“Moscow is not immune and neither, as I mentioned before, is Washington. Raskowski controls the highest-placed mole in intelligence history, a man with the confidence of the President himself.”
“That would explain a lot,” Blaine nodded, recalling his own certainty that a leak had sprung within the crisis committee. “I don’t suppose you could tell me who this mole is.”
“Only by the code name Raskowski has used for him in the past: the Farmer Boy. Supposedly he was born on a Soviet farm to an American mother and Russian father. The Farmer Boy was handpicked along with dozens of other young Soviets to be groomed as spies within America. They were sent there as children. Raskowski has buried all the agents he controls so deeply that their identities, the Farmer Boy’s included, remain a mystery even to us.”
McCracken thought briefly. “Okay, so after learning through the Farmer Boy that certain crystals had been discovered which could power an energy field that could stop his death ray, Raskowski ordered Earnst’s death to destroy the trail.”
She nodded. “Because he couldn’t let his plan be stopped. There is a progression, you see, and either the destruction or disgrace of your country is a vital part of it.”
“Do us in one way or another and they’ll roll a red carpet out to him from Moscow leading straight to Chernopolov’s chair.”
“Unfortunately, yes. The destruction of the United States would propel him into power, just as your unilateral disarmament would if you accede to his demands. And if you decide to fight, the Kremlin might have no choice but to turn to him for the certain victory his death ray would guarantee.”
“In every scenario he wins and we lose,” noted Blaine somberly. “And your government can’t admit any of this because to do so would be to admit they’ve lost control. Unthinkable in the Soviet Union.”
“Because it would force the government to topple, thus accomplishing Raskowski’s goal for him. Unthinkable anywhere. I was dispatched by General Secretary Chernopolov personally to ensure that none of these scenarios comes to pass. He cannot afford to mobilize traditional forces, just as your government cannot.”
“And where exactly do I come into your scenario?”
“Two days ago we obtained a lead as to Raskowski’s whereabouts, at least the means by which his death beam has been deployed. If I … fail, our only hope will be that your search for the Atragon crystals either succeeds or flushes him out.”
“Long shots at best.”
“But you’ll take the chance, just as I will, because more is at stake here for both of us.”
Blaine let the statement pass and scratched at the bandage on his forehead. “I met with a Greek antique dealer tonight who pointed me in the direction of a man named Megilido Fass. He seems to possess some unusual sexual leanings which may provide my in to him. Think you might be able to dig up some more details for me?”
“I’ll make the necessary calls.”
Blaine shook his head. “Ironic, isn’t it? Two superpowers compromised by their own inadequacies. What’s left? Us … two outcasts charged with returning sanity to an insane world.”
“Let it stay insane. So long as it survives.”
Chapter 14
Night came early in Pamosa Springs on the second day of the occupation. Jeep and foot patrols swept through the streets to enforce curfew and by eight P.M. not a soul out of uniform could be seen anywhere. The drapes and curtains in every house were drawn, as if whatever was happening to the town could be simply blocked out.
Those residents peeking between the cracks saw a huge break in the darkness, thanks to a host of floodlights on the hillside that three weeks before had yielded up its minerals. What they couldn’t see from this distance was the large complement of men at work with hydraulic drills and manual tools, lifting and rummaging through huge slabs of the hillside. Nor could they see five truckloads of machinery and equipment still being unloaded and set up in the gulley beyond the floodlit hill.
The four members of the Pamosa Springs town council were gathered by candlelight in the attic of the oldest member’s house just after one A.M. NO one took the meeting’s minutes and everyone whispered, the only sound other than their voices being the jackhammer pounding coming from the hillside.
“Well,” said Mayor Jake “Dog-ear” McCluskey, “anyone want to get this meeting started?”
“As I see it,” responded Clara Buhl, trying to shift her bulky legs in the cramped confines of the attic, “we were supposed to figure they were the real army, Corps of Engineers probably. They musta had a cover story all set that woulda made plenty of sense to us … till Hal Taggart appeared on the scene.”
“And their story got shot to hell,” from McCluskey.
“Along with Taggart,” added Sheriff Pete Heep.
“So all hell breaks loose,” picked up Clara, “and it’s pretty obvious to us that they’re not the real army. They forget all about the niceties and take us all prisoner.”
“Which still don’t tell us what they’re here for,” the mayor raised. McCluskey was a beefy man with a belly that had long since fallen over his waist. He had once been a football star and pictures of him in various poses plastered his office walls. They made quite a collection, and most of Pamosa Springs had been given the tour often enough to be able to recite the year and day each shot had been snapped. McCluskey had a square face and straight jaw, both of which seemed even more rectangular thanks to his crew-cut. The nickname Dog-ear was due to the fact that he was missing a hefty chunk of his left lobe courtesy of a murderous beagle that had gone crazy on him as a child.
Sheriff Pete Heep, on the other hand, was rail thin, all knees and elbows, which cracked and squeaked with almost every move. A tour in Korea had sent him home with shrapnel in three of his four limbs. Heep kept his sense of humor about the squeaking — and the pain — giving himself the nickname of “Junk” Heep to describe his battered body, which took twenty minutes to stir out of bed every morning.
“Did it real organized like, too,” added Sheriff Junk. “They’re experienced, whoever they are, and damn well armed.” He moved his elbow with a resounding pop. “Can’t expect to keep us prisoners forever, though. I mean this is a town.”
“Maybe not forever,” chipped in Clara Buhl, “but long enough. Judgin’ by the pace they been working at, I’d say they don’t want to stay here any longer than they have to. They got a roadblock set up on the only road leading into the Springs and who would question the army? All they have to say is something about hazardous waste or some nuclear test gone wrong and people’ll steer clear for miles.”
Clara was a feisty woman of near sixty who had been cursed by a bad heart for over a quarter of those years. She was born and raised in the Springs and had never left the state of Colorado in her entire life. She seldom even left her house except for council meetings and could be found at virtually any hour of the day or night listening to an old radio and working her way through needlepoint after needlepoint. Her whole house was covered with her creations, few of them any good since her eyes started to go, the stitching sloppy and the colored patches running into each other to create an inadvertent impressionism. Clara refused to accept glasses and relied instead on an antique magnifying glass for her meager reading needs.
“Whoever they are, they thought this out plenty good,” put forth Dog-ear McCluskey. “Knew just where to cut the power and phone lines. Even had a list of all the registered ham radio operators.”
“It’s public record,” Clara told him.
“You know,” started the mayor, “I had a friend once in the Signal Corps and it seems to me there’s a way to convert a standard radio receiver into a transmitter. Damned if I can remember it, though.”