Jean-Paul Moreau, who had perfect command of English, was catching the
BBC on a small Sony ICF-PR080 in Command Central, keeping abreast of
the news. The World Service was just winding up its morning broadcast,
circumspect as always.
". . . A reminder of the main story: there are unconfirmed rumors
emanating from the southern Aegean that an American naval vessel, the
USS Glover, was attacked by a helicopter gunship late last evening,
with considerable damage and loss of life. It is said the gunship was
Israeli. No confirmation or denial of this report has yet been issued
by the government in Tel Aviv. And that's the end of the news from
London. . . ."
"Guess we had a hit." He laughed, then switched frequencies and started
monitoring the military channels.
Ramirez had also heard the broadcast, with satisfaction. The attack
would soon blossom into a world event, with accusations flying. After
that had played its course, he would drop his bombshell.
Now it was daylight. Time to begin phase three of the operation.
It had been a productive night. The first order of business had been to
off-load their hardware. In addition to the Uzis they had carried in,
they had broken out a compliment of AK- 47s. The Germans had also
brought out and limbered up a crate of MK760 submachine guns, fully
automatic with folding stocks, as well as some Czech mortars and
grenade launchers.
That was finished by 0300 hours, after which the men caught catnaps,
rotating to keep at least three on guard at all times. Now that the
test had gone off successfully, most of the facility staff was lounging
at the blank terminals, dazed.
Ramirez, however, had no intention of letting the SatCom staff become
rested. He looked over the room at the young engineers, all of whom
were showing the first signs of hostage behavior. They were frightened,
stressed, tired--already in the early stages of "hostile dependency."
Soon they would melt, become totally pliable. But to achieve that, they
could not be allowed to get enough sleep. Food also had to be kept to a
minimum.
Most importantly, all telephone and computer linkages with the outside
world had been cut--with the exception of one. The single telephone
remaining was on the main desk down at the other end of Command.
Otherwise, Peretz had methodically shut down everything, including the
telemetry equipment located up on the mountain. While they would need
to reactivate it later on, for the moment they could keep it on
standby.
Peretz had proved reliable so far, Ramirez told himself. The man was
seasoned and competent, unlike the young Muslims who acted first and
thought later. An operation like this required precision, not unbridled
impetuosity, which was why he valued the Israeli so highly. . . .
As he surveyed Command, he decided it was time for champagne. He had
brought a small bottle, a split of Dom. . . . But what was champagne
without the company of a beautiful woman. He turned toward Miss Andros--
"_Merde_!"
His meditations were interrupted by the startled voice of Moreau.
"There's a Mayday on one-twenty-one point five megahertz. It's so
close, I think someone is transmitting from here on the island."
Ramirez cursed, while the buzz in Command subsided. Then Moreau
continued.
"In English. He's talking about the _Glover_, and he's giving our
location."
"Probably one of the guards." Ramirez paused, thinking. "But how could
he know about the _Glover_?"
"Maybe he's in the Hind, monitoring the radio," Helling said, rubbing
at his balding skull. "We--"
"You brought backup. Time to use it." Ramirez turned and beckoned for
the three ex-Stasi: Schindler, Maier, and Sommer. It was time for the
three monkeys to start earning their keep. "Go out to the chopper," he
barked to them in German, "and handle it. You know what to do."
They nodded seriously and checked their Uzis. They knew exactly.