Cyborg 02 - Operation Nuke

by Martin Caidin

  “They aren’t bad,” Sam Franks said, looking at the television screen that monitored the two men by a closed-circuit scanning system as they now moved into the warehouse. Franks lit his cigar and turned to Jonathan Sperry. Meticulous in his appearance, Sperry watched as the two intruders worked their way into another room.

  “Interesting,” Sperry said. “It’s not often I see anything more than the paperwork. Do we receive many visitors of this sort?”

  “Not so often in the past. Lately it’s almost on schedule. They’re trying to close the ring on us.”

  “Do you ever find out who sent them?”

  Franks, showing slight irritation at any questioning of his security procedures, said, “At least half.”

  “I didn’t intend to offend, Sam, but how do you manage that? They wouldn’t carry any identification.”

  “Fingerprints, mug shots, identifying scars. We make up multiple copies and check them out with Interpol, NATO, other security groups. Our contact in NATO, for example, can fan out requests to any NATO member country, where there’s always somebody ready to make an extra buck—” He cut himself short as the men on the TV monitor worked their way into a third room.

  “The screen will go blank for a few moments,” Franks went on, referring to the drama unfolding in front of them. “Flash bombs. Four in the room, in each corner. That way no matter where they happen to be looking we get them. If one of them has his eyes closed, blink reflex opens them. The flashes are ripple-pattern so they get a full dose. They’re blind afterward.”

  “Permanent?”

  “Don’t know. They don’t stay alive long enough to find out. There’s the warning signal. Don’t bother about the screen. There’s an automatic overload cutoff for high light intensity, then the picture comes back on. There—”

  They watched the two men crossing a room. Behind them a door left partially open slammed shut. Instantly the men swung around, guns ready. The next moment the TV monitor screen went blank. When the picture came on again several seconds later the men were staggering about in obvious agony.

  Even Jonathan Sperry, experienced in other men’s deaths, felt his lips go dry. A door on the far side of the room was hurled away from its latch, and through the open space charged a pack of huge, ravening Dobermans. The guns were useless. Meticulously trained, the dogs operated in two teams, three to a team. Each dog had a particular vital spot to attack. One, the genitals; another, the wrist holding a weapon; the third, the jugular.

  When the intruders were dead, two men entered from the door, each holding a short blunt club. One of them whistled shrilly. The animals immediately left their victims and went to the men, lying down. All but one. The blood and excitement of the kill were too much to leave on command. His trainer went up to him and whistled again. The dog snarled, the short club cracked against the Doberman’s skull.

  Franks reached forward and turned off the TV monitor.

  “What do you do with the bodies?” Sperry asked.

  “Use them. Wrap them in canvas and dump them across town, where Delveccio runs his drug sales. The police will find them there and give Delveccio a hard time until he pays them off. Then the whole thing will be forgotten.”

  “But what about the people who sent them here?” Sperry asked. “They know.”

  Franks looked at him. “Who’ll tell?”

  Franks and Sperry went from the television control room to a luxurious office-apartment. Waiting for them was Mikhail Oleg, one of Franks’ best pilots and an expert in electronic security systems. Oleg didn’t look like a Russian fighter pilot; Oleg, with light brown hair and a sallow complexion, light body and soft voice, looked anything but Russian. Mikhail (Franks pronounced it Michael) Oleg had escaped from the Soviet Union in grand style. A fighter pilot with the Red air force, Oleg had gotten into a fight with another pilot. When it was over the other pilot was dead and Oleg was under arrest. Not for long. Considering years in prison and disgrace afterward, Oleg elected to go for broke. He killed an airport guard, slipped into his MiG-21 fighter, and took off. On his last gasp of fuel he emerged over mountain country in a rainstorm, saw a long concrete strip and dumped the MIG. He deliberately blew the tires to come to a stop before running off the end of the rain-slick runway. He was in northern Greece, and he’d landed at an old, abandoned war-time field.

  The rest included some lucky coincidence and Sam Franks’ policy of always paying well those in his employ. A Greek border patrol officer discovered the airplane and its pilot. Remembering a job he’d done for Sam Franks (through a code name) and the pay he’d received, the Greek got a message through to a number in Rome. He kept the MiG and its pilot hidden with the help of three of his soldiers, who saw in their reward for guarding their find and keeping quiet more money than they could manage from their pay in the next twenty years. The day after the phone call an old Boeing Stratofreighter landed at the remote airfield. The Boeing was slow and unwieldy but it could haul twenty tons of cargo and it could lift from the old airstrip.

  Using maintenance manuals purchased from certain Egyptian officials, Sam Franks and a picked maintenance crew dismantled the wings and rolled the Russian fighter into the cavernous hold of the freighter. Mikhail Oleg, mystified by it all but with few alternatives, went along. At the Sardinian base he was put on ice while his story went through exhaustive scrutiny.

  “Mike,” according to Sam Franks, was one of the best things that ever happened to the organization. He was an excellent pilot, had been security officer for his wing, spoke several languages, and a death sentence was waiting for him back in Russia. In time, with every test behind him, he became a top-level confidant and an “officer” charged with control of major operations.

  The three men sat down to an early dinner. Jonathan Sperry returned to his perpetual concern about discovery by any of the major governments, or Interpol finding them out. To Sperry, the strongest link in the organization, Sam Franks, was also potentially the weakest. Sam had been high in the command of the American strategic bomber force, and Sperry knew that no government casually dismissed the global whereabouts of a man informed about many of its major defense secrets.

  “I mean”—Sperry pressed a point—“isn’t it still possible they suspect you? Someone like you doesn’t just disappear. If after a certain time you’re not accounted for, and they become aware of our organization—especially after Butukama—isn’t it natural they’d seek you out? The American computer system—and I’m familiar with it—”

  To Sperry’s surprise Franks agreed with him. “And the computer, any computer, is hard to satisfy. That’s why with Mike we made sure the Russians were sent back enough pieces of a wrecked airplane to convince them it was a MiG-21 that had crashed and exploded in the Greek mountains.”

  “Yes, of course,” agreed Sperry, “but your case is different, Sam. You didn’t crash, or anything like that. You just disappeared.”

  Franks shook his head. “As you know, I don’t like explanations and I’ve told you from the first I was covered. Since then I don’t believe you or anybody else in Pentronics has had reason to complain about my work or worry about my security. All right, now I’ll give it all to you. Like you say, nobody disappears. I know the system. Anybody with SAC, or Tactical Air, or Navy, anybody in a command position with nukes, never disappears. If you’re not accounted for you automatically go on a check-out list. That’s why I happen to be in Australia.”

  “I thought this was Italy.”

  “But I am in Australia. In fact, I’m a pilot for Outback Airways. We fly Otters and Electras. We run cargo all through the bush to remote stations. I’ve been there for the past two years. My logbooks are up to date, I take a first-class physical every year, and I’ve vacationed three times, in Europe, South America, and Africa. My passport is in order, my taxes are paid. The computer, Mr. Sperry, is satisfied about the whereabouts and activities of one Sam Franks, ex-colonel, Strategic Air Command.”

  Sperry said nothing, waited un
easily.

  “There’s a man with my name who looks just like me—spitting image. Plastic surgery fixed details nature missed. He’s a first-rate pilot, makes fifty thousand a year from an unknown source to keep his mouth shut and play his part. That’s besides the twenty, thirty grand he knocks down as an airplane driver. It works out. Too bad he’s going to have an accident.”

  “Accident?”

  “This Butukama business isn’t going to fade away overnight. The pressure’s really going to be on us now. The computer will likely be programmed to spit up names of all people with nuclear weapons in their background. People will interview those names. Sam Franks will be one of them. They’ll use experts. Most likely they’ll drug him somehow—scope, I’d guess—and he’ll come up with wrong answers. Or they might get his fingerprints and that would really blow it. So it’s time for Sam Franks, ex-colonel and bush pilot, to crash and burn up. The computer will be fed the news. That will be the end of that. I wonder if I’m going to miss myself.”

  “It is all right, Sam,” Oleg said. “I will attend your funeral if you’d like.”

  Sperry, obviously satisfied, shuffled through his briefcase. “Business, gentlemen.”

  “What about Kuto?” Oleg asked.

  “He’s right, John. I thought Hiroshi was supposed to be here,” Franks said.

  Sperry spread the papers out on the table. “We’ve had a change. Kuto thought it best for him to be on the scene. He’s on the tanker right now. He’s up to date on plans. If anything changes, we will radio Kuto aboard the tanker or carry out an airdrop with a message pouch.”

  “Okay,” Franks told him. “Time still the same?”

  “Ten days. We’ll keep to the original schedule”

  “Same course for the ship?”

  Sperry tapped a paper. “The SS Dorina. Sailing time, course, speed—all of it. There could be changes, of course, due to loading delays or weather. But we can easily compensate and the information can be kept moving to Kuto at sea.”

  Franks turned to Mikhail Oleg. “What about the sub?”

  “It is already at sea,” the Russian said. “It remains submerged during the day. It surfaces at night every third day. It flies the French flag.”

  Franks turned again to Sperry. “John, what about confirmation of the cargo?”

  Again Sperry pointed to a paper. “It’s all right there. The Polish government is the major purchaser. They have told us that most of the jewels aboard that vessel were seized from their museums during the war by the Nazis. There has been no way for them to regain what they consider priceless national heirlooms.”

  “Their price?”

  “Fifty million dollars. I will attend to collection and disbursement.”

  “Interesting,” Franks said. “We destroy a city, and thousands of people, and we make eighteen million for the job. Here’s a government that will pay nearly three times more for a bunch of damn trinkets.”

  “It only proves,” Sperry said, “what we have always known. There’s nothing cheaper than human life.”

  Franks looked up as Kali, the Arab, came in. Their meetings were never disturbed except for something of special importance. And if Kali himself were carrying the message . . .

  “I am sorry to interrupt—” Kali began. Franks waved aside the apology. “A most unusual situation has arisen,” the Arab said carefully. “Does the name of Steve Austin mean anything to you?”

  “It means something if it’s the same Austin I’m thinking of. Colonel Austin?”

  “That is the one. The astronaut.”

  Franks glanced at the other men in the room. “Steve Austin. Crack test pilot. Big hero. Flew the last Apollo mission. Last man on the moon. He came back and got assigned to the shuttle test program. He was flying one of those bathtub killers when he piled it in. Tore him into pieces. The last I heard he’d lost his legs and an arm and there wasn’t much left of him.”

  “You know this Austin?” Sperry asked.

  “Not personally. I met him once but it was a long time ago, we were just two guys in blue suits.” Franks looked at Kali. “What’s it all about?”

  Kali told the story as it had broken on the wire services. He went through the television interview and the subsequent wild fight, including how the two men, Austin and Schiller, both disappeared and then suddenly showed up at Kennedy International Airport.

  “I suppose,” Sperry said, “they hijacked an airliner?” He had the professional’s contempt for amateur gestures.

  “No, sir,” Kali replied. “They got aboard an empty 707 waiting to be loaded. They captured or ejected the crew, started the airplane, and took off.”

  There had been a smile on Franks’ face and it broadened with every new detail. “Where are they now?”

  “No one knows that,” Kali said. “But the latest report was that the airplane had a six-thousand-mile range, and was last seen flying over the Atlantic by two fighter pilots.”

  “Fighter pilots?” The question came from Mikhail Oleg, who was remembering his own escape and what would have happened to him if Russian fighters had ever caught up to him. “I do not understand. If fighters could intercept why didn’t they shoot down the machine?”

  “Because,” Franks said, and grinned at him, “they don’t do things like that in the States, You shoot down an intercontinental 707 and you’ve shot ten million dollars out of the sky. If those guys land and the news gets out where—and they got to land sooner or later—the airline figures it at least gets a chance to get back its property.”

  “But they are criminals and—”

  “Money,” Franks said. “It makes the world go round. Also, don’t forget this guy was a hero.” Then, to Kali: “Anything on position reports?”

  “No, but we are trying to plot alternatives. Perhaps, Sam, the best way is for you to ask the question: If you were Colonel Austin, what would you do?”

  “When you’re under pressure, and you get time to think—and sitting in the driver’s seat of a 707 all the way across the Atlantic is time to think—” Franks said quietly, “you reach out for the familiar, something you know about.”

  “Which would be?” Sperry asked.

  “That airplane has enough range, with an hour’s reserve, to get to central Libya. I know something about Austin’s background. After his moon-flight publicity and crack-up, you’d have to have been on the moon to miss it. I’m sure I remember that when he was stationed in Europe his outfit used the Libyan desert for a gunnery range. Austin would remember those fields, and he’d remember that the runways were long enough to take the bird he’s flying. I like it,” he said suddenly. “We control those fields. Not directly, but that doesn’t matter. What counts is my bet Steve Austin goes for those fields. Kali, if I’m right, what would his E.T.A. be?”

  “I’d say at least five hours.”

  “We can make it. We take the Sabreliner from here to Oristano. If the fighters are ready, and if my guess is right, we should be able to get a good intercept before he lands. I’d like to talk to that man before anybody else gets to him.”

  “Why?” Oleg asked.

  “This man is famous all over the world. As the last man to walk on the moon. Also because he was mauled in a crash. They said he’d never walk again. According to what we’ve heard from Kali, he and another guy with no legs wrap up a bunch of people and steal an airliner. And now the two of them are flying it across the Atlantic. That’s the kind of performance I like.

  “There’s something else I like about this Austin that’s not public knowledge. Before he was an astronaut he was one of a few special pilots assigned to a killer strike force of F-111 fighter-bombers. Their mission was to take out every command post in Russia at the start of a war.” He looked at Mikhail Oleg. “I saw that outfit in simulated action. And Austin, like everyone else in that outfit, had to be an expert in nuclear weapons. And that’s our business.” He tossed his cigar butt into an ashtray. “Let’s move out.”

  “To me,�
� Oleg said, “there seems to be too much publicity. Could it be this entire affair is a plant?”

  “It could be. And you could be and I could be. And you know we’ll check Austin and his friend out. But remember what happened to Austin. He lost both legs. And an arm. And an eye. And had his skull cracked open, ribs busted, and—he was more dead than alive. And you know what? Making a man like that into a special agent is asking just a little too much from any man, American or Russian.”

  Oleg did not reply.

  “Look, Mike, why don’t you see for yourself? I’ll take Johnson with me in the F-4 and you can fly the MiG as top cover for us.”

  “It should be interesting,” the Russian said.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sam Franks peered through the bubble visor of his helmet, studying the long brush of white painted against the dark blue sky. Franks was flying at 26,000 feet, lower than normal cruising altitude for the big F-4 fighter. The lesser height made possible his first glimpse of the contrail above him. Below was a solid undercast. Franks pressed his radio button.

  “Tango to Sunflower.”

  Oleg’s voice came back at once from his escort position well back to the right and slightly higher than the leading F-4. “I read you, Tango. I have them in sight.”

  “Right, Sunflower. I’ll move up to their right so they can get a good look at us. You make your move from the left.”

  Oleg’s voice came back, a bit tight, stiff. “As you say, Tango. I’m breaking now.”

  The MiG-21 was a flashing silver minnow. Oleg brought the gleaming fighter well below the big 707 at the same time Sam Franks slid the Phantom into formation with the jetliner. As soon as Franks confirmed by radio that the Americans in the 707 were aware of the Phantom, Oleg went to afterburner for a burst of speed, whipped beneath the 707, and came arcing up in a great climbing roll. Steve Austin and Marty Schiller had their first glimpse of the MiG as it arrowed before them and up to their right, the tailpipe ghostly orange flame and the fighter flick-responsive to the man at the controls. Oleg continued the roll, breaking out to the left, and when he snapped the airplane level it was locked precisely in place on the side of the 707 opposite Franks in the Phantom.