Texas Showdown at-3

by Don Pendleton

  "Mr. Monroe," Lopez countered patiently. "What greater risk could El Rojo take than to go ahead without a rehearsal? The visit and demonstration would require only a day. He would come as I have come, in darkness and leave in darkness. He and the other generals would watch the demonstration, then return to their garrisons, confident of victory."

  "What other generals?" Furst asked. Now it was his turn to be visibly disturbed.

  "Other patriots who have the courage to stand against the wave of socialism threatening our hemisphere..."

  "I'm sure they're patriots. But how many patriots do you have involved in this venture? It used to be only El Rojo's troops. Now there are more generals?"

  "They are vital to the success of the coup. General Montoya heads the section responsible for all communication — the facilities, the equipment, the soldiers guarding the communications. Without telecommunications on our side, there can be no announcement of victory!"

  "And the others?" Furst pressed.

  "General Leon, Commander of the Paratroopers securing the Federal District. It is his soldiers who should respond to our attack. If they do not respond, we have the victory. You see, if we had to fight these forces, the socialists and leftists and communists would have time to rally their troops..."

  "And what about all the other generals?" Furst continued his questioning. "Will we be presenting demonstrations for them? How many generals are there? Maybe we should set up bleachers."

  "We must have allies in this," Lopez told him, ignoring the sarcasm. "Your force will make the first strike, but that will not assure the victory. We must neutralize the opposition. The participation of Generals Montoya and Leon will remove the greatest threats before they can rise. Really, gentlemen, why should loyal Mexican soldiers die? With the control of the communications and the paratroopers guarding the capital, victory will be ours the very minute that your force strikes..."

  * * *

  Lyons heard all this outside the window. He glanced at his watch. Only another two minutes before flames engulfed the garage.

  Inside the room, Lopez finally flared: "These small arguments waste time! The time of the attack nears and we..."

  Forcing himself to slip away, Lyons pushed through the wet branches and flowers of the landscaping. He stayed low, using every shadow. He avoided the rectangles of light spilling from the windows. From time to time he stopped, frozen in shadow, to watch and listen.

  A hundred yards away, the guards at the gate talked and laughed. To the rear of the mansion, boots paced the walkways. Lyons crept along the side of the mansion, finally coming to the hedge screening the service driveway.

  Lyons straightened the rifle slung on his shoulder. He checked his uniform. To his satisfaction, he looked like a sentry. He stood in the shadow of the hedge, waiting for the flames.

  He waited to the count of one hundred before glancing at his watch. In the garage, Lyons had set the video deck's automatic timer to turn on the recorder. Opening the unit, he had disconnected the power wires to the drive motor, pulled the wires out and crossed the bare ends. Then he'd put the wires into a gasoline-soaked rag, piled other rags around the video deck, and spilled gasoline on the workbench and floor. The second the timer powered the deck's motor, the short-circuiting wires would ignite the gasoline, and then the garage. Thus the dead sentry, who lay stripped of his uniform in the lounge chair in front of the television, would be unrecognizably charred.

  Fire should have burst out two minutes before. But Lyons saw no flames, heard no alarms.

  "Bander!" a voice called out.

  Lyons pressed back into the thick branches of the hedge. He prayed he could not be seen.

  A sentry walked past him, calling out: "Bander! Report to the shack!"

  Waiting until he saw no sentries, Lyons stepped out of the shadows and walked leisurely across the grounds. He left the lights of the house, driveways, garage far behind him. When only ten yards of open lawn separated him from the iron fence, Lyons dropped flat beside a row of flowers and waited again.

  Everywhere on the estate, he heard voices calling for "Bander!"

  Lyons set down his rifle and flashlight and crawled toward the fence. He felt ahead of him, searching by touch for dips or irregularities in the lawn's turf that would indicate pressure-sensors. His hands found nothing unusual. But when he neared the fence, his ears told him that climbing the iron fence meant death.

  The fence hummed with AC current. By moonlight, he examined the ironwork for wires. He found a second line of security — bundles of tiny plastic tubes that lined the upper surfaces of the horizontal cross-members of the fence.

  Shouts broke the quiet. On the driveway, a sentry snatched a hand-radio from his belt, listened, then ran in the direction of the garage. More shouts came from the garage.

  Lyons needed a way out of the estate, quick.

  * * *

  A buzzer interrupted the last part of the meeting in the trophy room. Monroe clutched the phone with a shaky hand: "What?" The old man listened for a moment, then passed the phone to Furst. "Commander Furst here."

  "Commander, someone killed Bander, one of the sentries. We found his body in the garage."

  The tall, handsome mercenary resisted his first impulse: set the alarms screaming, then call for a hundred men to search the estate and hills beyond the fence. He stroked his styled hair, glanced to Lopez.

  "Commander! Do you understand?"

  "Yes, I heard. There can be no disturbance now." He turned away from Lopez and hissed: "We have a guest here. Keep it low key, please, for five minutes."

  Hanging up, Furst turned back to Lopez. "Your plane is refueled and ready. If we have finally come to an agreement..."

  "Yes, I must return. It is possible to schedule the demonstration? There are no problems?"

  Both Furst and Pardee looked to Monroe. The old man dismissed the request with a wave of a bony claw. "Whenever it is convenient for my soldiers."

  "Very good." Lopez gathered his notes and placed them in his leather-and-gold attache case. Standing, he smoothed the wrinkles from his London-tailored suit. Then he leaned down to the wheelchair to shake Monroe's hand: "Until then, senor."

  Monroe ignored the offered hand. Furst lunged forward to cover the insult, shaking Lopez's hand, putting his other hand on the shoulder of the Mexican.

  "Let's get you on that plane, Jorge. Every minute we waste puts your life and our cause in danger."

  Lopez glanced at the eighty-year-old man who had insulted him. "Certainly."

  In the hallway, Furst walked with his arm over Lopez's shoulders. As in the trophy room, photos of Monroe dominated the walls. Also here were photos of Availa Monroe in her childhood and teenage years.

  "Forget the old man," Furst consoled Lopez. "We've gotten what we need from him. And your victory will be all that he wants."

  Lopez paused. "That photo. Her brother has it also. He keeps it on his desk."

  It was a snapshot of Availa and her brother as teenagers, arm-in-arm. In the background, other teenage couples frolicked and embraced around a huge swimming pool. Most of the teenagers wore fashionable bathing suits. Others were naked.

  "Looks like they were having a good time," Furst commented.

  "../como novios. Excuse me, like sweethearts. They love each other so much. El Rojo will enjoy seeing her again when he comes for the presentation."

  "Commander!" Availa Monroe's voice rang out in the hallway.

  "Mrs. Monroe," Lopez said, bowing.

  Furst only nodded as they passed. Availa moved swiftly in pursuit of them. She clutched her satin houserobe closed, following them to the entry of the mansion.

  "I need to talk to you," she whispered to Furst.

  "Of course, Mrs. Monroe. Allow me to take Senor Lopez to his plane. I'll return immediately."

  "No! You hear me now!"

  Furst opened the front door for Lopez. "Pardon me, senor.Mrs. Monroe must have something urgent to tell me."

  "Of course
. Good evening, Senora." Lopez pulled the front door closed behind him.

  Availa opened her houserobe, threw her arms around Furst to enfold him in satin. She writhed her naked body against his uniform.

  Furst shoved her away. "We're in the middle of an emergency."

  "Then come back later. And bring other men."

  "I'll send some men. But I won't be with them."

  Without dropping her smile, she took her arms from him and closed her robe. "Bueno!"

  Rushing outside, Furst saw Lopez waiting in the Mercedes. A sentry paced the driveway, rifle in hands. Furst took the soldier's hand-radio: "This is Commander Furst. Captain Pardee is inside the house. As soon as my car clears the gate, switch on all the lights. Mobilize all the men at the base who did not participate in the Mexico raid. I want the mountain encircled while the security men search the house and grounds with dogs. Captain Pardee will direct the search until I return. Over."

  Furst forced himself to walk calmly to the car. He grinned to Lopez as he entered the Mercedes and keyed the ignition. Furst idled the vehicle down the driveway to the gate. "It seems the guards are keeping Mrs. Monroe awake," he said. "They forget this is the home of their — how would you say it in Spanish? Their patron?"

  The guards at the gate saluted as their commander passed. Furst steered through the first curve of the descending road, then glanced in the rearview mirror.

  For an instant, he thought it was the rising sun.

  Sheets of flame lit the sky.

  13

  His ear to the smoking uniform of the soldier, Dr. Nathan heard the sucking and wheezing of fire-seared lungs. He peered at the man's face. Gasping, coughing, the man struggled to breathe, his mouth wide. The fire had charred his skin. It had blistered his eyes closed.

  "Two syrettes of morphine," Dr. Nathan told the soldier who helped him with the burned man.

  "No chance of an overdose?" the soldier asked as he opened the foil packets that contained the narcotic with disposable syringe.

  "Doesn't matter."

  Dr. Nathan crossed the asphalt to the other writhing soldier. Two sentries struggled with a fire hose, one man directing the stream of water into the garage, his helper straightening the kinks. Other sentries axed open the garage's electric doors, aimed another stream of water at the fire.

  The second burned soldier thrashed and screamed under the hands of the bullnecked Captain Pardee, who held down the man's shoulders while another sentry held his feet. Dr. Nathan knelt down and pressed his ear to the man's chest. His lungs sounded good.

  "How's that man over there?" Pardee asked Dr. Nathan.

  "I don't think he'll make it to the hospital. His lungs are gone."

  "What about this one?"

  Examining the soldier, Dr. Nathan saw second-degree burns. The doctor slipped out his folding knife and cut away the man's shirt. He saw only red splotches.

  "He'll live. Give him a shot of morphine, get him to a hospital with a burn ward."

  "Thanks, doctor. Now why don't you go check on Mr. Monroe? All this excitement can't be good for him."

  "How did this happen? What exploded?"

  "Looks like someone was playing with gasoline."

  "Playing with gasoline? You can't be serious."

  "Into the house, doctor, please."

  Two soldiers with German shepherds approached. Pardee talked quietly with them and pointed to the areas of the estate grounds unlit by any floodlights.

  Dr. Nathan gave the burned man a last glance, then returned to the mansion.

  In the arched entry that opened to the flower garden, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe watched the fire and the soldiers. Availa Monroe stood behind her husband's wheelchair, absently stroking the old man's thin hair.

  "Pretty fire," Availa cooed, her eyes heavy-lidded.

  "Were you out there, Mrs. Monroe?" Dr. Nathan asked.

  She shook her head. The motion made her stagger sideways. She gripped the wheelchair, steadied herself. Monroe turned to look up at his wife. He smiled to her.

  "Un momento, chiquita," Monroe joked in terrible Spanish. He looked to his doctor. "Everything under control out there?"

  "Yes, sir. This has been an abrasive day for you. How are you feeling?"

  "Don't concern yourself!" Monroe snapped. He smiled again. "You're right. Shouting doesn't do my heart any good. I should save my strength for important matters." The aged invalid glanced to his wife, then winked to the doctor. "What do you have to make an old man young for an hour or so?"

  Availa jerked back as if she had been slapped. Her face twisted with disgust. She left the wheelchair to sit in an iron patio chair. Staring at her feet, she knotted her fingers in her hair.

  "Stimulants could injure your heart, sir."

  "What about stimulation?" The old man leered from his wheelchair. "Availa, my dear. We go."

  She struggled to her feet, lurched to the wheelchair, tried to turn it. She began to fall, only her hold on the grips keeping her upright until the doctor grabbed her hands and assisted her. They went into the house, Dr. Nathan simultaneously guiding the wheelchair and supporting the young woman.

  "And for me," Availa whispered to the young doctor next to her. "What do you have that will make me...make me..."

  "What? Sleep? Is that why you're taking so much...medication?

  Availa smiled at him, her drug stupor gone for an instant. "It makes me far away. And that is so good. Far, faraway."

  * * *

  Cramped in the footwell of the Mercedes, Lyons felt the doors slam closed as both Furst and the Mexican got out. He counted fifty before raising his head. Peeking out from under the blanket, he saw only darkness. He raised his head higher, saw the silhouettes of planes and helicopters against the lights of the airfield hangars. Furst and the Mexican stood near a Lear jet, the light from the cockpit and cabin windows giving Lyons a good look at the Mexican's face.

  But he was no one Lyons recognized. The man's photo had not been in Stony Man's file of Latin American exiles associated with Monroe. Judging by his elegant tailoring, he was not a soldier. Lyons did not have the time to speculate.

  Silently pushing open the door, he slid to the asphalt, still grasping the dead sentry's rifle and flashlight. He slung the rifle over his back and jammed the flashlight under his belt, then pulled the blanket over himself as he shimmied forward on his belly unseen. But he could not crawl and hold the blanket also, so he paused to tie the blanket's corners under his chin. Then he continued.

  As his hands left the asphalt, he heard the Lear's engines whine to life. He scrambled over the gravel, finally coming to the chain link fence. Pressing himself flat under the dark blanket, he hoped he looked like a shadow.

  He watched the Mexican enter the jet. Furst gave the man a wave, then returned to the Mercedes.

  Lyons put his face in the dust as the car backed in an arc, the headlights sweeping over him. Lyons looked up to see the Mercedes's taillights go through the airfield gate, then accelerate up the road to the hilltop mansion.

  Hills blocked Lyons' sight of the mansion, but he saw smoke rising into the night sky. Flashes lit the smoke from beneath. Fire. You could never trust cheap ignition: it had gone off, but too late. Furst would now search for the infiltrator who had killed the sentry.

  Waiting until the jet taxied away, Lyons threw the blanket over the security fence's razor wire and managed to climb the chain link, squeezing between the blanket-covered coils of razor wire. In another minute, he was over the second fence. He started the two-mile run back to base.

  * * *

  Blancanales heard the trucks low-gearing through the base. Boots ran up the steps of other barracks. Then came shouts and the banging of steel on steel. Blancanales went out to the road, saw soldiers stumbling into the trucks. He jogged to the nearest truck. "What's going on? Why the assembly?" The driver leaned from the truck window. "You from Platoon One or Two? The ones that went out on last night's op?"

  "Platoon One."

 
"Then nothing's going on, at least for you. Captain Pardee told us to haul all the other platoons up to the hill. I hear they got the dogs out."

  "What're they looking for?"

  "'This happened before. Scuttlebutt back then was something about a federal agent. Maybe they got another one."

  "Federals..."

  Pushing through the gathering soldiers, Blancanales jogged to the mess hall. He turned at the crossroad and ran to the one office with a lighted window.

  "Luther Schwarz!" Blancanales called out, pounding on the door.

  "It's open, Mr. Marchardo."

  His eyes bleary with fatigue, Gadgets looked up from his work as Blancanales rushed in. Rows of assembled components covered one end of the table. "What goes?"

  Blancanales went to one knee beside Gadgets, spoke only inches from his ear. "Lyons went up the hill in Furst's car. Now they're searching the hill and the mansion. Want to go up there?"

  "For sure. Ride up with me, Furst is sending a jeep."

  "He is?"

  "He wants me to sweep the place for electronics. I guess I know why now."

  "Did he tell you anything about what happened?"

  Gadgets shook his head. He left his worktable to find a cardboard box. Then he selected components and tools and filled the box. Outside, brakes squealed. A voice called out: "Schwarz! Furst needs you up on the..."

  "On my way," Gadgets shouted to the waiting driver. To Blancanales: "Come with me. Furst and Pardee trust you."

  "On ourway, compadre."

  * * *

  Mercury-arc floodlights illuminated every foot of the security fences that surrounded the base. Lyons would not risk climbing those fences. He stayed beyond the glare of the lights and moved silently through the shadows, searching for another way into the base.

  He stopped to watch the activity inside. He saw lights in the barracks housing Platoons Three, Four, Five and Six. Soldiers crowded around the tailgate of a truck. Crouch-walking another twenty yards, he saw more trucks.