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 favors. Call it love, fear, or just plain chickenshit. 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” of 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 it’s 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—”
Bolan said tightly, “Speaking of big, did you know that it is farther from El Paso to Beaumont than from New York to Chicago? That’s part of the problem, Hal. I’ve noticed that the police agencies down here have a hell of a problem that way, too. How the hell do you police a state that’s bigger than the whole Northeastern section of the country? They couldn’t cover it all with flying patrols, even.”
“Okay. But forget about cops. You can’t just pull a state out of this union. Abe Lincoln proved that. Are these guys ready for a war with the United States of America?”
“Maybe so,” Bolan mused. “There’s more than one way to war. I know this much. These guys mean business.”
Brognola shook his head. “I still don’t see a modus.”
“Blackmail,” Bolan said.
“What?”
“They grab political control, by clout and by stacking both political parties with their own men. Then they lay all over everything and seize the economy. Forget federal courts and federal resources. There will be no federal resources on Texas soil—it will be Texas resources. Texas wealth for Texans, that will be the gig. Let Wall Street and Zurich and every other financial capital in the world throw tantrums—these guys intend to sit down here beneath their seventh flag and thumb their noses at the whole damned world.”
“It doesn’t hold together,” Brognola argued. “It’s like a scenario for a science fiction movie.”
“That’s what it is,” Bolan agreed. “Except that they have the perfect kicker.”
“What kicker?”
“Oil.”
“Huh?”
“Oil.”
There was another long silence. Then Brognola said, “Well I’ll be damned.”
Bolan said, “Yeah.”
“They, in effect, nationalize the oil industry of Texas—only now it’s the Republic of Texas. Anybody who wants to buy Texas oil had better be damned nice about it.”
Bolan said, “Yeah. It could work. Handled just right, it could work. And look at the talent they have now. Cosa di tutti Cost. This is it, Hal. The grand slammer.”
“Let me skull this some more.”
“Skull it on your own time. I have work to do.”
“Baloney. We both have work to do. And don’t give me any of that independent agent bullshit, either. Drive around some more.”
Bolan grinned solemnly and made another cut across town.
Brognola said, “Petroleum clout, that’s what it boils down to. The hell of it, Mack, is that there really is an energy problem facing this country. I was talking to a member of the President’s energy council just the other day. The guy was damned worried. We could be into gas rationing before long. The big worry on this guy’s mind was Mafia exploitation of the problem—hijacks, bla
ck market rings, that sort of thing. But hell! Who would have thought that the boys would try to corner the whole damned market!”
“Just how real is this energy problem, Hal?”
“Very real. We’re running out.”
“How about imports?”
“Yeah, how about that,” Brognola grumped. “We don’t have enough deep-water ports for the supertankers. We don’t have enough refinery capacity. We don’t have enough—”
“Okay, it’s real,” Bolan said. “So, with a cut-off of Texas oil, the country is in deep trouble. For real.”
“For very real.”
“Then it’s going to be a gut-buster,” Bolan decided. “Stop wondering if these guys can pull off the Texas heist. The try itself will be enough to send the whole thing a’toppling.”
“I don’t—”
“Be quiet and listen. I told you they have themselves a junior army. Well that’s for real, too. Each man is trained in demolitions. I mentioned blackmail. Here’s how they will try. Paramilitary teams will swarm the oil fields and occupy them. They will shut down the refineries and stop the pumps on the wells and pipelines. They’ve been practicing on Klingman property, learning the tricks. Meanwhile there will have been a hard sell to the people from the propaganda mills, selling Texas to Texans—and that’s not hard to sell in these parts. They—”
“Hold it,” Brognola snapped. “Back up to that occupation of the oil fields. Is that their battle line?”
“It is. They’ve been working quietly for months, setting the thing up. They are dooms-daying the oilfields.”
“They are what?”
“You heard it. It’s a go-for-broke operation. They’re rigging wells all over the state for self-destruct, and that’s where the blackmail enters the picture. Sure, Uncle Sam is a pretty big guy to tackle. But even that dude is going to back off and think twice before he risks the loss of a third of his oil reserves. And they know what they’re doing, these boys. The Klingman lease has been set up as the proof site. It’s wired for doomsday right now. Meanwhile they’re pumping like mad and getting all the oil out they can, storing it somewhere out there in concealed storage depots. I don’t believe they really want to blow that field, but they will if they get pushed.”
“It’s insane,” Brognola muttered.
“Sure it is. But so was Hitler, and look at all the hell that guy brought to earth. It’s a gut-buster, Hal, any way you slice it. And I’m not bowing out—not at midnight and not at dawn, either, unless I take all the crazy men out with me.”
“It could spread,” the federal man observed gloomily. “Stuff like this is contagious. What if Louisiana and Oklahoma decided to shut down, too. What if all the oil and gas states decide to declare a petroleum republic.”
Bolan said, “It would be a natural reaction.”
“Sure it would. And not just in this country. South America could get snotty. Canada already has. The Arabs could all go crazy. Hell! You ever get the feeling that our civilization is a very fragile thing?”
Bolan replied, “I live with the feeling.”
“I guess you do,” the man from Washington quietly agreed. He crushed his cigarette into the ashtray and clasped his hands behind his head. “So tell me something to make me feel better.”
“I’ve rattled some teeth. The saner ones are already bailing out, like you said. Klingman himself bailed out a long time ago, in his heart anyway. The mob was holding his daughter to keep him in line. I’ve taken out their intelligence chief, the propaganda minister, and the top money man. Right behind you, you will find a briefcase. Take it with you. It probably won’t convince anybody in Washington that this problem is for real, but it could help.”
“Okay, thanks. How’s your hide?”
Bolan grinned. “Still intact. I’ve got the boys down here walking cautious. I hope to keep them that way.”
“Who’s on board?”
“The local punk is Joe Quaso. Guy named Lileo arrived today with about a hundred guns. Quaso’s force is spread too thin to cause me much trouble. Lileo is another story. I’ll have to rattle his cage again, and very soon.”
“Don’t, uh, give these Texas cops too much daylight. They’re tough.”
Bolan nodded. “Thanks. I’m keeping my distance.”
“And watch that Lileo guy. I just got him into my files. He’s a rotten little Mississippi mud stomper with head-busting ambitions. A very, very dangerous man.”
“What’s his credentials?”
“The terror of Bourbon Street. Enforced the Biloxi area for a couple of years. Started as an arm breaker, graduated to the big time via a couple of land speculation deals in which several principals mysteriously disappeared and turned up later in a Louisiana swamp. The guy has Cajun blood, via his mother, and Mafia blood from about six generations. His old man was a personal consort of Huey Long and he has an uncle presently very large in Louisiana politics.”
“Pedigree?”
“Arrested about a dozen times, Louisiana and Mississippi. No convictions.”
Bolan sighed. “Okay. He’s due for a rattle.”
“Drop me.”
“Sure.” Bolan hit the wheel and made a beeline toward the pickup point. “How many guns do you have for the party tonight?”
“Enough. Tell me where you definitely will not be.”
Bolan smiled as he replied, “I definitely will not be in the vicinity of Klingman’s Wells.”
“Okay. I’ll cover the other possibilities. Uh, what’s happening at Klingman’s?”
“I was invited.”
“I see. They’re not, uh, thinking of blowing that fucking place up tonight, I hope.”
Bolan replied, “Thinking is not doing.”
“Whatever that means, eh?”
Bolan grinned. “It means they’re not, by God, going to.”
Brognola sighed heavily and pulled Arthur Klingman’s briefcase into his lap.
Bolan pulled to the curb.
Brognola opened the door, then paused and turned a tight smile to the damnedest guy he’d ever known, “Tallyho, soldier. Good hunting. Burn a flag for me, eh?”
Then he was out and the door slammed shut, and Bolan was alone again with the night.
Brognola, he knew, would be burning a few flags for himself in this would-be new republic before the night was done.
Yeah. It was going to be a damned busy night for Texas. And Bolan knew the name of his game now. It was called, “Save Texas for the sane Texans.”
That was it. Melodramatic though it may sound, that was the all of it.
And it was time for the games to begin.
18: HAYMAKER
It was just past nine o’clock when the Porsche hot-wheeled up to the gate of the old mansion in Dallas.
The gateman stepped to the window to peer in at the occupant of the vehicle. Bolan showed the guy a scowl and said, “Amici.” It meant friend, even on Texas soil, but the sentry appeared to have some doubts about that.
Before the mafioso could get his mind set, though, Bolan flooded it with a stream of words. “Christ, I been all over this town looking for you boys. First of all the fucking goddamn airport is fifty miles across the horizon and I never seen such a flat-ass country in my life before. I was afraid I might fall off the other fucking edge if I ever got there. Forget Columbus, hey, and the fucking goddamn Atlantic ocean. Lookit Texas, man, lookit all that flat nothing spread out there. And this goddamn town, man. It stretches to everywhere, and still there’s nothing there. And that’s where I been the past two hours, man, no fucking where! What the hell are we doing in this crummy neighborhood?”
The guy was showing him a broad, understanding grin. “Hey,” he said amiably, “wait’ll you see these fucking goddamn Texas women, though. Ain’t nothing flat about them. Where you down from?”
“Jersey,” Bolan shot back. “I’m supposed to check in with Mr. Lileo pers’nally. And please, hey, don’t tell me he ain’t here.”
The gateman laughe
d and said, “He’s here, relax.” He jerked a thumb and added, “Go on up to the house. Go easy, though. The boss’s on the balls of his feet tonight.”
Bolan allowed his gaze to stray about the grounds. They were dark, forbidding—but without obvious patrols. He craned his head through the window to ask in a conspiratorial tone, “That why we’re mobbed up in this old joint? Things get hot already?”
“Hot you ain’t dreamed of yet,” the gateman assured the Executioner. “So don’t go blowing in with a lot of chatter if you know what’s good for you. You know, eh?”
Bolan knew, precisely. He eased on along the drive and parked on the lawn across from the house.
A couple of boys stepped to the porch railing to ogle the car. He gave a cheery wave as he came out of there and called over, “Relax, boys, the great white hope from Jersey has arrived. Now you can all go to bed.”
One of the men waved back and sent a quiet jeering sound with it.
Bolan walked around to the rear of the Porsche and opened the storage compartment. Snugly secured in there lay a favored weapon, the M-16/M-79 over-’n’-under configuration. The 16 would spit a steady trail of 7.62mm tumblers at almost the speed of lightning. The mighty 79 was a heavy firepower piece, breechloading 40mm rounds of high-explosive, fragmentation, double-aught buck, smoke or gas—depending upon the druthers of the situation.
He slung a ready-belt across his shoulders and hoisted the weapon to his chest, then walked across the drive and onto the lawn directly in front of the house.
He was nonchalantly feeding a round of HE into the M-79 breech when one of the men on the porch called over, “What the hell is that?”
“It’s doomsday,” the Executioner called back. His finger grazed the M-16 trigger and a figure eight pattern of hi-velocity tumblers swept the two men away from the railing and deposited them in a heap at the wall.
In a continuation of the same fluid motion, Bolan angled the weapon a few degrees left and let go the M-79 round. It hit the door dead center with flaming thunder and disintegrated it.
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