Fireburst. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ than capable of handling the repairs.”

      Glancing sideways, Gotterstein stroked a finger behind her ear, then displayed it to the man to show that it was bone-dry.

      Chuckling, Meyers hit speed dial. As the connection was made, the whole fortress shook as thunder boomed directly overhead, the noise echoing among the cannons and bunkers.

      “Thunder snow.” Gotterstein laughed, both thumbs tapping on the miniature keyboard of her phone. “God, that takes me back to my youth. Haven’t heard it in years.”

      “Me neither,” he said with a worried expression as the thunder sounded again. Louder, longer and much closer.

      “Della, let’s get out here,” Meyers said, quickly standing. “If the primary computer across the street actually was burned out of existence by lightning, then perhaps—”

      Just then, he was interrupted by a terrible crackling noise as a lightning bolt crashed onto the barrel of an antiaircraft cannon. The surge of power arced off the melting breech to reach down the tunnel and hit the control station. Still holding their cell phones, both Meyers and Gotterstein died instantly, without even knowing what had just happened.

      Another bolt arrived, igniting the corpses, exploding the controls and flashing along the wiring. The power surge failed to reach the main CPU buried safely deep underground. But a third bolt hit, followed by a fourth, fifth, sixth… . The bombardment went on and on, arcing finally across the gap in the line fuses and burning out the main servers.

      Instantly, every file was erased. But the attack continued, bolt after bolt, until the mainframe was on fire, the CPU a charred husk and all of the primary circuits melting.

      Halogen gas hissed from the ceiling to try to extinguish the blaze, but the lightning flowed along the swirling fumes to spread along the fire-suppression system and reach into every room of the fortress. Almost immediately, a dozen of the bunkers full of high-explosive shells were reached, the combined reverberations echoing along the mountains and hills for a hundred miles.

      Along the Amazon

      MOTORING ALONG THE AMAZON River, Bolan landed at a trading post several miles downstream and caught a tramp steamer. A few hours later he reached Beln where a rental plane was waiting. Checking over the plane to make sure that it hadn’t been tampered with in any way, Bolan took off and landed in Brasilia, the capital of Brazil, by early afternoon.

      Changing his clothes in the plane, Bolan then proceeded to the security station. Customs inspectors in Brazil were far less stringent than in America, especially since his diplomatic passport made Bolan legally untouchable, and his hunting permits were all in order. Over the years, he had found a dozen different ways to move military ordnance across borders. In third-world nations a simple bribe often did the trick. Brazil wasn’t in that class anymore, and was rapidly on the way to becoming the first of the new superpowers. He would have to be more discreet. However, posing as a diplomatic aide for a politically neutral country like Finland, always facilitated Bolan’s ease of entry, or a quick exit.

      “I did not know that Finland had an embassy in our country,” the inspector said in halting English.

      “As a courtesy, I will refrain from mentioning that to the ambassador,” Bolan said with a dignified sniff.

      On the floor were several bags, an arsenal of ammunition and hunting rifles nestled inside soft gray foam.

      “No, no! I only meant that I… Here is your passport, sir,” the inspector said quickly to cover the gaff.

      Slowly accepting the passport, Bolan tucked it away inside his white linen suit, then stared at the minor airport official in disdain, turned and walked away. So far, so good.

      However, Bolan noted that the security cameras in the ceiling tracked his every step through the concourse, so he stayed rigidly in character until renting a car and driving away.

      To throw off any possible tail, Bolan drove to an expensive hotel and switched to a different car from another rental agency. Then he did it again, exchanging the luxury car for an inconspicuous van.

      Now far less noticeable, Bolan traveled to a storage-locker facility outside town, and paid for three adjoining units. As he unlocked the doors, he noticed a group of men playing a game of soccer in the grassy field across the street. They seemed a little old not to be working at this time of day, so Bolan watched them for a while. Located in remote locations, storage units were a favorite target for street gangs. However, the men played hard, and when they broke for beer, Bolan continued unloading the van.

      In the first and third units, he installed a proximity sensor rigged to call his cell phone if the units were activated by an intruder. In the middle unit, he stashed the steamer bags, arming himself with a shoulder holster and Beretta. He left the body armor behind, but did don a thick undershirt of ballistic cloth. The resilient material would stop most shrapnel and small-caliber bullets. The impact would still break his bones, but he wouldn’t die immediately. That wasn’t much, but where he was going next it was all that he could risk wearing.

      Driving back toward town, Bolan got a text message from Brognola about the lightning strikes in Bern. Temporarily, the ten largest banks in the world had no way to record a money transfer. The soldier knew that could have only a single purpose. The terrorists were preparing to sell the weapon. He scowled at that. First, they killed every expert in the field, then they made it impossible for the banks to reveal any details about a purchase.

      Bolan noted sourly, maneuvering through heavy traffic, that these were Swiss banks, financial institutions world famous for never telling anybody anything at all.

      Reaching the outskirts of the city, Bolan was immediately snared in rush-hour traffic. Exercising extreme patience, he spent the next two hours crawling along, dodging taxicabs, pedestrians, trucks and work crews, while listening to the radio for any news about recent attacks until he finally reached the Grand Imperial Casino and Resort.

      Dominating the downtown area, the Grand Imperial rose from the surrounding office buildings and apartment blocks like a queen standing among hobos. The entire twenty stories glittered with neon lights in every possible color of the spectrum.

      Music played from hidden speakers in the neatly trimmed hedges; a water fountain that looked suspiciously similar to the famous one in the Bellagio Casino in Las Vegas sprayed high columns of water in perfect time to the music. But then, William “The Gorgon” Kirkland wasn’t known for being low-key, or overly concerned with the niceties of the law. His redeeming feature was a fanatical devotion to justice. Kirkland and Bolan went back a long way.

      Stopping at the front portico, Bolan tossed the van’s keys to a hesitant valet, whose demeanor changed instantly when the soldier flashed him a U.S. one-hundred bill for a tip, and strolled inside.

      “Welcome to Grand Imperial, sir!” a showgirl said, flashing perfect teeth. She was dressed in nylons and sequins, feathers and a headdress, but her breasts were completely bare, aside from a light dusting of gold.

      Smiling politely, Bolan shook her hand and went inside. The lobby was filled with slot machines, both the old-fashioned mechanical ones with an actual lever, the classic “one-armed bandit,” plus the new computerized versions with a swipe for your credit card, and a cushioned seat where you could relax and comfortably lose every penny you had in the world.

      The main room was enormous and overly decorated with oil paintings, mirrors, ferns, chandeliers and velvet ropes. Just as in every other casino in existence, the crowd СКАЧАТЬ