Eyes of the Hammer

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Riley picked at his breakfast as he surveyed the main isolation room. The gear was packed and Eyes One was almost ready to go. At 1300 they would ride over to the airfield. They had done their initial coordination with the aircrew the previous evening. All that was needed was to rig the aircraft prior to takeoff at 1400.

The schedule today called for a few items to be accomplished prior to departure, the major ones being weapons firing and zeroing and a final sterilization check.

Riley had had a hard time falling asleep last night. He'd run the mission through in his mind innumerable times, looking at it from different angles, trying to find a mistake or some possibility they had overlooked. While tossing and turning, he'd also spent some time evaluating himself. He knew his strengths. He was an expert shot with both the pistol and submachine gun. He was proficient in the martial arts and in excellent shape. He was experienced in Special Forces operations. He felt he was a good leader who utilized the strengths of his men effectively and worked around their weaknesses.

Absently rubbing the two pockmarks that adorned his lower right stomach, Riley continued his self-analysis as he sipped his coffee. He considered another advantage that only Powers and he shared: both had been in the heat of combat. Although Riley's combat experience had lasted less than a week, it had impressed upon him the difference between training and the real thing. He hoped the other four members of Eyes One would react well when it occurred.

Riley put away his worries for now. He'd find out soon enough.

Having finished what he could eat of his breakfast, Riley sought out Powers. "Let's do another equipment check. This time you look at the rucks, and I'll do weapons and personal gear."

Powers nodded. They lined up the men and rucksacks in the hallway, leaving the isolation area to Eyes Two. Riley checked the people while Powers went through the rucksacks.

Each man was dressed in unmarked green jungle fatigues, a common enough outfit for paramilitary people throughout Central America. They wore jungle boots — leather boots with canvas sides. For headgear they would wear the radio helmets. This wasn't something they were used to but it shouldn't be a problem. Most carried gloves of one sort or another. Riley used flight gloves, of thin leather and Nomex. Although it would be warm where they were going, the gloves were useful in negotiating the vegetation and handling hot weapons if it came down to that.

Over his fatigues, each man wore a nylon mesh combat vest that fastened in the front with Velcro. Hanging on the vest were two one-quart canteens, ammunition pouches for extra magazines, a strobe light, a knife, a pistol, and a small butt pack that held critical supplies.

Every man carried a knife of his own choosing. Riley had managed to break most of the men of the habit of carrying a big, Rambo-type knife. Such a weapon might be useful if the bearer got into a sword fight with a Roman gladiator but was next to worthless for what most combat knives are used for — silent killing. Riley himself carried a slender, double-edged, six-inch-long commando knife. He maintained the edges in razor-sharp condition. The thinness of the blade allowed it to penetrate between bones — whether in the back, chest, or neck. The double edges meant he could slash in either direction without having to fumble around in the dark.

For a personal side arm each man carried the Beretta 9mm semiautomatic pistol on his combat vest. The Berettas were the same as those being issued in the army but were not engraved with serial numbers, since they had been supplied by the CIA.

Riley, Frank Partusi, and Hosea Marzan each carried the MP5SD3 9mm submachine gun as their primary weapon. The collapsing-stock weapon was equipped with an integral silencer and would be effective at close quarters. Powers carried his favorite weapon — the Soviet-made AK-47 with a folding metal stock. He had carried an AK ever since Vietnam and swore by its reliability under adverse conditions. Holder carried the SAW machine gun. Firing 5.56mm rounds from a hundred-round drum, the weapon was a fine piece of machinery with a range of nine hundred meters. Riley hoped the SAW would keep any bad guys out of arms' reach if they made contact.

Lane carried the heaviest and most unique weapon. The Haskins .50-caliber sniper rifle looked like an overgrown elephant gun. The bolt-action rifle held a five-round magazine and broke into two pieces for jumping and transporting. A ten-power night-vision scope could be mounted on top. The massive bullet, a half inch in diameter, could reach out over two thousand meters and was guaranteed to put its hapless victim down. A .50-caliber round could tear off a man's arm or leg. They were carrying the Haskins for insurance. If Spectre didn't take care of the whole target, or some people escaped, Lane would use the sniper rifle to reach out and touch someone. Trained at the Special Operations Target Interdiction Course, Lane could hit a five-inch circle at one and a half kilometers with the Haskins.

The rucksacks Powers was checking were regular army-issue Alice mediums with external frames. They were in use by various government and guerrilla forces throughout Central and South America. Although the team would be on the ground for less than twelve hours, the rucks were needed to carry the technical equipment.

Riley and Marzan each carried a complete PSC-3 radio along with a Vinson crypto device. This added up to almost thirty pounds of weight per system. Holder was packing some spare batteries for the radios along with extra drum magazines for his SAW machine gun. Powers and Lane each carried a laser designator. Partusi carried an M-5 medical kit along with several different types of IVs in his ruck. Each man also carried a substantial survival kit in his ruck, supplementing the smaller one in the butt pack. Additionally, each ruck contained two Claymore mines and spare ammunition for their weapons.

Having checked the men and their weapons, Riley had Powers look him over. First, Powers checked Riley's weapon. Then he went through Riley's pockets and equipment to ensure that nothing indicated a point of origin — no rings, ID tags, pieces of paper, wallet, and so on. When Powers was done, Riley glanced at his watch — two hours before they were due at the range to test-fire their weapons. Riley sat the team members down and started quizzing them on the mission.

Stevens lay in bed and stared aimlessly at the ceiling. His eyes couldn't quite focus. Maria was gone physically but she was conspicuously present in his mind. Stevens knew he should be getting up and going to work but he couldn't yet. He wanted to rewind and replay one more time his mental video of the events of the previous night.

Some of the pictures on his mental screen portrayed acts he hadn't known were physically possible. Stevens laughed to himself. Hell, his wife had never even come close to coaxing that kind of reaction out of him.

Not only that, but before Maria had left a half hour ago, she had hinted of even more exotic things to be experienced tonight. Stevens could hardly wait for the dark to come. Then he cursed to himself as his brain kicked in. He couldn't do anything tonight. It was the night of the raid and he was supposed to be on duty in the communication room of the embassy.

The range was set up to accommodate fifty firers at a time. The twelve members of the detachment took up only a small portion of the firing line. The range had zeroing bull's-eyes at twenty-five meters and E-type pop-up silhouettes that simulated the top half of a person ranging out to the far limit of a thousand meters. Each man took his time getting a combat zero on the twenty-five-meter target and then checked his zero at the various ranges.

Riley waited as calmly as he could. His weapons were ready. He could sense the nervous tension in the other members of his six-man team. He watched closely as the last two members of Eyes One finished test-firing their weapons. On the far side of the range, Lane seemed to have just about completed zeroing in the scope on the Haskins, plinking away at pop-up targets ranging from a hundred meters out to the barely visible ones at a thousand meters. To use the night scope during daylight, he had it set on reduced power with a cover that reduced the aperture.

Riley glanced over at Westland, the CIA agent. She seemed visibly impressed with Eyes One's proficiency with their weapons. After zeroing, Riley had led his team through their basic close quarters combat firing drill with both the pistols and the automatic weapons. They had practiced firing on the move and from stationary positions. Firing while doing forward rolls and wilting left and right. Firing when pivoting left and right and 180 degrees. Then they had done the same with the automatic weapons, firing from both the hip and shoulder.

"What do you think?"

Westland shifted her attention to Riley. "It seems like the members of your team are pretty well trained in how to use their weapons. How's everything else going?"

"We're ready. As ready as we can be. You have anything new from your end?"

She shook her head. "Nothing new. Kind of like the calm before the storm, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is. Nobody likes waiting. I'll be glad once we take off." He looked at the agent. "I thought your little commentary in the latrine was a nice touch. It certainly hit home on a couple of these guys."

Westland laughed. "I thought I'd fight fire with fire. I've always been kind of direct about things."

"It worked, although you and I both know some of these guys are too dumb or ingrained in their ways to change."

"I'm used to it."

Riley considered the woman. This was the most he'd talked to a woman in a long time. He kind of liked it. "How'd you get picked for this assignment anyway? Seems like the CIA would have pulled some guy out of one of their in-country teams down south."

Westland looked at him. Riley knew she was trying to figure out how much to tell him. He had always found that CIA people tended toward the side of paranoia.

"I've been pushing to get a field assignment for a long time. I think this job is a test so they can decide whether or not I deserve it."

Riley snorted. "Deserve it. Hell, some of the bozos I've seen running around in the field make the Keystone Kops look good. From what I've seen it's usually the opposite — you've got to prove your ability in order to get stationed over at Langley."

He watched her studying the members of Eyes Two test-firing their weapons. "Are we what you expected Special Forces soldiers to be like?"

"Am I what you expected a CIA agent to be like?"

Riley laughed. She wasn't going to give an inch. "Actually, yes and no."

"That's my answer, too, then. Yes and no."

Riley decided to persist. "I'm basing my answer on having worked with agency types before. I say yes because you strike me as competent and I have found most of them to be reasonably competent, although you have your share of losers just like we do. I say no because you don't have the attitude problem I found in a lot of them. The 'I’ve-got-a-secret' attitude. The 'I’m-better-than-you' attitude. You seem willing to work with us, rather than in competition with us. More interested in mission goals than agency goals."

He could see that he had her full attention now as she worked out her reply. "To be honest, I've never worked with Special Forces before. I've heard other agents really complain about it. They say you all think you're too good — and they say you're not as good as you'd like to think you are."

"Have you found that to be true with us?"

Westland shook her head. "Overall, no. There's some of that. More with the captain and the other team than with you and your people."

Riley nodded. He appreciated her honesty, and his ego was boosted by her last comment. It occurred to him that maybe she didn't have the typical macho attitude of most agency types because she was a woman. He silently laughed at himself. Brilliant thinking. He pointed toward the firing line. "Want to fire off some rounds? What kind of piece do you carry?"

Westland reached under her sweatsuit jacket and produced a 9mm Browning Hi-Power. Riley was impressed. A good weapon. He had half expected a snub nose revolver or some other worthless side arm. Riley led her over to the left side of Eyes Two. He could sense his team members watching them. He knew she could sense it, too. He pointed to a silhouette target twenty-five meters downrange. "How about that one?"

Westland nodded and took up a solid firing stance, legs slightly spread, one just in front of the other, a good two-hand grip on the weapon. She raised her pistol and fired nine rounds in rapid succession. Riley smiled. Every round a hit centered on the chest area of the silhouette.

"Good shooting. If I may make a suggestion though?" Westland nodded. "Go for the head. Every person who can afford it is wearing a vest now. Unless you got a hot load, say maybe Teflon slugs in that thing, you aren't going to stop someone wearing body armor. You'll put someone down for sure with a head shot. And if you're gonna shoot someone, you want to put them down. No shooting to wound or any of that crap you see on TV. Shoot to kill and make every shot count."

Westland nodded and reloaded her gun. There was one more thing Riley wanted to know. "I saw you practicing some sort of kata or taegeuk yesterday. Have you had martial arts training?"

"I have a brown belt in aikido."

"That's good. You look like you're in good shape."

Westland's head swiveled around. Riley put his hands up. "Hey, relax. I'm not trying to hit on you. I respect anyone who keeps themselves in shape." He laughed. "Regardless of whether they're a female agent or a woman agent."

Westland visibly relaxed. Riley smiled. "As well trained as you are, you ought to go with us, but I'm sure that wouldn't go over big with the powers-that-be."

Westland looked at him strangely. "That's one of the best compliments anyone has paid me in a long time."

Riley noticed Powers staring intently at the two of them. "Excuse me." He walked over to his team sergeant.

"Your eyeballs are gonna pop out of your head if you look any harder, amigo. What's up?"

Powers presented him with an innocent face. "What do ya mean 'what's up?' "

"I mean why were you staring at me?"

"Hey, come on, partner. I've known you for almost two years now and I haven't seen you spend more than ten minutes talking with any woman. Just kind of curious, is all." He nudged Riley. "She is kind of cute in her own way."

Riley rolled his eyes. "Give me a break. Professional curiosity is the only reason I'm talking with her." He noticed Eyes Two finishing up. "Let's get on back and get ready to go."

The inside of the C-130 was spacious enough to hold several cars end to end. The team would have plenty of room for the ride. Sitting in the center of the aircraft was a complex of tanks and hoses that represented the team's oxygen console. Riley walked up to Powers, who was looking over the device.

"Everything hooked up?"

Powers nodded. "The oxygen console checks out fine. I've coordinated with the loadmaster and he's set on our procedures."

Riley looked around the interior of the C-130. The oxygen console squatted in the middle of the cargo bay. The team's rucksacks and parachutes were tied down near the ramp. Riley decided to go up front and do a last check-in with the pilots and navigator prior to takeoff. He made his way past the other members of the team who were lying on the cargo webbing seats hung along the skin of the aircraft, trying to get some rest. It was going to be a long night.

Riley climbed the steep stairs on the left side of the plane into the cockpit. There was only one pilot there and the navigator. "How you doing? Anything new?"

The pilot, a major, turned in his seat. "The copilot is over at base operations getting an update on weather along the flight route. Everything looks good."

"How's the route in look?"

The navigator looked up from his charts and pointed. "I've got a flight route that basically goes from here to Key West to Panama and then along the northeastern coast of Colombia. The high-altitude release point we were given is here," he pointed on his map, "just outside of Cartagena, still over the ocean."

Riley nodded. "That's it. If we can see the lights of the city we'll be good to go. Our drop zone is southeast of Cartagena, about fifteen kilometers from the city limit. What do you estimate for winds aloft down there?"

The navigator looked at his clipboard. "Presently they've got eighteen knots to the west. I've offset your HARP based on that to right here." He pointed.

Riley pulled out some of the satellite imagery. "I make that right about here on this." The navigator nodded. "All right. Let me get back with my guys and I'll update them on the release point. If you get any changes en route, let me know."

The pilot checked his watch. "We'll be cranking her up in another thirty minutes."

The whine of the four turboprop engines peaked. With a slight jolt, the airplane started rolling. Riley looked across the aircraft at Powers, who met his eyes in the dim light let in by the few small, round windows. Powers gave him a thumbs-up. The plane picked up speed and the nose lifted. Wheels up and on the way.

A tapping on his shoulder snapped him alert out of an uneasy sleep. Riley peered up at the loadmaster leaning over him. The man pointed at his watch and yelled in his ear. "You told me to wake you at an hour and fifteen out."

Riley checked his watch. Time to get ready. He unbuckled his seat belt and walked across the plane. He grabbed Powers's arm to wake him and then yelled in his ear, "Time to rig."

Powers started rousing the people on his side of the plane. Riley and the loadmaster went to the back of the plane and undid the cargo straps holding their parachutes and rucksacks. They passed out the parachutes, a main and reserve to each. Each man claimed his own ruck.

Riley and Powers buddy-rigged each other. Riley went first, putting on a one-piece thermal suit over his jungle fatigues and combat vest and zipping it up. Then Powers helped him slip the main over his shoulders and settle it on his back. Riley reached down between his legs as Powers passed a leg strap through to him. "Left leg," Powers yelled above the roar of the engines.

"Left leg," Riley acknowledged as he hooked the quick connector snap on the proper side.

"Right leg."

"Right leg." Riley hooked in his other leg strap and then crouched, tightening down both straps as hard as he could. A loose strap could have painful consequences during the shock of the parachute opening.

Powers helped him rig the reserve over his belly, attaching it to D-rings on the front of the harness. Before tying it down, Riley rigged his submachine gun behind the reserve, cinching it in place. His rucksack was hooked underneath the main parachute in the rear so that it dangled behind his legs. It made walking difficult, but it put the ruck in a position where it wouldn't interfere when Riley tried to get stabilized after exiting the aircraft.

Riley tightened the rest of his straps and then turned to Powers, putting his hands on his helmet, signaling he was ready to be jumpmaster inspected.

Swaying in the aircraft, Powers quickly ran his hands over Riley's equipment, starting from his head, working down the front and then going to the back, again working top to bottom. He never let his hands get in front of his eyes as he methodically worked his way around the gear. His tugs and yanks were comforting to Riley. A good jumpmaster made the jumper all the more confident in the reliability and proper rig of his equipment.

Finished, Powers tapped Riley on the rear and gave him a thumbs-up, signaling he was good to go. Riley waddled to the side of the aircraft and with great difficulty sat down on the cargo netting that passed for seats. He watched as Powers inspected the rest of the team one by one.

For jumping, Lane had disassembled the massive Haskins gun into two pieces and placed it in a canvas weapons container. Holder had done the same to the SAW machine gun. Powers rigged the weapons containers on the jumpers' left side.

After finishing with the team, Powers had the loadmaster help him rig. He then checked his own gear as much as possible. He staggered over to Riley and talked him through those checks that he couldn't see for himself.

The entire team now sat, three to a side, with the oxygen console between them. The entire process had taken almost thirty minutes inside the swaying aircraft. Riley checked his watch again. Another forty-five minutes to drop.

Powers gestured to the console. Each team member hooked the hose leading to his mask to an outlet. When he saw they were all breathing off the console, Powers gave a thumbs-up to the loadmaster, who had hooked into an outlet in the side of the plane.

They felt their ears pop as the pilot began depressurizing the inside of the aircraft. The temperature dropped as the cargo bay heater struggled against the thin, cold air coming in at altitude.

They'd stay on the console until they stood up for the jump, at which time each man would switch to the small oxygen bottle on his rig. The bottle held only twenty-five minutes' worth of air, so it was best to hold off switching as long as possible.

Even with the thermal coveralls, Riley was shivering. He looked through his clear goggles at the other members of his team. He gave a thumbs-up and received a similar answer from each man. No one was getting woozy from the oxygen.

Riley felt his adrenaline start to flow as he watched Powers unhook from the console and hook into his bottle. Party time! At Powers's signal, the rest of the team unhooked from the console and went on their personal supply.

Powers signaled with both hands to stand up. Through the helmet, Riley heard Powers's voice echo the command: "Stand up!"

Riley swayed as the aircraft slowed down to 125 knots. That slowdown meant three minutes out from the release point. He made a conscious effort to control his breathing. This was the worst part of the jump. Waiting. Knowing it's coming but not knowing what will happen.

The roar in the aircraft increased as the ramp cracked opened and the dark night sky appeared. Like massive jaws separating, the upper portion of the ramp disappeared into the roof of the aircraft while the lower section leveled out, forming a platform. The temperature inside dropped as the cold, turbulent outside air swirled in. Riley felt his stomach churn with anxiety. Looking out an open ramp was something he had never grown used to.

The last weather forecast they had received from the navigator had indicated clear skies and winds aloft of nineteen knots at 124 degrees. Almost perfect jumping weather. Riley heard Powers's voice inside his helmet: "All right. Let's tighten it up. Give me a sound check."

"One here." Riley listened as all the members checked off.

"Crack your chem lights." Each man reached up and broke the chem light attached to the back of the helmet of the man in front of him. Riley shuffled in tighter behind the jumper in front of him. They were ready to go.

The loadmaster, breathing oxygen from the aircraft system, held up one finger. "One minute!" Powers relayed over the radio.

Powers led the way to the edge of the ramp and peered out. Looking through the crack where the ramp separated from the main body of the plane, Riley could see the lights of the shoreline of Colombia. Below there was darkness, indicating they were over the ocean. He hated the waiting. He wanted to go.

"Stand by!"

Riley looked up at the red light glowing above the open ramp. Nervously he ran his fingers over his rip cord, making sure that it had not somehow disappeared in the last minute.

Riley would be the trail jumper off and the top man in the formation on the way down, so he would have the added experience of watching the rest of the team leap off in front of him. Any second now. Riley felt himself grow tense as adrenaline coursed through his veins, pushing his senses to their peak. Exhilaration was now taking over, and the fear grew more remote.

The light flashed green. "Go!" Powers yelled as he flung himself out, arms spread wide.

Riley followed the team, throwing himself out into the slipstream. He spread his arms and legs, arching his back, focusing his eyes on the chem lights below him. He had only four seconds to get stable and then pop his canopy, otherwise he'd pass through the team below. He felt his tumbling slow and stop. His mental counting finished and he yanked his rip cord.

The opening shock jerked him upright. His first priority was to gain control of the canopy. Reaching up, he grabbed the control toggles on the risers coming up from each shoulder. He pulled in his air brakes, slowing his descent. Briefly letting go of the toggles, he slid his night- vision goggles down on his helmet visor and rapidly scanned the night sky. He spotted the glow of a chem light below and to his left. He turned and raced after it.

His speaker came alive inside his helmet. "How many you got, Six?"

Looking down through his night-vision goggles he could see five chem lights, indicating the rest of the team staggered below him. "I've got five in sight in a good pattern, One."

As Riley flew through the air, he glanced at the luminous dials on the instrument board on top of his reserve and checked his altitude and direction. He forced himself to relax as much as possible in the harness and control his breathing.

After seven minutes, he was passing through ten thousand feet and heading south. The lights of Cartagena were off to his left rear now. In the reflected and amplified moonlight, Riley could make out the terrain ahead and below. So far, so good, he muttered to himself. They were on course and should reach the drop zone with no problem.

As he descended, Riley got warmer. From the freezing temperatures at thirty thousand feet he was descending into steaming, tropical air. They were starting to do S-turns now as Powers had the drop zone in sight. Riley slowed himself and twisted his head, trying to keep the man below him in sight as he banked in a tight right-hand turn. At nine thousand feet, he pulled off his oxygen mask and took a deep breath of the humid night air.

At four thousand feet, he risked a quick glance at the ground below. He adjusted his eyes slightly east of a small lake whose location he had memorized, and spotted the postage stamp of lighter green that indicated the drop zone in the middle of the vegetation. In the imagery the drop zone had appeared to be a clearing only forty meters by fifty meters. Because of its small size, the greatest danger would be landing on top of each other. To prevent that, they had decided to stagger the landing interval.

At two thousand feet Riley could see the formation spreading, as each jumper allowed more vertical space between himself and the jumper below. He turned and went into a spiral. His ears crackled as the radio came to life again. "One down. Clear for Two."

Powers was already on the ground. Riley manipulated his toggles and grabbed more air with his canopy, slowing himself further. He wanted to give the other five a chance to completely recover from their landings before he came in.

"Two down. Clear for Three."

"Three down. Clear for Four."

"Four down. Clear for Five."

"Five down. Clear for Six."

Riley released his air brakes and slid down the last two hundred feet. Just above the ground, he pulled in on his toggles and flared to almost a stall, lightly touching his feet to the ground. As his parachute settled around him, Powers was at his side, helping him out of his harness. Riley quickly gathered in his chute and shoved it into his rucksack. The thermal suit followed it. The plan was to carry out their infiltration equipment to avoid leaving any evidence of the raid.

With his gear stowed, Riley readjusted his helmet and goggles. He felt like a creature from a science fiction movie, with the short snouts of the goggles poking out in front of him. The interior eyepieces were lit in a hazy green glow. On the small screens, Riley could see almost as well as he could in daylight. The major drawbacks were that everything was a shade of green, his depth perception was distorted, and his field of vision was limited.

Riley adjusted his night-vision goggles as comfortably as he could and motioned for the team to follow him. With every man wearing the light-enhancing goggles, the team moved off in a northeasterly direction. Their target stood 3.4 kilometers away through the tangled vegetation.

Partusi was in the point, with Riley right behind him, navigating. Lane, Marzan, and Holder followed in line, with Powers pulling up the rear. Partusi's job was to keep all his senses attuned to the terrain out front, with Riley directing him with small nudges, keeping the team on azimuth. They moved slowly, taking care to make as little noise as possible.

Partusi eased through the thick vegetation, followed closely by the other five men. Riley counted every right footfall, slowly adding up the distance as they moved. He checked his azimuth every ten steps. After eight hundred meters, according to Riley's pace count, Partusi signaled a halt by holding up his left fist. He drew his fingers across his throat and pointed ahead — danger area. Riley passed the signal back.

Riley crawled next to Partusi and peered ahead. Ten meters in front of them was the coastal highway, a two-lane hardtop road.

Riley had been taught in Ranger school to cross a danger area by setting out flank security, sending across far-side security, and then having the main body cross. However, if he followed that method with only six men, he would use up almost the entire element in security and not have a main body left. Riley wanted to spend as little time as possible near the danger area. He turned on his knees, grabbed Lane, and pointed ahead. Lane grabbed Marzan and the two low-crawled to the edge of the road. With their goggles, they would be able to see the glow of headlights from a vehicle long before it came into sight. The two stood up and quickly ran across the road.

Riley waited in the tree line until he spotted a brief flash of the IR light on a pair of flashlights from the far wood line, indicating that the far side was clear. Riley looked left and right down the road and then tapped Partusi to go. Partusi got to his feet and jogged across the road. Riley then tapped Holder across. Powers slid up next to Riley. Riley was about to tap the team sergeant to go when he spotted a glow in his goggles off to the left. Grabbing Powers, Riley sank down into the grass at the edge of the woods and lay still. A minute later, a car flashed by and roared off to the south. Riley waited a minute for the car to get clear and then got back up to his knees. He checked both directions and then tapped Powers. Once the team sergeant disappeared into the woods on the far side, Riley followed him across the hardtop and slipped into the wood line.

A pair of hands immediately grabbed him. Marzan pointed him in the right direction and he quickly came up next to Partusi. Ensuring that he had all six team members, Riley gave the signal to move out and they continued their trek.

In planning, Riley had allowed the team four hours to reach the target. In actuality it took only three. The team moved steadily and without any further interruptions through the unpopulated swampland until the men finally reached their destination at the observation point on the edge of the small dirt runway.

The team settled into a tight security perimeter. Riley dropped his ruck and lay down next to Lane. He scanned the compound seventy-five meters away on the far side of the airstrip using the special night-vision telescope Lane had carried in for the Haskins sniper rifle. The scope not only enhanced the ambient light like the goggles but also gave him a ten-power magnification. He could see two guards walking about the four ramshackle buildings that made up the laboratory. The sentinels were a good sign. It meant there was still something here to guard. One of their greatest concerns had been that the factory had moved.

Riley could also see barrels stacked around the buildings. Heavy plastic sheeting covered the doors and windows of the largest shed, which, according to their briefing, was where the actual processing was done. Another shack appeared to be a storage area, and the last two were probably living quarters. From what he was seeing, Riley was confident that this was indeed one of the major labs.

The guards were armed with Ml6s and walked about the camp in a random manner. Riley had a feeling there were probably more than just the two guards on duty. He continued scanning. After thirty minutes, he spotted two more. These two "gave themselves away by lighting cigarettes, which showed up in the night-vision scope as if they had fired off a flare. One was just off the airstrip that abutted the compound, only fifty meters from Riley's present location. That guard appeared to be armed with an M60 machine gun. The other was on the far side of the compound, adjacent to the dirt trail that pointed toward Cartagena and the north.

Having seen what he needed to see, Riley handed the scope to Lane, who remounted it on the Haskins. Riley pointed out the four guards and whispered instructions to Lane. Then he slid back farther into the woods, to where the rest of the team was waiting.

Gathering the other four team members around him, Riley proceeded, in a hoarse whisper, to update them on the situation. "We've got four buildings just like the imagery showed. All the signs are there that this is a currently working laboratory — ether in barrels and plastic sheeting around the largest building. So I'm going to call in a go on this target.

"There are four guards — two walking around the camp armed with Ml6s, one stationary just off the dirt road leading out of the camp. That guy has what looks like an AK-47. Then they have a fourth guy hidden on this side of the camp overwatching the airstrip with an M60. He's only about fifty meters from where I left Lane.

"Here's what I propose." Riley reached out and tapped a team member. "Frank, you lase the target at 0425 as we coordinated. When the first round from Spectre impacts, Dan, you take out the guy closest to us with your AK. Lane will hit the guy on the far side of the camp and keep that way out under surveillance. He'll shoot anyone trying to leave by the road. I'm figuring the two guys on guard in the camp will get wasted by Spectre. If not, then, Dan, you take them down." Riley looked at Powers. "How's that sound?"

The team sergeant gave a ghostly smile in the dark. "Sounds good to me."

"Additionally, the small plane we saw in the imagery isn't there anymore, so we don't have to worry about that. If anything tries to come in during the hit, we'll let Spectre deal with it." He turned to Marzan. "Hosea, go ahead and get the radio set up."

"Right, Chief."

Marzan opened his rucksack and pulled out the PSC-3 satellite communications radio and its small dish antenna. Hooking the two together, he pointed the antenna at the proper azimuth and elevation. Then he hooked the Vinson voice scrambler into the radio. He turned the radio on and checked it by getting a bounce back off the designated satellite. "She's all set."

Riley picked up the handset and pushed the send. "Moonbeam, this is Eyes One. Over."

He waited a second. The signal pulsed from his radio up to the satellite and then was relayed to its target. The radio softly crackled with a reply. "Eyes One, this is Moonbeam. We read you Lima Charlie. How do you read us? Over."

"We read you Lima Charlie. The mission is a go. I say again, the mission is a go as planned. Over."

"Roger. We read mission is a go. Will relay message. Over."

"Roger. Out." Riley broke contact with the AWACS plane that was circling somewhere over the ocean to the north. He looked at the men gathered around. "All right. Let's move on up so we can see what's going on."

The Colombians had switched their guards at 0300. The new guards were in the same positions as the old ones. Riley glanced at his watch. Ten minutes till show time. He whispered into the headset: "Hammer, this is Eyes One. Over."

The reply was immediate. "This is Hammer. Over."

"Roger. Everything's still a go. We will illuminate the target in ten mikes. Over."

"Roger. We'll be in position in five mikes. Over."

"Roger. Out."

The AC-130 pulled into its counterclockwise racetrack and banked to the left. The modified C-130 cargo plane started circling, with its left side pointing down. Inside, the fire control officer sat looking at a low light level television (LLLTV) screen. Swiveling the external camera, he scanned the countryside. He could make out some vehicles moving along a road far to the south. He wanted to see if he could find the camp without the aid of the laser.

Along the left side of the aircraft the gun crews were prepared. Mostly their job consisted of clearing away the expended brass from the guns. The guns themselves were automatic — aimed and fired by the fire control officer. From front to back, Spectre boasted two 40mm automatic guns, two 20mm automatic cannons, and, poking its snout out farthest back in the cargo bay, a 105mm howitzer. With the five guns, the ship could put out over ten thousand rounds a minute.

The fire control officer adjusted the focus on his night camera and found the small airstrip. He matched it against the imagery clipped to the bulkhead next to his seat. Pushing the intercom button he called up front to the pilot to adjust the racetrack slightly. Leaning forward in his seat, the fire control officer fiddled with his knobs, adjusting the cross hairs on his screen.

The AC-130 Spectre was the most modern in the line of air force gunships, a descendant of the well known Puff the Magic Dragon of Vietnam-era fame. Members of the crew of this particular ship had participated in most of the military actions of the past decade, including the invasions of Grenada and Panama. The gunship was devastating against ground targets but relatively helpless if attacked by air interceptors or by a sophisticated missile defense that could reach up high enough to hit the aircraft. Against the present target it was almost like playing a video game as the fire control officer watched his screen. He reached and flipped open the cover on his arming switch.

"Arming," he warned over the intercom, and after a second delay he threw the switch, sending power to all five guns. He then adjusted the computer program that would fire the guns. The two 20mm Vulcans were fixed and would fire along the path of the aircraft. The two 40mm guns and the howitzer were each separately controlled by the computer. The fire control computer was capable of resolving all inputs on targets to within one milirad, which translated to an accuracy of 1/1,000th of the slant range to the target. The slant range for this mission was seventy-five hundred meters, which was at the far end of the range of the Vulcans; this translated to a ground accuracy of within seven and a half meters of the aiming point for each gun system.

"Go ahead and illuminate."

Partusi looked through the sight and zeroed in on the main building. He turned on the designator and the invisible laser beam touched the building. Riley cocked his head to listen. The gunship was so far up he couldn't hear the drone of its engine. He smiled grimly. They'd be hearing it loud and clear soon enough.

Riley grabbed the handset. "Hammer this is Eyes One. Over."

"This is Hammer. Over."

"Have you got the target? Over."

"Roger. We've got it. Give me the dimensions of the target area, since I can't make it all out under the trees. Over."

Riley scanned the target through his goggles as he calculated. "From the point we're designating you've got approximately a hundred meters north, sixty meters south, sixty meters east, and the airstrip as your left limit. The designated point is your main target building. Over."

"We'll put the big one on the designated point. We'll use our other stuff all around the target in a grid pattern, working from the perimeter in, so no bad guys get away. I've got your location on the thermals, so don't be worried if some of the stuff seems kind of close. Over."

"Roger. We're ready when you are. Over."

"We'll commence firing on my count of five. One. Two. Three. Four…"

Hearing the five, Riley squeezed Lane's ankle with his free hand. The crack of Lane's .50-caliber sniper rifle and Powers's AK-47 were lost in the roar as four lines of light extended from the sky above and ended in the compound. Each line represented a rope of bullets that tore through the sky and slashed into the earth. Intermingled was the crump of the howitzer pumping out a 105mm artillery shell every two seconds.

During previous training with the air force's 1st Special Operations Wing, Riley had heard the Spectre gunship crews boast they could put a round into every two square inches of a football field in twenty seconds. Now he believed them. The buildings were disintegrating before his eyes as 40mm cannon shells tore through them. The 20mm rounds were puffing up clods of dirt every few inches as they quartered the ground, thirsting for targets. Both walking guards had already gone down. The 105mm shells were blasting the main factory building. Riley winced as the chemicals ignited and a secondary explosion tore the night sky.

After only thirty seconds, Riley found it hard to imagine that anything could still be alive. All four guards were down for sure. It was difficult to make out where the buildings had stood only moments before. Small fires burned and secondary explosions still ripped through the area. Riley leaned over and put his head next to Lane's. "You have any movement?"

"Hell, no. There isn't anything left alive over there. Nobody made it out of the buildings."

Riley nodded. He keyed the handset. "Hammer, we don't have any movement down here. Over."

The calm voice came back. "Roger. We're going to give it another twenty seconds to make sure and then we'll shut down. Your route to your exfiltration pickup zone looks clear. Unless we get some air reaction from the natives, we'll stay up here and cover you until pickup. Moonbeam is tracking your exfil bird inbound only an hour out. Over."

"Roger. Thanks. We're leaving here as soon as you finish. We're breaking down the radio now. Out."

The sudden silence was deafening as the Spectre gunship stopped firing.

The pickup zone was an open field only a little over a kilometer away from the target site. They made it there in under thirty minutes and settled in to wait.

Marzan had the radio turned on, with the transmitter and scrambler still in his backpack and the small dish antenna on the ground in front of him. Riley held the handset and peered out into the dark field. Powers was out there in the middle with an infrared strobe light. At exactly 0537 Powers turned on the strobe light and Riley keyed the mike. "Stork, this is Eyes One. Over."

Even through the hiss of the scrambler Riley could hear the muted roar of rotor blades in the background as the immediate reply came back. "Eyes One, this is Stork. Authenticate one seven. Over."

"This is Eyes One. I authenticate one one. Over."

"Roger authentication. We're one minute out. Over."

"Roger. One minute out. Papa Zulu is cold. I say again, Papa Zulu is cold. We've got the IR strobe on. Over."

Riley waited tensely. They could hear the helicopter now, coming in from the north. The beat of the blades sounded louder in the early morning air. Then, suddenly there it was, flaring over the field and settling down. Powers had extinguished the strobe light and was waiting. Marzan gathered up the antenna in his arms and ran with it toward the helicopter along with the rest of the team.

They threw themselves into the cargo compartment through the open right door. Gunners in the crew chief window on each side scanned the tree lines, looking over the barrels of their M60 machine guns with night-vision goggles. As the helicopter lifted, Riley caught the silhouettes of two more helicopters hovering at opposite edges of the field. As the modified Blackhawk picked up speed and headed toward the ocean, Riley pressed his face against the window in the cargo door and looked at their escort. Two Apache helicopter gunships were riding shotgun, one on either side, as they streaked just above the terrain at 130 knots. In a minute they were over ocean and clear of Colombian territory. Riley liked the escort: They were traveling in style for once.

Riley caught Powers's eye across the dimly lit cargo bay. Powers gave him the thumbs-up. First mission a go.