Bolan had rendered what aid and comfort he could.
He spoke very softly. “You’re snoring. Roll over.”
She rolled over and mumbled in half-conscious French. “You’re a pig.”
Bolan grinned and rolled out of the bed. He took his new laptop and satellite rig off of the bedstand and went to the bathroom. He left the door open as he lowered the toilet seat cover and sat with the laptop across his knees. Bolan’s eyes stayed on the beautiful woman as he punched keys and then put in his earpiece.
Kurtzman’s slightly distorted face blinked onto the screen and he spoke in Bolan’s ear. “You’re typing, not talking. Are you in danger, or just using discretion?”
“Both,” Bolan typed. He craned the little camera attached to the laptop on its flexible neck and pointed it at the bed.
Kurtzman’s eyes widened. “Um…wow. Is that an ally or the opposition?”
Bolan considered that carefully. “Don’t know. Haven’t decided. Don’t know if she has, either. We got hammered outside a café about twenty-four hours ago. I got some help from Kiraly’s contacts. I sent the Cowboy a .30-caliber rifle bullet I pulled out of Jolie’s armor. Any data back?”
“He got it.” Kurtzman punched keys and a picture appeared in the corner of Bolan’s screen. The rifle depicted was very futuristic looking, with a skeletal frame, a telescopic sight and an adjustable folding stock and bipod. A long black suppressor tube shrouded the rifle’s barrel. “That look like what they were pointing at you?”
“Couldn’t swear to it. First instinct is yes,” Bolan typed.
“Well, it’ll probably come as no surprise, but it’s French. A PGM. They call it the UR, or Ultima Ratio.”
Bolan smiled as he typed. “The Last Argument.”
“That’s the one. The Cowboy could determine by the rifling and by the marks that it was subsonic, but if you dug it out of Miss Erulin’s armor and she was still breathing, you probably already figured that out.”
“The French foreign legion is responsible for base security at the satellite launch facility at Kourou.”
“I found that out myself a little while ago. Kind of an ugly twist to the plot,” Kurtzman replied.
“That’s the question,” Bolan typed. “What’s the plot? France is a whole lot more popular in the Middle East than we are. Even when they were part of the coalition during Desert Storm, Paris was cutting their own deals with Baghdad. We’re the Great Satan, I find it hard to believe that al Qaeda or anyone else of their ilk would want to stage a terrorist attack in French Guiana. The few space shots that the Muslim states have had anything to do with go up from here.”
“It’s a conundrum all right. I really don’t see how there are enough legionnaires in French Guiana to launch an assault on the base, and even if they manage to plant a bomb from the inside or blow up a rocket on the pad, so what? Where’s the payoff?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to the launch facility.” Bolan glanced at the woman on the bed. “I’m betting if I ask real nice, Jolie can get me a tour a few levels higher than the usual tourist walk through.”
Guiana Space Center, Kourou
IT WAS A VERY impressive facility.
The clearance badge Erulin wore covered the bullet hole in her suit jacket. She had gotten the clearances within two hours, and whatever was written on them in numbers and French got them through the front gates and past the guards with salutes all around.
The guards at the gate and around the perimeter had all been French foreign legionnaires.
They drove to a huge white building flying the French flag. Gleaming glass doors hissed open and blessedly air-conditioned air swept over them. The massive arc of a circular reception desk faced the doors. A beautiful young Creole woman in a blue jacket smiled at them brightly as they entered. She spoke in rapid French to Erulin but kept her eyes on Bolan. She turned her smile up to full wattage as she addressed him in very thick English.
“Would you care for coffee or tea? Dr. Poulain is on his way down.”
“Nothing.” Bolan smiled. “Thank you.”
The doors behind the desk hissed open.
The director of the Guiana space center was a short, bald and exceptionally energetic looking man in his late fifties. He wore an impeccably tailored gray suit and as he walked into the room his personality preceded him.
Sergent-Chef Vasily Ilyanov walked through the doors at the director’s side. He was in full ceremonial legion tropical uniform. The Russian sergeant’s Beretta pistol was strapped to his hip.
Bolan noticed the Russian carried his pistol cocked.
The director walked up and kissed Erulin on the cheeks. He turned and stuck out his hand to Bolan. He spoke excellent English.
“Good morning, my friend! I received word from Paris just an hour ago that we were having guests. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr….” The director raised a questioning eyebrow as his voice trailed off.
Bolan took the hand and shook it. The Director had a strong grip. “Cooper. Thank you for seeing us. Do I call you Director or Dr. Poulain?”
“You could call me either, but I would prefer you called me Bernard.”
“Call me Matt.” On instinct Bolan liked the man. “I hope we’re not interrupting your schedule.”
The director let his eyes rove over Erulin. “A man would have to be insane or blind not to interrupt his schedule for Miss Erulin, and as for interrupting my schedule, I am so often in Paris cleaning up messes and taking meetings that I miss most of the launches here.” The director’s smile turned conspiratorial. “And to be honest, with the schedule I keep, I only rarely get the opportunity to show people my toys.”
Bolan matched the director’s cunning smile. “And your security has been doubled, and no one will tell you anything.”
Both Erulin and Ilyanov shot Bolan arch looks.
Dr. Poulain only laughed. “Indeed, I shall play the three of you against one another and hopefully learn something useful. Meanwhile, all of you, please follow me.”
They followed the director into the elevator and began ascending.
“You have a launch scheduled soon?” Bolan asked.
“Indeed. Within the week.” The doors hissed open and they found themselves stepping into an observation lounge. Gigantic windows that curved up into the ceiling faced the airstrip and the two launch pads. There was also a well-appointed bar. The director waved at the young man behind it. “Champagne for our guests,” he ordered.
Bolan went up to one of the windows and gazed out across the facility. The two launch pads sat more than a mile away. One was empty. On the other the gleaming white spire of a rocket towered toward the noon sun. Technicians looked like ants as they serviced and prepared the spacecraft.
Bolan admired the clean lines of the rocket. “The Ariane-5. It’s beautiful,” he said.
“Indeed, she is. She carries twenty-five tonnes of liquid oxygen and twenty-five tonnes of liquid hydrogen! She is capable of carrying out multiple restarts and will be powerful enough to put a dual payload of twelve tonnes into a geostationary transfer orbit.”
“Twelve tonnes.” Bolan nodded respectfully.
Ilyanov gazed out the window. His blue eyes regarded the rocket intently. A glass of champagne was untouched in his hand. “In Russia, we have much larger, but nothing so elegant.”
Poulain was clearly pleased. “And you, Jolie?”
Agent Erulin peered out the window briefly. “Three grown men ogling a rocket. I am sure Freud would have something to say.”
Poulain threw back his head and laughed.
The door to the lounge opened, and three more people entered the room. Poulain smiled. “Ah, Monsieur Cooper, may I introduce Dr. Guy Dutronc, my second in command, and the man who really runs this facility.”
Bolan shook hands with another bald, beaming, French rocket scientist.
“And may I introduce Dr. Babu Seth, our payload engineer.”
Dr. Seth had a head of hair Albert Ein
stein would have envied. He was clearly Indian and spoke English with an Oxford accent. “Pleased to meet you.”
Poulain’s already warm smile grew warmer as he gestured at the third scientist. “And of course, our jewel.”
The woman wore a white lab coat, but neither that, the square framed glasses, nor her severely pulled back black hair could hide the fact that she was very beautiful. Her gray eyes regarded Bolan neutrally as she extended her hand.
Poulain noted Bolan’s approval and grinned. “May I introduce Dr. Feresteh Mohammedkhani.”
Alarm bells went off in Bolan’s head. He smiled and took the scientist’s hand. “That’s a beautiful name. Is it Persian?” he asked.
The woman’s carefully neutral expression warmed slightly. One corner of her generous mouth turned up. “Yes, and thank you.”
“She is the true rocket scientist here,” Poulain gushed. “It is largely because of her that our rocket is ahead of schedule and even more powerful than the original design specifications.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I understand you have a launch coming up,” Bolan said.
“Yes.” Dr. Mohammedkhani’s eyes strayed to the window. “The launch is scheduled for the end of the week.”
“What are you sending up?”
“Oh, just a little something in the name of France,” Poulain interrupted. Seth and Dutronc both laughed. Poulain shrugged. “As to its exact nature and capabilities, you would have to speak with Dr. Seth, and I apologize, but it will take more than having Miss Erulin on your arm to speak of the current payload. I am afraid it would take a phone call from a certain department in Paris that I have yet to receive.”
Bolan nodded. “So this is strictly a French launch.”
“Yes, this particular launch is strictly a French launch, and a strictly classified one.”
Bolan accepted the statement. “Some sort of satellite, I suppose,” he said.
“So one might suppose,” Poulain agreed vaguely.
“Anything terrorists might be interested in?”
Dr. Mohammedkhani rolled her eyes. Whatever goodwill Bolan had earned in the last two minutes was clearly crushed. Seth and Dutronc looked openly dubious.
Poulain frowned deeply. “It is not a weapon, I can assure you. To my knowledge, the nation of France has never had in the past nor has any current or future plans to field hypervelocity rail guns or orbiting X-ray laser battle stations.” He looked at Bolan pointedly. “Those are projects only the United States has the political and economic wherewithal to consider.”
Bolan met Poulain’s critical stare. “I was not implying that France is secretly deploying space weapons, Dr. Poulain.”
“No.” The director relented. “You were not. At the risk of breaching security, I will tell you what you already suspect. My rocket carries an observation satellite. A highly sophisticated one. One with technologies that yours or any other government would be highly interested in obtaining. Those technologies are highly classified. Just who, what, or in what manner the satellite is designed to make its observations is also highly classified. Now, I suppose any observation satellite might be used in tracking terrorist activities in one form or another. However, I must express grave doubts as to this satellite being any kind of viable target for a terrorist attack. For that matter, if terrorists truly wished to attack the European Space Center, the liquid fuel production facility would make a much better target. We produce liquid hydrogen, oxygen and other highly volatile compounds in vast quantities there. It is only a few kilometers from here. A single, well-placed bomb would produce multiple, spectacular, fuel-air explosions, killing hundreds if not thousands here at the space facility and do untold damage.”
“Still, the destruction of a French spy satellite, with an explosion on the pad, it would make headlines, and be a blow to French prestige.”
“I suppose,” Poulain agreed. “However, this is an unmanned rocket. A French rocket blowing up in French Guiana would hardly spur an international furor, even if terrorists were suspected. We would simply tighten security and continue with our scheduled launches, and people like Miss Erulin and her shadowy associates would hunt down the perpetrators and kill them.”
Bolan looked out across the field toward the gleaming rocket. He was grasping at straws, and he knew it. He also knew there was a piece of the puzzle here. His every instinct told him he was on the right track. “There’s something going on here in French Guiana.”
“I am sure there is. I knew it must be so when Jolie contacted me this morning. Hardly any man in French Guiana is lucky enough to entertain her without national security being somehow involved. I have spent the entire morning trying to figure out what kind of plot there might be.” Poulain put a friendly hand on Bolan’s shoulder. “As I have mentioned, I believe the liquid-fuel production facility would be the most viable target. However, security has been doubled both there and throughout the entire spaceport. Sergent-Chef Ilyanov could tell you more of it, but I am assured that the legionnaires have the wherewithal to destroy a truck bomb long before it comes close to any significant building. Airspace is also strictly controlled around Kourou.
Bolan glanced at Ilyanov. He suspected there were rockets secreted around Kourou. Rockets small enough for a man to fire from his shoulder. That, in itself, offered a new form of attack, and one from within.
Ilyanov read Bolan’s mind. “All legionnaires of the Muslim faith with guard duties at the spaceport have been temporarily reassigned.”
Dr. Mohammedkhani went rigid. Her face flushed, but her gray eyes were glacial as they regarded first Ilyanov and then Bolan. She spun on her heel without a word and stormed out of the lounge.
The Frenchmen all shrugged and sipped more champagne.
It was a sensible precaution, but Poulain was right. One unmanned rocket carrying an observation satellite in French Guiana didn’t have much cachet as a terrorist target. There was a bigger threat. Bolan knew it. It was close enough to smell.
But he couldn’t identify it.
Poulain’s shoulders sagged defeatedly. “I am sorry, my friend.” He brightened slightly. “But it would be my pleasure to give you a personally guided tour.”
“I’d like that,” the Executioner said.
“I THINK HE LIKED YOU.” Erulin pulled away from the space center in the ancient, rented Peugeot.
“I liked him, too. I respect any man who is passionate about what he does.” Bolan smiled. “Dr. Poulain seemed awfully fond of you, as well.”
The French agent ran her eye up and down Bolan as she drove. “I like men who are passionate about what they do, as well.” She shrugged as she lit a cigarette. “Also, Action Direct is partly responsible for security at Kourou, but only in an intelligence-gathering role. Bernard, I mean Dr. Poulain, and I have…worked together, on several occasions.”
“What do you know about Dr. Mohammedkhani?” Bolan asked.
Erulin’s cigarette dipped in her mouth as her lips quirked. “She’s pretty, I suppose.”
Bolan grinned. “I didn’t know you were the jealous type.”
“I am. Never forget that.”
“I won’t. Get her phone number and address for me.”
She took her eyes off the road and leveled a gaze at Bolan. “You are a pig.”
Bolan laughed.
Erulin punched up data on her personal organizer and scribbled information on an old receipt while at the same time driving with her knees and somehow lighting another cigarette. She handed Bolan the scrap of paper. “Here. Good luck. She hates you. I can tell.”
“Love and hate.” Bolan held up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “This close.”
Erulin smirked.
“I need to contact home. You can drop me off at the café near the hotel,” Bolan said.
“I also need to contact my superiors, preferably without you about. We’ll meet back at the room in say, an hour? And compare notes?”
“It’s a date.”
They drove the few miles back into town, and Erulin brought the car to a screeching halt. Bolan took the suitcase containing his laptop and satellite rig and went into the café. He took a table near the rear exit and put his back to the wall as he connected. A bartender brought Bolan coffee.
Kurtzman blinked onto the screen. “So how was the spaceport?”
“Interesting. They could teach NASA a few tricks. Could an Ariane-5 reach the United States?”
“You mean ballistically, like a missile?” Kurtzman snorted. “The Ariane-5 was designed to take satellites up into high, low and medium Earth orbits. It could easily reach any point in the U.S., including Hawaii and Alaska.”
Bolan had suspected as much. “So what do you think?”
“As a terrorist threat? It looks gorgeous on paper, and I’ve already considered that one. First you’d have to switch the guidance package, not inconceivable, but the minute anyone runs any kind of check, which they do about a thousand times before liftoff, the cat’s going to be out of the bag.”
“What if you’ve got that covered?” Bolan glanced at the piece of paper with the number and the address in his hand. “What if you have someone high up on the inside. In the control room?”
“Well, that would be a feat in of itself, but just for argument’s sake, I’ll give it to you. So you switch the guidance package, you find a loose nuke, and you load her up and blast her off in a great big perfect arc and Washington, D.C., is ground zero. You have one last, and in my opinion, insurmountable hurdle.”
Bolan sipped coffee. “Reentry.”
“Right!” Kurtzman grinned proudly at Bolan. “The Ariane-5 is a one-way ticket. It’s designed to take things up, not bring them back down. It could make the first part of the journey without breaking a sweat, but coming back down, its payload would burn up in the high atmosphere long before it even got close to its target. To get past that, you would have to design a special reentry vehicle for your weapon, sneak it into the space center, fool every single technician involved in assembly and mounting into thinking it’s the correct payload, and remember, it will look nothing like the satellite it is replacing. It would look different, it would mount different, and your takeoff weight would change. You would raise red flags every step of the way with the lowliest technicians to the highest level engineers controlling the project, and like I said, everything is checked, thousands of times, right up to takeoff. To make it happen, you would literally have to control the entire facility. Top to bottom.”
Lethal Payload Page 8