Wilson, Gar - Phoenix Force 05 - The Fury Bombs

by Anonymous Author

  Once he turned and looked up at the floor-indicator panels just as the elevator moved from the third floor to the second. A moment later he heard elevator doors open.

  A patroling guard stepped off. He was middle-aged and pot-bellied, an ex-cop gone to seed. He carried a time clock slung from one shoulder. He slipped it off as he came into the lobby. He also carried a flashlight.

  "Jesus, Charlie, my feet are...."

  The complaint broke off as the guard saw Liam.

  "Who the hell are you? Where's Charlie?"

  Liam quickly produced the Beretta.

  "Uh huh. You're the boss, mister. I don't know what you're after, but I ain't arguing with a gun," the guard said as his flashlight clattered to the floor.

  "'Turn around," Liam ordered.

  "Anything you say."

  "Move hack to the supply closet."

  The guard obeyed. Liam ordered him to open the door. He choked when he saw the two bodies. The front of the cleaning man's clothes were soaked with blood, which had puddled onto the floor.

  "Mother of God!"

  The Beretta slammed down, and the guard fell on top of the cleaning man's legs. He sagged forward, a moan escaped his lips. Liam hit him again, smashing the Beretta into the guard's brain, then slammed the door against the slumping body. He had killed before, with guns and explosives, but tonight was the first time he had ever killed with his own hands.

  It was the first time he had killed a man other than a hated Brit.

  He went back to the desk and sat down, breathing harshly. A moment later a car drove by. It was a police cruiser. Liam's thumping heart rose in his chest. "Oh, Christ," he said aloud. "Not now. Not when we're so close to success.... "

  4

  FOG swirled through the London streets, bringing a chill that cut through the warmest clothing. The street was heavily shadowed; every other streetlight had been turned off to conserve energy.

  David McCarter turned up the collar of his jacket against the chill and listened to the sounds of the night. Noise was deadened by the fog. He heard the drip, drip of a broken rain gutter, caught the distant clash of gears as a lorry changed speed and heard the soft slide of a leather sole against cobblestones.

  McCarter stopped. He was bone weary. He thought longingly of bed, of twelve hours of deep and dreamless sleep. He thought of not having to think, of not having to be alert at every moment. His tiredness was deeper than thebones; it clutched his soul.

  He moved onward then stopped again. The man following him was a fraction of a second late in doing the same.

  McCarter took inventory. He slipped a hand into his coat and felt the comforting bulk of the Colt Python in its shoulder holster. The Colt,chambered for the .357 Magnum slug, could stop a car. He shrugged his shoulders and felt the length of the sheathed Mark IV commando knife against his spine; he twitched a leg muscle and knew the familiar weight of the ankle gun, and he flexed his fingers, knowing his hands were the most deadly weapons of all.

  The fog played tricks with echoes. Where was his tail? Sound suddenly blasted into the night as a window was thrown open, rock music blaring at peak volume from a stereo. It cut off just as suddenly, but in those brief seconds McCarter had moved twenty yards farther and ducked into a shadowed doorway.

  He waited, listening. The footsteps sounded, running, the tail fearing he had lost him. David strained to see, then shrank back as a dark shape loomed out of the fog. The shape was coming straight toward him, arm held out, hand pointing a weapon. McCarter forgot his guns, forgot the knife. When the runner was only three paces away, he stepped out from the door-way. . .

  MCCARTER OPENED HIS EYES AND BLINKED. Thedream, the nightmare, was still vivid. Cold sweat had formed on his forehead.

  The girl who shared his bed was in a deep sleep, although it was the middle of the day. Her mouth was open. Her breathing was harsh, exaggerated.

  The room was as dark as night; the heavydraperies completely shut out the light of day. David listened, muscles and nerves tight with tension.

  Suddenly the girl snorted, then flopped onto her back. Her hand fell across David's hip, and he flinched. His breath caught in his throat, and he listened even more attentively.

  Something had awakened him.

  Someone was in the room.

  The flash of light as the intruder had opened the door and ducked inside had awakened him. Now he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  A black patch shifted, taking a step away from the door. The deep-piled carpeting muffled any sound.

  McCarter blinked his eyes until they adjusted to the darkness. He lay facing the door, his right arm on top of the bedcovers.

  He caught the musky odor of a man's cologne or after-shave.

  It was not his brand.

  Yet it was familiar.

  The black patch shifted again. The intruder took two more steps then stopped just out of arm's reach of the bed.

  McCarter's eyes could differentiate shades of darkness. He could make out that the intruder wore light clothing.

  McCarter shifted his left foot slightly, drawing it up a few inches, ready to spring. He let a whistling breath escape his mouth, his head lolling toward the girl, and then five seconds later lolling back again while his free hand came up, flopped back.

  The intruder froze, not moving for a count of sixty seconds. David tried to judge his size: six-two or -three, about 180 pounds.

  The intruder moved, reaching out with both hands.. . . McCarter launched himself from the bed. He hit the man in the belly with his shoulder. The intruder grunted in surprise and fell back. McCarter followed, but a foot tangled in the bedding brought him down.

  The girl sat up and screamed.

  McCarter went after the intruder as the man rolled away, scrabbling on his hands and fighting to free his foot from the bedcovers, which had followed him onto the floor. He snagged fingers into the other's belt, felt canvas. McCarter ducked as the intruder slammed an elbow back. He reached up and grabbed the man's collar as he tried to scramble to his feet, slamming his free knee into the small of the man's back.

  The other groaned and fell heavily, but McCarter's doubled leg took most of the dead-weight. He crooked an arm around the intruder's neck and used his other hand to lever his forearm against the intruder's chin.

  The man grunted again and tried to smash the back of his skull against McCarter's face. They rolled, thrashing, as the intruder fought to break the hold that was choking his breath. Thegirl was shrieking now, short sobbing cries that came as quickly as she could gulp air. "McCarter! Damn you, leave off!"

  The voice was a rasp, but the use of Mc-Carter's name made him hesitate just as he was ready to deliver the killing stroke. He rolled the man onto his belly and straddled him.

  "The drapes!" McCarter said. What the hell was her name? "For Christ's sake, Mavis, open the drapes. Turn on a light. And leave off the bloody bawling."

  The shrieks stopped, although she continued to snuffle as she fumbled for the lamp.

  McCarter blinked against the soft light and recognized the man beneath him.

  "Simms! You asshole. You ruddy bastard."

  "Let me up, Sergeant. Damn it, give off."

  McCarter released Simms's arm, rolled back and came to his feet. Major Geoffrey Simms sat up, rubbing the wrist of an injured arm. He wore starched khakis with the pips of his rank on the shoulder straps; the black beret of the SAS was rolled and tucked under one strap. He wore paratrooper's jump boots, polished to a gleam that threw back highlights from the lamp, and on his shoulder was the SAS patch.

  The SAS had been McCarter's outfit before he switched his allegiance to Phoenix Force. The SAS was the elite special army force that was Britain's last line of defense against terrorist activities.

  As commanding officer of McCarter's company, Major Geoffrey Simms had prompted him to apply for the unknown assignment that led to his selection for Phoenix Force. They had clashed almost from the moment of Simms's arrival, two me
n whose dislike for one another was returned in full measure.

  Ignoring his own nakedness, McCarter went to the suitcase that stood open on a stand against the wall and came out with the Colt Python. He turned and pointed it toward Simms while the major dusted off his clothes. When Simms looked up and saw the gun, he froze again.

  "You don't need that, Sergeant. This is an official visit."

  "I'm not in your bloody company now, Simms."

  "There's still a spot on our organizational chart marked with your name and rank, Sergeant. 'On detached service.' But still in Her Majesty's armed services."

  "But not subject to your orders."

  Simms blinked. "That's not why I'm here. I came to give you a message—some friends of yours have been trying to call you, but you don't answer."

  McCarter's eyes shot to the pager on top of the dresser, laid out beside his wallet and the contents of his pockets. He could see that the green signal light was off. He walked to the dresser and picked it up. The pager's switch was properly in the On position.

  "Bloody batteries," he said. Had it been working this morning when he checked into the hotel? He could not remember, and that was enough to worry him.

  He should not have been that tired.

  His life depended on staying alert, on knowing at all times what was happening around him, so when the moment of action came he would be ready.

  "All right, Simms. You delivered the message. Now get out."

  "Not yet. I was told to deliver you to a secure telephone, so get dressed and let's get moving."

  "What the hell's goin' on?" cried the woman, clutching the retrieved sheet to her nakedness. "Bloody men breakin' into a person's room! Who is this sod?"

  McCarter scooped her clothes from a chair and threw them at her, aware of the smirk on Simms's face. Hatred distorted McCarter's face. He dropped the Colt into the suitcase.

  "Get dressed, Mavis. It's time to go home."

  "The name is Clara," the woman said indignantly, but she retreated into the bathroom, clothes clutched in front of her.

  "Why you, Simms?" McCarter asked, getting dressed.

  "Why not me?" asked Simms, grinning without humor.

  McCarter knew Simms had taken on the errand himself, although it would have been just as simple to phone the hotel and tell McCarterto get in touch with Stony Man. Any flunky on a desk could have done it.

  Simms wanted this meeting. He wanted a chance to take McCarter unaware. He had been waiting for this for a long time; David knew with a certainty that he would be dead if Simms had come out the winner.

  But Simms had lost, and in losing he had quickly taken advantage of his official errand. The bastard. McCarter stepped into his trousers, buttoned his shirt.

  "Hurry up in there, Mavis!" he called.

  "It's Clara!" she said again, tugging at her skirt as she came out. She left the room with a flounce that made Simms chuckle.

  "Just your type, Sergeant."

  "Do you have a type, Simms?"

  Simms flushed, his eyes narrowing. "You'd better pack while you're at it. I don't think you'll be coming back."

  McCarter had expected as much. So much for his R&R. Stony Man would not have called him out for anything less than the utmost in importance.

  He was ready. Everything McCarter possessed fit into the one suitcase, his traveling kit and a thin leather attaché case. He strapped the suitcase and picked it up as Simms opened the door.

  The hotel lobby was busy, but the staff ignored McCarter as he left the building, following Simms. A driver and car waited.

  They drove through heavy afternoon traffic and at last arrived at an army base near Brixton. They were scrutinized carefully by armed guards, before the car was allowed to proceed through the gate. They were scrutinized again by a guard in front of a building marked Communications, and by a young lieutenant at a desk within.

  The identity card McCarter presented had his correct name but otherwise had no bearing with the reality of his service, either with Her Majesty's armed forces or with Phoenix Force. He did not allow Simms to see it. The credentials were accepted without question, and a third guard used a plastic ID of his own to electronically unlock a steel door that was heavy enough for a vault.

  "Sergeant."

  McCarter turned back as the door swung open by itself.

  "One of these days you'll be back in my country, Sergeant," said Simms, his face set. "Matters will be different then."

  "A fair fight, Simms? Like today?"

  "Any way you wish, Sergeant."

  "Forget it, Simms. The SAS is one of the best elite fighting forces on this bloody planet and you are a damn disgrace to that force. I'd take you on anywhere, anytime, but I really don't want to get my hands dirty on shit like you."

  Before Simms could say more, McCarter stepped into the room and the door closed.

  It was a gray room, ten feet square with walls, ceiling and floor lined with metal. The room held only a small gray steel desk, a single gray steel straight-backed chair and a red telephone with a scrambling device.

  McCarter sat in the chair and picked up the instrument. The receiver crackled loudly, the connection already made.

  He spoke and the scrambler tore his voice apart, shredding it then sending the sounds to a communications satellite that carried only military and government traffic. The shreds were bounced to an earth station on the other side of the Atlantic and fed to Stony Man Farm, where a duplicate scrambler telephone pieced them together in the proper order. There was a slight distortion caused by the process of disassembly and reassembly, but McCarter's voice came through with clarity.

  He spoke first to the duty man in Stony Man's own communication center. Ten seconds later, he was talking to Colonel Yakov Kat-zenelenbogen.

  5

  THE AFTERNOON was fading fastwhen the C-130 took to the air on its return flight to the southwest. The plane was still over western Pennsylvania, lumbering along in its slow airspeed, when the night descended.

  The plane was on autopilot. Collins dozed, waking only to acknowledge a radio call when the C-130 passed from one air-traffic-control center to another.

  l'he evening died as the plane passed over Ohio, Tennessee, the Ozarks. Seven hours had slipped away when Seamus Dolan Riley touched Collins's shoulder, and the pilot woke with a-start.

  "Huh?"

  "We're there, Major."

  Blinking, Collins rubbed grit from his eyes and peered through the windshield and then the side window. The land below was dark. Overhead the sky was solidly overcast, nothing broke the blackness except the lights of the instrument panel.

  By day the land below was not quite a desert,but useless to men. By night it was like a cold corner of hell.

  "Take us down," Riley said.

  "Down there?" Collins shook his head. "You're out of your mind."

  "I'm quite sane. There will be lights," he assured.

  A glimmer of light suddenly appeared and turned into a line of orange as men raced along the ground, touching fire to kerosene torches. The line doubled, although at this altitude it seemed no longer than a pencil and scarcely as wide.

  Collins switched off the autopilot and resumed manual control. The plane banked, lost altitude as it slipped to one side and moved around in a wide circle. Collins knew a ring of low hills surrounded the strip of ground that this maniac expected him to land on.

  "It's crazy," he said. "Maybe with a small plane, a Cessna or a Cub, but there's no way I can take this thing down without an instrument approach, without a tower to talk me in."

  "Do your best, Major," said Riley. He smiled. "I'm putting my trust and my life in your flying skills."

  The C-130 continued to lose altitude, disappearing from the radar screens of the local traffic-control center. Near the edge of the screen, and about to be handed over to the next station, the overworked and understaffed center never noticed its departure.

  It was crazy, Collins thought as he lined up the plane on the
double row of flares. The airstrip still seemed too narrow to accept the plane. Why was he doing anything to help these bastards? They were not going to let him walk away. And his family....

  But hope refused to die. They would live.

  The wheels fell with a solid clunk. The instrument panel showed green. He cut back on the airspeed, lowered the flaps and angled the nose of the plane between the flickering torches.

  The wheels touched sooner than he expected, jolting everyone on the plane. Collins fought the wheel and threw the engines into reverse as the C-130 jarred its way across a pockmarked, potholed concrete airstrip.

  This was the second landing the plane had made at this place, this day. The airstrip was a part of an abandoned World War II fighter training base.

  In the darkness Collins could not see the crumbling Quonset hangar that still stood. In the daytime, fire-blackened ruins remained where the operations building had once stood. Of the barracks and service buildings, only ragged foundations were left.

  To Collins's surprise that morning, a wind sock fluttered from a rough pole at the end of the runway. It had been raised two years earlier by drug smugglers. DEA agents had been waiting when the smugglers' first plane landed. The strip had been left untouched since.

  This was where Seamus Riley had drawn his gun on an unsuspecting Jessup, after earlier forcing Collins to take him aboard in place of Brownlow, who was unknown to any of the regular crew. Riley had forced Collins to land at the erstwhile training base, then his men had joined him.

  After landing, the crew had been ordered out, where they had been greeted by the armed terrorists. One team of terrorists had quickly swapped places with the crew, while another swarmed into the cargo bay and removed a warhead from every third missile.

  The terrorists were prepared. The stolen war-heads were replaced by dummies, the shrouds tied down and the seals renewed. The entire operation, from landing to takeoff, took thirty-three minutes. And only Collins and Jessup remained of the original crew when the C-130 took to the air again.