Through the chaos of the flash grenades and the tear gas Moreau had
missed seeing Hans and Marcel rappelling down. Instead he paused for
half a second, then hit the floor and rolled, ponytail flying,
intending to get as many of the hostages as possible between him and
the two members of the assault team at the front. He figured the
firepower would come from there. The rear entry, with the two guys
firing at the ceiling, was the diversion, intended to throw everybody
off.
He knew better. You never looked where the other side wanted you to.
That was playing into their hands. He got off a burst from his Uzi,
leaving a line of craters in the cinderblock walls next to the front
door. Wide and high. Bad placement. But the game wasn't over; it was
just beginning.
Now he had repositioned himself so that a terrified cluster of SatCom
staffers were between him and the front, and a line of terminals
protected him from the rear. Good. In the momentary pause, he slammed a
new clip into the Uzi.
These assholes aren't going to shoot up the hostages, he told himself.
That wasn't how professionals worked. And these guys, wearing
balaclavas, were professionals. They were fast, moving quickly, and not
providing a real target. _Merde_. But now you've got the advantage.
Just concentrate and take them out, one by one. You've been in tougher
spots before.
Dimitri Spiros, approaching from the rear, also had seen him, the
blond-haired terrorist who rolled behind a line of workstations. But
Spiros had not recognized him; to the Greek he was merely another
hostile to be taken down. He switched his MP5 to semiauto and carefully
took aim between the terminals, waiting for the creep to show himself.
Hans was not planning to wait. As his boots touched the floor, he took
aim and got off a single round, carefully wounding Moreau in the right
bicep. The French terrorist spun around, startled, but he sensed no
pain. Instead he felt satisfaction at knowing, now, where the third
entry-point had been. Life had just been simplified. A three-point
entry: standard, no problem. All you had to do was keep your wits.
He whirled and got off a burst toward Hans and Marcel, sending them
diving to the floor, then returned his attention to the pair at the
front. But now those two _batards _had taken cover. Where was Jamal?
Salim was dead, the stupid Iranian. Good riddance. But where was his
brother? Why wasn't he helping?
As it happened, during the first few seconds of the assault,
Jamal Khan had been making his own calculations. He had been figuring
an assault was overdue, and he had been prepared for it for several
hours now. He had long since donned a bulletproof vest, and he had made
sure he had two Uzis at hand, both loaded, together with five spare
clips.
The moment the first flash grenades went off, he rolled beneath a row
of workstations and shoved a handkerchief over his face, ready for the
tear gas he was sure would come next. Now he was surrounded by a
frightened cluster of SatCom staffers. The perfect shield.
Marcel had also surveyed the room as he rappelled in, and--by previous
arrangement--he had focused on the right half, whereas Hans took the
left. He had seen Jamal's roll and started to cut him down with a
blast, but then he thought better of it: there were too many friendlies
to take a chance on ricocheting lead. Just get into position and do it
right.
Pierre Armont also had seen Jamal duck out of sight, and he felt his
heart sink. The element of surprise had been used with all the effect
it could, and the result had been one terrorist killed and one wounded.
Now they were entrenching. Bad, very bad. . . .
Then a man on the other side of the room shouted something in German,
choking from the CS, stood up, and brought around an Uzi. That one was
stupid; he had identified himself and he was wide open.
Armont dropped him with a single burst, before he could even get off a
round. Clearly an amateur terrorist, he was standing in the clear, and
Armont's well-placed rounds sent him into a macabre dance of death.
Hans watched with satisfaction. Okay, he thought, that's two. Now what
about Moreau. It would be nice to take him alive, help salvage
something from this damned expensive disaster.
Moreau, however, had no intention of being taken alive; in fact, he had
no intention of being taken at all. He had rolled into the shelter of a
computer workstation and begun to spray the entrance indiscriminately.
Fortunately the shots were wild, posing no threat to the ARM team or
anybody else unless by ricochet.
By now Hans had taken cover behind the terminals situated in the center
of the room. This wasn't the movies, with the assault team standing
tall and shooting from the hip, particularly with all the friendlies
milling in the haze of tear gas. Besides, there were plenty of
hostiles, including the young Arab who had provided himself a secure
redoubt behind a row of workstations, surrounded by hostages. He knew
that stray bullets could not be tolerated. What to do? If Moreau kept
this up, he would have to be taken down, lethally, and damn the money.
A shame, really. The scene was rapidly turning into a standoff. The
worst thing that could happen.
But first things first. Determined to bag Moreau alive, he lobbed
another canister of CS across the room and into the clump of people and
hostages where the Frenchman was. A half-second later it exploded,
spraying its noxious powder across a full quarter of the room, and as
that was happening, he threw another flash grenade. The friendlies
would be blinded and overcome, he knew, but the effects would only last
for a few minutes and by that time everybody could be dragged into the
open air. It was better than being mowed down in a hail of fire.
The two grenades had the desired effect insofar as they momentarily
disoriented Moreau. And they gave Hans the opening he needed to get in
behind the row of terminals against the wall where the French terrorist
crouched. It was the last, best chance he would have to take the
bastard alive.
Moreau was on the floor now, gasping from the CS as he tried to get an
angle on what was happening. He knew he was going to be rushed, but he
wasn't sure from which direction. And as Hans moved in, that hesitation
proved to be a profound, primal mistake. Before he could plan his next
move, the German was on him, an MPS against his neck. He tried to bring
up his own Uzi, but by the time he had it halfway around, Hans had
kicked it aside and intercepted the move.
With a yelp of pain Moreau twisted away, trying to recover, and managed
to slam his left leg against Hans, knocking him off balance. Both were
now cursing loudly, mingling their epithets with threats. The battle
would have been even, had it not been for the fact that Hans was
wearing an encumbering balaclava.
Hans's flash grenade had illuminated the entire room with its blinding
explosion, and now Dimitri Spiros was making an end run along the far
wall, just below the huge projection TV screens, trying to encircle
Jamal before he had a chance to recover completely from the glare.
Across the room, Reggie saw what was happening and opened fire into the
ceiling, hoping to keep the Iranian pinned down, or at the very least
draw his fire. Confusion reigned.
Willem Voorst, who was in the center, analyzed the situation with a
clearer eye. The damned little Arab was not going to be taken down
easily. Spiros was heading into danger. Not thinking.
"Dimitri, no!"
'The little fucker," Spiros yelled. He was already moving, impossible
to stop. His Greek passion had superseded his better judgment, for he
was not wearing his bulletproof vest--a container of those had been left
inadvertently when the seaplane went down--and he was in no position to
put himself in harm's way.
Jamal was coughing and choking from the CS, but he had not yet been
totally immobilized. He saw Dimitri, a hooded figure in the smoke, and
responded by instinct, bringing around his Uzi and getting off a burst.
Although Spiros had seen it coming and tried to duck and roll, he was
not quick enough. Two rounds caught him in the chest, but not before he
had gotten off a well-practiced three-round burst from his MP5. One of
the slugs entered the center of Jamal's neck, above his bulletproof
vest, and literally ripped his throat open.
The Muslim radical who had helped kill two hundred and eighteen
defenseless Marines in Beirut collapsed in a pool of blood, having
exacted one last price. Dimitri Spiros was down, gravely wounded.
Willem Voorst was at his side in an instant. He took one look, then
rose and sent another blast of automatic fire into the Iranian Jamal,
whose life blood was already ebbing rapidly. It was an impulsive act of
anger definitely out of character for ARM, but the vengeance of the
moment seemed to call for something.
Jesus, Hans thought as he watched the tragedy unfold, still grappling
with Moreau, this is turning into a disaster. How did we manage such a
screw-up. And how many more of the bastards are there? They're like
vermin who keep showing up, just when you think you've got them all.
The area around him had become a cacophony of gasping, coughing SatCom
staffers, many moaning in fear, all near shock. But it works both ways,
Hans thought. If there are any more terrorists hiding among the
terminals, they're probably in the same condition.
Now, though, there was no motion anywhere in the room. It looked to be
over.
"Clear," Marcel said, the first, his voice garbled by the balaclava.
Hans crunched a knee against Jean-Paul Moreau's face and heard him
moan. "You little fucker," he yelled in French, and slugged him as hard
as he could. It had the desired effect. Moreau's body went limp, but
Hans, wanting to take no chances, immediately yanked his arms around
behind his back and handcuffed him.
"Clear," he yelled, still breathless.
"Clear," called Reggie, but not before looking around one last time,
squinting through the smoke. He thought, hoped, it was true. A bloody
great mess, that's what the assault had been, and Ramirez was still on
the loose.
"Objective CQ," Armont announced finally, even as he surveyed the scene
with bitterness and horror. Dimitri had screwed up twice, unforgivable,
and now he was on the critical list, hemorrhaging from the two holes in
his chest, barely conscious, with blood seeping out of the corner of
his mouth.
While Willem Voorst was already bent over him, trying to begin
stabilizing the crisis, Armont moved quickly to his side. "Hang on,
cheri. Can you hear me?"
Spiros nodded, though whether it was in answer to the question no one
could tell.
"Don't move. The blueprints show there's an emergency
medical facility here. They probably have a supply of plasma. We'll
pull you through."
This time Spiros tried to smile and raised his hand slightly, but
Armont gently took it and laid it back on the floor.
"Save your strength. We may need you again before this is over."
Then he rose up and looked around the room. "Start clearing everybody
out of here. And make sure there aren't any more of these fuckers
hiding among the friendlies."
Was it a clean job? he wondered. Did we hit any civilians? There was
enough gunfire to create a real possibility that somebody got nicked,
or worse.
He watched as Hans began shouting orders for the evacuation. The air in
the room was starting to be slightly breathable again, and everybody
seemed able to move. Three terrorists lay dead, and a fourth wounded
and handcuffed. All wore black pullovers. Maybe, he thought, just maybe
we had a little bit of luck on our side after all. It was about time.
But who could talk about luck with Dimitri lying there on the floor,
gravely critical. God damn the whole operation. It was Spiros's fault,
but this was no time to recriminate. He looked like his lung was
punctured. In fact, that was an optimistic prognosis. It could be much
worse. . . .
Well, Armont thought with relief, the SatCom people seem okay. Chalk up
one for marksmanship. Guess that's why we get paid so well.
He looked up at the large computer screen being projected on the wall
at the end of the room, which showed a countdown in progress. Ramirez's
scheme was still on track, though there was still almost half an hour's
time left. What now?
"All right," he declared, "let's make up a stretcher and get Dimitri
down to their medical room."
Hans pulled a syringe from the medical kit he always had with him and
gave the Greek a heavy shot of morphine in his inner thigh. In moments
it had surged through his system, causing his eyes to glaze and the
moaning to stop. Willem checked the wound again, then took some more
gauze pads and continued working. He figured if Spiros could be gotten
on intravenous plasma within the next fifteen minutes he might survive.
Willem Voorst was finishing the construction of a makeshift stretcher
from chairs and cushions, while Hans was checking over the civilians as
he ushered them out into the hallway, making sure none were injured . .
. and too deeply in shock to realize it.
He also was running an interrogation. "Who here knows how to stop the
countdown? Just shut the damned thing off?"
Nobody offered up his or her services, possibly because nobody wanted
to be held responsible for causing a meltdown in the multimillion-
dollar storage coil. There also was a more practical reason.
"Georges LeFarge was in charge of the countdown," a coughing, nervously
shaking young man finally volunteered. "He's not here now. The Israeli
guy took him over to Launch." He paused. "But the Fujitsu is in auto
mode now. We can't just flip a switch, at least not without doing
horrific damage to the coil. It has to be discharged through the
Cyclops."
"Then can you do that?" Hans asked.
"Not without Cally or Georges here," he replied decisively. "You screw
it up and you're talking millions of dollars." He shrugged. "No way
would I attempt it without somebody's say-so." His voice trailed off.
Hans pondered this, then shrugged. "Okay, you're saying everybody here
is scared to tinker with the Cyclops. So we'll still have to take down
Launch and get to the vehicle." He glanced back toward the smoky room,
thinking aloud. "But we were going to have to anyway, to get Ramirez.
Once we're there, maybe we can find a way to disable the vehicle some
other way."
The staffer looked dubious. "I don't know how. There's only one real
way to do it, by bleeding off the Cyclops. Anything else would be too
dangerous. Maybe--"
"Hans," Armont was shouting, interrupting them. "Come and help Willem
carry Dimitri through the tunnel. Do you remember where the medical
room was from the blueprints?"
"I memorized everything," he shouted back. "What do you think I get
paid for?"
'Then get on with it. Maybe there'll be somebody there who can help
out. Otherwise, you two just became doctors."
"I'll save him," Willem declared, trying to sound as confident as he
could. He knew, as they all did, that it would be a long shot. "But
what are you going to do now? We still have to get Ramirez."
"I'm aware of that," Armont snapped back. "But first we've got to get
these people out of here and somewhere safe." Then he had a thought.
"Maybe you should take them with you. Over to the Bates Motel. We could
make that our collection point for friendlies."
"All right," Hans agreed, partially, "but this is no time to split up.
You'd better come with us. If we run across any more of these assholes,
we'll need backup."
Armont nodded, realizing it made some sense. "Okay, then get the
people."
Hans looked down and checked over Jean-Paul Moreau. The Frenchman was
bleeding, too, but nothing about his wound appeared to be serious. A
tourniquet should hold him. "Some of them can carry out our friend
here." For a moment he considered telling Armont who their captive was,
but then he decided to do it later. Moreau might be more useful if he
didn't realize he had been recognized.
Then, with Armont on point and leading the way, they headed through the
tunnel that connected Bill Bates' office to the living quarters.
Minutes later Command sat as empty as a tomb, impotent and useless as
the countdown continued to scroll, the Fujitsu working the will of Dore
Peretz.