Harvest Hell

by Gar Wilson

  "One of our crew was attacked by a shark," Papadopoulos shouted back. "The fish bit off most of his arm. The poor fellow has gone into shock and needs medical attention."

  "Head for the mainland," the sentry persisted. "The coastal patrol will help you. You'll get nothing but trouble from us."

  "You chaps are the blokes lookin' for trouble," the Greek declared in his cockney-flavored English. "And you M1 bloody well get it."

  Paratroopers opened fire with silencer-equipped G-3 assault rifles. Manufactured by the Hellenic Arms Industry, the Greek G-3 was modeled after the Heckler & Koch rifle produced in West Germany. The weapons certainly performed well enough in the hands of the paratroopers. Only one enemy guard lived long enough to scream before a 7.62mm slug silenced him forever.

  Katz, Papadopoulos and eight Greek commandos leaped to the pier to encounter Krio's security men who ran forward to investigate the cry of their dying comrade. Most of the guard force had already been called in to reinforce the terrorists on the opposite side of the island. The security that remained at the yacht harbor was minimal.

  Only half a dozen guards confronted Katz's assault team. Armed with just service pistols, the sentries were no match for the commandos with their full-auto firepower. However, the guards were either very brave or very stupid. They aimed their handguns at the invaders.

  The Israeli freedom fighter burned three opponents in the flash of an eyelash. Nine-millimeter rounds hissed through a foot-long sound suppressor attached to the muzzle of Katz's Uzi machine gun. The sentries hardly lived long enough to know what hit them.

  Nikkos blasted another uniformed flunky with a silenced Sumak-9 submachine gun. The paratroopers took out the last two guards. So far things were going well. Katz was pleased to note that none of his men had even been scratched.

  Katzenelenbogen ran toward the mansion. The rest of the team followed. The younger commandos were surprised to discover they had trouble keeping up with the Israeli warrior. Although middle-aged, ten pounds overweight and a smoker who averaged half a pack a day, Katz was still capable of surprising, bursts of speed.

  But like an old lion, he could not sustain a fast pace very long. Yet for a few vital minutes he became a whirlwind of muscle, teeth and claws.

  A pair of uniformed figures emerged from the front door of the mansion. They pointed .45-caliber M-3 subguns at the strike force. Katz triggered his Uzi before either man could fire his grease gun. A volley of parabellum hailstones chewed through flesh to shatter bone and demolish vital organs.

  The guards fell. Papadopoulos quickly lobbed an M-26 hand grenade through the open doorway. Katz and his men hit the pavement. The explosion blasted glass and framework from two windows. The front door dangled awkwardly on a single broken hinge.

  Katz charged inside first. The hallway was littered with shattered pottery, plaster and fragments of three more slain sentries. However, two of Krio's men had merely been knocked down by the grenade blast.

  Milo, Krio's personal valet, clamped a hand to the side of his head. He had suffered a ruptured eardrum during the explosion. The other gunman, dressed in a white dinner jacket, reached for a double-barreled shotgun.

  The Uzi rasped harshly. A trio of 9mm slugs tore into the shotgunner's chest. The schmuck's body slid across the tile floor to the pedestal at the base of the staircase. Milo rose to one knee and reached for a pistol under his white jacket.

  Katz closed the distance with two fast strides. Milo managed to draw his Yugoslavian M-57 automatic. The steel hooks of the Israeli's prosthesis snapped shut around the hand holding the pistol.

  The Phoenix Force veteran exerted pressure. Milo screamed as bones in his fingers cracked and snapped. Katz's left hand swung like an ax to chop the gunman in the base of the neck. Milo slumped unconscious. The Israeli kicked the M-57 pistol away from the mangled, bloodied glob that had formerly been Milo's hand.

  "Bleedin' hell, mate," Nikkos Papadopoulos declared as he entered the hallway. "You didn't leave much for the rest of us blokes to do."

  "Don't be too certain about that," the Israeli replied. "We don't know what sort of surprises the enemy might have waiting for us in the rest of the house."

  Probably not much," the Greek intel agent commented. "But I'll tell the lads to be careful. 'Course, the real fight is goin' on at the other side of the bleedin' island."

  "Yes," Katz said with a sigh. "I know."

  21

  The second assault unit involved in the siege on Krio Island came from the skies. Two Bell UH-1D helicopters and an AC-130A gunship armed with 20mm Gatling guns swooped down on the terrorist camp. Their first pass had been simply a quick recon of the area.

  "Looks like your friends started without us," Manos Draco remarked to Calvin James.

  "I just hope they're still alive," James replied grimly as he stared down at the burning billets below.

  James and Draco were inside the cabin of the gunship with fourteen Greek paratroopers, all qualified for frogman and UDT operations. They wore black wet suits, face masks, flippers and Emerson breathing apparatuses. The former Seal was glad the Greeks used the Emerson system. It indicated they knew what the hell they were doing.

  "Tell the pilot to contact the chopper jockeys," James instructed. "Tell him to pass on the order not to hit that concrete building. It's the most solid structure down there, so that's probably where they're storing the chemicals. Don't blast the boats in the harbor, either. A couple of them have a lot of scuba tanks stacked on the decks."

  "I don't understand why that worries you," Draco confessed.

  "If you wanted to transport a deadly virus in a gaseous or liquid form," James answered, "what better way than carrying it in tanks disguised as scuba gear?"

  "Good point." The Greek intel agent nodded.

  "Everything else is pretty much open season," the black warrior told him. "We don't want to slaughter everybody down there, but if they want to play hard we'll have to play harder."

  "What about your two friends?" Draco inquired.

  "Stopping the terrorists is our main concern," James said bluntly. "If our pals are still alive, they'll try to stay that way. They've got enough sense to find cover and keep their heads down until this is over."

  "Are all five of you so hard-nosed?" the Greek asked.

  "Yeah," the Phoenix Force pro replied dryly. "But tell the pilots not to use the heavy artillery unless they absolutely have to. Let's try to convince those dudes to surrender without having to blow everything to hell."

  "Which will reduce the risk to your friends, as well." Draco smiled. "Glad to see you're human after all."

  "We're all human," James assured him. "That means none of us is bulletproof."

  The aircraft circled around the terrorists. Several of the enemy troops opened fire on the choppers. They immediately regretted this action because the gunships retaliated. A tidal wave of 7.62mm bullets scythed away half a dozen troops. The rest fled for cover.

  Gary Manning and Rafael Encizo emerged from the burning billets a few seconds later.

  The two Bell whirlybirds completed a revolution beyond the shoreline, then headed back for the terrorist stronghold, ready for action. A voice, amplified by a megaphone, ordered the enemy to lay down their weapons and surrender.

  The AC-130 required more space to maneuver. As it flew over the Mediterranean and headed back to Krio Island, the gunship gradually descended and slowed slightly.

  "The pilot says we're roughly twenty meters over the water," Draco announced.

  "That's about seventy feet, right?" James asked as he checked the large, thick rubber bag hooked to his weight belt. "That's a long jump without a chute."

  "The pilot says he doesn't want to get any lower because he'll need to ascend and increase speed rapidly," the one-eyed Greek explained.

  "Well, I guess he knows his business," the Phoenix fighter remarked.

  "I haven't jumped out of a plane for years." Draco frowned. "Rather hoped I wouldn't have to do it
again."

  "You don't have to come along," James told him.

  "You might need a translator." The Greek intel agent sighed. "But let's go before I lose my nerve, eh?"

  James jumped from the cabin door. He kept his finned feet close together and raised his arms overhead. The Phoenix Force commando hit the surface and knifed through the water. The impact was a nasty jolt, but not really painful. Somewhat like falling out of bed and being jarred awake.

  On rising to the surface, the black warrior immediately slipped his face mask into position. He paddled gently in the water and waited for the rest of the team. Manos Draco leaped into the sea next. The Greek intel agent may have hated to jump from planes, but he handled himself well underwater. One by one the paratroopers jumped into the drink.

  The team waited until the last man hit the water to avoid someone landing on another diver. They exchanged nods to confirm everyone was all right. Calvin James held his right arm over head and pointed toward the island. The men recognized the signal to advance and nodded in reply.

  * * *

  The amplified voices from the gunships repeated the order in Greek, Bulgarian, Russian and English for the terrorists to surrender. The enemy did not seem to care what language was used. They were determined to disobey the command.

  Numerous terrorists fired at the aircraft with assault rifles, but they were hardly a match for the choppers' mounted machine guns. Those who failed to find adequate cover were cut down by the gunships' merciless rain of copper-jacketed projectiles.

  Manning and Encizo adopted a prone position close to the burning building. They stayed down until the choppers made their second pass before they removed the canisters of Proteus Enzyme. The pair no longer intended to release the virus, and they did not want a stray bullet to puncture the tanks. They hurled the canisters back into the billets to allow the blaze to destroy the enzyme.

  The skinny female terrorist spotted Manning and Encizo. She aimed a Soviet-made Stechkin machine pistol at the pair. Although fifty yards away, she opened fire with the weapon on full-auto. Had she used the semiauto mode, she might have hit the Phoenix Force fighters, but the Stechkin's full-auto range was only half what she required of it.

  Nine-millimeter slugs ripped into the ground in front of Manning and Encizo. The Cuban raised his Makarov in a two-hand Weaver's grip and squeezed off three double-action rounds. Two 9mm slugs found flesh. The woman tumbled to the ground with a bullet in each breast.

  Manning scooped up an AKMS assault rifle that had been discarded by its slain owner and set the selector switch to full-auto.

  "Gary!" Encizo shouted as he pointed to a trio of terrorists positioned by the concrete lab building.

  The Canadian saw the reason for his partner's concern. The terror troops were armed with two Russian RP-6 rocket launchers that would be capable of blasting a gunship from the sky with a single round. Manning brought the metal stock of the AKMS to his shoulder, snap-aimed and fired.

  The terrorists spun and quivered as 7.62mm slugs punched through their bodies. The enemy troops crumbled against the thick steel door of the building. Manning hit them with a second volley of AKMS missiles to be certain they never got up again.

  Most of the terrorists had fled to the main barracks, where extra ammunition and more effective weapons were stored. Two bold fanatics emerged from the building to set up a Soviet PKM machine gun mounted on a convertible tripod, adjusted to fire at aircraft. They were still fumbling with the weapon when the AC-130 returned.

  The big gunship opened fire with her 20mm Gatlings. The terrorist machine gunners were literally torn apart by large-caliber slugs. What was left of the corpses could have been mistaken for the victims of an ax murderer.

  * * *

  Several terrorists had noticed that the boats in the harbor had not been fired on by the gunships. Nine zealots, more concerned with survival than radical politics, bolted for the pier and climbed on board a pair of fishing trawlers.

  Calvin James and his frogman team were waiting for them. The commando had removed his tank, flippers and weight belt. He had also removed his Smith & Wesson M-76 from its waterproof bag. The rest of the team were armed with either Sumak-9 submachine guns or M3A1 .45 grease guns.

  "Throw your guns in the water and surrender!" Draco shouted in Greek.

  The terrorists swung their weapons toward the sound of the intel man's voice. They did not get a second chance to surrender. James and his men opened fire.

  It could hardly be called a battle. The terrorists were outnumbered almost two to one. Their opponents were better trained and more experienced. James and his men had also had ample time to position themselves behind the best cover available on the trawlers.

  The assault force blasted several terrorists over the transom. Bodies splashed into the water and tumbled over handrails to crash to the pier. James noticed two enemy troops dash up the rungs of a ladder to the fly bridge of one of the vessels. The black bad ass hit the pair with a burst of 9mm messengers of destruction. A terrorist screamed and collapsed against the helm seat, while his comrade's bullet-riddled body slid down the ladder to the deck below.

  "Draco!" James called out. "Order half the men to stay with the boats to guard them. The rest..."

  A sudden movement caused James to whirl and face the fly bridge. The wounded terrorist had hauled himself upright and aimed a Skorpion machine pistol at the black man. James raised his S&W although he realized it was too late.

  Suddenly the terrorist convulsed in agony. He arched his back and triggered the Czech blaster, firing a volley of bullets into the sky. Then the man stumbled over the lip of the fly bridge and belly flopped on the deck below. The haft of a diver's knife jutted from between his shoulder blades.

  Manos Draco appeared on the fly bridge. Calvin James gave him a thumbs-up salute of thanks. The one-eyed Greek smiled and held up a hand with index finger and thumb together to reply, "Okay."

  * * *

  The terrorist forces had suffered terrible casualties. Forty-six of them lay dead or dying. Many of the survivors had been wounded by stray bullets or flying shrapnel.

  Colonel Nikolai Kostov decided there was only one logical choice of action left. The Bulgarian walked to the center of the parade field and raised his empty hands overhead. The remaining members of the terrorist army followed his example. Even Dimitri Krio reluctantly accepted defeat.

  "My God," Gary Manning remarked as he threw down the ARMS to avoid being mistaken as a stubborn terrorist gunman. "We were ready to die a few minutes ago. Now we're not only still alive, we've won."

  "We 'beat the clock,' as McCarter would say." Rafael Encizo smiled weakly. "Without a minute to spare."

  The Cuban glanced toward the concrete lab building. A figure dressed in a white smock lay sprawled across the corpses of the terrorists Manning had gunned down during the firefight. The steel door stood open as a tall, powerful figure darted inside.

  "Mierda!" Encizo exclaimed as he broke into a full run for the building. He drew the Makarov as he ran.

  Encizo barely glimpsed the face of the man in white, but he recognized Dr. Chekov. The Russian's eyes stared lifelessly at the sky above. His throat had been slit open from one ear to the other.

  Encizo guessed the identity of Chekov's assassin. His suspicion was confirmed when he spotted the hard Nordic features of Igor Vitosho. The Bulgarian captain peered out from the doorway. Blood dripped from the blade of a bayonet in his fist.

  The Cuban fired his Makarov. A 9mm slug ricocheted against the doorway. Vitosho recoiled and moved away from the entrance. The steel door began to swing shut.

  Encizo leaped forward and dived through the opening. He landed in an awkward shoulder roll that carried him into the field desk in the foyer. A boot lashed out, kicking the Makarov from the Cuban's hand.

  Vitosho towered over Encizo, bayonet held in an underhand grip in his left fist. The Bulgarian fell on his opponent, planning to pin Encizo to the floor and plunge the knife betwe
en the Cuban's ribs.

  The Phoenix Force veteran raised both feet to deliver a powerful kick that sent Vitosho hurtling across the room. Encizo sprang to his feet as the Bulgarian adopted a knife-fighter's stance. He arched his back and held the bayonet low.

  Encizo was a skilled knife artist himself. He knew when a man was experienced with a blade and Vitosho did not appear to be a novice. The Cuban shuffled his feet into the T-dachi position as he held his open hands poised like the claws of an eagle.

  Vitosho feinted a thrust, then tossed the bayonet to his right hand and lunged from a different direction. Encizo sidestepped away from the flashing blade and tried to parry his opponent's wrist with the heel of his left palm.

  The Bulgarian was quick. He suddenly altered his attack and attempted a cross-body slash. Encizo's teshio stroke hit the captain's hand. Vitosho hissed painfully when the blow smashed into his already-broken finger. The bayonet clattered to the floor.

  Vitosho snarled a kiai and suddenly lashed a karate side kick to Encizo's chest. The Cuban crashed backward into a wall. The Bulgarian slashed a deadly shuto stroke for his opponent's throat. Encizo's crossed wrists formed an X block to check the captain's hand chop.

  Encizo seized his adversary's forearm and twisted it forcibly. He snap-kicked Vitosho in the abdomen and followed with a simple ankle-trip takedown. A fundamental judo move, it worked well enough to throw Vitosho to the floor.

  The captain landed on his back with a surprised grunt. Encizo immediately bent his right knee and dropped forward with all his weight behind the punishing blow that hit Vitosho squarely in the solar plexus. The Bulgarian's breath spewed from his lungs and his body went limp.

  Encizo chopped the side of his hand into Vitosho's neck muscle to be certain his opponent was unconscious. The Cuban raised his hand to strike again, but he sighed and lowered his arm. "You've had enough, Captain," Encizo said wearily. "We've all had enough."

  The electrical hum of the door opening drew his attention to the entrance. Colonel Kostov stood at the threshold. Yakov Katzenelenbogen was behind the Bulgarian, his Uzi pointed at Kostov's head.