planned the interception would be lauded. Follet reasoned that if the other bases were paying as little attention to their monitors as the Edwards base had been, it would be easy for him to steal the show. He assigned a man to watch the monitor.
He was feeling quite pleased with himself, but then the memo came from Washington. It said that some Washington pimp had been put in charge of national security. It said that because of potentially explosive problems at the Olympic Games, this Washington pimp needed — and was to be given — full cooperation. It was signed by the President of the United States.
Follet had crumpled the note up and tossed it, but now he picked it back up. Again he swore.
The telephone rang. He snatched it up and growled into it.
It was the secretary to the base commander.
'The gate is on the line, sir. They have an unidentified male who claims to have presidential authority. He's got some sort of crumpled-up document that looks authentic. He's asking for you.'
Follet was tempted to order the nut locked up. But he would never get near a command if he did that to political errand boys. He had played politics for twenty-one years; he knew how the system operated.
'Have him escorted to my office,' Follet said finally.
A jeep loaded with MPs screeched up to escort Carl Lyons to the base commander's office.
'Go right in, sir,' the secretary said after Lyons had been dropped off. 'Colonel Follet's expecting you.'
The royal treatment was a bit much for Lyons. Such plastic respect did not give him a good feeling. It made him gag.
He entered the colonel's office. Follet, six foot three, lean, came striding around the desk with his hand thrust forward.
'Glad to meet you, sir,' the colonel said, squeezing lies between his teeth. 'I'm Colonel Follet. Come to assume command?' he asked. His voice was pitched high and weighted with a tone that was too eager to please.
Lyons supplied his name, then said, 'Listen, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not interested in taking over. But I do need some close cooperation.'
'Anything at all, Mr. Lyons. Name it.'
Lyons sat down without being offered a chair. Follet frowned at the breach of etiquette. Lyons bit his lip.
'I need your fastest helicopter — one that can take three passengers and gear — on standby at the UCLA campus.'
Follet, now sitting behind the large desk, continued to frown. 'I'm afraid we can't do that,' he said. 'Landing inside city limits other than at specific helipads isn't done except in an emergency.''
'This is an emergency,' Lyons said. 'Have it ready to take off in ten minutes. I'll go back to town in it.'
'Then you're taking full responsibility?'
'Yes,' Lyons said, his voice tough as iron. Lyons had no trouble conjuring up a look of menace. The Able Team warrior was a menacing man.
'No trouble then,' the colonel said. 'Anything else?'
'I want a troop of Marines on standby at Twenty-nine Palms. I want you to phone the CO at that base and confirm my identity. That'll save me time.''
Follet's jaw clenched, yet he managed to force a small frozen smile onto his face. Lyons had to grin — the colonel's face looked like it was going to crack.
He made the call Lyons had requested.
'I trust that takes care of things.'
'The helicopter,' Lyons impatiently reminded him.
'Oh, yes. Of course.' Follet put through the orders.
By the time he had hung up the telephone, Lyons was on his feet. 'The car I drove here,' he instructed. 'Have it returned to the small parking strip near the women's gym at UCLA.'
He was out the door. When the door slammed shut, Follet let the smile drop from his face. He reached into his desk and pulled out a fistful of darts. Slowly, with all the power his arm could produce, he drove each dart into the door.
10
Ellie Kay King had no trouble finding her friend, Mustav Zubimi. He was occupying a double seat on the school bus. When he saw Ellie he smiled. It had been a long time apart for two close friends.
'Kelly,' he exclaimed, 'so good to see you.' His English was textbook perfect.
Kelly looked around, hoping none of the 'guides' had heard the 290-pound weight lifter's warm welcome. With all the commotion outside the vehicle, none had noticed.
'Shhh. Move over,' she whispered.
The iron pumper moved his large frame as close to the window as he could squeeze.
'Barely have room for you,' he said. 'And you're so skinny.'
Kelly wedged herself onto the small space Zubimi had left her.
'What are you doing here?' he asked her.
Before Kelly could reply, gunfire sounded outside the bus. The last Zambian athlete was literally thrown on the bus. The bus was already in reverse when the last two 'guides' clambered on board. The vehicle lurched forward and the whites distributed themselves up and down the aisle, guns in their hands.
Kelly wrapped her arms around Mustav and pulled herself up to his ear. She whispered. 'Tell your teammates not to speak English. Tell them to pretend they know no English. We're being kidnapped. No time to explain.'
Mustav, keeping his features calm, smiled and asked no questions. He leaned forward and whispered in one of his teammate's ears. Then he turned and whispered to a teammate sitting behind him. The word spread, Zambian athletes whispering instructions.
As the bus roared away from the parking lot, one of the guards spoke to an athlete. 'What the hell are you doing? What's with this whispering?'
The athlete started talking a blue streak — in his native tongue.
'Sweet shit,' the white muttered to himself. He pushed between two whispering athletes, hoping that he could communicate his wishes through violence.
As the bus ride continued, the guards began to relax and talk more freely. They openly insulted the athletes, believing the blacks could not understand a word they were saying. And they talked of their plans. In little time the Zambians knew they had been kidnapped by the Ku Klux Klan. Though fear gripped their well-tuned bodies, they kept a calm mask covering their features.
The kidnappers drove their catch through Lancaster, along Highway 14, until it ran into Highway 395. At one point, the vehicle's CB radio crackled on and the bus turned on to back roads for about twenty miles. Eventually it went back to 395 and continued on its course.
'We seem to be heading for Death Valley,' Kelly quietly said to Mustav.
'I won't tell the others,' he replied. 'They may take offense at the name.'
An hour later, they went through Townes Pass and began the steep descent into the desert. The brakes on the ancient school bus caused almost as much fear as the kidnapping itself.
Finally the bus came to a creaking halt in the desert, and the guides forced the athletes off. The blacks were handcuffed into the passenger seats of dune buggies. Soon the bus was on its way again, empty save for the driver.
The fleet of brightly painted dune buggies took off north across the rolling, windblown sand. The group looked like one of the area's many buggy clubs having an outing. But one thing set the convoy apart from normal club outings: trailing the group were three vehicles carrying large propellers. The whirling props obliterated all tracks.
