Fire in the Sky

by Don Pendleton

  "You will be silent," the general ordered.

  "It's a village idiots' convention," Bolan continued, "everybody gathered to bring on the end of the world because they don't like the way all the nasty people act. They want to make the world safe for all the maniacs like themselves."

  Kit Givan laughed. "You sure have a way of glamorizing things, Mr. Bolan. I'll have to hand that to you."

  "Recognize the man who shot your husband?" Bolan asked Julie.

  "And where the hell were you?" Reilly demanded, pointing at Julie. "You were supposed to kill this bastard."

  He got up and walked over to her, taking her face in his hand and smiling. "Maybe it's better this way." He reached out a hand slowly to unzip her flight suit.

  Julie spit in the man's face, jerking away from him.

  "Mr. Reilly..." Cronin began.

  Reilly turned on him. "Don't mother-hen me. I'm not one of your soldier boys." He looked at Julie, laughed again, then walked away from her. "You know, General, we didn't plan on bringing any women down here, but it might be a fine idea to keep this one around to pass among the men. You know, four or five a day, keep a rotation going...."

  "That's enough," Cronin shouted, face angry.

  "At least he's honest about it," Bolan said, pointing at the man. "You're ready to destroy the country you've sworn to protect, while maintaining your sense of personal honor. You're just a killer, Cronin. A mass murderer."

  "Sometimes lives must be expended in the search for the greater good."

  "Greater good as determined by you," Bolan accused, "a crazy man, a killer."

  "You will be silent!" Colonel Bartello ordered loudly. "We are remaking the world here, for the better. General

  Cronin is our commanding officer and will be treated with respect."

  "And who are you, Junior? Listen, I'm sick of you people. You've caused enough problems. Your little deal is over, all washed up. Your boss up in Washington is finished, your project finished. Give it up. And I demand medical care for my injured companions."

  All the men at the table laughed; Reilly looked at Bolan with sparkling eyes. "You see that clock up on the wall, buddy? It shows that we have less than five hours until project start-up. It's going to happen. It's going to go through one way or the other. What if you have taken General Leland? Our program is large enough to absorb his loss. All we have to do is wait a few more hours and it will all be happening. We don't have to do anything."

  "No," Robbie said. "That doesn't fit with the scenario. In order to take over, you must have the President and you must have a high-ranking Pentagon officer. The whole takeover is useless otherwise."

  "You don't understand," Ito said, his face drawn with pain, his arm limp, supported by his good arm. "These men are animals. Through bitterness, or loss, or tragic stupidity they want to see the world end. It's the fallacy of your theory: the only people willing to sacrifice so much for a political ideal are ghouls like these. Unfortunately the military is rife with them. It's feedback from the combat mentality."

  "The bottom line here, gentlemen...and lady," Reilly said, "is that we have you." He walked to the E-4 who had Bolan's harness slung over his shoulder. He took it from the man then slung it on his own arm.

  "Before we finish up with you — though this has been very entertaining —we just need to ask you a few simple questions. Such as how did you find us?"

  "Bedrock," Robbie said proudly. "We simply looked at the geological…"

  "That's enough!" Bolan gritted.

  "I'll say when it's enough!" Reilly screamed. He walked directly in front of Bolan. "It's time to take you down, big man."

  He swung out hard at Bolan's stomach, the Executioner tightening his muscles and doubling over to take the power out of the punch. Reflexively he came up swinging, an uppercut to the jaw knocking Reilly off his feet.

  Hands grabbed at Bolan as Reilly scrambled off the floor, coming hard at a now-restrained Mack Bolan.

  "Enough!" Cronin ordered. "This is still a military installation."

  Reilly stopped in midswing, wild eyes slowly coming back under control. "I want to see you cry," he rasped, then moved over to Robbie. "Does anyone else know you're here?"

  The man looked at him, then at Bolan, his face a battleground of conflicting emotions. "No," he said after a moment. "We worked all this out on our own."

  Reilly moved to Julie again, his hands gently rubbing her face, his fingers tangling in her hair, then jerking her head back hard.

  "Leave her alone!" Bolan yelled.

  "Fuck you!" Reilly suddenly had a knife in his hand, which he brought up to Julie's strained face. He rested the jagged blade against her cheek.

  "Not here!" Cronin was appalled.

  "Is your friend telling the truth?" he whispered to her, his mouth right up against her ear.

  "Y-yes," she stammered through clenched teeth.

  "Now don't you go cuttin' her up," Givan said genially. "She won't be much fun to any of us if she's all ugly and bloody."

  Reilly turned and looked at him, a boyish grin cutting across his smooth face. "You've got a point there. Maybe we want to stab her with something a little less... sharp." The man wiggled his eyebrows. Bolan realized that Reilly was a total sociopath who suddenly found himself in control.

  Reilly stepped away from them, going back to sit at the table. "My recommendation is that we cancel these gentlemen out immediately and save the woman for future reference."

  "I wholeheartedly second that motion," Kit Givan concurred, smiling at Julie as if he were doing her a favor.

  "I don't like it," Cronin said. "We are all gentlemen here, officers. Our purpose is to bring a new order to the land. Our behavior must be above reproach."

  "There won't be anybody alive to reproach us," Reilly remarked. "It's our world to do with as we please. General Leland would understand that."

  "He's got a point," Bartello said, and he was also looking at Julie. "We may have to stay down here for months maybe. Men without women in a closed-in environment will need some sort of...recreation."

  Bolan was sick to his stomach, watching the animals divide the spoils. This kind had existed for ages, bringing a bad name to the military of all nations. The difference was, this time the animals had the power.

  The double doors burst open at the far side of the cafeteria, a second lieutenant charging into the area. "General Cronin," he gasped, out of breath. "A large convoy is headed this way. We make it to be about twenty trucks."

  "How far?" Cronin asked.

  "Ten miles and closing, sir."

  Cronin nodded, his face intent. "Go to alert. Break out the arms."

  "Yes, sir!"

  Reilly was on his feet, his eyes dark, smoldering. "You lied to me." The knife gleamed in his hand as he turned it around and around. "You're going to make me drag it out of you, aren't you?"

  "Give it up," Bolan said. "You're no match for them. It's over."

  "There's nothing you can do," Reilly taunted. "If we destroy the computer, the mission still continues."

  "Don't destroy the computer unless we have to," Cronin said.

  "Don't worry. I understand all that."

  "We need anything they've got," Givan said. "But don't cut up the girl."

  Reilly smiled widely at Bolan, then turned to the sergeant who had led them in from the surface. "Throw them in the brig. As soon as I take care of the computer, we'll set up for interrogation."

  The Company traitor looked hard at Bolan. "I'll start with this one."

  "But he'll never tell you anything," Bartello said.

  "I know."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  General Leland saluted the Marine guard at the east door of the White House, and moved into the building, checking his watch. It was six-thirty, the usual start of the work day for the President of the United States. He would be in his office, reading the early editions of the New York Times and the Washington Post, his mind turning toward his agenda for the day.
Leland smiled. He was getting ready to present the President with an entirely new agenda.

  He walked right past the manned appointment desk, winking at the detachment stationed there. "We'll be right down."

  "Yes, sir," the young Marine answered.

  He moved briskly along the lower hallway, just coming awake for the new day, minor diplomats and computer operators and clerks stumbling their way to the coffeepot.

  Leland entered an elevator and pushed the button that would take him up to the President's suite of conference rooms. The chopper that would take them to the bunker at Camp David was warmed up and waiting on the pad.

  This was it, the day he'd been planning for seven years. The restructuring of the world would begin today with no global threats, no organized crime, no illegal aliens, no mind-altering drugs. Today, he'd be doing God's work, the same work done at Sodom, the same work spoken of in Ezekiel.

  As he stepped off the elevator, he felt a strange sense of calm and well-being. He had slept wonderfully last night, the Tightness of what he was doing a soothing balm from the horrors that had plagued him since Milly had died back in 1978 in the car accident caused by the PCP-altered teenaged psycho. He would fix things now, set the record straight, take care of all of them.

  It was good.

  He moved down the carpeted hall, seeing no one, and tapped lightly on the door marked Private.

  Hal Brognola, through the crack in the conference room door, watched the monster moving up on the Oval Office. Greggson and General Ferris stood behind him.

  Brognola had never met Leland, knew him only through photos and the man's actions. When he finally got to see him in the flesh, actually bringing his horror unashamedly into the corridors of the White House, it made his neck hairs stand on end. He'd never before known what it felt like to want to rip a human being apart with his hands.

  But he knew now.

  As Leland knocked on the President's door, Brognola realized that his hands were clenched and cramping. He took a few deep breaths, trying to relax, and looked at his watch just as he had done every minute for the past three hours.

  He heard the door to the Oval Office open, heard, but couldn't see the President.

  "Good morning, Lee. This is an unexpected surprise. Come in."

  "There's no time for that, Mr. President," Leland said. "We must go."

  The President laughed. "Go where? There's nothing in my appointment book that…"

  "Nuclear war usually doesn't show up in the appointment books, Mr. President."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I have received information that the Soviets will launch an all-out attack by nine-fifteen this morning. We must proceed to the bunker at Camp David."

  "Where did you get this information, Lee?" the President returned. "There's been nothing through the wire, or from NORAD, or…"

  "You, sir, are the first to know."

  That was enough for Brognola. He'd wanted to give Leland enough rope to hang himself if it ever came to trial, and the man had done everything but knot the noose around his own neck.

  "Not quite the first," Brognola said, rushing into the hall, the others right behind.

  "What's this all about, Hal?" the President asked, his face filled with confusion. He looked at Ferris. "What's going on, John?"

  "I'm afraid you're the victim of a plot, Mr. President," Ferris informed him. "General Leland plans to start a nuclear war from which he can emerge the nation's leader."

  "Lee?" The President stared at Leland. "What is he talking about?"

  "The building is full of my Marines, gentlemen," Leland said. "I'm afraid the chase is over."

  "Your men were all reassigned this morning, Lee," Ferris growled. "Now, please, let's stop this madness."

  "Is it madness to want a better world?" Leland asked, his voice sincere. "Is it madness to try to stop the downward spiral of life on Earth?"

  "No." Brognola's gaze locked with Leland's. "But to precipitate the deaths of four billion people is madness on a grand scale."

  "How can he do this?"

  "Believe us, Mr. President," Greggson said. "He can."

  "Look, gentlemen," Leland said casually, "there is no way you can stop me at this point. Why don't we simply proceed to the shelter... all of us, and we can discuss it at leisure."

  "I think that you've got half of a good idea." Brognola's rage, like a balloon within him, was ready to burst. "I think the President should, indeed, take to the shelter, but there's no way that you will go underground, you sick bastard. There's no way that you're going to survive if the rest of us go."

  Leland laughed. "Oh, I understand now. You want to keep me out of the shelter so I'll give you the password. But I can assure you that will never happen. If I'm to die in the first wave, my dream will live on."

  "Your complex in Florida is under attack right now," Greggson told him. "Give it over."

  Leland turned to the President. "Listen to me. There's no way that this thing can be stopped. If you coordinate and launch a first strike at, say, 8:55, you can score an even more resounding victory."

  "What are you saying, Lee?" the President replied. "I know things have been tough on you since Milly died…"

  "Leave her out of this, sir," Leland snarled, drawing himself up. "The world has become a vile and godless place. It must be set aright. It will be set aright…" he checked his watch "…in exactly two hours and sixteen minutes."

  The President looked at Ferris. "Should we hot-line to the Kremlin?"

  "And tell them, what, Mr. President?" the general asked. "I fear that, knowing the situation, it will simply induce them to launch a first strike."

  "Roll with it," Leland said. "History has dropped the imperative in your lap. Make the most of it."

  The President turned to Brognola. "What do we do?"

  "We pray for the success of our one hope, we go to red alert and we try to torture the information out of this maniac standing here with us."

  * * *

  The brig was neat and clean. The size of a middle-class living room, it had freshly painted walls and six bunks with new mattresses poking out of the wall in three tiers of two each. Bolan had never been in a new jail before. The experience was just unique enough to be memorable.

  They'd been taken down a long hallway of storerooms in two golf carts, Bolan memorizing the route, trying to figure out where the computers might be kept. They'd passed a holding area where the electric carts were recharged, then came to the brig. Out of options at this point, it was simply a question of where and when they'd be killed, and how messy it would be.

  The cell was a sturdy one, its door sliding closed with a resounding clang once they'd been shoved inside. There was no light in the cell, other than what spilled in from the hallway. Four armed guards had escorted them there. Bad odds, but not impossible. It was time to regroup.

  As soon as the golf carts sped silently off, Bolan took control.

  "Robbie, tear a long strip off something and make a sling for Bob. We've got to free up his good arm."

  "To what end?" Ito asked, his face pale and drained from the pain and the problems. "There's not enough time for me to break into the system."

  "It's not over yet," Bolan said, as he watched Robbie struggle out of his flight suit and use his teeth to start a tear at the collar.

  A moaning sound came from one of the bunks.

  "There's somebody in here," Julie said, and moved through the half darkness to check, her progress noted by a sharp intake of breath and a whispered "Oh my God."

  "What is it?" Bolan asked, moving to her side.

  A man lay on a lower bunk, or what was left of a man. He was stripped to the waist, a mass of welts and bruises. The skin had been cut from his chest in long strips, and three fingers were missing from his left hand.

  Bolan knelt beside him. "Are you conscious?"

  The man groaned loudly through bloody lips, his swollen lids fluttering open.

  "Oscar," Ito said
from behind Bolan.

  Oscar Largent spoke, his words rasping dryly from his throat. "Bob...Bob Ito?"

  Ito approached him. "Oh, no. What did they do to you?" Ito's words were more a shocked exclamation than a question, and Largent wasted no strength attempting to reply.

  "Who is he?" Bolan asked Ito.

  "His name's Oscar Largent. He's a Justice Department operative. They sent him down here undercover."

  Bolan put his mouth near Largent's ear, which was swollen and purple. The man had been beaten severely, and Bolan had no idea of what was keeping him alive.

  "Can you talk? We don't have much time."

  "A little," the man rasped. "W-water."

  Bolan looked around. The place was equipped with the usual jailhouse plumbing, an exposed sink and toilet, each with totally enclosed plumbing so it couldn't be taken apart, each operating from a simple push button.

  "Wet some cloth," Bolan instructed Julie. "Anything."

  As she hurried to comply, Largent tried to sit up.

  "No," Bolan said. "Just rest. I need to ask you a few questions."

  Julie returned with the cloth, a piece of flight suit. Bolan took the sopping material and put it to the man's lips.

  Largent worked hungrily on the cloth, turning his head away when he was through. "Ask," he said weakly.

  "Do you know the layout in here?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know where they keep the computer?"

  "Y-yes...there's a...central hall at the...far end of the building. Com ... puter is in a glassed-in booth ...in the...center."

  "Do you know the Project GOG password?"

  "No."

  "Okay. Thanks." Bolan stood. "You rest now."

  "I-is it...over?"

  "No. Not yet."

  Bolan turned to Robbie, who had just finished fastening the improvised sling around Ito's arm and neck. Everyone was somber, nearly petrified after seeing what the Fates — and probably Mark Reilly — had in store for them.

  "Okay, what's happening with them right now?"

  Robbie frowned. "What dif…"