Neutron Force. Don Pendleton

helicopter. Whatever was going down, the chief had a bad feeling that the Farm might need everything it could lay its hands on. There was no denying the obvious fact that Brognola was nervous. And that was more than enough to make the chief wary.

      Stepping onto the front porch, Price proceeded swiftly to the door and tapped in the daily entry code on a small keypad. There was an answering beep and a green light flashed as the automated weapon systems guarding the portal disengaged.

      Impatiently, Price waited until the three of them were visually scanned, then the door unlocked and the slab of steel swung aside with the soft hiss of hydraulics. As she entered, Brognola and Greene were right behind.

      Stepping inside, Price headed directly for the elevator that would take them to the lower level. If the matter was too delicate to discuss over the radio, then it was too important to discuss in public.

      “All right, now that we’re out of visual range,” Price said, hitting the bottom-most button, “mind tell us what’s happening?”

      As the elevator started to descend, the big Fed quickly informed the others about VC-25 and the scientist named Himar.

      “A neutron cannon? Why didn’t you call us about this?” Price demanded.

      “These people have a level of technology we can’t even guess about,” he replied curtly, lifting the laptop slightly by the handle. “So there’s no sense taking a chance on them being able to connect the White House to the Farm.”

      At first, Price thought he was overreacting, but then she considered the fact that they had neutralized an Air Force One 747 in midflight. That alone meant the enemy was extraordinarily capable.

      “I don’t think we have enough fuel cans to line the entire roof,” Greene stated, running fingers through his hair. “And we sure as hell can’t flood the place. Not with all of this electronic equipment. Only take one or two leaks and we’d go off-line.”

      “Even then, the blacksuits would be sitting ducks,” Price agreed. “Not to mention all the visitors in the park. Chief, is there any depleted uranium armor on the Farm?”

      “Sure. One of the SAM batteries is plated with it,” Greene replied. “And Cowboy has a small arsenal of the stuff in his workshop, bullets and such.”

      Brognola didn’t say anything, but he was impressed. When the hammer came down, these people moved at light speed. He only hoped it would be enough.

      “I was afraid of that,” Price said, leaning against the cool metal wall. John “Cowboy” Kissinger was the chief gunsmith for Stony Man. The tall, lanky man was a former member of the DGA, but more importantly, a master gunsmith. Kissinger was personally in charge of obtaining and maintaining all of the firearms at the Farm. He took pride in being able to supply the field teams with anything they might ever need for combat. From a crossbow to an O’Neil coil gun, the gunsmith was sure to have a couple in stock, primed and ready to go at a second’s notice.

      The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.

      “All right, ready the blacksuits and set it on automatic,” Price directed, stepping into the corridor. “And have Cowboy get those DU shells into a lead-lined safe and keep them there until further notice.”

      “Done,” Greene said, and turned on a heel to stride away.

      “Wouldn’t make a difference.” Brognola grunted. “If you’re in the neutron beam, you’d be dead from gamma radiation long before any depleted uranium will start to visibly glow.”

      “True. But I’m thinking about the replacements you send in after we die,” Price said, heading for the computer complex. “If the Farm gets contaminated with radioactivity, you’d have to abandon the whole place and start from scratch to build another Farm somewhere else. That would waste months, which could translate into lives.”

      “Not going to happen.”

      “Not on my watch anyway,” Price declared resolutely. At the moment she knew everything depended on NORAD finding the neutron satellite and blowing it to hell. But if NORAD failed, the next strike could remove New York or London from the map. Thousands dead? Millions. It was time to activate the teams. She only hoped it wasn’t already too late.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Moscow, Russia

      Gracefully, the three MiG-29 jet fighters streaked across the clear sky. The weather was perfect for flying and visibility was unlimited. A thousand feet below, the city of Moscow was alive with traffic, the endless streams of cars, trucks and city buses flowing along the maze of streets like a smoky river.

      The lead pilot of the MiGs scowled at the beautiful city, spread out like the dynorama at some science pavilion. Exhaust fumes, oil spills, gasoline fires…civilization had done away with horses and steaming piles of horse dropping, only to replace them with smog. Briefly he wondered if society really was advancing, or going backward. Suddenly a light flashed on the control board. Time for a react check.

      “Sector fourteen, all clear,” Major Alexander Karnenski reported into his helmet microphone, leveling the trim of his jet fighter.

      “Acknowledged, Alpha Flight,” a crisp voice from base command replied. “Maintain and report in ten.”

      “Confirm,” Karnenski said, dipping the wings slightly to start the long curve around the bustling city. His two wingmen stayed in tight formation on his flanks. Another day, another air patrol. His team had to have circled Moscow ten thousand times in their careers. Still this was an easy assignment, if a trifle boring. Oh well, anything was better than flying combat missions in Afghanistan again.

      Checking the radar, the Russian pilot saw several commercial planes in the distance, as well as a couple of news helicopters hovering above the noisy traffic reporting on the congestion near the construction. Thankfully, nobody had been foolish enough to go anywhere near the forbidden zone surrounding the Kremlin. Back in the bad old days of the Communists, the standing orders would have been to shoot on sight anything that dared entered the zone. The revolutionists had been terrified of another revolution. Then came democracy, and freedom, which was closely followed by waves of terrorists attacks, and the ancient orders had been grudgingly reissued. Kill on sight. It was a chilling reminder that hard days require harsh measures.

      Their aft vectors thundering in controlled power, the three MiGs arched past the sports stadium, the river, an industrial park, a shopping mall and back toward the Kremlin. Another radar scan, another curve. With almost subconscious ease, the major’s hands expertly operated the delicate controls, even though he was contemplating his girlfriend. Tatya was back in his apartment, waiting in a warm bed.

      With a soft exhalation, Karnenski slumped over in his seat and died. Immediately the MiG began to drift off course as the limp hand on the joystick let go.

      “Hey, stop thinking about your fat Czech woman,” Captain Constantine Steloriv joked over the radio, from the right MiG. “She can’t be that good in bed!” He knew the woman was Polish, and expected Karnenski to explode in anger over the slur. Czechs were considered fools, but Russians had great respect for the Polish.

      Expectantly, Steloriv waited. But there was no reply. Only static.

      “Alexander?” the captain asked in growing concern. Dead silence. “Major Alexander Karnenski, respond!”

      Nothing. Only the hash of an open microphone.

      “Alex, stop playing around, sir!”

      By now, the lead MiG was starting to nose down toward the ground. Just a few miles ahead of the jet fighters rose the turrets and domes of the Kremlin, gleaming like gold in the bright sunlight.

      “Sir, what should we do?” Lieutenant Ily Petrovich asked as the third MiG-29 pulled into sight.

      Growling in ill-controlled rage, Lieutenant Steloriv swung his fighter dangerously close to the wallowing lead MiG. This was going to be tricky,