Nick Carter - Operation Moon Rocket

Tree leaned forward, switching on the intercom. "The Med Center. Step on it."

The Lincoln pulled smoothly, silently away from the curb, joining the fast moving morning traffic on N.W. Seventh. Nick was cold and deadly calm now. The shock had worn off. The reminder that Phoenix One was due to blast off in only two hours and seventeen minutes brought his nerves to optimum, humming pitch.

He waited until they were turning, then took a deep breath and kicked hard at the front seat, jackknifing himself back out of Hung Fat's gun range as he brought his right hand down in a strong chop on Reno Tree's wrist He felt the bones shatter beneath the impact. The gunman screamed with pain. But he was fast and still deadly. The gun was in his other hand already and covering him once again. "Chloroform, for chrissake," wailed Tree, hugging the injured member against his midsection.

Nick felt a wet cloth slapped across his nose and mouth. He could see Hung Fat hovering above it His face was the size of a house and the features were beginning to swim in a weird way. Nick wanted to hit it but he couldn't move very well. "That was foolish," said Hung Fat. At least Nick thought it was the Chinaman who said it But it might have been Nick himself.

A black tide of panic swept over him. Why was it dark?

He tried to sit up, but was jerked backwards by a rope knotted tightly around his neck. He could hear his watch ticking on his wrist, but his wrist was tied to something behind his back. He twisted around, trying to see it. It took a few minutes but he finally caught a glimpse of the phosphorescent numbers on the dial. Three minutes past ten.

Morning or night? If morning, there were only seventeen minutes left. If night — it was all over. His head jerked from side to side, trying to find a clue in the infinite starry darkness that surrounded him.

He wasn't outdoors, couldn't be. The air was cool, neutral-smelling. He was in a vast room of some kind. He opened his mouth and shouted at the top of his lungs. His voice rebounded from a dozen corners, breaking up into a confused jumble of echoes. Breathing easier, he looked around once again. Maybe there was daylight beyond this night. What he'd first thought were stars seemed to be the winking lights of hundreds of dials. He was in a control center of some kind…

Without warning a bright flare of light snapped open like the burst of a bomb. A voice — Simian's voice, flat, uninterested — said, "You called, Mr. Carter? How do you feel? Are you receiving me all right?"

Nick turned his head toward the voice. His eyes were dazzled by the light. He squeezed them hard, then opened them again. The big, bald eagle's head filled a vast screen at the far end of the room. Nick caught a glimpse of leopard-skin upholstery as Simian leaned forward, adjusting the controls. He saw a blurred stream of objects moving past the man's left shoulder. He was in the Lincoln, traveling some place.

But the main thing Nick saw was light. It bloomed behind Simian's ugly head in all its glory! Nick wanted to shout his relief at the reprieve of time. But all he said was, "Where am I, Simian?"

The huge face smiled. "On the top floor of the Medical Center, Mr. Carter. In the RODRIC Room. That stands for Rocket Directional Guidance Control."

"I know what it stands for," snapped Nick. "Why am I still alive? What's the name of the game?"

"No game, Mr. Carter. The games are over. Now we're in deadly earnest. You are still alive because I find you a worthy opponent One who could truly appreciate the finer points of my master plan."

Killing wasn't enough. Simian's monstrous vanity had to be stroked first "I don't make a very good captive audience," Nick rasped. "I bore easily. Besides, you're more interesting than any plan you could cook up, Simian. Let me tell you a few things about yourself. You can correct me if I'm wrong…" He was talking rapidly, loudly, trying to keep Simian from noticing his shoulder movements. His effort to see his watch earlier had loosened the knots that held his right arm and he was now working desperately at them. "You're bankrupt, Simian. GKI Industries is a paper empire. You've swindled your stockholders of millions. And now you're in debt to the Syndicate because of your insatiable lust for gambling. They agreed to help you win the moon contract They knew it was the only chance they had of getting their money back."

Simian smiled thinly. "Correct up to a point," he said. "But it's not just gambling debts, Mr. Carter. I'm afraid the Syndicate's back is against the wall."

A second head moved into the picture. It was Reno Tree, in ugly close-up. "What our friend here means," he rasped, "is that he took the Syndicate to the cleaners with one of his boiler plate operations on Wall Street The mob kept sinkin' more dough into it, tryin' to get their original investment out. But the more they put in, the worse it got. They lost millions."

Simian nodded. "Quite true. So you see," he added, "the Syndicate will pocket the lion's share of any profit I make from this little enterprise. It's unfortunate, because all the original spadework, all the brainwork was mine. The sabotage campaign to discredit Connelly Aviation, the Apollo disaster, even beefing up the original GKI police force with Syndicate hoods — all my ideas."

"But why destroy Phoenix One?" demanded Nick. The flesh around his wrist was raw and the pain from his effort to loosen the knots sent shock waves of agony up his arms. He gasped — and, to cover it, said quickly, "The contract is practically GKI's anyway. Why kill three more astronauts?"

"To begin with, Mr. Carter, there's the question of the second capsule." Simian said it with the bored, slightly impatient air of a corporation head explaining a point to some troublesome stockholder. "It must be destroyed. But why — you will undoubtedly ask — at the expense of human life? Because, Mr. Carter, GKI's factories need at least two years to regear for the moon project As things stand now, that's the strongest argument NASA has for sticking with Connelly. But public revulsion at the massacre to come, you see, will demand a delay of at least two years…"

"Massacre?" His belly crawled with the knowledge of what Simian meant Three men dying was not a massacre; a city exploding in flames was. "You mean Miami?"

"Please understand, Mr. Carter. This is not just a wanton act of destruction. It serves a twofold purpose — turns public opinion against the moon program and also destroys the original evidence." Nick looked blank. "The evidence, Mr. Carter. In the room you occupy. The complicated directional tracking equipment. We can't have that lying around afterwards, can we?"

Nick shivered slightly at the chill he felt creeping up his spine. "There's also the tax angle," he rasped. "You stand to make a tidy profit from the destruction of your own Medical Center."

Simian beamed. "Of course. Two birds hit with one rocket, so to speak. But in a world gone mad, Mr. Carter, self-interest approaches the level of a sacrament." He glanced at his watch, the chairman of the board once again winding up an inconclusive stockholders' meeting, "And now, I must bid you adieu."

"Answer me one more thing!" Nick shouted. He could make the line slip a little now. He held his breath and made a single effort, wrenching at the ropes. The skin tore at the back of his hand and blood oozed warmly over his fingers. "I'm not alone here, am I?"

"That would look like we had been forewarned, wouldn't it?" smiled Simian. "No, of course not. The hospital is fully staffed and has the usual complement of patients."

"And I'm sure your heart bleeds for us all!" He began to shake with helpless rage. "All the way to the bank!" He bit the words off, spitting them up at the screen. The line slipped more easily because of the blood. He struggled with it, trying to force it over his knuckles.