This whole place … the crazy hole in the ground with watertight doors, the underground passage to the large island, a gushing spring lake which was now an Everglades lagoon, exhausted workmen, and gorilla turnkeys … a South Seas island paradise with armed guards in a watchtower … yeah, this whole place was enough to put an edge on a guy.
But there was nowhere to go, now, but onward.
So, hell, the new project boss of whatever and whomever grabbed his chief gunner by the arm and went onward.
“Changes,” he said quietly, “you haven’t seen yet, Pip.”
11
CRISIS
Incredible as it seemed, these guys had a little Devil’s Island operation going here. The rectangular building at the center of the complex, labeled Residence Hall, did combination duty as makeshift barracks, mess hall, lounge, and whatever else a prisoner of war could lay claim to.
Somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred men were now crowded beneath that roof. They slept on pallets on the floor, which were rolled and stowed against the walls when not in use for sleeping. This was immediately obvious because presently one side of the barracks was wall to wall with sleeping men, the other side serving as a lounge area with its sleep pads in a neat row along the wall while the duty crew sat around in small groups staring blankly at nothing.
Another immediately obvious fact was that the poor bastards wore leg irons twenty-four hours a day and slept chained to the building.
There was no furniture whatever, no partitioning walls, not even for the toilet area or kitchen. The prisoners themselves came in all sizes and descriptions. No uniforms here, either. Each guy was obviously still wearing what he’d brought in on his back—or what was left of it. The lucky ones were those in denims. Their clothing was merely filthy. The others were tattered, as well. Skintones covered the whole range, including an Oriental. There was no equality among the eyes, either. This pair here was hopeless, those over there baffled, another pair, stupefied, this guy, mad as hell.
Good for you, guy. Stay mad as hell. Stay hard.
Bolan knew, now, that he’d been mistaken about the fate of amateurs on a professional’s turf—on this turf, anyway. Those devil squads had been aptly named … and their interest in amateur smugglers had not been limited to contraband alone. They needed slaves, as well.
A quiet rage was welling deep within Mack Bolan’s guts as he surveyed that sorry group. But his comment was cool and in keeping with his role. “Scurvy-looking crew,” he said quietly.
The duty turnkey was a barrel-chested youngster with dead eyes and a nasty mouth. “Yeh, well, we break ’em in real quick,” he replied, hoisting his “cruncher,” a one-inch steel pipe about the length of his arm, and lightly tapping his own skull with it to illustrate the remark.
“I said scurvy looking,” Bolan growled, throwing a hard look at Papriello. “You know what scurvy is? What kind of food are you giving these people?”
“Beans and rice,” said Nasty-Mouth. “All they can hold, twice a day.”
“Hold in what?” Bolan demanded. “Their hands, dammit?”
“Hey, Boss, we feed ’em pretty good,” Papriello said quickly. “I mean, if they work good, they eat good. They eat before and after every shift.”
“Tell me about those shifts.”
“Huh?”
“What’s the work routine?”
“Eight on and eight off,” Papriello said quietly.
“Eight what?”
“Eight hours, boss.”
“Right around the clock that way? Seven days a week?”
“Right, that’s right.”
“And they’re living on beans and rice?”
Nasty-Mouth had folded his arms across his chest and wisely withdrew from the conversation, looking from one man to the other as the words fired across. Now he ventured an unsought opinion. “Beans has got more protein than meat, I hear.”
Bolan said to Papriello, “Oh, great. Julia Childs here is counting their calories.” He turned savagely on the turnkey. “You better start counting vitamins, dummy! This bunch has all got the scurvy! You get some goddamned fresh fruits out here for these people. That shouldn’t be a problem! Huh? In Florida? You stock that hole with bags of oranges and bags of grapefruit. And you knock ’em off ten minutes out of every hour and pass around the vitamin C! You hear what I’m saying?”
Papriello came to his boy’s rescue. “Boss, hey, it’s me at fault. I just didn’t come to think about it. I mean, to tell the truth, you know, these people aren’t going to be here forever.”
“Neither will you,” Bolan growled at the Pip. “Not if the goddamned island is rotten with scurvy! You better think about that!”
“Jesus, is it contagious?”
“Of course it’s contagious!”
Of course it was not. Nor was there any strong probability that the prisoners had been on their beans and rice diet long enough to develop serious vitamin deficiencies. But Bolan had to do something for these people … even if he could not do anything for himself. And right now he was merely probing for whatever handle he could find to unwind the thing.
“Jesus, I didn’t think.”
“That’s one of those changes we were talking about!” Bolan told the guy, deciding that the time had arrived for a bit of hard. “You start thinking in the round!”
“Right, right. To tell the truth, I’m very sorry about all this. I mean, after all …”
Bolan held a hand toward the turnkey and said, “Give me that damned thing!”
“Sir?”
“The bone breaker! Hand it over!”
The guy surrendered the steel pipe, eyes moving rapidly between the two bosses.
“You don’t need this.”
“Yessir, pardon me, but I need it.”
“Big strong boy like you? For what?”
Papriello explained, “I don’t let my boys carry guns around the prisoners. Those guys are dead men, Frankie. They all know they’ll never leave this place alive. You can’t give guys like that an inch, not an inch. They’re dead men already and they know it.”
“They’re working like dead men, too, aren’t they,” Bolan said quietly. He tucked the steel pipe under his arm. “Let’s get something on the table, here.” He made a signal with his eyes and led the two men outside, then said, “You get those goddamned leg irons off of those people. I mean forever. You feed ’em right and you by God treat ’em right. As long as they’re alive, let’s treat them like men. Maybe then they’ll work like men. I’ve got to tell you, Pip—there’s a lot of unhappiness upstairs about the way this job is going. Why do you think I was sent? To make your boys happy? Listen, I was sent to make the company happy. You guys have got this thing all screwed up.”
Papriello softly replied, “I tried to get Guido off his ass, Frankie. He just wouldn’t take no interest in this thing over here. I tried—”
“To hell with that,” Bolan said quietly. “Guido will take his own lumps. That part is over. I don’t want to hear about what used to be. I want you to get this damned thing straightened out. Right now.”
Papriello turned to the youth and said, “Go take off those chains. All of it. Tell the prisoners there’s a new regime around here. Tell ’em things are changing for the better.”
“Give ’em some damned hope,” Bolan suggested.
“We going to give ’em conjugal visits, too?” sneered Nasty-Mouth.
Bolan whipped the steel pipe around and lightly touched it to the guy’s teeth. “One more smart word, guy,” he said evenly, “and you’ll be gumming beans and rice, yourself, right alongside the others.”
The guy paled, muttered something unintelligible, and quickly went inside the building.
Papriello spluttered, “It’s getting hard to find good men, Frankie. I guess you know what I mean. Five years ago I wouldn’t have let that kid shine my shoes.”
“Now you entrust the kingdom to him,” Bolan growled.
“What can you do?”
“You stay all the more on your damned toes, that’s what you do.”
“You’re right. You’re exactly right.”
“Go see that he does it right.”
“What? Oh, sure, I …”
“It’s okay,” Bolan said, softening the tone somewhat. “I want to look around some on my own.”
“Just give a yell if you need any help.”
Bolan smiled. “Who would hear me, eh?”
Papriello smiled back, obviously not exactly understanding the rejoinder but not questioning it, either. He stepped inside the residence hall and Bolan went prowling.
The huts were nicely outfitted, comfortable, self-contained efficiency apartments. Four of them were occupied by sleeping men. Engineers or technicians, no doubt, the brains of the work force. The hut from which Anderson had emerged earlier was set up as an office. It held a small drafting table and the usual office equipment including a copying machine and the inevitable computer terminal plus some exotic communications gear.
Bolan recalled the antennae bristling from the watch tower, deciding that they did not rely upon landline communications in this isolated area, though certainly wires could have been piped through the connecting tunnel.
It required less than a minute to sabotage the radio, via a bare wire laid across a couple of hot circuits in the power supply. The whole thing would arc out the moment power was applied.
But that was just a what-the-hell effort.
The real prize was found in a sheaf of drawings in a drawer of the drafting table. There, in four-color relief, was the whole story of Island X.
And, yes, it was a story to boggle the mind.
Bolan carefully rolled the drawings and encased them in a cardboard tube, placed the tube casually under the arm, and strolled out of there.
Thermal Thursday, indeed. Somehow the subconscious mind had known, even as the day began. And, now, if he could just get off this rock, perhaps the day could be properly concluded.
If … yeah.
Carlo the Pip was waiting for him a few paces outside the residence hall, a troubled look playing at the eyes.
“To tell the truth,” said the Pip, “maybe I shouldn’t bother you with this … but then again maybe I should.”
“Bother me with what?” Bolan inquired lightly.
“There’s a guy inside there, a prisoner, says he wants to talk to you. Says it’s very important.” Papriello sighed. “Says he knows who you are.”
Uh-huh. If …
“Good for him, send him out here,” said Frankie-Mack with a quiet laugh. “Maybe he can solve my big identity crisis.”
But Mack Bolan was not laughing inside. Hell no. A very real identity crisis was close at hand.
12
THE PRISONER
He was a handsome man of about Bolan’s age. The eyes were very intelligent, knowing, behind the shaggy beard. Faint traces of a deep Florida tan remained on the muscled flesh. He was barefoot and naked from the waist up. Denim jeans were threadbare in spots and the fly zipper was only half there. Those knowing eyes were tinged with desperation but the guy was struggling to muster some dignity.
Papriello told Bolan, “This is the guy.”
“What’s his name?” Bolan quietly inquired.
“What’s your name, Jack?”
The voice was just a bit choked, not entirely sure of its ground. “My name is William O. Kessler.” He spoke directly to Bolan. “I have something important to talk to you about.”
Papriello warned, “This guy has tried every con in the books, Frankie.”
“Leave us,” Bolan said quietly.
Papriello stood there for a moment, balancing on his toes, then spun about and went back inside.
Bolan placed a hand on the prisoner’s shoulder and walked him toward the shoreline. “You wanted to talk, so talk,” he prompted.
The man apparently did not know exactly how to start it. He was not all that sure of himself and was evidently searching for a lowkeyed handle. After a moment, he asked, “My name means nothing to you? Kessler? Bill Kessler?”
Bolan quietly replied, “Not right off the top, no.”
“Well I’m going to drop a few more on you. If they mean anything to you … then maybe you’re who I think you are. And maybe you’ll know who I am.”
“Drop away,” Bolan invited casually.
Kessler was watching the Bolan eyes as he carefully enunciated the names. “Bob Wilson … Jack Petro … Tim Braddock … Genghis Conn …”
Bolan growled, “That’s enough. And you’re Bill Kessler.”
The guy’s hands were beginning to tremble. “You’ve heard of me, then!”
“No.” Bolan gave him a cigarette, lit it, then lit one for himself. “Just trying to fill the inside straight. Why should those names mean something to me?”
They did, of course. They meant a hell of a lot. Each one was the name of a cop who, at one time or another, had figured in Mack Bolan’s saga.
“I was hoping they would,” Kessler said, choking a bit on the cigarette. “And you did fill that straight, mister.”
Very casually, Bolan inquired, “How long you been here?”
“Six weeks, more or less. It’s hard to keep a count.”
“Would you happen to know a girl called Jean Russell?”
Those desperate eyes blazed with new hope. “God yes! You want a description?”
Bolan asked, “Know the name she was born with?”
Kessler was having a hard time balancing the unaccustomed cigarette smoke with his emotions. Those tortured eyes watered and he fell into a fit of coughing.
They were standing at the waterline of the lagoon. Papriello and Nasty-Mouth were watching them from the porch of the residence hall.
Bolan commanded, “Fall down!” and let the guy have a dummy haymaker.
Kessler fell to the ground and continued coughing, doubling onto his side in an apparent spasm.
Bolan could hear no sounds from that distant porch but he could clearly see the snicker on Smart-Mouth’s face. He told the man on the ground, “Stay there a while. Do you have that name?”
“Fitzpatrick, I believe,” Kessler wheezed.
“Close enough,” Bolan said, sighing. He took a deep pull at the cigarette and asked, “How’d you get into this mess, guy?”
“I was working undercover. Got taken in a raid over near the Big Cypress.”
“Your name is really Kessler?”
“William O., yeah. They don’t know I’m a cop. I wouldn’t have lasted this long if—”
“Any of the other prisoners know?”
“No.”
“Do you have a cadre? Among the prisoners?”
“Sort of. Five other guys. We’ve been working on an escape plan.”
“Reliable men?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“What are the prospects for escape?”
“Damned thin. They keep ten men patrolling this hammock. And I guess you’ve seen the tower. We’d need a boat. We figured—”
“Don’t try it,” Bolan suggested. “Have you spotted any finks?”
“No finks, no. We’re sure of that. These guys are too cocksure, anyway, to bother with finks.”
“Okay,” Bolan said, sighing. “Well this is going to be a hell of a problem.”
“We’ll try anything. What can you do?”
“Beats hell out of me, guy. I’m just playing the ear. But I could be the only chance you’ll ever get. And I guess today has to be the day. The chief engineer says no more work today. That means all of you will be topside, at least ’til morning. That’s the only time we can spring it. You wouldn’t want to be in that hole when …”
“Whatever you say,” Kessler commented eagerly.
“Okay. Whatever comes will be after nightfall. Get your cadre together and very quietly pass the word.”
“Nightfall, right.”
“You’ll have to break quick and clean. No uprising, dammit, no
heroics. Just break and run. Get clear. You guys would be the first to die if any overt rescue attempt was made. You know that.”
“We’ve talked about it, yes. But there’s no place to run.”
“I don’t mean forever. I mean find a crack and stay there until the shooting’s over.”
“We could do that, probably. Now that the damned chains are off.”
“Stay clear of that hole, though.”
“Right. Uh … what do you have in mind?”
“Right now, guy, I’ve got nothing in mind. You just be ready to break if the excitement starts.”
“You mean when it starts,” Kessler said confidently.
“I mean if. At this point, I’m not even sure of my next heartbeat.”
Kessler smiled wanly and said, “We’ll be praying for you.”
“Do that. And, Kessler … you don’t tell those people why they can hope. You don’t breathe my name. You can’t depend on a desperate man.”
“You’re depending on me.”
“Not really,” Bolan said quietly. “Okay. Get up and go back inside. Don’t look at me. Just get up and go inside.”
Kessler followed the instructions.
A moment later, Bolan was telling Papriello, “He’s quite a con artist, yeah.”
“What’d he want?”
Bolan chuckled nastily. “Wants to join up.”
Papriello chuckled, too. Nasty-Mouth snickered and said, “He’s been trying that since the day he got here.”
“What’d you tell ’im, Frankie?”
“Told him to drop dead,” Bolan growled.
“We caught your sign language,” said Nasty-Mouth.
“That was for the con,” Bolan explained. “The guy never saw me in his life before. I don’t like being conned. You remember that.”
Nasty-Mouth sobered quickly, dropping his gaze, and said, “Mr. Cavaretta, I want to apologize for smarting off. Mr. Papriello told me and I swear it was the first I knowed—I mean, I didn’t know I was smarting off and I apologize.”
“Let those guys take a bath!”
“Sir? They got a—”
“I don’t mean that one lousy showerhead for one hundred damn men! God’s sake, you got forty jillion barrels of fresh water flowing into this pond every day. Use it. Let ’em swim and lay around in the sun for a while.”
Thermal Thursday Page 7