Extreme Instinct. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
a hundred feet away rose a brand-new lighthouse, even taller than the ruins, the freshly painted sides glistening with the salty spray, the plastic cupola topped with radar and microwave receptors.
A town curved along the eastern side of the cove, the fishing shacks and drying huts converted into hotels and restaurants for visiting tourists. Under the indolent rule of the czar, Balaklava had been a thriving seaport, a bustling community of fishermen and sailors, plying their ancient trade. Then the Communists seized control and soldiers forced the people to leave their homes for reasons unknown. The few men foolish enough to ask were never heard from again. Then the Soviet Union fell, and the people of Balaklava returned to reclaim their ancestral homes, and to try to build a new life as a resort community. The fishing was excellent, the vodka cheap, and there were countless subterranean caves to be explored, along with the abandoned glory of a secret naval base. The massive fleet of submarines was long gone, but the dry docks remained, as well as the facilities to house and maintain a fighting force of over a thousand sailors.
Directly across from the seaside village was a wooden dock that led directly into a volcanic cave, the entrance to the underground redoubt. At one time, it had been a shooting offense to know the location of the cave. Now it was decorated with posters and photographs from the glory days of the Cold War, along with a stenciled placard announcing the days and times of each tour.
Standing on the other side of a woven yellow rope, a fat man in a loose white suit glared indignantly. His skin was pale from a life working under fluorescent lights. Mirrored sunglasses hid most of his face, and a large Nikon camera hung around his neck.
“What do you mean, closed?” the man demanded angrily.
“Closed. As in not open to the public anymore,” the tour guide replied patiently. “The government is doing something here, and nobody is allowed inside until they’re done. Okay?” The guide enjoyed using the strange American word. He had heard it often in movies.
“No, it is not okay!” the fat man bellowed. “I’ve come all the way from St. Petersburg to see this goddamn installation, and I want to see it right now. Fuck the government!”
“In the old days, that would have gotten you shot,” the guide coldly reminded.
“But these are not the old days anymore, comrade,” the tourist sneered. “We’re a democracy now. Free men all. So fuck you, fuck the government and get the fuck out of my way, I want to see the submarine pens!”
“Fair enough,” the guide replied, unclipping the rope and stepping aside.
Triumphantly, the tourist strode along the long wooden dock and into the volcanic cave. The man removed his sunglasses to see the interior better when the light vanished. Turning, he scowled at the sight of a thick black curtain hanging across the mouth of the cave.
“What the fuck is this?” the fat man demanded loudly, looking around for somebody to berate. Then he blanched at the sight of a dozen men coming out of a duty room. They were each dressed in combat fatigues and carried automatic weapons.
“Hey,” the tourist mumbled only a split second before the mercenaries opened fire.
The silenced Kalashnikov assault rifles chugged softly, the 7.62 mm rounds tearing the fool apart. He hit the stone floor coughing and twitching, the white suit rapidly turning a deep crimson. The echoes of the muted gunfire repeated endlessly along the watery tunnel, disappearing into the distance.
Walking closer, Colonel Lindquist pulled out a Tokarev automatic and shot the civilian once more. Gurgling horribly, his head snapped back from the arrival of a steel-jacketed round, and then went still forever.
“Russians,” Novostk sneered, stiffly walking into view. “The best way to make them do something is to tell them not to do it.”
The skinny general had already changed out of the hated Soviet naval uniform, and now was back in his Slovakian uniform. It was plain and unadorned, with only the insignia on the collar showing his rank. An old Samopal Vzor assault rifle was slung across his back, and a web belt of ammo pouches encircled his skinny waist with a bulky Rex .357 Magnum revolver holstered on the hip.
“I knew we should have dismantled the dock,” Colonel Lindquist said, holstering his pistol. “Mikhail, clean up the blood. Petrov, get rid of the body in one of the submarine pens. Zhale, put up a sign about falling rocks. That should keep away the fools until we’re gone.”
Quickly, the assigned men moved to obey. The rest stayed where they were, close to the general.
“Speaking of which, we’re ready to leave,” General Novostk said, shifting the Samopal Vzor assault rifle to a more comfortable position. The weapon was a Slovakian version of a Russian AK-47. Both the metal and wooden stock worn from years of use, but gleaming with fresh oil and polish.
“Already?” Lindquist asked in surprise. “Excellent. Has even the helicopter been dismantled?”
“Sealed off in a side tunnel,” the general countered. “I did not know if you wanted to use the Hook again.”
“Too risky, sir,” Lindquist answered. “I’ll use a boat for the next part.”
The general arched an eyebrow at that but said nothing. The colonel was an amazing officer, in spite of being a mixture of American and Slovakian blood. Clearly, there was just a touch more Bratislava in his soul than Brooklyn.
“And how is your former employer taking the betrayal?” Novostk asked, heading deeper into the dim cavern.
“Fuck him,” Lindquist snarled, clasping both hands behind his back. “He’s part Slovak himself, but harbors no ill will toward the Soviets, in spite of everything they did to our nation.”
“Then he is a fool.”
“Agreed, sir. Which is why I had no trouble killing his mercenaries to turn Skyfire over to you.”
“History will remember you as a true patriot, Colonel!”
Unimpressed, Lindquist shrugged in reply. As a soldier, it was his sworn duty to protect his homeland. The Soviet Union had plundered the natural resources of Slovakia, and that lunatic Stalin had sent millions of its citizens to the Siberian gulag work camps never to return. As a soldier, Lindquist would have much preferred a straight fight with the Russian army, but if this was the only way for Slovakia to strike back at Moscow, then so be it. Blood was blood, and terrorists were always heroes to the dead they avenged.
Turning at a corner, the officers paused at the sight of a bound man covered with chains. A soldier tried not to smile as he shoved the helpless prisoner forward. A muffled scream escaped his gag as the bound man toppled off the concrete apron, to land in the water with a large splash. He sank immediately into the depths, leaving behind a small trail of air bubbles.
“And who was that, Private?” Novostk asked casually. “Another fisherman who wandered in here by accident?”
“Smuggler, sir,” the soldier replied, giving a crisp salute.
“Indeed,” Lindquist muttered, glancing at the struggling man descending to the bottom of the pen. The water was over fifty feet deep, and soon there was only a trickle of escaping air bubbles visible in the underwater lights. “And what was he trying to sneak into Russia?”
“Heroin.”
The general scowled, then spit into the water. “No loss, then. The fool only got what he deserved. We want the Russians dead, not enslaved to that filth.”
“And what did you do with the drugs?” Lindquist asked sharply.
“Made him eat it, sir. A half kilo of Bulgarian black tar.”
“And he lived?”
Suddenly the air bubbles stopped rising from the murky depths.
“No, sir, he did not.” The soldier grinned savagely.
“Well, the fish should have a good time disposing of the carcass.” Lindquist chuckled