Doom Prophecy. Don Pendleton

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      CHAPTER FOUR

      Rafael Encizo kicked up through the black, murky water and glanced around. As soon as the second motor launch disappeared in a flash of orange flame and splinters, he dived into the harbor. Blinking droplets from his eyes, he looked around. He wasn’t concerned about immersion affecting the MP-5 for its brief dunking, but he wanted to know where his partner Calvin James had disappeared to. Johnstone and the rest of his crew had evacuated the boat, as well, and they were popping up through the surface around him.

      Something grabbed Encizo’s ankle and he felt himself being yanked under again. In the inky-black waters, he could barely see the outline of a shadowy diver who hung on to him. He let go of the machine pistol and let it float on its sling, and pulled his knees tightly up to his chest. The stocky, Cuban-born Phoenix Force commando somersaulted toward his attacker, head and shoulders ramming into the chest of the enemy swimmer.

      The impact and the leverage of Encizo’s tumble combined to pop his ankle free from the underwater killer’s grasp, and the Cuban reached up, hooking his fingers around the hose leading to the diver’s face mask. With a savage kick, he twisted again and hammered his knees into the attacker’s chest, yanking back with all his prodigious strength. While he wasn’t a weight-lifting powerhouse like Carl Lyons or Gary Manning, he was easily the second strongest member of Phoenix Force. His might was enough to tear the mouthpiece from the wetsuited marauder’s lips.

      A knife scythed through the water and deflected off his body armor, Kevlar and water resistance teaming up to save Encizo from being instantly gutted. The swarthy Cuban diving expert pulled his own Cold Steel Tanto knife from its sheath and in a single fluid motion raked the chisel-shaped tip across the face of the killer. The enemy diver thrashed violently as the blade carved through one cheek between his teeth and out the other. An explosion of bubbles and black blood spiraled stormily to the surface.

      Encizo’s lungs were starting to burn, so he knew he had to finish this quickly. A kick to the underwater attacker’s knife arm jarred the enemy blade loose. A hard tug on the hose connected to the swimmer’s tanks and the Phoenix Force diver pulled his foe closer and plunged his knife deep into the joint between the killer’s neck and shoulder. With a quick twist, he’d gotten his knife free, then wrapped his lips around the diver’s mouthpiece. He exhaled and sucked in a fresh lungful of air, the foul taste of the chemicals in a Draeger bubbleless rebreather filling his mouth.

      No wonder the swimmers had snuck up on the boats. He looked around, trying to make sense of the situation, but saw only mayhem as bodies thrashed underwater. Taking another deep breath, he stomped his foot into the chest of the dead attacker and kicked toward the surface, hoping to find James.

      As Encizo broke the surface, he noticed that Johnstone’s remaining forces had been halved yet again. The enemy swimmers had taken them by storm, and the one thing that the Phoenix Force pro knew was that he was a sitting duck if he stayed in the water.

      “Get on board!” Encizo shouted. He drew his Glock 34 and clicked on the Insight Technologies XM-6 gun light with the rocker switch at the front of the trigger guard. He kicked below the surface again and hoped that the 9 mm rounds would have enough punch to take out an enemy, even through water resistance. James and Encizo had tried out the handguns under water, and they fired and cycled reliably while immersed. That, plus their polymer frame and rust-resistant finish, made them seawater-proof. John Kissinger had left one of their Glocks fully loaded at the bottom of a seawater tank for six months, and when he pulled it out, there was only a slight bit of rust. It worked perfectly, and the rust had buffed out.

      But now, using it in underwater combat for the first time, Encizo wondered just how well it would do. He certainly couldn’t swim up to each attacking diver and knife them to death, not before they dragged more of the CIA strike force under to their doom.

      He swung the cone of light toward one diver, who stopped, caught like a deer in the headlights. As far as Encizo was concerned, terrorist season was year round, and he triggered the Glock twice. The 9 mm slugs from the long barrel smacked the killer and tumbled him backward, blood reddening his white light’s glare.