He shook his head. "I've got forty-seven dollars and twenty-three cents in my pocket. That's not going to get us two rooms."
"You did say you worked for the United States government, didn't you?" she asked.
"As far as I know."
"You sure we can trust this friend of yours?"
Bolan nodded. "With our lives."
"You're so sure."
"After the attack on you and your husband he doesn't know who to trust right now," Bolan admitted. "He doesn't want to put us in any more danger than we're already in."
"Look, mister," she whispered. "I'm just a citizen, you know? I pay my taxes and do my work and can't figure out why I'm having to hide under a goddamn dining-room table in a Holiday Inn. I mean, the government's just the government, right?"
Bolan had no answer for her. He shrugged. "I can't make you stick with me," he said. "You're free to do whatever you want at this point. But just remember that your husband is dead because somebody in the Justice Department is picking up a paycheck someplace else, and remember that once they commit murder, they continue to commit murder to get what they want. And what they want is for you to be dead just like your husband. Now, if I were you, I'd be thinking about the only man you can be sure of who doesn't want you dead."
"You," she said.
"Right. Can you trust anything else?"
"I'll start with that," she said. "We'll get the room."
"Good girl." Bolan leaned forward and lifted the tablecloth a little, peering under it to see that the coffee shop was filled with blue uniforms. "They're all eating."
More feet appeared at the table, and Bolan put a finger to his lips. The woman nodded, but uncertainty hung on her like fog on a marsh. She needed sleep; she needed time to grieve, time to understand what was happening to her. Most of all, she needed answers, and in that respect she was the same as Mack Bolan.
They waited under the table for another thirty minutes, military personnel coming and going at the buffet the entire time. He kept a close eye on Julie Arnold, watching for a sign that the pressure was getting to her. But she held together, if just barely.
Though she had seemed totally honest when talking to him, Bolan couldn't shake the feeling that there was more going on than she was willing to tell. It wasn't hard to come to a conclusion like that, however, given the nature of their surroundings, so he simply filed it away for future reference and wondered, instead, what could be so important about research into electrical energy.
The room finally began to clear. Bolan waited until the last of the SPs had been gone for several minutes before sliding out from under the table, his unused plate still in his hand. A busboy who was clearing the buffet stared down at him, startled.
"Lost a contact," Bolan said, lifting the tablecloth for Julie Arnold. "Come on out, darling."
He stood, helping her up, while the silent busboy stared openmouthed. Bolan and Julie Arnold handed him their plates.
"We...changed our minds," she said, the two of them walking past him.
They paid for the tea, then walked to the edge of the lobby. The last of the Air Force vehicles was pulling away from the portico.
"I'm going to go register," he said. "You wait in the rest room in the hall."
"Why?"
"Two reasons," he replied. "One, they're probably looking for us to be together. And two, without you I'll only have to pay for a single."
He gave her a half smile, which elicited a ghost of a response. She moved off reluctantly, not wanting to part with her protection. As soon as she had disappeared into the ladies' room, he walked to the registration counter.
A man in a green suit was busy plugging keys into the beehive behind the counter when he approached.
"Excuse me."
The man turned, an automatic smile turning up his thin lips. "What can I do for you?"
"I'd like a room," Bolan answered.
The man nodded. "Sorry, I didn't see you pull up." He slid the registration card and a pen across the desk.
"No room with all the government people out there," Bolan replied amiably. "What is it, some kind of convoy or something?" He wrote hurriedly, making up a salesman job and a phony car and license for himself.
The man leaned across the counter. "Believe it or not, they're looking for some kinda Russian spies or something."
"Here?" Bolan asked, sliding the card back.
"Swear to God," the man said, raising his right hand. He looked down at the card. "Will you be paying in cash, Mr. Basist?"
"Always," Bolan said, handing the man two twenties. "I don't believe in plastic. No, sir. I hope they find those spies soon. Those Air Force boys are liable to take up every room between here and Jackson."
"You might be right about that. They looked like they was mighty fired up about finding them two," the man said, making change for the money. "And you'll just be staying the one night?"
Bolan nodded, smiling. "Unless those spies hijack us all or something."
The man smiled with him, then handed him back two dollars and change for his forty. "Don't you worry none about them spies," he said, and opened his sport jacket. A .38 was stuck in the waistband of his pants. "I'll blow'em straight back to hell if I see'em."
"I'll sleep better knowing that," Bolan said, and took the room key from the man, patiently waiting as he showed him where the room was on the desk map.
Bolan waved and moved out the front doors. Then he walked around the lobby building to come in the back way. He moved quietly up the hall next to the registration desk and gently tapped on the ladies' room door. Julie Arnold poked her head out immediately.
He put a finger to his lips and took her by the arm, hurrying her out of the building and up the outside stairs to the second-floor room. It had a decent view of the parking lot, and for the first time, Bolan began to feel partly secure.
He parted the curtains and spent a minute looking out at the parking lot. When he turned around, Julie Arnold was staring at the bed that occupied the center of the room.
"Bolan..." she said, a catch in her voice.
"Look," he said gently. "You've got too much to worry about right now to waste any time worrying about my sexual intentions. We've both been through a lot and deserve some sleep. If it'll make you feel any better, I don't ever intend for both of us to sleep at the same time, anyway. Someone's going to have to keep watch. I asked you to trust me before. I meant it. All right?"
She nodded, relieved.
"Good. You can shower first."
"Oh, God," she said, putting a hand to her chest. "I really need one!"
He inclined his head toward the bathroom. "Go ahead."
She turned without a word and hurried to the bathroom. A moment later he heard the water running in the shower, and shortly after that, he could hear her crying. She had finally, mercifully, let down her guard.
* * *
Julie Arnold sat wrapped in a sheet she had pulled from the bed because she couldn't stand the thought of putting the same sweaty clothes back on. A white, hotel towel was wrapped around her wet hair, and she stared at the telephone while listening to the muffled sounds of Bolan showering in the next room. It was time to make the call.
She lifted the receiver, feeling foolish. After all, she'd had access to the 800 number for more than ten years and had never used it. It had probably been out of service for a long time. She dialed an outside line, then punched up the numbers she had committed to memory as part of her training.
Tension tightened up her insides when she heard the number ring on the other side, and when it was answered after one ring, she nearly came off the bed.
"Go on," the voice on the other end prodded.
"Uh..."
"Go on," the voice repeated.
"This is ... Lady Madonna," she said, finally choking the ridiculous words out.
"Hold, please."
"I don't have much time, I..."
The voice had already left the phone.
Within thirty seconds
, another voice was on the line. "Report, please."
"Report?" she asked. "Look. Somebody killed my husband last night and tried to kill me and the man who was protecting us."
"We have received confirmation of that," the voice replied. "Are you all right?"
"Well, yeah...considering," she said. "Where were you people?"
"We're trying to get our own reports coordinated now. Where are you?"
"I'm in a little town called Vicksburg, Mississippi," she said, feeling guilty and not knowing why. "In a motel."
"Why?"
"We're waiting for someone from the Justice Department to come and help us. Look, the Air Force is trying to find us. They're the ones who…"
"It's all in our reports," the monotone voice answered, cutting her off.
"Can't you do something?" she asked, voice strained.
"We're trying to plug the leaks now. Remain with your present situation until further notice. Trust no one, especially the man you're with. Report back in two days for more information. We're depending on you. What happened to your husband's notes?"
"His notes?" she said, angry. "God, his head was blown off last night, and all you worry about is…"
"Please," the voice said. "We share your sense of loss, but it's a matter of some urgency to know where the notes are."
"Gone," she said. "Left back in the car."
"Maintain cover," the voice said. "And good luck."
The line went dead. She hung up, confused. This had been her emergency number, her ace in the hole, and they had simply cut her adrift. She picked up the receiver again, prepared to call back and straighten everything out, but just then the water stopped in the shower and she hung up quickly.
A moment later, Bolan, wrapped in a towel, poked his head out of the bathroom. "You all right?" he asked.
She nodded. "Trust no one," the voice had said. "Especially the man you're with." She looked at him. Over the past twenty-four hours she had learned to trust no one except him.
"Why don't you try to get some sleep," he said, using another towel to dry his hair. "I'll take the first watch."
She nodded, dutifully pulling her legs up onto the mattress and covering herself with the spread. She closed her eyes, and exhaustion overtook her despite the turmoil in her mind. She drifted slowly into a slight and troubled sleep filled with visions of death and dreams of uncertainty.
Chapter Three
Bolan was surprised at his own reactions as he and Julie walked through the national park that had once been a killing ground, the quiet, rolling countryside that had seen all the horror, destruction and inhumanity that warfare can be. As they passed the monuments to the suicidal charges and desperate defensive measures that had made this particular ground worth the cost of thousands of lives, he felt saddened by the realization that there would always be war, always be irrational killing.
It had been called the Civil War, and yet there had been nothing civil about it.
For forty-seven days during the spring of 1863, this particular parcel of dirt, grass and trees had been the most important place on Earth for the armies of the Potomac and the Confederacy. This ground, which commanded a high view of the Mississippi River and the mouth of the Yazoo, was laid siege to by the Union army under Grant and Sherman, and was the last stretch of the Mississippi not under Union control. It’s taking would cut the Confederacy in two and crush any hopes the South had of winning the war.
It was the turning point, and everyone involved had known it. Perhaps the more farsighted of those soldiers had realized that any clash between industrial and agrarian civilizations could have only one outcome, but for everyone else it wasn't obvious until after many thousands of lives had been claimed by thirst, hunger and disease. General Grant accepted the surrender of the remaining 37,000 Confederate troops, represented by
Lieutenant General Pemberton, on July 4, 1863. Independence Day.
The killing ground then became ordinary ground once more. Agrarian civilization died in the American South. Grant became President, and countless youths on vacation felt military passions surge within as they ran about these battlefields or stopped to read the plaques commemorating the courage and self-sacrifice of the fighters.
Bolan thought bitterly of the world's glorification of war. He had seen no glory in Nam, and doubted whether any of the soldiers fighting starvation and dysentery had seen any glory at Vicksburg. The young needed to be taught that glory was in the living, not the dying.
Perhaps there would be no more need of the skills of men like Mack Bolan. Perhaps he could thankfully outlive his usefulness.
"Why does he want to meet us here?" Julie Arnold asked as they walked the paved road leading through the battlefield.
"It would be difficult to be followed here and not know it. Besides, it's a place my contact knows."
She shook her head and took out the comb that was stuck in the waistband of her slacks. It was the only luxury they'd been able to afford and she kept using it, her lifeline to reality.
"I feel so silly," she said, vigorously combing her dark hair. "I'm sure that your friend will simply walk in here and take care of all this. But right now, it seems so damned strange and…"
"Don't get your hopes up," Bolan interrupted, as the road they walked began to slope upward. "There's a lot more going on here than we know about."
She took his arm, turning him to face her. Bolan read the vulnerability in her eyes. "Please don't tell me that," she said.
He shrugged and continued walking. "Have it your way."
"Bolan, I'm scared," she said to his back.
He turned and looked at her. "You should be. Stay that way."
They crested a hill. An entire field of small white crosses stretched before them, set in even rows side by side, up and down the rolling hills, facing a panoramic view of the Mississippi River, the great artery of America. To the right, at the bottom of the long hillside, was anchored a partially reconstructed "ironside" fighting vessel, which had been sunk during the siege and was raised more than a century later as a historical exhibit.
Bolan scanned the mammoth field of crosses, spotting a lone man a hundred yards distant. "There he is," Bolan said, taking Julie by the arm and moving her in that direction.
Brognola spotted them at fifty yards and hurried to meet them. "Glad to see you made it," he said, his rumpled suit looking as if he'd slept in it. He shook hands with Bolan, then turned to the woman, taking her hand. "Dr. Arnold, you have my sympathies and sincerest apologies for what happened. You and the country have suffered a great loss."
"You look bushed," Bolan said. "Problems?"
The man looked at him sadly. "You might say that. I haven't slept since I talked with you yesterday."
"Did you get everything straightened out?" the woman asked.
He shook his head. "Something's going on, something big. I've never come up against anything like this before."
Bolan watched Brognola, trying to put a finger on his attitude. He and Hal had been through rough times together. His demeanor seemed one of defeat, his tiredness more emotional than physical.
"What's wrong with you people?" the woman asked loudly. "You drag me around the country, playing hide- and-seek like children. I'm the wife and research assistant of one of your top scientists and I want some answers, not games! Just tell me what the hell is going on, and let me get back to my life. I have a husband to bury."
Bolan and the big Fed shared a look. "His body's missing," Brognola said. "It may never be recovered."
"This is insane!"
"Please, Dr. Arnold," Brognola urged, looking around. "Please keep your voice down."
"Why?" she demanded, gesturing around the cemetery. "AH these people are dead."
Bolan moved to put a comforting arm around her shoulders, but she jerked away, staring daggers at him. He turned to Brognola. "Just tell us what you know," he said.
"You're not going to like it," he replied. "The same day that the space shuttle
blew in 1986, a man named Jerry Butler was shot dead. He…"
"Jerry...?" the woman interjected, her eyes widening.
"You knew him?" Bolan asked.
"Of course I knew him," she answered. "Theoretical electrical research scientists come few and far between. We hadn't corresponded for a long time, but all of us in the business tend to share information. It's a small field."
"A lot smaller than you realize," Brognola said quietly.
She just stared, all out of quick answers.
He continued. "A newspaperman named McMasters was killed with Butler. The only leads in the case come from neighbors, who said that Air Force personnel were spotted in the vicinity."
"Air Force?" Bolan repeated.
Brognola nodded. "It gets worse. Since then, a total of ten scientists working in the same field have been killed worldwide."
"My God," Arnold said, a hand going to her mouth.
Brognola turned to stare out beyond the graves to the river, which snaked its way through the lowlands far below. "Four in the United States have died," he said. "One in Russia and two others in Soviet satellite countries — East Germany and Poland. One in Japan. One in Canada. One in Great Britain."
"That's everybody," the woman said softly, her face drained of all color. "Dobinski... Fujiyaki... God, Martha Green. This is incredible."
"You and your husband were the last," Brognola said, turning away from the river. "Now it's just you."
"Why weren't we told?" she asked.
Brognola looked at the ground, unwilling to meet her eyes. "That wasn't my decision," he said. "The conventional wisdom allowed that we could protect you and that you needed your heads clear to work up your projects."
"Why wasn't I told?" Bolan asked.
"The Pentagon…" Brognola began.
"The Pentagon trusted me enough to put me in the line of fire, but figured me too big a security risk to know why," Bolan suggested. "Right?"
"Something like that," Brognola admitted. "I told you wouldn’t like it."
"Why?" Julie Arnold asked, finally coming down to the obvious. "Why did this happen?"
"Everything becomes conjecture at this point," Brognola said. "Everyone killed was working on projects dealing with liquid electricity."
Fire in the Sky Page 3
