They glided swiftly through the gloom, like water moccasins in a Georgia bayou, slipping through the shattered display window in pairs and quickly fading into the shadows. The first six men to enter froze in position, muzzles extended and sweeping back and forth, their eyes straining to pierce the blackness.
Then suddenly a five-gallon can of paint thinner with a burning cloth wick in its spout sailed between them and fell on the sidewalk, exploding in a maelstrom of blue and orange flame. In unison, Pitt and Giordino opened up as Sandecker hurled another can of the volatile fluid.
Pitt worked the Colts in both hands, pointing but not taking careful aim. He laid down a barrage that dropped the three men who were crouched to the right of the window almost before they realized they'd been hit. One of them had time to let off a short burst that smashed into a row of paint cans, leaving colored spurts of enamel gushing onto the shambles of merchandise broken and trashed on the floor.
Giordino blew the first man on the left back through the window and half into the street. The other two were only shadows in the darkness, but he blasted away at them until one Remington went empty. Then he dropped it and picked up another he'd preloaded and fired again and again until all return fire had ceased.
Pitt reloaded his cartridge clips by feel as he stared through the flame and smoke that swirled around the front of the store. The killers in the black ninja outfits had vanished completely, frantically seeking cover or lying in the gutter behind the thankful protection of a high curb. But they hadn't run away. They were still out there, still as dangerous as ever. Pitt knew they were stunned but mad as hornets now.
They would regroup and come again, but more shrewdly, more cautiously. And next time they could see-- the interior of the hardware store was brightly illuminated by the flames that had attacked the wooden storefront. The entire building and the men in it were only minutes away from becoming ashes.
"Admiral?" Pitt shouted.
"Over here," answered Sandecker. "In the paint department."
"We've overstayed our visit. Can you find a back door while Al and I hold the fort?"
"On my way."
"You okay, pal?"
Giordino waved a Remington. "No new holes."
"Time to go. We still have a plane to catch."
"I hear you."
Pitt took a final look at the huddled corpses of strangers he had killed. He reached down and pulled off the hood from one of the dead. Under the light of the flames he could see a face with Asian features.
A rage began to seethe within him. The name Hideki Suma flooded his mind. A man he'd never met, had no idea of what he looked like. But the thought that Suma represented slime and evil was enough to prevent Pitt from feeling any remorse for the men he'd killed. There was a calculated determination in him that the man responsible for the death and chaos must also die.
"Through the lumber section," Sandecker suddenly shouted. "There's a door leading to the loading dock."
Pitt grabbed Giordino by the arm and pushed his friend ahead of him. "You first. I'll cover."
Clutching one of the Remingtons, Giordino slipped between the shelves and was gone. Pitt turned and opened up one last time with the Colts, squeezing the triggers so hard and fast they fired off like machine guns. And then the automatics were empty, dead in his hands. He quickly decided to keep them and pay later. He stuffed them in his belt and ran for the door.
He almost made it.
The team leader of the assassins, more cautious than ever after losing six men, threw a pair of stun grenades in the now blazing store, followed by a sleet of gunfire that sent lead splattering all around Pitt.
Then the grenades went off in a crushing detonation that tore the ravaged heart out of what was left of Oscar Brown's Hardware Emporium. The shock waves brought down the roof in a shower of sparks as the thunderous roar rattled every window in Phelps Point before rumbling out into the countryside. All that remained was a fiery caldron in the shell left by the still-standing brick walls.
The blast caught Pitt from behind and flung him through the rear door, over the loading dock, and into an alley behind the store. He landed on his back, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He was lying there gasping, trying to regain his breath, when Giordino and Sandecker hoisted him to his feet and helped him stagger through the backyard of an adjoining house into the temporary safety of a park bandstand across the next street.
The security alarm had gone dead when the electrical wires burned, and now they could hear sirens approaching as the sheriff and the volunteer fire department raced toward the flames.
Giordino had a talent for getting in the last word, and he rose to the occasion as the three of them lay there under the roof of the bandstand, exhausted, bruised, and just plain thankful to be alive.
"Do you suppose," he wondered dryly, staring absently at the fire lighting the dawn sky, "it was something we said?"
<<41>>
It was a Saturday night and the strip in Las Vegas was alive with cars crawling along the boulevard, their paint gleaming under the brilliant lighting effects. Like elegant old hookers blossoming after dark under expensive, sparkling jewelry, the aging hotels along Las Vegas Boulevard hid their dull exteriors and brutally austere architecture behind an electrical aurora borealis of blazing light that advertised more flash for the cash.
Somewhere along the line the style and sophistication had been lost. The exotic glitter and brothel-copied decor inside the casinos seemed as dull and indifferent as the croupiers at the gambling tables. Even the customers, women and men who once dressed fashionably to attend dinner-show spectaculars, now arrived in shorts, shirt-sleeves, and polyester pantsuits.
Stacy leaned her head back against the seat of the Avanti convertible and gazed up at the big marquees that promoted the hotel shows. Her blond hair streamed in the breeze blowing off the desert, and her eyes glinted beneath the onslaught of flashing lights. She wished she could have relaxed and enjoyed the stay as a tourist, but it was strictly business as she and Weatherhill acted out their instructed role of affluent honeymooners.
"How much do we have for gambling?" she asked.
"Two thousand dollars of the taxpayers' money," Weatherhill replied as he dodged the heavy traffic.
She laughed. "That should keep me going on the slot machines for a few hours."
"Women and the slots," he mused. "It must have something to do with grabbing a lever."
"Then how do you explain men's fascination with craps?"
Stacy wondered how Pitt might have replied. Acidly and chauvinistically, she bet. But Weatherhill had no comeback. Wit was not one of his strong points. On the drive across the desert from Los Angeles he had bored her almost comatose with unending lectures on the possibilities of nuclear space flight.
After Weatherhill had escaped from the truck that hauled the bomb cars, he and Stacy were ordered by Jordan to return to Los Angeles. Another team of surveillance experts had taken over and followed the car transporter to Las Vegas and the Pacific Paradise Hotel, where they reported it had departed empty after depositing the cars in a secure vault in an underground parking area.
Jordan and Kern then created an operation for Stacy and Weatherhill to steal an airconditioning compressor containing a bomb for study, a feat that was deemed too risky during the breakin on the road. They also needed time to construct a replica replacement from the dimensions recorded by Weatherhill.
"There's the hotel," he finally said, nodding up the boulevard to a giant sign festooned with neon palm trees and flashing dolphins that soared around the borders. The main attraction featured on the marquee promoted the greatest water show on earth. Another sign stretched across the roof of the main building, blinking in glowing pink, blue, and green letters and identifying the huge complex as the Pacific Paradise.
The hotel was constructed of concrete painted light blue with round porthole windows on the rooms.
The architect should have been flogged with his T-square for de
signing such a tacky edifice, Stacy thought.
Weatherhill turned in the main entrance and drove past a vast swimming pool landscaped like a tropical jungle with a multitude of slides and waterfalls that ran around the entire hotel and parking lot.
Stacy gazed at the monstrosity of a hotel. "Is there anything Hideki Suma doesn't own?"
"The Pacific Paradise is only one of ten resort hotels around the world he's got his hands in."
"I wonder what the Nevada Gaming Commission would say if they knew there were four nuclear bombs under the casino."
"They'd probably care less," said Weatherhill. "So long as his dealers aren't mechanics."
"Mechanics?"
"Cheats for the house."
He pulled the Avanti to a stop at the main entrance and tipped the doorman, who removed their luggage from the trunk. An attendant parked the car, and they registered at the front desk, Stacy looking starry-eyed and smiling demurely in an attempt to seem like a new bride, an event she had trouble remembering in her own past.
In their room, Weatherhill tipped the bellman and closed the door. He immediately opened a suitcase and removed a set of blueprints of the hotel and spread them on the bed.
"They've sealed the cars inside a large vault in a third-level basement," he said.
Stacy studied the sheet showing the plan of the entire lower basement and a report from one of the surveillance team. " `Double reinforced concrete with a steel overlay,' " she read aloud. " Òne large steel door that raises into the ceiling. Security cameras and three guards with two Dobermans.' We won't be breaking in from the front. Easy enough to beat the electronic systems, but the human factor and the dogs make it tough for just the two of us."
Weatherhill tapped a section of the blueprint. "We'll go in through the ventilator."
"Lucky for us it has one."
"A requirement in the construction code. Without ventilation to prevent expansion and contraction of the concrete, cracks could form and affect the foundation of the hotel."
"Where does the vent originate?"
"The roof."
"Too far for our gear."
"We can make entry from a utility room on the second underground parking level."
"Want me to go in?"
Weatherhill shook his head. "You're smaller, but nuclear devices fall in my department. I'll make the entry while you handle the lines."
She examined the dimensions on the ventilator duct. "It's going to be a tight fit. I hope you're not claustrophobic."
Carrying tote bags and rackets and dressed in white tennis togs, Weatherhill and Stacy passed unobtrusively as a couple going to play on the hotel courts. After waiting for an elevator free of people, they rode it down to the second-level parking garage, where Weatherhill slipped the lock on the door to the utility room in less than five seconds.
The small interior was laced with steam and water pipes and digital-dialed instruments that monitored temperatures and humidity. A row of cabinets held push brooms, cleaning supplies, and jumper cables for stalled cars in the parking area.
Stacy quickly unzipped their tote bags and laid out a variety of equipment as Weatherhill donned a nylon one-piece suit. He clipped on a Delta belt and body harness, attaching it around his waist.
Stacy then assembled a spring-powered piston tube with a wide-diameter barrel oddly called a
"beanbag gun." Then she attached it to a "hedgehog," a strange object that was covered by round ball bearing-like wheels with a pulley in its center. Next she uncoiled three lengths of thin nylon line and connected them to the hedgehog and beanbag gun.
Weatherhill consulted the blueprint showing the ventilating system for the final time. A large vertical shaft falling from the roof joined smaller ducts that ran horizontally between the ceilings and floors of the parking areas. The duct running to the vault that held the bomb cars ran between the floor beneath their feet and the ceiling of the basement below.
He took a small battery-operated electric saw and began cutting a large hole in the thin sheetmetal wall. Three minutes later he set aside the cover, took out a tiny flashlight, and beamed it inside the duct.
"It drops about a meter before branching out toward the vault," he said.
"Then how far?" Stacy asked.
"According to the blueprint, about ten meters."
"Can you get through the elbow where the duct curves from vertical to horizontal?"
"Only if I hold my breath," he replied with a slight grin.
"Radio check," she said, setting a miniature microphone and receiver over her head.
He turned and whispered into a tiny transmitter on his wrist. "Testing, testing. Am I coming through?"
"Clear as crystal, and me?"
"Good."
Stacy gave him a reassuring hug and then leaned into the ventilator and pulled the trigger on the beanbag gun. The springloaded piston shot the hedgehog into the darkness, where its momentum and roller bearing wheels took it smoothly around the bend. They could hear it sailing through the duct for a few seconds, dragging the three nylon lines behind it, before there was an audible clink, signaling that it had stopped on impact with the filter screen set in the vault's wall. Then Stacy pulled another trigger, and twin rods shot out of the hedgehog against the sides of the duct and jammed it solidly in place.
"I hope you've been working out at the gym," said Weatherhill as he slipped the rope through the clips in his harness. "Because your little old muscles will be taxed tonight."
She smiled and pointed to a pulley she'd already attached to one line and a water pipe. "It's all in the leverage," she said slyly.
Weatherhill clamped the small but powerful flashlight around one wrist. He bent down and took what looked like an exact replica of an airconditioning compressor out of his tote bag. He had constructed it to replace the one he was about to steal. Then he nodded. "Might as well get going."
He leaned into the vertical shaft and slowly dropped down headfirst, extending the dummy compressor beyond his head as Stacy took up the strain on one line. There was plenty of room here, but when he came to the elbow into the horizontal duct, he had to contort his body like a snake and squeeze through.
He entered on his back in order to bend his body around the narrow curve. And then he was in.
"Okay, Stacy, pull away," he spoke into his wrist radio.
"How's the fit?"
"Let's just say I can hardly breathe."
She pulled on a pair of gloves and began to heave on one of the nylon ropes that wound around the pulley on the hedgehog and attached to Weatherhill's harness, pulling him through the narrow confines of the ventilation duct.
He could do little to help her, except exhale when he felt her tug on the rope. He began to sweat inside the nylon suit. There was no airconditioning running through the ventilator, and the outside atmosphere that wafted down from the opening on the hotel roof was hot and stifling.
Stacy wasn't enjoying mild temperatures either. The steam pipes that ran through the utility room kept the heat and humidity close to that of a steam bath.
"I can see the hedgehog and ventilator screen," he reported after eight minutes.
Another five meters and he was there. The blueprints had not shown any TV cameras in the vault, but he peered into the darkened interior for signs of them. He also removed a small sensor from a sleeve pocket and checked for laser or heat-seeking scanners. His inspection thankfully came up dry.
He smiled to himself. The elaborate defense and alarm measures were all on the outside of the vault, a flaw that was common in many security systems.
He twisted off the screws, tied a small string to the screen and lowered it to the floor quietly. He slipped the lever that released the hedgehog anchor prongs and lowered it into the vault along with the bogus compressor. Then he slowly descended headfirst until he finally rolled onto the concrete floor.
"I'm inside," he told Stacy.
"I read you."
He shined the light around the
vault. The bomb cars seemed doubly menacing, sitting ominously in musty blackness and surrounded by thick concrete walls. The awesome destruction in such a cloistered area was difficult to imagine.
Weatherhill came to his feet and detached his harness. He moved around the nearest bomb car and laid out a small packet of tools that had been tied around one leg and spread it on one fender. The replica compressor he set on the floor. Then without bothering to glance inside the car, he reached in and pulled the hood lever.
He stared at the actual bomb unit for a moment, sizing it up. It was designed to explode from a coded radio signal. That much he knew. Activating the detonation mechanism by a sudden movement was doubtful. Suma's nuclear scientists would have built a bomb that could absorb the shock from an automobile driven at high speeds over rough roads. But he wasn't about to take chances, especially since the cause behind the blast on the Divine Star was still unknown.
Weatherhill brushed all dire thoughts from his mind and set to work removing the pressure hoses from the compressor. As he'd discovered earlier, the electrical leads to the evaporator coils that acted as an antenna were quite elementary. The electronics were exactly as he would have designed them himself. He delicately spliced off the leads and reconnected them to the fake compressor without breaking their circuits. He could now take his time to remove the bolts on the compressor's mounting brackets.
"Bomb safely out of the car," he reported. "Will now make the switch."
Six more minutes and the fake compressor was in place and connected.
"Coming out."
"Standing by to retrieve you," Stacy answered.
Weatherhill stepped back to the ventilator opening and snapped on his harness. Suddenly he noticed something he'd missed in the darkness of the vault.
Something was sitting in the front seat of the car.
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