"All right," Armont declared, "we make the insert here." He tapped his
finger on the blueprint. "We hit the nerve center of Launch with flash-
bangs and tear gas, and take it down. If we're lucky, Ramirez will
still be there, and that should be the end of it. He always controls an
operation totally. Nobody else will have any authority. That's his
style. If we handle it surgically, there shouldn't be any major
casualties among the friendlies."
The area around Launch Control was still foggy, illuminated mainly by
the lingering spotlights on two vehicles. No technicians were in
evidence, since the final stages of the countdown were underway and
nothing remained to be done to the exterior of VX-1. The dry ice
"propellant" had been installed and now the action was underground,
where the subterranean energy-storage system, the superconducting coil,
was being primed. At this point, most of the staffers were monitoring
the last-minute computer checks of the in-flight systems.
"Sounds good," Reggie said, pointing to a spot on the blueprint. "I'll
position myself right there, where I'll have a clear shot at the main
points of ingress and egress. Now let's move it before somebody checks
in with the security system and picks up our penetration."
Everybody else agreed, signifying it by a last-minute review of weapons
and gear. Everybody, that is, except Michael Vance, who had been
thinking, and worrying, about the irreversible step that a frontal
assault would represent. What if Ramirez had left Launch and gone back
to Command? The man had a habit of keeping on the move. It was an
innate part of his inner nature.
"You know . . ." He rubbed at his swollen face and winced at the pain.
"I'd like to suggest a different tack. A sort of 'look before you leap'
approach."
"What do you mean?" Armont asked distractedly, anxious to get the
assault under way while there was still a lingering cover of fog and
semi dark.
"Pierre, before the team assault, why don't you let me test the waters
a bit. See if I can't be a decoy long enough to make them show their
hand."
"Care to explain exactly what you have in mind?" Armont asked, always
willing to listen, if skeptically.
"They know I'm here. They don't know about the team, at least not yet.
And, more to the point, we don't know if Ramirez is really in there or
not. But assuming he is, instead of storming the place, why not let me
first see if I can't draw him out, at least give us a preview of his
resources."
"How would anybody go about doing that?" Reggie was double-checking the
sight on his Enfield L85A1 assault rifle, still anxious to get moving.
"Well," Vance went on, "he wants me. So maybe this is not the worst
time to use our heads instead of hardware. Why not use _me _as bait?"
"Michael," Armont interjected, "whatever you have in mind, you've done
enough already. This isn't your fight, and I can't in good conscience
ask you to do anything more. You just take care of those bruises and
let us handle it from here on out. Tell you the truth, you look like
hell."
Vance paused, trying to get a grip on his own feelings. "All right,
maybe it's just a vendetta on my part, unprofessional, but the real
truth is I'd like the chance to take him down myself." He realized he
had truly come to hate Ramirez, a killer without a conscience who
deserved anything he got. "Besides, there's another reason. I think
he's got an old professor in there somewhere, and I confess a certain
fondness for the man, in spite of all his bungling. If you rush the
place, God only knows what he's liable to do. Probably get himself
killed."
"I can understand you might feel you have a personal stake in this,"
Reggie Hall said finally, "but what exactly do you think you can do?
Remember the old saying, Shakespeare or somebody, a hero is the bloke
who died a-Wednesday."
"I don't plan to try and get killed. But why not let me take some flash
grenades and a gun? Go up there by the gantry and generate a little
excitement. If he's still there, maybe I can draw him out. He won't
realize I've got backup. You take it from there."
"I'm not sure I like it," Armont grumbled, slamming a clip into his
automatic. "If you ask me, there's been too damned much impromptu
strategy on this op already."
"On the other hand, Michael has a point," Hans interjected with
Germanic logic. "If we can separate Ramirez from the hostages, it could
prevent a lot of danger to the friendlies. My only worry is that if it
doesn't work, then we've blown the element of surprise. All of a sudden
we've got a firefight on our hands."
"We've got a firefight anyway," Marcel observed, "no matter what
happens. So why not?"
"I agree it's a gamble," Vance paused. "But the alternative could be a
genuine disaster." He took an MP5 from the bag of hardware they had
brought and checked the clip. "Does anybody strenuously object?"
"I do," Cally finally spoke up, her anger at him seeming to soften.
"We'll probably have to come and pick up the pieces. But you're right
about Isaac. Knowing him, he's liable to just walk into a line of fire,
out of sheer absentminded-ness."
"All right." Vance looked around. "While the fog is still in, I want to
go up." He was pointing. Why wait for a vote? Nobody seemed to be
strongly against it. "I'll come in from up there"--he pointed--"by the
base of what's left of the gantry, and try to draw him out. If nothing
else, it'll be diversion. If it doesn't work, you can still go in."
"All right, you win," Armont said. His eyes betrayed his lingering
misgivings. "But you're making yourself a target, so don't try any
heroics. If Ramirez does show his face, let us take it from there. This
isn't your game."
Willem Voorst nodded and pulled out an extra vest, already festooned
with grenades. He handed it to Vance, who slipped it on and secured it,
wincing silently from the pain in his rib cage.
"Just be bloody careful," Reggie Hall said. That and nothing more.
British understatement.
Calypso Andros had no such reserve. Her hair plastered across her face,
she reached up and impulsively kissed him on a swollen cheek. Then she
whispered good luck.