Thomas Hoover - Project Cyclops

The assault was timed down to the second. Three minutes after the diversionary SEAL action began, the two Hueys would set down in the middle of the island and pour out the real assault teams, one team to storm Command and the other to hit Launch Control, massively. He figured if they took both at once, there would be no place for the terrorists to hide. That was the best way they knew to accomplish their first objective, which was to neutralize any nuclear devices safely.

The outstanding unknown, of course, was the location of those devices, and their state of readiness.

You had to assume terrorists weren't suicidal, Nichols told himself… but yet, what about Beirut and the Marine barracks, demolished by a suicide mission? Such things were never outside the realm of possibility. So if these crazy fuckers decided to go out in a blaze of glory, it wouldn't exactly be a first…

"Alpha Leader." The radio came alive again. "SEAL One objective secure. No sign of any hostiles down here."

"Copy, SEAL One." Shit, Nichols thought. The bastards didn't go for it. They're battening down, planning to make a stand. And why not? They've got hostages. They think we're not going to hit the place.

They've got another thing coming. It's just going to be bloodier than we had hoped. If they start using the hostages for human shields…

"Request permission to advance toward Launch Control," came the radio again. "If we're going to provide that diversion, we're going to have to go in."

Why not? Nichols thought. We're already improvising, but maybe the bastards can still be drawn out. It's worth a try.

"Roger, SEAL One," he said, checking his watch. "Watch yourself. It could be a setup." He knew the SEALs were lightly armed, with only a German Heckler amp; Koch submachine gun each, plus a couple of M16s specially equipped with M203 grenade launchers, the so-called "bloop tube." Still, those boys could raise some hell.

"Confirmed."

"Copy. We'll slip in here for five. Kick hell out of anything that's not nailed down."

"Roger, Alpha Leader. If they show their heads, they're gonna know we're in town."

"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."