Phoenix Force 06 - White Hell Page 2

  In the back seat, only Pat Connor was still breathing. To his right, Paul Lannon, victim of Gary Manning's first burst, was collapsed like a rag doll, half on the seat, half on the floor. Connor at least had revulsion room and put distance between himself and the mangled body.

  The luxury of space was his only because Will Donnaugh, who had blasted the gasoline tanker, was no longer aboard. The instant his head had parted company with his shoulders, he had flopped forward, half-in and half-out of the car. His stomach churning, Connor had executed a quick wraparound to his legs, and Donnaugh had become a long, spinning streak of blood on the pavement.

  "Get y'r nose out there, Pat!" Matt Redfern, the driver and hit-squad topman, growled. "Keep 'em away from us, damn you. They're closing in on us, lad. Move it."

  But Pat Connor was done fighting for the day. Made ashen-faced by the insane turn of events, his spine had turned to mush. Eyes haunted, he stared straight ahead and gave no indication that he even heard the commands.

  "Shoot, man," Redfern screamed again, frenzied himself because he could not do two tasks at once. "Kill the American scum. It's our only chance. Or is it dyin' you're wantin', you coward?" He turned to the man squeezed between him and Denny Green, administered a similar tongue-lashing. "Don't just sit, Tom," he railed. "Get loose, damn you. Get some lead in the air. Help that quivering woman back there."

  Harker, a faint trace of dedication left, emerged from his trance and allowed himself to be goaded into action. Squirming free, he got one foot onto the seat, struggled to boost himself into the back seat. He hung halfway, clawing for balance, so he could bring his M-2 into play.

  But by then it was altogether too late for retaliation; time had finally run out for the IRA butchers. Redfern was no match for McCarter when it came to driving. Even as he closed in on the pack of vehicles running ahead of them, McCarter came alongside and viciously broadsided the Toronado.

  The impact flung the teetering Harker back into the front seat, where he fell over Redfern, causing him to lose control of the Toronado. In that confused split second, McCarter deftly plastered his vehicle to the Toronado's right side. At the same time he swerved hard to the left, digging in just ahead of Redfern's bumper. Instantly the Toronado headed for the shoulder and guardrail on the freeway's high side, leaving Redfern no recourse but to slam his brakes to keep from going over.

  It was eyeball-to-eyeball then; Manning could have reached into the IRA death wagon and gone at it hand to hand. His fingers screamed to pull the trigger at that close range, to send the terrorists to hell.

  "Alive," Katzenelenbogen barked. "Get them alive. We can at least get some information out of them before we put them away. Hard cover, Gary. Blast them only if they move on you."

  Again the Israeli was cheated. As the two auto-mobiles screamed and shuddered to a stop, Redfern and Harker flung open their doors and bailed out. Foolishly emerging from his coward's coma, Pat Connor dazedly decided to protect himself. He brought up a languid right hand, tried to squeeze the trigger of a German P-38. Manning dispatched him with a point-blank, triple blast of 5.56mm slugs that opened Connor's face like an overripe squash.

  Then there were two.

  The Stoner roared.

  Keio, unleashed for the first time, poured a quick dozen M-16 rounds across the Toronado's hood. Katz's Uzi spit death. The air was instantly clouded with smoke, redolent of cordite and scorched gun oil.

  Suddenly the weapons went silent; there was an ominous hush. All that could be heard was the sound of two passing automobiles, freak survivors of the firestorm behind them. Gawking at the armed, crouching men, they limped past and headed for safety.

  "Heads up, you bastards," Encizo called to the remaining IRA troops. "You've still got a chance. Throw out your weapons, come up with your hands high." As he spoke, the Cuban felt a decided itch in his trigger finger; he could almost feel the jarring impact in his shoulder as he envisioned himself obliterating an Irish face with a slashing haymaker.

  "Stick it, Yanks," came the derisive retort, the voice heavy with an Irish brogue.

  Keio made move to skulk behind the Impala, to test the IRA blind side, but Katz stalled him. "No risks," he hissed. "We can wait them out." He cast a quick glance out onto the freeway. "But not for long. Another five minutes and the area will be swarming with police.

  "You've got ten seconds," Katz called over. "Then we're coming after you. You don't stand a chance of surviving."

  For an answer there was staccato rapid fire from an automatic, the sound of tearing car steel, of shattering glass. "Try it, heroes," the defiant taunt carried. "We're waiting for you. You'll go with us, that's a damn fact."

  Hell," Katzenelenbogen cursed, "we can't wait all day. We'll blow our cover." He gestured to Keio. "A blast under the cars. Kneecap them."

  Keio poked the M-16 under the Impala, adjusted. It roared a dozen times, was jerked back and steadied to receive a fresh magazine. There was a flurry of return fire, most of it wild, especially from the M-2, whose owner now rolled in agony, the lower part of his legs all but shot away.

  He was still emptying the assault rifle in a crazy, skyward trajectory as Phoenix Force launched a two-pronged sweep. His mouth wide, screaming in excruciating pain, Tom Harker flopped helplessly, his knees shattered, bloody stumps. He still tried for a last shot at the enemy.

  Again, too late. A three-round burst by Keio made his body almost dance across the ground, and he was gone.

  Redfern was missing. Pinned down as he and Harker had been, only seconds intervening between the kneecap barrage and Phoenix's charge, there had not been time for escape.

  Two quick shots rang out. Rafael Encizo was flung back as one slug tore the Stoner from his grasp, the second whistling shrilly mere inches from his eyes. Instantly all members of Colonel John Phoenix's unique antiterrorist team hit the dirt, blasting at the lip of the freeway. They scuttled forward on their bellies, weapons poised, hearts hammering.

  Again an ominous silence descended upon them. Each man was reluctant to be the first to poke his head over the edge of the steep incline. "He's getting away," Manning hissed.

  "Not for long he isn't," McCarter said, lobbing a grenade high and wide over the freeway shoulder. The sharp, flat, firecracker report sliced the air.

  Instantly there was a rush for the brink. Heads, weapons poked over the edge, eyes darting for sight of the wounded enemy leader.

  To the death, Redfern was determined to take company to hell with him. Again he opened up, two handguns spitting hot lead in Phoenix Force's direction. The team hit the dirt, then warily rose to look for Redfern again.

  Wounded badly, Redfern had dropped behind a knoll sixty feet below, the snout of a huge runoff culvert providing slapdash cover. "McCarter," Yakov snapped, "seconds."

  Another grenade, held for a crucial extra moment before being released, arced through the air and bounced off the culvert. A two-second count, another ear-muddling whump and it flowered high and wide, death-seeking shrapnel slicing down.

  Redfern's lifeblood leaked out of his battered body. The concussion flung him up and away from the culvert. Cut to ribbons, Redfern was game to the last and desperately sought to regain his footing. The Uzi and the M-16 sang a joint death song. Redfern went down for good.

  "McCarter," Katz said quietly. "Go make sure."

  His Browning Hi-Power at ready-14-round magazine freshly recharged—McCarter legged it down the incline, scattering gravel and dirt as he went. Reaching the dead Irishman, he stared down at him with contempt. Memory of the innocents who had died because of the terrorists flooded back.

  In the fast-enshrouding gloom Redfern's face was gaunt, his eyes weary, haunted.

  With a sudden coldness in the pit of his stomach, McCarter started back up the hill, his movements oddly sluggish. As he climbed, he knew a growing sense of desolation and wondered how long before their vendetta with terrorist scum would come to an end.

  The self-defeating thoughts were swiftly ab
orted as he came topside and loped to the bogged-down Impala, where the rest of the crew waited for him. He squeezed behind the wheel, cranked up the car and gunned the engine to rock the Chevy free from the Toronado. The flashing blue lights of police cruisers, ambulances and rescue vehicles were appearing in the distance; time was short. Finally with a shearing, scraping lurch, the cars came apart, and the Impala bucked forward.

  They paused to let a siren-shrieking cruiser go past—running the wrong way on the wide-open freeway—then sedately moved forward. They looked back one last time to where the gloomy dusk was ablaze, to where a thunderhead of oily, black smoke climbed a mile into the sky.

  They eased out, the cop car paying them no heed. One of the lucky ones, the police surmised, if they gave them any thought at all; someone who, by freakish turn of luck, had escaped the grisly inferno of death.

  As, indeed, Phoenix Force had.

  2

  IRISH TERRORISTS KILL THIRTY-TWO

  IN FREEWAY DISASTER

  Thirty-two people died and 58 were injured yesterday afternoon on the Interstate 5 when a tanker carrying 50 thousand gallons of gasoline exploded.

  Originally believed to be an accident, authorities have confirmed the explosion was deliberately set off by terrorists.

  A spokesman for the Irish National Liberation Army (INLA), dissident arm of the Irish Republican Army (IRA), contacted the Seattle Post-Intelligencer offices yesterday evening, claiming responsibility for the attack, and saying it was the beginning of an all-out campaign against the United States. He said the attacks would continue until Washington comes to terms with the "Irish problem."

  Witnesses of the disaster say the terrorists fired multiple rounds into the tanker, igniting the cargo. The truck driver lost control of the vehicle, causing 125 additional collisions as cars piled up on the busy freeway.

  When the tanker exploded, the auto-mobiles closest to the vehicle also fired up in flames, killing nearly all occupants.

  "We have struck our first blow against the United States," the caller stated. "America must recognize the validity of the Irish cause or suffer the consequences. It (U.S.) has been toadying bootlickers to the British for too long. You will be hearing from Grey Dog again."

  Grey Dog is apparently another faction of the INLA.

  Police efforts to develop leads on the terrorist group have been unsuccessful. Police are also investigating reports by witnesses that the INLA vehicle was pursued by another vehicle. The search for the second team continues.

  "We will exercise every effort to identify these cold-blooded murderers, to root out their confederates and bring them to swift justice," said J. Malcolm Haverhill, Chief, Defense Security Assistance Agency. "We will show the world that the United States will not tolerate such terrorist attacks on our soil. Furthermore, we shall. . ."

  "In a pig's eye you will," McCarter exploded, tossing the newspaper aside. "You're not going to show the world anything—we will."

  "What the hell?" Rafael Encizo soothed, a mocking smile on his face. "Who rattled your cage, compadre? Save it for the enemy."

  "Up yours," McCarter growled. His growl then gave way to a grin.

  Across the room sprawled on the bed, Keio Ohara smiled. "Nobody in their right mind rattles McCarter's cage."

  Hal Brognola, leaning against the east wall, an open briefcase balanced on his lap, glanced to where Colonel Yakov Katzenelenbogen sat. "Any of these guys belong to you?"

  "All of them," Yakov said softly, an unmistakable glint of pride in his eyes.

  The night before, David McCarter had been drinking—not his usual quantity of Coke. Scotch. Neat. Gary Manning had at last persuaded him to drop a few ice cubes into the volatile stuff.

  McCarter had never been much of a drinker, and about ten-thirty he had finally passed out.

  The members of Phoenix Force had breathed a Hell of relief, for he had become mean with the booze. None of his buddies had wanted to be the one chosen to try decking the drunk Brit.

  By that time, Brognola had already been airborne, on his way west from Stony Man.

  As they had waited for Brognola, McCarter had struggled up from a deep sleep. He had immediately started a ruckus upon finding his fifth of J&B missing. They had calmed him, coaxing a few cups of black coffee down his throat.

  Things had been looking up. At least until McCarter had picked up the Seattle Post-Intelligencer and had begun reading the account of the tragedy. It was old news at best; the rest had caught the late-breaking reports on the TV news the night before.

  Now, as Manning pushed a freshly prepared batch of eggs and sausage at him, McCarter's mouth was otherwise engaged. Manning persuaded him to drink a little milk, instead of the Coke he had asked for.

  "What's this Grey Dog crap?" McCarter growled, not the least cowed at Brognola's presence. Or that of Clark Jessup, an irritating interloper, just introduced as the Phoenix Force-White House liaison. He, apparently, would be their pointman from here on in—whichever way the Irish donkey slashed its tail. Given total U.S. military and intelligence support, they would, hope-fully, knot it in very short order. "I thought we were fighting the IRA." McCarter stonily stared at Jessup as though awaiting an explanation.

  Jessup took in the unshaven, brawny six-footer, seated at the table in his T-shirt. The pencil pusher was definitely ill at ease.

  These were the brutes he would be working with from now on?

  This British hoodlum. The rangy Japanese with the cold, hooded eyes. The stocky Cuban who looked as if he could kill with his bare hands. The stolid, hard-faced Canadian who spoke only when absolutely necessary. The retread Israeli, who, with a steel hook where his right hand should be, struck the greatest terror of all into him... .

  What kind of control could he hope to exercise over men like these?

  None, if Phoenix had its way.

  "What's this Grey Dog crap?" McCarter repeated. "They're goddamned amateurs." He scowled as he sopped up egg yolk with a scrap of toast.

  "They're the worst kind," Manning interjected. "They have no concept of the odds against them. Nor do they care."

  Brognola turned to the liaison man. "Any intelligence yet on how the IRA's taking this? Think they knew it was coming off beforehand?"

  "It's highly unlikely that they didn't have some wind of it," Jessup replied in his precise, studied way. "But I doubt that they knew exact details, deadlines, the like. If they had they would have tried to forestall them in no uncertain terms.

  "I expect they're screaming bloody murder at the moment. The U.S. has always been off limits to Irish terrorist attempts; there's too much American money and arms at stake. The IRA cause is very popular among certain segments of our population."

  "But what's behind it?" Keio Ohara said, rising from the bed, the M-2 he had been studying still in his hands. "It has got to be something big for them to expose themselves like this ...to murder innocent children and women the way they did."

  "Swine," McCarter spit, a lifelong animosity for the Irish festering. "That's what the yellow-backs do best. Kill women and children."

  "I think we all know what's behind it," Brognola broke in, definite "take-charge" in his manner. "The game plan's basically the same as when we first sent you out here. I think what happened yesterday was a fluke, a stupid miscue on INLA's part. Apparently they thought you guys were closing in, and they got a bit hysterical. They decided to play it by ear, to take some bodies with them when they checked out. You know the rest."

  "And the bottom line?" Katzenelenbogen interrupted, an edge to his words.

  "Oil," Brognola said. "You think we're the only ones who know that the Arabs are about to drop the other shoe... again? I'm sure every terrorist outfit in the world is in on that privileged information—and I'll bet they're working on an angle to use it to their best advantage. A new, worldwide oil embargo is definitely in the cards. I mean, shutdown. Today? Tomorrow? OPEC isn't saying. But it will come. And when it does it will shove the world into an eco
nomic abyss. If you think the Russians have us by the throat now, wait till then. We'll be playing kiss-ass with the Arabs like you wouldn't believe."

  "So?" Encizo said. "Where do these INLA creeps fit into the picture?"

  Relying on the vast intelligence that Mack Bolan and his Stony Man network had gathered over the past few months, Hal Brognola patiently briefed Colonel John Phoenix's satellite strike force on the over-all implications of the impending oil embargo. He carefully explained how the Irish National Liberation Army—via the hot headed splinter faction operating as Grey Dog—hoped to capitalize on the world crisis, bend it to its own purposes. He emphasized Phoenix Force's part in quashing the INLA program before it got off the ground.

  According to Stony Man's assessment, the IRA—the Provos, the Sinn Fein, the IRSP, the Ulster Red Hands, the INLA, Grey Dog and various other oddball groups cloaked in the general home-rule movement—had lately fallen upon hard times. They had suffered a general loss of momentum and a loss of prestige internationally—especially after the vicious bombing of the Royal Horse Guard in London in August 1982. While Castro, Khaddafi, and certain Marxist terrorist outfits in Europe continued sporadic support of the IRA cause with funds and smuggled weapons, American sympathy had waned since 1977. The terrorists were truly hurting .

  The real crusher had been the Falkland Islands engagement between British and Argentine forces in early 1982. To the home-rule advocates it had become yet another example of British ruthlessness and high-handed imperialism. Worse had been the wholesale support given the U.K. by the Reagan administration, by the American populace itself. To these front-line terrorists it had become handwriting on the wall: their cause was doomed if they did not demonstrate dramatic aggression, elicit more worldwide support for the holiness of their cause.

  In the case of Grey Dog, the message carried even more clearly: make America pay for its indifference, for its rejection of their cause.

  And, America paid in Seattle, Washington.