Weep, Moscow, Weep

by Gar Wilson

  Yakov Katzenelenbogen and David McCarter raised their weapons and opened fire. Twin streams of 9 mm rounds slashed the gunman. His bullet-riddled body slid down the roof and tumbled from the eaves to the ground. McCarter dashed to Kauo, grabbed the back of the guy's collar and dragged him to the cover of the crates. Katz supplied cover fire with his Uzi as he followed.

  "Think we should let them know they're all under arrest?" the Briton commented as he removed a spent magazine from his Ingram machine pistol and reached for a fresh clip.

  "Maybe later," Katz replied. "I don't think they feel like listening right now."

  * * *

  Two Black Serpent Tong enforcers opened the rear door to a storage house and crept outside. The pair hoped to either ambush the assault force from a new direction or, better yet, to reach one of the small boats tied under the pier to escape the carnage. Instead, they found themselves face-to-face with a startling vision — a figure dressed in black, complete with a ninja mask and hood.

  John Trent swung his ninja-do. The sword deflected the barrel of the closest man's M-3 greasegun. Trent turned his wrists and slashed the edge of the long blade across the j hoodlum's throat.

  Blood spurted from the lethal wound as the first opponent fell. His comrade tried to aim a Type 51 pistol at Trent as the ninja raised his sword again. The blade descended before the tong goon could squeeze the trigger. Sharp steel split open the gunman's face from the crown of his head to the bridge of his nose. He died on his feet. Trent yanked the sword from his opponent's skull and allowed the corpse to fall.

  Trent crept to the door and cautiously peered into the storage house. The place was filled with columns of crates i and stacks of large bags marked in Chinese and English as containing rice. There were several corpses sprawled on the floor, but three hoodlums were alive and well and busy trying to pry the lids from two crates. One man was using an iron crowbar while the other two clawed at a wooden box with stevedore hooks.

  "Just couldn't wait till Christmas, huh?" Trent remarked as he stepped toward the trio.

  Alarmed by the mysterious figure who had seemed to materialize from nowhere, the stevedores attacked with the tools in their hands. As one man raised his crowbar, Trent stepped forward and punched the tip of his ninja-do into the hollow of his opponent's throat. The crowbar fell, and the man dropped to his knees, hands clutching his streaming throat.

  Another stevedore swung his hook. Trent's blade blocked the attack. The hood pulled, trying to snare the sword and yank it from Trent's grasp. The ninja suddenly stepped back and yanked his sword downward. The razor edge sliced fingers fisted around the handle of the stevedore hook. The tong flunky shrieked as the hook, and three of his fingers, hit the floor.

  Trent thrust his fists forward and slammed the butt of his sword under the man's jaw. The tong goon's teeth clashed together, and he fell unconscious. The third stevedore attacked with a steel hook in each fist. Trent made a backhand sword sweep at the man to force him to jump back. The ninja needed the room to wield his sword.

  The ninja raised the blade overhead as his opponent assumed a bow-and-arrow kung fu stance, stevedore hooks poised like two great talons. Trent guessed that his opponent was waiting for him to attack. When he delivered the sword stroke, the tong goon would try to trap the blade with the two hooks. Of course, it was a guess, but an informed one. If he was wrong, he'd have to live with it — he hoped.

  Trent executed a quick chopping motion with the sword. The stevedore raised the hooks and crossed the steel talons to block the attack before he realized it was a feint. Trent suddenly stepped to the right and slashed the sword across the tong's wrists. The hooks fell to the floor with fists still clenched to the handles. Blood jetted from the stumps at the ends of the stevedore's wrists. He howled in agony until Trent whipped the back of his fist at the tong's face. A big knuckle hit the guy between the eyes, and he fell senseless at the ninja's feet.

  * * *

  Calvin James fired another M-203 grenade at the ship. The explosion shattered thermite across the fly bridge and deck, the burning fluid covering the vessel. The tactic was ruthless but necessary. If the VL-800 formula was aboard the ship, it might already be leaking. James could not take that risk, so he opted to burn the ship and everything it carried.

  Unfortunately this included any crew members who failed to escape the merciless thermite. Several men dived overboard. Others scrambled down the gangplank to the pier. A couple were trapped on the ship. They shrieked but their suffering was brief. Gary Manning shot one man with a trio of FAL rounds through the head. James picked off the other guy with a three-round burst of 5.56 mm slugs from his M-16 rifle.

  Major Alekseyev and Lieutenant Savchenko fired at the gunmen stationed at the windows of the only storage house that still contained battling tong followers. While the KGB agents kept the enemy busy, Rafael Encizo ran to the cover of a forklift, crouching behind it. The Cuban pulled the pin from a concussion grenade and hurled it into a window. He ducked low and covered his head.

  The grenade exploded. Glass burst from the windows, the door popped open and two tong enforcers tumbled across the threshold. Encizo and Savchenko headed for the building. Major Alekseyev covered them, watching for lurking adversaries. A tong gunman, not noticing the KGB case officer, pointed a Type 68 rifle at Encizo and Savchenko. Alekseyev saw the barrel of the gunman's weapon appear at the corner of the storage house. The Russian raised his Sterling subgun and waited for the killer to show his face. When the tong hitter's head poked behind the rifle, Alekseyev opened fire. The man's face vanished beneath a veil of blood, and tumbled to the ground.

  The two dazed goons who had been thrown from the building started to rise. Both were unsteady on their feet and clearly disoriented. Blood trickled from their nostrils. One man placed a hand to his head, trying to muffle the pain of a shattered eardrum.

  "Stay down," Encizo instructed as he slammed a fist to the jaw of the nearest man.

  The guy obeyed. He hit the ground and passed out. The other tong enforcer reached for a Chinese Tokarev pistol in his belt. Lieutenant Savchenko grabbed the man before he could draw the weapon. The big Russian wrapped a brawny arm around the hood's throat and drove a heel-of-the-palm stroke behind an ear. The tong's head jerked violently from the blow. Vertebrae cracked when his neck broke. Savchenko released his opponent, and the man's limp body wilted to the boardwalk.

  Encizo dashed to the door. He carefully peered inside and, seeing several unconscious and dazed Chinese sprawled on the floor, gestured for Savchenko and Alekseyev to come forward. The Russians advanced, and Encizo removed some unbreakable plastic riot cuffs from his belt. Alekseyev held his Sterling submachine gun ready while Savchenko and the Cuban warrior bound the wrists and ankles of the stunned tong members.

  Only a handful of Asian goons who had bolted from the ship to the boardwalk remained. Without cover, they were caught in the open with only two options — surrender or die fighting. They chose the latter.

  The tong members opened fire. Gary Manning and Calvin James answered it with their assault rifles switched to full-auto. Bullets slashed the hoodlums. Bodies fell, but the tong gunmen continued to fire at the raiders. Captain Zhdanov boldly rose and placed the stock of his Sterling submachine gun to his shoulder.

  Eight bullets slammed in his chest. The Russian officer was propelled six feet by the impact and fell lifeless to the boardwalk. Manning and James continued to hose the enemy with high-velocity slugs. Katz and McCarter contributed to the firepower, creating a deadly crossfire. Within seconds the last of the tong flunkies lay dead on the blood-spattered pier.

  "All right!" Katz shouted to his team. "That's it! Round up the prisoners and let's see what we've got!"

  14

  "Congratulations, Gray," Colonel Hunntington-Smyth said dryly. "You and your team killed a great many people for nothing."

  The SIS officer tossed a clipboard on his desk and rose from his swivel chair. He glared at Yakov Katzenelenbogen
and Major Viktor Alekseyev who sat across from Hunntington-Smythe. The SIS officer jammed a finger at the sheet clipped to the board.

  "This is a list of what was recovered from Lung Harbor," Hunntington-Smythe announced. "Opium, firearms manufactured in Taiwan and mainland China, merchandise, which is probably stolen... but no VL-800 formula."

  "That still isn't 'nothing,'" Alekseyev commented. "It proves the tip about the Black Serpent Tong was accurate. It was a criminal operation, just as we thought it was..."

  "But not the right one," Hunntington-Smythe complained. "The enemy has been warned. They'll be twice as difficult to find now. You've really botched this mission, Gray. I intend to make a complete report about this fiasco to the governor. You might be an influential character with whatever outfit you work for, but your career is finished as of now!"

  "Slight exaggeration, Colonel," Katz said. "The mission isn't over yet."

  "What do you suggest we do now?" Hunntington-Smythe demanded. "Your only lead went sour, Gray. You know that as well as I do. Time for you and your friends to go home. And same goes for you and your KGB friends, Major."

  "Friend," Alekseyev corrected. "Captain Zhdanov was killed. The lieutenant and I aren't leaving until this mystery is solved, Colonel."

  "I can have you deported," Hunntington-Smythe warned.

  "Not right away, you can't," Alekseyev insisted. "Until the governor agrees to throw us out of Hong Kong and sends us back to the Soviet Union, Savchenko and I will continue our mission. The honor of my country is at stake, Colonel. I don't intend to back off simply because you're ready to quit."

  "Honor of your country?" the SIS officer scoffed. "You Russians don't know what the word 'honor' means..."

  "Let's stop name-calling, Colonel," Katz said sharply. "Major Alekseyev deserves better than that. I don't like communism — especially the Soviet brand of Communism — any better than you do, but the major is not responsible for the policies of the Kremlin and he didn't have anything to do with the VL-800 formula. Major Alekseyev and his men have risked their lives trying to help us locate it. They deserve respect as men of courage, regardless of their politics."

  "We've all been prepared to risk our lives for this mission," Hunntington-Smythe snapped. "I would have actively participated in the raid on Lung Harbor, but you refused to allow me to do so."

  "And I told you why," Katz said without apology. "I didn't wish to insult you, Colonel, but I couldn't let you participate. You're not a field commander. Not anymore, at least. But you don't have to be. Your experience and expertise as a shaker and a mover with the brass here in Hong Kong makes you far more valuable to us here, behind that desk, than you would have been at the pier. The connections you have with the government and the police have been a great help to us. We still need that help, Colonel."

  "I see," Hunntington-Smythe sighed. He realized Katz was trying to salve his wounded ego, yet much of what the Israeli said was true. The SIS officer was not too stubborn to appreciate Katz's wisdom. "What do we do now?"

  "Interrogate prisoners and hope we get something valuable from them," Katz replied. "Personally, I'm exhausted. Would it be possible for us to set up some cots or sleeping bags here?"

  "Of course," the SIS colonel answered. "I suppose we could all do with a few hours' sleep. My poor wife probably doesn't remember what I look like by now. Think I'll go home to her before she decides to get a replacement. We'll tackle this mess anew in the morning."

  "Interrogations had better start tonight," Alekseyev suggested. "The tong members we captured should not be allowed to rest or communicate with each other."

  "We'll sleep in intervals," Katz agreed. "That way we can get some rest without allowing the prisoners to sleep. I'll also talk to Mr. Johnson about the possibility of using scopolamine on the prisoners."

  "Johnson is the black man, right?" Hunntington-Smythe said, frowning. "Are you certain he knows what he's doing with that stuff? Scopolamine is a very powerful truth serum. It can kill a man if the dosage is too strong."

  "Mr. Johnson has used scopolamine on captives in several previous missions," Katz stated. "He's never lost a patient."

  "I won't argue," the SIS man replied wearily.

  "Speaking of patients," Alekseyev began. "Any word from the clinic about the condition of Kauo Yvet-sang?"

  "Yes," Hunntington-Smythe confirmed. "His bicep muscle was damaged, but no serious internal bleeding or broken bone. He ought to be all right."

  "Glad to hear it," the Russian said, rising from his chair. "Well, I'm going to talk to Savchenko and tell him how things are going."

  "I have to talk to my people, too," Katz added. He and Alekseyev moved to the door. "See you in the morning, Colonel."

  "Of course," Hunntington-Smythe replied. "Oh, Major? Thanks for asking about Kauo."

  "You're welcome," Alekseyev said with a nod. After he and Katz left the office, the Russian whispered. "Why did he thank me for asking about his aide?"

  "I think he wanted to let you know he thinks you might be human after all," Katz said, smiling. "Of course, he doesn't know you as well as we do."

  "Thanks a lot," the KGB man muttered, but he realized Katz was joking. For some reason, this pleased him.

  Rafael Encizo and Calvin James met the Phoenix Force unit commander and the KGB officer in the corridor. They asked "Mr. Gray" to speak with them privately. Alekseyev left the three Phoenix fighters and continued to search for Savchenko.

  "What is it?" Katz asked, taking a pack of Camels from his pocket.

  "Calvin and I want to know something," Encizo answered. "And we want a straight answer. Okay?"

  "You need to ask?" the Israeli inquired, firing a cigarette.

  "Back at the harbor," James began. "You put me in charge of Zhdanov and Crane. Neither one of them is an experienced field agent. Well, the Russian got killed..."

  "Nobody's blaming you for that, Cal," Katz assured him.

  "That isn't what's bothering me," James insisted. "You forced me to stay at the rear instead of getting into the middle of the battle. I couldn't just leave those two to fend for themselves. You gave me the milk run, Yakov."

  "Yeah," Encizo stated. "Me, too. You put me with Alekseyev and Savchenko."

  "They're experienced agents," Katz reminded him.

  "And they could cover for me," Encizo declared. "Clever move, Yakov. You gave us the safest jobs during the raid without being obvious about it."

  "Nobody had a milk run during the raid," Katz assured him.

  "You and McCarter took the greatest risk," James said. "Gary stayed at the rear because he's a skilled sniper. But you wanted us in the background because you figured we might freeze. Right?"

  "Neither of you has ever frozen in combat," the Israeli replied. "I put you in charge of other, less-experienced men for the raid and you think I'm giving you an easy job? What do you regard as difficult, my friends? Wrestling polar bears while blindfolded?"

  "Come on, Yakov," Encizo began, pulling a glove from his right hand. He held the palm open to display the puffy circular scar in the center of his palm. "This has you worried. Doesn't it?"

  "Seems to be healing nicely," Katz commented.

  "Look, man," James said. "Rafael and I were tortured by those assholes at the Vatican. After something like that happens, a dude is usually washed-up for work in the field."

  "Not necessarily," Katz replied. "But I'll level with you. I would have preferred to give you men time to rest and recover from the experience before going into the field again. It would have been better if we could have done some training exercises before this mission, but there just wasn't time. For that matter, Trent should have had more time to recover from being shot by friendly fire during the Vatican affair. That was a nasty experience, too, but not as bad as being tortured."

  "But you still claim we didn't get a milk run during the raid on the harbor?" Encizo inquired.

  "That's right," Katz insisted. "You two held up fine during the firefight in the Go
bi with those bandits. You worked as smooth as silk during the raid. I'm not worried about how you'll cope with pressure in the field. You've already proven you can handle it."

  "I have to admit," Encizo began. "I was really rattled when we landed in Moscow. The idea of being captured and worked over by the KGB had me sweating bullets."

  "Good Lord," Katz said, laughing. "We all felt that way. Don't worry if you're human. Our line of work requires a special sort of man with special abilities, but we're still just flesh and blood with all the emotional and psychological baggage that goes with being human. Thank God we've got it. Otherwise, we'd probably be like some of the scum we come up against. Spiritually dead. Unable to feel compassion or care if what we're doing is right or wrong."

  "So we were worried about nothing, huh?" James asked hopefully.

  "We all have to be a bit concerned about what stress and battlefield fatigue do to us," Katz answered. "I've seen men who became so paranoid and overconditioned they couldn't safely walk the streets of a city. If a fellow reached in a jacket for a wallet or cigarettes, the overwrought warrior thinks the stranger is reaching for a gun and immediately attacks. If someone bumps into him in a crowd, the poor devil whirls to confront his 'opponent' and goes for the throat."

  "Sort of like attack dogs that get to a level where nobody can safely handle them," James remarked. "Eventually their owners have to have them destroyed."

  "The same thing can happen with people," Katz confirmed. "But none of us is in any danger of that just yet."

  "Have you talked to McCarter lately?" Encizo commented.

  "David handles the balance as well as any of us," the Israeli assured them. "Don't forget, he has a live-in girl friend back in London. None of the rest of us have managed to sustain a relationship with a female since we joined Phoenix Force. Don't worry about McCarter. He's got his head together, even if it doesn't seem so most of the time."