by Gar Wilson
The Cuban gave his opponent no time to recover. He lashed a boot into the Haitian's solar plexus. The Ton Ton terrorist doubled up in agony. Encizo quickly swung his left fist to the side of the man's head.
The Haitian fell. Encizo immediately pounced on him. Holding the broken piece of cane in both fists, the Cuban raised it overhead. He swung his powerful arms to drive the splintered tip into the terrorist's chest. The results could have been a scene from a vampire movie.
A soul-chilling primal howl burst from the Haitian as his body convulsed wildly. Clawed fingers raked the ground. Blood from his punctured heart splattered Encizo. At last his body relaxed and accepted death.
The Haitian's scream alerted several Black Alchemist hoodlums behind the other tractor trailer. Three of them cautiously moved forward, guided by their comrade's death cry. Not one noticed Colonel Yakov Katzenelenbogen at the corner of the barn.
"Bonjour, salaud," Katz called softly. Good day, filth.
The trio turned abruptly to discover the muzzle of an Uzi submachine gun pointed at them. Katz triggered his weapon. A volley of 9mm rounds found the human targets. Bodies twitched and jerked. Bloodied corpses tumbled like mannequins. Katz quickly scrambled to Encizo and Ohara.
"The fat man said he was going to destroy their files," the Israeli reminded his partner. "They must be in the house. I'll hold this position. You stop the fat one before he burns the records."
"Hang tough, Katz." Encizo unslung an H&K MP5 machine-pistol from his shoulder.
Ohara nodded. He slid his sword into its scabbard in his belt and readied a .45 caliber M-10 Ingram.
* * *
Manta was better prepared for the invasion than Tigershark had been. The Haitian's troops might lose their battle with the attackers, but the American CIA would learn nothing from the Cancer Ward files.
Manta opened all the filing cabinets in his office and placed the drawers on the desk. Then he set a crude incinerator in the center of the room. The device was as simple as it would be effective. Attached to a gallon jug containing a solution of gasoline, motor oil and laundry soap was a highway flare with a number-six blasting cap inserted into it. A three-minute egg timer served as detonator.
Manta had no intention of dying in a blaze of glory for the Black Alchemists. Unlike most of the Ton Ton Macout, he had never deluded himself about his former role with the Haitian secret police. The Ton Ton received no financial recompense from the government of Haiti. They allegedly served their country for patriotic reasons.
Manta knew better. The Ton Ton Macout were permitted to steal, rape and murder among the peasant class. They could take what they wanted. Who needs a salary under such circumstances?
A cynical atheist, Manta considered every religion to be utter nonsense. Though he paid lip service to the voodoo gods, he did not believe in them or Maurice Cercueil's fabled powers as a bocor. Manta did not believe in an afterlife, only in survival.
He planned to set the timer to the explosive only when he could secure an escape route. The terrorist commander gathered up his M-76 subgun and crept to a window. There was no fighting in progress at the west side of the farmhouse.
Manta hurriedly set the timer and returned to the window. He checked the area again to be sure it was still safe. He smiled. He had found his escape route. The Haitian unlatched the bolt and slid the window open.
The obese terrorist had difficulty squeezing through the narrow opening. Reluctantly he left the M-76 propped against the inside wall in order to accomplish this feat. He was bathed in sweat and breathing hard by the time he crawled outside. He reached across the windowsill to retrieve his submachine gun.
"Freeze, EI Gordo," Rafael Encizo's voice ordered from outside. "You'd be a hard target to miss."
Manta stiffened. He held the S&W blaster in his fists and thumbed off the safety. The Haitian remained draped over the windowsill, his upper torso — and the machine gun — hidden from view.
"I'm stuck," Manta lied, playing the only card he had left.
"Bullshit," the Cuban told him. "Slide out slowly and place your hands on the wall."
"I can't get my belly through," Manta said in a strained voice.
He knew many people think fat men are clumsy, stupid and inept. If he could convince Encizo that he was just an overweight oaf, the Cuban might underestimate him. With a submachine gun in his hands, Manta would have little trouble turning the tables were the Cuban to make a mistake.
"I don't have time for this game," Encizo warned.
He lowered the aim of his MP5 and squeezed off a 3-round burst. Nine-millimeter slugs ripped into Manta's lower legs. Bullets sizzled through both calf muscles. The terrorist bellowed in agony and tumbled backward through the window, the S&W subgun still clenched in his fists.
Panicked by pain and fear, Manta swung the M-76 at Encizo. The Cuban would have preferred to take Manta alive, but he had no choice now. He blasted three rounds into the Haitian's flabby stomach and chest. The fat man thrashed about like a beached whale and then lay motionless as death glazed his eyes.
Encizo saw the incinerating device through the window, and dived through the opening. A forward roll carried him to the improvised bomb. The egg-timer dial clicked toward the red arrow that would detonate the contraption.
Although Encizo was not as familiar with explosives as Gary Manning, he had a good working knowledge of demolitions. Fortunately the device was not complicated. The Cuban deactivated it simply by cutting the wires connecting the egg-timer to the flare.
The roar of an explosion beyond the house startled him. He scrambled to a window and looked out. Billows of smoke and assorted debris, including parts of human bodies, spewed from the windows of the barn. Phoenix Force had trapped several terrorists inside and terminated their careers with hand grenades.
"Rafael," Keio Ohara called gently as he entered the room. "I see you also found an entrance to this house."
At that moment the egg timer began to buzz.
"Better than that," the Cuban said. "I found it just in time."
17
Two terrorists ran for the silo, hoping the Phoenix Force assault team would not attack due to the chemicals stored there. They never reached their goal. Calvin James cut them down with a volley of M-16 slugs.
Four Black Alchemist gunmen who had retreated to the upstairs of the house fired at the Phoenix Force commandos outside. Expecting this tactic, Gary Manning had been watching the windows carefully. As soon as the first sniper appeared, he shot him in the face.
Encizo and Ohara ascended the stairs to the second story. They located the remaining snipers and opened fire. Three more terrorists were quickly reduced to inert masses of pulverized crimson-stained flesh.
The entire battle lasted less than seven minutes. Eighteen terrorists had been killed. None were taken prisoner. None escaped. Phoenix Force had been fortunate. They had suffered no casualties or wounds of any kind.
"My God," Calvin James remarked as he joined the others in Manta's office. "We did it again. In Nam I saw some ass kickers, but you guys are really something else."
"What do you mean by 'you guys'?" McCarter said with a grin. "You've been doing your share and doing it bloody well. Sure you were never in the SAS?"
"David's right for a change," Encizo added. "Brognola couldn't have made a better choice for this mission than Calvin."
"Yeah, Katz," Manning began. "Maybe we can talk Hal into letting Calvin stay with the team after this is over."
James resisted the urge to watch the Israeli react. He did not want to risk betraying his own enthusiasm or possibly see disapproval in Katz's expression.
Calvin James had not felt such camaraderie since he was a Seal in Vietnam. He had never really fit in anywhere else. Too levelheaded to endorse the militant honkey haters, he regarded them as just another breed of racist, no better than their white counterparts. Most were just noisy troublemakers who would rather blame everything on whitey than accept responsibility for their own
lives.
Yet James was equally contemptuous of blacks who feel apologetic for the color of their skin. Dark pigmentation does not make a man less intelligent, less capable or less human than anyone else. James had no intention of groveling before anyone.
Most of the white community was a pain in the ass. Red-necks judged a man's worth by the shade of his skin. Liberals seemed to feel moaning with guilt over slavery somehow made present conditions better. Both only served to annoy Calvin James.
Extremists, black as well as white, seemed to warn James to fall into some sort of stereotype. The hell with all of them. He did not want to be an Uncle Tom or H. Rap Brown. He did not want to shine shoes for a living and he especially did not want to be hired for a job because Affirmative Action said an employer needed a token black.
Phoenix Force was different. They did not question his ability or treat him as if he had an IQ equivalent to his shoe size. None of the five seasoned combat veterans were concerned about social conscience or petty prejudices or ethnic bullshit of any kind.
The men of Phoenix Force were the best, the very best. And they treated Calvin James as an equal. They respected his ability and intelligence. They praised his courage and combat savvy. James could not imagine a greater honor than to be part of this unique fighting unit.
"We'll see about that after the mission," Katz replied to Manning's suggestion about making Calvin James a permanent member of Phoenix Force.
"Les Quartier de Cancer," a voice called from a large ham radio set behind the desk that had formerly belonged to Manta. "Répondez, s'il vous plaît."
"That could be the Black Alchemist high command," Manning declared as he headed for the radio.
"Wait a minute, Gary," Katz urged. "If that's a Haitian on the line, you'd better not answer. Your Quebec French won't pass for Creole very long."
"Neither will our European French," McCarter replied.
"That leaves you, Cal," the Israeli announced.
"I only know a little patois lingo," James confessed. "Hell, I won't be able to fool that guy for long."
"Try," Keio Ohara urged. "Keep him on the radio as long as possible."
"What good will that do?"
"I'll explain later," the Japanese said, surprising everyone with his uncharacteristic gruffness. "Just do it."
"Les Quartier de Cancer?" the voice from the radio repeated.
Calvin James hurried to the ham unit and grabbed the microphone.
"This is Cancer Ward," he said in French, trying to imitate a Haitian accent. "Identify yourself, s'il vous plaît."
"Identify myself?" The voice sounded stunned. "Are you insane?"
"Just joking, patron," James replied lamely. "Papaloi always says we should not lose our sense of humor, oui?"
"Quietes-vous?" the voice demanded.
"Qui suis-je?" James answered. "I am Henri Assaisonnement. You know me. Everybody in Ton Ton Macout knows Henri Assaison..."
"Imbecile!" the voice snapped. "Don't use your real name on the radio and don't mention the Ton Ton Macout!"
"Why not? You just did."
"Merde alors," the Haitian groaned. "Where is Manta?"
"Manta?" James thought fast. "Oh, he's in the bathroom. Drank some sousou when he had a ritual to the loas of Petro last night. That blood must have come from a sick pig because Manta has had diarrhea..."
The Haitian terminated transmission, evidently not interested in Manta's bowel habits.
"Did I stall him long enough?" James asked as he hung up the mike.
"We'll know after we hear from the Federal Communication Commission," Keio Ohara replied.
"How's the FCC going to help us?"
"The FCC monitors radio broadcasts," the Japanese electronics expert explained. "They are particularly concerned with ham and citizens-band-radio broadcasts that use a power output greater than one-thousand watts."
"If that was the Black Alchemists' high command," Katz mused, "they're probably using a very powerful transmitter — assuming they're located some distance from here."
"I see why you wanted Cal to stall them," Encizo said to Ohara. "The longer the transmission, the better the odds the FCC could trace it."
"I'm certain they've already taken an interest in previous transmissions," Ohara replied. "It is illegal to transmit from one country to another without a special license."
"But the Black Alchemists are probably transmitting from a base somewhere in the United States," Manning interjected.
"True. But they have obviously been broadcasting in Haitian Creole, yes? Any ham-radio broadcast in any language other than English will certainly be suspected of this violation and thus merit an FCC investigation."
"Then let's contact Brognola and have him check into this," Katz declared. "If everything holds true, we might be able to find the terrorists' headquarters within the next eight hours."
18
"The FBI and local police will be rounding up terrorists from Ohio to Iowa," Hal Brognola declared happily. "Those files from the Cancer Ward base will put the Black Alchemists' entire Midwest operation out of business."
"But it isn't over yet, Hal," Colonel Katzenelenbogen replied as he sat at the conference table in the Stony Man War Room. "We've cut off some tentacles, but we still have to find the head of the giant squid to destroy it."
Phoenix Force had headed straight for Stony Man headquarters after the Cancer Ward strike was finished. The team gave Brognola the files from the terrorist base and a detailed report about the raid. The Fed was delighted by Phoenix Force's progress and excited by the possibility of locating the main headquarters of the Black Alchemists.
For the men of Phoenix Force, the trip to Stony Man allowed an opportunity to rest. In less than forty-eight hours they had been in three firefights and had crushed two terrorist bases. During that time they had been driven by sheer willpower. There had barely been enough time to grab a quick sandwich or a short nap.
As the Stony Man computer complex analyzed the data from Cancer Ward, Brognola contacted the FCC. Phoenix Force retired to guest quarters and gratefully stretched out on bunks to get as much sleep as possible before returning to the war against terrorism.
Katz had been the first to wake. The Israeli never failed to impress Brognola. Yakov seemed to function as well after a two-hour nap as most men who have slept all night. He seemed to have developed a built-in alarm clock. Brognola could almost set his watch by the guy.
"Keio's theory about that broadcast in Creole was right on the money," Brognola told Katz. "The FCC has been monitoring the transmissions for the last two months. Tell Keio he wins a cigar."
"He doesn't smoke," Katz replied dryly.
"I'll smoke one for him," the Fed shrugged. He consulted a printout sheet. "The broadcasts have been sent by a privately owned radio station in the Rocky Mountains. High elevation and powerful equipment. That's how they managed to put out such a long-range signal."
"A radio station?"
"It's owned by a rich Haitian named Maurice Cercueil."
"Rich and Haitian seldom go together," the Israeli remarked.
"Cercueil is an exception." The Fed checked his printout sheet. "He was the chief of the Ton Ton Macout for more than twenty years under Francois Duvalier. Must have collected a goddamn fortune by robbing peasants of what little they had. CIA also suspects the guy was involved in Caribbean heroin traffic. When Papa Doc died, his son took over Haiti. Guess 'Baby Doc' didn't trust Cercueil because he kicked the old gangster out of the country..."
"And he wound up in the United States," Katz said, completing the statement for him.
"Yeah," Brognola grunted. "Ain't we lucky?"
"I'm surprised Jean-Claude Duvalier let Cercueil leave without relieving him of his ill-gotten fortune."
"I suppose he had some reason," the Fed mused.
"Duvalier couldn't exile Cercueil without showing proper respect to the former head of his father's secret police," Calvin James explained, entering the room. Bro
gnola and Katz turned to face him. "He wouldn't want the new commander of the Ton Ton Macout to doubt the rewards of loyalty. That might cause a mutiny at Port-au-Prince."
"You know about Cercueil?" Brognola asked.
"I've talked to enough Haitian refugees to know Cercueil is a rotten son of a bitch," James said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "But he's intelligent, cunning and shrewd. The Haitians believe he's a bocor, night wizard."
"Night wizard?"
"In voodoo they refer to 'day magic' as good and 'night magic' as evil. Just as Europeans referred to white magic and black magic. Anyway, the Haitians figure Cercueil is the original Midnight Man. Some even say he's Baron Samedi himself. If ever a dude was a prime suspect to be the ringleader of a conspiracy like the Black Alchemists, Cercueil is the one."
"There seems to be little doubt about that," Katz agreed. "But why hasn't the FCC closed down his radio station if he's been violating federal regulations?"
"Cercueil has been charged with the violations," Brognola answered. "But he doesn't seem concerned. The Haitian is difficult to reach. He lives at that radio station on top of a damned mountain, and they don't even have a phone up there."
"His station doesn't take requests?" James grinned.
"As a matter of fact his station seems to concentrate on presenting traditional Haitian music and bilingual news presented in English and Creole," the Fed stated. "Cercueil claims he's presenting a public service to Haitians living in the United States. The bastard's lawyer is even trying to sue the FCC for harassment."
"And discrimination?" James asked.
"Yeah," Brognola admitted awkwardly. "They even got some chicken-shit civil-rights group to make a televised protest about it."
"Some idiots don't think there can be any black good guys," James said with a smile. "And other idiots don't think there can be any black bad guys. I'm not surprised a slick snake in the grass like Cercueil would try to use his skin color for a smoke screen. Letting a creep like him go unpunished sure as hell won't help black people's image.''