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Authors: Don Pendleton, Dick Stivers
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that the United States government sponsored the attack, and there will be war. Not war between our patriots and the Marxists — but total, tragic war between our two nations!"
For a moment there was silence. Furst and Pardee did not dare mock the Mexican's statement. Then from an old, dried throat came the words that hissed through the withered, colorless lips of Tate Monroe: "So be it!"
* * *
Their fatigues snapped in the warm dusk wind. Craig Pardee was letting gravity pull the open jeep through the curves and straightaways of the hills below Monroe's mansion. He gulped from a bottle of fine French wine he had stolen from the mansion's wine rack, passed it to Colonel Furst. Furst finished the bottle in two gulps. He heaved it into the canyon below the road. Arcing over the gathering shadows, the bottle flashed with the sunset's red light, then smashed on the stark eroded rocks.
Furst grinned, showing his movie-star teeth. "All Monroe wants is dead Mexicans. All the political talk, all that patriotism stuff, he don't care..."
"I thought he wanted his oil fields back," Pardee said to his commander, "the ones he had way back when. The ones that got nationalized."
"He wants the fields because the Mexicans took them. When we first sketched out the plan, he had me look into getting a hydrogen bomb so that..."
"What?"
"An H-bomb. A super-nuke. He wanted to drop it on the oil fields. I figured I'd have to hijack three B-52s from the Strategic Air Command to do it right. So he decided to finance the revolution instead. I tell you, that old man has money. He had me running all over the world with suitcases full of hundred-dollar bills. Lear jets. Gold bullion." Furst grinned to Pardee. "You know how much the senorita?"
"I thought she was part of the political deal."
"At any price. And I think she has an erotic fascination with wheelchairs."
They laughed for a minute. Pardee pulled another bottle of wine from under the seat. They were parallel to the airfield now; miles away, the lights of the mercenary base sparkled in the twilight. Furst took the bottle, flicked out his German paratrooper knife, got the cork out.
"No time to waste," Furst joked. "Officers can't drink in front of the enlisted men. So, she is part of the politics, the senora is. And ten million dollars was part of the politics, too. Ever seen ten million in small bills?"
"Why didn't you just take off? Make for the horizon!"
Furst gave Pardee a knowing grin. "Then Monroe would
send you
after me. And if I offed you, he'd send ten more. And if I got them, he'd send a hundred. You don't mess with someone who can buy every freelance shooter in the world. Makes for bad experiences."
"Speaking of shooters, I got three new recruits who're good. One man's great."
"You still hiring men? We don't have time to train them."
"They don't need it. They're trainer material themselves. One guy speaks Mexican, one guy's a deadeye, pistols and rifles, and one's supposed to be an electronics freak. I'm going to work them into the raid tomorrow night."
"An electronics man?" Furst wondered out loud. "And a marksman? Let's talk to these fellows."
* * *
The base offered two first-run movies a night. Walking to the theater next to the PX, Lyons and Blancanales saw a jeep driven by Craig Pardee stop at the gate. The sentries saluted the two men in the open jeep, and the electric gates started open.
"I wonder who the hardcase with Pardee is," Blancanales said to Lyons. There was no answer. Blancanales glanced around for his friend. He was alone in the roadway.
"Hsst!" The signal came from the shadows between the prefab offices.
"What's with you, Morgan?" Blancanales stepped into the darkness. "What..."
Even in the shadows, Blancanales saw the panic in Lyons' eyes. Blancanales pushed Lyons farther back into total darkness.
"What's wrong?" Blancanales whispered.
Lyons forced his voice to be calm. "I want you to denounce me. Tell Pardee I said something, I did something.
For a moment there was silence. Furst and Pardee did not dare mock the Mexican's statement. Then from an old, dried throat came the words that hissed through the withered, colorless lips of Tate Monroe: "So be it!"
* * *
Their fatigues snapped in the warm dusk wind. Craig Pardee was letting gravity pull the open jeep through the curves and straightaways of the hills below Monroe's mansion. He gulped from a bottle of fine French wine he had stolen from the mansion's wine rack, passed it to Colonel Furst. Furst finished the bottle in two gulps. He heaved it into the canyon below the road. Arcing over the gathering shadows, the bottle flashed with the sunset's red light, then smashed on the stark eroded rocks.
Furst grinned, showing his movie-star teeth. "All Monroe wants is dead Mexicans. All the political talk, all that patriotism stuff, he don't care..."
"I thought he wanted his oil fields back," Pardee said to his commander, "the ones he had way back when. The ones that got nationalized."
"He wants the fields because the Mexicans took them. When we first sketched out the plan, he had me look into getting a hydrogen bomb so that..."
"What?"
"An H-bomb. A super-nuke. He wanted to drop it on the oil fields. I figured I'd have to hijack three B-52s from the Strategic Air Command to do it right. So he decided to finance the revolution instead. I tell you, that old man has money. He had me running all over the world with suitcases full of hundred-dollar bills. Lear jets. Gold bullion." Furst grinned to Pardee. "You know how much the senorita?"
"I thought she was part of the political deal."
"At any price. And I think she has an erotic fascination with wheelchairs."
They laughed for a minute. Pardee pulled another bottle of wine from under the seat. They were parallel to the airfield now; miles away, the lights of the mercenary base sparkled in the twilight. Furst took the bottle, flicked out his German paratrooper knife, got the cork out.
"No time to waste," Furst joked. "Officers can't drink in front of the enlisted men. So, she is part of the politics, the senora is. And ten million dollars was part of the politics, too. Ever seen ten million in small bills?"
"Why didn't you just take off? Make for the horizon!"
Furst gave Pardee a knowing grin. "Then Monroe would
send you
after me. And if I offed you, he'd send ten more. And if I got them, he'd send a hundred. You don't mess with someone who can buy every freelance shooter in the world. Makes for bad experiences."
"Speaking of shooters, I got three new recruits who're good. One man's great."
"You still hiring men? We don't have time to train them."
"They don't need it. They're trainer material themselves. One guy speaks Mexican, one guy's a deadeye, pistols and rifles, and one's supposed to be an electronics freak. I'm going to work them into the raid tomorrow night."
"An electronics man?" Furst wondered out loud. "And a marksman? Let's talk to these fellows."
* * *
The base offered two first-run movies a night. Walking to the theater next to the PX, Lyons and Blancanales saw a jeep driven by Craig Pardee stop at the gate. The sentries saluted the two men in the open jeep, and the electric gates started open.
"I wonder who the hardcase with Pardee is," Blancanales said to Lyons. There was no answer. Blancanales glanced around for his friend. He was alone in the roadway.
"Hsst!" The signal came from the shadows between the prefab offices.
"What's with you, Morgan?" Blancanales stepped into the darkness. "What..."
Even in the shadows, Blancanales saw the panic in Lyons' eyes. Blancanales pushed Lyons farther back into total darkness.
"What's wrong?" Blancanales whispered.
Lyons forced his voice to be calm. "I want you to denounce me. Tell Pardee I said something, I did something.
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