'General Grosfield here,' he mumbled.
'General, this is Orville Mapes, of Phalanx Arms.'
'Mapes, where are you? You sound like you're talking from the bottom of a barrel.'
'You sound muffed and distant, too, General.'
'You caught me in the middle of a peanut-butter sandwich. I like them thick with gobs of mayonnaise. What's on your mind, Mapes?'
'Sorry to interrupt your lunch, but do you know a Mr. Dirk Pitt?'
Steiger forced a pause and took a deep breath before answering. 'Pitt. Yes, I know Pitt. He's an investigator for the Senate Armed Forces Committee.'
'His credentials are right up there, then.'
'They don't go any higher,' said Steiger, as though talking with a mouthful. 'Why do you ask?'
'He's sitting in front of me, demanding to inspect my inventory records.'
'I wondered when he'd get around to you civilians.' Steiger took another bite from the banana. 'Pitt is heading up the Stanton probe. '
'The Stanton probe? I never heard of it.'
'I'm not surprised. They're not advertising. Some do-good senator got it in his head that stockpiles of nerve- gas weapons are hidden under the Army's carpet. So he launched a probe to find them.' Steiger wolfed down the last of the banana and tossed the peel in one of General Grosfield's desk drawers. 'Pitt and his investigators didn't turn up so much as a pellet. Now he's after you surplus boys.'
'What do you suggest?'
'What I suggest,' Steiger blurted., 'is that you give the bastard what he wants. If you have any gas canisters stashed in your warehouses, give them to him and save yourself a carload of grief. The Stanton Committee is not out to prosecute anybody. They only want to make damned sure some Third World dictator doesn't lay his hands on the wrong kind of weapons.'
'Thanks for the advice, General,' Mapes said. Then, 'Mayonnaise, you say? I prefer peanut butter with onions, myself.'
'To each his own, Mr. Mapes. Good-bye.'
Steiger hung up the phone and let out a deep, satisfied sigh. Then he wiped the receiver with his handkerchief and exited into the hall. He was just in the act of closing the door to the general's office when a captain in Army green walked around a corner. The captain's eyes grew mildly suspicious at the sight of Steiger.
'Excuse me, Colonel, but if you were looking for General Grosfield, he's out to lunch.'
Steiger straightened and offered the captain his best 'I outrank you' stare and said, 'I don't know the general. This jungle of concrete threw my sense of direction out of balance. I'm looking for the Army Accident and Safety Department. Got lost and poked my head in this office to ask directions.'
The captain seemed noticeably relieved at avoiding an embarrassing situation. 'Oh hell, I get lost ten times a day myself. You'll find Accident and Safety one floor down. just take the elevator around the next corner to your right.'
'Thank you, Captain.'
'My pleasure. sir.'
In the elevator Steiger smiled devilishly to himself as he wondered what General Grosfield would think when he found the banana peel in his desk.
Unlike most security guards who wear illfitting uniforms with waist belts sagged by heavy revolvers, Mapes's people looked more like fashionably attired combat troops as imagined by the editors of
Mapes slowed his Rolls-Royce convertible and lifted both hands from the steering wheel in an apparent greeting. The guard nodded and waved to his partner, who pulled open the gate from the inside.
'I assume that was a signal of some kind,' said Pitt.
'Pardon?'
'The hands-in-the-air routine.'
'Ah yes,' Mapes said. 'If you had been holding a concealed gun on me, my hands would have remained on the wheel. A normal gesture. Then, as we were waved through and your attention was lulled by the guard's opening the gate, his teammate would have discreetly stepped behind the car and blown your head off.'
'I'm glad you remembered to raise your hands.'
'You're most observant, Mr. Pitt,' said Mapes. 'However, you force me to issue a new signal to the gate guards.'
'I'm crushed you don't trust me to keep your secret.'
Mapes did not reply to Pitt's sarcasm. He kept his eyes on a narrow asphalt road that passed between seemingly endless rows of Quonset huts. After about a mile they came to an open field crammed with heavily armored tanks in various states of rust and disrepair. A small army of mechanics was busily crawling over ten of the massive vehicles that had been parked in formation beside the road.
'How many acres do you have?' Pitt asked.
'Five thousand,' Mapes replied. 'You're looking at the world's sixth-largest army in terms of equipment. Phalanx Arms also ranks seventh as an air force.'
Mapes turned the car onto a dirt road that paralleled several bankers set into a hillside, and stopped in front of one marked ARSENAL 6. He slid from behind the wheel and pulled a single key from his pocket, inserted it in a large brass lock, and pulled the catch free. Then he swung open a pair of steel doors and flipped on the light switch.
Inside the cavelike bunker, thousands of ammunition cases and crates containing a vast variety of shell sizes lay stacked in a tunnel that seemed to stretch into infinity. Pitt had never seen so much potential destruction heaped in one place.
Mapes motioned toward a golf cart. 'No need to raise blisters walking. This storage area runs underground for nearly two miles.'
The arsenal was cold and the hum from the electric cart seemed to hang in the damp air. Mapes turned into a side tunnel and slowed down. He held a map up to the light and studied it. 'Beginning here and ending about a hundred yards down is the last store of sixteen-inch naval shells in the world. They're obsolete because only battleships can use them, and there is not a single operational battleship left. The gas shells I bought from Raferty should be stacked in an area near the huddle.'
'I see no sign of their canisters,' said Pitt.
Mapes shrugged. 'Business is business. Stainless-steel canisters are worth money. I sold them to a chemical company.'
'Your supply seems endless. It might take hours to dig them out.'
'No,' replied Mapes. 'The gas shells were assigned to Lot Six.' He stepped from the cart and walked amid the sea of projectiles for about fifty paces and then pointed. 'Yes, here they are.' He carefully stepped through a narrow access and stopped.
Pitt remained in the main aisle, but even under the dull glow of the overhead lights he could detect a blank expression on Mapes's face.
'Problem?'
Mapes paused, shaking his head. 'I don't understand it. I find only four. There should be eight.'
Pitt stiffened. 'They must be around somewhere.'
'You start looking from the other end, beginning at Lot Thirty,' Mapes ordered. 'I'll go back to Lot One and begin there.'
After forty minutes they met in the middle. Mapes's eyes reflected a bewildered look. He held out his hands in a helpless gesture.
'Nothing.'
'Dammit, Mapes!' Pitt shouted, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. 'You must have sold them!'
'No!' he protested. 'They were a bad buy. I miscalculated. Every government I pitched was afraid to be the first to use gas since Vietnam.'
