Five Rings of Fire

12

Alf Inkster had a nervous, tight feeling in his guts. He did not really know why, but Captain Young always made him feel that way. Inkster looked again at the flight plan Young was filing. He wished he had his air controller, who understood these things, but the man had recently quit.

"You're doing a night jump over the Mojave Desert?" Inkster asked.

Captain Young just nodded. The lanky pilot was not one to waste words.

"Long way to go for a desert when there's plenty right around here," Inkster ventured.

Again Young nodded. Inkster waited for an explanation, but the captain supplied none. Inkster knew the man was cleared for night work; he had watched him acquire his licenses right here at this small airport.

When the airport had lost its only controller, Inkster had been sure they would have to close. He could not possibly bid for a new man in the competitive market and when he tried to direct air traffic, he grew dangerously confused. Fortunately, Captain Young and the Southern Survivalist Parachute Club had vowed to remain. On the few occasions when the airport had several planes to handle at once, Young or one of the other pilots from the SSPC took control of the radio and organized things.

"Guess it's not such a farfetched idea," Inkster picked up lamely. "You got a copy of the weather report?"

Young had.

"Good flight."

Young left.

Alf Inkster watched him walk across the tarmac. It was ninety-two sweltering degrees outside. Just the thought of ninety-two degrees made Inkster sweat, even though he was being cooled down by air conditioning. He shook his head. That Young was a cool bastard. Young went into the cinder-block SSPC house at the corner of the airport. Permission to build the clubhouse had been granted only because it meant the little airport could stave off bankruptcy. Inkster had never set foot inside the building, and he had no desire to. The Survivalists gave him the creeps.

Inside, Peter, the club's other pilot, was poring over maps and charts. Everyone else was checking weapons.

Young walked over to a large map of southwestern United States. He picked up a pool cue, which he used as a pointer. He slapped the cue against the wall, gaining everyone's attention. The club members fell silent.

"We'll be jumping at the crack of dawn," Young began.

"Wouldn't it be safer if we hit them in the dark?" one of the men said.

"No," Young replied. "We'll be going down while it's still dark, but it'll be easier if we have just enough light to tell friend from enemy. Don't forget there's three of our men in that camp. We want to get them, and only them, out alive. We have to wait until the desert is as cool as it's going to get in order to pinpoint the hidden camp with the infrared scanner.

"Now, pay attention," Young continued. "We want a complete wipeout of the blacks and the Klansmen. But we've got to keep those dune buggies in shape because that's how we're getting out of there."

"I'd rather be using a good machine pistol or a sawed-off shotgun than these M-16s," another club member complained.

Young turned and looked straight into the eyes of the speaker, giving the man a gaze so cold it forced him to shiver.

"You'll use only the assigned arms. You'll be inspected before boarding the DC-3. No one carries a favorite weapon. You have the same weapons that are issued to the U.S. Marines. One of the armed forces is going to be blamed for this massacre. It's going to look as if the United States fumbled again in trying to free the hostages. They'll deny it, but who will believe them? No one. So, taking anything into the battle zone that isn't consistent with that story will get you killed — by me. Is that clear enough?"

All agreed. It was crystal clear.

Klaus Boering was within sight of Edwards Air Force Base. He constantly kept watch in his rear-view mirror, checking for possible tails.

Helen, a cynic and the only female athlete in the limousine, questioned the driver.

"Boering," she said, "what the hell's coming down? We're heading toward Death Valley. You're supposed to be taking us out of the country, not deeper into it."

"I'm taking you to a temporary camp until I can get a helicopter to pick you up later tonight," the mole answered.

"Terrific," Helen said, not sounding convinced.

Gadgets, Pol, Babette and two bodyguards sat in the trailer/office listening to Lyons squawk at them through the small radio speaker.

"How do we get to where the action is?" Pol asked Lyons.

"I'll have the base send another chopper. You may as well stand by until we see where our bird's going to nest. By the way, Gadgets, he must have done a second scan for bugs. All transmission stopped for twelve minutes."

Gadgets laughed. "I told you, nothing's more reliable than a simple on/off switch. We'll watch for the chopper and one of us will stand by the radio. How's your fuel?"

"This is a long-distance mother. Pilot tells me we have four hours left. We're less than half an hour from bases we can use."

"Okay. If the car doesn't stop in two hours, I'll take out the chopper you're sending and you can nurse the radio," Gadgets answered.

"Right. Sign off."

Gadgets turned his attention to Babette. "You'd better get some sleep. This could go on all night."

"You look like you need rest more than I do," she countered.

"Yeah," Gadgets admitted, stifling a yawn. "It's been a helluva long day."

"Why don't you take Babette home?" Pol suggested. "Then find a place to crash. Take your communicator and I'll buzz you when something happens."

"What about you?" Gadgets asked.

"I caught some sleep before this came down. You're the one who spent half the night screwing around with those electronic thingeys."

"Thingeys," Gadgets repeated, laughing.

"I don't know what they're called," Pol said in mock anger, not in the least apologetic about his ignorance of electronics.

"You sure don't," Gadgets replied. Then he got up. "Come on, Babette. I'll take you home."

When she rose to go to the door, two newly assigned bodyguards also stood up.

"Wait a moment,'' one said. "I'll check outside.''

Gadgets picked up the gym bag he had been using and rechecked its contents. He had added a few items. He slung the strap over his left shoulder. He left the zipper open.

"Coast is clear," the bodyguard said.

The other guard opened his suit jacket and checked the spring clip on the Ingram that rode harnessed to his left side. He then went out, glanced about and nodded to Babette to follow.

The trailer was in the parking lot on the west side of the women's gymnasium. The trailer door faced west. As they stepped out, the low sun shone in their eyes. The two guards were standing at the foot of the metal steps.

"Let's walk," Babette suggested.

"Okay," Gadgets said. Although his guts told him it was a bad move, his heart told him that the gutsy woman needed to go on with her life — not be caged in by fear of bullets.

One bodyguard hastened to move to point, the other paused to fall in behind. They started to move around the trailer and head east. As soon as they were facing that way, two hollow gunshots sounded behind them.

Gadgets shoved Babette forward with his right hand. With his left he yanked the Ingram from the bag.

"Cover her," he commanded.

With the Ingram questing a target, he ran back toward the few remaining parked cars. He ran directly into a blinding flash of light.

"Don't shoot, for chrissakes," a voice bellowed at the top of its female lungs. "You'll kill me."

Gadgets pulled himself short and went into a combat crouch, waiting for his vision to clear. As the black spots shrank he could make out the woman who owned the voice.

It was Petra Dix.

An electronic flash unit softly recycled. Lying on the roof of the car was a starter's pistol, which Dix had used to get Gadgets to face her camera lens.

The camera flashed again.

Gadgets let out an angry roar and leaped to the hood of the car, swinging his gun barrel at the offending camera. But Dix was expecting the attack. She snatched the camera out of his reach. She turned and ran toward a car farther down the row. The door was open and the motor running.

Gadgets moved from car hood to car hood, hoping to cut her off. When Dix reached her car, the door was slammed in front of her. Babette stood by the door. Her two bodyguards, faces flushed from trying to keep up, were behind her.

Babette plucked the camera from Dix's hand, using her quick reflexes. The gymnastics coach placed the camera on the roof of the car and began advancing on the reporter, who was backing away.

"You can't do this. It's harassment. I'm the press," Petra puffed.

"Harassment," Babette scoffed. "You've been trailing this man like a regular tracker and I want to know why."

"He's in a public place. I have a right to photograph..."

"Of course you do," Babette interrupted. "But with someone shooting at us — and you in the cross fire — your camera might have been hit or you could have dropped it."

"I wouldn't have dropped the camera," Dix shouted. "There was no shooting."

"No shooting," Babette mocked. "I could have sworn I heard shots."

"I just wanted a picture," the newswoman growled. "This man is part of some hit squad working for the government. The people have a right..."

While Babette was talking, Gadgets was bringing the Ingram up. His first burst shut the woman up and knocked her camera to the ground. The next burst cut the lens from the mount. The burst that followed swept the pieces across the parking lot.

"Looks like your camera got caught in the cross fire," Gadgets said. "Hate to have to tell you what I think about your hunch about some sort of government hit squad."

Dix looked at the camera then at the stony faces around her. In a fury she climbed into her car and burned rubber out of the parking lot.

One of the bodyguards spoke up. "Uhh, maybe we could take a car."

"Next time maybe you guys could do a little better search before we come out," Gadgets said.

The foursome went to get a car.

"It's your shot, Colonel."

Follet eyed the dart board. His score was sixty. A double twenty would finish the game. For Follet it was a relatively easy shot to make. He drew back his arm.

"Colonel Follet, you're wanted in communications."

He was too late to stop his shot. The dart missed the entire board, landing with a dull thud in the wall paneling. The twenty officers in the officers' club finished their drinks in eager anticipation of having a free one on Follet — that being the penalty for hitting the wall.

Follet stared at the second lieutenant who had interrupted his shot. The young man had the feeling he would be drawing garbage jobs for the rest of his hitch. The officers were already collecting their free drinks, which would automatically go on Follet's bar tab. Without saying a word, the grim-faced acting commander headed for the communications room.

"Hate to be the poor bastard responsible for that message," one major murmured to another. "Old Folly'll try to ram him up the ass with a poison dart."

Lyons talked to the pilot as he waited for Follet to come to the radio. "The way that signal is headed, how long would it take us to refuel and get back to where we could pick it up again?"

"There's all sorts of places where we can refuel in an emergency, sir. I doubt if we'd lose the signal for more than twenty, thirty minutes."

Lyons had a few seconds to think before an angry Follet got on the radio.

"Acting Commander Follet here,'' he snapped.

"Lyons here. We need another long-range copter. Send it to UCLA right away."

"But that's impossible," Follet protested, some of the anger having dropped from his voice. "We only have two of the H-76s with the extra tanks."

"That's fine. Send the other to UCLA. Now. Have it land at the women's gymnasium building. Make it fast. It may have to come and relieve me while we refuel."

"I'll send a light Hughes for the job. Saves fuel, plenty fast enough for local jumps."

"You'll send an H-76, Colonel."

"Ahhh," Follet said, realizing the futility of arguing with the Able Team member, "yes, sir."

"The Marine company standing by?"

"Yes, sir."

"You got a larger transport chopper standing by in case the two Sikorskys aren't enough?"

"As of right now I do, sir," Follet said grudgingly.

"Good, Colonel," Lyons said. "Over and out."

Gadgets Schwarz yawned deeply on his way up to Babette's apartment. The small elevator was crowded with the two FBI guards. A third guard had remained with the car; his duty was to watch the front of the building.

One of the bodyguards took Babette's key and went through her apartment before letting anyone else enter. The other man proceeded to the roof to take a position overlooking the fire escape. When the agent was finished checking the apartment, he motioned for Gadgets and Babette to enter, then took up a post guarding the door.

Once inside, Gadgets wandered around the apartment, looking through doors, locating the fire escape, glancing out at buildings that could possibly house a sniper.

"Don't you trust the man who just searched the place?" Babette asked.

"I stay alive by not totally trusting anyone."

"With that kind of philosophy, can you ever relax?"

"Sure," Gadgets replied, feeling kind of embarrassed over the questioning, the concern, shown by Babette. "Sort of."

She laughed heartily. "Tell me, Gadgets, how does a person 'sort of relax?"

"I guess I just make sure I'm in a secure place, then I can take it easy."

She came over to him and took the gym bag off his shoulder. She set it within easy reach then moved away from him. Babette went and closed all the drapes, both in the living room and the bedroom.

"All is safe, secure. Now you can relax," she said when she returned.

"I don't know if I can relax," he said jokingly. "Somehow I get the feeling I'm under attack."

"You don't mind being under attack?" she asked, her voice a soft purr.

"No," he replied. "It's my job."

"You're tense," she said. "Your body's tight as a drum. Why don't you take off that jacket? You look hot."

And with that she started to help him out of his clothing. She took off his gaudy sport shirt, then helped him unfasten the shoulder rig. She pulled the Beretta from the rig and carefully placed the modified 93-R within easy reach of the shower stall.

"A nice hot shower will work wonders for your tension," she said as she continued undressing him. When she was finished with the Able Team warrior, she started on herself, slowly stripping the clothing from her body.

Gadgets watched, somewhat in awe. Her body, revealed to him slowly, piece of clothing by piece of clothing, was awesome. She carried no excess, only the form that had carried her to the top of the gymnastics world.

In the steaming hot shower, they lathered each other, letting their fears and tension run down the drain. Babette's touch was firm, almost harsh, her fingers digging into tense knotted muscles, loosening them, relaxing them. Gadgets performed the same intimate service for her. As the tension drained out of their bodies, as the killing and past events were forgotten, a new, wild feeling crept into their bodies.

After climbing out of the shower, Gadgets wrapped a towel around Babette. Hugging her affectionately, he helped her dry off. Drying himself, he looked again at her magnificent form. It had been ages since he had felt so warmly about a woman. His business was a cold business; to gain warmth was often to commit yourself. He could not commit himself. He had to tell Babetteю

With an impatient, urgent movement, Babette touched her finger to his lips.

"Shhh," she said. "No words."

She led him to the bedroom.