He continued on down the street to the main gate of the Naval Weapons Center. Peterson had told him that much of the business end of the center was open. Anyone could drive in. Getting into the restricted area would be harder.
Bolan drove up, told the uniformed Marine guard his name and that he was supposed to pick up his badge and pass at base security. The sentry directed him to the office and said he would notify them Bolan was on his way.
At Security, Bolan produced some ID that he had rigged for Mack Scott of Pasadena. He sat for his picture and soon had his badge marked for top-secret clearance. He pinned it on his jacket, put the ID card in his wallet, then returned to his car.
First the Executioner wanted to check out the gym. It might lead nowhere, but he had to see.
He looked at the information folder the guard had given him. The Naval Weapons Center covered about eighteen hundred square miles. More than five thousand civilians were employed there and some eight hundred military personnel. There was also a fully equipped military airfield, capable of accommodating any Navy or Air Force plane. And there was a variety of ranges: for aircraft and ground work, propulsion facilities and gunnery, combat and test. But the base had as its main function, research and development of new Navy weapons.
Bolan stared at the all-too-familiar characteristics of a military base and frowned. This was going to be harder than it had first looked.
7
Dr. Roth Ludlow sat in his office at the China Lake Naval Weapons Center and tried to relax. He had been tense all morning and he did not know why. Nothing was unusual. Work on the Skysweeper project was continuing on course. They were well into the testing phase and the results looked good so far, just as he had predicted. After all, this was his brainchild, his own private development. He had started the whole thing with a few logical progressions more than three years ago. Then he had spent two years proving his theory. He felt satisfied about the progress on Skysweeper.
Ludlow thought about his family. There were no problems that he was aware of. His son would be starting the sixth grade this fall. Already he was a whiz with a computer. Ludlow smiled. He hoped the boy would follow in his father's footsteps.
His ten-year-old daughter was intensely into ballet and was hoping for a part this fall in her school production of The Nutcracker.
His wife Beth was steady and true, his rock, especially at those bad times. Such a strong personality. So much intelligence and spunk in such a little package. Yes, everything was fine. He had made some good financial investments, so there were no money problems. He was thirty-seven years old, gainfully employed and had come within one vote of being nominated for a Nobel prize.
Sure, there were a few snarls at the center, but that was to be expected when fifty or sixty intelligent, sensitive human beings who just happened to be top physicists were all working on the same project. But he had learned how to untangle those snarls.
He was good at human relations, which is what he found himself involved in a lot these days in the waning life of the project.
Ludlow opened a small office refrigerator and took out a cold can of Coca-Cola. He pulled the metal ring on the top of the can and gulped down a couple of mouthfuls.
Drinking the Coke made him think of Vietnam. The first Coke that Russian had given him in Hanoi had tasted so good, he had almost become a turncoat right then. Nam. He thought about it as little as possible these days. It was gone, pushed into the background, but never totally out of his consciousness. And he imagined it lurked somewhere deep in his subconscious as well. Hell, he was no damn psychologist. He had to take things as they came. Right now his priority was to get Operation Skysweeper wrapped up and the hardware so damn perfect that it could go immediately into production. The sound distracted him...
Ludlow turned. Where was it coming from? Then he knew! From the fringe of banana trees just on the other side of the cook hut. Could be a whole damn company of Viet Cong hidden in the grass behind the banana grove.
"Down!" he whispered to the two men with him. "Hell, we haven't got this far to be caught and dragged back to Hanoi!"
The three officers' new green uniforms were now dull black with dirt and stains from five days of crawling through the jungle, wading across streams and trying to hide from the damn VC!
Ludlow motioned for them to stay down.
The chatter of automatic rifles from ahead sent chilling sweat along his spine.
"Keep down!" he shouted to the men. "Let's crawl to the left. Get behind those big trees, then we can run." They had just started to move when a thin Viet Cong woman with a Russian AK-47 automatic rifle in her hands stared down at them.
Ludlow surged up, screaming at the enemy. He charged into her, grabbed the rifle, reversed it and slammed the butt against her head. He heard a sickening crunch as bones broke and her head jolted sideways. In the few seconds he saw the terror on her face, the blood pouring from her nose and ear. Then he was on top of her, his boot crushing down on her crotch, his other foot grinding into her chest as he stepped on her. He was still holding the rifle, running as if his very life depended on it, because it did.
The three fugitives headed south, away from the firing, away from the Viet Cong. The trio charged to the top of a low hill that was so rocky it supported little growth. Now they could see around them.
Directly ahead on a narrow trail they spotted a couple of North Vietnamese regulars digging a hole. After a few minutes, Ludlow saw the enemy soldiers covering the excavation with half-inch-thick sharpened bamboo sticks, jamming one end into the earth, leaving the pointed end sticking straight up. Ludlow had heard of them — punji-stick traps. The top would be covered with straw and light brush to conceal the hole, then some unsuspecting victim would walk into it, fall and the punji sticks would spear into his feet, legs, maybe his torso as he fell.
Ludlow shook his head, still holding the rifle. He led his two companions around the trail and they walked on south, hoping to run into some friendly forces.
A five-man patrol came up on them from behind, and the North Vietnamese must have thought they were friendly because of the uniform. One man called out and when Ludlow turned, his finger was stroking the automatic rifle's trigger. He killed three of them with the first burst, and the other two before they could raise their weapons.
"Die, you sons of bitches!" Ludlow heard himself screaming, as he fired the rest of the rounds into the corpses. Sweat lathered his forehead and he was breathing fast. From far away he heard his name being called...
"Roth! Roth Ludlow, snap out of it!"
The command came faintly, then he heard it again. As he watched, the Vietnamese jungle wavered, the grinning faces of the dead VC soldiers came back strongly, then the image vanished and he blinked.
He was lying on his office floor behind his desk, holding a ruler and staring at the legs of the small couch next to the window. He shook his head and sat up.
Dr. Harry Peterson shook his shoulder again.
"Roth? Are you all right?"
Ludlow nodded. "Goddamn it! Again. How long was I out of it?"
"Maybe ten minutes. I heard your chair tip over and I came barging in, but you were already gone somewhere."
"Nam. Hell, they find out I'm out of my head they'll fire me."
Peterson laughed. "The way I see it the only person who could fire you is the President. Don't worry about that. We talked once about trying to figure out what triggered these mind flashes. What were you thinking about just before it happened this time?"
"Hell, I don't know. I was a little nervous, uptight about something. That's no excuse. DSS. Delayed Stress Syndrome, that's what the shrinks call it. If I wig out that way on some important test I could blow the whole thing."
Peterson shook his head. "I don't think so, Roth. We have every spot covered twice. Backup. You don't even have to be along on the tests, so it's no problem."
"Who else knows?"
"Your secretary Kara, me and two others. They all are loya
l and reliable. Don't worry about that. The project is moving along nicely. The two tests are all set for this week, including the coordination with Vandenberg Air Base."
Roth Ludlow had been sitting on the floor, trying to get his mind and his body working together again. Now he got up and sat in his chair. It would take an hour or more to get back to normal. It always did.
"Perhaps you should take it easy for the rest of the day," Dr. Peterson suggested as he closed the door after him. Ludlow shook his head to clear it again. He shivered and knew he should lie down for a while. That always helped. But he was afraid he would go to sleep and miss a phone call or an appointment.
Busy, stay busy. He looked at his desk and saw the note about talking to his son's science class. He would give them the basics on laser technology. The material was in every textbook, but they liked it better coming from him, a famous scientist.
Quickly he made new notes on some three-by-five cards. It had been a long time since he talked to a class. He decided to practice his little speech:
"A laser is a device that converts incident electromagnetic radiation of mixed frequencies to one of more discrete frequencies of highly simplified and coherent radiation. There are several different types of lasers, but we'll only deal with the carbon dioxide kind, which has proved to be the most useful in military applications."
At this point Dr. Ludlow stopped and made a mental note to keep his explanation of lasers fairly simple to avoid any confusion in the students' minds.
"Now the laser travels at the speed of light, so there is no problem with lead time or target distance. A parking orbit for earth satellites is twenty-two-thousand miles above earth. So in a fraction of a second a laser could go from satellite to earth, or from satellite to incoming missiles fired from anywhere on earth.
"Since aiming and distance are not the basic problems, why has it taken us so long to utilize the laser as a weapon? The problems have been size, intensity, and of course the big one, the tendency of the laser beam to disperse over long distances. It starts out like buckshot from a shotgun. Without a tight choke on the shotgun, the buckshot scatters at a predictable rate. The laser beam does the same thing. The idea is to keep that beam within a four-inch radius after it has traveled a thousand miles, rather than have it spread over a hundred-yard radius. With the dispersion, power is lost, and without the power our laser beam can't be called a death ray.
"Power is another continuing problem. We must find some way to increase the power of the laser beam. If the laser is to be in a jet fighter, the power source can't be the size of this school building. If the power source is to be on an orbiting satellite, the source must be small, lightweight, compact and tremendously powerful."
Dr. Ludlow nodded. Yes, that should be enough of an introduction. Then he would field questions from the kids.
He was feeling better. He looked at the drawing on the wall. It was an earth view, with twenty-five satellites in parking orbit circling the United States. Each of them contained its own power source and a Ludlow Beam, a killer laser weapon that could fire up to one hundred shots per second from a single platform. They were radar activated, computer controlled and computer fired, each shot locking onto a missile or other selected target. All one hundred shots could be aimed at a single missile, or they could be aimed at one hundred different missiles in the blink of an eye.
He smiled. Once the Ludlow Beam was perfected, the rest of the radar and computer hardware could be ready in a few months. That technology was ready, the satellite know-how was there. All they were waiting for was a practical, working Ludlow Beam that could do the job.
In a secret session, the Senate Armed Forces committee had already approved the mounting and placement of these "killer" satellites. They were waiting for Ludlow's program.
For just a moment a small room in Hanoi flashed before his eyes, and he saw the stern yet kindly face of Colonel Moskalenko, reminding him of something. Ludlow laughed, took a pull on his Coke. He had not thought of the Russian psychologist in years. Strange that he should surface right now. It was probably the mind flash, another association. Ludlow had never been to a psychologist or psychiatrist about his mind flashes. He knew the shrinks would have a field day with him.
He stretched, felt the old energy flowing and looked at his list of Must Do Today items. Quickly he was on the intercom talking to his secretary. It was almost eleven, and he had his whole list to go through yet.
8
Bolan found Dibb Street and turned left to the big gymnasium. The office was just inside the front door. It was so early nothing was stirring yet. Inside the building it was cool, a little more pleasant than the simmering Mojave desert outside. A head popped out from a cubicle as Bolan closed the office door.
"Yes, sir? What can I do for you?"
"Parnelli?"
"Right, sir."
Parnelli was wearing faded blues, apparently not a man to stand on ceremony or uniforms.
Bolan pegged him as Navy. The man was stilt thin and sported a short haircut. He looked like a jock.
"What's the setup on volleyball this time of year? Any teams, leagues?"
"No, sir. Volleyball starts in a couple of months. Lots of room in handball and racquetball, though."
"Damn! I'm misfiring again. Sammy Smith said this was the time to sign up."
"Sammy Smith?"
"Yeah. Know him?"
"Know almost everybody at the center."
"That's what Sammy told me. Said you were a good man to know."
"We try. Tell Sammy he still has to sign up, no crashing the schedule." He paused. "You seen Smith this morning? He was supposed to call me."
"Not today. Talked to him yesterday." Bolan stared at the jock. "I don't understand, Parnelli. You have anything for me? A package, an envelope?"
Parnelli frowned. "Man, I don't know what you're talking about. Did I miss something here? I run the gym, that's all."
Bolan grabbed Parnelli's shirtfront and lifted him up on his toes.
"Look, you skinny son of a bitch! I didn't come all the way out to this bake oven just to be jacked around. You get on the phone to Smith and get it straightened out, or Smith's little apparatus is going to be short one man, you!"
Parnelli lost his bravado. He shivered and held up both hands, palms out.
"Okay, okay! Get your hands off me. I'll call. But Sammy never sends nobody without him calling first."
Bolan let go of him and Parnelli picked up the phone. There was no answer.
"Keep trying. Where can I get a drink?"
"This time of day, back in town."
Bolan turned and left a confused Parnelli glaring after him. Parnelli shook his head and dialed the number again, but got no answer.
Half a mile back down Inyokern Street, Bolan drove out the front gate and found a phone booth.
He called one of the numbers that had not answered earlier. Someone picked it up.
"Good morning! What a fine day! This is the Book Rack."
"I'm looking for a book." Bolan gave the name of a popular bestseller.
"Yes, I have it. How many do you need?"
"One will be fine. Where is your store?" Bolan got the address in Ridgecrest and said he would be over shortly. He used the directory in the booth to look up the address for Louis's Pool Room, memorized it and headed down China Lake Boulevard and Highway 178 in the town of Ridgecrest. Bolan estimated there were about 20,000 residents in the town. The poolroom squatted between two three-story buildings and an Open sign hung in the window. He parked and pushed in through the door. The twin odors of stale beer and sweat hit him along with the blast of air-conditioning. At first he was not sure the lights were on, then he saw a green cloth with a directional shade on a bright light and two men moving around the table.
No one else was in the place. Neither man looked up as Bolan walked over and leaned on the next table, watching the action. The bigger guy with no shirt and a belly flopping over his belt was lining up a shot. The
other man was smaller, dressed neatly in a three-piece suit and light blue shirt. Bolan approached the players.
"Louis?" Bolan's parade-ground voice cut across the tension in the room and both men put their cues down and looked up, surprise and a touch of respect in their attitude.
"That's me," the slob said.
"You need to talk to me."
"I need... Buddy, I'm in the middle of a game." He turned away.
"We talk, now!" Bolan said, his voice softer than before, but penetrating.
The well-dressed man held his cue in both hands and came toward the Executioner.
"Sir, I don't think you understand. Louis said he was in a game and as soon as he's finished he'll talk with you."
Bolan grabbed him by both shoulders, lifted him and sat him on the table. Pool balls scattered.
The heavyset player put his cue down and nodded.
"Hell, why not? Sure, I got nothing better to do. In my office?" He looked at the man on the table. "We'll play it again tomorrow, fresh start."
The dapper man got off the table, picked up an expensive attaché case from a covered table and went out the front door.
"This better be good," Louis said.
"Tell me what the hell happened to Smith. He doesn't answer his phone and when I had a man check, his wall safe had been cleaned out. That could be dangerous for your health, Louis."
"Look, mister, I'm not involved. So you have a meeting here now and then, so what? And I don't know who the hell you are."
"Not important. When did you last talk to Smith?"
"Yesterday morning. He called from work."
"Was he worried, nervous?"
"Hell no."
"Then I think somebody's taken him out."
"Who?"
"Maybe you could tell me."
"Me? He liked to shoot pool. We played a game now and then for fifty bucks. No big deal. He had a couple of meetings here with three or four people. I never saw them, came in the back way, left that same way. I don't know what he was into. Drugs?"
Skysweeper Page 5