Spranger unslung his comms unit. “On the dock. Bruno thought he saw something, so he fired at it.”
“McGarvey is here,” Durenmatt responded so quickly he stepped on some of Spranger’s transmission.
“Say again, Peter.”
“I said, McGarvey is here. Walther is down. I left my position for less than a minute to take a piss and when I returned, he was down. From where I’m standing I can see that he took at least one hit.”
“I’m on my way,” Spranger shouted. The detonator was still upstairs in the great room.
“What about me?” Lessing demanded.
“We’re getting out of here. If you don’t hear from me in the next ten minutes, go to the chopper. But Gott im Himmel, Bruno, keep your eyes open down here.”
Lipton and his five SEALS were in the water. They’d deflated their boat, and buoyed it just beneath the surface with a sea anchor. Tyrell carried a portable LORAN set, which, although it weighed less than twelve ounces, could bring them back to within fifty feet of the exact spot so they could retrieve their gear.
The antenna mast on Lipton’s communications radio was fully extended for maximum range. The LAMPS III chopper would be on station out of visual range somewhere just over the horizon to pick up his radio transmissions and relay them to Operations aboard the
Nimitz.
“Saturn, Saturn, this is Mercury, acknowledge,” he radioed.
Commander Rheinholtz responded immediately. “This is Saturn.”
“We’re going in.”
“Negative, Mercury. Negative.”
“We’re taking fire, so we must assume that Brightstar is in trouble and the subjects are in jeopardy. We have no other choice.”
The radio was silent. Lipton could imagine Rheinholtz on the horn with Washington trying to get a reading on this latest development. But that would take time: Too much time.
Lipton keyed his radio. “Will advise,” he said. “Mercury out.” He switched off the transmitter, sealed it in its waterproof case, and on signal, he and his four SEALS
submerged to a depth of ten feet, and on his lead made their way directly to the island.
At least they didn’t have the German woman to contend with, Elizabeth thought as she tried to pick out something, anything, in the black night from her window. But there was nothing out there, nor had there been any further shooting.
Their leader, the one they called Ernst, had taken the woman away. But that had been hours ago. Until the gunfire over the past two or three minutes there had been nothing.
They had not been given food or water, but they had not been bothered again.
“Do you see anything, Elizabeth?” her mother asked, in a weak, frightened voice.
Elizabeth shook her head and came away from the window. Her heart was hammering and she was having a little trouble catching her breath. It was her father they’d been shooting at, she was convinced of it. Just as she knew that she was going to have to warn him about the explosives planted in the wall just below their cell.
She put her ear to the door and held her breath to listen. But there were no sounds from the other side. Nothing. No more shooting, no sounds of running footsteps, no shouting, not a sound.
Stepping back she bunched up her fists and hammered them against the thick, wooden door. “Father,” she screeched. “Father! Are you there?”
Chapter 56
The sudden cessation of gunfire seemed even more ominous than its start. The first shots had echoed off the church walls nearly two minutes ago, but now there was nothing, no returning gunfire.
McGarvey and Schade pulled up just within the apse where the altar had once stood and looked out the narrow window into a broad courtyard area, what might have been the monastery’s kitchen garden in ancient times.
Two men were hurriedly removing a camouflage tarp from a large helicopter with Greek markings. Their weapons, a pair of Kalashnikov assault rifles, were propped against a fuel drum eight or ten feet behind them.
So far as McGarvey could tell there were no others standing guard with them, but it was clear that they were in a big hurry to get out of here despite the rain and the strong winds which tore at the big sheet of canvas. Flying would be an iffy proposition at best.
“Could it have been your team doing the firing?” McGarvey asked.
Schade shook his head. “That was no M-16, sir. Maybe a Kalashnikov. Besides, we’ve got specific orders to conduct no operations on Greek soil.”
The helicopter looked like a stretched version of the old Bell Ranger. She would be capable of carrying a dozen people in addition to her pilot and copilot, and with luck and a skilled crew she’d make Athens, or almost any point along the nearly deserted Turkish coast to the northeast.
“If their lookouts are equipped with low-light optics they might have spotted the raft and opened fire,” Schade said.
McGarvey looked at him. “What would Lieutenant Lip ton do in response?”
“That’s hard to say.” Schade shrugged. “But I’d guess that he would probably go into the water and come ashore. At least I think he would.”
“If that’s the case, this chopper is the only way out,” McGarvey said. “It’d be too bad if something happened to it.”
“It would probably upset them a whole lot.”
“Enough to kill us, if they get the chance. It’s not your fight, kid.”
“It is now, sir,” Schade said. “Ill go right, you take left?”
McGarvey nodded. “Watch yourself.”
They slipped out of the church through a side door off the nave. The chopper was at least a hundred feet from them across the courtyard. The wind and rain continued to worsen, and the two men who were nearly finished removing the camo tarp were completely absorbed in their task.
Keeping low, Schade moved away from the church wall, angling around to the right, keeping his attention completely on the two men at the helicopter.
McGarvey started to the left, holding back against the wall until he got to a point directly behind the men, but his internal alarm system was going off like a fire bell. Something was wrong here. Some inner sense was telling him to pull Schade back.
Then he had it. The guard outside by the obelisk had looked back toward the church.
Somebody was here. On an upper floor. With a clear sight line not only toward the path, but down here into the courtyard as well!
He was about warn Schade when a Kalashnikov opened fire from above and behind, exactly where he had just realized they were most vulnerable, and the young man went down in a heap, taking at least two hits.
The two men by the helicopter dropped what they were doing and spun around. They’d been well trained. Neither of them hesitated for an instant. One sprinted for the weapons leaning against the fuel barrel, making himself a moving target, while the other dropped sideways, to present less of himself as a target, and dug into his shoulder holster for his pistol.
McGarvey shot him first, one round in the man’s right hip, sending him sprawling off-balance with a cry, and the second in the side of his head, smashing his mouth so that he aspirated his shattered teeth.
Immediately switching his aim, McGarvey fired again, the bullet smacking into the second man’s chest just as he was snatching up one of the Kalashnikovs.
The force of the hit shoved him backwards, the bullet disintegrating inside his heart, killing him instantly.
Except for the wind the night fell silent.
McGarvey moved farther along the wall. The shooter would have spotted his approximate position.
Schade half rolled over and groaned.
