“Frankly, Mapes, I’d like to stuff you in one of your own cannon and pull the lanyard. Now give me that list before I yank the Attorney General and Congress down around your ears.”

A faint pallor clouded Mapes’s face. He took up a pen and wrote the names of the buyers on a pad. Then he tore off the paper and handed it to Pitt.

One shell had been ordered by the British Imperial War Museum, in London. Two had gone to the Veterans of Foreign Wars, Dayton City Post 9974, Oklahoma. The remaining thirty-seven were purchased by an agent representing the African Army of Revolution. No address was given.

Pitt slipped the paper into his pocket and rose to his feet. “I’ll send a team of men to remove the other gas shells in the tunnel,” he said coldly. He detested Mapes, detested everything the fat little death merchant stood for. Pitt couldn’t bring himself to leave without one final shot.

“Mapes?”

“Yes?”

A thousand insults swirled in Pitt’s mind, but he could not sort out any one in particular. Finally, as Mapes’s expectant expression turned to puzzlement, Pitt spoke.

190 VIXEN 03p>

“How many men did your merchandise kill and maim last year, and the year before that?”

“I do not concern myself with what others do with my goods,” Mapes said offhandedly.

“If one of those gas shells went off, you’d be responsible for perhaps millions of deaths.”

“Millions, Mr. Pitt?” Mapes’s eyes hardened. “To me the term is merely a statistic.”

46

Steiger set the Spook F-140 jet fighter down lightly on the airstrip at Sheppard Air Force Base, outside Wichita Falls, Texas. After checking in with the flight-operations officer, he signed out a car from the base motor pool and drove north across the Red River into Oklahoma. He turned onto State Highway Fifty-three and pulled over to the side of the road; he felt a sudden urge to relieve himself. Though it was a few minutes past one in the afternoon, no car, no sign of life, was visible for miles.

Steiger could not remember seeing such flat and desolate farm country. The wind-swept landscape was barren except for a distant shed and an abandoned hay rake. It was a depressing sight. If someone had placed a gun in Steiger’s hand, he’d have been tempted to shoot himself out of sheer melancholy. He zipped up his fly and returned to the car.

Soon a water tower appeared beside the arrow-straight road and grew larger through the windshield. Then a small town with precious few trees materialized and he passed a sign welcoming him to Dayton City, Queen City of the Wheat Belt. He pulled into a dingy old gas station that still sported glass tanks above its pumps.

An elderly man in mechanic’s coveralls emerged from a grease pit and shuffled up to the passenger window. “Can I help ya?”