by Gar Wilson
Annotation
The KGB is ready to sow a deadly crop. Seeding the air over the cities of the Western democracies with the Proteus Enzyme, which eats its way through the victim's stomach wall, the Soviet terror machine plans to spread mass malnutrition. their insidious mandate: to starve the citizens of the free world into submission.
The five battle-hardened men of Phoenix Force track the Russian death merchants to a tiny Greek island, where the Stony Man warriors plan to reap their own harvest.
Hell will look like paradise by comparison.
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Gar Wilson
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The Gar Wilson Forum
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Gar Wilson
Harvest Hell
Special thanks and acknowledgment to William Fieldhouse for his contributions to this work.
1
A man shouldn't have to die in an antiseptic cell, Colonel Yakov Katzenelenbogen thought. Especially not a man like Uri Yosefthal. God knows, he has suffered enough.
Katz stood looking down on a white hospital bed. Beneath stiff white sheets lay a shriveled old man. His bulblike head rested on a white pillow as he stared up at the ceiling. His wrinkled pale face seemed determined to blend with its surroundings. Katz almost expected to see the old man fade into the white decor. Into oblivion.
So much had happened since Katz and Uri Yosefthal had first met, since that day in 1946 when Katz, an eighteen-year-old veteran of the Resistance in France, had encountered an equally youthful Yosefthal.
Owing to his fluency with languages and his undercover work for the American OSS, Katz had landed a job with the U.S. Army as a translator. That was how he met the wasted figure who now lay before him.
Uri Yosefthal was a survivor of Hitler's Dachau death camp, and Katz was stunned by the irony that the first time he'd set eyes on Uri, the young refugee had been a scrawny stick figure with hollow cheeks, rotten teeth and soft bones — looking not much different from what he did now. But back then, Uri's eyes had been bright and fierce, his mind alert and keen.
Uri Yosefthal had stood defiantly in front of Katz that day in 1946 and told him he wanted to be sent to Russia. Katz had tried to persuade him to abandon such a foolish idea. Did he not know that Stalin was no better than Hitler? Had he not suffered enough?
Three and a half decades later, Katz himself was a wounded but proud warrior. But the wounds were deep and permanent. Both his wife and son were dead, victims of a violent world. Katz himself had lost his right forearm and hand in the Six Day War. They had been replaced with a remarkable prosthesis that featured interchangeable parts, including a single-shot .22 pistol in the index finger. He had served in the Hagannah and the Mossad and worked with the CIA. Now he was the unit commander of Phoenix Force, the crack antiterrorist unit that had been brought together by Colonel John Phoenix — better known as Mack Bolan, or the Executioner.
But not even Phoenix Force could save Uri Yosefthal, Katz thought as he stared down at the dry, white-parchment skin that was stretched over the bones of Yosefthal's face. He thought of how the youthful refugee had become a freedom fighter within the Soviet Union. Officially labeled a dissident, Yosefthal had been tried for treason and sent to a Siberian forced-labor camp. In the West his heroism had led to many appeals for his release. All had been denied. Until now.
Without any notice, Uri Yosefthal was exiled to the United States.
The shriveled figure stirred on the hospital bed.
"Uri?" Yakov said softly. "Can you hear me?"
"Yakov?" came the reply as recognition floated across Yosefthal's rheumy eyes. "It has been a long time."
"A hundred years ago," Katz replied.
"So it seems," Yosefthal said. "You were right about many things, my friend. I should have gone with you to Palestine."
"Not all the dreams about Israel came true, Uri," Katz told him. "Neither of us found Utopia."
"Do you think it exists?"
"I hope not." The Israeli grinned. "It would probably bore me to death."
"Still a warrior, eh?" Yosefthal chuckled harshly. "I suspected you would not change. I always assumed you'd be dead by now."
"I came close to it a couple of times," Katz admitted.
"I came closer," Yosefthal said bitterly. "How did you know 1 was here?"
"We've been interested in you for a long time, Uri."
" 'We'?" Yosefthal raised his white eyebrows. "Do you mean the Israelis or the Americans?"
"Both," Katz answered. "We tried to negotiate your release. The Americans wanted to trade two KGB spies for your freedom. Tel Aviv made an appeal to the United Nations to pressure the Soviets to allow you to emigrate to Israel. We were even considering a commando raid..."
"A 'raid'?" Yosefthal laughed hoarsely. "No one could penetrate the Soviet Union and successfully rescue a prisoner from Siberia."
"You'd be surprised what a few good men can do," Katz replied.
"None of that matters now." Yosefthal sighed. "I'm free now. The Kremlin sent me to the United States and I'm going to die in this damned hospital bed."
"Listen, Uri," Katz began. "The Russians gave no reason why they suddenly decided to release you. But you've been ill since you arrived in the United States, and our doctors haven't been able to determine what's wrong with you."
"You think the KGB gave me some sort of exotic poison?" Yosefthal remarked. "The American Naval doctors would have detected that. The simple fact is, I'm dying of malnutrition. Ironic, isn't it? I survived a diet of gruel, boiled grass and fish heads in a labor camp, but I can no longer digest food here in the United States."
"It doesn't make sense, Uri."
"It is fate, Yakov," Yosefthal stated. "I'm really not afraid of dying, you know. Most of my life has been spent struggling for freedom. For myself and for others. Now I realize freedom is an illusion. Only the dead are truly free."
"Would you like to talk to a rabbi?" Katz inquired.
"No," Yosefthal replied. "I do not need anyone's help to pray. If God is not willing to accept my soul, no words from a rabbi will change His mind."
"You might find some comfort in a reading from the Torah."
"I would find comfort in seeing the sky and breathing air that does not smell like medicine. I would like to smell flowers and hear birds singing. I would rather die under the sun than in this tomb."
"There's a garden outside." Katz smiled. "Plenty of carnations, roses and other flowers there."
"Will they let me leave?" Yosefthal asked.
"Why tell them we're leaving?" Katz shrugged.
He gazed down at Yosefthal. A second ago, the specter of a smile had started to wash over his face; now Yosefthal's eyes stared up at the ceiling without blinking. Katz placed two fingers to the side of the Russian dissident's neck and felt for a pulse. There was none.
"Good bye, Uri," Katz whispered hoarsely. "Your ordeal is finally over."
He put his fingertips on the dead man's eyelids and gently pushed them shut.
2
"I'm sorry about your friend, Yakov," Hal Brognola said as he handed Katz a cup of coffee.
"Uri wasn't exactly a 'friend,' " Katzenelenbogen replied, nodding his thanks. "But in his own way, he was fighting the same enemy as the rest of us."
"He died of malnutrition?" Brognola frowned. He san
k into a chair at the head of a walnut conference table. "That hardly seems possible. Didn't the Navy medical team confirm that Yosefthal was healthy? Christ, they even had a nutritionist supervise his meals."
"Nobody has any idea what was wrong with Uri," the Phoenix Force head honcho stated. "An autopsy confirmed he couldn't digest food. That's all anyone knows for sure." Katz used the steel hook at the end of his prosthesis to tear open a pack of Camel cigarettes. "But you didn't call me here to discuss Uri Yosefthal."
"No," Brognola admitted. "I didn't."
Hal Brognola was the control officer of all Stony Man operations. He had the monumental task of go-between for the President of the United States and the unique top-secret organization. The Stony Man operations complex had been created by Mack Bolan and the President of the United States to combat international terrorism. Phoenix Force was under the Stony Man umbrella.
Stony Man was unlike most other covert organizations because it was not designed to handle general intelligence gathering or personnel investigations. The CIA, FBI, Interpol and other agencies unknowingly provided this kind of data. Stony Man had only two concerns: locate problems and terminate them by whatever methods necessary to get the job done. Thus far, Stony Man's success rate had been one hundred percent.
Yet the price for victory can often be high. Stony Man had suffered several losses, and recent tragic events had shaken the very foundation of the organization.
The Stony Man fortress was attacked, betrayed by a highly placed mole in the President's circle. Andrzej Konzaki, the resident armorer and weapons authority, had been killed. Aaron Kurtzman, the warriors' computer wizard, was badly wounded, confined to a wheelchair, crippled for life.
The enemy soon regretted the murderous siege. Mack Bolan had retaliated with a vengeance, and the terrorists paid in blood. But war is a double-edged sword, and the Executioner's woman, April Rose, became another casualty.
For Stony Man the ordeal had just begun.
The organization had practically been built around one man — the Executioner. But when Bolan was framed for a political assassination by the Soviet KGB, he became a renegade wanted by every intelligence and law-enforcement network in the world. He was no longer part of Stony Man. Not even Brognola or the President could help Bolan now.
The future of Stony Man was uncertain following this incredible upset. However, a sinister terrorist plot within the United States required immediate action. The sort of action only Stony Man was equipped to handle. Phoenix Force had been assigned the task.
Once again the price of victory was paid for with blood. Keio Ohara, one of the original five members of Phoenix Force, was killed during the final battle with the Black Alchemist terrorists.
The newest member of the team, Calvin James, had done well on the last mission. Since then James had been spending the past two months undergoing grueling training with the other men of Phoenix Force to ensure that the unit would perform smoothly as a team. Brognola was confident Phoenix Force was ready for their next assignment.
"We've got a job for you guys," Brognola began as he slid a buff file folder across the table to Katz. "Kurtzman put that together less than an hour ago. Most of the information and photographs are from our European connections with Interpol. Kurtzman cross-checked with the CIA, BND, SIS — everybody short of the Boy Scouts of America — to make sure everything is accurate."
Katz smiled. "I take it our mission will be in Europe?"
"In Greece, to be exact," the fed began, unwrapping a cigar. "Open that thing up and take a look at who's vacationing there this year."
Katz opened the folder and gazed down at the photograph of a middle-aged man dressed in a beige lightweight suit with a white shirt open at the throat. A pair of cheap sunglasses were perched on the bridge of his nose. His dark-gray hair was combed straight back from a high forehead.
The man could have been a bank teller or a grocery-store manager from any country on the face of the earth. He looked like a tourist. He was the sort of man no one would notice in a crowd. The type perfectly suited for clandestine operations.
Katz turned over the photograph and read the man's file:
SUBJECT IDENTIFICATION CONFIRMED
Name: Kostov, Nikolai Ivanovich
Nationality: People's Republic of Bulgaria
Occupation: Colonel, Bulgarian Security Service
Misc. Info: Kostov first came to our attention during World War II. He was part of the Red Lions commando underground, a Communist group that fought the Nazis in Greece. Kostov served with valor. Awarded the Gold Star of the Heroes of the People's Republic of Bulgaria, the highest military decoration awarded in that country. Kostov speaks Bulgarian, Russian, Greek and English fluently, and some German and Turkish. He has received special training in the USSR. No details available, but we know Kostov is currently attached to the KGB's Department Eleven in Sofia, Bulgaria.
From 1971 to 1974 he served with the Bulgarian embassy in Greece. No evidence of espionage activity at that time. Unconfirmed possibility that Kostov was involved in the conspiracy to assassinate Pope John-Paul II. May have helped transport Mehmet Ali Agca from Turkey to Bulgaria and later to Yugoslavia and eventually Italy. No other details available.
"This is all you have on Kostov?" the Israeli colonel inquired.
"That's it," Brognola answered, lighting his cigar. "All we know is he's a high mucky-muck in the Bulgarian secret police and that he's currently staying on an island off the coast of Greece."
"I agree it's reason for concern," Katz began. "This Kostov must be good. He's kept a low profile for the past forty years. He's good at keeping his secrets secret. Still, this looks like a problem for the Greek authorities and the regular intelligence networks of the free world. It doesn't seem to be the sort of thing that would usually involve Phoenix Force."
"Keep reading the file," Brognola told him.
Katz opened the folder again and found another photograph. A young blond man with icy blue eyes stared back at him. Heinrich Himmler would have loved the guy, Katz thought. He looked like an advertisement for rent-an-Aryan.
"Captain Igor Vitosho," Katz remarked as he scanned over the next file report. "There's a lot more on this character than Kurtzman found on Kostov."
"You can read it later," the fed stated. "There's a lot of information on the guy, but it won't really help much. Vitosho is a commando in the Bulgarian parachute corps. Received advanced training from an elite Russian paratrooper outfit."
"The Vozdushno Desantnye Vojska?" Katz asked.
"Beats me." Brognola shrugged. "You speak Russian, not me. Whoever trained Vitosho did a hell of a job. The reason his file is so thick is that he spent sixteen months in Nicaragua training Sandinistan soldiers at a Soviet-built special-forces camp. You'll find several photos of the captain in that folder. He instructed troops in parachuting, small arms, hand-to-hand combat and underwater demolitions. A hard ass."
"An interesting pair," the Israeli mused. "The Bulgarians sent a superspy and a supercommando. I see why you suspect they might be up to espionage or terrorist activity. But Greece isn't South Yemen or Libya. Even if these two are part of the Bulgarian embassy, the Greeks should still be able to deport them as undesirables."
"It isn't that simple, Yakov," Brognola explained. "You see, Kostov and Vitosho are guests on the island of Krio. Understand?"
"Krio?" Katz raised an eyebrow. "That wouldn't happen to be the property of Dimitri Krio, the shipping tycoon, by any chance?"
"Not by chance at all," the Stony Man control replied. "Krio owns that island. Technically, it's his private little country."
"Come on, Hal." Katz sighed. "The Greeks must have the authority to do something about Bulgarian agents stationed on one of their islands."
Brognola looked at the Phoenix Force vet and shrugged. "You know damn good and well that money is power anywhere in the world. The Greek authorities don't want to push Krio because he has friends in the government. Don't tell me that sur
prises you, Katz."
"So the Greeks don't want to handle this, and the CIA doesn't want to get involved, either."
"That's right," the fed stated. "But we're not just taking this mission because it's unpopular. Leaf through that shit on Vitosho and tell me what you see."
The Israeli did as Brognola suggested. He soon found a face he immediately recognized. The swarthy bearded features of Jabari Khatid were displayed in a photograph. Katz leafed through more files and found two more familiar faces.
"Khatid, Gerhart and Shigata," the Israeli remarked. "I don't recognize any of the others, but I assume that if former members of Black September, the Baader-Meinhof gang and the Japanese Red Army are on Krio's island, the rest of these jokers must be from similar terrorist organizations."
"Not many of them are known terrorists," Brognola explained. "But most of them have a record for political violence and radical behavior. Assaulting police officers during political demonstrations, destroying public property, stuff like that. Krio has almost a hundred young zealots barracked on his island."
"Sounds like they're planning something on an international level," Katz said grimly.
"That's what we figure, too," Brognola agreed. "And that's why we need Phoenix Force."
"Indeed." Katz nodded. "Have you contacted the others?"
"McCarter will meet you in Greece," the fed answered. "But I'm still trying to get in touch with the other three. One thing's for sure — you guys had better be at full strength for this mission. Besides the terrorists and the Bulgarians, Krio also has a security force of twenty-seven men. All are well trained and licensed to carry submachine guns while guarding Krio's island estate."
"Any idea how we should handle this mission?" Katz inquired.
"You seem to work best when I let you play it by ear," Brognola said with a grin.
"In this case," Katz replied, "I don't think we'd object to a little help with the tune."
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