Don Pendleton: Critical Effect

“Find the aircraft, rescue any survivors and secure the cargo until we can send in a multinational extraction team for salvage operations. If for any reason you do encounter a threat, you’re authorized to use whatever force necessary to neutralize the aggression.” Brognola tapped the table. “But don’t go overboard, boys. This one’s very political.”

McCarter waved it off. “Yeah, yeah, isn’t it always.”

“Excuse me if I sound a bit paranoid here,” Calvin James said, “but do we have some reason to think there’s the possibility of a terrorist organization at work behind this plane going down?”

“We don’t know,” Price said. “But we’re taking every precaution given the circumstances under which it disappeared, plus the cargo aboard. My contact with the NSA tells me that plane could have maintained altitude even in the event of an engine failure.”

“So we’re figuring either more than one engine crapped out or someone shot the thing out of the sky,” James concluded with a nod. “Gotcha.”

Encizo sighed. “We also have to consider the possibility of a midair explosion. Maybe a bomb on board.”

“It’s another possibility,” Price admitted, “but we figure less so because of the value of its cargo. If a terrorist organization or other criminal element were involved, one would think they wouldn’t expend that much effort to simply destroy the plane. There are plenty of easier, nonmilitary targets that would work just as well in attracting attention and result in a higher body count.”

McCarter shook his head. “No point in theorizing to death. We’ll make contact as soon as we know something. Anything else?”

“Be careful,” Price said. “You’ll be low-altitude parachuting on this one.”

W ITHIN THE HOUR , Phoenix Force received a signal from the cockpit they had reached the coordinates sent to their navigation systems by Stony Man’s secure satellite downlink. The warriors collected their weapons and equipment, donned their jumpsuits and awaited the all clear to indicate they could proceed with the operation. Hawkins’s parachuting experience nominated him for jumpmaster.

The beacon light went from red to amber, the signal for Phoenix Force to test their static lines in prep for the jump while Hawkins opened the door. They’d gone through this same exercise countless times—in training as well as live missions—to the point they could do it in their sleep.

The light went green and Hawkins pointed to James, who was first in line. James stepped up, slid the line to the jumpmaster and went out the plane without a moment’s hesitation. Encizo followed behind him, just as planned. As soon as they reached ground zero, the pair would set up a perimeter. Hawkins slapped the buzzer on the wall to signal the pilots they should continue on for a minute and then perform a 180 so the rest of Phoenix Force could jump.

Phoenix Force’s commander couldn’t have asked for a more perfect timetable. As he neared the ground at a peak speed of thirty-three feet per second, McCarter could see Encizo and James had established their secure perimeter. Both men knelt behind massive trees on opposing sides of the target zone, watchful for any potential threats. McCarter sucked in a breath and let half out as his feet hit the ground, then he rolled, coming to a standing position in time to watch his chute waft lazily to the ground.

The Briton quickly gathered the parachutes. He could hear Manning and Hawkins hit the ground near him, but he didn’t bother to check on them. If they had suffered any injuries, he knew he’d have heard about it right there and then.

Less than five minutes later, all five men were reunited near the edge of the clearing.

“Fall in on me, mates,” McCarter ordered.

They gathered around him as he knelt and spread a topographical map on the ground. McCarter whipped a compass from a pouch secured to the strap of his equipment harness. He shot a quick azimuth and calculated the approximate distance to the crash site based on the coordinates he’d committed to memory.

“We’re about here,” he finally said, pointing to a spot on the map. “That puts us a fair distance from the crash site, if there even bloody is one.”

“There is,” Hawkins said. “I can feel it.”

“Over this terrain, I figure it’ll take us about an hour to get there,” Manning said after an expert look around.

“Agreed,” McCarter said as he stowed the map and compass. He checked his watch. “We should be able to reach it before 1200 hours.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” James said. “Let’s do it.”

A jangling telephone roused him into semiconsciousness. The second and third rings seemed no less shrill as he turned his face into the mattress and pulled the pillow over his head, intent on ignoring the irritating device. By the sixth ring, he knew whoever had intruded on his slumber didn’t plan to give up. He removed the pillow, lifted his head and glared at the clock.

Blurry green numbers stared back at him.

Dr. Simon Delmico, associate professor of microbiology at Washington University St. Louis, grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, sat up and yanked the phone from the receiver. The coiled cord had become entangled with Delmico’s ceaseless habit of talking and pacing, and he nearly dumped the base onto the floor. He caught it one-handed and dropped it onto the bed as he barked into the receiver.

“Yeah. What? Who the hell is it?”

“Not a very pleasant way to answer the phone,” the caller replied. “Where are your manners?”

Delmico immediately recognized the voice of Choldwig Burke, leader of the Germanic Freedom Railroad. The GFR had a short history, being only a few years old, but it had already built notoriety as one of the finest smuggling operations in all of Europe. Burke didn’t discriminate when it came to his clientele, either. He had a reputation as an intelligent and educated man, and possessed a criminal mastery for aiding and abetting the very worst terrorists in the world. Thus far, Burke’s unit of highly specialized mercenary commandos had smuggled or hidden more than a hundred terrorist members from al Qaeda to the Qa’idat al Jihad.

“What do you want?”

“I’m simply calling to check on an old friend,” Burke replied.

Delmico knew that was crap. “How touching. Now, what do you really want?”

“I thought it might be a good idea to call and advise you of our latest acquisition. We succeeded in liberating the platforms, just as I had hoped. That only leaves me to solicit what you’ve promised me so I may go forward with my plans.”

“That couldn’t have waited until a more civilized hour?” Delmico asked, now able to actually see the time on his clock-radio. “I have to get up and teach this morning, you know.”

Delmico heard something become dark, even ominous, in Burke’s intonation. “Do not presume insolence and belligerence are acceptable to me, Doctor. I would have no qualms about boarding the earliest flight solely for the purpose of coming there and cutting out your tongue. We had an agreement. I’ve proved I can satisfy my end of the bargain. The time grows short for you to capitulate.”

“You don’t have to act like a thug and threaten me,” Delmico recanted, adjusting his glasses on his nose unnecessarily. “I’m merely trying to say I’m still waiting on the final test results. I want to be absolutely certain you’re getting what you’ve paid for.”

Burke sounded more congenial. “Well then, I guess I cannot fault you for a desire to be thorough. Honesty is, after all, the mainstay of our type of work. If we don’t have honor, what do we have? A man without honor cannot even call himself a man, can he?”