by Gar Wilson
Calvin James lunged forward and rapidly lashed the barrel of his assault rifle across the terrorist's wrist. The Beretta was chopped from the man's grasp. Instantly, the SWAT cop followed through with a fast butt stroke to his opponent's face and a vicious snap-kick to the groin. The ALPR stooge clutched both hands to his battered genitals and wilted to the floor.
The other terrorist abruptly leaped forward, seized the receiver of James's M-16, and desperately tried to take control of the gun. James did not waste time playing tug-of-war. He stomped a boot heel into the man's instep.
Bone crunched; the terrorist howled in pain but held on to the rifle. James clung to the M-16 with his left hand while his right delivered two trip-hammer-fast punches to the killer's mouth and nose. Before the dazed terrorist could decide whether to hold on to the gun or release one hand to defend himself, Calvin James struck twice more.
He swung a horizontal elbow stroke to the thug's jawbone and whipped a karate back fist to his right temple. His opponent's eyes crossed, and he uttered a weary sigh as if relieved that the conflict was over. Then he fell into an unconscious lump at James's feet.
"That's the last of them," Brown announced.
"We've got to get out of here," said Green.
"Wait a minute," James urged as he finished binding the wrists of the two dazed terrorists with riot cuffs. "I want some answers, dammit!"
"All right," Green agreed. "Give the sergeant a hand, Mr. Brown."
"I've taken care of these guys..." James began.
He barely saw a blur of motion. Mr. Brown was good. He quickly jabbed his stiffened, calloused fingers into the cop's mastoid. Briefly James felt a sharp pain behind his left ear, and the world became a big soft shadow of oblivion.
6
"How's your head?" a voice echoed from the end of a long black tunnel.
Sergeant Calvin James shook it experimentally. A dull pain throbbed at the back of his skull. He had been slugged before. The sensation was not unlike waking up with a megahangover. He opened his eyes slowly.
He was in the back of a van. An electronic device resembling a stereo set was mounted on a shelf. A pipelike object that reminded James of a periscope extended from the ceiling. James could see nothing else in the shadows except the heads and shoulders of two men seated in front of him.
"Here's an ice pack," a familiar British voice declared. "Sorry I had to cosh you, mate."
James accepted the cold blue bag from the shadow. "You hit hard, fella."
"Wanted to put you out with the first blow."
He pressed the ice pack to his skull. "Have either of you ever heard there's a law against assaulting and kidnapping a police officer?"
"Sorry for the extreme action," came the voice of Mr. Green. "All we planned to do was talk to you, but when we learned you were in that building we figured this would be a chance to see how you handle yourself in combat."
"And to see how well you'd take to our methods," the Briton said, chuckling. "You did quite well, by the way."
"Who are you?"
"We're members of a top-secret organization that specializes in dealing with international terrorism."
"CIA?"
"I said top secret," Green told him. "You won't read about us in Time or Newsweek. We don't have security leaks or defectors. My partner and I were sent to try to recruit you for a mission."
James stared at the humanoid shapes. "Why me?"
"Because you're an ideal choice for this mission," Green answered. "As I recall, you were born in Chicago. A rough neighborhood on the south side. You joined the Navy at the age of seventeen. You were trained as a hospital corpsman. The elite Seals took an interest in you when they learned of your intelligence, medical skills and physical prowess. They were especially impressed by the fact you had learned fluent Spanish from Mexican Americans in Chicago.''
"And you acquired considerable skill as a knife fighter while you were a lad as well,'' the Briton added.
"In addition to such unique Seals training as underwater combat and parachuting," Green recited. "You also took special naval classes in French, Vietnamese and medicine. Then you went to Vietnam for two years. Saw a good deal of combat and operated with a unit attached to the Special Observation Group — a CIA cover organization."
Brown continued, "You were wounded during the last SOG mission. You received an honorable discharge under medical conditions. You were also awarded several decorations for courage and devotion to duty."
"Wonderful," James muttered. "I've been kidnapped to be a guest on This is Your Life.'"
"Just let us finish," Green insisted, "and let's see if we have this right. Most of your family is dead. Your father from a heart attack in 1978 and your mother at the hands of muggers in 1980. Your older brother is a doctor and presently lives in Indianapolis. Your younger brother was a marine in Nam. Listed as killed in action."
"Missing in action," James corrected. "Waldo's body was never found. He might still be alive."
"MIA," Green confirmed. "And your sister is dead."
"Yeah," James whispered. His stomach twisted in recollection.
"You moved to California to study medicine and chemistry at UCLA on your GI bill," Green said. "But after the deaths of your mother and sister, you switched to police science. Later you joined the San Francisco Police Department. Your unique background made you an ideal recruit for its SWAT section. That pretty well brings us up to date."
"How did you get this information?"
"We've got our sources," Brown replied. "You might be interested to know that the FBI, Justice Department and even the CIA have files on you. They've all considered you for possible recruitment, but you have a rather unpredictable nature and you favor unorthodox tactics. Government blokes get nervous about such traits."
"But it doesn't bother you dudes?" James asked.
"We're not part of a bureaucracy," Green remarked. "We're sort of a maverick organization. We're assigned missions, but how we handle them is up to us."
"You were pretty impressive fighting the ALPR," James admitted.
"Those ragtag hoods were candy," the Briton said, chuckling. "They're unruly school kids compared to real professional terrorists."
"Since you wanted to talk to me alone," James asked, "what would you have done if Officer Rambo hadn't been killed?"
"Tranquilized him with a hypodart," Brown answered. "We don't hurt innocent bystanders or chaps on our side, but we hit the enemy with everything we've got. We get the bloody job done, Calvin."
"And we can use your help," Green added.
"What if I refuse?"
"Then you're free to go," Green replied. "The police commissioner thinks we're with the Treasury Department. Nobody can prove anything, so our organization will remain safe enough."
"What about my job with the SWAT team if I accept?"
"Officially you'll be away on a special assignment with the Justice boys," Brown answered. "Everything will be covered."
"I must be crazy," James sighed. "I accept. What's the name of this supersecret outfit I've been drafted into?"
"Everything will be explained when we arrive at headquarters," the Englishman announced. "A plane is waiting for us at a private airstrip. Let's be on our way."
"You mean wow?" James whistled softly. "Man, you dudes don't waste any time."
"There are too many lives at stake to allow for that luxury," Green replied grimly.
* * *
Six hours later Calvin James met Hal Brognola and the men of Phoenix Force in the Stony Man War Room. Mr. Brown and Mr. Green had already revealed their true identities. The daring Briton in the brown jacket was David McCarter, and the meticulous demolitions expert in green was Gary Manning.
Brognola shook James's hand and warmly welcomed him to the team. His manner toward Manning and McCarter was considerably less friendly.
"He's still wearing his SWAT uniform," the Fed whispered out of James's earshot. "What sort of crazy stunt did you two pull back i
n Frisco?"
"That's a bit difficult to explain," McCarter replied. "But we'll write a detailed report for you if you like."
"I have a feeling the fewer details I know the better off I'll be," Brognola muttered. "Sit down and we'll bring everybody up to date about this Black Alchemist business."
Brognola briefed James about the sabotage and blackmail conspiracy and the mysterious terrorists who called themselves the Black Alchemists. Then he produced a computer printout sheet.
"Less than half an hour ago," he said, "we received this message via our computer complex. Calvin doesn't know Aaron Kurtzman, our computer wizard. He was seriously injured a while back and confined to a wheelchair, but 'The Bear' is still the best console jockey in the business. Aaron runs the best computer system in the world. We've got links with every major intelligence network and lawenforcement agency in the free world, not to mention numerous police departments throughout the United States."
"Do they know you're tapped into their computers?" James asked.
"They don't even know we exist," the Fed answered. "Some police departments think we're the FBI. The FBI thinks we're Interpol and Interpol thinks we're CIA. Of course, we've got a lot of covert taps they're completely unaware of. The people in charge of gathering data for Kurtzman all think they're working for one of the major intel organizations. We've even got a tap on the Soviet Embassy in Washington D.C., installed by a disillusioned KGB case officer who thinks he's working for Yugoslavian Intelligence."
"Spying on the spies." James whistled. "Quite an operation you guys put together."
"We like it," Rafael Encizo said with a grin.
Brognola held up the computer printout. "This sheet informs us that the police in Springfield, Illinois have arrested an employee of the local branch of the Blue Label Corporation. The accused, calling himself Donald Anderson, was filling tubes of toothpaste on an assembly line. Son of a bitch was caught slipping in small doses of a liquid substance that turned out to be hydrogen cyanide."
"Sounds like he might be working for the Black Alchemists," Yakov Katzenelenbogen commented, reaching for his cigarettes. "What's Kurtzman's source?"
"FBI linkup," Brognola answered. "The Springfield cops wanted a rap sheet on Anderson. Turns out the little bastard was using a phony id, social-security card and driver's license. His fingerprints identified him as Howard Jenson. He's been busted a couple times. Petty crimes mostly. Has a heroin habit. Served two years in the Ohio State Pen for armed robbery. Got out on parole in 1982 and skipped out of state. Nobody knew anything about his whereabouts until now."
"Aren't we going to work with the FBI and the local police in Springfield?" James asked.
"Not in the conventional manner," Keio Ohara replied.
"Oh, we've worked with a number of intelligence and law-enforcement agencies in the past," Encizo interjected. "Kompei in Japan, the BND and GSG-Nine in West Germany, the Justice Department here in the States. But we have to be careful about how we operate with any of them.''
"Ironically," Katz said, "although we're working for the interests of the United States, we have to be more deceitful and less open with American outfits than those in other countries."
"I don't understand," James admitted.
"To put it bluntly," Manning began, "the intelligence networks of the United States are not secure. We can't trust them because the Freedom of Information Act makes it possible for sensitive material to wind up on the front pages of major newspapers before it has even been declassified."
"Journalists fond of sensationalism, politicians seeking publicity, even ex-CIA and FBI members themselves can reveal information that jeopardizes current covert operations," McCarter declared as he shook a cigarette from a pack of Players. "Those bastards don't give a damn about national security. Get some press coverage and a spot on prime-time television. That's what matters to them."
"The Constitution grants freedom of speech and freedom of the press,'' Calvin James commented.
"And that's necessary for a free society," Katz agreed. "No one in this room finds any fault with that. The constitution also gives you the right to keep and bear arms, but that doesn't give you the right to blow your neighbor's head off because he plays his stereo too loudly. Rights and privileges also carry the burden of responsibility, something far too many people tend to forget."
"I don't think we'd better work with the Feds or the local police this time," Manning advised. "Whoever these Black Alchemists are, they've got a national organization. That means it's possible they also have connections with law enforcement. Perhaps on a federal level."
"But this Jenson character is the only lead we've got," James began. "If we don't work with the cops and the FBI, how are we going to get any information out of the bum?"
"We'll just have to convince the police to let us borrow him for a while," Encizo said with a shrug.
"I don't think I want to hear this," Brognola groaned.
7
He called himself Cercueil. No one knew if this was his real name or a name adopted decades ago when he was head of Francois Duvalier's secret police in Haiti. Maurice Cercueil had been one of the most feared men in his native land. Cercueil — "Coffin" — suited him.
Cercueil sat at the head of the conference table. He was a great black shadow. His skin was as dark as ebony wood and he wore a formal black suit. Although indoors, he wore a pair of dark glasses and a silk top hat. Cercueil may have seemed ridiculous to anyone who did not understand the significance of his clothing. The Haitian secret police, called the Ton Ton Macout, wore dark glasses because they were named after the demons of the night who abduct children in voodoo folklore. The black top hat was reminiscent of Baron Samedi, the leader of the Legions of the Dead.
"Gentlemen," Cercueil began, speaking English for the sake of the American at the table. "We have a problem."
Colonel Pierre Guerre raised his scant eyebrows. Born Pierre de Gasget, he had formerly been a captain in the Haitian Army. After joining forces with Cercueil, he had changed his name to "Colonel War." A tall muscular man with a complexion the shade of black coffee, Guerre was the military strategist of the Black Alchemists.
He liked to wear uniforms. Since Guerre's arrival in the United States, he had bought a variety of American uniforms and military decorations from popular mail-order companies. He sat to Cercueil's right, dressed in a U.S. Marine blue dress uniform. His chest was decorated with an assortment of military campaign ribbons and insignia that included such odd combinations as a U.S. Army Good Conduct Medal beneath a replica of a Nazi S.S. emblem.
Despite his fetish, Guerre was a competent intelligence officer and strategist. He was also a coldblooded killer. The ivory-gripped .45 automatic on his hip was not just another ornament.
"You're referring to the incident in Illinois?" Guerre asked.
"What happened in Illinois?" Farley Cole demanded, fumbling for a fresh pack of cigarettes.
Cole was the only American among the leaders of the Black Alchemists. In contrast to the flamboyant Haitians, he dressed in a sweat shirt and blue jeans. A thin sad-faced man, he wore his hair in a wild Afro that resembled a clump of black ferns.
Farley Cole had formerly been a professional chemist for a major corporation. Unfortunately his greed proved greater than his ethics, and he decided to process heroin for the Detroit syndicate. His role in the narcotic trade was discovered when several mobsters squealed to the District Attorney and agreed to turn state's evidence.
During Cole's six years in prison, he developed a persecution complex. He convinced himself that society had punished him and rewarded the gangster stool pigeons because he was black and they were white.
He never felt guilt or remorse for his actions. After all, the mob had seduced him. Thus Cole considered himself to be a victim of white oppression. The fact that most of the heroin was sold in black-ghetto sections in Detroit never bothered Cole. The honkies had used him and the honkies were going to pay.
"O
ne of our people was caught putting cyanide in toothpaste," Cercueil explained, toying with a black swagger stick that featured a silver skull handle.
"Caught?" Cole gasped, choking on cigarette smoke. "You mean arrested?"
"Relax, Cole," Guerre urged. "Panic will only make matters worse. Out."
"The goddamn cops will break that dumb bastard," Cole snapped. "Most of the people who are working for us are junkies and anarchist nitwits. How long do you think an idiot like that will keep his mouth shut?"
"Why don't you concentrate on your chemistry sets and leave these matters to us?" Guerre said in a cold hard voice.
"I'm supposed to have blind faith in your judgment?" Cole sneered. "Your toy-soldier act is a pain in the ass, Guerre. What great combat experience did you get while you were in the Haitian Army? Papa Doc didn't even let his military carry guns because he was afraid of a coup."
Guerre's face tensed with anger. It would be a pleasure to rearrange Cole's features with a .45 slug. Of course, they would dispose of the Yankee maggot when he was no longer needed. The thought helped Guerre control his temper.
"At least the Ton Ton Macout had some firsthand experience killing people," Cole continued, directing his verbal venom at Cercueil. "You were the head of Papa Doc's secret police — just as Himmler was for Hitler, right? But your goddamn Ton Ton Macout weren't exactly subtle. Carrying machine guns in plain view, raping peasant girls in broad daylight and shooting citizens for sport isn't exactly the sort of background that suggests your people are experts at clandestine operations, Cercueil."
"Let me kill him now," Guerre said, speaking to Cercueil in patois, a Haitian Creole dialect that Cole did not understand. "He has lost his nerve, Maurice."
"We did not hire him for his courage," Cercueil replied in the same tongue. "Be patient, mon ami."
"What are you talking about?" Cole demanded, suddenly aware that his rash remarks may have put his life in danger.