her left hand. It was slow going.

  "How's the hand, Betty?" Major Forsythe asked.

  "Feels like an elephant sat on it."

  He nodded at the door behind her. "They're expecting us."

  She looked over at Bolan and Denise. "Ah, the Fresh Meat Detail. Hi, folks. I'm Betty, the real power behind the throne." She waved her broken hand. "When I'm not trying to teach my kids to skateboard."

  "Philip Cummings," Bolan said. "Nice meeting you."

  "Denise Portland."

  "Yes, I've heard about you," Betty said to Denise. "Good for you. Major Forsythe and I have been after them for years to hire more women around here."

  Denise looked surprised at Major Forsythe. He looked away embarrassed.

  "Not that we couldn't use you, Mr. Cummings," Betty said. "I verified your references myself. Very impressive."

  "Thank you."

  Betty laughed. "You're okay." She picked up the phone and tapped a number. "They're here," she said and hung up. "Go right in."

  Major Forsythe held the door open for Bolan and Denise.

  "The inner sanctum," Denise whispered to Bolan as they entered.

  The room was huge, even more ornately decorated than the outside office. A hand-carved teak partner's desk dominated the back wall. Behind it, French doors led to a stone balcony that overlooked the rest of the campus and beyond that, the Pacific Ocean. The rest of the room was filled with the usual hand-tooled books, which looked a little dusty from lack of use, and another life-size portrait of General Ridgemont, this time sitting astride a white horse. In the center of the room were two red leather sofas facing each other. Two men in uniform stood in front of one of the sofas.

  Major Forsythe made the introductions. "Colonel Dysert and Colonel Fowley, these are our new instructors, Philip Cummings and Denise Portland."

  "Yes, Denise," Colonel Dysert said, smiling. "You had the typing error on your application. Dennis, wasn't it?"

  "Yes, sir. I never was much at secretarial skills."

  "Well, your error is our good fortune," he said, gesturing at the sofa. Everyone sat. Dysert was taller than Bolan, and the uniform barely concealed an immense chest and large muscles. He had a handsome face, and the small scar on the bridge of his nose only accented his features.

  Colonel Fowley was just the opposite. He was shorter than Denise and thinner than Major Forsythe. His face was pockmarked and his eyes seemed to be runny. He had no lips to speak of and teeth the color of a coffee-stained cup.

  "I noticed you admiring the portrait of our founder," Colonel Fowley said to Bolan. "General Ridgemont retired shortly after the Civil War, did a little shipping in Boston, then moved out here and started this school."

  "No, he didn't," Bolan said, casually crossing his legs.

  Everyone looked at Bolan.

  "Pardon?" Colonel Fowley said.

  "I mean, he may have started th
is school, but he certainly was not a general in the Union army."

  "A Civil War expert, are you?" Colonel Fowley said snidely.

  "Expert enough to know the generals. There was no General Ridgemont."

  Colonels Fowley and Dysert exchanged glances.

  Colonel Dysert smiled at Bolan. "Quite right, Mr. Cummings. Congratulations. You're only the second person to point that out."

  "Who was the first?" Denise Portland asked.

  "Major Forsythe, I would imagine," Bolan said, looking at the major. The major nodded, acknowledging the compliment.

  "Right again, Mr. Cummings," Colonel Dysert said. "I see we made the right selection in choosing you for the job." Then he looked at Denise Portland and smiled. "As well as you, Ms Portland."

  "Denise," she said.

  "Denise," he said, offering his hand. They shook and he lingered with her hand in his. She made no effort to remove it.

  Colonel Fowley nodded impatiently. He was making an effort to be polite and friendly, but Bolan could see that he was too preoccupied and probably always would be. He was not a man for polite conversation. "Yes, I'm afraid our General Ridgemont was something of a fraud. Indeed, he was in the Union army. As a corporal. He promoted himself after the war when he thought the title would help him in business. It did, of course, for a while. But he wasn't really much of a businessman. He avoided creditors by moving out here and opening this academy. Turned out he wasn't a half-bad educator."

  "What about General Lowrey?" Bolan asked.

  "Real USDA Air Force general," Colonel Dysert said. "Though he really has little to do with the day-to-day operations. That's our job. That's why we wanted to officially welcome you to our family. We've heard good things about both of you."

  "Thanks," Bolan said.

  "Happy to be here," Denise said.

  "Well, that's it then," Colonel Fowley said, smiling his lipless smile. "Good luck."

  Major Forsythe marched to the door and held it open. Bolan and Denise Portland left, followed by the major.

  Outside, Major Forsythe said, "I have other duties to attend to. I trust you can find your way back to the cafeteria without me."

  "Borrow your compass?" Denise asked.

  Major Forsythe allowed himself a small smile and walked off down the corridor, his boots slapping out a pleasant military cadence.