Harvest Hell

by Gar Wilson

  Gary Manning wheeled his Chevy pickup along the rutted dirt road. A tent and miscellaneous camping gear shuffled around in the box back of the cab every time the tires dipped into a hole. Manning hoped everything would stay in the truck. He also hoped he would find a shop soon and it would have a telephone.

  Manning hated to terminate a camping trip ahead of schedule. It was his favorite form of relaxation and one he seldom had time to enjoy. He had just been preparing to do some climbing when the pager he wore on his belt had beeped the ominous message that his office had an urgent call for him. With his portable telephone out of order, he'd had no choice but to strike camp and move on.

  Basically a loner, Manning had an unquenchable desire to accomplish as much as possible. He possessed an unlimited supply of endurance and determination and was hell-bent on achieving any goal he set.

  This incredible drive had always set Gary Manning apart from his peers. As a youth he didn't study subjects in school; he devoured them. He didn't play sports; he made war on his opponents. He had a reputation as a hard-nosed, unrelenting son of a bitch who attacked a task and didn't quit until it was finished.

  As a lieutenant in the Canadian army, Manning had served in the corps of engineers where he specialized in explosives and became one of the best demolitions experts in the world. His military career included a tour of duty in Vietnam as an "observer."

  He worked with the 5th Special Forces and the clandestine Special Operations Group for more than a year, using his skill with explosives to destroy NVA bases. Manning's prowess with a rifle made him as successful a sniper as he was a deer hunter in the Canadian forests. His exceptional ability and courage did not go unrecognized. Gary Manning was one of the few Canadian citizens to receive the Silver Star from the United States Army for valor.

  The Royal Canadian Mounted Police took an interest in Manning, which led to a position with their antiterrorist division, chiefly concerned with the Quebec Liberation Front and Soviet espionage within Canada. The RCMP had been worried about the latter ever since Igor Gouzenko, a Russian embassy clerk, defected in Ottawa in 1945.

  Manning had the unique honor of working with the elite GSG-9 antiterrorists in West Germany, thanks to an exchange program between the Germans and the Canadians. Thus Manning had received firsthand experience in urban warfare, as well as jungle combat.

  The RCMP was put out of the espionage business after a scandal concerning illegal wiretapping and other abuses of power. However, in 1981, the newly formed Canadian Security Intelligence Service offered Manning an administrative job. Manning refused. He had decided to work for the private sector, marry and raise a family. The marriage soon ended in divorce, but Manning quickly excelled in the business world as a security consultant and a junior executive for North America International.

  Then Stony Man contacted the Canadian dynamo and made him an offer to become part of the greatest team of antiterrorists in the history of the world. The offer was more than Gary Manning could resist.

  * * *

  At last Manning located a roadside store. A little wood-frame ma-and-pa place, it was a small general store fronted by a pair of gas pumps that stood in the dust like sentinels and a shiny aluminum telephone booth. The Canadian pulled up to the shop, jumped out and headed for the phone.

  He heard the harsh thunder of several motorcycles ripping up the dirt road from the opposite direction but ignored the noise as he extracted coins from a pocket and fed them into the telephone. He dialed the number to his Montreal office. Helen St. Clair, his secretary, answered.

  "This is Manning," he told her. "You've got a message for me?"

  The rumble of motorcycles became a monstrous roar as four ambassadors of the great unwashed rode up to the store on Harley-Davidson hogs. They pulled up next to the gas pumps and laughed as they rolled their throttles in a contest to see who had the noisiest machine. Manning could barely hear Helen's voice over the bellow of engines.

  "Mr. Manning?" she asked, concern in her voice. "Are you all right, sir?"

  "No problem," Manning assured her. "Just some kids working on their motor bikes. Will you please repeat that message?"

  The bikers suffocated their hogs and dismounted. Manning didn't like the looks of the group. They were dressed in black leather, Levi's and dirt. All wore beards, dark glasses and sneers. Trouble came off them like a bad smell.

  "The message was from a Mr. Bascomb," Helen answered. "He said he needs to meet with you about a business deal. Said it was confidential, but that you already know most of it."

  "Oh, yeah," Manning replied. "Bascomb works in Washington. Likes to keep a low profile and expects his associates to do likewise."

  "Will you be flying to Washington, sir?"

  "Guess I'd better," he answered. "Might be gone for a few days again."

  "You've been making a lot of trips lately."

  "They've all been necessary," Manning declared.

  "Should Henderson handle things until you get back?"

  "That'll be fine," Manning confirmed as he watched the four motorcycle hoods approach his truck. "I've got a lot to do, Helen. Better get to it. Thanks for everything."

  Manning hung up and emerged from the phone booth. Two of the bikers had climbed into the back of the truck and pawed through Manning's camping gear. A wiry, goat-faced character tried to jimmy the door with a metal strip. A husky ape with a Nazi helmet stood in front of the truck and smiled at Manning.

  "Well, ain't you a big cheese head," the gorilla chuckled. "You one of them Canadian lumberjacks? Just lumber over here, Jack. Let's see how tough you are."

  The others laughed. No single member of the gang would have dared challenge Manning to a fight. The Canadian indeed resembled a lumberjack. Although less than six feet tall, coils of thick muscles strained against the fabric of his checkered shirt and denim trousers.

  Together the bikers had ample courage. They also carried a variety of chains and sheath knives. The Canadian guessed they probably had other concealed weapons, as well. Manning hoped none of them had a gun tucked inside his black leather jacket. The Canadian's .300 Winchester Magnum was locked inside the truck. A .357 snubnose Colt was hidden in a special holster under the front seat. Neither offered much comfort as the unarmed Canadian approached the gang.

  "You guys looking for anything special?" Manning asked, strolling toward the ape-man in front of the truck.

  "We'll take what we want, cheese head," the hood with the jimmy announced. "And that includes your life, sucker."

  Goat face tossed the jimmy aside and drew a Bowie knife from his belt. The husky character reached for a thick steel chain wrapped around his paunchy waist. Manning held up his hands in surrender.

  "Hand over your wallet, cheese head," the goat-faced leader ordered. "Or we'll take it off your fuckin' corpse."

  "I don't want any trouble," Manning replied, lowering his arms.

  Without warning, he lashed out a leg. The gorilla screamed when the steel-capped toe of a boot crashed into his testicles. Manning rushed forward and seized the stunned biker before the ape could free his fighting chain. The Canadian whirled and swung his opponent into goat face, who was about to execute a knife thrust.

  The gorilla screamed again when the blade of the Bowie stabbed into his meaty side. Goat face yanked his knife from his partner's flesh, startled by the fact he had wounded one of his own men. Before he could use the Bowie again, Gary Manning chopped the side of a hand across the hood's wrist. The knife fell from numb fingers.

  Manning quickly rammed the point of his elbow into the biker's solar plexus. The hoodlum gasped as the wind rushed from his tortured lungs. Another elbow smash hit the man on the point of his bearded chin, and the gang leader crumbled to the ground, unconscious.

  Although wounded and suffering considerable pain, the gorilla still made another attempt to free his chain belt. He pawed at the weapon with both hands. This was a mistake, because he did not have time to raise an arm to block the left hook
Manning swung into the side of his head. The ape's head bounced when a right uppercut plowed under his jaw. Manning's left fist punched the big man in the left temple. The gorilla went down for keeps.

  "Jesus, shit," a biker exclaimed as the two remaining gang members leaped down from the back of the truck.

  Manning pivoted to face the pair. One thug had drawn a switchblade. His partner smiled as he held up both arms. The guy wore a pair of leather gauntlets armed with steel studs and spikes, which covered his fists and forearms.

  Spikes attacked first. He jabbed a boxer's left fist at Manning, then slashed his right forearm at the Canadian's skull. Manning sidestepped quickly. The steel-studded limb whipped air inches from the Phoenix Force commando. Manning slammed a karate hammer fist to the small of Spikes's back. The motorcycle hood tumbled headlong to the dust, but his knife-wielding partner kept coming.

  Manning jumped away from a knife slash. Sharp steel slit his shirt and the cold blade scraped his skin. The Canadian hardly noticed the sting of the minor wound. His attention was centered on the knife artist, who executed a deadly thrust for Manning's throat.

  The Canadian dodged the attack and quickly seized the man's arm behind the switchblade. He locked the elbow to apply a straight-arm bar and rammed a knee lift to the biker's abdomen. The knife artist doubled up with a grunt. Before Manning could finish off his opponent, Spikes charged back into the melee and threw a vicious kick for Manning's groin.

  The Phoenix Force pro hauled his captive into the path of the second biker's boot. Spikes kicked his partner right in the mouth. Manning immediately lunged forward and drove the knife man's skull into Spikes's chest. The second goon staggered backward from the blow. Manning's captive sagged. The Canadian clubbed him behind the ear with his fist to be certain the man was unconscious before he released the biker.

  Only Spikes remained. He rushed Manning and swung a desperate steel-studded fist at the Canadian's face. Manning dodged the cestus, and Spikes lashed a sideways forearm stroke at Manning's head. The commando suddenly dropped to one knee and ducked under the attacking limb.

  The Canadian grabbed his opponent's ankles and yanked. Spikes's feet left the ground, and he crashed to earth hard. The man's backbone was still tingling with needles of pain when Manning rose and stamped his boot between Spikes's splayed legs. The biker uttered a single high-pitched shriek and passed out from the tidal wave of agony.

  "By God, that was surely some fight, mister!" an old man's reedy voice exclaimed.

  Manning turned to see a white-haired, wrinkled figure emerge from the store. The old man held a double-barrel shotgun. He smiled at Manning as he tucked the weapon into the crook of his elbow.

  "When I seen the ruckus I loaded my gun," the shop owner declared. "Sorry I took so long. Couldn't recall where I left my bloody shells. Doesn't look like you needed my help, anyways."

  "I was lucky," Manning stated. "Do me a favor and call the police. Have them gather up this trash. I've got a business appointment to keep, but I'll be happy to testify against these scum when I get back."

  "But what should I do if they ask what your name is?" the old man inquired as he watched Manning head for his truck.

  "Tell them the truth," the Phoenix Force powerhouse replied, climbing behind the wheel. "Tell them you don't know."

  4

  Calvin James followed Rafael Encizo around the coral reef off the Florida coast. Although a veteran diver and formerly a member of a U.S. Navy Seal team, James realized that Encizo was the more experienced diver of the pair. He knew he still had a lot to learn, and Encizo was the best frogman and UDT expert James had ever met.

  James had spent a great deal of his twenty-eight years trying to prove himself to others. A black man from the Southside of Chicago, Calvin James had been a fighter all his life. Fistfights with white bigots, knife fights with black punks and the frustrating struggle to overcome poverty had been among his early battles.

  At the age of seventeen, James joined the Navy. He became a hospital corpsman with the elite Seals and saw combat in Vietnam. He was decorated for valor and honorably discharged to continue a career in medicine and chemistry with the help of the GI bill.

  Then criminals struck down his mother and younger sister. Not unlike Mack Bolan, Calvin James went to war against crime. However, unlike the Executioner, James tried to work within the system. He became a police officer and eventually earned a position with the San Francisco SWAT team. Yet James remained a maverick by nature and never really fit in anywhere until Stony Man recruited him for Phoenix Force.

  A medic, frogman, chemist, an expert with small arms and a second dan black belt in tae kwon do, Calvin James was a perfect choice for the unique antiterrorist team. He did not feel he had to prove himself to the other members of Phoenix Force. That had already been achieved during his first mission with the team. But James knew he had to improve his skills and acquire new abilities. Phoenix Force consisted of the very best. And the best never stop trying to get better.

  * * *

  Rafael Encizo paddled his finned feet gently as he swam toward the sandy bottom of the cove. The ocean was filled with life. Polyp flowers jutted from the mud. A variety of brightly colored small fish darted among the sea grass, and an occasional crab cowered into the vegetation to hide from the strange beings in rubber wet suits who had invaded the underwater world.

  The Cuban knew this world well, and he appreciated the fact that man was always an outsider. He thought the ocean was like a woman — beautiful, fascinating and dangerous. A man's survival underwater depended on his keeping his head at all times and following the strict rules that anyone who ventured into the deep must obey. Failure could mean a painful death.

  Encizo was no stranger to danger. He accepted danger as a natural part of life. Thirteen years older I than Calvin James, Encizo's background was even more violent. Virtually his entire family had been slaughtered by the Communists in Cuba. Encizo had fought Castro's brutal minions until he was forced to flee to the United States.

  He was among the freedom fighters who landed on the Cuban shores during the Bay of Pigs Invasion in 1961. Captured by the Communists and held prisoner in El Principe, Castro's infamous political prison, Encizo suffered through days of starvation and torture. But the jailers could not break Rafael Encizo. Instead, he broke a sentry's neck and escaped.

  Encizo returned to the United States, became a naturalized citizen and eventually found employment as an insurance investigator specializing in maritime claims. Before that, the Cuban worked at a variety of jobs, from treasure hunter to scuba instructor and professional bodyguard. Yet he never lost his desire to fight the enemies of freedom and individuality.

  Rafael Encizo was an ideal recruit for Phoenix Force. A veteran of a thousand battles, he was absolutely fearless in combat. He was fanatically loyal to friends and totally ruthless to his enemies.

  * * *

  The men were equipped with Emerson closed-circuit breathing apparatuses. The Emerson had been standard equipment for the United States Navy since 1963, and both Encizo and James were familiar with the unit. Although it had a dry-land weight of thirty-five pounds, the Emerson was surprisingly buoyant underwater. Encizo liked the fact that it was equipped with a maximum self-contained-cylinder oxygen supply of one hundred sixty minutes, though he usually kept training exercises to dives no longer than ninety minutes.

  For Encizo, it was a temptation to stay underwater. The ocean was a thrilling, fascinating realm, unlike anything on the land. Sunlight sparkled like floating diamonds overhead. Colors seemed different, brighter and magnified by the water. Fish and other sea life were constantly moving.

  A diver could never be sure what creatures of the deep he might encounter or how they would react to his presence. Most darted away in fear. Others were curious and swam boldly forward to investigate the strange new visitor to their universe.

  And some considered man to be just another potential meal.

  Encizo saw the firs
t shark in the distance. A six-foot-long gray torpedo, it glided gracefully through the water. Its unmistakable dorsal fin resembled the blade of a knife, as it swam with the swift ease of a predator at home in its stalking ground.

  The Cuban looked at Calvin James. The black man nodded to confirm that he had also seen the shark. Encizo saw James's eyes through the lens of his face mask. James's expression seemed calm. Good, the Cuban thought, Calvin is keeping his head. Good man.

  Anyone who spent much time in the ocean eventually encountered sharks. Experienced divers like James and Encizo learned to take the presence of the great predator fish in stride. Sharks seldom attacked people. There were more than two hundred species of shark, but only nine were known to be man-eaters.

  The tiger shark, however, belonged to that minority.

  Two more tiger sharks appeared. They glided to the first fish, and Encizo and James watched the deadly trio swim in formation, stalking the water for prey. Encizo knew that the killer fish relied on their keen sense of smell. A shark could detect blood half a mile away. This triggered a biochemical that sent a command to the animal's primitive brain to attack. This order was obligatory. The shark had to attack.

  A small octopus sensed danger and floated to the floor of the cove. It crawled to the polyp bed and flattened itself along the surface. The little cephalopod activated its chromatophore cells, which allowed it to change color and blend with the sand.

  Encizo and James could not camouflage themselves at will. They used the next best tactic — they remained perfectly still. Sharks were attracted by movement, and with a little luck the fish would move on to more promising territory and leave the divers to continue their exercise.

  Suddenly a great gray blur shot out from the reef. The monstrous form brushed against Encizo. The Cuban was spun about by the blow and knocked into the coral. Encizo's arm raked the rough surface.