Mission: Apocalypse. Don Pendleton
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trust. More than intriguing, it made no sense, but too many things on this one made no sense. Bolan suspected there was madness involved, but a deadly serious machine was in motion, and he knew the pieces had no meaning because he didn’t have enough of the puzzle.
“Memo, best guess. Which way do you think they went?”
“Well, they aren’t transporting fifty kilos of cocaine or marijuana. If what you say is true they’re moving over a ton of metal and the goons guarding it. I’d go to Baja. Sparse population and you can buy an entire pueblo’s silence easy. By the same token, you got lots of airstrips, lots of ports, and Tijuana and Mexicali if you need a big-city connection. If things start to get too hot? Shit, man, you could just dump the stuff into the Sea of Cortez and come back for it later. I did that once. I’m sure salvaging uranium would be harder, but what the hell, man? These guys have money, and uranium doesn’t rust, does it?”
“It oxidizes, but that wouldn’t effect its radioactivity. It would just make it more dangerous to handle, and it would probably help spread the nuclear material out from the explosion.” Bolan frowned over a map of the Baja Peninsula. Dominico had called it the same way he would. “Still, over a ton of crated material plus the men guarding it. That pretty much precludes a light plane.”
Dominico nodded. “And bigger transports draw bigger attention.”
That would leave train, truck or boat. The only train line clipped the top eastern corner of the state and stopped dead in Mexicali without crossing the U.S. border. However it did come up all the way from Sinaloa with dozens of stops in between. The material could have been offloaded from the truck and loaded into a container car anytime within the past twenty-four hours. Bolan’s instincts spoke to him. A train was a lock. Once the material was on board there was no way to quickly offload it. Trains had regular stops and all of them could be filled with federales at a moment’s notice. Bolan felt sure the material was still in a truck heading north for the border or had headed for the coast and was on a boat rounding Baja. Guillermo Dominico’s alter ego King Solomon was the key.
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