Phoenix Force 07 - Dragon's Kill

by Wilson, Gar

  Although Oshimi was a year older than Yoichi, he appeared at least five years younger. A stocky heavyset man, Oshimi still moved with the step of a young man. He shaved his head, creating a sinister bulletlike appearance, and usually wore a traditional yukata robe. Oshimi's dark eyes flashed when he glared at Yoichi as if demanding proof of his loyalty.

  "Of course, I believe in our cause, Edo," Yoichi assured him, addressing Oshimi by the nickname he favoured over his first name. Edo was the old name of the city now known as Tokyo. "But you're trying to accomplish too much too fast."

  "We must move quickly, Ouzu," Oshimi insisted. "My sources inform me that a great opportunity is about to present itself to us like a gift from the gods."

  "If we continue to act rashly, we're bound to encourage the authorities to concentrate on searching for us," Yoichi said. "If they find us. . . ."

  "They won't," Oshimi declared. "And this is no time for us to retreat."

  He stabbed a finger onto a button of a control panel. Yellow, green and red lights immediately appeared on the face of a large map of the world that covered one wall. The east coast of Japan was dotted with multi-coloured bulbs from Hamanatsu to Sendai. Red lights marked Tokyo and the Trench of Japan. Okinawa and the Hawaiian Islands were also sprinkled with lights, but none of these was crimson.

  "Need I remind you what we've already accomplished?" Oshimi demanded as he thrust his forefinger at the map. "The yellow lights represent the strategic locations of our followers—the Japanese Red Cell under command of Daito-san. The green lights are future target sites, and the red signify successful assaults on the enemy."

  "What color lights will represent failure?" Yoichi inquired dryly.

  Oshimi stiffened with anger. Yoichi did not look away from the other man's furious expression. He realized Edo was a ruthless fanatic. But Yoichi was an indispensable part of the plans to build a new empire, too. Both men were devoted to a common goal of ultimate conquest.

  Oshimi wanted to be a twentieth-century shogun, an all-powerful military dictator commanding the New Empire of Japan. However, Yoichi, a dedicated Communist, dreamed of becoming the Lenin of Nippon. Like most zealots, Yoichi could recognize fanaticism in others, yet failed to acknowledge it in himself.

  "The incident at Tokyo airport was a fluke," Oshimi declared. "Daito-san isn't certain what went wrong, but it is a minor problem. How much trouble can four Americans cause?"

  "Daito knew they were experts," Yoichi said. "He sent nine of his best soldiers to apprehend them—or kill them if they resisted. Nine men, Edo."

  "We have dozens more to replace them," Oshimi replied. "Casualties must be expected in war. No worthy conquest comes easily, my friend."

  "I appreciate that," Yoichi assured him. "But Japan has always been able to deal with terrorism quite well on its own. Whoever these Americans are, they must be very special for the Nihon-no government to send for them. . . . "

  "We are not terrorists," Oshimi snapped. "We are fighting to reclaim the glory of Japan."

  "It is said Yamazaki Hideo attempted this same goal," Yoichi remarked.

  "Yamazaki was a fool," Oshimi answered. "He thought he could use killer bacteria in a direct attack on the United States. Someone found out about his scheme and stopped him."

  Neither man knew that "someone" had been Mack Bolan.

  "Yamazaki was insane," Oshimi continued. "He wanted to turn back the clock to the twelfth century. The lunatic considered himself to be an ancient daimyo warlord. His estate was guarded by men armed with samurai swords instead of guns. The madman even hired ninja warriors to carry out assassination missions.

  "Our plans are totally different," Oshimi insisted. "We aren't attempting an absurd assault on the United States. That damn country is too large and technologically advanced for such tactics to be successful. We are not trying to ignore the twentieth century. No. We will simply bring Japan out of the shadow of the Western powers to claim its rightful place as a strong independent country—an empire with sovereignty over other lands and well-armed military bases scattered throughout the world."

  Yoichi was finding Oshimi's lecture tiresome. "You forget the Americans. . . ."

  "I never forget the Americans," the other man snapped. "I never forget that I was born in that accursed nation. Americans claim they believe in justice, freedom and equality. Damn their lies. My family was sent to a concentration camp in Oregon during World War II. Why? Because they were Japanese. Oh, they were American citizens, but the color of their skin and the shape of their eyes made them the enemy to the tyrants in Washington.

  "After the war this prejudice against Orientals continued," Oshimi said bitterly. "America didn't go to war against Russia when it took Eastern Europe by force, yet they responded differently in Korea and Vietnam. Why? Because the white ruling class feared an Oriental world power. America claims to be a friend to Japan, yet our people are still oppressed by the Westerners. When I was young, they scoffed at merchandise 'made in Japan.' Now the Americans are angry because Japanese automobiles, watches and television sets are less expensive and better quality than their own products.

  "Instead of admitting that American workers are greedy and lazy and lack pride in their work, they want to restrict Japanese imports. I know Americans all too well, Ouzu."

  Of course you do, Yoichi thought. You are an American. But he said, "The Americans that concern me are the four who arrived in Tokyo today."

  "Why do you worry about this slight matter?" Oshimi demanded. "Kompei and the police have been unable to stop us. Do you think four foreigners will be more successful?"

  "They've been successful enough so far," Yoichi reminded him. "Nine of our men . . . ."

  "We will not delay our plans simply because one small squad of our soldiers was killed," Oshimi insisted. "Daito-san will take care of the American mercenaries if they cause any more trouble. Nothing can stop us, Ouzu. Japan will soon be a great empire, feared and respected throughout the world. And the powers of the West will be brought to their knees, begging us for mercy."

  A young Japanese terrorist entered the war room. The Red Cell follower was dressed in a khaki uniform with a Sam Browne gun belt strapped around his lean waist. He approached the scientists and bowed. Oshimi returned the gesture, Yoichi did not bother. Unlike Oshimi, Yoichi cared little for Japanese customs and traditions. The hard-line Communist regarded such things as remnants of Japan's former imperialistic past, but he humored Oshimi's fondness for "silly meaningless gestures designed to repress the masses."

  "Comrade Hatsumi wishes to know what you want done with the prisoner," the JRC trooper explained. "He says that the Kompei agent has probably been milked dry of any information that would be of use to us. Comrade Hatsumi suggests termination of the swine."

  "By all means, Comrade Ishizuka," Oshimi replied. "The Kompei man is of no further use to us now."

  "He wasn't of much use from the beginning," Yoichi commented. "Lieutenant Demura is just a minor officer in Kompei. Hardly worth the effort to abduct him."

  "We'll discuss this later, professor," Oshimi said sharply. "Comrade Ishizuka, please instruct Hat-sumi to terminate the prisoner."

  "Hai, Oshimi-sama," the JRC soldier said, bowing.

  Oshimi waited until Ishizuka left the room, then turned to Yoichi. "You know better than to talk that way in front of one of the men," he snapped.

  "That was careless," Yoichi admitted. "But so was bringing Demura here. The only reason we seized the man was that he was supposed to be the driver of the car Kompei was to send to the airport to meet the Americans. He should have been terminated in Japan before we moved the equipment here. In fact it would have been better if we hadn't abducted him at all, considering what happened."

  "I'm weary of hearing about those troublesome Americans," Oshimi sighed.

  "And I'm tired of arguing with you about dangerous and unnecessary risks to our operation," Yoichi replied bluntly. "Bringing Demura here was such a risk."

  "A
moot point," Oshimi said with a shrug, "since he is to be dealt with now."

  LIEUTENANT DEMURA had fully regained consciousness, but he allowed his body to hang limply as a pair of JRC storm troopers dragged him from the Room of Madness. Demura did not know what his captors called the place, but he had christened it the Room of Madness because when he was inside it he found himself questioning his sanity.

  The room was bizarre. It resembled the control center of the ridiculous villains in the Godzilla movies Demura had seen as a boy at Saturday matinees in Kyoto. The absurd films featured alien enemies from another planet who planned to take over the world with various giant monsters, and only Godzilla, a huge fire-breathing reptile, could save planet Earth. Even as a boy, Demura had wondered why Japan, which had produced such classics as The Seven Samurai, continued to make movies with an overgrown lizard for a hero.

  But the Room of Madness was real and so were the villains. They were not aliens from a distant galaxy, and Godzilla was not going to rescue mankind from the Japanese Red Cell. The hokey movies were science fiction and no extraterrestrials of fantasy could be as frightening as the reality of terrorist fanatics with a fearsome technology at their command.

  Demura was not certain who his captors were or why they had seized him. He was not even certain if he had answered any of their questions in the Room of Madness. Demura had been only semiconscious most of the time since his capture because of the sedatives that were injected into his veins every four hours.

  However, his keepers had failed to follow the schedule closely enough, and the sedatives had worn off.

  Demura was fully awake as the terrorists hauled him into a corridor.

  Yet what could he do? Unarmed and outnumbered, without any idea where he was being held or why, Demura was uncertain what action to take. Still he could not allow himself to be drugged into submission again. He had to do something. . . .

  Another JRC terrorist marched toward the trio. Like the two men who held Demura's arms, the third storm trooper also wore a paramilitary uniform—bush shirt and khaki slacks with a holstered side arm on his hip.

  "What are you two doing with the prisoner?" Ishizuka demanded as he approached.

  "We are taking him back to his cell, comrade," one of the guards replied.

  "No need for that," Ishizuka told them. "He is to be terminated."

  "Shoot him?" one of the sadistic guards asked eagerly.

  "Gunshots are noisy," Ishizuka stated. "An injection of poison is silent and just as effective. Take him back to Comrade Hatsumi. . . . "

  Demura realized he had nothing to lose by fighting his captors. With a kiai karate shout, Demura suddenly lashed a high roundhouse kick at the thug who held his left arm. His foot crashed into the startled JRC goon's face, breaking his upper and lower jaw on impact.

  The guard was unconscious before he slumped to the floor. Demura swung his free arm to deliver a heel-of-the-palm blow to the other guard's face, smashing the guard's nose with the powerful blow. The sentry groaned and released Demura's right arm. The Kompei agent promptly rammed an elbow into the terrorist's solar plexus.

  Ishizuka dragged a .357 Magnum from the holster on his hip. Demura quickly seized the stunned guard and hurled him into Ishizuka. The Magnum roared, drilling a 158-grain wadcutter through the terrorist's chest, blasting an exit hole as big as a half-dollar out of the man's back.

  Demura lunged and karate chopped the revolver out of Ishizuka's hand. The terrorist reacted instantly and delivered a sideway shuto stroke of his own, slamming the edge of his hand into Demura's chest.

  The Kompei agent stumbled backward into a wall, and Ishizuka swung a roundhouse kick at his opponent. Demura dodged the kick, but Ishizuka was well-trained in martial arts. When his foot struck the wall, he instantly turned his leg to punt a side kick into Demura's face.

  Fortunately for Demura, most of the power of the kick had been spent on the wall and Ishizuka's follow-up lacked force. Nonetheless, the kick staggered Demura. He tasted blood and the corridor seemed to whirl before his eyes. He saw Ishizuka's form lurch forward for another attack.

  His fingers arched like talons, the terrorist swung a vicious "tiger claw" stroke at Demura's eyes. The Kompei man blocked the attack with a forearm and rammed a seiken punch into Ishizuka's midsection.

  The terrorist stumbled backward. Demura pressed his advantage and drove a fist into the point of his opponent's jaw.

  Ishizuka struck out blindly, aiming stiffened fingers at Demura's throat. The Kompei agent parried the thrust with an elbow and quickly unleashed a diagonal shuto that struck Ishizuka full in the mouth. The terrorist's teeth caved in from the blow. Demura followed up with another karate chop to Ishizuka's left temple. A massive concussion ripped through the terrorist's brain, and he crumpled at his adversary's feet.

  Even as Ishizuka fell, two more JRC soldiers appeared in the corridor. The guards had drawn their Magnums and swung the muzzles toward Demura. The Kompei man threw himself to the floor as the revolvers boomed.

  Bullets hissed inches from Demura's hurtling form as he dived for Ishizuka's discarded weapon. His heart racing, his guts twisting, Demura hit the floor and seized the Combat Magnum. He rolled on his shoulder, landed on one knee and quickly opened fire at the uniformed terrorist troopers.

  The big .357 thundered in his fist, kicking his arm high. Kompei training had included little combat shooting practice, and Demura was not used to the recoil of a big Magnum handgun. His first shot went too high and struck one of the JRC thugs in the left shoulder. Blood spurted from the wound as the impact spun the terrorist around in time to receive another .357 round under the right shoulder blade.

  The mortally wounded guard fell as his partner scrambled for cover. The terrorists did not appear to be any better marksmen than Demura, and they lacked his courage and professionally honed reflexes. The Kompei man held the Magnum in both hands and fired once more. The bullet smashed into the wall as the surviving guard ducked around the corner.

  Ammunition, Demura thought, aware that the Magnum held only one or two more cartridges in its cylinder. Crouched low with the .357 aimed at the enemy gunman's position, Demura reached for the shells slotted in the Sam Browne belt of one of the fallen guards.

  The Kompei agent realized more terrorists would soon swoop down on him. Demura knew he could not kill them all, but he had joined Kompei to combat the enemies of his country. Lieutenant Demura almost welcomed an opportunity to die fighting for Japan and for a cause he believed in.

  The ringing inside Demura's ears, caused by the loud reports of the Magnum in an enclosed area, deafened him to the threat that emerged from the Room of Madness. His back was turned to the figure clad in a white lab smock, who clenched a hypodermic syringe in his fist.

  Hatsumi, the JRC technician and an assistant to Professor Yoichi, tried to swallow his fear as he crept up behind Demura. Hatsumi was not a fighting man. Thanks to warped idealistic notions encouraged by Marxist college professors, Hatsumi had altered his goals in life from medical science to international terrorism. He hated anything that upset the order of his life. Hatsumi was not supposed to get personally involved in violence. The rank and file of the JRC were trained for that sort of thing. He was just expected to operate some machines and occasionally act as a medic for the other JRCs.

  Hatsumi lunged forward and thrust the needle into the nape of Demura's neck. Hatsumi's thumb hit the syringe plunger and twenty cubic centimeters of hydrogen cyanide was injected into the vertebral subclavian artery. The poison immediately spread to the major carotid and raced through the bloodstream to his brain.

  Aware he was only a second or two from death, Demura twisted around and pointed the Magnum at the ash-white face of his assassin. Lieutenant Demura's last conscious thought was to squeeze the trigger. He heard the revolver roar and saw Hatsumi's face explode as a .357 slug ripped through it. Then Demura fell to the floor, dead.

  PROFESSOR YOICHI FROWNED as he watched a detail of JRC soldiers
dispose of the bodies of Lieutenant Demura and the four slain men. The corpses were dropped into a chute that led to a chemical incinerator located in the basement of the building. Sulfuric acid would dissolve the bodies.

  "Are you going to lecture me about my folly in bringing the Kompei agent here?" Professor Oshimi asked quietly.

  "What's done is done," Yoichi said with a sigh. "And you would not listen to me anyway."

  "Of course I would, Ouzu," Oshimi replied with a shrug. "But we have other matters of greater importance to discuss."

  With a sly smile, he added, "Changing the face of the world is not easy, my friend."

  6

  Keio Ohara and David McCarter watched the students of the Zembu Dojo practice martial-arts techniques. Two young men dressed in white gi uniforms struggled, trying to throw each other off balance. Hands pulled lapels and sleeves until one student swept his opponent's feet from the mat with a simple judo move that sent the man toppling to the padded surface.

  Two other students wielded bo and sai. The man with the bo—the long fighting stave—swung and jabbed with his stick, while the other student defended himself with a pair of sai—a short swordlike weapon with an 18-inch-long center blade and two curved prongs extending from the quillion. He managed to trap the stick between the center blade and a prong of one sai as he thrust the point of the other weapon at the stick man's throat.

  Another pair of students were involved in a free-spar karate match, executing fundamental punches and kicks. Instructors, with black belts knotted around their waists, supervised the matches. Other students were busy striking sand-filled bags to temper hands and feet. A few others performed karate kata—a dancelike practice form—while three novices hammered and stabbed with wooden boken swords at a kendo dummy.

  Keio shook his head with disapproval. A devoted martial artist, he was a third dan black belt in judo and a fifth dan in karate, and he had excelled in ken-do, a form of Japanese fencing. The Zembu Dojo was not concerned with the heart of martial arts, a philosophy that teaches self-control, humility, respect for life and proper manners while training a person to unite body, mind and spirit.