Fire in the Sky

by Don Pendleton

  She was in new clothes again, the beginnings of another new wardrobe to replace what had been lost in the previous night's fire. She would never have thought that she could get bored with shopping, but that's just what was happening.

  The car was dragged through the buffers, and she smiled, thinking about how she'd put her shorts on backward in her mad scramble to dress after her car-wash liaison, and how her mother had never believed her story about absentmindedness. That had been four years p.a. — pre-Arnold, four years before her life had gotten totally out of her control and started her on a course that had ultimately led here, wherever here was.

  As the vehicle emerged from the buffers and into the bright morning daylight of the thriving metropolis of Sanford, Florida, Bolan was waiting for her, dressed in an apple-green three-piece suit with an off-white tie and white shoes. He'd changed in the service station rest room.

  She pulled off to the side, several teenage boys in coveralls running to the car to wipe it down. Bolan came over and climbed in the passenger side.

  "Howdy," he said in a loud nasal voice while reaching out to pump her hand vigorously. "Name's Harvey Susskind, regional sales rep for NuVue Photocopiers, biggest little company east of the Mississippi. Here's my card."

  He pulled a card out of his pocket that reiterated the information he'd just given her.

  "You just might fool them."

  "I'd better," he replied. "The suit was too tight for the combat harness, though. I've got it in the briefcase."

  "You don't expect trouble, do you?" she asked, feeling a tightness in the pit of her stomach.

  "I always expect trouble," he said. "You hungry?"

  "I should be."

  "Okay. Why don't you drive around until you find a good place to eat? I'll drop you there and you can get some lunch while you're waiting for me to come back."

  "Why can't I go with you?" She waved away the boys with the rags and started the car.

  "How many traveling salesmen visit clients with their wives?" he replied.

  That made sense to her. She pulled out of the combination gas station and car wash, heading down St. John's

  Avenue, the main road in the tiny, miniresort city just off Lake Monroe and St. Johns River.

  The city was a conglomeration of fast-food restaurants and malls containing nationally recognizable stores and shops, lending credence to her theory that all of America had homogenized into one, huge predictable city. She pulled in by a seafood restaurant with a view of the lake, the tires of the Cadillac crunching loudly on the gravel parking lot.

  She stopped the car and looked at him. "I don't want to have to spend the rest of my life here," she said.

  "If you're telling me to be careful," he replied, "I appreciate the thought."

  They both got out of the car, Bolan walking around to take the driver's side.

  "I mean it," she said. "You can find out what you want without sticking your neck out."

  He climbed into the black car and started it. "Don't worry," he said, and waved casually. Without another word, he geared up and drove off, leaving her standing alone in the lot.

  She turned and walked to the entrance, feeling empty on her own. Mark had asked her to call in every day, and this would be the perfect opportunity. But, somehow, she didn't think she'd do it. Bolan had saved her life last night for whatever reason. She couldn't just forget about that. If she were to call Mark Reilly and get the terminate message on Bolan, she didn't know what she'd do. Better to leave things well enough alone. She couldn't be expected to perform a task she hadn't been told about.

  Mack Bolan was the enemy. It had been proved to her through his record and through her contacts. But in her heart it didn't line out that simply. Whatever his motives and his allegiances, she couldn't help but feel that the man had been forthright and honest with her. She and Bolan had shared more honest emotion in a week and a half than she and Harry had in ten years. It was difficult, perhaps impossible, to forget that despite the facts.

  The restaurant was decorated like a galleon, with rope rigging strung around and heavy plastic tables made to look like crumbling, weathered wood. She ordered a fisherman's platter, which she didn't eat, and several cups of coffee, which she drank too fast. Every once in a while she'd look up and see the view of Lake Monroe through the large window next to the table. Two weeks ago her worries had been simple — what to have for dinner; was it going to rain today; would she be wide enough awake to put in a full day's work. But that had been two weeks ago.

  Now she wondered if Bolan was still alive.

  * * *

  Bolan drove north along Highway 17, the road just skirting the edge of Lake Monroe, late-morning sunshine glinting on the wind-choppy water in brilliant flashing tendrils of diamond-brightness. His ugly suit was too tight. He felt confined in mind and body.

  Though officially listed as being in Sanford, Baylor Goggle was actually halfway between Sanford and a small township called Debary. The traffic was sparse on 17, with most of it going the other way, toward the water sports.

  Strange, that something so large as Project GOG would reach a matrix here in small-town northern Florida. But that looked like what was happening. Baylor had been tagged and confirmed from three separate sources, its importance increasing with each new revelation, and yet he had no idea of what to expect there. The salesman's disguise was, perhaps, extreme, but given the mysterious nature of what went on at Baylor, he felt the full treatment was necessary, even down to the NuVue business card and literature he had picked up at a dealership that morning.

  Had he not seen the building, nestled in a grove of trees several hundred yards off the highway, he would have missed the unmarked turnoff completely. He hit the brakes hard, skidding loudly on the two-lane blacktop, then turned down the gravel road leading to Baylor.

  Baylor Goggle and Optical seemed to be an anomaly, a factory that thrived on anonymity. Not only was its highway exit unmarked, but when he had checked in town earlier that day for directions, no one had known what he was talking about, much less where it could be found.

  He drove the gravel road slowly, a rising cloud of dust following like a ship's wake. As he drove, he pictured Julie's face as he left her in the parking lot. She'd looked lost and alone and, as usual when there was trouble, he felt guilty leaving her behind. But he couldn't bring her with him. He'd already found himself hampered by trying to protect her while still doing the job, and such divided loyalties would ultimately lead him only to ruin. By binding himself to her through compassion, he was, quite simply, making them both easier kills.

  The gravel road ended at a small paved lane that went right up to the building, which was unornamented concrete a couple of hundred yards square, undistinguished in all respects. Next to it was a parking lot, which was surrounded by a chain link fence. The whole site covered about four acres. A guard shack sat at the end of the fence, right before the drive went past the building's front entrance, but it was unoccupied. Beside the shack was a small billboard that read:

  BAYLOR GOGGLE AND OPTICAL COMPANY

  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

  NO SOLICITING

  The guard wasn't there to tell him he wasn't authorized, so he drove right in. There was a late-model Lincoln parked on the circle drive that ran past the main entrance, and Bolan parked behind it. Interesting. The only sign marking the building so far had been the one by the guard shack.

  He got out of the Cadillac, and, carrying his new briefcase, walked along the twenty-foot sidewalk leading to the double glass entry door.

  When he pulled the door open, he could hear a buzzer going off somewhere farther back in the building. As soon as he walked in, he felt that something wasn't right. He was facing a receptionist's station, complete with PBX and appointment books, but nobody occupied the desk. From the reception area a hallway led to more offices and then, farther on, was the factory itself. Muzak was playing gently in the background, but there were no other noises—no talking, laugh
ing or shifting feet — nothing.

  The reception area seemed somewhat sterile, but that might have been designed to put on a nice appearance for visitors. The company logo was set up on the wall: the letters BGO written on the three sides of an equilateral triangle with an eye in the center.

  "Can I help you?" came a man's voice from down the hall. He appeared seconds later, still slipping into a sport jacket.

  Bolan put a friendly grin on his face. "Harvey Susskind," he said, reaching out to pump the man's hand. "I'm your new regional representative for NuVue Photocopiers. Just thought I'd stop by, drop off our new catalog and see how I could be of service."

  The man stared at him for a few seconds, looking unnatural in his suit. He was a big, ugly man who would have seemed far more at home swinging through the trees in the real jungle than fighting it out in the corporate variety. "Didn't you see the sign?" he asked finally.

  Bolan looked puzzled. "Can't say that I did."

  "Well, we do a lot of government contract work here, Mr. Sussman ..."

  "Susskind."

  "Whatever. Anyway, all of our employees have security clearances, and we're not allowed to let anyone in who doesn't."

  "Whoo," Bolan said loudly. "Sounds important. But now that I am in, maybe if I can just talk to someone in your purchasing department…"

  "Sorry," the man interrupted. "Everyone's gone to a funeral today. Our.. .office manager passed away."

  "Everybody but you."

  The man smiled through crooked teeth. "Somebody has to watch the store," he said. "Now, Mr…"

  "Susskind. Let me just show you our brochure. You'll be amazed at..."

  "Why don't you just leave it with me," the man said, "and someone will call your office if we're interested."

  "What kind of work do you do here, Mr….I don't believe I caught your name."

  "Not important," the man replied, "and our work here is classified, which is why we have the sign out there. Now, leave your brochure and your card, and we'll phone if interested. Don't call again, Mr. Susskind. This place is off-limits to you. Thank you."

  The man walked around the receptionist's station and put a firm arm around Bolan's back, exerting pressure in the direction of the glass doors. Bolan let himself be led away. The man smelled somewhat of alcohol and had a two-day growth of beard. He didn't fit into a business environment.

  Bolan was ushered out into the sunshine, the day already heating up to humid nightmare.

  "Goodbye," the man said firmly, turning immediately to walk back into the factory.

  Bolan stood for a moment, but decided that leaving now would be his best bet. He got in the car, backed up to get around the Lincoln, then drove off.

  As he made his way back down the gravel road, he kept looking in his rearview mirror, watching the building through a haze of rising dust. He had only been there a few minutes but in that time he'd only seen one person at the plant. Judging from the fifty or sixty cars in the employee parking lot, that simply didn't make sense.

  Perhaps today was unusual and everyone had gone to a funeral, but somehow, he didn't think so. The man he'd talked to was a goon in civilized clothes, not the kind of man to work white collar and get left in charge when everyone else was gone. He was as phony as Bolan's Harvey Susskind and as subtle as garlic.

  He reached the highway and headed back toward Sanford. Now that he'd seen the place in the daylight, it was time to check it out at night. Something odd was happening at Baylor Goggle and Optical, and Bolan was determined to find out what.

  * * *

  "What do you expect to do?" Julie asked him. "Walk right in and pretend you belong there?"

  "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," Bolan replied, slowing down on the nearly deserted highway so he wouldn't miss the turnoff. "All I have to do is get a look at the operation. That shouldn't be too difficult."

  "You make trespassing and breaking and entering sound like a stroll in the park," she said. "This is illegal! They could shoot you!"

  He turned, a smile tugging at a corner of his mouth. "And you, too."

  "Great! Thanks for reminding me."

  "It's going to be all right," he said, pulling onto the shoulder. He killed the lights. "I don't plan on getting caught. This is a recon. I can handle it, okay?"

  She nodded. "Nothing like last night, please."

  "It'll be all right," he repeated, and reached out to pat her on the arm.

  She took his hand, squeezing tightly, trembling. "What can I do to help?"

  He started the car and turned onto the one destination road, leaving the headlights off. "Get the car turned around, and keep the engine running. He ready to run like hell if you need to. If things get tough, don't wait for me."

  "Mack..."

  "Promise," he ordered. "Part of my job is protecting you, and I intend to do it."

  "But, dammit..."

  "Promise."

  She looked away and nodded slightly. "I promise," she said in a small voice.

  Bolan drove slowly, inching along to keep down the noise and dust. He stopped the car before reaching the paved roadway at a place out of view of the building. He was togged completely in black, the three-piece suit already consigned to a trash can back in Sanford. He got quietly out of the vehicle and slipped into the combat harness, then donned a light, black jacket.

  Using a cork he'd picked up at a bait and tackle shot, he lit the end on a disposable lighter, then blew it out, using the charred remains to quickly blacken his face.

  Julie slid across the seat to sit behind the wheel, using the automatic button to move it closer to the pedals.

  "Remember," he said, leaning down to speak through the window, "turn it around, keep the engine running, keep the lights out. If anybody but me comes for the car, get out without a second thought. I can take care of myself, you can't. If something happens to me, drive until you think you're safe, then call Hal."

  "Be careful," she said, then impulsively pulled his face to hers and kissed him quickly, almost in embarrassment.

  He smiled. "Now you've got black smudges on your face."

  She pulled down the rearview and slid in front of it, wiping at the burned cork that had been transferred to her face.

  "Remember," he said again, "engine running."

  The warrior then trotted away from the car and down the road, keeping to the edge of the forest. Twenty yards from the car, the road veered toward the factory and away from the Cadillac. He could hear its engine purring in the background, but just barely.

  He left the road completely when it wound around to the front gate, and picked his way carefully through the dark forest, exiting on the fringe of the parking, as far from the guard shack as it was possible to get.

  Just as during the afternoon, the lot was full of cars — the night shift? The area was well lit, but the cars themselves could provide a measure of protection. And he saw no employees.

  He moved up to the fence, taking off his jacket and throwing it against the links to check for electrification.

  Considering the lack of security he'd encountered so far, he wasn't surprised to find the fence dead cold.

  Retrieving the wire cutters that stuck out of his back pocket, Bolan went to work on the fence, cutting a hole for himself a link at a time. Something that the goon had said earlier made absolutely no sense. The man had informed him that people were kept out for governmental security reasons. If, indeed, the work going on in the factory required top-secret clearance, then the place would have been crawling with government-checked security, much as Grolier had been. And yet, Brognola had told him that Baylor did, indeed, do some government work. Why, then, the discrepancy?

  He worked quickly on the fence, clearing a crawl hole for himself within two minutes. He got in, and, running in a crouch, planted himself between two parked cars.

  Rising cautiously, he peered over the hood of an old Escort wagon. There was a light on in the distant guard shack, but no sign of movement or life. />
  Strange. There was a large spider web between the side view mirror on the Escort and its body, as if the car had sat there for a while. Crouching again, he moved to the next cars in the line, slowly making his way toward the employee entry gate to the plant.

  On the next row of cars, the Chevy Nova he hid behind had a front flat tire. He stood up straight and checked the car beside him. It also had a flat tire, and the cobwebs on this one were inside.

  He moved to the next row of vehicles. Something major was wrong here. The next car he came to, an Olds Cutlass, had busted headlights, the windshield shattered. He tried to open the car door, but it was jammed tight. He pulled a penlight out of his harness and shone it through the window. As he expected, a key was stuck in the ignition.

  This was no parking lot, it was a junkyard. The whole lot was filled with junkers to give the appearance of a workforce. Why?

  He walked quickly through the lot, heedless of any security, and came to the employee gate in the fence. Through the gate was a delivery alley, then a series of doors on the other side leading directly into the factory end of the building.

  A chain locked the gate. Bolan got out his clippers again and cut through the chain. But the gate had rusted shut, and still did not want to open. He forced open a space large enough to squeeze through, then hurried across the alley to the doors on the other side. The entryway was couched in shadows, the light bulb in the fixture above broken.

  The three metal doors, side by side, were locked. The building, like many factories, had no windows, no other means of entrance or exit except the doors. Bolan took a burglar's pick from the harness and went to work, pushing open the door seconds later.