William W. Johnstone Read Online Free PDF Page A

heavily outnumbered as it was, so why would the man split his forces?
    Curious.
    Striganov sat quietly, puffing contentedly on his pipe. Georgi Striganov was a strikingly handsome man; tall and well-built, with pale blue eyes and blond-gray hair. A very intelligent man, Striganov liked Ben Raines. Of course, that would not prevent him from killing Raines when the time came. Well, perhaps
like
was too strong a word … but he did admire the man. As to his intelligence, that sometimes worked against Striganov, for he thought himself to be brilliant, when he was merely very intelligent.
    Why would Raines cut his forces? Why?
    He rose from his chair and walked to the huge wall map, studying it more closely. He shook his head. Possibly some of Raines’s Rebels were airborne qualified, but Raines was too smart to jump in with them, for the man was about the same age as Georgi. And when one gets to fifty years of age, combat jumping was not only reckless but foolish.
    And Raines had not left with the truck convoy. His deep recon people were sure of that.
    So, Striganov thought, that meant Raines was going to wait awhile before launching his attack.
    Good. Then he could take his time about setting up defenses; go slowly and make certain of each and every detail.
    But where in the hell was that one battalion of Rebels going and what did they hope to accomplish when they got there?
    Obviously, he would not know the answer to that for some time. And he couldn’t order an attack against a force that large; didn’t have enough people out in the field. And another bad point was that his deep recon scouts were on foot, with no way to keep track of the truck convoy once they passed their position.
    No matter, he brushed that away. He had enough force to crush a battalion like a dry piece of toast.
    The Russian turned away from the maps and returned to his desk, picking up the latest photos of the babies born to human mothers, mutant fathers.
    “Ugly bastards,” Striganov muttered, gazing at the enlarged photos. It would be at least a year, probably longer, before their intelligence could be truly tested and the Russian could know for sure if he had succeeded in producing a worker race; a select breed to serve as servants and houseboys and field hands.
    But his scientists were sure they had done it.
    “We’ll see,” Striganov said. He pressed a button on a panel on his desk. An aide stuck her head inside.
    “Sir?”
    “I need a bath. Send a girl in to assist me.” “Yes, sir.”
    Striganov waited patiently until there came a timid knock on his office door. “Come!” he called.
    A girl, no more than fourteen, at the most, entered the lushly appointed office of the supreme commander of the International Peace Force.
    “Sir?” she said, keeping her eyes downcast.
    “You’re new,” Striganov said. “When did you arrive in camp?”
    “About two weeks ago, sir. I have been tested by the doctors.”
    Which meant the young girl was free of any disease and ready, if not willing, to be on call to General Striganov. The general had developed some rather curious sexual habits over the past few months.
    He attributed that to his association with Sam Hartline.
    “What is your name, girl?”
    “Jane.”
    “Jane,
sir.”
    “Yes, sir. I won’t forget again.”
    “Fine. Remove your robe.”
    Jane unbelted her robe and let it fall to the thick carpet. Striganov licked suddenly dry lips at the sight of her nakedness. The girl was a rare blooming flower, he thought. No doubt about it.
    Her pubic hair was thick and lush. Her breasts forming up nicely, centered with brown-cherry circles. Her little nipples looked delicious.
    Striganov had long ago given up on finding a virgin. Any girl over six who still had her virginity would be a rare find, indeed.
    But his men were still looking.
    “Come to me,” he said, his voice thick with growing passion. His trousers bulged with his erection.
    He pulled her onto his lap and began stroking her