by Gar Wilson
Calvin James wore his Jackass Leather shoulder-holster rig with the Colt Commander under his left arm and the G96 knife sheathed under his right. The M-16 assault rifle was slung over his right shoulder and a .357 Colt Python was holstered on his hip. All four men also carried fragmentation and concussion grenades.
They were also equipped for climbing. Each man wore klettershoes, climbing harness and hardware sling complete with carabiners. The spring-loaded D-shaped carabiners are used to connect climbing ropes. They also had plenty of rope, chocks and nuts.
"That's northeast," Manning announced after consulting a compass strapped to his wrist. "That's where our objective is."
"All right, mates," McCarter began. "You've all done some mountaineering in the past, so I won't lecture you about safety, fundamentals and all that rot. Just remember the slab of rock we have to crawl up is about six thousand feet high. We'd better not be dogarse tired by the time we reach the mountain. So don't try to break any speed records jogging to the site. Save your energy for the climb."
"How do you think we should handle the climb?" James asked. "Follow the leader or leapfrog?"
"Leapfrog," the Briton replied. "That way we'll all take turns route finding and leading. We'll move a lot faster that way. We'll also distribute the physical exertion pretty evenly that way. We'll still have a bloody great firefight to deal with when we reach the top, so we don't want anybody too exhausted to participate in the main event."
"I just hope Katz and Rafael receive our radio signal," Manning remarked. "Colton said he'd land the chopper on a plateau about ten miles from here. That's a hell of a range to transmit with our communicators."
"I altered the transceivers to handle the distance," Ohara stated. "My only concern is that the surrounding mountains might block our radio waves. There's also the possibility that the enemy may be able to jam our frequency if they pick up the beeps on their receivers."
"Why didn't you mention this before?" Manning asked.
"I didn't see any reason to concern you with such matters," the Japanese said sheepishly. "There's nothing we can do about it and we have to accomplish our mission, yes?"
"We might have a bit of trouble doing that without air support," McCarter muttered. "Well, we could stand around here and fret about what might go wrong, but that won't get the job done."
"Yeah," James agreed. "Let's get the show on the road."
21
The path to the mountain was rugged. Frequently the four Phoenix Force commandos encountered piles of boulders, scree from rock slides and blockades more than fifty feet high. Such obstacles made progress difficult, but all four men were in excellent physical condition and determined to carry out their mission.
McCarter, James, Manning and Ohara approached the mountain cautiously. They used the available natural cover to conceal their movement. The radio station at the summit was barely visible, a black sinister shadow atop a great stone monolith.
"So far so-so," Calvin James whispered tensely as they reached the base of the rock wall.
"Yeah," Gary Manning agreed equally quietly. "If they knew we were coming, they probably would have had snipers with infrared sights pick us off by now."
"Unless they're waiting for us to make the climb," David McCarter remarked.
"Uh-huh," James said sourly. "If they've spotted us and they have infrared scopes, they've seen our mountaineering gear. Wouldn't take an Einstein to figure out what we're planning to do."
"I see your point," Manning said. "Why shoot us when they can just wait for us to climb the mountain and then drop rocks on us?"
"We'll either live or die," Keio Ohara whispered. "That is the nature of our karma. We should not fear either fate."
"I ain't afraid to die," James replied. "But I can't say I'm real eager to do it just yet."
"Come along, lads," McCarter said with a smile. "Nothing's more fun than playing tag with the Grim Reaper."
"Has anybody ever told you you're nuts?" Manning muttered.
"Oh, yes," the Briton answered cheerfully.
"Damn," Manning said with a sigh. "You'd better send Katz the final signal, Keio."
"I already did," Ohara replied.
"Good man," McCarter said. "Let's get the ropes ready. When we get up far enough to get a feel for the rock, make sure you use the bloody chocks and nuts. We'll all be connected by the guideline so if one man falls he'll pull us all down unless everybody uses their gear."
The Briton took the lead, locating hand and footholds for the others. Where none existed he used the chocks and nuts. McCarter lodged them into cracks and secured ropes to assist the other climbers.
It was a demanding task. Their lives depended on the strength of their fingers and the grips of their shoes. Most of all, they had to rely on their teammates. All four men had to work together and trust one another. Calvin James once again felt a rewarding sensation in the knowledge that the ultraprofessionals of Phoenix Force trusted him and accepted him as one of their own.
Almost halfway to the top, Gary Manning took the lead. McCarter branched off to the right of the other climbers. Their formation resembled an inverted J as they continued to scale the rock wall.
The sound of stones breaking loose warned James to look down at Keio Ohara at the rear of the formation. A narrow ledge under the Japanese warrior's feet had given way. He clung to the rope with one hand and clawed for a handhold with the other.
"Keio's in trouble," James rasped to Manning.
Ohara found a narrow crack in the rock wall and gripped firmly as his feet pawed for a new hold. Weather-worn stone cracked under his fingers. Ohara clenched his hand into a fist to use as an improvised nut by wedging it into the crack. He hissed through clenched teeth as his body swayed at the end of the guideline.
James and Manning grabbed the line; McCarter was not in a position to assist. The black man and the Canadian pulled in unison. They hauled Ohara upward to the chocks and nuts already secured to the mountain. The Japanese clung to the new position. He looked up at his partners and nodded.
"He's hurt," James whispered to Manning when he saw Ohara's left hand. The glove was torn and stained with blood.
"I'll lead for about another thousand feet," the Canadian stated. "Then you take the lead to the top. Okay, Cal?"
"Sounds good."
Manning was the most muscular member of the team. He possessed more physical strength and endurance than McCarter, but lacked the Briton's climbing expertise. Thus they made slow, steady progress under the Canadian's leadership.
With less than one thousand feet to the summit, Calvin James took the lead. Manning moved closer to McCarter; the climbers now formed an inverted L. The reason was to allow all four to reach the top at roughly the same time.
They continued to climb. The lip of the cliff above seemed to beckon Calvin James. It dared him to touch it. He resisted the urge to rush. His teammates' lives depended on how well he secured handholds and footholds for the others. The placement of chocks and nuts was crucial. James fully appreciated the additional strain McCarter and Manning had endured when they led the team during the bulk of the climb.
The distant roar of rotor blades arrested James's attention. He glanced over his shoulder and strained his eyes to try to locate the black insect that hovered in the night sky.
Katz and Encizo had received the signal. They were heading for the mountain. Colton was flying the gunship with infrared lights only. The H-34 was a warrior shadow, a Viking ghost ship flying into battle.
"Let's move," McCarter growled. "If we're not on the summit by the time the chopper arrives, the enemy will have a bloody good chance to shoot it out of the sky."
There were only a couple of hundred feet left to climb. All four men scaled the mountain with greater speed. Their desperation to reach the top increased when they heard startled voices shout in patois.
"Sons of bitches have spotted the chopper," James hissed under his breath as he clawed at the rock like an enraged leopard
.
Suddenly he found himself gripping the lip of the cliff. He stared up at the towering figures of two Black Alchemist sentries, their legs resembling tree trunks as they stood less than a yard from James's position. Both men were gazing at the sky, following the progress of the approaching gunship.
Calvin James silently hooked his left forearm over the cliff and braced his weight across it. His right hand reached for a weapon. The Colt Commander was blocked by the cliff and the M-16 would be too awkward for such close quarters. He decided to draw the .357 Magnum.
"Merde!" one of the Ton Ton Macout guards exclaimed when he glanced down at the intruder.
He lashed a boot at Calvin James's unprotected skull. The ex-SWAT cop weaved his head to the side. The kick grazed his cheek, splitting skin. James ignored the pain and swung his right hand at the attacker's ankle.
James snared the Ton Ton's pant cuff and pulled forcibly. The sentry shrieked when he lost his balance and plunged headlong over the cliff. His bonechilling howl echoed softly through the night air as he fell to earth six thousand feet below.
"Oh, shit," James gasped as his feet slipped.
He seized the cliff with both hands. James clung to the rock as he kicked wildly, his boots struggling to find a foothold.
With a triumphant sneer the second sentry observed James's plight. The Haitian aimed his H&K 33A2 rifle at the intruder and prepared to squeeze the trigger, his knuckle whitening.
A projectile hissed. Sharp steel struck the sentry under the chin. The bolt punctured flesh at the hollow of his jaw. Flashing upward through the roof of his mouth, it pierced his brain. The H&K fell from uncaring fingers. The man feebly reached for the short feathered shaft that jutted from his jaw, then seemed to melt into the rocks.
His heart racing, Calvin James hauled himself over the edge of the cliff. Sweat soaked his ebony skin. He breathed deeply, grateful to be alive. The dead sentry lay before him, the crossbow bolt buried under his chin. McCarter scrambled over the top, his Barnett Commando clenched in one fist.
"Thanks, man," James told him. "Looks like I owe you another one."
"We don't keep track of that sort of thing," the Briton replied as he worked the cocking lever of his crossbow.
Two more terrorists appeared, one from each side of the radio station. Both wielded assault rifles, swinging them toward James and McCarter. The phut-phut-phut of a 3-round burst from a silenced firearm erupted. One of the sentries screamed and fell.
Gary Manning had mounted the cliff. He lay in a prone position, H&K SG-1 held to his shoulder. A wisp of smoke curled from the muzzle of its sound suppressor.
Before the fourth sentry could fire, Keio Ohara's arm swung like a catapult. A metallic disc whirled through the sky and slammed into the terrorist's face. The man's eyes rolled upward as if to examine the shaken star buried in his forehead. He tumbled over the ledge and fell off the cliff. The terrorist did not scream. He was already dead.
Although none of the sentries had fired a single shot, the Black Alchemists inside the building had been alerted of the assault. Perhaps someone heard one of the screams. Perhaps a radar screen had warned them of the approaching gunship.
Phoenix Force was not concerned with the reason. They were too busy staying alive when a flood of terrorists poured out of the radio station carrying an assortment of weapons. Some wielded pistols or shotguns. Others held machine pistols or assault rifles. Few, however, managed to fire a single shot.
Phoenix Force hit the terrorists with its own form of alchemy that transforms human beings into bloodied corpses.
James, McCarter, Manning and Ohara opened fire with their weapons on full auto. Terrorists ran straight into a tidal wave of burning lead. Black Alchemists twisted and hopped from the multiple impact of slugs. Half a dozen crumpled to the ground. Others dashed for cover at the edge of the building.
To their horror, they discovered an H-34 gunship waiting for them. Captain Colton kept the helicopter hovering steadily beyond the building while Rafael Encizo and Katzenelenbogen operated a M-60 7.62mm machine gun mounted at the open door of their transport. They sprayed the terrorists with a volley of sheer devastation. Black Alchemists slumped into bullet-torn lumps.
McCarter and Manning hurled concussion grenades at the closest windows. Glass shattered and the minibombs landed inside the building. A Ton Ton Macout goon reached for one of the grenades. It exploded in a brilliant blue-white flash before he could toss it outside.
Two blasts exploded like giant flashbulbs. Glass burst from window frames. Clouds of plaster dust spat from the gaps. Dazed terrorists stumbled amidst the artificial fog within the radio station clutching heads, moaning from the pain of shattered eardrums.
"That ought to soften them up a bit," McCarter announced, shoving a fresh 32-round magazine into his Ingram.
"Yeah," James agreed as he worked the charging handle of his M-16, chambering a fresh round. "Let's take care of what's left."
"Don't get overconfident," Manning warned. "This battle has just begun, my friend."
22
Captain Colton navigated the H-34 over the roof of the radio station. The gunship hovered above the building. Colton breathed hard, like a weightlifter straining under a heavy burden. Hovering over an enemy site meant exposing the vulnerable undercart of the helicopter to possible attack. Colton had to control the tension to keep his hands and feet steady on the equipment.
"Go!" the copilot shouted to the remaining passengers.
Yakov Katzenelenbogen and Rafael Encizo descended from the chopper, slithering down cables like misshapen spiders to the roof below. Both men were armed to the teeth. Katz carried his Uzi submachine gun and the .357 Eagle in shoulder leather and a Sig-Sauer P-226 pistol on his left hip. An excellent 9mm pistol, the P-226 featured a 15-round mag for plenty of firepower.
Encizo carried an Uzi and a 9mm Model 59 Smith & Wesson — a double-action autoloader that has a 15-round capacity. The Cuban's favorite weapons were in their usual place: a Walther PPK in a shoulder holster under his left armpit, a Gerber Mark I fighting knife clipped at the small of his back. Both men were also burdened with grenades and spare magazines for their weapons.
On the roof, the pair scrambled to a trap door between the copter pad and the solar cells. Encizo drew a steel jimmy from his utility belt and pried at the door until its latch broke. The Cuban opened the hatch and discovered an iron ladder that descended to a corridor inside the building.
Encizo went down, the Uzi clenched in his right fist. Two gun-wielding terrorists saw him and turned their weapons toward him, but Encizo's submachine gun spoke first. Half a dozen 9mm slugs sent the Black Alchemist goons hurtling across the hallway. They collapsed in a corner, their bodies striped with crimson.
As Katz descended Encizo watched for more gunmen. He did not see a door silently swing open next to the ladder, or notice as a tall thin figure emerged, drew a revolver from his belt, aimed it at the Cuban's exposed back.
But Katz saw. Still clinging to the rungs, he lashed a boot into the enemy gunman's face. The man fell to the floor. Yakov jumped from the ladder onto the terrorist's chest, his heels stomping the man's rib cage. Bone cracked and caved in from the impact, driving sharp shards into the would-be assassin's heart.
"There's a flight of stairs at that end," Encizo said, gesturing with his Uzi muzzle toward the west wing of the corridor. "Shall we see if our friends need some help?"
"Let's make certain there aren't any more terrorist roaches in the woodwork on this floor first," Katz replied as he cautiously approached the door from which the gunman had come.
"What's in there?" Encizo asked when the Israeli peered into the room.
"A bathroom. Presently unoccupied."
"I wish I had time to use it."
A metal door at the opposite end of the corridor burst open and the snout of a machine pistol poked around the edge. Katz and Encizo dropped to the floor as the weapon blazed a hasty burst at the pair. Bullets struck plaster an
d bored into the wall above the Phoenix Force warriors. A blizzard of white dust and chips flew out.
'That room is occupied," Encizo said softly.
The machine-pistol muzzle retreated from the open door. Encizo and Katz slowly got to their feet, weapons trained on the gunman's position.
"Careful, Rafael," Katz warned. "They might be baiting us. Expect a trap."
Suddenly billows of gray smoke poured from the open door. Tear gas! The choking, irritating mist soon filled the hallway.
Encizo covered his nose and mouth with his left hand and braced the stock of his Uzi against a hip. With his hands full, the Israeli was forced to endure the gas without any form of protection.
Two shapes hopped out of the room. The terrorists resembled monsters from Greek mythology, their faces covered by M-17 gas masks with bug-eyed lenses and hoglike snouts. Both dropped to a kneeling stance and brought the wire stocks of M-76 subguns to their shoulders.
The terrorists made two mistakes. They overestimated the advantage created by the gas, and they spent a crucial second trying to aim their weapons, an all but impossible feat while wearing gas masks.
Katz and Encizo wasted no time. They opened fire the moment they saw the ominous shapes of the Black Alchemist enforcers.
The terrorists were cut down like wheat before a threshing machine. As soon as they fell, Encizo took a concussion grenade from his belt and pulled the pin.
The Cuban dashed to the door. Eyes blurred by tears, he tossed the grenade into the room. Then he pressed his back against a wall, covered his ears with both hands and screamed. Katz followed his example to prevent his eardrums from being damaged.
The blast seemed to shake the entire building. A man's shriek blended with the echo.