Fire in the Sky Page 8

  "It's me," Bolan said. He balanced the receiver between chin and neck and knelt on the floor, running his fingers under the desk. "This phone hasn't been secured."

  "I understand," Julie replied.

  "You okay... no problems?"

  His fingers moved from the desk bottom to the inside of the well.

  "I've been busy," she answered. "Everything's fine."

  "Good. I'm settling into my new office."

  "How is it?"

  "You wouldn't believe it if I told you," he said, and thought about his drive with Julie and her husband. "Then, again, maybe you would."

  His fingers found a hard knot stuck to the underside of the well. At first he thought it was old gum, but it came off too easily. His hand came out with a miniature transmitter — a bug. He'd have to go over the room an inch at a time.

  "When will you be home?" she asked.

  He dropped the bug on the floor and ground it under his heel. "Don't really know. Later. Will you be there?"

  "You've got the car. Where would I go?"

  There was a solid tension, like a wall, between them. "Okay. Guess I'd better get on with it."

  "Fine," she said coldly. "See you tonight."

  "Yeah."

  He hung up, feeling a tightness in his chest, then sat back and stared around the room. He was alone and naked in a strange and dark world. Even his guns had been left at home because of gate security. He looked at the floor, at the crushed piece of electronic gadgetry. Did "they"— whoever "they" were — spy on everyone, or just him? Was he close to something, or simply hearing the echo of a long-dead memory?

  A shadow crossed his mind and he jerked his head toward the distant lab door. It was partway open, the swirl of a white lab coat just visible through the opening. He stood and the swatch of cloth disappeared. He was sure that Robbie had closed the door.

  He was also sure that Robbie had told him that only the single key now residing in his pocket could open that lock.

  Chapter Eight

  There had been a four-car pileup at the intersection of Aloma and Edgewater Drive minutes before Bolan's arrival there. A restored 1962 Thunderbird lay upside down on a bed of broken glass directly in the center of the intersection, effectively blocking the roadway. Three other cars were scattered like dented Tinker toys in various strategic locations, preventing traffic from easing around the obstruction. The rapidly growing mob of angry commuters honked and sought egress from their plight by driving over sidewalks and meticulously kept front lawns.

  To make matters worse, a score of emergency vehicles blocked off all other avenues of escape. Three police cars, two ambulances, three tow trucks and a hook-and-ladder fire engine defined the periphery of the madhouse, their lights flashing wildly, turning the whole thing into a colorful, noisy Florida carnival on a hot spring night. Drivers of the various vehicles argued among themselves, police running from group to group. The driver of the Thunder-bird, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead, scuffled with the attendants who tried to put him in an ambulance, all the while screaming that if he was late for dinner again, his wife would kill him.

  Bolan leaned back in his seat, his cellular phone between shoulder and cheek.

  "I don't know who put it there, Hal. It could have been for Butler, or it could have been for me. It could stay there all the time. I can't even come up with a guess as to who'd be on the other end of the thing. All I know is that it was definitely a listening device of relatively new design and it seemed operational."

  "Striker," Brognola said, his voice tiny, sounding as if it were coming down a tunnel, "I want you to know that I'm the only one who knows you're down there. I've set this up carefully."

  "You and Julie Arnold."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means that Julie Arnold knows I'm here, too."

  There were several beats of silence. "There's something you're not telling me."

  Bolan watched as one of the less damaged cars was driven out of the intersection, clearing a small lane for northbound drivers. "I'm not sure that I completely trust her."

  "What's happened?"

  "Nothing serious," Bolan replied. "She's made a couple of unauthorized phone calls, one from Vicksburg, one from a supermarket when she could have used the phone at home. One of the reasons I had the phone put in the car was so that I could Keep an eye on it."

  "Striker, this whole thing could be harmless," Brognola advised. "A secret boyfriend, maybe... Nothing else really makes sense."

  "I understand that," Bolan returned. "Neither does it make sense to find a bug in my office first day I'm there. If you think I'm being overcautious..."

  "No," Hal said bluntly. "Don't take any chances. We can't rule anything out at this point. Whatever is happening, I have a feeling we're just touching the tip of it. Like reclaiming pyramids from the desert, we're going to have to dig down to the bottom to find the entrance to the burial vaults."

  As another wrecked car was dragged out of the intersection, Bolan looked in his rearview mirror to watch a line of headlights extending back into the gathering night as far as he could see. "Now, I got a feeling you're holding out on me," he said. "What's going on up there?"

  "A couple of things," Brognola replied. "First of all, they gave your buddy from the other night a presidential citation."

  "Givan? You've got to be joking."

  "The man's a national hero, pal."

  "Wonderful."

  "He's got a record that General Patton would have been proud of," Brognola informed him.

  "You couldn't prove it by me," Bolan said. "What else?"

  "I tried to get all the way into his files and find out why he was supposed to be in the woods that night, but ran into a dead end. He's somehow connected up on some secret project involving the Pentagon that I, so far, haven't been able to come up with the authorization to see. It's called Project GOG."

  "GOG," Bolan repeated, no bells tinkling in his memory. "What else?" An ambulance, siren screaming, left the scene with the Thunderbird driver aboard, bumping up a curb and traveling across several lawns until it passed the obstructed intersection and the worst of the traffic jam.

  "I think — no, I'm sure — that I'm being followed," Brognola said. "I don't know who yet, but I know they're after me."

  "What about Helen...?"

  "I sent her away for a couple of weeks. The kids are off at college. I think they're okay where they are."

  "Good." A big city truck had joined the other emergency vehicles, and a group of chain gang convicts jumped out of the back with brooms in hand. They began sweeping the intersection, as two of the tow truck operators stood close together in collaboration, trying to figure out how to get the upside-down T-Bird out of the way.

  "You're exposed up there, Hal," Bolan said, "vulnerable. Don't stick your neck out too far."

  "Don't worry. I leave the heroics to you clowns."

  "I mean it, Hal."

  "Noted, big guy."

  A cheer went up from the crowd at the intersection. Bolan stood on his seat to get a better look. The tow trucks, joining together in a rare show of solidarity, had hooked chains side by side on the door of the T-Bird and were pulling in concert, the car creaking, then rocking back and forth, then finally rolling back over onto its wheels. The cheer grew in intensity, and the convicts strutted around the intersection, thrusting their fists into the air in victory.

  Bolan sat down and started the Jeep. "I want you to check on a couple of people for me," he told Brognola. "First a man named Fred Haines. He's been to prison, so you might start with the federal records before even going to the security clearance file. The next guy's probably not even a citizen. He's a Russian by the name of Yuri Bonner. He came over in the late seventies."

  The cars ahead began to move slowly through the mess as the Thunderbird was dragged, finally, out of the intersection and one of the cops began to direct traffic. Bolan geared up and moved with the flow.

  "You got suspicio
ns?" Brognola asked.

  "Not really. Just going through the preliminaries. At this stage, I'm not taking any chances."

  Bolan proceeded through the intersection and continued along Aloma at the speed limit.

  "I'll have this intel for you as quick as I can. Meantime, you watch your butt," Brognola said gruffly.

  "Business as usual for me," Bolan replied, "but I want you to take your own advice."

  "Sure, Striker. Check in same time tomorrow."

  "Got it." Bolan hung up, moving into the right lane in preparation for the turn onto Avondale. His first day at the institute had been a strange one. It didn't take him long to discover that beneath the veneer of friendliness that seemed to pervade everything there, the scientists were motivated by competition and ego gratification. They were intelligent people, intelligent enough to know that the government gravy train they were riding was only as stable as the results they could produce. It made them protective of their work and competitive with the others on the project, which, predictably, led to barely cloaked resentments and jealousies.

  He'd made some headway in setting up his own project. Actually the project belonged to another researcher connected with DOD, who, judging from the letter that accompanied his files, was none too happy about having someone else horn in on his glory. Though chemical warfare was officially banned, research continued. And this research was especially interesting. It was shooting for a gas that, like nerve gas, wouldn't have to be breathed to be effective, but that could pass directly through the skin. The gas, however, wouldn't kill or cause permanent injury. Called K-14, it was a derivative of ketamine, an anesthetic mostly used by veterinarians, and would render its victim helpless for up to two hours, by causing a blockage in the command center of the brain and leaving the victim unable to perform simple motor functions. Its sensation was euphoric. War without suffering, without pain? It raised a great many philosophical questions.

  He turned onto Avondale, hot wind and palmetto bugs hitting him in the face as he drove home — to Julie. Her place in the scheme of things he couldn't even imagine. What had started out as a simple relationship had gotten increasingly complex and difficult to understand, all in the space of a few days. A week ago he hadn't even known her. Today, their fates were inextricably linked, and it seemed as if it had always been that way.

  He reached the house, turned in the driveway and under the carport. There was another problem with Julie, too, something that was getting in the way of everything else. He was attracted to her. The more he tried to deny it to himself, the stronger the attraction became. It was something he'd have to overcome. And soon.

  He unlocked the side door of the house and stood in the kitchen for a moment, listening to the sound of a tinny and mechanical voice.

  "Julie," he called.

  The television was switched off abruptly, and Julie Arnold, dressed in jeans and halter, sauntered into the kitchen. "You're pretty late," she said.

  "Hung up in traffic." Bolan moved to the refrigerator to take out one of the beers she had brought home from the store. Absolutely nothing had been done to the house. Everything was where it had been last night. The dust was as thick, the furniture in as much disarray. They would have to take some time to straighten up.

  "Did you get the phone in the car?" she asked.

  "Yeah," he replied, popping the beer top and moving into the living room. "One of the security people from work took the Jeep and had it done for me. Apparently they're used to acting like messenger boys for the brains in the institute. What are you doing?"

  She followed him into the living room and sat on the floor amid a small pile of reports and a tape recorder. "Did some transcribing into the tape recorder. I've also been listening to the tape that your friend, Hal, gave us."

  Bolan sat on the edge of the daybed and leaned toward Julie. "You mean the tape McMasters did with General Cronin?"

  "Right. NASA Matériel Disbursement. Want to hear some?"

  He sat back. "Sure."

  She spent a moment rewinding the tape to the right place, then turned it on. The first voice Bolan heard was obviously McMasters's. It was clear and close, not something picked up through a telephone.

  "...sorry to bother you. I imagine you're quite busy with the launch date so close."

  The responding voice was staticky and sounded far away. "Actually the contrary is true," Cronin answered. "We're all loaded up and ready to go. Our part of the flight is finished."

  "Then you've got a few minutes to answer some questions?"

  "Sure. Always anxious to accommodate the press."

  "Good. Does the name Jerry Butler mean anything to you?"

  "Butler... Butler. I knew a Jane Butler once, quite a woman, she..."

  "No. This would be more recent. I believe he's a scientist of some sort."

  "Of some sort..." A long pause. "It seems, Mr. McMasters, that you don't know the gentleman very well yourself."

  "He contacted our office last evening, General. He's made some claims about the Challenger flight."

  "What sort of claims?"

  "He says that, 'certain dangerous contraband items are being sent into space on the shuttles.' That's an exact quote."

  "What sort of contraband?"

  "I'm supposed to meet with him tomorrow morning to find out. I wanted to talk with you first, since you are directly responsible for the loading of matériel, to see if you know Butler, or know what he's talking about."

  "It seems to me I've heard something similar to this from someone on the Titusville paper…."

  "Yes, sir. I believe he went to them, also."

  "They had enough sense to know bullshit when they heard it, Mr. McMasters... if you'll pardon my French."

  "Your point is made, General Cronin. Now, if you…"

  "Let me get this out, Mr. McMasters. The United States space program is, and always has been, beyond reproach. We have no secret agendas, no hidden cargo. It has always been important to the government as a whole that it be obvious to the country and to the world at large that our exploratory missions into outer space are of peaceful intent. With that in mind, NASA in general and Matériel Disbursement in particular has always been careful to make our payloads and our intentions a matter of public record. That is to say that we'll gladly make a manifest of matériel available to anyone who wants a look — for this flight and for all preceding flights. Would you like a copy of the manifest?"

  "Well...certainly, sir, I didn't mean to imply…"

  "Quite all right. I just want you to realize that the world is full of nuts like your Mr. Butler, who are willing to say anything about anything to gain publicity, or kicks, or whatever sick pleasure they derive from disrupting the normal flow of life and government."

  "I understand that, sir. I also understand that a lot of people probably called Werner Von Braun and everyone else who pioneered the space program nuts, too. My job as a newsman is to separate the nuts from the sweetmeat, if you know what I mean."

  "I do indeed. You're only doing your job."

  "Yes, sir. And believe me, nothing untrue or slanderous in any way will come out of this office. I always double-check my facts."

  "Then none of us have anything to worry about. I'll send a copy of the manifest around to your office. Good day, Mr. McMasters."

  "And good luck, General Cronin, on the upcoming flight."

  "Don't need luck. Just a favorable tail wind."

  Julie shut off the tape recorder and looked expectantly up at Bolan. "What do you make of that?"

  Bolan shrugged and took a sip of beer. "Don't know. It's interesting that General Cronin spoke with the newsman himself. NASA has an extremely good public affairs office that would normally handle this sort of request."

  "What are you saying?"

  "Nothing," Bolan replied. "It's simply interesting that General Cronin takes such a personal interest in disbursement publicity."

  "Maybe he's just protective of his department."

  "
Maybe. Something else struck me as even more interesting. Butler thought contraband had gone up on previous flights, as well."

  She rose to her knees and pointed. "I get it. We can go back through previous manifests and find out what companies have repeated over a period of time."

  "Right," he agreed. "It will narrow, at least, the companies we need to look at. That is, of course, if there's anything to this at all, and if the stuff was listed on the manifest."

  Julie leaned over and began to arrange the pile of papers on the floor. "Jerry Butler was a great many things," she said. "But he wasn't crazy."

  "How long since you last saw him?"

  She looked up at Bolan. "A couple of years, I guess I..."

  "A lot can happen to a man in a couple of years."

  Anger flashed across her face, her lips tightening. "Then why has everybody else been killed? Why is my husband's body rotting... somewhere...I..."

  She turned her head, a hand going to her mouth as she choked back the tears.

  "I'm sorry," Bolan said, feeling awkward again. "I didn't mean…"

  "Let's just drop it, okay?"

  "Sure."

  There seemed to be no in-between with Julie Arnold. She was either rock hard or butter soft, and she always caught him off guard with whatever the mood was.

  "How was your day?" she asked, trying hard to be matter-of-fact.

  "I feel like a baby-sitter."

  She half smiled. "Head people are a different breed. They live and act like children. It's really part of the package. It takes a special kind of person to be able to think that abstractly for a long period of time. If you want to survive there, you'd better start acting like a baby, too, or you'll give yourself away."

  "Maybe I already have," he replied, not sure of how much to tell her. "I found a listening device attached to the underside of my desk today."

  She stood, picking up the papers and tape recorder and setting them on the coffee table. "There's stew in the refrigerator if you want any," she said, moving to stare out the front window.

  "I thought you weren't going to cook for me," he said, and saw her shoulders stiffen.