The Last Stand

by Mickey Spillane

  In the back seat, Pete had seen the same thing and had grabbed the stick in a moment of terror, pulling on it in a manner that threw 819 into a violent, uncontrolled maneuver.

  Very quietly, Joe spoke into the microphone. “Pete…Pete, get off that stick.”

  He could see Pete’s face in the mirror he had adjusted to watch his passenger. Pete’s eyes were wide with terror.

  Once again, Joe said, “Pete…let go that stick or you’re gonna lose this horse too.”

  Pete came out of it then. He let go, pulled his hands back and clasped them together across his chest. The terror was still there in his face. Controlled now, but still there. His mouth said “Sorry” soundlessly. Joe just nodded and concentrated on regaining control. 819 was bouncing erratically across the sky, but Joe pushed the throttle to the firewall, banked hard and blasted across the edge of the Monster Teeth Hills into stable air. He ran along the edge of the weird formation until he saw a huge V-shaped cut in the side of the jagged mountainside. Sticking straight up for a good hundred feet was a spire of blue rock like a giant’s single bicuspid tooth.

  He had no desire to go over the hills again, but made a pass closer to the spire so that the fingerlike protuberances on its sides could be plainly seen. Behind him he heard Pete yell out, “Joe! It looks like a stone tree.”

  And it would take a mighty big bird to land on that tree. Joe and Pete tried to talk at the same time, both having recognized the possibilities in what they saw. Someone gave that edifice a name long ago: Big bird tree.

  Gently, Joe shifted the throttle and let the plane settle lower. When they got down to five hundred feet he saw what shouldn’t have been there at all, parallel tracks coming out of the deep V of Monster Teeth Hills and where the tracks hit the packed sand, the deep imprint of tread marks were apparent.

  Joe whacked the stick against Pete’s legs and pointed out the tracks. Pete said excitedly, “Maxie Angelo’s truck has mud treads like that. He’s beaten us, damn it. He’s gotten Moe’s goods and is gone with them.”

  “It’s a long way to a concrete road.” Joe told him. “We can follow those tracks as long as he leaves them.”

  “Where could he be going?”

  Joe thumbed the talk button. “He’s got a plane parked somewhere.”

  “And we can’t spot it from up here?”

  “Not if it’s camouflaged, Pete. We might be able to see something and pass right over it because we couldn’t recognize it. The army has netting that could disguise a tractor-trailer from the air and Maxie wouldn’t be passing up any possibilities at all. That plane is going to be under cover at the end of those tracks.”

  “Joe…there’s hard ground about five miles ahead,” Pete called out.

  “Use your mike, pal.”

  He thumbed the button. “It’s hard ground and a plane could land there. The old Tingo Road comes in there from the main highway and if Maxie could drive the truck out, Ted Condon could fly right off and meet up with Maxie later.”

  “You think Maxie would trust that kid with a load like that?”

  After a minute’s silence Pete said, “No. Maxie Angelo doesn’t trust anybody. Period.”

  In ten minutes of flying the tire marks became dimmer. For short stretches they disappeared entirely and where the tracks cut in closer to the edge of the Hills, they disappeared completely for a full mile. Something drew Joe’s eyes from the ground to his instruments and he saw the magnetic compass begin its wild gyrations again.

  He couldn’t sweat two strange situations at the same time so he dropped down until 819 was skimming along at 155 M.P.H. only two hundred feet up. Joe knew the nearly macadam-like earth would be devoid of tire marks in another mile or so and dropped even lower, trying to search out dust plumes or any signs at all of a vehicle’s passage.

  He didn’t see anything.

  But then he did.

  The sun made it flash. A prism of color jumped out of what seemed to be the soil and when they flew close over the spot and the camouflage netting flopped from the prop wash, Joe knew they had stopped the escape of the goods Miner Moe had taken a lifetime to collect.

  Pete was banging on his instrument panel before he remembered the microphone. He was yelling and pointing to the right of the plane and when Joe followed the direction his finger was pointing, he saw the body stretched out on the ground.

  “That’s Ted Condon,” Pete said.

  “Then where’s Maxie Angelo?”

  Joe gained a little altitude and banked to the right, keeping away from Monster Teeth Hills as best he could. He swept low again over the netting that had been stretched out to cover the Cessna, then spotted Maxie pushing his way through the fabric until he was out in the open. He was holding up a thick, ropey thing with one hand and pointing furiously at the fallen body of Ted Condon.

  “What’s he got there?” Joe said into the mike.

  “Man,” Pete said, “that’s a rattler and it’s a big one. Damn, Ted Condon must have been snakebit!”

  “In that case, Maxie Angelo isn’t going anywhere with his loot,” Joe replied.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Cessna had a full complement of radio frequencies. Cost had been no object here at all. Joe’s first call went to the nearest military base where he requested a patch to FBI headquarters and he was put through immediately. When an agent answered, he gave his name, read off his license numbers and requested a second patch to Mr. Walker on the reservation.

  There was a delay of a minute and a half before contact was made with Walker and the call accepted, then the agent said calmly but with some impatience, “Mr. Gillian, this is Agent Walker. What is it?”

  A look of relief touched Joe’s face and he nodded toward Pete and made an okay sign with his thumb and forefinger. Then he touched the send button on the microphone and said, “Joe Gillian here, Mr. Walker. I think you’d better get out to the landing field at the rez. I estimate landing in fifty-two minutes with a cargo you’ll be very interested in.”

  “Explain further.”

  “No time for that now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we have a prisoner on board.” He added, “Plus a couple of billion dollars worth of trade goods.”

  Walker’s voice was strained. “What do you mean, trade goods?”

  “You’ll find out,” Joe said. “Just be there.”

  Walker snarled, “What I want to find is that arrowhead! It wasn’t in the latrine!”

  “She told you where she put it?” When Walker didn’t answer, Joe said, “I see, you dug but she had already moved it, hadn’t she?”

  Still no answer. Joe checked the clock on the instrument panel. “See you in fifty minutes, Mr. Walker.”

  Pete muttered, “You sure are going to piss that guy off.”

  “Big deal,” Joe said. “You know that your sister moved that arrowhead? Those government guys must have had a time digging out that slop looking for it.”

  “Sounds like one of Fox’s moves.”

  “Where would she have moved it to?”

  “A place even I wouldn’t look for it. She used to do that to me all the time when we were kids. It’s a hole that’s full of rattlers.”

  “Damn,” Joe whispered. “You Injuns sure are mean.”

  “But not dumb, flyboy.” Pete smiled at him in the mirror. “Meanwhile, I saw that magnetic compass trying to spin off its axis. You know what I think that means?”

  Joe gave a silent start as the significance dawned on him, too. “Damn. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Me college educated,” Pete told him. “Me put two and two together.”

  Joe picked up the mike and called the radio equipment car Walker was riding in. When he heard the click of the connection and the voice say, “Walker here,” he said, “One more thing, Mr. Walker. If I were you, I’d also have a chopper handy with a geologist on board, and maybe some instruments a little more accurate than a Geiger counter.” He hung up in the middle of Walk
er’s demand for an explanation.

  Behind him Maxie Angelo was making maddened sounds through the makeshift gag they’d slipped on him. His eyes were pure hate.

  * * *

  There was one thing about the U.S. Government. When necessary it could do things in one hell of a hurry. It could mobilize machines and manpower, build a Panama Canal, or turn a lousy old sand-bed landing strip into a packed-down runway an F-16 could put down on, complete with pole-supported flag markers to show wind direction in case the old wind sock didn’t want to play that day.

  A full dozen cars flanked the improvised runway, staying well back in case there was a ground looping incident or any mechanical failure. The doors of the cars were open, a man standing behind each in a full alert position, and Joe thought he saw handguns resting on the window ledges ready for a shooting emergency.

  Joe’s slow pass over the field was ostensibly to check for landing conditions, but it was also reconnaissance. When he pulled up into the landing pattern and rolled out onto the downwind leg, he knew they weren’t all friendlies down there and he’d have to play the game close to the vest.

  Behind him he heard a grunt, and said, “Now what are you thinking up, Pete?”

  “I don’t see Running Fox down there.”

  Joe glanced down quickly. “I don’t see any of your cousins down there either.”

  He adjusted the controls and turned on to the base leg, pulled back the throttles again and dropped the nose. There was no cross wind at all and the flags and the old wind sock drooped sullenly, almost annoyed at letting a plane come in for a landing with no buffeting at all. The wheels touched down, Joe closed the throttle, let the nose settle, then turned into a parking position right beside the hanger.

  Outside, at the line of cars, nobody moved at all.

  The two men unhooked their headsets, unbuckled their seat belts and sat there. Pete said, “Spooky.”

  “They’re waiting,” Joe said.

  “Why?”

  “Regulations. They don’t want to walk into a trap.”

  Joe pointed at the line of cars. They had started and the doors were closed. Windows were down and the noses of rapid-fire weapons were propped on the sills, all pointed toward the plane. They began to spread out in a pre-ordered formation until they made a semicircle around the Cessna, then they stopped.

  Pete said, “Damn!”

  “You can say that again,” Joe told him. The door on the lead car opened and Walker stuck his head out, half hidden behind a bullhorn. “Step out of the aircraft with your hands in the air,” the bullhorn roared.

  “Who the hell does he think we are, Joe?”

  “Terrorists,” Joe said softly.

  “Us?”

  “They’re not taking any chances.”

  “Why?”

  “While we’ve been away, they’ve been at the computers.”

  “So what?”

  “The arrowhead, friend. They’ve been searching for an artifact like that one hell of a long time.”

  “Okay, we give it to them.”

  “The story doesn’t end there,” Joe reminded him. “I come in and accidentally land in rez territory. I find the arrowhead. The FBI is here to keep tracks on the big powwow. They do that at other reservations?”

  Pete thought a few moments, then shook his head.

  “They’ve had suspicions a long time that those strange bits of mineral came from this area. So they keep this area covered. Hell, they weren’t interested in your tribal customs.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We get out of this plane with our hands in the air and get a full explanation from the FBI.”

  They came out like stick figures, arms straight up above their heads, the muzzles of six submachine guns aimed at their bodies. The faces behind the guns were bland, very professional, very well trained. Walker studied them a moment, then stepped forward, two others stepping out to flank him until they all were in perfect position for instant firing.

  Walker made a hand motion for the two to walk a few steps, then pointed to one side and made an indication for them to separate. When they did, both felt a gun go into their backs, their hands get snatched and handcuffs slapped on their wrists.

  Until then, all had been quiet, but Joe had had enough of the rough treatment and said sharply, “You mind telling us what this is all about?”

  Mr. Walker holstered his Glock pistol, his face impassive. His eyes left the prisoners and he glanced over their shoulders. Joe and Pete turned their heads and saw Maxie Angelo being pulled out of the Cessna, all tied up, an almost doped look on his face. The head FBI man said, “What happened to him?”

  “He pulled a gun on us,” Pete said.

  “How’d he get like that?”

  “We outflanked him,” Joe told him.

  “In the plane?”

  “Certainly.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “Sitting Bull tactics,” Joe said. Walker frowned and Joe added, “Before you read us our rights or do any of that TV routine, I’m going to give you a chance to get off the hook. Hell, you may even get a big fat promotion, but in case you don’t believe me, I’m going to remind you that I’m a well-informed individual, owner of a corporation, ex-military personnel of officer status, and have personal friends who are well-situated in congressional committees.”

  Walker’s eyes stayed hard.

  “You reading me, Mr. Walker?”

  “I am reading you, Mr. Gillian.”

  Before Joe could speak again Walker nodded to two of his men. “Unhinge them,” he directed.

  From where he was sitting on the ground, Maxie Angelo was making strained sounds, not able to comprehend all that was going on.

  Both Joe and Pete rubbed their wrists when the handcuffs came off. In front of them Walker said, “Go ahead.”

  “You haven’t searched the plane yet,” Joe said.

  “We will very shortly.”

  “The cargo in that Cessna is very personal. It belongs to an old man who has spent a lifetime searching for it. This slob over here has been trying to kill him ever since he got wise to the situation. His partner is already dead out there in the desert where a rattlesnake knocked him off.”

  “Make your point, Mr. Gillian,” Walker said, his tone showing his annoyance.

  “Right now, in front of all these witnesses you’ve brought along, I want a written guarantee that the cargo I spoke of will be untouched, uninspected by your people, and declared to be totally owned by Miner Moe. I don’t know his full legal name, but I’m sure my friend here—excuse me, my brother here—does. I’m also sure one of your people has a law degree and can draft up a legal document that will hold up in any court.”

  “Are you out of your mind, Gillian?”

  “Nope.” There was a very determined tone in his voice that made the FBI man stare at him.

  “What makes you think the U.S. Government or any of us here would agree to anything like that at all?”

  Joe grinned. It was a tantalizing kind of grin that was almost a smirk and he said, “Because what we have to trade is worth more than ten thousand times…no, make that a million times more valuable than what’s in that plane.”

  It didn’t happen quickly at all. Walker’s face stayed cold and firm while his mind went over the details of what had happened in the very few days he had seen go by and the implications dawned on him. The furrows in his cheeks went away and the ice around the pupils of his eyes seemed to thaw. He looked at Joe, then at Pete, and said with an incredulous throaty whisper, “You found the source.”

  The nod Joe gave was barely noticeable.

  Walker turned to the nearest man to him and said, “Go bring up Marty Johnson and Kooperman. Tell them to get their briefcases. And get the portable laptop out of my car.”

  “One more thing,” Joe said.

  “What?”

  “Where’s Running Fox?”

  “In detention at our camp.”

&
nbsp; “Get on the radio and have her released.”

  Walker whistled and pointed to a middle-aged guy standing by a car, still cradling his rifle. He put the gun inside the car and came up to the plane. Joe nodded briefly and said, “You aware of the potential in that arrowhead?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “What would a mountainful be worth?”

  The man stammered. “A pickup load could stabilize the world situation right now.”

  “Also make a pretty good weapon, wouldn’t it?”

  The geologist nodded and said nothing.

  “Supposing the other side got some too,” Joe suggested.

  “Be a standoff, I guess.” He paused briefly, then added, “At least for a little while.”

  “And anything’s better than nothing, right?”

  “What’s this all about?” the geologist asked him.

  “We’re about to give you a whole mountain-load,” Joe told him.

  The geologist’s face went absolutely white.

  “Are you speaking rhetorically?”

  “Not at all,” Joe said.

  “We’re not on a level high enough to make a deal like this,” the geologist said. “Congress will have what’s left of our heads after the newspapers get hold of it!”

  Joe said, “Man, you haven’t even heard the details yet.”

  “But…”

  Walker came up behind him. “Shut up.”

  But the geologist went on. “If this is for real, do you know the power we’d have in our hands? Why the world…”

  Walker said, “We’re not interested in what the world would do, my friend. The world has already knocked down the Trade Towers in New York, blown up one of our destroyers, bombed our embassies and taken a mess of our citizens prisoner. Right now the ball is in our court and we are going to play it our way for a change.”

  Almost silently, the FBI geologist whispered, “Who are you going to trust when the digging starts?”

  Walker’s tongue ran across his dry lips and when the agent came up with the laptop computer he walked away, propped it on the fender of a car and began typing. For fifteen minutes, nobody said a word and the faint tapping of the computer keys sounded like far-off gunshots.