Oceans Of Fire. Don Pendleton

James and his belongings for bugs, telling him he was on “probation,” but the big man was taking no chances. James suspected his room was bugged. He couldn’t afford to be caught on the phone or sending smoke signals from the roof.

      But he had the collected minds of Stony Man Farm on his side.

      James took out his toothpaste and squeezed. About five inches of minty-fresh, tartar-control dentifrice squeezed out and suddenly the tube ribboned forth clear gel. He stuck his arm out of the small bathroom window and began crudely writing on the side of the casino with infrared luminescent gel.

      NUKES HERE

      DPT 2O MIN

      DST KABUL

      James shucked himself into the clothes hanging on the door hanger. He took the gel and drew an invisible circle on the back of his leather jacket, then brushed his teeth and shaved. When he came, Bermet was gone. His bag was already packed and a second gym bag contained the Vikhr compact assault rifle and ammo. Forbes sat on the bed smoking a cigar and watching news on the casino cable. James strapped on his pistol and his knife. “Let’s do it.”

      Forbes rolled to his feet. “Follow me.”

      They took a private elevator down to a private garage. Sitting incongruously among the limousines, sports cars and luxury sedans were three battered-looking Land Cruisers, their engines running. Zhol and Sharkov stood waiting, surrounded by a full squad of hardmen. It was bitterly cold. You could see the men’s breath in the unheated garage. Beneath their bulky jackets the hardguys were clearly wearing armor and each had a gym bag like James’s by his feet. Zhol smiled and rolled back a calfskin glove to glance at his Rolex watch. One satanic eyebrow rose in question.

      “Sorry we’re late, Mr. Zhol.”

      Zhol beckoned James over. “Mr. James.” He nodded at one of his men, who raised the hatchback of the center vehicle. The Phoenix Force commando gazed at the cargo. In the back bed of the SUV were two suitcase-size metal casings painted in Russian military gray-green. Each was wrapped in military webbing with a pair of padded straps so that the device could be carried like a backpack. “Do you know what those are?”

      James scrutinized the casings. “Clay told me we were transporting technology. Never saw a security case like that before, but it looks like military security and tamper-proofed.”

      “Indeed. And?”

      “In the U.S. we liked to use thermite in security cases to burn the contents if someone messed with them. Russian military always preferred high-explosive charges. They like to kill the thief as well as destroy the contents.” James eyed the case warily. “My bet is if someone tries to get inside that case it’ll blow.

      An enigmatic smile passed across Zhol’s face. “Yes, Mr. James. If someone tampers with those cases, they will blow.”

      Sharkov nodded, smiling at the joke. “We do not want those falling into wrong hands, Mr. James.”

      “No,” James agreed earnestly, “we don’t.”

      Forbes’s cell phone rang. He listened for a moment, then nodded. “Guten morgen.” Forbes shook his head. “Nien, keine Probleme, kein Problem an allen.”

      James yawned and looked at his watch. Forbes was speaking German. There were no problems, no problems at all.

      “Alles ist auf Zeitplan.” Forbes smiled. “Ja danke. Auf wiedersehen, meine Herr.”

      All was going according to plan.

      Forbes clicked his phone shut. He put a hand on James’s shoulder and pointed at the two devices in the back of the truck. “Cal, you gotta guard that shit with your life.”

      James spoke with utmost sincerity. “I will.”

      Stony Man Farm

      “THE PACKAGE IS MOVING.” McCarter’s voice spoke calmly over the sat link. “On schedule, just like Calvin said.”

      On the giant screen the satellite image of the Silk Road Casino showed three vehicles pulling out of the private rear garage. It was a misty morning, not ideal for infrared viewing, but the vehicle in the middle was still glowing bright white where McCarter had marked it the day before. “Roger that, Phoenix One.” Barbara Price swung into her chair and adjusted her headset. “Showtime, people. Phoenix Flight, you are go.”

      The pilot’s voice came back over the sound of rotors. “Gary and I are airborne. ETA downtown Dushanbe five minutes.”

      “I’ve established the tail.” McCarter spoke over the sound of his motorcycle. A circle of bright white infrared luminescent paint marked his helmet like a halo. “They’re heading due south, as predicted. Looks like they’re going to take route A377 all the way down to the Afghan border.”

      Aaron Kurtzman shook his head. “I’m just not buying a road trip all the way to Kabul, despite the vehicles David reported. The route is too long, too mountainous and there are far too many curious and unfriendly people with AK-47’s up in those hills. Zhol and Sharkov know they got hit up in the mountains once already, and by now they know Gotron Khan’s gone missing. They’re driving now to avoid the airport and any possible surprise inspection or ambush, but I’m betting after they leave the city they’re getting off the main route ASAP. For that matter, those are off-road vehicles. I think they’re going to go cross-country where a helicopter is going to pick them up.”

      Price’s brow knitted. “These are Russian gangsters. They’re known for their sticky fingers. I doubt they’d leave behind three custom-made, Asbeck-armored VIP specials. You’re looking at over half a million dollars’ worth of rides.”

      “You know, you’re both right.” Everyone in the War Room could almost hear Jack Grimaldi grinning behind the stick of his helicopter as things fell into his area of expertise. “Zhol owns construction companies, and this is Tajikistan. Ninety-nine percent of the country is mountain or desert, and the roads are so bad that almost any company that can afford it does their major hauling with helicopters rather than trucks. I’m betting Zhol has one or more Mi-26 Halos hot on the pad in some clearing outside the capital. The Halo’s the most powerful helicopter on Earth. It’s like a C-130 Hercules except with rotors. We’re talking large-cargo clamshell loading doors in the back and a maximum payload of 44,000 pounds plus.”

      “Damn it.” Price watched the three-car caravan wend its way south through the early morning traffic. “They’ll just drive their SUVs inside the chopper and take off.”

      “It’s worse than that.” Kurtzman stared into middle distance as he began to crunch all the angles. “Jack’s right. Zhol owns construction companies, so he probably has access to a fleet of helicopters. He knows he’s been hit already. He’ll be taking every precaution. If Zhol hasn’t factored in possible satellite surveillance, Forbes has. They’ll have multiple helicopters.”

      “A shell game.” Price watched the satellite feed as Rafael Encizo and T. J. Hawkins pulled into traffic in a Russian Tarantula off-road vehicle marked with a broad circle of infrared luminescent paint on the hood. “And we can’t be sure which vehicle the nukes are in, or if they’ve been split up.”

      “That’s right,” Kurtzman said. “We’re playing nuclear poker with a Navy SEAL. The best of the best.”

      “Base, this is Phoenix Two,” Encizo reported. “We have the caravan in sight. Paralleling.”

      “Affirmative, Phoenix Two,” Price said. “Bear?”

      “We can’t afford to let these guys get out of the city, or even into a park or city square wide enough to land a helicopter.” Kurtzman nodded and hit his comm switch. “Phoenix One, this is Bear. Take them down. Take them down now.”

      “AFFIRMATIVE, BASE.” McCarter was a hundred yards behind the convoy. He wore infrared goggles beneath the visor of his helmet and he could see the white light shining off the back of the middle car. “Phoenix Flight, what is your ETA?”

      “I