Don Pendleton - Critical Intelligence

The crystal-clear picture on the screen changed to a swirling mesh of colors based on radiant heat. On the screen the figures beneath camouflage netting showed up immediately. Roughly two dozen individuals moved about, spread over an area the size of a soccer field.

Several bright spots indicated where industrial furnaces were active, and in one section of the field several large vehicles sat clustered in parallel rows. Cool rectangular blobs revealed Quonset huts and long, narrow buildings of concrete and wood.

The tension in the room grew as they waited for the field teams to strike. Barbara Price leaned forward and grabbed the backrest on an office chair. She squeezed it hard until her knuckles shone white from her grip.

Then, on the screen, all hell broke loose.

Stony Man ®

America’s Ultra-Covert Intelligence Agency

www.mirabooks.co.uk

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

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.