Phoenix Force 06 - White Hell

by Gar Wilson

  "So?" Katz said.

  "Timetable. That's how cocky they are. They must be planning to pull the shields at the last moment then clear out. Everything goes up five minutes after they're airborne."

  "Cheeky bastards, aren't they?" McCarter interjected.

  Just then Manning's theory was summarily shot to hell. Down the corridor they heard the rattle of automatic-rifle fire, flat, tearing explosions signifying grenade action. For perhaps one minute the muffled clamor carried. Then there was a haunting stillness.

  But by then Phoenix was on the move. "Guess we don't have to worry about making noise anymore," Rafael growled as they eased into the dimly lit corridor that led to the master-control centers and started furtive recon.

  They came to a crossroads, where another corridor bisected. "Pump rooms to the right," Yakov shouted. "Keio and McCarter. Go."

  As they complied with his command, flinging themselves down another long, rubber-matted tunnel, Katz himself was momentarily sidetracked. Three INLAs broke from a doorway at the end of the hall and came straight at them. But before the terrorists could wipe astonishment from their faces, raise their M-16s the necessary fourteen inches to fire—Instant massacre.

  The Stoner M-63 A-1, the Uzi, the CAR-15 all bayed a sudden requiem for the terrorists, a joint spray of thirty-odd rounds stopping them in their tracks. A halo of blood seemingly exploded around them, hung in a heavy mist, splattering the walls, ceiling and floor of their impromptu funeral home with crimson spotting and streaks.

  Their M-16s clattered forward, forming an additional obstacle course as Manning and Rafael threaded their way toward the nerve center, their feet sliding in warm blood.

  Yakov, torn between following them and joining Keio and McCarter, finally stuck to the plan and headed for the pump area.

  The firefight had barely consumed thirty seconds, and inside the computer area, the three remaining Grey Dogs were just setting up shop when the two invaders banged through the opening, sliding low, their scatterboxes thundering.

  The scene confronting them was chaotic. Silicon Valley would make a mint replacing the bullet and shrapnel ravaged computers. As for the six luckless technicians who had been gunned down at their consoles—their circuit boards were down for eternity.

  But this was peripheral input, for Rafael and Manning's main attention was devoted to the green-suited figures blurring on the left and right, to the rip-saw fireblasts flashing off in their eyes, to swift sideways freefall as they saw hot lead red-balling their way.

  As Encizo fell behind a bullet-riddled desk, flinging his arm, the green frag grenade was looping high across the room. "Down," he warned Manning, clamping hands to his ears.

  The air was suddenly compressed, the metallic, shattering kerwhump hitting like a punch to the gut. Even with his ears protected, Rafael's head still rang. Thinking to capitalize on the concussive impact, catch the stunned survivors with their brains clanging, he peered warily up, the Stoner panning the far end of the room.

  He sent off another burst of head-slicers, catching an Irish hardman in the act of throwing a frag in his direction. The 5.56mm slugs slammed his chest, spun him back. The grenade handle chattered, but the apple fell sideways, barely launched.

  "Live one," Rafael yelled as he dropped, again clamping his ears.

  The whump was muffled this time, but shrapnel, pieces of electronics, human flesh cascaded across the room. With a grimace Encizo whisked blood, specks of human meat off his white winter suit.

  Encizo and Manning counted a slow ten before emerging from their foxholes. They heard the sparking of a short-circuited computer in the distance, the soft sounds of a human body in final death throes. Edging up very slowly, they surveyed the room.

  "If computers could bleed," Manning said, his eyes sad as he regarded the microchip graveyard. "We'd be up to our ankles in it."

  Slowly, rifles poised, they flanked the battle area, worked closer to view their ugly handiwork. Encizo made a sour face as he saw how the grenade had chewed up the warrior's head. It had been turned into crimson pulp, the man's features totally indistinguishable.

  A second man was bent backward over a toppled chair, his chest an open pit, his face torn by shrapnel, his smile sliced from ear to ear.

  Farther down the line they found a man curled into the kneehole of a desk, death peppered across his frame.

  Warily Rafael and Manning edged into the hallway, alert for the slightest betraying sound. They skulked toward the second master-operations control center. Positive as they were that the recent commotion had spooked any malingerers there, they were duty bound to check just the same.

  They had almost covered the fifty feet between the two nerve centers, were poised for thrust, when they heard a muffled voice carry from inside. They froze, put their backs to the wall, trigger fingers itchy.

  "Throw 'em one of our avocados?" Rafael whispered.

  Manning nodded.

  The Cuban duck-walked as close as he dared to the door, uncapped a fresh M-26. "Heads up," he roared, and arced it into the room. The explosion jarred them even in the hall, pieces of shooting steel taking out what remained of the glass in the door.

  They fell back and waited until all the shrapnel had settled. Agonized screams sounded loudly. "Let's go finish 'em off," Encizo urged.

  "No, wait," Manning said, his eyes suspicious. "Something isn't ringing right here." Hastily he disengaged his parka, draped it on the barrel of his rifle. Carrying the CAR-15 at the vertical, he sidled to the edge of the casement, where the one door was jammed open.

  "Duck in low," he hissed, "when I move it. Go in wide open." Rafael was poised in a semicrouch, the Stoner reloaded, on full automatic.

  Manning lowered the carbine, teasingly showed the tail of the parka at the top of the opening. Immediately a hail of 5.56mm tumblers tore the fur to confetti. At which point Encizo darted forward, crashed to his belly, the Stoner bellowing. Hot lead, incoming.

  He felt the death fire, definite swaths of air shunted aside by the slugs spinning just above his head. Yet he never flinched, superb reflexes all under control. The would-be ambush artists, half concealed by the same heavy oak desks that had saved them from the grenade, became faces in a shooting gallery, the Stoner chopping their heads to dog meat in the wink of an eye.

  This time their screams were real.

  "Close," the Cuban whistled as he guardedly entered the room, rifle panning for any other unpleasant surprises. "How come you tumbled?"

  "They were yelling too loud," Manning said laconically. "Wounded men don't have that much breath left."

  "Stupid asses. Must have heard our ugly music down the hall. Figured if they hid maybe it would all go away." Encizo turned one of the terrorists over with his foot.

  "Kids," he grunted, making a wry face. "Neither of 'em a day over twenty." He sighed heavily. "For mother and country. What a bag of smoke that is."

  They did a quick, thorough recon on the rest of the room, assessing damage. The destruction was a carbon copy of room one. Grenades for openers, rifle fire for finale. The four technicians had bought a little of both. Two were slumped over their terminals, faces in a puddle of blood, the others were shapeless rag bundles on the floor. The computer banks were a total loss.

  Again the two commandos were appalled, turned thoughtful by the tragic waste the chaotic scene represented. Death, no matter how many times a man stumbles upon it, is never something one becomes hardened to. It never gets any prettier.

  As quickly they shrugged off the introspections. A standing target is a dead target. A few bitter scores had already been settled. But there were more—lots more. Seconds later they broke from the temporary morgue, racing headlong down the corridor, in the direction of fresh firefight.

  OUTSIDE, IN THE BONE-PULVERIZING COLD, Devane and her two accomplices continued prowling the immediate perimeter. The rumble of gunfire, the muffled thump of grenades carried from inside. But, assuming it was Toolan and company at play, they did n
ot give it second thought. They grinned smugly to themselves, counted the minutes.

  Even farther out, patrolling the outer reaches of pumping station one, an M113 APC lumbered past at fifteen miles per hour. They waved at the INLA hardmen, mistook them for their own guard detail and swept on.

  At that distance the GIs certainly could not hear the bloody war raging inside the building. There was little reason to suspect anything had gone haywire. Their buddies, huddled in the station's doorways, would certainly clue them. The CP—where the rest of the Army detachment now peacefully snored away the long winter's night—would be on the horn.

  Thus they rumbled on, totally oblivious. There was a sixteen-mile perimeter to patrol. They would not be by again for almost an hour. By that time the Irish terrorists would be long gone.

  13

  Sean Toolan raged as he cowered closer to one of the oil-flow lines, the steel warm, where preheated crude was being pressured into the main pipe. Where in hell had those bastards come from? One minute things had been going smooth, the next—unraveled. Things had come badly unraveled.

  Terror crowded the Grey Dog headman's throat, touched chilled steel to his heart. It was not going to be a walk-in after all. Looking off to his right, where Derwin McSherry lay in crumpled disarray, his chest scrambled by two M-16 tumblers, his life's blood pumping out of him, Toolan was further demoralized.

  He and four others had just entered the pumping rooms, had wiped out the three workmen on the graveyard shift and were dividing the plastic explosives among themselves when the two warriors in white had barged through a door at the farthest end, assault rifles blazing. Instantly, grabbing up the plastique and their weapons, they had ducked back into the maze of pipes, elbows, tanks and pressure turbines, thinking to pick off the bloody fools at leisure.

  So much for complacency. It was a fool's toy. Because the intruders were pesky gnats that gave them no minute's rest. They had exchanged fire all right. And here was poor Derwin to show for it. The devil's own fighters, they were.

  His panic grew, stealing his breath. His anger mounted. After all their work, after all their fine plans....

  "THIS BABY WON'T GO," McCarter hooted, grinning across at Ohara where he was crouched behind a heavy steel pump housing, "we'll see to that, won't we?"

  Keio smiled back, sense of camaraderie very strong at that moment. "Looks like the cavalry arrived just in time."

  "How many? Did you get a count?"

  "Four or five at the most. I thought I saw someone in an officer's uniform. A hostage, do you think?"

  "Wouldn't put it past the yellow bellies. Got a fix on any of them? Since that first lucky shot, I mean."

  "Lucky shot, hell," Keio sparred. "No, they're laying low. Very low. Looks like they're bunching up on the left though."

  It was then that a fleeting blur crossed an entrance way behind them. "Yakov," McCarter alerted. "Cover."

  Both sent a fire screen toward the rear of the complex, counting on ricochets to make the terror goons kiss dirt. As Katz charged forward and deftly mounted the concrete platform upon which McCarter was deployed, he was given swift fill-in. "Grenades?" he asked.

  "Questionable," McCarter replied. "They've got one of the Army officers captive. Unless you figure he's expendable."

  Katz pursed his lips, lapsed into thought. While he did not want to expose his team to unnecessary risk, he still wanted to protect the officer if possible. Just the same, expediency was of the essence. There was no telling when Grey Dog reinforcements might converge on this key target.

  "Any chance of getting high?" Yakov suggested as Keio made a swift dash, settled in beside them. "That catwalk there."

  "We'd be sitting ducks," McCarter objected.

  "Not if one of us captures that observation area there." He pointed to a steel-plated control shed above. "We open up the minute our man moves. You volunteering, Keio?" he said, fixing the Oriental with a stern smile.

  "Affirmative, Yakov," the martial-arts expert whipped back.

  "Damned risky," McCarter scowled. "Let me go."

  But Ohara was already up, loping for the steel stairs, his long body launched with catlike swiftness. "Flush them out if you can." The additional order caught him as he braced for the final rush. "We'll do our part from this end."

  Then the Japanese thunderbolt was streaking up the stairs, taking three risers at a time. Yakov flung himself to the left, deliberately coaxing fire. The heavy rumble of the dozen pumps served to camouflage the sound of his initial rush.

  The pucky Mossad vet executed tricky grace steps at each aisle, slamming rounds down the line. For his part, McCarter squirmed around his fortress, pouring more distracting slugs into the stronghold.

  Even so, the Irish were quickly alerted to a sudden eye-in-the-sky, and directed frantic bursts at the elusive Japanese giant. Keio virtually toe-danced through the fusillade, running flat-out, his M-16 held high. Torn between taking him down and protecting their own skins, the hardmen had no time for a second try. By then Keio was safely inside the steel cage, the half-door slammed behind him. He collapsed to the floor, used the time to reload.

  Miraculously no one was hit in the manic exchange. The terrorists slammed fresh magazines home and awaited further developments. Totally unglued, unnerved by the bravado of their attackers, they doubted that they were equal to the challenge thrown down.

  A line of twenty huge steel elbows, partial feeder lines from the separate oil producers, stretched along the far end of the pumping room. Each eight-foot-high elbow provided excellent cover for the hardmen. Sean Toolan had finally opted to clear out, leave his comrades to fend for themselves. There was a door there. If he could just break out of this stupid trap, reach Coletta. With her men they could make a fresh stand—with infinitely better odds.

  At that moment Keio popped from his airborne tollbooth, peppered four rounds of 5.56mm slugs in Toolan's direction, drove him back, definite second thoughts suddenly born. In his rage Toolan touched off a burst of his own. But by that time Keio had dropped from sight.

  As the firefight continued, a voice howled from the easternmost corner of the room, the words echoing clearly. "Don't let them kill me. I'm an American officer. They're holding me prisoner. Help me, someone, please."

  "You dirty, traitorous swine," an Irish voice thundered. "I'll...." The threat immediately died as David McCarter, coming from behind a series of pressure valves, surprised the INLA hard-guy, putting three rounds into his back. Then he had the officer in hand and was viciously dragging him out of danger.

  "Oh, Jesus Christ." Captain Murray, eternally quick on his feet, pantomimed vast relief. "I can never repay you." Yakov moved up to join them. "That was a close one, guys," he continued in flatland midwestern accent, immediately convincing them that he was authentic Government Issue. "I sure thought I was a goner. God, I can't thank you enough."

  "Just hang back," Yakov cut him short, more important business at hand. "Keep out of the line of fire if you can. Leave the rest to us."

  It was as both Katz and McCarter wheeled, started back to the wars, that a sly, crazed light erupted in Captain Dan Murray's eyes. Taking a desperate, last-ditch chance. . .

  Swiftly the Colt .45 snicked out from its side holster, the safety already off. Murray assumed the Army's two-hand stance, took careful aim—a quick one-two intended—and steadied himself for the cheap-shots of the century.

  But he waited a moment too long. Suddenly, from above, came the angry stutter of an M-16. At least four rounds caught Murray in the chest and throat, while the last four all but removed the top of his skull. Brain vomit and blood exploded in a three-foot spray on both sides of the double-dealer.

  "What the hell . . ." Yakov gasped, whirling just in time to see Murray go down, sliding two feet on the gangway before he came to a rest. As he saw the automatic still hanging from Murray's fingers, he understood Keio's swift, instinctive action. Suddenly his legs felt very wobbly.

  Cautiously Keio's grinning fa
ce emerged from behind the steel screen. He sent his chief a fleeting high sign.

  Katz's tight, crumpled smile, the terse nod of his head were worth all the effusive "thank-yous" in the world to the proud Japanese warrior.

  The self-congratulatory mood was quickly shattered. Sean Toolan, the last living terrorist in the room, made his final, bold move. Rising from his lair among the flow-line pipes, he sent a burst of flesh-seekers at Keio Ohara, an errant wisp of an escape plan forming in his mind.

  Anything was worth the risk now to the Grey Dog topcock—anything that would put distance between him and these relentless gunmen. Totally demoralized, fully aware that he was alone, at their mercy, he would grasp at any straw. They would tear him limb from limb if they got their hands on him.

  But first, he adjured himself, get that miserable bastard up in the control shack. He had to die; otherwise his plan was doomed to failure. Again he hammered an eight-round line up at him. His heart soared as he saw the target drop back into his hole. There, he rejoiced, that had got him.

  How close Keio came to death at that moment was very evident. That brief eye-lock with his leader had almost cost him his life.

  Crouching behind the heavy steel, the lead hammering in deafening flow, stray ricochet rounds screaming past his ears, he realized that he had to act. To sit and wait for a stray slug to find him was ridiculous. In a crazed outflow of rage, he tensed, readied his M-16, prepared to answer the maddening fire.

  He had barely raised an inch when McCarter roared, "Down, Keio. You want your head blown off?"

  Simultaneously McCarter and Katz worked their way around their pipeline fortifications; they opened fire on the place where Toolan had just been.

  Just as the INLA leader had hoped. Using the distraction to good advantage, he dropped to his belly, crawled back toward the enemy, swiftly losing himself in a greasy tangle of pipes and valves that effectively concealed his change in route. He had noticed another catwalk, perched even higher up than that held by the gunner. He knew he had to get there.