Critical Effect. Don Pendleton

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