Firebase Seattle

'I can't help it. It's just all so miserable, so impossible.'

He said, for about the tenth time, 'Margaret —

Dianna did not know what she was getting you into. Believe that.'

'I guess you're right,' she said, sighing. 'I have to believe it, don't I? Dy is all I have in the world.'

His gaze shifted. 'That's very sad.'

'Is it? Why? Some people don't have that much.'

'You're what? — thirty-eight? — forty?'

She wrinkled her nose and replied, 'Squarely between those two. Diplomacy isn't one of your strong points, is it?'

'Not usually. At the age of thirty-nine, Margaret, all you have of value to your life is a daughter?'

She fidgeted under that penetrating scrutiny. 'Well ... okay. I was being dramatic. No, dammit, I wasn't. What else do I have to brag about? Why not be honest with one's self? What do I have, Mack?'

He raised a hand and ticked off the points on his fingers as he called to her attention, 'Frustration, self-pity, lack of direction, isolation, death instinct. That's five negatives.' He raised the other hand. 'Now you count me off five positives to balance that — and I'll tell you what you've got, lady.'

'You're doing fine,' she replied in a muffled voice, obviously offended by his tone. 'Keep counting.'

'Okay. You've got beauty, brains, heart, ethics, and a desire to be happy. I could probably count twenty more positives. You want to know what you've got? You've got the world by the very ass, lovely lady.'

She flinched. 'That's what I said, you're no diplomat.'

'And you're no valid object of pity,' he growled.

'What was it Dy called you? A tough guy? You are! Tough as an angry old bull, aren't you! And you expect everyone else to be just as tough!'

'That's right,' he said softly. 'I do. When it comes to standing up and proclaiming life, I sure do.'

'You're preparing me for something,' she decided, eyes flaring. 'What is it?'

'Don't base it all on your daughter,' he muttered. 'That's all I'm getting at. Life goes on, Margaret. Base it on yourself, and what you can do with it.'

Fear began at the eyes and radiated to the entire face. 'What are you saying? Is Dianna ... ?'

He turned away from that naked terror. No, he was no damned diplomat — nor was he a dreamer. He'd been there, many times, at the finish of too many Diannas — and, sure, he knew the realities. And he'd decided long ago that there were those times when deception and half-truths in the name of mercy were more painful in the long run than squarely facing the truth.

He told Dianna's mother, 'I couldn't get longshot odds from even a guy like Jimmy the Greek on that girl's chances, Margaret.'

'But surely ...'

'Here's a surely,' he said coldly. 'She's playing with brutes, she'll be brutalized.'

'John is not a brute! John is a ... !' Those eyes flared again, fizzled, fell, and she finished with a whispered, 'Oh well.'

'John, huh. Nice guy, huh. Okay, Margaret, you tell me all about nice guy John. This time you hold back nothing. Hear me? Nothing! This is no cute parlor game, dammit. Your daughter's life is hanging Over the edge. You saw how those guys operate! I've seen a lifetime of it! Now dammit, give me the key! Give it to me! Give me the damned key, Margaret!'

'You'd still help her? After all … ?'

'Oh for God's crying children! What the hell am I? We're talking about a kid! Your kid!'

'All right!' The lady was weeping. 'I'll tell you. I'll give you your damned key!'

In the back of his brain, Bolan knew that an important domino had just toppled.

Up front, however, that was the least consideration.

More than dominoes, right now, he wanted Dianna Webb — alive and whole. Even if he had to drag her out of there screaming and kicking.

13 Hope

Seattle was a town that had seen its highs and lows — and was right now sitting somewhere in the middle, but with great hopes.

Beginning as a small lumber settlement in mid-nineteenth century and named after a local Indian chief, it received first substantial growth with the coming of the railroad in post-Civil War days then boomed into the turn of the century via the Alaskan gold rush, serving as chief port of supply and support during those fevered times, establishing itself as a major seaport for all times.

Growth had been mostly upward throughout the twentieth century, except for a few bad moments from time to time. Principal city of the Pacific Northwest, she'd surged mightily during W.W. II as a major shipping and shipbuilding center, then gone into the expansive semi-peacetime era as the seat of a growing military-industrial complex — with emphasis on aerospace and related technological sophistries.

Recent problems in the American aerospace industry had been particularly hard felt in Seattle — where a single large company had employed more than 100,000 skilled and professional workers only to drop its payroll to a lean force of 30,000 during a slump that still was evident. Dependent segments of the local economy were as badly hit, and the entire area was impacted by this mini-depression.

It was a town with guts, though, and a brave past. There were few outward signs of a city in trouble. She wore a happy face even if the guts were strained a bit — and Bolan liked the town. The beauty of the natural setting was unequalled anywhere. Built on seven hills and containing within her own boundaries four lakes and forty-five parks, majestically flanked by the Cascades east and the Olympics west — this beautiful city on Puget Sound held something worthwhile for any taste and every pursuit.

And that, at the moment, was what worried Mack Bolan.

In times of strain, overanxious city fathers would be more inclined to support rather than spurn new hope in the economic sector. They would, perhaps, rush to embrace without first closely scrutinizing.

And, yes, based on the meager revelations of Margaret Nyeburg alone, this appeared to be precisely the case at hand.

John Franciscus was a man with 'an open past' but a peculiarly clouded present. If Nyeburg had been the face of the mob encroachment here, then Franciscus was most probably the muscle.

And that was a bit difficult to square with the known record. The guy was about Bolan's age. Like Bolan, he'd spent most of his adult life in the military — but with a difference. Franciscus was a West Pointer. He'd been a combat soldier, not a politician. Yet he seemed to have many political and social contacts, plenty of money, seemingly unlimited resources. He did not work, had not been born wealthy, and was not visibly attached to any business or financial concerns.

Margaret referred to him as 'that playboy.'

Allan, though, had been 'frightened' by him, Dianna 'clearly imbalanced' by him, and certain civic officials seemingly over-responsive to his 'promotions.'

Why that last? What was the guy offering Seattle that she did not already possess? Margaret could not answer that. Bolan thought that perhaps he could — with just a few more pieces of the puzzle in place.

The mission of the moment, however, was not to drain Johnny Franciscus but to spring Dianna Webb. Bolan had not been playing games with Margaret Nyeburg. He felt most overpoweringly that the lady's daughter was another moth with fragile wings fluttering too close to the consuming flame.

Bolan knew his enemy.