Operation Moon Rocket

by Nick Carter

  Nick had a pretty good hunch. Once she had seen him naked she knew he wasn't Colonel Eglund, which meant that he had to be a government plant, which meant in turn that he'd been brought in to trap her. So what better place to send him than the moonscape? There her confederate — or was it plural? — could arrange still another convenient "accident."

  Finney picked up the phone and ordered some first aid supplies. When he hung up, he turned to Nick and said, "I'm going to have your car brought around front. Caine, you drive him home. And Eglund, you stay there until I can get a doctor over to check you out."

  Nick shrugged inwardly. It didn't matter where he waited. The next move was hers. Because one thing was sure. She couldn't rest until he was out of the picture. Permanently.

  * * *

  Poindexter had turned the storm cellar of Eglund's bachelor bungalow into a full-scale AXE field office.

  There was a miniature darkroom equipped with 35mm. cameras, film, developers and microdot equipment, a metal filing cabinet filled with Lastotex masks, flexible saw blades in shoelaces, compasses in buttons, fountain pens that shot needles, watches containing tiny transistor transmitters and an elaborate communications setup featuring a solid-state picture-phone that could link them with headquarters at a moment's notice.

  "Look as if you've been busy," said Nick.

  "I've got an ID on the man in the photo," Poindexter replied with carefully suppressed enthusiasm. He was a straw-haired, choirboy-faced New Englander who looked as though he'd be more at home organizing a church picnic than working with sophisticated devices of death and destruction.

  He unpinned a damp 8 × 10 from the dryer and handed it to Nick. It was a front-view, head-and-shoulders shot of a dark, wolf-faced man with dead gray eyes. A deep scar encircled his neck just beneath the third vertebra. "Name's Rinaldo Tribolati," said Poindexter, "but he calls himself Reno Tree for short. The print's a bit fuzzy because I took it directly off the picture-phone. It's a photo of a photo of a photo."

  "How come so fast?"

  "It wasn't the tattoo. That type of dragon is pretty common. Thousands of GI's who served in the Far East — particularly in the Philippines during World War II — have them. It was the scar around the neck that tipped off the ID boys. They made a blowup and studied it. Caused by rope burn. And that was all they had to know. Seems this Reno Tree was once a hit man for the Las Vegas mobs. One of his intended victims almost got him, though. Garrotted him half to death. He still carries the scar."

  "I've heard the name Reno Tree," said Nick, "but not as a hit man. As a kind of dancing master to the Jet Set."

  "That's our boy," replied Poindexter. "He's legit now. The society girls seem to love him. Pic Magazine called him the Pied Piper of Palm Beach. He runs the discotheque in the Bali Hai."

  Nick looked at the front-view photo, then at the copy of the pornographic snapshot that Poindexter had handed him. The ecstatic expression on Joy Sun's face still haunted him. "Hardly what you'd call handsome," he said. "Wonder what the girls see in him."

  "Maybe they like the way he slaps them around."

  "He's that type, is he?" Nick folded the photos and slipped them into his wallet. "Better raise headquarters," he added. "I've got to check in."

  Poindexter walked over to the picture-phone and flicked a switch. "He was licensed by the mob to operate as a Shylock and extortionist," he said, watching the screen shimmer to life. "In return he killed and did strong-arm work for them. He was known as the last resort. When all other Shylocks turned a man down, Reno Tree would take him on. He loved it when they defaulted. It gave him a reason to work them over. But most of all he loved to torture women. There's a story around that he had a stable of girls in Vegas and that he slashed all their faces with a razor when he left town... A-4, N3 on the scrambler from H.T. station," he said as a lovely brunette wearing a communications headset shimmered into view.

  "Hold, please." She was replaced by the iron-gray-haired old man to whom Nick gave all his allegiance and most of his affection. N3 made his report, noting as he did that the familiar cigar was missing and also the usual glint of humor in the ice-chip eyes. Hawk was upset, preoccupied. And he lost no time in getting to what was troubling him.

  "The AXE listening posts have reported in," he said brusquely at the conclusion of Nick's report. "And the news isn't good. That false information I spread at the Bali Hai has turned up — but domestically, at a relatively low underworld level. Bets are being placed in Las Vegas on the NASA moon program. The smart money is saying it will be two years before the project gets under way again." He paused. "What has me really concerned, however, is that the top secret information I gave you on Phoenix One has also appeared — and at a very high level in Washington."

  Hawk's craggy features grew even grimmer. "It will be a day or so before we hear from our people inside foreign espionage organizations," he added, "but it doesn't look good. Someone very high up is leaking information. Our adversary, in short, has an operative placed high in NASA itself."

  The full significance of Hawk's words slowly sank in — Phoenix One was now also in jeopardy.

  A light flashed and from the corner of his eye Nick saw Poindexter pick up the telephone. He turned toward Nick, covering the mouthpiece. "It's General McAlester," he said.

  "Put him on the conference box so Hawk can listen in."

  Poindexter threw a switch and the voice of the NASA Security Chief filled the room. "There's been a fatal accident at the Texas City plant of GKI Industries," he announced tersely. "It happened last night — in the division that manufactures an element of the Apollo life support system. Alex Simian flew in from Miami with his security chief to investigate. He called me a few minutes ago and said that he had something of vital importance to show us. As captain of the second reserve team you should naturally be in on this. We'll pick you up in fifteen minutes."

  "Right," said Nick, and swiveled back to face Hawk.

  "So it's starting to happen already," said the old man grimly.

  Chapter 7

  The big Fleetwood Eldorado swept along the Gulf Freeway.

  Outside, the Texas heat was bright, heavy, oppressive. The flat horizon shimmered with it. The limousine's interior was cool, however, almost cold, and the tinted blue windows shaded the eyes of the five men who sat in the comfortable seats.

  "Thoughtful of GKI to send their limousine for us," said General McAlester, drumming his ringers broodingly on the edge of his armrest.

  "Now, now, Hewlett, don't be cynical," Ray Finney chuckled caustically. "You know Alex Simian can't do enough for us at NASA. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that his company makes only one element in the moon spacecraft and would like to make the whole thing."

  "Of course not," laughed McAlester. "What's one million dollars versus twenty billion? Among friends, at any rate?"

  Gordon Nash, the captain of the first astronaut team, swiveled around in the jump seat. "Look, I don't care what the rest of you say about Simian," he snapped. "The guy's all right in my book. If his friendship places a strain on our integrity, that's our problem, not his."

  Nick stared out the window, listening to the argument heat up once again. It had sizzled on and off all the way from Houston. Simian, and General Kinetics in general, seemed to be a sore, much discussed point among the four of them.

  Ray Finney chimed in once again. "How many houses, boats, cars and TV sets have each of us had to turn down during the last year? I'd hate to have to add their total value up."

  "Purely good will," grinned McAlester. "How did Simian put it to that Senate Investigating Committee?"

  "That any disclosure of gift offers might destroy the intimate and confidential nature of NASA's relationships with its contractors," Finney recited with mock solemnity.

  Major Sollitz leaned forward and slid the glass paneling shut. McAlester chuckled. "Wasted effort, Duane. I'm sure the whole limousine is bugged, not just our chauffeur. Simian is even more security con
scious than you are."

  "I just feel we shouldn't go on record as talking about the man this way," Sollitz snapped. "Simian is no different from any other contractor. Aerospace is a roller-coaster business. And with government orders growing bigger, but fewer, the competition is getting really vicious. If we were in his shoes we'd be doing exactly the same..."

  "Now, Duane, I don't think that's quite fair," said McAlester. "There's more to this Simian business than that."

  "Undue influence? Then why doesn't NASA drop GKI completely?"

  "Because they make the best life support system that can be made," Gordon Nash broke in heatedly. "Because they've made submarines for thirty-five years and know all there is to know about life support whether it's under the ocean or out in space. My life, and Glenn's life here — " he pointed at Nick, " — depend on them. I don't think we should downgrade them."

  "No one's downgrading their technical knowhow. It's GKI's financial side that could use some investigating. At least the Cooper Committee seems to think so."

  "Look, I'm the first to admit that Alex Simian's reputation is unsavory. He's a wheeler and dealer, there's no denying that. And it's part of the public record that he was once a speculator in commodities. But General Kinetics was a company with no future five years ago. Then Simian took it over — and look at it now."

  Nick looked out the window. They had arrived at the outer edges of GKI's sprawling Texas City plant. A tangle of boxlike brick offices, glass-roofed research laboratories and steel-walled hangars went fanning past. Overhead, jet contrails laced the sky, and above the quiet hiss of the Eldorado's air conditioning, Nick could hear the wail of GK-111's taking off to fly directly to U.S. bases in the Far East with the help of in-flight refueling.

  The limousine slowed as it approached the main gate. Green-uniformed Security Police with eyes like steel marbles waved them down and leaned in the windows, checking their credentials. Finally they were allowed to move on — but only to a white-and-black barrier manned by more GKI police. A couple of them got down on their hands and knees and peered under the Caddy's suspension. "I only wish we were as thorough at NASA," Sollitz said grimly.

  "You forget why we're here," McAlester shot back. "Apparently there's been a breach in all this security."

  The barrier was raised and the limousine moved out across a huge concrete apron past the white blocky shapes of workshops, skeletal missile launchers and cavernous machine shops.

  Near the center of this open expanse, the Eldorado slowed to a stop. The chauffeur's voice said over the intercom : "Gentlemen, this is as far as I have authorization to go." He pointed through the windshield to a small building set apart from the others. "Mr. Simian is waiting for you at the Spacecraft Simulator."

  "Whew!" gasped McAlester at the blast-oven wind that buffeted them as they got out of the car. Major Sollitz's visored cap blew off. He dashed after it, moving stiffly, awkwardly, grabbing for it with his left hand. "Atta boy, Duane. That's fielding them," chuckled McAlester.

  Gordon Nash laughed. He shielded his eyes against the sun and stared at the building. "Gives you a good idea of how small a part the space program plays in GKI's business," he said.

  Nick stopped and turned. Something had begun to itch deep down in his mind. Something, some small detail, had raised a tiny question mark.

  "Maybe so," said Ray Finney as they started walking, "but all of GKI's Defense Department contracts are up for review this year. And word is the government won't give them any new ones until the Cooper Committee's CPA's have been over their books."

  McAlester snorted contemptuously. "Bluff," he said. "It would take ten accountants working ten hours a day at least ten years to unravel Simian's financial empire. The man is richer than any half-dozen small countries you'd want to name, and from what I hear about him, he carries it all in his head. What would the Defense Department do for jet fighters, submarines and missiles while they waited? Get Lionel Toys to build them?"

  Major Sollitz fell in step beside Nick. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you, Colonel."

  Nick eyed him warily. "Yes?"

  Sollitz brushed his cap off carefully before replacing it. "It's about your memory, actually. Ray Finney told me about your dizzy spell on the moonscape this morning..."

  "And?"

  "Well, as you know, dizziness is one of the after-effects of Amine poisoning." Sollitz glanced at him, choosing his words carefully. "The other one is memory lapses."

  Nick stopped and turned to face him. "Get to the point, Major."

  "All right. I'll be frank. Have you noticed any trouble of that sort, Colonel? The time area in which I'm specifically interested is just before you entered the capsule prototype. If possible, I'd like a second-by-second breakdown of events leading up to it. For instance, chances are you caught a glimpse of someone adjusting the controls outside. It would be a great help if you could recall a few details..."

  Nick was relieved to hear General McAlester calling them. "Duane, Glenn, hurry up. I want to present Simian with a solid front"

  Nick turned, saying, "Bits and pieces of it are beginning to come back, Major. Why don't I give you a full report — in writing — tomorrow?"

  Sollitz nodded. "I think that would be advisable, Colonel."

  Simian was standing just inside the entryway of the small building, talking to a group of men. He glanced up as they approached. "Gentlemen," he said, "I'm sorry we have to meet under these circumstances."

  He was a big, bony man with hunched shoulders, a long-nosed face and loose limbs. His head was shaven clean as a billiard ball, reinforcing the already strong resemblance to an eagle (gossip columnists hinted that he preferred this to a receding hairline). He had the high cheekbones and ruddy complexion of a Cossack, and his Sulka tie and expensive Pierre Cardin suit only emphasized it. Nick put his age at somewhere between forty-five and fifty.

  Quickly he reviewed what he knew about the man — and was surprised to find that it was all conjecture, gossip column stuff. There was nothing really solid. His true name (it was said): Alexander Leonovitch Simianski. Birthplace: Khabarovsk, in Siberia's Far East — but once again it was largely conjecture. Federal investigators could neither prove nor disprove this, any more than they could document his story that he was a White Russian, born the son of a general in the Czarist army. The truth was that no documents existed that showed anything about Alexander Simian before he turned up in the 1930's in Tsingtao, one of the treaty ports of China before the war.

  The financier shook hands with each of them, greeting them by name and exchanging a few brief words. He had a deep, deliberate voice with no trace of an accent. Neither foreign nor regional. It was neutral. A radio announcer's voice. Nick had heard that it could take on an almost hypnotic quality when he was describing a deal to a prospective investor.

  When he came to Nick, Simian gave him a playful half-punch. "Well, Colonel, still playing a hand for exactly what it's worth?" he chuckled. Nick winked enigmatically and moved on, wondering what in hell he was referring to.

  Two of the men with whom Simian had been talking turned out to be FBI agents. The third, a tall, affable redhead wearing a green GKI police uniform, was introduced as his Chief of Security, Clint Sands. "Mr. Simian an' Ah flew in from Florida last night as soon as we heard what happened," drawled Sands. "If y'all follow me," he added, "Ah'll show you what we found."

  The spacecraft simulator was a charred ruin. The wiring and controls had melted from the heat, and fragments of human flesh still sticking to the inside hatch cover testified to how hot the metal itself must have gotten.

  "How many fatalities?" asked General McAlester, peering inside.

  "There were two men working in there," said Simian, "testing the ECS system. Same thing happened as at the Cape — an oxygen atmosphere flash fire. We've traced it to an electrical cord powering a work lamp. We've further established that a break in its plastic insulation allowed the wire to create an electrical arc against the alum
inum flooring."

  "We conducted tests with an identical wire," drawled Sands. "They indicated that an arc like that would ignite combustibles within a radius of twelve to fourteen inches."

  "This is the original wire," said Simian, holding it out for them to see. "It's badly melted, of course, fused with a section of flooring, but look at the break. It's cut, not worn away. And this clinches it." He held out a tiny file and a magnifying glass. "Pass them around, please. The file was found wedged between the floor plate and a bundle of wiring. Whoever used it must have dropped it and been unable to retrieve it. It's made of tungsten, which is why it was undamaged by the heat. Please notice the legend engraved on the tip of the handle — the letters YCK. I think anyone who knows Asia or who knows tools will tell you that this file was manufactured in Red China by the Chong Company of Foochow. They still use the same stamping device as they did in pre-Red days."

  He eyed each of them in turn. "Gentlemen," he said, "I'm convinced that we're faced with a program of organized sabotage, and I'm further convinced that the Chinese Reds are behind it. I think that the Chicoms are out to destroy both the U.S. and the Soviet moon programs. You'll recall what happened to Soyuz One last year — when the Russian astronaut, Komarov, was killed." He paused for dramatic emphasis, then said: "You can pursue any course of investigation you choose, but my security force is proceeding on the assumption that Peking is behind our troubles."

  Clint Sands nodded. "It's not over, either — not by a long shot. There was another incident up at the Cape yesterday. A bus full of Space Center dependents went out of control an' crashed into a ditch on its way back from Orlando. Nobody was seriously hurt, but the kids were shaken up, and the women were all pretty hysterical. They said it was no accident. Turns out they were right. We had the steering column checked. It was sawed through. So we had them flown down to the GKI Medical Center in Miami at Mr. Simian's expense. At least they'll be safe there."