Don Pendleton - Extreme Instinct

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.

Checking the radiation counter strapped to his wrist, Lindquist grunted in annoyance and dropped his backpack to retrieve a protective NBC environment suit. Stepping inside, he zipped it closed and quickly started down the slippery slope toward the flatbed lying sideways amid the assorted debris. The steel cylinder was clearly still strapped to the truck and, aside from dripping water, seemed completely undamaged. Excellent.

Donning their own protective suits, Hannigan and Johansen followed Lindquist, leaving Kessler alone on the hillside, thumbing a fat 30 mm round into the grenade launcher attached beneath the barrel of the AK-47.

Going to the sodden corpse pinned to the truck tire, Lindquist used a pair of bolt cutters to free the keycard. Climbing onto the flatbed, he fumbled to find the slot on the end of the T-bomb, then slipped the keycard inside. There was a soft beep, then the service panel disengaged and swung open wide. Knowing that all of the controls had been reversed as a security measure, Lindquist calmly pressed the detonation button on a small keypad. There was a brief buzzing, and he stopped breathing. But the internal lights dimmed and faded away completely.

“It’s deactivated,” Lindquist announced, tucking the precious card into a belt pouch, which he zipped shut. His hands were shaking from the adrenaline overload, and the man was glad the bulky NBC suit hid the fact from the combat veterans.

Suddenly machine gun fire erupted and a BTR-70 jounced out of the forest, a dozen weapons chattering from every gunport of the armored personnel carrier.

Caught in the glare of the halogen headlights, Lindquist stepped protectively in front of the T-bomb as Hannigan and Johansen blindly fired back with their assault rifles. Both of the mercenaries knew full well that even if they managed to achieve a hit, the 7.62 mm rounds wouldn’t even dent the heavy armor plating the military juggernaut. However, safely off to the side, Kessler had a clear view. Swinging up his AK-47, he aimed and fired the grenade launcher.

The yellow-tipped round slammed into the front of the APC, punched clean through and violently detonated inside.

Tendrils of flame extending from every vent and port, the APC raced past the flatbed. Kessler put another million-dollar round into the rear compartment. The depleted-uranium slug penetrated the armor plating as if it were cardboard, then the thermite charge violently exploded inside the working engine, filling the interior with a maelstrom of shrapnel.

Gushing fuel and blood, the decimated BTR-70 continued up the other side of the riverbed and rolled into the trees, careening off a boulder before vanishing into the night.

Returning to their work, the mercs diligently released the restraining straps, while Lindquist fired a flare into the air. With the radios dead, it was their only way to communicate over long distance. However the message was received, and soon Barrowman arrived in an old Soviet-era truck. The Cold War vehicle had been built long before the invention of electronic ignition and fuel injectors, and thus was completely immune to the neutralizing effects of a nuclear EMP blast.

“Think they’ll ever figure out what really happened?” Hannigan chuckled, pulling out a crescent wrench from the tool belt around his NBC suit.

“Not until it’s too late,” Lindquist snarled hatefully, patting the keycard safe in the belt pouch. “Not until it’s all over, and there is a new world order.”

“Thought this was about protecting America?” Johansen asked sharply, beginning to work on a restraining bolt.

“Shut up, and work faster,” Lindquist countered, walking over to the waiting Soviet Union truck, his face an iron mask.

Whitehead River, Colorado

Standing waist-deep in the chilly runoff, Harold Brognola found the morning Rocky Mountain air more than invigorating; it was damn near rejuvenating. With each passing hour, he could feel the pressures of his job at the Justice Department slipping away, muscles slowly relaxing. The top cop in America found himself involuntarily whistling.

Carefully keeping the split-cane fly rod in constant motion, Brognola let the line out, then the artificial fly touched the surface of the river. A large trout rose into view as it tried to reach the elusive food, then flipped back into the shadowy depths, slashing its tail in frustration.

“Better luck next time,” Brognola chuckled, loosening the line to disengage a tangle. Fly-fishing was proving to be a lot like his regular line of work. There was a great deal of waiting and watching, then strike hard and kill when necessary.

Suddenly a dozen trout flashed past his waders heading upstream. Turning, the puzzled man watched them head for the pool below the waterfall. Okay, that was odd. Then the whistling stopped and his smile faded away as a dozen more trout flashed by in the same direction, closely followed by an entire school of sunfish and then several big-mouth bass.

Jerking his head downstream, Brognola saw nothing coming his way. Still he hurriedly sloshed through the river toward the nearby bank. Scrambling onto dry land, he shrugged off the suspenders and dropped the heavy waders, then sprinted for his car parked alongside the old gravel road.

Reaching the vehicle, Brognola yanked open the passenger door and reached under the seat to haul out a S&W .38 revolver and a brand-new Glock 18. The Smith & Wesson had been with the Justice man since his tour of duty in the old Mafia Wars, but middle age was taking its inevitable toll and the massive firepower of the deadly Glock machine pistol was a welcome addition. As Bolan liked to say, a man could never have too many friends or too much firepower. True words.

Working the slide on the 9 mm machine pistol, Brognola thumbed back the hammer on the police revolver and took a defensive position behind the car. It wasn’t much, but some protection was better than nothing.

The sound of the approaching vehicle could be heard long before it appeared around a bend in the Whitehead River. Charging along the riverbed, the tires of a big Hummer threw out a wide spray, creating a traveling rainbow behind the speeding military transport. The soldiers wore the uniforms of Green Berets, and the men in the back openly carried M-16 assault rifles.

Vaguely, Brognola remembered there was a military base somewhere in the nearby mountains, but could not recall the exact name. However, if these were fake soldiers, the killers had done an excellent job. As far as he could tell, these were the real thing. He tightened his grip on both weapons. But a fool often dropped his guard for a friendly, smiling face. As the director of the Special Operations Group, Brognola had made a host of enemies over the years, and he had simply accepted it as part of the job that someday, somewhere, they would find him alone and extract a terrible revenge.

Barreling out of the river, the driver parked the Hummer on the sloped bank. A lieutenant stepped out and started to give a salute, but stopped himself just in time and changed the gesture into removing his cap.

Brognola grunted. So far, so good. Soldiers did not salute civilians. But he was still far from being convinced. “Morning,” Brognola called, leveling both guns. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” The man’s heart was pounding in his chest, but his palms were dry.