by Nick Carter
"You couldn't help it, Harold. It was a malfunction. It's no one's fault."
"There's no way it could have been a malfunction," he protested. "The damn thing sighted in on that satellite and fired! It knocked down a satellite!"
The squawk over the PA system told me that the command bunker wanted to get in touch. I flipped the switch on the radio so we could speak directly.
"…the hell's going on out there? We've got NORAD on the horn screaming at us. You fools just knocked down a Russian satellite!"
I leaned against the cool concrete wall and studied both Sutter and George more closely for reaction. Neither appeared surprised. Sutter mumbled under his breath, and George just stared at the laser.
"What happened?" I finally asked.
"Something went wrong with the programming in the new computer," Sutter said. "It had to be. This devil weapon couldn't charge up like that again without a direct command, not with all the safeties and interlocks we put in. You know that, dammit. You designed most of them."
"The laser did fire," I pointed out, goading the man.
"And it locked on a satellite," George put in. "The chances of doing that at random are mighty slim unless some high-powered calculating was done first."
"I don't know anything about orbital dynamics," snapped Sutter. "I'm a chemist. Besides, I wouldn't have access to the orbital parameters in any case."
"No one's accusing you, Harold," soothed George. "But I don't think there can be any doubt remaining that we've been sabotaged. Perhaps permanently if the Russians scream enough about this. The satellite's not just some weather probe, you can bet on that. Nothing put up these days by the Russkies is what it seems."
"A spy satellite?" I asked.
Edward George smiled but the casual amusement he normally showed was absent. "What else? Someone is out to sabotage Eighth Card, and so far they're doing a whale of a job."
"Who?" demanded Sutter. "Who would do it? None of us. We all nursemaided this project from the initial proposal stage. And no one else would have the information required to reprogram the computer, to know the charge cycle time, to calculate the satellite's orbit, all those things." He glared at me as if he suspected I were responsible, but he didn't voice the accusation.
Their reactions were about as I expected. The tension in the room mounted until I could taste it, yet I didn't want to do anything to disturb it. If one or the other snapped, he might make a damning admission of guilt and this would all be over. It wasn't that easy. It never is when you deal with professionals. Whichever man had sabotaged the test had ice water in his veins. They both continued to play out the roles they had established.
"Nothing more we can do here," said George. "Why not go about the rest of our schedule and examine the tank? This is a hell of a weapon. If we have to fight for its existence in the Congressional subcommittee hearings, it isn't a bad idea to be able to present a complete rundown of how effective the weapon is."
"They know how good Eighth Card is," pointed out Sutter. "Christ, how will we ever explain this? Christ!"
* * *
The three of us left the bunker to check out the tank. Seeing the tons of melted high-grade steel made me shiver. Nothing could stop the laser from knocking out powerful tanks — or knocking down satellites in orbit.
"Excuses, N3, all these are lame excuses," raged Hawk. "I want results. We don't have you out there in the desert to get a good tan. We want the man — the men — responsible for this outrage!"
"Outrage?" I asked mildly. "I read the NORAD report. That was the most sophisticated spy satellite Russia's ever orbited. You're glad to get rid of it — or you should be."
He leaned back in his chair. The camera angle made him appear thinner than he was, or perhaps he could adjust the transmission for that effect. I had long thought that the computer in AXE headquarters could simulate any human being so well I could carry on a detailed conversation and never know it wasn't the real person. That's one reason I prefer face-to-face contact.
"Well-taken, but irrelevant this time. That damned sky-spy had pictures of every major military installation in the continental United States. They'd put it in a polar orbit so it covered the entire surface of the Earth every sixteen hours. There's no telling what the damned thing revealed to the Soviets about our MX missile project."
"That's something that bothers me," I said. "Why should a Russian spy program that anti-ICBM laser cannon to knock down one of their own satellites? You said it was their most sophisticated. If they'd wanted to create an international incident…"
"They already have," cut in Hawk.
"…they could have shot down some hunk of junk that meant nothing to them anymore," I continued, more interested in my line of thinking than in Hawk's.
"The Russians don't think the same way we do. They'd be willing to give up a multimillion ruble satellite solely for the bargaining edge it gives them in the new SALT negotiations. That treaty will never be signed now. They are demanding reparations, public apologies, the works."
"And the President is not taking this at all well," I ventured.
The storm cloud crossing Hawk's face gave me my answer. The red phone must have been jangling constantly to upset him this much. He usually took the political maneuverings in stride. No one survives long in Washington without developing a thick skin.
"The President called a National Security Council meeting, and I am to be the main sacrifice." Hawk spat out the stub of his cigar and pounded his fist against the desk top so hard it jolted the camera. Distortion crossed his features before settling back into the perfect color picture I'd been receiving before. "What progress are you making, N3? Give me something. Anything! I've got to be at the White House in an hour. They want reassurances on this matter."
I shook my head. "Nothing but conjectures so far. If Eighth Card wasn't so important, I'd recommend pulling all the personnel and doing a complete security check on them again."
"No time. You know that."
"I understand. This affair with the Russian satellite still bothers me," I said, ignoring the frown on his face. "There's more to it than just knocking down the satellite. Who would know the orbit of that satellite well enough to calculate when it would be over the desert?"
"NORAD has a complete record of all the satellites in orbit. The Russians presumably know the parameters of their own launch. Any of the NATO countries would be able to request the information from NORAD."
"Anyone else?"
"Japan might be able to get the information from us, as might France."
None of those answers pleased me. I pushed harder, almost feeling the solution.
"What about China? Would they know?"
Hawk froze. "Why do you ask?"
"We've been friendly with them recently. It might be considered a neighborly act to furnish them with information about Russian spy satellites. After all, since this particular one is in a polar orbit, it would look down on China, too."
"You're saying the Chinese are responsible?"
"They have more to gain from destroying that particular satellite than anyone else. Look at the trouble we're in now. If the SALT negotiations break down again, this pushes a wedge between us and the Russians. The physical act of knocking down the satellite removes a source of Soviet information about Chinese troop movements."
"Any distrust between the Russians and us would move the country closer to China," mused Hawk, mulling over the idea. "Have you heard any of the secret talks going on with China?"
I hadn't I and said so.
"They want us to supply them with some of our most modern weapons. The Phoenix missile, some details of our inertial guidance system used in the cruise missile, things like this. We are willing to a gentleman's agreement stating we will come to China's aid if Russian troops cross their border, but we have refused so far to furnish any of our military hardware."
"If we did, they'd be at the Russians in an instant," I said. "And Russia would lump us together with C
hina as an ally."
"Another reason the Russians are willing to risk a preemptive strike with nuclear weapons. A Sino-American alliance frightens the Soviets. But this is all speculation, Nick. What evidence do you have that the Chinese are the ones responsible for Burlison's death and the trouble on Project Eighth Card?"
"None," I reluctantly admitted. "But going on the 'who will gain? theory keeps the Russians a poor second."
"The laser will destroy their ICBMs," Hawk pointed out.
"True," I agreed. "That hardly seems reason enough for the Russians to destroy one of their most valuable satellites. Even to test the current efficiency of our laser."
"This discussion is pointless without hard facts to support your case, N3. Find those facts. Immediately. The President demands it — and so do I."
Hawk's face faded away as the signal died. I turned off the television set and disconnected my electronics. Action was called for now. No longer could I afford the luxury of observing and waiting for the opposition to make a mistake. They had played the game too well. I would have to force their hand and create the opening that, so far, hadn't been given to me.
Thinking about it, I felt the adrenaline begin to pump. I preferred this sort of assignment to all others.
* * *
"I want to go along, too," Marta said. The tone she used told me I'd have to handcuff her to a water pipe to prevent her from following me. I seriously considered the alternative as I stared into her lovely blue eyes. They showed too much determination. She might chew through the handcuffs and still follow me. Better to let her come and know where she was in case real danger developed.
"I won't bother pointing out the risk. You wouldn't listen to me if I told you people might be killed tonight. I will say that this is no business for amateurs. You might do something that would totally ruin all the work I've put in so far."
"I can follow orders. I haven't had the field experience you have, but the DIA does train its people. I won't trip you up."
"It means that much to you? We might do nothing but sit in the car and freeze tonight."
"We can freeze together."
"Alright," I said, regretting my decision but seeing no way of backing out of it now. "We'll stake out Sutter's house again. I want to see if he goes out, who he meets, if he follows the pattern set the last time."
"Did he know you were following him then?"
"I don't know. I was followed but I doubt if it was at Sutter's orders. With a good agent, though, it's hard to say. He might be more dangerous than he appears."
"Harold Sutter?" scoffed Marta. "That man is drunk too much of the time to be much of a menace. A spy, maybe, but a physical threat? I doubt it."
"What better disguise for an assassin?" I asked. "You mentally discard him as the type who could kill your husband because Sutter has carefully created that impression, just the thing a top-notch agent would do."
"He's a drunk. I mean, stinking, falling down drunk, too much of the time. There's no way of pretending."
I reeled across the room, hitting a wall and sliding down a short way, saying, "Got another drink? Sure do feel thirsty all of a sudden." I slurred the words and blinked my eyes enough to make my cheeks appear puffier than they are.
"I…" she started, surprised.
"Not a bad drunk imitation, was it?" I straightened and stared into her startled eyes. "And if I had years to practice the role as my cover, I'd fool you every single time."
"You've made your point, Nick," she said, biting her lower lip. "It's just so hard to think of Harold with anything but contempt. He's brilliant but unstable. That's what Rich always told me about him."
"Into the car. And remember, Harold Sutter might not be the innocent you think he is."
We drove across town in the green Ford and soon parked uphill from the Sutter household. The city lights twinkled in the distance, and I reflected how nice it might be to settle down eventually. With Marta, so warm and near, I considered things normally alien to me. But the sight of a dark figure skulking outside Sutter's house erased all such domestic thoughts. Once again, I became N3, Killmaster.
"Wait here," I ordered. "I'm going to see who that is."
Before she could protest, I slipped from the car and walked on cat-silent feet to Sutter's house. Dropping to my belly, I crawled the last few feet to a knee-high rock fence. I peered over and saw the darkness shrouded figure. He spoke quietly, insistently, but to whom I couldn't tell.
"I took care of the satellite, didn't I?" the man said in a muffled voice.
Moving closer, I tried to make out the features of the speaker. It might have been Sutter, but what was he doing outside sneaking around like this? The man speaking couldn't be identified positively by voice, either. The soft whisper carried the words but little else.
"Money is always appreciated," came the words. I saw the white flash of an envelope vanishing into black folds of cloth before the figure turned and bolted for Sutter's car. Even then I failed to get a good look at the person. The streetlight cast shadows where I most wanted illumination.
The engine of Sutter's car came to a roaring life. The gears clashed and the car bucked and lurched down the street. With a squeal of burning rubber, the car blasted away into the disturbed silence of the night. Cursing under my breath, I raced back to my car and jumped in.
"Brace yourself," I told Marta. "This is the payoff."
The finely tuned engine responded with the deep-throated roar that I loved to hear. Slamming into gear, I screeched around the corner in time to see the dim, receding tail lights of Sutter's car. Floorboarding the gas pedal, we soon narrowed the distance between the two cars. From my previous experiences with these two cars, I knew Sutter couldn't possibly outrun me.
What he did do was totally unexpected. He turned off the freeway and shot like a rocketsled on rails toward the mountains.
"Do you have any idea where he's going?" I asked Marta. She paled at the sharp curves and heady acceleration. Shaking her head in mute denial, I turned my attentions back to the road and drove it in the best way I knew how.
The cold nighttime air ripped into my lungs and filled me with a feeling of power. Every second narrowed the gap between Sutter and me. I sensed victory approaching. Capture him, get the envelope, and use that evidence, along with what I'd heard, to wring a confession from him. From then on, tracing contacts and the others he had dealings with would be routine work. I could relax and leave the dogwork for the National Security Agency people.
Wobbling off the back road, Sutter raced along a dirt road through a low-cut pass into the mountains.
"Nick," said Marta, her hand resting lightly on my arm, "on the other side of the mountain is the solar power test station. Do you think he might be heading for that?"
My mind spun mental gears. I couldn't figure any reason for Sutter to go there. The place would be isolated. Perhaps a small plane would land and pick up some stolen information about the laser cannon. But why the money transfer at Sutter's house? And who had passed it to him? I had seen no one.
The more my mind worked over the disparate clues, the fewer solid facts emerged. I felt as if I walked on quicksand. The only way to get the firm data I needed was to catch Sutter and question him.
"Watch out, Nick!" screamed Marta.
I stomped hard on the brake, pulling the car through the tight corner in the road. As soon as the nose of the car pointed along the road again, the accelerator went back to the floorboard.
"I told you to stay home."
"I'll be alright. Just you watch your driving."
I smiled grimly. This chase made me feel I had finally accomplished something. And that made me overconfident.
I was unprepared for Sutter's car making a swift reversal and heading straight for me. With only a split second to make a decision, I swerved to the right, faked him out, and then veered left at the last possible instant. A sick crunch told of a ruined fender — but we were still alive.
And I was
mad.
"He's trying to kill us," I told Marta. "That changes the rules to tonight's little game." I savagely wheeled the car around and soon caught up with Sutter again. Estimating the distance between our cars, I tensed and said to Marta, "Brace yourself. He's not giving up, and this is going to get rough."
I jerked the wheel hard to the right and rammed into the side of Sutter's car. He tried to avoid the collision and failed. Metal ripped metal as I inexorably forced him off the road. With his right wheels in the dirt shoulder, I jerked harder against my steering wheel in an effort to make him lose control and roll his car.
He surprised me with the sudden braking, the 180 degree spin turn any stuntman would have envied, and a quick spurt of acceleration in the opposite direction. This had become a personal challenge to me, and I vowed not to allow Sutter to get away. Somehow, I had never pictured the portly, gray-haired man as having the nerve or skill to drive like this. I had violated the very principle I'd chided Marta for ignoring: you can't really identify a good spy if he's had the opportunity to build up a solid cover.
Sutter roared up a dirt road, kicking up choking billows of dust behind him. He never slowed as he broke through a road-hazard detour sign. I stayed as close to his tail as I could. The visibility was less than five feet, but I saw faint glimmerings of my headlights off his chrome bumper. Opening up the engine with a powerful stomp on the accelerator, I pulled opposite Sutter. The man hunched over the wheel, intent on his driving.
Again I tried to run him off the road. My right fender edged in front of his left. A skillful downshift gave me a powerful lurch ahead needed to run him into the embankment.
He rolled over, kept rolling, and the car somehow righted itself. He gunned it and came after me like an avenging angel.
"Hang on, Marta," I told the white-faced woman. I knew she would leave her fingerprints permanently embedded in the dashboard the way she clung on for dear life.
"Do you have to drive like this?" she gasped. "You'll get us all killed."
"Not all of us, I hope," I said, wheeling the car back and forth across the road to keep Sutter from passing.