Project Cyclops Part 84

"While you're doing that, I'd like to try and raise Pierre. Find out what's happening at his end."

"There's a walkie-talkie in the c.o.c.kpit," Bates said. "Use it."

7:55 A.M.

"Michael, thank G.o.d it's you," Armont said into the mike. "Guess what, we almost went to war against the U.S. Special Forces. We have just surrendered. Incidentally, nice work up there. Or maybe you just got lucky." He laughed. "Seeing you rappelling leads me to suggest that you probably ought to stick to other lines of work."

"I hear you," Vance said. "By the way, the bad news is Ramirez got away."

"So he was in the Sikorsky?" Armont sighed with resignation. "Blast, I was afraid of that."

"Well, this may not be over yet. The vehicle got up, but we're not quite sure where it's headed, bomb or no bomb. I want to try to get into Command, or what's left of it, and try to find out. Before some Delta cowboy fires a h.e.l.lfire missile in there."

"Good idea," Armont agreed. "It would also be nice to keep a handle on Ramirez's getaway chopper. But I a.s.sume somebody will interdict him.

The almighty U.S. Navy owns this airs.p.a.ce, as we found out the hard way."

"Don't count on anything. He took along Mannheim as a hostage.

Insurance. This guy is no slouch. I'd be willing to bet he's got something up his sleeve. One thing he's got is at least one more bomb.

Bill saw it on the chopper. And he might be just crazy enough to use it, G.o.d knows where."

"Then I don't know what the U.S. can do if he's got a hostage, and a bomb. They're sure as h.e.l.l not going to shoot him down. Where do you think he's headed?"

"That's question number two, but if we can get into Command, maybe we can figure out a way to track him from there. Somehow."

"Good luck," Armont said quietly, and with feeling. "And stay in touch."

8:01 A.M.

Dore Peretz' chest still felt like it was on fire, a burning sensation that seemed to spread across the entire front of his torso; in fact, he felt like s.h.i.+t. And he had almost been blinded by the intense blue laser strobes that had purged the island when the Cyclops kicked on.

However, in all the confusion surrounding the lift-off of VX-1, n.o.body had bothered to wonder where he was. That part suited him fine.

Donning the bulletproof vest around midnight had been the best idea of his life. . . . No, that wasn't true. The best of all was coming up.

Sometimes, he thought, life could have a moment so delicious it made up for all your past disappointments. And you could either seize that moment, or you could forever let it pa.s.s, wondering what it would have been like. Not this one, baby.

As he pa.s.sed through the lobby, he noticed the security door leading into Command had been blown away with some kind of military explosive.

Probably C-4. Curious, he paused and a.s.sessed the damage. Hey, the television down in Launch hadn't really done the a.s.sault justice. Must have been one h.e.l.l of a show.

Then he stepped inside and checked out the scene.

Jesus! The place was a mess, showed all the signs of a b.l.o.o.d.y a.s.sault.

Luckily, however, the emergency lights were working, their harsh beams perfect for what he wanted to do now. There was definitely plenty of evidence of gunfire, flecked plaster from the walls, and over there . .

. Christ! It was Jamal, or what was left of Jamal. Little f.u.c.ker's neck looked like he'd had a close encounter with a chain saw. Not far away was Salim, shot in the face. Then, on the other side of the room, was the body of the last German Stasi, Peter Maier. His demise had come neatly, right between the eyes.

Smooth piece of work, you had to admit. The only a.s.shole unaccounted for was Jean-Paul Moreau. So what happened to that arrogant French p.r.i.c.k? Did he escape, get captured? . . . Who gave a s.h.i.+t?

Meditations on fate, the absolute. The truth was, it was

more than a little chilling to see the bodies of three dudes you'd come in with only a day before. . . .

Well, f.u.c.k it. These other guys had known the risks. If they didn't, then they were jerks. Down to business.

He knew what he was looking for, and he had left it next to the main terminal. And there it was.

While he was working, he would block out the ache in his chest by thinking about the money. Hundreds of millions. Tax free. Even if you spent ten million a year, you could never spend it all. What a dream.

Then he had an even more comforting reflection. Everybody had seen him shot. They wouldn't find the body, but they would naturally a.s.sume he was dead, too. He would have the money, and he would be officially deceased.

He almost laughed, but then he sobered, recalling he had only a scant few minutes to wrap things up.

He slipped the component into its slot, then rummaged around for the connectors. He had left them dangling when he removed the black box, and they were conveniently at hand. They were color-coded, and besides, he had a perfect photographic memory and knew exactly what went where.

Seconds later the diodes gleamed. On line.

Okay, baby, let's crank.

The real radio gear, he knew, was in Bates' office, which stood at the far end of the room, its door blown away. Bates had plenty of transmission and receiving equipment in there, so that would be the perfect place to take care of business.

He picked up the device, now ready, and carried it with him, heading over. The main power switch that controlled Bates' radios had been shut off, but it was just outside the door and easy to access. He pushed up the red handle, and walked on through, watching with satisfaction as the gear came alive. Over by the desk was Bates' main radio, a big Magellan, already warming up. Life was sweet.

He clicked on the receiver stationed next to the transmitter and began scanning. Ramirez, he figured, would probably be on the military frequencies now, spewing out a barrage of threats about blowing up Andikythera. That had been the agreed-upon egress strategy, a.s.suming the confusion created when the bomb took out Souda Bay wasn't enough.

And sure enough, there he was, on 121.50 megahertz, just as planned.

Peretz decided to listen for a minute or so before breaking in.

"I won't bother giving you our coordinates," came his voice, "since we show a radar lock already. I warn you again that any attempt to interfere with our egress will mean the death of our hostage and a nuclear explosion on the island."

How about that, Peretz thought. The getaway scenario is still intact, right down to the last detail. Gives you a warm feeling about the continuity of human designs.

He and Sabri Ramirez had planned it carefully. The Sikorsky would be taken to fifteen thousand feet, its service ceiling, whereupon anybody left would be shot. The controls would then be locked, and they would don oxygen masks and jump, using MT-1X parachutes, the rectangular mattress-appearing chutes that actually are a non-rigid airfoil. MT-lXs had a forward speed of twenty-five miles per hour and could stay up long enough to put at least that many miles between the jump point and the landing. They were, in effect, makes.h.i.+ft gliders, and they presented absolutely no radar signature. While the Sikorsky continued on its merry way, on autopilot, they would rendezvous with the boat that was waiting, then be off to Sicily, with n.o.body the wiser. The chopper would eventually crash into the ocean halfway to Cypress, leaving no trace.

The only part about that plan that bothered Dore Peretz from the first was whether Sabri Ramirez was intending to kill him along with the rest of the exit team. Nothing would prevent it. There was supposed to be some honor among thieves, but . . .

Enough nostalgia. The moment had come to have a little fun. He flicked on the mike. "Yo, my man, this is your technical a.s.sociate. Do you copy?"

There was a pause in the transmission, then Ramirez's voice came on, loud and clear. "Get off this channel, whoever you are."

"Hey, dude, is that any way to talk? We have a little business to finish. By the way, how's the weather up there? Chutes still look okay?"