“What?”
“This time,” he said quietly, “I have to be the windmill.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
GETTING IN
A sergeant with MP markings on his uniform saluted smartly and shouted to make himself heard above the dying revolutions of the rotors: “Begging the colonel’s pardon, sir, you can’t land that thing here, sir!”
Bolan returned the salute and replied, “You’re wrong, sergeant, it was a perfect landing. Take me to your C.O.”
Grimaldi had set the Huey down on the headquarters lawn. The time was midafternoon and apparently quite a lot was going on in the administration area of the test center. Foot traffic, both military and civilian, in the immediate vicinity was heavy, and the parking areas were choked with vehicles.
The MP was caught between command imperatives, but it was very obvious that the big “colonel” in the neat desert fatigues embodied a command that would not be denied. The guy snapped another salute, this one to the debarking pilot of the Huey, and resignedly led the visitors away.
It was a gleamingly modern brick building with a comfortable reception lobby bearing mementoes and symbols of the historical significance of these proving grounds. Some special tables were being set up in an area marked “Press Orientation” and the lobby was swarming with human activity—in preparation, no doubt, for the upcoming special event. In the midst of all that activity a rather calm-looking guy wearing captain’s bars was busily setting up a desk bearing the placard Public Information Officer.
The PIO smiled at Bolan and Bolan smiled back. “Getting it together, Captain?” he inquired pleasantly.
“It’s getting there, sir,” the PIO replied.
Bolan felt right at home. The colonel’s insignia on his tunic was about the only thing out of place. And he was finding that as natural as his sergeant’s stripes had ever been.
They swept on past there and along a broad hallway with offices opening to either side. At the end were large double doors bearing the insignia of DARCOM, the Development and Research Command of the U.S. Army. In small detail appeared the name of the commanding general at White Sands along with further information that this was a facility of the Test and Evaluation Command at Aberdeen.
Bolan and Grimaldi were taken into the C.O.’s outer office and deposited there in the custody of an aide, one Major Paul Whitney.
The MP quickly withdrew.
Whitney was a pleasant enough guy, relaxed and casually dressed in shirtsleeves. “I take it that’s your chopper outside the general’s window,” he said, slightly amused by it all.
Bolan handed the aide a sealed red envelope as he told him, “This is White House hot so don’t lose it between here and the general’s desk.”
The smile slowly evaporated as Whitney turned the envelope over in his hands a couple of times. He said, “Right. Right, sir,” and quickly excused himself.
He was back about thirty seconds later, holding the door open to the inner offices. Bolan and Grimaldi stepped inside and the aide went on out, closing the door behind him.
The guy at the desk was youngish for a general with a tough cut to the jaw and very intelligent eyes. Bolan gave him a casual salute and moved straight into a handshake. “The President sends his regards, General,” he soberly greeted the C.O.
“It seems that he’s sending more than that,” said the general. “What’s this all about, Colonel Phoenix?”
Bolan introduced Grimaldi as Major Conti, then replied, “I am not authorized to reveal anything beyond the contents of that envelope, sir.”
“The hell you’re not!” the guy exploded. “Do you know what’s in this envelope?”
“Only in the most general sense, sir,” Bolan replied respectfully.
“It has the general effect, Colonel, of relieving me of my command!”
“No, sir—by your leave, General—that is not the intent of the orders. It has been firmly impressed upon me that I am not to interfere with your command in any way that is not absolutely essential to the conduct of my mission.”
“And what is that mission?”
“I would have to refer that question to the White House, sir.”
“Good enough!” the general snapped. “Wait outside!”
The visitors gracefully retreated to the outer office. The aide offered them coffee, which both accepted. A pretty secretary went into a small alcove and quickly produced the offering. Bolan sipped his and said quietly to the aide, over his cup, “The general’s a bit on edge.”
“Why not?” the guy replied pleasantly. “This is the biggest thing we’ve had in years. You have any idea how many things can go wrong? We’re going to have all the big brass of Europe within our humble walls tomorrow.”
“It should be pretty much routine by now,” Grimaldi observed quietly.
Whitney nodded his head at that as he replied, “We run about a thousand tests a year, sure. But that’s not the problem. The problem is courtesies and protocol. This isn’t exactly the Presidio, you know. What do you do with twenty foreign generals? Not to mention all their staff people, the press, and all that. We’re hard put just to bunk them all.”
“Seems like a nice enough place,” Grimaldi said, discreetly probing for information. “You guys have a regular oasis out here. Trees and grass, flowers. I don’t see why there should be any problem.”
“It’s nice enough, sure,” the guy shot back. “For us. But, listen, some of these buildings have been here since nineteen forty-five. They’ve got terminal desert rot. The better part of it all is the family housing area. We only have thirteen hundred military people assigned to this reservation, so that makes for a damned small town. Most of the other space is taken up by the four thousand civilian employees and two thousand contractor personnel. Of course, they don’t live on site. They just work here.”
“You’ve got that many contractors, eh?” Grimaldi said.
“Well, the army only administers this range, you know. Everybody uses it, all the services, all the defense contractors—even a lot of foreign governments. Hell, DARCOM is just a pimple on the tit. But the pimple has to run the whole body.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve got a problem there okay,” Grimaldi said, smiling at the guy with innocent good nature.
Bolan commented, “But surely you have more than thirteen hundred men in this command.”
“Look, that’s all we have,” insisted the aide.
“How many of those are involved in range security?” Bolan asked casually.
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Something like that,” Bolan vaguely replied. A bit of caution was creeping into Whitney’s demeanor. He leaned forward to say, “Our range security is very good. It’s all controlled access, you know, and very strictly controlled. Our boys do a good job.”
Bolan murmured, “I’m sure they do.”
“Bet your ass they do, sir.”
“Is it beefed up for the coming event?”
“Beefed up? I just told you, our security is very good.”
Bolan smiled and reached for a cigarette. The aide lit it for him. Bolan settled back into the chair and said, “But you’ve taken no special precautions on behalf of the visiting brass?”
The guy was becoming decidedly nervous, now. He looked from Bolan to Grimaldi and back to Bolan again as he replied, “We’re more worried about their comfort than their security. These aren’t visiting heads of state, you know. They’re soldiers. Is there something … is that why … what’s this all about, Colonel?”
Bolan smiled again and told him, “Your general will tell you all about it, I’m sure. After he’s spoken to the White House.”
The general’s aide turned a bit pale at the mouth. He gave Grimaldi a wounded look and said to him, “What I have been saying to you gentlemen is entirely off the record. If you people are checking out our—”
Bolan shut that off with a wave of the hand. He said, “Relax, Major. Nothing is going into any record. You don’t s
ee any white gloves on our hands, do you?”
Whitney replied, “No, sir. I’m sorry. I only meant …”
He never did tell them what he only meant. Bolan and Grimaldi finished their coffee in silence.
The secretary glanced their way from time to time and self-consciously fiddled with various things on her desk. Obviously she had nothing else to do, at the moment. The general’s aide gazed out the window and squeezed his hands together.
He was a nice enough guy. Bolan said, “Don’t sweat it, Major. Our visit has nothing whatever to do with range administration. We’re checking in here only as a courtesy. After your general has cleared us, we’ll be on our way and you won’t even know we’re here.”
The guy showed him a tentative smile as he said, “Thanks. I needed that. It has been a hell of a sweat for the past three weeks.”
A buzzer on his desk sounded at that moment and he quickly went to the C.O.’s office. He returned a moment later and handed the red envelope to Bolan. “The general extends his welcome and hospitality,” he reported quietly. “I am to provide all your needs, whatever they may be. I’ll notify the provost marshal and the security detachment of your carte blanche status on the range. We can greatly facilitate all that if you will just accompany me to the security office. It will take just a moment to make up the badges, which will clear you to all areas of the range.”
Bolan was on his feet. He said, “That will be fine, thanks.”
“How about billeting? Will you be staying …?”
Bolan waved the idea away. “You have problems enough with billeting,” he told the guy. “We won’t be here long enough to rest the head, anyway.”
The aide seemed very relieved about that.
“Follow me, please,” he said, and led them toward the keys to the kingdom.
But it was not to be all that cut and dried.
The security office was in a smaller, more modest structure within a comfortable walk from headquarters.
The general’s aide was ushering the visitors into that building when Bolan came eye to eye with one Mary Valdez.
The lady was wearing a crisp khaki blouse with knife-pleated slacks and she paled to an absolute white at sight of Bolan.
He thought she had fainted and moved quickly forward to grab her.
But it was just a stagger. The lady caught herself and struggled against the attentions of the tall colonel in desert fatigues.
“I—I’m okay,” she gasped.
The general’s aide had not missed any of that.
He said, “What the hell is it, Mary?”
Color was flooding back into that pretty face, going to the opposite extreme. “I’m sorry,” she apologized in an embarrassed near-whisper, speaking to the aide. “I thought for a minute he was Charlie.”
That obviously meant something to the aide. And he was suddenly very understanding and solicitous. “You okay now?” he asked her.
She said, “Sure. Really, I’m fine. Are you here to see me?”
“Not exactly,” Whitney replied. “But why not? Why not the best, eh? Will you take care of our friends for me?”
“What do they need?”
“Range clearance, all areas.”
“On your say-so?”
“General’s orders,” he advised her.
The lady looked at Bolan, then, for the first time since that initial surprising confrontation. “Okay,” she said spritely. “Step into my office, Colonel?”
The aide told him, “I’ll leave you in Mary’s hands, Colonel. Oh, uh, I’m sorry, this is Mary Valdez. She’s chief of the security section. If, uh, you need anything more, you’ll know where to find me.”
Bolan nodded agreement with that. The guy excused himself and departed.
Bolan and Grimaldi moved on into the security office. The lady was standing at a desk near the window, her back to the door.
Bolan quietly inquired, “Who’s Charlie?”
“Someone I once knew, a very good friend, a very long time ago,” she replied without turning around. “He’s dead.”
Grimaldi murmured, “I’m sorry.”
“Take a chair, gentlemen,” she said quietly, ignoring Grimaldi’s condolences. “I’ll be right with you.”
Bolan said, “It’s okay, friend. This is another friend—Major Conti, Mary Valdez. He knows. It’s okay.”
She turned to face them, then, with a half-smile working at those ripe lips. “Knows what?” she asked.
“He’s working with me on this problem.” Bolan handed her the red envelope with White House seal.
She took the envelope, sat down, read the contents twice around, then said, “I see.”
Then she fell apart. Her hands were shaking visibly as she returned the presidential orders. Tears oozed from her eyes and down those glistening copper cheeks. “It’s true, then,” she whispered. “Phil is really dead.”
Grimaldi looked as though someone had just slapped him.
Bolan told the lady, “You’re damned lucky that you are not. Why didn’t you take my advice?”
She opened a drawer of the desk, withdrew a sheath of hundred dollar bills, and pushed them across the desk at Bolan.
“Why, Mary?” he persisted.
“I don’t need your money. Thanks just the same.”
He said it again. “Why?”
“I went to the captain, instead,” she replied tearily.
“Which captain?”
“I think you know which captain,” she said. “And I think he knows you, too. He tells me that your name is Mack Bolan.”
Grimaldi sighed heavily and muttered, “Well, shit.”
And, yeah, that’s what they were in, probably—and, no doubt, very deeply.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GAMES
The small office at White Sands was enveloped in a long, electrically charged silence before Bolan asked the lady, “Do you know who Mack Bolan is?”
“Who doesn’t?” she replied woodenly, looking at the window instead of at him. “He’s a murderer. A crazy. One of the most wanted criminals in the country.”
“And you’re saying that is what I am?” he asked gently.
She looked at him, then, and said, “You seem to have the knack of being whomever you decide to be. I’ll bet there are times when even you don’t know who you are. Like Phil. I thought, at first, back there at the apartment, that you were just another of his kinky playmates … and it was just another game.”
Bolan asked her, “What kind of kinky? What kind of games?”
She said, “Never mind. Obviously I was wrong. I knew it wasn’t a game when you stepped into that old shack and started shooting everybody in sight.”
“I didn’t shoot you, Mary,” he reminded her.
“So you didn’t. Thanks. But for what?”
He shrugged and replied, “I thought it mattered. To you, I mean. It sure mattered to me.”
“Why?”
He smiled at her and said, “We’re friends.”
She shuddered at that. “Some friends I get. Boy. Sometimes I can hardly believe my good fortune.”
He said, “I’m sorry you feel that way. I thought something special had happened between us. I trusted you. Still do.”
She gazed at him for a long moment, then said in an agonizing little voice, “I just wish I knew who you are.”
He asked her, “Why would Mack Bolan be sitting here in the White Sands security office posing as Colonel John Phoenix?”
“Which one are you?” she asked, peering at him through new tears.
“Who is this captain you mentioned?”
“You answer mine first.”
“I’m Mack Bolan,” he told her.
Grimaldi grunted and shifted his weight about in the chair, started to say something, changed his mind.
The lady had blinked her eyes rapidly at Bolan, then averted her gaze. After a moment, she said, “You sure have a way of keeping people off balance.”
“You owe me an
answer,” he reminded her. “I gave you mine.”
That pretty face was tom between a smile and a frown as she said, “You’re Mack Bolan, eh? The Mack Bolan.”
He winked at her and replied, “What are mere names between friends, friend?”
She said, “Go to hell,” but still entertained mixed emotions, almost giggling. Either she was becoming hysterical or her sense of humor was asserting itself … black humor, maybe.
The whole bizarre scene was beginning to get to Grimaldi, obviously. He growled, “Jesus Christ! What’s going on here?”
“Give us a moment,” Bolan requested. He flicked a glance at the door.
Grimaldi got up with a sigh and stepped outside, closing the door firmly behind him.
Bolan offered the lady a cigarette, which she declined. He lit one, blew smoke at the ceiling, and very soberly told her, “I killed Phil, Mary.”
She gave him a ragged look and said, “Dammit, don’t …”
“I’m not playing you. Please believe that. I think you’re a hell of a lady. I like you. And I can’t believe that you’re a traitor.”
That jerked her around. She replied, very deliberately, “I am not a traitor. Do not ever suggest that I am or ever could be. A fool, maybe—an idiot, a dumb Indian broad who can’t separate sexual fantasy from love and reality, but you are not to even hint that I may be a traitor to my country. My skin may not be exactly the same color as yours, but let me assure you—”
Bolan snapped, “Dammit, cut that out!”
She murmured, “Go to hell, friend.”
“That could be where we’ll all end up,” he bit back, “but meanwhile we have this little problem called life in the upper world. Now, dammit, I need your help!”
She glared at him for a moment, then dropped the eyes and said, “You killed Phil, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he was playing nasty little games with living human flesh. He was burning out eyeballs and peeling away skin and doing things to genitals I’d blush to describe to you.”
“You’re insane!” she gasped.
“No, Phil was the crazy one. He spent too many years playing with insane scenarios and developing too many heinous ways to destroy the world. And I believe he got trapped in all that, I believe he lost himself in it—a desperate, mad soul who felt the need to destroy the world in order to prove something to it. I put a bullet between Phil’s eyes, Mary, because I caught him with a living man’s intestines in his hands and I simply could not think of anything better to do with the monster. I’m sorry if that caused you pain or brought a sense of loss to your life, but I want you to believe me when I tell you that you lost nothing worthwhile there, kid—not a damn thing.”
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