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  "The two floors above ground are mostly administrative and living quarters for the military and scientific personnel. They are also for show, to establish the business front of the place. The communications room is here, along with the power supply switching station and quarters for some security people.

  "In the switching station, the master control console is arranged so the levels can be shut off from all electrical power one subfloor at a time. We appreciate that help.

  "Level Sub One, or S-1, is mostly administrative, housekeeping and more security.

  "S-2 is for moderate chemical warfare devices. Some of the older gases, tear and nausea gases of all types, and some of the less virulent bacteriological seed cultures that must be kept under constant heat and humidity controls are all stored here in rooms. There are vaults, freezers, and some of the toxins are even in ovens. We will neutralize any personnel here and bypass the subfloor.

  "S-3 is for the more extreme types of nerve gases and the more sensitive bacteriological strains and cultures.

  "S-4 is our target. Here the most destructive and deadly nerve gases are stored. We don't want all the supply, only six canisters of the best!"

  He smiled and dropped the cover over the chart. "The people in the complex will attempt to stop us from taking the six tanks. That is their job. We will see if our small, expert force is better than their much larger but ill-equipped, poorly trained and less determined group. We will see ourselves win.

  "That's enough for now. You'll receive six hours of detailed instruction tomorrow about exactly what you are to do, how you will do it and what we do when we come out of the hole with the canisters.

  "Now get to your bunks in the basement. You'll be up at 3:00 a.m. for guard duty."

  The three men looked serious as they left. There was none of the light camaraderie shared by true soldiers after a briefing.

  Aleksandr went to the only room without a window on the first floor and sat heavily in the soft chair. He mixed a drink and leaned back.

  Two more days and his greatest adventure would begin. He had come a long way in the KGB. There had been no family connections for him. He had not been included in those chosen to go to the Institute for International Studies, which would have given him quick entry into the KGB. Instead he had to spend four years in the army, apply three times and pass tough tests before being accepted for training. He had begun at the bottom, worked twice as hard as anyone else and had at last been promoted to field rank.

  But even here he did not find the thrill, the danger, the life-and-death contests he wanted. He watched other agents make modest successes and return to Moscow and move slowly ahead in the party and the KGB organization. He had no such ambition. He was working toward exactly what he wanted now. His instructions had been to steal one of the canisters of the nerve gas. But while he was at the store he might as well help himself to five more of the deadly canisters. He had contacts who were delighted to have such a product available. They knew exactly how to use it, and would pay handsomely.

  Aleksandr smiled, and sipped the drink. Those plans for the other five canisters had nothing to do with the party, Mother Russia or the KGB.

  If everything went well he would be leaving the KGB service, but not before he set up his own "accidental" death deep in the jungles of Central America. And before this he would finalize the arrangements that would make him a millionaire, that would establish him with a wealthy man's life-style for the rest of his days, in any country he wished to live. He could even go back to Moscow with new identity papers and passport from anywhere. He would need a slightly different face and a new set of fingerprints, but what a thrill that would be.

  Aleksandr shivered as he looked out at the lights surrounding the sturdy fence. It would not be long now. Not long at all!

  3

  Mack Bolan woke up at 5:30 a.m. as usual and did one hundred pushups and one hundred sit-ups. He ran two miles down the highway and back. Then he showered and dressed in his three-piece business suit for the day. It was Saturday, but he had phoned the previous afternoon and discovered that Binder Chemical Corporation was open Saturday morning.

  Bolan had spent most of Friday tailing suspects from the safehouse. Two of them had parked near the chemical firm.

  Now he bought a plastic envelope with a zipper on top to serve as a minibriefcase. He filled it with samples of business forms he bought at the same stationery store, and drove the ten miles to the company building. He parked in one of the few spaces for visitors and walked into Binder Chemicals shortly after 9:00 a.m.

  Inside the entrance an attractive, well-dressed young woman looked up from her desk. "Good morning, sir. How may we help you?" she asked pleasantly.

  "Maxwell Bond," Bolan said. "Commercial Printing Corporation. We specialize in business forms. Now if I could talk with your purchasing agent or your supervisor in charge of office supplies, I'm sure that I can save your company five or six thousand dollars a year."

  The brown-eyed blonde listened attentively, a sly smile shadowing her pretty face.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. I bet you could save us lots of money. But I'm afraid no one from those departments is available. Would you like to come back Monday?"

  "I have to be in Boise on Monday — appointments all day long."

  As Bolan stood there, seemingly dejected, he took an exacting inventory of the place. A maintenance man had appeared shortly after Bolan's arrival, and was sweeping a small area near the far doors. He had Security Guard written all over him. His short haircut seemed out of place for a modern business.

  On the opposite side of the entrance, two young men emerged from an elevator. Both were trim, wore business suits and also had short haircuts. They stood and talked about some business operation, and neither looked toward Bolan.

  "Well, miss, I'm stumped. Could I maybe leave some material for your manager to look at?"

  "Yes, of course, Mr. Bond. You can leave samples for our manager. But I know that he just did some ordering last month."

  "What about taking your manager to lunch?" Bolan said. "He has to eat and it would be a chance to talk over…" Bolan's voice faded as the girl shook her head.

  "I'm sorry, but he can't. He always takes a ten-mile run at lunchtime. A real health nut."

  "Looks like I struck out."

  "I'm sorry. Try again in six months." She smiled again.

  "Thanks for your help. Maybe in six months then." The Executioner examined a small display case and several pictures of the company's operation on the walls. The two young men were joined by a third, and as one turned, the outline of a shoulder rig and a gun became visible under his left arm. Security all over the place.

  Bolan waved to the receptionist, left the building, walked straight to his camper and drove away. He felt eyes on him all the time. He had felt a tension as soon as he had entered the building. This was not a simple chemical plant.

  He drove the ten miles back to Emmett and stopped at a telephone booth. He used his Calling Card and phoned the special number in Virginia, the only phone in the Stony Man complex that was not on automatic record, the only one Mack Bolan ever called.

  When it rang, Aaron "The Bear" Kurtzman answered.

  Kurtzman had been seriously wounded in an attack on the Appalachian mountain hardsite that had been Bolan's headquarters when Bolan was known as Colonel John Phoenix, counterterrorist. Kurtzman now was limited to a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down. But his hands and his mind were as active as ever.

  "Bear? This is a friend. How's it going?"

  He recognized Bolan's voice at once. The warmth was almost tangible. "It's good to hear from you again. Are you well?"

  "I'm fine, Bear, but I need a small favor." Bolan quickly described the target of his curiosity, the Binder Chemical Corporation. Kurtzman grunted.

  "I think I know what the place is, but let me double-check. Hold the line."

  Bolan imagined Kurtzman wheeling over to his favorite computer and punching in the ques
tion. The answer would arrive within microseconds.

  "That's a touchy one," Kurtzman said forty seconds later. "I had to go through three clearances just to get the name from the memory banks. The Binder Depository is ten underground levels storing more than half of our stockpile of biological and chemical weapons, cultures and assorted secrets. It is disguised as a civilian firm. It should by rights have an Army armored division around it, but a code here reveals the military's thinking. They figure if nobody knows it's there, nobody can hurt it. Sounds like you're onto something big, my friend."

  "Not me. I don't work for Uncle anymore. I retired. Just trying to retire some KGB agents."

  "I know how you feel. Listen, it's the real stuff where you are. Be careful."

  "Always. And as we used to say, stay hard."

  Bolan got in his camper and drove. He considered his weapons. A friendly contact had set him up with a good supply of hardware. For a change he had all the armament he could use, including a Redeye Army shoulder-held missile launcher that could punch a hole in a cement building.

  The Redeye, the Army's M-41E1, was designed to allow infantrymen to shoot down low-flying jet aircraft. It was designed for heat-seeking and homing missiles, but had been adapted for straight explosive missiles with the punch of a big howitzer.

  Everything else Bolan needed was in the camper. Three miles from the farmhouse, he backed the vehicle into a lane with heavy brush, out of sight of the road. He field-stripped and cleaned all the weapons he would use the next day, including the big .44 AutoMag, his Beretta 93-R with its 15-round magazine and a lightweight Childers Automatic Combat Shotgun that could pump out twenty rounds of double O buck in six seconds.

  When all were oiled and returned to their hidden storage spots, he looked over the Redeye. A simple device, it was a big improvement over the old bazooka, and its small rocket missiles had a range of more than two miles. He had four straight HE rounds, not heat-seeking. At three hundred yards they would work wonders.

  Bolan put the Beretta in its belt holster under his light jacket and walked along the road through the woods. A mile down, he cut across a pasture to a small stream and followed the cover the willows and brush provided. Downstream another mile he climbed a small hill and just over the brow looked down at the farmhouse that had become a Soviet safehouse.

  He was a half mile away and sure their security would not extend this far. The access road was from the opposite side of the hill; evidently this area had been used for pasture when the dairy was flourishing. Now it was a natural grassland with a few trees.

  Quickly he chose his attack site, more than a quarter mile beyond his present position. A small knoll on the hill would provide enough protection from the front, yet allow the back blast of the Redeye to dissipate without pinpointing his position. He figured it would take three shots: the first to get the range, the second to hit the front door, the third for the fence. Then he would charge with assault fire, storm into the place with the Childers slamming death pellets into anything that moved.

  He lay there watching the target, estimating distances and calculating strategies. There was no movement whatsoever around the buildings — strange. Earlier, there had been guards, people moving about, vehicles arriving and departing. Yet there must be people there. Smoke issued from two chimneys in the house and one in the small building beside the nearby barn.

  The strike last night had put them on the alert. Bolan estimated the distances once more. The road out of the complex stretched away from him. There was no back way out. Any Soviet running for a vehicle would have to pass through Bolan's field of fire.

  Satisfied, Bolan parked the camper closer to the farm. It was desolate and unpatrolled all around. Just the quiet world of the Idaho countryside.

  Soon it was dark. He made a circuit of the area, found nothing unusual. There were no other farms within walking distance. Evidently, most of the small farmers had been bought out and had moved away when the depository was built. And with good cause. Any spill, any so-called accident here could cost the lives of anyone downwind for miles.

  Bolan checked his weapons again. He laid out the ones he would be using in the morning. He filled the small combat pack with the extra Redeye rounds, some squares of C-4 plastic explosive, and a few other surprises for an emergency. Then he was ready for a five-mile run, not a jog but a run at six minutes to the mile that left him sweating and panting.

  He sponged himself down with a washcloth and slid into his sleeping bag. Morning would come quickly.

  4

  The six attackers came out of the sky, silently, like giant deadly butterflies. They swept in from the north between fifteen and twenty feet off the ground, hugging the terrain, then swinging higher as they approached the two-story Binder Depository. Three of the ultralight aircraft, which were little more than motorized hang gliders, sailed over the depository walls at 4:30 a.m., half an hour before daylight on an autumn day in Idaho.

  Each of the pilots wore protective clothing and gas masks. The first three ultralights came in formation and sprayed a heavy mixture of sulfuric acid and nausea agent 42-D across the quandrangle, at the guard post at the front of the complex and at the guard towers around the enclosure.

  The second wave of three ultralights came thirty seconds later, giving the guards and outside personnel enough time to stagger from their posts. The second trio of gliders sprayed the acid-burned guards with deadly 9mm parabellum rounds from silenced Uzi submachine guns, cutting them down to a man. After this slaughter, the second group of fliers landed in the courtyard, abandoned their craft and stood guard while the first group landed in the enclosure. Led by Aleksandr Galkin, the six men quickly swept the guard posts and, still wearing protective clothing and gas masks, killed the last two men who were trying to escape to the communications center.

  Aleksandr and another man charged into the first floor of the building and found the communications room where they had expected it would be.

  An Army corporal with an armband reached for his .45 but took three rounds from the silenced Uzi before he could clear iron from the polished Army holster. The second man in the room held up his hands and spread out on the floor when he was told to.

  So far eighty-two seconds had elapsed from the instant the ultralights first swept over the two-story structure.

  Sergei Vinogradov and two men surged past an unlocked door into the southwest corner of the quad, surprising and killing two guards. The three invaders entered the electrical power switching room. At once Sergei shut down power on the lower six floors, trapping the personnel there and deactivating any self-destruct mechanisms that were electrically triggered.

  Power to the first three subfloors blinked on and off six times, and Aleksandr checked the panel. Before he could activate the controls, a woman soldier burst into the room with a .45 in her hand. He shot her in the chest and she pivoted out the doorway into the hall. Aleksandr moved to the door and made sure she was dead.

  Twenty feet down the corridor a corporal reached for his shoulder holster hardware. Six Uzi messengers drilled across his chest. A second lieutenant came around the corner of the hall from the other way, .45 already in hand. He blasted one shot at Aleksandr before he died with three rounds in his mouth.

  Aleksandr ran to the communications board. It was as he had been told: simple to operate. He stripped off his protective clothing and boots. Then he studied the complex for a moment, flicked on the master switch and picked up the microphone.

  "To all personnel in the complex. Cease firing! There shall be no more armed opposition, or everyone in the depository will die! I am in control of the electrical switching plant. All electrical power has been shut down for the lower six levels. You are now my prisoners. My men control all topside areas. You are held as hostages in the ten levels below ground. If there is any more resistance above ground, the levels will be destroyed one by one. Everyone above ground must move out to the front of the quad. My automatic weapons will be covering you. />
  "To all personnel in the lower levels. Your lives are in the palm of my hand. If you wish to live, do exactly — I repeat, do exactly — as you are told.

  "First. Lie down. Do not use any hand weapons or manual destruct systems. I am aware of the six types of destruct devices here. I have activated none of these systems. You are now totally helpless. No one else will be killed if you do exactly as you are told.

  "The central safety stairway has been electronically locked at each level. I repeat: the safety stairway has been electronically locked at each level. Your officer's keys will not open the stairwell doors."

  As Aleksandr spoke, his men were busy. According to plan, Sergei remained barricaded in the electric switching center. Having removed their protective gear, two men worked room by room through the two floors above ground, disarming everyone they encountered. There was little opposition once it was announced on the loudspeaker that the entire underground staff was being held hostage.

  The two others swept the first level, picking up all weapons, locking all personnel in two equipment rooms where they would be harmless.

  The same team picked up a third and descended to the second level. They were met at the door with machine-gun fire. Immediately they reported the incident to Aleksandr in the control center.

  A moment later there was a rolling rumble deep below, and the ground shook briefly. Then the speakers came on in all ten levels, plus the two floors above ground and all external speakers.

  "To all you heroes on the second level. Your attack on my men just resulted in the total destruction of level ten. Fourteen men and women were on duty there. They and the special devices and cultures in those areas are now destroyed. If you wish to risk the lives of those on level nine, continue your resistance. If you wish to cooperate, get on your phone and talk to me. You have sixty seconds to make up your mind, starting now."

  Within ten seconds the phone rang on Aleksandr's communications panel. There would be no more resistance on level two.