by Gar Wilson
Three Arab gunmen popped out from inside the body of the truck. Their heads, shoulders and machine guns jutted over the side. They took aim at the sedan. Automatic weapons opened fire.
Bullets whined off the thick plates of shatterproof glass in the windshield. The five men inside the car automatically ducked, although none of the projectiles broke through the reinforced glass barrier.
"Trouble," McCarter muttered as he yanked an Ingram M-10 out of the briefcase.
Katz shifted gears into reverse and stomped on the gas. The sedan shot backward, tires screeching. Yakov glanced in the rearview mirror as more machine-gun rounds slammed into the windshield and hood.
A truck with a cement mixer attached rolled onto the road behind the sedan. Katz spun the steering wheel to avoid the new obstacle. More machine-gun-toting Arabs appeared from both sides of the cement mixer. They started blasting the sedan with automatic lead.
Not even bullet-proof glass could withstand continued bombardment from high-velocity projectiles for long. Cracks appeared in the windshield and side windows as Katz drove backward over the curb.
David McCarter opened a door and jumped outside. Using the body of the sedan for cover, he aimed the Ingram at the terrorists closing in on foot. The Briton had chosen the M-10 from the Mossad arms selection because it was his favorite close-quarters automatic weapon. A boxlike gun with a stubby barrel and a short wire stock, the Ingram did not look very formidable, but it was dependable, sturdy and featured a 32-round capacity.
The Englishman triggered his M-10 and blasted a 3-round burst into the chest of the closest Arab. The terrorist was knocked off his feet and sent tumbling to the ground in a dying heap. Another killer kept advancing. McCarter hit him with a diagonal volley of 9mm slugs that opened him up from hip to breastbone.
As the second terrorist fell, Keio Ohara and Rafael Encizo emerged from the car. The Cuban sprayed the dump truck with Uzi rounds. One Arab's head exploded like a blood-filled balloon. The others dropped behind the frame of the truck bed.
Ohara braced his arms across the hood of the sedan, the big Colt automatic held in a two-handed weaver combat grip. He aimed the gun at the chest of another charging Arab and squeezed the trigger. A 185-grain hollowpoint slug punched into the center of the terrorist's chest. The impact of the heavy .45-caliber bullet kicked the man back against the side of the cement mixer.
Katz and Manning climbed out of the sedan. The Israeli chopped down two advancing Arab terrorists with a slashing volley of 9mm slugs. Bullets smashed into throats and faces, nearly decapitating the pair. Holding the Uzi braced across his artificial arm, Katz joined Ohara and McCarter at the front of the car.
"There are more of the bastards on the opposite side of the cement mixer," the Briton declared.
"Wait until Rafael and Gary open fire on the enemy stationed at the dump truck," Katz told McCarter. "We want those bastards to be preoccupied before we make our move."
"Allah akbar..." an Arab cried as he charged forward. He ran right into a well-placed .45 bullet that Ohara drilled into his heart.
"Keio," Katz said, "you and David prepare to rush the cement mixer. I'll supply cover fire to keep the enemy pinned down."
The Japanese nodded.
The driver of the dump truck shifted gears and pulled his vehicle forward, attempting to attain a better angle, allowing his comrades to get a clear target. Encizo trained his Uzi on the cab and opened fire.
Nine-millimeter projectiles dissolved glass and blasted the driver's skull into a bloodied pulp. He slumped behind the steering wheel. Gary Manning triggered a salvo of 5.56mm rounds at the terrorists inside the body of the dump truck.
The Arabs ducked and bullets ricocheted off the truck's frame. Manning braced his M-16 against a hip and raised the barrel to judge the distance between himself and the dump truck. Satisfied, he reached under the barrel of the M-203 sleeve attachment and fired the grenade launcher.
A 40mm projectile full of heavy explosives sailed into the belly of the dump truck. The high-explosive round blasted apart the big metal container. The heavy steel walls broke loose and fell to earth along with the shredded, gory remains of the two terrorists.
"Now," Katz shouted.
He swung his Uzi toward the cement mixer and fired a long burst at the enemy, hosing the area with 9mm rounds. Terrorists scrambled behind the big vehicle for cover. One lunatic attacked, waving his AK-47 overhead as if wielding a scimitar instead of a gun. Katz blasted him with the last four rounds from the Uzi magazine. The man stumbled, landed on his knees and dropped his rifle. He opened his mouth, vomited a tide of crimson and fell dead on his face.
Ohara and McCarter bolted from cover and ran to the back of the cement truck. The Japanese threw himself to the ground, landing on his side with the .45 aimed at the startled terrorists at the side of the truck.
The Colt roared, burning a bullet into the lower intestines of one of the four Arabs lurking by the mixer. The man doubled up in agony. Ohara ignored him for the moment and fired another .45 slug into the upper torso of a terrorist who was about to swing a Russian sub gun toward the Japanese warrior.
McCarter poked the Ingram around the edge of the cement mixer and sprayed the remaining pair of terrorists with a lethal hail of 115-grain projectiles. An Arab's face vanished. The other man was spun around by the 9mm rounds that crashed into his chest and shoulder. He turned in time to receive two more bullets in the base of the neck, severing his spinal cord.
The man who Ohara had gut-shot tried to gather up his Kalashnikov for another attempt to kill the infidels. Ohara's 1911A1 snarled once more. A .45 slug crashed through the man's forehead. The back of his head exploded.
"Are you two all right?" Katz asked as he jogged forward to join Ohara and McCarter.
"Ducky," the Briton answered. "Couldn't get any of these blokes alive. From the sound of that explosion, I guess Gary and Rafael didn't manage to take any prisoners, either."
"No," Katz confirmed. "Instead we've got about a dozen more dead bodies and no answers. At least we're alive."
"Might not be so easy to stay that way if things like this keep happening," McCarter commented.
8
Twenty minutes later, Phoenix Force was introduced to two Egyptian Security Force's agents. Major Nizam and Captain Malik were waiting for them in the Mossad director's office.
"It took you men quite a while to get here," the director remarked.
"We were delayed by traffic," Katz replied. "I'll explain later. Why did Cairo send you two gentlemen?" he asked the Egyptians.
"We were sent by our government because we've learned that Mossad believes the Arab Republic of Egypt was involved in an attempt to assassinate your prime minister," Nizam explained. He was a tall, waspy man with a hawkish nose and coal-black eyes. "We want to help you find out who is really responsible."
"How did you learn about the assassination attempt?" the Mossad boss asked.
"We have intelligence sources within Israel," Captain Malik, a muscular young Arab, replied. "Please do not ask us to reveal them. You would only force us to lie to you."
"But you wouldn't lie to us about a scheme to kill the prime minister?" the director snorted. He turned to Katz. "Well, Colonel. Do you trust them?"
"At this point I'm not ready to trust anyone except my four partners," Yakov answered bluntly. "But I don't think the Egyptian government is responsible for the attempt on the prime minister's life — or the two attempts to try to kill my teammates and myself."
"Two attempts?" the director said, raising his eyebrows.
"The second happened on our way over here," Encizo said coldly. "Right after you called us on the radio."
"You're saying you suspect I set you up?" the Mossad chief snapped.
"Not at all," Manning assured him. "In fact, the style of the attack proves you can be trusted."
"The bastards opened fire on us with machine guns," McCarter explained. "If they'd known we had an armor-plated car with
bullet-proof glass, they would have used grenades or a bomb planted in the middle of the road."
"However," Keio Ohara said, "we suggest you change the frequency of your radio communications. They're obviously not secure."
"I'm glad Colonel Katzenelenbogen believes my government isn't involved in this sordid business," Nizam remarked. "Of course, we understand any doubts you people have about our intentions. We want to offer to assist you in any way to earn your trust."
"You might start by getting whatever information you can concerning the Egyptians who have been involved in these terrorist actions," Katz told him.
"Give me the names and we'll contact Cairo," Nizam assured him. "Within twelve hours we'll have complete files on the men involved."
"Mossad has been trying to identify the men your group killed this morning," the director said.
"What have you found so far?" Encizo asked.
"At least three were Egyptians, two others are from the Arab Quarter here in Tel Aviv," the director answered. "We're still working on the rest. There may never be a positive ID on the men who were blown to bits.''
"Do you have the former addresses of the two Israeli Arabs?" Encizo asked.
"Of course. Do you think you'll find anything of value there?"
"Might have a look and find out," McCarter commented.
"How about the security for the prime minister?" Manning asked. "The terrorists will try again. We'd better be ready for them when they do."
"We've tightened security," the director said. "Only a handful of people know where he really is. Very few have known from the start. That's why the assassins shot up a department-store dummy when they made their first attempt to kill him."
"Mind if we see if there are any improvements that your people may have overlooked?" the Canadian asked.
"Of course not," the Mossad man said, but his tone revealed that the suggestion offended him.
"Have autopsies been performed on the dead terrorists?" Katz inquired.
"That's currently in progress," the director said. "Apparently, that will take even longer since we'll have some more bodies now. How many terrorists did you kill on your way here?"
"About a dozen," Katz shrugged.
"Since we already know why the men were killed, we are more concerned with identifying them at this time," the Mossad chief stated. "There doesn't seem to be any other reason to hurry the autopsies."
"I disagree," Katz told him. "Those terrorists were absolutely fearless. You saw how our prisoner ripped off his own hand to commit suicide. That's incredibly fanatical behavior even for a terrorist."
"You think they may have some sort of drug in their blood?" Ohara asked.
"I wouldn't be surprised," Katz answered. "Morphine addicts have been known to be crazy brave and totally immune to pain. PCP junkies have also been known to have superhuman strength. Some have gone berserk and attacked police officers who have emptied a service revolver into a PCP freak without stopping him."
"Do you want to check with Dr. Ben-David in our medical department?" the director asked.
"Yes. I'd also like to examine the bodies personally."
"The bodies?" Nizam said, raising his eyebrows. "Are you looking for anything in particular, Colonel?"
"One never knows where information is stored," Katz replied. "Sometimes a dead man can tell you quite a bit."
"Oh, I selected a translator for your group," the director stated. "Lieutenant Stern has been working in linguistics for more than ten years, first in the army and later with Mossad. Speaks Hebrew, Arabic, English and French fluently. Highly reliable. Good background."
"Sounds like he'll do," McCarter said.
"She," the director said, smiling. "Lieutenant Rachel Stern."
9
Rafael Encizo found Rachel Stern to be far more interesting than the scenery they were passing.
She was a beautiful woman in her late twenties. She had raven-black hair, a tan complexion and bright green eyes. Driving the Toyota Land Rover with expertise, she was wearing a short-sleeved white blouse and a khaki skirt.
But, while Rafael was taken in by the translator, she paid little attention to his attempts to strike up a casual conversation.
David McCarter, who was riding in the back of the Jeep, did not even bother to try and chat with Rachel. He had labeled her as a cold customer as soon as they had been introduced. She seemed to bristle with resentment when she heard his British accent.
The Englishman intended to concentrate on the job. If his Cuban partner wanted to try to charm the chip off her shoulder, that was his business — as long as Encizo's romantic notions did not get in the way of their mission.
Rachel parked the Jeep beside a curb on Yefet Street in front of an apartment building and turned off the engine.
"This is the address," she announced.
"Both of the Israeli Arab terrorists had apartments in this building?" Encizo asked.
"Yes," Rachel said, slipping the strap of a large purse over her shoulder. "The landlord may not be very pleased to have a trio of 'infidels' checking on his former tenants, but he'll cooperate with Mossad if he wants to stay in business."
Her prediction proved accurate. The landlord was displeased by their demands to search the rooms of the recently departed Mohammed Bashir and Abu Hammad. He reluctantly surrendered a key and gave Rachel the room numbers and directions to them.
The woman led McCarter and Encizo up a flight of stairs to the second floor where they found Hammad's room. She unlocked the door and they entered. The apartment was a mess with dirty clothes and old newspapers scattered across the floor. Unwashed plates and teacups were piled on a battered table, and the stuffing bulged from a rip in the mattress on Hammad's bed. In contrast, a clean rug lay on the center of the wooden floor with an area neatly swept around it.
"A prayer rug," Rachel explained. "A devoted Muslim prays three times a day, facing Mecca."
McCarter, searching the apartment, found a banana-shaped magazine for an AK-47 in one of the drawers.
"I found a map with Ben Gurion airport circled in red," Encizo announced as he rummaged through a cabinet under the sink. "And a small bottle of liquid which smells like prussic acid."
"Who ever heard of bloody terrorists in the twentieth century using poison daggers?" the Englishman muttered. McCarter than looked at Rachel who was giving him a cold stare. "What in piss is buggin' you?"
"I'm afraid we Israelis don't find you British to be such charming characters," Rachel remarked stiffly as she knelt by a steamer trunk. "Since we had to fight England for our independence."
"So did the Yanks and they don't seem to hold a grudge," McCarter shrugged. "Lighten up."
"Maybe when two hundred years have passed we won't hold a grudge either," she told him.
"Well, the British could still be pissed with the fact the Zionists blew up the King David Hotel and killed a lot of innocent people," the Englishman stated. "They also executed a lot of British soldiers without bothering with a trial. Yet England has been willing to bury the hatchet and be an ally to Israel. Why can't you accept that, Lieutenant Stern?"
"If you two can give this conversation a rest," Encizo announced, "you might take a look at this."
The Cuban showed them a metal bottle with a ceramic cup fixed to the neck and a long hoselike stem attached to the base. McCarter took the water pipe and sniffed its bowl.
"Hashish," he remarked. "A lot of terrorists use drugs of one kind or another. They're not really professional soldiers or espionage agents. Even the bastards who receive professional training aren't prepared for the stress, fear and boredom that's part of the trade."
"Okay," Encizo said, handing him a metal amulet with a crude symbol engraved on it. "How about this?"
"Some sort of mystical nonsense," the Englishman stated.'' Doesn't look like any Islamic symbol I'm familiar with. What do you say, Lieutenant?"
"I don't recognize it either," she admitted as she checked inside the steamer
trunk. "But look at this."
She held up a white brussa that had the same emblem on the left breast side. The two Phoenix Force warriors examined it.
"Think there's a connection here?" Encizo asked.
"Maybe," McCarter said. "Let's check the other chap's room."
The quarters of the late Mohammed Bashir proved that all terrorists were not slobs. The furniture was cheap, but well cared for. The floor had been recently swept. There was also a well-stocked bookcase, a floor lamp, a table, two wooden chairs and a wall locker that served as a clothes closet.
"Rachel, take a look at those books," Encizo said. "See if there are any translations of the works of Marx, Lenin or Carlos Marighella."
"Who?" she asked.
"Marighella was an old comrade of Castro's," Encizo explained. "He wrote a manual on the principles of terrorism which has become sort of a bible for a lot of groups throughout the world. It's been translated into at least a dozen languages including Arabic."
McCarter opened the closet. "Bingo," he announced, extracting a white brussa on a wire hanger. "Same symbol on the shirt."
"Another pipe, too," Encizo declared as he searched through a cabinet.
"There's a copy of the Koran here," Rachel said as she knelt by the bookcase.
"Anything else?" Encizo asked.
"A volume of Islamic poetry, a book about the seven Imams who succeeded Mohammed and one about the Lord of All Ages."
"What's that?" McCarter asked. "Sounds like science fiction."
"I'm not sure," Rachel said. "But all of these appear to be devotional books. No Communist literature in the lot."
"Well," Encizo sighed. "I guess we'll..."
"Allah akbar," several voices cried in unison.
McCarter, Encizo and Rachel turned to see five knife-wielding Arabs charging into the room, their faces resembling wild beasts.
The terrorists attacked too swiftly for either Encizo or McCarter to draw a gun from shoulder leather.