Critical Intelligence. Don Pendleton
four-man detachment split off from Able Team and turned toward the lights of the mobile home on the covert runway below.
They descended, death from above.
Carl Lyons craned his neck above and checked the position of Rosario Blancanales and Hermann Schwarz. Both men were strung out in a loose half circle from him, deftly maneuvering their canopies toward the landing zone.
Lyons looked back down after checking the GPS readout next to his altimeter. The ground beneath his dangling feet rushed up toward him. The landing zone was a table-flat stretch of dirt road behind a knife edge of hills half a mile to the east of the runway.
An NRO satellite image series from a month before showed a lightning-strike brush fire had ripped through the area, clearing the light foliage cover and further opening the spot up to an airborne insertion.
Lyons, Blancanales and Schwarz landed in sequence, rolling feet, thighs, shoulder and absorbing the impact in a smooth roll that brought them up to their feet. They functioned quickly, without words, going through a choreographed routine each man knew intimately.
“Ready?” Lyons asked.
“What did Mr. Spock find in the toilet?” Schwarz asked, clicking his safety off.
“Swear to God,” Lyons hissed. “Not another poop joke.”
“The captain’s log,” Schwarz finished. “And don’t trample on my First Amendment rights.”
Blancanales put a restraining hand on Lyons’s arm. “Don’t,” he said. “That crazy son of a bitch has all the explosives on him. If you punch him, he might explode.”
“Let’s just move out, please,” the ex-cop growled.
PHOENIX FORCE crouched in the ditch.
Across the dirt road, light blazed from the trailer’s windows. Occasional shadowed silhouettes passed before the windows. In the front yard two light pickups were parked in a loose L formation in front of the doorway.
A single sentry smoked a cigarette, AKM slung casually over one shoulder.
In the gully, Hawkins laid his crosshairs on the man.
Looking through a pair of light-enhancing binoculars, David McCarter, the Phoenix Force leader, scrutinized the far end of the field where Able Team was slated to remove the vehicle-based sentries. Targets moved in his optics but he caught no sign of Able Team, which was good.
“You good, Hawk?” McCarter whispered.
“Five by five,” the Texan drawled. “Give the word and this ass clown goes down.”
“Phoenix to Able,” McCarter said into his throat mike. “We are in position and prepared to execute.”
There was a moment of silence, then Able Team’s leader responded.
“Copy that, Phoenix. We’re in position. I count three bad guys out here about to go to sleep,” Lyons said.
“Common?”
“I have eyes on one sat phone. That appears to be all, unless they have more equipment inside the vehicles.”
“Roger,” McCarter acknowledged. “Target at will. Phoenix commencing.”
“Able out.” Lyons signed off.
“YOU GOT A CLEAN SHOT on all of them?” Lyons asked in double-check.
The three men lay belly-down on the ground sixty yards out from the terrorist sentry post. Ahead of them the unconcerned trio lounged with a casual sense of security that belied their deadly trade.
“Dead-on,” Blancanales confirmed.
“Ready when you are,” Schwarz said, voice cool as a kitten purring.
Lyons drew himself up to his hands and knees. “Let’s do it,” he grunted.
The deadly three-man squad leaped to their feet and began moving forward. Their M-4 carbines were up and tucked tightly into their shoulders as they stalked ahead, moving heel to toe.
Ahead of them one of the narcoterrorists leaped forward, waving his hand in the air and loudly braying like a donkey. The man thrust his hips forward in a piston action and brought his swinging hand down in a spanking motion.
The other three South Americans began laughing uproariously at the theatrical antics of their comrade in arms. One of them turned sideways, folding over at the waist, and began slapping the hood of his truck.
Lyons filled his sight with the wildly undulating comedian.
His finger took up the slack on his carbine and from thirty yards out the 5.56 mm round cracked as he fired. The back of the man’s head exploded, spraying bits of blood, brain and bone into the air.
The man crumpled forward like a rag doll into the dirt between the vehicles.
Beside Lyons, in a loose flying-wedge formation, both Blancanales and Schwarz triggered their weapons. The rifles cracked in unison and the flanking guerrilla sentries were thrown backward, 3-round bursts slinging loops of blood into the air.
The terrorist who’d been convulsing in laughter on the hood of his truck looked up in surprise at the weapons discharging.
The Able Team warriors sprinted forward, long strides eating up ground at a furious pace. The terrorist cast around him in bewilderment, his expression wavering between terrified and incredulous.
He fumbled for the AKM on a shoulder strap, the weapon shaking in his frightened grasp. Some sense of impending danger alerted the FARC death merchant and he looked up. His eyes grew wide as he saw the three blacked-out commandos charging toward him.
“Dios mio,” he whispered, rifle forgotten.
Three M-4 carbines fired as one from a distance of less than fifteen yards.
“TAKE HIM,” McCarter instructed.
Hawkins fired before the Briton finished his sentence. His silenced M-4 chuffed once. A single smoking 5.56 mm casing popped out of the weapon’s breech and arced through the air.
The sentry staggered backward as if he had just been punched in the chest. The man looked down, shock on his face, and his cigarette tumbled from his lips.
The man toppled over backward and disappeared from view behind one of the trucks. Hawkins’s spent shell casing hit the ground of the drainage ditch and came to rest.
“Go! Go! Go!” McCarter barked. The ex-SAS veteran jumped up, carbine at the ready, and charged toward the trailer. Behind him the remaining three members of Phoenix Force instantly followed.
Fifty yards back, Rafael Encizo covered their rear security.
As they sprinted forward the unit automatically split off into two teams of two. McCarter and Hawkins ran for the front door, while Calvin James and Gary Manning peeled off to target the rear door of the structure. As they ran closer they could make out the faded white paint and black lettering reading Doctors Without Borders.
In a bitter twist of irony the mobile home was the stolen remnant of some forgotten humanitarian mission.
McCarter hugged the front of the trailer as he ran, weapon up and sighted in on the front door. Behind him Hawkins jogged with his weapon at a higher angle, covering the windows.
From down the runway the sounds of Able Team firing could be clearly heard.
McCarter ran up to the metal steps suspended below the front door of the trailer and spun around them. He kept the light carbine up and ready with the muzzle covering the entrance as his left hand went to the suspender of his H-harness web gear and jerked an M-67 fragmentation grenade free.
Hawkins put his back against the trailer, muzzle of his own M-4 pointed upward as he reached out with his left hand and put it on the doorknob. He met McCarter’s eyes. The fox-faced Briton nodded once.
Hooking