Five Rings of Fire at-11

by Dick Stivers

  “Believe what you want then, man,” Jackson said as he finished relieving himself. “I just know who I am and I sure as hell don’t want to go to Russia. But if you want to send me…”

  “Shut up,” the guard said as he started to move back toward the tent. Jackson knew he had planted the seed.

  When he pulled beside the young guard at the door of the tent, Jackson whirled. “Hey,” he said in a loud voice, “I saw you and that Communist swim coach talking a couple weeks back. You work for the Commies.”

  The guard’s M-16 swung at Sam’s head. The boxer ducked. “He’s trying to kill me,” he said.

  While checking the swing of the assault rifle, the guard shot his right foot in a lashing karate kick at Jackson’s crotch. The fighter barely had time to turn and take the kick on the hip. The blow was strong enough to send him staggering. This gave the guard time to sweep the rifle back to target on Jackson.

  The powerful black boxer saw the M-16 barrel coming. He knew he had to make a larger scene if anyone was going to escape under the tent. He also knew he was toying with his life.

  “Help!” he screamed. At the same moment he took a long dive, out of the line of the swinging barrel. He tucked and rolled at the end of his dive, stopping against a pair of boots. The owner of those boots held a knife to his throat. It was Bill Frazer, the guncock who had met Boering when the American athletes were brought to the camp.

  Sam Jackson lay still. “I’ll go with you. I’ll leave America,” he said. “Just don’t kill me. Don’t use the knife.”

  The boxer believed his performance was strong enough to make the KKK men realize he was American, not Zambian. He also believed he had made a fatal mistake. He saw the knifeholder’s jaw snap shut. He knew the goon would now kill him for spilling the truth. Jackson wrenched his body to one side as the knife plunged into the sand where his throat had been just a second before.

  *

  The instant Jackson had said: “Hey, I saw you…” both Babette and Lyons had stuck their heads over the top of the dune. Babette thrust her Ingram at Lyons and took off running down the side of the dune by the gate. Lyons watched the woman, who seemed to have suicidal tendencies. He slid the silenced 93-R from leather and took a steady two-handed grip, resting his arms on the top of the dune. Then he waited, his face a grim mask of concentration.

  The guard at the hinge end of the gate was slim, the one at the latch end was grossly overweight. The fat slob advanced a few steps when he heard the sound of footsteps. In an easy dive, Babette slammed into the thin guard. Before he could react, an ice pick was sliding between his ribs; it stopped upon impact with the heart. A small but firm hand remained over the guard’s mouth until the violent thrashing slowly died.

  When Sam Jackson yelled for help, the Beretta coughed. The pudgy guard dropped onto his face. Warm blood filtered into the fine sand. The slob died with grit covering his eyes, nose and mouth. He let out no sound.

  Babette dragged the thin guard over to the dune buggies and stuffed him under the nearest vehicle. By the time she was finished, Lyons had let himself into the compound and was using the rope that had held the gate to tie the other guard to an iron post near the gate. He tied the man in an on-duty standing position. Lyons turned to hand Babette her gun, but she had remained by the buggies. Her head was cocked as she listened intently. The Able Team warrior went over to her.

  “Someone saw me hiding the body,” she whispered. “Whoever it is is hiding around the cars.”

  Lyons nodded and began to skirt the buggies, hoping to cut the person off from getting back to the rest of the camp. As he crouch-walked around the vehicles he became aware that someone was stalking him. He quickly checked; he could still make out Babette holding her position. Someone else was on his ass.

  *

  Sam Jackson tried to continue his roll and get back on his feet. Another pair of boots halted his movement. He looked up into the scowling face of Baker, the guard whom he had tried to recruit.

  Baker looked at the knife man. “Easy, Bill, we’re supposed to keep them alive.”

  He bent down and grabbed the boxer by the collar. With Jackson’s help, he got the big man back on his feet. Baker put his face next to Jackson’s, trying to make out the features.

  “Isn’t this one of the special ones who’s supposed to be taken out by copter?” Baker asked.

  “How’d you know that?” Frazer snapped. He still held the bowie knife and he still looked ready to use it.

  “He told me,” Baker answered in an innocent voice. Now he was sure the boxer hadn’t been lying.

  “Yeah,” Frazer said, “the ones who just came are to be moved somewhere else. But that don’t mean he ain’t expendable.”

  With a sudden, quick movement, Baker had Jackson’s arm bent behind his back and jammed up his spine. “You come quiet,” Baker warned. “I’m a former cop and I haven’t forgotten how to bust a thick skull.”

  Jackson stumbled ahead of the man, feeling more helpless than before. Unless this Baker dude was feigning loyalty, he figured sooner or later someone was going to slit his throat. When they reached the door of the tent, the guard gave Jackson a shove that sent him sprawling on his face. Baker left and the boxer sat up to massage the tender muscles in his shoulder.

  “You’re lacking terribly in the brains department,” said a rumbling voice from the far side of the tent. “But I know four men would thank you for what you did.”

  “Four men got out,” Jackson said. “Mustav, man, that news makes the risk worthwhile.”

  The boxer crawled over to one of the water containers and toasted his success with a drink of warm, metallic-tasting water. As he was putting the cap back on the container, he heard voices outside. Someone whispered his name. He went to the door.

  A guard stood at the flap. Jackson suspected it was the ex-cop, but he couldn’t be sure. The figure gestured for him to come out. Jackson started toward the man. The second he cleared the tent, four pair of hands reached out of the darkness and seized him. Before he could react, a patch of adhesive tape had been slapped over his mouth and his hands had been forced behind him and cuffed. He was swept off his feet and quickly carted away.

  A voice whispered in his ear.

  “Struggle, nigger. Or make a sound. Or just breathe wrong. I’ll take great pleasure in clubbing you to death.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Sam Jackson spotted the solid-looking butt of a gun.

  *

  The faint sound of sand being finely shifted by a foot told Carl Lyons to kiss the earth. He dropped flat on his face as a tire iron sliced air above his head. Lyons rolled over, his drawn Beretta questing a target.

  The target was clearly outlined against the bright stars. Lyons held his fire. His attacker was a black man with a wild afro.

  “Drop it,” Lyons ordered. He tried to put the man’s mind at ease. “I’m a friend. I’m with Babette Pavlovski.”

  The black man clutched the tire iron as if it was his last hope for freedom. But the athlete knew that if he used the weapon, the man with the gun would rearrange his face.

  The athlete eased back, dropped the tire iron. Lyons motioned for him to retreat to where Babette was waiting. Babette — showing the love that runs deep in the athletic community — hugged the man.

  The two exchanged whispers. Then Babette let the man go and he disappeared into the heap of dune buggies. The gymnastics coach crept back to the gate.

  Babette returned to Lyons, carrying the guns that belonged to the dead guards. Two black athletes materialized from the night and took the guns. Another conversation followed and the two blacks casually walked up to the gate. They untied the body of the dead guard, shoved it between two buggies and took the place of the guards. Lyons signaled for Babette to follow him and they began moving farther into the camp.

  Slowly they worked their way around the parked dune buggies and past a small tent and some sort of plank shack almost buried completely in the sand. They stopped be
side the largest tent in the camp. A sentry was sitting at table. The approach to him was open sand. Lyons picked himself up and began walking toward him. If Babette Pavlovski could try suicide tactics, so could Carl Lyons.

  “Who’s that?” the guard challenged, bringing his weapon up.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Lyons whispered as he walked confidently toward the guard. “I brought you some refreshment.”

  Lyons had one arm behind his back as though he were hiding a bottle. With a quick, powerful upper-cut, he brought the hand up. By the time his fist hit the guard square in the mouth, he had all his force planted in his rising arm. When his fist connected he could hear the shatter of bones. He could feel the guard’s face collapsing. He could not remember ever having hit a man so hard, so deadly. The sentry dropped in a bloodied heap on the sand. Lyons rubbed his aching knuckles.

  Babette gave him a hand placing the body underneath the roll of barbed wire. The duo then went to the side of the tent. Babette, having talked with the athletes, knew where the tunnel was. She went first and was followed by Lyons. Inside the tent he was met by blackness. Absolute blackness.

  Babette’s voice came from behind him.

  “Kelly.”

  “Who’s that?” a female voice answered.

  “Kelly,” Babette said, putting a little more volume in her voice. “You’re breaking training.”

  Kelly let out a giggle before instructing Lyons and Babette to join her and Mustav, who were sitting about ten feet away. Introductions and a warm reunion followed.

  “The guard on the side of the tent where we came in had an accident,” Lyons said to Mustav. “Get one of your men out there to take his place. We’ve already got two of your guys on the gate.”

  Mustav balked. “Lyons,” he said, “our men will not stand up to scrutiny.”

  “I don’t want them to. If they’re caught we’re at war. Hopefully by them standing there we can buy a little time.”

  Mustav issued orders.

  “How big a force do you have out there?” he then asked Lyons.

  Lyons refused to answer. He knew that if he talked about the small numbers the athletes would be dispirited. They had no way of knowing the power the small force was capable of.

  He veered onto another topic.

  “Where’s Jackson?”

  “We’re worried about him,” Kelly answered. “Someone called for him and when he went to the door he was taken away. We figure the KKK goons can’t be knowingly involved with Russia. Sam was trying to get them to help us.”

  “Oh, God,” Babette moaned.

  Although the athletes’ hunch agreed with his own, Lyons did not think too much of Jackson’s chances. He said nothing of his doubts.

  “We’d better act fast,” Lyons told the others. “But try not to get into some damn shooting war as long as we can take over slowly with guerrilla tactics.”

  Before the Able Team fighter could continue, Zak Wilson let out a low whistle from the front of the tent. A rustling filled the tent as someone moved. Lyons was pushed, driven backward. He struggled to bring the Beretta up on the attackers but Babette was pushed into him. A pair of flashlights shone into the entry of the tent.

  Lyons and Pavlovski, not wanting to be found in the tent, kept low, away from the action.

  “Someone called Mustav. Someone called Kelly,” a southern voice drawled. “Sam Jackson wants you.”

  The flashlights began to play over the bodies on the crowded sand floor. Athletes immediately scrambled to their feet, trying to keep the light from reaching the evidence of their digging, trying to distract the flashlight carriers. The huge Zambian and Kelly quickly stepped forward.

  “Mustav and Kelly,” the weight lifter said to the white man.

  “Jackson said you’d be the biggest man here. Move ahead of us.”

  The two captors took a step to each side to let the two athletes past.

  “One question,” Mustav rumbled. “What in hell’s going on?”

  “Jackson says the last group delivered here are Americans being blackmailed to leave America. We say he’s a lying shit. We don’t believe him. He says you can convince us. We’ll give you one chance, nigger.”

  When they had left, Lyons whispered to Babette. “Make your way back to Pol and Gadgets. The three of you then come in by the gate. We’re going to have to risk commando tactics.”

  Babette left the tent. Lyons instructed the others.

  “Wait here until weapons start being delivered. Keep three armed fighters inside to guard the rest. After that, every time someone is armed, he should get out to join the fight. Use our people on guard duty to connect with our people outside. And listen, I know most of you have never fired a gun. Christ, most of you’ve never held a gun. One thing you’ve gotta remember — a gun can talk without being fired. At least if you’re holding a gun you’ve got a hope.”

  Lyons ducked out of the tent. He raised his head slowly on the outside. It would be dawn soon and the action had to go down before then. Any moment they might change the guard, or inspect it.

  Moving low but fast, Lyons caught sight of the four Klansman hauling Kelly and Mustav away. When they had disappeared into another buried tent, he noted their position, then doubled back. He was close to the captives’ tent when he saw something move. He watched for a second before realizing it was a guard, following Babette.

  Babette moved forward, the guard followed and Lyons followed the guard, trying to gain some precious ground before the bastard had a chance to ambush the woman. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Lyons saw another sentry zeroing in on Babette. Lyons had to slow down to allow the man to close the gap between himself and Babette. The Able Team warrior moved in behind him.

  Lyons pulled a garrote from one of the pockets in his flak jacket. As the figure moved unsuspectingly along, Lyons caught him from behind. He crossed his wrists as he wrapped the garrote around the man’s neck. The wire loop began its brutal, cutting justice. The ambusher, with his final burst of energy, wildly swung his arm back. Lyons moved to one side but not before a knife sliced through his thigh.

  A breath escaped from a hole Lyons had produced in the man’s throat. He squeezed until the cold clutch of the garrote tore the life from the goon.

  Lyons let the man drop. In that instant he felt the barrel of a cocked revolver touching his temple. It was one of the athletes. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Babette was safe. An athlete posing as a guard was lifting the barbed wire with his assault rifle so that the gymnastics coach could crawl under. A felled gunman was by the foot of the athlete.

  “Okay,” the athlete whispered when he got close enough to identify Lyons. He let his gun arm drop. Lyons liked his style.

  “Take care of him,” Lyons ordered.

  The athlete carefully stripped the body of weapons and ammunition. While the man delivered the weapons to the tent, Lyons dropped his pants to assess damage. The cut was about six inches long but not deep enough to have done any permanent muscle damage. He pulled his pants back up and blocked out the pain. He’d lived with deeper wounds; he’d fought with deeper wounds.

  The athlete came back and hid the body. Lyons tested his leg, tentatively at first, then with all his power. The leg held up. He headed for the tent where Jackson, Mustav and Kelly were being questioned.

  En route he thought about Able Team’s biggest problem. Taking the camp normally would have been easy. Defensively, the place was a joke. Christ, Lyons thought, it was as if the place had been designed to be taken. The problem was how to do it without getting the athletes killed.

  Lyons was within twenty feet of the tent when a four-man squad moved silently in front of him. He crouched low as the men moved past him toward the tent. The Able Team member faded back a few steps.

  The four men surrounded the tent. The man who was leading the squad stood in front of the tent flaps. Lyons figured out what was coming down. He waited.

  “Who’s in there?” the head man calle
d.

  The muttering inside the tent died.

  “Is that you out there, Bill?” a voice called back. “Come on in. Me and Terry just questioning some niggers.”

  “It is me, Baker. But I ain’t coming in, you’re coming out. All of you with your hands above your heads.”

  “Hey, Bill. Jesus. What’s got the burr in your saddle?” Baker called out. “We’re not doing anything to them. Look out for yourself.”

  “If you’re not out in five seconds, we’ll fire through the tent. One… two… three…”

  Lyons took three steps forward, the silenced Beretta in his fist. He folded down the second handgrip and hooked his thumb through the front of the trigger guard. With a two-handed grip — crouching for maximum steadiness — he fired three shots.

  Three of the guncocks went down. The fourth, known as Bill Frazer, had homed in on the barely audible sound. His Colt New Service M1917 swung to bear on the source.

  Lyons swung the 93-R, targeting on his fourth hit. The last casing had stovepiped. In the darkness he could not see the frontsight for the shell stuck between the breech and the receiver. He squeezed the trigger, letting instinct aim, then flung himself to one side.

  The Colt barked three times, its death messengers driving into sand, almost catching up with the diving Lyons. The Beretta had probably picked up sand, Lyons thought as his body crashed to the dirt. He bounced slightly, hoping he could stay clear of the incoming .45s until he could clear the jam.

  The three unmuffled shots had roused the entire camp.

  Lyons figured he had only seconds before the camp was transformed into a shooting gallery, using athletes as targets.

  Lyons figured his own chances for survival were slim.

  15

  Colonel Frank Follet figured he had the world exactly where he wanted it. He would achieve two victories at once. He bent again to examine the blips on the radar screen. He would prove his genius for command and take care of that interfering goon from Washington all in one shot — and he’d do so now.

  The radio operator was speaking. “We have you on the screen, interceptor two. Stand by for orders.”