Chapter Nine
3:18 p.m.
Vance cocked the Pakistani's Uzi and trained it on the door, not sure what to do. The fear was that he might inadvertently kill a friendly. Hostage situations always presented that harrowing possibility. Quick identifications and quick decisions were what made good antiterrorist teams. He was afraid he had neither skill. He wasn't even that great a shot.
But events were to break his way for a change. As the door swung in, he saw a woman framed there. He needed only to lock eyes with her to know she was a friendly. Okay, one ID out of the way. Then a man behind her, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, reached out to seize her and pull her in front of him.
No good. As Vance watched, mesmerized, she elbowed him in the chin, sending him reeling backward and out into the hallway. Then, before he could recover, she slammed the door, using her other elbow to hit the blue Airlock button next to the frame. With electronic efficiency, the red “Sealed” light above the door blinked on and bolts around the edges clicked into place.
She turned, still shaking, and looked at him. "Please tell me you're not one of them, too."
"No way. I'm just a tourist." Vance examined her and liked her on the spot. She was a stunner, with dark hair and an eye-catching sweater emblazoned with the SatCom logo— one of those take-charge women made for the modern age. Exhibit A: she'd just iced the thug in the hallway. "And who are you?"
Instead of answering, she glanced over at the Pakistani, his mouth gagged. "I see you've already met one of our new guests."
"We got acquainted informally. Not exactly a meaningful relationship." He stared at the door, wondering how long it would hold. "By the way, is that guy outside who I think he is? Didn't he just shoot somebody in your control room?"
"He did. And you were probably about to be next." She took time to examine him more closely. He couldn't tell if she liked what she saw, but her look quickly turned to puzzlement. "You're soaking wet."
"I had an afternoon dip."
"What? You swam here?" She looked about the room, then back. "How—"
"In a manner of speaking."
"Who are you?"
"Mike Vance." He extended his hand. "Friend of Bill's. It's a long story. In real life I run a sailboat charter operation back in the Bahamas. And you?"
"Cally Andros. I run this place, or at least I did until last night." She shook his hand, tentatively. "So what are you doing here?"
"As I said, just an island tourist. But I've got to tell you, Greek hospitality isn't what it used to be." He reached down and picked up the box with the krytrons. "Now what do you say we get out of here before that guy outside comes blasting in?"
"Through that door?" She laughed. 'That's an inch and a half of steel. Even better, it's fail-safe, which means that if the electronics fail, it stays in the locked mode anyway."
He liked her snappy answers. "Nothing lasts forever. I strongly recommend we do ourselves a favor and move along." He turned and indicated the open panel where the wiring entered. "How does the back way sound to you?"
"You came in through there?" She clearly was startled. "You're either very smart, or very stupid. That's where—"
"I'll tell you what's really stupid. Standing around while those goons figure out how to take out that door. Because there's something in here I've got a feeling they're going to want back very badly."
"You mean him?" She pointed at the Pakistani, still gagged, hunching down on the floor.
'This one? Doubt that. He's just a water carrier. No, I'm talking about the gadgets inside this box."
"What . . . ?"
"Check them out." He passed it over. "What do you think?"
She lifted out one of the glass-covered units, three wires extending from one end, and her dark eyes widened. "My God, do you know what this is?"
'Tell me."
"It's a krytron." She rotated it in her hand, gently, as though it were crystal. "I've never actually seen one before, only pictures. You can trigger a nuclear device with one of these. They're worth millions on the black market."
"Guess we just made the Fortune Five Hundred." He laughed. "If we live long enough to cash them in. Should be lots of buyers around the Middle East."
"Do you realize—?"
'The nightmare's finally come true? Looks that way." He sighed. "Terrorists are building a bomb. Or, more likely, they've managed to steal one somewhere."
"One?" She shivered from the cold and pulled at her sweater. “There must be more than one, if they've got all these detonators."
"But a bomb is just another chunk of enriched uranium without these, right?"
"Well, if they're planning to do more than threaten . . . Oh, my God." She froze. "That explains why they've got Georges changing trajectories. They—"
"What! Are they tinkering with your rockets?"
"So far just the computer-guidance part. But if they put a bomb on VX-1, who knows what they could end up doing?"
"How does nuclear blackmail sound? But nobody goes to this much trouble just to shake down a corporation. There're lots of easier ways." He paused to ponder. Ten to one it's not SatCom they're holding for ransom. They're aiming for a lot higher stakes. They're probably planning to shake down a country somewhere. No prizes for guessing which one.
"The U.S.," she guessed anyway. “Think they can get away with it?"
"Probably not without these." He closed the box. "Maybe we've just pulled the plug. So let's take these and get out of here."
She glanced down at the surly Pakistani. "What about him?"
"We could take him with us, as a bargaining chip, but I don't think he's worth the bother." Vance reached over and turned his face up. "How about it? Do your buddies out there care whether you live or die?"
His eyes betrayed his fear they did not.
"Didn't really think so," Vance revolved back. "I say we leave him. They'll probably execute him anyway, for being a screw-up and losing these." He tucked the box under his arm, then turned back one last time. 'Tell your chief we're going to take good care of them. They're the world's insurance policy." He pointed toward the opening into the wiring shaft. "Want to go first?"
'The conduit?" She frowned.
"You get used to it. It's just—"
"I really can't believe any of this is happening." She turned, walked over, and—with only minor hesitation—began climbing through.
At that moment, the Pakistani suddenly rolled to his feet and lunged for the sealed door. Vance whirled to try and catch him, but it was too late. He had already thrown his body against the release button. The seal clicked off, and in an instant their security evaporated.
"Go!" he turned back and yelled, but she was already through.
What now? he wondered fleetingly. Stay and shoot it out, or disappear.
The second option had more appeal.
He dived for the open grate of the conduit, but the door was already opening. The Paki couldn't yell, but when the door slid back, he pushed through . . . and was cut down by a fusillade of automatic-weapons fire. The impact blew him back into the room, sending his riddled body full length across the floor.
Vance swung around the Uzi and laid down a blast of covering fire through the doorway, which had the effect of clearing the opening for a second. He got off a couple of last rounds, just for good measure, then turned and hurled himself into the communications shaft.
No sooner had he pulled himself inside than rounds of fire began ricocheting through behind him. The aim, however, was wide, and he managed to flatten himself and stay out of the way.
Then the firing abruptly stopped.
They must have seen what's in here, he realized, all the wiring.
"Are you all right?" It was Cally's voice, somewhere in the dark ahead.
"I'm doing fine." He paused, hating the next part. "Only one small problem."
"What—?"
"I managed to drop our insurance policy on the floor in there. They're back in bu
siness."
3:20 p.m.
Isaac Mannheim checked his watch and then gazed down the hill, marking the time with growing impatience. Coping with inactivity, he felt, was the most extraordinarily difficult task in life. In fact, he never understood how anybody could retire, when three lifetimes would not be adequate for all one's dreams. The tall man who had saved his life earlier in the day had departed almost an hour and a half ago. Where was he? This waiting around was not accomplishing a damned thing.
He rose off the rock where he'd been sitting, and stretched. Enough of this lollygagging about; he had to get down there and find out what was happening. Already he assumed that something had interfered with the schedule. This afternoon's agenda included a communications power-up of the servomechanisms that guided the phased-array transmitter through the trajectory. He had even warned the tall stranger about it before he descended into the conduit. Well, he seemed to carry luck around with him, because the power-up had begun, then suddenly halted. But that meant somebody was mucking with the timetable. It was necessary to stop these people, whoever they were, from causing any more interference.
In times like these, he figured, it paid to be pragmatic. So give them a piece of whatever it was they wanted and they'd go away. It always worked. Even the student sit-ins of the sixties could have been tamed with a few gestures, a handful of concessions. If he'd been in charge, the problem would have disappeared.
So this time he would take the initiative. These people had no reason to want to stop the project—which meant, logically, that they had to be after something else. So why not just let them have it and then get on with matters?
After squinting at his watch one last time, he shrugged and started down the hill, working his way through the rocks and scrub brush. The sun beat down fiercely, making him thirsty and weak, while the sharp rocks pierced the lightweight shoes he had worn for the plane. But the other, sturdier pair he had packed was lost with the helicopter. . . .
Well, so be it. The first rule of life was to make do with what you had, manage around problems, and he intended to do exactly that. Shrugging again, he gingerly continued his climb. On his left he was passing the landing pad, with the slightly beat up Agusta, the sight of which momentarily discomfited him. But surely Bates had it insured. Still, the whole business was damned irritating, start to finish.
As he walked onto the asphalt of the connecting roadway and headed for the entrance to Command, he puzzled over how these thugs could have penetrated the facility in the first place and why Security had not handled the problem. That was bloody well what SatCom was paying its layabout Greek guards to do. They should have nipped the whole mess in the bud.
He turned and scanned the mountain one last time, but still spied nobody. The chap who saved his life must have gotten lost. Or killed.
With a shrug he walked directly up to the SatCom entry lobby and shoved open the glass door. To his surprise nobody was manning the security station. And an ominous dark stain covered the desk. Why hadn't anybody cleaned that up?
Readying his lecture, he dug out his security card and headed across toward the door to Command.
3:21 p.m.
"Let them go," Ramirez said. "We have what we need." He bent down and picked up the box.
"What about the woman?" Wolf Helling asked. "Can we work without her?"
"She'll be back." Ramirez seemed to be thinking aloud. "I'll see to it."
"But—"
"There are ways." He cut him off. "It's not a problem."
"What do you want us to do here?" Helling inquired finally, skepticism in his voice. He stepped over to look at the body of Rais, staring down dispassionately. One less amateur to deal with. He had shot the Pakistani by accident, but the kid was unreliable. And this job had no room for unreliability.
"Just get on with arming the devices," he said, checking his Rolex. "I'm going back to Command." It's time, he was thinking, for an important phone call.
3:39 p.m.
"I figure it like this," Vance said, trying to sound confident. "We take out the guy in charge, behead the dragon, and we've solved a large part of the problem. He seems to like shooting people, even his own men." He paused, then looked at her. "By the way, do you know who he is? Could be a real help."
"I have no idea," Cally said, shaking her head. "Just that he's a killer." She was straightening her clothes after climbing out of the conduit and through the heat exchanger. "He murdered Chris for no reason. Why would he do that?" Her voice began to choke, and she stopped.
Vance reached over and patted her hand. She had been through a lot. "He needs to scare you and everybody working for you. But try and hang on. You'll be getting some professional reinforcements soon. A few friends of mine known as ARM."
"ARM? Isn't that the security bunch that wired this facility in the first place?" She stared at him, then made a face. "Some job."
"What can I say?" He winced. "They don't usually have these problems."
"And now these same guys are going to come back and save us? That's really comforting."
“Try thinking positive." It was the best he could do.
She clearly viewed that response as inadequate, but she was too exhausted to argue. "Well, at this point I don't have any better ideas. But I'm worried about what may happen if there's a lot of shooting."
"Part of our job is to try and make sure nobody gets hurt. Keep the friendlies out of harm's way."
"Great." Her spunk was coming back. "We're probably going to have to keep them out of the way of your incompetent rescuers as well."
"Have faith. These guys've had plenty of experience. It won't be the first time."
"And what about you?" She looked him over again. "How much experience have you had?"
"You want an honest answer?"
"I take it that means none."
"Pretty close. So till they get here we just ad-lib." He settled under a tree and leaned back against the trunk. "Now, how about describing their leading man. I didn't get a very good look at him."
She was quiet for a moment, as though to collect her memories, and then she produced a description so thorough it would have impressed a Mossad intelligence officer. By the time she finished, Vance was grinning.
"Well, what do you know. He's alive after all. Looks like ARM is in for some unfinished business."
"What do you mean?"
"I think you just described somebody who slipped past Pierre in Beirut about five years ago. He's been in the terrorist game a long, long time, but he hasn't been heard from since. Everybody started believing he was dead. Or hoping."
"You know who he is?"
"It could only be one guy. Sabri Ramirez." He felt mixed emotions. This would be a real prize for Pierre and the others, if they could get him. The problem was getting him. Nobody had ever managed to come close.
"Who's that?"
Vance wondered if he really ought to tell her. Or shade the truth down a bit.
"Let me put it like this. He's no ordinary criminal. He's probably murdered a hundred people if you added up all the bombings. Mossad has been trying to assassinate the bastard for fifteen years." Vance leaned back, his mind churning, and touched his fingertips together. "This puts things in a whole new perspective. I knew he was a pro, had to be, but we're about to go up against the world's number-one terrorist. The king." His blue eyes grew thoughtful. "I've got to warn Pierre ASAP. The tactics may have to be changed."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"If Ramirez thinks he's trapped, he'll just lash out. Always happens. He goes crazy and gets irrational when he's cornered, which means negotiations are useless."
"Jesus." She shuddered, her eyes seeming to go momentarily blank. "I didn't sign on for this."
"Makes two of us." He settled back in the grass, then yanked up a handful, fresh and fragrant, and sniffed it. "I came for sun and sea. Not to help re-kill a dead man."
"What's that supposed to mean?" She plopped d
own beside him under the tree.
"Seems reasonable to guess he's been quote dead unquote for five years because he wants to be. It's not a bad condition to be in. For one thing, people stop looking for you. You can start reusing your old hideaways. And then you can put together a really big score. The Hyena returns."
"The Hyena?"
"That's what Mossad calls him. The story is he hates it, but it sort of sums up his line of work. The Hyena. The world's number-one killer-for-hire."
"God. I knew there was something about him, although in a way he seemed so . . . the man in the Brooks Brothers suit. But when he gunned down Chris in cold blood . . . still, this goes way beyond anything I could ever have dreamed."
"Looks like SatCom just made the big time. Right up there with the OPEC ministers he kidnapped in 1975, then auctioned off all over the Middle East. This is even bigger. It's going to be the crown jewel of his career." He stopped to muse. "What's it like to be famous and officially dead at the same time?"
"Maybe the best thing would be if he were really dead."
"You read my mind."
2:18 P.M.
"Mr. President." It was the voice of Alicia on the intercom. 'There's a call holding on line three. It's Dr. Mannheim."
He glanced up, distracted. In the interest of more space, the operation had moved from the Oval Office to the Cabinet Room, where Stuart's wooden-jawed portrait of George Washington gazed down on the papers strewn around the eight-sided table. Seated there with him were his chief of staff, Morton Davies; the special assistant for national security affairs, Theodore Brock; head of the Joint Chiefs, Ed Briggs; as well as the head of the CIA and the secretary of defense. The Vice President was giving a speech at a California fund-raiser, but his contribution was not particularly desired, or missed. Let him make speeches and wave the flag.
He reached over and picked up the handset. "Tell him I'll get back to him. Is he at home?"
"He's calling from somewhere in Greece. The SatCom—"
"Damn. Can't I call him back? I really don't have time—"
"I think you might want to take this, sir." Her voice was crisp and neutral as always, but he knew what the edge in her intonation meant. This is priority.
"SatCom?" Suddenly it clicked. He had been too distracted for the name to register at first.
"He's almost babbling. Something about a helicopter. He's—"
"Put him on. And have the damned thing traced." He hit the speaker button.
"Isaac. What's—"
"Johan, he's got a gun at my head." The voice was unmistakable. It had made students quake for forty years. It had made him quake. Now it was quivering. He had never heard his old professor in such a state. Very, very unlike Isaac.
"Dr. Mannheim?"
"They made me call this number. I know I'm not supposed—"
"Who's they?" The connection was intermittent, but he still could make it out.
"The . . ." He paused, then seemed to be reading. "The Resistance Front for a Free Europe. They've taken over the SatCom facility here, everybody. They shot down my helicopter. They killed—"
"What did you say? Helicopter?" Hansen's pulse quickened. Was Isaac talking about the Israeli Hind that had attacked the Glover? And what was this Resistance Front—for something or other . . . "Free Europe?" Europe was already free. Maybe too damned free, given all the ethnic turmoil.
The connection chattered, then another voice sounded. Hansen noted a trace of an accent, but he couldn't identify it. "Johan Hansen, this is to inform you that all the American engineers here are safe at the moment. We have no desire to harm anyone. We merely want our demand addressed."
Hansen glanced at Brock, who nodded, then pushed a button next to the phone that allowed him to record both sides of the conversation.
"This had better not be a prank."
"It's no prank. The staff of SatCom is now hostage."
"Listen, whoever you are, the United States of America doesn't negotiate with hostage takers. We never have before and we're not about to start now."
"I'm afraid the rules of the past no longer apply. In fact, I have no desire to negotiate either. There is nothing to negotiate. We have a very simple demand. And you have no alternative."
"You've got that backwards, whoever you are. You have no alternatives. You can release whatever hostages you have and get the hell out of there. That's your one option."
"We would be delighted to comply. As I said to you, we merely have a small nonnegotiable demand. I assume we are being recorded, but you may wish to take notes nonetheless. In case you have any questions."
"If you're talking about ransom, I can tell you now it's absolutely unthinkable."
"That kind of intransigence will get us nowhere." He sighed, a faint hiss over the line, and then continued. "You may consider our demand as merely a small repayment to the Muslim peoples, large portions of whose homeland America has seen fit to devastate. That payment will be eight hundred million dollars, to be delivered according to conditions that will be specified by fax. I assume you will wish some time to make the arrangements. You have twenty-four hours."
"You're out of your mind," Hansen said firmly. "You've got a hell of a nerve even—"
"Don't make me repeat myself. I will fax you the bank information. As I said, you have twenty-four hours. If you have not wire-transferred the funds by that time, an American military installation in Europe will be incinerated. And without your frigate Glover, sent to spy on the Islamic peoples of the region, you will have no inkling where that installation will be."
"Just what do you think you're going to do?"
"The same thing America once did to Japan. Only this time with a little help from one of your so-called 'non-nuclear' allies."
Hansen pulled up short. Was this the nightmare every U.S. President had feared—a nuclear device in the hands of terrorists. No, this took it one step further; the terrorists had just seized the means to deliver the device. It was that nightmare compounded.
He glanced at Ed Briggs, whose face had just turned ashen. They both were thinking the same thing: What kind of military action was possible? The answer was not going to be simple. Then he turned back to the phone.
"Listen, I want . . ." He paused, because the line had gone dead.
9:04 p.m.
"How does an ETA of 0200 hours sound to you?" Dimitri Spiros was using an unsecured radio, but he had no choice. "That'll give us about twenty-nine hours. Enough time to get everything together."
"I'll have the welcome mat out." Vance's radio voice was interrupted periodically with static. The man sounded stressed out, but Spiros had already interrogated him about the overall situation.
"Our plan right now is to come in by seaplane, set down two klicks to the north, and stage the actual insertion using Zodiacs. Pierre wants to get everything together here in Athens by 1600 hours tomorrow. That's firm. We'll have a briefing and then—you know the rest."
"Try not to overfly this place. It's pretty small and there are lots of islands down in this part of the world."
"Michael, I'm Greek, for godsake." He bristled. "We'll make it, seas permitting. And the weather looks like a go for now."
"All right, here's the drill. Right now there are friendlies in Command and down at Launch. You have the plans for that, right?"
"Right. And how about the Bates Motel?"
"The living quarters? At the moment I think they've got some friendlies in there, too, but it's currently cut off from the rest of the facility, no communications of any kind, and it's not heavily guarded. We can worry about it last. The heavy hitters and the hardware will be at the two other places."
"What else do you know?" Spiros pressed.
"It gets even better. These guys have got at least one nuclear device. All signs are they have plans—probably to use the Cyclops system for delivery."
"I don't like the sound of that," Spiros said. "Who's leading it?"
&nb
sp; "This is the very best part. I think it might be Ramirez."
"Sabri? The Hyena?"
"Could be."
He snorted in disbelief. "No way. The Kommissar has had him dead for three years."
"The Hyena has many lives. I actually got a look at him. Plastic surgery, maybe, but I've got a feeling it's none other than." There was a pause as Vance seemed to be checking something. "You know, we probably should cut this short. These guys have long ears. But just a word of warning: don't underestimate what he's capable of. I saw him shoot a staffer here in cold blood, just to get everybody's attention. When the time comes, things are going to get rough."
"That's how we're used to playing. Until somebody shows us a better way."
"Well, there's a good chance they're planning to arm at least one of the vehicles. After that it's anybody's guess."
"Nuclear blackmail?"
"Could be. Anyway, the fun part is, I got hold of the triggering mechanisms. For about five minutes."
"And then you politely gave them back?"
"It's a long story."
"Aren't they all," Spiros said. Then, "Well, do us all a favor, stay alive till we can make the insertion."
"That's an idea I could get with."
"By the way, do you have anything on their schedule? When does the balloon go up?"
"I don't know. You might hear something at your end. Ramirez has got to be talking to somebody by now. Demands, the usual. We need to find out what he wants. Maybe it'll all be over by the time you get here."
"Don't count on it. These things take a while. In the meantime, I'll get Pierre to have Hans chat up the Kommissar. If Germany's intel computer files have anything, he can probably pull it out quick enough."
"I do have another information source." Vance paused. "A new partner. And she's tough."
"She? What the hell are you talking about? Michael, this is not really the time for such things."
"I should get to fraternize with the hostages. One of the perks. Otherwise what do I get out of this job? She also happens to be the one who runs this place. She gave Ramirez the slip." A laugh sounded over the line, mixed with the static. "Incidentally, she doesn't think too much of your security job."
"Very funny." Spiros's gruff voice suggested he didn't mean it. "But maybe you should send her back inside. Might actually be safer there."
"Highly doubtful."
"All right. What about Bates?"
"The word is he's still okay. But they know who he is and I expect they'll put on the pressure when the time comes. There's an old professor here, too, the guy who dreamed this whole thing up, and they've got him. Name's Mannheim. First name Isaac. Why don't you find out anything you can about him. I had him here with me, but when I went down to reconnoiter, he disappeared. My guess is he wandered off and got himself taken."
"Sounds like you're on the case. Let's synchronize and talk again tomorrow at 0800 hours, local."
"Okay. We're counting on you. Don't mind telling you I'm scared. We're outgunned and Ramirez has started killing people."
"Michael, we're working as fast as we can. Just be by a radio tomorrow." Dimitri Spiros switched off the microphone and lapsed into troubled thought.
3:29 p.m.
Events were getting serious enough that the operation had been moved down to the Situation Room, in the White House basement. Scarcely twenty feet on a side, it was dominated by a teak conference table, with leather-bound chairs lining the walls. Although it appeared cramped by corporate standards, especially when the full National Security Council met, its close quarters intensified the focus needed for international crisis management. Besides, in the new age of electronic decisions, it was state-of-the-art, making up in technology what it lacked in spaciousness. Installed behind the dark walnut panels that covered three of the walls was the latest in high-tech electronic equipment, including a variety of telecommunications terminals, video monitors, and apparatus for projecting and manipulating images on the large screen on the fourth wall—normally concealed by a drawn curtain but now open and ready.
"We'll have to work through Joint Special Operations Command," the President was saying as he looked around the room. The five people there were intensely at work—their coat jackets crumpled across the chairs, shirt sleeves pushed back, ties loosened or off. They included Chief of Staff Morton Davies, Special Assistant for National Security Affairs Ted Brock, and Head of the Joint Chiefs Ed Briggs. "So we're about to find out if this country has any counterterrorist assault capability."
Special Operations Command had been created in the eighties after the string of embarrassing communication snafus during the Grenada invasion. Headquartered at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, it had overall control and supervision of America's major commando units.
"I guess the first decision they'll have to make," he continued, "is who we should send in."
There were two options. The Navy had a 175-frogman unit, Sea-Air-Land Team Six, operating out of the Little Creek Naval Amphibious Base near Norfolk, Virginia. SEAL Team Six specialized in underwater demolitions, clandestine coastal infiltrations, hand-to-hand operations. The other unit trained to carry out hostage-rescue missions was Delta Force, headquartered in a classified installation at Fort Bragg. The SEALs were high profile, whereas everybody denied the very existence of Delta's assault team—called "shooters" in military parlance. Delta Force was probably the worst-kept secret in America.
"Shouldn't we hold up a minute and talk first about the hostages?" Morton Davies wondered aloud. "How much risk is there?"
"There's always risk," Hansen declared. "With anything you do in this office, there's always a downside. What was it Harry Truman said about the place where the buck stops? Well, I've got an uncomfortable feeling I'm about to find out what he was talking about." He turned and hit the intercom. "Alicia, get hold of Admiral Cutter and tell him to get over here. We've got to get Special Operations in on this ASAP."
"Yes, sir," came the quick reply. Despite the migraine now increasing her tension, she continued to offer Johan Hansen total support. In fact, she rejoiced at the opportunity. His wife, off somewhere dedicating flower parks in America's inner cities, certainly provided none.
That, at least, was what Alicia Winston preferred to think.
"Another worry I've got," the President continued after he had clicked off the intercom, "is how to keep this out of the press as long as possible. If there's any truth to their bomb hints, we'll need to try and minimize the panic factor. From here on, every aspect, even the smallest insignificant detail, is classified. Top Secret."
'The Israelis will most certainly get with that," Ted Brock observed wryly, nervously cleaning his horn-rims for what seemed the tenth time that hour. The strain was all over his face.
"Now," the President continued, "SatCom is on Andikythera. Do we have any KH-12 PHOTOINT of the island here yet?"
"It's in, Mr. President," Briggs said, then pushed two green buttons on an electronic console on the conference table. A photo came up on the screen behind them, a dull black-and-white rectangle.
'That's it?" Hansen said, annoyed. He scanned the photo, then looked around. "Ed, there's not enough detail here to use. How long before we can get some computer enhancement of this? A blowup."
"I thought you would want that," Briggs answered, "so I've already made the arrangements. We're on-line to NSA. We should be able to get it in about ten minutes."
"Then we'll wait." He switched off the screen and turned back. "Okay, we have to start planning our first move. For the moment let's talk about logistics. If we have to make an insert, what do we need?"
"Well, to begin with, ISA would have to have twenty-four hours, minimum, to get somebody in there on the ground to gather enough intel to support a move," Briggs announced, almost apologetically.
The President sighed. ISA was the Army's Intelligence Support Activity, which provided intelligence for Delta Force and SEAL Team Six. As an intell
igence organization, ISA was required to secure Central Intelligence Agency approval before entering foreign countries—which meant institutional gridlock and bureaucratic tie-ups before they could even get started.
"Then forget it. We'll just have to use satellite PHOTOINT and pray. The next problem is, who can we get there and how long would it take?" He knew that the Air Force's Special Operations Wing and the Army Task Force supported long-range missions by Delta Force and the SEALs. Were they ready?
"Well, let's back up a second,'' Briggs interjected. "We can't just send in a task force cold. They'd need to practice an assault on something resembling the same kind of terrain."
No country in Europe, the President knew, had ever given permission for American commando bases on their territory. So why would they suddenly permit an assault rehearsal?
"That's going to be a tough sell. We're talking about Greek soil. But if these terrorists really have a nuclear device, then the government of Greece might well take an interest in what happens to it. Still, we don't know for sure. It'd be—"
"They'd damned well better take an interest," Briggs declared. "If these terrorists plan a demonstration bombing, they could just be thinking about the air and naval facility at Souda Bay. Which would mean taking out the western end of Crete. Every anti-American in the world would doubtless cheer. They'd claim that our presence in a country makes it a military target. There'd be a groundswell of sentiment worldwide to send us packing. Everywhere."
The chief of staff was thinking. "Do you suppose these fuckers have really got a bomb? What did he mean about checking with our closest allies?"
The President had already been pondering that. "Well, the Israelis have a nuclear arsenal, of course, but they also have enough safeguards to take care of anything. They even shot down one of their own planes once when it accidentally strayed over the Dimona plutonium-reprocessing facility. Nobody is going to steal one of theirs. The same goes for South Africa."
"So who does that leave?" Stubbs asked. He had a feeling he already knew.
"Let's save the obvious for last," Hansen answered. "And let me give you a quick briefing on who's in the bomb business on this planet. It just happens to be a particular interest of mine."
He leaned back. "In the Middle East proper, only one country presently has full capability. That is, obviously, Israel. They have, in fact, a lot more bombs than anybody realizes. Their plutonium-reprocessing plant at Dimona extracts plutonium from the spent fuel in their research reactor there, and CIA claims they've got at least two hundred strategic nuclear weapons. Normal plutonium bombs need eight kilograms of the stuff, but we think they've come up with a sophisticated way to make one with five. Then there're the tactical nukes. They've got nuclear artillery shells, nuclear landmines in the Golan Heights, and hundreds of low-yield neutron bombs. That's more or less common knowledge, but what's less well known is that they've also got fusion capability— H-bombs. Which, God help us, I assume is not our problem here today. Then there's Libya, though they're still trying to get enough enriched uranium together to become a credible threat. Having only one or two bombs means that if you start anything, somebody else is going to finish it, so you need a lot before you get going. Iraq, thankfully, has been put out of business. Of course, there's still India, which has plenty of unrestricted plutonium and they've even claimed they could make a bomb in a month. We happen to think they've already done it. Because . . ." He paused. "Because we know damned well Pakistan has."
“There's your non-Caucasian in the fuel supply," Davies noted. “The fuckers."
The special assistant for national security affairs, Theodore Brock, who happened to be black, did not find Davies' Alabama good-old-boy remark especially amusing.
"Exactly," Hansen continued, wondering when he would have a good public excuse to send Davies to greener pastures. “That's got to be the 'ally' the bastard was talking about. It's a Muslim country, and their controls are a joke. It's the obvious choice."
Brock agreed solemnly. "We can start with an inquiry through their embassy. But it's going to be sticky."
The President nodded, wishing he had a hot line to the desk of every head of state in the world. It would make this kind of crisis so much more manageable.