by Gar Wilson
Yakov Katzenelenbogen also sensed the approach of warfare. The veteran of a thousand battlefields, he knew the crystal waters below would soon be clouded with blood. He was positioned at the sliding doors of the flying gunship, strapped in place with a safety belt and armed with an Israeli Galil rifle.
He wished he was on the PT boat instead. Katz disliked flying, and he disliked flying in a helicopter more than any other method except possibly hang gliding — a sport he regarded as an aerial version of Russian roulette. However, Katz's prosthesis reduced his efficiency underwater. The men in the PT boat might be forced to dive, and the three Phoenix members on board were best qualified for the task.
"Oh, God," Katz whispered as he glanced down at the sharks swimming beneath the glassy surface of the Caribbean.
The Phoenix Force commander wore a life jacket, but he doubted it would do much good if the chopper went down in shark-infested waters. Katz's Jewish heritage had instilled in him a special fear of being devoured by the sea beasts. His desire to go whole to the grave had been crushed when he'd lost his arm in the Six-Day War, but he still hoped to be buried otherwise intact.
Katz switched on a battery-powered megaphone. His amplified voice boomed down from the Bell chopper like the voice of doomsday.
"Stop the engine and bring down the sails!" the voice demanded. "This is the end of the line, Cercueil! Order your men to step onto the deck and throw their weapons overboard! If you surrender now..."
Half a dozen crew members of the Witchcraft appeared on deck. All carried weapons, and not one of them intended to toss a single gun into the sea. Automatic rifles rose and fired desperate salvos at the gunship. McCarter swung the chopper away from the yacht, farther out of range of enemy fire.
"You stupid bastards," the Briton remarked as he gripped the firing mechanism for the .30-cals under the fuselage. "You don't know what you've started now."
Rafael Encizo launched the first Phoenix Force strike on the Witchcraft. While the gunship drew the enemy's attention, Encizo lined up the .50-caliber machine gun and opened fire. A chain of big cartridges rode through the breech as the machine gun roared. Large-caliber bullets smashed into the port side of the Witchcraft.
Railings splintered and chunks of wood spat from the cabin section. Glass shattered and bodies tumbled across the decks from the monstrous impact of the huge slugs. One slain Ton Ton Macoute hit man toppled over the rail. The fresh blood drew the sharks to the body. The fish seemed unconcerned by the battle above them as the wild feeding frenzy began.
Surviving members of Cercueil's crew ducked for cover and moved to starboard. McCarter brought the nose of the Bell chopper around, pointed it at the Witchcraft and brought it swooping down like a mechanical bird of prey. He triggered the two .30-caliber machine guns and bullets raked the starboard side.
The Briton saw two opponents convulse as slugs ripped into flesh and sent bodies twitching in a grotesque dance of death. The chopper passed over the yacht and rose into the sky before the stunned survivors could take aim at the retreating aircraft.
Encizo fired another volley of .50-caliber rounds at the Witchcraft. The captain of the PT boat, who had been handpicked by Colonel Wells, gradually guided his vessel closer to the enemy yacht. Wells had assured Phoenix Force the captain would not fold under pressure, and the PT boat commander was certainly living up to Wells's claims.
Bringing the gunship around for another attack, McCarter blasted the Witchcraft with twin machinegun fire. The original six Ton Ton Macoute flunkies were already dead. The gunmen who took their places were also shredded by automatic fire. More bodies tumbled into the water for the sharks. Although their weapons were of no use against the war machines controlled by Phoenix Force, Cercueil's men continued to return fire with assault rifles and submachine guns.
Gary Manning held his fire in case the enemy had decided to surrender after the machine guns had raked their vessel. The tactic had not worked, so the Canadian launched the first round from the M-20 recoilless rifle. The big 75 mm projectile sailed across the water and smashed into the port side of the Witchcraft, near the stern. The explosive shell erupted with merciless fury. Almost a quarter of the yacht burst into flying kindling. Flames laced the deck while water rushed into the gap at the hull. The bow rose abruptly, and two more Haitian killers were thrown overboard into the terrible jaws of the feeding sharks.
The enemy vessel began to sink. Three surviving members of the crew discarded their weapons and grabbed the handrail. Terrified, they shook their heads to signal they no longer wanted to fight. No one else stirred on the decks of the doomed Witchcraft.
"Looks like they've had enough," James announced, scanning the crippled yacht with his binoculars. He recognized Louis de Broglie among the three survivors hanging on to the rail. The other two were not familiar; one was clad in a white lab smock. "I don't see Cercueil."
"Maybe he's already dead," Encizo commented as he unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt. He pressed the transmit button. "Gray Eagle, do you read me?"
"Read you, Gray Thrasher," Katz replied.
"Enemy appears to be subdued," Encizo stated. "You see anything different from your position?"
"Just the three gents who look like they're ready to give up," Katz confirmed. "There could be opponents still inside the cabins."
"The boat is going down, Eagle," Encizo said. "If we want any of these hombres alive, I think we'd better get them now. Okay if I tell the captain to pull along portside and pick up the guys at the bow?"
"Watch out," the Phoenix commander advised. "These snakes might still have a trick or two left. We'll try to cover you from here."
"Okay," Encizo replied. He switched off the radio and relayed the instructions to the PT-boat commander.
* * *
The Witchcraft was nearly submerged by the time the PT boat eased along portside. Louis de Broglie, another Ton Ton Macoute enforcer and a terrified chemist stood ankle-deep in water. The bow was slowly sinking below the surface, and the frenzied activity of the feeding sharks had not ceased.
"Get your asses across the rail," Calvin James ordered, pointing his M-16 at the three Haitians. "Try anything and you're dead meat."
The starboard rail of the PT boat nearly touched the bow of the sinking yacht. Louis de Broglie extended an arm to grab the rail. His fist closed on the slick metal bar, and he hurled himself over the top to land on the deck of the PT boat near Gary Manning's position. The Canadian trained an FAL rifle on the Haitian. De Broglie stared up at Manning with surprise when he recognized the Phoenix warrior.
"You!" the Haitian exclaimed, hands raised to shoulder level. "You were at the Palace of Madrid..."
Manning rammed the muzzle of his rifle into de Broglie's abdomen, just above the groin. The Haitian folded with a gasp. Manning's right fist crashed into de Broglie's jaw and sent the man sprawling across the deck.
"I owed you that one," the Canadian announced.
The chemist jumped from the sinking boat and barely managed to grab the rail of the other vessel. Encizo gathered up a fistful of the chemist's smock and jammed the muzzle of his H&K pistol against his head as he pulled him over the rail.
"Lay down on the deck and keep your hands where I can see them," the Cuban instructed.
The second Ton Ton Macoute enforcer crossed over, and James promptly handcuffed him to the rail. Frisking him, he found a knife in the guy's boot and turned to toss it overboard.
Just then, Pierre Mazarin Cercueil aimed his M-11 at James's face. The Haitian master criminal had managed to swim from the flooded cabin of the Witchcraft and pull himself onto the handrail of the PT boat. His shirt and suit trousers were soaked, and water dripped from his face and hands. Although his eyes were filled with rage, a demented smile was fixed on his dark features.
James reacted faster than conscious thought. He hurled the boot knife at Cercueil's grinning face without taking time to aim. The blade sailed past the Haitian's right ear and landed harmlessly in
the water below. The Phoenix pro simultaneously threw himself to the deck with the idea of bringing his M-16 around to point at Cercueil. But, he realized, he wouldn't be able to do this before the Ton Ton Macoute leader could pull the trigger of his Ingram.
Cercueil triggered his machine pistol, but it failed to fire. Water had clogged the mechanism and caused the Ingram to jam. James suddenly realized he was holding his breath, and exhaled. Cercueil tossed the weapon aside and vaulted over the rail. He had removed his shoes and socks, and his bare feet slapped the deck of the PT boat. James glimpsed the silver skull handle of the swagger stick in Cercueil's belt as the Haitian reached for the cane.
"Freeze!" James shouted, and aimed his M-16 at Cercueil's chest.
The thunder of rotor blades hammered down on them as McCarter swung the gunship over the vessels. The Briton saw Cercueil reach for a weapon, but he could not open fire with the .30-cals for fear of hitting his teammates. Katz leaned out the open door of the chopper, suddenly unconcerned about flying. The Israeli tried to train his Galil on Cercueil's back, but the movement of the copter made the task too difficult. If Katz missed, he might hit James instead.
Cercueil yanked the silver handle and drew a two-foot-long steel blade from the wooden sheath of his cane-sword. James fired his M-16. The automatic rifle spat flame, and three 5.56 mm rounds drilled through Cercueil's breastbone. The Haitian fell back against the handrail. He slowly glanced down at the crimson stain that covered his shirtfront. The cane-sword fell from his fingers.
"Wha...?" Cercueil began, the word choked off as blood rose into his throat and mouth.
"You lose, and it's time to pay," James told him as he stepped toward the Haitian. "We won and you're history, Jack."
James pivoted and launched a powerful high kick to Cercueil's face. The dying Haitian flipped backward over the handrail. Cercueil's bloodied form fell almost into the open jaws of an eight-foot tiger shark. The fish pulled the corpse deeper underwater, where other sharks joined in the meal.
"Hell," Manning rasped, looking away from the feeding sharks. "I don't think Cercueil has enough voodoo magic to come back after that."
James shrugged and tossed the sword overboard. "That's what I thought the first time I killed him," he commented as he picked up Cercueil's cane-sword. "But what Cercueil stands for seems to be prone to a kind of reincarnation, and I might have to confront this situation a third time one of these days... but I'll worry about that when and if the time comes."