by Gar Wilson
The KGB officer weaved from the path of the blade. His left hand seized the bandit's wrist above the knife as his right shoved the Makarov into the Mongol's stomach. He squeezed the trigger. The report of the pistol was muffled by the bandit's body. The bullet punched through the bandit as if he was a cardboard dummy. The shock made muscles freeze. The bandit simply stood rigid, unable to struggle or even cry out.
Alekseyev thrust his arm and slammed the butt of the Makarov into the bandit's face. The blow knocked the Mongol to the ground where he passed out and began to bleed to death. Alekseyev turned to see the barrel of a Tokarev rifle aimed at his face. A bandit on horseback pointed the weapon at the Russian and smiled as he prepared to pull the trigger.
The bandit's head suddenly snapped to the side. His ear touched his shoulder, but he did not feel the contact. A parabellum round had split his right temple and had blasted the left side of his skull into a gory debris of bone and brain matter. His corpse fell from the saddle. The Tokarev went off when impact with the ground shoved the trigger into the dead man's finger. The bullet shrieked into the sky.
David McCarter had exhausted the thirty-two-round magazine of his Ingram machine pistol. There had been no time to reload, so the British warrior had quickly drawn his Browning Hi-Power from shoulder leather. He had seen that the bandit was about to waste Alekseyev. McCarter had aimed and fired, relying on years of combat training and experience. The pistol champion had placed the bullet right on target and had watched the outlaw fall.
"I just saved a bloody KGB agent's life," McCarter muttered. "This mission is really absurd."
Another bandit on horseback galloped around the nose of the Z1L-150. He rode past Dzhambin and failed to notice the Mongol soldier until Dzhambin attacked. The driver had finished putting out the flames on the hood of the truck. He lashed out with the closest available weapon, swinging the fire extinguisher and hitting the bandit under the ribs.
The blow knocked the outlaw from the back of his mount. The bandit crashed to earth, his breath driven from his lungs. He tried to raise his Simonov carbine, but Dzhambin's boot stamped the bandit's weapon and pinned it to the ground. The Mongol outlaw stared up to see Dzhambin raise the fire extinguisher overhead. The soldier brought it down hard, smashing the bandit's face. The man's skull cracked, and blood and brains leaked from the back of his head.
John Trent had moved toward the flames and smoke of the wreckage that had formerly been the Zim automobile. He crouched among the burning chunks of metal and upholstery while the bandits charged forward. The ninja allowed them to pass him, then rose from his camouflage to attack from behind.
Trent stuck his .45 pistol into his belt and grabbed the hilt of his ninja-do with both hands. He crept behind two bandits and struck with the deadly blade. A diagonal sword stroke split the nape of a bandit's neck and severed his spinal cord. The man was dead before he hit the ground. The second bandit turned and saw Trent lunge forward. The tip of the ninja-do plunged into the outlaw's throat. Seven inches of sharp steel punched through the man's windpipe, popped apart vertebrae and pierced the back of his neck.
Another bandit saw Trent and swung an old Model 1933 Tokarev pistol at the ninja. Trent immediately released his sword with its blade still firmly lodged in the throat of the man he had just eliminated. The ninja followed a basic principle of martial arts: the fastest way to move one's body from an attack is simply to collapse on the ground.
The ninja dropped a half second before the bandit's Tokarev barked. Two 7.62 mm messengers whistled above Trent's prone body as the ninja drew his Colt and returned fire. Trent pumped two big .45 slugs into the upper torso of his would-be assassin. The bandit staggered, fell to one knee and then tumbled onto his back — dead.
Rafael Encizo fired the last rounds from his H&K machine pistol into the chest of a Mongol gunman armed with an AK-47. The bandit fell back and knocked a Tokarev rifle from the hands of one of his comrades. The bandit snarled something in Mongolian and pulled an old Nagant revolver from his belt. A weapon designed in 1895 — although used by the Russian military as late as 1945 — the Nagant was as big as a British Webley, although it fired a diminutive 7.62 mm cartridge and featured a unique seven-round cylinder.
Encizo recognized but did not waste time thinking about his opponent's weapon. All that concerned him was the fact that the Mongol hoodlum was trying to kill him. The Cuban warrior charged forward and chopped the barrel of his empty MP-5 across the gunman's wrist. The Nagant fell from numb fingers. Encizo quickly rammed the muzzle into the bandit's solar plexus. The guy doubled up as the Phoenix pro pulled a Cold Steel Tanto from a belt sheath.
The Cuban slashed out with the big knife. The thick, ultrasharp blade of the Tanto sliced open the side of the bandit's neck, severing the carotid artery and the jugular. Blood gushed from the terrible wound as the Mongol outlaw crumbled to the ground. No sooner had the man hit the ground than another bandit attacked Encizo, wielding a fighting dagger with a nine-inch blade.
The Phoenix fighter met his opponent's charge, the steel Tanto dancing in the light of the flames that had licked the wreckage of the Zim. The Mongol knife artist realized Encizo was no stranger to knife fighting. The Cuban held his blade low in an underhand grip with the cutting edge aimed at the bandit. The Mongol's left hand streaked out as if to grab for Encizo's wrist. The Cuban slashed, but the bandit withdrew his hand and lashed out with his dagger.
Encizo raised the empty MP-5 in his left hand. The steel frame blocked the bandit's knife thrust. Encizo's right arm whipped forward, and the edge of his Tanto sliced the nerve center at his opponent's armpit. The Mongol screamed and dropped his dagger, blood oozing under his arm. Encizo executed a backhand sweep, slashing the knife across the wounded man's throat. Crimson spilled onto the bandit's shirt front as he stumbled backward. The Mongol pawed at his slit throat. His eyes rolled upward, and he sank to the ground as if suddenly bored with life and willing to accept death — not that he had a choice.
Gary Manning fired a three-round burst from his FAL rifle and drilled the trio of 7.62 mm slugs into the face of an attacker. Bullets burst the guy's eyeballs in their sockets and burned through his brain before finding the back of his skull.
A large shape loomed up in the Canadian's peripheral vision. Manning turned sharply to face the last bandit on horseback. The Mongol outlaw lashed out with a Simonov carbine. He had used all his ammo and was holding the weapon by the barrel, using it as a club. The wooden stock missed Manning's head, but it connected with the FAL and knocked the rifle from the Phoenix pro's grasp.
Manning leaped forward and seized the Mongol before his opponent could swing the empty carbine again. The Canadian grabbed the bandit's shirt front and hauled him out of the saddle as the horse bolted out from under him. Manning jammed a hand into the startled man's crotch and lifted him overhead like a weight lifter performing a military press.
Another bandit saw this as an ideal opportunity to rush forward and plunge a knife between the Canadian's ribs. He charged toward Manning, but the Phoenix strongman hurled the first bandit at the knife man. Mongol outlaw crashed into Mongol outlaw and both men hit the ground, dazed. Manning did not give them a chance to recover. He rushed forward and stomped on the neck of one bandit, crunching vertebrae under his boot heel. The other outlaw gazed up to see Manning's fist rocket into his face. The punch broke his nose and knocked him out cold.
Calvin James pumped two .45 caliber slugs into the belly and chest of a gun-wielding bandit. The guy went down, and James saw the slide to his Colt had locked back to reveal the empty breech. He reached for a fresh magazine and pressed the release catch to dump the spent mag from the butt of his Commander.
Suddenly a bandit attacked, swinging an empty Tokarev rifle like an axe. James sidestepped the attack and hooked a tae kwon do kick at his opponent's gut. The bandit doubled up with a groan, and the stock of the Tokarev struck the ground hard. James chopped the butt of his Colt into the man's kidney. The bandit howle
d in pain but suddenly whirled and lashed out with the rifle.
The wood stock struck James's forearm. The blow stunned the ulna nerve, and James's fist opened, the Commander falling from his hand. The Mongol outlaw raised his Tokarev and swung a kick at the black man's groin. James shifted a leg to protect himself, and the bandit's boot hit thigh muscle, but the outlaw slashed the Tokarev at the Phoenix fighter's face.
James ducked under the butt stroke and rammed a fist into his opponent's solar plexus. He hooked a heel-of-the-palm blow at the man's forearm to keep the bandit off-balance as he shuffled to the outlaw's side. James drove a knee at the guy's abdomen, and the Mongol doubled up once more. The black man chopped the side of his hand across the nape of his opponent's neck. The bandit fell on his face. James kicked him behind the ear to make sure the guy would not get up for a while.
The last bandit tried to bury a knife in Dzhambin's right kidney. The Mongol soldier turned as the blade flashed. Sharp steel cut Dzhambin along the rib cage. He cried out in pain and pumped an elbow into the face of his attacker. The bandit staggered from the blow, blood trickling from a nostril. He prepared to lunge with the knife, but David McCarter shot him between the eyes with his Browning Hi-Power.
"Well, pil-grim," McCarter remarked like John Wayne, as he blew smoke from the muzzle of his pistol, "I reckon that wraps it up."
"Hardly," Yakov Katzenelenbogen replied. "This is just the beginning. This attack wasn't happenstance. Somebody sent those bandits to kill us."
"And you still believe this TRIO organization is responsible?" Alekseyev asked. The Russian fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes.
"More than ever," the Israeli confirmed. "Whoever sent the bandits must have been watching us at the installation. They must have had an idea who we were and decided they had to get rid of us fast."
"How could they know who you are behind those damn masks?" the Russian demanded as he lit a cigarette.
"TRIO probably has a general description of us," Katz answered. "Just as your people in the KGB have. TRIO is worried, although they might have less reason to be than they realize."
"Dzhambin isn't hurt badly," Calvin James, the unit medic announced. "Knife just grazed him. Still, I think somebody else should drive the truck. Our Mongol friend did pretty well in a firefight. So did you, Major."
"We're sorry about Abakumov and Professor Sudoplatov," Manning told the KGB officer. "Nobody knew anything like this would happen."
"I was responsible for them," Alekseyev said grimly. "I should have arranged better security."
"It wasn't your fault, Major," Katz assured him. "You have no reason to feel guilty. However, we must concentrate on the mission now, so that their deaths were not in vain."
"You are right. Let's get out of here," Alekseyev replied.
8
Colonel Vasily Pushkin grimly listened to Major Alekseyev's report. The KGB director of special operations in the Mongolian People's Republic was not pleased with the story, nor was he happy about the masked stranger Alekseyev had brought into his office at the Soviet embassy in Ulan Bator. The man called himself Gray and was supposed to be some sort of superspy or ultimate warrior working for the Americans.
"If I didn't have orders directly from the Kremlin that I am to cooperate with you people," Pushkin declared, glaring at the two men who sat facing his desk, "I would have you arrested. That includes you, Comrade Alekseyev."
"Don't even think of it, Colonel," Katzenelenbogen warned.
"You dare threaten me?" Pushkin demanded. "Might I remind you that this embassy is the property of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics?"
"If you try to arrest us," Katz said mildly, "this embassy will be a pile of smoking rubble. But let's not be unpleasant, Colonel. There's been enough unpleasantness already."
"A KGB agent and a noted Soviet scientist have been killed," Pushkin declared, "and an officer of the Mongolian People's Army. I'm going to have to do a lot of explaining to the Khural as well as to Moscow. That means I want some answers from you men that make more sense than what I've heard so far."
"We can only tell you what happened," Alekseyev stated.
"And the only explanation you have is that an alleged Oriental crime syndicate is responsible," the KGB colonel scoffed. "Something called TRIO? At least, that's what this American coward who hides behind a mask claims."
"I'm wearing this mask because we're enemies, Colonel," Katz replied. "My group and I have fought the KGB on several occasions. Your organization has been involved in some of the most fiendish and corrupt conspiracies we've ever encountered, including a KGB operation in Greece that concerned a CBW weapon called the Proteus Enzyme. I don't believe the KGB or the Soviet government have changed very much. After all, your people were producing the VL-800 formula here in Mongolia."
"Then why are you helping us if we're enemies?" Pushkin asked suspiciously. "If indeed you really are helping us."
"We have our reasons, and if you don't know about them, that's because the Kremlin doesn't feel you have a need to know," Katz told him. "For now we'd better concentrate on how we're going to deal with TRIO."
"You should be able to tell us how to do that, Gray," Pushkin sneered. "Obviously you know all about this crime syndicate."
"Actually," Katz began, "we know very little about TRIO. Apparently it was formed some time in the late seventies. About the same time MERGE was created."
"MERGE?" Pushkin frowned.
"MERGE is another international crime network," Katz explained. "Factions of the Mafia joined forces with the Colombian syndicate that deals largely with cocaine, the Corsican syndicate, which is active in Western Europe and deals in heroin, and the so-called Mexican Mafia, which is active in Mexico and parts of the southwestern United States."
"And you've encountered MERGE in your adventures?"
"Once or twice," Katz confirmed. "TRIO is similar to MERGE, although it is comprised of Asian criminals, who are well organized and very professional."
"Don't you know where their headquarters is located?"
"No idea," Katz admitted. "We suspect they might have floating headquarters. The leaders probably travel from one country to another. They might supervise a major operation and stay in the area long enough to get the mission off the ground, but they seem to hand the duties of leadership to subchiefs and move on to a new locale. They certainly wouldn't keep a major headquarters here in Mongolia. Far too risky."
"Criminals don't operate in a Communist country because our system gives people equality and order," Pushkin said smuggly.
"Your system is a police state," Katz replied. "The KGB is the largest intelligence organization in the world. The Soviet GRU is the second largest. Together the USSR intel outfits have close to two million personnel."
"That is because we have enemies in the West who threaten our country," Pushkin declared.
"Then why is only one-tenth of the KGB and GRU used in foreign service?" Katz inquired. "The vast majority of your operations are conducted within the Soviet Union. The Kremlin has its spies concentrating on the Soviet people, eighty-five percent of whom are not members of the Communist Party and have no say about how the USSR operates. The Kremlin is terrified of its subjects because, if Moscow falls, it will be the Soviet people who pull it down. Of course, they can't revolt against communism unless they can organize and they can't do that because the KGB, the GRU and millions of paid informers are constantly spying on them."
"Lies and propaganda," Pushkin said, his eyes narrowed with anger. "The Soviet Union offers greater freedom than the imperialist government of the United States..."
"The Soviet Union is a one-party government," the Phoenix Force commander stated. "Only members of the Communist Party have any say about the government. In the United States there are two major political parties, but one doesn't have to be a Democrat or a Republican to vote. There are also several smaller political parties — the Libertarians, the U.S. Labor Party, even the American Communist Part
y. A man named Gus Hall ran for President of the United States on the Communist party ticket. He even campaigned on television. If that doesn't offer freedom of choice, what does? In America a person can buy copies of Das Kapital or The Communist Manifesto in bookstores or read these works by Karl Marx in a public library. In the Soviet Union, books and literature are censored. Citizens in your country can't read copies of the U.S. Constitution or the Declaration of Independence."
"Subversive material," Pushkin remarked. He squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.
"Leaders of the SDS and the Black Panthers wrote articles that endorsed the overthrow of the U.S. government," Katz said with a shrug. "But even these books were printed and sold to the public. Perhaps because the majority of Americans would never support such politics. Americans can see both sides of any issue or political system, if they care enough to look. That isn't a system that runs on fear and ignorance. The Soviet government terrorizes its people with the secret police and threats of Siberian labor camps and government asylums for dissidents. The Communists refuse to allow the public to read material that criticizes their system or offers alternative forms of government. What freedom can you claim for the Soviet Union, Colonel Pushkin?"
"Gentlemen," Major Alekseyev said quickly. "Let's not argue about these political matters. We should concentrate on the VL-800 formula and whether or not this TRIO organization stole it."
"I'm convinced TRIO is responsible," Katz declared. "If the KGB wants to pursue the idea that the Chinese stole the formula, you're welcome to do so. But my team is going after TRIO. We'll let you know how our mission turns out..."
"Wait a moment," Pushkin insisted. "I didn't say we wouldn't pursue the possibility that TRIO is responsible. Now, why would these Asian hoodlums want the formula?"
"Blackmail, murder, to sell to other countries," Katz said with a shrug. "Any number of ways they can make a profit with it. TRIO is clever and well organized with branches all over the world. They'll find a market for the formula. Although, I must admit, I'm surprised they did something this rash. Ripping off a Soviet installation in a Communist country is very risky. Perhaps they just assumed the USSR didn't know about them and would be busy blaming the Americans or the Chinese."
