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CHAPTER FOUR
David McCarter knelt in a large, mushy patch of moss that had started life on a nearby large rock and spread beneath the shade of a massive pine. Dry breezes rustled the leaves in the upper branches of the tallest trees, causing sun spots to reform and reshape themselves.
Phoenix Force had come to a stop on a precipice that overlooked the crash site. The plane lay about fifty yards below them in a massive clearing with its port side visible; its jagged, broken hull jutted silent and still from the ground. The entire T-shaped tailfin had been smashed inward against one of the largest trees McCarter had ever seen. The port wing had been snapped from the plane, probably on impact. The deep gouges in the soft terrain of the clearing bore evidence of exactly where the plane had come down and how it had ended up in such an odd position.
McCarter brought a pair of binoculars to his eyes, although he didn’t really need to see it up close to know they had found the missing bird. Markings all along the plane clearly identified it as a NATO aircraft. McCarter squinted to make out the large, white writing just below the cockpit windows obscured by mud and grass: GpCpt W. M. Blythe, RAF.
“W. M. W—” McCarter lowered the binoculars. “Welby Blythe? Aw, bloody hell.”
Encizo immediately noticed the faraway look in the Briton’s eyes. “What is it, David? Look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“Nothing,” McCarter said, shaking himself back to the present. “It may be nothing.”
“It doesn’t sound like nothing, Chief,” Hawkins pressed.
“Let’s just drop it for now, okay, mates?” McCarter snapped.
Manning broke the uncomfortable silence that followed McCarter’s uncharacteristic reaction and nodded toward the plane. “I’d say the fastest way to get there would be to rappel straight off this overlook.”
“Agreed,” McCarter said. “Set it up.”
The five men shrugged out of their day packs and immediately began to prepare for a rappelling operation. Manning and McCarter had the most experience with it, so they would take belay man and safety positions, respectively. Manning quickly retrieved two ropes and tied them to the base of a thick trunk nearest the knoll in a double figure-eight knot. McCarter and Hawkins nailed in pitons while Encizo and James cinched themselves into rappelling harnesses.
When they were ready, Manning donned his own harness and went down the side of the treacherous rocky outcroppings. Despite the danger of sharp and jagged rock protrusions, Manning made his controlled descent in as carefree a fashion as if he’d been sipping cocktails beneath a poolside cabana. The Canadian was about as rugged as they came.
McCarter assisted James as he straddled the ropes and prepared to go down next. The fox-faced Briton put his hand to his mouth. “On belay!”
“Belay on!” Manning echoed.
“On rope!” James shouted.
“Rappel on!” Manning replied.
“Rappelling!” James called, and he pushed away from the cliff.
The Phoenix Force warriors continued in this way: next came Encizo, then Hawkins and finally McCarter. One by one they went down the ropes, and soon all were reunited at the bottom. The Phoenix Force commander ordered the team to fan out as they approached the plane. While he couldn’t exactly have called their rappelling operation stealthy, he didn’t think it safe to assume the plane crash had been the product of an accident. Given its cargo, McCarter could understand Stony Man’s reservations in leaving this to outside agencies. It would either turn out to be something or it wouldn’t, and if they relied on foreign powers to deal with the situation, it could turn out to be a huge public embarrassment.
Encizo and Hawkins approached on the starboard flank, Manning and James on port and McCarter up the center. They emerged from the brush after a low-pitched whistle from the Phoenix Force leader, and converged rapidly on the plane. McCarter reached it first. He knelt just aft of where the shattered wing had broken away, and swept the area with the muzzle of his MP-5 SD-6. Nobody rose to challenge him.
McCarter watched with interest as Manning and James approached the plane roughly parallel to its nose cone. They moved silently, dwarfed by the hulking shell of the Starlifter’s fuselage. McCarter signaled them to skirt the nose of the plane while he moved in a crouch beneath it and came up on the side of the Encizo-Hawkins team a moment later. What he saw at that moment caused his jaw to drop. A better portion of the plane’s body had been completely cut away by torches. The charred remains of humans were scattered throughout the plane. Some of them were unrecognizable, but McCarter quickly spotted one body attired in clothing that had partially survived the scorching. The sleeve of the corpse’s shirt bore the patch of the Special Air Service.
The remainder of the carnage sickened the Phoenix Force warriors. They had seen such things many times, but none of them could ever say they had grown accustomed to it. Flies and other insects buzzed lazily around the bloated bodies. They could see dried patches of blood on the interior of the port-side fuselage. The back end had been mangled, twisted and mashed into an unrecognizable collage of metal and fiberglass. The cargo, if there had been any, was long gone.
James whistled softly. “Looks like something out of Hotel Rwanda. ”
“I’d say this was no accident,” Hawkins said.
“Yeah, but what the hell did happen?” Manning wondered.
“Whatever’s happened here, it was no bloody accident,” McCarter replied. “And whoever’s behind it is damn sure not friendly.”
Encizo walked away for a minute as James and Hawkins climbed up and into the fuselage to make a more thorough inspection. Hawkins brought out his digital camera and took shots of the most important elements. Stony Man would need that as proof positive for the President and his advisers. Kurtzman would also be able to use it as evidence in detecting who had committed such an atrocity.
Encizo returned a minute later. “I looked at the other side of the plane, and also went to study that broken wing. It’s clear they went down due to a double-engine failure, but there’s little doubt as to why. There are unoxidized cordite burns on both the port engines.”
McCarter looked straight to Manning. “Explosives?”
The Canadian nodded and in a matter-of-fact tone replied, “Probably.”
“Plus, let’s consider the fact the other side of this plane is intact,” Encizo continued. He stepped up to the edge of the massive opening and ran the edges carefully between his fingers. “This puppy was cut, probably with an acetylene torch. There’s no way this happened as the result of the crash.”
“David,” James called from the plane. McCarter looked up and the medic jerked his head in the direction of the cockpit. “I think you’re going to want to see this.”
McCarter hoisted his body up and into the plane, moving past James in the direction of the cockpit. He stuck his torso through the cockpit door and studied the interior. The copilot’s head dangled awkwardly from his neck, and a safety harness suspended his slumped body. Both men in the navigator’s chairs were dead, one with a considerable amount of dry blood on and around him, which made it damn difficult to determine cause of death. A quick inspection of the other man revealed a bullet hole between the eyes. The whole enclosure smelled of death. McCarter turned and walked back to where his comrades stood and waited for him.
McCarter jumped to the ground and said, “Captain’s missing.”
James nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
“You’re sure?” Hawkins asked.
“I was serving as crew and mission specialist aboard these puppies while still working with the SAS, T.J.,” McCarter said. “Crew complement for these birds is four. There are three bodies in that cockpit, and none of them is wearing the rank of a group captain.”
“I saw one had been shot execution-style,” James noted. “You think the pilot might have been in on this?”
McCarter shook his head. “No bloody way, mate. He’s either among the burned bodies there, or whoever took the cargo took him, as well.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” Encizo said. “We’d better get Hal up to speed on this pronto.”
The air suddenly filled with the whip-crack reports of automatic weapons fire, and the Phoenix Force warriors wasted no time getting bellies to the ground. Bullets buzzed over their heads, a few burning the air with a whine as others ricocheted off the broken skin of the aircraft. McCarter and Manning crawled beneath the plane for cover while Encizo, James and Hawkins rose and sprinted for the shelter of the wood line. A fresh salvo of rounds took out tree limbs and zinged overhead, raining leaves on the warriors.
Hawkins happened to grab the cover of the same giant fallen log as Encizo. “Guess this removes any doubt about hostiles involved.”
“I’d say so,” Encizo retorted as he unslung his MP-5 and put the weapon in battery with a quick jerk of the charging handle. “Well, we can’t afford to sit here and wait. They still have David and Gary pinned down.”
“Agreed. I’m open to suggestions,” Hawkins replied.
“We should head along the tree line, see if we can outflank them.”
“Roger that.”
Encizo looked a few lengths over and spotted James, his back to a tree trunk, readying his own weapons for action. He managed to get the warrior’s attention and, using a series of hand signals, communicated the plan. James returned it with the okay signal and indicated he’d provide covering fire. It would require time to get into a flanking position, and James couldn’t afford to expend all of his ammo, even if Manning and McCarter could provide additional support. Still, he only had to keep them occupied a few minutes.
Encizo and Hawkins got to their feet, moved deeper into the darkness of the woods, then set off at a furious pace. James watched them go, counted to three and dashed from the cover of the tree to the back of the plane. He happened to be carrying Phoenix Force’s squad weapon, the Colt M-16 A-2. While it used the gas-driven, rotating Stoner bolt, it had a loaded weight nearly three pounds lighter than an empty M-60 E-3 machine gun. Its high-capacity box magazine, wrapped beneath the magazine well just aft of the heavier barrel and thicker hand guards, held a hundred rounds of 5.56 mm NATO ammunition.
James dropped to his stomach, flipped down the bipod and steadied the weapon by locking the butt against his shoulder and pressing his cheek to the stock. He set his sight post on the general area where he spied an occasional muzzle-flash and returned fire. The reports hammered in his ears as the weapon dispensed a cyclic fusillade of 700 rounds per minute at a muzzle of velocity of 900 meters per second.
The intensity of fire decreased with James’s assault, and during two sustained bursts he called for Manning and McCarter to get out of there. The pair didn’t have to be told a second time. James continued to lay down covering fire while his comrades jumped to their feet and rocketed for the edge of the woods.
McCarter crawled up on James’s six and slapped him on the back. “Thanks for that, mate.”
James stopped long enough to say, “Don’t mention it.”
“What’s the sitrep on T.J. and Rafe?” Gary Manning asked.
“They split off, headed out to greet our new friends from the back end.”
McCarter nodded. “Nice thinking. But I wish to hell they would have checked with me first.”
James cast a sideways glance at McCarter. “You were a little busy right then.”
“Excuses, excuses,” McCarter said, but the grin told the real story.
The Briton turned to Manning. “Let’s spread out along this perimeter to see if we can keep them occupied long enough to buy our boys the time they need.”
Manning nodded as he produced his Galil 7.62 mm sniping rifle. Through the years, Manning had come to appreciate the IMI-made weapon for its versatility. It chambered the 51 mm NATO round, but the four-groove rifling provided optimum stability and made it one of the most accurate sniping rifles of its kind. Manning had found this a chief advantage since the weapon could double as a standard assault rifle, formidable at 650 rounds per minute.
Manning sprinted through the woods until he was about a hundred yards from his friends. He crouched and reached the wood line, settled in and set up the rifle on a bipod. Manning removed the covers protecting the Nimrod 60-power scope and brought his eye within inches of it. He watched carefully, pushing the sounds of autofire from his mind. Manning scanned the trees, high at first and then low to the ground.
The first target came into view.
The big Canadian put the green crosshairs of the reticule on his target’s skull. He could almost make out the color of the man’s eyes through the powerful scope. The guy kept ducking his head, moving it up and down in an attempt to find a target. He appeared to be fixated on McCarter’s and James’s positions. Manning figured he’d get maybe three or four of them before they’d pinpoint his position. He took a deep breath, counted to four, let out half and squeezed the trigger. The enemy gunman’s head exploded in a crimson cloud that seemed to erupt from his neck as the guy’s skull caved under the impact.
Manning swung the muzzle to the right and left in search of his next target.
R AFAEL E NCIZO AND T .J. Hawkins made excellent time.
In just eight minutes, the Phoenix Force commandos had managed to flank their enemy. Eight minutes could turn into what seemed like hours under heavy fire, but Encizo could only hope his friends had maintained a foothold on their area. In another moment or two, they would hopefully turn the tables on their attackers. The ever-increasing sounds of autofire signaled they drew nearer to the enemy’s position. Encizo called a halt and the two came together to confer.
“I’d say maybe twenty meters ahead?” the little Cuban said.
Hawkins nodded. “Sounds about right. It’s your show. How do you want to do this?”
“I’ll go right and you go left. About a hundred meters. If you catch them bunched up, use grenades. Otherwise, we’ll have to pick them off one at a time.”
“Cool,” Hawkins said.
Encizo flashed him a grin. “Good luck, amigo.”
“Same to ya’ll,” Hawkins said, and he whirled and disappeared into the deep brush.
Encizo made distance to the agreed point and then swung around at the sounds of weapons fire, carefully estimating approximate positions. He could really hear the shooting now, and the woods had started to thin, growing lighter as he drew near the wood line. The smell of gunpowder tickled his nostrils, and a moment later Encizo stopped dead in his tracks. Directly ahead lay the first target, planted on his belly behind a bipod-mounted machine gun. The Cuban grimaced, cursing himself for not being more alert.
He’d been closer to the wood line than he originally thought.
Encizo reached to his equipment harness and withdrew a Cold Steel Tanto combat knife as he quietly slung his weapon on his left shoulder, barrel down. He crouched, looked around one more time, then charged his opponent and threw himself prone. The enemy gunner detected something was wrong, but he did so a moment too late. Encizo was on him. The man tried to resist, but his attempts died with him as Encizo plunged the combat knife deep into the side of the man’s neck, slicing through tendons and arteries.
Encizo waited until the man stopped struggling beneath him and then removed the knife and wiped it clean. He stowed it back in its sheath and rose just a moment before he heard the slap of footfalls crunching leaves and sticks. Encizo whirled and whipped up his MP-5, bringing the weapon to bear just in time to prevent his opponent from cutting him in two.
The machete glanced off the barrel of the SMG with a loud metallic clang that seemed to reverberate through the woods. Encizo whipped the stock around and caught his opponent with a blow to the temple. He followed up with a front kick to the knee. The man’s leg gave only partially and yet the distraction proved enough to grant Encizo the advantage. The MP-5 would not be viable in such close-quarter combat, but that didn’t stop Encizo from reaching to his thigh and unleathering his Glock 21.
Encizo squeezed the trigger at point-blank range and put a bullet through the man’s upper lip. The impact ripped away a good part of his jaw and punched him backward to the ground.
T HE SINGLE PISTOL SHOT from the enemy’s area of operation seemed out of place enough to draw their attention in the direction Encizo had gone.
Hawkins knew he couldn’t worry about that, however—he had his own battle to fight. That battle started off all wrong as he somehow managed to get bushwhacked by a treetop observer. He hadn’t thought to look for such a trap, and the force with which he’d been knocked to the ground and set upon clearly demonstrated his mistake.
Still, Hawkins had survived worse experiences.
The Phoenix Force warrior seemed to have two things his opponent did not: speed and experience. Hawkins quickly recovered the initial blow by bringing his head back and catching his adversary square on the nose. Hawkins felt the warm blood pepper his head and ears as he came away, and the arm wrapped around his throat loosened its hold considerably. Rising to one knee, Hawkins bucked his lower back and sent his opponent sailing over him. He immediately executed a somersault and came down on the man’s chest with the heel of his boot. All remaining fight in his opponent dissipated.
Two men who had been up on the wood line firing toward his friends left their positions and swung their weapons toward him. Hawkins responded with catlike reflexes, rolling to his left in time to avoid a hail of gunfire. He came out of the roll on one knee. The muzzle of his Colt Model 635 flashed as 9 mm Parabellum rounds punched holes through the pair of enemy gunners. One took a full burst to the belly, which ripped out his guts. The second gunner caught two rounds to the head, which nearly decapitated him.
A sudden, violent explosion erupted nearby, and Hawkins hit the ground in anticipation the next one would be closer. All at once, it seemed as if all sound ceased—as though someone had stopped the world via remote—and Hawkins didn’t move for a full minute. He waited and listened, watched for additional enemy, but there were no further outbreaks of autofire.
It looked like the battle had ended.
Hawkins rose and went to the side of the man who’d jumped him. He felt for a pulse at the man’s neck and quickly determined he’d live. Hawkins raised his rifle at the crunching approach of feet but Encizo quickly came into view.
“It’s me, Rafe,” he said loudly and clearly. “Don’t get itchy.”
Hawkins pointed downward at the unconscious form.
“Looks like you managed to take one alive,” Encizo said. “That’ll make the other boys real happy.”
“If he talks,” Hawkins said.
Encizo’s smile lacked any warmth. “Oh, he’ll talk. Cal will see to that.”
“How many did you get?”
“Two under small-arms, three more by grenade.”
“I took out those two over there,” Hawkins replied, gesturing in the direction of the deceased. “Including this one, that puts the count at eight. That’s not many.”
“Enough for an ambush. Any ID on them?”
Hawkins shook his head. “Haven’t had the chance to check yet.”
“Well, I’ll go gather up the rest of the boys while you do that.”
As Encizo turned to leave, Hawkins called, “Hey, Rafe?”
“Yeah?”
“Hell of a good call you made here.”
The Cuban warrior just grinned, nodded, then headed off to give his teammates the all-clear signal.
