All of which would strike the curiosity of a guy like Mack Bolan. Enough so that he would summon the services of Jack Grimaldi and take a crash course in precision skydiving.

But this was to be Bolan's first nighttime jump. And he was dropping into a hostile zone, guided only by his own unique combat sense and a few dim lights on a tiny plot of ground four thousand feet below.

And now the moment had arrived.

Grimaldi cupped his mouth with one hand and yelled, "Tally ho!"

Bolan's only response was a glinting of icy eyes — then he was launching himself through the hatch in a swan dive and hurtling through the black void of night.

He ate two thousand feet in a soaring free fall, limbs outspread and maneuvering into the desired drift path, the earlier exhilaration of practice jumps replaced now with grim concentration and do-or-die purpose as the dark waters of Puget Sound rose up to meet him.

The twinkling lights of the target zone were far downstream and there was nothing but water directly below when he pulled the cord and took the jolt that sent him swinging into acontrolled descent on a straight downwind run toward paydirt. It was a small, precision-control chute of black nylon which under ordinary circumstances would lower him at a rate of descent of about twelve miles per hour. With the payload Bolan was carrying, the rate was probably more like fifteen to eighteen m.p.h.

He broke land at an altitude of about 500 feet, moving on downwind beyond the far end of the compound before circling upwind for the final drop — and this maneuver gave him an excellent bird's-eye view of the layout down there as he glided silently overhead.

The main house was crowded pretty close to the front fence — at a distance of perhaps 100 feet from the boat landing, well above sea level. Neatly manicured grounds spread across that upper level, with covered walkways leading to the guest cottages which were fanned out to the rear. About fifty yards of grass and shrubs separated the cottages from the new construction site — three long buildings set side by side and constructed of corrugated metal — like small warehouses. Another thirty yards or so of lawn and flower gardens stretched from that point to the back fence.

Bolan's angle of approach carried him directly along the shoreline to the side, circling back for touchdown just inside the rear fencing, and landing with a jarring thud that set feet and legs tingling.

Seconds later he'd succeeded in collapsing the chute, rolling it into a manageable bundle, and heaving it over the fence. It plunged on, billowing and popping with newly trapped wind as it scudded off into the night and toward the back side of the island. With any luck at all, it would carry on into the sound and drift clear.

Bolan moved silently in the opposite direction, blending with shadows wherever available and following tendrils of wispy ground fog — sizing, reading, pausing now and then to sift sounds from the night — but moving steadily toward the dim outside lights of the "warehouses."

Two men with choppers awaited him there, loitering in the shadows of the end building and peering nervously into the misty darkness toward the rear of the compound. As Bolan hove into audio range, one of them was, quietly insisting, "I tell you, I heard something back there."

"So go check it out," replied the other with soft sarcasm.

"I guess it's just gulls," the first sentry decided, backing off.

"Naw, it's probably gangbusters. You better go check it out."

"Go to hell," the first guy replied, chuckling.

Bolan meanwhile was flanking them, coming up stealthily on their blind side, moving into "soft weapon" range. He was scouting, not blitzing, and wished to leave no evidence or even suspicion of his visit. The small medicated darts of the TranGun, a double-barreled compressed-air marvel of American technology, would give instant knockdown, a quick drunk, the torpor of twilight sleep for several hours, and nothing worse than a whiskey hangover in the aftermath.

The problem for Bolan, in this application, was to get in close enough without being seen, then pump them both before either became aware of the attack.

And he did so, phutting the little darts in just below the ear on each sentry in a quick one-two. They staggered backward simultaneously, hands going to the necks in reflex and staying there as both men sagged against the building and slid to the ground.

One of them was making drunken sounds with a thick tongue and stroking his burpgun as Bolan retrieved the darts; the guy saw Bolan, all right, but there was no flicker of perception in those clouded eyes. If he were to remember anything at all, it would be in the nature of a vague dream.

Bolan went on, found two other sentries patrolling the forward grounds as singles, and he soft-touched them also.

Next he invaded the house, discovered a nightman at solitary vigil in the kitchen with a sixpack of Hamm's and a transistor radio softly playing, and he beddy-byed this one just as softly.

A quick shakedown of the house revealed no other human presence. No clothing in closets or dresser drawers — no personal effects in the bathrooms other than sealed, unused toiletries — no evidence whatever of habitation by anyone.

Returning to the kitchen, Bolan found beer, cokes, and packaged sandwiches in the refrigerator — nothing else. A chef's pantry was well larded with canned and packaged foods; a large chest-type freezer was well stocked with steaks and chops — but it all had the appearance of something waiting to be used rather than in current use.

The guest cottages just had to be bunkhouses for the hard force. Bolan elected to leave them alone, proceeding instead to the three long buildings of corrugated steel.

Each was double locked.

He found keys among his early victims, and hit it lucky. But what he found in that first building staggered his mind.

Towering mounds of soft earth — rocks piled everywhere — heavy equipment of every type — open shafts descending into the earth.

The building was nothing but a cover for some fantastic kind of excavation project.

The center "building" held the key to understanding. It was clean in there — freshly so — and smelling of new paint. Bolan found the stairway and descended into stygian blackness, a small pencil-flash showing the way.

Twenty feet down, he found it.

A bunker.

Believe it or not — a damned bunker. And a very VIP one, at that. Lavishly outfitted, sleeping accommodations for eight, elaborate galley, comfortable game room with dart boards and card tables, large television console. Tunnels going off at various angles.

The whole thing was built into solid rock. What kind of paranoid...? Bolan made quick sketches and got out of there. He returned the keys to the sentries and made a quiet withdrawal to the front gate where another key from another peaceful sentry passed him through the electrified fence and onto the boat landing.

He went all the way to the end of the pier, then sent a flare shell whizzing skyward. If the luck held, Grimaldi would begin a low-level run precisely sixty seconds later. He would drop a rubber boat fifty feet off shore. Bolan would be on hand to receive it, and he would drift to the next island downstream which just happened to feature a small landing strip.

But the warrior's mind was not dwelling at that moment upon the details of a routine withdrawal exercise. He was thinking instead of whispered words gleaned from electronic surveillance devices here and there about the country over the past several months.

The word "Seattle" had kept cropping up in tersely guarded and coded conversations and also the word "firebase," in the same context of intrigue.

And now Bolan's mind was putting it together.

The mob was brewing something big in or around Seattle.