Extreme Instinct. Don Pendleton

the Hercules refueled and ready to eat clouds in an hour, just in case we have to leave in a hurry.”

      “Roger, Sky King. Much appreciated,” Blancanales said with a wan smile. “We’ll give a holler if things get exciting.”

      “You do that. Tails high, brother! Ten-two.”

      “Over and out,” Blancanales replied, returning the mike to its clip.

      “‘Tails high’?” Schwarz asked from the rear of the van, stuffing tools into his belt pouch from a small worktable bolted to the wall.

      “Hermann, not even I understand the humor of pilots,” Blancanales sighed, opening a ceiling compartment to take down an M-16 M-203 assault rifle combo.

      Broad and powerful, the man radiated charm the way a furnace does heat, only the salt-and-pepper hair suggesting his true age. A master of psychological warfare, Blancanales had talked his way out of more hot spots than could be easily counted, and had earned his nickname of “the Politician,” a thousand times over.

      “I think the thin air makes them crazy,” said Carl “Ironman” Lyons from behind the wheel, shifting gears to accelerate the van. The Able Team leader was a stocky man with short blond hair and cool blue eyes. “Or rather, it makes them even more crazy,” Lyons amended, turning onto an access ramp. “All pilots are odd to begin with.”

      Schwarz was busy tucking a U.S. Army laptop into a black shoulder bag. Even though the battlefield laptop was sheathed in bullet-resistant titanium, the bag was a ballistic cloth resistant to fire, knives and most small-caliber rounds. If anything, Schwarz believed that planning for a disaster was the best way to achieve success.

      A stocky man with short brown hair and full mustache, Schwarz had a friendly, smiling face and bright, intelligent eyes. An expert in electronic warfare and countersurveillance, “Gadgets” Schwarz designed most of the communications equipment for the Farm. Barbara Price had been known to joke that Schwarz could chew a toaster and spit out a cell phone. The man could make, repair or alter anything that used advanced electronics, including high-explosive booby traps.

      Chuckling in agreement, Blancanales closed the grenade launcher, then eased a clip of 5.56 mm hardball ammunition into the receiver of the assault rifle. Before Able Team left for the mission, John “Cowboy” Kissinger had tried to persuade Blancanales to take along one of the XM-8 assault rifles that would soon be replacing the old M-16 as the standard weapon for the entire United States military. But Blancanales had declined, at least until the Pentagon removed the “experimental” prefix from the sleek weapon. The XM-8 looked great on the gun range, but the difference between that and actual combat was often measured in the length of a dying soldier’s prayer.

      Still sitting at his small workbench, Schwarz began to whistle as he opened a wall compartment and removed an XM-8 assault rifle. The new weapon gleamed with oil and polish. Working the arming lever, Schwarz inserted a plastic clip. The 5.56 mm HEAT rounds inside were clearly visible through a clear plastic window.

      “Had a little talk with Cowboy, did you?” Blancanales asked mockingly.

      “Why not? We’ve got to field-test these things sometime,” Schwarz stated, checking the 40 mm grenade launcher attached to the side of the XM-8 assault rifle.

      So far, he approved of the new weapon. The XM-8 had excellent balance, an oversize ejector port to reduce jams, ambidextrous safety and was a good two pounds lighter than an M-16. That didn’t sound like much, but after a twenty mile run through the jungle, that measly two pounds could feel like half a ton. Two pounds lighter, yet it had greater range and was significantly quieter.

      “Five miles to the cemetery,” Lyons announced, checking the navigation unit clipped to the dashboard. “Better get those out of sight.” Near his sneakers was a long box marked with the name of a local florist. It was tied with a ribbon and smelled slightly of gun oil.

      “Anything on the radar?” Blancanales asked, working the slide on his Colt .380 automatic. The weapon was equipped with a bulbous acoustical silencer. That made it harder to draw fast, but the acoustical silencer would last forever, unlike a conventional silencer, which only worked for a few rounds.

      “Passive is clear,” Schwarz reported, checking the machines. “We had a ping before, but it was just a traffic cop checking our speed.”

      “Are you sure?” Lyons demanded, signaling to change lanes.

      “Hell yes, I’m sure,” Schwarz snorted, crossing his arms defiantly. “The day I can’t tell the damn difference between traffic radar and a missile getting target acquisition, please shoot me.”

      The other men accepted that, and settled in for the long ride. There were small airports a lot closer to the Bonaventure Cemetery that the commercial one they had used, but none of them were quite large enough to accommodate a C-130.

      Only a few minutes later, they reached Boca Raton. The cemetery was located outside town, safely behind some tree-covered hills, and thus out of the sight of the most-elderly townspeople so as to not impolitely remind them of their own mortality.

      Sculptured hedges divided the different sections, and an artificial waterfall splashed down from a central hillock to form a shallow stream that meandered through the lush greenery. The sprawling cemetery was a rich green, the perfect condition of the smooth expanse almost resembling a golf course. On the crest was a stand of oak trees with a tiered fountain splashing playfully inside the cool shade. Only the neat rows of orderly headstones marred the sylvan expanse. Only a few monuments stood amid the others, along with a row of garish mausoleums.

      A high stone wall completely encircled the cemetery, and the front gates were simple affairs of wrought iron, thick enough to stop a Mack truck.

      “Very impressive,” Blancanales muttered as they drove through. “I’ll bet they have very little trouble with grave robbers here.”

      “This is Boca, you idiot, not Transylvania!” Schwarz snorted in amusement.

      “No, Politician is right. Lots of rich folks live around here,” Lyons agreed, driving along the curved roadway. “And most of them want to be buried wearing their favorite gold watch or diamond jewelry. A fast man with a shovel could make a small fortune if he struck right after the funeral of a millionaire.”

      Disgusted, Schwarz frowned. “When I die, just drop me into the sea with my dog tags and a rock for ballast. You can keep everything else.”

      “And the way you play poker,” Blancanales added, “that’s all there will be—tags and a rock.”

      “Bitch, bitch, bitch, that inside straight paid for your new plasma screen, didn’t it?”

      “For which I thank you, in high definition and Dolby stereo.”

      “You’re welcome, old buddy.” Schwarz chuckled, patting the other man on the shoulder, then his face tightened. “Oh, shit, this is a trap.”

      “Yeah, I know,” Lyons growled, slipping a hand inside his windbreaker to loosen the Colt Python in his shoulder holster. “I just spotted it a second ago.”

      The other men needed no further encouragement to ready their weapons for combat. The van was filled with the soft metallic clicks of working arming bolts and safeties disengaging. Every car in the parking lot was dusty, and badly needed to be washed, as if they had been there for days without moving. This was exactly the sort of detail that a street cop looked for to spot an abandoned vehicle parked along a busy downtown street. Now, a grieving family might leave a car here for a few hours, or even overnight, but certainly no longer than that, and not ten of them. That was way beyond the limits of probability. These cars were merely window decorations to make the place look more inviting and less empty. Which meant the entire cemetery was a trap. But was it for them or somebody else? Did the enemy know Able Team had arrived, or were they still waiting for a target? Only one way to find out, and that was to go ask them, face-to-face.

      The loose gravel of the parking lot crunched under the tires of the cargo van as Lyons casually