Phoenix Force 07 - Dragon's Kill

by Wilson, Gar

  "This looks more like a bleeding training camp for hand-to-hand combat than a dojo," McCarter muttered.

  Keio smiled, pleased that his British partner had also noticed the crude unprincipled style of the so-called martial-arts school. "Perhaps the terrorists are using this place for exactly that purpose."

  "Kohnichi wa," one of the dojo's instructors greeted, bowing at McCarter and Keio. "I am Shiki-mi Yoto. May I help you?"

  "Kohnichi wa, sensei," Ohara replied, addressing the man as "teacher." "This is Carter-san from England. He is a news reporter for the BBC. I am his guide and translator, Matsu Kino."

  "I am honored to meet you both," Shikimi said. "But why would the BBC be interested in this most humble dojo?"

  "The BBC wants to do a documentary feature about Nippon," Keio explained. "Carter-san is searching for a worthy school of martial arts to feature in his story. The Zembu Dojo—the 'Total Dojo'—seemed an ideal choice."

  "You honour us, Matsu-san ." Shikimi bowed. "But we do not seek such publicity. This is a rather exclusive school and we . . . ."

  "Ee-ya!" an angry voice barked.

  Everyone present turned to see a powerfully built figure clad in a black gi with a boken thrust through an obi sash knotted around his waist. Instructors and students quickly bowed to the man in black.

  He barely nodded in reply. His gaze immediately fell upon Keio and McCarter. The man's face was as impassive as a wooden samurai war mask, yet his black eyes burned with furious energy. Although he was clearly the ichibahn sensei of the dojo, the man appeared to be no older than thirty-two, quite young to command such respect.

  "Daito-san," Shikimi called to him. "Nan-no kosho desu kah?"

  But Daito-san did not tell him what was wrong. He ignored Shikimi and strode purposefully toward the three students who had been practicing swordsmanship on the kendo dummy.

  "Kimi," Daito snarled at the trio. "Kogeki!"

  The three novices were startled by the sensei's order to attack, but they quickly obeyed. The closest man raised his boken over his head in a two-handed grip and charged Daito. Moving with catlike grace and incredible speed, the man in black stepped aside. His wooden sword became a blur as Daito drew the boken in a lightning-fast iai-jutsu stroke, chopping the rock-maple blade across the student's forearm. The novice cried out and dropped his sword, clutching his forearm with his other hand.

  Daito moved smoothly and immediately dealt with the second attacker. The student had raised his boken, but Daito executed a do stroke, and the wooden blade of his sword slammed into the man's abdomen. The novice gasped and sunk to his knees as the third student attacked, his boken held high.

  The sensei deftly stepped forward and caught one of the student's wrists and pivoted, twisting his opponent's arm. The novice suddenly plunged head over heels from the skillful katatenage throw and crashed to the hardwood floor, unprotected by a judo mat. Daito's boken cracked against the floor next to the man's ear to simulate a lethal stroke to the head.

  "He's damn good," McCarter whispered.

  "Yeah," Keio agreed, surprised to see such a skilled demonstration of kenjutsu, the most combative style of Japanese fencing, in such a sorry excuse for a dojo.

  "I do not wish to be rude," Shikimi told them. "But I must return to my class."

  "Of course, sensei," Ohara replied. "We shall have to find another dojo for the BBC to film. Please excuse this intrusion."

  "May you find better fortune elsewhere, Matsusan," Shikimi said with a deep bow.

  Keio and McCarter returned the gesture and left the dojo. Daito-san marched across the room to a window and watched the pair approach a blue Honda coupe.

  "Follow them," Daito ordered.

  "The foreigner is a British television reporter and the other man—" Shikimi began.

  "I said, follow them," Daito insisted. "Our men can keep in contact by car radio. Take no chances with those two."

  "Wakari-masin," the puzzled Shikimi said. "I do not understand. Do you think these men are dangerous?"

  "You failed to notice the bulge under the European's left arm," Daito growled. "Why does this television reporter carry a gun?"

  He turned to the students. "Ikimas. Isogu," Daito ordered sharply, slashing his hand through the air. "Ima."

  Heads quickly bowed in reply and the students bolted from the dojo. Some dashed to the locker room connected to the gym to change into street clothes. Others ran outside to their cars, still clad in white gis.

  The man known as Daito-san watched the others depart. He wished he could go with them. Daito relished personal combat, which he considered to be the most honest and pure of all man's activities. He would rather participate in the kill than coordinate battle strategy from the sidelines.

  He was once called Masaaki Sakade, born to a warrior family. Sakades had been fighting men for centuries. His ancestors had served as samurai knight-warriors during the time of daimyos and shoguns. The Sakades had always been very proud of this tradition. The way of the sword had always been the religion of the Sakade family.

  Masaaki's father had also been a twentieth-century samurai. He was an officer in the Japanese occupation forces in the Philippines during World War II. When the Americans defeated the Japanese in the Pacific, Captain Sakade boldly attacked a machine-gun nest with a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other until a blast of automatic fire ripped bullets into both his legs.

  A U.S. medical team treated the wounded warrior. When Sakade awoke from a morphine-induced slumber, he found his right leg was missing. The American translator claimed the leg was too badly damaged to save and they had been forced to amputate. Sakade never believed this, convinced that the barbarians had crippled him for life as a form of sadistic punishment. Masaaki would later inherit this hatred for Americans from his father.

  Raised on warrior propaganda, kenjutsu lessons and hatred for the United States and the other Western powers, Sakade was a perfect candidate for a terrorist organization. In 1968 he was recruited by the Japanese Red Army. The fierce young man quickly learned the skills of an urban terrorist and soon became the commander of a JRA group that specialized in strike missions within Nippon and Okinawa.

  Sakade led his band of fanatics on some of the most destructive and bloody operations in the history of terrorism. Even by the Red Army's standards, Sakade was a daring and vicious "soldier against oppression." His superiors admired Sakade's courage and cunning, but they worried that his boldness might make him careless.

  In the early 1970s the Japanese authorities hunted down the JRA like hungry cats searching for rats in a barn. Sakade and many other terrorist leaders managed to escape capture by fleeing the country. Some, like Tanaga Zeko, ran to South Yemen. Others, including Sakade, headed for the closest Communist ally: North Korea.

  In Korea, Sakade met Professor Ouzu Yoichi who was attempting to put together a new terrorist organization called the Japanese Red Cell. The Communist professor had connections with the Russian KGB and the North Korean UNGII, which would help furnish weapons, but most of the finances would come from an even more mysterious source.

  When Yoichi explained the plans for the JRC to Sakade, the terrorist eagerly joined the new outfit. Only then, did he learn about Professor Edward Oshimi, the real mastermind behind the organization. Sakade was apprehensive about working with a Japanese American until he met Oshimi in person.

  "I understand you hate Americans, Sakade-san," Oshimi remarked when they first met.

  The terrorist warrior nodded.

  "So do I," Oshimi stated.

  "Do you hate yourself, Oshimi-san?" Sakade asked bluntly. "If so, I suggest seppuku, ritual suicide."

  "If my American blood could be drained from me," Oshimi began, "then I would gladly use a blade to be rid of it. If I did not think we could defeat the American oppressors and restore our country to the greatness that was once Japan, I would indeed take my own life. Yet, why should I do our enemies such a favour?"

  "You speak well," Sakade
said simply.

  "But words do not impress you, samurai?" Oshimi smiled. "Very well. You will see actions as well. I will need you to return to Japan to command the JRC forces there. Since you are wanted by the authorities, you will receive a new identity. You will undergo plastic surgery and receive new identification papers and a new name. Even your comrades will not know you by the name you were born with. From this day on you shall be known as Daitosan—Man of the Long Sword."

  Daito served his new masters well. A zealot, a living weapon in human form, Daito was the perfect terrorist. Fearless, ruthless and deadly, he would carry out any mission regardless of danger to himself or to innocent bystanders.

  To Daito, danger was an abstract concept because life and death are merely two sides of the same coin of Fate. The terrorist's black-and-white view of the world left no room for innocence of any kind, either for himself or in others. Daito believed one either endorsed the same twisted philosophy as his or one was an enemy who deserved an abrupt violent death.

  Daito never questioned the morality of the cause he was so fanatically dedicated to. He was not even concerned about the possibility of failure. Daito did not want a long life. An aged feeble warrior is a useless creature, a lion without claws or fangs that is best put out of its suffering.

  Although Daito had no religion and believed in no god, he would have agreed with the New Testament passage that states, he who lives by the sword shall perish by it.

  Daito would not have wanted it any other way.

  RAFAEL ENCIZO AND IKEDA KEN entered the manager's office of the Hoshiro Company. A short portly man, with gray-tinged sideburns and a whisk-broom mustache decorating his otherwise bland face, rose from behind a small metal desk.

  "Kohnichi wa. I am Satsu Hoshiro," he declared in English with a curt bow. "The owner and manager of this company. How may I assist you?"

  "This is Ricardo Rodriguez," Ikeda explained, using Rafael's cover name. "He is an investigator for an American insurance firm, specializing in claims concerning ships and security for vessels. I am Yawata Zento of Sekai Enterprises, an international import-export corporation located in Yokohama. We have done business with Mr. Rodriguez before. He is a most impressive professional."

  "I'm certain that is true," Hoshiro said. "On the phone you said you had a business proposition for me."

  "Security is a vital part of any business these days," Rafael explained. "I mean no disrespect,

  Hoshiro-san , but your shipyards suffer certain flaws in this matter."

  "I own a small fishing fleet," the manager answered. "Sabotage is hardly a problem I need to consider."

  "But your boats are vulnerable to thieves," the Cuban stated. "I took the liberty of looking over your fishing fleet. A thief could easily board any vessel by simply climbing over a gunwale. The doors to the cabins appear to be secured by simple button locks that can be opened with a credit card."

  "Several of my stevedores patrol the docks after dark, Mr. Rodriguez," Hoshiro said. "They are strong men and they carry clubs. It would be most unwise for a thief to attempt to steal one of my boats. . . . "

  Knuckles rapped on the door before it opened. A huge figure lumbered across the threshold and bowed before Hoshiro. He was less than six feet tall, but his bulk seemed to fill the doorway. Rafael guessed the man's weight to be more than three hundred pounds. Much of this was fat, but the muscular development of his massive shoulders, thick arms and tree-trunk legs clearly indicated that considerable strength lurked within his flabby frame.

  "Ah," Hoshiro said, smiling, "this is Tado-san . He is my chief of security, in charge of the protection of my property. Tado-san was formerly a sumo wrestler. Not the sort of man any thief would care to confront."

  "Junsa koko, Hoshiro-san, " the sumo stated grimly.

  "Desho juyonai," Hoshiro replied, his tone seeming casual, but his expression revealing alarm. "Matteh kudasai, Tado-san ."

  "Wakari-masu," the Japanese hulk said, nodding.

  "The police are here," Hoshiro explained for Rafael's benefit. "I'm certain it isn't important, but I'd better talk to them. Will you excuse me?"

  "Certainly," Ikeda assured him.

  Hoshiro hurried from the office, followed by Tado. Ikeda moved to the door and watched the pair descend a flight of stairs to the storage room below.

  "I hope the cops don't scare these guys into a gunfight," Rafael commented as he walked to a filing cabinet near the desk.

  "The police will be subtle," Ikeda assured him, but he unbuttoned his jacket to allow easy access to the Nambu pistol in a shoulder holster under his arm. "They will only ask Hoshiro if he knows the whereabouts of one of the terrorists from the airport who had been in his employ. Since the incident occurred in Tokyo and these are local police, Hoshiro will have no reason to react in a drastic manner to their questions."

  "I hope you're right," the Cuban remarked, removing a small leather package from a pocket. "We wouldn't stand a chance if all the Hoshiro personnel around here charge out with guns blazing."

  He took two slender steel probes from the pack and inserted them in the cabinet's keyhole. The lock was a single-tumbler model, and he had no trouble picking it. Rafael slid open a drawer and nodded at Ikeda.

  "You'd better look at the files," the Cuban suggested as he changed places with the Kompei chief. "I doubt if they're written in Spanish or English."

  While Rafael stationed himself at the door, Ikeda quickly leafed through the file folders. Much of the information he found consisted of recent catches of fish and market sales. However, Ikeda discovered something of interest. He extracted a small camera, no larger than a pack of cigarettes, and photographed several sheets before returning the files.

  "We probably don't have much time, Ken," Rafael reminded him.

  "I know," the Japanese agreed. "Better lock this cabinet for now . . . although I think we'll want to come back for a better look at the rest of these records later."

  "What did you find?" Rafael asked, again trading places with Ikeda.

  "Enough," the Kompei man answered. "Hoshiro has lists of cities with the numbers of 'troops' stationed at each locale. These are ranked as first, second and third. The Zembu Dojo is a second-level base."

  "Let's get out of here," Rafael said as he twisted the lock picks in the cabinet until the latch clicked into place. "With only one squad car of cops for backup, we're not in any position to tangle with these guys. Hell, the police don't even carry guns here except in an emergency . . . providing they know about the emergency in advance."

  "We'll return with reinforcements," Ikeda said. "Armed reinforcements, and arrest Hoshiro and the others."

  "Not yet," Rafael urged. "This place can't be the headquarters for the entire Red Cell. There are still bigger fish to catch, my friend."

  "What do you suggest?" Ikeda asked.

  "Let's check on Keio and McCarter," the Cuban replied. "I want to be certain they returned from their visit to a 'second-level terrorist base'—whatever the hell that means."

  "Very well," Ikeda sighed. "But I hope you don't expect Kompei to wait very long. My superiors tend to get impatient."

  "Don't worry about that," Rafael told him. "My associates and I are just as eager to put these terrorists out of business as you are."

  He smiled coldly as he added, "We're going to make sure the Red Cell bleeds to death."

  7

  "It's been so bloody long I've almost forgotten how to use these things," David McCarter commented as he plunged a pair of chopsticks into a plate of sukiyaki.

  "Perhaps we should have gone somewhere less traditional," Keio Ohara commented.

  The Tengoku restaurant was very "Japanese." There were no chairs. Customers knelt on tatami mats by low tables. The walls and doors of the dining room were made of paper screens. The waitresses wore kimonos in the manner of geisha.

  A small rock garden with multicolored stones arranged in the patterns of Zen symbols dominated the center of the room. The only Wester
n object in the restaurant was a small umbrella stand in a corner by the door.

  McCarter was the only Occidental customer in the dining room, yet no one stared at the European. Such behaviour would not have been enryo.

  "No," the Briton assured Keio. "This will be fine."

  The Japanese member of Phoenix Force smiled. He recalled that McCarter had spent many years in Shanghai and Hong Kong as an SAS soldier, as well as time in Laos and Vietnam with an "observation" team attached to American SOG Intelligence. McCarter was often impatient, short-tempered and overemotional, but he was no stranger to the Orient, and the tranquil atmosphere seemed to bring another part of his personality to the surface.

  "You're sure Rafael can find his way here?" McCarter asked, sipping cha tea—wishing it was Coca-Cola.

  "When he contacted us by CB radio, Ikeda was with him," Keio replied. "I'm certain he won't have any trouble."

  "I hope Gary and Yakov have been able to get those damn crates out of the airport cargo section," McCarter commented. "I'll be glad to get my hands on familiar weapons again."

  He still carried the Nambu pistol he had taken from a dead JRC terrorist at the airport. Unlike the old World War II model, which resembled a German Luger in 8mm caliber, the new Nambu featured a Browning-style frame and fired 9mm ammo. Keio's .44 AutoMag was too big to conceal under his jacket, so he still carried it in the briefcase that sat beside him as he knelt by the table.

  "Gary and Yakov are more experienced in matters of diplomacy and business than the rest of us," Ohara said. "I'm sure . . . ."

  The screen door suddenly slid open and four figures dressed in sweat shirts, slacks and stocking masks burst into the dining room. Two of the invaders carried Skorpion machine pistols. Another held a Makarov in one hand and a bloodstained bayonet in the other. The curves of the fourth terrorist's body revealed her sex, but a North Korean M-68 pistol in her hand warned that she was as deadly as her male comrades.