by Gar Wilson
"That's QSS 0022."
"QSS 0022?"
"Yes," Harrington said, a touch of reticence in his answer. "Top-secret stuff. Satellite Control Facility. It's a global network to keep tabs on position and status of all satellites, our own as well as those the Russians send up." His tone turned condescending. "What're you getting at? Surely you aren't suggesting that . Oh, no, that's impossible."
"Is it?" Keio's stare was harsh, unflinching. "It seems to me that it would be a perfect setup."
Instant silence hit as the startling conjecture sank in. "Good God!" Yakov exclaimed. "Could it be? How could we be so stupid?"
"Impossible," Harrington repeated. "These stations are reporting in around the clock. They have fantastic security and communication clearance. Our monitors would spot a takeover within minutes."
"Would they?" the Japanese martial arts expert challenged. "Security codes have been circumvented before. We shouldn't underestimate the terrorist networks."
Katz provided a quick overview of the Jeddah-Red Bluff Arsenal caper, in which Red Anvil, an Arab terrorist group, had infiltrated key military nerve centers worldwide, months prior to the scheduled strike. "It could just as easily be taking place at QSS 0022," he concluded.
"Well, there sure as hell is a quick way to find out. I'll call intelligence at Eileson AFB. They have jurisdiction. They'll certainly know if anything's fishy." He rose. "I'll have to use a secure line. If you'll excuse me."
"A suggestion, Major," Yakov said. "Please have your man put the reporting technician at the satellite base to the wall. Discreetly, of course, so they won't suspect we're digging. Keep them on the horn as long as possible."
"Can do, Colonel."
Harrington was gone for fifteen minutes. When he returned his face was pale, the sick, dismayed expression telegraphing his findings before he spoke a word.
"They're there," he said. "No doubt about it. I was patched in, heard the whole thing. They were not giving the right answers. It's obvious someone was holding a gun to the man's head. The chief could not be contacted, which is a prime security breach in itself."
Harrington directed an apologetic smile to Keio, respect in his eyes. "You were right," he said. "How'd you ever stumble on that one. . ."
Keio flushed and made no reply save for a shy grin.
"So?" Jessup interrupted. "Where do we go from here?"
It was without question, Harrington declared, a hostage situation. "Which means we can't go in at company strength." He sighed, his eyes bleak. "It would mean wholesale slaughter."
He looked at Katz. "Do you think, under the circumstances . . . you and your men could get in with minimum losses? Once we rescue our personnel we throw everything we've got against them."
Katz sent him an arch look. "You make it sound so easy." He lapsed into thought, his steel hooks clicking steadily. "It could be done. Commando stuff . . . that's our line. You're positive your contact didn't wake any sleeping dogs there?"
"I'm sure, Colonel. He was one sharp operator."
"What about air traffic? Will we arouse suspicion if we fly over later, get the lie of the land?"
"This is still Alaska," Harrington said. "Air traffic is constant. Recon to your heart's content. Nobody will give you a second look."
"Have your people do a rush maintenance on the Bell we've been using. We'll aim for a 1330 hours liftoff." He stood. "Gentlemen."
Phoenix Force rose as one man. A new, purposeful confidence reborn within them, they left the office in long, rapid strides, their faces gone hard.
By 1445 hours they were homing on the Satellite Control Facility, Jack Grimaldi pushing the Bell Long Ranger hard. When they were twenty miles out, Katz ordered him to throttle down and drop the bird to two hundred, then one hundred feet above ground. Visibility poor as usual, they took pains to pinpoint landmarks that would later lead them in.
Tomorrow night they would approach overland, using the Finncats that the Army was retrieving from the site of their igloo. When they came within two miles of QSS 0022, they would continue the rest of the way on skis. And from there on in .. . play it by ear.
"Good hardpack here," Katz said. "We'll set down now, do our unloading. That long outcropping of rock there. Like an arrow almost. It'll lead us in. An eight-mile jump at best . . ."
"Right on, chief. Got a fix," Grimaldi said, excitement shading his tones. Moonlight on the killing ground, he mused.
Shortly they closed on the installation, Grimaldi being careful not to fly in too slowly and draw the enemy's attention. Each man was silent, intent on the eerie scene below.
They were struck by the disarming peacefulness of the scene. The long snow-covered buildings, the banks of radar shields, the radar dishes surrounding the entire facility, all were taken into consideration. A helicopter hangar stood about a hundred yards from the facility proper. In the floodlit yard stood a jeep, two half-ton trucks, and a Caterpillar tractor rigged with an eight-foot snowblade. The copter pad and an abbreviated landing strip to the west were plowed clean, the drifts at least fifteen feet high along the edges.
More impressive were the observation domes.
Equally unsettling was the total lack of activity at the station. It gave the impression of being totally deserted.
The men studied the layout of the base, noting door locations, distances involved in getting from one building to the other, from the base to the huge aircraft hangar. "I only see two main doors," Yakov commented, consulting the blueprints that Harrington had provided earlier. "Plus the loading bays." He marked on the blueprint the doors that were blocked with snow.
"A double-pronged attack, I'd say," he went on. "Encizo and Ohara will take this one. The rest of us will come into the dome areas proper."
Grimaldi executed two more passes over the installation. "Got it, gang?" he asked. "Let's not push our luck too far."
Katz nodded and gestured for Grimaldi to take on some sky. The Bell edged off gradually, lifting in a slow climb.
Tension inside the cabin was thick; it could seemingly be sectioned with a knife. As they put distance between themselves and QSS 0022, the men's minds were already racing, inventorying weapons, envisioning the attack. After so many false leads. . .
It was time.
"When's splashdown, Yakov?" McCarter broke the silence.
"Approximately 2300 hours tomorrow night. We'll need extra time to coordinate things. You know how the government works. S-L-O-W."
He frowned. "The Grey Dog people will most likely be sacked in by then, with just a skeleton crew on duty. With any luck they'll confine the GIs to one area. If we can isolate that sector, then move on out from there.... Strictly hand to hand, gentlemen. Until we're sure the Americans are safe."
McCarter chortled to himself. "After that we shoot out their eyes."
The copter picked up speed and raced toward Prudhoe Bay.
10
The unloading of the Sikorsky S-65 was completed with speed. The temperature standing at thirty below, a ten-mile jaunt across frigid terrain ahead of them, Phoenix Force was in no mood for delay. The wind, tame as it was, still cut at exposed skin like a million razors.
As before, Grimaldi and the Sikorsky crew were put on standby. Loose radio contact would be maintained.
Tonight no headlights were allowed on the Finncats. Yakov and Rafael rode at the head of the column, Keio and McCarter behind, with Manning bringing up the rear. The snow vehicles sliced smoothly through the night, the tracks skimming the hardpan at an even forty. Ahead of Phoenix Force, as far as the eye could see, the ocean of snow glistened with a dull sheen where the starshine reflected on it. Here and there black outcroppings of rock loomed ominously against the ice prairie.
Each man carried an Ingram MAC-10, his cartridge belt festooned with as many magazines as he could carry, as well as an assortment of M-26 fragmentation grenades. The Ingram had been chosen for its proven superiority in close fighting situations.
Also, assorted personal w
eapons were leathered inside the cold-weather suits. Gary Manning carried his usual, the .44 AutoMag, which was Mack Bolan's favorite convincer. Rafael Encizo had tucked a .380 Walther PPK close to his heart; his Gerber Mark I survival knife was stored in a specially made sheath at the small of his back. Keio Ohara also chose the heavyweight AutoMag. In addition, the "Arkansas toothpick" was strapped to one leg, his garroting silk in a convenient place inside his clothes.
Yakov Katzenelenbogen was content with an Uzi. David McCarter—who always dealt in excesses—sported a Browning Hi-Power and a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum.
Strapped to the right side of each Finncat, between the seat and the fairing, was a pair of Head cross-country skis that Harrington had scrounged up.
It seemed they were hardly under way, becoming accustomed to the punishing cold and to the exhilarating flow and rhythm of the fleet Finncats, when Katz began easing back. A dull glow on the horizon—testament to the clarity of the air—told them the satellite tracking station was close.
Five minutes later they were heading out, the soft whish-whish of the skis hardly carrying over the haunting moan of the wind. "We'll skirt the buildings on the south," Yakov reminded them, "come in from the west—just in case there should be any guards, which I seriously doubt. These people are cocky as hell."
He keyed the Johnson 577 walkie-talkie as they advanced, the domes glowing faintly in the distance. "We're moving in, Grimaldi," he snapped. "Stand by."
"Got you, chief," came the crisp acknowledge.
The submachine guns underwent a last check, 30-round magazines of .45 caliber were eagerly slapped into place. "Geronimo time, chaps," McCarter muttered, the light from the base giving strong definition to the cruel line of his mouth. "Just let me at those sadistic degenerates."
The strike force halted as it came within a quarter mile of the station. The men watched and listened for any movement. The low-slung building, the huge half-globes were clearly visible. There was no sound. Nothing moved.
"Head out," Yakov said.
Phoenix Force flanked the dark hangar, circling in from the west. Momentarily they were awed by the hundred-foot-high radar trackers towering above them, the chatter and scream of the wind in the steel superstructure setting nerves on edge. They worked their way down a mild grade, emerging behind the mountainous piles of snow that framed the motor pool. The skis were removed and slammed into a drift.
Hearts pumped. Adrenaline surged, breath was sucked in faster than was wise. Yakov crept forward. Gloved fingers fretted triggers nervously as he stealthily moved into the open. Only silence answered his bravado. "You know the plan," he whispered, his voice seeming to boom in the quiet. "Manning, McCarter, you come with me."
Then he charged across the parking area, his movements surprisingly agile and fluid for a man of fifty-five. Encizo and Ohara hefted their Ingrams and flung themselves left, their booted feet squeaking against the snow. As they observed Yakov at the door just beneath the main geodesic dome, and saw the door swing open at the mere turn of the knob, they slid to a stop at their assigned station.
"The morons didn't even have sense enough to lock up," Rafael grunted as they edged toward their door.
"We should be so lucky," Keio said.
And they were, the knob turning free in Rafael's palm. Inch by slow inch, his face pressed to the crack, the Cuban let it swing wider. A long corridor—apparently a billeting area—stretched before them, a red bulb at the far end providing feeble light. Swiftly, before a draft could alert the Irish hardmen, they darted inside, clicking the door shut behind them.
For long moments they remained frozen in the shadows, pressed flat against the wall. Frantic minutes were wasted peeling away face masks, opening their jump suits, pulling off gloves, waiting for gun steel to absorb some of the inner warmth. And when a testing finger failed to adhere to the trigger guard—
"Here we go," Rafael whispered.
Cursing their clumsy boots, they oozed past one closed door after another. Hearing no sound at all, they dared to press an ear to the panels, straining for the sound of snoring, muttered conversation, anything. And as door after door gave no signal of occupancy, a nagging premonition set in. What in hell was going on here?
Just then a door ahead clicked open. A man, dressed only in his skivvies, stepped into the hall.
Sleep-drugged, yawning, heading for the can, he did not look back. At least not at first. But then, three steps later, he glanced sideways and got a glimpse of white-suited hulks from the corner of his eye. "Mates?" he called tentatively.
"Go," Rafael whispered, and he and Keio moved forward, taking the man before an alerting squawk could escape his lips. Black silk hissed, and even as Encizo drove his knee into the terrorist's back, wrenching his chin up, the garrote was expertly placed, twisted with merciless force.
The hardguy gagged, gurgled softly, a glottal whine managing to wedge its way through Encizo's muffling fingers. His fingers hooked and raked, seeking a last-ditch hold; his body twisted. Then, just as swiftly, all fight left him. Keio maintained the strangle-bar pressure ninety seconds longer. The man sagged to the floor, dead.
They froze again, listening, then retreated to the room the victim had just left. The door ajar, they carefully peered inside and saw no one. Hastily they retrieved the corpse and lowered it onto the bed.
Once more they worked their way forward.
Yakov's insistence that American lives be spared, if possible, buzzed in their minds—thus the mindless execution just finished. And heaven help any other Irish pigs who got in their way between here and there. Again ears were pressed to doors. Again there was not the slightest sound of human presence. The cold feeling in their gut intensified.
Then they were at the end of the hallway. A clatter around the corner put them on guard. Stealthy, fleeting recon revealed a closed, swing-type door with a single porthole in it. The galley obviously; snacks were being made for the night watch.
They crept to the door, risking glances through the window. A solitary man worked busily over a steam table. His age, his florid complexion, the ragtag clothing he wore was indication that he was no GI.
His eyes went wide with terror as a hinge-squeak alerted him, and he turned to see the white-suited figures closing on him. "God's eyes," he gasped, the brogue unmistakable. "Please now, lads . . ."
"Silence," Rafael whispered, "and you live. Otherwise . . ."
Because neither man raised his ugly Ingram chatterbox, the Grey Dog member foolishly imagined he had a chance. A furtive hand moved behind him and closed on a sharp cleaver. Borrowing bravado, the bastard's lips moved slightly, telegraphing warning of impending outcry.
Even in his cumbersome gear, Keio moved with blinding speed, a hand and foot hammering forward with pile-driver force. "Sorry, mister," he gritted, his eyes cold. A fluid side kick hit the terrorist's elbow with sledgehammer power, all but dislocating the joint. Simultaneously, suppressing the ingrained kiai shout, he aimed a shuto chop at the man's face. There was the crisp sound of bone breaking, of sloppy, tearing flesh.
Even before the miserable scum could release an agonized howl, Ohara's left hand flicked forth and pounded a nukite stab into his exposed throat, rupturing his epiglottis, shattering his Adam's apple. The blow crowded his windpipe with all sorts of bone and flesh. Instant suffocation.
The cook gagged hideously, his hands clutching at his throat. He fell to his knees, his eyes wide with astonished disbelief that life was ending so suddenly. He went into a terminal choke and died.
IN ANOTHER PART of the satellite tracking station, the remaining Phoenix Force members were meeting with similar puzzlement. Katz held position just outside the double doors leading into the main dome area, pondering the sparse cadre on the floor, while McCarter and Manning prowled the adjoining corridors and service areas. A skeleton crew he had expected, but this was eerie.
There were only two USAF technicians on the floor, each flanked by his own INLA watchdog. The airmen moved
with a sleepwalker's gait, gliding from console to console, keeping ahead of the monitoring chores normally allotted to four men. The Irish goons were equally bored. Side arms holstered, assured by long days of guard duty that the Yanks would make no sudden moves, they were merely putting in time.
It was Katz's turn for cold chills. Where were the rest? The facility should be crawling with bodies.
Behind him, sneaking around the generator rooms, edging around piles of boxes in the storage areas, opening doors with painstaking care, the tension murderous, McCarter and Manning were finding only empty space.
"Nothing back there." Manning made a whispered report when they filtered in behind Katz. "I'm getting bad vibes."
"Me, too," said Yakov, his mouth drawn to a worried line.
Just then they heard voices and the sound of thumping boots coming from their left, from the corridor Encizo and Ohara were supposedly patrolling. Hurriedly the trio scuttled backward and eased into a cubbyhole office. Katz, his eye to the crack in the door, watched two Grey Dogs, Colt .45s on their hip, swagger into view and push their way into the control center.
"How'd our desperados miss those two?" McCarter asked.
"Hope for the best," Yakov said tersely. "I didn't hear any shooting anyway. They're waiting for an opening."
After a momentary pause they edged from their hiding place and slid back into the corridor. Again they monitored the action.
The newcomers, dressed in fresh khakis, were sprawled in chairs, their feet up on desks, making small talk with the day shift. Apparently guard relief, they were not taking over until the clock said so. The four hardmen, wizened, wiry specimens, were arrogantly confident, never dreaming that death, bloody and violent, was only moments away.
It was then that Katz and crew heard a soft, under-the-breath whistle, carrying from their left.
"Hang tough," Katz murmured. "They're coming up."
There was an impromptu strategy session then, as Keio and Rafael emerged from the gloom. Crouched in tight huddle it was decided that, no matter what, the rest of the GIs must be found. To attack the control center without guarantee of their safety would violate iron-clad priorities. Those doors must all be cracked. If open war broke out, at least there was that chance of rescue. But the two fly-boys in the dome would become sacrificial goats.
