Don Pendleton - Capital Offensive

Major Domingo San-Martin rushed toward the front gate from the command center. The short, heavyset officer held a sheet of crumpled paper in his hand. The general grimaced at the sight. That couldn’t be good news.

“Sir…” Major San-Martin gasped, coming to a halt only a few feet away. “I saw you on the bridge—”

“What has happened?” Calvano demanded, snatching away the fax. The paper was covered in complex double lines of alphanumeric code, but the translation was written underneath each in red pencil.

“There is another…warehouse…sir,” the man gasped.

The general went still. “Impossible.”

“The Americans…are preparing all of their remaining missiles for a retrofit,” he said, stumbling slightly over the odd term. “The inspection team in Texas is racing to Puerto Rico, and has a scheduled stay of only an hour.” Color was returning to his face, and his chest no longer heaved.

So they did have more, Calvano thought. Or was it a trap? The Americans often acted stupidly but were rarely fools. If there were more warehouses with replacement INS units, Forge would have to shut down operations. Perhaps permanently.

“We could crash their place on the return flight,” San-Martin suggested. “It would be easy enough to send a few commercial flights into their path.”

“Which would send all evidence to the bottom of the sea,” the general growled, crumpling the fax in his hand. “If there are replacement units in Puerto Rico, I need to know. Have Snake Eater assign a local team to handle the matter. They’re to kill everybody on sight and destroy any INS units discovered. But I want a confirmation either way.”

“Understood, sir.” The major turned to go.

“And send Lieutenant Caramico back to Sonora,” Calvano added.

The officer stopped and turned slowly. “But, sir, we specifically sent her away from the town in case the Americans tried to capture some of our people for questioning.”

“Now we wish to do the same,” the general stated. “The natural place to capture us would be at the warehouse, so have her avoid it completely. Watch the airport…no, the local law enforcement, police, sheriff, whatever they have. The CIA will certainly touch base with the people who were first at the scene of the fire. That will be the place to get prisoners for questioning.”

“Questioning?” the major repeated slowly. He awaited clarification. It was a strange order coming from the general.

Feeling a mounting dread, General Calvano glanced backward at the guard post, the team of men burying the dead news reporter. Something trembled inside his soul, then died. This was a war for survival of the species. Sacrifices would have to be made. So he would perform the first. “Torture the Americans in any way necessary, but get me some answers.”

The major smiled in relief. At least the kid gloves were coming off and the troops were free to do whatever was needed to save their beloved homeland. The rest of the world could die in flames, but Argentina would survive the coming holocaust no matter what.

“No problem, sir,” Major San-Martin replied eagerly. “The lieutenant has Sergeant Mendoza with her. He’s the perfect man for this sort of thing.”

“Yes, I know,” Calvano said. “And have the professor prepare for phase two.”

“It will be my pleasure, sir.” The major saluted, then sprinted toward the communications bunker.

There, it is done, Calvano noted, staring after the officer. I’ve crossed the line between soldier and terrorist. I am no longer an honorable man. Oddly though, a great weight was lifted from his shoulders at the decision, and the general felt exhilarated, almost intoxicated at the rush of total freedom. There were no more rules anymore, only results.

With a low rumble, the APC came alive and started after the general, the great machine advancing until it loomed over the man, casting him into a dark shadow.

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