Fire Eaters Page 5

  "Thank you, sir. I'll be fine."

  The uniform stroked his mustache twice and shrugged. "Well, then, gentlemen, shall we proceed to…"

  "Major Forsythe!" A woman was running across the grass toward them. "Major Forsythe." She waved a manila folder like the ones attached to all their applications.

  The major twisted around to see who was calling him. Bolan noticed he was a little shaken when he saw her. Bolan didn't blame him.

  She was gorgeous. Her dark hair flew wildly as she ran, but the running itself seemed to cause her no strain, as if it were her natural means of movement. The long shapely legs sticking out from the striped shorts loped across the grass with easy grace. Hard, sinewy thigh muscles shifted under the surface of her smooth skin with each step. Her face was relaxed, the dark eyes sparking when the sun glanced off them. If the loose white sweatshirt was meant to hide her athletic shape, it failed miserably.

  She ran right up to Major Forsythe and held out the file folder to him. He just stared at her, not taking it. "Whew," she said, smiling. "Had some trouble convincing the front office to tell me where to find you."

  "Young lady," Major Forsythe said impatiently, "I am busy conducting a job interview here…"

  "Yes, sir. That's why I'm here. I'm applying for the position."

  Bolan smiled, watching Major Forsythe's mustache twitch crazily.

  "Young lady…"

  "Portland, sir. Denise Portland."

  "Portland! There's some mistake. We had a Dennis Portland apply." He snatched the folder from her hand and slapped it open. "Yes, here." He jabbed the paper with his finger. "Dennis Portland."

  "Really?" she asked. "Let me see." She stood a good two inches taller than the major's five feet nine, easily leaning over his shoulder to read her application form. "My, you're right. It does say Dennis. Sorry, sir, I must have made a typo. Dennis, Denise. Easy mistake. No harm done. I trust my credentials checked out or you wouldn't have asked me here for this final interview session?"

  "Well, yes, they checked out," Major Forsythe blustered. "But that's not the point. There's deception involved."

  "A typo, sir."

  Major Forsythe continued to stare at her application, obviously uncertain of how to proceed.

  Denise Portland unleashed a huge radiant smile. "Your job announcement did say you were an equal opportunity employer, didn't it?"

  Major Forsythe sighed in defeat. "Of course we are. Race, creed, sex. We don't discriminate here at Ridgemont." He clamped her folder under his arm with the others and marched crisply away. "Follow me."

  Denise Portland fell in beside him. "Excuse me, sir, but I was informed in your letter that there were only four final applicants. I count five of us."

  "Did we say four?" he asked sarcastically. "Well, we meant five."

  "That's okay." She smiled. "Must have been a typo."

  He gave her a sharp look and marched ahead of her. She fell back among the other applicants.

  Koontz was directly behind her, staring at her buttocks as she walked. He did an exaggerated double-take, fluttered his hand rapidly over his heart and winked at the other guys. Suddenly he quickened his pace and began walking next to her.

  "There were four," Koontz said, his eyes strafing her body. "The ugly guy back there weaseled in somehow under the wire." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Bolan.

  She turned around and looked at the Executioner. Despite her pleasant smile, Bolan felt her eyes take him in, study and categorize him. She faced forward again and kept walking.

  "You sure you know what this job is all about, sweetheart?" Koontz said with a leer.

  "Suppose you tell me," she said.

  "We're talking survival here. Out in the woods or jungle, living off the land. Using leaves for toilet paper, chewing the heads off rattlesnakes for food."

  She looked up at him, that big smile still intact. "If you're chewing the heads off rattlesnakes, then you probably don't belong here. The head still contains poison and ought to be cut off and buried before skinning the rest of the snake."

  "Unless, of course," Deems added in that slight drawl, "you want to save the poison to tip your arrows or spear."

  Denise Portland gave him a friendly nod. "You run the risk of accidentally poisoning yourself then, but in some circumstances, it might be useful."

  Koontz bared his teeth at Deems. "You shut your face, asshole. Me and the lady is talking."

  If Deems was worried, he didn't show it. He just shrugged and kept walking, his face calm and impassive.

  They strode in silence across the grassy acres of manicured lawn. A hundred yards to their left the Pacific Ocean gently lapped the narrow beach. A dozen cadets were swimming through the surf under the supervision of an instructor in a cap with the Ridgemont Academy crest on it. He looked up at Major Forsythe, who waved at him. Immediately the instructor blew his whistle and all the cadets swam for shore.

  When the dripping cadets had double-timed it back to the dorms, Major Forsythe marched the five applicants down to the beach.

  "Well, now, gentlemen…" he grimaced at Denise Portland"…and lady. Now that we have a little elbow room, let's see what kind of stuff you're made of."

  * * *

  "You're insane," Brognola had insisted.

  "Maybe. But that doesn't change anything."

  Brognola had made a tortured sound as if he were biting off the mouthpiece of his telephone. "I could've been a tax lawyer, you know. Instead I'm talking to an insane man with a death wish."

  "I've got a death wish all right," Bolan said. "But not my own."

  "Well, then quit acting like this. You saw how easily Noah South's goon found you at that motel. You keep hanging around that area and they'll find you again."

  "It wasn't one of his regular mechanics. This kid was strictly free-lance. Did you find anything on him?"

  "How? Cops didn't find any fingerprints. The explosives were homemade from chemicals you could find around the house."

  "That takes some expertise. Also, to find me so fast he must have tapped into a few restricted computers. That kind of skill is hard to keep secret, especially at his age."

  "Computer whiz kids are a dime a dozen, guy," Brognola said.

  "Not ones who kill. And believe me, this kid has killed before." Bolan wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. A huge yellow city bus roared by and Bolan's phone booth filled with sour fumes. "How's the little girl doing?"

  "Bout as well as the bulldog."

  "That's cold, Hal," Bolan said.

  "I'm feeling a bit cold right now. One little girl is dead, so's her mother. The other one's in a burn unit in some kind of sterilized pressure tube. She's only five goddamn years old, Mack. Five."

  Bolan didn't say anything. He knew Hal didn't expect him to. Sometimes the horror of it all, the waste of lives, the innocent victims, just got to them, broke through the steely exteriors they'd been forced to construct for themselves and touched some deep, rich wound inside of each of them. They found ways to comfort each other, to rationalize the deaths. And sometimes, there was only silence.

  "We'll get the guy who did it, Hal," Bolan said.

  "Maybe. But sometimes even that doesn't seem enough."

  Bolan grimaced. "Sometimes it isn't. But it's all we've got."

  When Brognola spoke again his voice was strained, but back to normal. It was one of the things that Bolan most respected about the big fed. He cared. "Okay, you want to go undercover at this Ridgemont Academy. How? Janitor, gardener, student?"

  "Student, huh?" Bolan chuckled. "Think I need some discipline?"

  "I can't think of anyone who needs it more. Or less."

  "I don't care what the job is. Whatever's open, or whatever opening you can create. I'll need a background to match the job."

  "No problem. If we have to, I got guys here who can prove you were once president of the United States."

  "Someday they may have to."

  "With you, I wou
ldn't be surprised. Anyway, you stay undercover for a couple of days until I can arrange everything. I suggest you keep away from Mrs. Danby. No use putting her life in any more jeopardy. Don't forget, that kid is still out there hunting you down."

  "I'll try to remember. Call you in a couple of days."

  Bolan had lain low for two days, moving around a lot, sleeping in all-night movie theaters, hiding out amid the crowds at the zoo during the day. When he called Brognola again, everything was arranged.

  "You're in luck, Professor Bolan," Hal had said. "I managed to get another school to make an unbeatable offer to Ridgemont's survival instructor. He's quit Ridgemont in the middle of the semester and they need a replacement pronto. You'll still have to compete against other candidates, but your application package will certainly be the best."

  "What's my name?"

  "Cummings. Philip Cummings."

  "Okay. Thanks, guy."

  "Sure. Only remember, Ridgemont Academy teaches the kids of a lot of senators, cabinet members, powerful business and military people, even movie stars. You get caught with your hand in the cookie jar and a lot of people are going to want to cut it off."

  "Some things never change," Bolan said. "Don't worry, I'll treat their little darlings as if they were my own. But first I've got to get the job."

  * * *

  "Everybody in the water!" Major Forsythe ordered.

  The five applicants looked at each other, then at the major, who tried to hide his smirk.

  "That's right," he said, "into the water. Now."

  Boorman started to unknot his tie and pull off his sport jacket.

  "With clothes on," Major Forsythe said. "I told you to take them off before. Now it's too late."

  Boorman seemed unperturbed by the admonishment. He shrugged his jacket back onto his broad shoulders and immediately ran into the surf and started swimming with smooth powerful strokes.

  Bolan jogged into the surf and dived over an incoming wave. The water was cold, numbing his legs. The swimming motion helped to warm his muscles. He looked over his shoulder and saw Denise Portland close behind him and the short wiry guy right behind her. Koontz was taking his time, wading out into the water first, looking at the four of them swimming, then looking at the major and laughing.

  "Kinda remind ya of squiggly little tadpoles, don't they?"

  The major didn't answer. He pulled out a chrome stopwatch and clicked the crown with his thumb. "When you hear my whistle," he shouted to everyone, "turn around and head back to shore."

  "Shit," Koontz said, "is that all?" He gave another laugh and dived into the water. Despite his late start, it took only a minute for him to pass Deems, Denise Portland and Bolan. He was only a few strokes behind Boorman, but he couldn't seem to gain any more on him.

  Bolan kept his pace steady, breathing only on every other stroke, spitting out the saltwater that occasionally splashed into his mouth.

  When Major Forsythe's whistle finally blew, they all immediately turned around. This reversed the order, but that was part of the test. How would those who had maintained the lead react to the sudden reversal? Would they try to regain the lead, or figure that their early lead would be decisive? The test was as much psychological as physical.

  Denise Portland's whole swimming style changed. She blasted ahead of Deems with just a few strokes. Her flutter kick churned water like a motorboat. Her slick and slender body surged through the water. Bolan realized that she'd been holding back. Now she was making her move.

  Bolan also passed the shorter man, as did Koontz and Boorman, the two hulks now swimming head to head. Water exploded from Koontz's sloppy but powerful strokes, while Boorman's hands sliced water as neatly as wooden oars.

  The gentle rolling waves urged them forward while the riptide pulled them backward. They all adjusted to the current by changing direction to a diagonal approach.

  Bolan was at Denise's heels. Boorman and Koontz were passing both of them. Koontz looked like a paddleboat going by; Boorman looked like a torpedo. But neither could pull ahead of the other.

  Suddenly Koontz disappeared. With an arching of his back he dived beneath the surface. Bolan watched Boorman's even strokes continue without hesitation; he was swimming alone now, heading for shore the easy winner.

  Then Boorman went under. Bolan caught only a glimpse as his head turned to gulp air, but in that moment he saw Boorman get sucked under as if swallowed whole. The water bubbled and arms and legs thrashed for a few seconds. Boorman's head popped up. He was alive, breathing hard, obviously dazed. He trod water to fight the dizziness.

  Fifteen feet ahead of him, Koontz surfaced and paddled toward the shore, a triumphant grin on his face.

  Bolan noticed that Denise Portland also saw what had happened. But she didn't break stride. She continued straight for the shore. Bolan broke off from the race and swam over to Boorman.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  Boorman's eyes were glassy. "Swallowed… water."

  "Relax," Bolan said. "I'll tow you in."

  He shook his head violently. "The job."

  "There'll be other jobs, friend. First order of survival is knowing when to accept help."

  Boorman nodded, turned onto his back and let Bolan grab a fistful of jacket and tug him toward shore.

  Deems swam up to them. "I can do that. You've still got a chance to at least beat her. Me, I was always the slowest one at the creek."

  "Grab a sleeve," Bolan said. "We'll haul him back together."

  When the three of them arrived at the beach, Major Forsythe and Denise Portland helped them carry Boorman ashore. Koontz sat in the background watching.

  "How are you, Boorman?" the major asked, real concern in his voice.

  "Fine, sir." Boorman sat up, coughed out a little water. "Just let me… rest… a moment."

  "What happened out there?" Major Forsythe asked.

  "Hit… from underwater…"

  Koontz hacked out a ragged laugh. "What he means is, I grabbed him by the nuts and dragged him under." He winked at Denise.

  "Toward what end, Koontz?" Major Forsythe asked calmly.

  "Toward the end of winning this fucking race. Toward the end of getting this job. I figured you wanted the best. Isn't that what we're out here to find out?"

  "It wasn't fair," Deems said, pouring water from his jogging shoes.

  "Hey," Koontz said, "surviving isn't supposed to be fair. The object is to be the one still alive."

  Major Forsythe silently made a few notations on the application folders. "Mr. Koontz wins the race. Ms Portland is second. The rest of you tie for last place."

  "Almost dead last," Deems said.

  "Cummings," Major Forsythe said. "Do you have anything to say about my decision?"

  "No, sir," Bolan said. "Seems pretty clear the order we came in."

  "Smart boy," Koontz said with a grin.

  "Koontz," the major said, turning, "what's a pushdown?"

  "It's a place where an animal has been spooked and suddenly taken off. All the vegetation is smashed in one direction. You can figure that animal won't be coming back to that spot for a while, so you may as well hunt somewheres else."

  "Portland. Say you find the bed in the grass where some deer has slept. Or a lay near some stream with an elk outline. What do you do?"

  "Wait," she said. "Deer are pretty habitual. They'll sleep in the same spot, drink from the same water source for days."

  The major nodded, brushed his mustache with his thumb. "Boorman?"

  "Sir?"

  "You don't look so good."

  His breathing was shallow, punctuated with coughing spasms, but he waved a dismissing hand. "I'm fine."

  Koontz laughed. "Hell, Boorman, if I'd've known a little dunk in the water was gonna wipe you out, I wouldn't've touched you."

  "Ask your question, Major," Boorman said, ignoring Koontz.

  "Let me ask Mr. Koontz."

  "Shoot," Koontz said.

  "You're in a survival situ
ation. You're next to a stream and catch a bunch of minnows. What do you do with them?"

  "Clean them and eat them."

  "I need something more specific."

  "Like what?"

  "That's what I'm asking you."

  "Hell, you clean 'em, then you eat 'em. Simple."

  Major Forsythe looked at the others. "Anyone care to expand on Mr. Koontz's answer."

  Bolan stepped forward, wringing water from his shirt sleeves. "Depends on the size of the minnows. If they're small, under two and a half inches, you don't have to clean them, just spread them out in the sun to dry. If they're longer…"

  "If they're longer," Denise Portland interrupted, "you have to eviscerate and split them for drying. The sun ought to do the job in one or two days. A larger fish should be split down the back and hung on a rack. Then pound the dried fish into a small meal and use it in a stew. That way you don't waste the bones."

  "Very good, Portland," Major Forsythe said, checking his clipboard.

  "I knew that shit," Koontz said.

  "Being articulate is important in a teacher," Major Forsythe said. "Otherwise, how will students understand you?"

  "I never had no trouble making people understand me."

  "I'm sure," Denise Portland said.

  Major Forsythe continued to quiz the applicants for another thirty minutes while they sat on the beach.

  Bolan was finishing an answer, feeling his shirt slowly drying on his back. The saltwater in his hair made his scalp itch. "Pemmican is basically made of berries that have been dried and pounded into paste. You add some jerky to the paste and mix in some melted suet, then roll the mixture into small balls that you can store in the cleaned intestine of a large animal. Tie the intestine shut and seal it with suet and you can store it that way for months."

  "Thank you, Mr. Cummings," Major Forsythe said. "Now, hand-to-hand combat is mostly taught in the physical education department in a regulated classroom situation. However, there are times when that is not enough. Each of your applications lists impressive fighting credentials, either in martial arts, like Ms Portland and Mr. Boorman, or in a more traditional manner. Mr. Deems has experience in boxing."