Extreme Instinct. Don Pendleton

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.

      “At ease,” General Novostk commanded impatiently. “Give me a report on the outside world. Do we have any more uninvited guests today? We seem to have taken refuge in the main train station of Bratislava.” All of the other soldiers chuckled at the joke.

      Not exactly sure why they were doing that, the colossal Lieutenant Gregor Vladislav merely grinned to be polite. Most people said things that he did not fully comprehend. But that was okay. His expertise was with weapons, killing came as easily to him as flying did to a bird. It was only people that he could not really understand. As a child, his father had wisely taught Vladislav that there was always somebody smarter than you in the world. Intelligence was rather like the martial arts; no matter how good you were, there was always somebody a little bit faster or a little bit stronger. The trick was to not attract attention to yourself, and then strike from behind.

      “The outer perimeter is clear, sir,” Melori reported, fondly touching the delicate sensors. What his friend Vladislav did with a knife, he could do with electronics. Together, they were an unstoppable team. “Both radar and sonar show no unusual activity in our vicinity.”

      “And what is the usual activity?”

      “Schools of fish to the west, fishing boats to the east, a commercial jetliner to the far north, some oil tankers to the far south.”

      “Very good, Sergeant,” the general said with a nod. “Let us know if anything approaches very fast. That will probably be the FSB.”

      “Closely followed by the entire Russian army,” Lindquist added in a snarl.

      “We can stop them, sir,” Vladislav stated in a voice of stone. “The missiles are live and ready to fire.”

      The other soldiers stoically said nothing, but Melori seemed slightly embarrassed by the outburst.

      “Yes, I’m sure the fight would be glorious, but in the end, a thousand will beat fifty every time,” General Novostk said tolerantly. “So until we’re safely back home, I would prefer to avoid the enemy.”

      “Yes, sir, of course,” the lieutenant growled. “Pull back in a feint, then strike from behind.”

      Patting the giant on the arm, Novostk smiled. “Something like that, old friend.”

      Leaving the men to their work, the two officers shuffled carefully along the planks over the dark water.

      “Why are we keeping that idiot alive?” Lindquist muttered.

      “I have my reasons,” Novostk replied curtly. “And they are none of your concern.”

      Stepping onto the conning tower, the officers found the watertight hatch already open. A clatter of noise was coming from inside the submarine, the command deck below a hive of activity.

      As Lindquist stepped aside to let the general climb down first, Novostk touched his arm. “Are the scuttling charges ready?” he asked in a low whisper.

      The colonel maintained a neutral expression in case somebody was watching them. “Absolutely, sir. Just give the word.”

      “Hopefully, we will not have to,” General Novostk stated, rubbing the scar on his throat. “But it is always best to be prepared for the worst.”

      Without further comment, the two Slovakians clambered into the old submarine and began the final preparations for their departure, and the beginning of World War III.

      Boca Raton, Florida

      SWOOPING GRACEFULLY out of the clear blue sky, the huge C-130 Hercules landed on a private airstrip on Miami/Dade Airport and taxied straight into a private hangar at the extreme end of the field.

      As the massive aircraft came to a stop, the rear ramp cycled to the ground and out rolled a small cargo van, the windows tinted darkly. The unmarked van seemed perfectly ordinary enough, but it contained more armor than an APC, along with a small arsenal of military weaponry tucked inside hidden ceiling compartments.

      Dressed in loose civilian clothing, the men of Able Team were planning on making this mission a soft recon, low and easy. But just in case of trouble, they also brought along some heavy iron.

      Suddenly the radio speaker built into the ceiling crackled alive. “Sky King to the Senator,” the voice of Jack Grimaldi said over the background static. “Sky King to the Senator, ten-four?”

      “Ten-two, Sky King,” Rosario Blancanales said into a hand mike from the passenger seat. “This is the Senator. Is something wrong?” Glancing into the side mirror, Blancanales watched the door to the hangar