Texas Showdown

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.

Search parties. First they would search the mansion and grounds, then the hill, finally this area. Lyons had to get back to his barrack before they searched the perimeter of the base.

How?

Staying beyond the light, he circled the base. He saw no openings in the fence. There was nowhere he could slide under it. Finally completing the circle, he returned to the road.

The one gate to the base stood open, the guards waving the trucks of soldiers through. Could he simply jump in one of the trucks? Join the search? No. The soldiers in the truck would question him.

Lyons lay in the rocks at the side of the road, the dust-caked blanket over him. Only a hundred yards away, the sentries talked. Occasionally he could hear a word or two.

For the next few minutes he considered the situation. Lyons knew he had been lucky. He had gone into the estate, overheard the conference, managed to get out. Also, Furst had made a mistake: he had not ordered a roll call before sending out the four platoons to search for the spy. It had not occurred to the mere commander that the spy might come from the ranks of his soldiers. Perhaps the detection of the two federal agents had lulled him to overconfidence. But Lyons could hardly count on the commander's confidence continuing through the night.

He decided he had two options. Wait until the search shifted to the area near the base, then join it and return with the soldiers to the base. Or hope for an empty truck returning to the base. But how would he know it was empty? He would have to chance that.

Flat in the roadside dust, Lyons looked at his watch. Five hours till dawn.

* * *

The jeep took Gadgets and Blancanales to the mansion's front door. They saw soldiers everywhere, some searching the grounds with flashlights and rifles, others searching with leashed dogs. Gadgets grabbed his box of tools and makeshift equipment, then went to the door with Blancanales one step behind. A soldier wielding an M-16 barred the entry-way.

"At ease," Furst called, emerging from within the house. "This man has an assignment. Why are you here, Marchardo?"

"I need a helper," Gadgets replied.

"Then come in, gentlemen. What's in the box?"

"You had no detectors down in the storeroom, so I put one together." Gadgets held up a mass of wires and circuitry wrapped in black electrical tape. A nine-volt battery hung from the unit. "Doesn't look too good, but it'll find anything electronic."

"Where do we start?" Blancanales butted in.

"Okay, Marchardo, you go around the side," Furst ordered. "The men there will show you where the intruder stood under the window. Schwarz will be on the other side."

Blancanales gave the commander a quick salute and went out the front door.

Furst and Gadgets were alone in the entry hall. Furst lowered his voice to a near whisper: "I don't want Marchardo or anyone else to know why you're going to El Paso tomorrow."

"Sure, no problem."

"And after you put together what I need, you'll be coming up here to install the equipment. No one will need to know about that, either. Do we understand each other?"

"You're the head man, you give the orders."

"Good. Come on, the study's down here."

Following Furst, Gadgets scanned the rooms and doorways that they passed, trying to memorize the floor plan. Furst glanced back and saw him studying the house.

"Like what you see?"

"Where do I get mine?"

"Should see his house in Dallas. He only had this place built so he could stay near the action. Here's the study."

A hand-radio clipped to Furst's belt buzzed. He acknowledged the call, listened for a moment. "Be there in a minute, over. Schwarz, I want you to start near the windows. The creep could have planted something there. Then cover the entire room. When you come up to install the new equipment, I'll have you look over the rest of the house for bugs also."

"You think someone could have slipped mikes inside the house?"

"Why not? Report to my office tomorrow when you're ready to go. If you find anything, I'll be down at the base. Later."

As soon as the door closed behind Furst, Gadgets planted his first miniature microphone-transmitter. In another minute, he would have the room wired for stereo transmission.

* * *

The Mercedes drifted through the mountain road's curves. Pardee stared out the passenger window as if still searching for the intruder who had violated the security of the Monroe estate. Ahead of them, the taillights of the truck that carried the two burned men flashed from time to time. The hand-radio buzzed, snapping Pardee out of his thoughts.

"Captain Pardee here."

"One of the men died. The one that was burned real bad."

"Get the survivor to the clinic. Pick up the other set of dogs, take them to the men at the bottom of the hill. Mucho pronto." He put down the radio and turned to Furst. "You heard?"

"Two dead. And a spy on the loose."

"When I get that Fed, I'll burn him alive, I'll..."

Furst cut him off. "Right. That's your specialty. But we still have a security problem out there somewhere."

"We'll find him. Come daylight, he's dead."

"But he's the third agent. Maybe this one hiked in overland. Senor Rojo should get his act together quick, because I don't think the Feds are thinking of waiting."

"Getting shaky, Commander Furst? Don't you worry, we have a constitutional right to free assembly and the right to bear arms. Until we make the hit, the worst they can indict us for is the automatic weapons — Class Three violation. Monroe would have us out before the fingerprint ink was dry."

"What about murder?"

"What murder?" Pardee responded, grinning.

The Mercedes pulled up behind the truck at the gate to the base. In the glare of the headlights, they saw a soldier standing on the tailgate of the truck. Pardee slipped his Colt automatic from its holster, told Furst: "Hit the high beams. That man wasn't there when the truck left the house."

Pardee leaned out the passenger window and called out to the man: "Who are you? You! ON THE TRUCK!"

The man turned to face them. Pardee eased down the hammer of his automatic, called out again.

"What're you doing out here, Morgan? Can't stay away from the action, can you?"

"I got bored!" Morgan called back.

Pardee reholstered his pistol, rolled up the window. "That's Carl Morgan, a good soldier. You met him..."

He saw Furst staring at Morgan. The handsome man's face was white. On the steering wheel, his hands were knots of tendons and white knuckles. Pardee whipped out the Colt again, jumped from the Mercedes. He pointed the .45 at Carl Lyons' face.

"Drop the rifle! And get off the truck, Morgan. Or whatever your name is, Mr. Federal Agent."