'Okay, four down, four to go,' Pitt said, pulling his emotions back under control. 'Where do we go from here?'
Mapes seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment. 'The inventory… we'll check inventory records against sales.'
Mapes used a call phone at the tunnel entrance to alert his office. When he and Pitt got back, the Phalanx Arms accountant had laid out the records on his desk. Mapes flipped through the ledgered pages swiftly. It took him less than ten minutes to find the answer.
'I was wrong,' he said quietly.
Pitt remained silent, waiting, his hands c lasped.
'The missing gas shells were sold.'
Pitt was still silent, but there was murder in his eyes.
'A mistake,' Mapes said thinly. 'The arsenal crew took the shells from the wrong lot number. The original shipping order called for the removal of forty pieces of heavy naval ordnance from Lot Sixteen. I can only assume that the first digit_, the one, did not emerge on the shipping crew's carbon copy, and they simply read it as Lot Six.'
'I think it appropriate to say, Mapes, that you run a sloppy ship.' Pitt's fingers bit into the flesh of his hands. 'What name is on the purchase order?'
'I'm afraid there were three orders filled during the same month.'
God. Pitt thought, why is it nothing ever comes easy? 'I'll take a list of the buyers.'
'I hope you appreciate my position,' said Mapes. The clipped business tone was back. 'If my customers got wind of the fact I disclosed their arms sales… I think you understand why this matter must remain confidential.'
'Frankly, Mapes, I'd like to stuff you in one of your own cannons and pull the lanyard. Now give me that list before I yank the Attorney General and Congress down around your ears.'
A faint pallor clouded Mapes's face. He took up a pen and wrote the names of the buyers on a pad. Then he tore off the paper and handed it to Pitt.
One shell had been ordered by the British Imperial War Museum, in London. Two had gone to the Veterans of Foreign Wars, Dayton City Post 9974, Oklahoma. The remaining thirty-seven were purchased by an agent representing the African Army of Revolution. No address was given.
Pitt slipped the paper into his pocket and rose to his feet. 'I'll send a team of men to remove the other gas shells in the tunnel,' he said coldly. He detested Mapes, detested everything the fat little death merchant stood for. Pitt couldn't bring himself to leave without one final shot.
'Mapes?'
'Yes?'
A thousand insults swirled in Pitt's mind, but he could not sort out any one in particular. Finally, as Mapes's expectant expression turned to puzzlement, Pitt spoke.
'How many men did your merchandise kill and maim last year, and the year before that.'
'I do not concern myself with what others do with my goods,' Mapes said offhandedly.
'If one of those gas shells went off, you'd be responsible for perhaps millions of deaths.'
'Millions, Mr. Pitt?' Mapes's eyes hardened. 'To me the term is merely a statistic.'
46
Steiger set the Spook F-140 jet fighter down lightly on the airstrip at Sheppard Air Force Base, outside Wichita Falls, Texas. After checking in with the flight-operations officer, he signed out a car from the base motor pool and drove north across the Red River into Oklahoma. He turned onto State Highway Fifty-three and pulled over to the side of the road; he felt a sudden urge to relieve himself. Though it was a few minutes past one in the afternoon, no car, no sign of life, was visible for miles.
Steiger could not remember seeing such flat and desolate farm country. The windswept landscape was barren except for a distant shed and an abandoned hay rake. It was a depressing sight. If someone had placed a gun in Steiger's hand, he'd have been tempted to shoot himself out of sheer melancholy. He zipped up his fly and returned to the car.
Soon a water tower appeared beside the arrow-straight road and grew larger through the windshield. Then a small town with precious few trees materialized and he passed a sign welcoming him to Dayton City, Queen City of the Wheat Belt. He pulled into a dingy old gas station that still sported glass tanks above its pumps.
An elderly man in mechanic's coveralls emerged from a grease pit and shuffled up to the passenger window. 'Can I help ya?'
'I'm looking for VFW Post Ninety-nine seventy-four,' said Steiger.
'If yer speakin' at the luncheon, yer late,' a monished the old man.
'I'm here on other business,' Steiger said, smiling.
The Oklahoman was unimpressed. He took an oily rag from his pocket and wiped his equally oily hands. 'Go to the stop sign in the middle of town and turn left. Ya can't miss it.'
Steiger followed the instructions and pulled into the gravel parking lot of a building strikingly modern compared to others in the town. Several cars were leaving the area, trailing clouds of red dust behind their bumpers. The luncheon was over, Steiger surmised. He entered and stood for a moment at the edge of a large room with a hardwood floor. The dishes on several tables still bore the wreckage of fried chicken. A group of three men noticed his presence and waved. A tall, gangly individual about fifty years of age and at least six feet five inches tall separated from the rest and sauntered over to Steiger. He had a ruddy face and short-clipped shiny hair parted down the middle. He offered his hand.
'Good afternoon, Colonel. What brings you to Dayton City?'
'I'm looking for the post commander, a Mr. Billy Lovell.'
'I'm Billy Lovell. What can I do for you?'
'How do you do,' said Steiger politely. 'My name is Steiger, Abe Steiger. I've come from Washington on a rather urgent matter.'
Lovell stared at Steiger, his eyes friendly but speculative. 'You're putting me on, Colonel. I suppose you're going to tell me a topsecret Russian spy satellite came down in a field somewhere near town.'
Steiger gave a casual tilt of his head. 'Nothing that dramatic. I'm looking for a couple of naval shells your post purchased from Phalanx Arms.'
'Oh, them two duds?'
'Duds?'
'Yeah, we were going to blow 'em up during the Veterans Day picnic. Set 'em on an old tractor and popped away all afternoon., but they didn't go off. We tried to get Phalanx to replace 'em.' Lovell shook his head sadly. 'They refused. Claimed all sales was final.'
A chilling thought passed through Steiger's mind. 'Perhaps they're not the self-detonating type of ordnance.'
'Nope.' Lovell shook his head. 'Phalanx guaranteed they was live battleship shells.'
'Do you still have them?'
'Sure. right outside. You passed 'em coming in.'
Lovell led Steiger outside. The two shells bordered the entrance to the post. They were painted white, and welded to their sides were chains that stretched along the walkway.
Steiger sucked in his breath. The tips of the shells were rounded. They were two of the missing gas shells. His knees suddenly turned to rubber, and he had to sit down on the steps. Lovell stared questioningly at Steiger's dazed expression.
'S omethin' wrong?'
'You shot at these things?' Steiger asked incredulously.
'Pumped close to a hundred rounds at 'em. Nicked the heads some, but that's all.'
'It's a miracle… ' Steiger murmured.
