Dick Stivers - Five Rings of Fire

"You really don't have to go to all that trouble," Boering remarked, watching the boxer count the cash. "I'd be a fool to short you this late in the game."

"No trouble at all," Jackson said. "I've gone short so long, believe me, this is no trouble."

The counting was rapidly completed and the bundles tossed back into the bag.

Colonel Frank Follet crumpled the piece of paper and threw it across the room. The tightly packed paper bounced off an aerial photograph of Edwards Air Force Base and came to rest between Victory's torch and wings. Victory was a piece of plastic mounted on a cheap stand. Follet had won the trophy in 1969 at the base's annual dart tournament. Colonel Frank Follet was as competitive as they come.

"Rat shit," the acting commanding officer of Edwards snarled. He said it to himself, having carefully waited until he was alone before throwing the paper — and a slight tantrum.

Twenty-one years of career service without attaining a command. Then, when General Bogart was sent to the European theater on only twenty-four hours' notice, Follet found himself not busily sewing stars on his uniforms, but merely being appointed acting CO. That stung. He had gone to his room in the officers' quarters and taken dart target practice on a photograph of the face of General Bogart. He had emerged from the room twenty minutes later ready to take over his temporary command.

But he had also emerged a determined man. He had vowed he would show the idiots in the Pentagon that Bogart's failure to recommend Follet to replace him at Edwards was an act of spite — the act of a small mind unable to admit that his would-be replacement had a superior mind. He had vowed he would run Edwards so damn well anyone who was sent to the base as new commander would look like a jackass by comparison.

The first thing he had done as acting commander was double the fatigue duties. He wasn't out to win friends, he was out to win respect from high places. The lawns were cut twice as often, buildings that had not been painted for two or more years were given brand-new coats, inspections were doubled and the standards became more rigid. He would have the spiffiest base in the service or there would be hell to pay.

Then he had learned about the Soviet trawler. One of the lieutenants on radar duty had been glancing at a scope that was really a monitor of a scope operated by the Coast Guard. Questioned by Follet, the young lieutenant had reported that the image was that of a Soviet trawler. It was just outside the U.S. territorial limit and was being monitored from the radar on a small ship that was tagging the Russian vessel. The image was then bounced comsat to all military bases in the area.

It had not taken Colonel Follet long to realize that this was a golden opportunity to flex his muscles and impress some people. The trawler, according to all concerned, was probably a spy ship. Follet deduced that if it in fact was a spy ship, it was probably carrying a helicopter. And when that chopper went on its mission, the man who 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.

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.