Fire in the Sky Page 6

  We've got a researcher in the employ of the same government that launches the shuttle, who calls the press to ostensibly blow the whistle on wrongdoing in connection with the shuttle. On the same day, he's dead, the reporter he wanted to talk to is dead, and the shuttle blows up seventy-three seconds into a perfect flight. That's too many coincidences for me."

  "But it was all checked out and cleared," she said, holding up the papers.

  "Cleared by the same government he was going to blow the whistle on," Bolan replied. "It was the government Butler feared, or he would have gone to them or the police over this thing."

  A look of perplexity settled on her face and she dropped the stack of papers to the floor. "I just don't know what to think."

  He thumbed through the handwritten notebooks full of chemical symbols and laboratory animal test results. "I'm not sure what to think, either," Bolan said, "but I know where to start. Disregarding the theory that Butler simply went off the deep end, that the deaths are simply coincidental robberies or whatever, it seems to me that he somehow made the jump from the theoretical to the applicable, a turn that could be accomplished right at the Grolier Foundation."

  "Think there may be answers there?" she asked, standing up to stretch.

  "It's a place to start."

  Julie walked over to stand above him. "How about the car keys? I'm going to run to the grocery."

  He reached into his pocket and fished out the keys.

  She appeared to be edgy. Bolan had discovered that she wore her emotions on her sleeve and was relatively easy to read. He simply didn't know how to interpret what he saw. This time he was suspicious of her.

  "Goodbye... David," she said, moving to the door.

  "Bye, Bernice," he answered, and she was gone.

  He got up and watched her through the blind. As soon as he saw the Jeep pull out of the drive and move down Avondale, he hurried out the front door.

  She was already a block away, at the stop sign at the end of the street. He looked around quickly, spotting the neighbor boy's ten-speed leaning on its kickstand in the driveway next door.

  He ran to it, hoping he could get out and back before the boy missed it. Climbing on, he put up the stand and followed the Jeep, which had already turned onto Aloma.

  Darkness had come down hard, turning the hot Florida day into hot Florida night. The traffic was thick on Aloma, and the ten-speed had no light, making the going treacherous. Luckily an A&P was barely two blocks distant, and he saw Julie pull into the parking lot.

  He rode quickly on the narrow shoulder and made the parking lot a minute behind her. The bike geared down easily, and he coasted through the lot, staying close to the edge in the shadows.

  He felt bad following her, but her attitude had been all wrong. If something was up, he had to know.

  He didn't have to wait long.

  A bank of telephones stood just outside the entrance. Julie was in one of the booths, talking animatedly on the phone.

  Bolan pulled up fifty feet from her and sat on the bike, watching, sadness and concern vying with the anger he felt building within him. They had a working phone at the house; there was no logical reason for her to be using this one.

  His first impulse was to go over and rip the phone right out of her hand. But instead, he turned the bike around and headed for home.

  He was going to have to keep a closer eye on her. Something about Julie Arnold was desperately out of sync. In Bolan's line of work, such desperation could lead very quickly to problems of a terminal nature.

  Chapter Six

  Mark Reilly stopped to check his appearance in the mirrored top of the vending machine in the corridor before moving through the swinging doors of the half-full White House press room. He wasn't disappointed in the boyish face that smiled back at him. With clear green eyes, a face puffed nowhere by even an ounce of fat and blond hair trimmed to military precision, he was the youngest looking forty-year-old in Washington. With his strict regimen of exercise and diet control, he intended to stay that way.

  He winked at his reflection and hurried into the room, buttoning a single button of his dark blue suit while walking up the small aisle between the rows of TV cameras and seated journalists. The President was already speaking, so very few people turned to watch Reilly's progress toward the VIP section roped off at the front of the hall.

  The President stood leaning against the podium, Colonel Kit Givan, in dress blues, standing at parade rest beside him. "You know," the President was saying, "in this day and age, all we hear is militarism this and militarism that, and it makes us forget that the American military is here to protect all of our citizens all the time. That's why it gives me particular pleasure today to honor our military through one of its great examples — an example not of heroism in battle, but of the highest heroism in peacetime...."

  Reilly reached the front of the room and ducked beneath the range of the cameras to reach General Leland's section, the general smiling and moving one of his aides so that Reilly could sit beside him.

  On the podium, the President had moved to stand beside Givan, putting his arm around the man's shoulders. "For those of you who haven't heard, Colonel Maurice 'Kit' Givan was moving a convoy through Bienville National Forest in Mississippi a few nights ago. He and a small company of men came upon a fire raging out of control that threatened not only the forest itself, a national treasure, but also the lives of everyone who lived nearby. Colonel Givan then made a valiant decision, as valiant as any made in battle. Knowing he was undermanned and unequipped, he nevertheless sent a representative to get help, while doing what he could to stem the threat.

  "At great personal risk, he and his men worked on a firebreak while awaiting assistance. Several men were killed in the line of duty, all of them heroes, all of them honored losses of the republic."

  "Hello, Mark," General Leland whispered as Reilly sat down. He smiled in his fatherly way and shook hands.

  Reilly found a smile coming easily to his own lips. "Good morning, sir. Colonel Givan looks great up there."

  "Yes, he does," the general agreed, nodding, his dress uniform heavy with the outward manifestations of heroism and devotion to duty. "Like a cat landing on its feet, Colonel Givan is snatching victory from the jaws of defeat."

  "Yes, sir," Reilly replied, waiting, as usual, for the general to carry the conversation in the proper directions.

  The President was holding up a small stack of papers. "I have in my hand reports from emergency personnel who arrived on the scene later, all of them in praise of the job Kit Givan did in saving this historic forest. The colonel's firebreak saved literally hundreds of lives and hundreds of thousands of acres of preserved forest."

  "Were you briefed on the Arnold situation?" General Leland asked.

  "Yes, sir," Reilly said. "I think things are going smoothly in that direction. We had a phone meeting with the woman last night. She and her Justice Department contact are cohabiting in Orlando, Florida."

  The general raised an eyebrow. "Why is that?"

  "They want her transcripts," Reilly said, as always amazed at the alertness and intelligence flowing through the general's eyes. "They want her to write down all she knows about Arnold's research."

  "Was he near anything?"

  Reilly shook his head. "Not anything close to the breakthroughs that Butler had made."

  Leland looked at his watch, then back at Reilly. "Why Orlando? Isn't Grolier located there?"

  "That's the other part," Reilly said. "Her contact has been set up at the institute to see if he can trace Butler's movements through there."

  A spark of humor crackled from Leland's eyes. "Enterprising. It will be interesting to see how far he gets."

  "One problem." Reilly straightened the crease in his trousers. "The woman is asking for backup assistance and more information than we're able to give her."

  "How long has she been on the payroll?"

  "Nearly ten years."

  The general turned
his attention from Reilly and watched the stage, tapping an index finger on his chin the entire time. Then he looked back at Reilly, pointing the finger. "Give her a raise," he said, "and try to maintain regular contact. Fill her in on anything but what's important, just to give her the illusion that we're answering her questions. Tell her that her contact is under suspicion." He leaned closer, his words a rasp in Reilly's ear. "Whatever you do, don't let her get far from contact. Don't lose her. She's the key here. Women are undependable at best. Don't give her the chance to blindside us. We're too close to success to get bogged down with these people. Whatever happens, don't risk the success of the mission under any circumstances."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And what about that clown from Justice...what's his name... Brognola?"

  "He won't be a problem," Reilly responded confidently. "You can depend on me."

  Leland nodded solemnly. "I know I can, boy. You're a credit to your country and to the Company."

  "Thank you, General."

  Leland shook his hand again. "It's me, thanking you, boy. Keep up the good work."

  "This project means more to me than my life, sir."

  "Good," Leland said, nodding. "Good."

  "And so," the President concluded, smiling wide, "it is with the greatest pleasure that I honor the military services of this country by honoring one of its bravest and most loyal servants. Colonel Givan, step up to the podium and receive your presidential citation."

  Applause swelled through the room as flash units exploded like a flock of electronic fireflies. Kit Givan grinned sheepishly, holding his plaque up for the cameras.

  The President moved up closer to the bank of microphones set on the podium. "And that's not all. We have with us today one of the most distinguished and highly decorated airmen ever to wear the uniform to make a special presentation. He also happens to be Kit Givan's commanding officer —General Mordechai Leland."

  The general leaned toward Reilly, patting his leg. "Take care of it," he said, then stood, waving to the appreciative crowd.

  Mark Reilly watched as Leland walked proudly onto the stage, a stage most often filled by bickering civilians who knew nothing of this great country and its needs, a stage glowing brightly under the glare of the rack of medals that filled Leland's chest. To Reilly the man was a giant in a land of gnomes, a prophet in a wasteland of useless words. He was a man of action and commitment in a world that worshiped entrophy.

  General Leland walked to the microphones, even the President stepping aside. "I suppose you're all wondering why I called you here today," he said smiling, the reporters and visitors laughing in response, some of them applauding. "But seriously, it's not often that we get to honor our servicemen, the uniformed military that every day of our lives protect us from aggression both here and abroad. The fact that I am so honoring one of my own command causes a deeply felt pang of emotion in my heart.

  "These are the dark days of the republic as our own political and economic systems are being tested by hard times and desperate people worldwide. The fact that we have gathered to honor the men who protect our liberty, then, is a sign both hopeful and profound to my way of thinking. It is a sign that we haven't lost the faith of our founding fathers in democracy and the basic values of civilization. And so it is with a great deal of pleasure that I not only give my congratulations to Kit Givan on his presidential citation, but I also inform him that effective this day, he is being promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, United States Air Force!"

  "Whoooo!" Givan yelled loudly, and moved to the general to enthusiastically shake his hand.

  Applause was loud in the room, Reilly pounding his own hands together, tears forming in his eyes.

  As more flashbulbs popped, the President, Leland and Givan joined hands, raising them high in the air in victory.

  * * *

  Hal Brognola typed Givan's name into the computer and waited patiently as it linked with the Pentagon computer and requested his authorization code. When the cursor began flashing on the screen, however, he realized that he didn't remember the code.

  Feeling foolish, he stood quickly and moved to the door of his small office so he could get the code from Marie, his secretary.

  He opened the door and looked out into the large open work area. It was completely empty. Brognola looked at his watch. It was 12:00, and everyone in the department had gone to lunch.

  Marie's desk was just a few feet from his door. As he ambled toward it, he removed the ring of keys from his pocket and took off the small desk key. He opened the middle drawer and withdrew the black code book.

  He found the code quickly and moved back into the office, shutting the door behind him. He entered the code and watched as the records came up on the screen.

  What he saw was only surprising in the immensity of its utter incongruity. As he scrolled slowly through Givan's record, he found the portrait of a tirelessly dedicated man: high-school honor student and athlete; graduated first in his class at the Air Force Academy; Rhodes scholar; combat experience in Nam flying more than one hundred missions out of Korat, Thailand, in F-4 fighters as B-52 support. He had turned down promotions that would have left him desk bound. His list of citations included both the Silver and Bronze stars, plus two Purple Hearts. The record even included an incredible story of his escape and ultimate rescue from North Vietnamese captors when he had been shot down over Hanoi in 1970. The man had done everything but emerge in full uniform and wrapped in an American flag from his mother's womb when he was born.

  Brognola leaned his chair back and covered his face with his hands. This was the same man Bolan had accused of shooting down a famous research scientist in cold blood and attempting to kill others.

  He sighed and sat up straight in the chair, staring once more at the screen. If it was Bolan's word against Givan's, there was no doubt as to who the Pentagon would believe. Without any proof, accusations would just be so much hot air. There could possibly be a distant chance of digging up the bodies of the airmen supposedly burned to death fighting the fire to see if 9 mm parabellums could be recovered from them. But they were being buried with full honors in Arlington National Cemetery, and it would take overwhelming evidence to convince the government to ruin such a publicity coup with a nasty exhumation. Brognola would need much more to go on than Bolan's word to accomplish anything.

  He moved back to the machine and scrolled down to the record of Givan's last assignment. There had to be a reason for the man to have been in that forest at that time of night.

  Sounds of movement could be heard from the big room outside — people returning from lunch.

  He read the glowing letters on the screen. In 1980, Givan had requested, and received, a transfer to Pentagon security and was put in charge of training security forces at the Pentagon, the White House and both houses of Congress. Three years after that, General Mordechai Leland had the man placed on his personal staff, involved in a project called GOG that was classified in the file under the heading of National Security.

  "Damn!" he muttered, and heard more movement outside. He looked toward the door and noticed a moving shadow through the crack at the bottom.

  "Marie!" he called. "Could you bring me that book of passwords? I need the list of security authorizations."

  He sat there for several seconds, then tried one of the codes he could remember to get into the GOG file. The words ACCESS DENIED flashed angrily on the screen.

  "Marie!" he called again to no response.

  He pushed back from the desk and moved to the door, throwing it open. Marie's desk was empty. She wasn't back from lunch. He looked up quickly and saw a door on the far side of the room just closing.

  "Wait!" he shouted, hurrying through the maze of desks and computer terminals to get to the door. He jerked it open and stuck his head out, but the halls were full of people. There was no way he could determine who had been in there.

  It seemed harmless enough, yet his senses were tingling, telling him something
was terribly wrong. If he had learned one thing, it was to always trust your instincts.

  As he made his way back to his office Brognola's attention was drawn by the glowing characters of the only operating computer in the large room — and was startled to see a duplication of the denial of access to the GOG program that was flashing on the terminal in his office. Someone had been eavesdropping on his computer conversation.

  With a flick of the finger, he shut down the machine in front of him, then walked deliberately to his office. This time he locked the door.

  The big Fed sat behind his desk, pulled open the bottom drawer and took out the chamois-covered item within. He unwrapped the long-barreled .38 and snapped open the cylinder to check the load.

  Satisfied, Brognola shut the cylinder and stood, unbuttoning his suit coat. Mind adjusting into combat mode, he stuck the gun in the waistband of his pants, then rebut toned the coat. He picked up the telephone and called home, his wife answering on the third ring.

  "Helen," he said. "Don't argue, just do as I say. Phone the kids and tell them we'll be out of town for a while. Then pack a bag and go visit your mother for a couple of weeks."

  "Hal, I…"

  "No argument. Just do it quickly. I'll call you tonight and explain."

  With that, he hung up, his hand shaking slightly on the receiver.

  Chapter Seven

  Floyd Bacon spoke slowly, as if weighing the meaning of each word he said before saying it, and his rather glazed brown eyes had never once found Bolan's in the ten minutes they had been together in his over appointed, spotless office.

  "As director of the Grolier Institute, Dr. Sparks," he said, "I want you to know that I am here in case you need any help in preparing your work for publication or presentation."

  "I appreciate…" Bolan began, but Bacon simply kept on talking.

  "But beyond that, your area of endeavor is your own. I know nothing about the fields of research engaged herein, nor do I care a great deal beyond the natural publicity that ensures the survival of an institution such as ours. I have even less interest in the constant bickering, overactive egos and childish behavior of the respected scientists who toil here. Do I make myself clear?"