Aswan Hellbox

by Gar Wilson

  Thrown together, Manning and Nemtala naturally developed a deep rapport. When they were not talking guns, there was slow exploration of backgrounds; Manning told her about the alien clime of Canada, Tala gave him extra insights into bedouin lore. There was time for talk of personal preferences and perceptions.

  But these trusting confidences were for Manning alone. If another Phoenix Force member got too close, attempted to offer suggestions about her rifle-handling skills, Nemtala froze and flashed a defiant glare.

  "If she was a cat she'd hiss," a rueful Encizo — who considered himself quite a hand with the ladies — commented after one such rebuff.

  He and Katz had exchanged knowing glances. "Let them be," the Israeli had sighed.

  Late that same afternoon all hands had good cause to be grateful for the added firepower Nemtala brought to their scruffy squad.

  One moment they were slowly working their way up a steep, spine-jarring stretch of goat path, a blind passage ahead, the next the Libyan desert was blowing up in their faces.

  Luckily they had paused to disconnect the FAV at the bottom of the incline to lessen the drain on the Land Rover, and the moment the first jarring crack of rifle fire was heard above and on the right — the whine of Kalashnikov slugs passing five feet overhead — Keio goosed the assault vehicle for all it was worth, slamming it to a stop on the low side of the LR. It was Encizo's turn on the MK-19, and with a growl he plummeted down onto the hood, scooted behind the MG, whipping off the dust canvas, yanking the cocking arm back in one fluid motion.

  "Move out, compadre," he bellowed.

  McCarter shoved the Land Rover into reverse and deliberately took a ditching to the right, snugging it to the sheer rock wall. The enemy would have to lean over the edge of the stone palisade to draw bead on them.

  Manning followed McCarter's lead. The second the truck crunched to a halt. Manning, Tala and Salibogo bailed out, cartridge belts clamped, assault rifles freed up. They went straight west, intending to flank the base of the jebel, come around the blind side of the enemy.

  "The bastards are out of range," Encizo shouted in stuttering outcry, Ohara's maneuverings all but throwing him from his station behind the MG. "That's why they aren't hitting anything."

  "Hang on," Keio warned as he saw a yawning crater ahead. "Got a real sand pit here."

  The FAV hit the rut, bounced three feet into the air, tilted dangerously, then landed on its left wheels. "God," Rafael groaned, as they came down on all four and jackrabbited forward. Ahead they caught a glimpse of a single Unimog, drawn into a shadowed cul-de-sac on the trail's right side. This time the terrorists had left a guard. As they rounded the low-slung butte, the Cobra gunner swung the Goryonov SG34 and opened up.

  Back at the LR, Katz and McCarter hotfooted it along the base of the bluff, Soviet kisses raining down in a futile shower ten feet to their left. A richocheting 5.56mm slug chipped the rock wall near Yakov's head. Katz froze, craned his neck up the two-hundred-foot rise. He sent a burst of Uzi hellfire at the black head that was momentarily exposed.

  They pushed on, pausing here and there to dump lead.

  "I cannot believe this," Katz gasped, the Uzi chatterbox jerking in his fist. "That Blackwell would actually send out a second search party. Stupid. Apparently he doesn't believe in absorbing his losses." He snorted in disgust. "Even more stupid — we got caught flat-footed."

  "These things happen, mate," McCarter encouraged. "They heard us before we heard them."

  The two warriors broke and stopped, broke and stopped, making for the forward point where the FAV was just disappearing. Once Encizo had mopped up there, they had some tricky mountain climbing ahead of them.

  Manning, Salibogo and Nemtala, meanwhile, were already starting up the backside of the desert citadel, digging feet and fingers into outcroppings, gruntingly drawing themselves up foot by foot. Manning was amazed at Salibogo's agility and endurance. He was aware of the vengeful expression twisting the faces of father and daughter, both oblivious to danger, the impending meeting with their mortal enemy blotting out everything else. Tala was actually outstripping Manning. When she glared back at them, her eyes strangely glazed, he snapped, "I go over first, Tala, understand? That's an order."

  "Yes, Gary," she murmured in quick obedience. Again she was scrambling ahead.

  Atop the Unimog the gunner was a heartbeat too slow in cranking up the Russian meat grinder. The FAV's unexpected, silent catapulting into his fire zone had seen to that. As the terrorist chambered the first round, the Mark 19 was already hammering skull-blasters home.

  It only took one forty mill to do the job. All at once the man found his face missing.

  His reflexes razor sharp, Keio did not even wait for the corpse to keel over, drop away from the mount. He rammed the attack wagon beyond the Unimog and sought protection deeper in the gorge. As he helped Encizo yank the Mark 19's stand-up mount to higher elevation, slammed the pintle home, Blackwell's goons were potting at them from overhead.

  Then, moving on instinct alone, Keio was out of the FAV, zigzagging down the narrow valley, AK-47s pounding rivets into the gravel inches behind his heels. By then the MK-19 was at full bay, and the sky patrol went out of business momentarily.

  As with all of Mack Bolan's men, Keio Ohara had received intensive indoctrination on every weapon known to Konzaki. Leaping into the Unimog, he took only twenty seconds to put the Russian MMG into action. Searching the rim of the cliff, he found a terrorist ranger silly enough to hang his nose out.

  The bastard was shot dead with his own armament.

  Keio and Rafael staked out sections of the stony parapet, panning the machine guns over the edge. The instant there was movement they opened up, chopping out big chunks of rocks, the splinter-hail brushing the terrorists back.

  Minutes later more Marines landed, as McCarter and Katzenelenbogen stormed around the corner, sent a grateful high sign to their gun team. Without pause, they began clambering over a scrambled rockfall, heading for the high country. Their ascent was easy — the blocks provided good footing, and the angle was steep but not impossible.

  Blackwell's men did not even know an assault team was on the way; Keio and Rafael saw to it that reconnaissance was kept at absolute minimum. Now Yakov and McCarter were halfway up the cliff. Thirty feet. Fifteen feet. Then, hovering just under the lip, they were locked and bolted, waiting for Encizo to lob a half dozen grenade cartridges.

  There was a sudden change in tactics. For at that moment the muted, metallic clatter of rapid fire carried from farther back on the table top outpost. Manning and company.

  Yakov motioned Keio and Rafael to hold their fire and started slowly working his way upward. "A foot at a time," he said, straining as his prosthetic hook caught in a slight outcrop, drew him upward. "Quick roll at full fire when we go over."

  Up on the battleground, the remaining Black Cobras were in full panic. One of the twelve-man team was dead, an oozing hole in the side of his head; another was seriously wounded, rolling in agony where a Goryonov slug had punched out most of his shoulder.

  The rear guard, distracted by the awesome thunder of the Mark 19, were caught unprepared. Before they could react to the blazingly swift appearance of the three commandos, to the blurring sweep on the right, left and front, they were goners. The invaders fell flat on the stony apron to the west. Their rifles caught fire, hosing terrorists with slashing lead.

  A tall white man, an old man and a girl — this was the extent of the image emblazoned on their retinas in that instant just before their lights went out forever.

  During the firefight, Manning, in a fleeting glance took in Tala's performance. She was dedicated, professional, entirely fearless. He was awed by this female killing machine, which he had helped create.

  Her face formed a demonic grimace. She moved the AK-47 in precise, smooth sweeps, plucking off separate bursts, bringing down one man, moving to the next with no wasted motions — or bullets — whatsoever. Before the deafening cla
tter died down, she alone was responsible for five of the corpses littering the land.

  It was all over. As suddenly as the stunning fight had started, it died out. Faces grim, slumped in washout pose, their weapons pointing slackly toward the ground, the ragtag trio surveyed the havoc they had made.

  Shortly there was a call from Yakov. "Is it all right to come up? All clear, Manning?"

  "All clear," he said, his voice empty.

  Colonel Yakov Katzenelenbogen muttered as he took in the blood-drenched scene.

  "No survivors, I suppose," Katz finally said.

  Manning shrugged. "We can check around."

  They walked among the eleven men slowly, Yakov turning one over with his boot, then another. And when they came to the shoulder-mangled trooper Keio was responsible for...

  "Spare me, effendi," he gasped, his voice barely audible. "Show mercy, I..."

  The words went unfinished. Nemtala strode forward and aimed a vicious kick at his head. The man groaned harshly, rolled partially away. "Just like the mercy you showed the people of Abu Darash?" she rasped in matching dialect. "Answer my captain's questions or die like the camel dung you are."

  Manning drew Nemtala away.

  "Where is General Blackwell?" Yakov demanded. "Where is he heading?" Salibogo translated.

  "Three days we have traveled," the Cobra gasped, "to find our missing comrades. When last I saw him he was in Ba Debba. The main force moved out that same night."

  Katz frowned as Salibogo translated the man's last statement. "Ask him where Blackwell's heading," he snapped.

  "I am a mere foot soldier," the man replied, cringing before the Israeli's hard stare. "I am told nothing. I go where they tell me to go. A poor foot soldier, I tell you."

  As Salibogo relayed the reply, his daughter again intruded. "Tell my captain what he wants to know, scum," she grated, jamming the barrel of her AK-47 into his face. The man tried to evade her, but she slammed her boot onto his shredded shoulder, forced him back. And before anyone could stop her, the rifle barrel slashed harder, taking out most of his teeth. "Talk, you animal."

  "Nemtala," Katz said, his eyes dark with rage.

  But the woman, out of touch at the moment, seemingly did not hear, and again the gun barrel was poised for a fresh smash at his mouth.

  "I am only a soldier," the man jabbered more desperately, spitting teeth in growing terror, expending the last of his strength. "I swear, I do not know any of these things you ask. I swear, on my mother's grave."

  "Well," Nemtala sniffed, "you are of no further use to us then, are you?" In that moment her AK-47 discharged a single bullet, creating a hole in his forehead.

  A stunning silence enveloped them then, all eyes wide at the bizarre turn.

  Nemtala seemed to break from a trance, then she recoiled, stared confusedly down at the mess she had made of the Cobra's head — a sickening sight.

  She flung herself away, ran to the edge of the precipice and stared over. Manning was instantly behind her, his hands bracing her shoulders. She fell to her knees and began to sob bitterly. A moment later she was vomiting into the sand. Manning knelt beside her, offered her his handkerchief when she was done.

  Nemtala turned and buried her face in his shoulder. "What is happening?" she choked. "Why am I doing these things? I am becoming animal. More animal than the man we are after. Oh, Gary, Gary..."

  The others turned away as Manning tried desperately to comfort her.

  They watched with quiet amusement as Salibogo again began stripping weapons from the fallen hardmen, adding them to the lot already in their Unimog. "I swear, he'll be selling guns to Blackwell before he's through," Encizo said.

  The Goryonov SG34 was also loaded — beside its twin — in Phoenix's rolling armory. Again fuel was transferred between the various vehicles, precious water supply was replenished.

  "Good old Blackwell," Keio mused. "Who needs a quartermaster section with him around?"

  They did not fire the abandoned Unimog this time. Instead they dropped a grenade into the engine, blasted away the tires. It was left to rot. A century from now — the Libyan desert being the arid, rainless hellbox it was — the vehicle would still be there, bogged in the sand.

  They headed out at 1900 hours. They would drive all night long. Blackwell was a burr beneath Katzenelenbogen's saddle by now; Katz would make up for lost time the best way he could. And if it meant driving Phoenix Force to the limit...

  They headed due east, the African sun a ruddy orange fireball slowly sinking at their backs.

  9

  By noon of the next day, the men of Phoenix Force had come to the end of their string. Even though they had taken turns spelling each other with the driving throughout the long, cold night, the exertions of the past week finally took their toll. Katzenelenbogen — though haunted by a gnawing sense of urgency — finally called a halt. He was sure the marathon drive had cut another day off Blackwell's lead.

  Their lucky discovery of the heavenlike oasis of Wadi el-Tonjo contributed in part to his decision.

  What better spot for brief R&R?

  Wadi el-Tonjo was not a spectacular oasis, but to the parched, dirty, reeking men of Phoenix it was nothing short of a godsend. After a week of unrelenting wasteland, the greenery of the place was paradise. The ground springs, even though it was late April, had not dried up. The small pool, brackish yet clear, was perhaps twenty by twenty and reached a depth of four feet at its center. Three palms, a sparse grove of thorn trees, plus reeds and bunch grass around the pool proper, assumed proportions of dense forest to the sand-blitzed crew.

  They were not alone at the oasis. A nomad tribe consisting of six men, eight women and twelve children along with two camels and a herd of scrawny sheep had arrived there.

  No words were exchanged, except by Salibogo and the family headman, and upon seeing the heavy guns the foreigners carried, the natives kept wary distance. They cooked, stayed near their ragged tents, saw to filling numerous goatskin bags with water from the spring.

  Respecting the water rights, Phoenix did not plunge headfirst into the shallow pool, as McCarter had boisterously proposed. Instead pails of water were drawn, heated, carried behind a hastily erected canvas screen. Here — luxury of luxuries — the men had scrubbed down, washed their hair, shaved and generally wallowed in the novelty of being clean again.

  When they had finished with their GI party, moved about in fresh clothes, Nemtala, still shamefaced over yesterday's lapse, had appeared and gone behind the tarp-rigged screen. When she emerged a half hour later, she was amazingly transformed. Wearing a white taub, her long hair glistening, this feminine charmer seemed unconnected to the bloodthirsty fanatic who had fought shoulder-to-shoulder with them only hours before.

  They then had a leisurely meal, the C rations tasting almost like food in their festive mood. Katz produced a bottle of Scotch from his duffel and passed it from man to man.

  Their sense of oneness was very high just then.

  The meal went on. The bottle went around a second, then a third time. It was McCarter who killed it. Grinning foolishly, he rose. "Now where's that damned camel I'm supposed to kiss?" he quipped.

  Throughout the meal everyone noticed that Nemtala sat very close to Manning, a new, almost proprietary glow in her gaze.

  What remained of the afternoon was given over to housekeeping chores. Clothes were scrubbed, put out to dry. Weapons were cleaned, vehicles received keypoint maintenance. Ammo was inventoried, made more readily accessible because the specter of swiftly approaching showdown was much with them.

  But mostly — sleep.

  Bedrolls were flopped in every shady spot. Men collapsed into hard, strength-replenishing sleep.

  Modesty still strong within her, Nemtala returned to the Unimog, spread her bedding in its shade. Her need for emotional and physical recharge vastly eclipsed theirs.

  Only Salibogo — accepting unspoken responsibility — did not sleep. Huddled in the shade of a solitary desert
mango tree, his AK-47 close at hand, he kept watch.

  There was a late supper at 1900 hours. Early bedcheck, Katz insisted. They would be up before dawn. They would make up for lost time. Each man would take a turn at watch duty.

  "Sleep fast," he quipped with a dry smile.

  Encizo, Ohara, Manning and Nemtala sat up an hour longer once the sun had dropped off the horizon. A small fire burned in the middle of the staging area as they sat cross-legged in the sand, staring into the flames. The night chill built swiftly.

  The tiny berries on the thorn tree twigs popped noisily in the fire, sending up a miniature display of phosphorescent fireworks. The soft fireglow gave Nemtala's eyes a sensuous, provocative sheen, enhanced her exotic beauty. Her face impassive, her thoughts distant, unreadable, she was again close to Manning. Her growing shadow status did not go unnoticed. Nor did the recent change in Manning. Deep, disturbing thoughts were at large behind his gray eyes as well.

  Encizo nudged Ohara, shot a quick look to Manning and Nemtala. "The top's gonna boil off that soon," he whispered. "Damned soon."

  Keio smiled thoughtfully, nodded.

  Shortly Rafael drew his stocky frame to full height, shouldered his Stoner. "Better start walking my post," he said.

  "I'll be turning in, too, I guess," Keio said.

  Reluctantly, Manning untangled his long legs. "Goodnight, Tala," he muttered awkwardly, looking back once before he set out for his sleeping bag, spread in a semiisolated gully in the sand, roughly a hundred fifty feet from the Land Rover.

  "Good night, Gary," she sighed, a winsome curve to her lips. "I..."

  "Tala?"

  "Good night." She turned, went toward the Unimog, her movements somehow laggard, regretful. She faded into the gloom.

  Encizo did not really intend to patrol the perimeter of their bivouac. Instead he found a dark vantage point between their camp and that of the nomads. Planting his back against a palm tree, balancing the Stoner across his legs, he was ready for anything.