by Wilson, Gar
"Bleedin' hell," McCarter groaned when he stared up at the muzzle of a silenced machine pistol.
"Nani gah iri-masu?" a waitress asked, trembling as she bowed before the terrorists.
None of the Japanese Red Cell savages told her what they wanted, but the goon with the Makarov stepped forward and smashed the barrel of his pistol across the girl's face. She fell to the tatami mats, blood oozing from her mouth.
McCarter stiffened with anger, but the Skorpion kept him nailed to the spot. Keio slowly moved a hand toward his briefcase. The female terrorist hooked a foot around the case and kicked it out of Ohara's reach as she aimed her pistol at his head.
Customers cried out in alarm and fear. The second man with a sound-suppressed machine pistol demanded silence by blasting a spray of 7.65mm slugs into a trio of Japanese patrons. The noise suppressor shuddered, and two businessmen and a middle-aged secretary convulsed in agony as the bullets plowed through their flesh.
A woman screamed in the kitchen. Her cry ended abruptly. Two more terrorists entered the dining room. One carried a pistol, the other held a waka zashi—a samurai short sword. The razor-sharp blade dripped crimson.
"Who send you, American?" the JRC thug, who had slugged the waitress, demanded in broken English.
"Figure the odds will be better outside?" McCarter muttered to Keio.
"You want these goons to suck information out of us?" Ohara replied.
McCarter understood. If the JRC picked their brains, the terrorists would learn details about Phoenix Force. Yakov, Manning and Rafael would be in mortal danger. Stony Man Farm itself would be jeopardized, and the true identity of Colonel Phoenix would fall into the hands of the enemy. McCarter and Keio considered these secrets to be more important than their own lives.
"Then let's see how many of these bastards we can take with us," the Briton whispered.
"Yes," Ohara said, glancing up at the female savage who stood over him.
"Answer, American," the terrorist spokesman snapped.
"I'm not a bleedin' Yank, damn it," McCarter replied sharply. "I'm a citizen of the United Kingdom and an employee of the British Broadcasting Corporation. I'll show you my passport if that will make you happy. . . . "
"No passport," the thug growled. "You come. Ima!"
"My name isn't Ema," McCarter scoffed as he rose to his feet. "Good God, man. What do you think I am? Irish or something?"
The man with the Skorpion stepped closer and gestured with his weapon. McCarter glanced at the other terrorists. The woman was still standing next to Keio. Two thugs were positioned at each door. The other machine gunner covered the customers who had survived the first blast of gunfire. A pistol-packing JRC killer decided to inspect Keio's briefcase while the sword-wielding barbarian stood in the center of the room, apparently waiting for another chance to use his wakazashi.
"Don't do anything rash," McCarter urged as he lowered his right hand toward his jacket.
"Ee-ya," the man with the Skorpion warned.
"It's just my passport, for—"
McCarter's left hand suddenly shot out, swatting the Skorpion away from himself as he yanked the Nambu from shoulder leather. The terrorist automatically pulled the trigger of his machine pistol that hoarsely barked through its sound suppressor. The female member of the JRC killer squad screamed as four 7.65mm rounds ripped into her chest.
McCarter quickly stabbed the muzzle of his Nambu into the Skorpion gunner's midsection and squeezed the trigger. A 9mm bullet blasted a tunnel of destruction through the man's solar plexus and xiphoid cartilage, breaking the sixth thoracic vertebra before it burst out his back. Terrorist weapons turned toward the Briton as McCarter hit the floor. A volley of gunfire hissed above his prone form.
Keio had already leaped into the melee—literally. He grabbed the only available weapons, his chopsticks, and lunged over the table. Ohara's desperate, furious action caught the terrorists off guard—especially the group's spokesman who suddenly found Keio on top of him.
A forearm smash knocked the Makarov from the JRC sadist's grasp. Before he could use the bayonet in his other hand, Keio's right arm turned into a bolt of deadly lightning. The terrorist shrieked and staggered backward with a chopstick buried in his left eye socket. The wooden tip had pierced the eyeball and punctured the man's brain.
McCarter fired the Nambu pistol from a prone position on the tatami mats, ignoring the frightened cries of restaurant customers and the angry shouts of startled terrorists. The center of a JRC hitman's mask exploded as a 9mm slug sliced through his head. Propelled backward by the impact of the bullet, the man's body crashed through the flimsy paper-and-bamboo screen of a sliding door.
Keio delivered a fast roundhouse kick and sent a pistol flying from another terrorist's broken fingers. The man howled in terror and pain. Then Keio thrust the other chopstick into the hollow of the man's throat. The piece of human filth vomited blood and wilted to the floor.
"Haiii" the sword-swinging killer cried as he charged, slashing his wakazashi at Ohara's head.
The remaining terrorist snapped a hasty shot at McCarter and fled from the dining room. He met four other members of the Japanese Red Cell who had been waiting outside the restaurant in a television-repair truck and a minibus until the sound of gunfire convinced them their services were needed inside.
"MADRE DE DIOS!" Rafael Encizo exclaimed.
The Cuban and Ikeda Ken had just pulled up to the Tengohu Restaurant in time to see four heavily armed figures, clad in coveralls and stocking masks, dash toward the building. The Kompei agent abruptly parked his Toyota behind the minibus. Rafael popped open the passenger door and leaped from the car before it came to a full stop.
A JRC triggerman saw the Cuban rush forward with a Russian Makarov—another memento from the carnage at the airport—in his hands. The terrorist swung a 12-gauge pump shotgun with a cut-down barrel at Rafael. The Makarov snarled, and a 9mm bullet drilled into the man's masked face, right between the eyes. The terrorist fell backward and blasted a load of buckshot into the night before he crashed to the sidewalk and died.
"Abunai!" growled another terrorist as he turned to point a Russian Stetchin machine pistol at Rafael.
A veteran at staying alive during violent encounters, the Cuban had already dashed to the cover of the TV-repair truck before the JRC machine gunner opened fire. Nine-millimeter bullets chewed into the body of the truck and shattered two windows, but none struck their intended target.
The terrorist not only failed to waste Rafael but he also stepped across the threshold of the restaurant and presented Ikeda with a perfect target. The Kompei chief took advantage of the opportunity and carefully aimed his Nambu before squeezing off two shots. One ricocheted off the frame of the Stetchin and hit the JRC assassin in the face, cracking his cheekbone. He spun around from the unexpected blow and turned just in time to catch the second Nambu round with his chest.
As the JRC machine gunner crumbled to the sidewalk, another kill-crazy gunner fired a stolen U.S. Army Colt 1911A1 at Ikeda. The terrorist put a bullet in the Toyota's windshield instead of Ikeda. Rafael aimed his Makarov around the front fender of the repair truck and pumped a 9mm round into the side of the JRC flunky's head.
The two remaining terrorists in the restaurant foyer saw their comrade's skull burst apart in a spray of brains and bone fragments. They recoiled from the doorway in horror, uncertain of what to do next. David McCarter solved that problem for one of the bastards. He fired his Nambu from the dining room and put a 9mm slug between the terrorist's shoulder blades.
The wounded man groaned, stumbled, then fell flat on his face, his backbone broken. Panic-stricken, the other JRC fanatic whirled and fired his M-68 pistol. Two 7.65mm rounds smacked into a wall six feet from McCarter's position.
Suddenly, Rafael appeared at the front door. The lone terrorist turned to face him—too late. The Cuban's Makarov snarled twice. David McCarter also opened fire at the same instant. Four slugs crashed into the man's
chest, tearing his heart and lungs to pieces. The terrorist fell to the floor and one more JRC member was on his way to hell.
KEIO OHARA had managed to dodge the slashing blade of his opponent's wakazashi and leaped to the umbrella stand in the corner of the room. Keio quickly grabbed a flimsy umbrella. The JRC killer attacked.
Keio slammed the umbrella into the flat of his adversary's blade and stopped the sword stroke. The startled terrorist quickly tried to thrust the slanted point of his wakazashi into Keio's chest, but the agile Phoenix Force pro sidestepped. Restaurant patrons watched in amazement as Keio moved in and rapped the bamboo handle of the umbrella on the assassin's wrist, striking the ulna nerve.
The sword dropped from numb fingers, and Keio quickly swung the umbrella around, hooking the handle on his opponent's neck. Ohara pivoted, bent at the waist and pulled the umbrella. The terrorist was yanked forward and adroitly thrown over Keio's hip.
The hoodlum landed in the center of the rock garden, his back making hard contact with the stone Zen symbols. Ohara stomped a heel into the man's stomach. The terrorist spewed life. Keio pulled on the umbrella with his right hand. The handle was still hooked around the thug's neck. The terrorist's head rose swiftly to meet Keio's fist. The seiken punch, delivered with the first two big knuckles of his left hand, crashed between the man's eyes.
The terrorist's body went limp, and Keio unhooked the umbrella from his opponent's neck. The awestruck civilians watched with horror as Keio reversed his grip on the umbrella and forcibly drove its metal point into the man's chest. The bullet tip punched into the sternal notch, cracking and penetrating the breastbone. Blood spurted from the hideous wound. The umbrella had found a new stand—lodged in the dead man's chest.
David McCarter and Rafael Encizo entered the dining room to see Keio gather up the wakazashi in one hand and his briefcase in the other. The terrified restaurant patrons saw the guns in the fists of the two Occidentals. They cowered back against the walls, still fearful that karma had decided their time on earth had run out.
"I thought you said this was a quiet little restaurant," Rafael remarked dryly as he thrust his pistol into its shoulder holster.
8
Gary Manning and Yakov Katzenelenbogen met McCarter, Rafael, Keio and Ikeda at the Kompei chief's office. This time Ikeda offered everyone sake instead of tea.
"The incident at the restaurant was very bad," Ikeda said sadly. "So many died."
"Weep for the innocent, my friend," Rafael stated bluntly. "The Japanese Red Cell is a cancer. Killing them is simply preventing a disease from becoming an epidemic."
"Violence should be used only as a last resort," the Kompei agent insisted as he poured himself another cup of sake.
"That's true," Yakov agreed. The Israeli now wore his favourite prosthetic device. He gestured with the steel hook at the end of his right arm as he spoke. "But violence is always the first resort of terrorism. That leaves us only one logical choice of action. One last resort."
Ikeda shook his head. "Perhaps you are right. I myself said we must do whatever's necessary to stop the Red Cell. Yet, I am troubled that such tactics are not unlike those of the terrorists themselves."
"Wait a minute," Rafael told him. "The JRC murdered unarmed civilians in cold blood. That, Ikeda-san , is the difference."
"Hai," the Kompei agent said, nodding. "Yes, and we acted in self-defense. I, too, killed a man this night."
"We brought the crates of equipment from the airport," Manning said quickly, wanting to change the subject. "You fellas want your toys now?"
"Hell, yes," McCarter replied eagerly.
Gary Manning placed a suitcase on the coffee table. Rafael and McCarter were standing by his side when he snapped open the case. The Cuban immediately took a Gerber Mark I boot knife from the open luggage.
He smiled as he drew the dagger from its sheath. An excellent fighting knife, the Gerber features a five-inch, double-edged-steel blade and a cast aluminum handle with a full quillion. Rafael never felt comfortable without his pet knife, which had saved his life many times.
McCarter was equally attached to his personal weapons and quickly reclaimed his Browning Hi-Power autoloader and Bianchi shoulder holster. The Briton removed his sports jacket and slipped into the leather rig.
"Yes, I feel better now," he commented as he inserted a magazine into the Browning and worked the slide to chamber the first 9mm rounds. "I couldn't shoot that bloody Nambu worth a damn."
McCarter fished his Ingram M-10 machine pistol from the case while Rafael claimed a Walther PPK and an H&K MP-5 SD3. A compact, 9mm machine pistol, the Heckler & Koch resembled an AR-7 with a folding stock and a cut-down barrel. However, the MP-5 weapons were equipped with built-in silencers and special sights for additional accuracy, a weak point in most silenced weapons. The weapon was a favourite of the West German GSG-9 antiterrorist department.
Although Rafael preferred to use a Stoner submachine gun, the H&K had been more practical to transport via a commercial airplane and better suited for close-quarters combat.
"Keio," Katzenelenbogen began, "what sort of arms do you have access to besides that elephant gun you call a pistol?"
"An Ingram M-10," the Japanese team member replied. He had been quietly cleaning and sharpening the blade of the wakazashi. "An M-16 assault rifle with a 203 grenade-launcher attachment, a forty-five 1911A1 Colt and an assorted collection of grenades."
"Better bring the M-16 with the 203," the Israeli advised. "We might need a long-range weapon tonight."
"Tonight?" Ikeda asked with surprise. "What are you planning to do?"
"The JRC is bound to go underground now," McCarter explained. "That means we've got to hit them before they get a chance to slip away."
"Most of the weapons used by the terrorists have been imported from Communist countries," Yakov explained. "That means they have connections with other international terrorist outfits or a direct link with the Russians. If we give them enough time, they're apt to flee Japan and head for a terrorist training camp in the Middle East or North Korea."
"They could even wind up in the Soviet Union," Keio added as he slid the wakazashi into its black-lacquered wood scabbard.
"Just a moment," Ikeda began. "The Tokyo police have been most agreeable with us thus far, but even Kompei can't ask them to ignore another bloodbath—not after what's already happened tonight."
"We won't be in Tokyo," Yakov assured him.
"The Hoshiro Company?" Ikeda frowned.
"It's a major base for the JRC," Manning remarked.
"What about the Zembu Dojo?" McCarter inquired. "That must be where Keio and I attracted enough attention to convince the bastards to send a hit team to the restaurant after us."
"The dojo is too small to be very important," Yakov said. "And the JRC wouldn't dare have a main headquarters in the heart of Tokyo. The city is too densely populated. Security would be too difficult with so many eyes and ears around."
"But we have no idea how many terrorists are stationed at the Hoshiro Company," Ikeda insisted. "There could be a hundred waiting there."
"Then there will be a hundred less to worry about after tonight," Rafael remarked with a shrug.
9
Aaron Palmer rode in the back seat of the limousine with two of his agents beside him. The vehicle was driven by a Kompei officer. Another Japanese Intel man rode "shotgun" in the front seat.
A second vehicle, a gray sedan filled with Japanese commandos trained in antiterrorist tactics, brought up the rear. Four policemen, mounted on Honda motorcycles, escorted the cars—two junsa in the front and two behind.
"When will we reach Chiba?" Palmer asked the Kompei agent seated beside the driver.
"Very soon, Parmer-san ," Agent Yashedi replied.
Palmer smiled. The guy pronounced his name as if it was a type of cheese. What the hell, Palmer thought. Yashedi's English was still a lot better than his Japanese.
"Christ," Agent Brown, seated beside Palmer, mu
ttered. "I've never heard of Chiba before."
"That's why we're going there instead of Tokyo," Agent Morton explained. "Kompei is a good intel company. They know what they're doing."
Morton had formerly been stationed as a U.S. agent-in-place in Japan. He knew the country, the customs, the language and the people. That is why he had been chosen to accompany Palmer on the trip.
When their plane had landed at Tokyo International Airport, Kompei agents and policemen were waiting for the three Americans. An alarming rash of terrorist activity had prompted the Japanese authorities to alter plans for Palmer's visit.
They had decided to take Palmer directly to Chiba, a small city southeast of Tokyo. Terrorists tend to conduct most of their operations in major cities, so Chiba seemed an ideal place for the American VIP.
The motorcade, however, cancelled any chance for a clandestine move. Two large cars with a police escort had VIP written all over it. Kompei seemed to think secrecy was not as important as the additional firepower provided by the commandos.
If the Japanese Red Cell had planned to hit Palmer at the airport, they would be apt to cancel the attempt because of the odds they would have to take on.
Motorcades, however, are not invulnerable to assassins or terrorists. President Kennedy had been killed by a sniper when he had ridden through the streets of Dallas; General Haig had nearly been blown to bits when a bomb exploded on a road in Belgium; USAEUR—United States Army in Europe—commander, General Kroezer, narrowly escaped death from a rocket launcher in West Germany; Aldo Moro's motorcade had been stopped by a road blockade. Red Brigades terrorists gunned down the former Italian premier's body-guards and kidnapped Moro, who was later found dead.
Every man in the motorcade to Chiba was aware of these incidents. They watched the surrounding area for any signs of danger. Agent Morton drew a Smith & Wesson Model 59 from shoulder leather and jacked a 9mm cartridge into the chamber. Brown, basically a paper pusher, had left his gun in a suitcase that had been locked in the trunk of the limo. All the Japanese were armed. Even the motorcycle cops carried riot guns in saddle boots on their Hondas.
