Project Cyclops Part 85

"What in h.e.l.l," came back the voice, now abruptly fl.u.s.tered as the recognition came through. "Where are you?"

"Dead, I guess. But hey, I'm lonesome. Maybe it slipped your mind I was supposed to be part of the evacuation team."

"What do you want?"

"Want? Well, let's see. How about starting with a little respect."

"f.u.c.k you, Peretz."

"Now, is that any way to talk? If that's how you feel, then I just thought of another small request. I also want you to transfer your part of the money into my account at Banco Ambrosiano. As a small gesture of respect. I want you to get on the radio and see about having it arranged. Or I might just blow the scenario for you." He had to laugh.

There was radio silence as Ramirez appeared to be contemplating this alternative. It clearly was unpalatable.

"You've got a problem there, my friend. One of time. I'm sure we're being monitored, so let me just say there's been a change of plans. You would have been part of it, but unfortunately . . ."

"Hey, a.s.shole, there's no change of plans. You figured it for this way all along. But now there is going to be a change. I hate to tell you what the new scenario is . . . yo, hang on a sec."

He had looked up to see Bill Bates and Michael Vance entering the office. "Come on in and join the fun, guys." He waved his Walther and grinned. "We're about to have a blast."

Vance walked through the door, b.l.o.o.d.y and exhausted. "And I thought Ramirez was the only one who could manage to return from the dead." He tried to smile, but his face hurt too much. "Either he was using blanks, or you were wearing a bulletproof vest. Somehow I doubt it was the former. So what happened? Have a business disagreement with your partner in crime?"

Peretz was grinning. "That's how it is in life sometimes, man.

Friends.h.i.+p is fleeting." He gestured them forward.

Bates had moved in warily, still stunned by the carnage among the workstations in Command. "I suppose I have you and Ramirez to thank for tearing up the place out there." He walked over to the desk. "Nice to see that my radio gear is back on and working."

"It's working fine," Peretz replied, then waved his Walther toward the couch opposite the desk. "Now sit the f.u.c.k down. Both of you."

"You're staring at beaucoup hard time, pal." Vance did not move. "I can think of several countries who're going to be fighting over the chance to put you away. This might be a propitious moment to consider going quietly."

"Quietly?" There was a mad gleam in his eye. "I never did anything quietly in my life. You're in luck, a.s.shole. You're about to have a front-row seat at history in the making."

He turned back to the radio and switched to transmit. "Yo, my man, looks like we have nothing more to say to each other. Which means it's time for a fond farewell."

What's he about to do? Vance wondered. He's about to screw Sabri Ramirez, but how?

Then it dawned. There was one bomb left, and Bill had said it was on the Sikorsky. Probably radio-controlled, and Peretz had a radio, right there. G.o.d help us!

"Hey," he almost yelled, "get serious. What you're about to do is insane. You don't use a nuke to take out a single thug. Even a thug like Sabri Ramirez. You've gone crazy."

In fact, Vance told himself, Peretz was looking a little, more than a little, mad. He had a distant fix in his visage that was absolutely chilling. The world had been waiting decades now for a nutcake to get his hands on a nuclear trigger. Maybe the wait was over.

"Look, p.e.c.k.e.rhead, I'm sorry if you find this unsettling." Peretz was still holding the Walther. "However, don't get any funny ideas." He laughed. "You know, it's almost poetic. For years now Israel has been the world's biggest secret nuclear power, but n.o.body ever had the b.a.l.l.s to show our stuff. I'm about to become my nation's most daring ex- citizen."

He turned back to the radio. "You still there, a.s.shole?"

There was no reply. The radio voice of Sabri Ramirez didn't come back.

"He's jumped." Peretz looked up and grinned a demented grin. "He's in the air. Perfect. Now he'll get to watch."

He plugged in the device he had been carrying, a UHF transmitter. Then he flicked it to transmit, checked the liquid crystals that told its frequency, and reached for a red switch.

"No!" Vance lunged, trying to seize the Walther as he shoved Peretz against the instruments. The crazy son of a b.i.t.c.h was actually going to do it.

Peretz was strong, with the hidden strength of the terminally mad, and after only a second, Vance realized he didn't have a chance; he was too beat up and exhausted. Bill Bates, too, was suffering from absolute fatigue, but he also leapt forward, grappling with Peretz and trying to seize his automatic.

With Vance as a distraction, Bates managed to turn the pistol upward.

Peretz was still gripping it like a vise, however, and at that moment it discharged, on automatic, sending a spray of rounds across the ceiling. Vance tried to duck away, and as he did, Peretz kneed him, shoving him to the floor. Bates, however, still had a grip on his right wrist, holding the pistol out of range. Again it erupted, another hail of automatic fire, but as it did, Bates managed to shove Peretz against the desk, grabbing his right elbow and twisting.

The Walther came around, locked on full automatic, and caught Dore Peretz in the side of his face. As blood splattered across the room, Bates staggered back, while Peretz collapsed onto the desk with a scream, then twisted directly across the transmitter.

He was dead instantly. And as he crumpled to the floor, almost by magic, the background noise from the radio on the Sikorsky stopped, replaced by a sterile hiss.

"Thank G.o.d," Bates whispered, breathless, and reached to help Vance up.

"Are you okay, Mike?"

"I think so," he mumbled, rising to one trembling knee. "At least we--"

The room shook as a blistering shock wave rolled over the island.

Outside, the distant sky above the eastern Mediterranean turned bright as the midday sun. Fifteen thousand feet above the Aegean, a blinding whiteness appeared unlike anything a living Greek had ever seen.

CHAPTER TWENTY

12:10 A.M.

"My G.o.d," the President muttered, settling the red phone into its cradle. "They did it. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds detonated one of them. NSA says their SIGINT capabilities in the Med just went blank. An electromagnetic pulse."

"I don't believe it," Morton Davies declared. Sitting on the edge of his hard chair, the chief of staff looked as incredulous as he felt.

"We're tracking their helicopter with one of the AWACS we brought up from Rijad. The minute they set down, we're going to pick them up, rescue Mannheim and any other hostages, and nail the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They know they can't get away, so why . . . ?"

"He'd threatened to nuke the island," Hansen went on, "but I a.s.sumed that had to be a bluff. Why in h.e.l.l would he want to go ahead and do it? It didn't buy him anything at this stage."

Edward Briggs was on a blue phone at the other end of the Situation Room, receiving an intelligence update from Operations in the Pentagon.

As he cradled the receiver, he looked down, not sure how to tell Johan Hansen what he had just learned. Mannheim.

"What's the matter, Ed? I don't like that look. What did--?"

"Mr. President." He seemed barely able to form the words. "Our people just got a better handle on . . . It wasn't Andikythera."

"What?" Hansen jerked his head around, puzzlement in his deep eyes.

"What do you mean? Good Christ, not Souda Bay! Surely they didn't--"