Six Bloody Summer Days

by Nick Carter

  Andre had colorless eyes and long supple fingers. One of them tapped two buttons on the panel to his left. An ERX scanning screen with a Mark 7 interlock blanketed the wall. On it with exceptional clarity lay the boot of the Black Sea. The knot in it was the roughly diamond-shaped Crimean Peninsula. The rail line from Dniepropietrovsk was a lace, running through the eyelet of Dzhankoy to Sevastopol.

  Sevastopol is more than headquarters for the Soviet Black Sea Fleet, it is to the southern sea frontier of the USSR what Murmansk is to the northern. Admiral Yegorov may have a hundred more ships in his northern fleet than Admiral Sysoyev has in his Black Sea command, with which he stocks the Mediterranean, but with six Kresta class missile cruisers, fifty Kashin destroyers and nearly as many Y class subs, he isn't exactly suffering.

  The scanner moved in for a close up of Sevastopol. I didn't need one. I'd been there. It was definitely a target for someone with nuclear ambitions.

  "Do you recognize it?" Mertens chortled.

  "Vaguely. Someone told me its radar defenses are impenetrable."

  "Someone told you incorrectly. Isn't that so, André?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "André, show our guest the projected course."

  André hit some more buttons, and we were looking at the entire Mediterranean area from Lamana eastward including Italy, Greece, Turkey and the Black Sea. A green line extended almost directly to the Ionian Sea between Kythera and Antikythera, between the Peloponnesos and, Crete. There the line wove its way through the islands of the Cyclades in the Aegean. It cut north of Lemnos and east of Samothrace. It skirted the narrow passage of the Dardenelles, and going overland south of Alexandropoalis, it crossed into Turkish territory, aiming north of Hayabolu, exiting on to the Black Sea near Daglari. From there, it went direct to Sevastopol.

  "Most direct and to the point," Mertens said. "Oh, I know what you're thinking. Radar will pick up what satellite cameras have failed to uncover. The RPV doesn't travel that fast, and that will have made all this a waste of time. Isn't that so?"

  "You have the floor," I said, anxious to get it all.

  "Of course, radar would pick up our little effort… if there was anything for it to pick up. Altitude, Mr. Carter, altitude. As you saw, our package will be traveling over water all but a short distance of the way. We have programmed it for a constant altitude of thirty feet. When it crosses land, it will follow the contour of the earth, trees, gorges — whatever, and its altitude will not vary. And as you well know, radar will not scan at that low a trajectory."

  I saw Sevastopol with its narrow estuary, its surrounding cliffs honeycombed with detection fans. The damn thing about it was that any missile has to have an angle on its trajectory. The Cockeye mounted on the RPV needed none. That was the purpose of its theft. It could go in at almost ground zero, straight as an arrow.

  "Have I answered all your questions?" He was beaming again.

  "All but one. Why are you all so anxious to start World War Three?"

  "That's why I have you here, Mr. Carter, to prevent it! Think of the sacrifice you will be making for mankind. Come along now, I have something else I want to show you before the program begins. Thank you, André."

  The control room had a wheel lock also. It had been built with blast protection in mind. There wouldn't be much need of that in launching an RPV with a load of JP-4. Possibly Merten's original plan had been to lift an ICBM.

  They led me from mission control along an unlit stone passage, using flashlights. We climbed some ancient stairs and came out amongst the ruins. There the moon became our guide. We followed what must have been main street until we came to a single-story complex of modern construction. During the walk I had spotted security guards stationed on the high points.

  "Well," Mertens said, "I'm sure you'll excuse Dr. Schroeder and Dr. Villa. You'll be seeing them later, but for now, they have things to do and so do we."

  I was anxious to sit down for one reason. With the back of a chair to press my leg against I could increase the population of Portarious by an even six hundred. Ordinarily, I do my own work, and there are no reinforcements to call in. But this wasn't ordinary, and Hawk had given me my orders. The problem was I didn't get to sit down.

  There were no lights showing within the complex, another indication of planning. Our Samos tracking cameras are powerful enough to pick up a flea on a golf ball from a couple of hundred miles up. In a routine pass a satellite would pick up lights in the ruins. In this non-routine situation a photointerpreter would take note and pass on the information.

  Mertens led the way down a corridor to his working office. There was a desk and some chairs, but the whole room was a jumble of pieces and parts of electronic equipment.

  "I must apologize for the mess," he said.

  "You must have been neater than this with Hammarskjold." I said, looking for an empty chair but not seeing one.

  He stared at me for a second and then chuckled. He was at his desk, fiddling around in his papers.

  "How many of you are in this thing?" I asked, moving toward a table, planning to sit on it. "Or is that a state secret?"

  "Nothing is secret from you, Mr. Carter." He held up some papers. "With you, we number exactly fifty-one. All of us are here ready for the launch. When the dust has settled, so to speak, we will be moving on to the next phase. Now I'm going to read to you your part in the program. You will tape it, and we will see that it is put in the proper hands for world broadcast. You will be famous." He grinned. The expression reminded me of a hyena, looking up from someone else's kill.

  "People of the world!" he read like a third rate ham, "the organization responsible for the nuclear destruction of the Russian port of Sevastopol is called AXE. AXE is a special espionage agency of the U.S. Government, engaged in assassination and overthrow. Its director and chief of operations is David Hawk. The theft of the Cockeye missile and its launch vehicle and the targeting of both was carried out by Hawk. I, Nick Carter, assisted in the execution of the mission. I did so under protest. I will be dead by the time these words are broadcast. I am marked for murder by AXE.

  "Behind this act of nuclear genocide there is a two-fold plan. The destruction of Sevastopol will be blamed on the Peoples Republic of China. In the possible nuclear war and world turmoil to follow, Hawk, with the backing of the Pentagon, plans to seize power in the United States. There is no time to give details. My last hope is that my words will be heard everywhere!"

  "Well," he looked up, the man who had just given the keynote speech, "how does it sound?"

  "Scratchy. Syntax isn't too sharp either."

  "Ahh, but think of the impact."

  "It will have all the impact of a wet egg," I said.

  "More like a fried egg, Mr. Carter, or maybe a cooked goose?"

  "How ever you serve it, no one will buy it."

  "Hah! Sevastopol is devastated. The world stands at the brink of destruction. Just think of the effect of your confession in the United States. One, it will reveal that a secret arm of your government's intelligence is responsible for the horror. Two, it will inform the American public of a spy agency no one knew about. Three, in view of a growing lack of public support, it will bring your system down with a crash!" He smacked his fist on the desk and for a moment the madness shone through his bulging eyes.

  "Oh, I assure you, Mr. Carter, we have thought it through, we have long planned for this moment. You see in this organization we are all bound in seeking the same goal. Can you guess what it is?"

  "To be present at your own execution."

  He put on a nasty smirk. "Your country lacks the fortitude to execute anyone. Our aim is to bring down your insufferable system. To sow anarchy… and then with the proper support, pick up the pieces and mold them properly." He had his fist clenched and the gleam was back.

  "Hail Caesar." I stepped back to sit on the table, but one of the guards pushed me away.

  He acted as though he hadn't heard me. "What is it your Marine Corps says — a
few good men? Well, our few are better than any. Every man a professional in his field, knowing what he's to do, how to do it, and with a purpose in mind. It's the purpose that counts in the end. I'll show you what I mean."

  "Tell me, is Tasahmed one of your fifty professionals?"

  "The general is an ally. In return for his cooperation, we got rid of Mendanike. His reward is the NAPR, and ours is to depart quietly at the proper time." While he was bubbling along he had set up a film projector and had threaded a film into it. It set on his desk and he aimed it at the wall.

  "You have no idea how long I've been looking forward to having you here, Mr. Carter. You, too, are a professional, but even if you weren't I'm sure you'd be wondering how we gained so much knowledge of AXE and yourself. Thoroughness. You'll see."

  I saw, but before I did I had to listen to more. "In today's world of medical technology, there is no man who cannot be made to perform as required. However, in some things I am old fashioned. The hyperdermic needle is too easy. I prefer to use physical means to obtain psychological ends."

  "Do you supply seats for your movies?"

  "Not in this case. I'd rather have you stand. Your comfort is not one of my interests." He gestured and the guards maneuvered me so I was facing the wall that would serve as a screen.

  He flipped the light switch. "I'm sure you'll recognize an old friend. "The projector began to whir.

  He was right. I'd have recognized Joe Banks if he'd been disguised as a gorilla. I'm N-3 in the pecking order. He was N-6 until he disappeared in Tripoli about four years ago. Hawk had told me Joe had gotten wind of something by accident. The accident had been fatal. One evening he had departed the flea-bag hotel where he was living and vanished. There had been no trace. And now I knew where the wind had led him.

  Until I saw Merten's film, in which he was featured, my feeling about him was simply cold-blooded. I'd kill him as soon as I was able. Halfway through his production my teeth were locked together so hard my jaw muscles were ready to pop. I could feel the sweat on my neck, the taste of bile in my throat and a fire burning white in every pore.

  I had never seen a man skinned alive. I watched that happen to Joe Banks, pinned like a butterfly on a board. I watched Mertens directing two goons, with skinning knives pealing him like a bloody grape. I watched Mertens practically slobbering over Joe's agony.

  The film cranked on, but I had closed my eyes. I had to think, and I couldn't do it watching the life being torn and ripped out of an old friend. Standing or lying I couldn't depress the homing button with my hands tied. Trying to get Hugo in position to free my wrists would take too long and attract the attention of my watchers. I had to get next to something solid.

  I could hear Mertens rambling on. "You know, in the end he agreed to tell us everything — if we'd only shoot him. You pour salt on raw flesh and the pain is very severe."

  I groaned and tried to stagger toward the desk. I didn't get six inches before my helpmates yanked me back into position.

  "Oh, it is distressful, yes." Mertens sighed. "And, of course, we kept our word. But before we put him out of his misery he told us enough about AXE and Nick Carter so in time we were able to put together what we had to know. Of course, it wasn't until much later that we decided to program you and AXE into our operation. So you see." He flicked off the machine and turned on the lights.

  I let saliva run out of my mouth and crashed to the floor, taking the impact on my shoulder. As hands were laid on me I came up fast, planning a back flip that would land me on the desk where I could get my leg against its edge.

  No way. They blocked all movement, holding me firmly. They were pretty cute. One was Korean and the other was a Latino. Whatever their geography, they'd studied the same text. -

  "My, my," Mertens clucked, "I thought you were made of sterner stuff. Are you worried that you might receive the same treatment? No fear, you'd be no use to us in that undressed state. We want you in good voice."

  He marched to the door, and I let my guards do the work, putting on the fainting act, letting them half drag me along behind.

  At the end of the corridor we came to ruins again and stone stairs going down. Mertens hit a switch and light flooded up from below, showing the dusty way to death.

  He did what I hoped. He went first. In my business you don't weigh small favors, you grab them. I stumbled and as I felt the grip on me tighten, I swung up my feet, tucked them in and slammed them out. I connected with Merten's back. With a yelp he went plummeting down the stairs. The power of my thrust yanked my guard off balance, and we weren't far behind.

  I tried to tuck my head in, but it's no good without arms. I never did reach the bottom. Somewhere between it and launch point I went out into deep space, where it's black and cold and empty.

  Chapter 19

  Someone was calling my name, but it wasn't really my name. "You've got it wrong," I said, "you'll have to start over."

  "Ned! Ned Cole! Please, please!"

  "There's no need to be frightened. Try some deep breathing." I could hear my voice, but there was a difference in what I was thinking, and what I was saying. I fought to straighten it out by opening my eyes. I shut them again fast in the glare. "Just take the knife out," I muttered.

  "Ned! Ned, it's me, Paula Mathews!"

  On the next try I saw that she was right. She was facing me, and she never looked lovelier. She had nothing on but her makeup and not much of that. She'd been staked out on an ancient stone slab — a sacrificial altar. This had once been a torture chamber and still was. The only modern addition was the lighting, bright and garish.

  In any light, Paula was a beautiful creature. With her arms pulled back, thrusting her breasts out, the nipples erect not in passion but in fear, the curves and joinings of her body accentuated, I got things sorted out fast.

  "Oh, thank God!" she said as she saw me staring at her.

  "How long have I been here?" There was a stone stake in the center of the room. I was not only tied to it hand and foot, but also around the chest.

  "I… I don't know. When I woke up, you were — with — with blood all over your face. I thought…"

  The message came through like the cut of a skinning knife. They were going to do to her what they had done to Joe Banks if I didn't play ball. "How did they get you?"

  "There was a call. They said you'd been in an accident, and…"

  "Why didn't Sutton come?"

  "He… he'd been called to a meeting at the Palace with General Tasahmed."

  I shook my head to clear the fuzziness and wished I hadn't. "Paula," I began.

  "Well, what do we have here?" Colonel Doosa had to stoop to make his entrance. He was sporting a new uniform with a general's star on his shoulders. "My, how charming." He came over and took a long thirsty look at Paula. He reached out and stroked her breasts. I heard her suck in her breath.

  "Magnificent, really magnificent." He ran his hands down her legs. "A real thoroughbred. I am a great rider of thoroughbreds." She sobbed as he thrust his paw between her thighs. "Pure gold," he sighed.

  "You're not man enough to ride a goat, and a sow would throw you out of the pen," I said, hoping to pull him toward me.

  It worked. He came at me with an oily grin. "I'm glad to see you again."

  I barely had time to tighten my gut before his left slammed into it and his right followed through on my jaw. I spit blood at him, and he went to work on me.

  I wasn't pretending altogether that he'd put me away. But through the pain and numbness I held onto the need to buy time. It was a tortuous way to buy it, but I didn't have any other.

  When he stopped, he was breathing hard. "The doctor said I wasn't to damage you too much, but we'll try again when you feel more up to it." He turned away from me and went back to Paula.

  My wrists had the feeling of having been left in a vise too long, but I could still move my fingers. Many were the hours I'd practiced such an exercise in the AXE gym with Peter Andrus standing by. Peter wasn
't a Houdini. He was better. His job was to instruct and train the N section how to do what nobody else could do whether tied up, handcuffed, or thrown in the river in a barrel of cement. My fingers began their stretch for the half of Hugo under my shirt.

  Then time ran out as Mertens and Villa came in.

  "Colonel, get your hands off of that girl!" Mertens' head was swathed in a bandage, and even with my head hanging I could tell his didn't feel much better. He limped into the light and saw me — blood dripping, apparently out cold.

  "Why, damn you!" he bellowed. "What have you done to him?"

  He grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head up. I heard him suck in his breath at the sight of me. "Doctor Villa, get water, get a stimulant! Doosa, if…"

  "I only softened him up a little, so he'll be more inclined to cooperate."

  "Get out of here! Get out, get out!"

  Mertens examined me again, feeling my heart. Then he went over to Paula, fluttering, "I hope you'll excuse his behavior."

  "I'd like to get out of here, too, Doctor van der Meer." Paula's voice had a quiver in it, but she wasn't one for hysterics.

  "And you shall, you shall, my dear… providing we are able to obtain this gentleman's assistance."

  He was a prize, that charmer — solicitous of her well-being while preparing to skin her alive.

  Che's old man came back and I got a bucket of water for my aching head. I didn't react. Villa had a go at me, pulling down my eye lid, checking my skull. "He may have hurt him badly," he said. "There's blood in his ear and on the back of his head where it's been knocked against the stone."

  "But this can't be!" Mertens actually wailed.

  "Or he could be bluffing."

  "Yes!" Now they were both standing before me. I heard a match strike.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Test."

  The flame seared my cheek, and frizzled my hair. It took all the control I had left to stay limp. The agony was not measureable. The flame ate its way into my flesh. I could smell it burning.