Cyborg 02 - Operation Nuke Read online

  CYBORG—MAN OF FLESH AND BIONICS

  Man-machine Steve Austin didn’t want to get involved with nuclear devices. He’d built one. He knew what they could do.

  But when asked to infiltrate a ruthless criminal cartel run by Sam Franks, Special Agent Austin could hardly refuse. For Franks had nukes—and some evil ideas. Like annihilating an entire African city.

  Also available in this series – CYBORG

  Once a charred torso smoking in the wreck of a plane, Steve Austin has been resurrected by the science of bionics. Rebuilt as a cyborg—half man, half machine—Austin is now equipped to take on the deadliest of Special Agent assignments. Like Operation Nuke.

  Granada Publishing Limited

  Published in 1975 by Mayflower Books Ltd

  Frogmore, St Albans, Herts AL2 2NF

  First published in Great Britain by

  W. H. Allen & Co Ltd 1974

  Copyright © Martin Caidin 1973

  Made and printed in Great Britain by

  Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) Ltd

  Bungay, Suffolk

  Cover illustration by Richard Clifton-Dey

  for Isobella

  from

  The Beastly Grog

  OPERATION

  NUKE

  CHAPTER 1

  Underfoot was slime dangerous to four men struggling with a heavy, cumbersome metal case. Battery lights strapped to helmets reflected off curving wet walls. They ignored the rats, centipedes, and spiders all about them. They were stooped and bone-weary from carrying the one hundred and forty pounds of metal container along the service tunnel not quite high enough for a man to stand in. A curse as the lead man buckled to his knees.

  “My ankle. I’ve twisted it.”

  Behind him a thick-bodied form lowered his end of the case to the tunnel floor. “Take a break,” he said curtly. The men responded with deep, shuddering breaths, their bodies slumping.

  For a moment Sam Franks was framed in light as the others cast beams from their helmet lamps on his face. Franks chewed the unlit end of a cigar. Thick fist slammed into his palm. “Just like that when the time comes.”

  The lead man rubbed his ankle. Franks unnerved him. “How much more is it now, Sam?” he asked.

  Paper unfolded before a helmet light. Sam Franks studied the map, turned his light to cables with identifying numbers along the tunnel side. Finally his thick forefinger tapped the map. “Were here. Two hundred yards to go.” No one spoke. Franks nodded slowly. “Lets move it,” he said.

  Ten feet above their heads, above concrete and macadam, spread the main square of Butukama, one of the new cities of the Congo, hacked from jungle. At one end of the square loomed a government hall, standing behind huge concrete pillars. The four men were working their way to a position directly beneath the building. Inside was a meeting hall large enough to seat four hundred men, and in it were convened the new leaders of black African nations planning the best methods to remove white rule from Africa forever—to fulfill their promise for an all-black continent.

  The four men in the tunnel were unconcerned with the nationalist fervor in the building above them. They were doing a job, and it was advisable to keep ones mind on the job at hand rather than on its astonishing consequences. The work also paid extraordinarily well.

  The heavy metal container was put down. The men took another brief rest, then returned to work. One man went another hundred yards along the tunnel, doused his light and drew out from a shoulder holster a long-barreled pistol with a silencer. Expert fingers caressed the metal in darkness. The man was accustomed to waiting. In the other direction, another hundred yards back in the tunnel along which they had just come, another guard took his position. The remaining two men were already busy.

  Sam Franks adjusted a portable fluorescent lamp, finger-punched a magnetic lock. Twelve numbers. Any one wrong number in the twelve, before depressing the “Open” key, would set off a small but devastating explosive charge. Franks didn’t make that kind of error. He opened the cover and locked it into position. For several moments he took stock of the instruments and devices before him. Then he went to work adjusting a series of controls and timers. Finally he straightened, nodding. “The cable,” he said, not looking up.

  His assistant nodded. “Here. I’ve tagged it.”

  Franks extended a shielded wire from the container to a thick cable running the length of the tunnel. He sliced through the protective sheath to expose bare cable. To this he wound several coils of naked wire, then plugged the opposite end into a current detector. A red light stared at him. He nodded with satisfaction, removed the plug and inserted it into a receptacle in the container they had brought with them. He looked up. “Everybody on the far side.” He waited until the others had retraced their steps along the tunnel. He was concerned about a man slipping to dislodge the device he’d so carefully prepared. One last step. He returned his attention to another set of twelve numbered keys. For a moment he hesitated, running his tongue over dry lips. Then he bent forward, made certain of the lighting, tapped out another sequence of numbers. A series of lights glowed at him. Franks studied the color coding, nodded and closed the container. He canceled out the lock release with a final rapid movement of his fingers, turned and started after his men.

  They moved quickly, silently except for the cushioned splash of boots in watery slime. No need to talk. Whatever had been accomplished so far could be undone by chance discovery. They needed to leave the area as undetected as when they’d entered Butukama. They emerged from the tunnel through a manhole cover obscured by a truck with a broken axle. Another vehicle driving by slowed and four figures slipped beneath its canvas. As the truck bounced along deeper into country with thick foliage, the men got out of their soiled clothes and put on combat jumpsuits.

  The drive took the better part of an hour. Along a curving section of road the truck slowed. A radio signal beeped softly and the driver stopped. They saw no one, but the men in the truck knew they were being observed through infrared light.

  “Move it.” The voice came from darkness and the driver shifted gears to continue along the road, emerging at the edge of a forest clearing. At the far end a large high-winged airplane was barely visible in night shadow. The truck drove to the rear of the airplane, and this close the markings of the United States Air Force were revealed. A plane well known throughout the world—a powerful Lockheed C-130E Hercules. Made for advanced combat work. Sam Franks and the others moved into the transport while the men still spread across the field completed their final tasks. From the cockpit, Franks watched through high-powered infrared binoculars. His men knew what they were doing. Professionals. When they’d cleared the trees he wanted all signs of their presence obliterated.

  Black men in Congolese uniform were brought from another truck. Hands bound tight behind their backs, short ropes holding their legs. At a signal their captors opened fire with automatic weapons. Crumpled bodies littered the side of the grass airstrip. One more prisoner, this one in the uniform of a Portuguese army captain. He was authentic, kidnapped several days before, held for this moment. One of his guards picked up a Congolese army rifle, emptied the clip into the Portuguese.

  Excellent. It was assumed the blacks could be counted on to follow the example of former white exploiters. Who else had they to learn from, except the same whites they had dispossessed. But they needed things from the whites—proficiency in paramilitary activities, for example. The new nations needed more than conventional police. Quickly enough they discovered they needed real military control. That meant heavy firepower. It meant combining the muscle of an army with the techniques of the police.

  So they would examine the bodies and discover that Po
rtuguese army bullets had killed the Congolese troops. Portuguese bullets could only mean Portuguese guns, which meant Portuguese soldiers or at least mercenaries paid by the hated Portuguese. Who would think of an American named Sam Franks and his specialty team for hire? No way for the black Africans to connect the international organization, for which Sam Franks headed up field operations. And likewise no way for the Congolese or their colleagues to determine that antiblack, apartheid South Africa was writing the checks to finance this whole operation.

  The blacks who examined the bodies of the Congolese soldiers might, of course, be suspicious. So they would cut up the body of the Portuguese officer, captured weeks before by one of Sam Franks’ commando teams and kept on ice for this moment. Now his body would be found with the others, and when they investigated it they’d find Congolese bullets had killed the captain—captain of a Portuguese strike force that had gotten away, leaving him behind, its lone casualty.

  The Congolese, Franks had planned, would check out the man—he could be a plant. They’d check him out and discover he was real enough, right down to his serial number and years of service and even his family. The Congolese army would pass on the information to its allies. No questions any more.

  The Portuguese were responsible for the slaughter. They’d be blamed for what had happened. Just as they would be blamed for what would happen tomorrow when the whole new city of Butukama disappeared.

  It was all part of the contract with the “special interests” in South Africa. No fingers must be pointed. Sam Franks had understood, planned well.

  By now the C-130 with U.S. Air Force markings (the U.S. was an ally of Portugal, after all, routinely helped supply her with the means of defense) was ready and the last men ran to the aircraft. The engines went to full power and with a hard forward movement the transport rushed ahead. In less than a thousand feet it was into the air and climbing steeply.

  Behind the airplane timed detonators went off. At irregular intervals along the field hundred-pound explosive charges racked the night. Trucks vanished into blazing wreckage, bodies were blown in all directions, craters gouged the runway.

  Sam Franks blinked as the spasms of light flashed by the climbing airplane. It would appear as planned. To the Congolese who rushed to the scene the airfield would show all the signs of a major firefight. And the craters would be evidence of a sharp, severe strike from the air.

  All of which, added to the other “evidence,” would make it clear the Portuguese were behind the attack and the killings. There wouldn’t be enough left of the trucks to identify their source; but with all this the Congolese wouldn’t need further proof. No question. Portugal must be identified as the guilty party.

  If there was one thing Sam Franks liked better than a cold trail, it was a false lead.

  The copilot lifted the receiver from his ear as he turned to Sam Franks. “Were cleared for straight-in.”

  Franks nodded. “What about the rest of it?”

  “All set.”

  “Fine.” Franks moved his seat forward and switched off the autopilot. He felt better at moments like this with the big airplane responding to his hands rather than an electronic brainbox. “Tell the men,” he said abruptly to the copilot, “I want full alert when we land.”

  Twelve minutes later the C-130 eased with squealing tires to a long macadam runway twenty miles beyond the city limits of Fort Dauphin, Malagasy, better known as Madagascar. The huge island of a quarter million square miles was ideally suited to the needs of Sam Franks and his organization. For the money Pentronics paid certain high officials they would willingly have sealed off a major part of their country. The airfield into which Franks flew the big transport was known only as K6 and had never been seen by any pilots except those of the Malagasy government and those who flew for Pentronics, Inc. In the same manner that marked his previous visits, Franks noted with satisfaction the swift efficiency of the ground crews awaiting his arrival.

  The big propellers had barely stopped turning when a small army of men swarmed to the transport. Wheeled workstands surrounded the machine from nose to tail. All signs of the United States Air Force were removed. Huge letters identifying the transport with the name of British Overseas Cargo Airways appeared on the fuselage and wings. Behind the C-130, waiting to be rolled into the cabin, was a large flexible fuel tank. Fueling trucks waited to fill that tank and those in the wings as well.

  Sam Franks wasted no time observing the activities about the big Lockheed. A truck drove him quickly to a wide building concealed beneath trees. Alongside the building, in its own clearing, stood a sleek twin-engined jet. Franks appraised it, then entered the building.

  Inside, he accepted a mug of steaming coffee, studied the men waiting for him. A tall, slender man, Arabian, was the first to speak. “It went well, I understand.”

  Franks looked at him. “Not well. It went as planned.”

  The Arab smiled. “My apologies.”

  Franks sipped at the coffee. “What about payment?”

  “Tonight.”

  “From whom?”

  “Sperry himself. I talked with him and—”

  “How did you know it was Sperry?”

  “Complete voiceprint ID.”

  “Go on.”

  “They are completing transfer tonight.” The Arab glanced at his watch and shrugged. “Another hour, perhaps.”

  “And?”

  “The signal agreed upon.”

  Franks waited.

  “I don’t know.” The Arab produced a sealed envelope from an inside pocket. “When the signal comes I open this. Then I know.”

  Franks nodded. “Good. Let me see the envelope.”

  The Arab returned the letter to his jacket. “Not even you.”

  Franks stood in front of him. “The letter, damn you, or I’ll—”

  “Of course.” The Arab’s hand emerged from his jacket with a blue-steel automatic pointed at the big man.

  Franks smiled. “You’re a real sorehead, Kali.” He turned to another man. “What about the one-twenty-five?”

  “It’s ready.”

  Franks nodded. “All right, then, we wait for the signal. After Kali makes identification, he goes with Johnson in the one-thirty to Gibralter. Pick up the cargo there and go on to Oslo.” Franks started for a door across the room. “Wake me when the signal comes in.”

  He was asleep seconds after he hit the couch.

  The bank president blotted the signatures, placed the papers within a leather folder, and with the same unhurried sense of ceremony slid the folder into an attaché case. He leaned back in his deeply upholstered chair and smiled at the man directly across the oak conference table. For a moment he studied Jonathan Sperry, judged correctly he was of English-Irish descent. Beneath that thinning sandy hair was a hard, almost cameo-like face carved with sharp edges. A wiry, hypertense, keenly intelligent man. And, thought the bank president, a very dangerous man. He shook away the feeling.

  “Congratulations are certainly in order, Mr. Sperry. You know, it’s not very often I stay up this late.”

  “It’s not very often we go into the mining business,” Sperry said softly.

  “And diamond mining, at that. By the way, where are your mines, Mr. Sperry?”

  “Another time,” Sperry said. “If we are satisfied we’ll have future need of your services.”

  The bank president murmured his pleasure. “We are honored.” Who would not be honored, he thought. Eighteen million dollars worth of honor.

  “Now, if you would have your secretary put through that call for me?”

  “Of course, Mr. Sperry. At once, at once.”

  The meeting would begin in the morning. It could be the single most important event in the growth of an all-black continent. Tomorrow the final plans would be discussed. And then, at long last, the beginning of the end. Decision time was at hand. All during the day they had been arriving. Butukama was an armed camp, nothing left to chance. Every side of the conference b
uilding was guarded.

  Every man was checked. Many had arrived with weapons, but they were not permitted here. The need now was for coordination, for cooperation, for a concerted plan. An Africa that would be for Africans, real Africans.

  Black Africa had waited two years for this moment. For the first time an all-black Congress would emerge, and after that, the continent would return to rightful rule.

  They watched the Arab, Kali, as he brought the receiver to his ear, listened intently, then placed the telephone between his ear and his shoulder, freeing both hands. He tore open the envelope he took from his jacket and unfolded the paper.

  “Again, please,” he said into the phone. “All right,” he said after a lengthy pause. He replaced the phone on its cradle and motioned to another man.

  “Wake him,” he directed. The man went into the room where Sam Franks slept.

  Franks was there at once, no sign of sleep in his heavy face, his eyes intent on Kali.

  Kali gestured with the paper. “Confirmation,” he smiled.

  Franks nodded. “And the meeting?”

  “That also is confirmed,” replied the Arab. “They are almost ready. The full session is scheduled to take place at nine in the morning. Congo time. One last group is arriving in the morning. They should all be together by ten at the very latest. That is the time recommended for—”

  Franks gestured and the Arab was silent, waiting.

  “Did you speak with John personally?” Franks asked.

  “With Mr. Sperry himself.”

  “No doubts?”

  “None.”

  Franks was dealing in a payment of eighteen million dollars for a nuke, and his special services for its deployment and guaranteed effective use. He believed it appropriate, under the circumstances, to ask questions even if he knew the answers ahead of time. It helped expel nagging doubts. Franks turned suddenly to a heavily armed man in a flight suit.

  “Okay. We go for wheels up at six-thirty sharp.”