to kill the Yeti! I'll kill—"
He did not recognize the woman who took hold o[ his hand, moved by his agony.
"It'll be all right, Dan. You've got friends," Cathy said, staring into the tormented eyes of this man who had seen what was forbidden to other human beings.
Chapter Eleven
When Carlos Millan picked the port of San Diego as the site of his warehouse, he recognized that he would have access to one of the greatest natural harbors in the world and that the nature of the city would allow him to remain anonymous. The city had the perfect climate for conspiracy.
The warehouse was a two-story structure with nothing to distinguish it from others lining the harbor. Built of wood, warped by the salt air, and with loose roof shingles blown by the wind coming from the sea, it gave no indication that it was a mere shell housing a large bunker—a bunker fitted with two-foot-thick stainless-steel doors guarded by a laser-beam alarm system—and that its floor could be tilted by a single switch located on Carlos's ornate Country French desk and the entire contents of the bunker dumped into the harbor in thirty seconds.
In order to get into Carlos's bunker Packard and Bradford went through metal detectors and were searched by bodyguards. Packard's photograph and fingerprints were checked in a data bank. Bradford reluctantly posed for his picture, was fingerprinted, and waited while an index file was begun under his name. No federal agents were going to walk in and bag Carlos unless they brought a battalion of Marines with them.
Carlos did not like references describing him as "in the gun or arms business." He saw himself as an armorer, a trade which possessed precedents of historical respectability. Although he sold guns which one of his factories secretly manufactured in Baja California, his profession was considerably more sophisticated. Carlos responded to challenges which would force him to use his ingenuity. He was an inventor, a specialist.
The difficulty of the problem presented to him by Packard and Bradford was just the kind that he enjoyed.
Bradford peered at the small, sallow-skinned man, whose otherworldly expression was that of a scholar who had spent years in a library, removed from the pleasures and concerns of everyday life. At every section of the bunker weapons were on display, placed on their crates for a buyer to examine: AK-70's, .50 caliber anti-aircraft guns, M-90 bazookas, 90mm mortars, M-69 grenade launchers, eight-foot-long recoilless rifles, and a single 50mm howitzer. It was an arsenal with the finest modern weapons used bv the Army, and it would take just that kind of firepower to overpower Carlos and the thirty-odd men who worked for him.
"I don't see how I can help," Carlos said. He sipped a cup of yerba maté tea, then puffed on his cigar. "I'm fascinated, or perhaps 'tantalized' is the better word. How— Madre de Dios —do you propose to kill whatever it is you are after in the mountains without causing an explosion? Perhaps biological warfare or nerve gas?"
"No. Even if we could drop it over the area, we'd kill all the wildlife and innocent people."
Carlos turned to Packard. "Why don't the two of you work at something more reasonable? They could use you in Argentina or Rhodesia or any of the African nations who need mercenaries."
Bradford refrained from explaining the nature of his mission. How could he rationally describe tha Yeti, the awesome power of the creature, without arousing Carlos's contempt? He took out a sheet of paper on which he'd made a rough drawing. He laid it on the desk.
"A bow?" Carlos said. It was difficult to know if he was jeering or simply surprised. "It never would have occurred to me."
"A crossbow with a telescopic sight."
Packard was irate, and in his anger he began to tremble with frustration. "Dan, I don't know what's wrong with you, but this is suicidal."
"Be patient," Carlos counseled, moving to a drawing board and turning on a high-intensity light.
He did not recognize the woman who took hold o[ his hand, moved by his agony.
"It'll be all right, Dan. You've got friends," Cathy said, staring into the tormented eyes of this man who had seen what was forbidden to other human beings.
Chapter Eleven
When Carlos Millan picked the port of San Diego as the site of his warehouse, he recognized that he would have access to one of the greatest natural harbors in the world and that the nature of the city would allow him to remain anonymous. The city had the perfect climate for conspiracy.
The warehouse was a two-story structure with nothing to distinguish it from others lining the harbor. Built of wood, warped by the salt air, and with loose roof shingles blown by the wind coming from the sea, it gave no indication that it was a mere shell housing a large bunker—a bunker fitted with two-foot-thick stainless-steel doors guarded by a laser-beam alarm system—and that its floor could be tilted by a single switch located on Carlos's ornate Country French desk and the entire contents of the bunker dumped into the harbor in thirty seconds.
In order to get into Carlos's bunker Packard and Bradford went through metal detectors and were searched by bodyguards. Packard's photograph and fingerprints were checked in a data bank. Bradford reluctantly posed for his picture, was fingerprinted, and waited while an index file was begun under his name. No federal agents were going to walk in and bag Carlos unless they brought a battalion of Marines with them.
Carlos did not like references describing him as "in the gun or arms business." He saw himself as an armorer, a trade which possessed precedents of historical respectability. Although he sold guns which one of his factories secretly manufactured in Baja California, his profession was considerably more sophisticated. Carlos responded to challenges which would force him to use his ingenuity. He was an inventor, a specialist.
The difficulty of the problem presented to him by Packard and Bradford was just the kind that he enjoyed.
Bradford peered at the small, sallow-skinned man, whose otherworldly expression was that of a scholar who had spent years in a library, removed from the pleasures and concerns of everyday life. At every section of the bunker weapons were on display, placed on their crates for a buyer to examine: AK-70's, .50 caliber anti-aircraft guns, M-90 bazookas, 90mm mortars, M-69 grenade launchers, eight-foot-long recoilless rifles, and a single 50mm howitzer. It was an arsenal with the finest modern weapons used bv the Army, and it would take just that kind of firepower to overpower Carlos and the thirty-odd men who worked for him.
"I don't see how I can help," Carlos said. He sipped a cup of yerba maté tea, then puffed on his cigar. "I'm fascinated, or perhaps 'tantalized' is the better word. How— Madre de Dios —do you propose to kill whatever it is you are after in the mountains without causing an explosion? Perhaps biological warfare or nerve gas?"
"No. Even if we could drop it over the area, we'd kill all the wildlife and innocent people."
Carlos turned to Packard. "Why don't the two of you work at something more reasonable? They could use you in Argentina or Rhodesia or any of the African nations who need mercenaries."
Bradford refrained from explaining the nature of his mission. How could he rationally describe tha Yeti, the awesome power of the creature, without arousing Carlos's contempt? He took out a sheet of paper on which he'd made a rough drawing. He laid it on the desk.
"A bow?" Carlos said. It was difficult to know if he was jeering or simply surprised. "It never would have occurred to me."
"A crossbow with a telescopic sight."
Packard was irate, and in his anger he began to tremble with frustration. "Dan, I don't know what's wrong with you, but this is suicidal."
"Be patient," Carlos counseled, moving to a drawing board and turning on a high-intensity light.
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