Thomas Hoover - Project Cyclops

Then he stepped inside and checked out the scene.

Jesus! The place was a mess, showed all the signs of a bloody assault. Luckily, however, the emergency lights were working, their harsh beams perfect for what he wanted to do now. There was definitely plenty of evidence of gunfire, flecked plaster from the walls, and over there… Christ! It was Jamal, or what was left of Jamal. Little fucker's neck looked like he'd had a close encounter with a chain saw. Not far away was Salim, shot in the face. Then, on the other side of the room, was the body of the last German Stasi, Peter Maier. His demise had come neatly, right between the eyes.

Smooth piece of work, you had to admit. The only asshole unaccounted for was Jean-Paul Moreau. So what happened to that arrogant French prick? Did he escape, get captured?… Who gave a shit?

Meditations on fate, the absolute. The truth was, it was more than a little chilling to see the bodies of three dudes you'd come in with only a day before…

Well, fuck it. These other guys had known the risks. If they didn't, then they were jerks. Down to business.

He knew what he was looking for, and he had left it next to the main terminal. And there it was.

While he was working, he would block out the ache in his chest by thinking about the money. Hundreds of millions. Tax free. Even if you spent ten million a year, you could never spend it all. What a dream.

Then he had an even more comforting reflection. Everybody had seen him shot. They wouldn't find the body, but they would naturally assume he was dead, too. He would have the money, and he would be officially deceased.

He almost laughed, but then he sobered, recalling he had only a scant few minutes to wrap things up.

He slipped the component into its slot, then rummaged around for the connectors. He had left them dangling when he removed the black box, and they were conveniently at hand. They were color-coded, and besides, he had a perfect photographic memory and knew exactly what went where. Seconds later the diodes gleamed. On line.

Okay, baby, let's crank.

The real radio gear, he knew, was in Bates’ office, which stood at the far end of the room, its door blown away. Bates had plenty of transmission and receiving equipment in there, so that would be the perfect place to take care of business.

He picked up the device, now ready, and carried it with him, heading over. The main power switch that controlled Bates’ radios had been shut off, but it was just outside the door and easy to access. He pushed up the red handle, and walked on through, watching with satisfaction as the gear came alive. Over by the desk was Bates’ main radio, a big Magellan, already warming up. Life was sweet.

He clicked on the receiver stationed next to the transmitter and began scanning. Ramirez, he figured, would probably be on the military frequencies now, spewing out a barrage of threats about blowing up Andikythera. That had been the agreed-upon egress strategy, assuming the confusion created when the bomb took out Souda Bay wasn't enough.

And sure enough, there he was, on 121.50 megahertz, just as planned. Peretz decided to listen for a minute or so before breaking in.

"I won't bother giving you our coordinates," came his voice, "since we show a radar lock already. I warn you again that any attempt to interfere with our egress will mean the death of our hostage and a nuclear explosion on the island."

How about that, Peretz thought. The getaway scenario is still intact, right down to the last detail. Gives you a warm feeling about the continuity of human designs.

He and Sabri Ramirez had planned it carefully. The Sikorsky would be taken to fifteen thousand feet, its service ceiling, whereupon anybody left would be shot. The controls would then be locked, and they would don oxygen masks and jump, using MT-1X parachutes, the rectangular mattress-appearing chutes that actually are a non-rigid airfoil. MT-lXs had a forward speed of twenty-five miles per hour and could stay up long enough to put at least that many miles between the jump point and the landing. They were, in effect, makeshift gliders, and they presented absolutely no radar signature. While the Sikorsky continued on its merry way, on autopilot, they would rendezvous with the boat that was waiting, then be off to Sicily, with nobody the wiser. The chopper would eventually crash into the ocean halfway to Cypress, leaving no trace.

The only part about that plan that bothered Dore Peretz from the first was whether Sabri Ramirez was intending to kill him along with the rest of the exit team. Nothing would prevent it. There was supposed to be some honor among thieves, but…

Enough nostalgia. The moment had come to have a little fun. He flicked on the mike. "Yo, my man, this is your technical associate. Do you copy?"

There was a pause in the transmission, then Ramirez's voice came on, loud and clear. "Get off this channel, whoever you are."

"Hey, dude, is that any way to talk? We have a little business to finish. By the way, how's the weather up there? Chutes still look okay?"

"What in hell," came back the voice, now abruptly flustered as the recognition came through. "Where are you?"

"Dead, I guess. But hey, I'm lonesome. Maybe it slipped your mind I was supposed to be part of the evacuation team."

"What do you want?"

"Want? Well, let's see. How about starting with a little respect."

"Fuck you, Peretz."

"Now, is that any way to talk? If that's how you feel, then I just thought of another small request. I also want you to transfer your part of the money into my account at Banco Ambrosiano. As a small gesture of respect. I want you to get on the radio and see about having it arranged. Or I might just blow the scenario for you." He had to laugh.

There was radio silence as Ramirez appeared to be contemplating this alternative. It clearly was unpalatable.

"You've got a problem there, my friend. One of time. I'm sure we're being monitored, so let me just say there's been a change of plans. You would have been part of it, but unfortunately…"

"Hey, asshole, there's no change of plans. You figured it for this way all along. But now there is going to be a change. I hate to tell you what the new scenario is… yo, hang on a sec."

He had looked up to see Bill Bates and Michael Vance entering the office. "Come on in and join the fun, guys." He waved his Walther and grinned. "We're about to have a blast."

Vance walked through the door, bloody and exhausted. "And I thought Ramirez was the only one who could manage to return from the dead." He tried to smile, but his face hurt too much. "Either he was using blanks, or you were wearing a bulletproof vest. Somehow I doubt it was the former. So what happened? Have a business disagreement with your partner in crime?"

Peretz was grinning. "That's how it is in life sometimes, man. Friendship is fleeting." He gestured them forward.

Bates had moved in warily, still stunned by the carnage among the workstations in Command. "I suppose I have you and Ramirez to thank for tearing up the place out there." He walked over to the desk. "Nice to see that my radio gear is back on and working."

"It's working fine," Peretz replied, then waved his Walther toward the couch opposite the desk. "Now sit the fuck down. Both of you."

"You're staring at beaucoup hard time, pal." Vance did not move. "I can think of several countries who're going to be fighting over the chance to put you away. This might be a propitious moment to consider going quietly."

"Quietly?" There was a mad gleam in his eye. "I never did anything quietly in my life. You're in luck, asshole. You're about to have a front-row seat at history in the making."

He turned back to the radio and switched to transmit. "Yo, my man, looks like we have nothing more to say to each other. Which means it's time for a fond farewell."