Critical Intelligence. Don Pendleton

      “Negative,” Lyons replied. “To your five o’clock I have the command bunker.”

      McCarter looked in the direction Lyons had indicated and, as if to punctuate the ex-cop’s directions, Schwarz put an 80 mm mortar round down on top of a jet-black armored BMW SUV parked near a concrete structure. The luxury sport vehicle went up like a Roman candle. A moment later another mortar went off.

      “I have eyes on bunker,” McCarter answered. Beside him Gary Manning mowed down three FARC soldiers attempting to set up an RPK machine gun.

      “Good,” Lyons replied. “Blancanales said he scoped our target entering the bunker twenty minutes ago.”

      “En route,” McCarter confirmed.

      Machine-gun fire erupted from just ahead and to the left of them. Bullets cut toward the assault force in a lethal wave. The concussive force of the heavy-caliber rounds cutting through the air next to their bodies buffeted Phoenix Force and they all went down in defensive sprawls.

      “Machine gun, left!” Encizo called out.

      The team looked toward the position and saw a reinforced foxhole with a sandbag roof. A .30-caliber machine gun burped out another burst as the gunner tried to find his range.

      Manning, armed with his own machine gun, cut loose, trying to suppress the other gunner’s fire. His bullets gouged up furrows of earth just in front of the position and slapped into the dirt-filled sandbags, causing the FARC machine gunner to flinch.

      Encizo lifted the barrel of his SAW and added to the maelstrom of fire.

      McCarter used the barrage as cover enough to risk popping up to one knee. He tucked the butt of his M-4 into his shoulder and triggered his M-203 attachment. A 40 mm fléchette round shot from the barrel and arched like football into the enemy position.

      A heavy bang sounded and smoke began roiling. Razor-sharp fléchette darts scissored into the machine gunner and his assistant, cutting the men to bloody ribbons.

      Phoenix rose as one unit, weapons up. Manning stepped forward and unleashed the M-60E in a wide arc in front of them, spraying the camp in a crescent-moon pattern designed to keep other defenders from gaining momentum.

      “Bunker!” McCarter yelled. “Gary and Rafe, cover!”

      The two machine gunners ran forward and threw themselves down to give themselves overlapping fields of fire. Behind them the other three members of Phoenix Force prepared to storm the bunker.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      Inside the FARC command bunker Lieutenant Colonel Sin-Bok could hear the men outside screaming as they died. He was out of the way, in a corner, holding tightly to his attaché case and a .45-caliber M-1911 pistol Naranjo had provided him once the attack started.

      Outside, bullets struck the bunker and everyone heard them bounce off the concrete. All eyes kept glancing toward the barred and reinforced door at the front of the structure. It was the only way out or in.

      If the North Korean was going to make an escape, his only option was out through that door. When the raiders outside came, it would be in through that same door. Sin-Bok’s entire world had shrunk to a four-foot-by-three-foot piece of steel hung on reinforced storm hinges.

      Across the room Naranjo cursed loudly and threw his sat phone to the ground. It burst apart on the hard-packed floor, plastic pieces spraying out like shrapnel. The other group of people trapped in the bunker cringed at his outburst.

      “I can’t get a signal out!” Naranjo shouted. “They’re fucking blocking communications.”

      “Who?” Sin-Bok demanded. It made a very real difference who they were. “Is it your government?”

      Realizing immediately what Sin-Bok feared, Naranjo scowled and shook his head. “No,” he said. “All we’ve seen are norteamericanos, maybe Europeans. I do not think these are Colombian Jaguars,” he finished, referencing the Colombian military’s elite unit.

      “Then the flash drive has to make it out,” Sin-Bok said.

      Naranjo opened his hands and looked around in question.

      Salvation didn’t appear to be within reach. Sin-Bok quickly looked around the bunker again. He saw a fourteen-year-old girl in oversize fatigues and holding a ridiculously outsize M-16. Her brown eyes were almost comically big.

      FARC, like most Third World insurgencies, recruited heavily from younger members of their impoverished society. Sin-Bok, who had been raised and conditioned since birth to put nation before self, understood this. He also understood how abhorrent the concept of child soldiers were to the Western powers.

      “You,” he barked. “Come here!”

      The girl started when she realized he was pointing toward her. She cut her gaze to Naranjo, who, confused, nodded. As the girl began crossing the room, a burst of gunfire slammed into the bunker door.

      “They’re coming!” Sin-Bok snapped. “Hurry! Now, someone give me a condom.”

      Naranjo looked as if he’d been slapped. “This is hardly the time for—”

      “Shut up, you fool,” Sin-Bok snarled. “The flash drive must get out. I need a condom.”

      Despite being born to a heavily Catholic country, many of the FARC soldiers, heavily influenced by secular Marxist ideals, had a prophylactic on their person. Rubbers were as ubiquitous as cigarettes among soldiers.

      Working quickly, Sin-Bok tore open the wrapping and pulled the lubricated sleeve free.

      He dropped the flash drive inside the condom and quickly tied a knot in the end. He handed it back to the girl. She held it out in her hand as if it was a snake. She looked back at the North Korean.

      Sin-Bok waved his hand at her. “Hurry, hurry.”

      Shrugging, the girl leaned her M-16 against a table and began pulling at her belt buckle to loosen her pants.

      “No, no, no!” Sin-Bok yelled. “Swallow it, you idiot!”

      The girl made a face but quickly slid the material into her mouth and swallowed hard. She gagged once and coughed, then was done. Satisfied, Sin-Bok stepped up close and grabbed her by her thin arms.

      Pulling her close, the North Korean locked eyes with the frightened girl. “Listen close,” he instructed. He spoke an address in Bogotá to the girl, made her repeat it. “Now get naked. Go to the corner and do not fight. If the Americans make it through and we lose, pretend you were kidnapped. Then, later, you get that flash drive to the address I just gave you.”

      “Seven must prevail,” Naranjo muttered from over the Korean’s shoulder.

      “Seven must prevail,” Sin-Bok agreed.

      OUTSIDE THE BUNKER DOOR the Phoenix Force entry team prepared for the final assault.

      Manning and Encizo formed anchor points on opposite sides of their skirmish line. Up on the hill Able Team provide a second level of security overwatch. The battlefield was spread out below them like a chessboard. Jack Grimaldi, from a standoff position, continued to use his missiles and machine gun to devastating effect along the periphery of the compound.

      Calvin James let his main weapon hang loose from its strap as he manipulated an industrial caulking gun. Beside him Hawkins presented timing pencils with preset timers.

      McCarter surveyed the iron door as James and Hawkins prepped the demolition charges, a grenade in one hand. “Quarter-inch internal hinges, likely with reinforcement points at the latch and corners,” he said.

      James nodded. “I brought a big hammer just in case,” he said.

      The foam shape charge squirted out of the caulking gun like icing from a chef’s pastry applicator. With expert dabs and straight lines the ex-SEAL wasted no time in positioning his charge at the most precise