Wilson, Gar - Phoenix Force 05 - The Fury Bombs

by Anonymous Author

  Now the plane bumped to a halt at the very end of the line of torches, less than fifty feet from the end of the airstrip. The terrorists undogged the hatch while the original crew was brought from the hangar, a stumbling, shuffling line of confused men.

  "What's the matter with my men?" Collins demanded as the first few were shoved aboard.

  "They've been drugged," said Riley. "It makes them easier to control."

  "Bastard!" Collins said, slumping in his seat. "Bastards!"

  A few of the men were able to board the plane under their own power. The others were cursed at, cuffed and thrown inside.

  "Eckstrom" came forward and ordered Jessup to stand. The lieutenant was frozen in his seat .

  "Move, damn you!" He prodded Jessup with his Kalashnikov.

  "The lad is paralyzed with fear," Riley said. "Get a couple of the boys to help you."

  Two of the terrorists grabbed Jessup's arms and yanked him to his feet. They tore his flight suit down from his shoulder, while a third drove a needle through the fabric of his shirt.

  The drug worked quickly, racing into his bloodstream. Collins watched as Jessup sagged and fell back into his seat.

  "Bastards!" Collins said again.

  The trio turned their attention to him. One terrorist clubbed Collins with the butt of his .45, while the others grabbed him. Using the Kalashnikov, "Eckstrom" began smashing the instruments.

  "No!" cried Collins. "Stop him!"

  "Easy, lads," said Riley as a needle stabbed into Collins's arm. "He has to be able to fly the aircraft."

  Collins's dose was smaller, but the injection was given roughly—as though the terrorist was venting all of his anger in the attack. For an instant Collins thought the needle would break off in his arm. Pain stabbed and turned into ascreaming ache. A rush of heat flooded his body.

  "My wife!" he said, his tongue thickening. "My children! Damn you. You said you'd let them go!"

  "Ah." Riley rubbed his nose with a finger. "Your family. Think of this as war, Major. In every war it is tragic but accepted that civilians suffer a higher percentage of casualties than the armies involved."

  Collins tried to speak, but he could not force the words from his throat. He caught the back of his seat, slumped into it, no longer able to stand under his own power.

  One of the terrorists instructed his fellow gun-cocks to get off the plane. The real Eckstrom's body had been loaded with the crew. Riley turned to Collins again.

  "Major, when the last of my men are off, you will have three minutes to get this aircraft into the air. After that, my men will open fire. This is your only chance to save your crew."

  Collins was stoned, his mind anchored in deep fog. He stared numbly at the wrecked instrument panel, and with an effort he turned his head to stare at the unconscious Jessup. Through blurring eyes he was aware of the departure of the terrorists. He also heard the slam of the hatch.

  Scum. Filthy murdering scum. I should have flown the plane into the ground, with them on it, Collins thought.

  Acting by instinct, Collins's hand moved to the throttle. The engines revved, roaring and kicking up dust. The galvanized-steel trash cans that held the kerosene fires sent tongues of orange flame whipping across the airstrip, close to the ground.

  The band of Irish terrorists, standing with guns ready, watched as the big plane slowly turned began to move. The engines roared again as Collins fed them full throttle. And, at what seemed the last possible instant, the wheels lost touch with the ground. The terrorists ran along the row of fires, clamping lids back onto the trash cans as the C-130 cleared the ring of low hills.

  A Mayflower moving van appeared out of the darkness of the hangar, only its parking lights lit. The terrorists stripped out of the stolen Air Force uniforms as the van moved slowly along t he edge of the runway, gathering them aboard.

  Riley took a pair of white coveralls with the Mayflower logo on one breast, the name "Jack" embroidered on the other. He pulled the .45 from its holster and thrust the bundle of clothing into the back of the van. He swung onto the step of the moving vehicle and climbed into the cab.

  "Let's get away from here."

  They could hear the plane in the darkness as it flew beyond the hills, barely above tree level. Riley relaxed as the van turned away from the airstrip and moved onto a narrow country road.

  "Michael, I've a most killing thirst."

  The driver handed over a pint of whiskey. Riley uncapped the bottle and took a deep drink. He sighed with pleasure at the bite of the liquor, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He capped the bottle.

  "Now that restores the soul."

  "How long do you think it will take before the substitution is discovered, Seamus?"

  "Now that depends on how successful the rest of the men are this night, and on how thorough an inspection they make when they discover the plane's missing."

  "Do you really think the phony warheads will fool them?"

  "They'll fool a casual look, thanks to the trace elements included. But once the authorities find the wreckage of the plane and check out Collins's house, they'll know something is very wrong. By that time it will make no difference."

  "It seems a shame, takin' only four of the warheads."

  "You're a greedy man, you are, Michael McGinnity. Four is enough. We'll have our fortune and win our war with this lot, or not at all. Now let's be away from this place before a stray sheriff's patrol wonders what good Irish lads are doin' here this time of night."

  Michael turned on the headlights as Riley uncapped the pint and took another drink. Five miles farther, the narrow road intersected a major highway. The van turned east. Eventually itwould head north, toward a base less than one hundred miles from Rome, New York, where the day's charade had been played out.

  The warheads had gone on ahead, transported on another truck. By now they had reached their destination and were being converted to more flexible weapons by the terrorist of organization's technicians. If the other teams were successful in their missions, the warheads would be ready when needed.

  Seamus Riley was satisfied with the day's work.

  HEADING NORTHWEST of its original flight plan, beneath the radar coverage that might bring it back onto the screens of the air-traffic controllers, the C-130 floundered under Collins's uncertain hand.

  Collins swallowed against the metallic taste of the drug and fumbled for the autopilot; but it had been smashed. His hand fell back. He could not remember what he was doing or where he was. Suddenly both hands dropped from the yoke and he fell sideways, his head lolling.

  The plane shuddered under the change and nosed downward. It remained airborne until fifty miles west of the abandoned base, where the angle of descent carried it into the base of a hill.

  The crash site was twenty miles from the closest population center, ten miles from the nearest road. The fireball was seen only by aNavaho sheepherder who paused outside of his shack to stare until the glow had faded.

  Two hundred miles to the southwest, firemen picked through the glowing embers that had been Collins's house. The fire had been out for hours, but the rubble was still too hot to approach the cellar.

  "You really think they're in there, Chief?" asked Collins's closest neighbor.

  The fire chief shrugged. "Wife's car is in the garage. The children missed school today. Didn't tell anybody they were going away. . . "

  "Really a shame," said the neighbor. "They were nice people. What a way to die. I wonder if they knew what hit them?"

  "I hope not," said the chief, compassionately.

  Another hour passed before the C-130 was reported overdue and presumed missing. By that time the moving van had crossed the state line.

  6

  LIAM NERVOUSLY CHEWED HIS LOWER LIP as thepolice cruiser moved slowly past the twin office towers, the police scanning each lobby. Liam pretended to be scanning his magazine until the cruiser passed from view. When the car left his sight, he quickly drew the Beretta and c
oncealed it under the desk.

  Minutes passed before the police car appeared on the far side of the building, moving as slowly as before. It did not stop.

  Liam's breath escaped in a rush as the cruiser turned back onto Peachtree Street. He brought the Beretta into the open, his hand trembling, and restored the gun to his pocket. Soon after, the two terrorists returned from the fire stairs. The "electrician" beamed.

  "It was easy, Liam. Like takin' candy from a kid. A child could cross-wire their alarm system."

  Liam checked his watch. "We've got eighteen minutes until the guard is scheduled to clock in again."

  "Plenty of time." Things were going just as Riley had predicted; the "electrician" felt good.

  He produced the ring of keys that had belonged to the old guard. He sorted through the lot, choosing one that fitted the elevator-control panel. He opened the panel and killed the lights.

  Digging into his kit, the "electrician" produced gas masks, for himself and his partner, and a flashlight. Further digging produced four grenades; his partner took two, balancing the deadly weights in his hand.

  The two men squatted and put their grenades on the floor while they put on the masks. When they stood, they moved to the elevator that serviced Britamco exclusively.

  The door opened when the button was pushed, but the cab of the elevator was dark. The "electrician" clipped a grenade to his belt, pulling up his shirt on that side to leave it free, and switched on the flashlight as he stepped inside. The younger terrorist followed and pressed the button for the penthouse.

  The elevator accelerated at express speed. The "electrician" switched off the flashlight. The youth pulled the pin on one of his grenades. The doors opened.

  Beyond was a foyer. Opposite was a glass wall and a single glass door with a bronze handle.

  The two men took in the scene quickly. Beyond the glass wall was a reception area. At the desk a security guard, dressed in the brown uniform of Britamco, wore a .38 Police Positive in a belt holster.

  The guard looked up in surprise and startedto rise as a grenade rolled from the darkness and came to rest at the base of the door. The terrorists flattened themselves against the corners of the elevator cab as the grenade exploded.

  The glass door and wall had cracked under the blast but had not broken; the door had bowed inward and popped free of the locking bolts. It hung at a crazy angle, the lower hinge broken.

  The explosion had blown the guard to the floor behind the desk. He groaned and tried to pick himself up as the "electrician" pulled the pin on his grenade and tossed it through the opening.

  There was a pop, the terrorists automatically ducking back, and gas hissed into the reception area. The guard shook his head. He breathed in the first wisp of gas and collapsed, dead.

  The terrorists moved through the broken door, through the cloud of gas, and entered the corridor. The penthouse contained Britamco's executive offices.

  The two men ignored the doors on either side of the corridor and did not stop until they reached the door at the end. It was not locked. The "electrician" pushed through and entered the office of Britamco's director of operations for the United States.

  The office was larger than many two-bedroom condominiums. It seemed underfurnished because of its size. An ornate fireplace with an Adams mantel stood against one wall,while on another was a Rosa Bonheur horse in a gilt frame. Draperies were pulled back from glass walls that met at the corner of the building. The city of Atlanta lay revealed beyond.

  The "electrician" produced an envelope from an inner pocket and placed it on the Chippendale table that served as a desk.

  "That's it," he said. "Let's go."

  They left as quickly as they had come, reaching the lobby in time to hear the sharp clamor of a telephone. It was in a panel beneath the floor indicator.

  "One of the cleaning crews," Liam said. "They're ready to move, and they want to know why the elevator lights are out."

  Ignoring the clamor, the "electrician" opened the panel and turned the lights back on while Liam dug a walkie-talkie from the tool kit and pressed the transmit button three times. In the van Peter caught the signal and drove up the ramp.

  All three terrorists ran toward the van. Liam tore off the Arden Security shirt. Beneath it he wore a multicolored T-shirt.

  Peter hit the headlights, and the van took the corner back onto Peachtree Street.

  "Slow down!" Liam said sharply. "We don't want to be stopped now, for God's sake."

  Peter slowed down and checked the side mirror. The street was no longer empty. Ahead, a street sweeper lumbered through an intersection. Light traffic began to appear.

  Peter drove carefully for eight blocks, and into the parking lot of a small shopping center.

  He parked near several public telephones. Liam got out and walked to the phones. He lifted a receiver and punched out the number. After three rings, a sleepy voice answered.

  "Hello?"

  "Jason Leinster?"

  "Who is this? Hello?"

  "Jason?" A woman's voice overflowed in the background. "Who is it, Jason? What's it about?"

  "Christ, if you'd shut up maybe I could find out," Leinster said. "Who is this? Jesus. It's a quarter to five—it's the middle of the night!"

  "No questions, Leinster. Tell me, how could a man with a name as proud as yours work for the Brits?"

  "Is this a gag? Who the hell are you?"

  "Listen, Leinster and listen well. There is a letter on your desk. Go to your office and read it. Read it, and act upon it."

  "What? Wait a damn minute.. . . "

  Liam held down the cutoff lever and replaced the handset in the cradle. Only then did he permit himself a sigh as tension left his body.

  For his team, the night's work was done.

  AT THE SAME HOUR other teams were on themove, wrapping up similar missions, eachdirected against one of the fifty largest British owned or British-controlled operations in the United States.

  In each raid there had been violence: people had died—some brutally, sadistically, some without knowing what had hit them. Liam felt regret for the deaths, but he knew they were necessary. Seamus Riley had emphasized that point to the soldiers in his private army.

  "They won't take us seriously unless they're hurting. Unless they feel pain," Seamus had said.

  "But Americans, Seamus," several had protested. "The factions have agreed to keep the States safe ground. We need their money and their arms."

  "When this is done," Riley said, "we'll have all the money we'll ever need. The bloody world is a supermarket for all of the guns and tanks and missile launchers we'll need to drive out the Brits. Ireland will be united—our way and no other. The Americans be damned; we've waited long enough for justice."

  Riley's face was flushed with anger and enthusiasm.

  "We'll have the bomb, and when we do, what has gone on these past twenty years will seem a Sunday-school picnic. They'll listen. They'll have to listen."

  LIAM RETURNED TO THE VAN. Peter shifted into gear again.

  Twenty minutes later, the van was returned tothe suburban street from which it had been taken. There had been brief stops to dispose of the stolen license plates and the equipment used during the raid.

  Later the younger terrorist arrived in a cab at the Trailways bus station, and the "electrician" had returned to the room he had been renting. At eight o'clock he would return his pickup truck and tools to the small firm that had hired him two weeks earlier and announce that he was quitting.

  Later today he would be on a plane to Los Angeles. Following a circuitous route, by tomorrow afternoon he would be in New York City. Peter would be in Chicago, flying directly on the first flight that morning.

  Liam waited at the motel until 6:00 A.M., then crossed the street to a coffee shop to make another phone call, this time long distance. He had the correct change ready, dropped it into the slot at the operator's command. The phone rang three times. He held down the cutoff lever, dialed a
gain, fed coins again. This time it was picked up after the first ring, and he said one word.

  "Atlanta."

  The man on the other end hung up, and the dial tone sounded.

  The night's work was complete.

  7

  SEVENTY MINUTES after being roused from his sleep, Jason Leinster slumped behind his Chippendale table, his flesh clammy with fear. The glass walls of the office showed the flush of dawn.

  Leinster had dressed hastily. His shirt hung out the back of his trousers, and his cheeks were stubbled with unshaven beard. His full head of white hair stood in untidy tufts, where he had nervously run his fingers through it.

  "It's crazy!” he said.

  The office was crowded with FBI agents and police.

  Teams of homicide detectives were busy in the reception area of the penthouse, while below in the lobby, others waited for the medical examiner to finish a cursory examination of the bodies. He stood, dusting his trousers at the knee, and said, "Okay, take them away."

  The ME headed for the nearest elevator that would take him to the penthouse. Other technicians had already photographed the carnage, dusted the desks, the chairs, the elevators, the discarded magazine. The cleaning crews hadbeen gathered on another floor and were being interrogated, although they had seen nothing, heard nothing.

  There were camera crews as well, from the Atlanta television stations, and teams of newspaper reporters and radio newsmen.

  The incident in Atlanta was not the first story to break. The wire services had already logged reports about a dozen terrorist raids, although no one had connected them as part of a single over-all attack. The reporters waited like bloodhounds for scraps of fresh information.

  There were horror-thirsty gawkers, a hundred or more, drawn to the scene of tragedy by the wail of sirens. Barricades held them back, and uniformed police checked credentials of those who claimed to work in the building.

  "Crazies," Leinster said, glancing at the letter one of the FBI men held by the corners, although it had already been dusted for prints that did not exist. Only Leinster's fingers had marked the paper.