Don Pendleton - Terror Descending

Across the entire peninsula, no radio signals were going anywhere, every transmission killed by the powerful jamming field broadcast by Kurtzman from the equipment on board the Hercules. Not even cell phones would operate due to the additional interference of the Stony Man satellite in high Earth orbit.

Just then, a sleek Cessna Skywagon flew past the airfield, the pilot tripping the engines as identification. Down on the concrete airstrip, a bearded man waved a halogen flashlight and suddenly a double string of red lights appeared, edging both sides of the concrete to give the pilot a visual reference for a landing.

Swinging around, the Skywagon soon returned and touched down lightly, rolling to a stop near the rusty metal pole and bedraggled windsock.

Immediately a trio of armed men exited the cinder-block building. One of them was morbidly obese, while the other two resembled weightlifters, their short-sleeved shirts deliberately cut to give their bulging arms some much needed room. The pilot climbed down from the cockpit of the plane, obviously dressed for comfort in a loud Hawaiian shirt, clam-digger shorts and white deck shoes.

As the trio walked closer, he hailed them with a friendly wave, and then had a few private words with the fat man. Finally some money was exchanged and the now-smiling pilot opened the small passenger door and extracted a plastic-wrapped rectangle about the size of a shoe box. Hundreds more of the same items were stacked inside the Skywagon.

Pulling out a switchblade, the fat man clicked it into life and stabbed the thin blade into the block, then pulled it out and licked the metal clean. After a moment he nodded in acceptance, and the other men started ferrying the blocks from the plane to the garage.

“That’s heroin,” James whispered, checking the chemical scanner is his hand. The DEA device was small, but very powerful, however this was at the extreme limit of its range. The only reason he was getting any reading at all was that the blocks were packed solid with heroin, the pure quill, not yet cut to sell on the street.

Impressed, Encizo stopped himself from whistling. There had to be thirty or forty million dollars’ worth of narcotics in the decades-old Skywagon. No wonder the smugglers kept the airfield staffed 24/7.

“Not good enough for a court of law, but good enough for us,” McCarter declared. “Gary, keep Zeus off our back. Everybody else, let’s go make some noise.”

Hefting the Barrett, Manning nodded. “Got your six, Chief.”

Then, as silent as ghosts, the rest of the team eased down the sand dune to merge with the shadows. Skirting around the dune, the Stony Man commandos separated, each going for a different target. McCarter and Hawkins headed for the Cessna, James the garage, and Encizo the main building.

Nearing the outhouse, Encizo went motionless as the door swung open and a big man exited, zipping up his pants. The Cuban slipped up behind the criminal and thrust a knife into his head directly behind the ear. The bearded man went stiff, galvanized motionless from the incredible pain. Then Encizo twisted the blade and the man slumped, dead before he reached the dusty ground. Retrieving his knife, Encizo moved on and quietly dispatched another man standing nearby smoking a cigarette, obviously waiting for the first fellow to finish and get his own turn in the outhouse.

At the garage, James scratched on the door, and gave a low meow. Muttering something in guttural Spanish, somebody inside tromped over to the door and threw it open, a heavy Stilson wrench brandished in a dirty fist. Seeing the Stony Man commando crouching in the darkness, the mechanic registered shock for only a microsecond before the silenced Beretta chugged twice, sending the man reeling back into the workshop. Moving fast and low, James followed close behind, catching the wrench before it fell. As the door swung shut, the commando was inside. The Beretta coughed several more times, and then silence.

“W HAT WAS THAT ?” a guard sporting a scraggly beard demanded, feeding some scraps of loose wood to the fire in the oil drum.

“Nothing. Shut up,” the bald guard replied, opening the plastic wrapping on a granola bar.

“No, I heard something,” the first guard said uneasily, dropping the rest of the scraps into the drum.

“Probably just the boss chatting up the pilot,” the bald man replied curtly, biting off a piece of the bar. Chewing for a moment, he frowned, then swallowed. “He likes to get the news from home fresh.”

“I don’ think so, amigo,” the guard said, grabbing the AK-101 and working the arming bolt.

Instantly a weapon coughed softly, and both men jerked as their lifeblood splashed onto the dirty cinder-block walls. They staggered into each other and the Kalashnikov discharged a short burst, the 7.62 mm hardball rounds punching through the chest of the dying bald man and coming out the other side.

Unexpectedly there came an answering grunt of pain from the direction of the outhouse, and Encizo staggered into the dim firelight, his hands clutching a red belly just underneath his NATO body armor.

“What the fuck was that?” the fat man demanded loudly from beside the Cessna.

Instantly the pilot drew a huge Redhawk .44 revolver from within his Hawaiian shirt, and the two weight lifters each produced a Steyr machine pistol, clicking off the safety with a thumb.

Realizing the need for stealth was over, McCarter and Hawkins fired their silenced pistols at the guards, and the criminals staggered backward, but did not fall. Then they returned fire with the Steyrs, the muzzle-flashes of the little machine pistols strobing the night.

“It’s a raid!” the fat man bellowed, casting aside the brick of heroin and pulling a Colt .45 automatic pistol into view. “Sound the alarm!”

As if that was a cue, the garage suddenly erupted into flames, the door flying off from the force of the detonation of the C-4 satchel charge set by James.

The blast’s concussion was still moving across the airfield when McCarter and James appeared once more, firing their MP-5 machine guns. The barrage of 9 mm hardball ammo hammered the two musclemen backward, until they tumbled onto the concrete, twitching into death.

Wildly cursing in Spanish, the fat man leveled his Colt and started banging away.

Incredibly, the pilot pivoted at the hip and shot the fat man in the back. Slammed hard by the brutal impact of the heavy Magnum round, the dying man haplessly spun the Colt still firing. The pilot flipped over backward, drilled by a .45 hollowpoint round, most of his face gone, teeth and eyes sailing down the landing strip.

“Man down!” James called from the direction of the cinder-block house.

Turning in that direction, McCarter and Hawkins broke into a fast run. But they were only halfway there when a second man appeared from behind the plane, working the arming bolt on a Uzi machine pistol. As he opened fire, McCarter and Hawkins dived apart, and came up shooting their MP-5 machine guns. The 9 mm rounds tore into the Cessna, and aviation fuel gushed onto the concrete. The second gunman shouted in anger, the Uzi raking the darkness, then the window shattered and his head exploded. A split second later, there came the rolling thunder of the Barrett sniper rifle.

As the body dropped, something round and metallic rolled under the Cessna.

Hitting the ground, McCarter and Hawkins barely had time to take cover when the grenade went off. But instead of an explosion, there was a brilliant flash, closely followed by a searing wave of heat that increased geometrically with every passing heartbeat.

“Thermite!” McCarter cursed, protecting his face with a raised hand. “Bastards are burning the drugs!”

“Kind of a moot point now,” Hawkins drawled, dropping an empty clip and reloading the MP-5 with practiced speed. Then he frowned. “Or do you think—”