"I want to go with you," Yakov said, "but things may break here at any time. If the two of you can't break David free ...."
He left the sentence hanging. The two men turned and departed.
The Harrier was gone when they reached the helicopter pad. One of the black-painted choppers had taken its place. The airfoil had already begun to turn as they ran across the grass and plunged through the door. Rafael scrambled to take the seat near the pilot. Keio remained in the rear with the field packs. Both put on earphones.
The chopper took them directly to an airfield and set them down within twenty yards of an Air Force jet.
The pair boarded the plane. Once in the air, Keio drew an Ingram Model 10 from his pack. The telescopic stock was closed. In that mode, the length of the gun was 10.6 inches, the barrel 5 1/4 inches. He screwed a noise suppressor onto the muzzle, adding another 10.85 inches to the length. The Ingram was chambered for 9mm cartridges. Keio added a 32-round box magazine. Ready for action after Keio worked the slide, the Ingram now weighed about ninepounds. In automatic mode, the Ingram fired ninety-six rounds per minute; single shot, forty rounds per minute. The maximum effective range was one hundred eight yards.
Keio worked quietly, intent on disassembling the Ingram, satisfied it was in functioning order. No weapon left Stony Man's armory in anything but top functioning order. In a pinch, he could have gone straight into battle without double-checking. Keio, however, needed something to occupy his mind during the flight.
Rafael finished checking his weapons and settled back, folding his hands across his stomach and closing his eyes. He had his own method for seeking additional strength and killing time. He slept.
THE CITY SPARKLED like a jewel in the early-evening darkness as the plane dropped its nose and then its tail, settling toward the runway.
Once Belfast's sparkle had come from its inhabitants, but those people had lost much of their luster in the continuing fighting.
Belfast, the capital of Northern Ireland and the center of the British province's strife, has lost more than twenty-five percent of its population since 1971. Once standing at a proud 416,679, the population has plummeted to 297,983. The wars in this world have taken their toll.
Phoenix Force fighters were entering the Irish war zone. David McCarter's life was at stake. The jet landed.
They were met by Major Dickman and his command car. The British officer offered his hand.
"Any trace of McCarter?" Keio asked.
"We've got a meeting with an informant at a pub in twenty minutes," said Dickman. "Actually, all hell's breaking loose. I've never seen the like—IRA men openly consorting with the police and the military. They're more than peeved with this maniac, Riley."
"The IRA draws much of its financial support from Irish Americans," said Rafael.
"Not as much as people might suppose," said Dickman. "A lot of the lolly comes from North Africa. But they certainly count on the goodwill of the Americans. This has caused a good lot of people to get rightly pissed off."
The car made its way to the pub.
The field packs were left in the command car, although both Keio and Rafael were armed with knives and ankle guns. Major Dickman glanced about nervously before he opened the door and entered the pub.
There were only a few men in the public bar, and they were caught between staring at Dickman with undisguised hatred and looking with astonishment at the presence of a Japanese and a Cuban. Dickman gave notice oftheir presence by ignoring them and pushed through into the private bar, which had been taken over by Inspector MacMurray for this meeting.
MacMurray sat with a ferret-faced little man, nursing a pint of bitters. He did not bother to rise for the Phoenix Force agents but nodded amiably when Dickman made the introductions.
"A brew before business, gentlemen?" He raised his pint.
"Another time," said Keio. "Is this the man who knows where David is being held?"
"Girvin Kearney," MacMurray said. "As black a scoundrel as ever stole the washing off a poor woman's clothesline. He should be in Long Kesh for consorting and aiding the rebels, but God's luck has been with Girvin, it has."
"He should be standing before a firing squad," said Dickman, making no effort to conceal his distaste for the little man. Kearney pulled back sharply in his chair.
"Here, now! No recriminations, you said, Inspector."
"And I'm a man of my word, Kearney. You said you have a message. Out with it."
"I do, from Cormick Heffernan himself. And its Heffernan who sent me here, Inspector."
"Heffernan is a top man with the Provos," said MacMurray to Rafael and Keio. "Well, Girvin?"
"Eamon O'Bannon is your man."
"We know that!" said Dickman in disgust. "Where is he holding him, you bloody fool?"
"In St. Bridget's Church," said Kearney sourly.
"Which St. Bridget's?" said MacMurray. "The one this side of Londonderry?"
"No, the abandoned one on the south shore of Lough Foyle. Between Limavady and Bally-kelly. O'Bannon's had it for a safehouse and a weapons depot. He's there now with his lads and perhaps a half dozen more."
"And?" prompted MacMurray. "Give us the rest of it, or I'll let the major run you into Long Kesh for a proper interrogation."
Kearney winced and drew a slip of paper from a pocket. He placed it on the table and pushed it to the exact center, eyeing it unhappily.
Dickman picked it up. "Neal Riordan, 14 Great Jones Street. In London?"
"No, in New York," said Kearney. "Riordan is married to O'Bannon's sister, but before she emigrated she was Riley's girl. Riordan set it up for Riley and his boys to slip into the States from Canada. Riley himself went across at East Franklin, Vermont."
"And Riordan knows where Riley is now," said MacMurray.
"It stands to reason, doesn't it?" said Kearney bitterly. He did not enjoy the role of informant.
"Well done," said MacMurray, standing.
"We'll transmit this information to the proper authorities. You can take my thanks back to Cormick Heffernan. Tell himself it's a good thing he does for the IRA today."
The other three rose and followed him from the pub. As they came out into the street, the command car rounded the corner.
"Do you think he was telling the truth?" said Dickman.
"Cormick Heffernan has no reason to lie in this case," said MacMurray. "He's been bitter since Riley walked away from the Provos, and that was ten years ago. I believe him."
"And we'll act as though we believe him," said Rafael. "How long will it take us to reach St. Bridget's Church?"
"It's a good hundred kilometers by road," said MacMurray. "It would be quicker to fly to Londonderry and drive back on the A2."
"We'll need time to ready a team on that end," said Dickman. "Call out a troop from the Londonderry barracks. They should be ready by the time you reach there."
"No," said Rafael. He glanced at Keio. "Do you agree, compadre? No soldiers."
Keio nodded. "We will go in alone."
"That's ridiculous!" said MacMurray. "Kearney said there are a dozen men with O' Bannon."
"We go in alone," said Rafael. "That's the way we work."
MacMurray shook his head. The two bloodyfools could go in by themselves, but he would have a backup team ready to go in when O'Bannon and his men shot them down.
He did not know Phoenix Force.
15
THE CHURCH OF ST. BRIDGET stood atop abroad hill overlooking Lough Foyle, the largest inlet in the north coast of Ireland. Fed by the River Foyle, the lough at its south shore was eleven miles wide and extended just over twenty miles until it narrowed to a mouth only three-quarters of a mile wide, between Inishowen Head and Magilligan Point. After studying maps, Keio and Rafael agreed that land approaches would be the most closely watched.
"We'll go in by water," said Rafael.
Three hours after landing at Aldergrove, a small lorry pulled off the A2 two miles west of St. Bridget's and picked its w
ay through an overgrown lane that was scarcely two ruts in the field. It stopped at last on the rocky beach. Keio and Rafael waited in back, dressed in combat suits that made them part of the night. The moon hung low to the west, frequently obscured by clouds. Within fifteen minutes it would drop behind Mount Scalp.
A cold wind blew steadily from the lough as the two Phoenix Force agents pulled an inflatable raft from the lorry and dragged it to theedge of the water. Rafael went back for the mortar, the one piece of armament borrowed from the locals. They had sorted through the weapons supplied by Stony Man, choosing what they would need for the hit. Each agent now carried an Ingram, a Beretta in a belt holster and a Mark IV knife. Rafael also had his Skorpion, refusing to part with it. Each had a dozen grenades clipped to the front of his suit, and Rafael carried a half-dozen mortar rounds in an open-work carrier of steel wire.
They pushed the raft into the lough, walked through several inches of bone-chilling water and got in. Keio took up the oars. By the time he had rowed twenty yards out, the lorry was a shadowed lump in the midst of the waist-high gorse.
Neither spoke. Keio's labored breathing and the tiny splash of the oars were the only sounds to disturb the silence of the night. Rafael fingered the Skorpion; the Ingram was slung across his back.
The lough was deserted and empty of houses on this stretch of beach. Keio's muscles worked heavily as he moved the raft at a speed that quickly brought them closer to their target. After twenty minutes, Rafael raised a hand and Keio stopped rowing.
"There, on the hill," said Rafael softly. His voice was no louder than a whisper and reached no farther than his partner.
Keio nodded. The hill and the church wereabout five hundred yards away. The building, abandoned for a hundred years or more, might have been no more than part of the irregular shape of the hill itself. No light showed, but they knew men were there.
Keio lifted one oar from the water and used the other to angle the boat toward the shore. In less than a minute, they were ankle deep in the lough again. They quickly pulled the raft across the beach and turned it upside down at the edge of the gorse. The two agents settled on their heels, studying the church.
A light flared: a match touched to a cigarette. The ember glowed brighter as the terrorist drew the first suck of smoke deep into his lungs, then faded slightly. Keio touched Rafael's arm. The Cuban nodded, to show he had seen the sentry.
Keio shrugged the Ingram from his shoulder and gave it to Rafael. He then drew a wire garrote from his sleeve. Short wood handles on either end gave his hands something to grip. He tested the wire, pulling the weapon out wide as the sentry came down a path to the shore. He then moved forward in a low crouch, looking like a shadow cast by a cloud.
The sentry paused on the beach, staring out across the lough. He drew a last drag from the cigarette and flicked it into the water. He then heard a pebble rattle and started to turn, Kalashnikov still slung on his shoulder.
He was too late. The garrote wire snapped tight around his neck, and with a single surge ofstrength Keio stripped his breath before the sentry could rattle a warning. The victim's back arched and he kicked out. His hands came up to his throat as he tried to reach back and claw at the enemy who had come from the night, but the knee in the small of his back held him too far away to be effective.
The struggle lessened, subsided to feet kicking feebly at the pebbles. The body then slumped in death. Keio released him and coiled the wire around his upper left arm. A twist of the handles locked it in place; another would free it again just as quickly. He moved back to Rafael.
Keio retrieved his Ingram, and they advanced another hundred yards down the beach. A narrow path wound through the gorse, circling the knoll.
Rafael touched Keio's arm and moved up the path with mortar in one hand, mortar rounds in the other. Keio checked his watch. Rafael would fire the first round in five minutes. He had that much time to get to the far side of the church and prepare for the attack.
He crouched again and moved forward in a low run. No one challenged him as he moved two hundred yards beyond the knoll—the church looming directly above him—and found another path that wound upward.
Slate-roofed, the bell tower of the church was a blackened stump, ruined by fire. The windows were boarded up along both sides. The buildingwas made of stone, parts of it dating to the fourteenth century, according to MacMurray. For a hundred years it had harbored only rats and the occasional small wild animal, although Mac-Murray had said that it had been used for a time as a storehouse by smugglers.
Other rats occupied the ruined house of God now; two-legged rodents as filthy and diseased as the four-legged kind. But their disease was of the mind and the spirit.
Keio advanced up the side of the knoll to the top. An untended iron-fenced graveyard was on one side, a hundred feet or more across, running from the side of the church almost to the road. It was filled with stone slabs, many of them toppled, others leaning at crazy angles.
A death ground, about to become a killing ground.
The image satisfied Keio. It seemed fitting.
Weeds choked the graveyard. A tangled growth of vines had taken root in the stone walls, tendrils sprawled across the boards that blocked the narrow, arched windows. There was no sentry. The man on the beach had been the only one on duty.
Keio checked his watch. The five minutes were up. He then heard the shrill whistle of a mortar shell rising into the night. It fell onto the slate roof with a clatter and exploded, smashing a hole through the slate and the wood beneath, cracking the silence of the night.
A second whining round was already in theair before the first had landed. Keio ran through the graveyard, vaulting the low iron fence and pulling a pin from a grenade. As the second mortar round exploded, he rose and threw the grenade. It arched through the night and fell against the steps leading to the front door of the church. Three seconds later it went off.
Someone shouted. The door of the church slapped open and a figure stumbled into the night, carrying a Kalashnikov. He choked from the smoke of the grenade and the fire of the mortars, waved a hand to clear his vision and fired at a shadow on the road.
Keio threw another grenade and unslung his Ingram as Rafael unloaded the other four mortar rounds. Fire lit up the night. As the terrorist emptied his rifle, a burst of slugs from Keio's Ingram tore him apart.
Rafael began to fire from the other side, raking the window boards. Keio threw a third grenade and ran toward the church.
Rafael continued to fire until his Ingram was empty, running parallel to the side of the church until he reached a door at the back. Terrorists poured through the door, scanning the night as their eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Rafael switched the Ingram for the Skorpion, not wanting to take time to stop and reload. On full automatic, the Skorpion fired 7.65mm cartridges at a rate of 750 rounds per minute. The Irish butchers received a blazing dose of their own medicine when they ran headlong into a volley of snarling hot lead.
Three men fell, but others appeared, leaping over their comrades' bodies, seeking cover against the raging firestorm that had shockingly rushed from the night. The Skorpion fell silent, its 20-round magazine emptied in one and a half seconds. Rafael yanked the pins from two grenades and threw them in the direction of the running men.
The first grenade exploded less than a yard in front of the terrorists fleeing from the building. They ran into the blast and the shock hurtled their bodies in the air. Shrapnel ripped through clothing and flesh, severing bone and dismembering limbs. The second grenade erupted while the mangled bodies were still air-borne. Little remained of the charred, tattered corpses.
Rafael fed a fresh 32-round magazine into his Ingram and worked the bolt to chamber the first 9mm shell. He braced himself, ready to spray another volley of lethal lead across the doorway. But no more terrorists appeared, and the sacristy was filled with smoke and fire, as was the rest of the church.. . .
DAVID MCCARTER LISTENED to the f
irefight above his head, his eyes scanning the cellar. A tongue of flame licked at the side of the grenade box. If that box went up, the whole Churchwould be blown sky high. And so would David McCarter.
Coughing from the effects of the smoke, he shook his head and hopped toward the table. His feet were numb but tingled coldly as he landed on his heels. He swayed and fought for his balance, refusing to fall. Then he hopped again.
Progress was slow. Flames began to eat at the wood of the box. Another hop and McCarter swayed again, then fell forward, his left shoulder brushing, the box. A flicker of flame caught his hair, singeing the ends. The fire was hot against his face. His eyes stung from the heat and the smoke. Rolling with desperation across the fury of the flames, he used his body to beat out the fire inching up the box.
The wood smoked, but the fire had been snuffed. McCarter's problems were not over. Wood crackled. He knew it was only a matter of time before the fiery world above came showering down.
Wood crashed. It splintered and bulged outward as someone rammed a bench against the windows. One window broke apart, and then another. Hands reached through to pull at the boards, twisting them aside, making room for guns to appear and lay down a return fire. A third window splintered. Rafael Encizo fired as a body hurtled through the opening, clothing in flames. A scream tore through the night as thetorched terrorist fell to the ground in an agonized roll of death.
The desperate defenders, taken by storm and surprise, fired through windows on both sides of the church. Flames, fed by centuries-old beams and wood dried to the condition of tinder, licked into the sky.
Keio lay down a return fire, slapped another clip in place and ran for the front of the church. MacMurray, familiar with the structure, had said that McCarter must be in the cellar. From the spread of the fire, there was little time to pull him out before the building collapsed.
He and Rafael had not come to Ireland to see their friend incinerated in the flaming ruins of a church.
As Keio broke through the front, Rafael smashed through the sacristy. For a moment the Phoenix Force agents stared into the hell that was the center of the church and almost mistook each other for the enemy. Then the real enemy turned from the windows and snapped shots across the once-hallowed nave.
Wilson, Gar - Phoenix Force 05 - The Fury Bombs Page 8