Nick Carter - Operation Moon Rocket

"What do you expect to find in Hammer's bungalow?" he asked her. "NASA Security and the FBI have been over it with a fine-tooth comb."

"I know, but I thought you should have a look at the place for yourself," she said. "Particularly at some of the microdots they found."

Time to establish who's boss, thought N3. But when he asked what instructions she'd been given, she replied, "To cooperate with you fully. You're top banana."

A few minutes later, as they sped across the Indian River Bridge outside Melbourne, she added, "You're some kind of very special agent, aren't you? Daddy said your recommendation could make or break anyone assigned to work with you, and…" She broke off abruptly.

He glanced across at her. "And what?" But the way she was looking at him was answer enough. It was known throughout the combined security forces that when the man known to his colleagues as Killmaster was sent on a job it meant only one thing — that those who had sent him were convinced that death was the most likely solution to the problem at hand.

"Just how seriously do you take all this?" he asked her brusquely. He hadn't liked that look. N3 had been in the game a long time. He had a nose for the smell of fear. "I mean, is this just another summer lark for you? Like that weekend at East Hampton? Because…"

She swung toward him, blue eyes flashing angrily. "I happen to be a top reporter for a woman's magazine, and I've been on assignment at Cape Kennedy for the last month doing a profile called 'Dr. Sun and the Moon.'" She paused. "I'll admit that I got NASA clearance faster than most reporters because of Daddy's job in the CIA, but that's the only pull I've had. And if you wonder why they chose me for an agent, look at all the advantages. I was already on the spot, trailing Dr. Sun everywhere with a tape recorder, going through her papers. It was an ideal cover for some real snooping. It would take weeks of red tape to get a real CIA agent as close to her as I am. And there's no time for that. So I was drafted."

"All the judo and the lockpicking," smiled Nick. "Did Daddy teach you all that?"

She laughed and was suddenly an impish little girl once again. "No. My boyfriend did. He's a professional killer."

They took A1A through Canova Beach and past the missile display at Patrick Air Force Base, arriving at Cocoa Beach at ten.

Long-bladed palms with fraying bases lined the quiet, residential streets. Candy directed him to the Hammer bungalow which was on a street fronting the Banana River near the Merritt Island Causeway.

They drove past it but didn't stop. "Crawling with cops," muttered Nick. He'd seen them sitting in unmarked cars on alternate sides of each block. "Green uniforms. What are they — NASA? Connelly Aviation?"

"GKI," she said. "Everyone in Cocoa Beach was pretty nervous and there weren't enough local police to go around."

"General Kinetics?" said Nick. "Are they in on the Apollo program?"

"They make a component in the life support system," she replied. "They have a factory in West Palm Beach, another in Texas City. They do a lot of weapon and missile work for the government, so they have their own security force. Alex Simian loaned them out to the Kennedy Space Center. Makes for good public relations, I guess."

A black sedan with a red blinker on the roof overtook them and one of the uniformed men inside raked them with a long, hard glance. "I think we'd better make tracks," said Nick. The sedan slotted in between them and a car ahead; then it pulled out and they lost it.

"Take the Causeway over to Merritt," she said. "There's another way to reach the bungalow."

It was from a boathouse at Georgiana on Route 3. There was a flat-bottom scow there that she had apparently used before. Nick poled it across a narrow neck of the waterway, steering to shore between a five-foot seawall and a row of wooden pilings. After tying up, they climbed the wall and crossed an open stretch of moonlit backyard. The Hammer bungalow was dark, silent. Light from the neighboring house lit up its right side.

They came up against the shadowed wall on the left and flattened there, waiting. A car with a dome light drove slowly past out in front. Nick stood like a shadow among the other shadows, listening, absorbing. When it was clear he drifted to the screened kitchen doorway, tried the knob, slipped his Lockpicker's Special out and eased the single-action bolt open.

The raw stink of gas still clung to the interior. His pencil flashlight probed the kitchen. The girl pointed to a door. "Hurricane shelter," she whispered. Her finger moved past it to a hallway. "Front room, where it happened."

They checked that first. Nothing had been touched. The sofa and floor were still caked with dried blood. The two bedrooms were next. Then down the switchback stairs to the narrow, whitewashed workshop. The thin, strong beam of the flashlight licked around the room, illuminating neat stacks of labeled, open-lidded cartons. Candy checked one. "The stuff's gone," she whispered.

"Naturally," said Nick dryly. "The FBI wanted it. They run tests, you know."

"But it was here yesterday. Wait a minute!" she snapped her fingers. "I hid a sample in a drawer in the kitchen. I'll bet they missed it." She led the way upstairs.

It wasn't a microdot, just a folded sheet of paper, transparent and stinking of gasoline. Nick unfolded it. It was a rough sketch of the Apollo's life support system. The ink lines were slightly blurred, and there were some terse technical instructions under it, code-signed Sol, "Sol," she whispered. "Latin for the sun. Dr. Sun…"

The silence in the bungalow was suddenly thick with tension. Nick started to fold the paper and put it away. An angry voice spoke from the doorway: "Hold it like that."

The man stood in the kitchen doorway, enormous, a looming silhouette against the moonlight behind him. He had a gun in his hand — a little Smith & Wesson Terrier with a two-inch barrel. He was outside the screen door, pointing the gun through it.

Killmaster's eyes narrowed, watching him. For a moment a shark swirled in their gray depths, then it vanished and he smiled. This man was no threat He was making too many mistakes to be a professional. Nick raised his hands above his head and ambled slowly toward the door. "What's up, Doc?" he asked amiably.

As he did, his foot suddenly flashed out, slamming into the rear edge of the screen door just below the handle. He hit it with all the weight he had and the man stumbled backwards with a howl of pain, dropping the gun.

Nick surged after him, scooping it up. He jerked the man into the house by his shirt collar before he could sound an alarm and kicked the door shut behind him. "Who are you?" he rasped. The pencil flashlight flicked on» stabbing into the man's face.

He was big — at least six-four — and beefy, with gray hair cropped short to the shape of his bullet head and with a sunburned face dusted over with pale freckles.

"Next door neighbor," said Candy. "Name's Dexter. I checked on him when I was here last night."

"Yeah, and I spotted you prowlin' around here last night, too," growled Dexter, nursing his wrist. "That's why I was on the lookout tonight."

"What's your first name?" asked Nick.

"Hank."

"Well listen, Hank. You've stumbled into a little official business." Nick flashed the official-looking badge that was part of every AXEman's disguise kit. "We're government investigators, so let's stay calm, keep our voices down and discuss the Hammer case."

Dexter narrowed his eyes. "If you're government, how come you're pussy-footing around here in the dark?"

"We're with a top-secret branch of the National Security Agency. That's all I can tell you. Not even the FBI knows about us."