«Close to ninety-five per cent, sir.»
«Fd like to see the nuclear weapons first.»
«Of course, sir.» A now thoroughly demoralized Martin led the way.
The TNW section was compartmented off but not sealed. One side was lined with what appeared to be shells, stowed on racks; the other, with pear-shaped metal canisters about thirty inches high, with buttons, a clockface and a large knurled screw on top. Beyond them were stacked suitcases, each with two leather handles.
Breckley indicated the pear-shaped canisters. «What are those? Bombs?»
«Both bombs and land mines.» Martin seemed glad to talk and take his mind off his troubles. «Those controls on top are relatively simple. Before you get at those two red switches you have to unscrew those two transparent plastic covers. The switches have then to be turned ninety degrees to the right. They are then still in the safe position. They then have to be flipped ninety degrees to the left. This is the ready-to-activate position.
«Before that is done, you have to put the time setting on the clock. That is done by means of this knurled knob here. One complete turn means a one-minute time delay which will show up on this clockface here. It registers in seconds, as you can see. Total time delay is thirty minutes— thirty turns.»
«And this black button?»
«The most important of them all. No cover and no turning. You might want to get at it in a hurry. Depressing that stops the clock and, in fact, deactivates the bomb.»
«What's the area of damage?»
«Compared to the conventional atom bomb, tiny. The vaporization area would be a quarter-mile radius. Perhaps less. The blast, shock and radiation areas would, of course, be considerably greater.»
«You mean they can be used as both bombs and mines?»
«Instead of mines, maybe I should have said an explosive device for use on land. As bombs the setting would probably be only six seconds— in tactical warfare they would be carried by low-flying supersonic planes. They'd be about two miles clear by the time the bomb went off and moving too fast for the shock waves to catch up with them. For land use—well, say you wanted to infiltrate an ammunition dump. You'd check how long it would take you to infiltrate there, calculate how long it would take you to get out and clear of the blast zone, and set the timer accordingly.
«The missiles here—»
«We've seen and heard enough,» Farquharson said. «Kindly put your hands up.»
Five minutes later, with the furiously reluctant assistance of Martin, they had loaded two of the bombs, safely concealed in their carrying cases, into the trunk of their car. In the process the purpose of the two carrying handles became clear: each bomb must have weighed at least ninety pounds.
Farquharson went back inside, looked indifferently at the two bound men, pressed the button and slipped through the doorway as the door began to close. He waited until the door was completely shut, then climbed into the front seat beside Martin, who was at the wheel this time. Farquharson said: «Remember, one false move and you're a dead man. We will, of course, have to kill the sentry too.»
There were no false moves. About a mile from the building the car stopped by a thicket of stunted trees. Martin was marched deep into the thicket, bound, gagged and attached to a tree just in case he might have any ideas about jack-knifing his way down to the roadside. Farquhar-son looked down at him.
«Your security was lousy. We'll phone your HQ in an hour or so, let them know where they can find you. I trust there are not too many rattlesnakes around.»
Chapter 6
Jtto BERTSON looked up from the radio console. «Chief McGarrity.»
Mitchell took the phone. «Mitchell? We've found the kidnapers' estate wagon. Down by the Wyanee Swamp.» McGarrity sounded positively elated. «I'm going there personally. Tracker dogs. Til wait for you at the Walnut Tree crossing.» Mitchell replaced the receiver and said to Roomer: «McGarrity's got it all wrapped up. He's found the estate wagon. Well . . . someone did, but of course it will be made clear eventually that it was McGarrity.»
«Empty, of course. Doesn't that old fool know that this makes it more difficult, not easier? At least we knew what transport they were using. Not any more. He didn't mention anything about bringing along a newspaper photographer that he just sort of accidentally bumped into?»
«Tracker dogs were all he mentioned.»
«Did he suggest anything for the dogs to sniff at?» Mitchell shook his head, Roomer shook his and called to Jenkins. «Will you get Louise, please?»
Louise appeared very quickly. Roomer said: «We need a piece of clothing that the ladies used to wear a lot.»
She looked uncertain. «I don't understand—»
«Some things we can give bloodhounds to sniff so that they pick up their scent.»
«Oh.» It required only a second's thought. «Their dressing gowns, of course.» This with but the slightest hint of disapproval, as if the girls spent most of the day lounging about in those garments.
«Handle as little as possible, please. Put each in a separate plastic bag.»
A patrol car and a small closed police van awaited them at the Walnut Tree crossing. McGarrity was standing by the police car. He was a small bouncy man who radiated goodwill and only stopped smiling when he was vehemently denouncing corruption in politics. He was a police chief of incomparable incompetence, but was a consummate and wholly corrupt politician, whi^h was whv he was police chief. He shook the hands of Mitchell and Roomer with all the warmth and sincerity of an incumbent coming up for re-election, which was precisely what he was.
«Glad to meet you two gentlemen at last. Heard very good reports about you.» He appeared to have conveniently forgotten his allegation that thev gave a lot of trouble to the local law. «Appreciate all the co-operation you've given me—and for turning up here now. This is Ron Stewart of the Herald.» He gestured through an open car window where a man, apparently festooned in cameras, sat in the back seat. «Kind of accidentally bumped into him.»
Mitchell choked, turning it into a cough. «Too many cigarettes.»
«Same failing myself. Driver's the dog handler. Driver of the van is the other one. Just follow us, please.»
Five miles farther on they reached the turn-off—one of many—into the Wyanee Swamp. The foliage of the trees, almost touching overhead, quickly reduced the light to that of a late winter afternoon. The increase in the humidity was almost immediately noticeable, as was the sour, nose-wrinkl i n g miasma as they neared the swamp. A distinctly unhealthy atmosphere, or such was the first impression: but many people with a marked aversion to what passed for
civilization lived there all their lives and seemed none the worse for it.
The increasingly rutted, bumpy road had become almost intolerable until they rounded a blind corner and came across the abandoned station wagon.
The first essential was, apparently, that pictures be taken, and the second that McGarrity be well-placed in each one, his hand preferably resting in a proprietorial fashion on the hood. That done, the cameraman fitted a flash attachment and was reaching for the rear door when Roomer clamped his wrist not too gently. «Don't do that!»
«Why not?»
«Never been on a criminal case before? Fingerprints is why not.» He looked at McGarrity. «Expecting them soon?»
«Shouldn't be long. Out on a case. Check on them, Don.» This to the driver, who immediately got busy on his radio. It was clear that the idea of bringing fingerprint experts along had never occurred to McGarrity.
The dogs were released from the van. Roomer and Mitchell opened up their plastic bags and allowed the dogs to sniff the dressing gowns. McGarrity said: «What you got there?»
«The girls' dressing gowns. To give your hounds a scent. We knew you'd want something.»
«Of course. But dressing gowns!» McGarrity was a past master in covering up. Something else, clearly, that had not occurred to him.