by Gar Wilson
"You got it, comrade."
"Then you are with them," the Russian said, making a motion toward the south side of the town where more houses were burning. Flashes from guns showed the enemy had tightened the deadly ring considerably. In ten, fifteen minutes at the most, there would be little space left for any surviving Phoenix team members.
"Give each of them another dousing," James said.
"No. Please."
The men gagged and gasped. They were cursing and pleading in a mix of Russian and English.
"All right, let's get this straight," James said. "We all have one chance of living."
"We have?" Encizo was amazed.
James looked down the street. It was deserted. Apparently all the residents had gone to fight the other fires and to be in on the kill.
"Each of us is going to get a car and bring it back here to the station," James began giving orders. "You do just as you're told, and you will get out of this with your lives and your eyesight. Got it?"
The three nodded.
Under the watchful muzzles of their own confiscated guns they followed orders.
When they had the five vehicles in the station, they flooded the rear seats of four with gasoline from the pumps. All of them shivered with fear, and even Encizo showed signs of nervousness. There were better ways to die.
"Give each of them another dousing," James said.
"No. Please," the men said, cursing and pleading in a mix of Russian and English.
They gagged and had difficulty breathing.
Then the Russians obediently shed their shirts and undershirts and watched Calvin soak them. The underwear was then draped over partly opened windows to act like delayed action fuses of the gasoline soaked interiors.
They drove off in a convoy, feeling very cautious and as though they were driving through mines.
Calvin James drove the center car, the one that had not been flooded with gasoline. Two of the Russians drove separate cars at James's left. Encizo drove the car on the far right and controlled the Russian in the remaining car. Both Phoenix warriors kept a gun pointed out the window at their captives.
Once inside the south end of town, James climbed to the hood of his own vehicle and surveyed the battleground like a general. He immediately assessed the situation.
The circle had tightened to less than three blocks in diameter. The Russians had apparently paused, plotting their final assault or perhaps considering a surrender offer.
The occasional gunshots from inside the circle revealed the exact location where Katz, Manning and McCarter were trapped. They were between two tri-level houses that had not been touched by fire.
James gave orders as if he were certain that his plan would work.
He parked his own car at the end of the alley that ran through the Russian lines and behind the house where Katz and the others appeared to be holing up for their last battle.
Two cars were at the end of the two streets that paralleled the alley. The same was true on both sides of James's position.
A slight incline worked in James's favor, but he ordered the Russians to put the vehicles in first gear and straighten the wheels.
Although he could see the Russians resume the battle and start to move toward the center of the ring, he forced himself to take one last chance.
The gasoline flowing from the open nozzles at the station should have reached the business district by now, but obviously it had torched none of the hot spots there. Nor was there any hint how much of the remaining car lot had been flooded with the explosive fuel.
He still hoped that part of his plan would explode in a streak of flame and make further strategy unnecessary.
He had to push on, though, in case that diversion failed.
"It's now or never," Encizo called to him.
The Cuban was referring to the sudden barrage of weapons that had been unleashed by the Russians in preparation for a final assault on Katz and the others.
"Okay."
He moved quickly to the two cars on the left while Encizo took charge of his own and the one that had been driven by the third Russian.
They lit the oil-soaked shirts and undershirts.
"Okay," James shouted. "Get 'em rolling, get into the woods, and you're free."
Instantly three cars, followed a moment later by Encizo's vehicle, were rolling in first gear down the streets. The flaming oil rags streamed like flags of hell against the darkness.
James and Encizo dashed forward, intent on joining their beleaguered team, threw their weapons into the remaining vehicle and started it rolling down the alley. James drove, hunching at dash level even when the car bumped into things along the way.
The first cars were nearing the Russian lines, and the mobile torches distracted the men with weapons.
Several of them raised their hands, trying to indicate that the drivers should halt their vehicles.
But the cars kept moving, and Calvin James started a silent chant, willing that things should start happening. "Blow, blow, blow."
Encizo raised his head so he could see out the window. "Maybe it's not going to work."
"It has to."
Ahead, the battle had reached its final phase. As if it were controlled by a drawstring, the perimeter diminished by the second.
"Come on, blow. There are enough fumes inside those cars to make one hell of a bang even if the tanks don't explode."
"You ever tried this trick before?"
"No."
"Then it is pure theory."
"Hell, that's right. And I'm counting on luck, too."
"If you got any more ideas, let's use them now."
"I'm saving a couple for later."
"There isn't going to be any later. Here come three guys to check us out."
James didn't bother to raise his head. He positioned his rifle so he could shoot the first man to stick his face close to the door window, but that was where his plans ended. He might kill a few more Russians before he died, but what then? He could see no way out. Not for himself, and not for Phoenix Force.
13
Death was the ultimate flaw in the magnificent human body, Yakov Katzenelenbogen thought philosophically as he looked out from his tiny corner formed by a concrete planter on one side and the house on the other. Actually, makeshift though it was, his shelter offered good protection. The Russians had come up with a supply of grenades from somewhere, but the overhang of the house roof rendered them ineffective.
He lay on his belly, hoping that Manning and McCarter were still alive at the front of the two houses. If they were not, though, it didn't make all that much difference, he thought in consolation of himself, because they would all die soon in any case.
Katz had stationed himself at that spot in the back, looking across the alley to the houses beyond, because of the small trees there that he had wanted to turn his thoughts to at the moment before he would stop thinking entirely.
Actually, the largest tree was nearly barren, and its remaining leaves were like sieves from the bullets.
Man should let trees decide when it was time to shed their leaves, he thought. And men should let others die in their own time.
Often that wasn't possible, but perhaps he had chosen his own time by coming here in the first place.
And it was not a bad place to die.
The enemy seemed incapable of hitting him. The end depended on the ammunition he had carried to this place.
He had no idea how many shells remained in any given weapon except for one Russian assault rifle. That one was completely full. He was saving it for the last, which would not be long in coming.
Some of the Russians were advancing as they fired, their slugs chipping away at his little fort. An open wound dropped blood to his shoulders from a shallow furrow across the top of his head.
"Manning?" he called, although it brought a new storm of bullets aimed in his direction.
"Yeah."
Katz smiled wryly. Still alive.
"David?"
"Here," McCarter replied, and Katz marveled. It was a victory that they were all still alive.
Time to take more Russians with them, he thought. The creed of the hero and the fanatic.
Had his undaunted determination to destroy the town cost the team their chance to live? If he had returned to Yalta before they had engaged the Russians, he could have told Hal Brognola what they had found. Cheyenne, a masterpiece for training deep penetration agents.
Now the three of them would be dead. Brognola would have to send others to complete the mission and find out what had happened. Nagging at his conscience even more was a question Katz feared he would never have answered before he died.
What had happened to Calvin James and Rafael Encizo? Katz would have preferred to die thinking that the backup pair was still safe and alive in Yalta. That would have been comforting. Not only would their lives be saved; they would also form the nucleus of a new Phoenix Force.
But he was whistling "Dixie." They had the battle plan. Orders called for them to remain in Yalta until it became apparent that Katz and his detachment were not returning within the deadline, but they would not have waited any longer than required.
No. They were here somewhere. Beyond the Russians, either dead or alive, the black and the Cuban would have made their attempt at a rescue.
I asked too much of my men, he told himself. Ten to one they were dead, heroes whom no one would ever honor.
"Ah, well," he sighed. He had thought of death and honor and dishonor enough. "Get back to work," he told himself aloud, and found that the self-administered advice was well-timed.
A Russian had climbed to a roof across the alley. He was at the peak, steadying himself for a killing shot, probably hoping to catch Manning or McCarter from above and behind them.
Katz took up one of the weapons he had cached in his makeshift bunker.
It was a Mega Dart Gun, an MX-7 powerful enough to fire a variety of.40-caliber darts at a velocity of 720 per second. The one he had taken off a corpse had a camouflaged metal finish.
It was not meant to be a man-killer by any means, but if he could catch the sniper in the face or upper torso, the man would be out of action. The benefit to Manning and McCarter could mean an extra thirty seconds of life and Katz would not open himself up to the withering barrage the advancing enemy would unleash if they saw the flash of a gun.
He inserted a long wire dart into the chamber. It had power enough to penetrate body armor made of ballistic nylon. Then he closed the bolt and locked it by drawing back the handle on the side. The clicking sound assured him the bolt was properly seated. He attached the metal stock and pressed the butt against his shoulder as he looked down the sight tube. Making slight adjustments for wind and elevation, he drew back on the elastic power handle until it clicked into place.
He aimed, pulled the trigger and heard the dart hiss through the air.
The missile slammed home; the Russian jerked backward, firing into the air, and then rolled down the roof and thumped to the ground. That single shot confused the encircling wolf pack. One of their own had been hit, and they had neither seen nor heard the responsible weapon. Their final advance halted.
"Great!" Katz exclaimed.
He grabbed for more darts. He fired at those closest to him. Four dropped away like figures in a shooting gallery.
Another triumph. A small one. Another delay of the inevitable.
He fired the last of the darts, got his targets, and saw them replaced by reinforcements. Was there no end to the enemy supply of bodies?
The Russians were pushing forward again behind the withering hail of lead they unleashed.
Katz returned fire with a last desperation as bullets chipped the planter to his side. Dirt sprayed into the air, and chips of concrete stung his cheeks.
They were just across the alley now and also closing in from both sides. He could not hold them off, had no hope of returning fire measure for measure.
Abruptly the advance stopped, and Katz spotted a car rolling slowly down the street.
Beyond that he saw two other cars, one twenty or more feet behind the first. The third was even farther back. Together the vehicles reminded him of a strange funeral procession. There were no lights, just some flares at the top of the window on each of the vehicles.
Peering cautiously over his sanctuary, he discovered two more cars were rolling along the streets to the south.
Several Russians broke ranks to check the first car, trotting alongside, using it as a shield. It obviously seemed safer to them than making the final plunge.
An explosion dissolved the darkness. Slivers of the car's metallic body became embedded in the bodies of the men nearest the vehicle, sculpting deep, ragged holes in their faces. Some of the projectiles rained down around Katz's shelter.
The vehicle rolled along, its interior engulfed in flames. It had advanced beyond the house where the Phoenix Force leader had made his last stand.
A similar explosion came from the street behind him, where Manning and McCarter dug their heads under protective tents of arms and elbows.
The fuel tank of the first vehicle went off with a roar that deafened and a flash of flame that blinded. The car disintegrated, its metal fragments turning bodies into ribbons of flesh. Burning tires sizzled and whirled and hissed, and down on the ground rained glass, blood and broken bodies in a glistening carnage that came straight from hell.
"Katz," McCarter called. "You all right?"
The answer was lost in the explosion of another car only half a lot away from him. It had the same devastating effect on the Russians. They ran, they screamed, they died. Some were bathed in the flaming gasoline and were unlucky enough to die slowly.
The third and fourth cars, too, fulfilled Calvin James's plans.
Flashing fireballs inside the vehicles were followed by still more murderous explosions when the fuel tanks went up. Russians were lifted off their feet and flung against buildings. Those not killed or wounded, dived for cover. Katz picked some of them off.
He never enjoyed killing but there was satisfaction in destroying those who meant to kill him. Were there time, he would have pondered the origin of the incendiary brigade. But he was too busy and simply took advantage of it.
Immediately after the last two explosions, Katz heard a familiar voice.
"Katz, get in. Hurry,"
He looked around to see where the voice was coming from and saw that the Russian survivors were trying to get away from the fifth vehicle before it, too, became a deadly fireball. Katz, though, saw the right door swing open.
"Get in. Hurry."
He saw no one in the car, but he knew the voice.
"Manning, McCarter, this way. Hurry, dammit."
They came running without any cover.
"Get in," Katz told them.
"James! Encizo!" Manning exclaimed, very happy to see them. McCarter squeezed into the rear seat with the Cuban and the Canadian. He rolled down the window, and thrust out the muzzle of the Mitchell Arms AK-22 he was carrying.
Katz took the front seat.
"Go in!" he yelled.
The car lurched forward as James veered off the blocked alley and cut across the grass between two houses. They cleared the scattered line of the enemy before any of the Russians realized the car was being driven by the escaping foreigners.
Immediately bullets began whizzing in the car's direction.
"Bonnie and Clyde," McCarter laughed in exultation. He braced the Mitchell and sprayed a group of marksmen who had lined up in the kneeling position, trying to get off a last volley before the enemy disappeared from sight. But the speeding vehicle cut them down like bowling pins before they could fire a single shot.
"Head for the airfield," Katz shouted. He pointed in the direction of the clearing behind the church.
"You got a plane coming in to take us out?" James said hopefully.
"Three of them," McCarter said.
"Three?"
&
nbsp; "Ultralights."
"You mean those things that look like they were built in 1901?"
"You got it, partner. Our wings to freedom."
"You're the pilot. Can we all get on one of those toys?" Encizo asked with doubt.
"No. Two, max. You go with me. Katz, you take Calvin. Gary, you get your own plane."
"What the hell do I know about flying one of those things?"
"You're going to get a lesson right now. So listen, and listen good."
"You can't expect me to learn that way."
"The Wrights got less help before they went up. Besides, you'd take the controls practically from the start even if you were getting formal lessons. These aren't 747s. Stick forward on taxiing, stick back on takeoff. Stick and pedal left for a left turn."
"I'd never be able to land one of those winged baskets. Neither would Katz."
"If you're lucky, there'll be a parachute fastened on the top of the wing that brings you and the plane down easy."
"But where are we going to come down?"
"Ask Katz."
They were planning too far in advance, they realized when a wall of gun-wielding men came into their sight.
"Everybody down but me," Katz ordered.
Even James ducked his head and the old Phoenix leader leaned from the window and blazed away until his weapon clicked on empty. He dropped it out the window and took up a Calico High Tech.22 that Manning had brought aboard.
A line of bullets stitched across the windshield, leaving patches of cracked glass at ten inch intervals. From off to the left, a wiser group of defenders went for the tires.
Katz felt the curse of finality again. In moving to return the fire from this new direction he saw men rushing toward the car lot. If one of our tires blow on our car, Katz thought, then we're back where we started. Trapped again.
At that moment there was a roar and flames erupted in the main street gutter in the center of the business district and streaked toward the lot.
"We opened the pumps at the station," James said with a note of pride in his voice.
The flames reached the car lot, rising skyward like quick-growing weeds until they were three stories high. The explosions started slowly, then increased in tempo until it was like a string of firecrackers popping and hopping about on a sidewalk at a Fourth of July celebration.