Six Bloody Summer Days

by Nick Carter

  I took the risk and turned on a lamp. In its glow Portarius was spread out in all its time worn glory. It had been a substantial city colony established after the fall of Carthage. At its peak, the city had been home to thirty thousand Romans after their slaves. Now its model lay before me, a display of broken walls and columns and narrow streets — a place full of very ancient ghosts and perhaps one very modern nuclear weapon and its launch vehicle. What a noble spot to hide it, mount it, and let it go! It could be easily camouflaged to look just like another column or arch. Satellite cameras would fail to detect it.

  There was nothing else in the room amongst the books, or on the ornate desk that indicated archeology was Dr. van der Meer — nee Mertens hobby. On the wall there was a good map, showing that Portarius lay 30 killometers — about 18 miles up the coast east of Lamana, and that another 60 killometers south of Portarius lay Pakar. After so much of nothing fitting, it fit perfectly: the Doctor's select crew of commandoes coming to Lamana two and three at a time, being tunneled to Pakar and then to Portarius. A warning bell clanged against my chain of thought.

  I turned off the lamp and stood in the dark listening to the scampering sounds — four-footed, not two. But there had been no scampering since I had reached the den. I had closed the den door on entering. I stood to one side of it, Wilhelmina in hand. No fight could have shown through the room's two shuttered windows. Before I had come in the back I had spotted no wiring to indicate an alarm. Still, with a professional like Mertens I could have tripped something capable of alerting the Warsaw Pact.

  I was not in the mood to stand around breathing dust and super-heated air, waiting to find out. I moved to the nearest window. The shutter was a metal pull down with louvres. It was anchored to rings at either side with a simple catch. I pocketed the luger and unfastened them. I let the shutter rise, holding against its spring release to keep it from winding with a clatter. With my back to the door I didn't like the situation worth a damn; I made the perfect silhouette for target practice. The window had a handle and I had it turned almost as soon as I had the shutter up. Then it was over and out.

  I'm not Killmaster N3 because of a lack of sensitivity. It's that hidden sensitivity — fifth, sixth, or seventh sense — that has kept me alive. As I ran for the wall, all of my senses were flashing red. They couldn't save me, but the warning was clear enough and when suddenly the whole place fit up like Kennedy Stadium at kickoff time, I knew my instincts were in good shape even if my future was in doubt.

  I launched myself and went into a roll behind the only available piece of cover, a majestic palm. On my back I shot out the two closest lights on the wall and then picked off the nearest on the roof. My marksmanship had all the effect of blotting out the lights with a cobweb. There were too many of them.

  A voice boomed out through a bullhorn in French. "Throw out your gun and face the wall!"

  Automatic fire punctuated the command, chipping away at the palm trunk a few feet above my head. The firing had come from the villa's crenelated parapet. It was seconded by a companion piece in the shrubs at the front of the house. More of the palm took a beating. A third, this one from the back of the house had a go. If they kept it up they were going to kill the tree.

  They had me boxed. Even if I could get over the wall they'd have someone there waiting. The thing had been carefully set up. The only question was, had they known before or after I entered the house that I had come to call.

  I got my answer quick enough. "M'sieur Carter, you will be dead in a minute if you do not obey!"

  That one really made me obey. Not because of the threat that I'd be dead if I didn't, but because somebody knew who I was. And the only one who was supposed to know that in all of the NAPR was Nick Carter.

  Reluctantly, I tossed Wilhelmina out in the cold light and walked to the wall like a man who is sure he is about to be stood against it.

  "Put your hands on the wall and bend over!" came the command.

  There was a long wait, most likely for the psychological effect it was supposed to have on me, before I heard approaching footsteps. A hand fastened in my hair and yanked my head up. I caught a glimpse of combat boots and olive green sleeve before a blindfold went across my eyes. A hand pawed expertly over my body looking for concealed weapons. It didn't find Hugo or Pierre but my dip of incendiaries was forfeit. My arms were pulled back, my wrists tied. Then with a hand on each side I was propelled forward The idea seemed to be to put me in the way of everything that would make me trip and louse up my shins. The obstacle courses ended, as I figured it would, with me being sat in the back of a car, my two landlers on either side. Then it was off and away.

  I leaned my head back, breathing in the night air. "Just how many miles is it to Portarius?" I asked.

  "Shut up," said one of my guards.

  "Only far enough for a one-way trip," came the answer from the front.

  Chapter 18

  I didn't mind the one-way ride at all. The window was down, there was a breeze off the sea, and somewhere out there a carrier was patroling. All I had to do was activate the homing button attached to my right leg behind my knee and I could bring six hundred reserves quick enough. But for the moment I was content to play along.

  It had been obvious from the beginning that the theft had not been planned over night. More like four years in the making — from the time Mendanike had closed Portarius over an incident that was no accident. It could have been that Mertens, posing as van der Meer, had convinced Mendanike that he wanted to use the ruins for some other purpose than its present one. From that point on, Mertens had made his preparations behind the triple cover of his identity, the ruins and a down-at-the-heels state.

  His ring would have included agents at Casteau and Hidelberg. Otherwise he would have had no way of knowing that while the Cockeye is the most lethal tactical nuclear weapon in the NATO stockpile, it is also the most vulnerable. All other nukes have a double key system which guards against such theft.

  In 1970 a mutinous element in the Greek Army tried to seize bunkers near Thesalonkia where tactical nukes were stored. They were stopped by a squadron of Greek Air Force fighters. Even if they had gotten hold of the nukes they would have been no use to them or a threat to anybody. They would have lacked the second key.

  With the Cockeye it's different. Its integrated circuitry and avonics are such that anyone who gets hold of its black box and understands its operation is in the position to detonate it. It was for that reason that the Cockeye was under special security guard. That Mertens was able to zap the guard showed just how sharp he and his playmates were.

  Poor old Mendanike had either learned the bitter truth or had gotten cold feet once the Cockeye was on his home ground. In desperation, he had alerted Ambassador Petersen. Although I didn't have all the pieces, I saw Doosa and Tasahmed in on the deal. Their job had been to maintain a front and keep public attention focused on it. Shema was no threat. She was perfect for generating the myth of counter-coup. Only Hans Gueyer had been a threat, and it was thanks to him that I was sitting in the back of a car trussed up like a chicken on my way to the glory that once was Rome's.

  It had, after all, been a couple of long days. I decided some sleep was in order. Bumping over uneven ground plus the chill of the night, woke me.

  The car came to a stop. Voices spoke swiftly in whispers. We moved on. The bumping stopped and I could tell we were descending. The breeze, the sound of the sea were gone. The echo thrown back by the car said we were in an enclosed area. We came to a stop again. This time the engine was switched off. Doors opened. More muted voices, two speaking in German, one saying, "Don't waste time."

  The guard on my right pushed me toward the left. The one on my left fastened on my collar. I managed to keep from choking. A generator was humming. A metal door clanged. It had a shipboard sound. There was more walking. I could feel cool air circulating. Portarius had had some updating installed.

  There was a muttered command and I was sat down. The
hand on my collar went to the knot of my blindfold. I blinked in the sudden light, trying to focus my eyes.

  There were three of them sitting at a table facing me. The pair on either side of the head man were unfamiliar, and in the dim lighting they were more in shadow than their boss. Also in shadow behind them was the high tail section of a DC-7. This was an underground hanger, and I was glad I hadn't gone hunting the plane at Rufa. The walls on either side were metal but the canopy above was camouflage. No doubt there would be a camouflaged runway beyond, but I wondered why satellite sensors hadn't exposed it.

  "Do you find it impressive?" my host asked.

  "What do you call it, late Roman or neo-Wright Brothers?"

  "I must say I expected you sooner," he ignored my comment.

  "I came as soon as I could, but I think you'll have to take up the delay with the Colonel."

  He ignored that, too. "You know you almost lost me a bet. I hate to lose bets. Isn't that right, Dr. Schroeder?"

  Dr. Schroeder was on his left, a round hard face and grey crew cut. "Jah," was his response.

  "Tell me, do I call you van der Meer or Mertens?"

  "Hah!" he smacked his palm down on the table. "Good! I told you, I told you!" he said excitedly to his buddies. "And that's one bet I do win, Doctor Villa. I said he would find out."

  Dr. Villa, a thinner type with mustache, grunted.

  "You sound like a gambling man," I said.

  "Oh no, I never gamble. I only bet on sure things. Like I bet on you, Mr. Carter. I did think you'd be here for breakfast, however."

  "Well, you had the opportunity to invite me."

  "I wanted to but yesterday was a bit too soon. You ruined my day and there was much to do."

  "It's best to be thorough."

  "Exactly!" He blinked and tugged at his nose. "As one professional to another, I'm sure you'll agree it's a trait that makes the difference. I know my colleagues and I can sum up the success of our activities — our mission — " he held out his hand in benediction, "through thoroughness. Is that not so, gentlemen?"

  They muttered a response. He had the floor. "Yes, thoroughness. You know, Mr. Carter, why most bank robberies, no matter how well planned, are a failure? The robbery may be excellently executed, but it's after the fact — after it!" he held up his finger lecturing, "where the thing comes apart. And the reason, of course, is the failure to be thorough in the total planning — after the fact as much as before it." He smiled sweetly. "Do you know how long we have had this operation in the planning stage?"

  "About four years, give or take a couple of months."

  "Excellent! Excellent! You see what I mean?" He addressed his silent partners and then turned back to me. "Once phase one had been completed we knew we were into a critical seventy two hour period. The liberated material had to be landed here without detection. And once here, we had to make sure it was not discovered. That's where you come into our thoroughness, Mr. Carter."

  "I knew there had to be a place for me somewhere."

  "We knew there was one organization in the West above all others from whom we might expect trouble. AXE, and from AXE, comes Nick Carter. Why, we have a napilok on you as thick as War and Peace."

  "I hope it reads as well."

  "Oh, better in some respects." He used his fingers. "The West German BND is a laugh. The CIA has lost its operational ability, thanks to exposure and employing the kind of idiots they sent out here. M.I.6 is occupied in Ulster and Cyprus. The French and the Italian SID are involved with home grown terrorists and so forth and so forth. Only AXE, and from AXE, yourself — that is how we read it, and we needed no computer to tell us."

  "Shall I rise and thank you for the eulogy?"

  "No need. As your organization prides itself on excellence, so do we Mr. Carter, so do we. As I said, we've been expecting you."

  "If you were expecting me why did you try to have me killed in Rome?"

  Mertens frowned "That was a mistake, and I apologize. Our station chief in Rome was alerted to watch for you. Through over-zealousness he misinterpreted his instructions. He had no way of knowing you had a part to play in our organizational plan. Even so his actions were unforgiveable and he's no longer with us. I came all the way from Lamana to join you on the return. So now you understand."

  "No, I don't. If Doosa had had his way, I'd have been back in Rome by way of Cairo."

  "Doosa is sometimes a fool. He misjudged your abilities, but believe me you wouldn't have gone to Cairo, you'd have come here. Instead, you went to Budan on a wild goose chase."

  "You fit the description," I said, watching the fixed grin fade.

  "Quite. Well, it's time to move along." He nodded to the guards behind me.

  As he rambled on, I had considered pressing the back of my leg against the chair and activating the homing signal. I decided to wait for two reasons. He expected to use me, which meant execution was not in the plans right now, and I was willing to play along until I'd seen the Cockeye in the flesh.

  The guards brought me to my feet. Mertens and his fellow Phds were similarly dressed in natty field green combat fatigues. Their boots had a high polish. It looked as though Mertens and company had been involved in swiping more than nuclear weapons.

  Schroeder stood head and shoulders above the other two. The dueling scars on his cheeks, the flat Prussian face — subtract thirty years and you had S.S. Captured on the Eastern front, re-structured, returned to the East German Democratic Republic to head an MBS terrorist squad, then Africa for more of the same, and as my talkative host would say, "and so forth and so forth."

  The other one, Villa hailed from the same locale. Swarthy, a narrow withdrawn face with glittering black eyes. He had the look of an avid inquisitor, the type that burned to make you burn — and overaged Che.

  "My wrists," I said, "they'd feel better untied."

  "I regret it, Mr. Carter," Mertens sounded sad, "but as I said, we plan carefully, and we plan to keep you as harmless as possible. We do not underestimate your abilities."

  He gestured as one of the guards stepped away from me to the metal door and spun its circular handle. The door swung open and I looked out on an area that gave the impression of being a football field complete with stadium. Its spectators had flocked to something more delicate than pigskin. This had been the city's coliseum. We stepped out on to what had once been dungeons and cages under the floor of the amphitheater. All that remained of the ancient masonry was the stone floor and the surrounding walls.

  There was a moon, and by its light I could see meshed camouflage netting overhead, and above it the circular ruins of the coliseum proper. In the center of the cleared dungeon area was the missing Cockeye. It was mounted on the RPV. Both were sitting on a launch ramp, pitched at a very low angle.

  We moved out toward the launching ramp. It was a perfect hiding place. All the satellite, and SR-71 cameras in space would never spot it — at least not until it was launched. It was certainly ironic — here, tucked in the ruins, the ultimate device for making ruins.

  "Well, Mr. Carter, what do you think?" Mertens said.

  "I'm puzzled."

  He stopped. "Oh, how's that?"

  "You were speaking of being thorough. Even in the dark I see it all around me, even to the snipers you've got placed up there. It doesn't make sense."

  "Really? You hear what he says comrades? What doesn't make sense?"

  "What you were saying about people who plan robberies and then fail in the get-away, I'd say you'd made the same mistake."

  "You would? Horst, Jose, where have we made a mistake?"

  "The first mistake," Schroeder spoke in German, "was to bring him here."

  "Oh, don't start that again," Villa, snapped, "just because you're too stupid to understand the…"

  "Jah! I understand well enough. If it weren't for my kommando that missile wouldn't be sitting there. If…"

  "Your commando! It was my planning that…"

  "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" Mertens
voice rose above the bickering. "What is before us is due to our joint efforts. There is no need to debate, nor is there time. But our guest says we have made a mistake, and I for one would like to know where we have erred. Tell us, Mr. Carter."

  Although I couldn't manage it at the moment I was ready to depress the homing button on the back of my leg. I'd found what I had been sent to find, but all I could do for the moment was to look for an opening. "As long as you don't launch that bird," I said, "it's well hidden. Once you do, NADGE or Sixth Fleet, will pick it up. You'll be in the bag before you hit what you're aiming at."

  "That would never do, would it? My, no. Well, take a good look, Mr. Carter. I wanted you to see what you'll be helping to launch. In the meantime, there's much to be done."

  They took me back inside, not to the DC-7s revetment but to a room on the opposite side of the launch pad. I've been in a few mission control centers. I've seen electronic consoles and their guidance systems, their monitoring telemetry. I hadn't seen any that appeared more sophisticated than what Mertens and group had put together in the bowels of Portarius.

  There were a half dozen technicians in the room, all as smartly uniformed as their superiors. Two were seated at the control module, going through a check list. They had all snapped to attention as we had entered and were put at ease by Schroeder.

  "I wanted you to see this, too." Mertens beamed. "Now we have had to adapt our own control to the Cockeye's black box. No easy job, my friend, but thanks to the talent we have assembled here, we are nearing the count down."

  "Andre, may I interrupt for a moment. I think our guest could use a short briefing. May we have a look at the target, please?"