“What else? I’d like to squeeze that guy’s nuts together. For about two hours straight.”
“Yeah,” the wheelman said, commiserating with his boss’s humiliation.
They had been running in a standard four-wagon formation—closely spaced with two cars ahead and one behind. The head car was now signaling for the turn through the gate, and the following cars were falling back, letting some slack in. Ordinarily this would be a “quick in” maneuver, designed to get all cars inside as quickly as possible once that point car was out of the lineup. If anyone had a mind to do some whacking, it would be a time like this to tempt them the most—with the forces split, half in and half out of home base.
But that point car up there had come to a complete halt and guys were bailing out of there, one running back toward the other vehicles with one hand raised while the others ran around up there by the gate.
Alimonte growled, “What the hell?”
Parelli had stood the car on its nose and shifted into reverse, a purely mechanical response. “Something’s sour,” he needlessly commented.
“Jim! Tinker! Go see!”
The back doors sprang open and the two jumpseaters hopped out. The guy from the point car was already there, though, leaning in from the wheel man’s side to report, “The gate is standing wide open and nobody’s there, boss! Wiggy figured—”
“He figured right!” Alimonte assured the guy. “Check it out!”
“We’re doing that.”
Someone ran into the middle of the road up there and shouted something.
“What was that?” asked Alimonte, frowning.
“They found Ringo the Kid. With a cut throat.”
“Inside!” Alimonte decided immediately. “Let’s get it inside!”
The guy from the point car jerked his head in a quick nod and ran back up the line, yelling the instruction as he went.
A moment later, the procession lurched ahead then began moving smoothly as car by car swung through the gate and accelerated up the long drive to the house.
Alimonte’s face was white with excitement as his own vehicle cleared the gate and lined into the final dash.
“Bolan,” he muttered. “It’s got to be that Bolan. But how the hell did he find this place?”
“Think he’s still here?” Parelli asked, his voice almost breaking with the excitement of the moment.
It had, after all, been a frustrating and anti-climactic day, to this point—and all these boys needed a lift.
“I hope so,” Alimonte declared fervently. “God, I hope so.”
And, of course, he was.
“It’s going to take awhile, Lieutenant,” Willis reported. “There are several banks that could be looked into, but nobody’s exactly sure where to find them. The man out at the university has sent in a request to the national date center in Washington and hopes to get an index within the next hour or so. Meanwhile, there’s only one possibility—and that’s the local historical society. The university ran a scan through their stuff and came up with the old McNamara Farms over near Webster Groves. The original land grand was subdivided about ten years ago but the original farm buildings are still there, along with about ten acres of land. The historical society tried to buy the place a few years ago but something went wrong with the deal. They still have the place on their watch list, though. I don’t know exactly what the connection is, but the computer evidently found something there in the data to come up with a possible Stonehenge make. Lieutenant? You still there?”
“I’m here, Willis. Who owns the place now?”
“We’re checking it out. I’m sorry, that’s all I have for now.”
“I’m on Route 100 near Rock Hill,” Postum said, sighing. “Give me a fix on that farm.”
“Say—you’re close. McNamara Farms forms the natural extension north of Grove Country Estates. That should be on your map. It’s—”
“I have it. Good work, Willis. I’m rolling south. Keep me advised.”
“Will do.”
The intelligence chief was beginning to feel like a fool. Out here, running around the countryside, grasping at straws and hoping to sniff a fart in a windstorm.
Rock Hill, indeed.
So much for scents and shivers.
So much, also, for computers. Solid-state brains were not the golden panacea which most people seemed to think they were—present company not excepted, he wryly added to that thought. A computer was no smarter than the man sitting at the program board, no more omniscient than the information contained in its data banks, and certainly no more useful than the availability of those banks.
So, the computer was offering him an old farmhouse. Why? Couldn’t you ask a computer how it arrived at its decisions? Not, probably, without a program code—then that code would require another, and that one another, and on and on into infinity.
But why McNamara Farms? What could be the correlation between ancient ruins in England and—and what?
Well dammit!
If the historical society was interested, then that could only mean—an ancient ruin? Well, no—the society did not preserve ruins.
So what was Stonehenge?
What did it signify to this present age?
What, dammit, is it? Program Query: “Chief Computer—please, sir, what the hell is Stonehenge?”
And from the intelligence chief’s personal computer, the one between his ears, came a tentative answer.
Anachronism?
A thing out of time with its surroundings?
An old farm, maybe, all but swallowed up in the march of progress—in the flow of city dwellers back to the countryside?
Postum was shivering again.
And his shivers beat the scanners by about ten seconds. He had just pulled off the road onto a ridge overlooking by perhaps a hundred feet the gently rolling terrain to south and east when the UHF scanner locked onto a signal from an unlikely frequency and his dash-mounted speaker crackled with a brief—oh, so brief—communiqué of a find lately grown so familiar.
A very weak, “Go”.
And a responding, stronger, “Caravan approaching, east. Four bandits. One minute.”
“Stand by.”
Not the right voice among the two, no, but definitely the right words!
Postum stabbed his chart with a shaking forefinger and quickly related his own position to the brownish patch representing Grove Country Estates.
Hell!
He should be able to see it from here!
He grabbed the binoculars and began a scan, then halted almost immediately and refined the focus. An anachronism, yeah. Rising up from lush green fields and stately lines of trees, barely visible from this angle but definitely out of step with place and time—a strongly anachronistic roof with its widow’s walk where a lonely housewife could go up and scan the fields for her man—McNamara’s woman, maybe—and sure, that was it, a place out of time—the rock walls, the …
He put the truck in gear and rolled along the ridge for another few hundred feet, trying for a better angle and finding it. He could see most of it now, even the road running along the eastern boundary and … and, yeah, four damn black limousines tooling along down there.
Stonehenge revealed! Decoded, discovered …
Postum snared his mike from the dashboard clip and was about to report in when the monitor again crackled with another of those cryptic exchanges.
“We’re stoning it. Use your own head but don’t send another to center. Keep them distant.”
“Right. I have acquisition. I have to go. Remain clear of lower grids.”
Acquisition of what? Remain clear of …? For some reason which Tom Postum would never quite make himself understand, he returned the mike to its clip and stepped outside with the binoculars, remaining close to the vehicle in the hopes of overhearing more but determined also to get a clear look at whatever was going down out there.
The four vehicles had come to a halt outside the wall, tiny figures scurrying
around in the focal field of the glasses—unrecognizable through the limited abilities of the glasses but obviously in a state of agitation.
And, from the monitor inside the truck:
“They’re looking.”
“They’ve found your welcome home present.”
“They’re rolling again. One is through … two … three … all birdies now back in the nest. Stand by. Stand by. One away!”
What happened next literally staggered the cop.
The thing came whizzing into the focal field from somewhere eastward, streaking through the air like a blazing arrow and disappearing behind some trees on the Stonehenge grounds … then a towering fireball mushrooming high above all else down there.
Anachronistic, no—but, rockets over Missouri?
It was several seconds before the sound wave reached his ears, confirming the testimony of the eyes with a thunderous, rolling, report … and by then another blazing arrow was streaking in, another mushroom of fire lifting over the trees …
Yeah. A military force was waging a war in Missouri!
Then came the capper.
A thin, powdery cloud rose up to partially obscure that ancient roof down there—and the roof, Mrs. McNamara’s walk and all, slipped away and descended within the cloud below the trees.
Postum dropped the glasses and scrambled to his vehicle.
Stonehenge was not merely decoded. Stonehenge was now unhinged.
15: WHEELING IT
Bolan joined Blancanales in the trees out front and relieved him of the M-16. They cached their booty from the Stonehenge vault while Blancanales updated him on the outside developments.
“I gave Gadgets firing head,” the Pol reported. “He’s waiting them into the best target zone. From his angle, that’s probably the ninety-degree jog where the drive break’s clear of the tree line. That puts them broadside to his firetrack and moving slow along the perpendicular.”
Bolan nodded, accepting that. “Complicates our close cover,” he commented. “We have to lay high, both of us on the same side. I’ll take the point action, you cover the followers. Got some more clips for the ’16?”
Blancanales solemnly passed over the backup ammo. “Sarge … I’m glad to be back.”
“Glad to have you back, Pol.”
“Just want you to know. This is, uh … it’s my own decision to be here. You know?”
Bolan knew. Their gazes locked warmly for a microsecond—and that was all the time there was. The whine of powerful engines in high traction were rapidly approaching—flashes of motion through the trees and reflected sunlight from polished surfaces serving as confirmation of that which was coming at them.
Four cars could mean twenty-five to thirty boys, depending on how well they liked to travel in comfort.
Bolan fingered the black box and hurried off to the point assignment—Blancanales jogging off into the other direction.
He was saving the demolition blast for the best military moment. It would be a ground-shaker, and a further demoralization factor—and there was no doubt in Bolan’s mind that he and the Pol were going to need every edge they could manufacture, rockets from on high notwithstanding. Warfare was still primarily a grunt’s business and, after all was said and done, it was the eye-to-eye and toe-to-toe that decided most military engagements.
Yeah, Pol. I’m damned glad you’re here.
Live large, guy. And, God willing, live on!
“Get those windows down!” Alimonte commanded. “Eyes open, and watch your crossfire! Let’s don’t go shooting each other’s ears off. Indy, you stand ’er on the nose at the final tree line! Jim, you and Tinker bail out there and cover the rear. Rest of you boys spring at the parking oval and keep some distance between yourselves! Indy, you stick with the wheels and don’t let no body come near!”
The wheelman was wondering about the two crews up front. “Yessir. Will Ed and Wiggy—?”
“Standard procedure!” Alimonte snarled. “They’ll cover the sides. Bobby will peel out from the oval and take the rear.”
Parelli was lightly tapping his brake pedal now, slowing for the turn onto final approach. He was a true pro, and proud of his status behind the wheel. A good wheelman was worth a dozen guns sometimes. He was critically evaluating the performance of the two in front of him, watching them perform under duress, mentally awarding them both points and brownies depending upon the degree of control and stability exhibited—the way they powered into the turns and recovered into the runs, the smoothness, the …
“That’s good, good,” he muttered.
“What’s good?” Alimonte growled, craning his head for a look.
“That turn—did you see that turn? Marty has got—”
“Shut up! Keep your mind!”
Parelli bit his tongue and tapped the brakes again, preparing to seize the moment for a power sweep into that ninety-degree turn left.
He was a trifle upset about Alimonte’s sharp words. After all, Parelli was the wheels chief, wasn’t he? It was his job to notice such things, to be sure the wheels were always hot and ready to roll, to see that …
But then something totally upsetting destroyed his concentration and ruined his timing beyond recovery. Something bright and whizzy came crackling through the air about two car-lengths off to his left, something trailing fire and smoke and moving faster than any competition Parelli had ever been in, something that passed him like he was standing still and whizzed on toward the forward cars which were now running perpendicular to Parelli’s course.
Alimonte yelled, “What the hell?”
At least, that was what Parelli thought the boss yelled. He couldn’t be sure—that’s how fast that thing was moving. The boss’s alarm squeal was eclipsed by the loudest noise ever made on earth, and Wiggy’s wheels were completely enveloped in a cloud of fire …
And Indy Parelli missed his turn.
It was the crowning humiliation to cap an already humiliating day. The true pro’s vehicle was caroming around in the trees. It was all he could do to save the final humiliation—and Indy Parelli did not know nor would he have cared, at that moment, that Ed’s wheels had also suddenly disintegrated under the impact of another whizzer from nowhere.
“You idiot!” Alimonte screamed. “Stop the car! Stop it!”
God, wasn’t Parelli trying to?
He sideswiped one large tree and bounded through a thicket of shrubs, then fishtailed around with the rear end wedged against a drooping willow. Alimonte was thrown against the windshield by the terrific lashing motion, but he bounced back, viciously rubbing his forehead and muttering profanities.
The rear doors popped open and the guys back there were scrambling outside.
Nobody was saying anything.
Parelli re-started the engine and let it idle while he glanced anxiously around for an understanding of what had occurred.
Two cars were blazing, roaring fireballs—both of them punched clear off the road and completely off their wheels—and nothing alive was moving over there.
The fourth car had screeched to a swinging halt broadside into the curve and its nose now pointing back toward the gate—and, yeah, Jock Malloy had handled that real sweet; mark a point on the sheet for that wheeler!
Alimonte was still rubbing his head and cussing.
Somewhere out there a chopper cut loose, and a withering fusillade began playing spoons on Jock Malloy’s wheels. Those guys back there were tumbling everywhere and shooting back—at what, Indy Parelli could not have told God himself—but they looked pretty good, like they knew what the hell they were doing, and Parelli certainly hoped so.
Nobody was saying anything, though, and that was the worst part. Guns chattering and booming, guys jumping around from tree to tree, some of them falling very quietly with blood flinging out of them.
And the boss just sat there, rubbing his head and cussing to himself.
Parelli yelled, “Boss, we better—”
But then came the biggy, and Parelli
the Indianapolis Wheel ran out of ideas in mid-sentence. It even jerked Alimonte out of his stupor—a great, groaning roar followed instantly by a thunderclap that shook the air and rocked the car—and a big cloud of dust rolling out in all directions from the big joint. The whole thing was falling in, like in slow motion, like somebody had kicked out the pegs and left it nothing to stand on and it was coming unglued layer by layer.
Alimonte groaned, “He blew up the palace!”
And Parelli said, in an awed voice, “Yeah. God!”
Then this big tall guy in a black outfit with war stuff strung all over him came striding through the trees, a military-style automatic blowing shit all over the place. He was sweeping straight toward Parelli’s beloved wheels when one of the guys from Malloy’s car jumped out from behind a tree and threw down on him with both barrels from a shotgun. The tall guy danced away from that, skipping to cover behind a tree and laying back on that poor shit over there with the empty shotgun.
Indy Parelli would never apologize to anybody for what he did then. His boss was sitting there in a daze with blood seeping from a clout on his forehead. All the other guys were out there some place running through the woods and firing at chiggers. And there simply was nothing left for Parelli to do.
He threw that big powerhouse into hot traction and spun the hell out of that mess, careening through the stand of timber and not exactly missing all of it all of the time but getting the hell out of there just the same, putting distance between himself and certain death—and he managed to get it back onto the road about halfway to the gate, hitting that pavement with a screech of tires and a puff of burning rubber and sending every horse he had in a dead heat for that finish line up there.
He hit the gate doing sixty—braking and spinning and tromping again to power into the turn—and he thought he was home clean until the corner of his eyes caught the looming vision of that goddamn delivery truck, going faster than any goddamn delivery truck had a right to—and there was no avoiding this one.
He spun the wheel and tromped the gas anyway, hoping for a miracle and finding nothing there but a sigh and a groan.
They came together with a horrible rending, shrieking, and grinding of metal against metal—then Parelli’s mind spun out of all that, leaving it for good and all.
St. Louis Showdown Page 9
