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Paul turned to the Vietnamese captain. “Where’s your communications center?”
* * *
The news that Kurt, Joe, and at least some of the Orion’s crew had survived was met with joy in Washington, D.C. It was tempered by the hands of the clock. Zero hour was a hundred and twenty minutes away.
Pitt looked at Heard Island on the map. Printouts of the Russian spy photos indicating Thero’s assumed location were coming through on the fax machine. The more Pitt studied them, the more precarious the situation appeared.
“Everything this guy has done is underground,” Pitt said. “Looks like he followed the pattern here. I have to give this info to the NSA.”
Yaeger looked grim. “They’re going to put a spread of missiles on that target.”
“I know,” Pitt said unemotionally.
Yaeger leaned in close. “Kurt and Joe are probably there right now.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Pitt said.
“So they’ve been brought back from the dead just to be obliterated by Tomahawk missiles from our own submarines?”
Pitt glanced up at his old friend without a hint of malice. He understood exactly what Yaeger was saying. “I don’t do this lightly, Hiram. But we have no other choice.”
He pressed the intercom button. “Get me Jim Culver at the NSA.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Joe Zavala felt the rumble of the explosion as it surged through the cave. He and Gregorovich pricked up their ears and soon heard gunfire. It sounded as if a chaotic battle were raging in the cavern.
“It’s coming this way,” Joe said.
Gregorovich nodded his agreement.
Joe went back to working on his freedom, straining and pulling and trying to rip his left hand free. It was no use, this cuff fit tighter.
Gregorovich pointed with his chin. “Over there,” he said. “Pliers. Maybe you can reach them.”
Joe looked at a cluttered desk across from them. Pliers, brass knuckles, and a few other tools of the intimidation trade rested on it. He stretched toward them, but they were at least six inches out of reach.
/> “Come on,” Gregorovich urged.
“What am I, made of rubber?”
Gunfire and shouting echoed right outside the door.
Joe stretched again but flailed inches from the table.
The door swung open. One of Thero’s men backed into the room, his eyes and his rifle aimed out through the door and down the hall.
As he fired off a burst at some unseen enemy, Joe lunged for him, wrapping his free arm around the man’s neck and yanking him backward.
The man dropped his rifle and grabbed at Joe’s forearm, trying to pull it away from his windpipe. Joe held on, every muscle in his body straining, his powerful arm locked in a sleeper hold.
The man flailed and kicked, but Joe had all the leverage. Strangely, being anchored to the wall only helped. Soon, the man went limp in Joe’s arm.
Joe held him like that for another full minute and then let him go. The man splayed out on the floor, and Joe stretched down and retrieved the rifle.
Twisting his body, he tried to aim the weapon at the chain cuffing his left hand to the wall, but the barrel was too long. He turned toward Gregorovich. “Looks like you’re first.”
Gregorovich stood and leaned away from the wall. “Better make it quick. Before someone else shows up.”
