McGarvey jumped up and fired two shots in rapid succession, the first hitting the guard in the throat, blood erupting from an artery in a long spurt, and the second hitting his chest, driving him off his feet before he had a chance to utter a sound.
Dropping down, McGarvey immediately switched his aim toward the church, in the direction the downed guard had looked.
Schade did the same, flattening himself against the rock-strewn ground, his silenced .22 automatic pistol in hand.
Nothing moved, and there was no answering fire. If someone had been there, they were gone now, or incredibly, they had seen or heard nothing.
Only the wind and the pattering rain made any noise, until McGarvey started to rise when he heard the distinctive pop of an unsilenced automatic weapon from somewhere in the distance. Below, possibly at the base of the cliffs beneath the church.
“What the hell was that?” he muttered as he and Schade headed in a dead run the last fifty yards or so to the main doors into the church’s nave.
Chapter 55
“What the hell was that?” Lipton demanded. He’d been on the radio copying the latest weather report from Meteorology aboard the Nimitz
when the sea twenty yards out erupted in a dozen miniature geysers.
“We’re under fire,” Tyrell answered urgently.
Tony Reid hurriedly started the outboard. Everyone else had their weapons out. Tyrell was studying the base of the cliffs one thousand yards away.
“Belay the motor, Tony,” Lipton whispered. “Even with a night spotting scope they can’t be sure they see us, but they might be able to hear something.”
A little closer, the water to their left, geysered again. This time Lipton estimated fifteen or twenty rounds had been fired, perhaps a few more.
“If he’s firing a Kalashnikov, we’re at his extreme range,” Tyrell said.
“He might get lucky,” Lipton said. “Can you spot him?”
“No, but I’d say he was low, maybe right on the water at the base of the cliff.”
“A dock?”
“Probably.” Tyrell looked up. “It’s your call, Ed, but we can’t stay here like this.
Either pull back, or…?
“Or go ashore,” Lipton finished it for his number two. They’d been sitting out here for hours waiting for something to happen and now that it had, it was the wrong thing. If Spranger’s group was trying to break out, they’d be on the water, a hell of a lot closer, and they’d be using a lot more firepower.
Whoever was firing at them was probably a lookout stationed on the dock. A chance increase in the ambient light level had come at the same moment the guard was looking in their direction, and he’d spotted something. Or thought he had.
They came under fire again, this time the hits coming in a wide pattern off to their right, but much closer. The shooter was finding their range.
They’d received word from Operations aboard the Nimitz that the EPIRB signal from McGarvey’s walkie-talkie had began to fade before he had reached the port of Thira, and less than a minute later it had cut off completely.
Commander Rheinholtz’s best guess was that McGarvey had tossed the device overboard.
“If the sonofabitch wants to do it on his own, then let him,” the chief of Air Operations had radioed.
“I’d like to remain on station for a bit longer,” Lipton had asked.
The airwaves were silent for a long moment, as Rheinholtz pondered his request. Of course he hadn’t told his boss that Schade was missing. There would be hell to pay if the Nimitz CAO knew.
“I want you out of there well before dawn, Lieutenant,” Rheinholtz radioed. “Acknowledge.”
“Aye, aye, Commander,” Lipton replied.
“Keep us posted.”
“Will do.”
Lipton checked his watch. Dawn was less than two hours from now. They were running out of time. Obviously McGarvey had reached the port, but what then? Had he and Schade found a way out to the monastery? Had they attacked from the land side?
The possibilities were nearly endless. But it was very likely that his ex-wife and daughter were still being held. That situation had not changed.
“Ed?” Tyrell prompted.
Another spray of fire from the shooter on the island hit the water, this time close enough to get them wet.
“Bob is probably with McGarvey over there,” he said. “We can’t leave them.”
His men were watching him closely, grim, expectant expressions on their faces.
“We’re going in,” Lipton said, making his decision. “Secure your weapons and check your rebreathers.”
Spranger couldn’t see a thing.
He looked up from the starlight scope and glared at Bruno Lessing, who’d done the shooting. The man was a professional; steady, reliable. It wasn’t like him to fire at phantoms. But there was nothing out there.
“I’m telling you, General, that I saw a small dark boat, perhaps a rubber raft, about nine hundred meters out. Three… maybe four men.”
“I don’t see them now,” Spranger said, glancing again across the dark sea. If anything the night had deepened as the rain increased, though dawn would be here in less than two hours. He wanted to be gone by then. The pilot had assured him that despite the weather, as long as they had a little daylight he could get them up to Athens. The chopper was ready to fly. All that was needed was to remove the camouflage canopy covering the machine, and undo the tie-downs on the undercarriage and the rotor blades.
“They could be American Special Forces,” Lessing was saying nervously. “McGarvey could have called for help.”
“Not him,” Spranger disagreed. “We saw the Dhodhoni heading back to Thira. He’s definitely coming here overland.”
“Pardon me, Herr General, but you cannot possibly know enough about the man to form such a judgment. Not so soon after you first learned of him.”
Spranger had handpicked his people from the survivors of East Berlin. They were the best of the best. All of them, Lessing included, were respectful of his authority, but no one was frightened or intimidated by him, which was as it should be.
But with this now, Lessing could not be right. Because if he was, they were in very deep trouble.
Once again he bent over the scope and peered through the eyepiece. The light intensification circuitry gave the surface of the sea a gray, ghostly cast. But as before there was nothing out there. Absolutely nothing.
“You may be right, Bruno, but it does not alter the fact I can’t see a thing now,”
Spranger said. He stepped aside. “Take a look for yourself.”
After a moment, Lessing bent to the scope, and studied the distant darkness for several long seconds. When he looked up he still did not seemed convinced. “I’m truly sorry, Herr General. You are correct, there is nothing out there now. But I did see something.”
“Could have been a piece of flotsam, or even a glitch in the little black box.” Still Spranger’s eyes were drawn to the sea, a slight edge of fear creeping into his head.
With McGarvey, you should expect the unexpected.
He’d carried the walkie-talkie down with him in case McGarvey decided to make contact again. Durenmatt came on.
“Ernst, where are you?”
