Mission Earth 03 - The Enemy Within

by The Enemy Within [lit]

  "At yo' ser-vice, SUH!" cried the brigadier and did a one-two-three-four foot stamp the way the British do.

  Bury stood there in his narrow, snap-brim, New York hat and civilian overcoat. He raised his right hand ever so slightly. "If you would call your officers," he said, "we will have a consultation in camera."

  On the brigadier's crisp command, they were shortly clustered. They synchronized their watches. Bury took out an Octopus map of Manhattan. He issued orders so fast, it was a blur to me. He told them exactly what he wanted them to do.

  The brigadier barked. Crews of fifteen tanks raced to their monsters and with military precision, scram­bled in.

  The brigadier produced a small walkie-talkie from his blouse. He barked orders into it by the number.

  With roaring, snarling engines, fifteen tanks surged ahead and rushed northward on Twelfth Avenue.

  The brigadier then courteously handed the walkie-talkie to Bury and with gestures and a salute, offered Bury the sixteenth tank.

  Presently, with the brigadier somewhere inside, with Bury standing in his little snap-brim hat in the open com­mand turret and with me standing on an exterior tread cover, we began to roll slowly northward.

  There was a handhold on the turret side. I held on with some misgivings. But Bury had no misgivings. He was standing there in the turret, his Wall Street lawyer eyes alert to everything ahead, the walkie-talkie held in his left hand.

  We stealthily crept to a position about fifty feet short of the entrance to Pier 92. We stopped.

  To our left rolled the black river. Before us stretched the deserted street. And there was the silent lair of our quarry, the blackly gaping warehouse.

  Bury looked at his watch. We were in plenty of time. Bury looked down at me perched precariously on the tread cover. "Brilliant man, Hatchetheimer. He rapped off this plan, just like that. A masterpiece. I hope it works. Too bad he chose the wrong side more than three-quarters of a century ago. A loss to the world. Eighteen different countries want him as a war criminal. It makes it difficult to send him supplies for his terrorist activi­ties. In the next half hour, we'll know the best or the worst. The loosing of the dogs of war is always a chancy thing. But 'Cry havoc,' I say. When the courts fail to return a favorable verdict, there is always the bazooka to decide the last event. You should remember that, Ink-switch. In your present position you have to get used to these times that try men's souls. In minutes now, the case goes to the final judge and we either stand, weapon-shorn, before the last tribunal or we will have that God (bleeped) Madison safely in our clutches. The prosecu­tion rests."

  His attention was now fixed upon the center of the river and so I looked in that direction.

  Someone from below in the tank passed him up some infrared binoculars. He began to sweep the river with them.

  "Ah!" he said at last. He handed the binoculars to me.

  Speed launches! But they were not speeding. They were creeping into position out on the black water. They had U.S.S. Saratoga on them. There was some activity on the far side of them. I could not make it out.

  Bury looked at his watch. He took the glasses back and began to watch the end of Pier 92. Then suddenly he began to nod. He handed me the glasses.

  Out of the water, lines were shooting. Grapnels were clutching at the far edge of the pier.

  Then black figures were slithering out of the water, going quietly up the lines. They had assault rifles across their backs! And a bazooka!

  Bury took back the glasses. "Frogmen," he said. "U.S. Navy SEALS. The carrier must have had a con­tingent of them aboard. Clever Hatchetheimer!"

  He had evidently signalled the brigadier in the armored guts below. We rolled silently ahead, very slowly.

  "My main worry now," said Bury, "is his God (bleeped) car. It's an Excalibur. It's a replica of a 1930 open touring phaeton, mostly chrome. But totally decep­tive. Just like Madison. An Excalibur's total machinery is as modern as a jet. Cadillac engine, biggest ever built. It can outrun this tank like a rabbit can outrun a turtle! Ah, I hope this works."

  We had halted again. We were just beyond the south edge of the open door of Pier 92. It was dark where we were. I could see inside. Lights showed a sign at the far end:

  FREE ZONE!

  INTERNATIONAL TERRITORY! KEEP OUT!

  Cargos could be unloaded into it and picked up without ever entering U.S. Customs.

  A huge case, the kind you ship autos in, a big sign on it:

  EXPORT

  It bulked in the dimness at the extreme outward end. There seemed to be a frail, small figure advancing toward it. His mother! She had a lunch basket in her hand.

  One could not see any U.S. Navy SEALS in the far darkness, but one knew they must be there, getting into position, getting ready, cocking and pointing weapons.

  Bury had his eye on his watch.

  Zero!

  With a stuttering roar a wall of savage flame burst out of the far dark! Automatic weapons! Deafening!

  I cringed down!

  My Gods, we were right in their line of fire!

  Bury was not ducking! What a brave man!

  To keep me from running, Bury barked at me, "Those are blanks. Stay still!"

  The rush, flash and roar of a bazooka! It wasn't a blank! It hit the back side of the huge case!

  Above the shattering din, a car engine burst into a roar!

  The front of the box burst apart!

  The Excalibur hurtled out!

  The flame from the guns flashed upon its chrome exhausts!

  Blue flame was shooting out behind it!

  The frail woman went down! The lunch basket flew!

  The open touring phaeton roared toward us!

  The automatic weapon fire redoubled!

  Out of Pier 92 came the car!

  "NOW!" Bury shouted.

  The four forward machine guns of the tank opened up!

  The concussions almost knocked me flat!

  The car veered away from us!

  With a scream of tires, it turned. It sought to escape to a side street. Banked squad cars turned on their chor­tling cacophony!

  The car tires screamed.

  The Excalibur raced up Twelfth Avenue.

  Under me the tank got into motion. Faster and faster we went.

  I held on to the handhold desperately.

  Bury was barking into the walkie-talkie. The wind was tugging at his snap-brim. The NATO flag streamed out.

  We were really going!

  Eighty? Ninety? A hundred!

  The car ahead of us began to draw away, its huge power plant beginning to assert its mastery!

  We were on the West Side Elevated Highway. The British tank driver was driving on the wrong side!

  The rails and lampposts fled by in a giddy blur. All New York seemed to be turning.

  I could barely hold on!

  Now, in sudden bursts, the tank's guns were firing once more! The concussion almost finished the job of knocking me loose.

  Bury, framed against the bowed antenna pennons, backed by the cracking, whipping flag, leaned forward in his snap-brim hat.

  "Any moment now!" he roared into the wind.

  It happened!

  Ahead of us the Excalibur gave a jerk. It abruptly slowed!

  The tank slued and skittered sideways on its treads. The scream was deafening!

  The Excalibur had mysteriously come to a stop!

  So had the tank! Halfway over a rail!

  More roars!

  Fifteen tanks in a double line surged out of the high­way entrance roads left and right.

  Fifteen deadly muzzles cranked down and centered upon the driver of the car!

  "Hatchetheimer is a genius," Bury was saying. "The aircraft-landing-arrest gear worked perfectly!"

  And then I saw what he meant. The U.S.S. Saratoga had installed the trip wires and arrests they use to brake a landing plane in each lane of the highway. The Excal­ibur had tripped one!

  Bury was clamberin
g down.

  We approached the car.

  There was a huddled figure behind the wheel.

  A voice! It was speaking in a dull monotone. "Banner Headline Obituary 18-point type quote MADI­SON DIES BEGGING FORGIVENESS unquote sub­head 12-point ROCKECENTER FOREVER LAST WORDS unquote text quote Yesterday on West Side Ele­vated Highway comma J. Walter Madison comma mis­understood publicist comma gave up the unwilling ghost period. He will be buried in Bideawee Cemetery at 4:00 P.M. today period. Public will probably demand removal of body from consecrated ground...."

  The poor man was composing his obituary notice!

  Bury stood beside the car, close to where Madison could see him. "Shut up, Madison!"

  The fellow looked up and went white. "Oh, my God! Bury! Hold the press. Change type size to billboard quote MADISON MURDERED exclamation point un­quote subhead quote MANGLED BODY..."

  Bury said, "Shut up. You're not in trouble."

  Madison gaped. "But the president of Patagonia com­mitted suicide! All Octopus holdings were expropriated— a loss of eighteen billion dollars!"

  "Tut, tut," said Bury.

  "But I just ran over my very own mother! I'll be up for motherslaughter!"

  Bury said, "Your mother is all right. The Navy crew is right this minute treating her for shock. They just wanted to know on my radio, does she always demand canned heat when her heart acts up?"

  "But... but... how about all the other jobs I've failed on? How about the time I was supposed to popu­larize the American Indians for Octopus and they were all exiled to Canada?"

  "Pish, pish," said Bury. "Octopus has a big heart. Small errors can be overlooked. I forgive you. Rocke­center forgives you and God forgives you, which is mostly the same thing."

  "You mean the headlines should read quote MADI­SON MIRACULOUSLY RESURRECTS unquote?"

  "A last minute, motorcycle-rushed reprieve just arrived from the governor. Here." He handed Madison an envelope. "You are back on F.F.B.O. staff. You can move back into your mother's condo. Be at the enclosed address at ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

  "Oh, thank you, thank you!" wept Madison. "Next time I will justify everything you have ever thought of me!"

  Bury walked down an entrance road and I went with him. A New York squad car was blocking it. Bury climbed in. I sat down beside him.

  "Take me home," said Bury to the driver. "And then drop this man off wherever he wants to go."

  "Yessir, Mr. Bury," said the cop and quickly drove away with us.

  I said to Bury, "Wasn't it pretty kind of you to for­give him after all that loss?"

  "No, no," said Bury. "We never tell him the truth. You've got to see behind these things. As soon as he got the Indians driven out, we grabbed their oil lands. And on this Patagonia thing, he was sent to the republic to ruin our PR. The government there, on public demand, expropriated all Octopus properties and refineries. The Patagonian Central Bank, to preserve its international credit, had to try to pay for them. It couldn't, of course, so Grabbe-Manhattan foreclosed and we now own the whole country. He has ably created the same havoc on other jobs. But don't tell him what we really expect him to do or accomplish. Hide it. He actually believes he is a great PR man. So don't ruin his morale. Cheer him on with only a tip or two. He's a genius. I don't know how he does it!"

  We shortly arrived at his West Side condo. "Thank heavens," he said, "I got home on time. I couldn't stand a real fight after tonight. Be at the office early."

  He was gone.

  Riding back to the Bentley Bucks Deluxe, I knew I had been right. It had taken an aircraft carrier and tanks and the whole New York police force to get this thing started.

  Not even the Gods could help Heller now!

  Chapter 7

  Quivering with anxiousness now to get on the job, I reported in bright and early the following morning. I wanted to really be up to handle Madison: I didn't have any office to work out of.

  I made my way through the unenthusiastic throng of fellow workers on their way to work. Slow going. But I found an office labelled New Personnel Assignments and went in.

  A beefy office-manager type was at a desk. He looked at me curiously.

  "Inkswitch," I said. "I..."

  He held up his hand to halt me. He turned to a com­puter and punched it. It came up blank.

  "Ah," he said. "A family spy! Well, I have one word of advice for you. Don't punch any time clocks around here even if you see your name on them. It would blow your cover."

  "Wait," I said. "I have work to do. Don't I even get an office?"

  "Oh, no!" he said, aghast. "Somebody could find you to shoot or poison you. It's promoting crime and that's illegal."

  "Hey," I said, "how do I get paid?"

  "Oh, that's easy. But let me warn you. Don't endorse any checks they may give you. IRS would nail you for sure."

  "No pay at all?"

  He said, "Of course you're entitled to pay. It comes out of Petty Cash. That's Window Thirteen. But don't sign any voucher with your real name or they'll ask for your receipts for reimbursement."

  "Well, all right," I said, "so long as I don't get in trouble with my superior."

  "Oh, you don't have any boss. And don't look at me. You're a family spy."

  "I do thank you for all you've done," I said.

  "Well, I've never seen you so I'll forget that you weren't here."

  I went at once to Window Thirteen. It was labelled Petty Cash Disbursements. A very prim old lady was sit­ting behind the wicket. "Name?" she said.

  "Inkswitch," I said.

  She pressed her computer keys. The screen came up blank. She nodded a severe nod. Must be one of the firm's most honest employees to hold such a post of trust. She said, "How much?"

  I picked a number out of the air. "Ten thousand dol­lars," I said.

  She extended a disbursement voucher in triplicate. Mindful of the advice just received, I signed it John Smith.

  She took the voucher back. She reached into a drawer and counted out ten thousand in small bills. Her actions were meticulous, her mouth was prim. She gave me five thousand and put the other five thousand in her purse.

  I was awed. What an efficient organization. Their spies didn't exist! And they had developed a graft system unbelievably simple! I would have to write Lombar about this! No wonder he made such a study of Earth culture!

  Hurrying now, I rushed down the hall to Bury's office. His door was ajar. But to be polite, I knocked.

  He came to the door. He scowled. "What the hell are you doing, Inkswitch, knocking! You scared me half to death! I thought it was some enemy that didn't know his way around!" It was only then I noticed the sign on his door:

  Benevolent Association

  He was putting a flat Beretta M-84, .380 Auto pistol in his shoulder holster. "We've got a date with Madison right away."

  "Is that for Madison?" I said and instantly started checking the Colt Python .357 Magnum-.38 Special I was now carrying.

  "No, no!" said Bury. "There isn't an ounce of vio­lence in him. This is for the Slime-Tripe Magazine Build­ing across the way. Dangerous place: they always have people they have featured, hanging around killing edi­tors! Come on. That's where we meet Madison!"

  He rushed out with me following him.

  Chapter 8

  We didn't have any distance to go at all. The forty-eight-story building was right across the way from the Octopus Building. We crossed a two-tone terrazzo pavement set with fountains. The building reared in limestone, aluminum and glass splendor. We entered a huge lobby done in polished and dulled stainless steel.

  We stood before an enormous abstract mural, entered an elevator and shot skyward. It spilled us into an enormous room.

  A huge ladder of signs confronted us. The top one said:

  Owner-Publisher Inspiration Floor

  It was followed with the list of magazines published in the building: Slime, Tripe, Riffraff, Dirt Illustrated and Misfortune.

  The atmosphere of
the room was hazy thick. It smelled like marijuana and opium smoke. There were some people moving about: they were wearing blind­folds, being led by people wearing blindfolds.

  We went further into the vast room. I saw numerous posted signs:

  All the News That Gives You Fits Unreality Is the Only Reality

  Slime, the Magazine That Doesn't Lie or Cheat Anyone but Its Public

  Always Check Your Facts in the Cloakroom and Then Write Your Story

  They Want Blood, Give It to Them—Even If It Is Your Own

  There were some doors opening off: Libeller in Chief, Scurrility Editor, and Head Pervert.

  But we were not heading for any of these. Parting the clouds of smoke, we went to a mammoth door at the end of the room. It said:

  Owner-Publisher Private Sacred

  Bury barged right on in.

  Where the desk should be, there was a couch. There was no one on it.

  I became aware of lights flashing on the wall over to my right. I saw that there was an organist seated at a huge console organ. It was a woman of middle age in a tail-coated suit—complete, male, white-tie evening dress. She was playing with elaborate gestures on the organ keys. But there was no music!

  I noticed that the vast panorama of pictures on the wall were flashing on and mingling in rhythm. She was playing the pictures!

  I looked at them. One had to stand back, they were so big. It was a flowing, flashing montage in full color. The pictures were of dead bodies, train wrecks, aircraft crashes, murdered children and graves. And through it all flowed, rhythmically, decay and blood. A symphony of disaster. Rather appealing, I thought.

  Bury walked over to the woman. He said, "Get out."

  She protested, aghast. "But how can you dream up imaginary news if you don't have substance before you?"

  "Beat it," said Bury.

  She picked up her baton and top hat, very miffed, muttering about people who did not have a true reporter's soul. But a final look at Bury's face took her out the door quickly.