"Don't shoot! Please, don't shoot, mister!"
Bolan lowered the Ingram. The man inside the trailer sat in a chair beside a card table. He was about twenty. He had a radio, a big ice chest, a twenty-four-bottle carton of Coca-Cola and a box filled with food. On the table was a partly finished jigsaw puzzle. Otherwise the trailer was empty.
"What was all that noise out there?" he asked.
Bolan leaned against the tailgate of the trailer. He shook his head and looked at Kitty, who had just come up beside him. "He's done it again. This was all a false lead to throw us off his trail and buy him time."
Ten minutes later, Bolan had it all spelled out.
"So this little Oriental guy with the strange flat haircut asked me if I wanted to make a hundred dollars," the young man was explaining. Bolan and Kitty stood at the end of the trailer drinking Cokes from the kid's supply. He wore cutoff jeans and no shirt. A straw hat lay on the floor beside his worn sneakers.
The youth looked at Kitty. "Miss, I've been out of work. Do you know how long it's been since I made a whole hundred dollars all by myself?"
"And this gentleman said all you had to do was sit in the trailer for three days, as a kind of secret guard?" Kitty asked.
"Yes, ma'am. So I will. Got me all the comforts of home. Unless I'm doing something illegal."
"Not as far as I know," Bolan said. "We understand. About the noise outside, it looked to me like it was some campers using up their leftover Fourth of July fireworks."
* * *
An hour later Kitty and Bolan were back in Clints Well. Kitty looked over at Bolan.
"Do you never get tired? You said you had driven all night last night. How long has it been since you have had any sleep?"
"Couple of days. I can sleep after we've found Dunning."
"You try that for too long and we may never sleep again. There is no motel within thirty-five miles of here. We can sleep in the car."
"You take a nap. I want to buy my friends up here a beer."
"I can work if you can. So Dunning planted that bogus trailer on us, and the driver caused trouble so everyone would remember him. Where did the real trailer go?"
"Must be around here somewhere. All we have to do is find it."
"And you think the old men might know?"
"Yeah."
As usual with a July day in the high country of Arizona, the thunderheads had been building up all morning, and now lightning flashed as a thunderstorm powered across the land. The rain dimpled the dusty areas, splashed the Ford's windshield and washed off the mountain.
"It won't last long," Bolan said. "The natives say this happens every day this time of year."
It was a fast-moving shower that lasted only four minutes. Bolan opened the door.
"I'll be back soon," he said and ran for the porch overhang in front of the general store. This time there were only two grandfather types in the loafers' chairs. One of them was the man Bolan had talked to earlier that afternoon.
The Executioner sat down next to the old man in the faded blue overalls and rocked back, closed his eyes and took a long breath.
"You find that sucker?" the old man asked.
"Uh-huh."
"So why you back here?"
"Wrong trailer. My little buddy bushwhacked us. You saw the one he wanted you to see. Tears he was through here a day or two before that with another trailer, one he slid through so quiet you couldn't hear them diesel valves clicking."
"How you know that, young feller?"
"Figures. The one we found was empty."
The old man laughed. "He tricked you. Now you wanting to know, did we see that tractor with a look-alike trailer a day or so before the big traffic ticket affair. I reckon we did, yes."
Bolan nodded and looked away. "Could I buy you gents a beer?"
"Nope, but a cold Pepsi would go good for Will and me."
Bolan went into the store and came back with three iced colas. Both the older men drank, smacked their lips and held the cold cans against their cheeks.
"Well, 'pears we got to tell you, bribing us this-a-ways." The loafers laughed and Bolan joined in.
"See, first time the green Kenworth came through we wondered about her. Slid in about dusk, tooled past, and then we could see her turn off down McCollough Lane. That's maybe two miles north of town, but we could follow her lights all the way. Those big Christmas-tree lights showed up just plain. Then she turned and the clearance lights blinked out, so we knew she was in the ponderosa down there. The only road that turns off is McCollough Lane, and the only place that goes is back into the woods and to some forestry gates. All National Forest in there, of course."
"Couple of miles to the lane," Bolan said. "You sure?"
"Yessir, damn sure. We couldn't figure out what a rig like that would be doing heading back on that lane. Trailer looked the same when we seen it the next day. We just figured the driver got himself good and lost and then came back to town. He stopped here and asked directions and got his ass arrested, then he drove on out to Pine way we told. He had to come back here to go to Pine."
Bolan finished his can of Pepsi and handed the empty to the old man. "That's worth a nickel deposit in Oregon next time you go through. Thanks for the help." Bolan walked away.
"Damn big-city spenders think they can stomp all over us country folk," the old man said. He laughed and winked with his one good eye.
A short time later, Bolan drove down McCollough Lane for a mile before he pulled the Ford into a side trail and hid it behind some brush and towering piñon and ponderosa pine trees. It was almost dark. They had a conference and decided Kitty would sleep in the car.
Bolan stood for a moment behind the car with the blanket.
Bolan waved and vanished into the light brush. He settled down in a thicket for concealment and went to sleep almost at once.
8
"Sam, your only job is to monitor the power-input cycle board. I want you to tell me if it varies so much as a flutter off the mark on this digital readout. Without the proper voltage and cycle, my whole operation can be off a mile." Dr. Dunning gave Sam a wave of approval and turned back to his large main console.
Six CRT screens showed him readouts; dozens of dials and digital displays had been arranged in related order and grouped around him. He snapped on six toggle switches and watched the boards light up. Dr. Dunning typed a simple command into the computer keyboard: "Track identified orbiter." Then he sat back and waited. The readouts told him the target was soon coming around the earth on its regular orbiting pass.
When it arrived, he deftly locked his tracer onto target, and punched up new instructions to his computer: "Send first batch of access codes to the targeted orbiter on its frequency."
Dr. Dunning stood, walked around the chair and sat down. Usually there was someone to talk to, to worry with at a time like this when there was nothing left to do but wait and hope. Now he was alone.
Sam did not seem to care what was happening. The forty thousand potential coded words were sent within seconds, and then he waited for three minutes. That was plenty of time. The codes had not broken through the security system of the orbiter for capture. He ordered the second batch of forty thousand codes transmitted. Again he paced for three minutes.
Nothing happened. He had not gained control to the on-board computer of the orbiter. Again he sent out a new batch of codes he had determined might be used for capture.
Weeks ago he had given his computer a few basic codes he judged might be used by the Russian orbiter for its access. He then instructed the computer to work out every possible variable of the basic combinations he had sent, stopping at 1.5 million. The computer worked out the code variables, grouped them in batches of forty thousand, and stored them in memory. There were 37.5 batches of codes.
Ten times Dr. Dunning sent out the potential code access words, and ten times the screens in front of him remained blank.
He had not broken the orbiter's secret. The vehicle had
now passed over the U.S. on its continuing orbit, and he would no longer try for capture.
Dr. Dunning shrugged. Trial and error. Often it took many attempts to break an access code. He might not win with his first 1.5 million tries. If so, he would put the computer to work expanding other possible codes utilizing new words, names and numbers.
One and a half hours after the first try, he gained a tracking report from his antenna as the vehicle came around on the next orbit. He locked onto the vehicle and tried again.
On the third batch of codes he sent, the voltage fell off.
"Dammit, Sam! Get the voltage back up there. Push it!"
Dr. Dunning was not a swearing man. He saw the voltage level come up and stabilize, and he waited for results.
Sam had looked up in surprise, and his face showed a flash of anger before he pushed the lever and adjusted the buttons as Dr. Dunning had instructed him.
The ex-NASA scientist looked back at his gauges and relaxed.
A minute later the center screen flashed on. He had the right code. The orbiter was asking for instructions. He had capture!
At once he punched up the correct commands on the keyboard in front of him. The plain language was translated into telemetric signals and shot at the orbiter as fast as Dr. Dunning could type them in. He consulted a pad and copied the elaborate system of commands he had worked out for the orbiter. Then he sent a new command that would change the access code in the orbiter's computer. The new code contained three illogical and unrelated elements. Dr. Dunning figured there would be only one chance in a billion that any computer could break his code. He sent the new coding instructions and leaned back.
There had been two new basic commands given the orbiter. One was to change its orbit line by ten degrees. Thai would be enough to alert its owners that something had changed. The second order was to cease all transmissions except those specifically asked for by the new ground base.
Dr. Dunning smiled as he watched the data being sent out and received and absorbed. He now owned that space vehicle up there.
"You can relax, Sam. We have capture! We are now the proud new fathers of an orbiter slamming around the earth at just under seventeen thousand miles an hour at an altitude of twenty-two thousand miles. Congratulations!"
Sam smiled. Dr. Dunning could not remember many smiles on the face of the young Oriental.
"It's you who is to be congratulated, Dr. Dunning. You have done what other smaller men only dream of doing. This means that you will go down in history."
* * *
It was 5:30 a.m. in Washington, D.C. An aide hurried through a silent wing of the White House and knocked softly on a solid door. He opened it cautiously and strode into the bedroom of the President of the United States.
The form under the sheet came alert at once and sat up.
"Mr. President, I'm sorry to bother you. But the hot line has been activated. It's the Premier. It seems that we have some kind of a major problem facing us."
"You mean they've found out?" The President pulled on a robe and slippers and walked down the deserted corridor to his Oval Office.
"Has Harloff been alerted?"
The aide nodded. "He's waiting in there, sir."
Inside the President's office stood four men, all with serious expressions. An unshaven young man in a T-shirt and pajama pants stood beside the President's desk holding the red phone which usually was locked in a side drawer. The young man's age and appearance belied the strength, maturity and conviction that were revealed when he spoke.
"Mr. President, I'll translate as usual. Try to pick up the tone and inflection of the Premier's voice if you can. It is just after lunchtime in Moscow. The Premier's aide has been talking with a controlled fury. I think this is a complaint of a high order." He handed the President the red phone and picked up the blue handset.
Harloff knew that on the other end the Russian Premier and his translator were in a similar mode. It was now a four-way conference call. Harloff would listen to the Russian translation of what the President said and confirm the content. The Russian translator in Moscow would listen to Harloff's Russian translation into English, and he would confirm it as proper.
"Mr. President, this is the Premier. I am outraged! I am surprised and shocked and terribly angry. How could you do such a thing? How could you threaten the world in this way?"
"Good evening, Mr. Premier. Before I can tell you if we did anything, I'll have to know what you are talking about. None of us here is aware of any international problem of any great significance."
"Do not toy with me! You know perfectly well that your scientists, your space agency, have captured one of our orbiting satellites. You know this."
"Mr. Premier, I did not know that you had lost a satellite." He looked at Gregory, his NASA chief, who had been summoned as usual with any activation of the hot line. The chief sent an aide running from the room. He shook his head at the President and gave him a note that said, "We know of no loss of any satellite. We did not, repeat did not capture one of theirs."
"Our space agency knows nothing about any of your satellites that are missing, Mr. Premier. This is all a total surprise to us."
There was a moment of muffled sounds from the other end after the translation was made, as if the Premier was conferring.
"Mr. President, we have never lied to each other before. I hope you are not doing so now."
"Mr. Premier, I speak the truth. I have given no orders and approved no orders to interfere in any way with any orbiting or space vehicles of any nation. I will not do so. My chief of NASA has given no such order, nor would he permit any such action without an order from me personally. I can assure you, Mr. Premier, if one of your pieces of space hardware is lost or strayed, it is not due to any action, forces, men or agents of the United States government."
After the translation there was a long pause.
"Mr. President, you do sound sincere, but we have facts that must be considered. The satellite was captured while out of our contact while over the United States. It was captured by breaking a secret access code, a highly difficult and technical problem in itself that only a world power would have the resources and facilities to undertake. And once the satellite was captured, its orbit was changed to make sure we knew it had been captured. We now cannot contact our own space vehicle. It must have been your space agency that did it, and they will not tell you."
After the translation there was a silence in the Oval Office. Fred Gregory shook his head emphatically. "Mr. President, we have not even thought of capturing a Russian satellite. We have not tried to. We have not captured. Period."
"Mr. Premier, we will check every possible explanation for your loss. But I am not optimistic. Our NASA people say they have not tried to capture, nor have they completed any capture of any orbiter. Perhaps it broke up or collided with another satellite. Maybe it was the French. They have been progressing with a more sophisticated telemetry."
"No, the French are not technically capable. Mr. President, it must have been your people. Some extreme fringe, some rebel, perhaps. Find out. We will allow you six hours to interrogate your NASA experts. If we do not receive some satisfactory explanation and return the craft, we will begin destroying one of your orbiting vehicles every six hours, until you admit your complicity and return the craft. We will expect a contact from you on this phone in exactly six hours. Goodbye, Mr. President."
The President of the United States had been standing by his executive chair, and as Harloff finished the translation and they heard a "Da," from the other end confirming the correctness of the translation, he put the phone back on the red cradle.
"Six hours. I wonder what they lost? Fred, check known Soviet orbiters and find one with an orbit change last night. First we find out what they lost and then why. Hell, only six hours. It must be something important. Not just a weather or spy satellite. Check the big stuff. We know everything they have up there, and they know what we have. Everything. We better get movi
ng. We have only six hours to come up with something."
9
Mack Bolan shifted his position on the soft forest mulch of a thousand years of pine needles and leaves. Then, with the darting quickness of a hummingbird changing directions, he was back in Stony Man Farm, Virginia. Security had been breached. They were under attack! Desperate men were trying to kill Colonel John Phoenix!
"No, no, dammit, over here! Shoot at me you sons of bitches! Not at anyone else, shoot at me. Don't fire at Kurtzman — he's not a combat soldier. Bear is hit — he's down!" Bolan jumped up and ran. It seemed the faster he moved, the distance to his computer wizard only increased. He could not help Kurtzman, who was down and hit badly. Bolan hosed the enemy with his M-16. He picked up his AutoMag triggering the .44 again and again at the man shadows charging across the blazing Virginia hellground.
Then someone came to help. A fine person, his own true love. She ran out, distracting the enemy, putting herself in the line of fire for him.
It could not be permitted to happen!
Sweet heaven, it simply could not happen! But he watched helplessly as the singing bullets slammed into her body, throwing her one way, blasting her back the other. He saw her hand reaching out to him, saw it stained blood red as her life substance drained out of her.
No! No! He leaped up and began to run at them, firing and running and shooting again. He never ran out of ammunition as he kept charging and blasting at the menacing faces that sprang at him from every shadow.
He uttered a long wailing cry of torment and anguish into the sky: "No, dammit to hell, it can't happen!"
Mack Bolan shook his head to clear it and sat up to find himself back in the pine forest high over Clints Well, Arizona. He was sure he had shouted the last line of his nightmare into the darkness. The sound of his own voice had wakened him. He sat there, crouched low, listening to the night sounds.
Had anyone heard? Had he actually shouted aloud? The Executioner wiped sweat off his forehead and held the Ingram ready. It was on automatic mode and held a full magazine.
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