by Nick Carter
"Was she cooperating?"
"She wasn't resisting very hard."
Hawk stopped speaking for a minute and read the printout on the tiny CRT computer console screen in front of him. He glanced up and asked, "Want me to digest this for you or send the complete dossier?"
"Give it to me briefly." I had seen the dossiers AXE used. Details of marginal use ended up in the computer's memory, but sometimes such ridiculous items as a man not liking olives can prove a lifesaving bit of knowledge.
"Sutter's been a regular customer at a local sanitarium to dry out. It doesn't seem to take. He gambles heavily and even his salary doesn't quite cover his losses."
"Why did they keep him in a security sensitive position with a record like that?"
"Same old story," Hawk said, scowling. He shifted the butt of his cigar to the other side of his mouth before continuing. "Sutter's a brilliant scientist, and they put up with his foibles in exchange for good work. Hell, they had this file buried so deep we almost didn't find it. From what it seems to indicate, he just can't stand the pressure of being an administrator, but if they tried to dump him back into his old position as a simple researcher he'd see it as a demotion and quit. He could get a job paying half again as much in industry."
"Why doesn't he? That would take care of his gambling debts."
Hawk shook his head. "Prestige. He's a big frog in a small pond on Project Eighth Card. And you ought to know that there's never enough money for a compulsive gambler. If Sutter tripled his salary, he'd still be in hock up to his earlobes."
"I think he's the one."
"Edward George looks like a possible, too, Nick. He's a womanizer, going after anything remotely female. He might be blackmailed into leaking information. Or perhaps he's being offered enough money to sabotage the project."
I thought about that for a second, considered how Goerge had acted in his brief assignation with Anne Roxbury, and discarded it.
"He's not the type who would blackmail," I said. "He's got a core of toughness that wouldn't let him cave in. I think pride runs mighty deep in him."
"You're the one on the spot."
I nodded. Taking Hawk's words literally as well as figuratively, I said, "Go ahead and shoot me the entire file on both men. I'll look them over." The picture on the screen fluttered as the contents of the AXE files transmitted into the microprocessor memory of my device. Hawk's face reappeared on the screen.
"I want a progress report from you within twenty-four hours that shows progress, N3. I have people on my back. People in high places, very high places." Involuntarily, he glanced toward the red telephone sitting prominently on the edge of his desk. Day or night. Hawk could pick up that phone and speak directly to the President, no matter where in the world he was. And the phone rang both ways, too. I didn't doubt that the President had been calling periodically to check up on all the latest developments.
"I'll get on with it," I said. Hawk glowered and cut the connection. As his face faded into a white field of static, I touched the replay button. Line after line of print broken by occasional color photographs marched across the screen, telling me more than I really wanted to know about Edward George and Harold Sutter.
Suppertime came just as I'd finished the last of the dossiers. I erased the microprocessor memory and disconnected the device from the television set, wondering how spies had ever existed without sophisticated electronic gadgets.
* * *
"I feel worlds better now that I'm clean and rid of those bandages," I said to Marta. She sat across the table and idly pushed her food around with the side of her fork. "The food's good. You know how to cook."
"Thanks."
"What's wrong?" I finally asked, unable to stand the silence. She had been distant all afternoon and now that I got the silent treatment, I wanted to find out why. "Something I've done?"
"No, nothing you've done. It… it's this whole goddamn business. I never figured Richard would end up dead — murdered — when I married him."
"Not many people think about death, especially of their own and the people they love. No reason being morbid, but it is something that happens to the best of us."
"How can you joke," she said, spitting out the words as if they burned her tongue. "You kill for a living. You're so glib. No one lives forever, only until Nick Carter gets them into his gunsight. You're as evil as the person who killed Richard. What difference does it make which side you're on? You both do the same things."
I felt cold rage mounting inside. She'd touched one of my buttons, and I couldn't let this ride.
"You think it's easy knowing I have the power to kill others and get away with it? Sure, the government condones what I'm doing, but I'm not a cold-blooded killer. I feel. Would you want the nightmares I have? The only way I keep my sanity is knowing I'm doing a rotten job better than most others could."
"Why do you do it at all? We'd all be better off if we stopped this horrible espionage war with the Communists."
"Sure, we'd all be better off if we stopped. And we'd all be dead, too. The Russians might parrot the party line about peaceful coexistence or detente or whatever the current buzzword is, but they haven't changed strategy since the days of Stalin. Their tactics have changed to match modern technology, but they still want to rule the world. Look at what they've done in Hungary and Czechoslovakia and Afghanistan. If we roll over we won't be playing dead — we'll be dead."
She turned and looked away. I should have quieted down, but the outpouring was as much a reaction to my own lack of progress in solving who had murdered her husband as anything else. I had to try and justify my existence to her. It seemed important.
"And," I continued, "do you think the U.S. really wants to dominate the world?"
"No, but what does that have to do with…?"
"It has everything to do with it," I cut her off. "We aren't trying to force ourselves down the unwilling throats of the rest of the world. We're willing to let a country run itself any way its people want. That's worth fighting for, the privilege of freedom."
"Privilege?"
"Yeah, privilege. Freedom has to be fought for. It's never handed over to you all neatly wrapped up with a bow. And if it's not worth fighting for, I'm not sure we're worthy of having it. We'd be better off under a dictator's thumb, jumping whenever the bosses wanted. Just like the Russians want for us."
"I've heard this before. I don't care about it. The world is so uncaring. It's not fair that Rich should die for the sick, bloodthirsty schemes of nations."
"Fair? Nothing is fair. Ever. We have to fight for everything. We are either stronger and win or we lose."
"But he's dead and I can't care anything about that. You're strong. I'm weak! I'm powerless to do anything about his death. I can't even mourn! When I'm with you and those damned bandages, I have to smile and pretend I'm happy. Oh, damn!"
She pushed her face into her hands and cried. I got up and went to her, my arm snaking around her shaking shoulders. She tensed and tried to jerk away, then as suddenly turned and buried her face into my shoulder. I felt the hot, wet tears soaking into my shirt.
"Whoever killed your husband won't get away with it," I promised. "I do my job well."
"I know," she said, looking up. Her startlingly blue eyes were rimmed with red from the tears, but the look she gave me was a curious mixture of uncertainty and lust.
I kissed her.
At first it was a chaste kiss, a kiss to let her know that I did care, that I wasn't a wanton murderer. Why that should have mattered to me I couldn't say. It did. The kiss slowly warmed up and became much more. Our lips soon crushed passionately, and I felt her body pressing insistently into mine.
"Do you really want to?" I asked.
"Yes, Nick, yes!"
I took her into my arms. She was lighter than I had thought. I carried her into the bedroom. I realized this place must hold painful memories for her, but there was only one way of taking the sting from those memories — provide new o
nes of a pleasant nature.
"Hurry, Nick, I need you so!" Her fingers worked insistently on my shirt. She fumbled and ended up ripping the front, sending buttons skittering to all corners of the room. I undid the snaps on her blouse and allowed her melon-sized breasts to tumble into my hands.
Cupping them, I squeezed and kneaded as if I held two mounds of pliant dough. But no bread dough was ever so firm, so resilient and warmly responsive. The hard points of her ruddy nipples throbbed with visible need.
She began running her questing fingers down the front of my pants. My manhood already quivered with eagerness like a racehorse ready for the Kentucky Derby. I gasped when she took me firmly in hand and pulled me down beside her on the bed.
Her lips crushed mine again as we passionately wrested. I found the fastener on her skirt, and she lifted her rump up and off the bed enough for me to pull away the unwanted garment. She was now clad only in bright red bikini briefs. And then even those were magically gone, nothing between me and the churning well of her desires.
"Nick, I need you. Don't be gentle. Be as rough as you can. I need to feel…"
She didn't finish the sentence, but I understood. She had to feel her own body responding in remembered ways, feeling passion, being aroused to a fever pitch. It would take some roughness to burn away the shroud of guilt and dread she felt over her husband's death.
My hands forced apart her creamy thighs and exposed the damp triangular patch of jet-black fleece at the vertex of her legs. As if she was a magnet and I was made from iron, I felt the irresistible attraction. Rolling on top of her, I moved into position.
"Do it now. Hard, Nick, and deep!"
She gasped when I rammed forward, sinking to the hilt in the softly yielding flesh. For an instant, I thought she had fainted. Then her eyelids fluttered open and I realized ecstasy possessed her totally. My fingers worked under her body and clutched the twin mounds of her buttocks. Lifting her off the bed as I stroked forward caused her to shiver like a plate of jello in an earthquake. I saw the red flush on her breasts and upper chest. Her breath came in short, quick pants and she tossed that lovely mane of black hair from side to side, framing the pale white of her face like an erotic portrait.
The feel of the hot sheath of female flesh surrounding my erection caused me to move faster and faster. Soon, each thrust forward brought a short gasp to her lips. She reached up and began fondling her own breasts to increase the feelings rocketing down into her lithe body. She had to totally drown herself in sensation to be able to forget her husband, even for a few minutes.
I did what I could to aid her.
I changed the rhythm of my pumping so that I used only swift, short strokes. This produced incredible friction that threatened to burn me to a charred nubbin, but she needed it — and so did I.
Thoughts of her lying there, her legs wrapped around my waist to pull me even deeper, vanished. All that mattered in that one intense instant of supreme excitement was my own satiation.
Her face became a taut mask of desire as I drove in deep and ground my hips into her crotch. And then I was flooding her depths with my warm, sluicing flow. At that instant, her arousal reached its peak and she shrieked, thrashing wildly, her fingers clawing at my upper arms and chest.
"Oh, Rich, Rich!" she screamed out. "I…ohhh!"
Together we sank back to the bed, exhausted from our lovemaking. She opened her eyes and stared at me for a long time before putting her arms around my neck and snuggling even closer. She put her head against my chest and went to sleep. The warm gusts from her nostrils rhythmically brushed through the mat of hair on my chest, tickling and keeping me awake, but I didn't have the heart to move her. Not after she had just cried out the name of her dead husband.
Instead, I lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how I could flush out the man who had killed Richard Burlison and who endangered the security of the entire world.
Chapter Five
"Do you want to inspect the new bunker now, Richard?" asked Harold Sutter.
I nodded, wondering if the charade with the bandages should continue much longer. The more time I spent with Sutter, the more convinced I became that he knew I was an imposter. The murderer of Richard Burlison had to know I was a fake.
"This bunker is larger than the other. We noticed some problems with the carriage mounts in the first installation," said Edward George, sliding into the front seat of the car beside us. "We want to make everything as perfect as we can for this test. We've got a lot riding on its success."
Sutter keyed the engine to life and tore off through the desert, bouncing and jostling all of us together as if he had a new recipe for scrambled eggs.
"There's a new tracking computer, too. You remember the DEC model we wanted for the first test?"
I nodded, not sure what they were talking about. The less I said, the less likely I was to betray my total ignorance. Again I cursed the shortness of time before getting this assignment. While I would never have acquired the jargon and in-group knowledge of these scientists, acquainting myself with small things like equipment orders and the other nontechnical items surrounding Burlison's office would have been helpful. Just being able to make an intelligent reference to the computer system they'd mentioned would have helped my credibility.
"We got it in after the success of the test," said Sutter, casting a gimlet-eyed sidelong glance at me. "We've hooked it up to monitor the power density as the charge builds."
"And it will do the tracking for us with a precision lacking with the old system. But I doubt if he's much interested in all that, Harold," said George. "I think poor Richard's a bit under the weather. He doesn't say much these days."
"Hard night," I explained. "Didn't get much sleep."
"The burns, "sagely said George. "I can imagine."
"Tell me about the test. What's the target this time?" I felt this would be a safe topic and one that might even give me a few clues if Sutter slipped and said too much.
"A tank will be driven by remote control. The idea is to melt it into slag with one shot. The way I've figured it, we could melt a dozen tanks with one blast from the laser."
"Potent," I said, meaning it. The awesome power of this laser cannon surpassed my ability to imagine. Even seeing videotapes of the prior test, the one in which Burlison had died, I couldn't conceive of the stark, raw energy ripping out of the blunted end of that innocuous-appearing laser tube.
We got out of the car and went into the bunker. The general layout was identical to the other, but more room had been left between the mountainous capacitors used to power the eight-foot-long laser. I commented on this.
"Cuts down on the corona effect," said George. "Not as much arcing across and discharging. Should be able to add 5 percent to the total power output due to the saving of energy."
I dutifully looked around, not touching the controls, more interested in Sutter and George. Neither man betrayed any sign of nervousness. Both efficiently checked through the list of overrides and safeties before deciding the test was ready to proceed.
"Do we have to go back to the observation bunker?" I asked. "Couldn't we just watch from over the hill?"
"Okay, I guess," Sutter said, nodding. "But after what happened to you last time, I'd think you'd prefer the security of a couple feet of prestressed concrete around you."
"The fire was in the bunker," I pointed out.
Sutter glowered at me but didn't comment on that. We trooped up the hill overlooking the bunker and settled down just over the rise. I took out a pair of field glasses and trained them on the wide, sandy plain stretching out like a giant beige carpet in front of the bunker. The blunted head of the laser cannon swung slowly downward, aligning itself for the test firing.
"There, it's already tracking," said George, squinting and pointing downrange.
I checked out the moving dot and saw it was the target tank. It creaked and rattled, dodging in a complex pattern in an effort to confuse the tracking computer hooked int
o the laser. I heard the crackling of the capacitors at the same time I smelled the heavy ozone. In mute fascination, I watched the laser cannon level, track, and then launch a lightning bolt that would have made Thor proud.
Blinking from the brightness of the discharge, I quickly trained my binoculars on the tank. Or what was left of the tank. The laser cannon had hit right on target, ripping through the tenacious steel armor as if it were no more than mist. I hardly believed I'd seen a tank reduced to rubble in less than a heartbeat.
Sutter's anguished cry pulled my attention back to the bunker.
"God, no! The damn thing's charging up for another shot."
The tube of the laser slowly elevated, its movement jerky as if unsure where to point. It came to rest at a forty-five degree angle with the ground, then corrected slightly. I could hear the fine-tracking gears still aligning it — but at what?
"I've got to turn it off. If it fires again, it might hit an airplane. Christ, the range of that thing is hundreds of miles."
Before I could stop him, Sutter rolled over the top of the hill and sprinted to the bunker, his bandy legs pumping hard and his gray hair tousled from the exertion. I looked at Edward George, who snorted and said, "I suppose we'd better go see what went wrong this time. This is getting to be ridiculous."
He took off at an easy lope after Sutter. I put away my field glasses and started down the hill more cautiously. Wary of the possibility of another trap, I decided caution was more prudent than being first on the scene. As a result, I heard the frantic crackling of the capacitors and saw the almost-solid bar of pure light energy stab into the sky. My eyes tracked the beam to the sudden nova blossoming in the bright daylight. Pulling out my field glasses again, I trained them on that spot in the sky. The flare had already begun to die down, and I couldn't find any falling pieces of debris. Whatever had been destroyed was high up in the sky, very high.
I entered the relatively dark interior of the bunker to find Sutter seated at the control panel, George immediately behind him with one hand on the older man's shoulder.