The Spy in a Box

by Ralph Dennis

  “Keep that thought.” Buck put an arm around Franco’s shoulders and pulled him level with Hall and himself. “What I hate most is a pessimistic spic.”

  “Wop you mean,” Franco.

  “Wop. Spic. They’re all the same.”

  From the gray sky a snow like grains of fine sand pelted them.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The C-130 H left Andrews Air Force Base late Saturday afternoon. The grease from the top, all of Stanford Brewster’s influence, had the flight ticketed as a training mission for a group of top reserves who were being sent to the Salt Lake City area. “Rapid deployment to control riots and civil disorders,” a part of the orders read.

  The cases containing the weapons and explosives had been loaded aboard the plane an hour before takeoff by a team from Buck Winston’s warehouse.

  The twenty-eighth man on the flight was the Green Beret medic from Fort Bragg. A tall silent man who sat alone at the back of the compartment with his medical gear stored on the seat next to him.

  Some men slept. Others prowled the Hercules smoking and talking and laughing. Hall dozed part of the time, half-hour naps. Until the waking and sleeping pattern tired him and he forced his eyes open and watched the darkness outside the C-130.

  Buck Winston slept the first hour. He awoke fresh and energetic. From that time on, he never seemed to stop moving. He stalked around the compartment. He had a few words for each of the men. Once, when Hall looked toward the back of the plane, he saw Buck seated next to the Green Beret medic. The medic was smiling and nodding his head.

  With the time difference, the C-130 bumped down on the out-of-the-way air strip a few minutes before midnight. The flare pots that lit the perimeter of the strip burned just long enough for the plane to touch down and taxi toward the huge tin hanger. Behind the C-130 a pickup truck crept along. Two men on foot snuffed the flare pots and tossed them in the truck bed. In a matter of minutes, the strip was dark except for the lights from inside the hanger.

  Winston delegated the unloading and uncrating to Franco. While that was going on, Winston and Hall entered the hanger. The helicopter ground crew, six of them, sat on a dirty blanket and drank coffee and played penny-nickel-dime poker.

  “Up there,” one of the crewmen said. He hadn’t waited for the question.

  Buck led the way up the stairs to the ramp that ran along the top of the hanger. Two of the pilots were in sleeping bags. The third one was reading a dogeared paperback novel. When he saw Winston and Hall, he turned down a page to mark his place and stuffed the book in a pocket on the leg of his flight suit. “Bill. Mike. We got company.”

  The introductions were first name only. Winston lit a Pall Mall and said, “When you get in?”

  “This morning,” the pilot who’d been reading said.

  “You do the recon?”

  The pilot nodded. “Soon as we topped off the tanks.”

  “How is it?”

  “Flat and level as a pool table,” one of the other pilots said.

  “Except for the mine crater. That’s a side pocket in a pool table.”

  “You pick the sites?”

  “No trouble there. To the west of the mine I marked a spot half-a-mile from where the crater is. Mike and I can put you down there twenty-five minutes after we take off from here.”

  The third pilot, the one who’d been reading, bummed a smoke from Winston. “The land to the east of the mine isn’t as level as it is to the west. But I think I can get you in and out.”

  “That’s what we need to know. Five-thirty all right with you?”

  The three pilots nodded. The pilot who’d been introduced as Mike had his head down for a long moment. Then he lifted it. “Any chance of us finding out what’s going on?”

  “Better you don’t know.”

  Mike laughed. “I knew there would be days like this.”

  “The things you do when you take Sam’s dollar,” Hall said.

  “Ain’t it true?”

  At five-thirty exactly, the three helicopters lifted off from the landing strip and headed southwesterly. For the first twenty minutes they flew in a tight line. At that point, the chopper with Hall and his six men curled away and performed a wide loop to the east.

  The first gray light of morning showed on the horizon.

  Franco and his team reached their position first. The half mile jog had sweat pouring from his face. Down the road that ran along the north side of the mine crater, in the distance, he watched Buck Winston and his team trot toward the railhead, the siding, and the dim shapes of the buildings.

  At six-fifteen on the second, Whispering Bill Thompson, wearing lineman spurs and with a belt looped in place, climbed the telephone pole nearest the defense line Franco had established. Cutters in hand, he waited for the signal from Franco. Another five minutes passed. Franco wanted to give Buck as much time as he could. He waved a hand at Whispering Bill. Bill cut the telephone wires and scooted down the pole.

  Whispering Bill discarded the spurs and climbing belt and reclaimed the M-21 Franco was holding for him. He moved forward and joined Mace Curtis, who’d set up his Browning 50 so the road was a killing ground.

  “Now,” Franco said. Four men climbed down the conveyer belt that led to the bowl center of the mine crater. Each man carried a backpack of satchel charges.

  “You. You.” Franco pointed at Bates and Cummings.

  These two men ran forward, past Mace and Whispering Bill. They carried short trenching shovels. Bates dropped to his knees fifty yards ahead of the defensive line and dug the first of three holes in the hard earth of the road. Cumming swung to his left and crabbed his way along the slope that bordered the road. He planted two charges in the overhang before he returned to the road and unlimbered the Ingram M-10 that he carried slung behind his back. He dropped to one knee beside Whispering Bill and Mace.

  Franco walked to the rim of the crater. The four men had reached the surface of the mine. The men split, as if on a signal, and trotted from the base of the conveyer belt. Each man had an assigned area. Franco watched while his men moved to the cats and cranes. A satchel charge was tossed into the cab of each piece of machinery.

  Franco checked his watch. On time. On schedule. He swung around and stared down the road. Buck Winston’s men had reached the railhead and siding. It was too easy, he thought. A cakewalk of an operation. It made him uneasy. Into every hard strike some shit must fall. It was time for the shit.

  Jogging, feeling the discomfort of the run, Buck Winston decided that handball and tennis hadn’t maintained the endurance that field time did. He sucked in huge gulps of air and felt his lungs burning.

  His team reached the railhead. He waved an arm and five men dropped away and headed for the siding and the rolling stock. Four men carried packs of charges. The other clutched an Ingram M-10. He would bodyguard while the charges were placed.

  Buck led the remaining four men of his team down the dog-leg road in the direction of the first cluster of buildings. When he reached the first structure, he pointed at Jilly Mission.

  Mission unslung the pack from his shoulders and ran, bent-over, until he stood under the overhang of the building. Mission opened the flap of his pack and dropped two satchel charges against the foundations.

  Winston dropped to one knee at the corner of the building. He charged the Ingram M-10 before he turned and pointed a finger at Carter and Briggs.

  Carter loped across the road, lugging the Browning 50. Briggs trailed him, the SAW at the ready.

  Winston watched while Carter planted the tripod of the Browning 50 facing the end of the first barracks. From there, he commanded both a section of the road between the two sections of building and any movement that might develop from the rear of the barracks.

  Joe Paris stood behind Winston, an M-21 braced against the corner of the structure. Mission returned the empty pack to his shoulder and unslung a SAW. He placed his back against the siding, braced the frame metal butt of the weapon against his thi
gh and jacked a round into the chamber.

  Soon, Buck Winston thought. It was time. Then he saw the single file of Hall’s team come over the slight rise at the other end of the road. One man, the one who carried the Browning 50, swung away from the file and planted himself in a position that faced the L at the end of the mess hall. A false step, Winston thought, and then another man left the file and trotted away to join the man with the Browning. That was it. That was the way of it.

  Good enough. Suddenly, unexpected, he heard the cough and rumble of a jeep that made its turn at the end of the road, from behind the security building. The file of men appeared to melt into the slope. God, the driver of the jeep must be half asleep. Lulled by the boredom of the job, the long peaceful nights.

  The jeep passed the security building. The headlights were on low beam. It headed straight for Winston’s position. Across the way from Buck, Carter and Briggs flattened themselves and blended into the gray shadows.

  “You and me,” Winston mouthed at Joe Paris.

  Paris nodded.

  The chopper touched down on a low section of land about three-quarters of a mile from the company town. Before Hall left the chopper, he checked watches with the pilot. “Start them up in forty-five minutes,” he said. “We’ll be here by then.”

  On the run, climbing the slight rise, Bantry remained on Hall’s left shoulder. “One more time,” Hall said.

  “Any files on Costa Verde.”

  “Yes.”

  “Marcos.”

  “Right.”

  “Files on William K. Hall.”

  “Yes.”

  “Files on the Company.”

  “You’ve got it all,” Hall said.

  They reached the crest and started down the slope. Hall trotted forward and touched Timmons on the back. Timmons didn’t look around. He broke the file and trotted to the left, the Browning 50 over his shoulder. Timmons had gone twenty yards before Jaime Cline realized he’d missed his assignment. He split away from the file and sprinted after Timmons.

  Shit for brains, Hall thought.

  Headlights on a low beam sliced the road.

  “Down,” Hall hissed. The four men with Hall fell to their stomachs, faces in the dirt. Hall swung his head to his left. Timmons was down. Cline was still running. At that moment Timmons lifted his arm and dropped it and Cline sank to his knees and flopped face forward.

  The jeep reached the head of the road and made its turn that took it past the front of the security building. It crawled. Twenty miles an hour, Hall thought.

  Ed Bantry edged forward on his elbows until he was beside Hall. “This change anything?”

  Hall shook his head. “If he reaches the other end of the street, he belongs to Buck.”

  The jeep slowed before it made a turn to the right onto the dog-leg section of the road. When it went out of sight, Hall got to his knees. Then to his feet. The four men followed him down the slope. Hall angled toward the parking area in front of the security building. He lifted his head. It was just light enough to see the communications tower on top of the roof. Yes, this was the right boy. That was the thumbprint.

  Keeping low, spreading as they went, Hall and the four men with him entered the parking area in front of the security building. They crouched, getting their breath, in the shelter of a Land Rover. Hall’s arm was coming up, about to point toward Spence, to motion him toward a position on the far side of the steps, when the front door of the security hut opened and a huge man in a tan uniform stood in the doorway, backlighted. He was dragging on a cigarette. He leaned against the doorframe for a count of ten or fifteen. He took a step forward and flipped the cigarette in a high arc. He wheeled and returned to the room, closing the door behind him.

  The cigarette cleared the roof of the Land Rover and landed at Hall’s feet. Hall waited until the door was closed before he lifted the toe of his boot and mashed the butt.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Buck Winston placed his mouth within an inch of Joe Paris’ ear. “Passed on to us.”

  Paris shifted the M-21. “Now?”

  “After he makes the turn.”

  The jeep slowed when it reached the end of the street. The dimmed headlights swung toward the forward edge of the mine crater. As the jeep turned, the beam turned toward the dogleg and pointed in the direction of the railhead and the siding.

  The headlights missed the building corner where Winston and Paris and Mission were placed. Winston touched Paris on the arm. He didn’t wait for Paris to move. He was crouched, almost duckwalking behind the tail of the jeep. One hand caught the side of the jeep. He made a long leap forward and placed the barrel of the Ingram M-10 about three inches from the driver’s face.

  “Brake it,” he said.

  The driver braked hard. Winston, with a hand on the side of the jeep, was thrown off balance.

  The driver rolled away from that side of the jeep and was reaching for something on the seat when Joe Paris said, “Don’t do it,” and pointed the M-21 at him.

  The driver eased away from the passenger seat. His hands moved until they were level with his ears. Steady again, Winston pointed the Ingram at the driver. On the other side of the jeep, Joe Paris cleared the seat of a Dan Wesson .357 and its fancy holster.

  “He’s yours,” Winston said.

  Paris stepped into the jeep’s passenger seat. “Move it.” The guard started the engine and drove down the dog-leg toward the railhead.

  Winston returned to the corner of the building. Mission moved aside to make room for him. “Trust me, boy,” he whispered down the road, directed at Hall. “You know I handled it. That’s why I’m here. Do it now.”

  For the first time he was sorry they’d decided not to use walkie-talkies. A quiet job was a hard one. Walkie-talkies would have added an element of risk. WW Security might have sophisticated electronic gear that could sweep the area.

  “Do it, Hall.”

  “Buck shortstopped him.” Hall lifted the Python. Under his left arm was the Ingram M-10 in the special rig Winston had furnished him. It was almost a fast draw holster. What he was saying to himself was, even if Buck didn’t take him, we can’t stay here.

  Ed Bantry charged his Ingram. “Let’s do it.”

  Hall pointed a hand at Spence.

  Spence nodded and sprinted for his assigned place on the other side of the stairs that led into the security building.

  Low steps. Three of them. Hall avoided them. Never knew when a step might squeak. He caught the hand rail and pulled himself onto the landing with his left hand. He squatted there. A look over his shoulder.

  Bantry stood at the bottom step, waiting for his move, Len Gauss and Sly Joyce bunched behind Bantry. Hall straightened his legs. The top half of the door was glassed. When he was stretched to his full height, Hall had a view of the lighted room. The heavy man who’d been in the doorway moments before was now behind a desk. The desk was positioned to the right of the doorway. Straight ahead another man slouched on a sofa, A riot gun was propped against the arm rest, more than a reach and a leap away.

  The door opened inward. Hall remembered that from the way the heavy man had closed it behind him. Hall grabbed the door knob. A turn and it was open. He’d been prepared to put a shoulder against it if he had to. He lifted the Python and stepped into the room. As he went, he cleared the door.

  The heavy man behind the desk lifted his head. His eyes were sleep-coated. “What the hell …?”

  Bantry rammed into the room. His Ingram swung to the left, covering the man on the sofa.

  “Easy,” Bantry said.

  Gauss and Joyce were half a step behind Bantry. Joyce closed the door.

  Hall said, “Len,” and motioned toward the desk. Gauss circled the desk. He touched the heavy man behind the head with the SAW, to let him know he was there, and backed away two steps.

  Joyce didn’t wait for orders. He crossed the room and grabbed the riot gun. With that in his hands, he slung the Ingram and jacked a round into
the riot gun.

  “No games,” Hall said.

  Sly Joyce waved the riot gun at the man seat on the sofa. “On your belly.” The man dropped to his knees and fell forward on his chest. “Hands behind you,” Joyce said and he circled the man and placed a hand on his back.

  Bantry crossed the room and stood at the man’s head. He nodded at Joyce. Joyce put the riot gun aside and took a two-inch wide roll of adhesive tape from a hip pocket. He taped the man’s hands and then backed away and taped his ankles together.

  “Watch the door,” Hall said to Joyce. He didn’t wait to see Joyce carry out the command. He headed for the door at the rear of the office. Bantry joined him. Night lights burned in a narrow hallway.

  Down the left were neat, small offices. To the right, there was glass paneling. The whole length of that side of the hall was a computer room.

  “Charges in there,” Hall said. A door straight ahead, at the end of the hall. Hall sprinted in that direction. Behind him, he heard the first thump as Bantry kicked at the locked door.

  A staircase behind the door. Hall climbed it at a run. Time was ticking in his head. Lost time. A dark hallway. He found the switches and cut on the overhead banks of light. The main offices. He passed one room with EQUIPMENT-NO ADMITTANCE written on the opaque glass top half. He turned back and tried the knob. Locked. He reversed the Python and hammered the bottom left corner of the glass panel. Huge splinters broke away. He reached in and caught the inner knob and turned it. The door opened. He stepped in and found the light switch. It was the arms room. Riot guns in a row. M-16’s. A wall with hooks. On the hooks, handguns of all kinds. Boxes and crates of ammo lining the floor.

  Hall heard footsteps in the hall. He backed away from the arms room and swung the Python toward the source of the noise. Bantry trotted down the hall toward him.

  “A charge in there,” Hall said.

  An open door. Hall looked inside. A conference room with a huge polished desk and about a dozen chairs. He went past. Bantry sprinted to catch up with him.