Pol, Gadgets, the Bear and Ti were sitting in front of Brognola's desk at Elwood Electronic Industries. Behind the desk Brognola sat very straight, his forehead creased with worry lines.
'Not much,' he answered. 'He'd slipped out of the building and was worried about being missed. All he knew was that Jishin let it slip she was leaving for Boston right away. He has a hunch that a raid is imminent in that area.'
'We might be able to get military transport and arrive the same time she does, but there's no way to beat her there,' Gadgets pointed out.
'No idea how long we have?' Pol probed.
Brognola shook his head.
'Is there anyone left at Stony Man?' Gadgets asked. 'If so, they can get to Boston a lot faster than we can.'
Brognola nodded. 'Phoenix Force's Manning and McCarter are watching the shop. They can be in Boston in a matter of minutes.'
'Okay, Manning and McCarter can get to Boston on time, but what's the target?' Gadgets wondered aloud.
Kurtzman spoke for the first time. 'I think we can answer that one. Ti and I have been assembling maps of probable targets within striking distance of WAR's main branches. The Boston area has one target that's several times as important as any other in the area — MIT.'
'What's so special about the Massachusetts Institute of Technology?' Brognola asked.
'They've assembled some of the most promising younger researchers. A lot of federal funds have gone there recently to back several hush-hush computer projects. And a university is always an easy target. I'd say it's MIT with a ninety-six-percent probability.''
'That's close enough,' Brognola decided. He reached for the telephone to call Stony Man. 'I just hope we manage things on time. One of you get me Quantico Marine Base on the other line.'
The captain was in a cranky mood. He had been off duty and just about to sit down to enjoy a couple of drinks in the officers' mess, when the officer of the day had caught him.
'Jackson. Top-priority flight, on the double.'
'Hey, Colonel. I'm not on the duty roster.'
'You are now. Jump.'
Captain Jackson got the message. He got to the chopper hangar on the double — it was on the double all the way, because Colonel Fulton jogged right beside him.
They came to a stop beside a Sikorsky CH-53E. It was already warming up. The captain reached for the clipboard being held by a mechanic, but Fulton snatched it and scribbled a quick signature without checking it. Jackson was beginning to suspect that the flight was more than routine.
'Where's my crew?' he asked.
'You're the crew,' Fulton told him as they boarded. 'I'm commanding.''
'But you're duty officer.'
'And duty calls.'
They warmed up the sixteen-ton helicopter and staggered it into the sky the moment the engines would take it.
'Where's the load, skipper?' Jackson asked. He was beginning to feel the excitement.
'Just outside the Shenandoah Park. There's two passengers for Boston.'
'We're taking this gas-guzzling, suicidal monster to ferry two men?'
The colonel was enjoying the captain's discomfort. 'It's the fastest thing we've got on the base, and I was told it had to be the quickest merry-go-round we have.'
'Who gave that brilliant order?'
'Not allowed to say, but it came from a lot higher than base commander.'
The lights around the helipad were strongly directional. Jackson did not spot them until they were directly over them. The colonel brought the chopper back on a much lower level and then down on the pad. The lights went out immediately. Jackson cranked the door and jumped out.
For all he knew he might be in the middle of a meadow. He wondered how grass could be used without showing signs of wear. He bent down and discovered he was standing on Astro Turf.
Two men in camouflage fatigues came jogging up with a war bag in each of their hands. They moved swiftly and easily. Jackson wondered what they could be carrying that would be that bulky, that light and that important.
The two men looked like brothers. They were both slightly under six feet, both muscular, but their facial features were different. It was obvious they were both fighting men.
'Rough air ahead. I'll store those,' Jackson told the passengers.
'Like hell you will, mate,' said the one with longer hair. Then, with a flash of the devil in his blue eyes, he added, 'But you could give me a bloody hand getting this crap aboard.'
He extended the two war bags at arm's length to the curious marine captain. Jackson reached forward, took the straps and then staggered forward. His arms dropped and the bags swung into his legs with a dull clunk. It was all Jackson could do to hold on to the bags and not moan out loud. Each bag weighed about seventy pounds.
The other passenger placed both of his bags on the helicopter, and without removing his hands from their grip, vaulted on after them. The one with the British accent easily clambered aboard and accepted his war bags from Jackson. Jackson had to lift them one at a time.
'Don't know what I'd have done without you,' the passenger told him.
Jackson looked into the mocking blue eyes and canceled his scowl. He dogged the door and hurried to the flight deck.
'Let's get out of here, sir,' he told the colonel.
'What are our passengers like?' Fulton asked as he slapped the Sikorsky into maximum climb.
The acceleration pushed Jackson into his seat before he was buckled in.
'I met someone like those two once before,' Jackson said. 'A big dark guy with icy eyes.'
Jackson paused and shuddered.
'Colonel, the rpm are red zone.'
'Them's our orders. This chopper only has to last long enough to get them to MIT.'
'There's no pad at MIT.'
'That's what I told them,' Fulton said.
'And what was the response?' the captain asked.
Colonel Fulton grinned. 'Tough,' he quoted.
Aya Jishin stood at the front of the bus and looked down its length, assessing what she saw. She had twenty of her Cambodia— and Moscow-trained specialists with her. The other thirty passengers were locals, recruited and trained through HIT. The specialists all sat at the front, near her. It would not do for them to mingle with the foot soldiers.
The bus gave a sudden swerve. She fired an angry glare at the driver. He was wiping a hand on his pants
