Harvest Hell Read online

The fabric of his wet suit tore open, and Encizo fought to control his breath — holding one's breath or gulping canister gas increased the risk of carbon dioxide poisoning.

  Blood oozed from Encizo's scraped arm, forming a dark cloud in the water. The effect the scent had on the sharks was inescapable.

  The giant beast that had struck Encizo turned swiftly and headed toward the wounded Cuban. The tiger shark was almost nine feet long and probably weighed close to eight hundred pounds. Yet it rocketed through the water like a bullet. Its jaws hung open, revealing a mouthful of razor-sharp triangular teeth.

  Rafael Encizo was fast, but no man was as quick as a shark in water. Still, the Cuban moved in time to avoid the deadly lunge. The shark's powerful jaws struck the reef, and coral chipped off from the tremendous impact. The shark kept moving. It turned around in a rapid, smooth circle and charged again.

  So far the other sharks had not joined the giant. The attacking shark ignored Calvin James, guided by the scent of blood from the Cuban's scraped arm. But James did not intend simply to watch his friend become fish food. The black man drew his USMC knife from the sheath strapped to his ankle and launched himself at the shark.

  As James collided with the great fish he felt as if he had tried to tackle a speeding freight train. The commando struck out with his knife even as the force of the hurtling shark knocked him backward. The mouthpiece of the Emerson regulator slipped from his teeth when he rolled away from the man-eater.

  The warrior replaced his mouthpiece and carefully inhaled. He gazed up at the shark. The fish thrashed about violently, while James's knife jutted from the side of the shark's head. James had stabbed the blade under the operculum and thrust it into a gill.

  Enraged with pain, the killer fish whirled and dived for Calvin James. Encizo had time to draw his Gerber Mark II diver's knife. He moved under the shark and plunged upward to drive the blade into the belly of the great fish.

  The shark's own momentum contributed to the damage caused by the knife blade. Sharp steel slit a long gash in the trunk of the monster. Blood and entrails spilled from the terrible wound. A thick column of dark fog soon surrounded the injured shark.

  The torrent of blood immediately attracted the other sharks that had been circling the area, uncertain whether to stay or move on. They no longer hesitated. The three predators rushed forward and attacked the wounded fish. None of them had further interest in the two men. Even the injured tiger shark was caught up in the blood-lust frenzy, snapping up and swallowing its own entrails while the other fish continued to tear it apart.

  * * *

  James and Encizo surfaced and climbed onto the ladder of the Diana, a small trawler that belonged to José Lόpez. The Hispanic captain helped the divers into the boat, where they removed their face masks and the mouthpieces of their regulators. Both men sighed with relief and breathed fresh air greedily, happy to still be alive.

  "Man," Calvin James muttered. "Your training exercises are a real bitch, Rafael."

  "Rafael," Lόpez began as he helped Encizo unstrap his Emerson tank, "there was an urgent message for you on the radio while you were diving with Senor James."

  " 'Urgent'?" the Cuban asked, unbuckling his weight belt.

  "Si," Lόpez replied. "Somebody in Washington is trying to get in touch with you."

  "Oh, that." Encizo shrugged, concealing the importance of the message from Lόpez. "I know what it's about. Let's turn this boat around and head for shore, José. Buy you a beer, amigo."

  "You got a deal, Rafael." Lόpez smiled. "Probably a good idea to leave now. I think I saw a shark a couple minutes ago."

  "No shit?" James remarked dryly.

  5

  Manning, Encizo and James met Yakov Katzenelenbogen in the conference room of a Holiday Inn at the outskirts of Frederick, Maryland. The Israeli had told his teammates about the Bulgarians and terrorists assembled on Krio Island.

  "This is the man with the money," Katz began as he handed a photograph to Gary Manning. "Dimitri Krio."

  "I've heard a lot about Krio," the Canadian remarked. "But I don't recall ever seeing a picture of him before."

  "Is it a recent photo?" Rafael Encizo inquired. "I thought Krio hadn't appeared in public for almost ten years now."

  "Eight and a half," Katz supplied. "Give or take a month. The photo was taken last week."

  "I hate to sound ignorant," Calvin James interjected, "but I never heard of this Krio dude before today."

  "Not many people are familiar with the name," Katz told him.

  "The rest of you guys seem to know about him." The black man shrugged. "Or did you set this up to make me look dumb?"

  "Gary and I have been involved with international trade," the Israeli explained. "Rafael probably remembers the name from his days as a maritime investigator."

  "Dimitri Krio is a Greek shipping tycoon," Encizo stated. "He's probably worth about a quarter of a billion dollars."

  "Oh, yeah?" James raised his eyebrows. "I gotta see this guy."

  Encizo handed the photo to the black commando. Dimitri Krio's round face was deeply tanned. His thick mane of silver hair was carefully styled and combed. Lines at the corners of his mouth suggested Krio smiled a lot. Why not, James thought. If I had a quarter of a billion dollars, I'd be smiling, too.

  But James did not like Krio's smile. Somehow the twin rows of perfectly capped white teeth reminded him of the open jaws of the tiger shark.

  "A quarter of a billion, huh?" James shrugged. "I wouldn't pay that much for him."

  "Nonetheless," Katz said as he flicked the ash from a cigarette into an ashtray, "Krio has earned more since he inherited his father's shipping company in 1957. It's difficult to estimate how wealthy the man really is. He has at least one Swiss bank account the Greek tax collectors don't know about, and it's believed he's involved with a number of secret ventures that also net a large profit Krio doesn't report for obvious reasons."

  "Like dealing with the Bulgarian secret police." James frowned. "Why would a wealthy Western capitalist do business with the Communists?"

  "It happens all the time," Manning stated. "Armand Hammer, Cyrus Eaton, David Rockefeller and a lot of other American millionaires have done plenty of business with the Soviet Union. Moscow never fails to give them the VIP treatment. So much for the Communist sermon about how much they despise the nasty capitalist rich."

  "Dimitri Krio isn't exactly Aristotle Onassis," Encizo added. "Onassis earned his fortune. He worked for it from the beginning. Krio inherited much of his. Onassis was never fond of dealing with Marxist countries, but Krio seems to specialize in it. His shipping lines extend to Syria, Libya and Angola. Krio does a lot of import-export trade with the Eastern European countries. Especially Yugoslavia and Bulgaria."

  "But from what Yakov told us Krio has a bunch of international terrorists as houseguests on his island," James declared. "That seems kinda hard to believe."

  "But it isn't unprecedented," Katz told him. "The late Giangiacomo Feltrinelli frequently had such infamous terrorists as Ulrike Meinhof and Augusto Viel as houseguests. Feltrinelli was an Italian publisher, very wealthy and successful and an absolute political fanatic. He helped finance a number of terrorist organizations throughout Western Europe."

  "Do you think that's what Krio is doing in Greece?" Manning inquired.

  "That's what we have to find out," Katz answered. "What makes this situation especially critical is the fact that Kostov and Vitosho are among Krio's guests. You all realize that the Bulgarian government is virtually an extension of the Kremlin. Thus, the Bulgarian secret police is actually a branch of the Russian KGB."

  "Yeah," Encizo said grimly. "And lately it appears the KGB is using the Bulgarians to handle operations that are too hot for Moscow to want to be directly connected with."

  "Exactly," Katz agreed. "That's why we have to find out what's happening on Krio Island."

  "This sounds like a recon mission," James said as he frowned. "I thought Phoenix Force was des
igned to seek and destroy. Isn't gathering intelligence a job for the CIA and the rest of those sneaky-pete dudes?"

  "Regular intel sources haven't been very successful so far," the Israeli replied. "Before we can seek and destroy we have to make sure we have the right targets."

  "I'm sure." Encizo shrugged. "The island is crawling with enemy agents and terrorists. What more proof do we need?"

  "We can't just fly to Greece and blast Krio Island to hell," Katz told him. "Krio is a wealthy, influential man. If we launch a raid on his property, we'd better be able to prove we had just cause. Otherwise we run the risk of stirring up an international incident that might be more valuable to the KGB for propaganda purposes than whatever Krio is up to on his island."

  "How do you want to handle this, Yakov?" Manning asked.

  "Krio has been trying to get shipping operations here in the Western Hemisphere," the colonel began. "So far he hasn't had much luck. He'd probably be happy to see a couple of representatives from an American import-export corporation who are interested in doing business with him."

  "Sounds like I'm getting a chance to volunteer," Encizo said dryly.

  "You know the shipping business," Katz stated. "And you're the only member of the team who understands Greek."

  "I only know a few hundred words in Greek," the Cuban replied. "I'm not even sure I can put together a proper sentence in the language anymore."

  "Brush up on it for the next day or so," Katz advised. "You're going to be the West Coast manager of Exotic Imports Unlimited. Now your traveling companion will be the East Coast distributor."

  "Don't look at me," James said. "I've never been a businessman. I'm just an ex-cop you guys conned into joining this nutty outfit."

  "Sounds like I'm volunteer number two," Manning stated. "So we've got a day or two to get ready?"

  "You and Rafael have," the Israeli confirmed. "Calvin and I will leave tonight. Brognola can arrange a military flight to Greece, and we'll be able to transport whatever weapons and equipment we might need for the mission. You two will fly out on a commercial airliner to avoid suspicion."

  "We won't be able to take much gear with us." Encizo frowned. "Not if we're going to get through airport security without a hassle."

  "That'll depend on how clever you are." Katz grinned.

  "What about David?" Encizo asked, referring to the fifth member of Phoenix Force.

  "McCarter will meet us in Greece," Katz replied. "He ought to be on his way there by now."

  * * *

  David McCarter lit another cigarette as he sat in the plastic scoop-backed chair in the lobby leading to gate twenty-two. He glanced at the luminous hands of his black-faced Le Gran wristwatch and clucked his tongue in disgust. Twenty minutes remained before the bloody plane would be ready to board.

  The tall, fox-faced Briton hated to travel by commercial airline. An ace pilot who could fly anything from a hot-air balloon to a 747, McCarter would have preferred to fly himself to Greece. His second choice was a military flight. However, Major Hillerman had not been able to arrange that luxury on this occasion.

  The major was a good sort in McCarter's opinion, and he had never been one to care much for officers. Hillerman had been McCarter's SAS commanding officer during the Omani Ohofar War back in the seventies. The Special Air Service regiment operated in Oman for five years. Twelve SAS men were killed during that campaign, but Hillerman and McCarter "beat the clock," as people liked to say at SAS headquarters in Hereford.

  So far both men had continued to "beat the clock." Hillerman lost his leg in Oman, but he gained a promotion to field-grade officer and was later transferred to Special Military Intelligence. McCarter remained in the SAS and participated in Operation Nimrod. To be part of the successful SAS siege of the Iranian embassy in London and the rescue of twenty hostages from the terrorists who had seized the building was the high point of McCarter's career.

  Then the Briton was chosen for the Phoenix Force team. The five-man commando army had since successfully accomplished more than a dozen missions. To David McCarter that was just fine. He felt that a man was never more alive than in combat. Anger, fear, excitement and the pure joy of adrenaline coursing through the veins like a narcotic all reached their peak in combat.

  McCarter was not simply a thrill junkie or a war lover. He believed in fighting the enemies of England and the rest of the free world. He would never do anything contrary to the best interests of his nation. Yet he was the first to admit that the battlefield was his favorite element.

  Hillerman was unaware of McCarter's connection with Phoenix Force. The major knew McCarter was involved in some sort of top-secret business that had the blessing of MI6, SIS, the PM and other important sources that favor initials. Hillerman had been ordered to cooperate with McCarter and see to his former sergeant's needs.

  McCarter and Hillerman got along well together. Many people found McCarter's short temper and sharp tongue difficult to tolerate. His wry sense of humor, dedication to duty and exceptional courage compensated for his flaws. McCarter almost smiled as he recalled one of Hillerman's comments: "In order to appreciate McCarter, you've got to be in combat with the bugger."

  Although Hillerman had failed to get a military flight for McCarter, he had arranged to transport the combat veteran's weapons and equipment. His gear would be waiting for him with a case officer at the British Embassy, Ploutarkhou Street in Athens.

  McCarter was in a surly mood. He did not like working a mission without knowing the details. He did not like being unarmed. And he damn well did not like sitting on his arse in a London airport, waiting for a bloody civilian plane to get ready to finally get off the ground.

  A swarthy man dressed in a tweed suit two sizes too large for his wiry frame entered the lobby. McCarter noticed that the man's right hand was jammed inside his coat pocket. The bulge suggested his fist was clenched. The Phoenix Force commando stiffened as the stranger approached.

  "You are Mr. McCarter?" he asked, his accent revealing English was not his native language.

  "I'm waiting for a plane, mate," McCarter replied. He rapidly tried to think of the best way to handle the situation, considering the abundance of innocent bystanders in the lobby.

  "You will come with me," the stranger demanded. "I have a hand grenade in my pocket. The pin has already been removed. If I release the spoon, the grenade will explode in three seconds. I do not wish to kill all these people, but if I must..."

  "I know," the Briton muttered. "I've met lunatics like you before. Pm coming. All right?"

  McCarter rose from his chair and allowed the stranger to escort him through the hallway. The Briton considered the possibility that the swarthy man was bluffing about the grenade. He probably was lying, or he would have simply used it in the lobby. Terrorists do not care about killing innocent victims.

  But McCarter cared, and he could not take that risk. Meantime, the stranger had not killed him, and as long as the Briton was alive, there was a chance he might be able to turn the tables on his captor.

  "What outfit are you with, chum?" McCarter asked as the stranger led him to the gentlemen's room. "Black September? Palestine Protection Front? Arab People's Liberation Army?"

  "Iranian Patriotic League," the terrorist replied bluntly.

  "Never heard of that one," McCarter remarked. "You chaps specialize in killing blokes in the loo because it' s a place you can relate to?"

  "Get in the bathroom, English!" the Iranian growled.

  McCarter noticed an Out of Order sign on the door as he pushed it open. He was not surprised when the terrorist shoved him into the room. McCarter did not try to resist. He purposely staggered forward into the closest sink. The Briton pretended to be dazed as he turned to face his opponent.

  "No grenade, English," the Iranian announced with a grin. He drew a diminutive .25-caliber Bauer automatic from his pocket. "Only this."

  "Well, that's enough," McCarter gasped, clutching his rib cage. "What's all this about?"r />
  "You hurt yourself on the sink, English?" the terrorist chuckled. "I thought SAS were supposed to be tough."

  "This bloody sink isn't made of foam rubber, damn it," McCarter gritted through clenched teeth. "Why do you want to kill me?"

  "You killed my brothers at the embassy," the Iranian declared. "We're going to avenge them. All you SAS scum will pay with your lives for your slaughter of our patriots."

  "I was just following orders," the Briton insisted. He gestured helplessly with his left hand, while the right still clutched his ribs. "You would have done the same if..."

  "Begging for mercy, infidel?" the Iranian grinned.

  "I'm not an infidel," McCarter replied. "And you're not acting by the word of the Koran. Doesn't the book begin with the passage, 'In the name of Allah, the merciful and compassionate'? But you show neither mercy nor compassion."

  "You're a Muslim?" the terrorist asked with surprise and suspicion. He automatically stepped closer.

  "When I was in Oman," McCarter began, leaning toward his captor. "Years ago, I met a very wise man. He spoke about the Koran and the Prophet..."

  "He was probably a Sunni Muslim," the Iranian scoffed. "The Sunni are our enemies, the same as the Jews and the Christians."

  "Your enemies aren't based on the Koran," the Briton declared as he stepped closer. "Allah sent down the Torah and the Gospel as guidance to the people, and He sent salvation..."

  McCarter's right arm suddenly lashed a fast sideways stroke as he turned his entire body away from the gun. The little Bauer uttered a crisp crack, and its .25-caliber projectile ricocheted against a tile wall.

  The Briton grabbed his opponent's wrist with his right hand and jammed his left elbow into the man's armpit. McCarter locked the man's arm in a painful hold and yanked hard. The gun fell from the terrorist's fingers.

  The Iranian punted a foot into the back of McCarter's knee and the Briton's leg buckled. In sudden and severe pain McCarter fell to one knee, but he held on to the terrorist's arm and pulled. The assassin cried out as he hurled over the Englishman's bowed head.