Return to Armageddon

by Gar Wilson

  A scream of agony stole Ohara's attention. He turned sharply and saw a large, muscular black man standing over an Israeli paratrooper with a scimiter in his fists. Blood dripped from the blade of the sword.

  Jemal saw Ohara at the same instant. A loud moan escaped from Jemal's throat. He charged — the scimitar held overhead in a two-fisted grip — before Ohara could gather up his kusarigma.

  The Japanese martial artist waited for the sword-wielding adversary to close in. Then Ohara stepped forward and raised his arms, slamming the heels of both palms into Jemal's forearms, checking the sword stroke before the Assassin manservant could bring his weapon to play.

  Ohara immediately delivered a snap-kick between Jemal's splayed legs. The eunuch merely smiled. The Phoenix Force martial-arts champ was stunned by Jemal's casual response to a blow that would have paralyzed most men.

  The eunuch attacked. He brought the pommel of his sword down hard between the Oriental's shoulder blades. Ohara bent over from the blow. Jemal promptly smashed a knee into his jawbone.

  The Phoenix Force fighter hit the floor, the back of his head striking the stone surface. He gazed up through a foggy curtain as Jemal raised the sword high. A black veil of unconsciousness dropped over Ohara.

  22

  David McCarter had used all thirty-two rounds of ammo from his M-10 during the battle. He was about to reload when he saw Keio Ohara fall. The Briton instantly drew his Browning Hi-Power from shoulder leather.

  Snap aiming, the British pistol champ fired a hasty shot at the sword-swinging killer, who was about to split Ohara into halves with his scimitar. Sparks flew when the 115-grain 9mm bullet struck the blade of Jemal's sword. The black man staggered and fell, the scimitar slipping from his grasp.

  McCarter rushed forward, prepared to put a bullet into Jemal's brain to make certain he stayed down forever. The Briton stopped for a second when he heard Ohara groan. McCarter glanced down at his partner, relieved Ohara was still alive.

  Jemal shot up from the floor.

  He grabbed McCarter's arm and pulled hard. The Briton stumbled into a stone pillar. The sudden impact jarred the Browning from his hand. McCarter whirled to face Jemal. The eunuch lunged forward, hands aimed at the Phoenix Force commando's throat.

  McCarter ducked under the manservant's hands and caught Jemal on the side of the jaw with a solid left hook, followed by a right cross. His knuckles stung from the impact of the punches, yet Jemal's head barely moved from the blows.

  "Shit," the Briton rasped as the eunuch charged once more.

  The Englishman avoided Jemal's groping fingers by stepping to the side. He rammed a fist into the brute's kidney and slashed the side of his hand into the base of Jemal's skull. The muscular servant responded by lashing a forearm into McCarter's chest.

  McCarter felt as if he had been hit with a baseball. The blow knocked him off his feet. His back smacked against the floor hard. The Briton gazed up to see Jemal lunge toward him, still determined to throttle the life from his adversary.

  "Bloody hell," the stubborn Phoenix warrior growled.

  He quickly raised a leg and slammed the bottom of his boot into the eunuch's face. The kick crushed cartilage in Jemal's nose and cracked the philtrum bone in his upper jaw. The Assassin flunky staggered backward, dazed by the blow.

  McCarter did not try to rise from the floor. He braced himself with his hands and lashed out with both legs. His left foot hooked Jemal's ankle and his right stomped into the man's knee — a simple jujitsu technique McCarter had learned in the SAS. It worked beautifully. Jemal crashed to the floor, pain riding up his leg from the dislocated kneecap.

  The Briton scrambled across the floor to the discarded scimitar. Jemal tried to rise, but his damaged leg buckled and he dropped to his knees. The brute glanced up as McCarter charged forward. He opened his mouth in a silent scream when he saw the Briton swing the sword in a powerful stroke.

  The ugly thud of sharp metal striking flesh filled McCarter's ears. Blood spurted across the Briton's shirt. Jemal's severed head tumbled across the floor.

  McCarter tossed the blood-stained scimitar aside and gathered up his Browning. Keio Ohara groaned and sat up, rubbing his sore jaw and shaking his head.

  "Don't lie about, mate," McCarter said crisply. "Still work to be done."

  Gary Manning fitted four ounces of C-4 into the crack of a door at the opposite side of the assembly hall. He inserted a pencil detonator into the white puttylike substance, then ducked behind a pillar, where Colonel Katzenelenbogen was already stationed. Twenty second later the C-4 exploded.

  The blast tore apart the door and destroyed a portion of the wall. Katz pulled the pin from a concussion grenade and hurled it through the opening. Another explosion erupted in the room beyond.

  Katz and Manning dashed to the ragged hole in the wall. Corpses of slain terrorists littered the floor. Three dazed figures were on their knees at the opposite side of the room. Instead of the white Assassin outfit, the trio wore green uniforms with checkered keffiyeh on their heads. Blood oozed from their nostrils and ears.

  Wounded or not, the terrorists were still armed and dangerous. Manning sprayed them with Galil slugs. Their bodies tumbled backward into a wall.

  "A lot of these guys aren't wearing white," the Canadian commented.

  "White and red are the traditional colors of the Order of the Assassins," Katz explained. "The rest of these men must be members of the United Arab Front. Hassan had to keep them a secret from the rest of the cult in order to continue his charade as a religious leader."

  "Well, this room is trashed," Manning commented. "Shall we see what's behind door number three?"

  "Is it safe to blast the door lock in such close quarters?" Katz asked the Phoenix Force demolitions expert.

  "I'll use a potassium-chlorate compound instead of C-4," Manning explained as he slipped off his backpack.

  He removed a packet of gray gelatin and molded it to the doorframe while Katz stood guard. A pencil detonator triggered the explosive. The blast was mild.

  However, an extremely violent explosion immediately followed. The wall burst and large chunks were shot across the room. Katz and Manning dived to the floor as the debris fell around them.

  A piece of the wall, the size of a man's fist, struck Manning in the back of the skull. The Canadian slumped unconscious. Katz scrambled over to him and checked his pulse. The Israeli sighed with relief when he felt the strong throbbing artery in Manning's neck.

  "Booby trap," Katz said through clenched teeth. "The bastards had the door rigged with explosives."

  "Drop your gun," a voice demanded in Arabic.

  Katz turned to see Colonel Nasser Fawzi stepping into the room. The Israeli left his Uzi on the floor and rose slowly with his arms held high. Fawzi kept a Makarov pistol aimed at Katz's chest as he drew closer.

  "Katzenelenbogen," the terrorist said, smiling when he noticed the steel hooks at the end of Yakov's prosthetic arm. "I feel like we've hated each other for years. Now we finally meet."

  "You must be Fawzi," Katz replied. "You're not living up to your reputation. You didn't shoot me in the back when you had the chance."

  "I can kill you right here and now," the terrorist colonel declared. "But you're more useful to me alive."

  "You think you can use me as a hostage to get out of here?" Katz shook his head. "It won't work. You'd do better to take your chances in court."

  "Don't be absurd, Katzenelenbogen." Fawzi sneered. "Unbuckle that gun belt."

  "What happened to Hassan?" Katz asked as he unfastened the web belt and dropped his holstered Colt Commander to the floor.

  "He's in the other room," Fawzi replied. "In his private chamber where he lived like a king. I thought it would be an appropriate place for him to die."

  "You killed him?"

  "My only regret is that I had to make it quick," Fawzi declared. "That idiot failed in his mission and got me and my comrades boxed in here when you attacked this place. A bullet in
the back of the head was a far better fate than he deserved."

  "That's one way to dissolve a partnership." Katz shrugged.

  "You have a gun in a holster under your arm," the terrorist said. "Take it out slowly and drop it on the floor."

  Yakov reached for the Eagle with his left hand.

  "Not that way," Fawzi snapped. "Use the hook."

  "This prosthetic is a bit clumsy," Katz said. "I'm not certain I can..."

  "Do it, Jew!" the terrorist insisted. "It will be amusing to watch you. If I get bored I'll simply shoot off your other hand."

  "I'll try," Katz said as he awkwardly moved the hooks to the .357 under his arm.

  "I'm getting impatient, cripple,'' Fawzi warned.

  "Using me for a hostage won't work," Yakov told him as he shoved a hook against the safety catch of the Eagle pistol.

  "If it doesn't," Fawzi said with a smile, "you'll die first, Jew."

  "Your threats don't worry me," Katz remarked, clamping the prosthetic around the butt of the gun. "You tend to make too many mistakes."

  "Shut up and get that gun out of the holster," the terrorist demanded.

  Katzenelenbogen suddenly thrust his right arm forward. The Eagle pistol was held firmly in the artificial hand. A steel hook pulled the trigger before the startled terrorist colonel could react.

  A 130-grain semi jacketed hollowpoint slug blasted a hole between Fawzi's eyes. His head snapped back, blood and brains vomiting from his shattered skull. Nasser Fawzi crashed to the floor.

  "That," Katz said as he pried the Eagle from the steel hooks and snapped on the safety catch, "was your last mistake."

  "Colonel," a voice called from the doorway where Fawzi had appeared.

  Katz turned sharply, the .357 automatic in his left fist. Major Nizam and Captain Rosen held up their empty hands in mock surrender. Yakov holstered his pistol as the pair approached.

  "We found an office complete with filing cabinets and a computer with dozens of floppy disks," Rosen explained.

  "The Captain is familiar with computer operations," Nizam declared. "He fed a couple of disks into the machine while 1 checked the files."

  "We've got all the evidence we need, Colonel," Rosen said. "The location and structure of a 'garden paradise' used to brainwash personnel, a list of estimated costs for narcotics, weapons and even a holograph system."

  "And we discovered that just from a very quick search," the Egyptian officer added.

  "God," Gary Manning muttered as he sat up, massaging the back of his skull. "What happened?"

  "Mission accomplished," Katz told him. "Go back to sleep."

  23

  Rafael Encizo entered the interrogation room. His lower leg was encased in a plaster cast, and he leaned heavily on a pair of crutches. Colonel Katzenelenbogen waited for the Cuban to close the door.

  "Glad to see you're up and about, Rafael," Katz told him.

  "I'm getting by," Encizo replied.

  The Cuban glared at the chalk-white face of Lieutenant Colonel Ezra Zavarj who sat on a stool in the center of the room. Katz pointed his Eagle .357 at the Israeli military-intelligence officer's head.

  "So this is the one," Encizo whispered, his voice a cold chill from a graveyard.

  "You're wrong about me, Colonel," Zavarj insisted, sweat beads forming on his forehead.

  "Captain Rosen told me that Major Eytan, being a Mossad officer, was aware that the prime minister was not in the hospital room which the Assassins attacked when they first tried to kill him," Katz said. "But you, being a Sheruth Modiin officer, did not know you were guarding a decoy. Now, why would the Assassins have attacked that room if they knew there was only a mannequin inside?"

  "Maybe Eytan tried to convince his terrorist boss that he was on their side, but he still didn't want to actually assassinate the prime minister," Zavarj suggested.

  "That's a pretty stupid theory," Encizo remarked.

  "How do 1 know what his motives may have been?" Zavarj snapped. "This is insane. You saw the star-shaped tattoo on Eytan's shoulder..."

  "It wasn't a tattoo," Yakov stated. "The autopsy confirmed that it was only a skin decal. That was stupid to put that star on his shoulder, Zavarj. None of the Assassins wore their mark on such an obvious part of their body. A spy certainly wouldn't have the tattoo at all. That's as abserd as a KGB agent with a hammer and sickle on his forearm."

  "But you said the Assassins were religious fanatics," Zavarj replied.

  "Yes. But they weren't that sloppy," Katz said. "They were, however, addicted to a variety of drugs. The autopsy found no traces of hashish or other narcotics in Major Eytan's body. However, when your quarters were searched, a hash pipe, synthetic heroin tablets and an assortment of other pills were discovered.

  "We also found an Interarms bolt-action rifle," he continued. "Complete with a Bushnell telescopic scope and five .300 Winchester Magnum cartridges with explosive mercury-core slugs — suitable equipment for an assassination. You would have had plenty of opportunities to shoot the prime minister from a window after you framed Eytan as the spy and murdered him."

  "Colonel, I'm not..." Zavarj pleaded.

  "It's finished," Yakov told him. "The Assassin cult has been crushed. The prime minister is still alive. Israel's relations with Egypt and Jordan have been strengthened by this business. You've failed in your mission, Zavarj. It's finished."

  "What will they do with me?" Zavarj asked quietly.

  "You should be familiar with Israeli law," Katz shrugged. "There's no doubt you'll be found guilty of espionage against the State of Israel. You'll either be executed or spend the rest of your life in prison. Probably the latter. An execution would mean some degree of publicity and the government, not to mention the Sheruth Modiin, would rather have a nice, quiet, top-secret trial and then plant you in a maximum security cell. You'll never see another human being who isn't wearing a prison-guard uniform."

  "Do I have an alternative?" Zavarj asked.

  "If you want it." Katz tilted his head toward Encizo.

  Zavarj nodded in reply.

  "He's all yours, Rafael," Katz said. "Make it clean and quick."

  "I will," Encizo assured him. "How are the others, Katz?"

  "McCarter came out of it without a scratch," Yakov said. "Gary's going to have a nasty lump on his head for a while, but nothing serious. Keio's only real injury is a wounded ego because he was knocked unconscious by a fellow McCarter defeated in a hand-to-hand battle. That was a blow to his pride."

  "Rachel would be pleased with how this mission ended," Encizo remarked sadly. "Katz, I know you don't approve of killing in cold blood..."

  "An execution isn't murder," Yakov told him. "Zavarj himself approves of it. Don't you, Zavarj?"

  "Get it over with," the former spy muttered tensely.

  "What about the other members of Phoenix Force?" Encizo asked.

  "We all agreed you should be the one to handle this," Yakov said. "It won't bring Rachel back, but it will help her rest in peace — at least in your heart."

  "Thank you, Yakov," Encizo said.

  Colonel Katzenelenbogen left the room as Encizo drew his silencer-equipped Walther PPK. Katz stepped into the corridor, closed the door and waited.

  The Gar Wilson Forum

  On October 23, 1983, a truck bomb driven by a terrorist crashed into the U.S. Marine compound in Lebanon and exploded. Two hundred forty-one American servicemen were killed. Colonel Geraghty, commander of our Marine forces in Lebanon, admitted that he'd ordered his troops not to load their M-16 rifles, in order to "preclude accidental discharge and possible injury to innocent civilians." On December 27, 1983, President Reagan accepted personal responsibility for any breach of security practices that allowed this incident. He claimed, "Local commanders on the ground have suffered quite enough."

  However, total blame does not lie with the President or local commanders, because the Marines were following a procedure that has been SOP with U.S. military for over a decade. In the
1970s, during the height of the Baader-Meinhof and Black September terrorism in West Germany, American Army bases were still guarded by troops with unloaded rifles. Often sentries were not even issued ammunition, as you can read in Phoenix Force #9: Ultimate Terror (written before the Marine massacre in Lebanon).

  Concern about firearm accidents or appearances for the sake of nervous civilians should not be allowed to endanger the lives of our servicemen or jeopardize military security.

  Fatalities by firearm accidents are actually quite rare. Deaths caused by automobile accidents, electrical mishaps, falls and even food suffocation are more common.

  Most civilians surely understand that soldiers must be armed to be effective. If our military personnel are unable to defend themselves, how can they be expected to protect our national security interests?