Five Rings of Fire

9

Klaus Boering knew he had the upper hand, but he was not enjoying it. The man in front of him was bumbling, verbally stumbling. He'd break any moment now. All of Boering's carefully laid groundwork was beginning to bear fruit. But something was making him feel uneasy. Very uneasy.

"You are finished in America," Boering told Zak Wilson, a lanky black eight-hundred-meter man. "When your stupid amateur committee finds what you've done with the money, you'll be banished from competition. Your name will be shit. You can take money, Zak, for wearing a particular running shoe — giving it your endorsement — but you have to put that money into a fund, put it away until your amateur days are over. You've spent it. And they're going to find out. That nosy reporter will find out, I know it."

Zak Wilson looked at Boering with contempt. Sure, he had accepted some cash. Most athletes do. Most put it in some hokey trust fund — a little cash pool that they can dive into when their athletic days have ended. But Zak had spent loads of his bread. He had wined, dined, bought antique cars, and spent and spent. Now this blackmailing bastard was threatening him, saying he'd take away Wilson's amateur status. If he lost that, he'd have nothing. He needed his amateur status to compete in the Olympics, which he planned to use as an international forum for his talent. Once his talent was exposed, he could cash in on it and retire.

Boering continued. "So why suffer? You'll be welcome in Russia or any Warsaw Pact nation you choose. We're not so silly there. We don't worry so much about amateur status. A little spending. We hide such petty crimes. In Russia you'll be treated with respect. With respect comes reward. Money."

Wilson shifted uneasily in his chair. He was thinking, churning the situation over and over in his head. Boering hadn't been a coach for twenty years without learning how to manipulate, push people.

When Boering had been activated for this project, he had thought it was a waste of a mole, a mole buried thirty years deep. He had made his mark on the West German swim team. Then, with the aid of the KGB, he had quickly moved into coaching. Using his pipeline with the Soviet Union, he had kept up to date on the Soviet's expertise in swimming and had become one of the most respected coaches in the NATO block. That was all the KGB controllers had ever asked of him — until now. Now he was to round up a group of black Americans and convince them to leave their country.

Once involved, it had taken Boering little time to understand the importance of the task he had been assigned. It was indeed worthy of a thirty-year mole. Couple his project with project "Klandestine" and all of Africa would fall in line with the Communist ideology.

Zak Wilson broke the silence.

"What do you want? What do you want from me?"

"I just want to help you, Zak. After the Games, why don't you join the other black athletes who are escaping the pettiness of this country. Why don't you come to where you are appreciated?"

"What other black athletes?" Wilson asked.

"You wouldn't want me slipping your name into conversations. Why would I mention other names?"

"There aren't any others."

"There are, but you'll have to take my word for it. I refuse to compromise anyone."

"Shit. Lay off that 'compromise anyone' crap. You don't think I know who tipped off that nosy reporter?"

"Really, Zak..."

"Save your bullshit and your 'reallys' for the suckers. How soon?"

"Immediately after the Games I'll arrange a scholarship for you. Then you can go to your new country, decide to stay — officially — and you'll have no trouble here before you leave."

"No trouble. What do you think I've got now? I've got damn Feds crawling all over me. I've got a reporter crawling all over me. After the Games is too damn late. Man, you're no use to me."

Zak Wilson, caught between a rock and a hard place, headed for the door. Boering waited until the angry runner was almost out before he spoke.

"I do have a couple of athletes leaving tonight. Can you be ready on time?"

"Tonight. Yeah. I can be ready."

"The University Elementary School at UCLA campus. North section where Sunset turns south. I'll be in the school parking lot at 7:30. I'll be in a large limo. Clear?"

"Clear. Anything else?"

"Bring only one small bag. Don't worry about what you leave behind. Everything you need will be provided."

"I'll be there."

"See you in two hours."

Zak slammed the door behind him.

Boering leaned back in the chair and stared at the door. No sense getting up to lock it, he thought. More sheep on the way. Boering, sitting in the lap of luxury in a hotel suite, could not shake that feeling that success, something that usually came with long, hard work, was coming a bit too quickly. Too easily.

A knock sounded on the door.

"Come in," Boering called. "It's not locked."

In walked Lighting Sam Jackson.

"Man," he gasped, a little out of breath. "I damn near bumped into Zak Wilson out there. I saw him getting into the elevator. I made it to the stairs before he saw me, but just barely."

"Zak was coming from here," Boering said with a smile.

Jackson relaxed visibly. "Zak Wilson. Zak Wilson is coming with us. What was his price?"

"Not everyone is as greedy as you are, Sam. Some people are moving to a socialist state strictly on principle."

"Yeah, right," he replied sarcastically as he rejected the offer of a chair, choosing the bed instead.

Jackson sat silent for a second, then asked: "You got it?"

"Of course, but I have a few questions."

"No questions this late in the game."

"Why now, Sam? Why leave now instead of after the Games? Why the others?"

"I've already told you."

"Tell me again."

Jackson sighed; "It's those Feds who came in after that gymnast was killed. They know the score and they know someone's been after the brothers to leave the country. They're dangerous dudes. I told you when I saw you earlier that anyone who was still going to go would want to go now before those guys get any closer to the truth."

"It seems you were correct. There will be a carload leaving this evening. It's too bad. After the Games would have made a lot greater impact, more of a show."

"Who's going tonight?" Jackson asked.

"You'll see when you get there. If I told you those trouble-makers will be taken care of, would you wait until after the Games?"

"Me personally, or all the athletes who are planning to desert the sinking ship?"

"Both or either."

"I doubt anyone would. I know I wouldn't. Anyone gets curious, it would be too easy to find out how many times you and I have talked. I think the others are crapping themselves even more than I am. Let's move this. I want to make a deposit into a bank here."

"You can always take it with you," Boering said. "Then you'll have the money in a place where you can get at it."

"I want the money now."

Boering steered the subject on to a new course.

"You think those Feds you're all running from will try to stop you tonight?"

"If they know what's coming down they will."

"Who would tell them?"

"Not me. Nobody. I don't think anyone has the nerve to tell those vultures anything. Whoever squeals will probably be taken into a quiet room somewhere and wrung out like an old undershirt. Mind you, I think they'll find out anyway. We're not dealing with turkeys."

"Then," Boering said, "one way or another, I'd better assure that we're not delayed."

Jackson stared at the ruddy-faced man. "You do what you have to. I still gotta get to the bank."

Boering reached behind his chair and produced a plastic shopping bag. He tossed it to Jackson. The boxer caught it and dumped the contents onto the bed. Stacks of fifty— and hundred-dollar bills littered the bed. Jackson started counting the bills in the bundles, his eyes aglow.

"You really don't have to go to all that trouble," Boering remarked, watching the boxer count the cash. "I'd be a fool to short you this late in the game."

"No trouble at all," Jackson said. "I've gone short so long, believe me, this is no trouble."

The counting was rapidly completed and the bundles tossed back into the bag.

Colonel Frank Follet crumpled the piece of paper and threw it across the room. The tightly packed paper bounced off an aerial photograph of Edwards Air Force Base and came to rest between Victory's torch and wings. Victory was a piece of plastic mounted on a cheap stand. Follet had won the trophy in 1969 at the base's annual dart tournament. Colonel Frank Follet was as competitive as they come.

"Rat shit," the acting commanding officer of Edwards snarled. He said it to himself, having carefully waited until he was alone before throwing the paper — and a slight tantrum.

Twenty-one years of career service without attaining a command. Then, when General Bogart was sent to the European theater on only twenty-four hours' notice, Follet found himself not busily sewing stars on his uniforms, but merely being appointed acting CO. That stung. He had gone to his room in the officers' quarters and taken dart target practice on a photograph of the face of General Bogart. He had emerged from the room twenty minutes later ready to take over his temporary command.

But he had also emerged a determined man. He had vowed he would show the idiots in the Pentagon that Bogart's failure to recommend Follet to replace him at Edwards was an act of spite — the act of a small mind unable to admit that his would-be replacement had a superior mind. He had vowed he would run Edwards so damn well anyone who was sent to the base as new commander would look like a jackass by comparison.

The first thing he had done as acting commander was double the fatigue duties. He wasn't out to win friends, he was out to win respect from high places. The lawns were cut twice as often, buildings that had not been painted for two or more years were given brand-new coats, inspections were doubled and the standards became more rigid. He would have the spiffiest base in the service or there would be hell to pay.

Then he had learned about the Soviet trawler. One of the lieutenants on radar duty had been glancing at a scope that was really a monitor of a scope operated by the Coast Guard. Questioned by Follet, the young lieutenant had reported that the image was that of a Soviet trawler. It was just outside the U.S. territorial limit and was being monitored from the radar on a small ship that was tagging the Russian vessel. The image was then bounced comsat to all military bases in the area.

It had not taken Colonel Follet long to realize that this was a golden opportunity to flex his muscles and impress some people. The trawler, according to all concerned, was probably a spy ship. Follet deduced that if it in fact was a spy ship, it was probably carrying a helicopter. And when that chopper went on its mission, the man who planned the interception would be lauded. Follet reasoned that if the other bases were paying as little attention to their monitors as the Edwards base had been, it would be easy for him to steal the show. He assigned a man to watch the monitor.

He was feeling quite pleased with himself, but then the memo came from Washington. It said that some Washington pimp had been put in charge of national security. It said that because of potentially explosive problems at the Olympic Games, this Washington pimp needed — and was to be given — full cooperation. It was signed by the President of the United States.

Follet had crumpled the note up and tossed it, but now he picked it back up. Again he swore.

The telephone rang. He snatched it up and growled into it.

It was the secretary to the base commander.

"The gate is on the line, sir. They have an unidentified male who claims to have presidential authority. He's got some sort of crumpled-up document that looks authentic. He's asking for you."

Follet was tempted to order the nut locked up. But he would never get near a command if he did that to political errand boys. He had played politics for twenty-one years; he knew how the system operated.

"Have him escorted to my office," Follet said finally.

A jeep loaded with MPs screeched up to escort Carl Lyons to the base commander's office.

"Go right in, sir," the secretary said after Lyons had been dropped off. "Colonel Follet's expecting you."

The royal treatment was a bit much for Lyons. Such plastic respect did not give him a good feeling. It made him gag.

He entered the colonel's office. Follet, six foot three, lean, came striding around the desk with his hand thrust forward.

"Glad to meet you, sir," the colonel said, squeezing lies between his teeth. "I'm Colonel Follet. Come to assume command?" he asked. His voice was pitched high and weighted with a tone that was too eager to please.

Lyons supplied his name, then said, "Listen, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not interested in taking over. But I do need some close cooperation."

"Anything at all, Mr. Lyons. Name it."

Lyons sat down without being offered a chair. Follet frowned at the breach of etiquette. Lyons bit his lip.

"I need your fastest helicopter — one that can take three passengers and gear — on standby at the UCLA campus."

Follet, now sitting behind the large desk, continued to frown. "I'm afraid we can't do that," he said. "Landing inside city limits other than at specific helipads isn't done except in an emergency.''

"This is an emergency," Lyons said. "Have it ready to take off in ten minutes. I'll go back to town in it."

"Then you're taking full responsibility?"

"Yes," Lyons said, his voice tough as iron. Lyons had no trouble conjuring up a look of menace. The Able Team warrior was a menacing man.

"No trouble then," the colonel said. "Anything else?"

"I want a troop of Marines on standby at Twenty-nine Palms. I want you to phone the CO at that base and confirm my identity. That'll save me time.''

Follet's jaw clenched, yet he managed to force a small frozen smile onto his face. Lyons had to grin — the colonel's face looked like it was going to crack.

He made the call Lyons had requested.

"I trust that takes care of things."

"The helicopter," Lyons impatiently reminded him.

"Oh, yes. Of course." Follet put through the orders.

By the time he had hung up the telephone, Lyons was on his feet. "The car I drove here," he instructed. "Have it returned to the small parking strip near the women's gym at UCLA."

He was out the door. When the door slammed shut, Follet let the smile drop from his face. He reached into his desk and pulled out a fistful of darts. Slowly, with all the power his arm could produce, he drove each dart into the door.