Inside the trailer the control panels had been bolted to one wall and holes drilled into the roof for the antenna cables. At the near end were a sofa bed, two chairs and a small kitchen.
Dr. Dunning turned to the main console and seated himself in the swivel chair. He flipped on the power switch and checked the input level, then began pushing buttons, taking readings and noting the various combinations on the panels of functions that would all have to work in perfect concert for his project to succeed.
Basically it would be much like the grab of the communications ball, only tougher, because he had to work with the access codes that were a thousand times more complicated. He could never do it without the computer. With the computer-code possibility mode, the black box would zap the orbiter with forty thousand trigger codes on each try. He had captured the communications satellite with his five-thousand-possible-code transmission.
Sam Yamaguchi poked his head through the doorway, saw Dr. Dunning and went inside.
"It's all working well so far, Sam. The only problem I've found up to now is a minor voltage irregularity that we can fix in five minutes. Are you sure we have plenty of diesel fuel for the generator engine?"
"Yes, sir. We can run it continuously for five days."
"Fine. We just may need that many days if we don't hit our code quickly. I'm hoping that we get lucky."
"Should I put someone on an outpost for security?"
At times Sam lapped into military jargon, and Dr. Dunning had often thought of asking about his background, but never had. The whole military intellect had always puzzled and disturbed the missile man and probably always would. It was foreign and unnatural to Dr. Dunning.
"Yes, Sam. We agreed to have one man down by the fallen tree, especially if the forestry people come this way. We will need an early warning. We won't give them any reason to come up here, but they might. Then we'll be extremely quiet until they go away."
Yamaguchi nodded, turned and walked out of the trailer.
Dr. Dunning's face was animated as he went back to his work, getting everything aligned, calibrated and set for the job that was coming. With any luck at all they might get into some test-tracking action tonight as a warm up.
For a moment Dr. Peter Dunning laced his hands behind his head and stared at the trailer roof. He had begun this fight, and he would carry it through. For ten years he had been advocating a defensive system of antimissile strength. He had been showing and proving his theories and arguing for a strong defense, rather than spending billions of dollars for a ridiculous overkill capability with nuclear warheads. But no one would listen to him.
Officially he had lost the fight, but he continued to propose, design and create for defensive purposes only. At last he had become counterproductive to the department. Everyone knew it and he did, too. He resigned. He had enough cash to live on for a few years. He pursued his hobby of peaceful uses of missiles and the defensive posture of U.S. missiles.
And now it had come to this. He would prove to the doubters; he would expose what was already up there; he would shame and pressure the big powers into telling the truth. He would blackmail them into it if he had to. He would win few points for his argument, but he would make the world a safer place in which to live. Of that he was totally convinced.
His own tactics? The communications satellite. A drop in the proverbial bucket. The firms that put it up could well afford the loss. It would all come out of taxes owed, or be covered by insurance. Either way there was no great actual loss. And what was more important, he had made a dramatic statement, a powerful demonstration of his power, and there had been no loss of human life.
Yes, life. That was what he held most sacred. And now he remembered that was one point he had been in conflict about with Sam, who had insisted he bring along his personal weapon, an old Army issue .45-caliber automatic that he had owned for many years. Sam kept talking about the danger of bears in this wilderness.
Bears? They had not seen any, but Dr. Dunning was sure that Sam had brought his gun. The scientist did not like pistols. He had never fired one and would never have one in his house or on his project. Guns kill things — animals and people.
He sighed. One more run-through on the board and a final set of calibration tests and he would be ready to wait until late tonight for a test. Then he could start his experimental tracking. The measurements had to be precise. He would see to that.
Dr. Dunning smiled as he worked over his console, almost caressing the buttons, monitoring the dials and the readouts. Just a few more hours and the whole world would know what he was trying to do — what he would do!
4
Mack Bolan had driven hard north into Phoenix. He met a convoy of twenty Army vehicles coming toward him when he was ten miles away from the mesa. They did not stop. In Phoenix he found State 17 and powered on north, heading for Flagstaff and then east on Highway 40 to Winslow, a small town of nine or ten thousand people, where he hoped to pick up the strings of his search of Dr. Peter Dunning.
It was Arizona hot. The car radio reported that it was 104 degrees in Phoenix. The Executioner had examined the slip of paper that he had found in the generator and radio shack on the mesa. The rubber stamp impression had been some kind of an inspector's approval, but the ball-point-pen numbers and words caught his imagination, even though they did not mean anything to him at once.
The words were ''cyclic," "base," "monitor" and "elliptical." He could put all sorts of meanings and combinations of meanings to the words, but none of them provided any clues. He still needed to know where Dr. Dunning had moved. Winslow might prove to be a dud, but it was the only possibility he had left. The numbers on the paper were as baffling as Dunning's disappearance.
They were: "14.16 PQ x 2," "115 to 120," "22,000" and "the square root of 22,000 (or 148.32396)." The first set meant nothing to him. The 115 to 120 could be voltage — common, regular household and business voltage that Dr. Dunning could be using on his computer and radio gear. Twenty-two thousand was used twice, and the only thing he could think of was a note in the paper that had indicated the communications satellite had been in a parking orbit at twenty-two thousand miles over the earth. Which left him nowhere. Since the orbiting altitude meant nothing to Bolan, the square root of that number meant even less.
He relaxed behind the wheel, pumped the rented Ford up to sixty-five and cruised on to Winslow. The town was high, dry and hot. It was on the tourist-trade route, and there were lots of air-conditioned motels to choose from. The thought was especially inviting since Bolan had already been up for the past twenty-eight hours. He wheeled down the one-way main street until he found the Stag and Stallion.
He parked a couple of blocks past the tavern, walked back and entered the building.
Inside it was the usual beer bar, air conditioned, with stand-up rail, stools and booths. The tv screen was tuned to the sports channel, and Bolan had noticed an eight-foot-diameter satellite dish antenna on the roof of the establishment. It was free satellite-broadcast tv until they started scrambling the signal.
There were six men at the bar, eyes glued to the big screen, watching a Mexican lightweight take apart a young black puncher.
Bolan straddled a stool and signaled for a mug of draft beer. He looked around. It was plainly a working-man's hangout, with a garish oil painting of a reclining nude over the mirror behind the bar.
The bartender, with a spotty apron around his middle, brought the draft beer. Bolan paid for the drink and worked on it slowly as he listened to the conversation at the bar. There was nothing about satellites. Nothing about a truck or a mad scientist. There would not be.
The barman came back to Bolan. "Another one, sport?"
"Yeah, soon as I take care of this one. Hey, I'm looking for my buddy, Red Andrews. Drives a semi with a forty-foot reefer. Supposed to be waiting for me here on one of your stools."
Before the barkeep had time to answer, Bolan caught one of the customers staring at him in the mirror. The ma
n looked away quickly when Bolan's gaze locked with his.
"He ain't here. We get lots of semis through. Drivers don't come in here much. Your best bet is to check Parson's Pit Stop station west of town. Got room for the big semis out there. They pump diesel and they got a damn greasy spoon. Best truck stop we got."
"Thanks," Bolan finished the beer.
"You come back with Red for a few beers tonight, hear? We got a local topless dancer comes in at ten and shakes them around a little. She ain't bad."
"Just might be back."
Bolan slid off the stool and went outside. The hot air hit him like an angry blowtorch. He walked the couple of blocks to his car and slid behind the wheel. As he shut his door he checked his rearview. A man came out of the bar and looked around. It was the same guy in a tan work shirt who had watched Bolan in the mirror. A hunch, that was all. But Bolan had lived this long partly by playing his hunches.
He watched the man study the street, then Bolan started the car and eased out into the sparse daytime traffic. He turned west into a street that headed out of town. Bolan kept glancing at his rearview closely and saw the tan-shirt man jump into an ancient pickup and spin rubber following him.
Bolan nodded. If you can't find them, let them find you. Except in this case he had no idea who was on his tail. Bolan drove slowly enough for the red truck to get closer.
Then he speeded up, whipped through the railroad underpass on a street that soon wound into the sparsely populated high country. The Executioner had to know how serious this man was, and what he was after. A few words of polite conversation over the muzzle of the Ingram should do the trick.
Bolan kept the needle around forty and saw the pickup boiling up at him at half again that speed. The "old" pickup was a disguise. It must have a powerful V-8 under the sheet metal.
Bolan thrust his foot down on the accelerator. The rented Ford fishtailed a moment, then went charging down the narrow blacktop. There were no houses or ranches here. The country was high and dry with small mesas, rocks and sand with little vegetation, not even sagebrush.
He turned onto the next dirt lane to the left and pushed the gas pedal down, sending a thick dust pall spewing up behind him to slow down the pursuing vehicle.
Bolan fished the Ingram from a well-worn black case beside him and made sure its magazine was in place. He charged the weapon so it was ready to fire. Then he slowed, tugged on the wheel and hit the brakes at just the right second to put the Ford into a 180-degree sliding turn. He stopped, the vehicle pointing back the way he had come, facing a blinding dust storm from his own tires.
He did not have to wait long.
The red pickup came creeping through the dust, stopped abruptly and the engine died. Bolan had left his car by the passenger door and now peered over the roof. He could not see the driver.
"What the hell are you doing bird-dogging me?" Bolan snarled.
His answer was a booming shot from a handgun. The slug pinged off Bolan's car, missing him by a hairbreadth. He could feel himself going into an icy rage. Okay, sucker, let's do it. He ducked and looked under his Ford. He could see his attacker's feet and legs under the high frame of the pickup. Bolan sent a blistering round from the Ingram under the two rigs at the gunman's ankles.
When the chatter of the shots died away, Bolan heard an anguished bellow of pain and fury. He saw a man slumped in the dirt at the far side of the truck.
"Throw your piece into the road," Bolan growled.
There was a scream of anger, frustration. Then a handgun sailed over the pickup and landed in the roadway.
"Good, now lie down in the dirt, hands laced on top of your head." Bolan watched under his car until he saw the man had complied, then the Executioner ran to the side of the truck and went cautiously around the tailgate.
The man was lying on his back in the powder-fine Arizona dirt, his face contorted with pain, tears rolling down his cheeks. Bolan figured he was about thirty-five. Bolan moved forward slowly and held the Ingram ready as he frisked the man. He found no more weapons. One of the gunman's ankles was bleeding. His foot stuck out at a strange angle to his leg.
"Why the hell were you following me?"
The bushwhacker stared up, grasping his leg above the bloody part as he groaned in pain. Sweat beaded his forehead. His defiant green eyes wavered. His hair was cut short, and he wore the black uniform pants of a factory man. He was slender and about six feet tall.
"Hell, that hurts! You shot me! Busted my ankle. I'm gonna bleed to death."
"Why did you shoot at me?"
"Why? Somebody paid me to listen for anybody asking questions, any strangers asking about trucks."
"Like me."
"Uh-huh. Now get me to a goddamned doctor! My ankle is all shot to hell, and I'm bleeding like a stuck shoat."
Bolan looked at the bleeding ankle. There was too much blood. He used his handkerchief and made a pad, which he pressed against the major wound. The man howled in pain.
"Better than bleeding to death. Take off your shirt." Bolan tore two strips from the shirt and bound the ankle wound until the blood stopped flowing. He sat back and scowled at the man.
"You're lucky to be alive, asshole!" Bolan snapped. "You come up shooting again at a stranger, and you probably will catch one in your useless head. Who is this man you work for?"
"Can't tell you. Goddammit, I need a doctor for my ankle!"
"True, but if you don't tell me the man's name you'll have to walk, crawl or hitchhike back to town." Bolan turned and strode away.
"No!" the man screamed in panic. "Please don't go. I'll tell you. His name is Sam Yamaguchi. He's a short Japanese guy with a flattop haircut."
"How old?"
"Thirty, thirty-five. He's new in town."
"Where can I find him?"
"You can't. I can't. He phones me every night about six at the bar back there. He won't tell me where he is. Once I heard the operator tell him to deposit eighty-five cents for the first three minutes. So it was long distance, but not too far away. Oh, that hurts. Take me into town!"
"Why did you shoot at me?"
"That 180-degree slide you did. That was too damn good. I figured you was a cop. I'm on parole and I had a piece. Automatic reaction, I guess. Let's go."
"You see the big truck?"
"Hell, no. It went through town three, four days ago. I met this Yamaguchi guy two days ago. He's somewhere around nearby. Maybe back in the hills if he's hiding something. Now get me to the damn doctor!"
"Okay. Get into your own rig. Passenger side."
Bolan half carried him to the door and helped him in. The man screamed only once getting his right foot in the door, then nearly passed out.
Bolan took the keys and eased the red pickup into the sharp ditch and spun the tires until it was stuck. He got out and looked in through the window. The guy was sweating but not because of the 104-degree July heat.
"I'll tell the cops I saw your truck ditched out here. They should be around in ten minutes. If that man calls you again, you never saw me, understand? You breathe one word about this and I'll return. Only next time I'll aim higher."
The man stared at the icy blue eyes of death that bored into him, and he had no doubt that he was close to dying. He shivered and nodded.
"Yes, sir. I won't tell him nothing. No, sir. You can count on that." He was trembling. "Hell, that leg hurts!" He stared at the Ingram Bolan still carried.
Bolan walked away, got into his Ford and drove back to town. At the first phone booth he placed a call to the local police without giving his real name. Then he drove on, looking for Parson's Pit Stop.
It was crowded. The Executioner pulled up next to a pump and filled his tank. As he paid for it his eyes scanned the area, observing and evaluating everything in a casual survey. There were several big rigs there, but the one the Japanese man was protecting would not be one of them. The Oriental must be tied in with Dr. Dunning.
After gassing up, Bolan drove to the side of the
big lot, backed into a parking space, and pretended to take a nap, pulling a baseball cap down over his eyes, but leaving a sight line out to watch the Pit Stop action.
He slid the Ingram in the case and pushed his Colt Commander in his belt clip-on holster under his sport shirt.
Bolan felt he was wasting his time. He did not have much to go on. An eighty-five-cent long-distance call. That would extend maybe twenty miles out of town. He got out of the car and walked to the diesel pumps. There were two of them, and six semis were lined up to take on fuel.
Bolan found the attendant and talked with him.
"Hell, yes, most of my customers are regulars. They got a three- or four-day run, so they come by here once, twice a week. Them guys is what keep us in business."
"What about strangers? Get many one-timer semis?"
"Sure, but usually it's like now — all six of these guys are regulars."
"Looking for a buddy of mine, little Japanese guy with a flattop haircut. Should have been through here three or four days ago."
"Damn. There are so many guys in and out. What's a flattop?"
"Short haircut, like a crew cut but the top of it is ruler flat. Lots of them back in World War II. Named the haircut after the big aircraft carriers."
"Oh, them. Yeah, I seen this guy you're talking about. He was in here last week. I remember because he was so damn touchy about his trailer. Wouldn't let me near it."
"Was it a Mack diesel?"
"Hell, no, brand-new Kenworth, big one with lots of chrome and a sleeper. I told him he had too much tractor for that thirty-footer he was dragging. He just ignored me. Uppity mother."
"That sounds like my buddy, Sam. Did he keep on going down Interstate 40 out here?"
"Nope. The little bastard got all friendly the next minute and asked me about the roads into the hills to the south. He wanted State 87, so I told him how to get on it. Strange character. Something about his eyes I didn't like. Scary, you know?"
Orbiting Omega Page 3