Extreme Instinct

That caught the corporal off guard. “Why…yes sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean…”

With a gentle thump, the first decahedron was placed on the loading dock, and men swarmed to remove the chains to go for the next.

“Were the missiles damaged in any way?” Novostk demanded, every trace of humor and patience gone from his demeanor. Suddenly the friendly old man in a uniform was gone, replaced with “Iron Ivan,” the terror of the Carpathian Mountains.

“No, sir,” the corporal replied hastily, giving another fast salute. “Well, a little, but during the course of fighting the blaze we found a sealed tunnel that led to a cave on the surface. It holds ten SS-25 Sickle missile trucks, sir. Each of them in prime condition, with no work needed at all to make them ready for combat. Well, aside from charging the truck batteries.”

The general squinted. “Ten of them?”

“Yes, sir, ten.”

The second bomb was placed alongside the first.

“Indeed,” the general murmured, deep in thought.

The quartermaster records had only listed one such truck on the premises, and the soldiers had never been able to find the vehicle. The natural assumption was that it had been stolen along with so much other equipment when the staff departed. But now the general could see that report had meant one wing of the deadly missiles. True, they had nowhere near the range of the monster ICBMs in the silos, but those needed a lot of work to get working once more, while the SS-25 Sickles were ready to go. As the old saying went, a copper in your hand was better than a bag of gold in your dreams.

Ten missiles and seven bombs, with one of those held back as a reserve and Colonel Lindquist using another to divert the world’s attention. If the technicians could not crack the defenses of the weapons, he would launch all ten missiles, one live and a dummy toward every target. That would double the chances of the T-bomb getting through the air defenses of each city chosen: Beijing, Paris, London, New Delhi and Washington. Millions would die in the volley, quite possibly a lot more. Which would guarantee the start of World War III, and the end of Russia. The war might spread to other nations, but the Slovakians would be fine, and that was all that mattered.

“That is excellent news, Corporal,” Novostk said, repeating the man’s rank to let him know he could keep it, for now. “Make me a list of every major city they can reach, along with flight times.”

“Here you are, sir,” the corporal said, thrusting out an envelope. “Population numbers, size of military, any known antimissile defenses, distance in kilometers and miles and estimated flight times. Once we install the bombs in the warheads we can launch in five minutes.”

Waving the fellow away, Novostk read the report while the rest of the bombs were laid down as gently as Christmas eggs.

“Sir, the six bombs are unloaded,” Sergeant Melori reported with a casual salute. “I already have some men hauling one down to the basement to be attached to the self-destruct circuits.” He knew there used to be a big hydrogen bomb hardwired there, but they had traded it at Milan in exchange for the NBC suits, the VX nerve gas and many miscellaneous items needed to bring the base back to a full war status, including several tons of food. Trading bombs for corned beef—the technician wasn’t quite sure who got the better of that deal.

“Very good,” the general said, folding the report to tuck it away inside his jacket. “Now, I fear that I must speak to you on a most delicate matter.” He paused. “A private matter.”

“Of course, sir,” Melori replied, wondering what his oafish friend Vladislav had done now. Killed someone or broken another piece of irreplaceable equipment? Soon the general would decide the man was a menace to the mission, and ask to have a quiet word with him somewhere in private. Just the two of them, on the end of the cliff, and a gun containing a single bullet.

Joining the general at the end of the loading dock, the sergeant warily kept his back to the wall.

Noticing the surreptitious maneuver, Novostk smiled. “No, Sergeant, I am not here to deliver some gun-barrel justice. Instead, I need to ask you a very personal question.”

“Sir?” Sergeant Melori asked, also not liking the direction this new line was heading.

Clearly unsure of how to proceed, the general fumbled for the correct words, not wishing to insult the man he needed for an important favor.

“I think I know what you’re trying to ask, sir,” Sergeant Melori whispered softly. “And I would admit this to nobody else, but the answer is yes, I do not care for the intimate company of women.” Even as the man said the words, his stomach tightened. Back in the hill country, such a declaration would get you killed. But Melori had taken a solemn oath to die for the general, so at the very least he should tell the man the plain, unvarnished truth.

“Thank God.” General Novostk exhaled in relief. “Sergeant, I need you to return to our headquarters at Saris Castle and oversee the safety of a prisoner. The professor will most likely be…uncooperative…and may need to be forced to do as we wish, and unlock the secrets of the T-bombs. She is also supposed to be a very beautiful woman, and I do not want the men at the castle to, shall we say, lose sight of our real goal. We need her to remove the antipersonnel hardware defending the bombs, not set one off early to end her unbearable sexual torture.”

“Or to replace the traps with new ones of her own,” Melori finished in sudden understanding. “And with my knowledge of electronics, I’ll also be able to stop her from doing any unwanted augmentation of the weapons.” He blinked. “This is why you’re having her work at the castle, and not here. Just in case.”

The general was pleased to see his choice had been the correct one. “Exactly. Our work is too important to risk being derailed by a madwoman defending her honor.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll take ten men as an escort, have them load a T-bomb into a half-track and leave immediately.”

“Make it fifty, and bring along some motorcycles, and the Soviet tank. It is a hard journey through rough country, and nothing must get in your way. I want you there long before Lieutenant Vladislav arrives.”

So let the men have time to get used to me being in charge. Smart. The old man didn’t miss a trick. Then an unpleasant thought occurred. “Sir, what if…what if she cannot be convinced to help us?”

“She must,” the general said flatly, turning away. “There is no other option.”

Slowly comprehension dawned and the sergeant nodded in grim understanding. They would attempt to do this honorably, but as the hated KGB had taught the entire nation, the end always justified the means. The prisoner would be made to comply, end of discussion. And may God have mercy on our souls.

Milan, Italy

A GLOSSY BLACK Hummer drove slowly along the street as it meandered through a series of low hills. At a fork, the vehicle waited as liveried guards swung an ornate iron gate aside. Rolling through the barrier, the people inside the Hummer saw the gate close behind them. The gate meant nothing; it was merely a social courtesy to deter outsiders from taking this particular road. However, it also served as a line of disembarkation, clearly showing the local police where their jurisdiction ended. Technically the land beyond the flimsy fence was still Italy, but in reality it was a world as unreachable as Mars. The mansion and surrounding grounds were privately owned by the Norel Corporation, the biggest arms dealers in the world.

Carefully moving along the private street, the driver of the Hummer stopped for a security check at a brick kiosk where the guards carried holstered pistols. Everything was in order, and the Hummer proceeded up a steeply sloping road into the rugged mountains. On the beautiful azure sea below, sailboats moved in the far distance, along with an unusually high concentration of yachts, and a couple of cargo carriers flying the flag of either the politically neutral Switzerland or Luxembourg.

Privately owned helicopters flitted back and forth from the vessels, steadily conveying passengers to the heliport of the mansion sprawled on top of the craggy mountain. All of the vessels were moored just past the twelve-mile mark from the coast, and thus were in international waters and safe from any unwanted intrusion by the federal police, the Italian navy or even NATO.

Once more, the driver of the black Hummer stopped at a kiosk for a security check. This deep into Norel territory, the kiosk more resembled a concrete pillbox. The guards were carrying AK-105 assault rifles, each one equipped with a 30 mm grenade launcher. Off to the side was a sandbag nest where guards were manning several of the new MANPAD rocket launchers, powerful enough to blow a hole through even a U.S. Army Abrams M-1 tank or an Apache gunship.

The security guards found the people in the Hummer acceptable and waved them through. Sheikh Abdul Ben Hassan was a regular customer here, although he always seemed to send different representatives. But that was the prerogative of a customer; the only person a man could trust was himself, and the only safe place on Earth was the grave.

Following the road to the crest of the mountain, the driver of the Hummer stopped the vehicle in a spacious parking lot nearly filled with luxury vehicles.

“You can almost taste the money,” David McCarter muttered, running a finger along his stiff collar. He was wearing a designer suit, a blue cravat of raw silk held in place by a gold stickpin. His shoes were Italian loafers and a Rolex Supreme glinted on his wrist. As a former member of the elite British SAS, the lanky man felt about as uncomfortable as a nun in a whorehouse on coupon night.

“Smell the blood money, you mean,” muttered T. J. Hawkins, maintaining a neutral demeanor as he set the brake. Born Thomas Jefferson Hawkins, the combat veteran was called T.J. by his family, and Hawk by his fellow soldiers. A sleek Beretta machine pistol was holstered at his side, spare clips thrusting up from an ammo pouch like ancient Japanese samurai swords.

Stepping out of the Hummer, the two men coolly studied the high stone wall separating the parking lot from the Norel estate on the other side. There were no coils of concertina wire, electrical wires or even video cameras edging the defenses of the mountaintop mansion. But the former member of Delta Force knew that the plain-looking wall was jammed full of reactive tank armor, antipersonnel mines, EM scanners and more proximity sensors than the west wing of the White House. There was nothing crude or slapdash about the Norel operations, but then the international weapons merchants were richer than most small nations. Every weekend, the Norel exposition was open for business, and as old saying goes, business was good.

As with many aspects of life in Italy, the operators had an understanding with the law, along with an uneasy truce. No deaths occurred here, and no weapons were sold to anybody who lived within a hundred miles. If the federal police or the military ever did arrive, they could arrest many of the customers, but the next day Milan, Rome and Venice would be flooded with advanced weaponry sold at discount prices, the Norel cartel practically giving the guns away as revenge.

Both of the Stony Man operatives knew that there were no actual weapons at the exposition. Only brochures and smiling salesmen. A customer perused the merchandise, made selections and paid a hefty deposit, with the rest of the money upon delivery, which was always very far away from Milan. It was a genuine den of thieves that operated on the honor system.

After a moment McCarter snapped his fingers and the remaining three members of Phoenix Force climbed from the Hummer as if they had been waiting for permission. They were all well dressed, freshly scrubbed, yet carried the unmistakable aura of controlled violence, the calling card of every mercenary alive.

“Man, I hate doing this naked,” Gary Manning muttered. The burly Canadian brushed a callused hand over his slicked-down hair. He felt like a damn fool in the tailored clothing, with a small diamond clipped to his left earlobe. There was a bulky Desert Eagle automatic holstered under his jacket, two spare clips attached to the straps. An expert sniper, his preferred weapon was a Barrett .50 rifle, but that had to be left behind for this particular mission.

“At least you have that popgun,” Rafael Encizo countered, adjusting his glasses. “I only have my winning smile.”

The eyewear was fake, merely sheets of clear glass, but they served as a vital part of his disguise as the money. The Stony Man operative was wearing a dark business suit of only moderate price range, but the attaché case handcuffed to his wrist was sheathed in the finest Moroccan leather. The lock was a biometric sensor plate, and the hinges glistened like solid gold. The stocky Puerto Rican had a quick smile, and even faster hands, and was considered one of the best underwater demolitions experts in the world.

“No guns allowed, brother,” Calvin James said in a thick Chicago accent. The former U.S. Navy SEAL was wearing a yachting outfit, including white deck shoes and a jaunty cap. He was also armed with a Desert Eagle .357 Magnum, the big-bore automatic carefully fired a dozen times to take the clean sheen off the brand-new weapon.

“Rather ironic for a weapons market, don’t you think?” Encizo asked out of the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t think they know what the word means,” McCarter replied, striding for the front gate.

Leaving the Hummer unlocked, the other men followed close behind as befitting their place as his staff. At the gate, the Stony Man operatives showed their identification once more to the guards. These men were wearing Level Five body armor, the so-called Dragonskin, and carrying MP-5 submachine guns slung on their shoulders. Grudgingly, McCarter approved of the choice of weapons. The Heckler & Koch MP-5 was what his team regularly used on combat missions, and in his opinion was the best all-purpose weapon in existence.

“Welcome to Norel, gentlemen,” a bald guard said, waving a hand toward the plastic arch of a weapon scanner. “Step this way, please.”