Project Cyclops

  Chapter Eighteen

  7:12 a.m.

  "Hansen lied," Ramirez was saying as he took one last glance at the snowy TV monitor, which moments earlier had shown the chaos in Command. "The son of a bitch lied. He didn't call off the assault after all. It was just a stalling tactic." He turned to Peretz, anger deep in his eyes. "We've been double-crossed."

  "What do you care what happens to those assholes?" Per­etz remarked calmly, flashing his pale grin. "Good riddance. Let's just take the old guy, like we planned, and get the hell out of here. We've got the money, so who gives a shit."

  "You have an inelegant but concise way of putting things," Ramirez concurred. "But there's a final phone call I need to make. I want Hansen to know what will happen if he tries to interdict us."

  "Well, while you're doing that, I'll check out the chop­per," Peretz went on. "When we split, I don't want any prob­lems."

  "Is that why you brought him?" Ramirez pointed at Bates.

  "Might as well have someone with some aviation experi­ence look it over." Peretz smiled again. "Besides, I think we may have just lost Salim in all that excitement over in Com­mand. So we're going to need a pilot, right? What better than a war hero."

  William Bates had been monitoring this exchange, not quite understanding the underlying dynamics. He did per­ceive, however, that Peretz was playing the scene as though he were in a game, and it looked like a contest with only a single winner. Number One, however, was not the kind of guy who struck you as a loser. But then Peretz didn't seem like the losing type either. The Israeli was one wily son of a bitch, and he had something up his sleeve. Was he intending to screw Number One somehow and get away with all the marbles? Just how he intended to do that was not yet clear, but there was no mistaking his faked attempt at calm. If Number One didn't catch it, he was dumber than he looked. And he didn't look dumb.

  What, he wondered, had happened to Mike? Did the message LeFarge had passed along, "Ulysses has landed," mean he was on the island somewhere? And if he was here, had he called in ARM? Were they the ones who had just stormed Command, not the U.S.? Whoever did it, they hit the wrong place. The murdering bastard who called himself Number One was here, and he was about to get away scot-free.

  7:12 a.m.

  Vance wanted to kick himself. He'd screwed up again, managing to blind himself with his own flash grenade. And having done that, he'd thought it the better part of discretion to take cover and hope Pierre and the team could take out Ramirez with a clear shot. Instead, Ramirez got away.

  Why didn't they get him? Instead they got into some kind of firefight. Heck, he thought, if I'd known they were going to blow it, I could have tried to take him out myself, half blind or no.

  Now, though, Ramirez was back in Launch, in the control room. Worse still, he told himself, I've really screwed things up. I blew the element of surprise. Now what?

  He sat down, feeling like a prisoner of the fog, and began to engage in extensive self-recrimination. He was afraid to use the radio, and he didn't know where the ARM team was. Everything had to be rethought. . . .

  "Michael, is that you? Are you all right?" Cally was a pale apparition in the half-light, now working her way around the remains of the gantry.

  "I'm terrific."

  "Thank goodness. I almost gave up on finding you."

  "What happened down there?" He was relieved to see her, but otherwise he still felt miserable. Also, he wondered if she was still angry.

  "We got ambushed by somebody. From the direction of the shoreline. I didn't know there were so many of them." She looked back down the hill, puzzled. "It was strange. There was a lot of firing, and then it just stopped. But one of your guys got hit."

  "Who?" Our first casualty, he thought. The disaster grows.

  "I don't know his name. I think he was Dutch."

  "Willem or Hugo?" Vance loved them both and felt his heart turn.

  "I don't know, but it looked like he's going to be all right. I decided not to stick around."

  "So you don't know where they went? Pierre and the team."

  "Haven't a clue."

  Vance sighed. "Okay, the way I see it, we've only got one chance left. But I have to get Bill to help."

  "That's going to be next to impossible. They're still hold­ing him in Command."

  "Not any more. I think I saw him through the window there a couple of minutes ago." He pointed. "There in Launch."

  "That's not a good sign." She sighed. "It could mean they may be getting ready to leave. And they're probably going to take him with them."

  “Then we've got to break protocol. Get on the radio and try to locate Pierre."

  12:15 a.m.

  "Look, you bastard," the President was saying into the phone. "I've done everything you asked. I've deposited the money and pulled back all American forces for six hours. Now you're going to live up to your end of the agreement. You're going to disarm those weapons and get the hell out of there. No hostages. I personally guarantee you safe passage." If he'll believe that, Hansen was thinking, he's still writing letters to Santa.

  "Who do you think you're talking to?" Ramirez asked. "There's a force on the island right now, that's got my people under fire. I no longer can take responsibility for anything that happens."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Hansen replied, genuinely puzzled. Had the Deltas countermanded his or­ders? Carried out a rogue operation? If so, there was going to be hell to pay. "If there's somebody there, they're not part of the American armed forces. That's your problem, not mine."

  "It is your problem. I want you to put a stop to it."

  "How the hell am I supposed to do that, exactly?" What can he be talking about? Hansen was still wondering. "If you can't handle your situation, then maybe you'd better go back to terrorist school. I've kept up my end."

  Ramirez proceeded to tell the President two things. First, when the Sikorsky took off from the landing pad, Isaac Mann­heim was going to be on board, a hostage. He was their insur­ance. That much was true. The second was a lie.

  “The other thing you should know is that we have armed a nuclear device and secured it on the island. The detonation sequence is radio-controlled. If there is any interference with our egress, no matter at what point, we will not hesitate to detonate it."

  "You do that," Hansen said, "and you'll be tracked to the ends of the earth. That's something I can guarantee you for absolute certain." He had visions of his presidency going down in ruins. And if the story of the money ever came out, the headlines . . .

  “Then you also have the power to guarantee that it doesn't happen. Think about it." With which cryptic farewell, the connection was severed, for the last time. The fact that a fifteen-kiloton nuclear bomb was about to obliterate Souda Bay, Crete, and the Sixth Fleet in a matter of minutes was not mentioned.

  7:18 a.m.

  "Ulysses to Sirene. Do you read me?"

  When his radio crackled, Armont was in the medical facil­ity of the Bates Motel, watching as a plasma IV was attached to Dimitri's arm. He immediately grabbed for it.

  "I copy, Mike, but make this quick. Are you all right?"

  "Never better. Where are you guys? Sorry to break radio silence, but I think Ramirez may be getting ready to pull out. Could be now or never."

  "We took down Command," Armont said into his walkie- talkie. "Neutralized four of the bastards and cleared it. Looks to be a clean job as far as the friendlies are concerned. A minor miracle, considering. And when we got here to the Motel, there was a Greek, one of them, but we took care of him."

  "Nice work."

  'That's the good news. They're all here with us now, and they seem okay." He leaned out and took a peek down the hall. The SatCom systems engineers were all collapsed on the floor, drinking Cokes from the machine at the end. "There's bad news, too. In the first place, nobody there would shut off the countdown. They're just afraid to do it. Has to do with melting some kind of coil. The bird is still going up."

&nbs
p; "What's the second place? The other bad news?"

  "Dimitri got shot up. He's in pretty bad shape. We're in the emergency room now, just keeping him alive. We've got to evacuate him out of here and soon."

  "I hear you," Vance replied back. "But the only way I know of right now is with one of the helos, either the Agusta or their Sikorsky. How long can he hold on? We still need to take out Ramirez. I haven't given up."

  "Michael, the airspace is closed around the island. Totally shut down. I guarantee it. There's no way he could get a chopper out. He's trapped, going nowhere. We're staying with Dimitri till we're sure he's stabilized, and then we'll come down there and handle that son of a bitch. All in time."

  "All right," Vance said. "Take care of Dimitri. In the meantime, let me see what I can do at this end. And while you're there, you might want to sweep that place for explo­sives. I think they were planning to get everybody inside and blow it. I found some C-4 on a timer down on the second level. By the elevator. There may also be some more of them hanging around there, so be careful."

  "Only way we know."

  7:20 a.m.

  Major General Eric Nichols was in the Kennedy's Mission Control room, fit to be tied. Now he was beginning to under­stand how the attempted rescue of the American embassy hostages in Tehran could have turned into such a disaster.

  He lit a cigar and tried to relax. The op would be back on track in—he checked his watch—another five and a half hours. Unless, of course, the orders got changed again.

  Then the blue phone on his desk rang. . . .

  "Well, I'll be damned," he said, hanging up a few mo­ments later. "I knew this was going to be a cluster-fuck, but I think we've just expanded the term." He looked over the Deltas waiting with him. "Would you believe it's back on? Something happened, who knows what. But the sons of bitches are pulling out, and they've threatened to nuke the place if anybody tries to stop them. We're ordered to get in there before anybody can get off the ground, keep them from having the chance. I don't know if we’re going to make it. He grinned. "But I'll tell you one thing. This time we're going to just take the place down once and for all. And the hell with micromanaging from Fort Fuck-up or anywhere."

  "Fuckin' A, Sir," Lieutenant Manny Jackson declared, reaching for his flight jacket. "I say we just do a standoff with Hellfire missiles. Take out their damned space vehicles and any choppers they've got. Then they can just stick their nukes up their ass."

  "Sorry, Jackson, but that's still our last resort. If we hit the vehicles, there's the risk of nuclear material getting loose. No, what we're going to do is take down their radar power source, the so-called Cyclops, and any choppers they have, which ought to put them out of business. And if that doesn't cause the bastards to throw in the towel, then we'll call in a Tomcat and lay a couple of laser-guided missiles right into those un­derground bunkers."

  Nichols had studied the satellite photo intelligence they had, as well as site plans and blueprints obtained from SatCom's executive offices in Arlington, and he knew exactly where a missile would have the best chance of penetrating Command and Launch Control. There might be some civilian casualties, but they sure as hell wouldn't have the nukes in there. A quick, decisive operation.

  "All right," he added in conclusion, "let's rock and roll. And this time there's going to be no recall, I don't care who tries."

  7:21 a.m.

  "How does it look?" Peretz was asking. He and Bill Bates had just climbed aboard the Sikorsky, cold and gray in the light fog.

  Bates had already checked it over from the outside. It was military, and it appeared to be on loan from the Pakistani Air Force, with the markings clumsily painted over. But it ap­peared to be in pristine shape. Good maintenance.

  "Let me see." He walked to the cockpit and looked over the rows of instruments. Nothing obvious seemed amiss. "If there's fuel, it should be able to fly. After all, it got in here from somewhere."

  Peretz nodded with satisfaction, then clicked on his walkie-talkie. "Firebird One, Bates says there may be some problems with the nav gear. He wants to start it up and give it an instrument check. Probably just feeding me some kind of bullshit, so why don't you send out Helling for a minute? He should be in on this."

  "What?" Bates mumbled. "I didn't—"

  "I copy you," came back Ramirez's voice. "What seems to be the problem?"

  "Probably no big deal. Claims it's the in-flight computer. Something to do with flight control."

  "All right," Ramirez replied. "I'll send Wolf out if you think you need him." The walkie-talkie clicked off, to the accompaniment of static.

  "What are you talking about?" Bates looked up, feeling a chill. "I don't see anything here that looks like a problem. Who the hell knows if the in-flight computer is—"

  "Just shut up," Peretz barked. "Now, start the engines."

  "But—"

  "Just do what I tell you." He was now grasping a Walther 9mm with what appeared to be boundless self-assurance.

  "You're the boss." Bates nodded, settling into the cockpit. He suddenly realized that something not on the schedule was about to go down. All along he'd had a feeling Peretz was up to something. Now it was more than a feeling.

  With a tremble of apprehension he hit the ignition button, then started spooling up the power on the main rotor. Every­thing seemed to be working normally, just as it should. This old crate, he figured, had a lot of hours on the engines, but there was nothing to suggest any kind of problem.

  Coming toward them now, across the tarmac, was the famous German terrorist, Wolf Helling. Bates glanced through the windscreen and looked him over, thinking he looked annoyed. He had the hard face and eyes of a killer, the kind of face you could only earn the hard way.

  Suddenly the whole scenario clicked into place. This Is­raeli character was about to try and pull a fast one on every­body. He had set the vehicle to launch and now he was getting out. But what about the German? Was he in on the scam?

  Probably not, from the disgruntled look he had. Besides, this guy Peretz was the quintessential loner. He had his mar­bles and the hell with everybody else.

  "What's the problem?" Helling asked as he stepped lightly up the metal steps of the Sikorsky. "Is something—?"

  He never had a chance to finish the sentence, as a dull thunk punctuated the placement of a 9mm round directly between his eyes. The half-bald leader of Germany's notori­ous Revolutionare Zellen pitched into the chopper, dead be­fore he reached the floor pallet.

  "Fucking Nazi," Peretz said to no one in particular. "I've been waiting a long time." Then he stepped over the body and headed for the cockpit. "Okay, it's about to be post time, baby."

  "You're going to bug out, aren't you?" Bates had turned around and was staring at him. "You son of a bitch, you've got VX-1 set to launch and now you're leaving while the leaving's good."

  "It's not going to be that simple," he responded calmly. "But we are about to make an unscheduled departure. You will be flying."

  "And get shot down?" Bates said, rising and walking back from the cockpit. "Come on, this place has got to be sur­rounded." He had hoped, now feared, it was so. Surely the word on these terrorists was all over the world by now. "You have got to be kidding. No way am I taking this bird up. You're on your own, pal. I refuse."

  "That would be a serious mistake, health-wise." Peretz smiled back. "Because if you give me the slightest hint of trouble, you're going to enjoy the same fate as this Nazi klutz, starting with your kneecaps. I would advise you to be cooper­ative." He smiled again.

  "Do what you want," Bates said, not quite feeling his own bravado. "But you'll be flying it yourself."

  "Don't press me, asshole," Peretz said. "Besides, there's a nuclear weapon in that crate there." He pointed. "Nobody's going to lay a finger on us."

  7:22 a.m.

  "Do you know how to handle this?" Vance handed Cally the MP5 he was carrying. He had brought it up the hill to try to take out Ramirez, but after the fiasco with the f
lash gre­nades, he hadn't fired a shot.

  "I've got a pretty good idea," she replied, some of the old pique coming back. "Somebody'd better use it. Besides, it doesn't exactly require postgraduate research."

  "Sometimes it takes some thought to keep from getting killed." He sighed, then proceeded to show her how the safety worked. "Okay, what I need is for you to give me some cover when I make the move. Call it our last-ditch effort."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "What else? It's time I had a talk with Ramirez. If you can't lick them, join them."

  "You're kidding." She laid down the automatic and glared. "You're going to just give up?"

  "No, I'm going to offer him a deal. Maybe it'll work, and maybe not. But I don't know what else to do."

  She stared at him incredulously. "What kind of deal?"

  "I don't know yet. I'm making this up as I go along. But maybe if I can get in close to him, I can try to slow him down." What would happen, he was wondering, if Ramirez saw him again? Just shoot him on sight? It was possible, but then again maybe not. It was worth a try. "But you've got to help. Create a diversion that'll give me an opening."

  "All right, then." She shrugged. "Just tell me what you want me to do."

  Now he was fiddling with his Walther, checking how many rounds were left in the clip. There were two. He cocked it, then slipped it into the back of his belt, pulling down the shirt over it.

  "See that window there?" He was pointing toward the glassed-in viewing station of Launch Control that overlooked the pad and the vehicles. "I want to get him there, where you can see us both. Then when I give a signal, a thumbs-up, I want you to open fire."

  "On you both?" She looked incredulous.

  "How about trying very hard not to hit either one of us. Just start firing and distract them. Then I'll try to take care of Ramirez. Somehow."

  "You know, I don't know why you're doing this, but it seems awfully dangerous."

  "Maybe I'm trying to make amends for being such a screw-up." He was half serious.

  "That's very noble, but frankly I think we'd better wait for your friends from ARM." She picked up the automatic and examined it again, then looked him over. 'To be brutally hon­est, they've got a slightly better track record."

  "Good point. Except now they've got a casualty to worry about, and we're running out of time. So this has to be solo." He kissed her, this time on the lips. "Wish me luck."

  "You're really going to do it, aren't you?"

  "I'm going to try." He finished tucking in his shirt.

  "You're crazy. You won't listen to anybody."

  "Sometimes that's a help." He kissed her again, more lightly than he wanted to. Was she still mad? It was hard to tell, but she was definitely distant. "Okay, get ready. And for God's sake, don't hit me. Fire wide."

  "Wide?" She grinned.

  "Extremely wide."

  7:24 a.m.

  “Thought you might be getting lonesome." Vance had walked into Launch Control, directly through the entrance next to where the fallen gantry had been. Ramirez had met him, with his Beretta 9mm trained on him from the instant he came in the doorway.

  "Always the joker, Mr. Vance." Ramirez did not appear to think he was very humorous. "I see you're roaming around again, like a cat."

  "Nine lives, remember."

  "Yes, I should have put an end to them earlier." He ges­tured Vance forward with the automatic. They now were in Launch Control, the wide windows looking out over the vehi­cles. "But then I wanted you to myself."

  "Here I am." He felt a chill. Was Ramirez just going to shoot him before he had a chance to do anything?

  The terrorist, however, seemed to have other things on his mind. "You know, you've been missing out on a lot of the fun. There was something of a ruckus in Command just now. As it happens, it was on that TV there." He pointed to a monitor, its screen now filled with snow. "A decidedly second-rate entertainment, but I watched awhile anyway."

  "Sounds exciting. Want to tell me what happened?"

  "The broadcast encountered technical difficulties before the end. For all I know, the show may still be going on. But perhaps I should break some news to you. That assault force, whoever they were, merely saved me the trouble of tidying up myself."

  "You were planning just to murder all your helpers any­way, right?" He settled into a sculptured chair next to a con­sole, as casually as he could manage. "Neatness. Guess I should have thought of that."

  "You should have thought of a lot of things, Mr. Vance."

  "And how about you? Did the ransom money come through? I assume this operation had a price tag attached."

  He laughed. "Of course the money came through. All eight hundred million. What do you take me for?"

  "Respectable chunk of change. So why in hell are you going to still launch an A-bomb?" Even Vance was impressed by his perfidy. "That's not very sporting."

  "I'm not a sporting person."

  “That's hardly a news flash." He felt his outrage spilling over. "Mind telling me the target?"

  "Not at all. I'm going to incinerate the U.S. air and naval base at Souda Bay. The Americans don't care anything about civilians, as they have shown any number of times, but they are very attached to their Sixth Fleet."

  "Jesus, you're totally mad." It was worse than he had imagined. "You're going to kill hundreds, thousands. How in hell can you do that?"

  "Easily. As a matter of fact, it's as good as done. In a few minutes." He checked his watch, then glanced up and ex­amined Vance a moment. "It looks like Jean-Paul did a fairly good job. I should have told him to just finish it."

  "He got close enough, believe me."

  "Looking at you, I'd have to agree." He smiled, eyes be­hind his gray shades. "All right, Mr. Vance, I assume you came back in here for a reason. What is it?"

  "The truth is, I'm dropping by to see if we couldn't talk over a deal."

  "I don't really think so."

  "You may be able to set off a bomb, but the way things stand, no way are you going to get out of here in one piece." He was trying out the speech he had been rehearsing. "In case you didn't realize it, the U.S. Navy has the airspace around the island totally closed down. The skies over the eastern Med are currently an F-14 parking lot. But if you'll put a stop to all this insanity, release the hostages, then—"

  "Don't try to bluff me, Mr. Vance." He gestured him for­ward. "Come, take a look at my collateral."

  He led the way across to a second row of workstations, these on the side and closer to the window. "When I leave, which is imminent, I will have company. A certain professor. I think you've met him."

  And sure enough, there in the comer sat Isaac Mann­heim, looking as though the world had already ended. The old man appeared to be in a dark space of his very own, his face pitifully sunk in his hands.

  "It can't be stopped," he was mumbling, almost incoher­ently. "Damn them. There should be a special rung in hell for them."

  "Don't worry," Vance assured him. "There is." He turned back to Ramirez. "It isn't going to work. The U.S. is not going to be bluffed."

  He hoped it was true. Somehow, though, he didn't feel all that confident. Ramirez was smart, very smart, and the U.S. had a history of screwing these things up. Just outside the window VX-1 awaited, primed and about to lift off. Unlike the space shuttle, it had no clouds of white condensate spew­ing out; instead, it stood serene and austere, its payload pre­pared to wreak havoc on thousands of unsuspecting U.S. citizens. The loss of life would be staggering.

  "He got Johan to call off the assault," Mannheim contin­ued, interrupting his thoughts. "It was because of me. He wanted to save me. He did, but he only made things worse. He should have just let them kill me and have done with it."

  Vance examined him and stifled a sigh. Now he had Mannheim to worry about. He didn't want Cally to start shooting up the place with him in the room, so he couldn't go to the window and signal her the way he had planned. What to do?

  "
Look," he said finally, turning to Ramirez, "if you need insurance, why not just take me and let Mannheim go? You and I have some unfinished business. He's not part of it."

  "He will go, all right. With me on the helicopter. You, on the other hand, are . . ." Ramirez glanced out the wide win­dow and fell silent as he studied the Sikorsky. The main rotor was starting to power up, and something about that seemed not to sit well with him. Suddenly he seemed galvanized. He glanced at his watch, then checked the safety on his Beretta.

  Vance watched this, wondering what to do. Was this the golden moment to try and take him? There were only the Pakis outside to worry about. . . .

  But Ramirez was already moving, grabbing Mannheim by the arm. Abruptly he stopped, turned, and took aim at Vance, somewhere precisely between his eyes.

  Vance blanched. Jesus! Go for the Walther and get it over with.

  But before he could move, Ramirez laughed and slipped the hand holding the Beretta into his pocket, then gave a nod of his head, beckoning. "Mr. Vance, I think I would like to have you join us after all. You're right. We still have a few matters to settle." He stepped aside and motioned. "But the time has come to bid farewell to Andikythera."

  Ramirez was still dragging Mannheim along as they passed through Launch, pausing only to nod lightly toward the two Pakistanis, who immediately snapped to attention and followed. Amidst all the excitement of the pending launch, nobody seemed to notice. They passed through the outer door and onto the tarmac as an ensemble, Ramirez holding Mannheim by the arm and guiding him.

  7:31 a.m.

  Bill Bates looked through the Sikorsky's wide windscreen and saw them coming. The time had arrived, he realized im­mediately, to make a move. Now or never. The Israeli's at­tempt to pull out early had just been cut off at the pass, so why not see what would happen if the scenario got shut down entirely?

  He reduced the power, listening to the engines wind down, and rose.

  "Guess my part of this is over," he announced. "You've got a go system, so have a nice day. I'll be seeing you around."

  Peretz’ eyes momentarily flashed confusion, but he was wily enough to recover immediately.

  "Your help has been much appreciated," he smiled quickly. "Thank you for checking everything out."

  Should I tip off Number One, Bates asked himself. No, that flicker is nobody's fool; he's already way ahead of this little twerp. And the second he sets foot in here and sees that dead German hood, there's going to be a lot of heavy-duty explaining to do.

  Now Peretz was moving jauntily down the Sikorsky's fold­ing steps, carrying his Walther with an air that proclaimed nothing amiss.

  Time to get out of here, Bates told himself. There's going to be hell to pay.

  He rose and headed down the stairs after Peretz as rap­idly as he could. "Mike, where've you been?" He waved at Vance. "We can't go on meeting like this. What do you say we just pack it all in and go sailing?"

  "Fine with me," Vance yelled back. "No time like the present.”

  At that moment, a shot rang out from somewhere in the direction of the fallen gantry, whereupon Peretz whirled, lev­eled his Walther into the mist, and got off a burst on full auto. Emptying the clip.

  The scene froze, like a tableau. Vance's first thought was that Peretz had overreacted. Nervous. And probably with good reason. But at least Cally was trying to do her share. The problem was, the quarters were too close.

  The two Pakistanis were still standing on the tarmac, not quite understanding what was happening, but Ramirez sized up the situation in an instant. He shoved Mannheim up the steps ahead of him, ducked into the protection of the Sikor­sky's open door, and then turned back. Peretz was slower, caught standing on the foggy tarmac next to the bottom step. When he realized his Walther's clip was empty, he fished another out of his pocket and quickly began trying to insert it.

  "That won't be necessary, Dr. Peretz." Ramirez's voice was like steel. "Let me take care of it." Whereupon he lev­eled his Beretta 9mm and shot a startled Abdoullah squarely between the eyes. Before Shujat realized it, he shot him, too, point blank in the left temple.

  "What in hell are you doing?" Peretz yelled, watching them fall. He was still trying to shove a new clip into his automatic, but now he was losing his touch and it jammed. "That's not how we—"

  "I suppose you thought me some kind of fool," Ramirez replied, shifting his aim. "It's time I laid that fond illusion of yours to rest once and for all."

  "I don't appreciate your tone of voice." Peretz was still struggling frantically with his Walther.

  "And I don't appreciate you trying to make off with this helicopter. We have just lost a crucial element of our relation­ship, the element of trust."

  "I never knew our 'relationship' had all that much trust in it." Peretz looked up defiantly. "We had a business arrange­ment. I've kept up my end to the letter."

  Vance watched the exchange with mixed emotions. He realized that Peretz, being no idiot, knew the situation had just gone critical. He had begun stalling for time. It wasn't going to work.

  But after Ramirez finishes with this computer clown, he told himself, Bill and I are next. And with that thought, he reached around under his shirt and circled his fingers around the Walther.

  He had been right.

  "It's over, you little son of a bitch." Ramirez fired point blank into Peretz’ chest. The Israeli jerked backward, stum­bled, and crashed, slamming his head against the hard asphalt. He didn't move.

  Uh-oh, Vance thought. Now it's our turn.

  He was standing next to Bates, while around them were three bodies of terrorists. Ramirez, however, was safely inside the open doorway, out of range for Cally.

  Does she realize what's about to happen?

  She must have, because just as Ramirez leveled his black Beretta to finish off what he had started, there was another burst of fire from the direction of the gantry. It was the diver­sion Vance needed. He dove for the tarmac, rolled, and ex­tracted the Walther he had shoved into his belt.

  Come on, baby, keep giving me cover.

  "Mike," Bates yelled, seeing the pistol as he, too, dove for the tarmac, "shoot the bastard. Now."

  Vance aimed for the doorway, but it was already closing, the steps coming up. Sabri Ramirez was not a man to engage in gunplay for the fun of it. He was about to be gone. A second later the main rotor, which had been idling, immedi­ately began to whine into acceleration.

  "We blew it," Bates boomed, his voice now almost drowned by the huge GE turboshafts.

  "The Hyena," Vance muttered, pulling himself up off the asphalt. "Headed back to his lair. And there's not a damned thing anybody can do about it."

  "Not with Isaac on board," Bates concurred. "Sorry I yelled. You really didn't have a chance." He was shielding himself from the downdraft as he tried to stand up. "The fucker is getting away without a scratch. Looks like he pulled it off."

  "Right," Vance said, watching the giant Sikorsky begin to lift. "But maybe there's one thing left we can do. How about trying to remove that bomb"—he pointed up at VX-1—"be­fore that thing goes up?"

  "What in hell are you talking about?" Bates turned to squint at the silver spire. 'There's no way."

  "Well, I don't know, what about using the Agusta? It's probably still flyable." He had turned back to watch the Si­korsky bank into the thinning fog. Ramirez was just barely visible through the windscreen, smiling as he disappeared into the mist.

  "There's no time. Peretz told me that VX-1 is set to lift off at seven forty-eight. The bastard had it timed exactly." Bates glanced at his watch. 'That's just a few minutes."

  "No balls," Vance snorted. "Bill, for godsake, let's give it a shot. Maybe we can at least disable it, turn it into a dud."

  Bates was still dubious as he gazed upward. "Buddy, I don't want to be hovering over that thing when the Cyclops kicks in. Do you realize—"

  "Come on, where's your backbone." He waved to Cally, who was now coming around the corner of the gantry.
“Thanks for not shooting me."

  "When I saw Ramirez start killing everybody, I assumed you two were next. It was then or never." She looked ex­hausted.

  "You assumed right. We were on the hit list. Thanks." He kissed her on the forehead, where her hair was still plastered. "Now will you help me talk some sense into this guy? I say we could at least try to mess up the bomb before the Cyclops launches it. They've got it programmed for Souda Bay."

  "You're kidding." Bates was transfixed.

  "That's what he claimed. Come on, let's . . . hang on a second." He turned and trotted over to the doorway of Launch, where he seized a coil of electrical wire. "This may come in handy." Coming back, he punched Bates' arm. "Let's give it a try. No guts, no glory."

  "Souda Bay. Christ!" Bates glanced again at his watch. "Mike, we've got less than nine minutes."

  7:38 a.m.

  "I copy," Nichols said into his mike. "When did the chop­per lift off?"

  "The AWACS picked it up at . . . just after 0730 hours," came the voice from the Kennedy. It was General Max Aus­tin. "The bastards are bugging out."

  "So what do we do now? Try and intercept them?"

  "We're taking care of that from here. Fixed-wing. First, though, we've got to figure out if there really are hostages aboard, like they claim. But don't worry about it. There's nowhere they can hide. Your mission is still the same. Secure the facility. There could still be some of them left, so just interdict anything that tries to egress."

  "That's a confirm. If it moves, it fucking dies."