Extreme Instinct

Triumphantly, the tourist strode along the long wooden dock and into the volcanic cave. The man removed his sunglasses to see the interior better when the light vanished. Turning, he scowled at the sight of a thick black curtain hanging across the mouth of the cave.

“What the fuck is this?” the fat man demanded loudly, looking around for somebody to berate. Then he blanched at the sight of a dozen men coming out of a duty room. They were each dressed in combat fatigues and carried automatic weapons.

“Hey,” the tourist mumbled only a split second before the mercenaries opened fire.

The silenced Kalashnikov assault rifles chugged softly, the 7.62 mm rounds tearing the fool apart. He hit the stone floor coughing and twitching, the white suit rapidly turning a deep crimson. The echoes of the muted gunfire repeated endlessly along the watery tunnel, disappearing into the distance.

Walking closer, Colonel Lindquist pulled out a Tokarev automatic and shot the civilian once more. Gurgling horribly, his head snapped back from the arrival of a steel-jacketed round, and then went still forever.

“Russians,” Novostk sneered, stiffly walking into view. “The best way to make them do something is to tell them not to do it.”

The skinny general had already changed out of the hated Soviet naval uniform, and now was back in his Slovakian uniform. It was plain and unadorned, with only the insignia on the collar showing his rank. An old Samopal Vzor assault rifle was slung across his back, and a web belt of ammo pouches encircled his skinny waist with a bulky Rex .357 Magnum revolver holstered on the hip.

“I knew we should have dismantled the dock,” Colonel Lindquist said, holstering his pistol. “Mikhail, clean up the blood. Petrov, get rid of the body in one of the submarine pens. Zhale, put up a sign about falling rocks. That should keep away the fools until we’re gone.”

Quickly, the assigned men moved to obey. The rest stayed where they were, close to the general.

“Speaking of which, we’re ready to leave,” General Novostk said, shifting the Samopal Vzor assault rifle to a more comfortable position. The weapon was a Slovakian version of a Russian AK-47. Both the metal and wooden stock worn from years of use, but gleaming with fresh oil and polish.

“Already?” Lindquist asked in surprise. “Excellent. Has even the helicopter been dismantled?”

“Sealed off in a side tunnel,” the general countered. “I did not know if you wanted to use the Hook again.”

“Too risky, sir,” Lindquist answered. “I’ll use a boat for the next part.”

The general arched an eyebrow at that but said nothing. The colonel was an amazing officer, in spite of being a mixture of American and Slovakian blood. Clearly, there was just a touch more Bratislava in his soul than Brooklyn.

“And how is your former employer taking the betrayal?” Novostk asked, heading deeper into the dim cavern.

“Fuck him,” Lindquist snarled, clasping both hands behind his back. “He’s part Slovak himself, but harbors no ill will toward the Soviets, in spite of everything they did to our nation.”

“Then he is a fool.”

“Agreed, sir. Which is why I had no trouble killing his mercenaries to turn Skyfire over to you.”

“History will remember you as a true patriot, Colonel!”

Unimpressed, Lindquist shrugged in reply. As a soldier, it was his sworn duty to protect his homeland. The Soviet Union had plundered the natural resources of Slovakia, and that lunatic Stalin had sent millions of its citizens to the Siberian gulag work camps never to return. As a soldier, Lindquist would have much preferred a straight fight with the Russian army, but if this was the only way for Slovakia to strike back at Moscow, then so be it. Blood was blood, and terrorists were always heroes to the dead they avenged.

Turning at a corner, the officers paused at the sight of a bound man covered with chains. A soldier tried not to smile as he shoved the helpless prisoner forward. A muffled scream escaped his gag as the bound man toppled off the concrete apron, to land in the water with a large splash. He sank immediately into the depths, leaving behind a small trail of air bubbles.

“And who was that, Private?” Novostk asked casually. “Another fisherman who wandered in here by accident?”

“Smuggler, sir,” the soldier replied, giving a crisp salute.

“Indeed,” Lindquist muttered, glancing at the struggling man descending to the bottom of the pen. The water was over fifty feet deep, and soon there was only a trickle of escaping air bubbles visible in the underwater lights. “And what was he trying to sneak into Russia?”

“Heroin.”

The general scowled, then spit into the water. “No loss, then. The fool only got what he deserved. We want the Russians dead, not enslaved to that filth.”

“And what did you do with the drugs?” Lindquist asked sharply.

“Made him eat it, sir. A half kilo of Bulgarian black tar.”

“And he lived?”

Suddenly the air bubbles stopped rising from the murky depths.

“No, sir, he did not.” The soldier grinned savagely.

“Well, the fish should have a good time disposing of the carcass.” Lindquist chuckled in dark amusement. “Very good, Private. Carry on with your duties.”

“Yes, sir.”

Proceeding along the tunnel, the officers headed toward an old Soviet Union submarine moored to the concrete dock. Purchased on the open market in Amsterdam, the borderline antique had been incredibly cheap, mostly because the submersible lacked any sort of modern convenience. It was slow and noisy, the air always smelled of diesel fumes, the toilet leaked, plus the torpedo tubes had been welded shut. The submarine was useless to anybody but ichthyologists and historians. In spite of that, a group of Iranians had outbid Lindquist’s former employer, and the first assignment of the Foxfire team had been to convince the Iranians to give them the sub, in exchange for a few ounces of subsonic lead.

“How is the work of the bombs progressing?” General Novostk inquired.

“Poorly. So far, we are having no luck opening one of the T-bombs,” Lindquist admitted unhappily. “They are well sealed, and our sensors indicated numerous traps. They’re designed to never be accessed.” He paused. “We may need some special help.”

“Just make sure he is good,” the general snapped, kicking a stone out of his way. “Our contact in Mystery Mountain had said there was only a slim possibility that the weapon being tested today would contain multiple warheads, and here we are with seven of the bombs. Seven!” He shook a bony fist. “This changes everything. Four will be assigned targets, and we need to keep one for analysis—that is a given—and yet another will be reserved for an emergency. But the remaining bomb should be used immediately.”

“As a diversion.”

“Exactly. And to let the world know what kind of a horror is now loose among them.” The general sneered, touching the scar on his neck. “That will buy us enough time to complete the analysis.”

“In my experience, people fear the unknown, sir,” Lindquist offered hesitantly.

“No, that is only true of the individual,” the general countered. “Nations are only frightened of demonstrable threats. The United Nations and NATO must see the weapon in operation! Then they will panic.” The old man glanced sideways. “Have you chosen a target yet?”

“Of course, sir,” Lindquist replied. “Something highly visible that the entire world will hear about.”

“And blame the Russians?”

“And blame the Russians, yes, sir.”

“Excellent. And what about the spy?”

In reply, Lindquist only gave a hard smile. The general nodded in approval. Traitors always reaped the whirlwind.

Nearing the end of the dock, the two officers paused in front of a heavy wooden table covered with electronic equipment. Sergeant Melori was bent over the devices, adjusting the controls with a fingertip. Behind the slim man stood a massive lieutenant, a borderline giant, his Herculean frame almost bursting out of the largest Slovakian military uniform the quartermaster had been able to obtain. A smoked-beef stick stuck out of his mouth as if it was a cigar, and he chewed steadily.

Only a few yards beyond were a pair of old wooden planks extending to the conning tower of a submerged submarine. The emblem of the Soviet navy had been covered with black paint and replaced with the flag of the Republic of the Ukraine, fellow victims of the savage Communists. Just a tad more confusion to any possible witnesses.

“Anything on the radar?” Lindquist asked, studying the small glowing screen.

“No, sir,” Melori replied, standing and saluting.