The man she knew as Mack Scott drove up to her and she slipped into the vehicle's passenger side. Bolan floored the gas pedal, hustling them way from there.
"Did you know the guy in the blue Chevy?" Bolan asked.
She shook her head. "I've seen him around Smith's house, but no name. He might have been an enforcer, a part-timer I think."
"You ever hear the name Kara Ralston?" Malia shook her head. "What about Joe Vishnevetsky?"
"Yes, he runs a bookstore. Short little man with a bald head."
"He's involved somehow. What about Louis's Pool Room?"
"Sammy used to go down there one or two nights a week, to shoot pool, he told me."
"He never took you along?"
"No."
"Good. You filed all of your data on Smith with Washington?"
"Yes, the usual way."
He took the roll of bills from his pocket. The stack was an inch thick. The rest of the $30,000 was in his weapons suitcase in the Ford's trunk.
"Here's a thousand dollars. It was Smith's mad money. We'll find you a private motel in the area, and we go in under Mr. and Mrs. names. Don't poke your head out of the room or open the door unless it's food, the maid or me."
"I should report in."
"Try it and you'll report in dead."
It took them a half hour to find a motel, and he checked in for both of them under a fake name and drove around to their room. He had requested the second floor and had paid for a week.
They climbed the steps and went into the room. She sat on the bed, then stood up nervously.
Bolan noticed her discomfort.
"You stay here. I'll call you two or three times a day."
"I don't know why I'm trusting you this way. You never did show me any identification."
"Trust me. I think you'll be safe. I've got a house call to make."
"But what.?.."
"You've done your part. Now it's my turn to see if we can mop up this little nest of KGB agents and slime before they get out of hand." His voice softened. "Malia, if that's your name, you are one hell of a woman. Now, lock the door after I leave. You'll be hearing from me."
Bolan left the room and heard the lock click behind him. No one was around. Good. He got in the rented Ford and drove back into the center of Ridgecrest. First he'd visit Dr. Peterson, then out to Windward Street. He wanted another look at that high-security safehouse.
10
Bolan made sure no one was following him. He watched for pairs of cars alternating, or any cars that followed him for three blocks or more. There were none.
As he drove toward Dr. Peterson's house he began thinking about this current mission, about the path he had chosen for his life. No, the path, blazed out of hellfire, that had chosen him.
Too often the media's fake tears and agonizing over the criminal dead had been totally one-sided, on the wrong side. In his war against the Mafia, Bolan had opened a lot of eyes to the truth. He had exposed the scum for what they really were — mindless killers.
His antiterrorist wars had been much easier in that respect. There was no good press for terrorists. The world understood, and frighteningly so, their nefarious acts, fired though they were by political idealism.
And now Bolan was on his own again. There was almost no bad press so far, and he was grateful for that. It was one less problem he had to think about.
Sure, he charged into the KGB with his eyes wide open and a raw wound in his heart. Selfish? Yes, in a tremendously personal way. He was striking back at the bastards who cut down April Rose. Until his vengeance was sated, he would continue to hound the Soviet terror machine, which was motivated by visions of world domination.
Mack Bolan nodded grimly. He was on the right side, doing what he had to do, and he would carry on the good fight until he died. He hoped when that time came, enough people would have been alerted, and motivated, to take a page from the Executioner's life and follow his example.
Bolan lifted his brows with renewed determination to continue the fight.
He made one more turn, then drove past Dr. Peterson's house and parked down the block, walked back and entered through the side door.
Dr. Peterson was already home. He was excited as he greeted Bolan.
"Good news, Mack. They have moved up our next flight test. We go tomorrow. Somebody said it was to try to make a big publicity splash when the President is here. He's flying in tomorrow morning on Air Force One.''
"What kind of a test is it?"
"In-flight. We'll be going after a Sidewinder missile in an air-to-air hit from about two hundred miles. Actually we'll be setting it up for a forty-five-degree, same-altitude shot from the rear — a catch-up, and it will be over the ocean. The area will be swept first with radar for any surface ships or aircraft. None of our other tests have been at this range or this degree of difficulty. A hell of a lot rides on this one."
"Smith's boys will try to stop you."
"That may be one of the reasons for moving up the schedule. Ludlow is trying to do everything he can to make it work."
"Is it an experiment, or do you know you can make a hit?"
"Shouldn't be any problem, just a longer range to check on our beam-dispersant problem."
"Can you get me aboard the laser plane?"
"Yes. You have clearance with that badge. But why do you want to come along?"
"I've got a gut feeling I should be there. Are all of the men on the test crew checked out by base security for top secret?"
"Ten times over. We even have a continuing check every three months of our twenty key test people — habits, debts, any gambling, spending lots of money, that sort of thing. If there's a ringer in there, I don't know about it. Smith never had me dig into anything about my own people, or ask me to put in one of his people."
"So your personnel checks out. I still want to be along. If the test is going to be sabotaged, it has to be done on the plane."
"True, they would have to have someone in the crew. Hell, I can get you aboard. I have a four-man supernumerary. I can change personnel for any reason, at any time. Of course, I keep them in qualified positions. I can put you in the supernumerary and shift you in at the last minute on a non-tech spot."
"What do you know about Kara Ralston? I think she's involved with the Smith bunch."
"Kara?"
"I talked to her this afternoon. Remember that list of phone numbers I found in the safe. One of them was her private number at the base. She probably screens all incoming calls to Dr. Ludlow. That's why you didn't recognize her own number."
"Good heavens! I better call Roth right now."
"No. Let her stay there for a few days. We mustn't let her be aware of our suspicions. Just be sure anything sensitive doesn't go through her."
"That will be tough."
"You have to do it. Now, how do I get on board that plane tomorrow?"
"Your badge is clearance enough, since I have to approve everyone. We'll simply use the supernumerary gambit and nobody will think a thing about it. I shake up the team this way every so often. No problem. We've got one guy who is about your height, standby radioman. Nothing to do unless the head radio mouth has a heart attack or gets shot. You could watch everyone. I'll tell him just before I post the crew for the test."
"We have to get through the gate."
"You'll ride with me."
"Good. Now, the test tomorrow. Tell me exactly what we do. If there is another plane that fires the Sidewinder, where we'll be, how the whole thing is set up."
Dr. Peterson briefly explained to Bolan the purpose of the shot, roughly how it would be done and what he would need to know.
"I've been working with lasers since early in 1960, and I've helped develop them. The laser can be used in thousands of ways, but the one I'm most interested in is this antimissile work.
"We've got all the components. Now, it's just a matter of putting them all together. Right now we rely on the BMEWS, the Ballistic Missile Early Warning Sy
stem, of radar stations to give the warning about incoming missiles fired by Russia."
Bolan had never been involved in this end of defense and he listened as the scientist laid out the whole plan.
"The new plan goes around the EWS, utilizing high-powered microwave tracking radar to pick up the first firing of any missiles, lock on to them and give a continuous and rough position of the incoming.
"The tracking radar is supplemented by an optical radar that uses a laser to establish the range down to an inch or so. The optical radar gives the range, elevation and horizontal bearing to a sophisticated computer. All of this equipment is automatic, working through the satellite in parking orbit over the U.S. in a defensive position.
"The computer assigns the best-located laser to fire at the missile at the first opportunity and destroy it in a number of different ways." Then Dr. Peterson got into more complicated aspects of the whole laser picture.
After the scientist finished his explanation, Bolan stood and stretched. He had grasped the fundamentals about what the laser was supposed to do. Tomorrow he would see it in action. He had the test procedure down as much as he could without walking through it. He knew enough about it so nobody could fault him for taking up space in the plane.
"What time is takeoff in the morning?"
"Time of departure from Armitage Field is 0530. I'm going to try to get some sleep. The sharper the better tomorrow."
"When is the President going to arrive?"
"We're not supposed to know but I hear it is about 0700. We're scheduled to shoot about fifteen minutes before then."
"Unless we have a hold." Bolan stood and pushed the silenced Beretta 93-R into his shoulder leather. "I'm going for a ride to view your desert night sky."
"And to do what else?" Peterson asked.
"A house I need to check out on Windward Street. It's tied in somehow. I won't be gone long."
Ten minutes later, Bolan was crouching behind a line of shrubs in the yard of the dark house beside his target. There were no lights on inside the residence behind the chain link fence. He could hear the foot pads of the Doberman guard dogs circling the barrier.
The first test was a soft whistle and then an underhand toss as he threw a half pound of hamburger meat over the fence. A moment later the friendly snarls came as the two dogs shared the unexpected meal. They were not well-trained guard dogs or they would have taken food only from their handler.
Bolan took a quarter-inch-thick steel bar and threw it at the fence. The bar struck the wire, shorted out, and a flash jolted through the darkness. The rod stuck in the fence caused a continuous blue arcing of electricity. Somewhere a bell rang, and at once lights snapped on illuminating the fence and a twenty-foot radius ahead of the Executioner.
The dogs shrank back from the parking fence, licking their chops. For two minutes the lights stayed on, and Bolan guessed the area was covered by hidden video cameras. Somewhere a monitor would show that no human was trying to get inside the compound.
The lights snapped off. Bolan had found out what he wanted: the dogs were for real but could be bribed with hamburger meat, which could be laced with knockout drops; and the fence was highly electrified, probably at night.
He drove back to Peterson's house and called Malia. She picked up the phone on the first ring.
Her voice sounded unusual over the phone.
"Malia?"
"Yes, me, in person in prison. When do I get my parole?"
Bolan ignored Malia's attempt at humor although he understood her plight.
"I'll be gone during the morning tomorrow, but I'll try to stop by later in the day."
"I feel so helpless sitting here, doing nothing. I was trained to do this work, and here I am cowering in the corner."
"That's much better than being stuffed in a cardboard box and sent through a garbage grinder."
"Ugh! Colorful but true. Thanks for reminding me. Isn't there something I can do?"
"Yes, stay out of sight, out of trouble and catch up on your sleep."
"Yes, sir." She paused. "Mack, am I doing the right thing?"
"Yes, you are. You'll probably have to testify if any of these jokers live to stand trial."
"Oh. I hadn't thought that far. Thanks. Goodnight, Mack."
"See you tomorrow, Malia."
* * *
The KC-135 with Air Force markings waited on the runway at the Naval Weapons Center's Armitage airfield when Bolan and Dr. Peterson drove up the next morning. The plane was a workhorse for the Air Force. It served as a flying filling station, as a transport and as a platform for various experiments and tests such as this. The aircraft was designed and developed by Boeing as a prototype for the Air Force, and also for the generation of civilian 707 jet transports that served airlines for fifteen years.
There had been no problem at the gate, and out here Dr. Peterson was in total command. He was the field general, and Dr. Ludlow sat back at the command center tracking the results.
The KC-135 looked little different from others Bolan had seen, with the exception of large Plexiglas panels on each side amidships, just back of the wings. The panels were four feet square and had a strange-looking device that stuck out six inches through the glass. It was a sliding panel that allowed the gun to be moved, only with no exposed open air.
Most of the device was encased in a large rotating cover that looked like stainless steel but was undoubtedly something much stronger.
Dr. Peterson took Bolan to the radio shack and showed him the basic operation. Then the scientist introduced Bolan to the operator when he came, indicating the regular man was being replaced and Mack Scott was standing in for him.
As he waited the Executioner surveyed the big plane's interior. It was jammed with equipment, including a high-powered generator near the back that already was humming, powered by a diesel engine with exterior exhaust. There were bolted-down swivel chairs in front of a bank of CRT screens along one side of the plane, and a row of bucket seats along the other. Most of the space was filled with instruments, large black boxes that had been made to be removed, though they had been in place for a long time.
The Plexiglas panels on each side were closed and locked as the rest of the operational personnel came on board. Dr. Peterson checked each man, talked with him a moment and sent him to his station. Eight men were involved. One had a set of target screens in video, and a corresponding set in radar. Chase planes around the target would send video pictures of the chase, the flight of the missile and the hoped-for hit by the laser beam.
Two other men controlled the laser weapon itself. To Bolan it seemed remarkably small, the size of a .50-caliber machine gun, with a turret-type operation that would rotate 360 degrees so it could fire from either side of the KC-135. One of these operators would trigger the firing button.
Others in the team worked on readout screens and gauges that represented the power supply, peak output readiness, direction and distance. One screen showed target lock-on.
It was a team operation. All the technicians were civilians, and there was a spirit of togetherness that Bolan had not seen much of lately.
Dr. Peterson spoke on the loudspeaker.
"Good morning, everyone. The official time is now 0529 hours. We shall take off exactly on time. It is your operation, Captain Cranston."
Another voice came over the system. "That's a roger, Dr. Peterson. We are now on taxi to our assigned runway for check, then with our clearance we will be under way. Have a good shot."
For the next hour they cruised around the restricted air space over the Naval Weapons Center, as the rocket-launching fighter and the chase plane went through a dry run. The mother plane, three hundred miles away, watched on its radar and video screens.
At last Dr. Peterson was satisfied. It was just before 7:00 a.m.
"Let's do it this time," Dr. Peterson said to his own crew and the aircraft over the ocean. "This is a live test."
"Clear the ocean area, run the scans."
&n
bsp; "Clearing," a technician said.
"Captain Cranston, let's move into our firing location just off the coast from Lompoc and Point Conception. We'll use the test corridor one mile at sea, parallel to the coast. What is our ETA?"
"Twelve minutes and twenty seconds, Dr. Peterson."
"Make final checks on laser power, operation, begin firing-countdown procedures and continue to minus fifteen seconds where we will hold."
Bolan moved around the plane. He saw the snout of the unlikely-looking laser weapon aimed toward the right-hand side of the big plane. Wrong side, he thought. Then he realized it was the direction the plane was flying that would determine from which side the shot would come.
He settled down to watch the screens. Someone had a transistor radio playing and he heard that the presidential plane was due to land at Edwards Air Force Base near Lancaster, which was between China Lake and Los Angeles, in fifteen minutes.
Bolan watched the target video monitor. It showed the missile-firing F-14 Tomcat coasting along at 400 miles per hour in a large circle. The jet fighter was awaiting orders to fire its missile on a predesignated course west over the Pacific along a specific range that had been cleared of all shipping.
The converted Boeing Stratotanker reached the coast and turned south, its air speed reduced and the special Plexiglas screens unlocked so the laser gun could move into aiming position.
The huge aircraft was cruising at 22,000 feet in a reserved corridor. There would be no civilian airliner traffic at that altitude over those fifty square miles of sky, nor between them and the target two hundred miles at sea.
The man with the transistor passed the word that the President's destination had been changed. Air Force One was rerouted to land at LAX — Los Angeles International — instead of Edwards. There had been a nasty crash on the main runway closing that part of Edwards.
A new blip appeared on the in-plane radar. The operator motioned to Dr. Peterson.
"Looks like we have a plane well below us and slightly seaward," the operator said. "It could be Air Force One."
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