Was Langley Island what the whispers were all about?

He inflated a watertight flotation bag, secured his weapons in there, and heaved it into the Sound, then dived in after it.

Sure. A firebase could mean many things to many people. A forward post for an artillery company. A sort of base camp for marauding bands of forward infantry, with artillery support.

Heavy, though. The word was heavy for everybody.

And it was heavy for Mack Bolan.

The mob had something big cooking, something really big. Big enough to code Langley Island as a firebase and to spend God knew how many millions of bucks putting it together. Solid rock— like a command bunker.

And, sure, that was it. Had to be.

The boys were going to make the big reach. They were getting ready to try for all the marbles. Cosa di tutti Cosi— the Thing of all the Things — they were putting it together, on Langley Island, of all places, believe it or not.

And why not? Seattle was a major seaport. Canada was just a few miles away, accessible by water. Major trade routes to Alaska swept right past the island itself. Alaska!

Some big things were shaping up for Aalaska — spectacular things involving billions of dollars. Not to forget the Orient, and the many new trade routes opening to that section of the world.

Firebase Seattle?

Sure, why not — it explained many odd developments in the world of Mafia over the past few months. They were getting ready to rape the world. The Pacific Northwest was virgin territory, more or less. What better place to conceal clandestine operations? Who, but Bolan, would believe it? Who then, but Bolan, could stop them?

Firebase, indeed! Combat headquarters for the whole damn underworld infrastructure, that's what it was meant to be — the new multinational capital of the planet Earth.

Somehow, Mack Bolan had to stop them.

Somehow, dammit, he meant to stop them!

The big cool guy was waiting for him when Grimaldi put the Cessna down at the rendezvous point.

"How'd it go?" the pilot asked the blitz artist as he sent the little craft plunging into the take-off roll.

"Perfect," old ice-eyes replied, and that was all he said.

Grimaldi knew better than to press for conversation. Bolan would tell when and what Bolan wanted to tell. He was not the most conversational guy in the world. Especially at a time like this. Grimaldi had learned to respect the postcombative silences. Apparently the blitzer made a practice of mentally reviewing the events and immediate results of a hit while they were still sharply etched into the mind — a sort of one man combat critique or debriefing.

This time the big guy looked worried — or, at least, as worried as a guy like Bolan could get. Obviously the mission had produced more questions than answers.

Some kind of guy, this Bolan.

All ice and purpose, a battle machine, a death-maker — and, yet, something much more than that. A superb tactician and strategist. Computer mind, body of an Olympic athlete. Nerveless, daring, deadly. Still, though, much more than all that. He was a man, dammit. A storybook kind of man. The things he did actually bothered the guy — all that death and hellfire he carried around with him — it weighed on the guy, burdened him. The self-appointed role did not sit easily upon the man. Yet he went on with it, campaign after grinding campaign, without hesitation, without alibis, without complaint. He had a job to do. He was doing it, the only way he knew how.

The two had been friends through a couple of those campaigns. It hadn't started that way, of course. Grimaldi was a Mafia pilot, a wheelman of the skies, a syndicate flyboy who was expected to enjoy his fat salary and keep his ears and mouth closed. He wasn't a "made man" — a full-fledged brother of the brothers — but on the payroll, just the same. So Grimaldi had known this guy Bolan from both sides of the street. He knew his threat — his effect — knew, even, that chilling, heart-shuddering sensation of looking at the guy over the wrong side of a gunsight.

There was something about Mack Bolan that caused even his enemies to admire him. Those who hated him most — and with the best reasons — still gave the big guy grudging admiration and genuine respect.

Grimaldi certainly had.

He'd flown the guy from Vegas to Puerto Rico, without realizing until the last leg of the journey that his passenger was Mack Bolan instead of the mob courier he was pretending to be. And, sure, Grimaldi had very naturally conspired with the forces at Glass Bay to ambush this most feared enemy of the new kingdom. It didn't work, of course. Bolan could have killed him then, but didn't — for some reason. Twice again at Puerto Rico Grimaldi had found himself at the business end of Bolan's gun, and twice more the guy had let him live. The Caribbean chapter had closed with Grimaldi a committed ally of the Executioner — and for some damn excellent reasons. Grimaldi loved the guy, like a brother. There was no getting loose from the mob, of course — not while a guy was still breathing. It was a lifetime contract, from their point of view. So, sure, he still flew the wiseguys around and made a pretty good living doing it. And kept his eyes and ears open for a good buddy named Bolan. He also jumped quickly and willingly to work with the guy any time the invitation was sent.

Sure, he loved the big cold bastard. Bolan had held up a mirror to Jack Grimaldi's soul, reminding the former combat pilot what manhood was all about. Grimaldi liked the view. He liked his own image beside Bolan's.

And, getting down to basics, that was the only damn reason for any of it.

Grimaldi suspected that Bolan's own reasons were probably very similar. There were some things that a man — a true man— just had to do. Bolan was doing them. A man measured up to his own challenge. Bolan's challenge was just a bit more unique than the average.

And this time, yes, the blitzer had a worried look about the eyes.

They were headed for a small, private field just north of Seattle. Grimaldi broke the long silence of mutual critique to remark, "Pretty tough one, huh." He lit a cigarette and handed it over to his passenger.

"The guy took a drag and handed it back. "Yeah, he replied as he slowly released the smoke. "So what're they doing on the island?"

Instead of answering, Bolan responded with a question of his own. "How many flights have you made into here the past few months?"

"Here?" the pilot replied. "None. Two into Spokane, though."

"What's giving in Spokane?"

Grimaldi shrugged. "They never tell me. I only know that the fair was the cover. Expo '74, you know. My guys were supposed to be planning advisors. Something to do with the exhibits."

"From where?"

"One delegation was from Europe. I don't know where exactly. The other was from Tel Aviv."

Bolan blinked at that latter revelation. "Yeah?"

The pilot shrugged as he replied, "That's what the baggage checks on their luggage said. They flew into New York via Air Israel."

"Your reading?" Bolan asked quietly.

"VIPs from the international arms. Bosses, I'd say. Three in the first party, five in the last. Armed escort from New York, both times, full head parties. I flew them in the executive jet. That's reserved for nothing but the top."

"You flew them both in and out?"

"Yeah. Stayed a couple days, both times."

"So they could have come on to Seattle by car. Both parties."

"That's right," Gremaldi said, sighing.

"Anybody meet them?"

"Oh sure. Red carpet reception."

"Mob people?"

"None that I'd know," the pilot replied.