by Gar Wilson
McCarter barely noticed the beauty of the spacious hall within the palace. The centuries-old marble carvings, priceless paintings and magnificent tapestries were merely blurred surroundings of a battlefield. The Briton would never have felt comfortable in a palace, but he was right at home on a battlefield anywhere in the world.
Half a dozen men appeared from behind marble pillars. McCarter threw himself to the floor and triggered the M-10. The first salvo of 9 mm slugs caught one terrorist in the stomach and groin. A couple of stray rounds chewed into the right forearm of another gunman. He dropped his American M-16 rifle and clutched his bullet-torn limb as the other terrorists opened fire.
McCarter's body slid across the smooth marble floor. More than a hundred rounds burned the air above his hurtling form. One of the Swiss Guardsmen cried out as several bullets crashed into his torso. The man's agony was brief since the multiple gunshot wounds were almost instantly fatal. Jacobi, the American ally and the Swiss sergeant fired back at the enemy position with weapons they had confiscated from vanquished terrorists.
An enemy gunman fell backward, both hands reaching for what remained of his bullet-shattered face. Another terrorist went down with four slugs buried in the center of his chest. The remaining triggermen from Iran ducked for cover behind the pillars.
McCarter slid into enemy territory. He fired the Ingram upward, blasting a terrorist who thought he had found safety. Parabellums punched through the guy's liver and spleen. A couple of slugs drilled into his chest cavity and popped his heart as if it were a crimson balloon.
The British warrior rolled to the pillar as another gunman poked the muzzle of a Skorpion machine pistol around the edge of his marble cover. A burst of 7.65 rounds sparked against the floor. A ricochet whined past McCarter's ear. The Briton flinched, but he was too experienced in combat to freeze. McCarter thrived on action. A near brush with death only stimulated his sense of survival. When the battle was over — if he survived — McCarter would tremble when he recalled how close a bullet had come to sending him into oblivion. Yet, in the heat of battle, McCarter's reflexes and instincts ruled his actions.
The Ingram was empty. McCarter drew his Browning HiPower from shoulder leather and shoved the M-10 across the floor. It slid to the pillar that the terrorist lurked behind. The fanatic smiled when he saw the Briton's machine pistol. Apparently he had wounded the infidel. The man slowly peeked around the edge of the pillar.
McCarter's Browning roared, and a 9 mm parabellum struck the terrorist under the right eye. His eyeball popped from its cracked socket as the bullet splintered bone and drilled into his brain.
The Iranian with the wounded right arm managed to draw a dagger from its belt sheath. He slipped behind McCarter, raised his blade and charged. Captain Jacobi saw the terrorist lunge and snap-aimed an AK-47 assault rifle. He triggered the Soviet-made blaster and pumped three 7.62 mm projectiles into the chest and throat of the knifeman. The terrorist fell backward, and the dagger slipped from his fingers.
"Jesus," McCarter whispered when he turned to see the twitching body of the man who had almost buried six inches of steel in his back. However, the Briton's voice was cheerful as he called out to the others.
"We're off to a bloody good start," he declared. "Aren't we, mates?"
* * *
Mohammed Radmeni angrily shoved the field radio off the desk. It smashed against the floor, but the Iranian terrorist leader no longer cared about communications with his men. The message he had just received contained all he needed to know.
The orange flare had been a signal to the Italian military to storm the Vatican. Marksmen had picked off terrorist sentries like targets on a firing range. Italian soldiers and antiterrorist paratroopers swarmed into the Vatican. The terrorist forces had been whittled down by the mysterious team of commandos. They were unable to present more than token resistance against the military assault.
"The infidels think they've won," Radmeni snarled, spittle spewing from his lips. "But we shall take them with us to the next world. Allah shall receive his brave soldiers with open arms and the infidels will burn in everlasting hell!"
"You want to detonate the earthquake device," Ali Hussan Kamal said grimly. "Perhaps we can threaten to use it and..."
"Shut up, you Syrian coward!" Radmeni spat. "I've listened to you long enough! We shall all die together! True believer and infidel alike! This frightens you because you will be among the latter, Kamal!"
The Iranian undipped a radio transmitter from his belt. The other followers of the Islamic Jihad fell to their knees and faced Mecca as they began to pray for the last time. Radmeni turned to the east, bowed and pressed the detonation button. Ali Hussan Kamal swallowed hard and hugged his left arm, which had been wounded by the Basque turncoats. The plan had been perfect, and yet somehow everything had gone wrong the moment that damned strike force had entered the Vatican.
"We should have heard the explosion," Radmeni hissed as he threw the transmitter to the floor. "The earth should be trembling at this moment! Your earthquake device didn't work, Kamal!"
"But... I don't understand," Kamal said sincerely. "It was carefully designed and built to..."
"You sabotaged our holy mission, you traitor!" Radmeni declared, drawing a dagger from his belt.
Kamal raised his arms as the Iranian hurled the knife. The blade sailed between Kamal's outstretched arms and lodged in his chest. The sharp tip punctured the flesh just below the sternum. Kamal grabbed the hilt and tried to pull the knife from his tortured torso.
Radmeni stomped forward and drove his boot into Kamal's leg. He kicked the Syrian's feet off the floor. Kamal fell on his back. He gasped and spit blood. Radmeni raised his foot and stomped his heel on the butt of the dagger hilt. The blade sunk into Kamal's heart. His body convulsed for two seconds and ceased moving for eternity.
Suddenly automatic fire bombarded the Sala Regia. Terrorist henchmen were caught off guard. They had been watching Radmeni murder Kamal instead of the entrances to the Vatican's great Royal Hall. Bullets slammed into the followers of Radmeni's Jihad.
Yakov Katzenelenbogen and Gary Manning sprayed the terrorists with Uzi and FAL rounds. Iranians screamed and collapsed. Most died before they could raise their weapons. Men scrambled in all directions, but the Sala Regia had been designed for official ceremonies; it was not meant to be a combat zone. There was nowhere to seek cover. Nowhere to run.
Katz blasted a salvo of 9 mm slugs into three terrorists who dived to the floor. Their bodies tumbled across the hall, spilling blood as if they were leaky bags of red wine. Radmeni dragged a Makarov pistol from a hip holster. Manning fired his Belgium-made assault rifle. Two 7.62 mm slugs ripped into the right side of Radmeni's chest and the third shattered his shoulder joint.
The pistol fell from Radmeni's fingers as he tumbled backward to the floor. He heard more shots as he lay bleeding and helpless. The Iranian tried to sit up, but the pain in his chest drove him back to the floor. A shadow fell across his face. The terrorist leader gazed up at Rafael Encizo. The Cuban hovered over the wounded Iranian and stared down into the man's pain-torn face.
"Guess what, Radmeni?" Encizo remarked. "You lose."
Then Encizo stamped the edge of his boot in the terrorist's throat and watched Mohammed Radmeni die.
* * *
Fukuda and Kato Hatami, the only ninja warrior under Fukuda's command to survive the Vatican ordeal, had come to the realization that the terrorist scheme was a failure. There was nothing left to do but accept this bitter fact and concentrate on survival.
The two ninja had left Kamal and Radmeni in the Sala Regia to face their fate. Since the Italian military had stormed the Vatican, any attempt to fight would be suicide. The samurai had a tradition of seppuku, ritual suicide by disembowelment, but the ninja were more practical. Mistakes of the present are lessons for the future. Failure was often the foundation of victory.
And, Fukuda realized, many mistakes had been made. His clan should never hav
e associated with the terrorists. Radmeni was a fanatic, and Kamal had not been as clever as he had thought himself to be. The treasures of the Vatican were indeed wondrous, but seizing the tiny nation had been too ambitious an undertaking for a gang of extremists and a greedy Syrian who thought he could control Radmeni as one controls an attack dog on a leash. Attack dogs can be very unpredictable.
Perhaps the plan would have worked if the mysterious band of professional fighters had not penetrated their defenses. Whoever those men were, the ninja had to admit they were superb warriors.
However, Fukuda had a plan for survival. He and Hatami had fled to the upstairs of the palace. They used a glass cutter to quietly remove enough panes from a window to climb outside. They crept along the ledge to an ornate gargoyle near the roof. The ninja would simply climb to the top and hide from the Italian soldiers. Then they would wait for the opportunity to flee the Vatican. Perhaps they would even get a chance to steal an item or two in order to salvage some sort of financial gain from this disaster.
Fukuda and Hatami scanned the roof from their position behind the gargoyle. A great dome dominated its center, and the spirals of towers flanked each corner. They would need good hiding places. The military might search the Vatican by helicopter to be certain that none of the terrorists had escaped.
Fukuda climbed onto the roof and unslung his Uzi submachine gun from his shoulder. Hatami followed his leader's example. Without warning a streak of silver rocketed toward them from the edge of the dome. Fukuda dodged the blade of the knife. The sturdy cord behind the knife snared his Uzi. The shoge was pulled taut. The hooked blade of the knife trapped the subgun. The Uzi was yanked from the ninja's grasp and hurled over the edge of the roof.
Hatami fired his Beretta M-12 in the general direction of their unseen attacker. Fukuda threw a metsubushi at the dome. The "sight remover" exploded in a burst of light and smoke. Fukuda bolted toward the dome while Hatami ran through the smoke and moved into position where it might be possible to ambush their opponent.
Trent had expected such tactics. It was typical ninjutsu strategy and usually worked against anyone unfamiliar with metsubushi and the arts of invisibility. He aimed his Colt Commander, guessing where at least one of the ninja would be. An outline of a figure confirmed his suspicion. Trent fired two shots.
Both hollow-point slugs smashed into the enemy's chest. The impact of the big .45 caliber bullets drove Hatami back over the lip of the roof. He did not scream as he plunged to the ground. The ninja was already dead.
Fukuda drew his 9 mm pistol from shoulder leather. He braced his back against the wall of the dome. Whoever had attacked them was familiar with ninjutsu, Fukuda realized. The shoge, and the manner in which the unseen opponent had dealt with the metsubushi, proved that. Fukuda smiled beneath the gray scarf mask that covered his lower face. So, it was to be ninja against ninja.
"Konbanwa," Trent called to the enemy ninja. "Anatawa dona-ta desuka?"
"Hai," Fukuda replied. "I am Fukuda-san. And you are?"
"John Trent," the American replied. "Genin ninja kara Kaiju Uji."
"I didn't know the Kaiju Clan still existed," Fukuda remarked, "I am a subchief of the Komo Uji."
"The Spider Clan?" Trent said with surprise. "Your members are murderers and thieves. You disgrace the traditional values of the ninja."
"A ninja with an Occidental name has no right to criticize a chunin of another clan," Fukuda told him.
"Being ninja is a thing of the spirit," Trent stated as he hurled a small white object in Fukuda's direction. Fukuda saw the metsubushi in time to cover his eyes. The ninja grenade burst with a flash and a cloud of pepper. Fukuda shielded his eyes and prepared for Trent's attack. The American aimed his Colt around the side of the dome.
Fukuda fired his Beretta pistol. A 9 mm round ricocheted against the dome and struck Trent's Commander. The pistol flew from his hand. Trent retreated.
"You tried well," Fukuda remarked, holding the pistol in his left fist and drawing his ninja-do with the right. "But your luck has run out, Trent-san."
The blade of the shoge whistled around the dome. Fukuda dodged the weapon and slashed the cord with his sword. He lunged forward and swung his Beretta toward Trent's position.
But the American ninja was not there.
A shaken star dropped from the top of the dome. Fukuda dodged the hurtling weapon and raised his pistol toward Trent. The American clung to the cupola. Another shaken streaked down at Fukuda. The points of the star struck the base of his left thumb. The Beretta fell from his grasp.
Trent ran along the dome and dropped to the roof in front of Fukuda. The enemy ninja hit the shaken with the butt of his sword to dislodge it from his thumb. He seized the ninja-do hilt with both hands and attacked.
Trent drew his sword in a lightning-quick stroke. The blades clashed. Fukuda shoved the large square hand guard of his weapon against Trent's sword and slashed at the American's face. Trent parried the stroke with the flat of his sword and suddenly thrust the heel of his left palm into Fukuda's face.
Fukuda staggered, and Trent struck out with his ninja-do. The enemy's sword rose in time to block Trent's attack. Fukuda snapped a fast front kick into Trent's fists. The American's sword sailed from his numbed hands. Fukuda slashed at Trent's closest arm in an effort to cripple his opponent.
Trent jumped back to avoid the enemy blade. His hand dived into the jacket of his ninja gi uniform and drew his manrikigusari fighting chain. He grabbed the weighted ends and pulled the chain taut between his fists. Fukuda tried an overhead cut, but the chain blocked his blade. Trent immediately snap-kicked his opponent in the lower abdomen.
Fukuda groaned, bent slightly at the waist and slashed a cross-body stroke at Trent. The American dodged the blade and lashed out with the manrikigusari as if it were a whip. A weighted end struck the enemy ninja across the side of the face. Fukuda spun with the blow, whirled and attacked with a sword sweep.
Trent snapped his wrist and the chain swung against Fukuda's sword. Steel links wrapped around the blade. Trent pulled hard and hooked a kick under his opponent's rib cage. Fukuda gasped as the ninja-do was yanked from his grasp. Trent jumped back and grabbed the manrikigusari by both ends.
Fukuda drew a Tanto knife from his sash. He feinted a stab and swung a kick at Trent's groin. The American ninja hammered the weighted end of the chain in his right fist against Fukuda's shin to stop the kick.
The enemy ninja grunted from the pain that traveled up his leg, but he still slashed the Tanto at Trent's neck. The American raised his manrikigusari. Fukuda's wrist struck the chain. Trent shoved hard, bending his opponent's arm back toward Fukuda and pointing the knife at its owner. Trent's right fist swung a stroke at Fukuda's skull, driving the weight in his hand into the enemy ninja's temple.
Fukuda staggered away from Trent, dazed by the blow. Trent slashed the chain across his opponent's fist and struck the knife from Fukuda's hand. He swung a backhand sweep and slammed a weighted end across Fukuda's jaw. The blow propelled Fukuda back toward the lip of the roof.
Trent stepped forward, turned and launched a powerful side kick at Fukuda's chest. The enemy ninja hurtled off the roof. He shrieked as he fell to the pavement. Trent sighed with relief and tucked the manrikigusari back inside his gi jacket.
The American ninja stepped to the edge of the roof and looked down at the broken body of Fukuda. Several Italian soldiers approached the dead ninja. The military had clearly subdued the remnants of the terrorist forces that had not already been defeated by Phoenix Force.
The mission was over, and Phoenix Force had again emerged victorious.
The soldiers glanced up from the body of Fukuda to the roof of the Vatican Palace. Two troopers noticed a man peering down at them. They raised their BM-59 rifles and opened fire.
Trent stepped back, but he was not quick enough. A 7.62 mm round hit him in the chest, driving him backward and knocking him to the roof. His skull bounced painfully against the hard surface
. Blackness descended upon the American ninja...
