Show of Force

by Gar Wilson

  He knew he should scout from all points on the compass, but time was limited. He wanted to be back in Yalta before James and Encizo came looking for them.

  Manning pressed for action. "Well, are we going in or aren't we?"

  They stood in the graying darkness. In the west the sun had left behind a narrow slash of crimson tinsel.

  "Memorize the layout of the streets," Katz said. His tone had betrayed concern.

  "The service station is the first thing on the right," Manning thought aloud. "New and used car lot next door. Looks as though it holds one of every make and model they could get."

  "ROP near the end of the streets," McCarter remarked.

  "ROP?" Katz repeated, not understanding.

  "Regional Occupations Program," McCarter explained. "It's big back home. A kid gets out of high school and finds the only thing he knows is Shakespeare and the bones of a crawdad. He goes to an ROP center to learn accounting, computer, drafting; in other words, how to make a living."

  "Oh."

  "McDonald's on the left." McCarter noted. "What do you think of stopping there first? Guards coming in from their shift might drop in there."

  Manning disagreed. "More likely they'd stop at the Ox Bow Tavern next door."

  "We'll stop at McDonald's," said Katz. "In a dark bar we might come up against a herd of drinkers whose eyes are already dilated. So what else do we have, Gary?"

  "Got a jewelry store, drugstore, a multiscreen theater beyond the tavern. The rest seem to be dress shops, shoe stores, a giant ComputerLand, and the church."

  "Supermarket on the right and…" McCarter whistled in surprise"…do my eyes deceive me or is that a gun store?"

  "We take that early on, if we have to," Katz responded. "The second there's shooting or the minute it looks dangerous, we take the gun shop. We commandeer everything we can carry."

  "What's the strategy? Are we going to shoot up the bloody town?"

  "It depends upon what happens. Our best bet is to take a look and get out so we can get word back. In any case, fighting is a last resort."

  "Then what about an escape route?"

  Katz shook his head. "I don't know. How about you, McCarter? How long does it take you to hot-wire a car?"

  "Quicker than it takes a Scotsman to put a penny in his purse. But if this recon patrol takes long, James and Encizo will already be on the road. How do we keep them from coming after us?"

  Katz looked at McCarter. "Planning an escape is a job for you. Agreed?"

  "Yeah, I'll set…"

  Manning interrupted. "Look, there are more people entering the church."

  As they looked on, a few people parked in the lot at the side of the church while more approached from the residential areas on foot.

  "Do we wait?" Manning asked.

  Katz shook his head. "People in the street will make us less conspicuous unless someone has a way of knowing we're not the real security troops."

  "Then this is it?"

  "Yes, let's move out. Carry the guns as casually as a bunch of hunters."

  They moved like footsore men, chatting among themselves with a casual air.

  Manning weighed the odds as they walked. "Damn, we've taken on some big forces before," he thought aloud. "But I can't remember taking on an entire town."

  Neither of the others replied. The closer they came to the brightly lit service station, the more intent they became.

  Katz was mulling over a disturbing concept. From experience he could not imagine the Russians building an idyllic village for any other purpose than to satisfy some militaristic need. Over much of the world it was unfortunately true that cannons came before groceries.

  Then his philosophical thoughts gave way to the demands of reality as they arrived at McDonald's. Katz opened the door and held it as his partners entered.

  The place was bright, well kept and empty. Sounds came from the kitchen, the voices of a young male and a young female.

  The girl whose voice they had heard appeared quickly. She was bright-eyed with a fresh clean look about her.

  "May I help, gentlemen?" she asked in English with an enticing smile, apparently not finding it unusual that they carried guns.

  "Three burgers and three chocolate shakes," Katz ordered for all of them, and let a bare suggestion of an accent salt his speech.

  "Shakes?" The girl cocked her head, as though she didn't understand.

  "Chocolate. Three of them."

  "Oh." She nodded comprehendingly. "You mean milk shakes."

  "Yes. Isn't that what I said?"

  "No. You just said 'shakes. In America they're called milk shakes. A mistake like that could blow your cover."

  Katz absorbed that bit of mistaken information.

  She called the order to the back room and leaned her elbows on the counter. "Business is slow when a class is about to graduate."

  "Really?"

  She finally appeared to notice the guns.

  "You're new in Cheyenne, aren't you?"

  "Yes," Manning responded.

  "How long?"

  “About a week," Manning replied.

  The girl picked up immediately on the pronunciation of "about."

  "Oh, dear, that's not the way the Americans say 'about. They'd guess in a second that you were Canadian. Maybe Scotch. I do hope you're not scheduled for a mission soon."

  "Mission?" McCarter said, and mentally Katz flinched at the younger man's blunder.

  "Yes. Mission. You know about missions, don't you?" Her turquoise eyes clouded.

  Any more mistakes, and they would expose themselves, Katz thought worriedly.

  "Three burgers and three milk shakes," a slender teenager called out as he came around from the back room. The burgers were wrapped in paper, more like fish and chips than the American penchant for using plastic boxes.

  Katz grew skeptical of how far the pretence was carried as he came to the conclusion that the sandwiches could not have been prepared from scratch in the short time they had been in the shop.

  "That'll be twenty-two dollars and fifty-five cents," the girl said pleasantly.

  Manning bristled and dug for his wallet.

  When he handed across the money, the girl took it and laughed. "You flunked again. Hamburgers and milk shakes don't cost that much. You have a lot to learn."

  The boy appeared concerned rather than amused. "Are you three cadre?"

  Katz stepped in before his friends could speak. Cadre. He knew what he meant. If they were cadre, they would remain for some time to direct those enrolled in training.

  "Yes. You're really alert."

  "We're cadre, too," the girl said, "but the Reverend Vulcan has promised we'll be sent on a mission soon. Probably to the real Cheyenne. The Strategic Missile Wing is there, and Reverend Vulcan is always sending new people in hopes of getting more of us employed at the base. But that's not the emphasis now, of course."

  Katz now had a handle on the entire operation. They were in the midst of an elaborate base for training espionage agents who would blend easily into the American society. How many had graduated already? he wondered.

  "I'm aware of that," Katz bluffed. "But has he announced a time?"

  "Tonight maybe. Tomorrow at the latest. That's what everyone is guessing. Must be ten or twenty people going."

  "You sure they're heading for the real Cheyenne?"

  "I didn't say that."

  The boy turned to her. "You know you can't answer a question like that, Sis."

  "How could I know where they're going for sure?" she said, trying to backpedal.

  Katz tensed, knowing that things had gotten awkward.

  The boy looked suspicious. "You guys should know it's forbidden to gossip about such subjects."

  "Yes." The girl's hands shook. "You aren't testing us, I hope."

  The boy put an arm around her. "I think we should call in Reverend Vulcan."

  Katz felt the first real prickle of danger and tried to salvage the situation.
<
br />   "We're security guards. Nobody tells us anything."

  McCarter tried to help. "All we do is walk through the woods until we're relieved." He used his language skills to sound like an American.

  "Where are the other two?" the boy asked. "The guards always come in together."

  Katz covered that one. "They went next door to get a drink. I hope that isn't against the rules."

  "How long did you say you've been in town?"

  "Came in last week," Manning said.

  "I meet everybody who gets off the bus. Hand out coffee and doughnuts. But you should know that," the boy said, and for a moment, the three guns began rising.

  The kid's wise to us, Katz thought.

  "They must have brought you in by truck."

  "Right. By truck."

  "Nice to have you with us." The boy's voice wavered, and Katz realized that the team was no longer fooling the young cook. "If you'll excuse me, I see the church service is starting. I'd better get ready. Reverend Vulcan's sermons whet the appetite, as the Americans say."

  Katz looked through the window. The street no longer buzzed with people. Most of those who remained in sight were headed for the church, except for a lone woman who walked in the opposite direction from the crowd and was rapidly approaching the fast-food outlet.

  A door opened and closed quietly in the rear of the restaurant, and to Katz's ear, alert for danger, the closing door was as loud as a klaxon. He wasted no time in committing the team to action. "Get the boy," he ordered.

  McCarter rounded the counter and rushed past the girl. Manning charged through the front exit and around the side of the building.

  "What's happening?" the girl cried, then sucked in her breath in an instinctive preface to a scream.

  Katz lowered the barrel of the rifle until it pointed in the area of her heart.

  She did not scream nor exhale.

  The Israeli's voice was calm and very forceful, with a deadly edge to it.

  "Please. Don't make me kill you."

  For two or three seconds he felt she was going to cooperate.

  From the street came the unmistakable sounds of violent struggles. A fist crunching into a jawbone. A sharp cry of pain. A rifle butt popping a skull as if it were a nutshell. Manning or McCarter had caught the cook.

  The girl lost control, but before she could scream, Katz grasped her hair and slammed her forehead to the counter.

  She slid away inertly, one arm dragging the milk shakes with her.

  It was better than killing her, Katz thought. He vaulted the counter and stuffed the napkins into her mouth before stripping her belt from her waist to improvise a set of handcuffs that would hold her to a work bench.

  At best, though, the Phoenix Force team had gained no more than seconds by securing the cook and the girl.

  The woman outside was still approaching the restaurant, and Katz accepted the preordained outcome.

  Phoenix Force would not leave town without more bloodshed — if they left at all.

  5

  She'd come through the door breezily, noticed Katz and glanced at the prosthetic hand with no apparent discomfort. Katz had known women who were made uncomfortable by the least suggestion of a handicap or infirmity.

  It had been quite some time since he had seen someone as beautiful as the stately goddess who came through the door, and even under the pressing circumstances, she had quite an impact on him.

  Tall — five foot eight, he guessed — she had a mouth that made him think of kissing, a thought that came less frequently to Katz in recent years, and she had an effortlessly sensuous look about her without even trying.

  "Oh, they're looking for you," she said without any preludes.

  "What?" he asked, surprised that she should speak to him as though she knew of him. She, too, spoke flawless English, American-style, which still seemed so strange to him.

  His muscles were all taut, and he knew that he could be given away at any moment because the girl's prone body was visible if anyone stepped close enough to the cash register.

  "There's a posse looking for you," the beautiful woman said. "When none of you reported on time, Reverend Vulcan dispatched a dozen men to search the forest." She cocked her head, and Katz couldn't help but notice the highlights in her hair. "You're new here, aren't you? I don't believe we've met."

  She extended her hand, and during the handshake gazed into his eyes, making him reflect fleetingly that he would have liked to have met her under vastly different circumstances.

  "Ann Cardwell," she introduced herself. "I'm Reverend Vulcan's assistant here at Cheyenne. And you?"

  "Me?"

  She smiled. Evidently she was accustomed to men becoming tongue-tied when they first met her.

  "Oh, Dwayne Fredericks," he responded, using the phony name on his passport. "I arrived several weeks ago."

  "Really? I meet all the newcomers. I'm surprised I don't remember you."

  "You really mean this," he said, holding up his bad arm. "Usually I wear a replacement that's hard to distinguish from the real thing."

  "That's not what I meant. You have the type of face that's difficult to forget. But what about the other guards?"

  He shrugged.

  "I don't know. I came in alone. There didn't seem to be much to do out there in the woods."

  "There never is. Well, I'd better call Vulcan and tell him that we have at least one of you home safely." She started for the passageway to the rear of the counter, but he stepped in front of her. She tried to step around him. "There's a phone here," she said. Then she called, "Sis. Where are you?"

  "Who's Sis?" He was trying to hold her up, stalling for time, but the situation was rapidly becoming more complicated. Three couples, evidently from the church, were about to enter.

  "The girl who works here on this shift. She'll be shipping out for the States soon." The woman called out again, "Sis!"

  Katz heard the rear door open and hoped that it was Manning and McCarter returning.

  "Excuse me," Ann Cardwell said again. Then, judging by an expression on her face that she couldn't quite conceal, she spotted something behind the counter. There was no question that she had seen enough to sense trouble. "Oh. I guess Sis isn't here."

  "Wait…" Katz reached for her arm and missed. The door had opened and admitted new customers who had come between her and Katz.

  Manning and McCarter entered from the kitchen, and it was obvious they had taken part in a tussle.

  Ann Cardwell sensed more danger, whirled and plunged into the incoming group. Although they tried to get out of her way, they threw her off her stride, and she was staggering before she reached the door.

  "Don't shoot," he called to his teammates as he started after her. If he could stop her before she sounded the alarm, the team would have a better chance of escaping.

  A shot would alert everyone within blocks.

  "Out of my way," he yelled.

  He plunged after her, shouting at the newcomers. "Stop her," he told them. "We're police. She's an agent."

  A female observer believed him and clutched the escaping woman's shoulder.

  The Cardwell woman lashed out with a karate chop that came close to breaking bones.

  Another arm clutched her, and for a moment Katz thought he could catch her before she reached the street, but she tore free and slammed against the door.

  "Not me, you fools. Them. They're CIA."

  The people couldn't make up their minds about whom to believe, and they split into two segments. The women tried to follow Ann Cardwell in her escape. The men stayed to fight.

  The Phoenix Force members swung into action. Katz made an upward sweeping motion with the butt of his rifle in the direction of the nearest man, but the Russian was no novice. He had raised a leg to protect his vitals and swung like a baseball pitcher with one foot hiked toward his chin. Had he landed a punch on Katz's chin, the resistance would have steadied him until he could lower his defensive leg and regain balance.
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br />   The strategy failed. Katz let the fist fan his cheek, and his opponent went rattling through tables and chairs before he hit the floor.

  Katz wanted to take him out permanently, but four others were plunging toward him. In his peripheral vision he saw Manning and McCarter raising their rifles to fire.

  "Not yet," he called out.

  The other two obeyed, although neither understood his order. Instead they vaulted the counter while Katz absorbed the consequences of his decision to delay gunfire.

  A fist cannonballed into his belly and ricocheted off his hardened muscles. He leveraged the rifle butt for a jab at the other opponent, but he was too late to deflect the finger jabbed into his left eye.

  Another blow followed in short order from his blinded side. Katz staggered, hit by a double-handed clout that struck him with sledgehammer force.

  As his left hip was numbed with a place kick, karate-style, Katz felt himself faltering.

  Then the cavalry charged in the form of Gary Manning and David McCarter.

  Katz could see the cool competence in Manning's dark gray eyes. The Canadian's deliberate grace was a deception that concealed dazzling speed as he rammed the rifle muzzle bayonet-style into the back of a Red who was preparing to lasso his chief with a garroting wire.

  The muzzle shattered the spinal column, and the burly Russian crumpled to the ground helplessly.

  "Strike one," Gary called.

  "Make that two," McCarter yelled. He brought his heel down sideways across another man's Achilles tendon. In the same action, he smashed his rifle butt to the back of the man's knee. He slumped at the floor, his hand still clasping the back of Katz's belt. Using a balled fist carefully aimed and swung with the momentum that began above head level, McCarter hit the hand precisely where it joined the fingers.

  The joints broke with the sound of breaking pretzels. From the floor, the man, now on his back, aimed a kick at McCarter's shin.

  The pain destroyed his easy demeanor and activated his short temper. He delivered an abrupt and powerful blow with the rifle butt that finished the man off with a crunch of vertebrae in the neck.

  "McCarter," Katz yelled. "Give me a hand."

  The Englishman assessed the situation immediately. One man was locked in combat with Manning, but two others were cornering Katz, using slow, professional probes with switchblade knives. In a cramped corner of the room, Katz could evade them only so long.