No one seemed to cotton to that idea.
"Where's that other volunteer?" wondered Grimm, looking around.
The second volunteer was standing in the back of a knot of airman like a shy gym student trying to escape the coach's gaze.
"You! Yes, you. Your turn."
"Yes, sir," the airman said in a thick voice.
"Here is what you do. We're going to hoist you in feetfirst."
"Yes, sir."
"You go in that way so he can't get at your neck."
"Yes, sir," said the airman, blood draining from his face.
"You know he's in there. He knows you know he's in there. Maybe he's crawled back a ways. You go in with your combat knife and you hunt him down. Blade to blade. You stick him good. A dead ninja's just as good as a live one, if not better. Got that?"
The airmen felt his side arm being pried from his stubborn fingers.
"Can't have you shooting in there," Grimm said. "Not with all that propellant."
"Yes, sir," gulped the airman.
They got him into position and, on the count of three, they hoisted him feetfirst.
The lower body went in fine, but the heavier upper body was where they got stuck.
"Push harder," Grimm hissed. "Get him the hell up in there."
The poor airman was standing on his hands, and his hands were being supported by the strong blue backs of several security airman. They were arching and grunting in their effort to get him all the way up there.
For his part, the airman looked as though he wanted to cry. Then he did. "Help!"
"What is it?" Grimm hissed.
The airman's eyes were frightened china saucers. "I'm going in!"
"That's what we want."
"No! Something's got my legs. Pull me back! Pull me back!"
And the airman's voice was filled so full of horror that Major Grimm hastily countermanded his order. "Out! Pull him back! Now!"
But it was too late. The airman went up slicker than a fox into a rabbit hole, torn right out of the hands of the security team.
A single drop of clear liquid fell back. They never figured out if it was drool or a tear.
They heard the swish, a meaty thunk, and then the airman's loose head dropped down.
It didn't die all at once. The mouth was distinctly working.
Reaching in, Major Grimm grabbed it. "Speak to me, Airman. What did you see?"
A puff of foul air came from the mouth. Then it dropped slack.
The light in the eyes looking into Grimm's went out.
Distaste on his own face, Grimm passed the head to his security chief, who looked sick and angry at the same time.
From the open hatch a leakage of blood came. It stained the ties a bright red.
"Enough of this damn pussyfooting. We gas the little cockroach out."
Gas masks were donned. Two grenades of CS gas were thrown in and the hatch hastily shut and locked. Not a tendril leaked out of the missile-launch car. It was airtight.
They gave the gas ten minutes to work, then a nervous airman was ordered into the smoking hatch.
Shortly his gas-masked head tumbled down.
"There' s only one thing left to do," Major Claiborne Grimm said tightly.
"Sir?"
"We gotta initiate a cold-launch sequence."
"We can't do that without authorization," his security chief sputtered.
"Well, then, we're damn well going to have to get authorization, aren't we?"
THE CALL to SAC headquarters in Omaha was booted up the line to the desk of General Shelby "Lightning" Bolton.
"You have a what, Major?" Lightning thundered.
"A ninja."
"In your missile-launch car, you say?"
"That's an affirmative, General. We send men in, and he sickles their heads clean off."
"How many casualties so far?"
"Four so far."
"Try gas."