“Ah yes,” Mapes said. “If you had been holding a concealed gun on me, my hands would have remained on the wheel. A normal gesture. Then, as we were waved through and your attention was lulled by the guard’s opening the gate, his teammate would have discreetly stepped behind the car and blown your head off.”

“I’m glad you remembered to raise your hands.”

“You’re most observant, Mr. Pitt,” said Mapes. “However, you force me to issue a new signal to the gate guards.”

“I’m crushed you don’t trust me to keep your secret.”

Mapes did not reply to Pitt’s sarcasm. He kept his eyes on a narrow asphalt road that passed between semingly endless rows of Quonset huts. After about a mile they came to an open field crammed with heavily armored tanks in various states of rust and disrepair. A small army of mechanics was busily crawling over ten of the massive vehicles that had been parked in formation beside the road.

“How many acres do you have?” Pitt asked.

“Five thousand,” Mapes replied. “You’re looking at the world’s sixth-largest army in terms of equipment. Phalanx Arms also ranks seventh as an air force.”

Mapes turned the car onto a dirt road that paralleled several bunkers set into a hillside, and stopped in front of one marked ARSENAL 6. He slid from behind the wheel and pulled a single key from his pocket, inserted it in a large brass lock, and pulled the catch free. Then he swung open a pair of steel doors and flipped on the light switch.

Inside the cavelike bunker, thousands of ammunition cases and crates containing a vast variety of shell sizes lay stacked in a tunnel that seemed to stretch into infinity. Pitt had never seen so much potential destruction heaped in one place.

Mapes motioned toward a golf cart. “No need to raise blisters walking. This storage area runs underground for nearly two miles.”

188 VIXEN 03p>

The arsenal was cold and the hum from the electric cart seemed to hang in the damp air. Mapes turned into a side tunnel and slowed down. He held a map up to the light and studied it. “Beginning here and ending about a hundred yards down is the last store of sixteen-inch naval shells in the world. They’re obsolete because only battleships can use them, and there is not a single operational battleship left. The gas shells I bought from Raferty should be stacked in an area near the middle.”

“I see no sign of their canisters,” said Pitt.

Mapes shrugged. “Business is business. Stainless-steel canisters are worth money. I sold them to a chemical company.”

“Your supply seems endless. It might take hours to dig them out.”