Peacekeepers (1988) (30 page)

Jay scooped up one of the fallen flechette guns and fired a trio of darts into the man's chest. The suit lost its stiffness as the air blew out of it, spewing blood through the holes.

He turned to see the other terrorist fleeing madly away, legs flailing as he bounced and sailed in the low gravity, hands still fumbling with his helmet seal.

"One minute!" Kelly shouted.

Jay pushed the dead body away and grabbed at the nuke.

"It's too heavy for . . ."

"Not on the Moon," he grunted as he jerked the two meter long case off the concrete floor and hefted it to his shoulder.

"This way," he said. "Take their guns. Cover me."

They ran, straight up now, five meters at a stride, no hiding. Back the way they had come, toward the rock crushers. If this thing's salvage-fused we're finished, Jay told himself. But the first thing they do when they decommission a weapon is remove the fusing.' I hope.

A pressure-suited figure flashed in front of him, then spun and went down, grabbing at its chest. Out of the side of his visor Jay saw two more figures racing to catch up with him. One of them tried to jump over some pipes.

Unaccustomed to the lunar gravity, he leaped too hard and smashed into an overhead conveyor belt.

Jay didn't need a watch, his pulse was thundering in his ears, pounding off the seconds. He saw the rock-crushing machines up ahead, felt a sting in one leg, then another in his side.

His suit radio wasn't working. Or maybe he had shut it off back there somewhere, he didn't remember. His vision was blurring, everything was going shadowy. All he could see was the big conveyor belt trundling lunar rocks up to the pounding jaws of the crusher.

Lunar gravity or not, the package on his shoulder weighed a ton. He staggered, he tottered, he reached the conveyor belt at last and with the final microgram of his strength he heaved the bulky package of death onto the rock-strewn belt and watched the crusher's ferocious steel teeth, corroded with dirt and stained by chemicals, crunch hungrily into the obscene oblong package of death.

Jay never knew if the bomb went off. His world turned totally dark and oblivious.

* * *

The first face he saw when he opened his eyes again was his father's.

J. W. Hazard was sitting by the hospital bed, gazing intently at his son. For the first time Jay could remember, his father's grim, weathered face looked softened, concerned.

Instead of the hard-bitten, driving man Jay had known. Hazard seemed at a loss, almost bewildered, as he stared down at his son. His eyes seemed misted over. Even his iron-gray hair seemed slightly disheveled, as if he had been running his hands through it.

"You're going to be okay, Jay-Jay," he whispered.

"You're going to pull through all right."

Jay's mouth felt as if it were stuffed with cotton. He tried to swallow.

"Wh . . ." He choked slightly, coughed. "What are you doing here. Dad?"

"I came up when they told me what you'd done."

"What did I do?"

"You saved Moonbase, son. They damn near killed you, but you kept the nuke from going off." There was pride in the older man's voice.

"The girl . . . Kelly?"

His father smiled slightly. "She's outside. Want to see her?"

"Sure."

Hazard got to his feet carefully, not entirely certain of himself in the low gravity. We're still on the Moon, Jay realized. His father was in full uniform: sky-blue tunic and trousers with gold piping and the diamond-cluster insignia that identified him as director-general of the International Peacekeeping Force.

Kelly came buzzing into the room on an electric wheelchair, one leg wrapped in a plastic bandage.

"You're hurt," Jay blurted, feeling woolly-headed, stupid.

"They didn't give up after you tossed the nuke into the crusher," she explained cheerfully. "We had a bit of a firefight."

"This young lady," Hazard said, his gravelly voice resuming some of its normal bellow, "not only held off four fanatics, but managed to patch your suit at the same time, thereby saving your life."

Jay muttered, "Thanks. A lot."

Clasping his hands behind his back and standing spraddle-legged in the middle of the hospital room, Hazard took over the conversation. "The terrorists had launched an attack on the Moonbase security office itself, designed to keep the base security forces tied up while they planted the nuke and waited for it to go off."

"That's why we got no response from base security,"

Kelly interjected.

"This really was a Peacekeepers' operation," Jay said to her.

"No way! We just called your father when you went into surgery."

"How long have I been out?"

"Three days."

Turning to his father. Jay said, "You must've taken a high-energy express to get here so quick."

Hazard's face reddened slightly. "Well," he blustered, "you're the only son I've got, after all."

"You really care that much about me?"

"I've always cared about you," the older man said.

Kelly was grinning at the two of them.

Abruptly, Hazard turned for the door. "I've got to contact Geneva. Got to get some forensics people up here to look at the remains of that nuke. Maybe we can get some info on where it's been hidden all this time. Might help us find the others that're missing. I'll be back later."

"Okay, Dad. Thanks."

"Thanks?" Hazard shot him a puzzled look.

"For everything."

The old man made a sour face and pushed through the door.

"You're embarrassing him." Kelly laughed and wheeled her chair close to the bed.

"You saved my life," Jay said.

"Not me. You were clinically dead when the medics reached us. They pulled you back."

He licked his dry lips, then, "You know, for a while there, I wasn't certain that I wanted to go on living. But you made me decide. I really owe you a lot for that."

Kelly beamed at him, "Welcome back to life, Jay. Welcome back to the human race."

After my prosthesis I was assigned by the

IPF personnel computers to the intelligence

service once again, this time as deputy

director, with the rank of major. Hazard

himself pinned the ringed-planet insignia on

my collar.

The situation I found was precarious.

Disarmament was stalled because Shamar's

little nuclear arsenal gave the major powers

a lovely excuse to cling to their own

megatonnages of weaponry. The IPF had

stopped several small wars and the largish

affair between India and Pakistan, but no

one truly believed that world peace could be

maintained unless and until the big powers

disarmed themselves seriously. That meant

finding Shamar, a task that the IPF could

not do.

Which is why Red Eagle continued to

deal with Cole Alexander, despite his

growing misgivings. And why I made it my

business to channel every piece of

intelligence about Shamar and his nuclear

weapons to Red Eagle.

THE night was balmy as Cole Alexander walked the length of the reflecting pool and started up the granite steps of the Lincoln Memorial. He felt a burning anxiety growing within him.

We're close, he told himself. We're almost there.

Shamar's almost in our grasp. And afterward ... He trembled with anticipation.

Taking a deep calming breath of the night air, he inhaled a flowery fragrance. The cherry trees? he wondered. No, more like good old magnolias.

Out there in the darkness, he knew, were Kelly and Pavel. Shadowing him. Protecting him. Alexander grinned sourly. I'm more in danger from muggers around here at this time of night than from Shamar. But his daughter had made up her mind that he must be accompanied by a bodyguard. When Pavel had immediately volunteered, Kelly insisted that she go along, too.

To protect me against the Red? Is she still suspicious of Pavel, or does she just want to be with him? Suspicious, he decided. Strangely, Alexander himself felt confident of Pavel's loyalty. As long as we don't put him in conflict with his orders from Moscow, the kid will be okay, he told himself.

The neoclassic Greek temple of the Memorial building was nearly empty this close to midnight; only a few diehard tourists and romantic couples stood scattered around its floor, staring up at the great brooding marble statue of the sixteenth President. Subdued lighting in the ceiling cast moonlight-like shadows across the hollows of Lincoln's craggy cheeks.

Old Honest Abe, said Alexander silently. Look at that face. You sure as hell saw your share of troubles, didn't you?

Alexander turned to see Harold Red Eagle climbing the steps slowly, with the ponderous decorum that was his trademark. Christ, he's almost as wide as the columns holding up the roof, Alexander thought. But he's slowed some. He's not just being dignified; he's getting old.

A bit stiffly. Red Eagle walked straight toward Alexander and extended his massive hand.

"We meet again, Mr. Alexander," he said in a low lion's purr.

Letting the Amerind's hand engulf his own, Alexander realized that Red Eagle's grip was firm but not hard. The big man was a true gentleman: he had the strength to crush bones, yet he withheld that strength. Instead of foolish displays intended to frighten lesser men. Red Eagle husbanded his power and used it only where and when it was necessary.

"It's been nearly six years," Alexander said.

"That long? Yes, I suppose it has."

"You picked a dramatic place to meet."

The Amerind made a small smile. "I felt it best to be discreet. You didn't land your flying boat in the Potomac, did you?"

With a chuckle, Alexander replied, "No, it's up near Baltimore, at the old Martin Marietta seaplane facility. Came down here on the tube train like any ordinary citizen. Took twelve minutes, station to station."

Red Eagle glanced around at the half-dozen others scattered around the shadowy floor. Two of the couples were heading for the stairs. That left only a young Asian family, the mother holding her sleeping child in her arms.

She had already placed an incredibly sensitive microphone, the size of a penny, on the marble floor. It would be picked up the following morning before the cleaning crew came into the Memorial.

"I have found, over the years, that there are some conversations that should not be overheard," Red Eagle said.

"Or even remembered," Alexander added.

Red Eagle fixed him with a stare, then admitted, "True enough."

Alexander began pacing slowly. Red Eagle walked beside him, like a dark glacier gliding across the marble floor.

"I guess you know why I need the Peacekeepers' cooperation,"

Alexander began.

"If you want their help to attack Shamar and the drug manufacturing center in those mountains, I'm afraid that will be impossible."

"I understand that. No, what I need is some intelligence data . . ."

"On where the bombs are located?"

"No, on where the major drug manufacturing centers are. The biggest ones, around the world."

"What makes you think that . . ."

"IPF surveillance satellites can spot them," Alexander said, feeling some impatience. "You send reconnaissance drones to sniff them out."

"If you are referring to the Peacekeepers' routine aerial patrols, I believe that they may occasionally pick up evidence of illicit drug manufacturing facilities. All such evidence is handed over to the national government in whose territory the facility exists."

"And they file under F, for 'Forget It,' " snapped Alexander.

Glancing around at the little family reading the plaque engraved with the Gettysburg Address, Red Eagle lowered his voice. "May I ask, Mr. Alexander, why you are interested in this information?"

Alexander looked up at the big Amerind and shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. "Since we've gotten involved with this problem in Colombia, I realize how serious the drug traffic is. After we get Shamar for you, I think we'll go after the other big drug centers."

Red Eagle was silent for several moments. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced away from Alexander, across the marble floor and past the seated figure of Lincoln. Alexander thought. They're damned near the same size, the statue and the Injun Chief.

The Asian family left, yawning. Red Eagle and Alexander were left alone with Lincoln's massive marble likeness.

And the microphone.

Turning back to Alexander, Red Eagle said slowly, "Mr.Alexander, I am afraid that I don't entirely believe what you've just told me."

Alexander hadn't thought he would. "Really?"

"But we will let it pass, for the moment," he said. "We have need of your services. Your motivations are not my problem, and your future plans are . . ."—he hesitated, then concluded—"something to consider in the future."

He's up to something, and it's big, Alexander realized.

He'd never let me get away with the evasions I've just handed him unless he had something much more important at hand.

"You wish to get Shamar," said Red Eagle. "We wish to get the nuclear weapons he possesses. Time grows short. The fuse is burning. Already Shamar has sold off one of his bombs. Last year he came close to destroying Moonbase with it."

"He was stopped by a man who now works for me,"

Alexander pointed out.

"Hazard's son. Yes, I know."

"You think Shamar's getting desperate?"

Red Eagle shook his head slowly. "I believe he wants us to think he is becoming desperate. He still has five nuclear weapons. One of them is here in Washington . . ."

"What?"

Raising a giant hand in a gesture of calm, Red Eagle said, "It has been found and disarmed. Shamar's people do not know that. They believe it to be still intact and ready to be used."

"Where was it?"

"In a private house on Pennsylvania Avenue, only a few blocks from Capitol Hill. It is still there. Waiting."

"But why . . .?"

"The Russians found another one in Moscow. A third one was discovered in Paris."