Terrible Tuesday

by Don Pendleton

  “I am sure,” April told him, “that Striker encountered much stronger levels of the radiation pattern as he approached the source. He probably suspects an intrusion detection system—and, of course, all such systems have strongly defined parameters.”

  Another technician reported, “I would guess it to be some kind of microwave pulse emission—but it has other elements accompanying it. We would need a very detailed wave analysis before we could even contemplate countering it.”

  The consensus from all the experts agreed with that. One other ventured the further opinion that the emissions were “movement sensing patterns in the microwave spectrum”—and, again, “with something else included.”

  “Could they sense the movement of a single man?” Brognola wondered.

  “Such a system could sense the movement of a single bird,” was the response. “But such close parameters would defeat the intent. In an area like this, with all the wildlife, you would want to set a threshold that is responsive only to objects of significant mass—such as automobiles and aircraft.”

  “Also, electronic surveillance radiants,” April added pointedly.

  “That could explain the something else,” said the project leader. “It could mean an electromagnetic field sensor.”

  “Which would necessarily be severely localized,” added another.

  “But entirely effective,” said the leader.

  Entirely effective, sure. And that was bothering hell out of Hal Brognola.

  He put April to work on the FACES cryptogram. She scored on the first query. The UC data bank spit the answer right back at them.

  FACES: FACILITY FOR ASTRAL CALCULATION

  OF ELECTROMAGNETIC

  SYNCHRONISMS.

  SAN FERNANDO CA 91302

  “What the hell is that?” Brognola muttered disgustedly.

  But the answer was already being supplied at the computer terminal.

  SPATIAL ENERGY RESEARCH.

  STUDIES OF STELLAR ELECTROMAGNETIC

  PHENOMENA AND THEIR

  RELATIONSHIPS TO TERRESTRIAL EVENTS.

  “Give that to me in five cent words,” Brognola growled.

  “It could mean many things,” April explained. “Stellar electromagnetic phenomena are simply the natural byproducts of processes occurring within stars and star systems. Like pulsars and quasars … black holes … or even sunspots. Any radio engineer can tell you about the terrestrial effects of sunspots. It’s their biggest headache. Sunspots can even cause power blackouts over wide areas.”

  “So it could be a legitimate study.”

  “Sure. That’s a valid research area.”

  “And it could cover a lot of sins,” Brognola decided.

  “Electronic sins, sure,” April said. “It’s a perfect cover.”

  “Check out this FACES thing all the way,” Brognola instructed his star neophyte. “Mesh it in with the stuff you’re developing for Striker.”

  It was getting hairy. Too hairy, maybe. What the hell was going down, here? Who could afford to bankroll an operation like this? Who would even want to? Where was the profit?

  He went to his desk and picked up the telephone. The chief fed was worried. Damn worried. Not just for the sake of Mack Bolan, either. Brognola was worried, too, about …

  He wanted to consult with the National Security Advisor. And maybe the CIA should take a look, also.

  “This is Justice Two,” he told the voice in the telephone. “I’m going to give you an NSC coder prefix then I want you to clear me to a scramble alert wire. Do you understand the request?”

  “I understand the request, sir,” was the quick reply. “One moment, please, while I set up the crypto responder.”

  But Brognola begrudged the guy that one moment. Bolan was out there somewhere all alone, going single-handedly against God knew what.

  FACES?

  It was more than an acronym. It could become an epitaph.

  The telephone conference consumed about ten minutes of Brognola’s time and attention—and left him feeling none the better. At least he’d alerted the top security brass to the possible international overtones and the Washington machinery was firing up. There would be damned little application to the immediate problem, however.

  Worse, yet, April Rose was nowhere to be seen.

  The project leader told Brognola that the girl had “received a program package. She put a pistol on her hip and went outside without a word to anyone.”

  The “program package” was nowhere in evidence.

  And Hal Brognola’s star pupil was nowhere in view outside. Doubledamn! She was taking the package to …

  “Make that,” Brognola growled to the world at large, “an epitaph for two.”

  CHAPTER 17

  WAY STATION

  The reconnaissance was revealing a much larger problem than Bolan had anticipated. The last few hundred yards of terrain to the top had no ground cover whatever except that being provided by the weather. He still could not see clearly the top of the mountain. The impression received through the mists was one of a sizable facility with several large buildings and numerous antenna installations—but that was only an impression and could not be relied upon as hard intelligence. The whole thing was nestled in the clouds and—as another impression—seemed to be the highest ground around. On a good day, it might command a view covering hundreds of square miles including the entire Los Angeles basin and perhaps some seven or eight million inhabitants.

  Apparently the security force was relying upon the electronic safeguards to keep away unwanted visitors. Bolan had not encountered another human presence since the penetration, nor even a hint that this mountaintop was inhabited. But he knew that it was. And he suspected the presence of another security line encircling the peak—some type of electronic surveillance. The problem was to get across the nude zone and into the encampment without detection. If only he knew what type of detectors …

  He was remembering the other SeeuriCom “facilities” and their love affair with CCTV. Video systems could be damned effective, of course, along controlled access routes. But they had their limitations as terrain scanners—especially in weather like this. If the love affair extended into the application here …

  Naked-eye visibility out here on this rainy, fogbound, windswept mountainside was rapidly variable from one hundred feet to momentary eclipses of zero feet. Occasionally a tunnel would open to allow brief glimpses along defined corridors penetrating for as much as a hundred yards through the wet atmosphere, but these were extremely veiled glimpses—and a guy could see all sorts of shapes and patterns that existed primarily in his own mind. So there could definitely be a chance against TV scanners.

  It was his only prayer and he knew it.

  The gut was telling him to chance it. About the worse that could happen would be a fire-fight out here on this slope—and all the conditions were weighted in Bolan’s favor if that should occur. It would be his kind of fight. Even so, it would be a Pyrrhic victory, indeed, to win a minor skirmish and thereby lose the opportunity for the full rout he had in mind.

  Also, the possibility remained that the whole thing was a large suck play, designed solely to lure him into an inescapable position. Rickert could be a wily and dangerous adversary. If he’d had Bolan “wired” all the way …

  He had to let that idea go. It simply did not seem to fit the pattern of events that had brought him here—and further worries along that line could be self-defeating. Bolan had to play the hand he held.

  So, the gut said go, even while the warrior mind was descending into a sort of melancholy. Maybe it was the weather—or the situation—or a combination of both. Probably, though, it was a matter of sheer fatigue coupled with the certain knowledge that the chances were now considerably less than fifty-fifty that he would live to see the beginning of another day. Or maybe it was simply the accumulation of “impossible” missions, which had been weighting his days for such a very long time.

  Whatever, Mack
Bolan suddenly felt very alone and very tired and very vulnerable. If Hal Brognola were to chance along at that very moment and suggest that they chuck it all and just truck on over to Washington, this instant—well, he just might do that.

  But Brognola was too many heartbeats away … and Washington was too many lifetimes ahead … and Mack Bolan was no more alone now than he’d always been since that fated day in Pittsfield when he picked up a Marlin .444 and declared his war against the Mob.

  The Mob is still here, guy.

  Yeah. Make book on that. Right up there on that mountaintop, a scant two hundred yards through driving rain and scudding clouds.

  They’re still trying to eat everything you hold decent and lovely, soldier.

  They were doing it, too. A bite at a time.

  Who’s going to stop them, guy?

  Bolan sighed and got to his feet and went back down the mountain. It took him ten minutes to reach his “stash” and another twenty to return to the edge of the nude zone with his equipment. There, he took it all apart and methodically laid it out in the rain and began reassembling the combat pack.

  He ate a chunk of cheese and a chocolate bar and downed half a canteen of water as he reworked the rig. Twenty pounds dropped from the load would mean about two strides quicker in a twenty-yard dash. It was life and death being weighed in that rearrangement.

  Satisfied that he’d reached an optimum balance, he strapped on the rig and took a long look up that ghostly, cloud-draped hillside. The view reminded him of a painting he’d seen once, an artist’s idea of a way-station between life and afterlife.

  Bolan had no firm commitment to any concept of an afterlife. Heaven and hell could be one and the same place—or perhaps only differing states of consciousness. And maybe the same could be said for life and death.

  But hell …

  It was not the mission that was bothering him. It was not the weather … or the fatigue … or any fear of Charlie Rickert.

  It was April Rose.

  He wanted to go on living … for her … with her.

  Well, maybe he would. And, then again, maybe he would not.

  The next few minutes would tell the tale.

  CHAPTER 18

  OF HEAVY COUNTENANCE

  April had run all the way to the last known fix on Bolan’s vehicle, visions of his torn and lifeless body driving her on and enveloping her in a living nightmare, not stopping once until she rounded the bend in the road and saw the shimmering outlines of the guard house looming in the mists. She instinctively tumbled to the ground, then, and rolled into the bushes beside the road—and it was here that reality and reason began reestablishing command of her thought processes while she lay there panting and fighting her body for control. Her legs were suddenly so much trembling rubber and she could hear her own heart pounding the pulses as she got to hands and knees and crawled back along the roadway toward better concealment. Her stomach hurt and her sides felt like knives were piercing them. Any moment, she knew, she may throw up—and she was sure that the men at the FACES gate could hear her thundering heart.

  It thunders for thee, Striker.

  Oh God! Please let him be okay!

  Steady! Steady, girl! Think like him!

  She thought like him—and wore his mind to the place where the Warwagon left the road and buried itself in the forest. And she had no trouble locating the hidden interlocks to defeat the cruiser’s security systems. But she felt like death itself as she stepped into that emptiness and tried to read the vibrations left there by the man she loved.

  There were no vibrations.

  And perhaps there was no man, by now.

  She sank onto the chair in the war room and lay the alarming package of intelligence on the plot table, gazing around expectantly as though he were about to emerge from some trick panel and lay one of those soft smiles on her. He would give her holy hell for being here—and she would remind him that he’d told her she could return upon completing her assignment. He’d forgive her and she’d forgive him—and they’d call off the damned war and go to bed for crazy, crying love—and he’d …

  Where was he, damnit?

  Steady. Okay. He’s on recon. He’s scouting the enemy camp. Like a cat. He walks like a cat. He wouldn’t go barging in there on a hard EVA without …

  Yes he would. He didn’t have the package!

  She checked the con for a note or a message and found nothing—then went aft to the “quarters” looking for some nameless comfort.

  He was really a most fastidious man. A place for everything and everything in its place. Precise, methodical … everything so proper, so together.

  She smiled faintly at the precision emptiness. The military mind. Was there a bit of a sneer in that realization? Could she still have that hangup? What was wrong with the military mind? Why make fun of it? Physical excellence—discipline, duty, honor. What made them stale concepts? Had the world gone so wacky as to …?

  The neat row of books above the bunk caught her eye. She had not noticed them before. Some surprising titles, there. She pulled down a worn and well thumbed volume of Don Quixote—the novel by Miguel de Cervantes. Vibrations there, yes. She could almost feel the hand that had turned those pages. It was not exactly light reading, but the sort of thing one might find on required reading lists at school. April had dodged this one. Now the darned thing was vibrating in her hand.

  A faded inscription in a feminine hand was on the inside front cover:

  Mack honey—sorry it took so long. Had to search every book store in town. Also I read a couple of chapters and got hooked—had to finish it. Too bad you don’t have this guy in ’Nam with you.

  Love forever—Cindy

  So! And who was “love forever—Cindy”?

  Probably the girl he left at home. Where was she now?

  That’s it. Settle the mind on something it can grasp, April. Stop acting like a jerk!

  A bookmark was placed at a discourse by the Knight of the Woeful Countenance and several long paragraphs were marked by marginal brackets. She read the discourse all the way through, then returned to read a particular passage twice again. Quixote was speaking:

  Away with those that shall affirm learning to surpass arms; for I will say unto them, be they what they list, that they know not what they say; for the reason which such men do most urge, and to which they do most rely, is, that the travails of the spirit do far exceed those of the body; and that the use of arms are only exercised by the body, as if it were an office fit for porters, for which nothing were requisite but bodily forces; or as if in that which we that profess it do call arms, were not included the acts of fortitude which require deep understanding to execute them; or as if the warrior’s mind did not labour as well as his body, who had a great army to lead and command, or the defense of a besieged city. If not, see if he can arrive by his corporal strength to know or sound the intent of his enemy, the designs, stratagems, and difficulties, how to prevent imminent dangers, all these being operations of the understanding wherein the body hath no meddling at all.

  Vibrations, sure. The book had all but leapt into her hand. She looked up, half expecting Bolan to be standing there and smiling at her perplexity. The passage so fit her own thoughts, moments before she even saw that darned book.

  And there was more, all having to do with a comparison between students and warriors—which also touched a nerve from April’s not-distant past.

  … peace is the true end of war, for arms and war are one and the selfsame things. This truth being therefore presupposed, that the end of war is peace, and that herein it doth excel the end of learning, let us descend to the corporal labours of the scholar, and to those of him which professeth arms, and consider which of them are more toilsome.

  … the pains of the student are commonly these: principally poverty (not that I would maintain that all students are poor, but that I may put the case in greatest extremity it can have), and by saying that he may be poor, methinks there may be no greater
aggravation of his misery, for he that is poor is destitute of every good thing; and this poverty is suffered by him sundry ways, sometimes by hunger, other times by cold or nakedness, and many times by all of them together; yet it is never so extreme but that he doth eat, although it be somewhat later than the custom, or of the scraps and reversion of the rich man, and the greatest misery of the student is that which they term to live by sops and pottage: and though they want fire of their own, yet may they have recourse to their neighbour’s chimney, which if it do not warm, yet will it weaken the cold: and finally, they sleep at night under a roof.

  … By this way, which I have deciphered so rough and difficult … they attain the degree which they have desired so much, which many having compassed, as we have seen, which having passed through these difficulties, they command and govern all the world from a chair, turning their hunger into satiety, their nakedness into pomp, and their sleeping on a mat into a sweet repose among hollands and damask—a reward justly merited by their virtue. But their labours, confronted and compared to those of the militant soldier, remain very far behind, as I will presently declare.

  The soldier suffers as the student; however:

  Let after all this the day and hour arrive wherein he is to receive the degree of his profession—let, I say, a day of battle arrive, for there they will set on his head the cap of his dignity, made of lint to cure the wound of some bullet that hath passed through and through his temples, or hath maimed an arm or a leg. And when this doth not befall, but that Heaven doth piously keep and preserve him whole and sound, he shall perhaps abide still in the same poverty wherein he was at the first, and that it be requisite that one and another battle do succeed, and he come off ever a victor, to the end that he may prosper and be at the last advanced. But such miracles are but few times wrought; and say, good sirs, if you have noted it, how few are those which the wars reward, in respect of the others that it hath destroyed?