Critical Intelligence

Critical Intelligence

PROLOGUE

The CV-22B Osprey hung over the South American landscape like a nocturnal bird of prey.

The CV-22B was the Air Force version of the more famous Marine Corps Vertical Take Off Landing troop transport. Outfitted with extended-capacity fuel tanks, the CV was designed for long-range reconnaissance work or deep-penetration raids.

Jack Grimaldi and Charlie Mott worked the controls of the aircraft, navigating it across the jungle at the upper range of its flight ceiling. In the cargo area were the men of Phoenix Force and Able Team, elite commandos from Stony Man Farm, the ultrasecret extrax legal agency based in Virginia.

The Stony Man warriors were outfitted with military free-fall parachutes. They would be the advance force for phase one of the assault operation.

Grimaldi’s voice came over the intercom. “Boys, we’re rolling hot over the LZ. Commence final prejump checks.”

Both tactical teams rose from their sling seats and began, for the third time, to check the harness and fittings of their jump buddy’s parachute.

Once his check of Gary Manning was done, David McCarter looked to Carl Lyons, who gave him a thumbs-up. Around them the air was rich with the smell of engine heat and the noxious scent of aviation fuel.

“We’re up and ready, Jack,” McCarter said into his throat mike.

“Copy,” Grimaldi replied. “Line up. Charlie’s dropping the ramp now.”

Gary Manning finished off a chocolate bar in two bites and fell in behind McCarter as Calvin James and T. J. Hawkins lined up after him. Able Team took point position next to the exit, where a Stony Man jumpmaster stood ready.

Outside, the night sky, a cloudless color of indigo, stretched away into the horizon. Above the jumpers and to their right an indicator light blinked from amber to green.

The jumpmaster’s hand came down on Carl Lyons’s shoulder, slapping it hard enough to make a pop over the drone of the Osprey’s engines. Like a sprinter out of the blocks the ex-LAPD detective surged forward.

In a modified waddle against the bulk and weight of his parachute, rucksack and weaponry Lyons hit the ramp fast, rushed to the edge and plunged off without hesitation. Behind him in a line resembling lethal penguins the night fighters of Able Team and Phoenix Force followed.

The updraft struck Lyons hard enough to push his goggles against his face. He went into a spread-eagle position and carefully spun around so that he could get a visual on the circling Osprey. The Stony Man commandos shot out of the back, one after the other like Olympic cliff divers going for gold.

The jump was a down-and-dirty and within seconds the Cypress II electronic automatic activation devices began deploying the parachutes. Lyons grunted softly as his harness jerked up tight into his body under the brake of the opening chute. His feet swung out wide and he let his rucksack fall to the end of its tether.

Below him he quickly identified the lights of their initial target.

“Ironman to team,” Lyons said into his throat mike, using his nickname. “I have eyes on objective Alpha to southwest,” he finished.

“Copy,” each man answered in reply.

McCarter fell through the quiet with only the rush of wind and the rustle of silk to break the silence. On his wrist altimeter the meters dropped off at the speed of gravity. He felt like a meteorologist in the deceptively peaceful eye of a tornado.

At the one-thousand-foot mark the details of the objective resolved into sharper relief. The landing strip was suitable for small planes and had been carved with a powerful bulldozer out of the jungle.

Utilized by narcoterror cells operating out of the coca fields of South America, the runway had a prefabricated home at one end and a 4x4 Nissan pickup outfitted with a roll bar of lights at the other end.

All a pilot had to do to land an illicit load was to put his plane down between the two illuminated spots. The runway itself was guarded by narcoguerrillas affiliated with FARC commanders.

And, unbeknownst to themselves and Stony Man, the global network known simply as Seven.

McCarter eyed his altimeter. At the appropriate height he initiated the command. “Phoenix, we are at mike mark. Execute!”

“Copy.” The team reply sounded off simultaneously.

Instantly, the other four members of Phoenix Force pivoted hard and pulled their risers against the drag of their parachutes.

The 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.