by Gar Wilson
It had been that same pilot who had given Harrington and the other Prudhoe nabobs cause to seek the "inside" terrorist contacts. Captain Murray had been jolt enough, but when intensive scrutiny had flushed out Chief Engineer Fred Avancini, taking him into custody just as he was about to depart for a rush Riviera holiday, the net was complete.
A new gusher was discovered on the North Slope. The entire espionage cell was uncovered, and swift arrests had followed at Valdez, Fort Greely and Eileson AFB.
But, dig as they might, they could uncover nothing further about the five-man strike force that had so mysteriously moved in their midst for seven fleeting days. They were gone. Even the elusive pilot had vanished, the deserted Bell 206L—swiftly stripped of personalized arsenal—being the only evidence that he—or they—had even really existed.
Major Sam Harrington, of course, was saying nothing. Clark Jessup, the Pentagon liaison, was long gone.
Perhaps they had imagined the whole thing.
No. For at that same moment, in a scruffy saloon in far off Fairbanks, celebrating a slightly delayed New Year's Eve. . .
Phoenix Force was becoming quite mellow.