Extreme Instinct. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
there, but they had traded it at Milan in exchange for the NBC suits, the VX nerve gas and many miscellaneous items needed to bring the base back to a full war status, including several tons of food. Trading bombs for corned beef—the technician wasn’t quite sure who got the better of that deal.
“Very good,” the general said, folding the report to tuck it away inside his jacket. “Now, I fear that I must speak to you on a most delicate matter.” He paused. “A private matter.”
“Of course, sir,” Melori replied, wondering what his oafish friend Vladislav had done now. Killed someone or broken another piece of irreplaceable equipment? Soon the general would decide the man was a menace to the mission, and ask to have a quiet word with him somewhere in private. Just the two of them, on the end of the cliff, and a gun containing a single bullet.
Joining the general at the end of the loading dock, the sergeant warily kept his back to the wall.
Noticing the surreptitious maneuver, Novostk smiled. “No, Sergeant, I am not here to deliver some gun-barrel justice. Instead, I need to ask you a very personal question.”
“Sir?” Sergeant Melori asked, also not liking the direction this new line was heading.
Clearly unsure of how to proceed, the general fumbled for the correct words, not wishing to insult the man he needed for an important favor.
“I think I know what you’re trying to ask, sir,” Sergeant Melori whispered softly. “And I would admit this to nobody else, but the answer is yes, I do not care for the intimate company of women.” Even as the man said the words, his stomach tightened. Back in the hill country, such a declaration would get you killed. But Melori had taken a solemn oath to die for the general, so at the very least he should tell the man the plain, unvarnished truth.
“Thank God.” General Novostk exhaled in relief. “Sergeant, I need you to return to our headquarters at Saris Castle and oversee the safety of a prisoner. The professor will most likely be…uncooperative…and may need to be forced to do as we wish, and unlock the secrets of the T-bombs. She is also supposed to be a very beautiful woman, and I do not want the men at the castle to, shall we say, lose sight of our real goal. We need her to remove the antipersonnel hardware defending the bombs, not set one off early to end her unbearable sexual torture.”
“Or to replace the traps with new ones of her own,” Melori finished in sudden understanding. “And with my knowledge of electronics, I’ll also be able to stop her from doing any unwanted augmentation of the weapons.” He blinked. “This is why you’re having her work at the castle, and not here. Just in case.”
The general was pleased to see his choice had been the correct one. “Exactly. Our work is too important to risk being derailed by a madwoman defending her honor.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take ten men as an escort, have them load a T-bomb into a half-track and leave immediately.”
“Make it fifty, and bring along some motorcycles, and the Soviet tank. It is a hard journey through rough country, and nothing must get in your way. I want you there long before Lieutenant Vladislav arrives.”
So let the men have time to get used to me being in charge. Smart. The old man didn’t miss a trick. Then an unpleasant thought occurred. “Sir, what if…what if she cannot be convinced to help us?”
“She must,” the general said flatly, turning away. “There is no other option.”
Slowly comprehension dawned and the sergeant nodded in grim understanding. They would attempt to do this honorably, but as the hated KGB had taught the entire nation, the end always justified the means. The prisoner would be made to comply, end of discussion. And may God have mercy on our souls.
Milan, Italy
A GLOSSY BLACK Hummer drove slowly along the street as it meandered through a series of low hills. At a fork, the vehicle waited as liveried guards swung an ornate iron gate aside. Rolling through the barrier, the people inside the Hummer saw the gate close behind them. The gate meant nothing; it was merely a social courtesy to deter outsiders from taking this particular road. However, it also served as a line of disembarkation, clearly showing the local police where their jurisdiction ended. Technically the land beyond the flimsy fence was still Italy, but in reality it was a world as unreachable as Mars. The mansion and surrounding grounds were privately owned by the Norel Corporation, the biggest arms dealers in the world.
Carefully moving along the private street, the driver of the Hummer stopped for a security check at a brick kiosk where the guards carried holstered pistols. Everything was in order, and the Hummer proceeded up a steeply sloping road into the rugged mountains. On the beautiful azure sea below, sailboats moved in the far distance, along with an unusually high concentration of yachts, and a couple of cargo carriers flying the flag of either the politically neutral Switzerland or Luxembourg.
Privately owned helicopters flitted back and forth from the vessels, steadily conveying passengers to the heliport of the mansion sprawled on top of the craggy mountain. All of the vessels were moored just past the twelve-mile mark from the coast, and thus were in international waters and safe from any unwanted intrusion by the federal police, the Italian navy or even NATO.
Once more, the driver of the black Hummer stopped at a kiosk for a security check. This deep into Norel territory, the kiosk more resembled a concrete pillbox. The guards were carrying AK-105 assault rifles, each one equipped with a 30 mm grenade launcher. Off to the side was a sandbag nest where guards were manning several of the new MANPAD rocket launchers, powerful enough to blow a hole through even a U.S. Army Abrams M-1 tank or an Apache gunship.
The security guards found the people in the Hummer acceptable and waved them through. Sheikh Abdul Ben Hassan was a regular customer here, although he always seemed to send different representatives. But that was the prerogative of a customer; the only person a man could trust was himself, and the only safe place on Earth was the grave.
Following the road to the crest of the mountain, the driver of the Hummer stopped the vehicle in a spacious parking lot nearly filled with luxury vehicles.
“You can almost taste the money,” David McCarter muttered, running a finger along his stiff collar. He was wearing a designer suit, a blue cravat of raw silk held in place by a gold stickpin. His shoes were Italian loafers and a Rolex Supreme glinted on his wrist. As a former member of the elite British SAS, the lanky man felt about as uncomfortable as a nun in a whorehouse on coupon night.
“Smell the blood money, you mean,” muttered T. J. Hawkins, maintaining a neutral demeanor as he set the brake. Born Thomas Jefferson Hawkins, the combat veteran was called T.J. by his family, and Hawk by his fellow soldiers. A sleek Beretta machine pistol was holstered at his side, spare clips thrusting up from an ammo pouch like ancient Japanese samurai swords.
Stepping out of the Hummer, the two men coolly studied the high stone wall separating the parking lot from the Norel estate on the other side. There were no coils of concertina wire, electrical wires or even video cameras edging the defenses of the mountaintop mansion. But the former member of Delta Force knew that the plain-looking wall was jammed full of reactive tank armor, antipersonnel mines, EM scanners and more proximity sensors than the west wing of the White House. There was nothing crude or slapdash about the Norel operations, but then the international weapons merchants were richer than most small nations. Every weekend, the Norel exposition was open for business, and as old saying goes, business was good.
As with many aspects of life in Italy, the operators had an understanding with the law, along with an uneasy truce. No deaths occurred here, and no weapons were sold to anybody who lived within a hundred miles. If the federal police or the military ever did arrive, they could arrest many of the customers, but the next day Milan, Rome and Venice would be flooded with advanced weaponry sold at discount prices, the Norel cartel practically giving the guns away as revenge.
Both of the Stony Man operatives knew that there were no actual weapons at the exposition. Only brochures and smiling salesmen. A customer perused the merchandise, made selections and paid a hefty deposit, with the rest of the money upon delivery, which was always very