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Extreme Instinct
Don Pendleton
Hidden in the rolling hills outside Washington, D.C., is the hardsite of America's ultra-covert antiterrorist organization, Stony Man. A force of dedicated commandos and cyberwarriors, this elite, handpicked unit effects surgical strikes against the many faces of evil.Their jurisdiction is anywhere trouble takes them. Their duty to serve and protect. Their missions–completely deniable.It begins with a tactical nuclear explosion in Russia. Evidence points to the Chinese, who claim it's a Russian trick. For Stony Man, it's the start of the ultimate nightmare as the two countries amass firepower and troops. Soon more staggering explosions rock nations around the globe. At the heart of the horror is stolen tech–a nonnuclear Fuel-Air explosive "T-bomb." Cheap, powerful and clean, it's fallen into enemy hands. As cities crumble under its force, the teams track the covert and traitorous factions wreaking havoc in a game of world domination.
“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 get their own weapons ready for combat, and 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 soft recon had just gone hard.
Extreme Instinct
Don Pendleton’s
Stony Man
America’s Ultra-Covert Intelligence Agency
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
EXTREME INSTINCT
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Caucasus Mountains, Russia
A cold winter wind was blowing through the forest preserve, and the full moon illuminating the land with a clear silvery light made everything look as if it was cast in steel.
Rumbling steadily over the rough terrain, the BTR-70 “Battering Ram” armored personnel carrier plowed through a thick wall of shrubbery and came to a halt in a small clearing on the side of a hill. The dense stillness was only disturbed by the soft ticking of the massive diesel engines as they began to cool. Down in the valley below, the darkness twinkled with a million lights of the top-secret Russian army weapons facility code-named Mystery Mountain.
“Something is wrong here,” muttered the master sergeant inside the APC, resting scarred hands on top of the steering yoke. The curved banks of twinkling controls illuminated his stern features.
In the rear of the vehicle, the troops angled around in their jumpseats to look out the numerous gunports. Several worked the arming bolts on their new AK-108 assault rifles.
“What is it, Sarge?” a stocky woman asked, squinting into the night. “Think we got some more TV reporters nosing about?”
“Don’t know yet,” the master sergeant replied slowly, trying to put into words a gut instinct honed in a thousand fights.
“Looks peaceful enough to me, Sarge,” a private countered, craning his neck to glance outside.
The powerful halogen headlights of the BTR-70 banished the night, giving the recon platoon a clear view of the surrounding area. The forest was beautiful, old pine trees rising majestically into the starry sky and a thick blanket of laurel bushes covering the ground, the red winter berries glistening among the greenery like hidden jewels.
Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted and was answered by a lake loon. The master sergeant tensed slightly at that. Odd, we’re nowhere near water…
“Sir! Radar reads clean, sir,” a young recruit reported crisply, both hands working the compact monitoring station in the rear of the APC. The other soldiers merely grunted at the pronouncement and tried not to show their opinion of the young boot.
“Be sure to check the sonar,” one of the older veterans muttered sarcastically.
The green recruit immediately started activating the underwater controls on the amphibian APC before he paused, then darkly scowled. “Blow it out your ass,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
Amused, the other soldiers openly grinned.
“Shut up, all of you,” the master sergeant growled uneasily, reaching down to loosen the service automatic holstered at his side. “There is something wrong here. I can feel it.”
The troops prepared to go EVA, pulling on insulated gloves and tightening the scratchy wool scarves around their throats. There was no snow on the ground, but the standing joke was that Russian winters killed more people than Stalin ever had. It was probably true, in spite of the best efforts of the blood-thirsty madman.
Just then the radio crackled. “Base to Wolf Nine, why are you not moving?” a voice demanded. “Confirm status, please.”
Taking the hand mike, the master sergeant thumbed it alive. “Wolf Nine to Base, we…that is, I….” The master sergeant paused awkwardly, unwilling to tell the duty officer that he had stopped a security patrol because of a bad feeling. He did sense that something was out of place, but everything looked fine on the hillside.
“Wolf Nine, report!” the speaker demanded.
“All clear, Base,” the master sergeant said, throwing the APC into gear and lurching into motion. “Nothing wrong here. We were just…using the bushes.”
There came a friendly chuckle. “Can’t blame you for that,” said the voice over the speaker. “I’d also be guzzling coffee out in that bitter cold.”
“Confirm, Base,” the master sergeant replied, checking the rearview monitor one last time for anything suspicious in the clearing. “Wolf Nine back on patrol. Over and out.”
AS THE SOUNDS of the APC rumbled off into the distance, the leafy ground cover stirred and five figures slowly rose like ghosts escaping from the grave.
Covered with frost and dirt, the Foxfire team was dressed in camouflage gillie suits, twigs and leaves deliberately attached to the material as additional disguise. Their faces were streaked with different colors of paint, and insulated hoods covered their heads to help keep them warm and also to hide their throat-mike radios.
Scanning the area with a pair of stolen Russian night-vision goggles, Andrew Lindquist checked for any guards, either human or mechanical. “The zone is clear,” he announced, tucking the goggles away into a belt pouch. “Everybody okay?”
“No. Jimmy’s dead,” George Hannigan stated bluntly, looking down at the tread marks of the APC on the ground. Off to the side there was a slowly spreading dark patch in the soil, a bent human finger sticking out.
“The goddamn thing must have parked right on top of him,” Sonia Johansen stormed, shifting her grip on an old AK-47 assault rifle. The cylindrical silencer attached to the end of the compact weapon gave it a futuristic appearance, and oddly, no moonlight reflected off the dull black metal. On this mission, every piece of equipment was either Russian made or legally purchased in the country. Even the military crossbows. Misdirection had always been the best friend of any mercenary.
“Same thing happened to me,” John Barrowman said through clenched teeth, cradling his left arm. The limb was bent at an impossible angle, the sleeve of the gillie suit torn and spotty with blood.
“Let me give you a shot for the pain,” Saul Kessler offered, swinging around a small Red Army medical kit.
“Can’t.” Barrowman grunted. “The drugs’ll make me fuzzy. Gotta stay sharp. This is too important.”
“Agreed,” stated Lindquist, reaching inside his gillie suit to pull out a map. “Which is why you’re going back to the escape vehicle to wait for us.”
Barrowman frowned. “But, sir…”
“That was an order, mister,” Lindquist said, tucking away the map once more.
Their employer had not raised his voice, but the mercenary reacted as if he had. Stiffening, Barrowman snapped a salute with his good arm and moved off into the forest, soon disappearing into the darkness and the shrubbery. The man had five miles to cover, and his left arm was useless.
“Think we’ll see him again?” Kessler asked, rubbing his jaw with the back of a gloved hand.
“Let’s go,” Lindquist said, turning to proceed down the sloping hill.
Moving fast and low, the rest of the mercenaries skirted past the access road and the creek, keeping to the trees. Reaching the halfway point, they went motionless under a spreading oak as a Mi-28 Havoc helicopter gunship moved overhead, a blinding searchlight sweeping the roadway and creek.
“Damn, these guys are predictable,” Hannigan subvocalized into a throat mike. The softly spoken words could not have been heard a foot away, but the rest of the Foxfire team heard them crystal-clear in their earbuds.
Clearly annoyed, Lindquist slashed a thumb across his throat for total silence. The burly mercenary nodded in understanding. The team was very close to Mystery Mountain, and God alone knew what kind of security the Russians had there.
The complex was rumored to be three times the size of NORAD high command at Cheyenne Mountain, which sounded very impressive but was also a great weakness. That much land could not be securely guarded without using so many troops that you gave away its location to enemy satellites.
As the Havoc gunship moved away, Hannigan pulled out a sonic probe and moved it around the sky and then along the roadway. When the passive sensor detected no other Russian troops or aircraft, he gave a thumbs-up to the others, and the team went on the move again. Only a few yards later Johansen detected a cluster of land mines on an EM scanner, and they skirted the area. Officially, land mines were banned in Russia, but here at Mystery Mountain, the military was free of most legal restrictions and did whatever it wanted.
Heading away from the clusters of bright lights that marked the military base, Lindquist and the mercenaries soon reached a cliff that overlooked a forlorn section of the valley. The landscape below was bare dirt and rock, the material churned and burned as if it had been strafed by a thousand heavy bombers. The only plant life was a few resilient weeds growing out of the bomb craters. Lindquist thought it resembled the dark side of the moon and was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Down in the dried river, a full company of armed Russian soldiers walked alongside a BMW flatbed hauling a large cylinder of burnished steel. The object rested in a wooden cradle and was securely strapped into position with several heavy canvas belts.
Judging the cylinder against the height of the soldiers, Lindquist would guess it was just about the right size to fit snugly inside a SS-X-27 Topol missile. He had not expected anything so huge and immediately began to adjust his plans accordingly. This was going to be tricky….
Four armored scout cars flanked the procession, the drivers bulky with body armor, the young gunners standing behind the heavy machine guns alert and suspiciously watching the hillsides through infrared goggles.
Their breath fogging, several of the older technicians dressed in white lab coats fiddled with the controls set into the flat end of the cylinder. Their words were lost in the distance. One of them removed his glasses to make a suggestion. The others eagerly agreed, and more internal corrections were made. Suddenly a bank of lights changed colors and the technicians closed an access hatch, locking it into place with crescent wrenches.
At the sight, Lindquist felt his smile fade away. Son of a bitch! The soldiers were right on time, but the goddamn technicians were ahead of schedule. The T-bomb was live!
“Sir…” Kessler started to ask.
“This changes nothing!” Lindquist snapped, pulling a radio detonator from his belt. “We must have that bomb. End of discussion.”
But even as he spoke the words, a gunner in one of the scout cars jerked his head in their direction and shouted something to the driver.
“They know we’re here,” Hannigan cursed, working the bolt on his silenced assault rifle.
“Too bad for them,” Lindquist snarled, flipping back the cover and pressing a button as if thrusting a dagger into the heart of a hated enemy.
In the next microsecond the two weeks of work by the camouflaged mercenaries paid off as a series of explosions ripped along the riverbed. The fiery blasts threw the scout cars and pieces of the soldiers high into the cold night air. The flatbed rocked from the concussions, but did not flip.
The Foxfire team was amazed at the sight. The armored truck was completely undamaged. This crazy plan might just work after all!
Heads reeling from the ringing concussions of the detonations, the battered technicians barely had a chance to recover before a second explosion came from somewhere in the far distance. They flinched at the noise, then relaxed somewhat. However the new detonation kept building in volume and power, until the very ground itself shook.
Even as the truck driver turned off the engine of the flatbed, a strange and terrible light began to brighten the darkness until a fiery column rose above the craggy hills to form the classic mushroom cloud of a nuclear explosion. Instantly every light in the entire valley winked out and the earbuds of the team went dead. But that was part of the plan. The EMP blast of a tactical nuke permanently fried every piece of electronics within the blast radius. Until shielded equipment was brought out of storage, nobody at the military facility could call for help. This gave the mercenaries a window of several minutes. Hopefully, it would be enough.
Resting her AK-47 assault rifle on a shoulder, Johansen started to speak when unexpectedly something dropped out of the sky. A few seconds later there came the whine of a helicopter spinning out of control and the Havoc gunship crashed into the trees on the opposite side of the valley.
Down at the flatbed, the technicians were frantically shouting into radios for help. Except for one man with silver hair and thick glasses. Fumbling in his pockets, the scientist unearthed a keycard from his clothing. It was attached to his belt with a slim chain.
“That’s him!” Lindquist stated.
Aiming their crossbows, Kessler and Johansen fired, the long quarrels slamming into the scientist. Gushing blood, he tumbled off the flatbed, and the mercenaries fired again, pinning him securely to a truck tire.
“Do it again,” Lindquist snapped just as a hot wind blew along the valley, rustling every tree and sending flocks of startled birds streaming into the starry heavens.
“Too late!” Hannigan shouted.
Quickly, Lindquist and the mercenaries grabbed the nearest tree and held on tight. Somewhere a pistol shot rang out, closely followed by another, then several more that became a fusillade of rounds, the crackling rising in volume until it was a near deafening roar. The wind abruptly turned bitterly cold as a wave of blackness swelled from the distant mountains.
“Here it comes!” Kessler shouted, closing his eyes.
Rapidly growing in power, the tidal wave of escaping water from the nuked hydroelectric dam thundered along the dried riverbed. The deluge was filled with the countless bodies of Russian soldiers, civilians, motorcycles, cars and jetfighters.
Unstoppable, the Mystery Mountain lake poured over the flatbed, sweeping up the score of fresh corpses and the screaming technicians. For a chaotic minute, the valley was awash with turbulent waters, the foaming rush almost reaching the mercenary team. Then the rampaging cascade subsided, leaving the muddy ground covered with mounds of wreckage. All of the bodies were gone, washed completely away, except for the one scientist pinned to the tire of the armored flatbed. During the deluge, the vehicle had shifted position by a hundred yards, only to become trapped by the outcroppings of bedrock jutting up from the old riverbed.
