Fire in the Sky

by Don Pendleton

  "The Mexican bandit?" Bolan said.

  "None other," Reardon replied. "Supposedly Villa buried a bunch of treasure back before Mexican independence. Lots of folks look for it, but always down in the Superstition Mountains in Mexico. Tater decided that wasn't right, and that he was going to look for it right here in Arizona, just south of here in the Sauceda range."

  "Sounds like he's been out in the sun too long," Julie said dryly.

  "I'm just getting started," Reardon said, keeping his voice low so the man wouldn't hear him.

  "Round of beers down here!" the waitress called from the far end of the bar, Reardon hurrying to take care of it.

  "Well," Julie decided, taking a long drink, "your bright idea has certainly provided some marvelous insight."

  Bolan shook his head. "I don't understand it. Why would Jerry Butler code this place if it didn't mean anything?"

  "Maybe to throw his enemies off the mark," she replied. "Or maybe you just interpreted the code wrong."

  Bolan took a long breath. "Maybe so."

  "Let's get out of here," Julie said. "We can make it up to Phoenix tonight and maybe eat at a decent restaurant and take in a movie."

  Reardon moved back to stand before them, wiping his hands on the apron tied around his waist. "Anyway," he continued, "everybody thought ol’ Tater had finally gone nuts, 'cause not only is the Sauceda range the wrong place to look, but it's smack dab in the middle of an Air Force testing range."

  "What?" Bolan said, he and Julie turning to stare at each other.

  "Yeah." Reardon shook his head. "The Luke Air Force range is just south of here. Sometimes at night you can hear 'em screaming in, bombing mock targets. It's as close to war as I ever want to get again."

  "So, he's prospecting on a firing range," Bolan said. "He doesn't seem to be doing badly, either."

  "That's not found money he's throwing around," Reardon said, then laughed. "On the other hand, maybe it is, because while we were all sitting here laughing at ol' Tater, he went and found him a bunch of good ol' boys who were willing to stake him to high grub and go out there with him. They been out there a couple of years now with no sign of a letup."

  "That doesn't make sense," Julie said.

  The man shrugged at her. "All I know's that every month Tater comes into town and spends like a sailor on leave. He buys a whole shitload of supplies, then wanders from bar to bar until he shuts down the last one at two in the morning, then he disappears for another month, back looking for that treasure."

  "Have you ever seen any of his partners?" Bolan asked.

  Reardon shook his head. "You'd think they'd' a gone stir-crazy by now... at least female crazy." He turned and looked at Julie. "Pardon me, ma'am."

  Julie took a sip of her third beer. "No skin off my nose."

  "That sure is an odd story," Bolan said. "Nobody ever try to follow him out there or anything?"

  "Not really." Reardon Look Bolan's empty and got him another. "Folks in Gila Bend mind their own business. Somebody followed him partway once, just to see if he was really going down that way, and sure enough, he headed down south on 85, then left the road at Sauceda and headed due south overland. I guess you don't have to go to the big city to Find crazy folk."

  "Guess not," Bolan agreed. "And you say his routine's always the same?"

  "Always," the man replied.

  "Whiskey all around!" Tater yelled, holding his bottle in the air.

  "I'd better go and do some business," Reardon said, clearing empties off the bar.

  "Good to meet you," Bolan said. "If me and Bernice decide to move down here, we'll look you up."

  "Good with me, Sarge," he called, and went back to work.

  "Come on," Bolan said, taking Julie by the arm. "Let's get out of here." He led her off the stool, out of the bar and into the bright sunshine.

  "O-o-oh," she said, putting a hand to her face. "Reality."

  "Come on," her companion said, and took her across the street to the car.

  They got inside, Bolan keying the engine to get the air-conditioning going. He turned and looked at her. "What do you think?"

  "I think that everybody who lives here is crazy."

  "All right."

  She narrowed her eyes. "What do you think?"

  "I think that Tater is the front man here for Project GOG."

  She shook her head. "God, you're crazy, too."

  He pointed across the street to the flatbed truck. It was piled high with cases of dry and canned goods. "If he comes to town every month and buys that much, then he's probably got thirty or forty people out there with him. I can imagine a couple of crazies, or three or four, but not thirty."

  "Maybe there's just a few really fat ones," she suggested.

  "Nobody here questions it because he throws enough money around that it's great for business."

  "Maybe he's an alien and has a UFO base out there," Julie said, suppressing a giggle.

  "Well, we're going to find out tonight," he said, putting the Cougar into reverse and backing out of the parking spot.

  "But your buddy back there said that he closes down the bars when he's in town."

  "Right."

  "So, do we check into a motel and wait for him, or what?"

  "Or what," Bolan answered, and turned a wide arc in the middle of the street. "My original fears stand. There's no way I'm checking into a motel in this town. We're non-persons right now. I want to keep it that way."

  He pulled into the Jackson General Merchandise slot right next to Tater's truck.

  "So what are we doing here?"

  "Ever been camping before?" he asked, turning off the engine.

  "No," she replied, "and I don't intend to start now."

  "We'll get our supplies here."

  "No," she repeated.

  He smiled at her. "You'll love it. Nothing but the earth and the sky and the United States Air Force to keep us company."

  She slouched in the seat. "My mother warned me there'd be days like this."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Oscar Largent stared out the passenger-side window of the Air Force pickup truck, wondering how anyone could find his way through the maze they were traveling to arrive at a preplanned destination. He had heard about the Florida Everglades, but until he'd actually entered its impenetrable mass, half land, half water and the size of Delaware, he had no way of truly appreciating the task that confronted him.

  To begin with, the transmitter in his pocket was absolutely useless here in this land of hundreds of unmarked dirt crossroads that wound and twisted and led nowhere but deeper into the inscrutable heart of the largest subtropical wilderness in North America. The road they traveled was barely wide enough for the truck and was entirely closed in on both sides by a sea of sedges, ten-foot-tall stands of saw grass with barbed blades and needle-sharp edges.

  He felt as if he were driving through a primeval forest, wild orchids blooming everywhere, the cries of bobcats tearing at the night. It made him realize how alone he really was, how vulnerable.

  How close to death.

  He turned to the tech sergeant, named Murray, who'd picked him up at the airport. "How in God's name do you find your way around down here?" he asked.

  The man laughed. "You don't, unless you got it in your blood. I probably drove this route a hundred times with a Seminole guide before trying it on my own."

  "You could hide an army down here."

  "Yeah," the man replied. "And some do. We've pinpointed fifteen other camps down here, either survivalists, or drug runners or Cuban nationals training to oust Castro."

  Murray made a sharp right, bumping them over a rail less pontoon bridge. The back end of an old Ford stuck out of the water, an alligator resting atop the trunk of the vehicle, watching their passage with unreadable eyes.

  "How much farther?" Largent asked.

  "Almost there."

  Largent had been surprised when only Murray had shown up to greet him, the man explaining that a great
deal of activity at the camp had precluded the presence of Colonel Bartello, the second-in-command, and that General Cronin, the CO, wouldn't be in until tomorrow.

  "Let me ask you something, Captain," Murray asked.

  "Sure, Sergeant."

  "I don't mean no disrespect," the man said, "but from the looks of that briefcase handcuffed to your arm and the amount of work going on at the camp...well, it looks like something big's about to happen. I was just wondering if you'd, you know, give me a hint."

  Largent turned to him and smiled. "If you ever plan on making master sergeant, Sergeant," he said, "you'll learn to keep your curiosity under wraps."

  "Yes, sir. Have you ever visited our camp before, Captain?"

  Largent smiled. Until he'd been picked up at the airport, he hadn't even known there was a camp. "No, I haven't. I've been looking forward to it for quite some time."

  The road tangled as they picked their way through a large grove of dwarf cypress trees and cabbage palm, their branches hanging low, shifting against the windshield as they pushed slowly through the jumble. A long green snake fell out of one of the branches onto the windshield, Murray clearing the reptile off the car by turning on the wipers.

  "Now you see why I asked you to keep your window up," the man said, beeping at a raccoon frozen in his headlights on the road before them.

  "How long you been out here?"

  "Couple of years," Murray said, jerking the wheel hard to avoid a huge limb that was partially blocking the dirt road, which had turned to mud in this section. "I'd pulled some Pentagon security detail under Colonel Givan, and he worked me into the project."

  "Any family?"

  The man turned, looking at him quizzically. "Of course not."

  Largent nodded knowingly. "Just checking," he said, wondering what had been wrong with the question.

  They suddenly found themselves on a concrete paved road, well kept on the fringes. They passed a sign: Military Security Post — Keep Out — This Means You.

  "The hardest thing about the camp," Murray was saying, "was finding the spot to put it. We've just bumped up on what may be the only bedrock in the Everglades."

  They approached a six-foot chain link gate, the fence extending off into the brush on either side — an outer perimeter. As they slowed, an SP moved out of a small shack to open the gate for them, then wave them through on visual recognition, snapping a salute when he saw the captain's uniform.

  They drove through, Largent returning the salute and wondering why it could possibly be important if the camp was located on bedrock or not.

  They drove another quarter mile before reaching the main gate of the compound. Here they moved through another checkpoint, the overhead sign arrogantly stating: Project GOG — Operational Headquarters.

  The sign made Largent as angry as he'd been since seeing the mutilated bodies of Marie Price and her son. These sons of bitches were so confident that they advertised. Sitting out here in the middle of nowhere, they could spew their vile poison publicly, out in the sunshine, as if they were real and honest men.

  "Here it is," Murray said. "Home sweet home."

  Once inside the compound, Largent was surprised at how little there was to it. Cleared, paved ground, sporting several Quonset huts and small, enclosed concrete buildings that looked like bunkers of some kind. He saw no barracks, no motor pool or even mess buildings. The place resembled no military facility that he had ever seen.

  "I suspect that the colonel will want to see you right off," Murray said. "I think he'll be over in Charlie building, supervising the tearing down of the aboveground headquarters."

  The aboveground headquarters? "Fine with me, Sergeant," he said.

  The man drove him across an open space of fifty yards, pulling up in front of one of the Quonset huts, a large C painted on white board above the doorway. By the door, uniformed men were loading storage filing cabinets atop the blades of a gas-driven forklift, the driver tilting back the blacks to hold the cardboard boxes snug.

  The two men got out of the truck, Murray leading Largent through the door. The place looked like a large operations office in total disarray, boxes stacked everywhere, desks piled atop one another near the door. A severe-looking colonel, square jawed and frowning, was supervising the dismantling of a water cooler.

  "Colonel Bartello," Murray called and the man turned, smiling when he saw Largent. He climbed over several typewriters, walking quickly to where the Fed was standing.

  The men saluted, then Bartello stuck out his hand. "You must be Captain Michaels," he said. "I've heard a lot about you."

  Largent shook the man's hand, wanting to use his fist instead. "And you, too," he said. "How's the operation going?"

  "Very quickly," Bartello said, his gray eyes showing no hints of suspicion toward Largent. "We should be finished tonight."

  "Excellent," Largent responded. "And General Cronin...?"

  "Will be here by 1000 hours tomorrow," the man replied.

  "Good." Largent knew from the orders he had studied on the plane that whatever Project GOG was on this end, General Cronin was to head it and assume command of this facility, and that the project would go off the following morning after the facility had been "sealed," for whatever reason.

  "Am I correct to assume that you haven't visited our facility before?" Bartello asked.

  "Quite correct."

  The man smiled coyly, almost smugly. "Then I would imagine that you'd want to see the command center before you do anything else."

  Largent went with the flow. "You're certainly right about that, Colonel."

  "Call me Dick," the man said. "We don't need the formalities between us."

  Largent nodded. "I'm Norm."

  The man looked at Murray. "Any problems coining in?"

  "No, sir."

  Bartello nodded. "I'll drive the captain over to the bunker," he said. "You go check with the quartermaster

  and see how the transfer's doing."

  "Yes, sir."

  Murray turned and walked out quickly, Bartello leading Largent out to the truck at a more leisurely pace.

  "How's the general?" Bartello asked as they climbed into the truck.

  "Alive and kicking," Largent said.

  Bartello looked at him as if he expected something more. "Is he excited about the future?" the man asked, firing the engine and starting off across the pavement.

  "You know the general," Largent returned.

  The man sighed, started to say something else but clammed up instead. Within thirty seconds they pulled up in front of one of the blockhouses Largent had noticed coming in. They climbed out of the truck, Michaels's briefcase still handcuffed to his arm, and walked to the bunker door.

  Bartello glanced down at the briefcase, then opened the door. Before entering, he pulled a small looped metal detector out of his back pocket and went over Largent with it, stopping at the briefcase. "We maintain strict weapons control here, Captain. You'll have to turn the firearm over to me now."

  Largent frowned, then turned his back and opened the briefcase, pulling out the MAC-10. "I wasn't told about this."

  "Sorry, regulations." Bartello stuck the weapon in his belt. "We're proud of this facility," he said, ushering Oscar through the door. "We think it's the finest of its kind on the face of the earth."

  Largent walked into a tiny room, the bunker walls so thick that very little room was left inside. A flight of stairs wound downward, leading to another door. Bartello walked down the stairs, Oscar following.

  "This of course will all be sealed off," he said, gesturing around.

  "Of course."

  Bartello opened the next door, which led to another flight of steps down and yet another door. They passed three more flights before winding down to another small room, this one containing a large elevator with a window cutout made of extraordinarily thick glass.

  "Here we are," Bartello said, pushing a black button set in the wall beside.

  Largent felt a growing ti
ghtness in the pit of his stomach. His mind tried to push away the dark thoughts that were beginning to creep in, as if denial of the obvious would make it go away.

  The elevator door slid open, and the two men stepped inside. Bartello pushed a button; the door slid closed with a sealing whoosh, and they started down, picking up speed as they went.

  He looked at the control box. It showed four lower levels, the light glowing on the fourth, their destination. So far, they hadn't even reached level one.

  Largent could see nothing but rock face through the cutout. A number flashed by, marking one hundred feet, and still they traveled downward.

  "We control the satellites from down here," Bartello said. "Our transmitter dishes are also underground, on gurneys that can be raised for usage, then cranked back down. We could've used the fourth one, but we can cover it just fine with three."

  They were traveling quite fast now, a two-hundred-foot marker flashing by. Largent was dying to know what Bartello was talking about with the satellites and decided to take a brief stab in the dark.

  "Yeah," he said, "that goddamned egghead screwed everything up."

  "Taking out the shuttle wasn't an easy decision," Bartello agreed, "but the general didn't have any choice after Butler shot off his mouth. A damned shame, if you ask me."

  The Fed's head was spinning. He had it all, every bit of it opening up to him, but no way to communicate it back to Brognola and Greggson. They flew past the three-hundred-foot marker, still picking up speed. They'd never track him from the beeper, especially below ground. He'd have to find some way to communicate — and fast.

  Finally, after the four-hundred-foot level, the machine began to slow its decline, until it was moving at a regular elevator rate. All at once, they were passing level one, a wide open barracks, well lit, with a large number of men moving around.

  "Living level," Bartello informed him. "Rec rooms, showers, a movie theater, even a miniature golf. It was modeled after the Navy's specs for aircraft carriers and then improved upon. If need be, the entire level can be abandoned and sealed off if it gets too hot."