Fire licked the ancient church with the hot tongue of death
Keio and Rafael stormed through the sacred structure turned hellground.
They worked together like a micro-army. Their mission: save McCarter.
Time perished. The fire ate more and more of the building. In the basement, bound at the wrists and ankles, McCarter watched the man-eating flames lunge closer.
He had no intention of dying. But it looked as if he had no other choice....
"Some of the largest friends you could have. The Bolan team is clearly the best in the business."
—Navy News
Mack Bolan's
PHOENIX FORCE
#1 Argentine Deadline
#2 Guerilla Games
#3 Atlantic Scramble
#4 Tigers of Justice
#5 The Fury Bombs
Mack Bolan's
ABLE TEAM
#1 Tower of Terror
#2 The Hostaged Island
#3 Texas Showdown
#4 Amazon Slaughter
#5 Cairo Countdown
MACK BOLAN
The Executioner
#39 The New War
#40 Double Crossfire
#41 The Violent Streets
#42 The Iranian Hit
#43 Return to Vietnam
#44 Terrorist Summit
#45 Paramilitary Plot
#46 Bloodsport
#47 Renegade Agent
#48 The Libya Connection
#49 Doomsday Disciples
#50 Brothers in Blood
#51 Vulture's Vengeance
The cover is a detail of a larger painting entitled Campaign Portrait, commissioned
by Mack Bolan, which hangs at Stony Man Farm.
First edition May 1983
First published in Australia November 1984
ISBN 0-373-61305-9
Special thanks and 'acknowledgment to
Robert Hoskins for his contributions to this work.
Copyright © 1983 by Worldwide Library.
Philippine copyright 1983, Australian copyright 1983,
New Zealand copyright 1983.
Scanned By CrazyAl 2012
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 118 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, NSW. All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
The Gold Eagle trademark, consisting of the words GOLD EAGLE and the portrayal of an eagle, and the Worldwide trademark, consisting of a globe and the word WORLDWIDE in which the letter "o" is represented by a depiction of a globe, are trademarks of Worldwide Library.
Printed in Australia by
The Dominion Press—Hedges & Bell North Blackburn, Victoria 3130.
1
FIVE GOOD MEN against a world infested with terror goons.
Five men moving through a world of nightmares where treachery lurks behind every door—a world where bright sunshine casts shadows that conceal cutthroats and assassins; a world where smiles hide hatreds that fester; a world in which men strike out at the innocent and the trusting, at young and old, at all who abide the law.
Some call it patriotism, but it is a madman's patriotism that destroys rather than preserves, that uses gun, sword and bomb to murder children in their schools, worshipers in their churches, bystanders in crowded streets.
The bombs explode and the submachine guns spray steel-and copper-jacketed death, tearing bodies and rending limbs until those who survive count lucky those who died.
Some call it patriotism; some believe it moral as they act in the name of blood-thirsty religions and blood-thirsty gods. Some know only greed as reason for sabotage and murder and war. Call it what they will, there is only one true name for the hellish deeds, the terrible crimes committed, the mad lust for blood, power and money that threaten to destroy all.
Terrorism.
Five good men against terrorism.
Five men against a world watched by the gods of evil who huddle in the darkest corners of hell, plotting The End.
Five men—the best of the best.
They are Phoenix Force.
GARY MANNING WAS AWAKE and working early. He walked through the corridors of his Montreal offices, stopping occasionally to check unfinished paperwork on desks, and to scan a report that recommended upgrading security at an electronics plant in suburban Louisville, Kentucky. Gary's business was security consulting that extended to supplying guards and installing sophisticated alarm systems to the private sector and to the governments of Canada and the United States.
That was Gary Manning's business... Phoenix Force was his life.
He prowled restlessly, unable to light, to settle. Once he paused, held aside a curtain and looked out at the view across Dominion Square and Place du Canada. A moment, at his desk, later he tried to concentrate on a design for a new alarm system. Three minutes later he threw it aside in frustration. He rose in a quick, lithe movement to resume prowling the corridors.
They were out there somewhere, the vermin, planning murder, plotting revolution. They were everyplace where men knew a measure of freedom. They subcribed to different political faiths, but behind the slogans and the false patriotism they were all the same.
The pager clipped to Manning's belt began to beep, the demanding tone repeating twice each second.
He stopped pacing, the impatient scowl on his face smoothing, the lines of worry that furrowed his forehead disappearing. He hit the button to kill the clamor, and in the same instant headed for his office where two telephones sat on his desk. He grabbed the red instrument, a phone with a scrambler device, and lifted the receiver.
"Manning."
The connection—a direct open line that was maintained between Manning's offices in several major cities in which he did business and Stony Man Farm, the largest and most efficient antiterrorist base in the world—clicked in.
He listened to the voice on the other end of the line then said, "I'm on my way, Stony Man." Quickly he replaced the instrument and headed toward the door. The bastards were trying to set the world on fire again.
OF THE FIVE PHOENIX FORCE AGENTS, only Manning was awake at that hour of the morning.
Keio Ohara was in his apartment in Alameda, California, enjoying a brief vacation before returning to his home in Tokyo. He woke instantly at the summons of the beeper, then rose from his sleeping mat with the red telephone in hand.
"Ohara," he said, then he listened.
Plans were immediately forgotten.
As Keio listened, his heartbeat sped from the slow pace of sleep until, within thirty seconds of awakening, he was at the peak of alertness, ready for action.
"I understand," Keio said. "I'll stand by for further orders."
He replaced the receiver and stood holding the telephone a moment longer. He then set it on the floor, in its usual position next to the sleeping mat, and walked out onto the balcony.
It was a few hours before dawn. Cool breezes swept off San Francisco Bay. The street below was deserted. It was quiet, deceptively quiet.
Out in the night, innocent men were dead.
YAKOV KATZENELENBOGEN, formerly of Mossad, the Israeli secret servi
ce, stirred in his sleep and tried to brush away an annoying insect. The bug continued its insistent chirping.
"Yakov!" A hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him. "Wake up. It's your pager."
Jerusha Steckler shook him again. Yakov blinked, raised an arm and stared at his watch. Gray dawn filtered into the New York City apartment overlooking Sutton Place and the East River. It was close to seven. Jerusha rose from the bed and padded into the kitchen. He could hear her rattling dishes as he sat up and reached for the telephone on the nightstand.
This was not a secure instrument. Katz was not in one of the places he maintained as a secure base between assignments, but the summons could not be ignored. He punched out a number and waited as it rang three times. The phone was answered by the same duty man who had spoken to Gary and Keio.
"Katz," said the commander of Phoenix Force. Katz then took in the information.
"Have a car downstairs in fifteen minutes," Katz ordered when the voice at the other end stopped.
He hung up without waiting for an acknowledgment, stood and began looking for his clothes. The strong smell of coffee filled the apartment by the time he finished dressing. Jerusha met him at the bedroom door with a cup.
"You'll be back?" she asked.
"Of course."
"I won't ask when."
"Thank you . . . I'll miss you."
She smiled as he drained the cup. She took it back, proffered her cheek for a perfunctory kiss, then followed him to the door. When the door closed behind him, she sighed and returned to the kitchen with the cup. She knew he would return.
WITH NO FURTHER ACTION IN SIGHT after Phoenix Force had decimated the terrorists who had tried to spill the blood of millions to avenge the horror of Hiroshima, Rafael Encizo, like Gary Manning, had seized the opportunity and time to return to his business, marine insurance investigating. Unlike Gary, Rafael was able to concentrate on his work. He was in Houston, his first stop before reporting to Galveston where he was to investigate a suspicious and possibly spurious claim against one of the insurance companies that kept him on retainer.
Rafael's business was small, but successful. Not a bad step forward for a man who, after being captured in the Bay of Pigs invasion, had been a prisoner of Castro.
Like Yakov, Rafael was not alone when his beeper sounded. A querulous voice emerged from the pillow beside him. He slapped his companion on her ample rump, bringing a sharp curse, then he dressed quickly and left the unsecured hotel room.
It took nearly ten minutes before he reached the phone he wanted, in a booth on a street corner. Rafael' kicked the door shut and placed the call to Stony Man.
The message was brief, the orders the same as those given to Keio.
"All right," Rafael replied, "I might as well take care of the business that brought me here while I wait. I'll be moving around some, but I'm ready to break off at any time."
A broad smile passed across Rafael's face. He made a fist with his right hand and rubbed it with his left.
Action. Another chance to hit back. Another chance to even the score against the scum of the world.
Rafael laughed and for a moment he forgot the woman waiting in his hotel room. Like Gary, he had suddenly been handed a breath of new life.
IN LONDON, David McCarter—although it was midday and despite the hum of traffic on Kensington Road outside—came out of a deep and dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion, knowing that someone had entered his room—someone who moved in darkness, moved with a hatred so overpowering it threatened sanity, a hatred that would be satisfied only with death...
2
THE GIANT C-130 AIR FORCE CARGO PLANEmade a lazy circle over Mohawk Valley, one raised wing tip shredding the bottom of a leaden cloud. The pilot made an adjustment to the controls, a pulse beating visibly in his throat. His skin crawled, shrinking from contact with the muzzle of the Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle that was held six inches from his neck by a man wearing a stolen Air Force uniform.
"You're doin' wonderful, Major," the gunman told the pilot.
The gunman was one of two Irish terrorists in the cockpit of the hijacked plane.
The terrorist in the copilot's seat smiled, and Major Joseph Collins, USAF, commander of the C-130, swallowed hard. The major's complexion was sickly beneath his tan. The middle finger of his left hand tapped a nervous beat against the yoke, while his eyes flicked across the instrument panel, unseeing. His thoughts raced in turmoil.
Throw the ship into a power dive, Collins thought. That'll knock the bastard gunman offhis feet and give Jessup a chance to take the other son of a bitch! Do it! Do it now!
But Collins did nothing to the plane.
He felt the butterfly patch over one eyebrow that covered a deep cut. He also felt sore ribs and a beaten cheekbone, the pains of his first attempt to fight these bastards. Fighting would not work.
He shuddered, remembering how they had stormed into his house that morning and had taken his wife, Jill, and his three children hostage. Collins swallowed again, his throat constricted, raw.
The terrorist with the Kalashnikov shifted his weight. "How long are we going to be flyin' around in circles?"
"Patience," said the other hardguy. "The major will have us down as soon as he can."
The terrorists all seemed to be Irish, the two in the cockpit, who were obviously in charge, and the others who had taken the places of the regular crew.
The man with the Kalashnikov wore fatigues with master sergeant's stripes, the shirt tight around his chest. The stenciled name over his breast pocket read T.T. Eckstrom.
The real T.T. Eckstrom was dead. He had died earlier that day trying to keep the shirt on his back.
"We'll take your shirt, Sergeant," the leader of the terrorists had said.
Eckstrom had scowled and replied, "You'll take nothing, you son of a bitch."
The Irishman sighed. "A stubborn man. Do as you must."
"Sergeant, don't argue!" warned Collins. "Do as he says!"
But the warning had come too late. A rifle butt smashed the back of Eckstrom's skull and he sagged to his knees. As Eckstrom fought to keep conscious, two of the terrorists had grabbed him by the arms and stripped him of the shirt.
They'd given the shirt to the man who wore it now. When he'd finished buttoning it, sucking in his gut to allow the buttons to go through the buttonholes, he'd pulled the service .45 he wore in a regulation holster and worked the slide. He placed the muzzle three inches from the bridge of Eckstrom's nose.
"Not that way!" said the leader. "Do it with feeling."
The crew of the C-130 were good friends. Most of them were young; several, little more than teenagers. They all watched in horror as the man who wore Eckstrom's shirt methodically kicked the sergeant to death. One fainted, another puked.
Joe Collins was made painfully aware of what would happen to his family if he did not do exactly as these men said.
The bogus Eckstrom shifted again, eyes darting occasionally to the navigator, First Lieutenant Ronald Jessup. Jessup was little more than a youth himself. He and Collins were the only members of the original crew still aboard.
The radio crackled as voices spoke to aircraft flying the skies of central and northern New York. Collins ignored the voices and adhered to the holding pattern the plane had been in for the past twenty minutes. His eyes automatically checked fuel consumption. There was plenty left in the tanks. He made a trim adjustment, not even thinking about it, his hands reaching instinctively.
Terrorists or no terrorists, he could not let this plane and its cargo fall from the sky. The cargo bay held a dozen twenty-one-foot rubber-tired trailers, in three rows of four. Canvas-shrouded, they were tied down with cables, the wheels chocked to prevent shifting. Each shroud carried the yellow trefoil of a nuclear warning.
Joe Collins knew the terrorists had taken and stashed four nuclear warheads—replacing them with fakes—but he also knew that the warheads left on the plane had enough power to blast a very large crat
er between the cities of Utica and Rome. Collins remembered what the scientists had told him—that the warheads would probably remain secure if the plane crashed.
The Irishman in the copilot's seat looked at the chronometer on the panel and checked itagainst his watch, as though he did not trust the Air Force's procurement system. He wore the stolen name tag and captain's bars of the man who should have been Collins's copilot on this flight, an Air Force careerist named Hamilton Brownlow.
The real Brownlow was almost two thousand miles away, murdered in the cellar of Collins's house.
Like Eckstrom, Ham Brownlow had become a casualty in the terrorist war.
Half an hour after the terrorists had taken over the Collinses' house, a two-acre ranchette on a back road, Ham Brownlow had arrived, eager to renew an old friendship. He and Collins had served and flown together, but Ham had been stationed in Amarillo the past two years. This would be their first flight together since Ham's transfer.
When Ham arrived, the terrorists' van was in the closed garage. The Collinses' car waited in the driveway, innocently. He never suspected a thing.
Brownlow's neck was snapped in two by a terrorist the second he entered the door.
Brownlow was dead.
Eckstrom was dead.
Do as they say, Collins thought, or they would all be dead.
Collins shuddered again. Sweat trickled coldly down his back. He could smell his own fear.
Please God, he prayed, let me wake from this nightmare and find the world sane again.
The lives of the eight remaining crew members depended on Collins. Also, the lives of his wife and his three kids depended entirely on his obeying these Irish terrorists.
Collins glanced at Jessup. The young man smiled weakly. The sleeve of Jessup's flight suit was stained dark with blood. He had cradled the dead body of his friend Eckstrom, trying to will the man to breathe again.
A mile below, Utica and Rome and their satellite villages wheeled in a majestic turning as the plane circled, the residents blissfully ignorant of the deadly cargo overhead. The valley was grimy after spring rains had turned the ground to mud. There were vestiges of winter snow in the higher elevations, but the marshes between the twin tracks of the Barge Canal and the Mohawk River were as gray as the sky.
Wilson, Gar - Phoenix Force 05 - The Fury Bombs Page 1