Thirty thousand, hell. Start at a hundred thousand, soldier, and work up from there. She quietly boasted the most sophisticated of electronic and optic systems developed during the space age; no expense had been spared toward that consideration.

She could "see" for more than a mile with telescopic/stereoscopic clarity, night or day, and she could "hear" flies buzzing at two thousand yards — unaided by any exterior devices. With exterior implantations in the target area, the bonus baby to Bolan's war effort could scan through walls of buildings and record conversations in a dozen simultaneous operations. And that was far from all.

But it was all the use Bolan had in mind for the present, and it was time for the battle cruiser to go to work.

He went to the console and activated the audio surveillance system, directing the concealed barrel pickups to a point near the very peak of 40 Washington Towers, then turned on the "nitebrite optics," an infra-red system coupled with laser techniques for pencil-flash or broadflood selectivity.

Minutes later, he had a rather valid understanding of the problem confronting him.

The Franciscus apartment was the penthouse suite — the only dwelling at that level. There were no exterior approaches. Through a crack in a small half-window — probably a bathroom — he'd picked up the muffled sounds of a television program mixed with occasional bumps, movements, and footfalls somewhere within — a couple of live" male voices and two audible words: "Johnny said."

He worked up a graphic projection of the building on the plotting board and experimented with several "breach plans" before finally going to the mobile phone and calling his friend the mob flyboy, Jack Grimaldi.

The guy must have been sitting on the telephone. He answered at the first crack of the bell with a breathless, "Yeah, Terrifying Flying Service."

Bolan chuckled and said, "Jack, how soon can you lay hands on a windmill?"

"Had one standing by all day. Thought you'd never call. What's the job?"

"Remember Dallas?"

"Oh God. That again. That was daylight, buddy."

"So you try a little harder this time," Bolan suggested. "It's only about four hundred feet, though, Jack. Will the weather allow?"

"Depends on where you are. Over on the coast it's zero-zero right now. Mountains have most of it blocked but it's seeping down Juan de Fuca and spilling down along the Sound. If you're — "

"Western shore of Lake Washington, Jack."

"That's different. Just a minute."

Grimaldi was "gone" for a full minute. Bolan marked time by studying his projections. The pilot returned to say, "Okay, it looks hopeful if we move right quick. You've got a ground layer of thin stuff with tops at about two hundred feet. The Naval Air Station over there at Sand Point says it's acceptable but subject to change very rapidly. Then there's another deck at one thousand and already descending. There's no way to know how long it will take to close solid — you know what I'm saying? We could have a zero-zero condition over there from a thousand feet on down if those two layers decide to marry."

"We'll have to risk it, Jack. Let's at least go up and eyeball it from the top."

"Right. Where do I get you?"

"Come down to the Union Bay bridge. Then keep south and put on your infra-red specs. Look for a beacon. I'll be at the bottom."

"What if I can't see the damn beacon?"

"It's laser-focused. You'll see it. Just in case, though — give me a comm channel."

"Okay," the pilot soberly replied, "let's see ... how about 126.7 megs? You have that?"

"I can plug it in, yeah. That's a standard aero freq, isn't it?"

"Well sure. That's all these buggies come with. Just watch what you say. You're Low Boy. I'm High Boy."

"Right. Radio silence, though, unless you get lost."

"Right."

"How soon, Jack?"

"Let's see ... what will I need?"

"Guts and skill."

Grimaldi chuckled. "What else? Give me something I can handle,"

"Better have a rope ladder, Jack. I guess that's about the only special. Oh, no ... if you have a basket ..."

The pilot groaned. "You going after a basket case?"

"Could be. Better be ready for it."

"Okay. Give me five minutes to prep, another five to fly. See you in ten. I hope."

Yeah, sure, hope.

There was damn little else to cling to.

The tall buildings rose eerily from the low-level mists, stark in their isolation, foreboding, capped with twinkling red lights as a warning to low-flying aircraft — a hazard, yeah, one hell of a fine hazard.

Bolan pushed a sketch onto the pilot's knee-clip and circled a spot with his finger. "This one, the two o'clock position, Jack. Let's take a low pass for look-see. Tell me if you can put down there."

Grimaldi whistled softly into his headset. "If we can't, Sarge, I'd recommend a scrub. We've only got about four hundred feet to play with, and it's closing fast. If we're down when it closes, well, okay. We can always lift off and pray for someplace to land. You get down there, though, and the clouds settle around those damned windows — well, enough said. I couldn't get back for you."

Bolan growled, "Yeah. Go look."

They went by in a slow pass, circling at fifty feet above. The roof was a jumble of utility structures, air-conditioners, supports for the hazard-lighting tower — bounding it all in, a steel parapet about four feet high.

Grimaldi was the first to note the clear area. "Southeast corner," he said, elated. "There's room."

Bolan's attention had been diverted elsewhere. Two men, in foul-weather hoods, were huddled against a small housing near the north parapet. And they had spotted the chopper immediately, were watching it with considerable interest.

"Go around again, Jack. Couple of bandits at twelve o'clock."

"Where?"

"Small structure at the north wall. Elevator, maybe — or stairwell. Let's make them nervous."

The pilot grinned and kicked the little ship into a steep descent, crabbing around in a near-spin to skim dangerously along the rooftop.

Both men ran into the open, electrified by the stunt and obviously shaken.

Bolan was threading the sound-suppressor aboard the Beretta. He was rigged for light combat — black-suit, AutoMag, Beretta, chest pouch, single utility belt.

"Give me a razzle-dazzle approach," he instructed the pilot. "Go in like an eagle. Ill clear the area and keep going. Lift off in three minutes, that's three exactly, with or without me. If it's without, stand by upstairs for another five — if you can — but that's my point of no return. Take off and don't look back."

"Gotcha," Grimaldi replied. "Like an eagle, huh? How's this?"

The little bird went into a steep climb then heeled, tilted, and swooped back across the rooftop with hairbreadth clearance. The guys below were running for the open area and waving hardware, now, but they hit the deck and hugged it as the "eagle" swooped overhead.

Grimaldi was a master at his work. Forward motion halted with a quick upward jerk, followed immediately by a quick drop and a hover with the skids probably no more than six inches above the deck.

Bolan hit the hatch with a "Tally-ho!" at his lips and the whispering Beretta streaking flame from his right hand.

The two "bandits" were caught midway in a scramble for footing, and never quite made it. Bolan paused above them for a moment to verify the results then jogged on to the housing where their presence had first been noted.

And, yeah, it was an elevator. Limited duty, two stops only, the penthouse and the floor below it. Perfect.

He called the car and stepped quickly inside, punched the penthouse button, and erupted from there at that level with the Beretta Belle in whispering attack.