Wilson, Gar - Phoenix Force 05 - The Fury Bombs

by Anonymous Author

  Rafael and Keio turned as though motivated by one mind, Keio firing to the left, Rafael to the right. The terrorists fired back, but they had been trained to ambush and kill unsuspecting civilians, not to fight armed opponents in open combat. Putting bombs in baby carriages in Belfast or Dublin, or shooting a British policeman in the back with a rifle, were not thesame as going up against a pair of warriors such as Rafael and Keio.

  Keio raised his Ingram and stitched an Irish goon from crotch to throat with 9mm death. The terrorist next to the man was splattered by blood and intestinal gore. He recoiled in horror and hastily pulled the trigger of his M-45. The bullets from the Swedish chatterbox tore into the floorboards near Keio. The Japanese blasted a short volley into the terrorist's chest, chopping heart and lungs into useless pulp.

  The Cuban fired a burst of 9mm slugs at another pair of Emerald Isle trash. One man's skull exploded in a nova of blood and brains. The other terrorist, a giant of a man, hurled his empty AK-47 aside and let out a roar as he rushed the altar and Rafael.

  Rafael's gun was empty. The madman blundered through the flames and smoke, unmindful of the elements of hell that surrounded him. Rafael clawed for the Beretta in his shoulder leather—too late. Eamon O'Bannon was already upon him.

  The big Irishman launched himself at Rafael and collided with the Cuban warrior. Both men fell heavily against the altar. They struggled fiercely, bare hands their only weapons. Rafael rammed a knee into his opponent's groin. O'Bannon merely grunted and grabbed Rafael's throat. He pushed the Cuban backward across the altar, determined to squeeze the life out of him.

  Desperately Rafael clawed his fingers into O'Bannon's face. He hooked a thumb into the corner of the Irishman's left eye and gouged hard. O'Bannon shrieked when his eyeball popped out of its socket and dangled loosely on his cheek, hanging by the stem of its optic nerve. The Irishman released Rafael and fell backward, clawing at his face, still screaming in pain and horror.

  The Cuban's hand dived to the Mark IV commando knife clipped to his belt. Breaking the thumb snap, he quickly drew the knife and lunged forward. Rafael executed a fast, expert lunge and drove the point of the razor-sharp double-edged blade into the hollow of O'Bannon's throat. Rafael twisted the blade, creating a larger cavity in his adversary's flesh, and then yanked the knife free.

  O'Bannon staggered, one hand gripping his torn throat, the other still clamped over the empty socket. The shock and loss of blood drained the big man of his maniacal strength. He fell heavily, crashing through the remains of the communion rail. He was dead when he hit the floor; as dead as the boys who had served as his honor guard; as dead as the others who had gathered at the church in this time of danger. A dozen men were enough to stand against any opposing force of men that did not outnumber their ranks. Against any . . .

  But not against Phoenix Force.

  Rafael rose to his feet as Keio ran toward him.

  "David!" Keio shouted.

  "The cellar!" said Rafael. He looked around then spotted a door that led off from the sacristy. "There!"

  Keio ran and tugged open the door. Smoke swirled into his face, filling his lungs. There was fire below but the stairs were clear. He took them two at a time. Keio peered through the smoke-filled room. He heard his name over the roar of the fire.

  "Keio! Over here!"

  Through the choking haze, Keio saw McCarter kneeling behind a table—a table that was on fire. He crossed the cellar at a weaving run, doging obstacles and avoiding leaping flames.

  "Damn!" said McCarter, greeting his friend. "Just like Superman. You wait to come in at the last minute. Cut me loose."

  Keio saw that McCarter was tied. He reached for his knife, then part of the ceiling collapsed in a sheet of flames.

  The flames were at the far end of the cellar. Keio forgot the knife. There was no time to cut David loose. He would not be able to move his strangled limbs in time.

  Keio cast the Ingram aside and bent, tugging McCarter to his feet. Keio then hoisted him across his shoulders, staggering under McCarter's weight, and turned toward the stairs.

  The fire had reached the stairs.

  "You'll never make it!" McCarter shouted.

  Keio ignored him, moving into a shambling run. The heat was intense, the smoke dense. Fire shot at Keio's legs as he started up the burning stairs. He had to turn sideways to maneuver McCarter through the narrow opening that had been left in the floor to accommodate the staircase.

  Keio transported McCarter to the top of the staircase. The church was filled with smoke and fire. He looked around for Rafael but could not find his fighting friend. He had no time left to look—the church roof was collapsing.

  Keio took three lurching steps that carried him across the sacristy to the back door of the church, pushed through and stumbled down three stone steps to the ground level. The church had become a torch, fire escaping through every opening. The heat was intense as he hit the ground and staggered beneath the burden of his Phoenix Force companion.

  Keio ran, summoning his last reserve of strength, heading away from the burning church. He threaded through the gravestones, reached the iron fence and dumped David into the waiting arms of Rafael, just as the box of grenades in the cellar exploded.

  What was left of the roof was blasted straight up. The thick walls of the old church trembled with the fury of the blast but held it contained. Debris and embers fell in a hellish rain as Keio rolled across the iron fence and fell to theground. Hot embers struck him as he let himself roll down the hill. Sparks struck at his face and stuck in his hair, which smoldered. An ember lodged in the small of his back, burned itself out in the combat suit as he came to a halt. For a moment he lay on his back, staring into a sky turned red. Yet even as he looked, the glow subsided and the rain of debris ended. He brushed his hands through his hair, beating out the embers. He sat up, breathing raggedly, as Rafael used his knife to cut McCarter's bonds.

  "About bloody time, mates," McCarter said with a grin. "Damn good work."

  McCarter began to laugh. He pounded his fists against the ground. He was happy to be alive. Rafael watched him a moment, his face split in a grin.

  "Well, hotshot?" Rafael said, staring at David. "What are you waiting for? There's work to be done. This war has just begun."

  16

  FIVE MEN WERE GATHERED in the kitchen of aflat on New York's Lower East Side. A sixth man stood guard at the door and another stood by the window in the front room, staring down at the street four floors below. There were other men sleeping in other rooms.

  "Twenty-four hours and not a word," Cavan Coakley said, his brow furrowed with worry. "We know they have the letters. But not a word on television or in the newspapers. Not a word."

  "The government is trying to hide the truth from the people," Seamus Riley said. He was the only terrorist who seemed calm and in control.

  "They should be responding to us!" said Emmett Farrell. Liam Clune and Doyle MacGrew were the other two men at the table.

  "Yes," said MacGrew. "We want to know if they're going to pay the billion dollars."

  "They don't intend to pay it," Riley informed them.

  "Then why in God's name are we playin' this farce?"

  Liam Clune slapped his hand down on the table, and the front legs of his chair came down with a thump that startled the guard at the door.

  "They won't pay," Riley repeated. "That is, until the first bomb goes off. Then they'll have no choice but to pay."

  A sick look crossed Liam Clune's face. A hundred dead in the original raids, two hundred more in the bombing in California. How many would die when they set off an atomic bomb? A hundred thousand; that was the number in Hiroshima. But these warheads had fourteen times the power. Clune shuddered.

  "The bombs are in place," said Riley. "Which city shall be the first target?"

  "The cities are as chosen, Seamus?" MacGrew asked.

  "They are, Doyle. There's been no reason to change the selection. We want all of the country to
know about Seamus Riley and his cause."

  "I was just thinking that Los Angeles . . ." MacGrew turned over a hand. "They've had the one bombing. They should be ready to listen to reason."

  "They're not ready," Riley countered. "If they were ready, the companies would have been forced to pay. No, they listen but they don't believe. They won't believe, until we show them that they must believe."

  "Los Angeles," said Farrell. "And Chicago."

  "New York City," said Liam.

  "And Washington, D.C.," finished Riley.

  "Washington can't be the first," Coakley reasoned. "If we blow up the only people who can make the payment, we'll never see the money."

  "No," agreed Riley, "Washington will be the last shot in our war. It will be our dyin' statement. If it comes to that, I'll be with the bomb when it goes off."

  "New York," said Coakley, head hanging. "Chicago. Los Angeles."

  "Which?" asked Riley.

  "New York is biggest," said Liam. "The most would die there. I say it should be next to last."

  "I agree," said Riley. "Chicago, or Los Angeles?"

  "Chicago is concentrated, like New York," Coakley said. "It's also the rail center for the country and has the biggest port on the Great Lakes. I say first strike has to be Los Angeles."

  "Does anyone object?"

  Riley looked at each in turn as he asked the question. Clune studied his hands, clenched on the edge of the table. Doyle MacGrew met his eyes, glanced furtively away. Emmett Farrell leaned back, stared at the glass globe of the kitchen light.

  "Then Los Angeles it is," Riley pronounced. "Which brings up another question that I'll throw before you. Do we announce the target? Or wait until the bomb goes off and announcethat Chicago, New York and Washington will go in turn?"

  "If we tell them, there'll be mass confusion as they try to evacuate the city," said Coakley.

  "If we tell them," said MacGrew, "the locals will force the government in Washington to act. They'll have to pay the ransom."

  "We'll have to be sure that this time the message gets out," said Farrell. "To the people."

  "What do you say to that, Cavan?" asked Riley. "You're our public-relations expert."

  Coakley flushed. "There are seventy or eighty local radio stations in Los Angeles and Orange County," he said, "fifteen or twenty local newspapers. We send the message to all of them. They will pass it on."

  "We haven't got time for a full-scale press release," Farrell said.

  "No," Riley agreed. "The men in Los Angeles will have to call each station and newspaper personally. That would give each ten or twelve calls to make. Do you have lists ready, Cavan?"

  "They can take them out of the yellow pages for the various towns," said Coakley. "There's a supply of them all in the area command post." He stood, pushing back his chair. "I'll call them now. The word should be out within two hours."

  "Make the call from a pay phone," advised Riley.

  "Of course," said Coakley. "I'll use the booth in the subway. It's most secure."

  Coakley took a jacket from a closet while the guard checked the peephole in the door. Riley beamed at the men at the table as Cavan slipped through the door and moved quickly down the stairs. The guard at the front window watched him turn up his collar against a sharp wind off the East River. He then hurried to the corner, turned and disappeared from sight.

  The subway station was almost empty at this hour. Cavan cast a warning scowl at two hungry-eyed Hispanic teenagers, who looked at him as possible meat for the slaughter, and slipped into the phone booth. He lifted the receiver and heard the dial tone. He dropped the coin, gave the operator the Los Angeles number, fed more coins as directed and let the instrument three thousand miles away ring three times before he hung up.

  He opened the booth and stepped out. The teenagers moved closer. Cavan drew his pistol from the back of his trousers and flashed it. They backed off and jumped onto the next train that came in. He began to pace, occasionally glancing at his watch, but he always stayed close to the booth.

  Twelve minutes passed before the phone rang. Cavan caught it before the first ring finished and spoke four words: "The lion is dead."

  It was the recognition code; it meant orderswere coming. The man in Los Angeles gave his name and listened. He repeated the instructions when Cavan finished.

  "Speed counts," said Cavan. "But spread your men out. Security is still paramount."

  The man in L.A. acknowledged the orders and hung up.

  The Fury Bomb was set to be unleashed.

  17

  THREE MILES NORTH and slightly west of the railroad flat that served as the New York City headquarters for the Army of the People's Republic of Ireland, five men were gathered in a luxury suite in the Essex House hotel.

  David McCarter sprawled across a French Empire sofa. His face was marked, and one eyebrow was almost gone. His left hand was bandaged. A short haircut had repaired the damage the fire had done to his hair, and a hard head had lessened the effects of the concussion that had kept him in darkness in the cellar of the Irish church.

  At first look, McCarter seemed to be ripe for a long bout of R&R. But, first looks are deceptive. When terrorists were shoving, McCarter pushed his body to outer limits. R&R, in McCarter's mind, was not needed. In fact, he stressed, it was "out of the bleedin' question."

  His head might have a few lumps and his wrist and ankles might be chafed raw from the ropes that had bound him, but David McCarter was still able. Very able.

  McCarter tilted a can of cola, drained it andcrumpled the can in one hand. He tossed it toward a wastebasket. The can hit the rim and fell in. A sudden belch escaped and McCarter covered his mouth with a fist.

  "Bloody good shot," he said, smiling. With McCarter's crass sense of humor, he could have been referring to the burp, or the basket he made with the can.

  His companions laughed, glad their fighting friend was alive.

  Keio Ohara also carried the scars of the church battle. A lock of hair was missing from one temple and small burn marks tattooed his face. He sat erect in a wing chair, his battle-bruised ribs aching slightly.

  Yakov sat, waiting patiently. His artificial hand rested on the table, surprisingly lifelike; flesh-colored plastic-covered stainless steel, the plastic implanted with a scattering of black human hair.

  The hand's steel fingers were slightly curled, resting naturally. When the fingers were locked straight, the hand was a two-pound sledge, capable of smashing any wood-paneled door. A glancing side blow could tear off a man's ear. A forward chop, against the sternum, could paralyze heart and lungs, kill.

  Anticipating a need to kill without noise had led Yakov to select this tool of silent death. Yakov turned his disability into a lethal advantage.

  Rafael stood at the window, looking down at Central Park. In early afternoon, the park on the Fifth Avenue side was crowded with pedestrians even though the day was chilly and overcast. Tourists were out in force in the place that had been built as a haven for the city-weary.

  A horse-drawn carriage moved slowly into the park, irritating drivers who were stuck behind it. Rafael watched until the carriage and its pair of lovers disappeared, then he turned back to the room. An ugly white mark, remnants of a blister on an earlobe, was his only visible souvenir of the burning church.

  Gary impatiently paced. Finally the bedroom door opened, and Hal Brognola and another man entered the room.

  "We've got it!" said Brognola exultantly, chomping heavily on an unlit cigar.

  "In Los Angeles?" Gary asked, wheeling.

  "Yes. Heffernan's informant pinpointed the bomb to a warehouse near Union Station. There are six men guarding the warehouse. We can take them anytime we want to. Anytime we have to."

  "But we're going to wait," said Yakov.

  "The Man bought everything we worked out. Unless Heffernan's man calls back with word that zero hour has been advanced, we'll wait until the guards evacuate."

  Cormick Heffernan, a lea
der in the council of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, the Provos, was the seventh man in the room. Afterrescuing McCarter and returning to Belfast, Keio insisted on another meeting with Girvin Kearney, their informant.

  "Cormick will never do it!" said Kearney, shocked at the proposal. "My boss go to New York? You're daft!"

  "You've heard the story of the firefight at the church." Rafael smiled, showing his teeth. His voice was a silky purr that suggested in-escapable menace. Kearney shivered and looked at Inspector MacMurray. He found no sympathy there.

  "That little fight was my Japanese friend and myself," Rafael said, "against a dozen. We took O'Bannon like walking through a Sunday school. Now there's three of us and there are more we can call in. Does Heffernan want trouble? Does he want us to switch our attention from Seamus Riley?"

  "I'll speak to him," said Kearney, scowling. "But he won't be pleased."

  The ferret-faced little Irishman scuttled out of the pub like a roach scurrying for safety. He returned in less than an hour. Within twenty minutes Cormick Heffernan arrived, guarded by a dozen bully boys. He frowned as he listened to Rafael, and he scowled as he studied the Japanese and the Englishman.

  Cormick was a man of middle size but had ham fists, big feet and a twisted face that gave him the look of a mean mobster. A steelworker for the Belfast shipyards until fired by hisBritish employers for IRA activities, Heffernan was exceedingly ugly but soft-spoken.

  "Will you come?" Rafael asked, his voice demanding.

  "For what purpose?"

  "To use the men you have planted in Riley's army to get us information," said Keio.

  "And what makes you think I have men with Seamus Riley?"

  "You'd be a fool not to have them," Keio said.

  Heffernan scowled. The corners of his already twisted mouth moved.

  "Okay, I'll do it. And why not?" He pounded the table. "I've got a brother in Boston I've not seen in thirty years. Nine kids he has and none of them knowin' their uncle. They say the wee ones are the spittin' image of me sainted father."