Wilson, Gar - Phoenix Force 05 - The Fury Bombs

by Anonymous Author

  "Who's got time for tours," McCarter growled, not causing too much fuss since he might need these guys later.

  They left the broad thoroughfares and moved into a district of small streets that twisted and turned erratically. Rows of small, terraced houses lined the streets, although there was an occasional bombed-out shell. Small yards andalleyways abounded. In this district a thousand men could disappear, hide or set up ambush.

  They passed from one religion's stronghold to the other. The streets and the houses looked the same and the hatred was back on the faces of the people. Belfast was a gray city under gray skies. It seemed no city for the good of spirit, those who meant well for their fellow men.

  The command car came to a halt outside a walled building guarded by a concrete pillbox. Corrugated-iron sheets were angled against the wall, while the building was hung with camouflage net. Heavy mesh guarded the top of the walls and concertina wire filled the side-walks.

  "A police station," said Dickman dryly. "The mesh is to stop bombs from being thrown into the yard, and the corrugated sheets roll them back into the street."

  Two men in riot gear opened the gate and the command car passed into the yard.

  Inside, the building was more familiar, a typical cop shop, an aging structure that had seen better days. Green walls were flecked with peeling paint, and near the ceiling exposed pipes sweated. Men in the blue uniform of the Royal Ulster Constabulary moved through the corridors.

  Dickman led McCarter to an office that had been furnished sixty years earlier. A heavy man in rumpled tweeds occupied a chair behind adesk. He stood and offered his hand as Dickman made the introductions.

  "David McCarter, Inspector Donald Mac-Murray of the Royal Ulster Constabulary."

  "Mr. McCarter," the inspector said. "I think we might have a line on your People's Republic of Ireland."

  MacMurray sat and opened a folder. McCarter saw yellow sheets covered with handwriting.

  "An informant phoned in this information not forty minutes ago," said the inspector. "He gave us a name: Seamus Riley."

  "You know him?" McCarter asked.

  "Riley's an old friend—a bold man, bold enough and crazy enough to come up with a scheme such as this. And uncaring enough to defy his fellows in the IRA by carrying the war to the United States."

  He dug out a card from beneath the yellow sheets and gave it to David. It was a standard police identification card and showed Riley full face and in profile; he wore a numbered plaque around his neck. The card carried his fingerprints.

  "Riley was an ISRA man," said MacMurray. "That's the Irish Socialist Republican Army, an offshoot of the Provos. Riley quarreled with the ISRA leadership and went his own way. He's done time—seven years for a bank robbery. He was released from prison eighteen months ago and dropped from sight. Rumor had it he was killed in a bombing, but Riley probably put that out about himself."

  "Do you know where he is?"

  "Probably in the States," said MacMurray, "if he is masterminding this People's Republic thing. But Riley has a friend, Eamon O'Bannon. Boyhood chums, chased after each other's sister, the like. We can lay our hands on O'Bannon whenever we wish, and he might have some information."

  "Where is he?"

  "He spends his nights in a house near Crawfordsburn. That's about ten miles out toward Bangor. Between Holywood and Bangor. Days he's on the move, but he's been going back to that house every night for the past month."

  "Then we'll take him tonight," said David.

  THAT EVENING David huddled with MacMurray and Dickman in the back room of the Crawfordsburn RUC station, studying a map of the district. Dickman wanted to take the farmhouse in force, but David vetoed that idea. He had made a daylight probe of the area.

  "He won't be alone," McCarter said. "Go in force and there'll be a firefight. We might lose him."

  "How many others will be there?". asked Dickman.

  "O'Bannon travels with half a dozen young lads," said MacMurray. "Sort of an honorguard. Whether there are others besides the guard depends on his business this day."

  "Give me thirty minutes," said David. "If I'm not out in that time come after me."

  The backup force waited in Crawfordsburn. MacMurray warned against taking up position nearer the farm.

  "Every house has its sympathizers. One man might slip through but any vehicle, even a bicycle, will be spotted."

  McCarter jogged the distance in twenty minutes. The village near the farm had no more than thirty houses scattered along a mile or more of narrow, turning lane. The only house that showed a light was the pub.

  Twice dogs barked, and less than a mile away traffic moved on the A2. Using the information gained in his drive through the village that afternoon, and by studying the map, McCarter jogged across a field, halving the distance it would have taken him had he traveled by road.

  The farmyard was a different place at night; shadows cast by the light of the moon produced a maze of strange shapes and looming traps. A line of darker shadow covered a hole deep enough to catch a foot, twist an ankle. The half-collapsed barn was a crouching beast, menacing the unwary.

  McCarter slipped behind a tree as soon as he reached the farm and stood there for several minutes, probing the night with his senses. Trying to spot the presence of a sentry. The housewas absolutely dark. If not for MacMurray's assurances, he would have passed it by for what , it seemed to be: abandoned.

  Then McCarter heard the metallic clack of a gun bolt behind him. Bleeding bastard must have been hiding in the goddamn bushes, he thought as he whirled to face a young terrorist who was armed with a Swedish M-45 machine gun.

  The Briton's combat-honed reflexes had already commanded his muscles to draw the Colt Python from shoulder leather. Years of pistol shooting took over as he snap-aimed and fired before the kid could use his weapon. A scream escaped from the terrorist when the Colt belched fire and a 158-grain wadcutter blasted through the boy's chest. The young rebel was pitched backward by the impact of the slug. His finger pulled the M-45's trigger as he fell, rattling off a chain of bullets into the sky.

  "Bloody hell," McCarter growled. More terrorists suddenly materialized in all directions.

  He hit the dirt as a stream of 7.62mm projectiles hissed overhead. McCarter held the Colt in a two-handed Weaver's grip and fired from a prone position, aiming at the muzzle flash of the enemy's AK-47. A scream rewarded his efforts and one of the shadows fell.

  A figure suddenly charged toward McCarter from the side. David rolled on his back, swinging the Colt around. . . too late. A boot lashed out and kicked the Briton's hand, ripping theColt from numbed fingers. The terrorist raised an assault rifle and brought the butt stock down, trying to slam it through McCarter's face.

  David jerked his head aside, and the rifle butt stamped into the ground near his ear. Mc-Carter's legs thrust upward, both feet kicking his opponent in the gut. The terrorist gasped and staggered backward while McCarter scrambled to his feet.

  "Goddamn sod!" the terrorist snarled as he swung a vicious butt stroke at McCarter's head.

  The Englishman ducked from the rifle's path. Metal and wood whistled overhead. McCarter lunged, driving a shoulder into the startled terrorist's midsection. Then he seized the fellow's legs and standing up, scooped up his adversary and hurled him over his head. The man crashed to the ground hard. McCarter immediately executed a "commando stomp," smashing the heels of both boots into the terrorist's chest. The man's breastbone exploded, driving fragments into his heart and lungs.

  McCarter reached for the rifle while the rebel's body convulsed beneath his feet. More Irish killers swarmed over McCarter before he could grab the weapon. A fist holding a revolver swung at his head. McCarter blocked it with a forearm and drove his other fist into the attacker's stomach, followed by a left hook to the Irishman's face.

  The man fell, but another took his place. McCarter dodged a slashing rifle barrel and kicked his adversary in the gut. The terrorist grunted, doubled up and the edg
e of McCarter's hand chopped into the back of his neck.

  Then something crashed into McCarter's skull from behind. Pain exploded inside his head for an instant, only to be swallowed up by the blackness that quickly engulfed McCarter's consciousness.

  "Why didn't you shoot him, Eamon?" asked a young rebel as McCarter slumped to the ground.

  "Where there is one Brit, lad, there are others, and likely close at hand. I want this one, if he lives, to talk. He didn't come alone. Go to the house and wake the other lads, tell them to clear out. We'll meet at the church."

  Twenty minutes later, Dickman led a squad of soldiers and RUCs into the farmyard. Lights blazed and orders were barked loudly as they moved into the house and searched the barn.

  The house was empty, one kerosene lamp burning. The barn contained two cars, which had been stolen in London. There was nothing else to suggest the terrorists had ever been there.

  11

  SOMEONE, SOMETHING, was turning a screw that tightened the metal band that had been fastened around David McCarter's head. His head throbbed in rhythm with each pulse of his heart, the blood vessels expanding, until it seemed that only his skull kept them from exploding.

  In agony, McCarter awoke. A brass drum sounded loudly in his head. He choked, holding back any audible sound of pain. A sickly taste had taken over his mouth. He tried to raise a hand to touch his head, but his arm refused to obey.

  He tried to move, but his hands were bound behind his back. His ankles were also tied.

  He lay on his left side, facing a wall of cracked, splintering, unpainted boards. McCarter closed his eyes, taking inventory of his aches and pains. Except for his skull, none seemed life threatening.

  His hands were cold from loss of circulation. Also, the place—room, barn, whatever it was—was damp, chilly. Somewhere behind him was a heat source that pulsed erratically. He breathedand caught the carbon stink of burning kerosene.

  Someone moved, shifting position. Dry wood creaked.

  Someone else snorted in sleep, turned over, and began to snore.

  McCarter was not alone.

  He listened and caught two, three distinct rhythms of breathing sleepers. The smell of the smoke was sickening. His stomach rumbled in anger. It was empty.

  When had he last eaten?

  McCarter searched his memory, ignoring his aches and pains. He recalled a hurried supper with Dickman and MacMurray, in the Belfast police station.

  The condition of his stomach said that more than twelve hours had passed, perhaps much more. That made it the following day, although no glimmer of daylight entered this room. The room was closed tightly; from the dampness, it might be underground. A cave?

  Perhaps a full twenty-four hours had passed, making it evening again.

  What happened after the supper? The plan was to wait until midnight, give the nearby village a chance to settle for the night, but McCarter's memories were blank after the meal.

  McCarter considered rolling over. He lay on a bare mattress that stank of mildew. A button dug into his cheek.

  A door closed, causing air currents to rippleacross the room. Heavy footsteps came downstairs. Someone breathed noisily through an open mouth. Wood creaked again as one of the guards in the room got up from his chair.

  "Is he awake yet?"

  "He hasn't moved, Eamon." The voice was high and clear. "Once I thought he stopped breathing. He hadn't."

  Eamon. Eamon O'Bannon.

  "Let's take a look at him," said O'Bannon.

  They crossed the floor and the noisy breathing came closer. A hand caught McCarter's shoulder and rolled him onto his back. The position was even more uncomfortable because of his bound hands. McCarter could not contain a groan. He arched his back to ease the pressure on his wrists.

  "You're awake, Brit. Good."

  McCarter blinked, and O'Bannon's face came into focus, bending over him. His lips parted widely. He worked his jaws in a gulping motion, scraped his coated tongue against his teeth.

  The man turned to the boy who stood at his shoulder. "Water, Paulie. We'll see if he has anything to tell us."

  The water was brackish, metallic to the taste,but it soaked into the tissues and eased McCarter's sore throat. He gulped, swallowinggreedily, as O'Bannon held the cup. Liquidslopped out, running down his cheeks and neck.

  "You might be surprised to find you're stillalive, Brit," said O'Bannon, giving the cup back to Paulie, who was a mere boy of seventeen. "That's a condition that can be changed very quickly, McCarter."

  "Sorry, I don't remember making introductions," McCarter commented, wincing as pain stabbed across his skull.

  "I'm Eamon O'Bannon," the Irishman replied. "And I know who you are 'cause I found your dogtags. Fitting that the British give their soldiers dogtags, 'cause you're all sons of bitches. "

  "That's pretty good," McCarter snorted. "Did you hear about the retarded Scot? They sent him to Ireland to teach college courses. . . "

  O'Bannon's big arm streaked out, the back of his hand slapping McCarter across the mouth. The Englishman's already pounding head recoiled from the blow, and blood trickled from a split lip.

  "You've killed three of my boys, Brit!" O'Bannon bellowed. "That's reason enough for us to pull you apart like a bloody insect, so mind your tongue unless you want me to cut it off and stick it .."

  "I didn't come here to kill anyone," Mc-Carter said thickly. "I had to defend myself. Your men didn't leave me any choice. I'm trying to avoid killing."

  "That's why you had a gun, eh?" O'Bannon sneered.

  David glanced around. He was in a cellar, exposed beams in the ceiling not more than an inch or so above normal head height. O'Bannon had to duck to get under them. Two broad tree trunks, two or more feet thick, supported the ceiling.

  Two of the walls were boards, the others rough-dressed stone. The floor was dirt. There were shelves against the board walls, similar to the one on which he lay, and a half-dozen iron cots. Three of the cots were occupied. The heat came from a portable kerosene stove, the light from a kerosene lamp on a battered wood kitchen table. The light did not reach the corners, which were shadowed and menacing with indistinct piles of boxes and jumbled furniture. A wooden church pew was on one side of the table, several battered kitchen chairs on the other.

  The table held two Bren guns, an Uzi and two Kalashnikovs. An open wooden crate on the floor carried military stenciling and held grenades. The boy had a machine pistol slung from one shoulder, which he held on McCarter.

  "We're not at the farm?" McCarter asked.

  "Never mind where we are, Brit," O'Bannon told him. "Now, what were you sneakin' around us for? What were you after?"

  "I have to find Seamus Riley."

  "Oh? You plan to join the People's Republic, Brit?" O'Bannon smiled thinly.

  "He has to be stopped, O'Bannon," McCarter replied. "If he succeeds in carrying this war to the United States, everybody will suffer . . . including Ireland and all you noble revolutionaries who fight for God, glory and cheap whiskey."

  O'Bannon rammed a big fist into McCarter's stomach. McCarter gasped as the blow drove the wind from his lungs. "I told you about that big mouth of yours, Brit," the Irishman said. "As for stopping Seamus, I'm afraid you're a bit too late for that."

  McCarter drew fresh air into his lungs before he spoke. "What do you mean by that?"

  "Seamus has been busy . . . if he is, as they say, the lad behind the People's Republic."

  "You don't know?"

  "It has Seamus's stamp. Mind you, it's not that we, the forces of Irish liberation, agree with what he's doing. But Seamus has given us a fait accompli, don't you know? It's not do we agree, but do we stand with him or against him. There's been a council meeting, the first I can remember, where every party in the fight has been represented."

  "Both sides?" said David.

  "Hardly. It's not a matter to discuss with the Prots."

  "Have they reached a decision?"

  "They're comin' to it. S
eamus hasn't given us much time. We'll have to make our stand before this night is done. I've given my vote, and were I a betting man I'd say the decision would be to stand with him."

  "You're all daft," McCarter muttered with disgust. "A goddamned madman is going to carry out an insane plan, which you don't even know the details of, and you're agreeing to it because of some peanut-brained idea of unity!"

  "If I were you, I'd be more concerned about yourself McCarter," O'Bannon stated in a cold, hard voice.

  "Why?" challenged the Englishman, glaring at his captor. "You're going to kill me anyway, so go piss up a rope, O'Bannon."

  "Aye." The Irishman nodded. "After killing three of my lads, your life isn't worth a wooden shilling. How you'll die is the question, Brit. We can make it quick with a bullet in your head, or slow. Very slow, McCarter. Maybe we'll use a drill on your kneecaps and elbows then pour hot tar down your throat. How's that sound?"

  "Don't expect me to die of heart failure from listening to your horror stories," McCarter scoffed. "You do your damnedest, but don't expect me to crawl for you, you great dirty ape."

  "Oh, you'll crawl, McCarter," O'Bannon said with a smile. "You'll crawl on your ruddy knees and beg us to kill you before. . ."

  An explosion sounded overhead, the distant crump of a grenade. It was followed by two more muffled crashes and then by automatic-weapons fire, a sound as welcome as music to McCarter's ears.

  O'Bannon spun as bodies tumbled from the cots and rushed for the weapons on the table. Ayouth came rushing down the stairs, shouting a warning.

  "The church is surrounded, Eamon!"

  "How many?" cried O'Bannon.

  "I don't know, but they're on all sides. We're outnumbered. They've left us no way out!"

  Then McCarter heard return fire, louder, overhead. From the volume, there were many defenders above.

  A large crump sounded directly overhead; dirt rattled from the beams and the floorboards and rained down on McCarter. Another mortar round landed. McCarter rolled, throwing himself onto the floor as a hole opened above him. The ancient planks of the floor were split in two.