Extreme Instinct

“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 close as the building itself dwindled into the distance.

“Negative,” the pilot replied. “Just wanted you to know that I should have 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.