Extreme Instinct

“Okay, do we know of any operational limitations?” she demanded.

“Unfortunately, no,” Wethers muttered around his pipe. Smoking was forbidden anywhere near the supercomputer, but the man found chewing on the stem oddly inducive to his creative concentration. “The Pentagon strongly believes that the T-bomb can be activated at extreme low levels, perhaps as little as five hundred feet.”

Price stared hard at the professor. “Are you trying to tell me that it may not be necessary to drop the T-bomb from a plane?” she said slowly, absorbing the information. “Instead it could simply be rolled off the roof of a fifty-story building?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“But no nation in the world can secure every office building over fifty stories tall. There must be hundreds, thousands, of them.”

Deep in thought, Price poured herself a mug of coffee, adding a great deal of sugar and milk. Kurtzman liked the stuff strong enough to degrease tractor parts, but lesser humans preferred it at less lethal levels of corrosion.

Taking small sips, the woman finished the mug, then turned around with a new light in her eyes. “All right,” she said forcibly. “If we can’t track the weapon, then we go after the thieves.”

“But we don’t know who took it,” Kurtzman tactfully reminded her.

Impatiently, Price waved the objection aside. “That doesn’t matter. We know that they used a Chinese nuke. Start there. Send Phoenix Force to Milan to see if somebody purchased a black-market nuke recently. After that, they can try Paris and then Sudan. This whole thing might have been a trick by Russia for an excuse to attack their ancient enemy, China.”

“You think the Kremlin nuked Mystery Mountain just to have a legitimate excuse to start a nuclear war?” Tokaido asked in disbelief, then frowned. It wouldn’t be a nuclear war, but a Skyfire war. “On it,” he announced, and bent over the console, his hands flying across the keyboard.

“The big question is, how did the thieves know about the test?” Kurtzman growled. “It wasn’t exactly broadcast on the evening news.”

“Which leaves two possibilities,” Price continued. “Either there is a traitor, or somebody hacked into the computer system at Mystery Mountain.”

“Not even we can do that,” Delahunt stated in annoyance, curling her toes on the floor. “Their firewalls are just as good as those at the White House.”

Kurtzman snorted. “So it’s got to be a traitor.”

“Or a spy,” Price amended. “Carmen, check the first-class-passenger list at every major airport in the area, cross reference that to the personnel file we stole from the Kremlin last month. Find me somebody who went on vacation the day before the T-bomb was stolen.”

“I’ll also check with the health department to see if anybody recently got sick. Vacations can be cancelled by your boss, but nobody would interfere with a cancer treatment,” Delahunt muttered.

Clenching her gloves, she closed the files she had been reading and activated the NSA communication protocols.

“Okay, if Russia and China were not behind the theft, this might have been done by mercenaries hired to do the bloody work,” Price speculated. “Hunt, activate the Dirty Dozen, try to hire the top mercs and see who is not available.”

“Already doing it, Barb,” the professor muttered around his pipe.

Long ago, Mack Bolan had suggested the creation of some artificial buyers of weapon. In virtual reality, that was easy. But Kurtzman had decided to take the matter one step further. Together with his team, the Farm had created a dozen fake personalities in all of the major areas of crime, along with a team of black ops mercs called Blue Lightning.

The Dirty Dozen was a collection of artificial criminals invented by Kurtzman and his team long ago. Their entire lives were fake, forged out of nothing but the Stony Man hackers slipping data into files around the world. When a bank was robbed in Melbourne, the hackers started the rumors that it was financed by one of the Dozen. If a politician got assassinated in Norway, it was because he had crossed the path of another of the Dirty Dozen. Pirates attacked a cruise ship in the Caribbean, an Interpol agent was shot in Amsterdam, a plane crashed in the Andes—any unsolved crime was quickly attributed to these secretive masters of criminal underworld.

The names of the Dozen were constantly changed as they died in car accidents or were captured and executed—only to be immediately replaced by another Stony Man construct. The Dirty Dozen was a constant source of valuable information about international crime as people tried to sell them stolen goods. And whenever one of the Stony Man field teams needed to contact a terrorist group, a member of the Dirty Dozen was always available to vouch for them through e-mail or a phone call.

“Hunt, keep a watch for any secret arms sales,” Kurtzman added. “If the T-bomb becomes available for sale, it is a safe bet that one of the Dozen will be invited to the auction. If so, pay any price to get it. Better to pay a billion dollars now than a hundred billion to rebuild Los Angeles.”

“Agreed,” the professor muttered, his hands busy. “However, it could be more than a billion.”

“Don’t care. Pay whatever is necessary. I’ll have our Keyhole and Watchdog satellites initiate a planetary recon for any other gigantic explosions,” Kurtzman declared brusquely. “The thieves may try to fake their own deaths again. Or worse, actually use the T-bomb on somebody.”

“God forbid,” Price muttered softly, glancing at the clock on the wall.

“Hold on…okay, I found him,” Delahunt announced. “A janitor working at Mystery Mountain recently won a free vacation in an online contest and had to leave the day before the theft occurred or else he lost the prize.”

A contest win, that was a good cover. She had used something similar once herself. “What’s the name, and where did he go?”

“Stanislav Kominsky. Disney World, Orlando, Florida.”

“The other side of the world,” Kurtzman muttered. “Not very subtle.”

“Okay, try this,” Delahunt said. “He was killed in a car crash en route to his hotel room on the day he arrived. The body was taken to the Dade County morgue, and since Mr. Kominsky is Jewish, he had to be buried within twenty-four hours.” She paused. “He was interred at Bonaventure Acres roughly six hours ago.”

“Less than an hour before the theft took place.”

“Yep.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner.” Kurtzman’s hands flew across the controls of his console with expert speed. “I’ll have Jack Grimaldi warm up a C-130 Hercules, and Able Team can be there in a few hours to check the body.”

“Why not have the local police or a CSI team do it?” Tokaido asked, tentatively glancing sideways.

“Because, with any luck, it could be a trap,” Price stated with a humorless smile.

CHAPTER THREE

Balaklava Bay, Ukraine

The land around the secluded cove was rough and seemed almost half formed. Cold and deep, the Black Sea extended far beyond the shimmering horizon to the distant nations of Turkey, Bulgaria and Romania.

The small cove was protected from the worst of the storms by a natural breaker of glassy ballast. The barrier had been strongly reinforced under the Communist regime of the Soviet Union with huge concrete slabs. Abandoned pillboxes were secreted among the arcadia bushes along the barren shoreline.

Dominating the area was a crumbling lighthouse, the cupola only splintery framework, the glass long gone and the great stone blocks weathered to a dull sheen from the constant pounding of the waves. But only a hundred feet away rose a brand-new lighthouse, even taller than the ruins, the freshly painted sides glistening with the salty spray, the plastic cupola topped with radar and microwave receptors.

A town curved along the eastern side of the cove, the fishing shacks and drying huts converted into hotels and restaurants for visiting tourists. Under the indolent rule of the czar, Balaklava had been a thriving seaport, a bustling community of fishermen and sailors, plying their ancient trade. Then the Communists seized control and soldiers forced the people to leave their homes for reasons unknown. The few men foolish enough to ask were never heard from again. Then the Soviet Union fell, and the people of Balaklava returned to reclaim their ancestral homes, and to try to build a new life as a resort community. The fishing was excellent, the vodka cheap, and there were countless subterranean caves to be explored, along with the abandoned glory of a secret naval base. The massive fleet of submarines was long gone, but the dry docks remained, as well as the facilities to house and maintain a fighting force of over a thousand sailors.

Directly across from the seaside village was a wooden dock that led directly into a volcanic cave, the entrance to the underground redoubt. At one time, it had been a shooting offense to know the location of the cave. Now it was decorated with posters and photographs from the glory days of the Cold War, along with a stenciled placard announcing the days and times of each tour.

Standing on the other side of a woven yellow rope, a fat man in a loose white suit glared indignantly. His skin was pale from a life working under fluorescent lights. Mirrored sunglasses hid most of his face, and a large Nikon camera hung around his neck.

“What do you mean, closed?” the man demanded angrily.

“Closed. As in not open to the public anymore,” the tour guide replied patiently. “The government is doing something here, and nobody is allowed inside until they’re done. Okay?” The guide enjoyed using the strange American word. He had heard it often in movies.

“No, it is not okay!” the fat man bellowed. “I’ve come all the way from St. Petersburg to see this goddamn installation, and I want to see it right now. Fuck the government!”

“In the old days, that would have gotten you shot,” the guide coldly reminded.

“But these are not the old days anymore, comrade,” the tourist sneered. “We’re a democracy now. Free men all. So fuck you, fuck the government and get the fuck out of my way, I want to see the submarine pens!”

“Fair enough,” the guide replied, unclipping the rope and stepping aside.