Operation Moon Rocket

by Nick Carter

"Hank."

  "Well listen, Hank. You've stumbled into a little official business." Nick flashed the official-looking badge that was part of every AXEman's disguise kit. "We're government investigators, so let's stay calm, keep our voices down and discuss the Hammer case."

  Dexter narrowed his eyes. "If you're government, how come you're pussy-footing around here in the dark?"

  "We're with a top-secret branch of the National Security Agency. That's all I can tell you. Not even the FBI knows about us."

  Dexter was visibly impressed. "Yeah? No kiddin'? I work for NASA myself. I'm with Connelly Aviation."

  "You knew Hammer?"

  "As a neighbor, sure. But not on the job. I work in the Electronic Guidance Division over at the Cape. I'll tell you something, though. Hammer never killed his family or himself. It was murder — to shut him up."

  "How do you know this?"

  "I saw the guys who did it." He glanced over his shoulder nervously, then said, "No kidding. I mean it. I was watching the TV report on the fire that night. They'd just flashed Pat's picture on it. A few minutes later I heard this scream, kind of muffled-like. I went over to the window. There was this car, no marks on it but with a whip aerial, parked out in front of their bungalow. A minute later these three guys in cops' uniforms came runnin' out. They looked kind of like state troopers, only one of 'em was Chinese an' I figured right away that wasn't kosher. There's no Chinese on the force. Another one was totin' a gasoline can an' he had these stains all over his uniform. Later I figured they were blood. They got in the car an' pulled away fast. A few minutes later the real cops came."

  Candy said, "Have you told anyone this?"

  "Are you kiddin'? The FBI, the cops, the NASA people — everybody. Listen, we're all nervous as hell around here." He paused. "Hammer wasn't acting like himself for the last couple of weeks. We all knew there was something wrong, that something was bugging him. The way I figure it, somebody told him he had to play ball with them or his wife and kids would get it."

  A car passed by on the street outside and he immediately froze. It hardly showed. Just a flicker of the eyes, but even in the poor light Nick caught it. "It could happen to any of us," Dexter said hoarsely. "We don't have any protection — nothing like what the missile workers have. So believe you me, I'm plenty glad General Kinetics lent us their cops. Before that, my wife was afraid to even take the kids to school or go shopping. All the women here were. But GKI arranged special bus service and now they do it in one trip) — drop the kids off at school first, then go on to the Orlando shopping center. It's a lot safer that way. And I don't mind leavin' 'em to go to work." He chuckled grimly. "Just the same, Mister — can I have my gun back? Just in case."

  Nick swung the Lamborghini out of the empty lot across from the Georgiana boatyard. "Where are you staying?" he asked her.

  The mission had been accomplished. The evidence, still reeking of gasoline, lay folded in his back pocket next to the pornographic snapshot. The trip back across the waterway had been uneventful. "At the Polaris," she said. "It's on the beach, just north of A1A, on the road to Port Canaveral."

  "Right." He tramped on the gas and the powerful silver bullet surged ahead. The wind whipped their faces. "How do you get around?" he asked her.

  "I left my Giulia in Palm Beach," she replied. "Daddy's chauffeur will drive it up in the morning."

  Of course, he thought. It figured. An Alfa-Romeo. Suddenly she moved closer and he felt her hand on his arm. "Are we off-duty now?"

  He glanced at her, eyes glinting with amusement. "Unless you have a better idea."

  She shook her head. "I don't" He felt her hand tighten on his arm. "What about you?"

  He sneaked a look at his watch. Eleven-fifteen. "I've got to get settled somewhere," he said.

  He could feel her fingernails through his shirt now. "The Polaris," she murmured. "TV in every room, heated pool, pets, cafe, dining room, bar and coin laundry."

  "Is that a good idea?" he chuckled.

  "That's your decision." He could feel the jutting hardness of her breasts against his sleeve. He glanced at her in the mirror. The wind had plastered her long, burnished blonde hair against the side of her face. She moved the hair aside with the fingers of her right hand and Nick had a good view of her profile — the high brow, deep-blue eyes, the wide sensuous mouth bearing the faint traces of a smile. The little girl was now a highly desirable woman, he thought. But duty called. He had to contact AXE headquarters before midnight.

  "The first rule of espionage," he recited. "Avoid being seen in the company of a fellow operative."

  He felt her stiffen, draw away. "Meaning?"

  They had just passed the Gemini Inn on North Atlantic Avenue. "That I'll be staying there," he said. He stopped for a traffic light and glanced over at her. Its red glow turned her skin to flame.

  She didn't speak to him again on the way to the Polaris, and when she got out, her face was closed to him, angry. She slammed the door and disappeared into the lobby without looking back. She wasn't used to being turned down. The rich never are.

  * * *

  Hawk's voice cut into his ear like a knife. "Flight 1401-A leaves Miami International for Houston at 3:00 a.m. est. Poindexter of Editing will meet you in front of the airline ticket counter at 2:30 A.M. He'll have all the necessary information with him, including a study folder on your background and present duties."

  Nick was on Route 1 again, heading south through an anonymous world of rushing lights and darkness. Hawk's voice began to fade and he leaned forward, adjusting the knob on the tiny, ultra-sensitive two-way radio concealed among the dazzling array of dials on the dashboard.

  When the head of AXE paused, he said, "If you'll excuse the expression, sir, I don't know beans about outer space. How can I hope to masquerade as an astronaut?"

  "We'll come back to that in a moment, N3." Hawk's voice was so sharp that Nick winced and adjusted the volume control of his earplug. Any similarity between the rambling, glassy-eyed drunk of that afternoon and the man who now sat speaking to him from his desk at AXE's Washington headquarters was strictly the result of Hawk's acting ability and of a stomach as tough and leathery as his hide.

  "Now regarding the situation at the Bali Hai," Hawk continued, "let me explain. There has been high-level leakage of information for months. We think: we've narrowed it down to this restaurant. Senators, generals, top government contractors dine there. There's careless talk. The microphones pick it up. But where it goes, we don't know. So this afternoon I deliberately gave out false information." He allowed himself a brief, humorless chuckle. "Rather like tracing a leak by dumping yellow dye into the plumbing system. I want to see where that yellow dye comes out. AXE has sensitive listening posts at all levels in every government and espionage organization in the world. They'll pick it up and presto — we'll have the connecting pipeline."

  Through the curved wind screen Nick watched a reddish glow of lights growing rapidly larger. "So everything I was told in the Bali Hai was false," he said, slowing for the Vero Beach Interchange. He thought fleetingly of the suitcases containing his personal things. They were sitting in a room he'd never even entered at the Gemini Inn in Cocoa Beach. No sooner had he registered than he'd had to rush back to his car to contact AXE. No sooner had he contacted AXE than he was on his way back to Miami. Had the trip north really been necessary? Couldn't Hawk have brought his own stooge along to Palm Beach?

  "Not everything, N3. That's just the point. Only a few items were false — but vital ones. I suggested that the U.S. moon program was a shambles. I further suggested that it would be a couple of years before it would get under way again. The truth, however, is — and this is known only to me, a few top officials of NASA, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the President, and now you, Nicholas — the truth is that NASA is going to attempt another manned flight within the next few days. Not even the astronauts themselves know about it. It's to be called Phoenix One — because it will arise from the ashes of the Apollo pr
oject. Fortunately Connelly Aviation has the equipment ready. They're rushing a second capsule to Cape Kennedy from their California plant. The second team of astronauts are at the peak of their training, ready to go. It's felt that this is the psychological moment for another shot." The voice paused. "This one, of course, must go off without a hitch. It's felt that a smashing success at this moment is the only thing that will remove the bitter taste of the Apollo disaster from the public's mouth. And that taste must be removed if the U.S. space program is to be saved."

  "And where," Nick asked, "does Astronaut N3 enter the picture?"

  "There's a man lying in a coma in Walter Reed Hospital at this moment," said Hawk harshly. He spoke into the microphone on his desk in Washington and his voice was scrambled into meaningless vibrations along the airwaves that were translated into normal human sounds by a complex series of microscopic relays in the car radio. They arrived in Nick's ear as Hawk's voice — and with no loss of harshness along the way. "He's been there for three days. The doctors aren't sure they can save him, or if they can, whether his mind will ever be the same again. He was the captain of the second reserve team — Colonel Glenn Eglund. Someone tried to murder him at the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston where he and his teammates were training for the project."

  Hawk sketched in the details as Nick sent the silver 350 GT hurtling through the night. Colonel Eglund had been in the sealed prototype of the Apollo capsule, testing the life support system. Someone had apparently adjusted the controls from outside, stepping up the nitrogen content. This had mixed with the astronaut's own perspiration inside his space suit to form deadly, intoxicating Amine gas.

  "Eglund had obviously seen something," said Hawk, "or in some way knew too much. What, we don't know. He was unconscious when found, and has never regained consciousness. But we hope to find out. That's why you're to take his place, N3. Eglund is approximately your age, your size, has your general physique. Poindexter's skill with makeup will take care of the rest."

  "What about the girl?" Nick asked. "Candy Sweet."

  "Let her stay where she is for the moment. By the way, N3, what's your impression of her?"

  "She can be very professional at times, a damned fool at others."

  "Yes — like her father," replied Hawk, and Nick could feel the ice in his tone. "I never approved of the society element in the upper echelons of the CIA, but that was before I had any say about it. Dickinson Sweet should have had more sense than to let his daughter get mixed up in a thing like this. That's another reason I flew down to Palm Beach personally — I wanted to have a chat with the girl before she contacted you." He paused. "That foray into the back of the Bali Hai that you mentioned earlier — in my opinion it was pointless and risky. Do you think you can keep her from upsetting any more apple carts?"

  Nick said he could, adding, "One good thing came out of it, though. An interesting snapshot of Dr. Sun. There's also a man in it. I'll have Poindexter send it on for identification."

  "Hmm." Hank's voice was non-committal. "Dr. Sun is in Houston now with the other astronauts. She doesn't know, of course, that you're subbing for Eglund. The only person outside AXE who does know is General Hewlett McAlester, the overall chief of NASA Security. He helped arrange the masquerade."

  "I still have my doubts about bringing it off," said Nick. "After all, the astronauts in the team have been training together for months. They know each other intimately."

  "Fortunately we have the Amine poisoning working for us," Hawk's voice rasped in his ear. "One of the chief symptoms is a weakening of the memory function. So if you don't remember all your colleagues and duties, it will seem quite natural." He paused. "Besides, I doubt that you'll have to keep the charade up for more than a day. Whoever made that first attempt on Eglund's life will try again. And he — or she — won't waste much time about it."

  Chapter 5

  She was even more beautiful than the pornographic photo had suggested. Beautiful in a chiseled, almost inhuman way which Nick found unnerving. Her hair was black — black as an arctic midnight — matching her eyes even to the glints and highlights that shone there. Her mouth was full, luscious, accented by the inherited cheekbones of her forebears — those on her father's side, at least. Nick remembered the dossier he'd studied on the flight to Houston. Her mother was English.

  She hadn't seen him yet. She was walking along the neutral-smelling white corridor of the Manned Spacecraft Center, talking with a colleague.

  Her body was good. The crisp white smock she wore over her street clothes couldn't hide that. She was a shapely, full-breasted woman who walked with a deliberate stance that thrust her beauty forward provocatively, each lithe step outlining the youthful swelling of her thighs.

  Quickly N3 reviewed the salient facts: Joy Han Sun, M.D., Ph.D.; born in Shanghai during Japanese occupation; British mother, Chinese businessman father; educated at Mansfield College in Kowloon, then at M.I.T. in Massachusetts; became U.S. citizen; a specialist in aerospace medicine; worked first for General Kinetics (at GKI's Miami Medical Institute), then for the U.S. Air Force at Brooks Field, San Antonio; finally for NASA itself, dividing her time between the Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston and Cape Kennedy.

  "Dr. Sun, may we see you a moment?"

  It was the tall, anvil-shouldered man at Nick's side who spoke. Major Duane F. Sollitz, Security Chief for the Apollo Project. Nick had been handed over to him for re-processing by General McAlester;

  She turned toward them, a faint smile still on her lips from the previous conversation. Her gaze brushed past Major Sollitz and came to an abrupt halt at Nick's face — the face on which Poindexter of Editing had labored for almost two hours that morning.

  She was good. She didn't scream or run down the hall or do anything silly. And the widening of her eyes was barely perceptible, but to Nick's trained eye the effect was no less dramatic than if she had. "I didn't expect you back this soon, Colonel." Her voice was low, its timbre remarkable clear. The accent was British. They shook hands, European style. "How do you feel?"

  "Still a bit disoriented." He spoke with a pronounced Kansas twang — the result of sitting three hours with a tape-recording of Eglund's voice plugged into his ear.

  "That's to be expected, Colonel."

  He watched the pulse beating in her slim throat. She didn't look away from him but the smile was gone and her dark eyes were strangely bright.

  Major Sollitz glanced at his watch. "He's all yours, Dr. Sun," he said in clipped, precise tones. "I'm running late for the o-nine-hundred meeting. Let me know if any problems crop up." He turned abruptly on his heel and marched off. There were no waste motions with Sollitz. A ramrod-stiff veteran of the Flying Tigers and a Japanese POW camp in the Philippines, he was almost a caricature of militarism run rampant.

  General McAlester had been worried about sneaking Nick past him. "He's sharp," he'd said while visiting Nick in Eglund's Lawndale Road apartment that morning. "Very sharp. So don't relax around him for even a second. Because if he tumbles to the fact that you're not Eglund, he'll push the alarm button and blow your cover higher than the Washington Monument." But when Nick had reported to the Major's office, it had gone off like a charm. Sollitz had been so surprised to see him that he'd put him through only the most perfunctory of security checks.

  "Follow me, please," said Dr. Sun.

  Nick fell in behind her, automatically noting the smooth, limber movement of her hips, the length of her long, firm legs. The opposition, he decided, was getting better and better looking.

  Opposition she was, though. No doubt about it. And maybe a killer, too. He remembered Hawk's phrase: "He, or she, will try again." And so far it all pointed to "she." The person who'd tried to kill Eglund had to be, (first,) someone with access to the Medical Research Section and (second,) someone with scientific training, particularly in the chemistry of extra-terrestrial life support. Someone who knew that a certain quantity of extra nitrogen would mix with the ammonia from human sweat to f
orm deadly Amine gas. Dr. Sun, Medical Research Chief of Project Apollo, had the access and the training, and her special field was maintaining human life in outer space.

  She opened the door of a small anteroom and stood aside, motioning to Nick. "Take off your clothes, please. I'll be right with you."

  Nick swung toward her, his nerves suddenly tight. Forcing his tone to remain casual, he said, "Is this absolutely necessary? I mean Walter Reed released me, and a copy of their report is on its way to you."

  The smile was faintly mocking. It started in the eyes, then touched her mouth. "Don't be shy, Colonel Eglund. It won't be the first time I've seen you naked, after all."

  That was exactly what Nick was afraid of. He had scars on his body he was sure Eglund never had. Poindexter had done nothing about them, for this was a completely unexpected development. Editing's Documents Section had worked up a phony medical report on Walter Reed stationery. They had figured that would be enough, that NASA Medical would only test his sight, hearing, motor reactions and sense of balance.

  Nick got undressed and laid his things across a chair. Pointless to resist. "Eglund" couldn't return to training until he'd received a medical fitness okay from Dr. Sun. He heard a door open and close. High heels clicked toward him. The plastic curtains were drawn aside. "The shorts, too, please," she said. Reluctantly, he slid them off. "Step out here, please."

  In the middle of the room was an odd-looking surgical couch made of leather and gleaming aluminum. Nick didn't like the look of it. He felt more than naked. He felt vulnerable. The stiletto he usually carried up his sleeve, the gas bomb that usually nestled in his pocket, the stripped-down Luger he called Wilhelmina, all his usual "protective devices" were far away — at AXE headquarters in Washington where he'd left them before going on vacation. If the doors suddenly burst open and fifty armed men leaped in, he'd be forced to fight with the only weapon at hand — his body.

  It was lethal enough, though. Even in repose, it was streamlined, muscular, dangerous-looking. The hard, tanned flesh was creased with old scars. The muscles were etched against the bones. The hands were big, thick, knotted with veins. They looked made for violence — as befitted a man whose code name was Killmaster.