Capital Offensive. Don Pendleton
“We are not rebels, you stinking piece of filth! We’re soldiers! And soldiers do not torture prisoners!” Calvano bellowed, then stopped. As she splayed on the freshly mowed grass, he could see there were fresh scratches along her inner thighs. The stockings were torn to shreds, and there was no sign of her underwear.
“Who did that? ” Calvano demanded in a whisper, pivoting on a heel. The smoking Bersa pistol was still in his clenched fist, the ejected brass shiny near his boot like a fallen star. Then his voice came back in a strident roar. “Who raped a helpless prisoner on my base?”
The other Forge guards moved away from the sergeant, who suddenly started to sweat profusely in spite of the coolness of the day. “Sir, I…that is…” the man stuttered, then took hold of himself. “Sir, we haven’t been to town in months, and since she was going to die anyway, I didn’t see the harm in a little taste….”
With a flick of the wrist, Calvano raised the gun again and fired. A neat black hole appeared in the forehead of the sergeant and he stumbled backward, blood and a sort of thin, watery fluid beginning to pour from the hole in his brain. As the sergeant’s fingers twitched, the FN 2000 assault rifle stuttered, the 5.56 mm rounds stitching a line of destruction directly in front of the general and heading his way. As if he was carved from winter ice, Calvano didn’t move, but instead fired twice more directly into the chest of the dying man.
Crumpling with a sigh, the soldier collapsed and went still.
“We are not killing four billion people only to put animals in charge!” the general stated furiously. His eyes held an insane look, and his gun swept the assembled men, pointing to each one in turn. Nobody moved. Then the 9 mm pistol was smoothly holstered.
“We are not terrorists, criminals or the American CIA!” the general continued. “We are soldiers! The saviors of the human race! And we do not torture prisoners, we kill the enemy! Period. Is that clear?”
The soldiers nodded quickly, saying nothing.
“Now bury her in the trees,” Calvano said, turning his back on the guards. “And throw him into the ravine for the ants to eat.”
As the guards rushed to obey, the general glanced at the waiting APC. His bodyguards were standing near the machine, their weapons at the ready, the driver at the gun turret, only his eyes showing behind the 7.62 mm electric minigun.
Feeling a rush of pride, General Calvano gave them a nod of approval, which was returned. Now those were soldiers, men of honor. There might have to be a thinning of his battalion after the nuclear war. There were just too many unreliables among the troopers.
Turning away from the APC, Calvano strode across the access bridge, his boots ringing against the corrugated aluminum. There was no safety railing for an invading force to hide behind, and a score of land mines were bolted to the underside of the prefabricated bridge in case an invading force needed to be stopped.
With a sputtering roar, the APC came alive and followed after the general, the bridge trembling slightly from the tremendous weight of the military vehicle.
Once past the sighing trees, Calvano smiled as Firebase Alpha came into view. A civilian might find the military installation rather drab and plain-looking, but to any combat soldier it was beautiful. The base was a sprawling expanse of squat concrete buildings surrounded by an electrified fence topped with razor-sharp concertina wire. An insulated fence formed a path of safety for the dogs padding around the firebase on patrol. Dimly seen soldiers watched with binoculars from behind the bulletproof glass of the tall guard towers, and there were subtle movements inside the dark concrete pillboxes at the corner of the electric fence. Canvas sheets covered the gunports, and there was no way to tell there was a 40 mm Vulcan minigun inside each squat redoubt.
More guards walked the flat roofs of interior buildings, and white whisps of mist rose from the ventilation fans of the command center, exhaust from the liquid nitrogen used to cool down the massive Cray SVG Supercomputer in the reinforced basement. The chief hacker for Forge had insisted on the installation of the SOTA hardware, and had proved its usefulness many times over. Nobody could properly pronounce his real name, so the soldiers liked to call the little man Snake Eater. Apparently he had been involved in some trouble in Calcutta a while back, and fled to Argentina. The computer expert had found refuge in the ranks of Forge.
Approaching the armored gate, Calvano snapped his fingers impatiently and the soldiers in the brick kiosk rushed to the control panel. As the APC lumbered to a halt behind the general, the solid slab of steel used as an anticrash stanchion descended from sight with the sound of working hydraulic machinery. Now, woven steel nets were raised, closing off the dog tunnel, and the gate loudly unlocked, then began to ponderously swing aside. The driver of the APC shifted the vehicle into gear, but Calvano didn’t move.
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