Dick Stivers - Deathbites

"The training center is one floor down," Babette yelled as she moved out the door.

Three short bursts finished the terrorists.

The third floor was in better order. The terrorists, organized by their instructors, were just setting off to help search the building. It had taken a while to convince them that destroying all they found was basically sound policy, but now they were psyched up and ready. Their first two identifiable enemies stepped through the door from the stairs and stood back to back in the busy hall.

It was a sight to make anyone pause: a senior executive, complete with cigar and three-piece gray suit, standing spread legged and firm, glowering over a vicious-looking machine pistol; standing straight behind him, a blonde wearing slacks, shirt and bandolier, looking equally efficient with her gun.

"Who are you?" someone asked.

"Justice,'' Brognola growled.

The two Ingrams then explained his remark. Bodies were swept toward the far ends of the hall. The one or two terrorists who did manage to shoot succeeded only in cutting up the terrorists who were packed against them. There were four seconds of thunder and destruction. Then the sound of empty clips hitting the floor and new clips being slammed home could be heard in the hall.

Brognola then led the way to a door marked: Harassment Initiation Team — Members Only.

He threw open the door and found terrorists, each wearing a white gi and white belt. They were obviously scared, raw recruits, all unarmed.

"Let's let them go," he said. He and Babette headed down the stairs.

They threw their Ingrams into the back seat of the car that Brognola had left waiting. Then they climbed in and sped away from the sound of approaching sirens.

"Want to come to Atlanta and share the reports on the rest of the operation?" the Fed asked.

"Damn right," snapped the reply.

July 14, 940 hours, Seattle, Washington

Yakov Katzenelenbogen let the telephone ring twice before cutting into the line. It was about time, he thought — he had been wrapped around the telephone junction box for two hours. He had been starting to think that the terrorists were too depraved to notice that their toilets did not work.

"Yes," Katz answered into the lineman's mouthpiece.

"Comfort Plumbing?'' a gruff man's voice asked.

"Yes, sir. What can I do for you."

"All our damn drains are backing up. We got no toilets working. How soon can you do something about it?"

"Where are you, sir?"

The goon gave him the address. "Okay," Katz said, "I was just leaving to do an installation almost next door. I'll be there real soon."

"That's terrific."

Katz hung up.

He quickly unhooked his telephone-line patch and threw it into the large canvas tool bag he had. He tossed the bag into a rented van and sat down to wait. He was in sight of the building where the Seattle Harassment Initiation Team was getting its briefing. He had visited the building during the night. He had flitted throughout the terrorist lair, learning the layout and flushing crepe-de-chine bags of flax seed down all the toilets. The expanding flax would have clogged every drain in the place by now. Katz chuckled as he started the van.

Bert Bannon waited impatiently at the door of the old industrial building. The briefing on today's raid had already begun and he had wanted to hear it. Instead, he had to keep an eye on the plumber. He sighed.

He was watching as a van stopped right at the door. An old man got out. Then Bert noticed the steel hook where the right hand should be. The guy swung a canvas bag of tools onto his shoulder. The bag looked like a relic from the Civil War. The bag was packed, yet he seemed to handle it easily enough.

"You from Comfort?" Bert asked as the old man came in the door.

"Yes. Where are the drains that are giving you trouble?"

"Every damn toilet in the place is plugged. We're going ape."

"Then let's start at the top floor and work down."

"Ahh... There's a meeting going on up there. Why not start on the second floor?"

"And if we free the toilets on the second floor and then get a back-up when we unclog the top floor, who cleans up the mess?" the old man asked.

Bert did not like it. If the old geezer overheard too much, Bert would have to kill him. Still, that would be easier than cleaning up the second floor.

"Come on. I'll stay with you," Bert told the plumber.

Most of the top floor was open area. In one corner were the washrooms and in another was an office area. The partitions were old, sturdily built with two-by-four studs and board walls, carefully finished and stained dark. The many hanging fluorescent fixtures did little to dispel the gloom of the place.

A flip chart had been set up near one wall and about forty men sat on stacking chairs listening to a briefing.

"Commander Jishin has been on the telephone to me again this morning," the man at the front was saying. "We all begin our strikes at eleven hundred hours, local time. So be sure you have this straight. We won't be going over it again."

Bert impatiently tugged the old man toward the washrooms. "Come on, this way."

The plumber went into the men's bathroom. Bert followed. He looked away in disgust. Several of the men had used the toilets and tried to flush them. The floor was wet.

"That's your trouble," the plumber said. His voice was suddenly authoritative.

"Huh?"

"Too much shit around here," the old man said.

Suddenly the hook was a blur. The hard metal cracked into the temple. Bert Bannon slumped forward, his knees buckled and he collapsed. His last breaths were taken with his head immersed in an overflowing toilet.

Katz calmly went about his business. First he removed the sections of a tripod from his tool bag. When he had assembled the tripod, he carried it outside the washroom and placed it in a clear area about ten feet from the door.

The commander delivering the briefing was telling his troops, "We want lots of blood and lots of misery. You don't make headlines by being neat and clean."

Katz returned to the can. In a moment he came out lugging a pair of motorcycle batteries and leads.

There were a few whispers when some sort of Gatling gun was carried out and set on the tripod. An ammo belt was dragged after it, the first bullet already locked in the breech. Katz quickly connected the leads from the batteries to the electric motor on the gun that was designed primarily for helicopter use. The belt held standard 7.62 by 51mm NATO ammunition. The gun was capable of chewing up ten of those rounds each second and spitting them through one of the six rotating barrels at 2850 feet per second.

By the time the Phoenix Force leader grabbed the twin handles and began to swing the machine gun, the terrorists were beginning to suspect that all was not well. Mutters rose, attracting the attention of the speaker. He had time to glance in the direction of the distraction before the GE Minigun began delivering death. An entire row of heads received 150-grain goodbyes.

Some of the terrorists dived onto the floor while they fumbled for handguns. They were swept up with bullets. Others tried to outrun death, but failed. A few made it to the office. They could have saved the effort. The machine-gun fire did not seem to realize there was anything there. It swept through the two-by-four and wood partitions, leveling terrorists.

A minute and a half later, when the last round had quieted the last groan, Katz was the only one moving. He carried the canvas tool bag to the Minigun and quickly disassembled it and put it back in the bag. Then, easily throwing the eighty-five pounds of gear on his shoulder, he produced an Uzi and headed for the stairs.