"So I hear," Tatum commented sourly.

Another voice entered the telephone hookup, a voice which sounded as though it were accustomed to respectful listening. "Captain Braddock. This is Chief Larson."

Braddock said, "Yes sir."

"I'm sitting across the desk from John. Excuse me for not announcing my presence earlier but I thought it better that you approach the question without official intimidation. It's time for that now. You're considered the foremost authority in the West on the Bolan problem. I'm asking you now for an official opinion. Is the Executioner operating in this city?"

Braddock sighed. "I'd have to say, yes sir, it sounds that way. He'll probably confirm it, very loudly, at most any time now."

"All right. Ill be talking to your chief but I suppose I should clear it with you first. I'd like you down here with us, in an advisory capacity."

It was getting to be a habit. Braddock had hardly unpacked from the trek to Boston.

He sighed and told the San Diego official, "I'il have to beg off, Sir. My work here is stacked up around my ears. I think we could spring another man, though — and, actually, he's been much closer to Bolan than I have."

"I don't want you unless you're willing, Captain. You won't reconsider?"

"I'm sorry, sir. The department wouldn't allow it even if I wanted to go. If you'll make the request via official channels, though, I'll see that you're provided the best man available." "All right. I'll rely on that, Captain." Tatum chimed in with, "Tim, thanks." "You bet," Braddock replied, and broke the connection.

He immediately poked his intercom and told his secretary, "Run down Sergeant Lyons for me — Carl Lyons. He should be in Organized Crime Division. Tell him to grab a toothbrush and be in my office within the hour. Then set me up for five minutes in the Chiefs office — make it urgent business conference — and request that Captain Mira of OCD be present."

"Sounds like a bell-ringer," the secretary commented.

"You better believe it. Oh — and when you're talking to Sergeant Lyons — tell him if s a Hard-case."

"I thought Hardcase was dead."

"Not yet," Braddock growled into the intercom. "It's apparently alive and well ... in San Diego."

Thank God.

Thank God it was not Braddock's problem this time.

They were supposed to have gotten underway at seven o'clock and here it was eight already. If they were going to cancel these goddamn things, why the hell didn't somebody have enough thought about them to let a guy know it was off?

Gene (the Turtle) Tarantini paced the glistening deck of the flying bridge and ranted inwardly at the sorry way things had been going lately with this chicken outfit.

He'd rather be back in the navy ... almost. Not quite. But there wasn't much difference ... when a guy got to thinking about it. Same damn chicken outfit. Guys pulling rank all the time, giving out orders right and left, expecting you to snap-shit every time they stepped aboard.

Let Tony Danger run his own fuckin' navy!

He stepped over to the voice tube and blew into it to attract attention down below, then he announced, "Hear this, you fucking muddy-water sailors. The admiral has not been piped aboard and it don't look like he's coming. Secure the fucking engines — hey wait, belay that. I think his imperial lateness has finally arrived."

A guy was coming down the steps from the sun deck of the marina's lounge. White bell bottoms, deck shoes, knit shirt, bright yellow nylon wind-breaker and the inevitable skipper's hat. Dark sun glasses. Carrying a briefcase.

The Turtle turned back to the voice tube and passed the word to his two-man crew. "Look alive, you know how his feelings get hurt if we don't show no sideboys."

Then he picked up the binoculars and took a closer look.

Hell, that wasn't Tony Danger.

Too tall, too big all over. Too much of everything.

But the guy was sure headed for Danger's Folly, no doubt about that. And he sure looked like the real article. That briefcase was chained to his wrist.

Tarantini put down the binoculars and swung into the cockpit of the big cruiser. He pulled a .38 revolver from the chart case, checked it, spun the cylinder, and replaced it.

"Watch it," he growled down to the two men who were just then emerging from the cabin. "Something's not exactly kosher here."

Bolan had picked up the outfit at the Mission Bay "Mariner's Shop" — and he suspected that Tony Danger had bought his seagoing togs at the same place; there'd been no difficulty whatever in duplicating the outfit, right down to the fancy sunglasses with little anchors at the posts.

He spotted the guy watching him through binoculars from the cruiser and knew that he was being closely scrutinized.

It was a beautiful hunk of seagoing mahogany, definitely in the yacht class. Powerful, sleek. Must have cost a bundle.

By the time he reached the gangway, two more guys in spotless T-shirts and white ducks were standing at the rail in a sort of self-conscious parade-rest stance. Each wore a navy-style white hat, rakishly cocked over the eyes, the sidebands flaring out in the center like wings.

Bolan stepped aboard and gave the sailors an impatient toss of his head. "We're late," he growled. "Cast off, haul that gangway in."

A voice from above him snarled, "I give the fucking orders aboard here, sir."

Bolan angled his gaze toward the flying bridge and told the little guy up there, "You'll be giving orders up your ass if you don't get this tub moving."

The guy grinned at him and, in a much milder tone, asked, "Where's Mr. Danger?"

Bolan did not return the smile. His voice was softer, though, in the reply. "Something's rumbling. There might be trouble. Tony's sitting this one out with th' boss. He shook the briefcase. "Do we go or don't we?"

The man on the bridge raised a bos'n's pipe to his lips and tootled a shrieking command through it.

Bolan grinned on that one and watched the crewmen scramble expertly through the casting-off exercises. A moment later the cruiser was moving smoothly through the smallcraft harbor and heading for open water.

He went up and joined the man at the conn, watched him in silence for a moment, then told him, "I'm Frankie Lambretta. Who're you?"

The guy gave him a dazzling smile and replied, "I'm Gene Tarantini. Mr. Danger started calling me "Turtle" — now everybody does. You may as well, too."

"Okay." Bolan ran his hands along Tarantini's body in a quick frisk, then growled, "Hey, I told you there might be trouble. Where the hell's your hardware?"

The guy glanced toward the chart case and said, "In there."

Bolan commanded, "Wear it!"

"Yessir."

"Do your boys have hardware?"

"Yessir, we keep it down in the quarters."

"I can handle the wheel for a minute," Bolan said. "You go tell those boys to get dressed."

Tarantini flashed another big smile, turned the wheel over to his passenger and descended quickly to the main deck. He was back seconds later, reaching into the chart case and tucking a revolver into the waistband of his trousers. He said, almost shyly, "You're a real torpedo, aren't you."

Bolan relinquished the conn and growled, "Yeh."

"I knew it the minute I saw you. I ain't seen a dude like you since Manhattan. You don't take no orders from Mr. Danger, do you?"

Bolan made a derisive sound.

"I thought not. You're class, Mr. Lambretta ... real class."

"Thanks," Bolan said. He was silent for a moment, then he told the impressionable Mafioso, "Listen, Turtle, I might be sliding into something very uncomfortable. You know?"

"Yessir. I already figured that."

"I'll appreciate some close support from you and your boys, if things get to that."