"We're not talking about nickels and dimes."
"How do you think they got to the Cosa?" Turrin argued. "Numbers, bimboes, protection, smack, alcohol, vending machines, pinballs, jukes, bandits — you name a nickel or a dime, I'll give you the name of the guy that rolled it into a million dollar territory."
"Sure, sure — but I'm saying that none of that anywhere approaches the magnitude of potential commerce from millions of barrels of crude a day."
It was a pointless argument, and both seemed to realize it — but on it went.
"Ah hell, they play both sides of the street, Hal — you know that. One guy's territory is commerce, the other guy's is knockdowns. As an example, look what Luciano did with the — "
"Hell, forget Luciano. That's old history. It's the now that counts."
"It's the now I'm talking about. Luciano's empire didn't die with the man. Just look at..."
Bolan turned off the banter from the friendly antagonists, recognizing it as sheer nervous release.
Both these men spent their lives balanced precariously on the edge of a knifeblade. This was probably the first chance in months for either to let the hair down a bit, to unwind just a turn.
Bolan ordinarily translated his own tensions into action.
These guys had to sit and fester with it.
Which was another reason why Bolan would accept no concept of "secret portfolio" — undercover sanction and amnesty for past "crimes." He'd play his game his way, thanks, for as long as the game could last. And he would die the way he'd lived — with blood on his hands and unpardoned scars on the soul.
The American writer Elbert Hubbard had once observed: "God will not look you over for medals, degrees or diplomas, but for scars."
Bolan would carry his own scars to his own judgment.
Right now he was simply trying to carry them to the next zone of combat. And the going was getting rough, with the interstate route now behind him and the atmosphere out there getting thicker with every turn of the wheels.
Brognola and Turrin suddenly became aware of Bolan's intense concentration into the problems of navigation. They fell silent; Turrin chewing on his cigar, the man from "paradise" bent forward and massaging his knuckles as he peered into the misty shrouds of that night in "that other" Washington.
It was to be one which none of them would ever forget.
18
Firetrack
The impressive vehicle was totally darkened, engine idling quietly, sitting just in off the road at about dead center, maybe fifty yards from the building.
As warehouses go, it seemed small. Floodlights marked the corners at roof level but were barely visible in the choking mists. "
"I can't see a damned thing," Leo Turrin complained.
"Relax," Brognola suggested.
"It's two thirty. He's been out there about ten minutes."
"He knows what he's doing."
"Sure."
Both men were peering tensely through the wet windshield. Brognola's .38 lay on the seat beside him. Turrin was not armed. He said, "He's right, you know. This ishis element. Me, I have two left feet. And I even get dizzy in my own bedroom if all the lights are out."
"Relax, Leo. That's a hell of a man out there. He knows what he's doing."
"Hell, I know that. I just wish I knew what he's doing."
"I'd settle for knowing why," Brognola said. "What d'you suppose he's really stumbled onto, Leo?"
"It could be anything. The guy has an uncanny sense of things. All he needs to get started is a smell."
"I'm just afraid he got quite a nose full, this time."
"Looks that way, doesn't it. Do you really think ...?"
Brognola sighed heavily and turned away from the glass. "Hell, I don't know, Leo. I'm getting so I don't trust my own guts anymore. They're tied up so often, over so much — sometimes I wonder if I've just gone full paranoid and the rest of the world is really sane and beautiful."
"Well, sure, a guy gets to that. But I don't think you're paranoid, Hal.
"From one suspect to another, eh? Thanks for nothing."
Turrin chuckled.
A misty draft swirled into the vehicle. Brognola scooped up the .38 and whirled smoothly toward the midsection then relaxed with a relieved sigh as a black-clad figure materialized there and the door slid shut.
"Home is the scout," Turrin greeted him. "What's the lie out there?"
The federal official holstered his pistol and stepped back to make room for Bolan's entry into the cockpit.
The "scout" dropped into the command chair and immediately began doing things at the mini-console. "Very close out there," he reported. "Visibility's about five feet, and I'm giving that the benefit of some doubt. Here's the setup. It's a hard house. No windows. No personnel doors. Just a big cargo door at the center, roll type, big enough to admit a semi-trailer. Similar door on the water side. Short pier over there for smallcraft. Very quiet, all around."
Brognola asked, "Did you get inside?"
"Not yet."
Bolan was flipping switches, operating levers. A viewplate about the size of a small portable television screen swung into position, glowing reddishly. "Guard shack just outside the rolldoor," he continued. "There was a sentry in there, a Franciscus type."
"Was?" Turrin asked absently, gazing with interest at the glowing screen.
"Yeah, was. And there's still a vehicle at the end of the building, north side. People inside but I didn't try for a headcount. It's a crew, though."
Brognola tapped the viewplate and asked, "What's this thing?"
"Monitor for the optics capability," Bolan explained. "Watch, now, and I'll give you a look at that guardshack."
He punched a button and made a lever adjustment. A resolution of focus resulted, then a small reddish beam appeared at center screen. After another minor adjustment, the front wall of the warehouse appeared in a weirdly red-tinged circle, then the guardhouse leapt into resolution.
"Be damned," Turrin muttered. "Infra-red."
"Laser-supplemented," Bolan said.
"How far can you see with that thing?" Brognola wondered.
"In this atmosphere, that's about maximum range. I can get a mile in reasonably dry air."
"I've heard of these," the official said. "Some police agencies are getting into it. On a smaller scale, I would imagine — nothing this elaborate."
Turrin said, "People out there don't even know you're spotlighting them."
"Not unless they have receptors," Bolan said. He was busy at another set of controls. "Seeing's nice, but it's not always enough. I'm going to — Hal, you may not want to be around while this is happening. Step into the toilet if you'd rather not."
"To hell with that," Brognola growled. "I'm staying."
The JD official was "staying" for a rather mind-boggling demonstration of the warwagon's combat capabilities.
A rocket launcher was built into the roof of the vehicle — normally retracted and concealed from view beneath flush-fit panels. Upon command from below, the motorized swivel-platform raised and locked into position for firing.
Targeting was entirely controlled from the command position below, operating through electronic circuitry tied into the regular optics system. A floor-mounted, foot-controlled device which Bolan labeled "a rock-and-press trackfire" provided control of both targeting and firing without using the hands.
Reloading, Bolan explained, was not practicable during the heat of combat, though. It was a "four-shot system." Within that limitation, however, a guy with a supple ankle and a steady foot could unleash considerable destruction.
Bolan brought the system on line by depressing the "Fire Enable" button on his miniconsole. A small amber light began flashing, in an indication that the launch platform was being raised. As it locked into place, a green light signalled that event and immediately the optics were taken over by the Fire Control System. Rangemarks then became superimposed on the viewscreen, and the system was "Go."
&
nbsp; Explaining the operations in terse reportage to his companions as he went through the steps, Bolan rocked the floor control into azimuth and range corrections, centering the rangemarks on the warehouse door.
"Last chance to tell it goodbye," he said quietly.
Turrin muttered. "I will be damned. How do you fire it?"
"Like this," Bolan replied. He banged his knee with a fist. A "whoosh" and momentary brightness signalled the departure of the "hot bird." It flashed into the foreground of the viewscreen and whizzed straight along the horizontal beam on a tail of flame to impact almost immediately on target with thunder and considerable lightning. That heavy atmosphere out there was momentarily torn by a flash that briefly illuminated the mists with white-hot incandescence and set the night trembling into retreat.
Brognola growled, "I'm impressed." It was an understatement. He could not look away. As viewed through the optics, great puffing flame-lined clouds had replaced the warehouse door as well as substantial adjacent areas.
And the "picture" was changing rapidly now as Bolan realigned targeting on a starboard scan — halting suddenly, correcting and centering on the nose of a vehicle just then emerging at high speed around the corner of the building.
Bolan thumped his knee again to depress the foot-control, and another whizzer streaked along that tunnel of red light. With the resultant flash in the target zone, electrified faces flared into high resolution for perhaps one flashing impulse of electronic vision beiore disappearing into eternity behind another firecloud.
Leo Turrin wheeled away from that with a queasy, "My God!"
"Their God," Bolan growled fiercely. "Let it eat them."
A martialing area, sure. Also, if the evidence could be correctly read, some sort of an assembly plant.
Empty crates and cartons were stacked almost to the ceiling at one end of the building. At the other end were greasy work benches, heavy tools scattered about, chain lifts, equipment dollies. Elsewhere scattered throughout the building were unopened crates of various sizes, all stacked in neat rows, each of which were identified by crude, hand-lettered signs attached to the end cases.
Brognola was poking about the "unopened" area, taking notes.
Turrin had gone with Bolan to the "trash area" for an assessment of the empties.
Bolan remarked, "I'm more interested in what has already moved through here."
Turrin agreed with that and pointed to a heavy crate near the bottom of the pile. "Air compressor," he noted. "What the hell would they want with a compressor that big?"
Bolan shrugged and said, "Maybe they're planning some underwater work," and continued on with a systematic visual scan of the evidence. Not all the boxes were marked, but enough were that a pattern began very quickly to emerge. He took Turrin by the arm and growled, "That's enough for me. Let's go."
As they rejoined, Brognola kicked a large, flat crate on the floor beside him and remarked, "Here's our bank. Or part of it. That one box must weigh a ton or more. Know what it is? Door for a vault." "Bingo," Turrin said solemnly. All three men seemed a bit awed by their discoveries. They were standing beside a handmade placard which had been thumbtacked to a shipping skid, identifying "Security Components."
Brognola said, "Looks like you're batting a thousand, Striker. They're building something, somewhere, that's for sure."
Bolan replied, "They're building Langley Island."
"Where is that?"
"Within a rifle shot of here," Bolan said. "Let's go back into the wagon. Want to show you something."
He took the men to his plot table and first showed them the chart of Puget Sound, relating the island to the overall area — quite insignificant, really. Then he showed aerial photos taken from Grimaldi's first overflight and, finally, the sketches he'd made during the soft penetration.
Bolan did not ordinarily work this way — in cahoots with the law. He'd made occasional exceptions to that rule, of course, and this time was a very important exception. Too much was at stake here to stand on personal game rules.
"They're still excavating over there," he pointed out. "The room I was in is obviously a command bunker of some type. I should have looked further while I was there. There could be a dozen rooms completed and ready for use. These tunnels go off from there like the spokes of a wheel. If you'll note some of the angles they make, it would certainly suggest more vaults either completed or planned. They've moved a lot of watertight stuff, air compressors and the like that could even suggest airlocks for tunnels out into the Sound!"
"I wonder ... I just wonder," Brognola mused. "Could they use subs to make underwater transfers?"
Bolan shrugged. "Why not? It sounds wild, I know — but the whole damn idea is wild, so why pose limits?"
Turrin said, "Right. For that matter, they could be putting vaults right out there under the water.
Why not, eh? What could be better than a secret bank beneath the waters of Puget Sound?"
Brognola muttered, "How much of a work force do they have out there?"
Bolan shook his head. "I don't know, Hal. The only people actually staying on the island are the hard force. I did get a bit of intel that leads me to believe that they've even brought their workers in from somewhere outside the country."
"Sandhogs," Turrin said. "It would take pro's for this."
"Must have some good powder men, too," Brognola observed. "There's plenty of the stuff stored here."
"Good thing it wasn't stored by the door," Turrin said with a chuckle.
Bolan cocked an eyebrow and asked, "How much powder?"
"Oh hell, I'd say ... tons, maybe. How much is in a keg?"
Bolan shrugged. "I've never used it in that form."
"Well there's twenty kegs to those crates." Brognola glanced at his notebook. "I just made a rough estimate on the number of crates. I guessed forty."
Bolan said, "That's interesting."
"How interesting?" Brognola asked.
"There must be a good supply on the island, too."
"Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"
Bolan smiled. "There has to be a solution, Hal."
"I guess I better call my marshals in," Brognola decided. "I don't know about you two, but I've had enough of this place."
Bolan said, "We still have a lot to discuss, Hal. But you may as well get the guys started. In this weather, it will take them a while to get here."
Brognola nodded and moved forward to the mobile phone. Turrin called after him, "Have 'em bring a meat wagon, too. I counted four bodies out there, in bits and pieces." He turned to Bolan with a sigh. "Hal's pretty well shaken by all this. I guess you've noticed that, too. Theories are one thing. Seeing is something else. How do you really read this, Mack?"
"It's the Thing, all right," Bolan quietly replied. "I'm sure it is, yeah. I didn't mean that. I mean, what the hell do you do about it? It's already beyond Hal. He knows it, and that's what has hold of his guts. He needs a naval task force, not a platoon of marshals."
"Hal stays clear until I'm done," Bolan said frostily. "That understanding is implicit any time we come together. You know that." "Sure. You do have a plan, then." "Yeah."
"Mind if I ask ... ?"
"If I get lucky," Bolan told him, "I'll blow the whole works out of the water. That won't turn the world around, exactly, but at least it'll confuse the hell out of things for a while. In the meantime, maybe Hal and his people can get something going."
Leo Turrin was not convinced. "Hey, you know, we're all in this. I mean, it's my world, too. I got a wife and kids, right? And this thing is just too big. Too big, Mack. I think you should let Hal skull it through from here."
Bolan stubbornly shook his head. "I don't know whose world it is, Leo, but it's my game. Hal will get completely bogged down with the legalities of the thing. Meanwhile the enemy dances lightly away and pops up again another day to try again. No. I've got to show them the cost, Leo. And it has to be heavy." "Yeah," Turrin said, grudgingly agreeing.
"Stashed around town somewhere. We've got a meet for eight o'clock this morning. Not the Indians, just the chiefs. But they were all checked in before midnight."
"Do you know any of those troops, Leo? I mean, know."
Turrin shook his head in a slow negative. "Not even the chiefs. I gather they were all recruited directly by Franciscus. He has the Seattle contract for your head, by the way. Combat guy. I guess he's dangerous. The old men love him."
"Get those guys on the island for me, Leo. Get them there before dawn. All of them."
"What? You crazy? If you're — oh! I get. Clean sweep, eh?"
"That's the general idea. So far I'm not sure how. But can you get them there?"
"Oh, well ... that's my element, Tactician." Turrin grinned sourly. "I'll get them there. All I have to do is tell the truth, or shades of it."
"Here's a kicker for you. You can show Franciscus the minipak I implanted on the roof. Parapet, outside railing, south wall. Also the whole joint is strung with micropickups. But dammit, Leo — don't go on too strong. This guy is pretty sharp."
"Yeah, well, let me worry about the hard things. You take care of the easy ones. Go blow up the damn island, will you?"
"She blows at dawn," Bolan promised.
19
Domino set
Leo Turrin bit down savagely on his cigar and spoke around it via the side of his mouth to snarl, "What the hell is this, guy? Don't tell me you're laying around here on your dead ass in fancy pajamas while this Bolan is romping all over your town!"
The Captain could not believe his ears. He shook a sleep-fogged head, zeroing attention onto his executive officer, Harve Mathews. "What is this, Harve? Who is this guy? Get him out of here!"
"This is Mr. Turrin, Captain — our liaison. He insisted — I didn't know — he says it's urgent. Just busted right in."
"I'm gonna bust some asses, too," Turrin raged on. "I never saw such a disgraceful — what kind of a junior commando outfit is this, anyway? Get outta that fuckin' bed, you looneytune! The fuckin' guy is taking your whole thing apart for you!"
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