From their radio transmissions, the British captain and his team were clearly heading for the Iskander nuclear missile battery, south of Pravdinsk. He could not imagine what they planned to achieve there, other than a recce of the bunker. They could not hope to seize a missile, at least not without starting the next world war and that seemed simply stupid. And he would not allow anything stupid to happen. Not with these men in the hall behind him. No, if the President really did want this man alive—and it seemed he really did—then ambushing him like this was the best solution. Decision confirmed, he and his men stood and waited.

The ADC arrived thirty minutes later and announced that Kirkorov was on his way with the base commander.

Vronsky ordered his men to attention.

The general, smelling slightly of vodka, strode in and, ignoring Vronsky, went straight to the line of men.

Despite himself, Vronsky was impressed at the way he went from man to man, taking a keen and intelligent interest in the specialist equipment that no conventional Russian soldier would ever see, but with which each Spetsnaz soldier was equipped. The new generation helmets and body armor with chest and back plates made of titanium and hard carbide-boron ceramics, impervious to the NATO standard 5.56 millimeter ammunition with which the British would be equipped; the grenade launchers; the AS Val assault rifles, so suited to operating with stealth and giving a minimum signature with its heavy, subsonic 9 millimeter, high-performance, armor-piercing ammunition, and magnified day and image-intensifier night sights; plus the collar and helmet-mounted radios that allowed them to communicate hands free.

Eventually the inspection finished. Kirkorov turned to Vronsky, who braced up to attention once again.

“Major Vronsky, your soldiers are impressive. Now, I have one question.”

“Sir?”

“You are certain that these terrorists pose no threat to our Iskander missiles?”

“They are five men and a few Forest Brothers. What threat could they pose to your company of highly trained guards and my Spetsnaz? No, Sir. They are obviously conducting a reconnaissance. And that is the last mistake they will ever make. The President will be forever grateful you allowed me to capture and hand them to you.”

The general smiled, looked at his ADC and pointed. “You. Make a note of Major Vronsky’s confidence and assurance.” Then he looked hard at the line of Spetsnaz. “Make sure you succeed in this mission. The President is depending on you. Russia is depending on you.”

Vronsky saluted, now doubly impressed: Kirkorov knew exactly how to play dirty politics as well as crush dissidents. He should never have allowed himself to be maneuvered into a statement like that but, had he demurred, he had little doubt the ambush plan would have been canceled.

“Thank you, Sir. My men will not let you down . . . Now, Sir. May I have your leave to carry on, Sir. Please?”