Oceans Of Fire - Don Pendleton

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swiftly disappearing down the street with the nuke strapped to his back.

      James broke into a dead sprint after him. His head throbbed with every footfall but he doggedly pursued. Forbes ran like the fullback he’d been at the Naval Academy. James staggered as a bullet struck him like a hammer between the shoulder blades. He turned to find Sharkov leaning against the Land Cruiser firing a pistol. James’s .45 thudded and Sharkov staggered. Then he shuddered as McCarter ripped a 20-round magazine through him from his Vikhr rifle. Sharkov’s man, Levenchko, dropped his rifle and dropped to his knees with his hands up.

      McCarter waved James forward. “Get the nuke! Go! Go! Go!”

      James slammed in a fresh magazine and sprinted on. The fact was, Forbes was younger and faster and had the lead. Forbes hit an intersection and turned left. The Halo suddenly thundered into view and followed him. James tasted the lactic acid in the back of his throat as he called on every last ounce of his flagging strength.

      He rounded the corner and saw Forbes rising up into the air on the end of a rope. James took his pistol in both hands. The pistol cycled seven times in rapid semiauto and clacked open on empty. McCarter and Manning ran up behind him, weapons leveled, but the Halo was already receding from sight with Forbes strung beneath it.

      James sank to one knee and tried to get air into his lungs. “What’s…the situation?”

      “Rafe has the other nuke. T.J.’s unconscious. Jack was losing power to his tail rotor and had to set her down. He crashed it in a soccer field three blocks from here. He’s okay and heading our way. The good news is that we have Zhol. The bad news is…” McCarter trailed off as he watched the helicopter disappear into the rising sun.

      “Bad news is we have a Broken Arrow,” James finished. “Loose nuke.”

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      Panji Poyan, Tajikistan

      “Forbes.” The voice on the secure phone was cold, clipped and spoke with a heavy, non-Russian accent. Forbes was fluent in four languages, but the man on the other end of the line chose to speak English. “Report.”

      “Sharkov’s dead.” Forbes sat in a safehouse on the Tajikistan-Afghan border and held an ice pack to his head. “Zhol’s in custody.”

      “And the packages?”

      Forbes’s finger absently tapped the suitcase-size device next to him on the bed. “I have one.”

      The voice on the other end waited for moment. “And the other?”

      Forbes glanced at his lumped face in the mirror and shook his head. “I have one,” he repeated.

      “And who has the other one?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “You do not…know?” the voice repeated.

      Forbes scowled. “These guys who hit us, they were—”

      “Were what?”

      The ex-SEAL thought back on the battle. “Unorthodox. Throwing antitank grenades from motorcycles, ramming attacks, and their equipment was like they had their own candy store, whatever the job required. No budget constraints.”

      “So who are they?”

      “They ain’t SOCOM, that’s for damn sure. All I know is one of them—”

      “Used to be a Navy SEAL, like yourself, Mr. Forbes.” The man on the other end of the line paused significantly. “This man you hired.”

      “Mr. Zhol hired him.”

      “On your glowing recommendation, as I recall.”

      “Yeah.”

      “I want the device back.”

      “Yeah.”

      “You wish payback.”

      “Yeah.”

      “What do you intend to do about this?”

      “The only possible connection they have left is Sharkov. They’ll have to go after the boys in Moscow, and they’ll get information on them out of Zhol.” Forbes began jacking truncated-cone, Teflon-coated, armor-piercing bullets into his .357 Magnum.

      “What do you intend?”

      “I intend go north.” Forbes continued to feed slugs into his pistol. “And kill Calvin James’s Judas ass.”

      “They will indeed most likely head to Moscow, but I think I have a better idea.”

      Forbes slid in the sixth round. “I’m listening.”

      The man on the other end spent several moments outlining his plan. “You concur, Mr. Forbes?”

      “Yeah.” Forbes grinned from ear to ear as he snapped shut the cylinder of the Smith & Wesson N-Frame. “Oh, hell, yeah.”

      U.S. Embassy, Moscow

      “WE’RE LOOKING for a Russian general in bed with the Russian mafiya,” Kurztman said.

      The question would be finding the right one, and the team was pretty banged up. It had been a hard flight north with little time for rest or medical attention.

      “One thing’s been bugging me,” James said. “Down in the garage, Forbes was talking to some guy on his cell, and he was speaking German.”

      “German?” Hawkin’s eyes widened out of the purple raccoon mask of bruising. “You sure?”

      “Oh, yeah. And he was talking respectful, like he was talking to his superior.”

      “I don’t see the German angle, particularly if Forbes was muscle for a Tajik gangster.” Encizo shook his head. “But then again I think there’s a lot of things on this one we don’t see yet.”

      “Let’s stick with what we can see.” McCarter turned to Calvin James. “What about Zhol?”

      James leaned back in his chair. “We have him illegally detained downstairs. I spent the morning with him, and he isn’t responding to interrogation.” He looked pointedly at McCarter. “Question is, do we hit him with chemicals, or cut him loose and see where he goes?”

      McCarter steepled his fingers in thought. “I say we cut him loose here in Moscow and see who comes to claim him.”

      “Or see who comes to kill him.” Manning frowned. “Aidar Zhol is flesh-peddling scum, but right now he’s scum under our protection and he’s damaged goods. We cut him loose and someone is more than likely going to come and punch his ticket.”

      “Good.” Hawkins had a light concussion and wasn’t in a particularly merciful mood. “I say he cooperates with us or we let him and his damaged-goods-status ass go play with the Moscow boys.”

      “All right.” McCarter nodded. “Cal, give him the choice, flat-out.”

      “I did.”

      “And?”

      Calvin James sighed. “He used a number of politically incorrect words, but the gist of it was f—off.”

      Hawkins grunted. “Then he’s made his choice.”

      McCarter had to agree. “Jack, we’re going to need a chopper and permission to fly over Moscow airspace. Work it out with the CIA station chief.”

      “You got it.”

      “Cal, I want Zhol bugged so deep that even he doesn’t know he’s wearing a wire.”

      James scratched his chin. “Then let’s set him free in the morning. I’ll put something in his food tonight so he sleeps soundly and we’ll rig him for sound and trace.”

      “All right, then.” McCarter stood. “We set our pigeon free at

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