Project Cyclops

  Chapter Fifteen

  5:03 a.m.

  They had used the same insertion procedure off Beirut three years earlier, so there was nothing about this that was new. Standard procedure. As had been planned all along, they donned scuba gear at five hundred meters out, packed their equipment in waterproof bags, and entered the churn­ing water. After the raft was punctured, obliterating all evi­dence, the seven men of ARM set out, underwater, for the rugged shoreline of Andikythera.

  Their scuba gear was invisible against the dark sea as, one by one, they emerged through the breakers and into the last remnants of rain from the storm. They faced a short ledge of surf-pounded rocks immediately abutted by a sheer granite cliff—exactly what they expected, indeed what they wanted.

  They were greeted by silence from up above, which gave lope that the insertion had gone undetected. So far. They were in, with the only problem being they no longer had Vance to serve as point man. They would be proceeding blind.

  But not too blind. Back in Athens they had studied the schematics of the facility carefully and had concluded the most vulnerable insertion point would be Launch Control. Added to that, Ramirez was last reported to be there, and the objective was to take him out as quickly and efficiently as possible. That also was the place where they believed they could shut down the operation quickest and get their hands on the weapons. Everything came together: hit Launch.

  They had discussed renewing radio contact with the woman named Andros, in hopes she might be able to give them an update on the disposition of the hostiles and friendlies. But they decided to wait and see first if they could han­dle it alone. Radio security was nonexistent, as they had already discovered. For now, the downside of breaking radio silence outweighed the upside. Later, perhaps, when it no longer mattered.

  After he had pulled off his scuba gear, Armont took out his IR scope and surveyed the top of the cliff and the coast­line. Both looked clear.

  "All right, it's going to be light soon," he whispered. "Let's get up there and get to work."

  Dimitri Spiros nodded, then began donning an old SatCom uniform he had brought, left over from his days on the island, hoping to pass himself off as a company staffer if need be and get in position to act as point man—since Vance was not part of the picture now. Spiros would guide the unit in, using a secure radio to coordinate the overall operation with Pierre, and with Reggie, who would be standoff sniper.

  By the time Dimitri was finished, they were ready. Mar­cel tossed a grapple up the side of the steep cliff and it lodged somewhere near the top. Next Spiros tested the line, then started making his way up, inserting silent spikes into the crevasses as he climbed. The granite was firm, with enough irregularities to hold onto. When he reached the top and signaled the all-clear, the others immediately followed, with Hans bringing up the rear after he had secured the gear with ropes, ready to hoist.

  As the last black satchel topped the cliff, they went to work, breaking out the hardware they would need. The light of dawn had opened just enough for everybody to see what they were doing, yet remain little more than shadows in the early mist. Or was it fog? The dark made it hard to tell, but it was a magic moment that would not last long.

  Since Reggie was the standoff sniper, he normally would have begun installing his IR scope, but now, with dawn so near, the need for IR capability was problematical. Not being seen was as great a concern as seeing.

  Just ahead, barely visible, was the Rota-Barb fence. Since Spiros had installed it, he strode ahead and did the honors, cutting the razor wire quickly and efficiently. With daylight approaching, there was no time for niceties such as scaling; they would just have to take the chance that the security system was no longer operative.

  They carried the equipment through, then scouted the approach. Up the rocky hill they could see two silver spires, now illuminated with spotlights. After a few moments of thoughtful silence, Reggie Hall nodded and pointed toward an outcropping of rocks located near the north entrance to Launch Control, indicating with hand signs that they would provide the best location for overall surveillance. He would set up there, a look-down spot from where he could handle the standoff-sniper chores, ready at any time to neutralize any hostiles who might emerge from Launch. It also was a good spot from which to monitor hostile radio traffic.

  Having done this many times before, they were ready. Armont and Hans, together with the brothers Voorst, would lead the assault, while Marcel would be at the rear of the entry element, serving as defense man, covering for them and providing security. As point man, Spiros would supply backup for Marcel if things got hot or if somebody tried to ambush the entry team during approach and entry, or during withdrawal. The Greek would also be in charge of directing any pyrotechnics.

  In addition to acting as commander, Armont would as­sume his usual role as security man, providing covering fire for the entry element during the assault and more close cover during withdrawal. He also would be in charge of any other equipment they might need.

  Since the assignments reflected ARM's standard configuration, with everybody in their usual slot, there was no need to squander time reviewing who would be where. . . .

  In moments they were ready, silencers attached, poised to move through the dark, early morning haze. It was provid­ing a small semblance of cover, but not for long. They hoped they could take Launch Control fast enough that there would be no time for the terrorists to use hostages as human shields. If that happened, there was sure to be bloodshed.

  Just to be on the safe side, Armont did a quick run-through of the assault with hand signals. He was just finishing when Reggie Hall's radio came alive in a burst of static.

  "Sirene, please come in." It was a woman's voice. "Do you read?"

  "Blast," he whispered, his face rapidly turning florid in the dim mist. "Didn't we tell her radio silence was essential?" He quickly switched on the microphone. "Ulysses One, get off this channel. Sirene is here."

  "Thank God. But you've got to try and find Mike. Isaac went to look for him, but he hasn't come back."

  "You mean Mannheim?" Armont took the microphone. "Where did he go?"

  "He said he was going to try the empty loading bays down at Launch," she said. "He hasn't come back, so maybe he found him. Could you try there?"

  Reggie turned to Armont with a questioning look that needed no words. It was, simply, What do we do now?

  On this one, Armont had no better idea than anyone else. They all knew where the loading bays were, since the blue­prints had made that plain enough. The problem was the sequence. Should they go ahead with the assault as planned, to take the time to try to find him and pull him out? Her intel on his location was just a guess, but it was a start.

  ARM's rules always had been that their own people came first. So if they knew where Vance might possibly be, nothing else mattered. According to the rules, they had to drop every­thing and try to pull him out. Even if it jeopardized the oper­ation. Those were the rules. No exceptions.

  For that matter, Armont suddenly thought, why not try and bring her in out of the cold, too? Then they would have a personal guide to the whole layout. It seemed to make a lot of sense, particularly since radio security was already shot to hell.

  He clicked on the microphone again. "Can you meet us there? Where you think he is?"

  "Copy. Give me eight minutes." And the radio clicked off.

  I hope we've got eight to spare, Armont thought, check­ing his Krieger watch. The minutes were ticking away.

  "Okay, we'll change the plan," he whispered. "We'll make the insertion through the loading bays." He nodded to Hans and the Voorst brothers, and without so much as a word they tightened their black hoods and headed up through the mist.

  5:19 a.m.

  She heaved a sigh of relief as she put down the micro­phone and prepared to stumble down the hill. She realized she had violated protocol by breaking radio silence, but she was almost as worried about Michael Vance as she was about the facility.
And it was a disturbing realization. Or maybe not so disturbing. True, he had screwed up, but then everybody did that from time to time. Even Alan . . . there it was again. But come on, the resemblance was almost scary. And she was also beginning to hate him for the same reasons she had hated Alan. It was the anger, and maybe the guilt. . . .

  She had told them eight minutes. So get moving. It was going to be tight. First find Mike, and Isaac. If that was possi­ble. And then go on to the real business of the morning. Whoever was on the Fujitsu had to be stopped, even if it meant more damage to the facility. The cost no longer mat­tered. SatCom could be rebuilt, everything. But if one of those Third World bombs were set off somewhere, it would be another Hiroshima. The horror of it would be unthinkable.

  She prayed a short prayer, something she hadn't done in twenty-five years, and started down the hill.

  5:20 a.m.

  Out the wide windows of Launch Control the searchlight- illuminated spires of VX-1 and VX-2 gleamed through the early mist. Sabri Ramirez studied them, thinking about logis­tics. With all the scrambled radio traffic in the area, he had a sneaking suspicion—more than a suspicion—that a Special Forces assault was being set up. But that's what all the hos­tages were for.

  Everything was on schedule, just as planned. According to Peretz, the last tests of the telemetry had been completed and the countdown was proceeding without a hold. Outside, in the vast bay that was Launch, technicians buzzed, a sea of white coats. Lines of workstations showed voltage and amper­age values for the power buildup in the coil. Calculations of wind shear were being made, and preliminary tests were be­ing run on the guidance system. The "orbops" team, orbital operations, was busy running up orbital and attitude num­bers, readying their input commands. The irony was, they still didn't have a clue they were about to send up a nuclear device. American ingenuity turned on itself, in a fearsome symmetry. . . .

  'Take a look at what I found."

  Ramirez whirled, hearing the voice, and was startled to see Jean-Paul Moreau coming in through the doorway of Launch Control leading the old Jew professor, Isaac Mann­heim. Where did he come from? The old man was supposed to be sedated and sequestered away for safekeeping in the living quarters. Guess it hadn't worked. Here he was, bum­bling about.

  On the other hand, maybe this was a stroke of timing. He was about to be needed again, and this saved the trouble of having to go and get him.

  "Where was he?"

  "Wandering around the loading docks," Jean-Paul said, still shoving Mannheim ahead of him. "I think there's a tech­nical question we need to run by him."

  "What?"

  “That bastard Vance just claimed that the Cyclops laser may set off the device when it starts up. I didn't get it exactly. He wants to talk to Peretz. Something about plasma and stray radio frequencies."

  "Sounds like an invention to me," Ramirez said, looking Mannheim over. The old man, his baseball cap askew, was clearly as mad as a loon. What would he know about any­thing? On the other hand, he was a scientist, so it wouldn't hurt to ask.

  "Well, what about it, Herr Doctor Professor?" He walked over and straightened the old man's cap. "Is your laser going to produce random radio signals?"

  "Of course not," Mannheim declared. 'That's what is so ideal about this system. There's nothing to interfere with the telemetry. No static. No—"

  "I thought so," Moreau muttered, cutting him off. With a flourish of his blond hair, he turned to go back to the loading bay. "I'm leaving him here. Vance was lying. Just as I thought. He's going to regret—"

  The walkie-talkie on Ramirez's belt crackled and he grabbed it instantly. "What do you want? I ordered radio silence."

  "Firebird One, this is Hacker," came the voice of Peretz. "I turned on the security system for a look-see, and lo and behold I think there's a possible penetration in progress. Down on the south shore. In sector fifty-six of the fence. Could be a malfunction, but maybe somebody ought to check it out."

  Ramirez groaned silently. Was this the assault he had been half expecting? If so, it was coming quicker than he had planned. Which meant that having Mannheim here was defi­nitely a stroke of luck.

  "Wait." He motioned for Moreau, who had turned and was headed through the doorway. "I want you here till we find out what this is. Could be a false alarm, but then maybe not."

  Okay, he thought quickly, where is everybody? Time to batten down. Peretz, of course, was in Command, along with Salim. Wolf Helling was here in Launch, coordinating telem­etry between Peretz and the Pakistanis. Stelios was keeping tabs on the prisoners now in the living quarters, the Bates Motel. Jamal was on patrol around the perimeter—why hadn't he noticed anything?—together with the two Stasi. And Jean-Paul was here.

  The first thing to do would be to raise Jamal on the radio and have him check out the situation there in the south. And if it really was a penetration, then the two most expendable members of the team right now were the Stasi. They were the cannon fodder. Let them earn their share.

  "All right," he said to Peretz, "we'll check it out. Ten- four."

  While Jean-Paul watched, he quickly raised Jamal on the walkie-talkie and repeated what Peretz had said. "It could be a malfunction of the sensors, but who the hell knows. If this is the real thing, then we'll have to take steps. But once we escalate, everything is going to get more complicated."

  "I'll have Schindler check it out and get back to you in three minutes," Jamal barked back. "We'll keep the line open till I know for sure what's going on."

  "All right, but you'd better get ready for trouble. My hunch is that this may be the beginning. If it is, then we've got our work cut out. You know what I mean." He clicked it off, then turned to Jean-Paul. "Okay, forget about Vance for now. I want you to go over to Command and help Salim get the security into shape. I'm not sure he knows what the hell he's doing."

  "Check," Jean-Paul Moreau said. "I'll take care of every­thing."

  He walked out the door and into Launch, then headed for the tunnel leading to Command. Ramirez, he knew, had a contingency that was supposed to stop an assault in its tracks. He only hoped it would work as planned.

  5:23 a.m.

  As she moved down the hill, dawn was beginning to show dimly through the fog to the east, promising an early morning clearing of the skies. The prospect made her fearful. The dark had been better, a shroud to cover mistakes. Now, without the fog, she would be almost as exposed as the barren rocks that pockmarked the hillside. The birds this morning were strangely silent, as though they knew ill doings were afoot. Even the pale, fog-shrouded glimpse of VX-1 and VX-2 down at the other end of the island had never seemed more plain­tive. She had worked for almost three years to put those vehicles into space, and now she had to try and stop the very thing she had been aiming for all that time.

  She had told the ARM team she could be there in eight minutes, but now she realized that was optimistic. Though she was moving as fast as she could manage, hugging the line of the security fence, the island seemed to be getting bigger all the time. And smaller.

  The fence, which had seemed so reassuring when it was installed, wove among the trees and rocks as it went down the hill, almost a meandering presence. But it was not hard to follow, even in the reduced visibility of the half-dark and fog. The trick, she realized, was going to be finding the ARM team. Or maybe they would find her. Finding things was what they were supposed to be good at. . . .

  Thank God. There was somebody up ahead, barely visible through the dim light. Only one, however, which immedi­ately made her wonder.

  She paused, drew a deep lungful of the fresh morning air, and waited to see what he would do. For one thing, he was moving along as though he was searching, yet with an air of owning the terrain.

  Shit, it was one of Ramirez's men, out on patrol. She recognized him. It was one of the European hoods who had barged into Command the fateful evening now half a lifetime away.

  Quickly she tried to melt into the shadow of a tall bush, but she
was too late. His head jerked around and he saw her. Up came an automatic.

  He was dressed in black, and as he approached her, he flashed a crooked smile, then produced a German accent. "So, it's you. We've been missing you."

  "Which one of them are you?" She didn't know what else to say.

  "I am Max Schindler," he replied, in heavily accented English. He was at least thirty pounds overweight, the hard-earned rewards of a lifetime of potatoes and strudel. He looked like a puffing, black balloon. "Number One vill be pleased to have you return to us. He thought you were an assault." He laughed as he gestured her forward with the weapon. "Come on. This morning, I think, is going to go quickly. Just another couple of hours and the real excitement will begin."

  "I can hardly wait."

  "Good"—it sounded more like goot—"you are going to have a circle-side seat." He seemed extremely pleased with himself, both with his own humor and with the fact that he had been the one who would be bringing her back.

  "You mean ringside. Great." The time was already flash­ing by, she thought—the eight minutes she had given ARM were undoubtedly up—which meant they probably would be changing plans again, working their way. Would they just forget about her and move on? "Tell me, how did a smart guy like you end up working for a maniac like Ramirez?"

  "Who?"

  'The guy you call Number One. I hear he's really Sabri Ramirez. Didn't you know?"

  The German's startled look betrayed his disbelief. His small, pig-like eyes narrowed. "Who told you such a thing?"

  "Just a little birdie."

  Schindler shrugged, unconvinced, then pushed her on. "That's impossible. Everybody knows Sabri Ramirez has been dead for two, maybe three years."

  Well, she thought, with any luck he soon will be.

  "Whatever you say," she continued.

  "It's absurd. Ramirez was South American. Number One is from Beirut. Now come on, hurry. Just keep your hands where I can see them." Schindler was almost shoving her around a rocky outcrop. "We have to get up to Launch before he gets impatient and sends somebody else out looking."

  "Well, if you're in such a big rush, there's a quicker way to get into Launch than the way we're going. We can just enter through the loading bays"—she pointed—"up there. We don't have to go all the way around."

  "Are they unlocked?" He looked up and squinted through the mist. The bays were distinguishable by tall metal doors that were sized to accommodate some of the large vehicle components that had been delivered over the past couple of years. They could just be seen now, dark silhouettes against the horizon.

  "The big doors are probably locked, but there's a side entrance that's always open." She paused. "Do what you want. But I guarantee you it's quicker than going around."

  "All right"—he nodded, a quick bob of his beefy neck— "you lead the way."

  What she really was thinking about was the rocks and trees covering that back route. This German blimp escorting her would be no match if she simply took matters into her own hands and made a dash.

  Why not? It was a desperate move, but this was a desper­ate moment.

  "Wait . . ." She bent over, as though to tie a shoelace, and when she came up, she was swinging. Schindler was tired, and perhaps because of that he was caught completely off guard, staggering backward. It was the moment of disori­entation she needed. She grabbed at the Uzi, hoping to wrench it from his grasp. He may have been surprised, and overweight, but he had lost none of his dogged Stasi tenacity. His one-handed grip tightened on the weapon as his other hand flew up to defend his face.

  Now she had one hand on the breech of the automatic, and with the other she reached out and seized the muzzle. It was the leverage she needed to swing the butt of the metal stock up against his jaw. The blow caught him with his mouth open, smashing his lower lip against his teeth and slicing his tongue.

  He emitted a moan and yanked the Uzi away with both hands.

  But now Calypso Andros was already stumbling through the brush, up the hill and into the fog.

  Schindler felt his bleeding lip as he recovered his bal­ance, and he fleetingly considered just taking her out with a quick burst, nice and simple. Though Number One had in­sisted she be returned alive, he told himself he was mad enough he didn't care. He wanted to kill the bitch.

  But the second he took to make that calculation proved to be crucial. She had gotten into the heavy brush that ringed the hill farther up.

  Scheisse.

  He plunged after her, puffing and seething. It was one thing not to have found her; it was another to have had her within his grasp and then let her escape. He would be a laughingstock, again. Wolf Helling, who had given him this job, would be humiliated once more. It was unacceptable, unthinkable.

  The rocks along the fence line were jagged, cutting into his boots as he half ran, half stumbled through the dim light. She was up there, somewhere. She had said something about the loading bay, so she probably was headed there. In any case, there weren't that many places to hide. It was just a matter of time. Just a matter of time. . . .

  5:24 a.m.

  Ramirez was talking to Peretz again on his walkie-talkie. "I've been monitoring the scrambled radio traffic, and I've begun to have a sixth sense about the situation. I think we're about to have some uninvited guests from the U.S. Special Forces; ten to one it's Delta. Are you ready?"

  "Jean-Paul just came in, and he says we're totally secure, baby. SatCom thoughtfully lined this place with steel. Ain't nobody gonna waltz into this little enclave of ours without a press pass. Rest easy, man. Keep cool."

  "Well, I'm thinking I should send you some more backup, just in case." What I really should do is shoot you and just use the backup. "By the way, how does the schedule look?"

  "The countdown's now being handled entirely by the computer. So far there are no holds. Lift-off is coming up exactly as scheduled."

  "Good," Ramirez spoke back, "keep me updated on a ten- minute framework." He paused, thinking. "Incidentally, is there any way we possibly could speed it up?"

  "Things are pretty tight as they stand. There might be some shortcuts, but I'm not sure I know this system well enough to start fooling around. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, know what I mean?"

  "An original sentiment," Ramirez responded dryly. "But don't be surprised at anything that may happen here in the next ninety minutes. There may be a setup for an assault, but I'll take care of it."

  "It's a tough game coming down here. But ain't nobody gonna fuck with us, 'cause we got all the big cards."

  "They may try it, though. So make sure that place is tight, and have Jean-Paul and Salim double-check all the entries. The chances are good we're going to take a hit, and soon."

  "No problem from down here. I told you we're covering it."

  What do you know, you smart-ass? Ramirez asked himself grimly. "All right, but as soon as Jamal checks in, I'm sending him over there, too. And one of the Stasi. Stelios can handle the living quarters by himself. Just keep the countdown go­ing, no matter what else happens."

  "Okay, but the only way this thing is gonna fly is if you made those bank arrangements the way I wanted. One hand washes the other, as the saying goes. Otherwise, I'm just going to shut the whole thing down. I mean it, man."

  "It has been taken care of," Ramirez said. "I faxed Ge­neva. They'd just opened that desk, but I should have a con­firmation back in a few minutes."

  With that announcement he clicked off the mike.

  And smiled. Peretz’ memo had explained he wasn't demanding blackmail; what he wanted was more like an equita­ble readjustment of the take. And why not? the memo had reasoned. Without his computer skills, nothing could have been possible. He wanted written proof that when the ransom money came in, it would automatically be split, with half going to a new account he specified.

  What an amateur. It was almost depressing.

  5:27 a.m.

  She stumbled through the brush wondering where they were. They must have come
in from the south, which meant they were already near the entrance to the loading bay. Go for that, she told herself, pushing on. The bramble was scrap­ing her face and hands, tearing her clothes. She was going to look like she'd been run through a shredder, she thought. A bloody mess.

  Then she heard something whiz by, the first shot, and knew the German was closing in, his weapon on semiauto. With a rush of desperation, she threw herself on the ground and tried to merge with the damp leaves and underbrush. And she felt terrible. Mike had screwed things up, but she hadn't done much better.

  Then, out of the mist just up the hill, a figure appeared. Two figures. Three. Moving with quick, catlike motions. She wanted to yell, to warn them, but maybe all she would be doing was alerting the damned German hood trying to kill her. No, they were supposed to be professionals, so let them handle it their own way.

  Then she heard another whiz of a round singing by and saw a fleck of dirt fly up only inches from where she lay. Again the hard crack of the German's automatic followed.

  All right, ARM. You're supposed to be such hotshots. Do something and do it now!

  The three dark figures answered the shots as though they were in a ballet, all dropping to a crouch virtually in unison.

  They were using silencers, so the rounds came as a series of dull thunks, but each figure fired only once, or at most, twice. And when she turned to look back, her pursuer was nowhere to be seen. . . . No, he was slumped over a bush, motionless.

  As one of the hooded figures came up to her and began lifting her to her feet, two of the others advanced cautiously on the German. Their caution, however, was unnecessary. He was as lifeless as the granite rocks around them.

  Well, she thought, these guys sure know how to treat a lady.

  5:28 a.m.

  Jamal cursed the morning fog that had settled in, understanding it was probably moisture left over from the storm. Then he checked his watch and realized that Schindler was overdue. Which was typical. He was beginning to wonder how the German nation had acquired its famous reputation for punctuality. And efficiency. Both were, in his opinion, grossly undeserved. Helling's recommendation that those three screw-ups be brought along did not reflect well on his judgment.

  He clicked on his walkie-talkie. "Firebird Six, do you copy? Is everything CQ where you are? It's check-in time."

  There was no answer. The jerk had gone down by the south security fence, where something was amiss. Was he in trouble? Everybody was tied up now, getting ready for the launch. He wondered if they were going to find themselves shorthanded, not having as much firepower as they needed.

  "Firebird Six, come in. Cut the games."

  Again silence.

  Which gave him a very bad feeling. There was no reason for the radio to conk out suddenly. The rule was they always kept their channels open.

  This was trouble. Time to alert Ramirez. Either Schindler had fucked up, or they had been penetrated.

  5:30 a.m.

  Major General Eric Nichols was so relieved he scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry, and he rarely had been seen to do either. Actually, his feeling was more one of surprise. For once something was going right. After diddling and dabbling for almost ten hours, the Pentagon—Fort Fuck-up—had actu­ally made a decision. It was so unprecedented it might even merit a place in the annals of military history. Such rare mo­ments were to be savored.

  Maybe they had gotten tired of running computer "risk analyses." Or maybe their damned computer had broken down. Whatever the reason, however, the exalted pay grades upstairs had decided to get off dead center and just let him assault the damned island. The op was a go.

  The civilian assholes had been headed off at the pass, which meant one less thing to worry about. Now all that remained was to figure how to get the boys in safely and take down the place. And at last he knew there were nukes. Great communication system the Army had, making sure everybody had been briefed and was totally up to speed. Christ!

  He sat still a moment after setting down the phone, breathing a short prayer. Although appearances would not suggest it, he was in fact a religious man at the core. He had been close enough to death enough times to conclude that there were indeed no atheists in foxholes, and he figured what was good enough for foxholes was good enough for the rest of the time. Besides, what harm did it do?

  "All right." He turned and glanced at Max Austin. "I guess the computer has got everything planned. Looks like we can go in after all. How's that for efficiency? Just as it gets bright enough for my guys to be risking their asses, we get the green light. I'd say that's just about perfect timing."

  Austin nodded slowly, then rose to check the teletype machine to see if the orders had really come through. This op was going to be by the book or not at all. If it turned into a nuclear incident, there were going to be inquiries up the wazoo.

  "Looks like it's really going down," Austin said, yanking off a sheet. "So I'll cut the orders and get us mobilized here. How long before you can get your boys in the air?"

  "Well, since this is going to have to be a daylight op, we might as well use the Apaches and not fuck around. We'll just hit the bastards with enough firepower to take out the command-control radars up on the hill. That ought to shut down any chance they could get anything launched. Then we've just got a hostage situation to deal with, and if we have to, we can just starve them out. It'll only be a matter of time. Maybe, God willing, we can keep the friendly casualties to a mini­mum."

  Austin did not like the image of the headlines Nichols's assault plan suddenly conjured up. Any heavy property dam­age and there was going to be hell to pay.

  "I don't like it, Eric," he said. "The word I get is that we're not to damage the infrastructure any more than is abso­lutely essential. Which means no first strikes on command-and-control. This isn't Iraq, for godsake; this is American property."

  "You're saying my main orders are to save the infrastruc­ture?" Nichols's tone was deliberately wry.

  "You've got it. I want you to get in there fast, take down the hostiles, and get this situation the hell over with. That's the best way to put this problem behind us and fast. The last thing this man's army needs is a month's worth of gory head­lines. Some quick casualties can look unavoidable and be over with in a day. A long-drawn-out situation can make us all look like jerks."

  "I can't believe I'm hearing this."

  "You didn't hear a damned thing, at least not from me. But if you know what's good for the Army, and for the coun­try, you'll get in there and take down the place in a morning, neutralize the hostiles with extreme prejudice, and let the Army write the headlines with a press release."

  Nichols knew what he was hearing: the groundwork for "deniability." And he despised it. This kind of "cover your ass" bullshit was one of the things that gave him such con­tempt for desk jockeys.

  "All right," he said smoothly, covering his disgust, "if you want to play it that way, then we can sure as hell do it. I don't suppose my opinion in the matter is of a hell of a lot of interest to the Pentagon."

  "Truthfully, no."

  "Okay." He leaned back. "Doing it the Pentagon's way, there would be two points we need to assault. There's the computer control center, and then there's the launch facility. There're probably terrorists at both, so we've got to take down both locations simultaneously. And both, unfortunately, are underground, which also means we've got to figure out how to get in, get down there, and do it fast."

  "What would be your insertion strategy, given what we've just discussed?"

  "Well, I've already got the alternatives rehearsed. Right now I think we should stage a diversionary landing on the coast by a SEAL team, then use the confusion to let the main assault team insert from choppers. My main worry is not the hostages, but getting my own boys shot up going in. It's going to be a cluster-fuck if some of those bastards can get a bead on the task force that's arriving by chopper. Could mean a lot of casualties. Let something go wrong and I don't even want to think about how
many of my men could get chewed up. But we've been rehearsing that assault option and I think we can get twenty men on the ground in about ninety seconds."

  The difference, he was thinking, was that he had been planning to do it under cover of darkness. To suddenly have to revise the entire strategy and try and take down the place in broad daylight was calling every assumption into question. But there was no time to try and devise yet another assault. Shit. All because Washington kept changing its signals, and when it did get them straight, somebody came up with this bullshit about minimizing property damage. It was a god­damn outrage. But that's what you had to expect when REMFs got mixed up in planning an op. Shit.

  "Well, twenty men should do it," Austin said. "And there'll always be backup from the SEAL team that's provid­ing the coastal diversion. They'll be there, in-theater so to speak."

  "Right." You don't know fuck-all about how an op like this goes down, Nichols was thinking, and you have the balls to sit there and tell me how to deploy my resources.

  On the other hand, it sounds easy. Too easy. That's what's wrong with it. The place would appear to be a crackerbox. But these bastards are pros, so they must already have thought through everything we have. Time to plan ahead of them.

  "All right," Nichols concluded, rising. "I'll have every­body airborne in fifteen minutes."

  5:38 a.m.

  Vance twisted around and tried to see his watch. He couldn't make out the hands, but they both seemed to be pointing in the general direction of down. Whatever that meant exactly, the time had to be getting on toward dawn. The six hours that Cally had talked about, the six hours left before the liftoff: how much of that time was left? It had to be half gone.

  What now? Maybe his cock-and-bull story had impressed the French hood enough to get him out of the room for a while, but it wasn't going to cut any ice with anybody who knew anything about lasers. Sooner or later, he was going to come back. Not something to let the mind dwell on.

  One thing was sure: he felt like he had been run over by a truck. The blood from the beating was slowly starting to coag­ulate, crusting on his face. It had begun to itch, and some­thing where his liver used to be was emitting stabbing bursts of pain. It would come, then subside, then come again. He tried to focus his eyes on the room, the piles of empty crates, wondering if maybe a sharp object was protruding some­where, maybe something he could use to cut away at the cord that held his hands.

  Nothing, and it was a stupid idea anyway, left over from too many B movies. But now his mind was beginning to at­tempt to function with a little more rationality, and along with that came the glimmerings of an idea. The bomb was aboard one of the vehicles and a countdown was under way, now being handled by Bill's supercomputer. There was no obvious way to stop it. Maybe, however, there was a not-so-obvious way. A last-minute reprieve. Assuming he ever got the chance.

  He groaned and leaned back, wondering . . .

  What happened next came so fast he couldn't really comprehend it at the time. Only later could he roughly recon­struct the dizzying confluence of events. But that was as it should have been. The door was suddenly slammed wide, and two smoke grenades plummeted into the room, followed by a flash grenade. Next, through the smoke and confusion three men dressed in black pullovers plunged through the opening and dropped to their knees, MP5s at the ready.

  Jesus! He gasped for breath, blinded by the flash grenade but still trying to see through the billowing CS that was en­gulfing everything. In what seemed like less than a second, one of the men appeared by his side, and he saw a knife blade flash. A hand was slapped over his mouth as another rough set of hands yanked him from the chair. His legs were numb from the bindings, but they came alive as his weight went back onto them. Terra firma had never felt better.

  The men's faces were all covered in balaclavas, but one of them gave two sharp clicks and, on that signal, they began to drag him out the door.

  He knew better than to say a word. The whole operation had been carried out with clockwork precision and in perfect silence—except for the destruction of the door. Had there been any terrorists in the room, they would have been dead, scarcely knowing what had happened.

  As they entered the hallway, one of the men pulled back his antismoke hood. "You look like hell," Willem Voorst said. "Can you walk?"

  "In a manner of speaking." He felt pain shooting up through his wobbly legs. "I suppose I should ask what took you so long, only it hurts to talk. You weren't scheduled in for another day. What happened?"

  "We moved up the timetable, though you'd be amazed how many people didn't want us to show up," Marcel re­marked, his Belgian calm returning. “The entire U.S. Navy, to be exact. We were made to feel very unwanted."

  “That's going to seem like a Welcome Wagon compared to what's coming up." He paused and tried to inhale the comparatively smokeless air of the hallway. "What's the plan? Do you want to try and take out Launch Control, or do you want to move on Command? . . ." That was when he saw Cally. "How did you get down here?"

  "Somebody had to lead these guys in," she said matter-of- factly. Her face was scratched and her shirt torn. "No thanks to you. All we have to thank you for is blowing up the gan­try"

  He just groaned. "Things got complicated."

  "But you waited until it moved over the explosive before you blew it. I saw the whole thing. How could you be so crazy!" Her anger was boiling. "That wasn't what we agreed to."

  "Like I said, things—-"

  "Please, give me a break. If you worked for me, I'd fire you on the spot." It was clear she meant every word. "So after you screwed that up, what was I supposed to do? I had no choice but to get on the radio. Now look at the mess we're in. What happened?"

  "To tell you the truth," Vance answered, "I'm not even quite sure myself."

  "Great. Just great."

  "Later. I'll tell all," he said lamely, wanting desperately to change the subject. "Right now, though, there's the matter of Ramirez. And by the way, it is him. We had a one-on-one."

  "What did he tell you?" Armont asked, his interest sud­denly alive. "Did he say what he wanted out of all this? Ran­som or what?"

  "We didn't make it that far. A personality conflict got in the way."

  "No hint? Nothing?"

  "Just that he knows exactly what he's doing. They're go­ing to launch an atomic bomb. Kill a lot of people some­where. And I don't think the payment of ransom is going to make them call it off. They're going to take the money, then go ahead and do it anyway." He rubbed a hand across his face, trying to feel a cut, then drew it away and examined the blood in the half-light, not quite sure what he was seeing. "But I still think that if we take him out, the rest of them will fold." He looked at Cally, trying to meet the outraged glare she was bestowing on him. "Any idea where he is now?"

  “The last I knew, he was in Launch," she said, still visibly fuming.

  “Then I guess that's the first objective."

  "Jesus, do you want to go in shooting?" She looked around at the motley men of ARM. “Those are my people in there, you know, my friends. It could be a bloodbath."

  "Doesn't have to be." Spiros had pulled back his balaclava and was shaking Vance's hand with an air of genuine contri­tion. Maybe trying to cheer him up after Cally Andros's blast. "Michael, I'm damned sorry about all this. The whole thing is my fault, really."

  "Spilt milk," Vance replied. "Now we have to look ahead."

  "Well, it's my spilt milk, as you say," Spiros declared, "and I want to clean it up myself. If all we need to do is take down Ramirez, I think I can get in there and maybe do it without too much in the way of pyrotechnics."

  "What do you mean?" Armont asked.

  "Let me go in by myself, alone. I've got a uniform, so I'll just be another Greek mechanic. At least we should try that first. See what I can do."

  "Dimitri, that's a heroic offer," Armont said, "but—"

  "No, it's not heroic, it's realistic. It's a chance, but one I think we should take."


  "We don't stay in business by taking chances," Armont declared, vetoing him on the spot. "We go in as a team."

  "All or nobody," Hans said. "It may not always be best, but those are the rules."

  "Exactly." Armont closed out the subject. "All or nothing. So let's get out the blueprints and start assigning the entry-points."