Don Pendleton - Critical Effect

McCarter downed the last of his Coca-Cola in a few swallows, crushed the can and tossed it into a nearby waste receptacle.

“Oh, baby!” a voice called from the cabin. “You’re such a stud. Come over here and give us some love!”

McCarter turned toward the sound of the voice. The fresh and eager visage of T. J. Hawkins gazed at him in mock adoration. Thomas Jackson Hawkins was a straightforward guy with a heart of gold and a Texas accent so smooth it could melt the wills of even the strongest women.

“Don’t write checks your body can’t cash, youngster,” McCarter quipped. “I’ve been doing this kind of thing since just about before you were born.”

“You two settle down or I’ll have to separate you,” Calvin James said from beneath the skullcap pulled over his eyes.

McCarter didn’t doubt the streetwise black man from the south side of Chicago could do it. A former medic, Navy SEAL and member of a San Francisco SWAT team, James had proved his skills as a formidable warrior time and again. When the chips were down, McCarter could think of few men he’d want more by his side.

“Can’t we all just get along?” asked Rafael Encizo.

McCarter jammed a finger in Hawkins’s direction. “He started it.”

“Shut up! ” James demanded. His lack of sleep was taking a toll.

McCarter took a seat and clammed up. He could see the wisdom in resting. The return flight to the States would be long and tedious. McCarter didn’t like being cooped up that long; he enjoyed stretching his legs, which made it difficult to keep still with all that pent-up energy.

Once their plane got airborne, McCarter’s eyes drooped and he laid his head back, eager for a one-or-maybe-two-hour snooze….

M C C ARTER’S EYES SNAPPED open as he felt his pager vibrate against his thigh. He rose quickly from his seat.

“Get it in gear, mates,” McCarter said. “The boss’s calling.”

Everyone knew what he meant. Stony Man, more specifically Barbara Price or Hal Brognola, was signaling that a secured satellite uplink would connect to the high-tech communications systems aboard the Gulfstream jet. They wouldn’t be calling for an idle chat. McCarter had transmitted his mission report to them more than four hours earlier. They either needed some type of immediate clarification or something had come up.

McCarter and the rest of the Phoenix Force warriors quickly made their way to the lounge at the back of the plane. This area also contained a number of LCD and CRT screens with two-way digital cameras. The sensitive electronics package hardwired into the aircraft’s special systems could transmit or receive microwave signals from any location in the world. These high-amplitude transmissions ensured Stony Man could reach Phoenix anywhere and anytime.

T. J. Hawkins fired up the equipment while Encizo put on coffee to brew. They all sat at the table, waiting for the coffee while staring at one another’s bleary red eyes. Gary Manning, a Canadian who served as Phoenix Force’s chief demolitions expert, seemed to be the only one really awake, but probably his immediate rush to grab some sleep following their mission had a good deal to do with that fact.

Harold Brognola and Barbara Price suddenly appeared on screen. Neither looked happy.

“Morning, boys,” Price began. “Sorry about the rude awakening.”

McCarter waved it away. “It’s our lot in life.”

“I know we promised you some R & R as soon as you finished there,” Brognola interjected, “but we’ve got a serious situation on our hands and the Man wants action yesterday. Barbara, why don’t you lay it out for them?”

Price cleared her throat, tucked a strand of honey-blond hair behind her ear and said, “Approximately five hours ago one of our NSA SIGINT stations in Luxembourg intercepted a distress call from a NATO special-operations flight out of Geneva, Switzerland. Just minutes after the call came through, all transmissions ceased and the plane dropped off radar.

“The operative immediately reported the signal to his station chief, who in turn contacted the British RAF, since it was their plane. What none of us or them knew at the time was the exact nature of their mission. The aircraft has since been identified as an SOF C-141 placed under the command of NATO eighteen months ago.”

“Starlifter,” McCarter said. “And that particular nomenclature would indicate it was on special-operations duty.”

Brognola grunted. “That may very well be the understatement of the year.”

“What was their cargo?” Hawkins asked.

“Top secret,” Price replied. “It took officials in the intelligence agencies of nearly ten countries to get that information. Apparently the entire operation had been classified need-to-know. There are apparently some very angry delegates haranguing Britain’s PM this morning.”

“Any idea where the plane went down?” James asked.

“We have a very good idea,” Price replied, “but we’re apparently the first, and not ready to share the information. The President’s chief concern is to guarantee the cargo doesn’t land in the laps of terrorists or other criminal elements. We’re sending the coordinates directly to your navigational computers. Your pilots will get orders to change course immediately and head for the approximate target area.”

“Which is?” McCarter asked.

“German countryside on the western border shared with France. We estimate it’s about forty klicks east of the Rhine River. At best, it’s heavily forested and navigation is treacherous.”

“Nothing like a brisk walk through the woods to get the blood pumping,” Manning quipped.

“You’re such a ray of sunshine in the morning, Gary,” Hawkins cracked.

“Stow it, mates,” McCarter ordered. “Go on, Barb.”

“You’ll want to look for survivors, of course, but your instructions are to secure the cargo at all costs. All other secondary considerations are rescinded.”

“That comes straight from the Oval Office,” Brognola interjected, the gravity of the situation evident in his tone.

“This plane was carrying six highly experimental vehicles called LAMPs, or Low Altitude Military Platforms. We don’t have all the technical specifications yet, but what we do know is they’re apparently remote-controlled dishes, about twenty-five yards in diameter. Preliminary intelligence leads us to conclude these things are weapons-delivery mechanisms.”

“What kind of weapons?” Encizo asked.

Price shrugged. “Just about anything, we’re supposing. Nuclear, biological or chemical. They might also be used as troop transport. Once Aaron’s finished cracking the CERN systems, we’ll be able to send you a much better idea of what you’re dealing with.”

“Is that CERN as in CERN Laboratories?” Hawkins asked.

“Yes,” Brognola said with a nod. “Does that ring a bell with you?”

“Well, CERN specializes in particle physics,” Hawkins replied. “They’re predominantly concerned with scientific research in that arena. There’s a good reason they’re in Switzerland. They’ve always chosen to focus their efforts on peaceful pursuits. I’m surprised they would become involved with any type of military weaponry.”

“Times change,” Brognola countered. “Although I think this development fell more out of some type of research in radio-magnetism. When CERN couldn’t make any use of the things, NATO stepped in and agreed to buy the research and prototypes to pursue the military aspects.”

“Correct,” Price added helpfully. “Originally, we understood the M in LAMP stood for magnetic. ”

“Whatever the bloody things are,” McCarter said, “it sounds like the Man’s right. We can’t afford for something like this to come under hostile control. What’s the bottom line here?”