Extreme Instinct. Don Pendleton

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      “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.

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