Project Cyclops Part 41

She zipped the mouse again, bringing up the detail. A number scrolled at the bottom of the screen. "Four hundred meters, to be exact."

9:59 P.M.

As Moreau emerged from the last copse of cypress, he scanned the mountain, towering upward in the moonlit night, and wondered where the b.a.s.t.a.r.d would be holed up. There was one obvious place--in the cinderblock control house.

Yeah, ten to one that's where he had to be. The guy was stupid, riding a lucky streak. It was over.

On the other hand, he thought, there's no reason not to take this slow.

Just in case. The f.u.c.ker wasn't _that_ stupid.

He looked down as a limb of th.o.r.n.y bramble caught his black trousers, tearing a hole near the knee. "_Je m'en fiche!_"

Although he lived by terrorism, Jean-Paul was a confirmed denizen of Paris's _rive gauche_ and he had little use for roughing it here on this G.o.dforsaken island in the bowels of the Aegean. Who needed it? On the other hand, tonight's expedition promised some diversion. It was always a pleasure to take out some jerk who was specializing in making a b.l.o.o.d.y nuisance of himself. If he could a.s.sa.s.sinate the chairman of Renault, he figured, he could handle this a.s.shole guard.

Moreau had brought along Stelios Tritsis, reasoning that a native Greek could best guide them up this rugged mountain, but he also had h.e.l.ling's two Stasi f.u.c.k-ups. _Merde! _What a lousy idea it had been to include them in the first place. Ramirez had lost sight of his better judgment.

He looked back to check them over. They were carrying he RPG-7, as ordered, but he doubted they had the slightest idea how it was fired.

Though possibly they were teachable r.e.t.a.r.dates.

He revolved and stared up the mountain, wondering whether the blockhouse contained any technical apparatus that he had to be wary of.

Maybe, he thought, I'd better just use a stun grenade. . . . What was that? He checked through the IR scope of his Kalashnikov just to be sure: one of the giant radar dishes was turning.

What in h.e.l.l did that mean?

Then he caught a flicker of light from the blockhouse. So he b.a.s.t.a.r.d was in there. But was he trying to pull something?

Okay, time to get serious. The place is well away from the radars and antennas. So just send a stun grenade through the door and take out the f.u.c.ker's eardrums. No frags: no muss, no fuss. Then clean up the place at leisure.

He motioned for Schindler and Maier to bring up the launcher.

10:01 P.M.

"What are you doing?" Peretz asked. He sensed the lad at he terminal was up to something because he'd split the screen and was typing in a second batch of commands on the lower half.

CC to Ian NET.RAD

"Just some systems cleanup." LeFarge tried to lie as convincingly as he knew how.

EXPN to JRAD

"Better not try to bulls.h.i.+t me, pal. It could be very unhealthy."

LeFarge was already aware of that. But he kept on typing trying to look as casual as he could. Almost, almost there.

10:02 P.M.

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d is in the blockhouse. There." Moreau motioned for the first German Stasi, Schindler. "But get a move on. He may be up to something."

With Moreau directing them, they quickly slipped the two sections of the launcher together to form a single tube approximately a meter and a half in length. The rocket grenade on the forward end looked like a round arrowhead while the back was flared to dissipate the exhaust gases. The sight and rangefinder occupied the center, and just in front of that was the handgrip and trigger.

When they had finished, he checked it over, then surveyed the mountain, where the heavy servomechanisms controlling the radars continued to rotate.

Wait a minute, he told himself with a sudden chill in his groin.

Something's wrong. He's tilting the radar dishes _down._

_Mon Dieu!

_"Get ready."

10:03 P.M.

"We just ran out of time," Vance said, slamming the door shut. "Looks like they've got a grenade launcher. If they can manage to blast through this door, it's going to ruin our day once and for all."

"Georges is still on-line, and I'm turning the servos as fast as I can." Her voice betrayed the strain.

"Well, get on with it. They're setting up to fire. I'd guess you've got about thirty seconds to pull off this miracle of yours."

"I think a hundred and sixty degrees will do it," she said, her voice now deceptively mechanical, all business. Suddenly he could envision her running this facility and barking orders right and left. "We're at one-twenty now. I just don't know if I can focus it in time. Georges always handled this."

She was tapping on the keyboard, some message to LeFarge. A cryptic reply appeared on the screen, next to what appeared to Vance to be computer garbage. Then the motion of the giant servomechanisms seemed to pick up speed. The radar antennas were swiveling around, and down.

"We're almost ready. Let me get Georges to transfer the power controls to full manual."

"Christ!" He c.o.c.ked his Uzi.

"Look," she exploded. "I'm doing my part. How about you doing yours?

Slow them down."

"I don't want to waste any rounds until it's absolutely necessary."

But it looked like that time had come. He opened the door again and stepped through. Down below, the moon glistened on the rocks, and one of the gunmen was aiming a grenade launcher. "How long--?"

"Just a couple more seconds now. . . ."