Phoenix Force 07 - Dragon's Kill Read online

  "If terrorists kidnapped Barsa," Rafael remarked, "that means they managed to break him and forced him to talk in less than twenty-four hours."

  "That's why the president considers this matter so critical," Brognola stated. "Both Kenshaw and Barsa had been trained to resist interrogation tactics. They had received advance instruction in such methods as hypnotic suggestion, psychological stress and physical torture."

  "I was a prisoner in Castro's El Principe," Rafael declared, referring to Cuba's infamous political prison. "Believe me, any man—no matter how tough or well trained he might be—can be broken."

  "That's right," the Fed agreed. "If the interrogators have enough time. But everything suggests that Barsa or Kenshaw couldn't have been broken under torture—not in less than twenty-four hours."

  "No man can be certain of that until he's endured such torment himself," the Cuban insisted.

  "What about drugs?" Yakov inquired. "Scopolamine?"

  "Barsa and Kenshaw both underwent extensive hypnosis to counteract scopolamine and other truth serums," Brognola answered. "When the needle is inserted, it serves as a key to trigger a posthypnotic state. The subject then relays false information previously fed into his subconscious."

  "What about the GB/Sarin compound?" Manning asked. "The Red Anvil terrorists used it effectively enough on American military personnel when they tried to steal those Dessler Laser rifles for Libya. GB/Sarin turned GIs into robots who were unable to disobey any command. The Red Anvil bastards even ordered soldiers to shoot each other—and they did it!"

  "None of us are bloody likely to forget that one," McCarter muttered.

  "Fortunately," Brognola began, "because you were able to give us a vial of GB/Sarin, our scientists have been able to analyze the drug. Not only did they find a way to duplicate the compound, they also perfected an antiserum that can be taken as an immunization shot. The super drug might have worked on Kenshaw, but Barsa had been vaccinated against the effects of GB/Sarin."

  "Jesus," McCarter said as he rose from his chair. "If the bastards didn't use threats, torture or drugs—how the hell did they get their victims to talk?"

  And Rafael added, "Who are they? Is a terrorist outfit involved or is this a Soviet plot?"

  "Perhaps both," Yakov commented. "The KGB was behind that business with the Japanese terrorists, Tigers of Justice, and they've been supplying training and arms and influencing the Japanese Red Army from day one."

  "According to my sources," Manning began, "the JRA ranks have been whittled down to less than a hundred members scattered all over the world. They're supposed to be in the Middle East, Africa, South America—just about everywhere except Japan."

  "The Japanese authorities certainly made things hot for the JRA," Rafael added. "And the terrorists never got very far looking for support from the public. That's why they ran off to join forces with other terrorist outfits with similar warped goals."

  "Don't dismiss the JRA," McCarter warned as he paced the office floor. The Briton was always a bundle of nervous energy, unable to sit still for long. "They might be scattered all over the bloody map, but that doesn't mean they can't make a nasty comeback. Everybody thought the Baader-Meinhof gang and the Weatherman were defunct until they both started raising hell again in 1981."

  "No one doubts that the JRA is still around," Manning assured him. "The question is: who among their ranks could mastermind such an operation? Takashi and Shigenobu are dead, and Okamoto Kozo is in an Israeli prison."

  "There's still at least one potential leader left from the old guard," Yakov declared. "Tanaga Zeko."

  "Tanaga?" McCarter blinked with surprise.

  "Wasn't he identified as the advance man for the Lod Airport massacre in Israel?"

  Brognola smiled, but Yakov nodded. "Twenty-six people were killed and seventy-two wounded. Tanaga helped set up that bloodbath. He still has to answer for that."

  "You'll have to dig him up first," McCarter commented. "Tanaga was reportedly killed by a land mine in a terrorist training camp in South Yemen."

  "The hell he was," Yakov replied gruffly. "Last year Mossad confirmed that was a cover story. Tanaga isn't dead."

  "Yes, he is, Yakov." Brognola finally spoke up.

  "That was recently confirmed by Colonel Phoenix himself."

  "Oh?" Yakov smiled. "My compliments to the colonel."

  "Well, amigos," Rafael sighed, "we aren't going to take care of anything by sitting around talking about it."

  "Bloody right," McCarter agreed eagerly. "Let's get our arses to Japan and find the bastards so we can rehabilitate them by blowing their heads off."

  "Yeah," Manning said. "Keio can join the party when we get there."

  Manning referred to Phoenix Force's absent member, Keio Ohara. Rather than order the young Japanese to fly from Tokyo to attend a briefing on a mission to Japan, Brognola had already contacted Keio and told him to await the arrival of his partners.

  "Has Kompei been contacted about this matter?" Yakov asked, referring to the Japanese version of the CIA.

  "Officially the Japanese don't know a damn thing about Phoenix Force," the Fed answered. "Unofficially, you'll be briefed by Colonel Ikeda Ken, a security officer for Kompei, when you arrive."

  "Ikeda?" Manning frowned. "I thought it was Nakada who was in charge of Japanese internal security."

  "He . . . recently retired," Brognola explained. "Colonel Phoenix confirmed that, too, eh?" Rafael laughed.

  Brognola shrugged. He seldom relayed any more confidential material to personnel than was required. Of course, Phoenix Force was composed of top notch pros who worked best when they were told everything up front. The Force really had only one superior—Colonel John Phoenix.

  The Fed knew that although McCarter, Encizo, Manning, Ohara and Katzenelenbogen were not born in the United States—Rafael being the only naturalized U.S. citizen of the lot—they were all-American in spirit. Five warriors who loved freedom, hated injustice and would charge into Hell to fight for what they believed.

  "What about weaponry?" McCarter inquired. "Japan has even more idiot restrictions on firearms than England."

  "May I make a suggestion?" Manning said. "One of my company's associate organizations, North America International, has a branch office in Tokyo. We can disassemble some weapons and put the parts in with machine equipment inside a couple of crates."

  "It'll pass through X-rays," Rafael agreed. "But North America International doesn't ship machinery."

  "You know that and I know that," the Canadian said, grinning. "But do the Japanese customs people know it?"

  "We'll probably be restricted to close-quarters weapons," Yakov mused. "But at least we can transport our personal side arms that way—as well as a machine pistol or two."

  "Yeah," Rafael nodded. "And I'm sure Keio has some goodies tucked away we can borrow while we're in town."

  "We can probably get everything ready in about four hours," McCarter commented, glancing at the black face of his Le Gran wristwatch.

  "Okay," Brognola said, "but I don't have to warn any of you about the craziness of Japanese terrorists. The Red Army has never been known to kill a hostage. And, if cornered, they'll resort to suicide tactics that would scare the hell out of a kamikaze pilot. You guys already encountered that sort of conduct when you went up against the Tigers of Justice."

  "Those lunatics were modern-day ninja," Manning commented. "Not likely there are many more of their kind still around."

  "Don't bet on it," Brognola replied dryly, knowing Colonel Phoenix had recently returned from an incredible adventure in Japan. Bolan had encountered a plot that involved a clan of Japanese Yakuza gangsters and a number of ninja espionage agents, trained in the manner of their ancient forerunners and specializing in assassination.

  "We never take our job lightly," Rafael assured him. "Except for McCarter here. When that happens, we just get him drunk and put him to bed so he doesn't get in our way."

  "At least I don't drink liqu
or with a worm at the bottom of the bottle," McCarter responded.

  "If you've nothing else for us," Yakov said to Brognola, "we'd best be on our way to Japan."

  The Fed nodded. The members of Phoenix Force were cut from the same Viking cloth as the Executioner himself. Bolan understood his fellow warriors. "Just tell them the problem," he had said, "then turn them loose."

  "You guys know as much about this business as I do," Brognola told them. "This is big. The national security of the United States, Japan and possibly the entire free world may well depend on the success or failure of your mission."

  Brognola did not add that what really worried him was that Phoenix Force might already be too late. . . .

  3

  The Boeing 747 was registered as property of North America International, which rented facilities at Dulles International Airport. Most of the plane's passengers were business people with the corporation or related associations that also had branches in Japan.

  The four members of Phoenix Force were the only passengers seated in the first-class section. Gary Manning had told the head stewardess that he and his colleagues had a considerable amount of confidential business to discuss, and he asked that they not be disturbed. Although assured of privacy, the four men still conversed quietly, aware that security can never be exaggerated during a mission.

  "We should have asked Brognola to get us a military jet," David McCarter commented. "I could fly the rig, and we'd be in Tokyo in five hours."

  "Yes," Yakov agreed. "But we'd have to land a fighter jet at a military base. Probably an American installation. The security leaks have all occurred among the U.S. Armed Forces, so we'd be taking too great a risk that way."

  "Yeah," Rafael sighed. "But at least we'd have been able to get our weapons on a Douglas EB-66 without having to lock them in crates and transport them in a cargo hold."

  "The only person who could get a weapon aboard is you, Yakov," McCarter added.

  "Everything," the Israeli said, smiling," has certain advantages—even an artificial arm."

  Katzenelenbogen wore a prosthetic device attached to the stump of his right arm. The "hand" was made of steel and insulated wires and cables, with four fingers and a thumb. Although it appeared quite life like when clad in a pearl gray glove, the contraption was not as practical or versatile as the three-prong hook Yakov favoured. However, the "hand" attracted less attention and made the middle-aged Israeli inconspicuous in a crowd.

  In addition to serving a cosmetic purpose, the artificial hand had another unique feature. The steel index finger was hollow; it was the barrel of a built-in pistol. A single-shot device, it fired a .22 Magnum cartridge, detonated by a 9-volt battery that could be activated by manipulation of muscles in the stump of Yakov's arm. There was a safety catch located at the "palm" to prevent firing the weapon by accident.

  "Not all of us have an excuse for carrying two and a half pounds of metal on an airplane," Rafael commented as he unbuttoned his shirt at the throat. "But there's more than one way to get a weapon through security."

  He reached inside his shirt and removed a leather thong from his neck. The cord had been strung through the eyelet of a small black object, shaped like a dirk.

  "What the hell is that?" Manning inquired. "It looks like a plastic knife."

  "It's an A.G. Russell 'CIA letter opener,'" Rafael explained. "And it's made of fiberglass and nylon, but tough as metal. It's designed similar to the A.G. Russell 'Sting' boot knife. See how thick the blade is? It isn't very sharp, but the construction reinforces the point and makes it ideal for thrust attacks at close quarters."

  "Impressive," McCarter said, smiling. "If we get attacked by any envelopes, you're ready for them."

  "What do you guys make of this mission?" Manning asked as he sipped black coffee and leafed through a Japanese phrase book.

  "My guess is that the terrorists are squeezing information out of their victims through torture," the Cuban responded. "It's crude, ruthless and effective. Terrorists favour such methods."

  "Drugs are faster," Katz stated.

  "But not as reliable," Encizo insisted. "Scopolamine can be beaten by post hypnosis, and it can't be given in excess because a large dose can be fatal. Besides, scopolamine isn't generally part of a terrorist's training. Even professional terrorists are more apt to use torture. I've been through it, my friends. I know about torture."

  "So do I," the Israeli reminded him. "And we both know it takes time in order to be reliable. If a torturer rushes and causes too much pain too quickly, he'll throw a victim into shock or kill him outright."

  "We'll learn how they did it when we find the bastards," McCarter said, shrugging his shoulders. "This mission is the same as always—search and destroy."

  "I just hope we don't have to search very long," Encizo added.

  "I'll drink to that," the Briton replied with a grin, and raised his can of Coca-Cola to salute the Cuban.

  "You'd drink to a rattlesnake's birthday," Encizo said, laughing.

  "Bloody right," McCarter admitted. "I've got nothing against reptiles regardless of race, creed or national origin. My only real prejudice is against goddamn terrorists of any sort."

  "And I can drink to that," the Cuban agreed. "Are you two really all that bloodthirsty?" Manning inquired.

  "Getting squeamish in your old age, Manning?" the Englishman chided.

  "I'm a professional," the Canadian told him. "I've got a job to do, and that will prevent international terrorism from tearing down civilization throughout the free world. Since terrorists will resort to any sort of tactics to accomplish their goals, we have to deal with them in just as ruthless a manner more often than not."

  "We're all in the same line of business, amigo," the Cuban remarked. "None of us feels any need to justify what we do. Frankly, I don't know why the hell you're trying to make excuses for something you know has to be done."

  "I don't enjoy killing people," Manning said. "Not even terrorists."

  "Jesus," McCarter snorted. "None of us enjoys it, but I'll admit it doesn't bother me much to kill terrorists. And I generally feel a certain satisfaction when I rid the world of some human parasites. I'd rather kill murderous fanatics than stuff my hands in my bloody pockets and stand by while those bastards try to wreck the world for whatever lunatic cause they're supposedly fighting for."

  "Gary," Katzenelenbogan began, "you've always known that we often have to kill terrorists to stop them. You've been doing this sort of thing too long to feel guilty about it. What's really bothering you?"

  "Maybe I'm afraid of becoming as callous about life and death as the people we're fighting," the Canadian answered. "My life has always consisted of work and responsibilities. When my wife divorced me, she claimed I was a workaholic. I couldn't argue with her, either."

  "So what if you are a workaholic?" the Cuban asked. "You always seemed sort of proud of it."

  "But she also said that my work meant more to me than people did," Manning continued. "Of course she was talking about my job with the demolitions company and the security agency. That was before Phoenix Force was formed. . ."

  "Screw your ex-wife," McCarter said bluntly. Manning glared at the Briton.

  "Gary," Katz said gently, "the fact that you can feel concern about your own humanity proves you're in no danger of losing it."

  Manning nodded. It was both a reply and a silent thanks to the Israeli.

  "Well I'm in danger of losing my bloody lunch," McCarter complained in mock anger. "Whoever is flying this plane must have been a donkey jockey. We'll have bruises on our backsides before we get to Japan."

  "That's what I like about you, McCarter," Encizo remarked. "You always take hardships in stride."

  KEIO OHARA steered his Toyota sports wagon into the main parking lot of Tokyo International Airport. He showed his security pass to a guard who studied the photo on the card and compared it with the face that peered at him from the car window. Keio was a young man, not yet thirty, with jet bl
ack hair, a handsome sleek face and dark almond-shaped eyes.

  Although he was of pure Japanese descent, Keio was sometimes mistaken for a Eurasian because of his straight nose and his height. Even while he was seated behind the wheel of his Toyota, his height was obvious to the guard. The security cop also noted Keio's immaculate attire—a conservative black suit with a pale blue shirt and a maroon tie.

  "Domo, Ohara-san," said the guard, thanking Keio for his cooperation and bowing as he returned the pass.

  "Do itashi-mah'teh," Keio replied.

  He drove the sports wagon around a massive hangar and located the runway where Flight 912 from Washington, D.C., had just landed. Keio noticed a black limousine had already arrived, set to meet Phoenix Force and transport them to Kompei Headquarters. For additional security and to save time, the car was supposed to pick them up at the runway, allowing the visitors to avoid customs inside the airport terminal.

  Odd, Keio thought. He had spoken with Ikeda Ken and the chief of Kompei Special Internal Affairs had agreed to cancel the limo so Ohara could meet his friends at the airport instead.

  Keio pulled up to the side of the hangar and parked his Toyota. Instinct warned him something might be wrong, yet he did not want to act in a rash manner in case his sixth sense had its wiring crossed.

  Passengers began to deplane. Yakov, McCarter, Rafael and Manning were the first to walk down the ramp. Keio's apprehension increased as he watched the four men head toward the limousine. If something was wrong, Keio would have to act soon. . . .

  Then he saw the doors of the limo open and three men dressed in black suits emerge. Each had a raincoat draped over his forearm. Two more men were still inside the car. Four other figures, dressed in blue airport-maintenance coveralls, also approached from a cargo truck. Two carried canvas bags large enough to conceal machine pistols.

  "Oh, hell," David McCarter muttered under his breath when he saw the three hard-faced Japanese at the limo. The trio aimed their raincoat-clad arms at Phoenix Force. The muzzles of silenced weapons jutted from under the cloth.

  "Double hell, amigo," Rafael added as he glanced over his shoulder at the four "maintenance men" who had opened their bags and were reaching inside for weapons.