Mission Earth Volume 3: The Enemy Within

by L. Ron Hubbard

  A big bush was ahead. There seemed to be no way around it. He got out, took a machete from the car and cleared the bush away. Then he got back in and on he went.

  It came to me that he must be following an old road not unlike the one to the ancient gas station but much more obscured. He even had to go around trees more than a third of a century old.

  He went over a little rise. Ahead was what appeared to be a massive stand of maple trees and some evergreens. They were huge trees, fifty years old at least.

  Just beyond them lay a streambed, only a trickle of water in it now, despite the high banks. The remains of a wooden bridge were collapsed into the stream.

  Heller stopped the cab and got out. It really was a wilderness. Several knolls were visible. There was flat ground but it was covered with rocks.

  He walked around the fields. There was a flat place not too far from the trees. This seemed of interest to him.

  He went down to the stream. A ledge of white outcrop with a red rust stain seemed to interest him. The stream had eaten down through it over the eons.

  A small, unnatural hill caught his attention. He got a shovel and dug into it. It was just very fine white dirt. He put the shovel back in the car and took out a pack.

  Only then did he pay any attention to the grove of huge trees. He walked straight into it.

  Canopied and shadowed by the growth which must have matured long after the original place was built, masked by climbing vines and shrubs, there lay the roadhouse!

  It sprawled. It had a veranda and wings. It was apparently built of the same rocks which lay in such abundance roundabout.

  Heller walked up the stone steps to the front door. It was a big door. It was padlocked. Still, I wondered how, after nearly half a century, this place would still be there without the usual traces of vandalism. America is like that.

  Heller took out a picklock and an oilcan and in almost no time at all had the padlock off! It startled me. Apparatus people weren’t that fast at locks. Then I realized he was, after all, an engineer. He knew levers and tumblers intimately.

  With his oilcan, he got to work on the hinges. The door, although a bit sagged, was not too hard to open. He examined its edge and then I saw why the place wasn’t vandalized. That door was cored with armor plate!

  He tapped a window. Bulletproof glass!

  This place was a FORT!

  He went back to the car and got a bag. He entered the main front room. He turned on a lamp he carried and set it down on a table.

  The faded, drooping remains of what must have been the last party in the place hung forlornly from thick rafter beams. The gutted remains of Japanese waxed paper lanterns cast strange shadows against the ceiling.

  He walked across what must have once been a polished dance floor, for he kicked off his spikes before he stepped on it.

  He picked another lock and opened an inner door. The bar! A long piece of mahogany, little else in the way of furniture. He examined a broken mirror—a bullet hole.

  There were other rooms—private party rooms and what once might have been overdecorated bedrooms. The kitchen had a big wood-burning range—a rat had made a nest in the firebox, exiting and entering through the chimney.

  The back door was also armor plate. And every outside window was bulletproof!

  Heller found an office. The desk was still there. The papers were browned with age. He looked through them. Forty cases here and eighty there and an IOU for five hundred. One wondered if it had ever been paid.

  There were framed photographs on the wall. Some were autographed with age-browned ink. To Toots, Jimmy Walker said one of a handsome young man. Jimmy Walker? The famous New York mayor?

  Another attracted his attention. It was a lineup of stiffly standing young men. Four of them. They were holding submachine guns! Heller was reading the name signed under each one. Joe Corleone! He was second from the right. He looked like a kid of twenty!

  Heller took a Voltar camera out of his bag, focused in just on Joe Corleone and shot a copy, including the signature. Then he shot one of all four of them.

  Ghosts indeed! “Holy Joe” had been pushing eighty-eight when he died. But he was a ghost now with all the rest of this roadhouse and this era.

  Now Heller must have considered that he had amused himself enough. He began to move very fast. He took a metal bar from his pack and with great rapidity began to tap walls and floors. I knew enough about him now to know that he was echo-sounding. He must be looking for hidden rooms.

  He found one. When he also found its entrance, it was just a closet.

  He went on.

  Then he trotted outside and began to hit the ground. He gave that up.

  He got out a little meter and started to walk all around the house. He got a read. He stopped. He crisscrossed an area. He got more reads.

  Heller must have worked it all out. He went straight to the bar and took soundings with his meter. It was the far end of the bar.

  Using some oil, he shortly had a hinge working. The whole end of the bar slid aside and he was looking down some steps.

  He went down.

  He was in a cavern!

  He walked along a tunnel and then shined a light down a shaft. If there had ever been any ladder there, it was gone now.

  He examined the walls. “Granite,” he muttered. Eventually he found some chiseled letters. They said:

  Issiah Slocum

  Hys Myne 1689

  Heller examined some more galleries. He found some white quartz. He put it in his pocket.

  There were the rotted remains of wooden cases in some of the galleries. The bootleggers had been using the mine to hide their hooch! And that’s what had happened to the “lost mine” of Goldmine Creek!

  PART TWENTY-ONE

  Chapter 6

  Heller locked the place back up but he used his own padlock on the front door. A massive lock! He wasn’t learning that much from G-2. The brand-new padlock stood out with its gleaming brass!

  He jumped into his car and, taking it easy, got back to the main road and ran along at normal speed back toward the town. He passed the speed trap once more. The sheriff’s men were half asleep.

  Heller went into a restaurant. It was a nice place. It had a phone kiosk in its waiting room. Heller went into the phone booth. He dialed a number. Izzy answered.

  “On target,” said Heller. “It’s A-okay!” My, he was getting slangy! With great rapidity he read off the data he had gotten at the courthouse, gave the realtor’s name but added, “Not active in deal but send commission for PR value.”

  “Right,” said Izzy. “Same corporate status as planned?”

  “Right,” said Heller. “Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, Limited, of Maysabongo. My number here is . . .” and he gave it.

  Heller went out of the phone booth and went to a table. He sat down. A waitress came. “I’m afraid it’s early for lunch. The stuffed shrimp won’t be ready yet.”

  “Good,” said Heller. “Five hamburgers, five Seven Ups.”

  I had expected there would be trouble with his black face. But he was in New England. The girl brought one hamburger and one Seven Up.

  Heller ate and drank them.

  The girl brought the next serving, one hamburger, one Seven Up. They were doing them one at a time! Nice place.

  Heller got a paper and read it.

  All the hamburgers and Seven Ups were gone and he topped it with a chocolate sundae.

  The phone in the booth rang. Heller went over and answered.

  Izzy’s voice. “John Smith has been in a federal pen for years. He got life for negligence of bribery of J. Edgar Hoover. His mistress held on to the place for sentimental reasons but she died last year. Smith was going to let the place go for taxes as he had no way to pay them. I just phoned him and he’s overjoyed. So’s the warden as he’s going to sell Smith a new cell. It’s yours.”

  “Thank you,” said Heller.

  “Mr. Jet,” said Izzy. “Don’t
get in any trouble, please. Connecticut is way out in the wilds. They may still have Indians there.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” said Heller.

  He paid his bill with a liberal tip and went out and jumped into his cab.

  He turned north again, on the same highway.

  And then, despite all Izzy had warned him of, Heller opened that cab up to eighty miles an hour!

  He went scorching up that road.

  And just before he came in sight of the speed trap, he started the cab weaving!

  And just at the trap itself he veered onto the verge in a cloud of dust, shot back onto the road, went off the other side and came back on the highway!

  Then he slowed to forty!

  The crazy fool!

  That sheriff’s car came out of the trap like a fish leaping from the water after a mayfly!

  Its lights went on. Its chortle racketed!

  It came screaming up the road after him!

  Heller went ahead just fast enough to keep a distance. But I knew that cab couldn’t outrun a police car! It was geared down for sudden maneuvering!

  The pursuer was almost upon him.

  Heller skidded the cab to the left and plunged off the edge of the road!

  He was on the same track he had been over before!

  The old car bumped and lurched and swayed! It darted around trees! It swept along over the tops of weeds! It was heading toward the old roadhouse! Did Heller intend to fort up and shoot it out? What was he up to?

  In the rearview mirror he caught glimpses of the police car. It was having very heavy weather of it. Heller slowed down!

  Ahead was the grove which held the building.

  Behind was the chortling, raving, flashing police car!

  Ten yards short of the nearest trees, in an open area, Heller suddenly stopped!

  He got out!

  He tossed some sort of a folder on the front seat.

  He adjusted his mustache.

  On the left side of the cab, he planted his feet wide apart.

  He put his hands out and leaned forward to support his body against the car roof. He was assuming the classic frisk position.

  With one last slither and bounce the police car jolted to a stop behind the cab. The chortling ceased with a dying snarl.

  A deputy sheriff leaped out each side, guns drawn.

  They stopped.

  They looked around warily.

  One walked up to Heller and began to frisk him.

  Almost instantly he struck pay dirt!

  He swept aside the tail of Heller’s coat. There was a jerk. The deputy sheriff stepped around into Heller’s view.

  He was holding that gold damascene Llama .45!

  “Ralph!” said the deputy. “Jesus Christ, look at this piece of jewelry!”

  “What the hell is it?” said the other, coming closer.

  “It’s a god (bleeped) diamond-plated cannon, that’s what.”

  “Lemme see that, George. Looks like one of them old-time gangster rods!”

  “Naw, that ain’t no Colt .45 ACP, Ralph.”

  “Yes, it is! It’s just been engraved or something.”

  “Naw! Look there! This fancy picture on the side says it’s a Maysabongo.”

  George said to Heller, “Hey, nigger. What the hell kind of a handgun is this thing?”

  “Me no talk beautiful English,” said Heller in a high-pitched voice. “English not native tongue.”

  Ralph said, “He’s some kind of a foreigner.”

  George said, “Hey, nigger. You got a permit for this thing?”

  “Look on seat,” said Heller.

  George leaned into the cab. He evidently found the folder Heller had dropped there. But he continued to lean in, looking it over. He was muttering.

  George backed out. “What the hell, Ralph. I can’t make head or tails out of this.” He walked over to his partner.

  “Mebbe so you better call in on beautiful radio,” said Heller. “Checkee license plate.”

  George said, “Oh, yeah.” He went to the back of the cab, made a note and then, carrying the papers, went back to the police car and leaned in. Ralph stayed alert, holding the Llama pistol in one hand and keeping his own Colt .357 Magnum trained on Heller.

  I couldn’t hear the radio conversation because they’d left their motor running and George was too deep in the police car. Suddenly he backed out, microphone still in hand. “Ralph! Does that car look like a foreign limousine to you?”

  Ralph pushed his cowboy hat back with the Llama barrel and then moved to get a better look at the old cab. “Yeah, George. It looks old enough to be un-American.”

  George ducked back inside the police car. Then suddenly he backed into plain view, pulling the microphone with him. His eyes were popped. He said, “No (bleep)?”

  He leaned in and put the microphone on its hook. Holding the papers, he went over to Ralph. “Look, Ralph. These papers say this is Rangtango Blowah, Republic of Maysabongo, Consul for the State of Connecticut. Now, them tags is diplomatic tags. The dispatcher checked with Washington. This nigger has got diplomatic imboomity.”

  “What the hell is that?” said Ralph.

  “The dispatcher says Washington says you can’t put a finger on him. He can do anything he pleases. We can’t arrest him no matter what he commits.”

  “Jesus! Diplomatic imboomity? Must mean he could blow the whole place up and we couldn’t even touch him.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said George.

  “Oh, (bleep)!” said Ralph. “Can’t we even impound this handgun?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said George. “Give it back to him. He could even shoot us and we couldn’t say a word!”

  Heller took the weapon back from a reluctant Ralph. “This whole place now,” he said in a high-pitched voice, “proppity of part of Republic of Maysabongo. You not in States United now. You standing in Maysabongo.”

  “Jesus,” said Ralph. “The god (bleeped) foreigners are buying up the whole (bleeping) country!”

  “I’m afraid so,” said George.

  “Look, nigger,” said Ralph. “We saw you drive nice and peaceful by us twice. What the hell was the idea of suddenly speeding?”

  “Test,” said Heller. “Me see if you good alert top man fine cops. You pass test very good, please.”

  He reached into his wallet and took out two one-hundred-dollar bills. He gave one to each of them. “Every month, you each get one.”

  “Did the chief pass the test?” said George, “He’s my uncle.”

  Heller took out two more one-hundred-dollar bills. “He good man. He pass test double. So he get same so each month, too.”

  They were putting the bills in their wallets. “My God,” said Ralph. “We can’t even get him for bribing an officer! This imboomity has advantages!”

  “Hey,” said George, “this is just like the old times my grandpappy used to tell me about. When the bootleggers had this place, they paid off regular and you couldn’t touch them, either!”

  “No, no, no,” said Heller in his high-pitched voice. “Not bribe. Please raise left hand. Maysabongo do everything left-handed. Now say after me: ‘I now part-time honorary . . .’”

  The deputies both did.

  “‘. . . deputy sheriff in Marines of Maysabongo . . . and do aforesaid promise . . . if I see anything strange going on, I look other way . . . and if I see stranger trespassing I blow heads off.’”

  They repeated it all carefully.

  Heller reached into his pocket and brought out three plain gold stars with nothing on them. He handed one to each of the deputies. Then he gave George the third. “You tell uncle chief he sworn in, too. Here his badge.”

  “Hey!” said Ralph. “It’s legal after all! You could tell he wasn’t a hundred percent pure nigger. He’s got blue eyes!”

  “One more thing,” said Heller. “Me hire whitey engineer. He very good man. He gottee pale hair. He got diplomatic imboomity, too, so he okay if you see h
ere.” And he handed them a passport picture of himself!

  They looked at it gravely. George gave it and the folder back. He raised his hat very politely. “You can count on us to blow heads off anybody you say,” he promised.

  Ralph raised his hat.

  They got into their police car and drove off.

  With a horrible shock, it suddenly came to me what that (bleeped) Heller had done! He had enlisted the local constabulary! Nobody else could get near that place now!

  At the place he would use for a garage, the old lady would blow people’s heads off. At the roadhouse, the deputy sheriffs would blow people’s heads off.

  How perfectly awful of Heller! We couldn’t get our noses into either place to sabotage things!

  As soon as we got the platen, the bump-off of Heller would have to be done in New York!

  (Bleep) him. I knew we’d be in trouble if he started studying espionage. And here it was!

  PART TWENTY-TWO

  Chapter 1

  Fate is seldom kind. And when it starts shoveling out bad news, it seldom knows when to stop.

  Heller had worked around the roadhouse for the rest of that day, mainly airing things out and making sure the stove worked—I suppose because winter was on its way. He seemed to enjoy it outside. He admired the maples, the leaves already reddening from a night frost. He trotted up to a hilltop and looked all around. He seemed to be very interested in rocks in the flat field near the roadhouse, for he took a blasting cord and leveled a couple outcrops—he just loves to explode things!

  The last thing he did was post a sign. It said:

  Property Trespassers

  Will Be Deported to Elsewhere

  with Their Heads Blown Off

  Not Responsible for Damage

  Done by Mine Fields

  He found a place where he could get the cab across the river and was soon going deeper into the country. Abruptly, the other side of the abandoned gas station came into view. It was on the same forgotten road!

  The old lady fumbled around and opened the garage door for him. Heller drove in, played his light over himself and then over the cab and in no time at all had restored everything to its original color.

  He went out and fixed a sagging chicken-coop door for the old lady, cut her some firewood by playing a disintegrator gun at sections of logs, had a cup of coffee, listened to what a nice young man he was, and by twilight was rolling along back to New York.