by Nick Carter
The bunker looked like one left in Dresden after the World War II firebombings. Concrete walls were charred with ugly rivers of black where flames had lashed up with an intensity that made me shiver in spite of the heat. Small wonder that Burlison hadn't survived the fire. Even if the blow on his skull hadn't killed him, there wouldn't have been any escape for him from the bunker. He might have been lucky to die fast. Even the metal latches on the heavy steel door had turned viscid and flowed into contorted, unnatural shapes.
The door presented my first real challenge. The hinges had at one time allowed for a smoothly opening door. No longer. The fire had destroyed any lubrication on those hinges. I had to tug and pull using my full strength to even budge the door. A tortured groan sounded from the metal and a fraction of an inch was gained. The door opened with startling suddenness. I managed to keep my feet, but the bandages on my hands shredded with the effort. I shoved the door all the way open and went into the Stygian maw, my nose beginning to drip due to the heavy burned-insulation odor lingering inside.
The dimness caused me to take off my sunglasses. Even then it took several minutes before my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light level. I slowly surveyed the ruins. An incendiary bomb couldn't have done a better job of reducing the expensive equipment to worthless junk. The instrumentation cases had melted in some places, exposing extensive electronic guts. The heat-sensitive printed circuits inside were blackened puddles of ruined plastic and silicone.
Kicking through the rubble, I found little that hadn't suffered from the intense heat. Any clue left behind by Burlison's attacker would long since have gone up in smoke — literally. I went to the thick tube of the laser and looked at it in wonder.
I reached out and pressed my hand against the now cool metallic sheath surrounding the destroyed innards. I found it hard to believe that this eight-foot-long device could reach out into the sky and destroy an unseen Russian ICBM. But it had to be capable of doing just that or AXE wouldn't have had me rooting around here. This was only a skeleton of the real weapon, yet I found myself standing in awe of it. Something of Burlison's devotion to the project filled me then, and I knew his murderer would be brought to justice.
In my world justice and mercy weren't always the same thing, of course.
Leaning against a steel stanchion, I idly ran my hand over the once-functional control panel, wondering what it would be like to let my finger stab down on the proper button, causing a violent tongue of searing light to lick forth into space. I shook my head. I couldn't begin to understand such power. The knife, the gun, those were my tools. Hugo and Wilhelmina were familiar, old friends who served me reliably and well over the years. This prodigious weapon of modern science wasn't really the sort of thing I could ever be comfortable with.
I shoved against the barrel hard enough to cause the laser tube to wobble and swing away from me. Dropping to my knees, I examined the bolts on the laser carriage. Several had been removed. Searching the entire area, I found two of the bolts. Their threads had been blackened by the fire, too, indicating that they had been removed before the fire ravaged the bunker. If they had been removed in an effort to salvage the tube, the threads would still be shiny and the heads of the bolts would show scratch marks through the soot.
"So," I said to myself, "Burlison caught someone removing these bolts. To ruin the test? To steal the entire laser? No matter. He found someone in here removing the bolts, they fought, he got his head smashed in, and the fire started, perhaps to cover up the murder, perhaps totally by accident." I sat back on my haunches, trying to reconstruct what had happened.
Sighing heavily, I got up and began pacing around the fire-blackened bunker like a tiger in a zoo cage. All the clues pointed to sabotage and murder, but none of the clues told me who was responsible. Harold Sutter seemed the logical candidate. An alcoholic, a heavily losing gambler, that mysterious meeting out in the boondocks, my being followed by another professional — they all were vague clues that failed to positively indict the man.
Anne Roxbury and Edward George were indulging in a little romancing on the side. Neither was married, but blackmail might enter in if their backgrounds indicated any sensitivity to such pressure. But my spying on them in the next lab hadn't shown any signs of real uneasiness. Quite the contrary. They were almost blatant about their relationship. Anne was attractive and from what I'd seen Edward George was handsome and a smooth talker, a real ladies' man. Nothing pointed to involvement in espionage on either of their parts.
"Back to the compound," I said again to the ghosts fluttering through the ruins. "Might have better luck back in the lab, though I'm beginning to doubt it."
I froze when I heard the crunch of tires on gravel outside. Before I got to the door of the bunker, someone had started swinging it shut. Although I flung my full weight against the closed steel door, I didn't even budge it.
The sound of a heavy steel bar dropping and locking the door shut echoed through the bunker. I was trapped in the same place where one man already had died a horrible death. I'm not superstitious, but now seemed like a good time to begin worrying about ill omens.
Chapter Four
The door wouldn't budge. I threw my shoulder against it and only ended up with a searing pain lancing into my body. The fire might have destroyed the interior of the bunker, but the steel door remained as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. I looked around in disgust. From my previous search of the bunker, I knew that no other way out existed. At one time, it might have been possible to squirm around the tube of the laser and out that hole in the roof, but the heat had buckled the laser tube, partially blocking the opening. But I had all the time in the world to reduce. A little starvation would allow me to squeeze by and get free — in a week.
Or so I thought until I heard the faint voices outside. I pressed my ear against the cold steel plate of the door and barely heard the muffled voices.
"…charges in place. We can blow the whole damned place sky high whenever we want."
"I enjoy seeing the things go up. Can I push the detonator button this time?"
A small argument ensued over who got to blow this place to kingdom come, but I was no longer interested. Whoever it was that had so neatly snared me in this trap, they now intended to remove all evidence of my presence. On this base high explosive was easily come by. I'd passed no fewer than ten storage bunkers filled with det-cord and the more potent P-40s, pink lozenge-shaped charges of high explosive. Several of them connected together with detonator cord and even a solidly built bunker like this would be reduced to rubble.
I had to get out. Fast.
My actions took on an air of sheer panic. Rattling the handle of the door convinced me that it wouldn't open. They had somehow blocked it from the exterior, probably with a two-by-four shoved securely under the handle, the butt end resting on the ground. I settled down and began to think coldly, clearly. Time was running out for me and whatever I did to escape would have to work on the first try. Those men outside wouldn't give me a second chance.
Rubbing my face with a bandaged hand gave me an idea. Quickly unwrapping the gauze from both face and hands, I ended up with about fifteen feet of usable line. I pulled a bent steel rod from the wall and shook some of the concrete loose from it. With deft knots, I secured the metal fishhook to my line. I was going fishing — for the bar against the door. If I landed it, I lived. If it eluded me, my atoms would be fallout over four neighboring counties. That thought lent urgency to my movements.
I stood on a ruined crate and worked the metal hook back and forth against the weakest spot in the concrete just above the top of the door frame. Luckily, the concrete crumbled quickly and I soon had a tunnel-vision view of the desert.
Shoving my makeshift hook through the hole, I lowered it on the line of gauze. I started fishing. Not knowing how close the men outside were to settling their argument over who got to detonate all the fireworks caused me to work feverishly. Sweat beaded my forehead, even though the bandages had been rem
oved. The continual up and down motion of the gauze against the rough concrete took its toll of my line. I saw tiny cuts and rips appearing. I pulled in my hook, refastened the line to allow stronger portions of the line to rest against the concrete walls and cast out again for my elusive game.
Sure that the men had had more than ample time to set their charges, I felt my heart beginning to hammer in my chest. For a horrible second, I thought it would leap from my breast. And as the hook made contact with the bar against the door, I thought my heart would stop beating altogether.
Tugging hard, I felt the strain ripple up and down the length of my fishing line. The gauze held and the bar tumbled away from the door handle. I didn't waste time kicking the door open and bursting out into the harsh sunlight of the New Mexico desert.
Expertly set charges lined the sides of the bunker. I toyed with the idea of pulling the detonator wires free and immediately forgot it. These men were professionals at their job. They would have a backup system wired in to prevent them from having to come back and tinker with the deadly explosives if their primary system failed to go off.
I sprinted for a small hill some fifty yards distant when I felt a giant fist lift me from the ground, squeeze the breath from my lungs, and then casually toss me aside. I hit the ground rolling, but the impact still threatened to rob me of consciousness.
Call it training or blind luck, I managed to hang onto a thin thread of consciousness. My ears rang so loudly I thought I was deaf, and the dust from the explosion mingled with concrete to cause my nose to wrinkle and drip again. About the only good thing I could point to with any pride was my continued existence.
"I tell you, I saw someone running out," came one of the voices I'd heard earlier.
"Dammit, if we don't find him, it'll be hell to pay. I thought you checked the whole place out."
"I thought you did," came the weak reply. "God. If they ever find out about this…"
Grimly, I felt glad for the momentary lapse on my would-be assassins' part. But I couldn't get away without being seen. And my face and hands were now bare. Anyone who knew Burlison would know instantly that I was an imposter. They might even be able to learn my true identity. I couldn't take the chance. The shreds of gauze fishing line seemed insignificant for the job, but would have to do until later. I wrapped the tatters around my face, finishing them off with a quick knot that would have gotten my Boy Scout merit badge revoked. I didn't have enough gauze to do both hands, and couldn't have managed a good job even if I'd had all the time in the world. Hastily, I wrapped my left hand and thrust my right into a pocket.
In time.
Two men came over the top of the low rise and pointed in my direction. I tensed, waiting to see if they fired at me or would come closer to finish me off with their bare hands. My position kept me bent double, hand near Wilhelmina. They'd be in for a nasty surprise if they thought I was really helpless.
What the lead man said confused me.
"Jesus Christ, get an ambulance out here. He must have been in the damn building just before it blew. Your head's going to be on a silver platter for this, Charlie."
"I tell you, I thought you said you were checking out the place. You know the regulations as well as I do." The horror and pleading in the man's voice convinced me he was telling the truth. He had made an honest mistake.
"Who are you, man?" asked the taller of the pair. "You almost got blasted to bloody fragments."
"You're telling me," I said. "What's going on here? I was checking out the equipment that was left and then I hear the bar dropping against the door. I… I dislodged it and then blooey!"
"Doc Burlison," said the other man, apparently recognizing the bandages. "Hell, you're having a lousy run of luck. First the fire and now this."
"Why'd you blow the bunker?" I asked. These men weren't killers. They were too shaken by the prospect of anyone being in the building for that. I almost believed it was accidental.
Almost. Until I heard the man's answer.
"It was weird, I tell you. Doc Sutter called us up less than twenty minutes ago and told us to bust our butts getting out here and to reduce the place to gravel." He stood, shaking his head. "If we'd been ten seconds earlier, you'd be dead. Close shave."
"Very close," I agreed, thinking more of Sutter now than these men. I decided I had a big score to settle with the portly Dr. Harold Sutter.
"What happened?" exclaimed Marta, as I came in the front door. "You're a mess."
"Thanks, darling, those are just the words I needed to hear after a hard day at the lab." I dropped down into a chair and felt my muscles begin to relax for the first time all day. The explosion leveling the bunker had burned away part of my shirt and the once white bandages were a uniform gray-brown now. My skin itched and a small headache irritated more than it hurt. For a top secret agent, I wasn't making much progress. That would have to change — fast.
"Is there anything I can get you?" Marta Burlison simply stood and stared, her mouth gaping slightly. I didn't blame her too much. The death of her husband was bad enough without nearly losing her ersatz husband a few days later, too.
"Run a bath for me. I want to soak. But first, a drink… bourbon." I took the glass and downed the contents. The burning lasted all the way down to my belly where the potent liquor puddled and formed a comforting pool of warmth. To hell with the mild Kahlua Burlison had favored. This was what I really needed. I relaxed a little more.
"Will you tell me? Or do I have to read it in the papers?" she asked. Concern burned in her eyes, and the set of her face told me she'd keep digging until the truth came out.
"Your friend Sutter ordered a bunker razed — with me in it."
"Oh, no, Nick, no! He has his problems, but he wouldn't kill you. It had to be an accident."
I let ride her calling me by my real name. The telltales I had planted around the room hadn't been tripped, indicating no new bugs in the room, and we were probably as safe talking here as anywhere else.
Shaking my head, I answered, "Too much coincidence. I don't believe in luck or coincidence. Sutter was hot to get the bunker blown sky high and ordered the demolition team in too fast for it to have been standard policy. Nothing in the government works to a schedule like that. No, he somehow knew I was there, trapped me inside, and then had the men blow up the place."
"How did you escape?"
I told her, grim satisfaction in the telling. Pouring myself another drink, I finished, saying, "The only clue I have is Sutter and the mysterious meeting the other night."
"The man who tried to kill you. Did he have any ID?"
"A pro," I said. "Nothing on the body at all to indicate who or where he'd come from. Just another nameless killer." I stared into her eyes and read what flashed behind them.
Another nameless killer, just like me.
I shrugged it off. Marta Burlison was part of the assignment. She didn't have to like me, just aid me in deceiving the others until I identified and eliminated the saboteur and murderer. I felt the pressure of time descending heavily on my shoulders. Hawk had been adamant about speed counting. The idea that the Russians would actually start World War III seemed both remote and grotesquely near to me in the same instant. The laser cannon had to be protected at all costs.
Protected, perhaps, even from the Project Eighth Card director.
"Let me contact the home office. I have to report in as well as pick up some information. Could you…" I indicated the bedroom. Her lips narrowed to a thin, bloodless line, she thrust her chin out, and then stalked off like a small child ready to throw a temper tantrum. I didn't have the time to soothe her ruffled feathers. Getting in touch with Hawk took precedence.
I pulled my suitcase onto the coffee table and began stripping out the lining. In small compartments underneath I took out the electronic components needed to turn the television set into a scrambled telecommunications unit. I fastened one small packet to the antenna and placed a tiny video camera on top of the set and aimed it at
a nearby chair. I turned on the set, found a channel without any commercial broadcasts, and flipped the on switch for my added electronics package. The picture broke apart, formed, and solidified as I watched.
The woman on the screen simply stared at me.
"N3 reporting to Hawk."
She nodded, pressed hidden buttons on a console in front of her and my superior's picture replaced hers.
"Well, Nick, what's the good word?" Hawk could have been anywhere in the world using a satellite linkage, but I guessed he was staying close to his Washington office these days. The cigar stub appeared to be the same as the one he had gnawed so voraciously when last I spoke with him. Some things never change.
"No good words, I'm afraid. I need information on Harold Sutter. He's apparently mixed up in something more sinister than enjoying Monday night football."
"Gambling? Drugs? Women? Possible blackmail?" As Hawk spoke, he was typing the request into his computer.
"Gambling for certain and he's a lush. That's a bad combination for sure and someone might be blackmailing him with it. He tried to kill me this morning."
I explained all that had taken place. Hawk shook his head. "I wonder, Nick. That could have been accidental. The memos I've seen coming out of his office indicate he's really pushing hard to get Eighth Card running in top gear. This might be an attempt on his part to show he can handle all the details. Without Burlison, Sutter is at best ineffectual. He might have the title of project director, but everyone knew Burlison was the brains behind the operation."
"I figured as much. Where does Edward George fit into the picture? I saw him seducing Burlison's lab assistant today."