Project Cyclops Part 76

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 d.a.m.ned thing off?"

n.o.body offered up his or her services, possibly because n.o.body 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 a.s.sholes, 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.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

7:12 A.M.

"Hansen lied," Ramirez was saying as he took one last glance at the snowy TV monitor, which moments earlier had shown the chaos in Command.

"The son of a b.i.t.c.h lied. He didn't call off the a.s.sault after all. It was just a stalling tactic." He turned to Peretz, anger deep in his eyes. "We've been double-crossed."

"What do you care what happens to those a.s.sholes?" Peretz remarked calmly, flashing his pale grin. "Good riddance. Let's just take the old guy, like we planned, and get the h.e.l.l out of here. We've got the money, so who gives a s.h.i.t."

"You have an inelegant but concise way of putting things," Ramirez concurred. "But there's a final phone call I need to make. I want Hansen to know what will happen if he tries to interdict us."

"Well, while you're doing that, I'll check out the chopper," Peretz went on. "When we split, I don't want any problems."

"Is that why you brought him?" Ramirez pointed at Bates.

"Might as well have someone with some aviation experience look it over." Peretz smiled again. "Besides, I think we may have just lost Salim in all that excitement over in Command. So we're going to need a pilot, right? What better than a war hero."

William Bates had been monitoring this exchange, not quite understanding the underlying dynamics. He did perceive, however, that Peretz was playing the scene as though he were in a game, and it looked like a contest with only a single winner. Number One, however, was not the kind of guy who struck you as a loser. But then Peretz didn't seem like the losing type either. The Israeli was one wily son of a b.i.t.c.h, and he had something up his sleeve. Was he intending to screw Number One somehow and get away with all the marbles? Just how he intended to do that was not yet clear, but there was no mistaking his faked attempt at calm. If Number One didn't catch it, he was dumber than he looked.

And he didn't look dumb.

What, he wondered, had happened to Mike? Did the message LeFarge had pa.s.sed along, "Ulysses has landed," mean he was on the island somewhere? And if he was here, had he called in ARM? Were they the ones who had just stormed Command, not the U.S.? Whoever did it, they hit the wrong place. The murdering b.a.s.t.a.r.d who called himself Number One was here, and he was about to get away scot-free.

7:12 A.M.

Vance wanted to kick himself. He'd screwed up again, managing to blind himself with his own flash grenade. And having done that, he'd thought it the better part of discretion to take cover and hope Pierre and the team could take out Ramirez with a clear shot. Instead, Ramirez got away.

Why didn't they get him? Instead they got into some kind of firefight.

Heck, he thought, if I'd known they were going to blow it, I could have tried to take him out myself, half blind or no.

Now, though, Ramirez was back in Launch, in the control room. Worse still, he told himself, I've really screwed things up. I blew the element of surprise. Now what?

He sat down, feeling like a prisoner of the fog, and began to engage in extensive self-recrimination. He was afraid to use the radio, and he didn't know where the ARM team was. Everything had to be rethought. . .

"Michael, is that you? Are you all right?" Cally was a pale apparition in the half-light, now working her way around the remains of the gantry.

"I'm terrific."

"Thank goodness. I almost gave up on finding you."

"What happened down there?" He was relieved to see her, but otherwise he still felt miserable. Also, he wondered if she was still angry.

"We got ambushed by somebody. From the direction of the sh.o.r.eline. I didn't know there were so many of them." She looked back down the hill, puzzled. "It was strange. There was a lot of firing, and then it just stopped. But one of your guys got hit."

"Who?" Our first casualty, he thought. The disaster grows.

"I don't know his name. I think he was Dutch."