Critical Mass

by David Hagberg

He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and he jerked to the left in time to see a man dressed all in black, water cascading from his head and shoulders, pulling himself onto the dock.

  Lessing started to bring the Kalashnikov around when a noise to his right, like a walrus or a big fish flopping up onto the dock, made him jump nearly out of his skin, and he spun around.

  The black-suited twin of the first man stood at the end of the stone dock, an M-16 rifle with a stainless steel wire stock in his hands.

  Lessing was swinging the Kalashnikov to the right when a third figure dressed in black rose up onto the dock, a silenced pistol in his right hand.

  A thunderclap burst in Lessing’s head, and then nothing.

  Smoke from the burning helicopter was obvious on the air even in the alcove behind the dock. And it was just as obvious to Lipton and his team that they were smelling burnt aviation gas.

  About ten yards out they had surfaced long enough to spot the lone terrorist on the dock. Diving again to a depth of five feet, their oxygen rebreathers leaving no telltale bubbles, they’d split up; Tyrell left, Joslow right, and Lipton down the middle with Bryan Wasley and Tony Reid as backup. The sentry hadn’t had a chance.

  Tyrell was bent over the man, feeling for a carotid pulse. He’d taken three hits in the head from Lipton’s suppressed .22, killing him instantly. The Kalashnikov’s safety catch was in the on position. Even if the terrorist had pulled the trigger, his weapon would not have fired.

  Lipton and the others were hurriedly pulling off their wet suits and removing the rest of their weapons and equipment from waterproof carrying pouches. Reid and Joslow, weapons up, bracketed the narrow stairway that led steeply up through the cliff into the monastery. On signal Joslow rolled around the corner, his pistol sweeping upward in tight circles.

  After a moment he shook his head and turned back. “Clear,” he called softly to Lipton. He seemed almost disappointed.

  “This one is dead,” Tyrell said, straightening up from Lessing’s body.

  “There was no evidence of a landing strip at this end of the island on the survey maps and flyover shots I saw, which means what we’re smelling is probably a chopper,” Lipton said.

  “McGarvey and Bobby?” Tyrell asked.

  “Probably. Which means the bad guys are caught between us, and they’re not going to take that lightly.” Lipton quickly surveyed the landing dock. “We’ll use this as our staging area as planned. We go for the hostages first. Everything else is secondary.”

  None of his men said a thing.

  “Once they’re released, Tony and Jules will bring them down here, and depending upon the situation we’ll either fetch the boat, or call for help. Commander Rheinholtz is standing by.”

  “What if we run into heavy resistance and have to fight our way back here?” Tyrell asked quietly. They all wanted to be completely clear on their orders.

  “Then that’s what we’ll do,” Lipton answered. “As I said, anything other than the hostages will be secondary. That includes McGarvey and Bobby. If we can get to them, we will. But the safety of the hostages comes first.” He looked at his men. “Questions?”

  There were none.

  “Toss that body over the side,” Lipton ordered, starting for the stairs. “The scope and rifle too. I don’t want to leave any evidence that we were here.”

  The stairs were so steep and narrow that only one person could start up at a time. They led five hundred feet into a long, narrow vestibule that opened onto a broad corridor which ran through the main residence and living areas of the monastery.

  Lipton silently crossed the corridor and halted at the doorway into the great hall. No one was here, and there were no sounds other than the wind and rain lashing against the thick, lead-glass windows. But the smoke was much thicker up here, and the smell of burning aviation gas was very strong.

  “Nobody home, sir?” Wasley asked.

  Lipton turned and shook his head. “Go with Reid and Joslow. Check everything to the end of the corridor.”

  They hurried noiselessly off as Lipton entered the great hall, Tyrell right behind him. They spread out, left and right, and halted for a moment, listening, watching, every sense alert for a sign of trouble.

  Somebody had been here recently. There were glasses with dregs of wine still in them on the table. Plates with scraps of food. The Paris, Berlin, Athens and New York newspapers spread out. A sweater tossed over one chair, a black nylon jumpsuit over another.

  “They’re dealing with the chopper,” Tyrell said softly.

  Lipton nodded. “They wouldn’t have taken the hostages.”

  “This is a big place, Ed.”

  Lipton looked at him. “They’ll be isolated. Up high, away from everything else.”

  Tyrell nodded his agreement, and the two of them hurried across the room to a corridor that ran at right angles to the first, deeper into the compound. Immediately to their right spiral stairs led upward.

  “Get the others and follow me,” Lipton ordered. “But post Wasley down here.” He started up the stairs, keeping low and against the inner wall so that he would present less of a target to someone waiting above.

  At the top, three stories above the level of the great hall, the stairs ended at a short, narrow corridor, three wooden doors on the right. Isolation cells.

  He could hear the scuffle of soft-soled shoes coming up from below. Tyrell and the others. If anyone was up here, it would be the hostages, not the terrorists, he figured. But something felt odd to him. No matter what trouble the East Germans were having they wouldn’t simply run off and leave the two women alone. They’d have to know that the hostages were their only real guarantee of success.

  His pistol up, Lipton slipped into the corridor and put his ear to the first door. There were no sounds from within and he was about to pull away when he thought he heard something. A murmur, perhaps. A single word spoken, or whispered … by a woman. A moment later another woman said something, her voice so low that the words were indistinct, but recognizable as a woman’s voice nonetheless.

  Tyrell and the others came up, and Lipton motioned for them to check the other two rooms, as he bolstered his pistol and gingerly inspected every square inch of the door and thick wooden frame around it for a wire, or any hint that there might be a pressure switch.

  If the terrorists had left the woman here, they might have booby-trapped the room. But Lipton found nothing. And the other two rooms were empty.

  “Cover the stairs,” Lipton ordered. Reid complied and Lipton turned back to the door. “Mrs. McGarvey,” he called.

  There was no reply.

  “Mrs. McGarvey, are you in there with your daughter? Are you all right?”

  “Who’s there?” A young woman asked softly.

  Lipton exchanged relieved glances with Tyrell. “Elizabeth McGarvey?”

  “Who is it?” Elizabeth demanded.

  “My name is Ed Lipton. U.S. Navy. I’m here with a team to rescue you. If you’ll stand back we’ll force the door.”

  “Thank God,” Elizabeth cried. “But wait. There was gunfire, and an explosion. Is my father with you?”

  “No, ma’am,” Lipton said. “Now, please stand back.”

  Someone said something that Lipton couldn’t quite catch.

  “Ms. McGarvey?”

  “They’ve planted explosives,” Elizabeth said.

  “Where?”

  “In the stone wall about ten feet below our window.”

  “Can you see any wires? Maybe something attached to this door?”

  “There are wires outside on the wall, but not in here.”

  Lipton looked over his shoulder at Tyrell. “A remote detonator?”

  “Makes sense,” Tyrell said. “They wanted to lure McGarvey here. Maybe they figured to let him get this far and then blow the place.”

  “But he’s not here yet,” Lipton said. “And Spranger’s people have their hands full at the moment.”

  “Go for
it,” Tyrell said softly, after just a moment’s hesitation.

  “Ms. McGarvey,” Lipton called. “I want you and your mother to get as far away from the door as you possibly can. Have you got a bed in there?”

  “Yes, yes, there are two beds here,” Elizabeth called.

  “I want you to take the mattress off one of the beds, then crouch down in a corner and cover you and your mother with it. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll give you one minute and we’ll blow this door,” Lipton said, and he stepped aside for Joslow, who expertly placed a few ounces of plastique around the door lock, cracked a short acid fuse and stuck it in the explosive.

  They all went to the end of the short corridor, and sixty-five seconds later the plastique blew with a respectable bang.

  “Get them out of there, on the double,” Lipton ordered. They were at their most vulnerable at this point. If one of Spranger’s men had heard the explosion and had realized what was going on up here, he might push the button.

  Tyrell and Joslow rushed into the cell, and Lipton called to Reid who was halfway down the stairs. “Clear, Tony?” he called softly.

  “Clear,” Reid answered.

  “We’re on our way.”

  Tyrell and Joslow emerged from the cell leading the two very shaken women. For just an instant Lipton was taken aback by their appearance. Their shaved heads made them look bizarre, but they seemed to be relatively unharmed.

  “We’re taking you out of here now,” he told them.

  “You have to help my father,” Elizabeth cried. “I won’t leave without him.”

  “We’ll help him,” Lipton promised. “But first we’re going to get you and your mother out of danger.”

  Elizabeth shook her head bitterly. “You’re already too late for that,” she said.

  58

  MCGARVEY CROUCHED IN THE DARKNESS OF THE VISITOR’S loft above the nave, his breathing ragged, smoke curling off his clothing. His heart was hammering and his vision wavered, but he was alive and he was sure he’d heard a small explosion, a long way off, perhaps somewhere above.

  Flames from the still-burning helicopter illuminated the church with a flickering glow, the air temperature was up at least ten degrees, perhaps more.

  It was hard to keep his thinking straight. The concussion when the chopper had blown had knocked the wind out of him. But he was aware enough to know what he’d just heard.

  If Lipton’s team had come ashore they might have run into trouble by now. He didn’t want to give voice to what he feared most, but he couldn’t stop himself from working out the possible significance of the small blast.

  The East Germans had expected him to rush blindly into the monastery complex in an effort to find Kathleen and Elizabeth. They wanted him to make a mistake so that they could corner him. No doubt they’d booby-trapped the area where they were holding the women, turning it into a killing ground.

  With explosives?

  But he hadn’t done what they wanted. Instead he’d climbed up to the second level and doubled back. Spranger’s people would be coming to see about their precious helicopter, and sooner or later they would have to enter the church.

  McGarvey’s grip tightened on his pistol. The only way he could possibly win against such odds was to pick them off one at a time. Lead them into a blind rush. Cause them to make mistakes.

  In the meantime, the one who’d fired on Schade was up here somewhere. He could almost feel the man’s presence. Killing him would be a pleasure.

  Every joint in his body ached from the concussion, and the ringing in his ears was only just beginning to fade. It felt as if he’d been run over by a railroad locomotive.

  But he was lucky to be alive. By some chance the primary force of the explosion had been directed away from him, sending burning fuel from the chopper’s port tanks spewing against the buildings on the opposite side of the courtyard, allowing him time to get out of there before he was too badly burned.

  It was possible that Schade had calculated the effect that his grenade would have and had tossed it to just the right spot. Every Navy SEAL was trained in the use of explosives. But Schade had been critically wounded. If his toss hadn’t been lucky, it had been miraculous.

  The kid hadn’t one chance in a million of getting out of there alive, of course. The last McGarvey had seen of him, his body was completely engulfed in flames. He hoped the boy was dead before the fire reached him.

  The door into the nave from the residence hall crashed open, the sound reverberating loudly in the cavernous hall, and McGarvey edged around a stone pillar so that he could see down onto the main floor.

  Nothing moved for a long second or two. The space beyond the open door was in darkness, so McGarvey couldn’t see a thing.

  He slipped a little farther around the pillar, giving himself a clear shot over the low balustrade at anyone coming through the doorway.

  Someone appeared in the doorway for just an instant, and then immediately fell back out of sight.

  McGarvey leaned his shoulder up against the pillar for support, and cupped the elbow of his right arm with his left hand, the Walther’s front sight lined up just ahead of the doorway. He had removed the silencer for the sake of increased accuracy. There was no longer much need for stealth.

  Someone moved off to his left. The shuffle of shoe leather against the flooring planks?

  McGarvey froze. Schade’s killer? Or had Spranger’s people slammed open the door below as a diversion, directing his attention away from the real attack?

  The sound came again, and as McGarvey started to drop down and turn left, someone rushed through the door into the nave and disappeared beneath the loft.

  A bullet smacked into the stone pillar an inch from McGarvey’s head, flying chips cutting his cheek and forehead.

  He fired two shots into the darkness as he continued falling back around the pillar, answering fire coming immediately, but hitting just above him. Then he was down, flat on the floor behind the pillar.

  At least two other people came into the nave downstairs. He could hear them rushing beneath the balcony. They meant to isolate him up here, and when they were lined up and ready they would rush him.

  The problem for him was the two flights of stairs from below; one at either end of the loft. No matter which stairwell he covered, he would be exposed to anyone coming up the other one.

  Adding to his immediate troubles was Schade’s killer up here pinning him down until the real attack could begin. That, he suspected, would come in a matter of seconds.

  McGarvey took the silencer tube out of his jacket pocket, hesitated for just a second, then tossed it off to his left. Immediately he rolled to the right, to the opposite side of the stone pillar.

  He got a brief impression of a large man, dressed in a black, jumpsuit, rising up from beneath an overturned pew, and he fired twice, both shots catching the man in the torso, driving him backwards to crash to the floor.

  From where McGarvey was lying he could see the East German’s right shoulder and arm, the Kalashikov six inches from his outstretched hand. He was not moving.

  McGarvey scrambled across to where the downed man lay and felt for a pulse but there was none. One down, time now to give the others something to think about.

  Stuffing the Walther in his belt, McGarvey silently dragged the East German’s body over to the railing. Nothing moved below. By now they’d be waiting just under the balcony, wondering what was going on up here.

  McGarvey heaved the German’s body up over the balustrade, balanced it there for just a moment, then rolled it over. It fell the twenty feet and hit the stone floor with a sickening thud. McGarvey wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard someone mutter the single sound, “Ah,” then nothing.

  Seeing their comrade like that would slow them down, McGarvey hoped, just long enough for him to prepare himself for the coming assault. He had hoped to take out Schade’s killer, then pick off the others as they came into the nave
. But they’d anticipated him.

  He understood why when he retrieved the East German’s rifle. The same type of walkie-talkie he’d tossed overboard on his way into the port of Thira was propped up against the overturned pew. The others had been warned about the ambush.

  His only hope now was that Lipton had brought his team ashore. Short of that he would hold them off here. The longer he did that, the longer they would remain away from Kathleen and Elizabeth.

  He’d made a mistake coming up here. The bitter thought rankled as he dragged another solid oak pew over to the first, and muscled it over onto its side. The bench was at least fifteen feet long and had to weigh several hundred pounds. The thick seat bottom would stop just about anything short of a grenade or a LAWS rocket, neither of which was beyond the STASI’s ability to acquire.

  But he had run out of options by stupidly forgetting that Spranger was a professional. His men would be well trained, well disciplined, well armed and well equipped. They would communicate.

  Hunkering down between the pair of overturned pews which offered him protection from both stairwells, he ejected the Kalashnikov’s curved magazine and quickly counted the bullets. There were only eleven, and there were no spare clips lying around. He had reloaded his pistol on the road, on the way up here from town. He ejected the clip. It was empty, which left only one round in the firing chamber.

  Twelve rounds with which he not only had to defend himself, but with which he had to prevail and then rescue Kathleen and Elizabeth.

  He smiled grimly as he holstered his pistol, and made sure the Kalashnikov’s safety was switched off, the selection lever in the single fire position.

  Impossible odds, he thought. But still manageable.

  59

  LIPTON STOOD WITH THE OTHERS AT THE HEAD OF THE STONE stairs to the dock, listening, but the gunfire had stopped for the moment. The young woman seemed to be in better condition than her mother, but neither of them would be able to withstand much more. They seemed weak, and more listless than they should under the circumstances. Lipton suspected they’d been drugged.