Project Cyclops Part 19

"Good." Hansen hung up the phone and looked around the room. d.a.m.n. Who was trying to screw up the Med? Already he had a bad feeling it might involve terrorists, but where did they get the Soviet helicopter?

Okay, he told himself, time to call in all the heavy guns, all the advisers who get paid so much to do your thinking.

He would face his first problem when the press got hold of the story.

He could already see the cartoons, that b.a.s.t.a.r.d in the Moonie-owned Was.h.i.+ngton Times who was always accusing him of being a pansy on defense. They'd want blood, an eye for an eye, while he was trying his best to change that way of thinking.

This latest stupidity d.a.m.ned sure wasn't going to make it any easier.

With that grim thought, he smiled his widest smile and signaled Caroline to alert the pool producer to switch on the television lights.

8:14 A.M.

"What happened?" Ramirez asked. h.e.l.ling had alerted him by walkie- talkie and summoned him to the lobby. There the Germans were returning, Henes Sommer covered with blood and being carried by Rudolph Schindler and Peter Maier.

"Henes got caught in a firefight. Then he tried to take the chopper . .

. and fell." Schindler was struggling to find the words, thinking that he would have to be the one to tell Henes' wife, in what used to be East Berlin. Henes Sommer, forty-five, had joined Ramirez's operation out of idealism, as a step toward driving the Zionist scourge from Europe. Ramirez had made the operation sound so easy.

"It's even worse," h.e.l.ling said slowly, addressing his words to Ramirez. "He must have been a guard who escaped our notice, but he managed to start the Hind. Then he crashed it against the hillside."

"Why didn't you go after him and kill him?" Ramirez asked quietly, his anger smoldering.

"There was no need. He's trapped up there. For now he can rot." An uncomfortable pause ensued before he continued. "Besides, he's armed.

We probably should wait till nightfall. What can he do?"

He can do a lot, Ramirez was thinking. This could be trouble.

The three Germans had been brought along as a favor to Wolf h.e.l.ling, and now they had demonstrated just how worthless they actually were.

Under ordinary circ.u.mstances, he would have shot them all on the spot, as an example to the rest of the team.

"You say the Hind has been crashed?" he went on, his eyes hidden behind his shades.

"We don't need it any more. What does that matter?" h.e.l.ling shrugged, not sure he believed his own words. "In any case, this is what comes of having amateurs involved."

Schindler's eyes darkened in resentment. It had never really occurred to him until this moment that his and his friends' lives were at risk.

Ramirez was trying hard to mask his own chagrin, telling himself he should never have sent these untried goons out to do a man's work. A good attorney never asked a question in court that he didn't already know the answer to; and you never turned your back on an operation if you weren't already fully certain how it would turn out. That was one mistake he didn't plan to make again.

"Life is never simple," he said, turning back to the German threesome.

The wounded man was wheezing from a hole in his chest. "There's only one thing to do with him."

He withdrew a Walther from inside his coat and, with great precision, shot Henes Sommer directly between the eyes, as calmly as though dispatching a racehorse with a broken leg. The body slumped into the arms of Rudolph Schindler, who looked on in horror.

"It was merely a minor miscalculation, but now it's been handled." He turned to h.e.l.ling. "Now go back and watch the hill. And try to act like a professional."

The German nodded. He dared not tell Ramirez the true extent of their trouble. Not only had the mysterious stranger escaped with Henes' Uzi, he also still might have a radio, if the Hind had not been totally wrecked. h.e.l.ling, their boss, didn't seem yet aware of this problem. If it was still working, what would he do?

"Now," Ramirez continued, "rather than waste our time on fruitless recriminations, we must proceed."

He turned and walked back through the doors leading into Command.

Across the room, past the rows of computer

terminals, Bates sat at the Main Command desk, talking to Dr. Andros.

"Problem?" Bates asked, looking up. Although he had not slept all night, his blue blazer remained immaculate. "Having some trouble, you son of a b.i.t.c.h?"

"You will be relieved to know nothing is amiss," Ramirez replied as smoothly as he could manage. "One of your guards, it would seem, decided to make a nuisance of himself. But he has been neutralized."

Bates did not believe it. He had overheard the broadcast on the BBC, and now he was starting to put it all together. These thugs had come in by chopper, after attacking a U.S. s.h.i.+p. They must have left the attack helicopter out on the pad. But somebody got to it . . .

"Now, Miss Andros . . ." Ramirez lifted a clipboard from her desk and examined it. "My, my, today we all have a busy schedule. Review the test data from the power-up, final calibrations of the Cyclops, flight prep of the vehicle. . . ." He put it down. "Yes, it does look like a busy day. For us all. All you have to do is cooperate, and no one here will be harmed."

The second chopper is on its way now, he was thinking, if everything was on schedule. The next item was the launch vehicle.

He estimated they would need a day and a half to make the retrofit. The scheduled first test launch had been programmed for three days away--now it was two--so there was ample time . . . exactly as he had planned.

9:27 A.M.

Vance leaned back against the scrub cypress and listened to the whistle of the light wind through the granite outcroppings. He had perched himself on one of the rugged cliffs, from which he could see virtually everything that went on aboveground. Around him ants crawled, oblivious to the heat of the sun, which now seared the bone-colored rocks on all sides, while down below the languorous surf beckoned. How ironic, and tragic: all the violence and killing, right here in the middle of paradise.

He had managed to remove the battery-powered radio from the Hind; it would serve as his lifeline to the rest of the world. The military channels were all scrambled now, which told him that plenty was going on out there over the blue horizon. Trouble was, all communications had been secured. He had no idea what was happening.

What the h.e.l.l to do next? He was barefoot--with nothing but an Uzi, a 9mm, and a radio.

He felt waves of grogginess ripple over him as the sun continued to climb. He was dead tired, and in spite of himself he sensed his mind drifting in the heat, his body losing its edge. Pulling himself together, he snapped alert. This was no time to ease up. He noticed that some of the men had left the command section and gone down to Launch Control, the flight-prep sector. They were carrying AK-47s now.

Much better for sniper work.

They know I've only got an Uzi, he reminded himself, which is why they realize they're in no danger. From up here it'd be next to useless. But with a scope, those Kalashnikovs are bad news. . . .

At that moment he heard a dull roar, coming in from the south. Was it somebody who'd picked up his radio Mayday? He squinted against the sun and tried to see. As he watched, a dark, mottled shape appeared over the blue horizon. It was another helicopter--not a Hind this time.

As it came in for a landing at the pad down by Launch Control, Vance checked it over. It was a Sikorsky S-61R, military, with a main rotor almost sixty feet across, a retractable tricycle landing gear, and a rear cargo ramp. It went back to the sixties--the U.S. had used them to lift astronauts from the sea--but it was a warhorse and reliable as h.e.l.l. It had an amphibious hull, twin General Electric turboshaft engines located up close to the drive gearbox, and an advanced flight- control system. Whether or not this one had the latest bells and whistles, he did know its speed was over a hundred and sixty miles per hour and its range was over six hundred miles.

What's that all about? he wondered. Is this the getaway car?

Whatever it was, they were not landing on the regular pad; they were putting her down as close as they could to the vehicles.

No, he decided, what they're doing is setting up something, getting ready for the big show.

He already had a feeling he knew what it was going to be. The modus was standard operating procedure. But this was going to be a waiting game, at least for a while, and he thought about trying to catch a couple of winks. There was nothing to be done now. He'd have to wait till dark.