"In English. He's talking about the Glover, and he's giving our location."
"Probably one of the guards." Ramirez paused, thinking. "But how could he know about the Glover?"
"Maybe he's in the Hind, monitoring the radio," Helling said, rubbing at his balding skull. "We—"
"You brought backup. Time to use it." Ramirez turned and beckoned for the three ex-Stasi: Schindler, Maier, and Sommer. It was time for the three monkeys to start earning their keep. "Go out to the chopper," he barked to them in German, "and handle it. You know what to do."
They nodded seriously and checked their Uzis. They knew exactly.
7:23 a.m.
The transmit seemed to be working, and he was getting out everything he knew—the location of the Hind, the fake nationality, the attack on the frigate. But was anybody picking it up? The heavy Soviet radio was rapidly drawing down its batteries, but he figured it was now or never. Get it out quick and hope, he thought. Pray some Navy ship in this part of the Aegean will scan it and raise the alarm.
He was still trying to piece it all together when he spied the figures, approaching from far down the central walkway. Three men dressed in black, looking just like a hit squad. He had not expected so fast a response, and for a second he was caught off guard. They must have been monitoring the radio.
If you had any sense, he told himself, you'd have expected that. You're about to have some really lousy odds.