Phoenix Force 06 - White Hell Read online

  The Arctic’s cold clutch descended in an icy rage

  Snow as hard as sand, driven by gale-force winds, pummelled the men with ceaseless brutality. It was time to bail out of the frozen hell.

  Katz radioed Jack Grimaldi, who was waiting fifty miles north in a helicopter.

  The reply signal was weak. "Can't get to you," Grimaldi's voice crackled amid the static. "We're socked in here ... it's the blizzard of the century...sorry, guys ... hang on ...."

  The radio signal died.

  Katz clicked off his walkie-talkie and turned to the others, his eyes haunted.

  "The blizzard of the century," he muttered, despair gripping his face. Phoenix Force was alone with the storm. Had they survived this far for nothing?

  "Gar Wilson is excellent. Raw action attacks the reader from every page ! "—Don Pendleton

  Mack Bolan's

  PHOENIX FORCE

  #1 Argentine Deadline

  #2 Guerilla Games

  #3 Atlantic Scramble

  #4 Tigers of Justice

  #5 The Fury Bombs

  #6 White Hell

  Mack Bolan's

  ABLE TEAM

  #1 Tower of Terror

  #2 The Hostaged Island

  #3 Texas Showdown

  #4 Amazon Slaughter

  #5 Cairo Countdown

  #6 Warlord of Azatlan

  MACK BOLAN

  The Executioner

  #48 The Libya Connection

  #49 Doomsday Disciples

  #50 Brothers in Blood

  #51 Vulture's Vengeance

  #52 Tuscany Terror

  #53 Invisible Assassins

  #54 Mountain Rampage

  #55 Paradine's Gauntlet

  #56 Island Deathtrap

  #57 Flesh Wounds

  #58 Ambush on Blood River

  First edition July 1983

  First published in Australia January 1985

  ISBN 0-373-61306-7

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to

  Thomas P. Ramirez for his contributions to this work.

  Copyright © 1983 by Worldwide Library.

  Philippine copyright 1983, Australian copyright 1983,

  New Zealand copyright 1983.

  Scanned By CrazyAl 2013

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 118 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, NSW. All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The Gold Eagle trademark, consisting of the words GOLD EAGLE and the portrayal of an eagle, and the Worldwide trademark, consisting of a globe and the word WORLDWIDE in which the letter "o" is represented by a depiction of a globe, are trademarks of Worldwide Library.

  Printed in Australia by

  The Dominion Press–Hedges & Bell

  North Blackburn, Victoria 3130.

  1

  Mass murder—premeditated and ruthless—was only a heartbeat away.

  And Seattle would never be the same.

  It was 3:45 P.M. on a clear December day in the Pacific coast metropolis, and rush-hour traffic on Interstate 5 was particularly dense. With Christmas only four days away, there was an electric excitement in the air. The sun, a flat, orange cutout, was sinking toward the smog-smudged skyline.

  Salesmen, plumbers and electricians, secretaries and businessmen, mothers returning from last-minute shopping, from school Christmas programs—all became unsuspecting grist for the impending bloodbath.

  Matt Redfern and his terrorist cutthroats realized that Phoenix Force was hot on their tail. Abruptly their 1978 Toronado was goosed to a yawing, squealing, sixty-mile-per-hour flight. The sedate afternoon joyride suddenly became a run for life.

  "Keep on them, David," Katz barked, "don't give them a blasted inch."

  "Right-o, Yakov," McCarter acknowledged, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, eyes darting as he sought to wedge into the steady lines of traffic. "If I don't kill me a few blokes in the bargain, it'll be a bloody miracle."

  He leaned on the horn, swerved, bucked and bluffed his way into slot after slot. Right. Left. Cutting off a silver-haired matron in a Lincoln Continental. "Move it, lady!" he bellowed. "Get that goddamned beer truck off the road."

  The squeal of tires, the blast of the horn, the grind of steel on steel as he shoehorned his way into a gap between a Toyota and a Ford—all were music to McCarter's ears.

  Knowledge that a bloodthirsty contingent of the IRA was in the United States, spoiling for a show-down, had been in Stony Man Farm's intelligence circuits for the past forty-eight hours. A hit at the Seattle docks, near the oil-refinery tap lines, had been accepted by Hal Brognola and company as the general scenario. A messy little blowup to draw America's attention, to warn that the IRA meant deadly business—that was how the men of Phoenix Force had read it.

  Smug bastards, Katz thought to himself. To be suckered in so easily.

  The Phoenix team had contented itself with a round-the-clock stakeout, maintaining a discreet distance between its chase car and the Toronado used by Redfern and his five hardmen whenever they left their seedy Pioneer Square hideout. It was essential to Stony Man's strategy—and that of the big guy, Colonel John Phoenix—that the IRA terrorists be caught in the act.

  But now, suddenly, sickeningly, everything was blowing up in their faces. They realized too late that the IRA showdown would not come at some sparsely populated cargo-ship loading dock, but in a public arena, where the body count would be horrendous.

  Armageddon on the freeway.

  It had been Rafael Encizo, his psychic antennas eternally alert, who had first become edgy. As the lemon yellow Toronado had plugged through heavy Yesler Way traffic and eased onto the I-5, heading south at leisurely pace, something had begun to bubble within him. And when the terrorists blithely bypassed the Harbor Island turnoff, where the strike was supposed to take place, things suddenly went to high boil.

  The Toronado exited on Empire Way, taking a pokey detour that meandered through Jefferson Park, as if the terror goons were pausing to take a last grim breath, to rev up nerve for the mission. It was in the park that an IRA lookout had been alerted. Catching glimpse of the blue 1981 Chevrolet Impala tailing them, he yelled a warning to his mates.

  Instantly the pace had quickened.

  Blasting back onto the freeway, heading north, Redfern opened up the Toronado, the car fishtailing through lanes with hair-curling bravado. And when Phoenix Force had seen the assault rifles poke their ugly snouts above the window rails, the IRA hoods craning their necks, the driver deliberately prowling a lumbering gasoline truck in the left lane. . .

  "They're gonna do it right here," Rafael gasped. "The bastards are gonna blow away half the goddamned city, us included."

  "They wouldn't dare," David McCarter shouted, his mouth twisted into a vengeful snarl, his powerful arms spinning the Impala's wheel with a proficiency gained from hundreds of outings on the race circuit. Driving recklessly, he jammed the sedan into a space that seemed hardly big enough to accommodate a motorcycle. "There are kids, women in those cars. What kind of animals are these blokes, anyway?"

  But the terrorists did dare, bulling themselves into position beside the huge tanker, jackrabbiting into opening after opening in the hea
vy traffic. The IRA driver had gained a lead on the truck. Once their ugly job was done they could escape to deliver a crowing victory message to a disbelieving world.

  The IRA lives. Bloody as hell.

  And unless Phoenix Force could break through the glut of doomsday drivers and stop them . . .

  Gary Manning furiously peeled down the back window, poking his craggy face out into the IRA car's slipstream. His tawny hair flattened against his head, the CAR-15 panning the landscape, he sought a firing angle amid the blurred intermesh of vehicles. A young blond mother on the sidewalk saw his weapon and instantly reacted. Her mouth gaped in disbelief, and her right arm shot out to protect the tyke strapped into the kiddy-carrier beside her.

  Manning interpreted her dismay, his heart constricting at thought of the gory trick destiny would shortly play on the attractive woman and her baby. Sorry, lady, he groaned inwardly, still straining for a shot, I didn't make this damned, stinking world.

  An angle presented itself and Manning, praying that no innocent blood would be shed by his hand, brought the sighting leaf down, zeroed in on the Toronado.

  "Shoot, Gary," Katzenelenbogen shouted into the back of their vehicle. "Don't let them get a round off." Then he swiveled back to lean halfway out the front window on his side, deftly manipulating his prosthetic hand, aiming across the windshield. His Colt Commander .45 barked twice and took down an IRA hardman in the front seat. In the rapidly fading light he inventoried the havoc he created as the slug tore away the man's skull, blood and pulp spraying the windshield.

  Simultaneously, Manning opened up, stitching a fifteen-round line across the Toronado's rear and right side, carrying up into the windows, glass shattering like diamond confetti in the fading sunlight. The double dose of slugs caused the IRA driver to swerve slightly. Momentarily out of control, the Toronado bounced off a brown Pontiac Trans Am on the left, then slid back into its lane.

  As quickly as it had opened, the aiming space was lost, and Katz and Manning were left fuming in frustration.

  One of the terrorist hit men—suicidal to the end—refused to be spooked by the guns of Phoenix Force. He had a job to do. If it meant having his head turned into a blood-gushing sieve, he would do his job.

  Leaning from the rear window, he coolly panned his M-16 across the side of the gasoline tanker in the left lane. The truck jockey was oblivious to the fact that his life was nearly over.

  "Christ," Katz spit as he saw the enemy drawing his bead. "Dammit, McCarter, isn't there some way you can bull through there?"

  "They won't budge," McCarter groaned, his face an acid-etched mask. "They've seen the guns. They're scared shitless." He fought to jam his way between a white Cadillac and a gold-toned Dodge, but the Caddy driver did not move. "Back off, you dumbass," he roared at the top of his lungs.

  Finally, seeing Manning's rifle, the terrified man slowed cautiously. The Cadillac slid back fifteen feet. McCarter, drawing on all his driving skills, herded the big car into the slot and immediately nosed into the adjoining lane. He bluffed a frightened looking, middle-aged woman into giving way.

  A long chute of highway suddenly appeared, and the Impala surged forward, engine rumbling, tires squealing. "Hot stuff, coming through," McCarter yelled.

  Still, they were four car lengths behind the IRA death wagon; when the tanker went up, they would be incinerated along with it. "Open up, Gary," Katz commanded. "Distract them any way you can."

  Manning spied an opening and released a dozen more rounds, trying for a hit on the Toronado's gas tank. But his aim was faulty and the slugs tore out a Buick Skylark's right front tire, sending it into a crazy wobble, its driver banking into a pickup truck on his right. Brakes clamped, rubber shrieked, drivers cursed in sheer terror.

  Phoenix Force was more hopelessly boxed in than before.

  "Hellfire," McCarter raged. "We're dead for sure." He took a last desperate chance, flooring the accelerator, rocketing the Chevy back to the right at an even fifty-five, caromed off a compact Horizon and found fresh elbowroom. They continued running neck-and-neck with the gasoline tanker.

  Slamming a fresh magazine into his weapon, Manning thrust himself farther out of the window, his hips braced precariously on the sill. He fought for a firing angle over the top of the car ahead of them. "Keio," he rasped. "Grab my legs." On the right side, Encizo was trying the same thing. Ohara clamped each man's thigh and hung on for dear life. The rapid-fire hammering of the CAR-15 and the Stoner M-63 boomed back inside the close confines of the car with near-concussive impact. Caught between the double onslaught, Keio winced in pain.

  McCarter fought to break out of the trap, to escape the maze of slewing, screeching steel before Redfern and his thugs blew the top off the world. Deliberately he rammed a Volkswagen Rabbit, collapsing its side like some berserk demolition-derby driver. He exulted as the car slid right and locked with a Datsun behind it, clearing a slight opening.

  Instantly McCarter banged into the hole, bullied a second driver into giving way. He roared as the Impala surged out, gained two car lengths and began to lead the tanker.

  Manning and Rafael were forced to hold their fire, their free hands clawing for hold on the Impala's structure as McCarter maneuvered the vehicle.

  The IRA killer made his move.

  But the murdering bastard was not satisfied just to torch the tanker; he was determined to double the ante, kill a heady quota of those whom the firefall would never reach. The madman—still in cocky profile, as if daring Phoenix Force to stop him—deliberately stitched the cab with a half-dozen rounds, chopping the driver into ground round.

  Then, assured that the runaway truck would wander across the freeway and cause a long back-up of maiming, death dealing carnage, he emptied the rest of his magazine into the gasoline compartments.

  In that frozen millisecond Manning and Rafael saw the perforations crawl across the tanks, gasoline gushing instantly, ignition delayed. Follow-up rounds, chipping at steel in relentless fury, provided the necessary sparks.

  Rafael's gaze was torn in a dozen different directions, the enormity of the IRA brutality stunning him. It was too late, but he got the Stoner under control and sent the Irish death merchant to hell.

  One moment the bastard was spraying the tanker, his lips curved in black hatred, the next moment the 5.56mm slugs literally sliced his head from his shoulders. The bloody skull sailed into the air, looping high, bouncing off the roof of a flame-swept Volvo, scuttling in gory trail on the asphalt.

  Encizo was readjusting, trying for another attempt on the Toronado, when the sky-splitting blast erupted.

  It was only because McCarter, in supreme reflex, gunned the Impala to seventy at that moment that Encizo and Manning did not join the enemy on the road. The sudden heat, the earsplitting whoomp of the explosion jolted them savagely, tilting the car. The reverse current of the flashback emptied their lungs, all but sucking them from the windows.

  "Santa Maria," Rafael gasped when at last he could breathe again. Mother of God. Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. The childhood prayer came to him.

  His eyes bulged as he saw engulfing sheets of flame jet upward and sideways like a monstrous flamethrower, the truck disintegrating behind him. Raw gasoline inundated automobiles closest to the tanker, extinguishing already roaring flames, then bursting into a glass-exploding, steel-melting inferno all over again.

  Fifty thousand gallons of gasoline were sluiced over the landscape, turning Interstate 5 into a lake of wildly burning flames. On the low edge of the freeway, the gasoline overran the shoulder, formed a waterfall of fire that cascaded down the incline and threatened the service road below. Instantly the tarmac became a vast stadium of roaring fire.

  Cars, pickups, what was left of the huge carrier, all swerved and slid across the freeway like a slow-motion jumble of toys—spinning, colliding, bouncing away, colliding again.

  As far as the eye could see, the hungry, licking flames raged, turning tires into hoops of f
ire, invading the imploded windows, turning the occupants of the cars into screaming, human torches.

  In that split second, the members of Phoenix Force saw cars jar to a stop; they saw doors swing open; they watched in near-nausea as flame-covered bodies fell out. Some staggered upright and ran blindly into the blazing, grinding maw of death.

  Cars, their gas tanks cooked to flash point, began to explode. The heat intensified with incredible speed. The fire then began leaping backward, from car to car, to where the nation's largest junk-yard was in the process of being formed.

  It was all instantaneous, kaleidoscopic, bloody cameos that would be engraved on Phoenix Force's memories forever.

  Finally, the rolling, greasy smoke mercifully blotted out the rest of the ghastly horror.

  Katzenelenbogen shouted instructions to McCarter. "Keep this crate rolling!" His eyes went stony as he tried to rid his mind of the horror behind them. "We've got to get that IRA scum. We owe it to the innocents who've died." His voice took on an unearthly tone. "Get them. Don't lose them now. I want those bastards."

  The vengeful words, the cold-blooded loathing in his voice fired up his men anew. The hatred became virulent, contagious.

  Turning their backs on the holocaust behind them, they focused their hard, unrelenting gaze on the battered Toronado racing ahead, scurrying to lose itself in the glut of distant traffic. Each man tended to his weapons, replacing magazines in assault rifles, in automatics, slamming rounds into eagerly waiting chambers.

  Vengeance, their hearts boomed.

  Inside the Toronado it was time for fear. Of the six IRA hardmen who had started the barbaric joyride, only three were still alive. Denny Green, on the driver's extreme right, would never know the rich taste of Irish whiskey again. Slumped forward on the seat, his face all but gone, he bled the last of his life juices onto the floor, turning the mats slippery with gore. Tom Harker, jammed next to him, fought dizzying nausea—intermixed with chilling terror—and tried edging away from his dead comrade. Each time he did, the driver cursed him roundly, slamming a vicious elbow into his ribs.