The road was clear again, there were no lights, it was quiet, except for growling trucks in the container yard. Renkin raised a two‑way to his ear as Lofton crept to the front door. He heard Renkin's high‑pitched voice say, "Caper Two--Caper One. Any joy yet? Over."
The transceiver squawked. Lofton couldn't decipher the response.
Renkin spoke again. "Caper Two. It's almost five o'clock. I know it's a big area but that truck is in there somewhere. We saw it go through the gate. Have you tried the warehouse? Over."
Another muffled reply.
"What? Yes. A Ford. It's black. And tell that security guard you're on a government exercise; that you won't get in their way. Show 'em your Immigration ID. Do I have to think every minute for you? Over."
Renkin paused.
"That's Charlie, Caper Two. And tell Underwood to keep his-- er--detector out of sight. I don't want anyone seeing it except whoever is driving that fuel truck. You have permission to use your detectors at that time. Do you understand? Over."
Squawk.
Detectors. Damnit! Lofton's nostrils flared as he checked the door lock button; it was up.
"Right, and hurry. We'll keep watch on the gates. Caper One--out."
Lofton rose quickly. He ripped open the passenger door. His left fist smashed Renkin's temple as he crawled across and reached for the open‑mouthed man on the driver's side. With Renkin caught screaming and gurgling beneath Lofton's thrusting knees, he grabbed for the other man, whose hand went quickly under his coat. Lofton caught the man's tie with his right hand and pulled, smashing the head down on the steering wheel.
Renkin squirmed and shrieked under Lofton. "Osborne! ICyeaghhh!"
The other man dropped his hand from his shoulder holster, then grabbed Lofton's forearm with both hands; he was gaining strength. The blow hadn't been enough.
Lofton pulled the tie and smashed Osborne against the wheel again. Osborne shuddered, his hands still in a death grip on Lofton's forearm. From his contorted position, Lofton yanked again with all his strength. Osborne's head hit the steering column. Lofton heard a crack and the horn bleeped. He pushed sharply on Osborne's chest; the man's head lolled back, his eyes rotated to the ceiling, then closed. Blood ran from his mouth and from a gash on his forehead.
Squirming, Renkin was twisting free. His feet dangled outside the car, his heels drummed a tattoo on the dirt shoulder. He clawed at Lofton's crotch with a growl.
Lofton drew back from Osborne's inert form and grabbed the little bald man by the throat and sat on him. He easily pinned the wiggling Renkin in a schoolboy press. Renkin squirmed, his gold‑rimmed glasses crabbed askew on his face.
"Why?" Lofton roared. "Why are you doing this? Why did you kill Thatcher? And why, for God's sake, did you blow him up in my car?"
Renkin jerked and shoved under him.
Lofton's thumbs found Renkin's windpipe. "Tell me now," he shouted.
"Eaghh--we have to talk...I need you..."
"Talk! What the hell do you mean?" Lofton's thumbs dug deeper.
"Ugh...to help me. They want you to--ugghhh...." Renkin rattled, he began to turn blue.
"Help you? Who?"
"Caper One. Caper Two. We found the fuel truck. We're ready to move in. Was that you who tooted? Over."
Lofton's eyes snapped to the floor and the transceiver. Probably Carrington and Underwood. And they had found the fuel truck. Kirby!
He released his thumbs. Renkin's eyes were squeezed tightly shut with pain, they looked like x's. But color returned to his face. "Need me? Who?" he yelled at Renkin.
"Caper One. Caper Two. Over."
The transceiver lay there, demanding, as Renkin gurgled.
Lofton's fist smashed into Renkin's nose. He'd hardly noticed it was bandaged. Bone crunched, blood spurted, and Felix Renkin went limp.
He grabbed the transceiver and keyed it, then screwed his vocal cords up to what he thought would be Renkin's voice.
"Caper Two. What's your location? Over."
"Yeah, Caper One. Western end of the container yard. Actually about two hundred yards from you. Over."
Lofton bit his lip. Delay. "Caper Two. Wait one. Out."
"Caper two--"
Lofton reached under Osborne's chest and fumbled for the shoulder holster. There! A .38 automatic, neat, compact. He pulled it out and stuffed it into his belt while looking at Osborne, not knowing if he was dead or alive. He burned another fifteen seconds grabbing Osborne's handcuffs and linking his hand to Renkin's through the steering wheel. Then he quickly pulled the hood release under the dash and threw away the ignition and handcuff keys. He jumped out of the car. Renkin moaned but Lofton didn't have time to shut him up. He lifted Renkin's legs and jammed him back in the passenger seat.
Lofton picked up the transceiver, then locked and slammed the door. One last thing. He ran to the hood, raised it, and ripped out all the wiring he could see. He found a battery cable and pulled furiously. It didn't give. He braced both feet on the bumper, reached down and gave another yank. The cable popped off the terminal. The Lincoln was dead, maybe Osborne too, Lofton thought, as he brought the hood down. Should he kill Renkin? He hadn't killed anyone, even while he was in the SEALS, although he'd come close to it.
No time.
He peered in the passenger compartment for a moment. Both bodies were still. Lofton was tempted to reach in and throw away Renkin's glasses but the transceiver would be asking more questions soon. Questions he didn't know, and he'd recognized Carrington's voice. Hurry.
Lofton trotted toward the gate. He followed a truck through, then turned and broke to a dead run toward the container yard's west end.
Row upon row of boxes rushed past him as he slogged over water gorged potholes. He slowed to a trot knowing he'd run more than the two hundred yards, and he was out of breath. Looking ahead, he saw a warehouse and, through its gaping doors, the wharf and bay. He'd gone too far. He turned and ducked down an aisle between stacked containers just as a container truck, its drive wheels spewing mud, rumbled past. "...get your ass outta here...stupid sonofabitch..." he heard from the cab, and the truck was gone.
The containers were heaped four high and glistened with runoff. Lofton slipped down the aisle to the next road, then peered around the corner. Nothing. He moved on, faster.
Some areas were bare; muddy outlines testified to where containers once stood. One section looked like Stonehenge, with the rectangular boxes spaced evenly around an imaginary point. Lofton dashed across another road and down an aisle, his head twisting, trying to see between the formidable ranks.
Another aisle. Nothing. He dashed across a road and doglegged to the next. There was no pattern to his search, he became frantic.
Something caught his eye--he stopped and turned back. There! Four rows down, between container boxes; a glint of a windshield, that had to be it. He had to check, but how? Carrington had reported they'd found the fuel truck. Renkin's batman and Underwood were close by.
Lofton peered around the containers and checked the reflection again. It had to be the fuel truck. Maybe Kirby had stashed it in one of those empty areas.
Up, he decided. The cargo containers were stacked only two-high in this section. He propped a foot on a container's tailgate latch, reached a foot across to the next container row, and braced himself up, steadying his climb with his hands.
He reached the top and peered over. Nothing seemed out of place, no one, only small puddles of water gleamed. Farther away, he saw the Oriental Executive with her dockside cranes howling and clanking. He stood and tiptoed over the containers' frames, not wanting to stick a foot through the middle or have the metal bow inward and signal an alarm.
Lofton reached the far edge and peered down.
Yes, there was his fuel truck! Stubby looking, a large stainless oval fuel tank was mounted over the Ford's rear axle. The door label read "Butler Engineering, Inc.," with a small, red sticker underneath saying `Jet A.' He hoped it was full to its rated capacity
.
He could see through the side window. Nobody was inside. Where the hell was Kirby?
Something creaked behind him. He turned, too late, a figure-- someone--shoved his back and he tumbled into space.
Lofton twisted and made a decent landing in soft mud. He rose quickly and looked up to his former perch.
A man stood on top the container holding a pistol loosely at his side: Underwood, grinning. Lofton turned for the shadows.
"Don't move, Brad." Close by, off to his right, he recognized Carrington's voice; he would have a gun, too. Carrington favored the compact M‑10 Ingram machine pistol. One squeeze of the trigger and all thirty‑four nine millimeter rounds could leave the silenced weapon in just over two seconds.
Carrington's voice was businesslike. "Turn around and back up. That's it. Now, turn again, put your hands against the trailer and spread your feet. And don't screw with me."
Lofton's heart sank as he slapped his palms against the container, slowly shifting his feet apart. Carrington would find Osborne's pistol soon. Then Renkin, then...
"OK. Come on down, Kevin." Carrington gave Lofton a quick search. "He's tame for now. Well, well, a .38 automatic and--damnit! What's this? A transceiver!"
A searing blow slammed Lofton's kidney, then another. Pain exploded in Lofton's back and raged through his belly. He dropped to his knees.
"Kevin, where the hell are you? Get down here. This bastard has Renkin's transceiver and--"
A neatly placed kick in the nape of his neck sent Lofton's head bouncing against a steel container, then his face plopped in wet earth. He doubled up and tucked in his knees, waiting for the next blow.
Carrington's hand grabbed his sweatshirt and twirled him in the mud, their eyes inches apart. Lofton felt a gun barrel in his chest. "Where's Brutus? And what did you do to Dr. Renkin? And Osborne?" Carrington shifted his gaze up for a moment. "Kevin? Will you--"
Lofton felt a rush of air, a whoosh; a foot connected near the muzzle of Carrington's Ingram, which cleared Lofton's chest. The machine pistol coughed as it left Carrington's hand. A line of bullet holes stitched a container as the Ingram twirled in the air.
Lofton struggled to his feet while two figures whirled in the ooze. A hand raised, a short steel pipe silhouetted momentarily against the sky. It came down with a crunch. Carrington fell on his back, groaned, and was still.
Kirby stooped over Carrington and searched quickly while Lofton caught his breath. The orthopedic surgeon handcuffed Carrington to a container latch rod and picked up the .38, the Ingram, and the transceiver. Stuffing the pistols in his belt, he turned to Lofton. "You're getting careless."
Pain flashed through Lofton's lower back as he tried to stand erect.
Kirby reached and thumbed one of Lofton's eyelids. "You look like hell. How do you feel?"
"You keep saying that. How'd they find you?"
"Followed me. Didn't realize it until I was almost here. So I turned right instead of left, lost them in this yard."
"Did they--ugh." Lofton finally straightened up, his breathing more regular. "Did they see you? Can they identify you?" He took a step and stumbled.
Kirby gently pushed him against the container. "Hold on a minute, Brad. Clear the cobwebs."
"Gotta go."
"In a minute."
Kirby prodded the unconscious Carrington with a toe as Lofton slouched, then tucked the .38 into Lofton's belt. "No, they didn't see me. I was out of the cab long before they found the truck. I waited near the rim of the boxes just like ol' Kevin up there. Somehow they got the idea something was up. Carrington kept yelling into his walkie-talkie, then he sent the other guy--"
"Underwood. Kevin Underwood."
"Underwood, yeah. So anyway, Mr. Underwear is up there watching and waiting between the boxes just like me, not on top like you. And, sure enough, here comes old John Wayne along the top with his spurs clanking. You could almost hear them, 'ching, ching, ching.'"
Kirby shook his head. "You're getting careless in your old age. I'm surprised you didn't slice a hole in the roof and fall through. It would have been great to see you wallowing in all that baby powder, or whatever's in there. But Underwear got to you before I could stop him."
"Thanks. Where's Underwood now?"
Kirby scratched his head. "I popped him with this," he held up the pipe, "and he fell off the container. When I jumped after him, he ran toward the gate." He pointed.
"He's loose then?"
"Yeah, but long gone."
"We better get out of here."
"You OK now?"
"Yeah." Lofton wiped mud off his face and arms.
They got into the Ford and Kirby started up and pulled into an access road behind another truck. Kirby went left when the other went right and muttered, "These guys are kamikazes. All we need is a nice head‑on."
"I know." Then, "Did you get a full load?"
"Near as I can tell. The guy at Long Beach Airport gave me a copy of Butler Engineering's bill. Three thousand five hundred and twenty‑four gallons. The bill was for well over seven grand with taxes and everything."
They bounced through the gate and quickly howled down Panorama Drive. Their headlights whipped across the Lincoln. Two inert mounds were just visible below the dashboard. That's three out of four, Lofton thought. What would Underwood do? He'd find the Lincoln all right, but that would be a lost cause. So he'd probably run for a phone and call in reinforcements. Time enough, he hoped. Fifteen--twenty minutes at most to hook up, pump fuel, disconnect, and shove off.
He said as much to a nodding Kirby, who downshifted and pulled into the Banana Terminal.
Lofton checked his watch. "We need to hurry. It'll be light soon." He pointed at the wharf's edge and Kirby drew up. Lofton jumped out and quickly inspected the pumping system. It looked easy, nearly like the one in San Diego. He showed Kirby how the mechanism worked.
"By the way, Bonnie's aboard Brutus." Lofton jerked a thumb.
Kirby's eyebrows went up. "Yeah, I'm not surprised. How'd you two make out under the Catalina Channel? A little stereo, spin down the lights. No place to run thousands of feet below--"
"Damnit," Lofton held up a hand. "Nothing happened. Come on." He filled Kirby in on their stormy crossing. "Them Bones is tied up to W‑35 in Descanso. Sorry to leave it there but you should dig it out in the next couple of days before the Avalon harbor master impounds it."
Kirby studied the truck's pumping valves. "I'll take care of it. You better move."
Lofton turned for the wharf and stopped as Kirby asked, "How long will you be gone?"
"Two--three weeks. I haven't calculated the whole trip yet. It's over four thousand miles to Kamchatka."
"OK. I think I'll leave the boat at W-35. So when you get back to Catalina, you don't have go ashore and wait around for the cattle car to the mainland.
"The harbor master charges thirteen bucks a day, last time I checked."
"He'll get an offer he can't refuse."
"Thanks. Oh, yeah, could you haul Bonnie up while we're pumping?"
Kirby fiddled with valves, his back half-turned. "See? I was right. I'll wait 'til you two finish pumping before I haul her up."
Lofton fought an impulse to kick Kirby in the pants, then shinnied down the piling to Brutus's casing.
Bonnie's head popped out the hatch. "My God, I was worried! Where have you been? What happened to your face?"
"In a minute." He turned and whistled up to the wharf. Kirby gave a thumbs‑up and lowered the thick fuel hose with the rope. Lofton wrestled it down the hatch to the trunk near the aft tunnel. He opened the trunk, flipped the retractor lever, then plugged in the hose. Setting the valve, he moved forward to the master panel and tapped in the fueling routine. Venting, air scavenging and spark control were important, and he cut all unnecessary electrical machinery. He checked the lower right display, labeled "Power": The digits were all highlighted in green.
He swung to the ladder, climbed halfway up the ha
tch and gave two sharp whistles. The fuel hose surged and become stiff. Jet "A" fuel flowed into Brutus's tanks.
He stepped down and leaned against the stainless steel ladder. Bonnie sat against the galley table with her arms crossed. He'd forgotten about her.
"Bonnie, I'm sorry, I'm in a real rush. It'll be daylight soon. Kirby will haul you up to the wharf. He'll explain what happened. You two have to move quickly. You take the jeep and Kirby will return your truck."
He paused. "I don't know how to say this, I don't know how I can return the favor. I'll repay Butler Engineering for the fuel and I think--" He stopped.
She stared into him again, just like--"Will this take long?"
"Another ten minutes, and...thanks for stowing the chow." He looked around, everything was neat and organized. "I'd like to get a sling around you now. Once I disconnect, I have to cast off."
"When do you return?" She stepped closer, her glasses in her hand.
The hell with it! He moved the two paces, grabbed her shoulders, then bent to kiss her. She turned her head, his lips brushed a cheek. They stood awkwardly. The fuel hose shuddered nearby.
Lofton started to break but she raised a hand and wiped grime from his eyes, his cheek. He stopped. Both her hands slid down his back and roamed under his mud‑soaked sweatshirt. He looked at her. Bonnie. Their lips met in a prolonged, swaying, tightly embraced kiss. They parted, then kissed again, harder this time; searching, longing. Unspoken words flowed between them.
"Brad." She felt the small of his back. "A gun. Brad, damnit."
"Yes, damnit, we hardly know each other, Bonnie. Why? Why have you helped me? I don't understand--"
She put two fingers on his mouth. They kissed again, and then once more.
THE BRUTUS LIE Page 13
