by Gar Wilson
A long blade whistled through the gap. Sharp steel caught the soldier under the chin. He dropped his rifle and staggered away from the door. Both hands clutched at his throat, and blood streamed between his fingers. He collapsed on the floor, life draining out of the gruesome grin beneath his chin.
The other trooper swung his Kalashnikov toward the door. The lieutenant also turned in the same direction. Neither man saw the black shape emerge from beneath the desk. The assassin shoved the dead sergeant aside, rose quickly and fired his silenced pistol twice. Both bullets tore into the soldier's back, drilling him between the shoulder blades. The trooper screamed and fell forward, his spine severed.
The infantry lieutenant whirled and fired his Makarov. A 9 mm slug punched into the Asian gunman's chest. The assassin fell back, but he triggered his silenced weapon. A bullet burned through the lieutenant's stomach. The Russian officer fired his pistol again and pumped a round into the heart of his opponent.
As the Asian fell, another black-clad figure burst through the door. The lieutenant glimpsed the sword in the man's fist. The blade flashed and chopped through the officer's wrist with a single stroke. The Makarov hit the floor, still clutched in the lieutenant's fist. Blood jetted from the stump at the end of his arm.
The lieutenant wailed in agony, but his pain was brief. The swordsman raised his weapon and swung it once more. The blade struck the nape of the wounded officer's neck. Steel sliced through muscle and bone, and the lieutenant's head dropped to the floor. The decapitated body twitched briefly as the black-clad invaders hurried inside.
Two Soviet soldiers met the intruders in the corridor. Their AK-47 assault rifles were difficult to maneuver in the narrow area, and they spent a second or two fumbling with the long-barreled weapons. That time cost them their lives. The Asians shot them down with pistol fire. One invader slit their throats to be certain both soldiers were dead while the others continued to swarm through the installation. Captain Zagorsky and Lieutenant Pasternak emerged from the KGB officers' quarters. They held Makarov pistols in their fists, but neither man was experienced in combat. Pasternak's eyes glowed, and his smile was a grimace plastered across his youthful features. He had hoped for an opportunity to kill someone, anyone. When he was sixteen, Pasternak had settled an argument with his father by stabbing him to death. They had locked him in a cell until the KGB decided to recruit him for their Morkrie Dela assassination section. Pasternak had eagerly awaited a chance to kill again, and it seemed that chance had finally arrived.
Zagorsky had two concerns: personal survival and keeping the VL-800 formula from falling into the hands of the invaders. He had never fired a weapon except at a target range. He did not have the desire to kill anyone, but he wanted to live, and he would use the gun if he had to. The captain found little comfort in the fact he held a gun in his fist. He had never done well at the firing range.
Damn it, he though angrily. I'm a captain with the Administrative and Supply Directorate, not Spetsburo or Morkrie Dela. Shooting people and being shot at is not part of the job.
"There they are!" Pasternak cried with delight when he saw a black-clad figure dart from a corner at the end of the corridor.
The lieutenant fired his pistol. The shape had already dropped to the floor, and the bullets passed harmlessly above him. The lead missiles burrowed into a wall as another invader in black peered around the corner. He removed two star-shaped objects from a pouch on his belt and hurled them at the lieutenant.
One metal disc whirled past Pasternak, narrowly missing Captain Zagorsky as the senior officer dashed for the laboratory. If the lieutenant wanted to stay and fight, Zagorsky was willing to let him. He heard Pasternak scream when the second star struck his chest. Pasternak's pistol roared as he fired at the man who had wounded him with the thrown weapon. The bullet smashed a chunk of plaster from the corner of the wall where the assassin lurked but missed its intended target.
The man who had thrown himself to the floor aimed a pistol at Pasternak and squeezed off two shots. Both bullets struck the lieutenant in the lower abdomen. As hot metal tore into the officer's intestines, he doubled up with a groan of agony. A third steel star hurtled from the end of the corridor. Sharp points struck the top of Pasternak's head. The star pierced bone. The KGB lieutenant slumped to the floor, blood oozing from his skull.
Zagorsky charged into the laboratory. A soldier jerked his rifle toward the ceiling and sighed with relief. He had almost opened fire on the KGB commander but had recognized him before pulling the trigger. Stolyarov and Voroshilov had heard the shooting. They had no idea what had happened or what to do about it. The two soldiers who had been assigned to help them load the VL-800 in crates were nearly as confused as the chemists. They decided to simply stay put and wait for an officer to tell them what to do.
"What's going on, Captain?" Stolyarov asked. "Has someone attacked the installation?"
"Yes," Zagorsky replied, gasping for breath. "They got past the guards and they're fighting with soldiers in the building. I think they may have killed Lieutenant Pasternak. Six or seven of them attacked us. When the lieutenant went down, I knew I couldn't hold them off any longer. At least I got three, maybe four of them. But there are many more to deal with."
"Who are they?" Voroshilov asked. "Bandits?"
"I don't think so," Zagorsky stated. "Right now, that doesn't matter. The mission comes first. That means we have to concentrate on protecting the VL-800 formula. How much of it has been packed in the crates?"
"Thirteen liters," Voroshilov answered.
"That'll have to do," the KGB officer declared. "You can make more later when we get relocated at another site. Wherever we set up next, it won't be in Mongolia. Damn those idiots at the Kremlin! Why they insisted on sending us here is beyond me."
"They probably thought that there would be less of a chance of the Soviet public learning about our work with chemical-biological weapons if we conducted our activities outside the USSR," Stolyarov commented. "So what do we do?"
"The VL-800 in the crates has been safely sealed in lead containers, correct?" Zagorsky asked. He was almost as frightened of the killer chemicals as he was of the armed attackers.
"Of course," Stolyarov assured him. "We handle this stuff all the time, and we're very careful with it. If we weren't, we probably wouldn't be alive to talk about it. For that matter, none of us would be. VL-800 is tasteless, odorless and very lethal. All you need to do is..."
"I know," Zagorsky said sharply. "I know all about it. Now let's carry the crates outside and load them on the truck."
"What about the lab?" Voroshilov asked.
"There's a destruct system built into the lab for just such an emergency," Zagorsky explained. "An incendiary device will be ignited and everything in this room will burn, including the VL-800 left here. We'll switch on the timer as we leave. That'll give us three minutes to get out of here before the place goes up. If we're lucky, all those bastards who broke in here will go up with it."
Each crate contained four liters. Two crates were already packed and sealed. A third contained three lead-lined jars with sealed metal lids. There was room for one more. Zagorsky gestured at the two soldiers.
"One of you guard the door to the corridor," he instructed. "Keep it locked and bolted. You!" The KGB officer pointed at the closest trooper. He recalled that giving orders in vague terms was sloppy and ineffective. It was best to give direct orders to a specific individual. "I want you to finish sealing the last crate."
"You don't expect us to take time to prepare a last liter for shipping?" Stolyarov asked in astonishment.
"No," Zagorsky assured him. "I just want the crate sealed. We'll take the... what is it? Eleven liters actually crated? You told me it was thirteen."
"Two canisters are ready, but the formula isn't in them yet," Voroshilov explained. "I'm sorry. I'm not thinking straight..."
"You damn well better start!" Zagorsky snapped. "You scientists are such smug intellectuals. You think
you know everything. You criticize your government, the military and the KGB, but, you come apart in a crisis like rotted fruit!"
Zagorsky realized he was wasting precious time shouting at the chemists. He suddenly moved to a fuse box at the corner of the room, opened the metal lid and inserted a key in a compartment beneath the fuses.
"What are you doing, Zagorsky?" Stolyarov demanded. He was sick and tired of the KGB officer.
"Just canceling the security override for the timer for the incendiary destruct mechanism," Zagorsky replied.
Zagorsky had lied. He had, in fact, activated the incendiary destruct device. They had three minutes to escape, but only Zagorsky knew this. The enemy could burst into the lab at any moment. Someone had to remain to slow them down.
Zagorsky believed he had decided who would be saved and who would be sacrificed in a fair and coldly logical manner. The soldiers were enlisted men. Their worth to the state was minimal, in Zagorsky's opinion. They were more expendable than Voroshilov and Stolyarov. The chemists had vital skills. They were not trained to handle weapons and therefore would be useless in holding off the enemy. Naturally Zagorsky himself had to survive: he was a trained KGB agent, an official of the state, and he would have to report the incident in detail. A trained observer, he could do this better than a pair of panic-stricken chemists. Zagorsky had to protect the scientists until they reached safety. He had to guard the VL-800 with his life. It was all perfectly logical: Zagorsky would accompany the scientists and sacrifice the soldiers.
"Bring the first crate," Zagorsky told Voroshilov and Stolyarov as he unbolted the thick steel fire door that led to the Z1L-151 truck outside.
The chemists grabbed the rope handles of the nearest crate. The box containing the lead-lined canisters was heavy. Zagorsky opened the fire door and stepped outside, pistol in hand. Voroshilov and Stolyarov carried the crate to the big ZIL-151. The KGB man slammed the fire door and hastily locked it.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Zagorsky?" Stolyarov demanded.
"Shut up and get that crate in the truck," the KGB agent replied, pointing his Makarov at the chemist's chest.
"The soldiers…" Stolyarov began.
"They're expendable," Zagorsky replied. "So are you. Now get that crate in..."
Voroshilov had already removed a section from the gate at the rear of the truck. He barely glimpsed the boot that swung from the opening before it delivered a hard kick to the side of his skull. Voroshilov fell, stunned by the vicious blow. A figure in black pointed his pistol at Zagorsky.
The KGB officer gasped and swung his Makarov toward the gunman. A bullet struck Zagorsky in the belly. He heard the shot, but did not see the muzzle flash of the pistol fired by another gunman positioned beneath the truck. Zagorsky cried out and staggered backward. The gunman at the tailgate fired two more rounds into the KGB man's torso. Zagorsky collapsed, his body trembling as life seeped away.
Stolyarov was dumbfounded. He raised his hands in surrender. The chemist did not know what else to do. Asian hit men emerged from under the truck and jumped down from the rear of the vehicle. One of them calmly shot Professor Voroshilov in the head while two others loaded the crate into the ZIL-151.
No one seemed to pay any attention to Stolyarov. The chemist wondered if it was all a dream. Perhaps he would awake from the nightmare to discover he was at home in Leningrad, lying in bed with Anna by his side. Stolyarov would have been glad to simply wake up in his cot outside the installation. He closed his eyes and prayed that none of what he had seen was real.
Four Asian killers jogged around the corner from the front of the building. One man drew his sword and charged toward Aleksandr Mikhalivich Stolyarov. The Russian chemist heard a furious battle cry. He felt air rush against his skin as something slashed at his neck. Stolyarov still kept his eyes shut. If it was just a dream, he would wake unharmed. If it was real...
A flash of terrible pain jolted through his neck. The shock was so great his brain seized. Stolyarov's head hit the ground and rolled more than a meter before coming to rest near the rear of the truck. A foot kicked it aside as the black-garbed killers scrambled into the back of the ZIL-151. There was plenty of room in the vehicle since it was designed to haul three tons.
The incendiary explosion ripped through the lab, releasing a chemical similar to napalm, which the Soviets had been rumored to use against rebel forces in Afghanistan. The fireball instantly consumed the laboratory and the two unsuspecting soldiers still stationed there. The Asian behind the wheel of the ZIL-151 stomped on the gas. The truck bolted from the area. A few members of the hit team had missed the rendezvous at the truck. There was no leeway for waiting now. The stragglers were on their own.
The truck raced from the installation as the building burned. Windows burst from heat, and flames danced throughout the structure. The hit squad watched the fire from the back of the fleeing ZIL-151 until the blaze resembled a distant campfire. Several men smiled with grim satisfaction. A few laughed and punched their comrades on the arms, but most remained quiet and thoughtful. The first phase of their mission was complete, but there was much left to do.
It was only the beginning...
2
"How do you feel?" Colonel Yakov Katzenelenbogen inquired as he approached the hospital bed.
"Like I should have packed a white flag with my gear," John Trent replied with a thin smile.
"Yeah," Calvin James commented. "The cavalry arrived after we took care of all the bad guys, and one of them mistakes you for a terrorist and you get shot by somebody on your own side. Ain't that a bitch?"
"I don't blame the soldier who shot me," Trent assured his companions. "They knew there were enemy ninja in the Vatican, and I was dressed in ninja clothing."
"Nonetheless," Katzenelenbogen began, "you were very lucky, John. The bullet struck a couple of steel throwing stars in your breast pocket. Must have impacted at an awkward angle, because it glanced off your chest. I'm sure it felt like you'd been kicked by a mule. The doctor tells us all you suffered was a bruised rib."
"Is everyone else all right?" Trent asked.
"Calvin and Rafael were worked over pretty bad," Katz answered. "But they weren't seriously injured."
"Wanna see my Purple Heart?" James asked. He held up his left hand. The tip of his little finger was bandaged. "Rafael got a dandy scar in his right palm. It's a perfect circle. Looks like somebody put a red-hot coin in his hand."
"What happened to him?" Trent inquired.
"Somebody put a red-hot coin in his hand."
Calvin James spoke of the incident in a casual manner, but Yakov Katzenelenbogen realized that both the tough black hardass from Chicago and Rafael Encizo, a Cuban warrior and a veteran of the Bay of Pigs invasion, carried emotional scars far worse than the relatively minor physical wounds they had brought home from the mission. To be injured in battle is bad enough, but the torture chamber inflicts a special kind of wound, Katz knew this from experience.
Few men could match Katzenelenbogen's exceptional background as a soldier, espionage agent, freedom fighter, antiterrorist and special operations commander. His remarkable career had started during his teenage years in Europe. His family were Russian Jews who had fled to France after the Bolshevik Revolution. Yakov's father had been a noted translator and linguist. The Bolsheviks had declared open season on intellectuals who had failed to embrace communism, so the Katzenelenbogen had decided to move to a safer residence.
The rise of Adolph Hitler brought a new nightmare to Yakov's family. Most of the Katzenelenbogen clan died in the Nazi death camps, but young Yakov joined the resistance and fought the invaders. Already fluent in French, German, Russian and English, Yakov infiltrated enemy lines on his bicycle and quietly gathered information for the underground. He came to the attention of the American OSS, which enlisted his talents for several missions during the war.
After Berlin fell, Katz moved to Palestine and joined the Israeli war for independence. Constant bat
tles and mini-wars followed. Katz married and raised a son, but his wife was killed in a car accident — at least, it was officially listed as an accident — and his son was killed during the Six-Day War. The explosion that killed his son also claimed Katz's right arm. Damaged beyond repair, the limb had to be amputated at the elbow.
Despite this disability, Katz continued to pursue his career as a top-notch espionage agent. He rose quickly in the ranks of Mossad, Israel's main intelligence organization. He had added Hebrew and Arabic to his battery of languages and had amassed a smattering of several other tongues as well. To gain needed cooperation from the Western powers, the Israelis traded Katz for favors. He was possibly the only man-in history to serve with the American CIA, the British SIS, the West German BND and the French Sûreté.
Yet Katz's greatest challenge, and the zenith of his career, was to be chosen to act as the unit commander of Phoenix Force. A five-man team of the best antiterrorists and commando specialists in the free world, Phoenix Force had been created by Mack Bolan, better known as the Executioner, and Bolan's longtime ally, Hal Brognola.
The other members of Phoenix Force were younger than Katz, but they had crammed as much experience and expertise into their lives as their years permitted. Rafael Encizo, the former Cuban freedom fighter, had been captured by the Communists after the Bay of Pigs had failed. Encizo was sent to El Principe, Castro's infamous political prison. He had been starved, beaten and tortured, but he had not broken. Encizo had eventually killed a guard and had escaped from Cuba, fleeing to the United States.
Encizo had worked at many professions. He had once been a scuba instructor, a professional bodyguard and an insurance investigator, and he had searched for sunken treasure off the coast of Bermuda. He had found his true calling when he had joined Phoenix Force.
Gary Manning was a muscular Canadian combat expert. A superb rifle marksman and one of the best demolitions men in the world, Manning had acquired his battlefield experience as a "special observer" in Vietnam. He had been attached to the Fifth Special Forces and had participated in numerous missions behind enemy lines. Manning was one of the few Canadian citizens to receive the Silver Star for courage during the Vietnam conflict.
