Shadow Strike. Don Pendleton

Their Hercules seaplane was moored just over the horizon, well past the reach of any ground-based radar. If all went well, they would be gone within the hour. If not, escape was only minutes away. That gave her some solace.

       Nervously, she tugged on the heavily starched uniform again. This had been the largest shirt among the dead sailors. However, it had been designed for a man, and it simply didn’t fit conformably across her more ample feminine contours. In an effort to flatten her breasts, she had removed her brassier. That helped, but not much, and now every step produced a very undignified jiggling effect. Everybody was trying not to notice, and she deeply appreciated the courtesy.

       Trying not to be obvious, Vilhjalms glanced at Thorodensen, standing so close that she could almost feel the heat radiating from his body. The white uniform fitted him perfectly, of course. But then the man was built like a Norse god of war, and she wouldn’t have minded at all if he had noticed her unbound freedom. Not even a little bit. On impulse, she bumped a soft breast into his bare forearm.

       Curiously, Thorodensen glanced down. “Something wrong?”

       Suddenly, they heard the low roar of truck engines in the distance.

       “Here they come.” She sighed, trying to cover the blunder. Science and math she understood, but clearly, seduction was not one of her many skills.

       “And right on schedule,” Thorodensen said with a smile. “Okay, people, stand at attention! Remember, from now on only speak English! Even among yourself. Understood?”

      “Ja, samkomulag!” the men and woman answered in a ragged chorus.

       “And what did I just tell you?” he bellowed.

       “Yes, sir!”

       “Better,” Thorodensen growled, feeling a trickle of sweat going down his spine.

       There was a loaded pistol at his hip, as well as an L-85 assault rifle across his back. More importantly, he had a remote control in his pocket. If necessary, he could destroy the entire facility, along with his own people and a huge section of the peninsula. But that would purely be a last resort, death instead of being captured. His fledgling organization, Penumbra, desperately needed this cargo. Without it, the plan fell apart completely, here and now.

       As the convoy rumbled closer, Thorodensen noted in relief that it was a standard NATO formation, nothing special. There were three primary vehicles and a few escorts. The main three were massively armored NBC-class trucks, nuclear-biological-chemical proof, able to withstand any type of modern-day weapon, even a near hit from a tactical nuke. Of course, a direct hit would vaporize them, just like anything else. But where most armored vehicles would be torn to pieces and nearly vaporized, these resilient trucks could ride out the shock wave with the crew intact and alive.

       “Trouble?” Vilhjalms whispered, licking her dry lips.

       “Not in the least,” Thorodensen said with a thin smile. Accompanying the four NBC trucks were two Hummers full of combat troops, and six motorcycle riders in full body armor. An Ashanti gunship hovered in the sky overhead.

       Thorodensen grunted. That was normally more than enough protection for this type of cargo. Just not this day.

       As the convoy got close to the exit ramp, Thorodensen waved a hand, and the Icelander in the guard kiosk operated the controls. Hydraulics thumped, and the flimsy-looking gate slowly moved out of the way.

       The convoy braked to a halt at the kiosk, and the motorcycles spread out in a defense pattern. Saluting the guard, the driver of the lead Hummer offered a clipboard full of papers. Saluting back, the Icelander pretended to read them, gave a curt nod, then waved the convoy on.

       “Pass,” he said in a perfect Liverpool accent.

       That caught the driver by surprise, and he beamed in delight. “Cor’ blimey, you from the Puddle?” He laughed. “Me, too! Where were you stationed?”

       Since he had already used the only English word he could say correctly, the guard merely scowled and jerked his head toward the facility. The driver glanced that way, and Thorodensen frowned darkly.

       “Pass!” the guard repeated, stressing the word.

       “Sorry, mate,” the driver muttered, and shifted into gear once more.

       “Wait a minute,” a Turkish sergeant commanded, holding up a palm. “That’s a British navy uniform. Why is the royal navy guarding a UN facility?”

       Instantly, everybody in the convoy stiffened and stared intently at the lone guard.

       With a sigh, Thorodensen reached into his pocket.

       “Hey now, he’s just some swabbie doing the task he was assigned,” the driver said with a big grin. “Isn’t that right, ya yellow-bellied whoremaster?”

       Having no idea what else to do, the guard grinned back and winked.

       “British my ass, it’s a trap!” the sergeant yelled, working the arming bolt on a MP-5 as he swung the weapon around and fired.

       The startled guard was blown off his feet as the hail of 9 mm rounds hammered across his chest.

       Thorodensen pressed the first button on the remote control.

       Instantly, the entire section of road lifted up on thundering columns of flame, twisted bodies and broken wreckage spraying outward for a hundred yards. The motorcycle riders were torn to bits, their flaming bikes tumbling into the electrified fence sending out torrents of sparks. Even the armored trucks flipped over, rising a dozen yards into the air before crashing back down sideways onto the ruined roadway. The NBC vehicles slammed into the pavement, but seemed completely unharmed; not even the windows were cracked.

       Instantly, the Icelanders started to rush forward.

       “Wait!” Thorodensen commanded, pressing the second button.

       A split second later, a full salvo of surface-to-air missiles streaked out from the hidden bunker on the hill, and the Ashanti gunship erupted into a writhing fireball. As it fell, the props came loose and spun wildly away, while several rockets launched into the sea. They hit the water and violently detonated, sending out huge waves that crashed onto the rocky shoreline.

       “Now, get those trucks open!” Thorodensen bellowed, striding down the road. “We have thirty minutes before reinforcements arrive!”

       “Thirty?” Vilhjalms asked, already working the small EM scanner in her hands. “I thought our window was only fifteen minutes!”

       “Before leaving the United Nations I managed a small reorganization of the tactical rescue forces in Spain,” Thorodensen said grimly. “They’re now less efficient than the French parliament on a Friday.”