by Wilson, Gar
Ikeda Ken managed to get to one knee and drew his Nambu pistol, only to have it kicked out of his hand by another assassin. The killer held his knife in an overhand grip and prepared to drive the blade into his intended victim.
Fear contributed to Ikeda's speed as he quickly braced himself on both hands and punted a foot into the terrorist's kneecap. The assassin stumbled and awkwardly struck out with his knife.
The Kompei chief rolled out of the path of the blade, and the killer drove his weapon into the ground where Ikeda had been a split second before. Pivoting on the small of his back, Ikeda shifted into position and slammed a foot into his assailant's face. Blood squirted from the man's pulverized nose as he flopped over on his back. Ikeda quickly uprooted the knife from the ground and buried the blade in his opponent's chest.
Colonel Yakov Katzenelenbogen blocked a knife with his right forearm. The blade snapped in two when it struck the steel prosthetic arm. Before the terrorist could recover from his astonishment, Katz drew his .45 Colt Commander and backhanded the pistol across his opponent's face.
The assassin fell. Katz thumbed off the safety catch of his pistol and shot the terrorist in his shaven head. Suddenly a pair of hands seized the Israeli's wrist and twisted the .45 from Katz's grasp.
Another hoodlum had lost his knife in the scuffle and saw a chance to get a pistol by disarming the Israeli, who appeared to be the oldest and weakest member of Phoenix Force. The man soon realized he had underestimated Katz when the Israeli colonel stamped a hard mule kick into the side of his knee.
The man's leg buckled from the kick. Katzenelenbogen turned sharply and slashed his prosthetic hand at his adversary's face. The points of the steel hooks ripped through flesh and tore an eyeball from its socket. The terrorist screamed and clamped both hands over his bloodied face.
Katz chopped the side of his left hand into the man's solar plexus. With a moan, the killer doubled up. The Israeli swung his hook again and smashed it into the base of his foe's skull. The would-be assassin fell forward to receive a knee in the face. Katz had not needed to deliver the last stroke—his opponent was already dead.
Rafael Encizo sidestepped a knife thrust and deftly kicked his attacker in the testicles. The terrorist gasped and fell to his knees. Encizo quickly drew his Gerber Mark I from its sheath as another shaven-headed goon charged forward, slashing at the Cuban's throat with a knife.
Encizo dodged the whistling blade and struck with the speed and accuracy of a cobra. His Gerber knife slashed the other man's wrist before he could pull his arm away. Blood spurted from severed arteries as the terrorist shrieked and dropped his weapon.
The Cuban quickly lunged into his wounded opponent and drove the point of his Gerber into the terrorist's solar plexus, stabbing the steel tip upward into the man's heart. Encizo yanked the knife from the mortally wounded guy and shoved his dying opponent aside.
Two more knife-wielding assailants attacked.
Encizo moved to the right to avoid being trapped between the two men and narrowly leaped away from a blade that was lashed at one man's belly. He quickly switched the Gerber from his right hand to his left and struck out at his nearest opponent.
It was an old knife fighter's trick to try to hit an adversary from an unexpected direction. Most Hispanic knife artists are familiar with this technique, but it worked well enough against the terrorist. The Cuban's Gerber slashed a deep furrow in his opponent's forearm.
The terrorist cried out and withdrew his arm, the saffron sleeve of his robe dyed red with blood. Encizo promptly punched the man in the mouth and knocked him backward into the other enemy knife artist.
"Enough of this," the Cuban muttered as he drew his Walther PPK and thumbed off the safety catch.
The compact double-action pistol snarled as Encizo squeezed the trigger. He fired three rapid-fire rounds into the horrified faces of the two terrorists. The first man took a hollowpoint slug in the forehead and dropped dead instantly.
His partner caught a bullet in the left cheek. It splintered bone and cracked his eye socket. He was already in shock when the second .380 shattered the bone of his upper jaw and tunnelled into his brain.
David McCarter had found himself thrashing in the stream with an opponent, but he ended the wrestling match abruptly by slamming the steel frame of his Browning against the other man's skull. Then he turned the terrorist on his belly in the creek and simply sat on the man's back, holding the killer's face in the water until he was certain the thug had drowned.
"Damnation on Easter Sunday," the Briton complained as he stepped from the creek, dripping wet from head to toe. "That son of a bitch ruined this suit."
"Isn't it wash and wear?" Ohara asked with a grin.
He noticed the only survivor of the enemy forces was still on his knees, clutching his genitals. Ohara quickly stepped behind the thug and clapped his open palms against the man's ears. The concussion ruptured both eardrums and sent a brain-jarring shock through the hoodlum's skull. The man fell on his face, unconscious.
"Wring out your jacket, McCarter," Katz urged as he shoved his Colt Commander into shoulder leather. "We'd better get out of here fast."
"I thought I recognized this man," Ikeda Ken declared as he knelt beside the assailant he had killed during the battle.
"Someone important?" Encizo asked.
"Yakuza," the Kompei chief replied. "A member of the Isimoto Obyan. A small-time criminal outfit. They're mostly strong-arm bullies, hired to handle the less delicate matters that the larger Yakuza clans would refuse to touch."
"That explains why they didn't use guns," Keio Ohara added. "Yakuza don't favour firearms. They don't feel they need guns since very few Japanese own firearms."
"Except the terrorists," McCarter said dryly.
"At least this will make a cover story for this incident—make it easy to fabricate," Ikeda stated. "Yakuza killing Yakuza doesn't get anyone very excited. Least of all the police who are simply thankful no innocent people were harmed and some undesirable criminals are no longer a threat."
"But why would the Red Cell hire gangsters to try to kill us?" Manning wondered.
"Because their own manpower must be dwindling," Encizo replied. "The Japanese Red Cell must be dying off—literally."
"Here in Japan, perhaps," Katzenelenbogen said. "But we've only hacked off a few tentacles of the terrorist octopus. We've still got to find the head and destroy it."
12
"We need transportation to Hawaii," Yakov Katzenelenbogen declared. "Fast."
"Hawaii?" Hal Brognola questioned, speaking into the handset of an international transceiver in the control center of Stony Man headquarters.
"Our business investigation has led to a firm in Hawaii," the Israeli answered. "We hope to have a final conference there."
Brognola smiled. Stony Man received transmissions via a special communications satellite equipped with a scrambler. Still, Yakov, a total professional, remained security conscious and never discussed the details of a mission in direct terms.
"A representative from one of our associate businesses seems to be in trouble," Brognola said, referring to Aaron Palmer.
"We're aware of that," Yakov assured him. "If we can locate him, we'll try to assist."
"I'm sure you'll do what you can," the Fed replied.
"We'll also need whatever information you can give us about the president of the Hawaiian firm. . . . " Yakov hesitated, not wanting to give a name directly in transmission, yet unable to code it in a manner that would not cause a delay in translation. "A Mr. Edward Oshimi."
Phoenix Force had learned about Oshimi when they had checked the flight records at an airstrip in Minami Tori Shima. The hydroplane that travelled back and forth for the JRC was registered to Edward Oshimi at Honolulu International Airport. So was a twin-engine Cessna that had departed the island to return to Hawaii, only a few hours after the Palmer kidnapping.
"Oshimi," Brognola confirmed, well aware that the matter must be critical
for Yakov to speak bluntly. "I'll look into it. Get back to you soon."
"That'll be fine, sir," Yakov said.
"Let me get the address of a travel agent associated with our firm."
"I'll hold," the Israeli replied.
Brognola left the transceiver and told Stony Man computer expert, Aaron Kurtzman, that Phoenix Force needed a fast secure method of transportation from Japan to Hawaii. "The Bear" quickly consulted one of the Stony Man computers.
Kurtzman fed the data via a keyboard console. Seconds later numbers and names appeared on the video-display screen. Kurtzman hit the print button and a readout sheet emerged from a word processor hooked up to the computer.
Two minutes later Brognola had the transceiver handset in his fist. "Still there?"
"Yes, sir," Yakov assured him.
"Okay," the Fed began. "Go to 20th Street and find travel agent's office at number 170. His name is C. Burke, a retired Navy officer."
"Got it," the Israeli confirmed.
"Good luck," Brognola said.
"We'll need it," Yakov admitted. "Thank you." End of transmission.
Katzenelenbogen read the address of the "travel agent." He deciphered 20th Street as twenty degrees latitude and number 170 to be the longitude coordinates. Consulting a map, he found the location in the Pacific. Brognola's coordinates were not exact, but they were close to Wake Island.
C. Burke—Commander Burke. Retired Navy? A little white lie. The commander was probably an officer in the ONI stationed at the naval base in Wake Island. By the time Phoenix Force arrived, Burke would have a plane ready to take them to Hawaii.
"DO A COMPLETE PERSONAL PROFILE ON Edward Oshimi," Hal Brognola said as he turned to Kurtzman. "Probable residence in the Hawaiian Islands. Sounds like he's a U.S. citizen, but be ready to check immigration just in case. If you don't get anything there, get in touch with the Treasury Department—which is also the National Central Bureau of the American branch of Interpol."
"Right, Hal," he nodded.
"I want everything available on this Oshimi character," Brognola continued. "Personal background, politics, former military service, government security clearances, criminal record—anything. Especially if it relates to Japan or terrorism. If the name is an alias, I want to know who he really is."
"I'll get that for you, Hal," Kurtzman said, his fingers already punching the computer console. "Fast," he added, chomping on the stem of his pipe.
AARON PALMER AWOKE to find himself dressed in silk pajamas, lying on a comfortable sofa, his head resting on a soft pillow. Music played gently in the background. Palmer was not certain what the tune was, but the melody was pretty, played on violins, soft piano and a harp.
The CIA man gazed up at the ceiling. It was painted a soft shade of pink. He heard an air conditioner humming gently. Where the hell am I, Palmer thought. Then he wondered why it had taken him so long to feel concern about the fact that he did not know where he was or how he had gotten there.
He was not home or at his office, and the place did not seem to be a hotel room. Palmer gradually turned his head to inspect his quarters. He was surprised to discover he felt weak and weary. Yet Palmer was not alarmed until he saw the steel bars on the room's only door.
"Jesus," he whispered hoarsely. "I'm in a goddamn cell."
Only then did the memories of the kidnapping return to him. Even then, he was not certain that it had not been a dream. It did not seem possible that he could feel so relaxed after being abducted. Yet he experienced a total sense of well-being and pleasant exhaustion.
"This is real," he told himself. "This is a prison cell."
Palmer rolled over the edge of the sofa and fell to the carpeted floor, trying to jar the reality of the situation into his dazed foggy mind. The bastards drugged me, he thought. Scopolamine will be next . . . or torture.
The deputy director of the CIA tried to prepare himself for whatever ordeal awaited him. Drugs would not be a problem, not even the GB/Sarin compound. Hypnosis would not work, either, because Palmer knew how it worked and how to guard against subtle hypnotic suggestion.
Torture was another matter. Some people claim to be masters of astral projection. That might be the ideal method of dealing with torture—by sending one's soul out of the body while the bad guys oil their thumbscrews. But Palmer did not believe in Eastern mysticism and even if it worked, the astral body would still have to come back to a butchered shell afterward.
There are only two practical ways to deal with torture. One is suicide. The other is to tell your captors convincing lies and half truths and hope they buy it.
Professional torturers take their time with a subject. Psychology is as much a tool as actual pain. They will let a victim's mind prey on the various types of horror that man can inflict on a fellow human being and hope the subject will frighten himself into breaking.
The torturers would not do anything that might cause heart failure or shock ... not at first, anyway. They would probably start with the feet and hands because thousands of nerve endings are located there and half the two hundred six bones in a human body are in these extremities. They would not graduate to eyeball gouging and castration until later.
Palmer would have to endure as much torment as possible before he started to blab misleading and false information to his keepers. He would have to make it convincing and not spill too much too quickly. It would be the most ugly, horrible experience in his life. Palmer trembled.
"Where are those poison capsules I read about in the spy novels," he muttered out loud.
"If you had had one we would have found it and confiscated it," a voice declared.
Palmer gazed up at a heavyset man with Asian features who stood at the barred door. He wore a black Oriental robe of some sort, and a pair of uniformed muscle boys stood in the corridor beside him.
"Don't tell me," Palmer began, trying to sound calmer than he felt. "You studied English at UCLA, right? Go back home, fella. I'm not going to tell you shit."
"You will tell us everything we want to know, Palmer," Oshimi replied. "And you won't have to say a word."
Aaron Palmer stared at his jailer. The guy's bluffing, he thought, trying to convince himself that Oshimi's confidence was a facade.
"Okay, Fu Manchu," Palmer sneered. "Let's get on with it, you bastard."
"My feelings exactly," Oshimi smiled.
13
The F-4 Phantom fighter jet landed at the U.S. Naval Base at Pearl Harbor on the Hawaiian island of Oahu. Commander Burke had personally flown Phoenix Force to their destination. He did not ask any questions about their mission. ONI had told him the five men had a top-level clearance from the Oval Office.
Of course, Burke had wondered about his passengers and their luggage. He had noticed that three of the men packed guns under their jackets. The Hispanic and the Oriental were probably heeled, too, but Burke had not noticed the tell tale bulges of concealed weapons. The Japanese had some sort of sword in a cloth case, and the commander could only guess how much hardware they had in their baggage—or what they would do with it when they reached Hawaii.
Burke watched the mystery men walk from the plane. He should have been offended. After all, he was a commander in the United States Navy, and he had been reduced to the level of an airborne taxi driver. Yet, somehow he felt there was no disgrace in assisting these five men.
A tall lean man with iron-gray hair, dressed in a white uniform and carrying an attaché case, met Phoenix Force at the runway. His shoulder boards held the rank of rear admiral, and the sour expression on his face revealed he was less than delighted to meet the five men.
"I'm Admiral St. Clair," he announced stiffly. "I've been instructed by Fleet Admiral Sirak to assist you in any way possible."
"We appreciate your situation," Katzenelenbogen said quickly. "This is certainly awkward for you, but I hope you understand this is a very important matter of national security."
"I realize that," St. Clair replied. "But I'm not accusto
med to taking orders from civilians."
"We're all acting in the interest of the United States of America," Manning told him.
"So I've been told," St. Clair replied, nodding. He handed the briefcase to Yakov. "This was delivered by a special courier. I was told the combination lock is identical to the 'number of the fish.' I assume you know what that means."
"I hope so," the Israeli said, grinning. "Hate to have to shoot the lock off."
St. Clair was not amused. He escorted them to a U.S. Government limousine. Phoenix Force climbed into the back; the admiral drove the vehicle. Yakov then passed the briefcase to Rafael.
One of the Cuban's nicknames was Pescado or "Fish," given to him because of his ability as a frogman. The "number of the fish" referred to Encizo's social-security number. Rafael worked the combination and opened the briefcase. Inside the valise were five file folders, one for each member of Phoenix Force.
The information inside the folders was identical. It concerned an individual: Professor Edward Oshimi.
EDWARD OSHIMI was fifty-three years old. Japanese American. He and his family had been moved to an internment camp during World War II because of U.S. government concern about possible espionage agents among Asian Americans. While in confinement, Edward's mother had died of tuberculosis.
After the war Hirito Oshimi, Edward's father, made a remarkable climb. He became the manager of a Japanese-American corporation that imported transistorized products from Japan. This proved highly profitable in the 1950s.
Edward, meanwhile, excelled in school. A genius in mathematics and physics, he enrolled in the Cheney College of Advanced Sciences and continued to earn scholastic honors.
In 1956 the senior Oshimi died of stomach cancer. Because of his success as a businessman and his wisdom in careful investments and savings, he left $12,000,000 to Edward, his only son.
