by Ted Bell
“Like this?”
“Fists farther apart. Feet as well. Good. Now, take a deep breath. Make sure it is deep, because you will only get one. If you take another, you will lose strength. Are you ready?”
“I don’t know.”
“You will know. When you are ready, explode. It is called the tachi-ai. If you hit him here, and just precisely here, you will knock him off his feet. It is over.”
“And if not?”
“It is still over.”
“I see what you mean.”
“Now, explode.”
Hawke did, hitting the man’s sternum with enormous force. He might as well have hit a granite monument.
“Well, that doesn’t work,” Hawke said, picking himself up.
“Not against me, Hawkeye-san. I am immovable.”
“Then I’m glad we’re on the same team,” Hawke said, checking his watch. “Shall we go see Hiro? I’ve got a plane to catch.”
Hawke entered the dohyo, never once taking his eyes off Hiro. He simply couldn’t believe the size of his opponent. He outweighed even Ichi, probably tipping the scales in excess of five hundred pounds. Hiro flexed his muscles and stamped his feet. Hawke followed his example, too focused on what he must do to feel ridiculous. He tried to imagine his opponent to be a small object, to simply be pushed aside, and found this a difficult feat of imagination.
He approached his line in the dohyo, staring at the other man implacably. The man squatted, assuming the shikiri, supporting his weight upon his fists. Hawke felt an odd calm, stemming no doubt from Ichi’s serene confidence in the outcome. He, too, bent and placed his fists on the line, inhaling deeply as he did so.
He gave no warning. A half second after his fists touched the clay, Hawke exploded up and into the man. He launched his body with every ounce of the coiled energy in his legs and caught Hiro precisely where he’d been shown. The man took the unexpectedly vicious blow to his sternum and staggered back. For one horrible moment, Hawke thought he might recover, but the blow had caught him completely off guard. Backpedaling heavily, he briefly lost his balance, and one knee hit the clay.
Hawke didn’t hear the cheers that erupted, or the surprising applause coming from the women on the other side of the ring. He walked over to Hiro, who was still kneeling, and offered the man his hand. The great sumo warrior smiled at him and grasped it, rising to his feet.
Hawke showed no emotion.
The first match was over, but his second was already about to begin. Bin Wazir was getting to his feet. He felt light-headed from the pain in his side and black spots were floating before his eyes. He shook his head and willed them away. Just then he noticed an odd thing. The four suspended television monitors were no longer broadcasting a live image of the dohyo and the matches. Instead, there was an image of a British airliner in flight. Had he lost it completely? The shaky picture appeared to be taken from another aircraft flying alongside.
He recognized this for what it was, a distraction, and turned his eyes away.
Standing at the edge of the ring, Hawke accepted a sip of water from a ladle handed to him by Ichi, who then handed him a paper towel to wipe his lips. “To cleanse the spirit,” Ichi-san said.
Bin Wazir entered the dohyo, raising each leg high and bringing it down hard. Hawke followed suit.
Both men cast their salt into the center of the ring. Hawke made his cast high and hard, emulating Hiro’s heroic gesture, an early show of strength and confidence. His opponent favored him with a long, hard stare that was, Hawke imagined, the sumo equivalent of trash talk on a football field. The Dog showed no emotion, nor did Hawke, as they squared off opposite each other and bent to place their fists on the clay.
It was a simple game, as Ichi had said. Mass versus speed.
Hawke pulled as much air down into his lungs as he could without blacking out from the sharp knives in his side and waited. He knew instinctively the instantaneous explosion of the tachi-ai would not work twice in succession. Eyeing the Dog, and readying himself, he looked for some sign from his opponent. Again, he felt a kind of serenity, imparted perhaps when Ichi had given him the water and the towel for his lips.
To cleanse the spirit.
In the same instant Hawke saw his flicker of intent, Bin Wazir lunged.
He came in low, and Hawke was ready.
He sprang upwards and, placing both hands on the man’s massive shoulders, leapfrogged cleanly over his back. The Dog’s momentum carried him forward. Hawke, who had landed on his feet and whirled about, thought for a second the man might need to put a hand down to keep him from falling, thus ending the match. He was not so lucky. Bin Wazir kept his footing. He then stopped, and turned around to face Hawke, stamping his feet.
They circled each other now, using all of the dohyo, still showing each other nothing.
“You’re hurt,” Bin Wazir said, smiling. “Your whole left side is crushed. Must be painful.”
“Just a scratch,” Hawke said, advancing.
Hawke’s mind was racing, searching every corner for some advantage. Ichi-san had not covered this section of the sumo arts in his lessons. Suddenly, a bright image flickered above him. It caught his eye and he looked up for the briefest instant. What he saw on the television monitors horrified him, and in that moment the Dog had him.
What he saw, before bin Wazir wrapped him in both of his powerful arms and lifted him bodily from the clay, was the British airliner exploding into a huge fireball. The plane was disintegrating before his eyes, flaming jet fuel and pieces of metal and human beings falling earthward in a rain of liquid fire.
The man’s grip tightened about his ribcage. The pain was horrific. A jagged splinter of bone must be piercing something inside. Nothing to do but try to ignore it and try to keep the blackness at bay. He realized that biz Wazir had pinioned him in such a way as to make escape all but impossible. He had to find a way to buy a moment to think before he completely blacked out.
“You blew up that airliner yourself,” he said, pushing the single button he knew might work—Snay bin Wazir’s ego.
“Yes, I did,” the Dog said. “One of yours. It appears I will kill a lot of Englishmen today. I could kill you now—but why spoil the fun? We should complete the match, no? You appear to have many supporters in the audience.”
“Sporting of you,” Hawke grimaced, his voice scratchy and harsh as the man released him.
Back on his feet, he moved to the edge of the ring, breathing deeply, trying to regain his strength. A sheen of perspiration coated his face, grey with pain. Bin Wazir would be counting on delaying tactics, so Hawke charged. Speed versus mass, now. Bin Wazir tried to sidestep him, but Hawke was too quick. He dove for him, and heard a satisfying crack as his right shoulder slammed the Dog’s left knee. The knee went backward, the patella shattered. The man grunted in pain, but did not go down. Hawke rolled away and sprang to his feet. On the four screens, the rain of fire continued.
“Why pick on England? I thought it was the Americans you and the Emir were after,” Hawke taunted, circling the enraged man again and again.
“Americans, yes,” the Dog said. “My holy warriors will kill them too. Today. Perhaps ten million or more.”
Hawke edged closer, feinting left and right. Suddenly, the pain was forgotten and he felt a surge of strength. His mind had finally taken over. “That many? The Pigskin, Mr. bin Wazir? Tell me, are your little bombs already inside America?”
Bin Wazir laughed and lashed out, an unexpected blow. Hawke barely dodged it with a head feint. Spinning away, he chopped down hard on the man’s shoulder with the flat of his hand. It registered, but the man was unfazed.
“You see that airliner disappear, Mr. Hawke? Look, you can still see the pieces falling from the sky, burning up on the screen. Look!”
“That trick only works once, bin Wazir. The Dog. That’s what they call you isn’t it? A dog? Some kind of mutt, one would only imagine?”
“One English planeload of fat, happy in
fidel tourists, see it, Mr. Hawke? Happily bound for Los Angeles, but now a flaming tribute to mark my martyred nephew Rafi’s grave. Allah be praised! Another plane, identical, now takes its place. A ship full of warriors who carry death to America.”
“Really?” Hawke said, moving in now. “As we speak?”
“In one hour, America as you know it ceases to exist. A scourge far more lethal than the atom is about to be unleashed. An angel of death will descend.”
“I think this match is over,” Hawke said.
His left leg lashed out and up, catching the man full in the groin. When he bent over in agony, Hawke was on him. He lifted his right knee twice into the Dog’s face and drove the small bones of the man’s nose and eyesockets inward with tremendous force. Another blow to the side of his head stunned him further; a second slashing flat-handed strike tore the tendons of his neck and caused his head to loll upon his shoulders. A final smash to the back of his skull drove him face down into the clay. He was still alive, but he wasn’t getting up anytime soon. Hawke stood above him, his nostrils flaring at the stink of the man, panting, finally allowing himself to believe he had survived.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
THE CHEERING WAS ASTOUNDING, BUT WHAT WAS MOST SURPRISING was the sudden appearance of all four sumo rikishi at his side in the ring. The four giants surrounded him, turned to face outward, and planted themselves, arms folded across their chests, forming a defensive perimeter around him. Apparently, Ichi-san was not the only sumo warrior who had no love for the man who remained face down in the center of the dohyo.
Tippu Tip had appeared when bin Wazir went down and now crouched beside his fallen and unmoving master. Making angry, mournful sounds, Tippu looked up, his red eyes flashing at Hawke. Alex had no interest in another round with this brute. That match had been decided one night long ago with Tippu Tip checking into St. Thomas’s Hospital on the Thames for an extended visit.
“Ar kill you,” Tippu bellowed, getting to his feet. Hawke had heard that line from him before.
“Ichi-san,” Hawke said, ducking away from a swipe of Tippu’s huge paw. “Could one of you gentlemen please escort this fellow from the ring? We must find Kelly, quickly.”
Ichi looked at Hiro, who immediately obliged, seizing the giant African from behind, arms around his thick waist, lifting him off his feet, and simply waltzing him out of the dohyo.
“Kelly is here!” a woman’s voice cried out. Hawke looked up in amazement. A veiled woman robed in emerald silk stood up amidst the group of women seated on the far side of the ring. Standing next to her was a tall, gaunt figure of a man dressed all in black. He pulled back the burnoose covering his head and that was when Hawke saw the shaggy red hair.
“Brick!” he shouted. “Let’s get the bloody hell out of here!”
“Good plan!” Brick replied, but his cry was hoarse and raw.
Brick Kelly was alive. Hawke grabbed Ichi’s arm and squeezed it. Smiling, he said, “The timing of heaven, Ichi-san?”
“Yes, Hawkeye-san. The time for freedom.”
Phut-phut-phut! A burst of automatic fire kicked up clay a few feet from Hawke’s feet.
“Get down! Get down!” Hawke shouted, pulling Ichi to the clay beside him. The three riskishi also dove to the clay. The guards at each doorway had their weapons up, and were squeezing off short bursts, but they seemed uncertain. Their lord and master was down, but was it over? Hawke heard a round zip above his head and then saw the man who’d fired at him go down, his head exploding in a fine red haze.
Hawke’s eyes lifted instantly to the heavily carved wooden balcony. Tom Quick was up at the rail with his new sniper rifle, not the least uncertain about what to do with it. Every time a new guard appeared in a doorway, Quick waxed him with a clean head shot. Gidwitz was up there, too, behaving like a gunfighter in an old western. He’d pop up and fire, duck down, scramble around to a new location on the balcony and fire again, creating the illusion of four or five gunmen up on the balcony. The illusion was enhanced by the nostalgic roar of Tex Patterson’s old Peacemaker.
Everyone was occupied for the moment, his guys seemed to have the situation in hand; but Hawke had information which needed to get to Washington immediately.
“Tommy,” Hawke said, having retrieved his Motorola headset from Ichi, “I need Sparky Wagstaff down here in the ring with that sat phone. Now.”
“Bad news, Skipper. Sparky was headed here from the guardhouse with the com set. Got halfway across, one of the towers took him out. Fire is murderous out there.”
“Get someone out there. I need that phone, Tom.”
“Negative, Skipper, we tried that. Phone was smashed. Nothing left of it.”
“Anybody else down?”
“Gidwitz took one in the shoulder, sir, but, as you see, he’s not down. Just keeps firing that old Colt.”
Twenty minutes remained on the mission clock. The guards were all firing up at the elusive Gidwitz up on the balcony now, and it gave Hawke’s remaining men, who had somehow made it to the shrine, the chance to clear the hall one doorway at a time. Hawke didn’t have the luxury of waiting for the bullets to stop. By now, the big American bombers would have arrived and be circling above. He needed to get on a radio to the president. Now. But the closest radio available was aboard Hawkeye.
He and Ichi started in a low crouch towards Kelly, and Hawke saw his friend limping towards him. The man could hardly walk. Torture had broken his body.
Brick Kelly was smiling, but tears were streaming down his face.
Hawke ran the final few steps and Kelly fell into his arms. It was only then that Hawke saw in his eyes how very near to death his friend was.
“Alex,” he whispered through parched and cracked lips.
“It’s okay, Brick. We’re going home now, old buddy.”
The woman who’d been with Brick stood, and raised a gleaming Samurai sword high above her head. The enemy fire ceased instantly. “You are Hawke,” the beautiful woman in silk said, approaching him. “I am Yasmin. Kelly spoke of you. You did not forget your friend.” She lowered her sword.
“He is my friend,” Hawke said, embracing the frail body, shocked at how little flesh remained on his bones. He had not eaten much since his abduction. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Take him safely home to his wife and children,” she said. “That is more than enough.” Smiling sadly, she turned away.
Hawke supported Brick with one arm and headed toward the nearest doorway. It looked clear. He spoke again into his mike. “Okay, Tommy, I have the hostage alive. Give me a fast sitrep, we’ve got to move out, now! What’s it look like from up there?”
“Door opposite you is clear, sir. Working on the rest—”
“You get our guys out of here. I’m out this door with the hostage. Regroup at that elevator. Sixty seconds. How’s the parade ground look? Can you take out those bloody towers from up there? Can I get some fire suppression?”
“Negative. Don’t have a shot, Skipper. Can’t—”
Hawke had been carefully ticking down the remaining mission time in his head. He was at eighteen minutes. He needed to get to his radio, and they would barely have time to rig a snatch for the Black Widows. Even that assumed somehow crossing the parade ground under withering fire from the watchtowers. He cast his eyes about the hall, desperately searching for some way out.
“Ichi-san, is there some other way out of—”
“No harm will come to you now, Hawkeye-san,” Ichi said, nodding in the direction of the regal Yasmin. She was deep in conversation with a uniformed man, clearly the captain of the guards, who was nodding his head vigorously, and shouting orders at subordinates and into his walkie-talkie. All automatic weapons were lowered, even as he spoke. Apparently, a new ruler now held dominion over the Blue Palace. And her word was law.
“Come along, Ichi-san,” Hawke said, pulling the balaclava down over his head. “You want out of here as badly as I do.”
Supporting K
elly with one arm, Hawke ran through the arched doorway of the sumo shrine and into the brilliant sunshine of the parade ground.
“Belay that last, Tommy, cease fire.” Hawke said into his lip-mike as he ran across the open ground. “Regime change. We’re going out unopposed. Move it.”
“Copy. Look up. You got B-52s assembling upstairs.”
Hawke shouted over his shoulder at the sumo who was struggling to keep up, “I can make space for you if you want to come along, Ichi-san. In fifteen minutes, this place will not exist. If you wish, go back and tell Yasmin that she must get herself to safety. Deep inside the mountain. Now. Understand?”
“Thank you, Hawkeye-san.”
“Don’t thank me yet. That elevator—”
“I know it.”
“Sixty seconds. No more.”
Twelve minutes on the clock. The dead radioman, Ian Wagstaff, sealed inside one of the gold survival bags, had been carefully placed inside the troop carrier. The now delirious ambassador lay upon a makeshift bed between the two facing benches, breathing emergency oxygen. Gidwitz gave him first aid as Hawke raced the vehicle over the bridge at full throttle, out along the narrow shoulder of the mountain and through a narrow gorge. Finally he was heading up a steep icy incline he knew would lead to the crevasse and the long snowfield where they’d left the Black Widows.
Ichi, who sat up front in the cab, was looking at Hawke closely. “The palace is to be destroyed?” he asked.
“Yes. I hope Yasmin and the rikishi are taking shelter somewhere inside the mountain.”
“There are many bombs buried within that mountain, Hawkeye-san.”
“Bombs?” Hawke looked at him, changing down to a lower gear to make the grade.
“Bin Wazir is a death merchant. The mountain is one of his primary factories.”
“The British plane that exploded. And the new one to take its place. You know about these?” Ichi nodded, yes.
“Yasmin knows everything. She tells me everything. The new plane is disguised to look like the real one that was destroyed. The passengers aboard the new one are all from terrorist camps.”
