Act Of War. Don Pendleton
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replied crisply. “I was just about to call you with the news. The earlier ID was a fake, planted by wax wing. These are not the real McCoy. These are not, repeat not, Uncle Hoover. Do you copy?”
Merging with the traffic, Lyons grunted at that. Wax wing, Icarus. Damn. Fake FBI agents. To pull off a stunt like that would require some serious hacking. And one mother of a powerful computer. No matter how good a computer expert was, not even Kurtzman could break into the DOD database without at least a Cray Supercomputer at his command. Only in the movies did somebody hack the White House with a regular PC.
“Confirm, Rock House, we will bank the Finn and remove any troublemakers from the game. Copy?”
“Roger,” Bear replied, and the radio went silent.
“Fakes!” Schwarz said furiously, reaching for his laptop then pulling his hand back. If the enemy had fooled Kurtzman for a whole ten minutes, there was nothing he could do to hack their location of a portable. It would be like hunting elephants with a derringer. Absolutely useless.
“Okay, our best bet is to find Gallen before these assholes do, and get him safely out of the state,” Lyons said. “Pol, if our boy hasn’t gone to Graceland, what else is there in this town for an Elvis fan to do? A wax museum, film retrospective, anything like that?”
“I’ll check the Zagat,” Blancanales said, pulling out a PDA and opening the electronic version of the international travel guide.
“And I’ll have Jack warm up the Herc for an immediate takeoff,” Schwarz said, pulling out a cell phone. “He already has the documents on board for an emergency departure ferrying a living heart to be transplanted to Seattle.”
“Works for me.” Twisting the wheel to maneuver around a bright red sport cars that looked like an oversize toy, Lyons turned onto Broad Street, then cursed as construction made him take a detour.
“Oh, hell, there’s a hundred places!” Blancanales complained, using a thumb to scroll the tiny screen. “The Elvis Musical Museum, Elvis Miniature Golf Course, Elvis Dry Cleaner’s, the Elvis Karaoke Bar…”
Under his breath, Schwarz muttered something about itching like a man on a fuzzy tree, and his partner shot him a stern look.
“No, wait, Gadgets has a good idea there,” Lyons said, looking over the crowds of people streaming by on the busy sidewalks. “Which bar has the best Elvis impersonator? The absolute cream of the crop?” It would be a million to one chance of running across Gallen this way, but experience had taught the man that such things did happen, and only a fool would not take advantage of every opportunity coming his way.
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