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THOMAS HOOVER

"A high-tech launch site, a missing nuke, and Arab terrorists with

nothing to lose . . ."

In the sun-dappled waters of the Aegean, ex-agent Michael Vance pilots

the _Odyssey II_, a handmade replica of the sailcraft of the ancient

hero Ulysses. Out of nowhere, a Russian Hind gunship with Arab

terrorists at the helm fires upon the tiny ship below. The terrorists'

destination is a tiny Aegean island where a U.S. aerospace corporation

carefully guards the Cyclops 20-megawatt laser launch facility. But

the company security force is no match for the firepower of the Arab

invasion and the launch site is quickly overrun. With helpless horror,

the executives can only watch as renegade technicians convert the

launch vehicle into a ballistic missile that can deliver their stolen

thermonuclear warhead to any city in the U.S.

Left for dead amid the smoking ruins of _Odyssey II_, Michael Vance

washes up on the occupied island - and becomes America's only hope.

BOOKS BY THOMAS HOOVER

Nonfiction

Zen Culture

The Zen Experience

Fiction

The Moghul

Caribbee

Wall Street _Samurai_

(The _Samurai_ Strategy)

Project Daedalus

Project Cyclops

Life Blood

Syndrome

All free as e-books at

www.thomashoover.info

PROJECT CYCLOPS A Bantam Falcon Book/September 1992

simultaneously in the United States and Canada

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

OPM 0987654321

Grateful acknowledgment is made to reprint from the following: "On

forelands high in heaven" from More Poems from The Collected Poems of

Reprinted by permission of Henry Holt and Company, Inc.

KEY WORDS:

THOMAS HOOVER (Author)

PROJECT CYCLOPS (Novel: Techno Thriller)

Arab Terrorists, Laser, Aegean, Odyssey, Aerospace, Ballastic Missile,

Thermonuclear Warhead, Ulysses, U.S. Navy, Israeli Terrorist, Hind,

Spacecraft, satellite, Pakistan nuclear bomb, mercenaries

PROJECT CYCLOPS

PREFACE

7:22 P.M.

"Keep her above three hundred meters on the approach." Ramirez's hard

voice cut through the roar of the 2,200-hp Isotov turboshafts. Down

below, the cold, dusk-shrouded Aegean churned with a late autumn storm.

"Any lower and there'll be surface effect."

"I'm well aware of that," the Iranian pilot muttered, a sullen response

barely audible above the helicopter's noise and vibration. It stopped

just short of open disrespect.

Sabri Ramirez did not mind. The two Iranians had been an unfortunate

necessity, but in three days they would be dead. The others, the

professionals, were the ones who counted. When he hand-picked the

European terrorists now resting on the four litters in the main cabin,

he had gone for the best. Each man had a track record and a purpose.

Ramirez, however, was the leader, fully in control. He had planned,

financed, and now commanded the operation.

In the ghostly light of late evening, his sleek cheeks, iron- shaded

temples, and trim mustache gave no hint of the extensive plastic

surgery that had created this, his latest face. He wore a black

jumpsuit, like the others, but under his was a $2,000 Brioni charcoal

double-breasted--perhaps more suited for a three-star dinner in Paris,

at L'Ambroisie or La Tour d'Argent, than the operation at hand. All the

same, he felt comfortably at home in this Hind-D helicopter gunship,

the most lethal assault machine ever. Their operation had two

objectives, and the first had just appeared on the bright green cockpit

radar.

It was the 2,600-ton U.S. frigate Glover, Garcia class, which the

National Security Agency had converted into a Mid-East spy platform.

Loaded with missile-tracking and communications-monitoring antennas, it

had to go.

Ramirez expected no difficulties. Like the USS Stark, the frigate

disabled by Iraqi Exocet missiles in the Persian Gulf in 1988, it was a

perfect target. With only one gun, it would be child's play for a

fully-armed Hind.

"Activate IFF," he ordered, glancing back at the instrument panels.

"They should acquire us on radar within two minutes now."

"IFF on." Salim Khan, the still-brooding Iranian, nodded and reached

for the interrogator/responsor in the panel on his right. They were

using the NATO Identification System, a low-band interrogator, into

which they had programmed the false Israeli Identification Friend or

Foe code. The gray box would receive the electronic query, "Are you a

friend?" and it would automatically reply, "Yes, this aircraft is

friendly."

Ramirez watched with satisfaction as the green numbers flashed.

Deception, he thought. The key to everything.

In the intelligence dossiers of Mossad, and the U.S. CIA, he was known

as the Hyena, killer of hundreds in Europe and the Middle East. But his

most cherished recent fact in those dossiers was the item declaring the

disbanding of his private organization. He thankfully had been written

off. Of course, the self-important analysts reasoned over their pipes

and printouts, of course the chimera named Sabri Ramirez must be dead.

His unmistakable touch had not been on a bombing in years. The playboy

terrorist who flaunted silk suits, had cellars of rare vintage wines in

Tripoli, Damascus, Baghdad, and Beirut . . . that man wouldn't just

retire. He had to be _gone_.

They were half right. He had wearied of the squabbles and disputes of a

far-flung organization; however, he had not lost his taste for money.

Or his hatred of the United States.

Now that NATO was falling apart, America was trying to take over the

Middle East--aided by its European lackeys. But he had put together a

plan that would end America's global military intimidation once and for

all. Not coincidentally, he was going to acquire eight hundred million

dollars in the process.

"We'll be exposed," he continued, "but just for about three minutes.

They only have one gun, a .38 caliber DP Mark 30, mounted on the

forward deck. It is in plain view. Remember I need a clear ten-second

window for the Swatter. After we neutralize their main ordnance, we

come about and strafe the communications gear."

He hoped this dense Iranian understood the approach profile. He had

briefed the man over and over, but still he was not sure it had sunk

in. He examined Salim Khan one last time--the bulky face with sunken,

almost depressed eyes--and stifled a sigh of exasperation. Iranians.

Still, he had better not offend the man's much-vaunted honor. After

all, Salim had single-handedly stolen the Hind gunship they were now

flying from the Iranian Air Force, providing a crucial component in the

overall operation. A rare prize, the Hind had been secretly purchased

by the IAF from an Afghan rebel unit--which had captured it in 1987.

Iran had wanted to see one up close, against the day the Soviets might

turn their anti-Islamic paranoia against them and try to invade. That

day had never come. And now this disaffected air force lieutenant had

simply stolen it. At last, Ramirez thought with satisfaction, their

valued prize would be put to use.

Salim Khan had mastered the Hind's controls years before, had flown it

often, and just four days ago he had taken it up, shot his weapons

operator, and used a fake identity to file a new flight plan, setting

down to refuel in Rawalpindi. The theft had caused a tempest. When they

discovered it, the mullahs had blamed America and engineered a

demonstration in the streets of Tehran so they could bray in the press.

But by that time he had already taken it out over the gulf and landed

it on the camouflaged Greek cargo ship they had waiting. After

navigating the Suez Canal, that ship was now anchored safely off

Crete's main port of Iraklion. For Salim Khan, who had twice been

passed over for promotion to captain, the taste of revenge in that

theft was sweet indeed.

"The most important part of the approach," Ramirez went on, "is to make

sure we're ID'd by their VIS, their Visual Identification System. It's

crucial they make our Israeli markings."

The Hind-D looked like nothing else in the world, one of a kind. Its

visual profile, dark green against the sunset hues of the sky, should

be unmistakable. Or so he hoped. Almost sixty feet long and over twenty

feet high, it had a main rotor fifty-five feet in diameter and a heavy,

retractable landing gear. The tandem stations in the nose for the

weapons operator, and the pilot above him, had individual canopies,

with the rear seat raised to give the pilot an unobstructed forward

view. Any schoolboy should be able to identify one a mile away, as well

as its Israeli markings--the blue Star of David in a white circle.

"I still think it's unnecessary," Salim Khan mumbled into his beard.

"It only adds to our risk. It would be better--"

"A visual ID is essential." Ramirez cut him off. "When they make it,

they'll go through the Sixth Fleet HQ in Gournes for verification,

then--"

'They just acquired us on radar," the Iranian interjected, as a high-

pitched alert sounded from the instrument panel and a line of green

warning diodes turned red.

"Right on schedule." Ramirez nodded. "The U.S. Navy never sleeps." He

turned and motioned to one of the men crouched on a litter in the main

cabin, shouting above the noise. "Peretz, it's time to start earning

your share."

Dore Peretz, a veteran of the Weizman Institute, was a specialist in

strategic weapons and their delivery. But that was another life. Now he

was free-lance. Ramirez had picked him for his technical skills, and

his greed.

He rose and made his way forward, working carefully through the jumble

of legs and automatic weapons. He was younger than he appeared; his

prematurely salt-and-pepper hair made him look late forties, though he

actually was only thirty-nine. He settled into the weapons station

below Salim, pulling down his black turtleneck, the better to

accommodate a flight helmet, and went to work.

"Are you ready?" he asked Salim, in perfect Farsi.

"I am ready if God is ready," the Iranian replied grimly, his eyes

beginning to gleam from the strain.

Peretz reached down and switched the radio to 121.50 megahertz, the

military emergency channel.

"Mayday. Mayday. Israeli Hawk One requesting permission for emergency

approach." He then repeated the announcement in Hebrew. It was, of

course, a pointless gesture for the illiterate Americans, but for now

verisimilitude counted.

"We copy you, Hawk One. This is USS Glover. We've acquired you on

radar," came back the response, a Southern drawl, young and slightly

nervous. "What seems to be the problem?"

"One of our turboshafts has started losing oil pressure. We could use a

visual check. What's your position?" He glanced down at the green radar

screen and grinned. It showed the frigate's coordinates to within

meters.

The radioman complied with his request, then continued. "There could be

a problem, Hawk One. The storm's just pushed the sea over four feet.

It's a helluva--"

"Permission to approach. We have a situation here," he continued in

English.

"Have to check that with the TAO. We've got a perimeter," came back the

uneasy answer.

"Fuck your perimeter, sailor." Peretz' voice was harder now. "This is

Lieutenant Colonel Leon Daniel, Israeli Air Force. We've got an

emergency and we're coming in. Tell that to your TAO, and get us

perimeter clearance. We're coming by." He switched off his mike.

"Well done." Ramirez nodded his approval. "Just the right combination

of entreaty and bravado. I think the Americans will be stymied. The

good-neighbor policy they like to talk about."

He leaned back and wished he had a cigar. The other men waiting,

crouched in the dark, had understood only some of the English. They

were four Germans, a Frenchman, and a Greek.

"Conditional clearance granted," crackled the radio. "But we have to

visual ID you first. Approach from vector three-two-zero. Emergency

rescue op being readied, just in case."

"Roger, USS Glover," Peretz spoke back sharply, in his best military

style. "Keep the coffee hot."

"It's always hot, sir. This is the U.S. Navy."

"Appreciated."

"Glad to be of help, Hawk One."

Peretz clicked off the radio and turned around. "I think they bought

it."

"So far so good," Ramirez nodded.

He descended the three steps down into the lower cockpit, the weapons

station, and stood behind Peretz, looking it over again. The Hind's

offensive capability included a four-barrel Gatling-type 12.7mm machine

gun in a turret under the nose, as well as 32-round packs of 57mm

rockets secured on hardpoints on each stubby auxiliary wing. Finally,

the wingtips carried four Swatter homing antitank missiles, two on each

side. Plenty of firepower for what he intended.

"Remember," he said to Salim as he moved back up, "no hint of hostile

action until after they make the ID." Would the stubborn Iranian hold

steady? Stick to the procedure?

He checked his watch. Four and a half minutes should take them inside

the VIS range. The altimeter showed that they were now at eleven

hundred meters, and so far the Iranian was bringing her in perfectly.

Of course, after the frigate confirmed they were flying a Hind . . .

but by then it would be too late. . . .

_"I was doubling Cape Maleas when the swell, the current, and the North

Wind combined to drive me sidelong off my course and send me drifting

past Kythera. The force of the gusts tore my sails to tatters, and for

nine days I was chased by those accursed winds across the fish-infested

seas. But on the tenth I made the country of the Lotus-Eaters."

From The Odyssey: Book Nine_

CHAPTER ONE

7:25 P.M.

"Do you read me, _Odyssey II_? Come in." The radio crackled on channel

sixteen, the ocean mariner's open line. "Goddammit Mike, do you copy?

Over."

Michael Vance was exhilarated, and scared. The salty taste of the

Aegean was in his mouth as he reached for the black mike of his radio,

still gripping the starboard tiller. His waterproof Ross DSC 800 was

topside, since there was no other place for it.

He was lean, with leathery skin and taut tanned cheeks all the more so

for his having spent the last three days fighting the sea. He had dark

brown hair and a high forehead above eyebrows that set off inquiring

blue eyes. His face had mileage, yet was curiously warm, with a slim

nose that barely showed where it had been broken year before last--

during an ARM special op in Iran.

"Is that you, Bill? Good to hear your voice, but this is a hell of a

time--"

"Who else would it be, you loony gringo? Hey, I'm getting a damned lot

of static. How about switching channels? Over to seventy."

"Seventy, confirmed." He pushed in the code, his fingers slippery and

wet. The wind was already gusting up to thirty

knots, while his boat was crabbing across the growing swell. "Okay,

Lotus-Eater, you're on."

"Listen, old buddy," the voice continued, clearer now that it was

digital, "our weather radar shows a squall building in the north, up in

the Sporades, and it looks like it could be a real bear. It's going to

be all over your butt in no time. Thought I'd better let you know. You

ought to try and hole up down on the south side of Kythera."

Kythera was an island just off the southeast tip of Greece's

Peloponnesos. It was now looming off Vance's starboard bow, barren

mountains and sheer cliffs.

"I've been watching it," he yelled back into the mike, holding it close

to shield it from the howl of wind. The gale was coming in at an angle

to the waves, creating two swells running at ninety degrees, and the

sea was getting short and confused. "But I think I can ride it out. I'm

making probably seven or eight knots." He paused, then decided to add a

little bravado. No point in admitting how worried he was. "Just a

little rock and roll."

'That's horseshit, friend. This thing's for real. You'd better head for

cover." It was the profane, oversmoked voice of Bill Bates, CEO of

SatCom, who'd been monitoring his trip using the awesome electronics

he'd installed on the little island of Andikythera, fifteen kilometers

south of Kythera. "Even old Ulysses himself had that much sense, and

it's common knowledge that guy didn't know fuck-all about sailing. Took

him ten years to get home. Remember that inlet on the south side of the

island, that little harbor at Kapsali? We put in once for a drink last

year. I respectfully suggest you get your ass over there and drop

anchor as soon as possible."

"And let you win? No way, Jose." He was jamming his weight against the

starboard tiller, and the radio was distracting. As far as he was

concerned, the wager with Bates was ironclad: retrace Ulysses' route in

a fortnight and do it without ever touching land. "I just think you're

getting worried. You suddenly remembered we've got ten large riding on

this. Somebody's got to lose, and it's going to be you, pal."

"You're a headstrong idiot, Michael," Bates sputtered. "Fuck the ten

grand. I don't want it and you don't need it. I'm hereby going on

record as taking no responsibility for this idiotic stunt, from this

point on. You're really pushing your luck."

"We both know this ain't about money. I've got a reputation to live up

to." Like finding out how many ways I can kill myself, he thought.

Jesus! How did I get into this?

He reached to secure the linen sail line to a wooden cleat. The

heightening swell was churning over the gunwales, soaking him as it

drove the bow to leeward.

"Well, for once in your life use some sense. The risk isn't worth it.

Our weather radar here at the facility tells no lies, and you should

see it. This is going to be a granddaddy. I've triangulated your

position and you're only about four klicks off the east side of

Kythera. You could still run for that little harbor down south before

it hits."

"I know where I am. I can just make out the island off my starboard

bow. About two o'clock." It's tempting, he told himself. Damned

tempting. But not just yet.

'Then go for it." Bates coughed. "Listen, you crazy nut-cake, I have to

get back out to Control. We've got a major run-up of the Cyclops laser

system scheduled tonight for 2100 hours. So use your head for once,

goddammit, and make for that anchorage."

"Your views are taken under advisement. But a great American

philosopher once said it ain't over till it's over." He pushed the

thumb switch on the microphone, clicking it off. Then he switched it on

again. "By the way, amigo, good luck with the test." The Cyclops was

going to power the world's first laser-driven space vehicle. Who knew

if it would work?

'Thanks, we may need it. Catch you again at 2300."

"See you then." If I'm still around, he thought. He clicked off his

mike, then switched back to channel sixteen. The radio was the only

electronic equipment he had permitted himself. He enjoyed monitoring

the Greek chatter coming from the island fishing boats and trawlers,

which worked nights. Lots of bragging.

Now, though, the bursts of talk on the open channel were all about the

building storm. The fishing boats this night had abandoned the Aegean

to the massive inter-island ferries. In fact, those white multi-deck

monsters were his real concern, more than the storm. _Odyssey_ _II_ had

no radar, and his tiny mast lantern would just melt into the rain when

the storm hit. Sailing in the dark and in a squall was a game of pure

defense; he had to keep every sense alert--sight, hearing, even smell.

He prayed the ferry lanes would be empty tonight. A Nomicos Line

triple-decker could slice his little homemade toy in half without ever

knowing he was there.

_Odyssey II_ was a thirty-eight-foot wooden bark, planked construction

of cypress on oak, that no sane man would have taken out of a marina.

But Michael Vance was hoping to prove to the world that the fabled

voyage of Ulysses from Troy back to Greece could have happened. Unlike

anything seen afloat for almost three thousand years, his "yacht" was,

in fact, an authentic replica of a single-masted Mycenaean warship.

Painted lavender and gold--the ancient Greeks loved bold colors--she

could have been a theme-park ride. But every time he looked her over,

he felt proud.

His browned, cracked fingers gripped the wet wood as the sea churned

ever higher, now blotting out the dim line of the horizon. The storm

was arriving just as daylight faded-- the worst moment.

Enough thinking, he ordered himself, audibly above the gale. It's bad

for the reflexes. Just keep the tiller to leeward and don't shorten

sail. Go for it. Just get around Kythera, then heave to and lie in the

lee till the worst is over. Another five, maybe six kilometers should

do it.

Vance wasn't Greek; he was American and looked it. As for Greece and

things Greek, he preferred tequila over ouzo, a medium-rare sirloin to

chewy grilled octopus. All the same, years ago he had gotten a Ph.D. in

Greek archaeology from Yale, taught there for two years, then published

a celebrated and radical theory about the Palace of Knossos on Crete.

The book had caused an uproar in the scholarly community, and in the

aftermath he had drifted away from the world of the ancient Greeks for

several years. With this project, he liked to think, he was coming back

home. He had just turned forty-four, and it was about time.

Age. More and more lately he realized he preferred old,

well-crafted things: stick-shift transmissions, tube amplifiers, vinyl

recordings. Anything without numbers that glowed. _Odyssey_ _II_ was as

close to that feeling as he could get.

Coming in now was his first real weather, and he had his numb, pained

fingers crossed. His creation had certain historically precise features

yet to be fully tested in high seas. He had built her in the style of

ships in Homer's time, which meant she was hardly more than a raft with

washboard sides. Four meters across the beam, with a shallow draft of a

meter and a half, she was undecked except for a longitudinal gangway

over the cargo and platforms at the bow and stern, protected with

latticework to deflect enemy spears. It did not help much, however,

against the swell. The keel extended forward at the bow, supposedly for

additional lateral plane, and that was a plus when reaching with the

wind abeam or tacking to windward, but now, running downwind, it

increased her tendency to sheer about. All his strength was needed on

the tillers just to keep her aright.

There were other problems. Maybe, he thought, Ulysses had them, too.

He'd reproduced the ancient Aegean practice of tying the ends of the

longitudinal wales together at the stern, then letting them extend on

behind the ship and splay outward like the tail feathers of some

magnificent phoenix. Although he loved the beauty of it, now that

"tail" was catching the wind and making steering even tougher.

Probably should have left the damn thing off, he'd often lectured

himself. But no: _Odyssey II _had to be exactly authentic . . . or what

was the point? No guts, no glory. The ancient Greeks were the

astronauts of their age, the Aegean their universe, and he wanted to

recapture the triumphs and the fears of Homer's time, if only for a

fortnight.

7:28 P.M.

"Sir, we got an RQ from the Glover." Alfred Konwitz, a twenty-year-old

Oklahoman with a thirty-eight-inch waist and known to the evening radio

shift affectionately as Big Al, lifted off his headphones and reached

for his coffee, extra cream and sugar, which he kept in a special

Thermos cup.

The United States has two bases on the southern Mediterranean island of

Crete, strategically close to Libya and the Middle East in general.

They are the naval and air base at Souda Bay, which is large enough to

accommodate the entire Mediterranean Sixth Fleet, and the

communications base at Gournes, in the southern outskirts of Iraklion,

Crete's capital city.

He and Staff Sergeant Jack Mulhoney were at Gournes, on the fourth

floor of the faceless gray building that housed operations for the

massive battery of antennas. They both knew the Glover was a Garcia-

class frigate, technically part of the Sixth Fleet, on a routine but

classified intelligence-gathering assignment a hundred kilometers

northwest of Souda Bay.

"They've got an Israeli chopper Mayday," Konwitz continued. "They need

a verify. See if it's a scheduled op or what."

Jack Mulhoney was busy with paperwork--more damned forms every day--and

did not really want to be bothered. He got off at midnight, and the

staff officer had ordered it completed and on his desk, by God, by 0800

tomorrow. Or else.

'Then run it by Traffic," he said without looking up. Forms. "Maybe

it's some exercise. You could call down to the Mole and see if it's on

his schedule."

The Mole was Charlie Molinsky, who ran the Traffic Section on the

second floor. If the Israeli chopper was on a regular op, he would have

it in the computer.

"Roger." Konwitz punched in the number and asked Molinsky to check it

out. As he waited, he found himself wishing he were back in Oklahoma,

hunting white-tail deer on his uncle's ranch. They were as thick as

jackrabbits.

He only had six months more to go, and he could not wait to get out. He

had joined at age seventeen to get a crack at electronics, and--true to

its word--the Navy came through. When he got out, he was going to open

his own shop and get rich fixing VCRs. Hell, everybody who had one was

always saying how they broke down all the time and how much they cost

to fix. Who said the Japs didn't create jobs in America. . . .

Suddenly he came alive. "He's got a negative, sir. He's asking if we

could get Glover to reconfirm."

"Christ, switch me on." Mulhoney shoved aside the pile of paper and

reached for his headset. "Glover, this is Gournes. Do you copy? Over."

He listened a second, then continued. "Roger. We have no ID on that

bogey. Repeat, negative ID. Can you reconfirm?"

While he was waiting, he punched up a computer screen and studied it.

The Glover had reported a position at latitude 36 deg.20' and longitude

25 deg. 10' at 1800 hours. And their bearing was last reported to be

two-five-zero. Nothing else was in the vicinity.

Damn. He didn't like the feel of this one. His instincts were telling

him something was wrong.

Then his headphones crackled. "Verified IFF. Definitely Israeli code.

Do you copy?"

"I copy but I don't buy it. Proceed with caution. Configure for a bogey

unless you can get a good visual."

"Roger. But can you get through to Israeli Control? There's a hell of a

storm coming down out here right now, and visuals don't really cut it."

"I copy you, Glover. Hang on and we'll try to get something for you."

He flipped off the headset and revolved in his chair, concern seeping

into his ruddy features. "Al, see if the people downstairs can get

through on their hot line to Israeli Air Control. Military. Ask them if

they know anything about a chopper in the vicinity of the Glover. Tell

them we need a response now. Priority. Could be we've got a bogey

closing on one of ours, maybe using a phony IFF. I want them to clear

it."

"Aye, aye, sir," he said crisply, then reached for the phone again. He

spoke quickly, then waited, drumming his fingers on the vinyl desk. . .

7:31 P.M.

As another gust hit, Vance glanced up at the rigging, praying it would

hang together. Instead of canvas, the wide, shallow square sail was

made of small linen cloths sewn together, like those made on the tiny

looms of ancient times. It was a single-masted reefing sail, invented

just in time for the Trojan War, with an upper yard fitted with a

system of lines whereby it could be furled up and then secured aloft.

When he got south of the island and hove to, he would drop the sea

anchor and reef her, but for now he wanted every square inch.

He was tired and thirsty, but he had no time for even a sip of water.

With the sea rising, waves were pounding over the primitive sideboards

and soaking him to the skin. Next the squalls would come--though maybe a

little rain would feel good, improve the personal hygiene. . . .

He was used to problems. For the past five years he had operated a

three-yacht charter sail business out of Nassau, the Bahamas, living

aboard one of the vessels, a forty-four-foot Bristol two-master

christened _The Ulysses_. In fact, this whole enterprise had begun

there when, after a day of sailing, he and Bill Bates were unwinding

over drinks one hot and humid afternoon at a club near the Hurricane

Hole Marina. Vance, attired in shorts and a T-shirt, his standard

sailing outfit, was sipping his Sauza Tres Generaciones tequila and

feeling great.

"You know, Bill, I've been thinking," he had said. "I want to try

something that's never been done before."

"What? You mean try paying your bills on time?" Bates had laughed,

knowing Vance seemed to have a perennial cash-flow problem.

"Very funny." He had ignored the crack and swirled the ice in his

glass, then pulled out a piece to chew. "No, this is serious. Ever

check out the paintings of the early ships on Greek vases?"

"Can't say as I have." Bates had reached down and was brushing a fleck

of dirt off his perfectly white leather Sperry Top-Siders. As always,

his pale blue Polo blazer remained crisp, his West Marine

"Weatherbeater" cap immaculate.

"Well, hear this out. I think there's enough detail in some of the

pictures I've seen to actually re-create one. And I checked it out:

there's also a pretty good description of one in The

_Odyssey_."

Bates had looked up from his Bacardi and Perrier. "So you want to try

and build--"

"Not just build one; anybody could do that." He had leaned back, hoping

to add a touch of drama to what was next. "I want to sail one through

the Aegean. Do a rerun of the _Odyssey_, the classic quest."

"Get serious." Bates laughed.

"Couldn't be more. I want to build one--single mast, square sail--and go

for it. Recreate Ulysses' _Odyssey_. And no nav gear. Just the stars."

"But what route would you take?" Bill was digging into the pocket of

his blazer for a weathered briar pipe. "Does anybody really know?"

"I've looked into it, and just about everything Homer talked about has

been located, in some place or another. We know exactly where the site

of Troy was, so that'd be the spot to push off. Starting at the

Dardanelles Strait, Ulysses first went north and sacked a city on the

coast of Thrace. Then he took a heading almost due south, passing

through the Cyclades islands and by the north side of Crete, then put

in at the north shore of Africa, where--"

"So, you intend to do it by the book," Bates had interjected.

"Only way." He had sipped his tequila, feeling his excitement growing,

then continued. "From there it's up to the western tip of Sicily,

Polyphemus land, then northwest to Sardinia. Then over to Italy and

down the west coast, where Ulysses ran afoul of Circe. Next it's south,

past the Galli Islands, where the Sirens sang, after which I make the

Straits of Messina and down to Malta, the island of Calypso. Finally

it's northeast to Corfu, and from there it'd be a straight shot on down

to Ithaca. Home plate."

"You'll never make it." Bill was thoughtfully filling his pipe.

"Bet you ten grand I can do it in a fortnight."

"I'll probably never see the money, but you're on." Bates had grabbed

the bet, with a big, winner's grin. . . .

So far, it had gone virtually without a hitch. Using old paintings, he

had worked up precise engineering drawings for the vessel, then engaged

with a small shipyard in Istanbul to build it. The Turkish workers

could scarcely believe their eyes. The ship was a Greek vase come to

life, and already the world press had given him plenty of coverage.

Everybody liked the idea of a long shot.

He had taken plenty of long shots sailing the Caribbean over the last

eight years, but he had no experience with an early October storm in

the Aegean. Tonight was building into a serious problem. All signs

pointed to a typical autumn blowout. He glanced at the low-lying clouds

moving in from the north, darkening the sky and building rapidly. He

knew that in these waters, light autumn breezes could easily whip into

thrashing gales. Yeah, Bill's radar was right. The weather was real.

And it scared him, a lot.

Well, he figured, it was time. He had been lucky so far. The Ross DSC

radio still worked, and the patchwork sail hadn't ripped--yet. . . .

Then it happened. The nightmare. Without warning the winds suddenly

changed around to the north, going from thirty knots to sixty in what

seemed only a second. As the linen sail strained, he threw his weight

against the tiller, hoping to hold his course. Now more than ever, with

the storm on him, he wanted to keep on all his canvas and try to get

into the lee of the island as soon as possible. It was definitely time

to cut the bravado and start thinking about the sea anchor.

"_Odyssey II_, come in," the radio crackled, and he recognized Bates'

voice once more. "Do you read?"

He reached down and picked up the small black mike, then yelled against

the howl of wind. "I copy you, but make this quick. No time to chat."

"I had another look-see at the radar, Mike, and I just noticed

something else you should know about. We show you at almost the same

position as a U.S. Navy ship of some kind. Part of the Sixth Fleet

probably. Take care you miss her."

He clicked the mike to transmit. This time he didn't want

to bother switching channels. "Some kind of exercise, probably. What's

her class?"

"Can't tell. But she's still a hell of a lot bigger than you are, pal.

They may pick you up on their radar, but again maybe not. Just take

care."

"I'll keep an eye out for lights. Thanks." He clicked off the mike

again, then looked around. But the Aegean, what he could see of it,

remained dark and empty. Somehow, though, the black made it just that

much scarier.

He leaned back into the tiller, still trying to hold as much of the

wind in the sail as possible. The waves were lashing him now, cold and

relentless. And _Odyssey II _was beginning to heel precariously,

forcing him to apply helm, throwing his full hundred and eighty pounds

against the heavy wooden portside tiller. It was one of a pair, port

and starboard--the old Greek idea being that whenever a ship leaned away

from the wind, lifting the windward rudder out of the water, the

helmsman still had a lee rudder for control. But when he took her to

starboard and tried to round the island, the wind and tides would be

full abeam. With a shallow-draft, low-ballast vessel like this, that

was going to be dicey. . . .

He reached for the life jacket he had secured to the mast, a new

Switlik Fastnet Crew Vest MK_II_. Normally he did not bother, but this

was not the time to go macho. It had a 35-pound buoyancy and a 4,000-

pound breaking strength, enough for any seas.

Now the wind was gusting even harder, kicking up yet more swell. The

Aegean sunset was concluding, its red clouds turned purple and

darkening fast, a presage that visibility would shortly be a thing of

the past.

The past, _a la recherche du temps perdu_. This trip, regardless of his

bet with Bill, was also about recent times gone by. His father had

died, the revered Michael Vance, Sr., the undisputed Grand Old Man of

archaeology at Penn. It turned out to be a far greater loss than he had

anticipated, like a chunk of himself torn away. He still missed their

late-hours "discussions"--heated arguments, really. He had been trying

to wrench away the future, the old man trying to hang on to what he

knew best: the past. It had been a dynamic tension filled with mutual

love. And now he felt guilty. But why? There was no reason.

He also had gone through another of life's milestones, a divorce. Eva

Borodin, a dark-haired daughter of Russian aristocracy, a college

sweetheart, had come back into his life after a digression of ten

years. The second time around was supposed to be a charm, right?

The soap operas were wrong on that one, the same way they were about

most other things in real life. Although the divorce, now a year ago,

had been businesslike and amicable, it still had hurt. For the past

year he had been sitting around and brooding--about life, love, middle

age, death.

He still found himself wearing his wedding ring. Why? It just made him

think of her even more. No, the truth was, everything reminded him of

her and how much he needed her. What he had not realized--until she was

gone--was that needing somebody was the richest experience of life.

He sighed into the wind. The challenge of his _Odyssey_ enterprise was

supposed to take his mind off all that. Was it working?

Maybe. But so far the jury was still out. . . .

He gripped the tiller harder and glanced up at the sail. Running

downwind, the cutwater on the bow was going to be a real problem. But

just another half hour, probably, and--

Christ! Bill's warning was on the mark. A massive hulk loomed dead

ahead, running with no lights. It was as long as a football field, the

bow towering up like a battering ram. She was moving in off his

portside stern--he guessed she was making at least fifteen knots. High

above the bridge, antennas and communications gear showed faintly

against the twilight gloom, gray and huge. Not recommended for close

encounters . . . but he still had time to tack and give her a wide

berth.

He threw his weight against the tiller, veering to leeward. Once clear,

he would bring the bow about and let the cutwater top her wake like a

surfboard, keeping him from taking water. Then he would be on his way,

into the storm and the night.

Maybe he did not even have a problem. They probably had picked him up

on their radar by now. It did not mean they would veer off course, but

they might throttle her down a few notches, just to be neighborly. . .

He was still leaning on the tiller, watching the monolithic hulk skim

silently past, when he noticed a throaty roar beginning to drown out

the slap of the ship's wake against the side of _Odyssey II'_s_ _hull.

After a few moments, as it grew in ominous intensity, he realized it

was coming in from the south. What in hell!

He whirled to look, and spotted a chopper, altitude about eight hundred

meters. What was it doing here? Had Bill been that worried, enough to

risk sending his hot new Agusta Mark _II_ out in this weather to . . .

No, it was way too big. When he finally saw it clearly, the stubby

wings and rocket pods, he realized it was a Soviet Mi- 24D, a Hind.

Over the mottled camouflage paint he discerned the blue star and white

background of the Israeli Air Force. Odd.

He knew they had captured one once, an export model from the Syrian Air

Force, but they would never fly it this far into international

airspace. It was a prize. What's more, this bird was fully armed--with

dual heat-seeking missiles secured at the tips of each stubby wing,

just beyond the twin rocket pods. Then it assumed an attack mode. . . .

7:43 P.M.

Sabri Ramirez stepped down to the weapons station again, gazed out

through the huge bubble, and smiled. "Shut down the radar. Their IWB

must not have any reason for alarm. They're probably running our IFF

through Gournes right now."

The Israeli nodded, then reached over to switch off all systems that

the Americans might interpret as weapons guidance. Next he clicked on

the low-light TV. Unlike radar, it was a passive system that would not

alert the ship that she was being ranged.

Ramirez pictured the control room of the USS Glover crowded with

curious young seamen glued to their monitoring screens, probably happy

to have a little excitement. Their IFF would be reporting an Israeli

chopper. But the minute the visual ID came through, all hell would

break loose.

So far, he told himself, it had been a textbook approach. Airspeed was

down to ninety-five knots, altitude eight hundred meters. Carefully,

carefully. First rule. Don't spook the quarry. We don't need radar.

We'll be passive, heat-seeking. No ECM they can throw at us will make

any difference.

"Under two minutes now," he said. "It's time."

"No pain, no gain." Peretz flipped on the radio. "USS Glover, we're

going to have to ditch. We have a crew of three--pilot, copilot, and

navigation trainee."

"We have emergency crews on starboard side, ready to pick you up. Do

you have Mae Wests?"

"Life jackets on. Standard-issue yellow. With dye markers and

saltwater-activated beacons. We'll--"

"Hawk One, our Traffic guys at Gournes just reported they can't get a

positive verify on you."

'Tell them to check again," Peretz suggested matter-of-factly. "Maybe

they screwed up in--"

"We'll have them run it through one more time. Routine security. But

you've got to keep a three-thousand-meter perimeter till--"

"Dammit, sailor, oil pressure's in the red. We're taking her by your

starboard bow. Ready your crews."

Suddenly another voice came on the radio. It was older.

"Israeli Hawk One, this is Tactical Action Officer Vince Bradley. Who

the hell are you? We VID you as a Mi-24 gunship."

Peretz had switched off his mike and was loosening his helmet strap.

"You got it right, asshole."

7:44 P.M.

_Vance watched as the Hind approached on the starboard side of the

destroyer, heading straight for it and dropping altitude. What in hell

was going on?

He lunged for the radio, and switched it to the military emergency

frequency, hoping to pick up some clue that would explain it all.

Probably not much of a chance. If this was a Sixth Fleet operation,

they would be scrambling everything.

Nothing. So he flipped over and started scanning the U.S. Navy tracking

frequencies--216.8 through 217.1 megahertz--in the meantime trying to

keep the tiller in hand.

The radio was alive, agitated voices yelling back and forth. It was an

argument, the helo claiming it was making a flyby for an emergency

ditch, the frigate not exactly buying the story.

No kidding. He'd checked out the chopper in close-up as she came over,

and he'd seen nothing wrong. Everything looked to be in perfect working

order. The only obvious thing out of the ordinary was that she was

fully armed. Whoever was flying her was using some kind of bogus Mayday

to get in close. But by now it was too late to try and give the frigate

a warning.

7:45 P.M.

"Perfect timing," Ramirez said, moving down to the weapons station and

taking Peretz' place. "We're inside forty-five seconds. Now just keep

her on the deck. First we neutralize the forward gun turret."

"Taking airspeed to fifty knots." Salim was praying now. "_Allau

Akbar_!"

"USS Glover." Ramirez had switched on the helmet mike again. "We have a

confirmed ditch. Oil pressure just went entirely. We'll be taking her

by the bow."

"I repeat, who the hell are you?" the TAO's voice came back on the

radio. "We still have no confirm on your IFF. If you make a pass, I'll

assume hostile intent."

"Sorry. No time to play this by the book," he replied. "We're

ditching."

He immediately clicked on the radar. In less than ten seconds he'd be

in position to lay a Swatter directly into the forward gun turret.

Command on the _Glover _knew it, and at that moment the gun was

swiveling, coming around.

Suddenly a blaze streaked past them in the sky as the forward gun fired

and a telltale tracer ripped by. It was intended as a warning.

But now the gun glowed on the IR interrogation screen.

Thank you very much, Ramirez thought, and flipped a switch, activating

the starboard Swatter's heat-seeking guidance system.

7:46 P.M.

"Right." Alfred Konwitz snapped to attention. "Yes, sir."

He slammed down the phone and whirled around to Jack Mulhoney. "Full

denial, sir. Israeli Control says they have no military aircraft

operating anywhere in that sector of the Aegean. They double-confirm.

That's Class A. Hard."

"We're in the shit. Some son of a bitch is closing on one of ours, and

we don't even know who he is." He picked up the headphones, then

switched on the scrambler. "_Glover_, do you read me? I think it's a

bogey. I can't tell you that officially, but you'd better alert your

TAO in the next five seconds or it'll be your ass, sailor."

"This is Bradley," came back a new voice. "We just-- Jesus!"

"_Glover_, what--?"

"Hostile action . . . do you copy? We've got a hostile."

"How many--?"

"It's visual ID'd as a Russian Mi 24-D. With Israeli markings. We're

taking fire forward--"

"What are--?"

Sounds behind the radio voice had erupted in turmoil. Something

catastrophic was going on.

"Al," he turned quickly, "get Command. I think we've got an Israeli-

ID'd Hind taking hostile action on the _Glover_."

He didn't realize it, but with those words he had played directly into

Sabri Ramirez's hands. The scenario was now a lock.

When Jack Mulhoney turned back to his radio, he only heard static.

7:47 P.M.

Vance watched as the frigate got off a warning tracer, but to no

effect. The Hind ignored it, as a stream of 57mm rockets from under the

chopper's stubby starboard wing flared down, while the radar-slaved

machine gun beneath the nose opened fire. Then the weapons operator on

the Hind loosed a starboard-mounted heat-seeking Swatter, and an

instant later flames erupted on the frigate's bow, an orange and black

ball where the forward gun turret had been. As it spiraled upward into

the night, the turret and its magazine exploded like a giant, slow-

motion cherry bomb.

He could see sailors running down the decks, could hear the sound of a

shipboard fire alarm going off, the dull horn used for emergencies.

They were calling all hands to station, but their response had come too

late. The false-flag approach had caught the U.S. Navy off guard, its

defenses down.

The radio crackled alive with a Mayday. Were there any other ships in

the area? he wondered. Anybody to take out the bastards in the chopper?

Now it was banking, coming around, bringing the frigate's stern into

its deadly view. Then a blaze of 57mm rockets poured in, engulfing the

communications gear and antennas. Next the weapons operator loosed a

second Swatter directly into the bridge.

Christ!

Seconds later it had transformed the midsection of the frigate into a

ball of fire. He watched aghast as the blast flung the men on the

bridge outward through the glass partition.

He plunged for cover just as the first airborne shock wave ripped

_Odyssey II's _linen sail loose from its lines. When he rose to try and

grab the starboard tiller, a second shock wave caught him and flung him

savagely against the mast.

The next thing he knew, he was clinging to the portside gunwale, one

hand still tangled in the lines that had been ripped from the sail. The

night sky had turned a blood red, reflecting down off the low-lying

clouds.

Then he felt a tremor in the hull as a massive wave caught him and the

pegs that held the stern together--so lovingly installed--sheared. The

aft section of _Odyssey_ _II_ instantaneously began to come apart. The

light woods would float-- she was, after all, hardly more than a raft

with sides--but she would be helpless. His handmade marvel had been

reduced to a bundle of planks, barely holding together, sail in shreds,

twin rudders demolished.

For a moment he counted himself lucky. His body unscathed, he probably

could weather the storm by just hanging on.

Then it happened. Whether through luck or skill, the chopper's weapons

operator laid another one of the Swatter missiles into the frigate's

stern section, causing a massive secondary explosion, a billowing ball

of fire that punched out near the waterline. This time, he knew, a wall

of water would come bearing down on him, sending a terminal shock wave

through what was left of _Odyssey II_.

You've got to try and keep her aright, he told himself. Try and lash

yourself down with one of the lines. . . .

The wall of water hit, hurtling him over the side. He grasped for a

section of gunwale, but it was too late. The wave obliterated

everything. Now the swell was churning against his face as he tried to

stroke back, his lungs filling with water. His arms were flailing,

hands trying desperately to grasp the slippery cypress planking. The

Switlik vest was holding, so he was in no danger of drowning. Yet.

Fighting the swell with his left hand, spitting water, he reached out

with his right, trying to catch any piece of wreckage floating by.

Finally, he succeeded in wrapping a line around his wrist. He gasped,

choking, and caught his breath. Then, still grasping the line, he

draped his left arm across _Odyssey II's _shattered side and used the

line to pull himself over, into what was left of the hold. If he could

stay with her, he figured, he might still have a chance.

Just as he tried to rise to his feet, however, he looked up to see the

mast slowly heeling over, coming straight down.

He toppled backward, hoping to dodge it, but it slammed him just across

the chest. The world swirled into blackness, as even the light from the

blazing ship behind him seemed to flicker.

Stay conscious, he told himself. Stay alive.

Holding onto the toppled mast, using it as a brace, he managed to rise.

And now the Hind had completed its gruesome handiwork and was banking.

Again it was going to pass directly overhead.

By God, he thought, this thing isn't over. Those bastards are not going

to get off scot-free.

7:50 P.M.

_"You used the Swatters!" Salim was shoving the throttle levers forward

as he banked. His voice was incredulous. "You said we were just going

to disable the TRSSCOMM system and the radars with rockets."

TRSSCOMM was short for Technical Research Ship Special Communications.

The frigate was equipped with batteries of listening antennas, an

elaborate system of sensors and sophisticated computers, and various

hydraulic systems on the stern needed to twist and turn the various

dishes. But it also was manned.

What was the point of mass murder? Ramirez had explained that the

_Glover _was a spy ship that worked for the U.S. National Security

Agency, the NSA. Normally it operated within a small region, in a

special "hearability" area just off Crete where a fluke in the weather

allowed it to eavesdrop on all the Middle East; the crew could even

watch Cairo television.

Salim was stunned. Ramirez, he had suddenly realized, was a madman. It

was one thing to require an occasional killing in an operation this

complex--after all, he had had to shoot his weapons operator in order to

steal the Hind--but an all-out attack on a U.S. frigate was pointless.

The stakes had just gone through the roof.

However, Salim's younger brother, Jamal, had exactly the

opposite reaction. With a surge of pride he exclaimed, "Praise be to

God," and fell to his knees on the rear litter. This was a leader he

would follow anywhere.

The others did not share Jamal's joy. They considered themselves

professionals, and overkill was not businesslike. However, they merely

glanced at each other and kept silent. Squabbling with Ramirez served

no purpose.

"We were only going to take out their tracking capability," Salim said

again, his anger growing.

"It's time you understood something." Ramirez handed his headset to the

Israeli, Dore Peretz, and stepped up from the weapons station, his

voice sounding above the roar of the engines. "I am in charge of this

operation. If I think an action is necessary, I will take it. Does

anyone here want to disagree?"

The question was answered with silence. He had just killed dozens of

men. They all knew one more would hardly matter.

7:52 P.M.

Vance pulled himself across the planking and stretched for a box of

gear stowed beneath the stern platform. In it was a constant traveling

companion: his chrome-handled 9mm Walther. Although the concept of

downing a Hind gunship with small-arms fire had been tested in

Afghanistan and found wanting, he was so angry his better judgment was

not fully in play.

The pistol remained in its waterproof case. Quickly he took it out,

unwrapped it, and clicked a round into the chamber. Then he tried to

steady himself against the fallen mast.

The Hind was about a hundred meters away now, coming in low. Were they

going to strafe? No, they probably didn't realize he was there.

They were about to be in for a surprise.

He could see the weapons-system operator inside the lower bulletproof

bubble. Forget it. And the pilot, seated just above him, was similarly

invulnerable. No way. Furthermore, the dual rocket pods beneath each

short wing were probably armored. Again no vulnerability.

Aside from the poorly protected gas tanks there was only one point

worth the trouble. If . . .

It was about to pass directly overhead, and he saw that he was going to

be lucky. One Swatter missile remained, secured on the hardpoint tip of

the stubby starboard wing. It was the only shot he had.

But if he didn't get it, they would get him. One touch of the red

firing button by the weapons operator and _Odyssey II_ would be

evaporated.

He took careful aim at the small white tube on the wing, still nestled

on its launcher, and squeezed off a round. But at that instant _Odyssey

II_ dipped in the swell and he saw sparks fly off the fuselage instead.

The chopper passed blissfully overhead, its engine a dull roar above

the howl of the sea.

7:54 P.M.

"We're taking fire!" Peretz shouted from the weapons station down

below.

"What? That's impossible." Ramirez whirled, then stepped in behind him

to look. Lights from the control panel winked over his shoulders, while

below them the Aegean was dark and gray. "Check the look-down radar."

Peretz flipped a switch on his left and scanned the screen.

'There's something down there. Maybe a fishing--"

"Idiot, nobody's fishing here now. Not with this weather." He looked up

and shouted to the cockpit. "Salim, take her about, one-eighty, and

we'll strafe the son of a bitch."

The 12.7mm nose cannon was slaved to the radar, another of the Hind's

many well-designed, and lethal, features. While Ramirez watched--he

would have moved back into the gunnery seat himself, but there was no

time--Dore Peretz switched on the nose cannon. When the target locked on

the radar, he pushed the fire control under his right hand.

7:55 P.M.

A flare of machine-gun fire, hopping across the churning sea, caught

the side of _Odyssey II_ and sprayed flecks of wood around him. But the

swell was making him an elusive target. The line of fire had not really

done any damage, not this time.

They knew he was there, though. Now the chopper was banking and

returning for another pass.

Maybe, he thought, they're going to stick with the nose cannon. They

won't bother wasting rockets or a multi- thousand-dollar Swatter

missile on the wreckage of a raft. The bastards are just having some

target practice, a little fun and games.

He saw the flames from the nose cannon begin as the massive Hind

started its second pass. This was it. _Odyssey II _was about to be

history.

But not before he gave her one last blaze of glory.

Holding to the gunwale and readying himself, he took careful aim at the

starboard Swatter, still perched like a thin white bird on the stubby

wingtip. He steadied the Walther, on semiautomatic, and began firing--

oblivious to the line of strafing coming his way.

He saw the rounds glancing off the armored wing, and the sparks guided

his aim. The clip was going fast, but then . . .

Bingo.

A flare erupted, then an orange fireball, neatly severing the starboard

wingtip. The missile had detonated, but just as it did, the Hind's

strafing caught _Odyssey II_ right down the middle, shearing her in

half.

7:56 P.M.

"Stabilize her!" Peretz felt himself flung against the bulletproof

bubble that shielded the weapons station. A blinding explosion jolted

the Hind, and the accompanying shock wave from the detonating Swatter

spun it around thirty degrees. Several gauges in the instrument panel

had veered off scale.

Salim reached up and cut the power to the main rotor, then eased the

column and grabbed the collective pitch lever with his left hand. In

less than a second the Hind had righted herself. Slowly the instruments

began coming back as the electrical system recovered from the impact.

"Tail rotor's okay," he reported, checking the panel. "Altimeter reads

five hundred meters." He looked up. "What in the name of God happened?"

"Our last Swatter detonated. The question is, why?" Ramirez answered.

He was staring angrily out the high-impact plastic of his bubble at the

wreckage of the starboard wing.

Dore Peretz, now in the weapons station in the nose, was talking to

himself. "I got the bastard."

7:57 P.M.

_He shoved the Walther into his belt and dove into the swell, the cold

waters crashing against his face. The _Odyssey II _was reduced to

debris. His labor of love, half a year's work, all evaporated in an

instant. The Zen masters were right: never get attached to physical

things.

He avoided the deadly shards of wood, then seized onto a section of the

mast that had blown in his direction. The Hind was banking and turning

now, assuming a heading due south. That, he realized, was the direction

of Andikythera, site of SatCom's new complex. Was it their next target?

That didn't make any sense. Bill's project was commercial; it had no

military value. Or at least none he could imagine.

But now he had only one thing on his mind. He secured his life vest

tighter and held on to the mast, the salty Aegean in his face. The

current was taking him due south, the same direction the chopper had

headed.

CHAPTER TWO

7:58 P.M.

"Damn it!" Ramirez looked down at the weapons' readouts. "Did you have

the Swatter armed? The system should have been off. If it was on, he

could have detonated it by impact."

Peretz stared a second longer at the wreckage of the vessel below, then

glanced back at his instruments and paled. "I thought it was . . . it

must have malfunctioned. No fucking way--"

"Carelessness. Stupid carelessness." Ramirez bent his head and examined

the wing, then checked the status readouts on the weapons system. "We

lost the starboard rocket pod, too."

Peretz took one look and realized it was true. The rocket pod had been

shorn away, leaving the tangled metal of the wing completely bare. But

the Hind did not need its wings for stability; they were merely for

armaments.

"Well, so what? I wasted the fucker, whoever he was." He tried a smile,

sending a web of lines through his tan as the lights of the weapons

panel played across his face. It was the way he always disguised

nervousness.

Damn you, Ramirez was thinking. An Israeli cowboy. I would kill you on

the spot except that I need you. It was an arrogant mistake, and I

can't let it happen again. It won't happen again.

He turned and moved back up to the cockpit. "What's our status?"

"Sideslip is nominal," Salim reported grimly, his dark eyes glancing

down at the churning sea only a couple of hundred meters below them. "I

think we're going to be all right."

"We have just had an example of how an oversight can destroy an

operation," Ramirez declared, turning back to the main cabin. "We will

not succeed if we get careless, lose discipline. I have planned this

operation down to the last small detail. You have all been briefed,

over and over." He paused and examined the men. Sometimes he felt as if

he were lecturing children, but these were no children. "Each of you

knows what his job is. I expect you to do it with exactness and

precision. The next oversight anyone here makes will be his last. Am I

understood?"

There was silence, then finally a voice came from the litters in the

darkened cabin aft, barely audible above the roar of the twin engines.

It was Jean-Paul Moreau, the Frenchman. He hated flying, and he

particularly hated flying with an Iranian at the controls.

"What the hell happened?"

"Someone on . . . presumably a raft of some kind. We took a couple of

rounds of small-arms fire." He glanced back, making sure his voice

reached Peretz in the weapons station. "The last Swatter was left

turned on, armed, and it must have been hit. Probably the detonator. A

stupid oversight."

"Looks like the mistake was mine," came the voice of Peretz, trying,

unsuccessfully, to sound contrite. "Can't win them all, baby."

Back to his smart-ass self, Ramirez thought, still gritting his teeth

in anger. But he pushed it aside. "Forget it. In this business you only

look back if you can profit from your mistakes. We just learned what

happens when we forget our mission. The matter is closed."

"Now"--he returned his attention to the main cabin-- "when we set down at

the facility, I expect total discipline. Nothing less will be

tolerated. Is that understood?" He motioned Peretz out of the weapons

station and took his place there.

Would these men hold together the way he required? As he looked them

over, he felt confident. He had had enough experience to smell success.

Sabri Ramirez had definitely been around the track. Born in Venezuela

almost half a century earlier, the son of a prominent Marxist lawyer,

he had become an ardent revolutionary by age twenty. At twenty-five he

went off to Cuba, but it was only later, while attending Patrice

Lumumba University in the Soviet Union, that he discovered his true

ideological core --it turned out he actually despised "the oppressed of

the earth," along with curfews, books, and lectures. No, what he really

wanted to join was not the Party, but the party--good living, women,

fame. And he wanted the last most of all. After nine months his lack of

ideological fervor got him summarily expelled. He actually felt relief.

With an eye to where the action was, he immigrated to Beirut . . . and

prudently became a Muslim by conversion. Then he started making

contacts--Beirut had always been a good place to make contacts. The

payoff was quick. He was young, obviously brilliant, and he would do

anything. In the early 1970s he was recruited by the terrorist group

known as the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine and assigned

leadership of its European unit. Off he went to Paris, the posting of

his dreams.

He had long fantasized about making himself a legend as one of the

world's leading terrorists, and he was soon succeeding beyond his

fondest imaginings. In 1974 he graduated from the PFLP and formed his

own group. A Middle Eastern gun-for-hire, it was known as the

Organization of the Armed Arab Struggle. The designation, he thought,

had a nice revolutionary ring, which he had long since learned

mattered. His new enterprise--terrorism-to-go--soon attracted such major

clients as Libya and Iraq. Among his more celebrated achievements were

the bombing of a French Cultural Center in West Berlin, exploding a

suitcase bomb at a Marseilles railroad station, and placing an

incendiary device aboard the French "bullet train."

Although he never had cared about ideology, he appreciated the

importance of a correct political stance in the Islamic world, and

therefore he frequently posed as the leader of an "armed struggle"

against the "Zionist Enemy." But always, however, at a profit. He had,

in fact, perfected the fine art of extortion, pressing the

"reactionary" regimes of Egypt, Jordan, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and the

Gulf sheikdoms into paying protection money disguised as "revolutionary

donations." After he engineered the 1975 OPEC incident in Vienna in

which eleven oil ministers were taken hostage, and then blew up a

seaside resort, killing a Kuwaiti official, he began receiving regular

payoffs from all the Gulf states.

Finally, in 1984, he closed out operations under the OAAS name, moved

to Damascus, and began training Syrian intelligence agents. By that

time, he had become a chimera, a legend whose nickname, the Hyena, was

linked to every car bomb in Europe. And by that time also, the Hyena (a

name he despised) had become the stuff of popular fiction, as well as

of dossiers on three continents.

Having reduced terrorism to a science--a boring science --he then

temporarily retired. But now, after the American invasion of the Middle

East, he had decided to come back for one last score, to do what he had

been dreaming about for years. The Americans had unwittingly provided

the perfect opportunity. Why not seize it? This time, however, he

wanted to do it himself, not with an army of half-crazed radical

Muslims. . . .

He stepped up to the cockpit and examined the rows of gauges. "Hold the

airspeed under a hundred knots. And make sure you keep her on the

deck."

Then he checked down below. "Peretz, this time make sure all the

weapons stations are switched off. That's _off."_

The Israeli nodded, this time without his usual grin.

Now the Hind had begun its final approach. The low-light

TV showed a small landing pad approximately thirty meters on each side

with a private helicopter parked in the middle of a black and white

bull's-eye in the center. He knew that ARM--a group he had long hated--

had ringed the island with a first-class industrial security system.

Five years ago, he recalled, they had killed three of his operatives in

Beirut, in a futile attempt to kill him. What's more, it never made the

papers. Typical. The security system they had developed for the island

was good, but it made no provision for this kind of penetration. It

pleased him to at last make fools of them.

"We're coming in," Salim announced. He touched the rudder pedal with

his left foot to hold their heading and grasped the collective pitch

lever as he eased the engines toward idle. "There's already a helo on

the pad. Looks like a new Agusta."

"I know about it. Just set down next to it, inside the landing

perimeter. I want this to be simple."

Tonight, he knew, they had scheduled the first full power-up of the

Cyclops. Everything depended on how that test went, but he couldn't

postpone the takeover any longer. This was it. . . .

Abruptly he wondered if the damaged wing would affect stability on

touchdown? They would soon find out.

8:10 P.M.

The current swept him inexorably southward, while behind him the bundle

of planks that remained of _Odyssey_ _II_ was dispersing rapidly. He

cursed himself for having lost the Ross DSC radio. On the other hand,

he considered himself lucky just to be in one piece. Luckier than the

crewmen of the USS Glover. It was heartrending. Seeing a tragedy coming

and not being able to stop it: that was the worst possible nightmare.

He wanted to go back to try and help, but the sea made it impossible.

He pulled himself over the bobbing, drifting mast, feeling it slam

against his face as the sea tossed it like a matchstick. All around him

lethal splinters of _Odyssey_ _II_ sliced through the water, jagged

spears driven by the swell. The dark engulfed him, lightened only by

the billowing remains of the Navy frigate now some thousand yards away.

Somewhere, dear God, it's got to be somewhere. Let it still be strapped

to the mast. The idea seemed stupid at the time, but now . . .

He felt his way down until his fingers touched a slippery nylon cord.

Was it . . . yes.

Maybe there is a God.

The straps were tangled, which was not supposed to happen, and

fragments of cypress planking from the sides of the ship had punctured

the nylon cover, but his Switlik search-and-rescue raft was still

dangling from the remains of the mast. Now for one more minor miracle:

Could he manage to pull it free before everything disappeared into the

dark and the swell?

He flailed with one hand to keep his head afloat, while his fingers

grappled with the bowline knot. Finally the knot loosened, and he

wrenched it loose.

Jesus, is there going to be anything left? Would it still inflate?

He grappled with the fiberglass canister that contained the raft, then

popped it open. With his last remaining strength he pulled on the

tether, discharging the bottled carbon dioxide that caused the Switlik

to hiss to life. Part of it. He realized the lower buoyancy tube had

been ripped to shreds by the 12.7mm machine gun of the Hind that had

destroyed the mast, but the upper one had somehow escaped intact. So he

was half-lucky.

It was yellow, hexagonal, and it looked like heaven. He had never used

one before, and he had never realized how it felt. Like an oversized

inner tube.

With a surge of relief, he pulled himself aboard, inching in as he felt

the swell pound over him, and then he drew out the folding oars and

extended them. With his new course he knew he would miss the harbor at

Kythera recommended by Bates--no way could he battle the current and

make it. The vagaries of wind and sea were driving him almost due

south. It was the direction the chopper had taken--straight for the

little island of Andikythera.

Could they breach SatCom's security and get in? Probably. The setup

installed by ARM was industrial-level only. He had cautioned Bill about

that.

He grimaced and plied his strength to the two small aluminum oars. The

way the wind and seas were taking him, he would find out soon enough.

Again he lamented the loss of the radio--with it he could get out a

Mayday alerting any ships around that might mount a rescue of the

frigate's survivors. He also could try warning the SatCom facility that

trouble was headed their way. The problem was, the Hind had a top speed

of over a hundred and fifty knots. If Andikythera was its destination,

it probably was already there.

The cold sea stung his face and the tossing waves were making him

slightly seasick, but he felt alive again. Almost by instinct he looked

up to try to find the stars, loving how crisp and striking they could

be over the Aegean. Nothing yet, but there were glimmers in the north.

A good sign. The storm was blowing over now, the clouds starting to

open up again.

If Bill tries the radio, he'll probably figure I've just vanished from

the earth.

He half felt like it. As the cold autumn waters of the Aegean surged

around him, its six-foot waves washing over his partially inflated

Switlik, he thought about Bill Bates. He was a friend, a very good

friend. Was he about to be in trouble?

Although Bates was a world-class executive, he also was a dedicated

family man. He had a model wife back in Arlington and two model sons,

both deposited in model private academies. His wife, a blond WASP old-

fashioned enough to have the same family name as a prominent

Philadelphia bank, never seemed to tire of her charity obligations, so

it was his sons he took with him sailing in the summers. That was how

Vance had met him, sailing with the boys in the Bahamas.

Bill was highly regarded in industry circles as the CEO's CEO, and not

without reason. For one thing, less inconsequential than most would

think, he looked the part. His steel-gray hair was always trimmed to

the precise millimeter, his tanned cheeks were forever sleek from a

workout at his club, or whatever club was handy on his perpetual

travels. He had once claimed he knew the location of more health clubs

than any man in America.

Best of all, though, he knew how to raise money. When he described a

pending enterprise, he did it with the gleaming eye of the true

believer. Even in a dicey investment environment, he always generated

the enthusiasm sufficient to ensure that a new stock issue sold out and

closed higher than the offering price on the day it was floated. The

man could sell sunlamps in the Sahara.

He competed hard in everything he did. When he decided, some years

after he and Vance had become acquainted, that he wanted to spend

summers racing, he did not bother buying his own yacht; instead he flew

to Nassau and leased the fastest boat he knew. At that moment, the

vessel filling that description was the Argonaut, owned by Windstalker,

Ltd. It was a forty-four-foot sloop, highly regarded throughout the

racing fraternity. Its owner, however, never let any of his three

yachts out of the harbor without first undertaking a personal checkout

of the new skipper--even if it was an old friend.

Vance remembered it well. Bill manned the helm, a mahogany wheel always

kept well polished, and they were making a solid eight knots on the

Speedo. It was one of those mornings in the islands when everything

seemed as clear as a desert sky. No cruise ships were scheduled into

the harbor, and the stinkpot powerboats were mercifully in limited

supply. The wind was perfect and the water as smooth as a glittering

mirror. Best of all, Bates was handling the helm as though he had been

there all his life.

"Think we can get her up to ten knots?" he'd asked, shielding his eyes

as he studied the genoa, a gleaming triangle of white above the bow.

Vance had leaned back and tested the wind. "Give her a little touch on

the helm, to starboard, and I think she might come through for you." He

was proud of his recent refurbishing of the boat--the latest Northstar

digital satnav gear, brand-new sails that cost a fortune, a complete

renovation of the instrument station down below.

Bates tapped the wheel and the genoa bellied even more. "I like this

fucking boat a lot, Mike," he declared. "So here's the deal. I want to

lease her for three months, take her to Norfolk, get a crew together,

and get everybody comfortable with her."

"I think we can talk." Vance had to smile. The yacht would be in good

hands, and a three-month charter was a dream come true for a guy in his

business.

"Matter of fact, I wanted to ask you to help me out with something

else, too. Some security work."

"Hey, I'm just a simple charter-boat operator. Not my line."

"Don't bullshit me, pal." He laughed. "You know SatCom is building a

new industrial facility in the Aegean."

"A private space facility."

"I think American technology is getting a bum rap, Michael," he said

with sudden seriousness. "I plan to change that."

"The Journal says you want to try and give the Europeans a run for the

roses."

He looked over, the wind whipping his glistening hair. "You keep in

touch pretty damned good for a simple sailor. But I tell you, if we

succeed, we'll literally change the way space is used. I'll be able to

put a satellite into orbit for a song. Just between us, I'm building

the biggest private spaceport anywhere. The French operation in Guiana

won't hold a candle to it. I've already got ten geostationary orbital

slots locked up with the World Administrative Radio Conference. Even

NASA better keep a grip on their jockstrap."

"Where's the money coming from? The usual suspects?"

"Who else." He laughed, then tapped the helm slightly more to

starboard. "The stock was over-the-counter and it was hell and gone in

three fucking hours. Bang. Out the door. Matter of fact, it's now

trading almost fifteen percent above the original offering price." He

shrugged. "I should have issued more. But like a stupid son of a bitch,

I had a failure of nerve. Didn't go with my instincts."

"Next time, how about letting me in on the action?"

"You're a goddamn piece of work, Michael. And so's this boat. Tell you

what. I'll make you a deal. I figure you're expecting about four thou a

week for this baby, correct?"

"Anything for a friend."

"Right." He laughed. "I want her for twelve weeks. So . . . what if I

paid you with some of my personal SatCom stock? Fifty thou worth at the

current price? How's that sound?"

"Deal," Vance said, without hesitation. He'd heard a lot of big-time

bull in the charter business, but Bates was a straight shooter. The

temporary gap in cash flow was going to make meeting the three

mortgages--one for each boat--tough, but he liked the sound of the

project."

"This isn't going to leave you strapped, is it?" Bates looked a trifle

worried.

"I'll manage. As I always say, two in the bush is worth one in the

hand."

"Michael, half the time you don't have a pot to piss in. I know that.

You're the lousiest personal-finance manager I know." He laughed out

loud and tapped the helm, bringing her to port a notch. "Which is one

of the world's great ironies, considering what you do for ARM."

"You hear things, too." He had never really discussed his ARM work with

Bates.

"You're good. I know that. Word gets around." He paused. "Matter of

fact, I wanted to ask you a favor. I was hoping you could work up a

contract for me with your people. As I said, I need some security for

that facility in Greece."

"What kind?"

"That's for your guys to say. It just has to be good. We're going to be

installing some proprietary technology that's light-years beyond

anything that's ever been seen before. And we're going to rock a lot of

boats in the business. There're a hell of a lot of Europeans who'd love

to know what we're up to. There's a real chance of industrial

espionage."

"So what's the program? Perimeter surveillance? Security guards? We

could probably arrange the subcontracting."

"I'd appreciate it. Your guys know Europe, the local scene. I've got a

feeling that's going to be important."

"No problem." The truth was, this was exactly the kind of no-risk work

the boys at ARM liked. Nobody shooting at you. "I'll put in a call to

Paris if you like. Something probably can be arranged."

"Good." Bates nodded, as though a handshake were already involved. One

more thing off his checklist. "Mainly I want some physical-security

stuff. You know--fences, alarms, that kind of crap."

"We've got a guy in Athens who specializes in that. He won't give

estimates over the phone, but if you'll let him look over the site,

he'll price the job for you right down to the drachma. With various

options. But you'd be smart to go with his top-of-the-line

recommendation. Try to nickel and dime him and he'll walk. I've seen

him do it."

"So what's this so-called 'top of the line' likely to run me?" Bates

had asked.

"Well, there are the systems you can see and the ones you can't." He'd

laughed. "The ones you can't see cost more."

"I already told you I need the best."

"Then you probably want to go MAD," Vance said, his eyes hiding a

twinkle.

"What the hell are you talking about?" He looked over, annoyed and

puzzled.

"Magnetic anomaly detectors. You bury special transmitting cables

beneath the ground, outside the perimeter, so that they build an

invisible electromagnetic field around and above their location.

Anything--doesn't even have to be metal--that enters the field will

distort it. If you go with the Sentrax system, made by an outfit in

Switzerland called Cerberus, you can have the whole thing linked to a

central console that displays the layout of the perimeter on computer

screens."

"Sounds good. We're practically going to have computers in the

bathrooms."

"Won't come cheap."

Bates shrugged into the wind. "As long as you guys don't

ask for the store, I see no problem. I've budgeted for security, and

there's always contingency money."

"I'll see what I can do." He had glanced up and ascertained that the

sun had passed the yardarm. But even if it had not, what the hell. He

saw the prospects for a fat commission looming. "How about a Heineken?"

He was reaching into the cooler in the well.

"You read my mind."

"By the way, want to tell me the location of the site? You've managed

to keep that out of the papers so far. I'd guess it's probably an

uninhabited island, right?"

"Good guess. It's north of Crete, about twenty square kilometers. It's

privately owned, but I've just signed a long- term lease."

Vance tried to envision the place. Most of the Greek islands tended to

be granite, with nothing growing on them but scrub cedar. "What's the

terrain like?"

"That's actually what makes it so attractive. Cliffs all around the

shoreline--you couldn't put in with so much as a dinghy--and then one

really marvelous deepwater inlet. But the best part is, the interior is

mostly level and perfect for what we need. And there's a granite

mountain at one end that's ideal for our telemetry."

"A protected docking location and a natural telemetry base."

"Right. All the electronics will be set up high above the launch

facility, and we can use the inlet for bringing in materials. We should

only have to dredge it a bit and sink some pilings. It's well along.

I've already signed off on a lot of the prime contracts." He stared at

the blue horizon and adjusted the wheel again. "And I'll let you in on

another secret, Michael. I've bet the ranch on this one. The stock

offering wasn't nearly enough to capitalize the enterprise. I've had to

raise money from everybody in town--junk bonds, the fucking banks, you

name it. Just the hardware ran close to three hundred million. I've

even put up my stock in all my other companies. If this project doesn't

fly"--he laughed--"literally, I'm going to be joining America's homeless.

I even put up my house in Arlington. Worth two million, and I owned the

goddamn thing free and clear. I'll just have to hand over the keys.

Dorothy'll kill me."

"Then we'll make sure nobody snoops." He popped open an ice-cold beer

for Bates, then one for himself. "From land or sea."

"Land or sea." Bates hoisted his icy green bottle.

"Which actually raises an interesting question." He took a sip, cold

and bracing. "How about security from the air? Flyovers, that kind of

action?"

"Let them come. There'll be nothing to see. Except for the launch pad

and telemetry, everything's going to be underground. There're a lot of

caves on the island--like that famous one on Antiparos. We're going to

use those for the computers and assembly areas. And what we can't find

in place, we'll just excavate."

It's beginning to sound a little too pat, Vance found himself thinking.

But that's what security experts were for. They were the guys who got

paid to find holes in a project like this. . . .

The thing that kept gnawing at his mind, however, was the phrase "by

land or sea." All along he'd worried about penetration from the air.

Had he been right after all?

CHAPTER THREE

7:48 P.M.

Sitting at Main Control, the central desk facing the large display

screen, Cally Andros had just reached a conclusion. She was getting

old. Two more weeks to her thirty-fifth birthday, then a measly five

years till the big four-oh. After that she could only look forward to a

holding action, fighting sags and crow's-feet. Building dikes to hold

back the deluge of time.

It was depressing.

She sipped at a cup of black coffee emblazoned with the SatCom logo,

the laser eye of the Cyclops, and impatiently drummed her fingers on

the workstation keyboard, trying not to be distracted by meditations on

mortality. Tonight for the first time they would nin up the

superconducting coil all the way, in their most important test yet. The

tech crews at the other end of the island predicted it would reach peak

power in--she glanced at the huge digital clock on the blue wall next to

the screen--twenty-seven minutes. . . .

What was wrong with her? She had thought that one over

a lot and decided the answer was nothing. She had dark Greek eyes,

olive skin, and a figure that would stop a clock-- a perfect size eight.

But it got better. She had the best legs in the world. The absolute

very best. If they wouldn't necessarily stop a timepiece, they'd sure

as heck slowed a lot of traffic over the years.

No, her problem was opportunity. Whereas on paper this island was every

single girl's dream--males trapped here by the carload--all the

attractive/interesting men were either too young or too old or too dumb

or too married. Moreover, those in the control room--mostly Ph.D.'s in

their late twenties--saw her only as Dr. C. A. Andros, Director-in-

Charge. There seemed to be an unspoken rule around Control that you

didn't make a move on the boss lady. Anybody who could run this project

had to be treated with the distance befitting authority. Especially

since they believed all she really cared about was work.

Thanks a lot, whoever dreamed that one up.

The sickest part of all, though, was they were half right. She did not

wish herself anywhere else in the world right now, men or no men. She

occupied the center of the universe, was poised for the winner-take-all

shot she could only have dreamed about five years ago, back when she

was still fighting the mindless bureaucrats at NASA. With Project

Cyclops she was running a half-billion-dollar gamble for the last big

prize of the twentieth century. If she lived to be a hundred, she would

never be handed anything this terrific ever again.

Born Calypso Andropolous thirty-four years ago, daughter of strong-

minded Greek farmers, she had learned to believe in herself with a

fierce, unshakable conviction. Until now, though, she had never really

had the opportunity to test that faith. Until now.

It had not been an easy journey. After getting her doctorate in

aerospace engineering from Cal Tech, she had struggled up through

NASA's Kennedy Center bureaucracy to the position of chief analyst. But

she had never achieved more than a desk job. She had wanted more, a lot

more. Now, thanks to SatCom, in three days she would have it. Using a

fifteen-gigawatt microwave laser nicknamed Cyclops, she was about to

put SatCom in the forefront of the private race for space.

Ironically, the company had built its spaceport barely three hundred

kilometers from her birthplace on the island of Naxos. She often

thought about life's ironies: sometimes you had to return home to

change the future. She barely remembered that rugged little island now;

the images were faint and overly romantic. Those times dated back to

when the junta of right-wing colonels had seized power in Greece. Soon

thereafter her parents had emigrated; they and their nine-year-old

daughter joining a large exodus of freedom-minded Greeks to New York.

They had been there only three months when her father died--the hospital

said it was pneumonia; she knew it was mourning for Greece and all he

had lost. He had loved it more than life. She was afraid, down inside

in a place where she didn't visit much anymore, that he loved it more

than he had loved her. So along the way she tried to forget all of it,

to bury her memories of Greece. And now here she was back again. In New

York, Cally Andropolous had, in spite of herself, thought incessantly

of Greece; back here now, all she could think about was New York.

The strongest recollection was the third floor of a walk-up tenement on

Tenth Avenue and Forty-ninth Street, a section of town widely known as

Hell's Kitchen--and for good reason. The schools were designed to make

sociopaths of all those trapped inside; only New York's famous Bronx

High School of Science, one of the finest and most competitive public

institutions in the nation, offered an escape from their horror.

Accepted when she was thirteen, Calypso Andropolous graduated third in

her class. For her senior science project, she created a solid-fuel

rocket, using, as the phrase goes, ordinary household chemicals. And

she did it all by herself, with a little help from a skinny French

Canadian boy named Georges LeFarge, who lived with his mother in Soho.

By that time, she knew exactly what she wanted. Her ambition was to be

the first woman in space.

Nobody said it would be easy. But after the rocket--she

and Georges had launched it from the Morton Street Pier in Greenwich

Village--she felt she was on her way. She had blossomed--in every way,

much to her frustration--a lot quicker than Georges did. At age

seventeen his idea of sex was still to swap chemical formulas. So she

finally gave up on him as a lover and decided to wait till college.

She chose Cal Tech, selected after turning down acceptances from half a

dozen prestigious universities in the East. By then, Calypso

Andropolous had decided she wanted to get as far away from West Forty-

ninth Street as possible. And she never wanted to see another eggplant

moussaka as long as she lived.

She also wanted a shorter name, and thus it was that her long Greek

surname became merely Andros. That simple change had a liberating

effect on her far beyond what she had expected. At last she felt truly

American . . . and able to admit to loving nothing better than living

off Whoppers and fries. Junk food was, in fact, the thing she missed

most here. No, what she missed most was Alan. Still.

Georges had picked MIT, and she did not see him again until he came to

Cal Tech for grad school. By that time she was deeply in love with Alan

Harris, who was twenty years her senior. She was discovering things

about herself she didn't want to know. Harris was a biochemistry

professor, tall and darkly handsome, and she wanted desperately to live

with him. She knew he was a notorious womanizer, but that didn't

matter. She was looking for a missing father and she didn't care. It

was what she wanted.

When he broke it off, she thought she wanted to die. The only one she

had left to turn to was Georges. And they restarted a friendship as

platonic as it had been back at Bronx Science, though it was deeper

this time. Georges told her to forget about Harris and just concentrate

on a first-rate dissertation.

It was not easy, but she did. Her project involved compressing a big

computer program that calculated spacecraft trajectories into a small

one that could be operated on a Hewlett-Packard hand calculator. She

then devised a way to create voice commands that could free up an

astronaut's hands

while he--soon, she told herself, it would be she--handled other

controls.

After reading every NASA report that NTIS had released on microfiche,

she knew no one there had created anything like it. She also figured

out that NASA was a hotbed of careerists, all protecting their own

turf. The only obstacle to their accepting her new computer program

would be the NIH syndrome--Not Invented Here. It turned out she was

right, and wrong.

By happy chance, her dissertation came to the attention of Dr. Edward

Olberg, a deputy director of trajectory control at the Kennedy Space

Center, who hired her a week later, with a GS rating a full two grades

higher than customary. He knew a good thing when he saw it. And now Dr.

Cally Andros' computer work was the creation of a NASA employee. End of

problem. She still wanted to be in the astronaut program, but she

figured she had made a good start.

She was wrong. It turned out that she was far too valuable in the

guidance section to let go. She published a lot of papers, grew very

disillusioned, and was on the verge of telling them to stuff it, when .

. .

An executive unknown to her, named William Bates, called one May

morning three years ago, said he had read all her papers, and then

offered her a job that caused her to postpone her dreams of space

flight. He wanted her to head up a private space program. She was, he

told her, too good to work for the government. She should be out in the

real world, where things happened.

When she recovered from the shock, she felt an emotion she had not

known since her first day at Bronx Science--she was scared. In the

business world, the responsibilities were clear-cut and fatal. You were

not blowing some anonymous taxpayer's money: it was real cash.

Furthermore, your responsibilities doubled. Not only did you have to

make it work, you had to make a profit. She loved the challenge, but

she quaked at the enormous risk.

Finally she made a deal. Yes, she would give up a sure career for a

risky long shot, but on two conditions. First, she

got to pick her staff, and second, someday she would get to go into

space herself.

Although he clearly thought the second demand rather farfetched for

SatCom, he assented to both. . . .

"How's it looking, Cally?" Bates was striding into Command, having just

emerged from his office at the far end of the cavernous room. Fifties,

gray-templed but trim, he wore a trademark open-necked white shirt and

blue trousers--a touch of the yachtsman, even ashore. A former Vietnam

fighter pilot, he had flown over from the company's head office in

Arlington, Virginia two days ago--setting down the company's Gulfstream

IV at Athens--to be on hand when the first vehicle, VX-1, went up. As he

stalked up, he was his usual crabby self, seemingly never satisfied

with anything that was going on.

She looked him over and stifled the horrible impulse she had sometimes

to call him Alan. He was short-tempered, the way Alan Harris was, and

he had the same curt voice. Otherwise, though, they were nothing alike.

The mind works in strange ways.

"Cyclops countdown is right on the money, Bill. to the second. Big

Benny is humming, and coil temps are nominal. Georges says it's a go

for sure this time. We're going to achieve the power levels needed to

lase." (They had tried two preliminary power-ups previously, but the

supercomputer had shut them down in the last hour of the countdown both

times.) "Looks like tonight is the night we get lucky."

Georges LeFarge had served as her personal assistant throughout the

project, even though he formally headed up the computer section. These

days he was still slim, almost emaciated, with a scraggly beard he

seemed to leave deliberately unkempt, just as he had at Cal Tech. Bates

had bestowed on him the title of Director of Computer Systems, which

did not sit well with his leftist politics. His conscience wanted him

to be a slave to the exploiting capitalists, not one of them. However,

he always managed to cash his bonus checks. He had carried on a

flirtation with Cally, sending messages back and forth on the Fujitsu's

workstations, for the last two years. She had finally taken him up on

it; and it was a bust all around. _C'est la vie_.

At this moment he was blended into a sea of shirt-sleeved technicians

glued to the computer screens in Command Central, the nerve center of

the entire operation. The young Americans all worked in a room slightly

smaller than three tennis courts, with rows of light-beige workstations

for the staff and three giant master screens that faced out from the

far wall. The soft fluorescents, cheerful pale-blue walls spotted with

posters and the large SatCom laser-eye logo, muted strains of Pink

Floyd emanating from speakers somewhere in the corner, and circulated

air carrying a hint of the sea--all made the perfect environment for the

nineteen young workers spaced comfortably apart at the lines of desks

this evening shift.

As they watched, the superconducting coil ratcheted increasingly larger

bursts of energy into the accelerator, pumping it up. At twelve

gigawatts the Cyclops should--if all went well--begin to lase.

The coil, a revolutionary new concept for storing electrical energy,

was situated deep in the island's core. It was a near-perfect storage

system, permitting a huge current of electricity to circulate

indefinitely without resistance, ready to produce the massive,

microsecond pulses of power. The heart of the system was an

electromagnetic induction coil 350 feet in diameter and 50 feet high

embedded in a natural cave in the island's bedrock. The coil itself was

a new niobium-titanium alloy that became superconducting, storing

electricity without resistance losses, at the temperature of liquid

nitrogen. A vacuum vessel almost like a giant Thermos bottle surrounded

the coil and its cryogenic bath.

The coil fed power into a particle accelerator that drove the complex's

centerpiece, the Cyclops--a free-electron laser designed to convert the

energy stored in the coil into powerful pulses of coherent microwaves.

The supercomputer would then focus these with the phased-array antennas

into the propulsion unit of the space vehicle. That unit contained

simple dry ice--the only thing simple about the entire system--which

would be converted to plasma by the energy and expand, providing thrust

for the vehicle.

"Cally, we have ten point three gigs," LeFarge announced confidently.

He was absently stroking his wisp of beard. "Power is still stable."

"Good." She watched the readout on the computer screen in front of her

as the numbers continued to scroll. If the Cyclops performed the way

the engineers were all predicting, the world's most powerful laser was

about to go critical. A thrill coursed through her.

The idea was brilliant. By directing the energy to a space vehicle, you

kept the power plant for its rockets on the ground. Unlike conventional

rockets, the vehicle's weight would be virtually all payload, instead

of almost all fuel. It would cut the cost of launching anything by a

factor of at least a hundred. . . .

Now a green oscilloscope next to the computer screens was reading out

the buildup, a sine curve slowly increasing in frequency.

"Eleven point one," Georges announced, barely containing a boyish grin.

"We're still nominal."

Cally glanced at the screen. "Let's keep our fingers crossed. Almost

there."

"By the way," Bates interjected, "assuming everything goes well here

tonight and the storm lets up, I've scheduled myself on the Agusta over

to Kythera in the morning. A friend of mine was sailing near there, and

I'm a little worried. I just tried to reach him on the radio and got no

answer. Maybe his radio got swamped, but I want to find out." He was

turning to head back to his office. "Now, though, I've got some calls

in to Tokyo. So keep me informed on the countdown, and your feelings on

the weather."

More investors, she caught herself thinking. Begging. Which must mean

the money's getting tight again. But hang in there just a couple more

days, Bill, and we're gonna show the world a thing or two. They'll be

begging _you _to let them invest.

"I just came in to give you some moral support," Bates continued,

pausing, "and to tell you I think you're doing a terrific job."

"Bullshitting the help again?" She laughed, not quite sure she believed

his tone.

"Why not? It's free." A scowl. "But just keep up the good work." He had

extracted a leather tobacco pouch from his blue blazer and begun to

fiddle with his heavy briar pipe. She started to ask him to please not

smoke here with all the sensitive Fujitsu workstations, but then

decided they were his workstations. "If this thing flies, literally,

I'm going to give you a vulgar stock option. Another one. For putting

up with me."

"How about a bottle of aspirin?" She made a mock face. "I don't have

any time to spend the money."

"I'm going to take care of that, too. After this is over, I'm going to

have you kidnapped by a Greek beachboy and taken to some deserted

island where there's only one way to pass the time." He frowned back, a

wry crinkle passing through the tan at the corner of his eyes. "Twenty

years ago I might have tried to do it myself."

"Still hoping to get me laid?" She gave him her best look of shock, and

they both had to laugh. The sexual electricity was there, whether

either of them wanted to admit it or not.

"There's a time and place for everything," he went on, showing he could

hint and not hint at the same time. "You're definitely working too

hard."

"I can't take all the credit." She knew when to be self-effacing and

when to change the subject, fast. "We owe all this to the Bed Sox's

oldest living fan."

By which she meant Isaac Mannheim, the retired MIT professor whose

revolutionary propulsion idea had made the whole project possible. In

1969 he had demonstrated his ground-based laser concept to NASA, but

they had backed away, claiming they had too much invested in

conventional chemical rockets. But he knew it would work, knew it would

change the way space was used, so he had taken the idea to entrepreneur

William Bates and offered to sign over the patents for a piece of the

profits. Bates was impressed. He took him up on the offer, raised the

money, and then hired the best aerospace engineer he could find to head

up the project. Together they were a perfect team.

Mannheim, with flowing white hair and tweedy suits, was now in his

seventies and lived in retirement in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He was

due in tomorrow, just in time to watch the first lift-off of a full-

scale vehicle. When he arrived in Athens, Cally always dispatched the

company Agusta to pick him up. A first-class corporation, she figured,

ought to behave like one.

"If the Cyclops power-up goes off without a hitch tonight, then we

should have plenty of good news for him this trip," Bates said. "I'll

let you be the one to brief him."

"Oh, he'll know it all before he gets here. He calls me every day at

1700 hours, our time, to check things out. I could use him to set my

watch."

"Isaac's like the voice of our conscience, always telling us to work

harder and better. Well, good for him." He smiled and flicked a gold

lighter. The young technicians around the room gave him a disapproving

glance, but kept their silence. The boss was the boss.

Besides, everybody in Command, poised in front of their screens, had

other things to worry about.

8:22 P.M.

Eric Hamblin, formerly of Sweetwater, Texas, had worked as a guard for

SatCom for the past two and a half years and he loved the job. He was

twenty-four, a college-dropout casualty of the go-go eighties who got

to spend his afternoons hanging out on one of Greece's most beautiful

islands. He was tall, thin, and bronzed to perfection. During his

weekends on Crete he could almost pass for French as he cruised the

German Frauleins who lined the sands in their string bikinis.

Tonight he had come on duty at seven o'clock--actually a couple of

minutes later than that, since he'd been on the phone to a girl from

Dresden to whom he had made some pretty overreaching promises. She

wanted to come back to Crete this weekend and do it all over again. He

grinned with satisfaction, kiddingly asking himself if he had the

stamina.

He sighed, then strolled on down the east perimeter. The security here

at this end of the island was good, as it was everywhere: the tall

hurricane fence was topped with razor wire and rigged with electronic

alarms. Of course you couldn't see all the security, which meant the

place did not feel confining or scary. Which suited him fine. He was

wearing a .38, but it was mainly for show. He wasn't sure he could hit

anything if--God forbid--he should ever have to draw it.

Besides, the island was surrounded by miles and miles of water, the

deep blue Aegean. The whole scene was a fucking hoot, and he gloried in

it. Sea, sand, and--on weekends--hot-and-cold running German snatch. Who

could ask for more?

Andikythera was, indeed, a travel poster come to life. Though it still

was owned by the Greek shipbuilder Telemachus Viannos, as part of his

major investment in the company, Bates had negotiated a long-term lease

for SatCom, and by the time the technical staff started arriving, the

few Greek shepherds on the island had been comfortably relocated to

Paros. Construction began almost immediately after Bates took over, and

soon it was almost like one giant Cal Tech laboratory. Everything from

Big Benny, SatCom's Fujitsu supercomputer, to the phased-array

microwave installation was state of the art. Here SatCom had created a

launch facility that was within ten degrees latitude of Cape Canaveral,

totally secure from industrial espionage, and perfectly situated to

send up a major network of communication satellites.

Even now, though, the island remained unbelievably picturesque--its

sharp white cliffs abutting the deep blue sea, then rising up in craggy

granite to a single peak at one end, where the phased-array

transmission antennas were now. Its flawless air sparkled in the

mornings, then ripened to a rosy hue at sunset. For security and

safety, as much as for aesthetics, the major high-technology

installations had been secured deep in the island's core. Command was

at one end, situated behind sealed security doors, and a tunnel from

there led down to the power plant, installed a hundred and fifty meters

below sea level. Guarding this small piece of paradise had been a snap.

. . .

Hamblin scratched at his neck and moved on through the sand. He

despised the shoes they made him wear and wished he could be barefoot,

untie his ponytail and let his sandy hair flow free around . . .

What was that? The east perimeter was totally dark, but he caught a

sound that almost could be . . . what? A chopper approaching? But there

were no lights anywhere on the eastern horizon, and the pad was dark.

Nobody flew Mr. Bates' fancy new Agusta 109 Mark II at night.

Especially with no lights.

No mistaking it now, though. A whirlybird was coming in. He could

clearly make out the heavy drumbeat of the main rotor.

8:24 P.M.

Salim altered the throttles when they were about ten meters above the

pad, and they started drifting sideways. For a second it looked as

though they might ram the Agusta, but then he applied the clutch,

stopcocked the engines, and hit the rotor brake. The Hind safely

touched down, tires skidding. They were in.

Best of all, there'd been no radar warning alert from the instrument

panel. Around them the facility was dark and, as he shut down the

engines, deathly quiet. The wheels of the retractable landing gear had

barely settled onto the asphalt before the main hatch was open and the

men were piling out, black Uzis ready, the first rounds already

chambered.

8:25 P.M.

Hamblin thought briefly about raising Guard Command at the front desk

on his walkie-talkie and inquiring what in hell was going on. But then

he knew how they hated false alarms. Particularly when the top brass

was busy, like tonight.

He turned and studied the blinding white glow surrounding the two

launch vehicles, VX-1 and VX-2, down by the superstructure on the

western end of the island. They were basking in glory, as though

anticipating tonight's power-up of the Cyclops. He automatically

glanced at his watch: the big test was scheduled for about twenty

minutes from now.

No, instead of running the risk of looking like a jerk by reporting the

expected arrival of SatCom execs he should have known about, he'd check

this out himself. Jesus, why didn't anybody tell him anything?

He mused that security precautions here had been intended to guard

against infiltration through the fences, not to prevent a chopper from

coming in. Guess they figured nobody would be crazy enough to try and

sneak in using a helicopter.

As he moved toward the landing pad, just over a hundred yards farther

on down the fence line, he searched his memory for something he might

have forgotten. No, he'd glanced over the schedule for the pad this

afternoon and nothing was listed. Dr. Andros--what a fox she was, made

those plump German broads look like leftover hamburger--always had been

good about keeping the schedule up to date. He liked that and counted

on it. But then maybe this was some kind of unscheduled situation,

connected with the test. Who the hell knew?

He was about to find out. Fifty yards to go. He could see the chopper

now and it was huge, much bigger than anything he'd ever known the

company to use. Maybe it was a last-minute delivery. An emergency.

They had touched down, but still no landing lights. That didn't make

any sense. Suddenly nothing made any sense. Another ten seconds,

though, and he'd zap them with his big flashlight.

He flipped the securing strap on his .38 and tested the feel of the

grip. Just to be ready.

He was thirty yards away and he could hear them talking now, though he

still did not recognize all the languages. He realized right away,

however, that these clowns weren't connected with SatCom. He'd had an

uneasy feeling all along, and now he was sure.

Were they industrial spies trying to pull a fast one? Maybe sneak in

and take some photos?

He had no time now to radio for help. He was on his own.

He drew out the .38 and cocked it. Suddenly it felt very heavy. Then in

his left hand he rotated the long flashlight till his thumb felt the

switch.

Now.

He flicked on the light, beaming it through the wire security fence and

catching the side of the chopper--God, it was huge--just in time to see

several men stepping down. They were wearing black commando outfits and

they most definitely were not anybody from the company.

"_You_!" he yelled, his courage growing. "Stop right where you are and

identi--"

One of the intruders whirled in his direction, and before he could

finish, he felt a deep burning sensation in his chest that slammed him

backward. Next a piercing pain erupted in his neck and his head dropped

sideways. The asphalt of the pavement came up, crashing against his

nose. He heard the dull thunk of silencers just as the world went

forever black.

8:26 P.M.

"Pad perimeter secure," Jamal Khan, Salim's intense younger brother

said in Farsi, his voice matter-of-fact. He'd just wasted some

stranger; no big deal. Then he slipped the Uzi's strap over his

shoulder and turned back. Come to think of it, this was the thirteenth

man he d killed with an Uzi. Maybe the number would be lucky. . . .

Ramirez looked out over the facility, confident. Posing as an

electronics supplier, he had fully reconnoitered the site two months

earlier, meticulously memorizing the location of everything they

needed. Once again he reflected on how fortuitous its geometry was. The

facility was made to be penetrated from the air.

Stelios Tritsis, their Greek, was busy scanning the walkie-

talkie channels, but he heard no alerts from any of the guards--which

meant no more surprises in this remote corner. For reasons of safety,

SatCom deliberately had located the helicopter pad as far as possible

from the Cyclops and the launch installation. All staff were engaged

down at the other end. This guard had been a loner, and he had paid for

his stupidity.

"Phase two complete," Ramirez announced quietly as he looked back at

the Hind. "Now, remember. No heroics. Everybody on semiauto."

The only obvious security out here was at the entry gate to the chopper

pad. After Peretz quickly aborted its alarm by short-circuiting the

copper contacts, they moved through single-file. Ramirez stood at the

opening, studying each man one last time and hoping he could keep them

together as a team.

So far almost everything had gone according to plan. He had hand-

picked, assembled, and trained them four months in Libya, rehearsing

them for all the standard antiterrorist techniques that might be used

against them--from stun grenades to "Thunder Strips"--then afterward had

rendezvoused with them in Yemen to pick up the Hind, the other

helicopter, and the two packages. He had made cash arrangements with

enough officials in both countries to ensure that no questions would be

asked.

The most unreliable team member was Salim Khan, tonight's pilot.

Ramirez watched him pat a twenty-two-round clip into his Uzi and draw

back the gnarled walnut cocking knob on the top as he stepped through

the gate. He looked trustworthy, but he really wasn't. Ramirez

suspected Salim was too bitter, was too strongly of the opinion life

had given him a screwing--which meant he was now devoted to settling the

score. He liked to live on the edge, push the rules. On the other hand,

this mission was all about that, and thus far Ramirez had exploited the

Iranian to the hilt. It also meant, however, that he had to be watched:

he was a cynical realist who held nothing but contempt for the militant

cadres of young firebrands who marched through the streets of Tehran

with photos of some ayatollah attached defiantly to their chest,

chanting slogans against the Great Satan . . . while wearing jeans

whose back pockets read "Made in U.S.A." Because Salim didn't believe

in anything anymore, he was difficult to control. Always dicey.

Following close behind him, also carrying a black Uzi, was Jamal, his

younger brother. Jamal, with crazy eyes and a coal-black beard, was the

exact opposite--he only fought for a cause.

Jamal had come to Lebanon years ago to join Hizballah, a radical

organization headquartered in West Beirut and the Bekaa Valley. Since

he joined, as many as five hundred Hizballah had been directly involved

in terrorist acts in the Middle East and Europe. He believed God wanted

him to carry out a jihad, a holy crusade, against the Americans and

Zionists who had surrounded and were choking the Muslim peoples. To

prove his faith, he had been part of the team that commandeered a

Libyan Arab Airlines 727 in flight between Zurich and Tripoli, leading

to the longest hijacking in history. The plane had traveled six

thousand miles, bouncing from Beirut to Athens, then Rome, again

Beirut, and even Tehran before ending on its third stop in Lebanon

three days later.

Miraculously Jamal had walked free. He was a hothead, but he also was a

survivor. Jamal prayed five times a day, neither drank nor smoked, and

had been one of the explosives experts on the U.S. Embassy job in

Beirut that killed 218 Marines. He was truly a living contradiction.

That was fine with Ramirez. He could care less about Hizballah's

radical politics. On the other hand, he'd always made good use of them.

After Jamal's famous hijacking, Ramirez had gone to the Bekaa Valley

and found him, and through him Salim--who, by stealing the Hind, had

turned out to be much more valuable than his rabid younger brother. All

the same, he had problems with them. Iranians sometimes had difficulty

discerning the difference between fact and fantasy: as with most

Muslims, they thought that saying something was so made it happen.

The tall man striding through after Jamal, nursing a slight limp, was

Stelios Tritsis, their only Greek. In 1975, as a young firebrand, he

had been a founding member of the famous terrorist organization

Epanastaiki Organosi 17 Noemvri. In his heart he was still a radical,

dedicated to forcing Greece out of NATO and ending the U.S. military

domination of his country. The new American imperialism in the Persian

Gulf had only proved he was right all along.

Because of an incident long ago in his youth--a torture episode at the

hands of the infamous Colonels--Stelios's eyes never seemed entirely

focused. He had become addicted to the morphine given to relieve the

pain and never kicked it. Even so, he was their most lethal marksman,

and he considered this operation his final revenge against America and

her lackeys. The man didn't care, honestly didn't care, about his share

of the money. Even Ramirez had to admire that.

Following him was Jean-Paul Moreau, head of the famous Action Directe,

whose international wing was headquartered in Paris. Jean-Paul was

tall, had long flowing blond hair and determined eyes. He also had a

famous bullet scar across his cheek from an attempt in the early

eighties to assassinate former Justice Minister Alain Peyrefitte with a

bomb attached to his car. He merely killed the chauffeur and was

wounded by the security guards. But in November 1986 he got his

revenge, masterminding the murder of Georges Besse, the chairman of

Renault. He wanted nothing more than for Europe to rid herself of

Americans and Zionists--toward which end Action Directe had cooperated

with the Lebanese Armed Revolutionary Faction on several attacks

carried out in France, which was how Ramirez had first met him. In the

past Action Directe had financed its operations primarily through bank

robberies. After this, Moreau was told, their money problems would be

over.

The next man was Wolf Helling, the lanky, balding leader of Germany's

Revolutionare Zellen. Ramirez suspected his real goal in life was to

look as Aryan as possible. Politically he was an anarchist--who had, in

1984, bombed a NATO fuel pipeline near Lorch in Baden-Wurttemberg. RZ's

official aim was to pressure the U.S. out of Germany through terrorist

attacks and to destroy the West German "system" by conducting guerrilla

terrorism against Zionists and militarists. RZ had long-standing ties

to Palestinian terrorist organizations, which was again how Ramirez had

met him. How ironic for Helling, just when he had lived to see the

Zionist American military begin to depart Europe, it had become the de

facto ruler of the Middle East. He wanted to teach America one final

lesson: the propertied classes of the world could never be secure.

Following behind him were three beefy former members of East Germany's

Stasi--now being sought by authorities in the new unified Germany for

torture and other crimes of the past. With few friends left, they had

thrown in their lot with RZ. They had always reminded Ramirez of the

three monkeys of folklore: Rudolph Schindler, with his dark sunglasses,

could see no evil; Peter Maier remained such a rabid ideologue he still

could hear no evil (of Communism); and Henes Sommer spoke nothing but

evil, against everyone. They were sullen and bitter, but they were

perfect goons for auxiliary firepower, or should be. They were men

without a country, guns for hire who already had lost everything.

Dore Peretz, their renegade Israeli, walked through last, closing the

wire gate behind him. He had fixed his steady dark eyes on only one

outcome: he had come for the money, the money only. No politics or

mock-heroics for him. He already had selected a seaside villa in

Hadera. Despite his annoying tendency to shoot off his mouth, to make

jokes at the wrong time, his contribution would be crucial. Ramirez did

not wholly trust him, but he needed his computer and weapons expertise.

He asked himself what Peretz would do if the chips were really down.

With luck, however, that question would never have to be answered.

Ramirez almost liked him--he was not sure why--and would hate to have to

kill the smart-ass fucker. . . .

They were in. Command lay at one end of SatCom's setup, the two

vehicles at the other, and in between was the living quarters--known as

the "Bates Motel"--as well as rows of small warehouses that contained

supplies for personnel and equipment maintenance, used for storage but

now darkened and locked. As they moved along the walkway, carefully

staying out of the circles of light that illuminated the doorways of

the warehouses, their black slipovers blended into the Aegean night.

The minimal lighting in this area caused him no hesitation: he had

thoroughly memorized the site. He knew they would find the control

center with the computers just below their present location.

Now they were approaching the entry-point to Command, the high-security

"lobby." Just inside the glass-doored space a uniformed Greek guard

occupied a teakwood desk, attentively studying the sports section of an

Athens newspaper.

They paused in the last shadows before the open space fronting the

entryway, giving Stelios Tritsis time to shuck his black pullover.

Underneath he was wearing the brown uniform of a SatCom guard, complete

with epaulets and the regulation .38. He also had what, upon casual

inspection, looked like a SatCom photo ID.

While the others waited, holding their breath, he stepped through the

glass entry doors, feigning a jaunty pace and flipping the pass

impatiently against the leg of his uniform.

When the SatCom guard looked up, puzzled, and started to challenge him,

Tritsis was only five feet away. He sang out a hello in Greek, then

reached to scratch an itch in the small of his back. When his hand came

away, it was holding a small Glock-17 automatic. The shot was directly

in the forehead, a dull thunk, and the guard tumbled backward in his

chair, his eyes disbelieving, his .38 still holstered. It took only

seconds.

Without a word the rest of them moved in.

"What's next?" Ramirez said quietly to Peretz.

"The code for the doors has to be punched in there--" he pointed. Behind

the desk was a computer terminal that reported the security status of

all the sectors. Its green screen remained blank, flashing no alerts.

"Disable them," Ramirez ordered, the first test of the Israeli's

technical skills. In the hours to come, he would prove indispensable.

Or so he claimed. "Then deactivate the access code and we ought to be

able to just walk in."

While Jamal was rearranging the guard's body, leaving him slumped over

the desk as though asleep, Ramirez locked the entry doors behind them,

then stepped behind the desk and dimmed the lobby lights. Finally he

slipped off his flight suit and tossed it behind the desk.

Right on schedule.

They headed toward Command. He knew that if you control the brain, you

are master of the body, and now they had to seize that brain. So far

their smooth progress surpassed his hopes. But the next phase was

crucial, allowed for no foul-ups. He still feared his ad hoc troops

might get trigger-happy and destroy some of the critical equipment; he

had even considered making them use blanks, but that was taking too big

a risk.

"The gates of Paradise are about to be opened," Jamal declared through

his black beard, his crazed eyes reflecting back the lights on the

security door as they changed from red to green and a muted buzzer

sounded. "Allah has given this to us."

Ramirez said nothing, merely straightened the hand-tailored cuffs of

his charcoal Brioni. Then he stepped back to watch as the door to

Command Central slowly began sliding to the left.

8:39 P.M.

Cally was thinking about how much she would love a pizza, heavy on the

cheese and Italian sausage. No, just heavy on the cholesterol. Why was

it that the only things that tasted good were all supposed to be bad

for you? She had long ago determined never to let it bother her. Like

Scarlett, she'd think about it tomorrow. The heck with it. Everybody

needed a secret sin. And that was the worst part of being here on

Andikythera. You couldn't just pick up a phone. . . .

She stared across the cavernous room, her stomach grumbling, and looked

at the large overhead screen intended to track the space vehicle after

lift-off. Then she glanced around at the rows of desks with computer

workstations that lined the floor. It was almost as though she had a

small army under her command. All this power, and she still couldn't

order up a pizza. What was wrong with this picture? She was so

preoccupied with her thoughts that she completely failed to notice the

new arrivals.

8:40 P.M.

As Ramirez took position, he quickly noticed everything. At the far

end, beneath the huge master screens, a wide desk commanded the room.

And behind it sat a dark-haired woman whose history he had committed to

memory. She was the one that counted.

Odd that a woman should be in charge . . . but then a woman had even

been elected president of a major Muslim country. Once. All things were

possible, now and then.

It did not matter to him, not the way he knew it mattered to these two

Iranians. He lived in the real world; they lived in a world that did

not exist. They, he knew, would say it did not exist _yet_. Well, that

was their problem, not his. . . .

Gradually, as one technician after another became aware of them

standing in the doorway, all activity ceased. Ten men, dressed in

black, all armed with Uzis. Their image triggered a reflexive response

of fear throughout the room, nurtured by decades of terrorism in the

news.

Ramirez surveyed the room. None of the American technicians had any

weapons. As anticipated, he had caught the prey unprepared. Indeed, he

had hoped to avoid gunfire. Keep the staff calm. They would be needed.

"You will continue, please, as you were." His voice sounded over the

room, English with only a trace of accent. But that trace of accent was

bloodless. The authority with which he spoke let everybody know that

the command chain had just changed.

Cally turned to stare at the intruders, puzzled. They were strangers .

. . now the sight of their automatic weapons registered . . . and they

were armed. They sure didn't work for SatCom. How the hell did they get

through facility security?

Their leader--she noted that he was wearing a sharp Italian suit, not

commando mufti, and he was doing the talking-- was scanning the room as

though he already owned it. And, in truth, he did. Like the American

embassy in Tehran, SatCom had been caught sleeping. But there was no

gesturing of weapons. He seemed to want to maintain normality.

They're terrorists, her intuition was screaming. But no, her rational

mind answered back. It couldn't be true. Terrorism operated a universe

away from Andikythera; it wasn't supposed to touch the lives of anybody

outside the hot spots.

Now their spokesman was strolling down the aisle between the computer

terminals, headed her way. She figured him for late forties, educated,

subject to reason. He seemed rational, or at least businesslike. He

could have been a SatCom VP from Arlington dropping by for a surprise

inspection. The rest, except for a couple of Arabs with beards, looked

like Eurotrash hoods.

"Miss Andros, I presume," the man said, then laughed. "It is a pleasure

to meet you. At last."

"What are you doing here?" Her disorientation was being rapidly

replaced by anger. "This is a restricted area."

The man smiled . . . almost politely . . . and seemed to ignore the

question. "You are absolutely correct. Very reasonable, and proper. But

please, you and your staff must just continue on and pay no attention

to us. Your head-office check-in is scheduled for 2200 hours. You will,

of course, report nothing amiss. Which will be true." He bowed lightly.

"I'm sure they will want to know how the Cyclops power-up went. In

fact, we are all anxious for the answer to that."

His words echoed off the hard, neon-lit surfaces. Command Central, its

pale blue walls notwithstanding, had never seemed more stark.

"I'd appreciate it very much if you would leave," she said, holding her

voice quiet. "This is private property. You are trespassing."

The man just smiled again and walked over to examine the big screens.

"These things have always intrigued me. Like something in the movies.

Buck Rogers." He turned back. "Please, don't let my layman's curiosity

interfere with your work."

Bill, Bill. She thought of SatCom's CEO in his office, just beyond the

doors at the far end of the room. You've got a radio. And you can see

this room on a security monitor. Can't you--

The door at the far end opened, and there stood William Bates.

"Who the hell are you?" his voice boomed over the room.

"My name need not concern you," the terrorist in the suit answered.

"Just call me Number One. But I will favor you by returning your

question."

"And I'll give you the same answer, Number One, or whoever the hell you

are," Bates replied, not moving. "Whatever you're thinking, there's

nothing here to steal. You're wasting your time. What's more, you're

trespassing on American property. So take those goons with you and get

the hell out the same way you came in."

"American property? Americans seem to think the whole world is their

property." He smiled once more. "But let me put your mind at ease. We

are not here to steal. And if you cooperate, no one in this room will

be harmed."

Cally looked him over, asking herself whether she believed him. Not for

a minute. She suddenly realized this man would kill anyone who got in

his way; it was etched into his eyes.

"Now, Miss Andros . . . you should order your people to proceed with

the countdown. My understanding is that the first vehicle is scheduled

to be launched in less than sixty-five hours. We certainly want nothing

to disrupt your timetable."

She stared at him more closely, puzzled. If he and these creeps weren't

here for blackmail, threatening to destroy the facility, against a

payoff, then what could they possibly want?

"You don't give the orders here." Bates moved toward the man. "I do."

He dropped his voice as he passed Cally. "Don't do a goddamn thing."

Then he looked up. "You will leave right now, or I'll call my security

staff."

"That would be most unwise. At least two of them would be unable to

respond." He nodded toward the door. "You are welcome to check outside.

But come, we're all wasting precious time."

"You son of a bitch. I won't--"

"Well, well," the man interrupted, "could it be I am luckier than I

dreamed possible? Could it be that I have the honor to be speaking to

none other than William Bates? Have we snared the CEO? No, that would

be too much good luck."

We're screwed, Cally thought. He knows. Now they'll hold Bill for

ransom. He's pure gold. Rich and famous.

"You will kindly take a seat, Mr. Bates," the man went on.

"The hell I--"

One of the bearded men carrying an automatic weapon stepped forward and

slammed the metal butt into Bates' stomach, sending him staggering

backward. He tried to catch his balance, but failed and collapsed

ignominiously onto the gray linoleum.

"Again, we're squandering time," the spokesman, the one in charge,

continued calmly. "Where were we? Oh yes, the power-up." He turned

around. "Now, Miss Andros, none of us wants that report to be late, do

we? It would look bad for everybody."

CHAPTER FOUR

7:02 A.M.

When Vance caught his first clear sight of Andikythera's sheltered

inlet, the storm had passed over in the night and Homer's "rosy-

fingered dawn" was displaying all her splendored glory. With only a

slight effort he had altered his course and reached the island. Now, as

he rowed in through the still, turquoise waters, only light surface

ripples lapped against his Switlik. As quickly as it had come, the

turmoil in the seas had vanished. He hoped it was a good omen.

He looked down and realized the water was so crystalline he could see

the bottom, now at least ten meters below. Although he had visited many

islands, he had never seen anything more perfect than Andikythera.

Despite being bone-tired and soaked to the skin, conditions that

exacerbated his anger, the sight of the island momentarily buoyed his

spirits. It reminded him of a thousand Caribbean mornings, the feeling

of rebirth and renewal.

Andikythera had always been private, and never more so than now. It was

an industrial site these days, pure and simple. No ferries deposited

tourists here, no fishing boats docked in the mornings. Nothing but

granite cliffs surrounded the secrets held inside.

The heavy construction equipment, the prefabricated buildings, the

facility's high-tech components, all had come through this harbor. Now,

however, the dock was deserted; the off-loading cranes and giant

mechanical arms highlighted against the morning sky stood idle.

Everything had been delivered, was in place, and was humming. The only

vessel now tied up was a sailing yacht, Bill's twenty-eight-foot

Morgan, leased specially so he could keep his hand in while here. Great

boat. . . .

Abruptly he stopped rowing.

Think a minute, he told himself. You can't risk using the inlet. No

way.

On the right and left sides of the harbor, steep crags of white granite

speckled with scrub cypress guarded the shore, while the towering

cliffs of the north mirrored the coastline of a thousand Greek islands.

Unlike the postcard photos for sale everywhere on the tourist islands--

featuring topless Swedish blondes and trim Italian playboys, gold

chains glinting--this was the real Greece, harsh and severe. Only a few

seabirds swirling over the near shore, adding their plaintive calls to

the silence-breaking churn of surf pounding over the rocks, broke the

silence.

He studied the island, trying to get his bearings. Just as Bill had

said, it appeared to be about three miles long, maybe a couple of miles

wide. As though balancing the radar-controlled mountain at one end, at

the opposite terminus stood the launch vehicles, now just visible as

the tip of two giant spires, gleaming in the early sunshine like huge

silver bullets. And somewhere beneath this granite island, he knew, was

the heart of the Cyclops, SatCom's computer-guided twenty- gigawatt

laser. . . .

There was no sign of anybody monitoring his approach. The early light

showed only pristine cliffs, cold and empty.

Careful now. First things first.

He rowed under a near cliff, then slipped off the yellow raft and into

the knee-deep waters of the near shore, still dazzlingly clear. It

reminded him again of the Caribbean. Maybe Bill unconsciously had an

island there in mind when he decided to move everything here.

The water was cold, refreshing as he moved in. He collected what he

needed from the raft and stood a minute wondering what to do with it.

Then inspiration struck. It only weighed sixty-five pounds, so why not

use it?

It was a standard Switlik, which meant inflation had been automatic.

The deflation would take a while, so he started it going as he hefted

the heavy yellow hulk and headed up the hill. He wanted it empty, but

not entirely.

The security Dimitri Spiros had installed was high-tech and good. He

had not gone to the trouble of burying cables all around the place with

magnetic anomaly detectors. That would have required blasting through a

lot of granite and did not really seem worth the tab. Instead he had

surrounded the place with a chain-link fence and topped that with free-

spinning wheels of razor wire known as Rota-Barb, which prevented an

intruder from smothering the cutting edges with cloth. Then, just to

make sure, across the top and at several levels below, he had added

lines of Sabretape with an enclosed fiber-optic strand. A pulse of

light was transmitted through the length of the tape, and if it was

disturbed, detectors at a central guard location would know immediately

when and where.

Now Vance had to try to penetrate a system he had actually been

involved, indirectly, in setting up. The ultimate irony.

The jagged granite tore at his hands as he struggled up, picking his

way through the clusters of scrub cedar that clung to the steep ascent

and dragging the Switlik by its nylon straps. The cliff rose a good two

hundred feet and was almost sheer, but he located enough niches to haul

himself forward. Finally, exhausted and hands bleeding, he pulled

himself over the top. Then he dragged up the remains of the raft.

Ahead, just in front of the towering communications mountain, he

discerned ARM's industrial security installation, a ten-foot-high

chain-link fence interwoven with fiber optics. Beyond it on a

helicopter pad sat Bill's new Agusta, a hot 109 Mark II with all the

latest modifications, including two 450-hp Allison engines. It sat

there, its blue trim like ice, a ghostly apparition against the

lightening sky.

Poised alongside was a brooding hulk that dwarfed the Agusta--a Soviet

Mi-24D, one of its stubby wings a tangled mass of metal.

So the bastards were here. He'd guessed right.

He saw no guards around it, but who knew.

He would find out soon enough, but one thing was sure: it must have a

radio on board. The U.S. Navy would be very interested in identifying

the location of its hostile. Maybe he should just switch on the Hind's

cockpit IFF, let it start broadcasting. If the ship that was attacked

had been interrogating the Hind, there'd probably be knowledge

somewhere of the codes it was transmitting.

Easy. Just take it easy. Go in behind the chopper, handle the fence,

and then rush the thing from the back. If anybody's guarding it, you'll

be taking them from their blind side.

Grasping the Switlik, with the Walther tucked firmly into the waist of

his soaked trousers, he dashed for the corner of the fence behind the

Hind. He was barefoot, the way he always sailed, and the granite felt

sharp and cutting under his feet. But being barefoot was going to help

him take the fence.

Okay, he thought, the fiber-optic alarm system is going to blow, no

matter what. Just get in and get on the radio quick, then worry about

what comes next.

He knew the only way to defeat a Rota-Barb system was at the corners,

where the spinning rolls of wire intersected at a right angle. As he

approached the corner, he looked up and checked out his chances. Yep,

with the Switlik to smother the barbs it might just be possible.

He looped one of the nylon straps, then leaned back and heaved the raft

up onto the top of the fence. It caught and was hanging there but--just

as he had hoped--the strap passed over and down the other side. Next he

reached through, seized it, and tied it securely to the heavy chain

links of the fence. Now it would hold the raft in place as he climbed

from the outside.

Holding the hand straps of the raft, he clambered up and

made it to the top. Then he rolled himself into the rubber and pushed

over. A second later he dropped shoulder-first onto the asphalt of the

landing pad. Home.

The razor wire had shredded the raft, and the fiber-optic security

system would have detected the entry, but he was in. If any guards were

left alive, they probably had other things to worry about.

Or so he hoped.

At that instant he thought he heard a sound, and whirled back. No, he

had only caught the chirp of a morning bird, somewhere in the cluster

of trees down toward the shore. The island again seemed as serene as a

paradise.

He crouched a moment, grasping the Walther, then shoved a round into

the chamber. The early morning light showed the Hind in all its glory.

It was dark green, with a heavy, retractable landing gear--a magnificent

machine. And a lethal one. Originally intended as an antitank weapon,

the Mi-24 had quickly become a high-speed tool for air-to- ground

combat. To reduce vulnerability to ground fire, its makers substituted

steel and titanium for aluminum in critical components and replaced the

original blade-pocket design with glassfiber-skinned rotors. . . .

The only defect of this particular example was the absence of the

starboard auxiliary wing, including the rocket pod. Its arrival and

accurate landing here spoke volumes for the flying skills of whoever

had been at the controls. If the weapons operator had possessed

comparable talent, Vance reflected, he might not be standing here now.

But, he noted again, it had Israeli markings. Had the Israelis really

attacked a U.S. frigate? That made no sense. For one thing, they

couldn't have flown a Hind this far without refueling. Its combat

radius was only about a hundred miles.

Then he looked more closely and realized that the Israeli Star of David

in a circle of white had merely been papered on. So it was a false-flag

job. Which more than ever left open the question--who the hell were

they?

Gripping the Walther, he slid open the door to the cargo bay and

examined the darkened interior. It was empty save for a few remnants of

packing crates. He climbed in and checked them over. They had been for

weapons. He saw some U.S. markings on one: a crate of M79 grenade

launchers. Another had contained Czech ZB-26 light machine guns, with

spare boxes for C-Mag modifications, giving them 100-round capability.

Jesus! If these were just the discarded crates, what else did these

guys have?

He turned and moved up the gray metal steps to the cockpit, a raised

bubble above the weapons station. Nice. He settled himself, looking out

the bulletproof windscreen at the first tinge of dawn breaking over the

island. His first impulse was to crank her up and fly her out. He

resisted it.

Switching on the IFF would be a chore; he was not even sure he knew

how. He could, however, get on the airwaves.

The pilot's flight helmet was stashed on the right-hand panel where it

had been tossed. He picked it up and slipped it on, then clicked on the

electronics. The helicopter's main panel and screens glowed to life, a

patchwork of green and red lights and LEDs. He flicked more switches

overhead and the infrared and radar systems came on-line, their

displays like Christmas-tree lights briskly illuminating one by one in

rows.

Now for the radio.

It was Soviet-made, of course, with heavy metal knobs and a case that

looked as though it could withstand World War III. He clicked it on and

began scanning through the aviation channels, checking to see if

anybody was out there. Maybe . . .

Nothing, except a few routine exchanges of civilian pilots. Well, he

thought, could be it takes a while for the news of major world events

to get down to the trenches. Word would circulate soon enough. The

military channels, however, would be another matter.

The Hind had them all. He clicked over to the frequencies and began

scanning. There were a lot of scrambled communications; the radio

traffic was sizzling. He figured the Sixth Fleet was on full alert.

Except they didn't know where to look for their hostile.

He remembered that the military emergency channel was

121.50 megahertz. He punched it in, then unhooked the black mike and

switched to transmit. The green diodes blinked to red.

7:09 A.M.

Jean-Paul Moreau, who had perfect command of English, was catching the

BBC on a small Sony ICF-PR080 in Command Central, keeping abreast of

the news. The World Service was just winding up its morning broadcast,

circumspect as always.

". . . A reminder of the main story: there are unconfirmed rumors

emanating from the southern Aegean that an American naval vessel, the

USS Glover, was attacked by a helicopter gunship late last evening,

with considerable damage and loss of life. It is said the gunship was

Israeli. No confirmation or denial of this report has yet been issued

by the government in Tel Aviv. And that's the end of the news from

London. . . ."

"Guess we had a hit." He laughed, then switched frequencies and started

monitoring the military channels.

Ramirez had also heard the broadcast, with satisfaction. The attack

would soon blossom into a world event, with accusations flying. After

that had played its course, he would drop his bombshell.

Now it was daylight. Time to begin phase three of the operation.

It had been a productive night. The first order of business had been to

off-load their hardware. In addition to the Uzis they had carried in,

they had broken out a compliment of AK- 47s. The Germans had also

brought out and limbered up a crate of MK760 submachine guns, fully

automatic with folding stocks, as well as some Czech mortars and

grenade launchers.

That was finished by 0300 hours, after which the men caught catnaps,

rotating to keep at least three on guard at all times. Now that the

test had gone off successfully, most of the facility staff was lounging

at the blank terminals, dazed.

Ramirez, however, had no intention of letting the SatCom staff become

rested. He looked over the room at the young engineers, all of whom

were showing the first signs of hostage behavior. They were frightened,

stressed, tired--already in the early stages of "hostile dependency."

Soon they would melt, become totally pliable. But to achieve that, they

could not be allowed to get enough sleep. Food also had to be kept to a

minimum.

Most importantly, all telephone and computer linkages with the outside

world had been cut--with the exception of one. The single telephone

remaining was on the main desk down at the other end of Command.

Otherwise, Peretz had methodically shut down everything, including the

telemetry equipment located up on the mountain. While they would need

to reactivate it later on, for the moment they could keep it on

standby.

Peretz had proved reliable so far, Ramirez told himself. The man was

seasoned and competent, unlike the young Muslims who acted first and

thought later. An operation like this required precision, not unbridled

impetuosity, which was why he valued the Israeli so highly. . . .

As he surveyed Command, he decided it was time for champagne. He had

brought a small bottle, a split of Dom. . . . But what was champagne

without the company of a beautiful woman. He turned toward Miss Andros--

"_Merde_!"

His meditations were interrupted by the startled voice of Moreau.

"There's a Mayday on one-twenty-one point five megahertz. It's so

close, I think someone is transmitting from here on the island."

Ramirez cursed, while the buzz in Command subsided. Then Moreau

continued.

"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.

The Hind was armored like a tank, he knew, and even the bubbles over

the cockpit and the weapons station were supposedly bulletproof. How

bulletproof, he guessed, he was about to learn.

With the three men still a distance away, he realized he had only one

choice. Although he had never actually flown a Hind, this seemed an

ideal time to try and find out how difficult it was.

Probably harder than he knew. He reached up and flicked on the fuel

feeds, then pushed the starter. To his surprise, there came the sound

of a long, dull whine that began increasing rapidly in intensity and

frequency. The main rotor had kicked on--he could tell from the

vibration--and the tail stabilizer, too, if the rpm dials were reporting

accurately.

All right, he told himself, the dial on the right side of the panel is

rotor speed. Keep it in the green. And over to the left is engine

speed. Come on, baby. Go for the green. Red line means you crash and

burn. Pedals, okay. But this isn't like a regular airplane; the stick

is cyclic, controls the angle of your blades.

The instruments were now on-line--temperature, fuel gauges, pressure,

power output. The two Isotov turboshafts were rapidly bringing up rpm

now, already past three thousand. He grabbed hold of the collective,

eased back on the clutch, and felt the massive machine shudder, then

begin to lift off.

As the three men breached the gate leading into the asphalt-paved

landing area, a fusillade of automatic-weapons fire began spattering

off the bubble windscreen, leaving deep dents in the clear, globelike

plastic.

So far, so good, he thought. It's holding up to manufacturer's specs.

Now for the power. It's controlled by the collective, but when you

increase power you increase torque, so give her some left pedal to

compensate.

The Hind had started to hover, and now he moved the columns to

starboard, bringing it around. He could not reach the weapons station,

but the 12.7mm machine gun in the nose had an auxiliary fire control

under the command of the pilot.

With his hand on the stick, he activated the fire button. He might not

be able to hit anything, but he'd definitely get somebody's attention.

. . .

The machine gun just below him erupted, a deadly spray that knocked

sparks off the hurricane fence surrounding the pad as the chopper

slowly revolved around. Somewhere now off to his left came a new burst

of automatic fire. He found himself in a full-scale firefight, trapped

like a tormented bull in a pen.

But the Hind was up and hovering . . . and also beginning to slip

sideways because of the damaged wing. He grappled with the collective

pitch lever in his left hand, trying to regain control, but he didn't

have the experience. The chopper was now poised about ten feet above

the ground, its engines bellowing, nosing around and drifting

dangerously.

He'd lost control. As it tilted sideways, the fence began coming up at

him, aiming directly for the nose bubble. Even more unnerving, though,

was the heavyset terrorist in a black pullover who was standing

directly in front of the bubble and firing his Uzi point-blank. Worse

still, he was handling it like second nature.

The plastic splintered with a high-pitched shriek as the rounds caught

it head-on. The curvature had helped before, but now the gunman was

able to fire straight into it. The game was about to be up.

He ducked for the floor of the cockpit just as the bubble windscreen

detonated, spewing shards of plastic both outward and inward. Now the

helicopter was coming about and lifting off again, pulling up strands

of the wire fence that had gotten tangled in the landing gear.

No time to worry about it. He rose up, grasped the collective, and

urged more power, trying to compensate for the torque. But the mottled

gray behemoth was increasingly unstable, shunting sideways, drifting

over the security fence and spiraling upward toward the mountain that

bristled with SatCom's communications gear. The gunner holding the Uzi

slipped in another clip and raised up to finish him off, but at that

instant Vance squeezed the fire button one last time and the man danced

a pirouette, disappearing from view.

As he started to spiral in earnest, more automatic fire ricocheted off

the fuselage. Then came a sickening whine.

The stabilizer, he thought. They must have hit the damned stabilizer.

This is going to be a very short trip.

Panic caught him as the Hind started into autorotation, round and round

like a bumper-car ride at an amusement park.

He cut the power--hoping he could bring her down using the energy stored

in the blades--then quickly put the right pedal to the floor, held the

collective down, and tried to keep rotor speed in the green. He was

drifting to the east now, headed for a copse of trees halfway up the

mountain.

Not a bad place to set down, he thought, and started to

flare the blades with the stick, hoping he could bring her in with the

collective. The Hind was still spinning in autorotation, but not yet

dangerously. Slowly, slowly . . .

He was about thirty feet above the trees when a splatter of automatic

fire erupted from the open doorway. He whirled around to see the

terrorist he'd bulldozed into the fence now hanging onto the metal step

and trying to pull himself in.

What now . . . !

The man--Vance guessed he was pushing forty, with a face of timeless

brutality--was covered with blood and his aim was hampered by trying to

hold the Uzi as he fired one-handed, the other hand grasping the step.

He was cursing in German. . . .

At that instant the Hind took a sickening dip, and the Uzi clattered

onto the doorway pallet as the terrorist relinquished it to try to hold

on with both hands.

But he was losing it, his hands slippery with his own blood, and all

that held him now was the torn section of his own shirt that had

somehow sleeved over the step. Then his grasp gave way entirely, and he

dangled for a moment by the shirt before it ripped through and he fell,

a trailing scream. He landed somewhere in the trees twenty feet below,

leaving only the shirt.

In the meantime the Hind continued spiraling and drifting down, and

Vance looked out to see the gray granite of the side of the mountain

moving toward him, with only a bramble of trees in between. But at

least the chopper's autorotation was bringing him in for a soft crash.

He braced himself as a clump of trees slapped against the side of the

fuselage. Then the twelve-ton helicopter plunged into them, its landing

gear collapsing as it crunched to a stop. He felt himself flung

forward, accompanied by the metallic splatter of the rotor collapsing

against the granite, shearing and knocking the fuselage sideways in a

series of jolts. As the two turboshaft engines automatically shut down,

he held onto the seat straps and reflected that this was his first and

probably last turn at the stick of a Hind. And all he'd managed to do

was total it.

Heck of a way to start a morning.

The Uzi was still lying on the floor of the cabin, while the shirt of

the man he had shot was wrapped around the metal step and lodged

beneath the crushed landing gear.

When he reached back and checked to see that the Walther 9mm was still

secured in his belt, he noticed that his arm had been lacerated by the

jagged plastic of the shattered canopy. He noticed it, but he didn't

feel it. He was feeling nothing, only a surge of adrenaline and the

certain knowledge he had to get out fast, with the Uzi.

He scooped it up and stumbled through the doorway, to the sound of

muted gunfire down the hill, as the other two hoods continued to

advance.

He had the German's automatic now, but the last thing he wanted was a

shootout. Nonetheless, rounds of fire sang around him as he ripped the

black shirt loose from the chopper's step and felt the pockets. One

contained what seemed like a small leather packet.

He yanked it out, then plunged in a direction that would bring the Hind

between him and the other two assailants. But when he tried to catch

his footing in the green bramble of brush, he fell on his shoulder and

rolled, feeling a spasm of pain. Christ, this was no longer any fun!

About twenty feet away was an even denser copse of cypress scrub than

the one he had crashed in. If he could make that, he told himself, he'd

have some cover. He just had to get there in one piece.

Half scrambling, half rolling, he headed for the thicket of trees,

occasionally loosing a round of covering fire down the hill. Then he

felt the scratchy hardness of the low brush and threw himself into the

bramble. Dirt spattered as rounds of fire--or was it flecks of granite?--

ricocheted around him, and then he felt a nick across one shoulder--he

was not sure from what. A couple more rounds cut past, but now they

were going wide.

He collapsed into the dense bramble and tried to catch his breath. What

next? The Uzi still had a half-full clip. Maybe he could hold them off.

He stilled his breathing and listened, but heard nothing. The

mountainside was deathly quiet, so much so he could almost hear the

crash of waves on the shore below. It was probably only wishful

imagination, but the quiet gave hope he might temporarily be out of

danger.

He turned and looked up the mountain, finally able to see it clearly.

The near hillside was covered with brush, the only objects visible

above the green being the tip of a high-tech jungle. SatCom had a hell

of a communications installation. Outlined against the blue sky were

huge parabolic antennas used for microwave uplinks, a phased-array

transmission system for powering the space vehicles, a myriad of dishes

for satellite uplinks and downlinks, and various other antennas used

for conventional radio. It was all set inside a high-security hurricane

fence with a gray cinderblock control hut at the near corner.

Well, he thought, with that battery of antennas, there's surely a way

to do what has to be done next. . . .

This time he wouldn't waste radio access with Maydays.

9:35 A.M.

As the landing announcement sounded through British Air flight 1101

from London to Athens, Isaac Mannheim took off his thick spectacles,

wiped them futilely with a greasy handkerchief, settled them back, and

stared down. The plane was now on final approach, and he had already

taken down his flight bag and stuffed it under the seat in preparation,

ready to march off.

Mannheim was professor emeritus at MIT, Department of Engineering, and

he retained the intellectual curiosity of a mischievous schoolboy. He

had the flowing white hair of a nineteenth-century European

philosopher, the burning eyes of a Jules Verne visionary, the single-

minded enthusiasm of a born inventor, the discursive knowledge of a

Renaissance man, and the self-assurance of a true genius--which he was.

Wearing a tweedy checked suit, a frayed brown overcoat, smudgy horn-

rims, and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap, he also looked every bit as

eccentric as his reputation said. The baseball cap was tribute to

another of his eclectic concerns--the statistics of that particular

team. Those he kept on a computer file and subjected to daily updates.

As Issac Mannheim saw it, he was the undisputed father of Project

Cyclops; Bill Bates was merely in charge of its delivery room down on

Andikythera. It was a half-truth, perhaps, but not entirely untrue

either. He had dreamed up the idea and proved in his MIT lab that it

could work. The rest, he figured, was merely scaling it up--which any

dimwit with half a billion dollars could do with ease. He had already

seen to the hard part.

Mannheim liked to check in on his baby every other week, just to make

sure that Bates--who was going to make a fortune off his idea--was doing

it right. Although the long flight to Athens and then the helicopter

ride down to Andikythera were starting to make him feel his seventy-

five years, he did not really mind. When you're my age, he'd claim, you

don't have time to sit around on your butt all day.

He always flew British Air from London rather than taking a direct

Olympic flight from Boston, mainly because he was an Anglophile but

also because he wasn't quite sure he trusted Greek maintenance. Isaac

Mannheim was old school in all things.

As the tires screeched onto the asphalt, he glanced out the window

again, marveling how small the Athens airport was. But then his mind

quickly traveled on to other pressing matters: namely, the day's

agenda. He was anxious to go over the power-up data number by number

with Georges LeFarge. The young French Canadian had been his best

student in Cambridge, ten years ago, and Isaac Mannheim was secretly

pleased, very pleased, that Georges had been given a leading role in

the project. Together, years ago, they had ironed out many of the

technical problems in the system. The work back then had been done on a

lab bench, and a shoestring, but LeFarge knew everything that could go

wrong. With Georges as Director of Computer Systems here, Mannheim knew

the project was in good hands, at least the crucial computer part of

it.

When the doors opened, he was one of the first to step out of the BA

757 and down the steel stairway onto the runway. He reflected that he'd

had a good flight this time, with only an hour layover in Heathrow's

infamously crowded Terminal Four. Now, as the airport bus arrived to

carry the bleary-eyed London passengers into the Athens terminal, he

anticipated getting an early start on the day.

He glanced down toward the far end of the airport, the civilian

aviation terminal, expecting to catch sight of Bates' blue-and-white-

striped Agusta helicopter. Funny, he couldn't see it today; usually you

could.

It was odd; they were always here, waiting. Customary promptness was

just one more example of how well that young Dr. Andros was handling

the project. He chafed to admit it, but she was pretty damned good.

Although he had long scoffed at the idea that women could compete

successfully with male engineers, he had to admit she was as

professional as any male project manager he'd ever worked with.

Carrying his overstuffed black briefcase in his left hand and his

tattered nylon flight bag in his right, he waited till the airport bus

was almost full before stepping on. Airport buses, he noted as an

engineer, operated on the old-time LIFO computer storage principle:

last in, first out. No random access.

And he was indeed first out as they pulled into the sheltered awning of

the terminal. The Athens morning sun was already burning through the

growing layer of brown haze. He thought ruefully how it would look from

the south, down around Piraeus, as they flew out. From there Athens

seemed to be encased in an ugly brown tomb.

World air quality was yet another of the topics weighing on his mind

these days. It was, in fact, a frequent subject of the long letters he

addressed to another former student, an average-IQ Danish boy majoring

in physics whom he had seen fit to flunk in junior-year thermodynamics.

Afterward Mannheim had taken the lad aside and bluntly suggested he

might wish to consider a less intellectually demanding career path.

The advice had been heeded, and these days he was doing reasonably well

at his cushy new job, down in Washington. Still, Isaac Mannheim felt it

necessary to post the boy long typewritten letters from time to time

concerning various avenues for self-improvement.

Yes, he had turned out reasonably well after all, considering, but he

still needed to work harder. Don't be a slacker, John; nobody ever got

ahead that way. The forty-second President of the United States, Johan

Hansen, read his old professor's missives, usually written on the back

of semi-log graph paper or whatever was handy, and dutifully answered

every one of them. Maybe he was afraid he'd get another "F" and a

humiliating lecture.

Isaac Mannheim stared around the half-filled terminal, wondering. The

SatCom pilot usually met him right at the gate, but today nobody was

there. Incompetent Greeks. This one, in fact, was particularly

feckless: just out of the Greek Air Force with no real grasp of the

value of time.

Or had Dr. Andros forgotten he was arriving? That was hard to imagine,

since he had talked with her just before he left Cambridge. One thing

you had to say for her, she never forgot appointments. Strange.

No helicopter. No pilot. Damned peculiar. He had no alternative but to

phone Dr. Andros on her private line.

He walked over to the booth near the entrance to the terminal lobby and

got some drachmas. Then he located a pay phone and placed the call.

She answered on the first ring. Good.

"Cally, what in blazes is going on down there?" He tried to open the

conversation as diplomatically as he knew how. "I'm here, sitting on my

butt in the Athens airport, as though I had nothing else to do. I don't

see Alex anywhere. Or the Agusta. You're going to have to get rid of

that boy if this happens again. Where in hell are they?"

A long uncomfortable pause ensued, and it sounded as though she was

listening to someone else. Finally she answered in a shaky voice.

"Dr. Mannheim, it's been a very long night here. Maybe you--"

"Well, how did the power-up go? I need to go over the data with Georges

right away."

"Dr. Mannheim, maybe--" The phone seemed to go dead. Then she came back

on. "The Mark II is temporarily out of service. Can you take the

ferry?"

"What! You know perfectly well that damned thing only runs once a week.

And that was yesterday. Now what about the Agusta?"

"It's . . . it's just not possible. So--"

'Tell you what, then, I'll just rent one here. It'll cost a few

dollars, but I can't wait around all day."

"Isaac, I--" She never used his first name, at least not to him, but he

took no notice.

"Don't worry about it. It'll just go into project overhead. Be a tax

write-off for Bates." He laughed, without noticeable humor. "He

understands all about such things."

'That's awfully expensive," she said, her voice still sounding strange.

"Maybe it'd be better to wait--"

"Damn it. I'll be there in a couple of hours."

"Dr. Mannheim . . ." Her voice would have sounded an alarm to most

people. But then most people listened. Isaac Mannheim rarely bothered.

Especially where women were concerned. You simply did what had to be

done. It was that simple, but most women seemed unable to fathom

matters of such obvious transparency.

He slammed down the phone and strode out into the morning sunshine. The

private aviation terminal was about a half mile down an ill-paved road,

but he decided the walk would do him good. The breeze would feel

refreshing after the smoky, stuffy terminal. The problem was, Athens

was already getting hot. That's why he liked the islands. They were

always cooler this time of year.

CHAPTER FIVE

7:48 A.M.

Vance stared up the mountain, puzzled. The silence baffled him, and

then he realized why. He was not hearing the usual high-tension hum of

transformers; nothing was operating. They had shut down the power.

He heaved a sigh, then dropped down beside a tree trunk and clicked out

the magazine of the black Uzi. It had about fifteen rounds left, so the

time had come to start making them count. Here, amid the brush, he had

a chance to lie low for a while and figure out what to do next. Besides

feeling thirst and fatigue, he had a throbbing sprain in his shoulder,

incurred somehow during the crash of the chopper. But the pain was

helping to clear his mind.

Maybe, he thought, he could find some provisions stowed in the Hind,

left or overlooked. A stray canteen or some MREs. But did he want to

risk going back down?

The answer was yes because--even more important--the radio might still be

operating. It was definitely time to activate the warranty on this job.

But first things first. Who are these creeps?

Hoping to find out something, he pulled out the leather packet he had

retrieved from the terrorist's torn shirt and cracked it open. Crumpled

inside was a wad of Yemeni dinars, and a crinkled ID card in German. On

the back was a phrase scrawled in English ... it looked like The

Resistance Front for a Free--it was smudged, but yes--Europe.

Back when he and Bates had first talked about the security question,

Bill had insisted ARM focus on industrial security. Truthfully, there

hadn't been any real thought given to antiterrorist measures. It had

just seemed unimaginable. Looked at another way, though, Bates had been

trying to be cost-effective, had gambled on an assumption. Now it was

beginning to look as though that had been a bad bet.

Although for a ground-based setup Dimitri's handiwork-- contracted out

of Athens--was top-notch, it had made no provisions against aerial

penetration. From land or sea. That haunting phrase kept coming back.

But Bill had laughed it off, and the client was always supposed to be

right.

Besides, the SatCom facility already had a nest of radars up on the

hill, there as part of the Cyclops and also to monitor the local

weather. Why clutter up the place any more? The fact was, these guys

had probably come in under the facility's electronic eyes anyway, using

the Hind's ability to detect an interrogation and keep low enough to

avoid a significant radar signature. The background noise from the

choppy sea must have been enough to mask their approach.

Maybe Spiros should have considered that, but at this point such

meditations amounted to Monday-morning quarterbacking. So now the

parameters of the job had changed, from industrial security to

counterterrorism. SatCom was fortunate in its choice of security

services, because an ARM job always came with a guarantee: if a problem

came up, the boys would be there immediately to solve it. Which meant

that alerting Paris was now his first priority. Until reinforcements

arrived, though, he was ARM's on-site rep.

Lots of problems came to mind. First off, he was operating on the

perimeter: he had no map of the facility, no idea where to find the

hostages. However, the communications station up the hill represented a

redoubt he probably could defend reasonably well, unless they brought

up some really heavy artillery. Maybe there would be some way to

disrupt the proceedings, provide a diversion.

Sooner or later, he figured, there's bound to be some action out of the

U.S. air and naval base down at Souda Bay, on Crete. Hopefully somebody

down at Gournes had picked up his Mayday.

But even if they had, could they send in a team? This was Greek soil,

and Greeks tended to be fussy about their sovereignty. Now that NATO

had no idea what its new mission was, America's heavy presence in

Europe more and more looked like Yankee imperialism. They might

convince the Greeks to let them bring in the Navy SEALs or even the

antiterrorist Delta Force from Fort Bragg in Fayetteville, North

Carolina, but that would require a lot of negotiation, might take days.

Time could run out by then. And the Greeks had no capability themselves

to do anything but make matters worse.

He looked down the hill, toward the half-visible wreckage of the Hind.

Okay, he thought, time to see about that radio. Slowly he rose,

chambered a round in the Uzi with a hard click, and started through the

brush. The Greek scrub tore through his thin shirt and rasped at his

skin, while the morning sun, glimmering off the proud silver spires of

the vehicles at the other end of the island, beat down. The island

remained eerily calm, the sleep of the dead. The takeover was complete,

no question about that.

Through the brush the wreckage of the Hind showed its mottled coloring,

a mix of grays and tans among the green of the branches. As he

approached, he could discern no sign of his attackers, which either

meant they were pros and lying in wait for him or they were amateurs

and had fled.

He looked around the copse of scrub cypress, then gingerly stepped

through the open doorway. By some miracle the electronics were still

lined up in rows of readiness, lights and LEDs glowing. A tough bird.

And the radio was still operating, and on. Dawn had long since ripened

the clear blue of the sky, and he could feel the beat of warm sunshine

on the shattered bubble of the canopy. Now, he knew, the terrorists

would be scanning the military frequencies, so it was time to be

circumspect and use some caution for a change.

He checked it over. Good, it had sideband. That was perfect, because he

figured they probably wouldn't monitor those offbeat marine

frequencies. If he could raise Spiros in Athens, he could then contact

Paris. They could put together a team overnight and fly it down.

He fiddled with the sideband channels, hoping. He heard some amateur

action and a ship-to-shore--funny, he thought, that the minute yachtsmen

put to sea they're anxious to get in contact with someone on dry land.

What would Ulysses have done with a shortwave radio? Talked back to the

Sirens? . . .

The broadcasts, however, were mainly about the weather. Sailors did not

waste their time on world events. When that news finally trickled down,

however, these sideband channels would probably no longer be safe to

use--maybe they weren't now, but he had to take the risk. . . .

He tried a few frequencies and then he got lucky. It was a Greek ham

operator, probably having a second cup of strong native coffee and

waiting for the traffic in Athens to subside. As are all amateurs, he

was delighted to talk. He sounded youthful and enthusiastic, eager to

help.

"I read you, Ulysses. You're coming in loud and clear on SSB 432.124

megahertz. This is SV5VMS, Athens. What is your callsign?"

"Don't have a handle," Vance replied into the mike, in Greek. "This is

a Mayday."

"I copy." The voice suddenly grew serious. "What is your location?"

He paused a second, wondering what to say. No, he couldn't take a

chance. Who knew who else was listening in?

"Don't have that either. What I need is a phone patch to a number in

Athens. Can you set it up?"

"No problem," came the confident response, using the international

English phrase. Vance tried to imagine what he looked like. Probably

mid-twenties, with the swagger acquired by all young Greek men along

with their first motor scooter. They wanted to impress you with how

wonderful their country was, and they also wanted you to know that they

were the biggest stud in all the land. "But whoever you want may be

gone to work by now."

"This guy probably won't even be out of bed yet. He's a night owl,"

Vance replied into the mike. He didn't add that the best thing Dimitri

did at night was handle an infrared-mounted H&K MP5. "It's Athens city

code and the number is 21776." He knew that Spiros kept a lovely

whitewashed house on the western side of town, just out of the major

smog centers.

Moments later the patch was through and he had Spiros on the radio. The

patch was scratchy and hill of static, but not so much he couldn't

hear.

"Michael, you woke me up. I hope the world just ended." It was Spiros's

gruff voice. A thirty-year veteran of an antiterrorist unit in

Brussels, he was as tough as he sounded. "By the way, everybody's heard

about that _Odyssey_ stunt of yours. Are you in trouble already? We've

got a pool going on you. I have ten thousand drachmas saying you'll

never make it."

"I appreciate the confidence. Anyway, you can start spending the money.

You'll be relieved to know I blew it. She sank on me."

'Too bad." He laughed. "So what was the problem?"

"Mostly it was some twelve-mil machine-gun fire. Took the wind right

out of her sails. I took a swim and then I think a 57mm Euclid finished

her off."

'That's Russian." The voice quickly grew serious. "Sounds like vou made

the wrong people mad. Who in hell did it?"

"Don't know, but they're very meticulous about their work. They used a

false-flag approach and shelled an American frigate down here north of

Crete. Should be making the news any time now."

"Sounds like somebody's getting hot about inviting the Sixth Fleet out

of the Med." Then Spiros's pensive tone turned businesslike. "Are you

okay? Where are you now?"

"I'm fine, I think. But you've got to get some of the boys down here."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember that job you did for Bill Bates?" Maybe, he thought, we can

talk around the problem. "Looks like the security didn't stick."

"That was a good job," Spiros said with a growl. "Need some updating?"

"It's going to be a little more than that. I think maybe a dozen

hostiles, give or take, came in by chopper. A Hind-D. Had all the

factory extras."

"Had?"

"It just met with an accident."

"And I'll bet you had nothing to do with it." He laughed. "So what kind

of hardware do they have?"

"Uzis for sure. Probably also some grenade launchers. Also light

machine guns, ZB-26. The odds are good they're going to be here for a

while. They've dug in and it's a long swim to anywhere."

"Should we be having this conversation on the phone?" Caution was

entering his voice. "Can we secure up these communications?"

"Bight now we've got no choice," Vance answered. "Nothing where I am is

secure." Including my skin, he thought.

"All right, then, give it to me fast." He was all business. "What do

you have on nationality?"

"It has a Beirut feel about it. But I managed to get some material off

one of them, and I think he was a former East German Stasi type.

Whoever they are, they're operating under some phony front name."

"I read you. Usual terrorist MO?"

"Best I can tell."

'Then we have to worry about civilians. That's going to make it

tougher."

"Bill may be among them. And all his staff."

"Bad news."

"He's a prize."

"What do you think their game is?" Spiros asked after a pause.

"Ransom?"

"That'd he my first guess. Though it doesn't synch with the attack on

the U.S. ship--unless it was intended as a deliberate diversion. Maybe

they're planning something else. But my hunch is money's involved.

Anyway, we'll find out soon enough."

"You're damned right we will." The line was silent for a moment as

static intervened. "Well, this will teach us to guarantee our work.

It's going to be an expensive insurance policy."

"Nothing in life is supposed to be easy."

"So we keep finding out." He seemed to be thinking. "You know, I sent

the layout to Paris when the job was finished. For the files." He

didn't want to mention Pierre Armont, the head of ARM, on an unsecured

line. "I'll see what the office there can get together for us."

"Do we have any people left on site?" Vance asked.

"Just contract," Spiros responded. "Locals and probably not worth

much."

"Well, whoever they are, chances are good they've been neutralized by

now. As a matter of fact, I fear the worst."

"That's our motto. Assume everything will go to hell and then work

around it."

"Time to get off the air. I'll try to raise you at 1700 hours. On 2150

megahertz. By that time you'd better have the team lined up and ready

to move in. I owe Bates this one. A nice clean job."

"Right. Who do you think we ought to use?"

"Anybody who worked on the security here would be good."

'That's got to be me," Spiros said ruefully.

"Okay. Beyond that, we'll need a first-class SWAT team. This one is

going to be rough. We need somebody who can handle explosives like a

brain surgeon, maybe Marcel, out of Antwerp. Get him if you can find

him sober. Also, we probably could use a negotiator. Somebody who can

keep them busy while we get the real insertion in place. And a good

sniper will be essential. Lots of friendlies."

"Okay. That sounds like Reggie. I'll run some names past Paris. But

what are you going to do in the meantime?"

"Well, they know I'm here, but they don't know who I am. I'll

concentrate on staying alive, and try to find out whatever I can about

the MO. Catch you at 1700."

"Talk to you then," Dimitri said, and hung up.

Right, Vance thought. I'd definitely rather be in Philadelphia.

8:39 A.M.

"It's a go in five," Caroline Shaeffer announced in a stage whisper,

leaning over his shoulder. A blond Ohio debutante, she was press

secretary--a job she had fought for and loved --and she structured the

President's media appearances with the bloodless efficiency of a Nazi

drill sergeant. This hastily arranged breakfast speech at New York's

Plaza was no different. She had put it together in less than ten days,

and anybody who mattered in New York politics was in attendance,

smiling their way dirough stale _prosciutto con melone _and soggy eggs

Benedict, for an awe-inspiring hour of "quality time" with President

Johan Hansen.

The head table had the usual crowd: Mayor Jarvis, senators,

representatives, state senators, state officials of every stripe, even

the borough presidents. Hansen was almost as popular as Ronald Reagan

had been in his heyday. The election was coming up in less than six

weeks, and Johan Hansen held a commanding lead--twenty-eight points if

you believed the latest Newsweek/Gallup poll. A "nonpolitical" event in

the middle of the campaign allowed everybody to show up for a photo,

regardless of party. President Hansen's speech was scheduled to begin

at 8:44 A.M. sharp, perfectly timed to let Today and Good Morning

America carry the opening remarks live eastern and central and not have

to look like the networks were trailing CNN, indeed wiping its ass, yet

again. In any case, it would definitely make the evening news on all

three. Precisely as Hansen intended.

Johan Hansen, whose perfect white hair and granite chin

made him look every inch a chief of state, had mixed feelings about his

trips to the Big Apple. He relished the automatic media attention they

received (Caroline claimed that whereas $2-million-a-year network

anchors usually considered themselves above travel, in New York one or

two might deign to show up), but chafed at the mechanics--the

helicopters, traffic jams, awesome security. He also despised political

food, which was why Caroline had packed his own private breakfast of

shredded wheat and skimmed milk, to be downed discreetly while

everybody else was busy clogging their arteries.

He was speaking on worldwide nuclear disarmament, and he intended his

address to be a warm-up for one at the United Nations General Assembly

three weeks hence (which meant another damned trip to New York). Alter

opening with his standard stump remarks, all partisan digs excised, he

would then go on to assure his audience that the New World truly was

here--which always got everybody in a receptive mood. He would then

remind them that three years earlier (i.e., "When I assumed this

office"), America was still spending $7 billion a year on new nuclear

warheads. He had put an end to that, but now it was time to take the

next step. Total nuclear disarmament worldwide. It was a stance that

normally received polite applause at best, and stony silence at worst.

But it never failed to make the news.

This morning the broadcast networks and CNN had combined their

resources--after all, the space was limited--to provide pool coverage.

Although the usual ganglia of lights and wires were reduced to an

absolute minimum, the back of the room still looked like a makeshift

convention bureau. The broadcast correspondents all had their own

"instant analysis" cameras set up, and the print people were all next

to their own newly installed, dedicated phones.

Johan Hansen's acquisition of the Oval Office had come at the end of a

hard-fought election battle that saw several firsts in American

politics. For one thing, it proved, finally, that America truly was the

land of opportunity. He was a first-generation Danish American, and he

was Jewish--the latter being a part of his heritage that seldom, if

ever, got press play.

He scarcely noticed either. In truth, it was only on his father's side--

which in Judaism did not really count. Hansen's father, Joost, had been

a young Copenhagen college student in 1943 when the people of Denmark

one night heroically evacuated all the country's Jews to Sweden, out of

the looming grasp of the Nazis. Shortly thereafter he had married

Hansen's mother, a Swede named Erica who had helped in the evacuation,

and then, after the war, they had immigrated to America. Joost Hansen

had finished his doctorate in physics at Princeton--being a promising

physicist was one of the reasons he could so readily get into the

United States--and then had gone to work at Los Alamos.

On the liner that brought them, the birth of Johan Hansen was due any

minute, and one hour after it docked on the pier on the west side of

New York, he came bawling into the world--a brand-new citizen and

native-born, thereby eligible by a matter of minutes to be President

someday. Who could have known?

Young Johan remembered little of Princeton, New Jersey, but in Los

Alamos he had gloried in the clear air of the mountains, had loved the

old White Sands rocket test area where they vacationed, had loved

everything about America. He'd gone on to try engineering at M IT, but

he had soon realized he didn't have the makings to follow in his

father's technical footsteps. He cared too much about human affairs to

stay in the bloodless world of formulas and machines.

As a result, he shifted to political science, and after graduating he

became an aide to one of Massachusetts's liberal congressmen.

Eventually he ran for the House on his own. The Democratic primary was

a model of rough-and-tumble Boston politics, but he won a squeaker and

became a full-fledged member at thirty-one.

Thus began a career that continued through the Senate and, after two

terms, to the Presidency. He had achieved his ambitions, and his

soaring popularity was all the more amazing for accruing to a man who

had restructured the military during the painful transition of the

United States to a post-Cold-War economy. Turning swords into

plowshares was never as easy as it sounded, but America's excess

armaments capacity had gone back to reinvigorate her high-tech sectors.

If you could make an F-15, he had declared, you could by-God make

anything. Now retool and get on with it. America had.

In his most important contribution to history, however, John Hansen had

presided over the dismantling of more than half the world's nuclear

arsenal. It's easy, he'd declared to the Russians, we just do nothing.

And in so doing, the tritium in all those warheads will simply decay.

End of bombs. You monitor our plants at Oak Ridge and Savannah River;

we monitor you; and together we watch the nuclear threat to humanity

simply tick away.

It was working, he often noted with pride. Maybe we're not going to

melt the planet after all. Not only would future generations thank him;

there would be future generations. But would they know enough history

to appreciate what he'd done? he wondered ruefully. Only if the dismal

state of American education could be improved. . . .

It was now 8:40 A.M. and the television lights had been switched on,

turning the fake gold leaf on the ceiling into an intense white. The

TelePrompTer had been readied, and the Secret Service detail was making

last-minute checks around the room as unobtrusively as conditions would

permit. Correspondents, for their own part, were poring over an advance

copy of the text that Caroline's aide had just passed out, making notes

for the brief question period scheduled to follow.

The time was 8:41 when she walked up behind him and laid down a large

gray envelope marked Top Secret. It was, she whispered, a couple of

pages fresh off the secure fax that had been installed in the room just

down the hall.

What was it? he wondered. Some eleventh-hour revisions by Jordan

McCormick, a young new speechwriter from Harvard who liked to tinker

till the very last minute? Puzzled, he ripped open the envelope. The

first page was a covering memo from his personal secretary, Alicia

Winston. Miss Winston, as she insisted on being called, was a spinster,

fifty- eight, who guarded access to Johan Hansen with the ferocity of a

pit bull. Get past her, junior members of Congress often declared, and

you're home free. It was, however, more often a dream than a

realization. Seduction was frequently discussed.

Alicia's note was brief and pointed. The second page, it said, was a

copy of a fax that had just arrived on her desk from Ed Briggs, head of

the Joint Chiefs. Hansen's chief of staff, Morton Davies, had asked her

to fax it on to New York immediately. They both knew Morton was not a

man to squander time.

Hansen glanced over to see a white phone, complete with scrambler,

being nestled next to the official text of his speech. When he scanned

the second sheet, he knew why.

"He's on the line," Caroline said.

He nodded and checked his watch. Eight forty-three. Shit. "Caroline,

tell them there's been a five-minute hold. And see if you can have them

kill those damned lights."

"You've got it." She signaled to the pool producer, pointed to the

lights, and made a slashing motion across her throat. With a puzzled

nod, he immediately complied, barking an order to his lighting

director.

Hansen picked up the phone. "Ed, what the hell is this about? I'm

looking at the fax. You say this happened over six hours ago?"

"Mr. President, that came in about ten minutes ago from naval intel.

They've been trying to get the story straight. The BBC was carrying a

rumor, but it was soft. We wanted to get all the facts before--"

"It was in the Med?" Hansen impatiently cut him off. "Why so long--?"

"They claim they took all this time trying to nail down who's

responsible, and they still don't know for sure. All they've got that's

hard is what I sent you. A frigate under contract to NSA got hit. About

fifty known casualties. It could be our friends the Israelis, up to

their old tricks, or it could be somebody who wants us to think it's

them."

"Ed, I'm staring down half the press in the country right now, as we

speak. I can't do anything till I get back. But check with Alicia. I

think I'm scheduled in around noon, and I'd like to try and have a

statement out by three today."

"All right, Mr. President, we'll do what we can. Let me secure-fax

Morton everything I've got so far, and he can forward anything he

thinks might help. But we've got to talk. This could be a tough call."

"What are the Israelis saying?"

'Their military intel told Morton they don't know a damned thing about

it. But their embassy here's already on red alert, getting ready to

start pushing out smoke."

'Typical." Hansen had no love for Israel. In his view, their

intransigence had caused the lion's share of America's problems in the

Middle East. They never told the truth about anything until three days

later, when it was too late to matter. In the meantime, they just did

whatever they wanted.

"Well, this time I almost think they may be straight," Briggs said. "It

doesn't have any of their trademarks. For one thing, it had their name

all over it--not their style."

Hansen scanned the fax again, noting the large-print Top Secret across

the top, and tried to make it sink in. Concentration was difficult,

considering the expectant stirrings in the room, the clank of

silverware. But this was nothing short of a major episode. What did it

mean?

"Okay, Ed, I want to see you first thing. And bring Bob with you"--

Robert Barnes was his assistant, Navy--"in case we need to scramble out

of Crete."

"Roger, sir. I'll have Alicia get everything we need set up in the Sit

Room."

"Good." Hansen hung up the phone and looked around the room. Damn. Who

was trying to screw up the Med? Already he had a bad feeling it might

involve terrorists, but where did they get the Soviet helicopter?

Okay, he told himself, time to call in all the heavy guns, all the

advisers who get paid so much to do your thinking.

He would face his first problem when the press got hold of the story.

He could already see the cartoons, that bastard in the Moonie-owned

Washington Times who was always accusing him of being a pansy on

defense. They'd want blood, an eye for an eye, while he was trying his

best to change that way of thinking.

This latest stupidity damned sure wasn't going to make it any easier.

With that grim thought, he smiled his widest smile and signaled

Caroline to alert the pool producer to switch on the television lights.

8:14 A.M.

"What happened?" Ramirez asked. Helling had alerted him by walkie-

talkie and summoned him to the lobby. There the Germans were returning,

Henes Sommer covered with blood and being carried by Rudolph Schindler

and Peter Maier.

"Henes got caught in a firefight. Then he tried to take the chopper . .

. and fell." Schindler was struggling to find the words, thinking that

he would have to be the one to tell Henes' wife, in what used to be

East Berlin. Henes Sommer, forty-five, had joined Ramirez's operation

out of idealism, as a step toward driving the Zionist scourge from

Europe. Ramirez had made the operation sound so easy.

"It's even worse," Helling said slowly, addressing his words to

Ramirez. "He must have been a guard who escaped our notice, but he

managed to start the Hind. Then he crashed it against the hillside."

"Why didn't you go after him and kill him?" Ramirez asked quietly, his

anger smoldering.

"There was no need. He's trapped up there. For now he can rot." An

uncomfortable pause ensued before he continued. "Besides, he's armed.

We probably should wait till nightfall. What can he do?"

He can do a lot, Ramirez was thinking. This could be trouble.

The three Germans had been brought along as a favor to Wolf Helling,

and now they had demonstrated just how worthless they actually were.

Under ordinary circumstances, he would have shot them all on the spot,

as an example to the rest of the team.

"You say the Hind has been crashed?" he went on, his eyes hidden behind

his shades.

"We don't need it any more. What does that matter?" Helling shrugged,

not sure he believed his own words. "In any case, this is what comes of

having amateurs involved."

Schindler's eyes darkened in resentment. It had never really occurred

to him until this moment that his and his friends' lives were at risk.

Ramirez was trying hard to mask his own chagrin, telling himself he

should never have sent these untried goons out to do a man's work. A

good attorney never asked a question in court that he didn't already

know the answer to; and you never turned your back on an operation if

you weren't already fully certain how it would turn out. That was one

mistake he didn't plan to make again.

"Life is never simple," he said, turning back to the German threesome.

The wounded man was wheezing from a hole in his chest. "There's only

one thing to do with him."

He withdrew a Walther from inside his coat and, with great precision,

shot Henes Sommer directly between the eyes, as calmly as though

dispatching a racehorse with a broken leg. The body slumped into the

arms of Rudolph Schindler, who looked on in horror.

"It was merely a minor miscalculation, but now it's been handled." He

turned to Helling. "Now go back and watch the hill. And try to act like

a professional."

The German nodded. He dared not tell Ramirez the true extent of their

trouble. Not only had the mysterious stranger escaped with Henes' Uzi,

he also still might have a radio, if the Hind had not been totally

wrecked. Helling, their boss, didn't seem yet aware of this problem. If

it was still working, what would he do?

"Now," Ramirez continued, "rather than waste our time on fruitless

recriminations, we must proceed."

He turned and walked back through the doors leading into Command.

Across the room, past the rows of computer

terminals, Bates sat at the Main Command desk, talking to Dr. Andros.

"Problem?" Bates asked, looking up. Although he had not slept all

night, his blue blazer remained immaculate. "Having some trouble, you

son of a bitch?"

"You will be relieved to know nothing is amiss," Ramirez replied as

smoothly as he could manage. "One of your guards, it would seem,

decided to make a nuisance of himself. But he has been neutralized."

Bates did not believe it. He had overheard the broadcast on the BBC,

and now he was starting to put it all together. These thugs had come in

by chopper, after attacking a U.S. ship. They must have left the attack

helicopter out on the pad. But somebody got to it . . .

"Now, Miss Andros . . ." Ramirez lifted a clipboard from her desk and

examined it. "My, my, today we all have a busy schedule. Review the

test data from the power-up, final calibrations of the Cyclops, flight

prep of the vehicle. . . ." He put it down. "Yes, it does look like a

busy day. For us all. All you have to do is cooperate, and no one here

will be harmed."

The second chopper is on its way now, he was thinking, if everything

was on schedule. The next item was the launch vehicle.

He estimated they would need a day and a half to make the retrofit. The

scheduled first test launch had been programmed for three days away--now

it was two--so there was ample time . . . exactly as he had planned.

9:27 A.M.

Vance leaned back against the scrub cypress and listened to the whistle

of the light wind through the granite outcroppings. He had perched

himself on one of the rugged cliffs, from which he could see virtually

everything that went on aboveground. Around him ants crawled, oblivious

to the heat of the sun, which now seared the bone-colored rocks on all

sides, while down below the languorous surf beckoned. How ironic, and

tragic: all the violence and killing, right here in the middle of

paradise.

He had managed to remove the battery-powered radio from the Hind; it

would serve as his lifeline to the rest of the world. The military

channels were all scrambled now, which told him that plenty was going

on out there over the blue horizon. Trouble was, all communications had

been secured. He had no idea what was happening.

What the hell to do next? He was barefoot--with nothing but an Uzi, a

9mm, and a radio.

He felt waves of grogginess ripple over him as the sun continued to

climb. He was dead tired, and in spite of himself he sensed his mind

drifting in the heat, his body losing its edge. Pulling himself

together, he snapped alert. This was no time to ease up. He noticed

that some of the men had left the command section and gone down to

Launch Control, the flight-prep sector. They were carrying AK-47s now.

Much better for sniper work.

They know I've only got an Uzi, he reminded himself, which is why they

realize they're in no danger. From up here it'd be next to useless. But

with a scope, those Kalashnikovs are bad news. . . .

At that moment he heard a dull roar, coming in from the south. Was it

somebody who'd picked up his radio Mayday? He squinted against the sun

and tried to see. As he watched, a dark, mottled shape appeared over

the blue horizon. It was another helicopter--not a Hind this time.

As it came in for a landing at the pad down by Launch Control, Vance

checked it over. It was a Sikorsky S-61R, military, with a main rotor

almost sixty feet across, a retractable tricycle landing gear, and a

rear cargo ramp. It went back to the sixties--the U.S. had used them to

lift astronauts from the sea--but it was a warhorse and reliable as

hell. It had an amphibious hull, twin General Electric turboshaft

engines located up close to the drive gearbox, and an advanced flight-

control system. Whether or not this one had the latest bells and

whistles, he did know its speed was over a hundred and sixty miles per

hour and its range was over six hundred miles.

What's that all about? he wondered. Is this the getaway car?

Whatever it was, they were not landing on the regular pad; they were

putting her down as close as they could to the vehicles.

No, he decided, what they're doing is setting up something, getting

ready for the big show.

He already had a feeling he knew what it was going to be. The modus was

standard operating procedure. But this was going to be a waiting game,

at least for a while, and he thought about trying to catch a couple of

winks. There was nothing to be done now. He'd have to wait till dark.

To pass the time, he clicked on the radio again, to see if they were

using walkie-talkies. After scanning the civilian channels he finally

got a burst of traffic. They were chatting, all right--a lot of coded

talk in a mixture of German, English, and French.

He paused a minute, even picked up the mike, attached by a coiled black

cord to the radio, and pushed the red button. But then he thought

better of it and clicked it off. The time would come soon enough to get

in on the fun, but not yet.

9:32 A.M.

Jamal Khan, the younger brother of Salim, watched as the Sikorsky set

down, then pushed the starter button on the white electric cart, urging

it to life. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Nothing he had

ever done in years past matched up to this, not even the airline

hijackings. The only drawback was his comrades. Like, for example, this

wise-ass Israeli, Peretz.

Dore Peretz, for his own part, waited until the cart--a three-wheel, on-

site mover--had started, and then he swung onto the back. Neither spoke

as they silently motored through the sunshine, the breeze in their

hair, headed for the just-landed helo.

The sparkling morning did not improve the atmosphere between the two

men: only the sunshine contributed warmth to the moment. Peretz had

contempt for the Iranian's arrogance and intensity; the bearded Iranian

resented the Israeli's technical skills, his attitude, and the fact

that he was Israeli. None of it could easily be forgiven. Jamal further

could not forgive the Israeli for having no commitment to driving the

Americans from the Middle East, for being here only for the money.

When they reached the Sikorsky, now settled on the tarmac, Jamal pulled

the cart to a halt, then switched off the motor and stepped down. It

would take all hands to manage the off-loading.

Helling and the two other Germans were already waiting in the sunshine,

and as Jamal looked them over, he found himself liking them even less

than he did Peretz. The truth was, they were little more than

bureaucrats, regardless of whatever they called themselves. They ranted

about America being the prisoner of the Zionists, but it was just

rhetoric. . . .

The door of the Sikorsky was opening now and "Abdoullah," the first of

the three Pakistani engineers, was emerging, followed by "Rais" and

"Shujat." All three had their dark hair swathed in a traditional

Palestinian black and white _kaffiyeh_, part of their "disguise."

Jamal tried not to smile as he watched them--grim-faced college boys--

awkwardly slam clips into their Uzis and look around, as though they

were about to lead an assault. It was a wonderful joke.

"Abdoullah" actually had a Ph.D. in nuclear engineering from Berkeley.

While in America he had developed a taste for the good life--cars,

designer clothes, and gold jewelry--and then when he came back and went

to work at Kahuta, Pakistan's top-secret uranium enrichment plant, he

had discovered sex.

The instrument of this discovery was a hard-eyed Palestinian girl,

Ramala, whose fiery politics were matched only by her skills in bed. He

became a convert to her and then to her cause--which played directly

into the hands of Ramirez. Ramirez had, Jamal knew, been working on

this setup for five years. Money here, information there, it all had

finally paid off.

Of all Ramirez's recruits, "Abdoullah's" contribution had been the most

crucial, since he had been the one who had arranged the theft of the

two items now crated and ready in the cargo bay of the Sikorsky. He and

his two engineer-colleagues spoke English by choice, and to Jamal they

looked almost identical, all with new coal-black beards and designer

"commando" sweatbands under their _kaffiyeh_. They were trying to get

with the look of revolutionary chic, he thought with disdain. They'd

just made the big time, but they still thought they were in a Chuck

Norris movie. Fortunately, they'd already served their main purpose. In

two more days, they would be totally expendable.

The Sikorsky had landed approximately fifty yards from the entrance to

the blockhouse of the launch facility, placing them a mere two hundred

yards away from the SatCom space vehicles, VX-1 and VX-2. Those spires

seemed to preside over everything, casting long shadows, and the three

Pakistani engineers paused, still gripping their Uzis, to gaze up and

admire them.

"Don't stand there gawking." Peretz curtly brought them to attention.

"We've got to get moving. If anybody has started any satellite recon of

this place, we could be on TV by now. A U.S. KH-12 can read the address

on a fucking postcard." He signaled for the pilot to release the rear

entry ramp. "Let's get going. We're taking them in immediately."

The Pakistanis saluted in paramilitary style, secured their Uzis into

their black leg-holsters, and moved expectantly to the rear of the

helo. As the ramp slowly came down, there strapped and waiting in the

aft bay were two wooden crates cushioned in a bed of clear plastic

bubble-wrap, each approximately a meter square and weighing just under

a hundred kilos.

Phase four had begun.

CHAPTER SIX

12:03 P.M.

Cally Andros felt disgusted, physically nauseated. And partly it was

with herself. Blame the victim. She wondered if all hostages felt this

way: powerless, angry, and scared. What would she feel next? She had

heard that strange things happened to your mind when you lost all

control. You started forgetting recent events and remembering oddities

from long ago, childhood memories you'd totally repressed, stashed away

somewhere down in the lower cortex. It had already started, dwelling on

her father's death and blaming herself, when the real reason was his

overwork and grief.

And other memories were creeping in, little things that only the child

inside would regard as anything but trivial. That first bumbling sexual

disaster, in the Cal Tech dorm that weekend, when she got drunk, then

threw up on his pillow. She'd repressed that one completely, never told

anybody about that, hoping the memory would just go away. God! It was

horrible. And now it was back, right at the top of the remembrance

file.

More memories, the first year at Bronx Science, when her very first

real date stood her up, and she ended up sitting home all night crying

and praying everybody was going to believe her when she told them she'd

had the cramps and couldn't go out after all. (They didn't. Everybody

found out exactly what had happened.)

Humiliations? Stupid things that meant so much at the time that they

stuck. You felt your life had been a string of mistakes and you wanted

to go back and get it right before you checked out. And try as you

might, you didn't care at all about the triumphs--degrees, ceremonies,

honors. No, all you could remember were the little, trivial things,

joys and sadnesses that were yours alone. Remembrances of trivialities

past. That's what being a hostage was all about.

On the other hand--and she hated herself for this feeling--there was

something almost erotic about men with so much sudden, ill-gotten

power. Evil had its own allure, just as surely as good. Were they just

two opposite sides of the same emotion? Wasn't Satan the real hero of

Paradise Lost ? Was Ramirez that same figure? The sexiness of power.

Bill Bates had the same aura. . . .

Georges and his young staff engineers were sitting listlessly and

staring at their computer screens, looking exhausted and defeated. Bill

had been confined to his office, where he could do nothing but fume

since his radio had been shut down and there was now only one phone

remaining connected to the outside world--the one on her desk, which

they monitored.

It got worse. Isaac was coming in, which meant they'd have a real prize

for a hostage. As if Bill weren't enough, to have a famous American

Jewish professor in hand would be the topping on their whole grab.

She tried to catch Georges's eye, across the room. He seemed to be

drowsing at his terminal, almost as though nothing had happened. Since

he had always held a political stance slightly to the left of Che

Guevara, maybe he secretly enjoyed being taken hostage by these self-

appointed enemies of American Capitalism.

No . . . she saw an eyelid flutter ... he was just faking his calm. He

was scared to death. And he was thinking. About what?

She had done some thinking of her own, about the guy who called himself

Number One, the terrorist now sitting at the other end of Command,

calmly smoking a thin cigar. As she examined him, the gray temples and

perfect tan, the beige sunglasses, she began to find his appearance a

little incongruous. What was it?

Well, for one thing, he looked too perfect. Something about him . . .

He had to be at least in his late forties, but nobody's face looked

like that at his age. It was too smooth, too tight.

Plastic surgery. The bastard had changed his appearance. So who was he,

really? He hadn't given his name, but his face must have mattered once.

Who?

Try and put it together, she told herself. He's not Middle Eastern.

Maybe he's trying to pass as an Arab, but he's not fooling me. No, he's

Latin. It's in the way he moves, the way he brushes at his sleeve, the

way he holds his cigar. He's just like Domingo, the guy in junior year,

who thought he was God's gift to the feminine gender.

Yes, Domingo was a Latin caricature, but this guy has all the same

moves. They can't escape it. They're just so proud of being male. The

ironic part was, half the time Domingo couldn't get it up unless some

act of violence was involved. He liked to dominate, or be dominated.

Power was what he was all about. Power.

Think. Can you use that some way to get to this guy?

No, she told herself, this killer has all the power he needs. He's

about image. And money.

She moved through the rows of workstations, now merely flashing updates

of the status of the various components of the Cyclops system. The

power plant was idling now, the superconducting coil in standby mode.

The crew of technicians, armed with a punch list of post-power-up

items, was checking out the Cyclops itself. The test had been a total

success.

"Miss Andros, you are a beautiful woman." Ramirez glanced up as she

approached. He had seemed to be meditating on his cigar, inspecting the

ash as he slowly allowed it to accumulate. "I was wondering why a

creature of such beauty would want to submit herself to this kind of

manly trade?"

"Not as 'manly' a trade as yours. Killing for profit." She felt her

anger coming back, and her courage. "As far as I'm concerned, there's

no difference between a so-called 'terrorist' and a common murderer.

You disgust me."

His face flushed for a millisecond as he impassively drew on his cigar.

"It would be better if you would consider me, and the rest of these

men, as economic freedom fighters. Perhaps I'm a modern-day Robin

Hood."

"Right." She felt like spitting on him, a definitely unladylike

response. "You steal from the rich and give to yourself. But you've

made a big mistake this time. All you're going to do is ruin SatCom."

"Ruin you?" He seemed amused at the notion, taking another puff on his

cigar. "I have no desire to ruin your precious American corporation. As

a matter of fact, I'm going to make you the beneficiary of a billion

dollars' worth of free publicity. Truly, no money in the world could

purchase what I am about to do for you. And all I want in return is to

borrow your Cyclops laser for a few days. If anything, you should pay

me . . . though there will be others to do that."

"I don't know who you expect to come up with any money. It sure as hell

isn't going to be SatCom. We're totally tapped out. If this launch

doesn't meet our schedule, day after tomorrow, a bunch of banks in

Geneva and Tokyo are going to take us over. And I doubt very much

they're going to pay off you and your goons. They'll tell you to go

screw yourself."

"They can do whatever they wish. They're not the ones who're going to

pay." There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice. "We are going to make

the Americans pay. For their crimes against the Muslim peoples of the

world."

'That's a lot of crap." She hated the man, really hated him. "You don't

care a damn about the 'Muslim peoples,' do you, senor?"

He pulled up sharply and stared at her, startled. For the first time

since he had barged in, he seemed momentarily at a loss for words. But

he covered it quickly by reaching out to tap his cigar ash into a half-

filled trash can.

"What are you suggesting?"

"You're a fake, through and through." Keep him on the defensive, she

thought. "As phony as they come. Who are you, really?"

His composure was returning, an instinct for chivalry that could

operate on autopilot if need be. "I'm flattered by your interest in me,

but who I am need not concern you. All you need to worry about is

following my instructions. Then you and I will get along nicely."

"Listen, you creep, there's no way we are going to get along, nicely or

otherwise." She felt her resolve growing. "You don't know me. I'm going

to fight you with everything I have. You're going to have to kill me to

stop me."

"Do yourself a favor, Miss Andros." He pulled again on his cigar,

inhaling the harsh smoke. "Don't make that necessary."

1:17 P.M.

Isaac Mannheim gazed down through the glass partition of the old Bell

Jetranger and wondered again what he was seeing. The pilot couldn't

raise Command on the radio, and now he was grumbling that the pad

looked unsafe.

The boy had a point. The surrounding hurricane fence had been half

ripped away, and there was oil everywhere on the asphalt. The place

looked as though a raging bull elephant had powered its way through,

knocking aside everything in its wake. What in blazes had happened? A

tornado?

He surveyed the area, and something even more ominous caught his eye.

What was it, that thing half-buried in the trees, about two-thirds the

way up the mountain? Now he strained to see through the smudgy windows,

just making out the wreckage of some sort of military helicopter.

Next he turned and looked in the other direction, down toward the

launch vehicles. That's odd. Another helicopter was parked down there.

It was big, a military gray, but no one was around it.

"It looks like there was a crash on the pad or something," the young

Greek pilot shouted over the roar of the engines, his dark, serious

eyes fixed gravely on the scene. His name, sewn in Greek on his tan

shirt, was Mikis; his father owned the 1981 Jetranger, and the

business. Flying this far from Athens meant he would have to refuel to

make it back, and nobody was around to take care of that. Moreover, the

situation definitely looked unsafe.

"I can see that," Mannheim responded dryly, his voice faint above the

noise. "Which is why you need to be careful. We don't want to add

another casualty."

"Something funny is definitely going on," Mikis continued, to no one in

particular. He had already discovered the eccentric American professor

with a baseball cap didn't care all that much for small talk. And he

had no patience whatsoever for small talk that pointed out the obvious.

"I don't like this, but I'll have to put her down. I'm already on my

auxiliary tank."

For once Mannheim allowed his thoughts to stray to the concerns of

someone else. "There's an airfield at Kythera. You could make it there,

if you just touched down here and dropped me off."

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Mikis was gripping the stick,

frowning behind his aviator shades. "We can't raise anybody here on the

radio, and now there's this mess. Let me take you to Kythera with me.

The whole deal looks weird."

"No," Mannheim shouted back. "I have to find out what's happened."

This project is like Sarah, he thought, his estranged daughter coming

to mind. I had to do everything I knew how to try to keep her from

making the wrong decisions. Then he remembered ruefully that she had

gone ahead and made them anyway. But he had been there always, ready to

give her advice.

Mikis shrugged, clearly worried, and gave the Jetranger some pedal,

circling to search for signs of life. There was nothing. The bleak

granite cliffs were barren, and the cool blue of the light surf washed

against an empty shoreline. He had not seen this space facility before,

but everybody had heard about it. The most impressive sight was, of

course, those silver spires down at the other end of the island. Those

had to be their vehicles, but nobody was around them now. Puzzled, he

examined the huge dormitory-type residence in the middle of the island

and the supply buildings, lined along a paved segment connecting the

landing pad with the main building, and still saw no one.

"Look, I'm going to just drop you off and then get the hell out of

here," he yelled over. He was easing up on the collective, taking her

in. "I'll buy petrol on Kythera. I don't see anybody around, and this

place gives me the creeps."

"You've done all you need to," Mannheim shouted back. "Something . . ."

His voice trailed off as he finally saw some movement. A figure was

coming down the mountain, carrying what looked like an automatic

weapon.

"We'd better make this quick."

1:21 P.M.

Vance was moving as fast as he could and watching as the helicopter--now

about a thousand yards from the pad--began its final approach.

Friend or foe? With the second arrival in as many hours, the place

resembled an airport. He assumed by now they surely had seen the

wreckage of the Hind, but they seemed determined to come in anyway.

He watched as the old Bell gingerly began to hover above the landing

pad, the pilot dispensing with preliminaries. While it was settling in,

he chambered a round in the Uzi, pulled back the gnarled cocking lever

on the top, and continued on down the hill at a brisk pace. With any

luck he would beat the guys in black. Or maybe they were deliberately

keeping a low profile, hoping to lure in the prey. They were also

luring him out, he knew, but he had to take the chance.

He was moving quickly, the sharp rocks cutting into his feet, and now

only a hundred yards or so remained between him and the approaching

helo.

Only then did he first notice he had bumped Bill's new Agusta when he

tried to fly the Hind, leaving a bad dent. Now he owed Bates for

repairs. Great. He wondered fleetingly if SatCom had terrorist

insurance.

There was now an opening in the pad's protective fence, where the Hind

had ripped it away, and as the din of the approaching helicopter rang

in his ears, he raced across the last clearing, headed for it. But his

instincts caused him to look around, and just in time . . .

Approaching on the run down the asphalt road leading from the launch

facility were three of the terrorists. He recognized two of them as his

earlier assailants, together with a third who looked like he might

actually know what he was doing. They must have seen the arriving

Jetranger, and now they were coming out to give it a welcome.

The way they were moving, and the AK-47s they were carrying, told him a

lot. The chopper's occupants were the good guys.

As the Bell settled in and its door opened, he dropped onto the granite

and nestled the metal stock of the Uzi against his cheek. It felt warm

from the morning sun, like the touch of a comfortable friend. He

flipped the fire control to semiautomatic and caught the approaching

goons in the metal sight. Then he gently squeezed the trigger.

The Uzi kicked back, sending a round upward into the morning air. He

realized he was out of practice. Next time he would handle it better,

but for now he had blown the operation.

The three in black who had been running toward the landing pad dropped

onto the asphalt and opened fire, spattering flecks of granite around

him as he took cover. Then he looked up to see an elderly man fairly

tumble out of the chopper and make a dash for the safety of the SatCom

Agusta. He need not have hurried; no one was shooting at him.

As the Jetranger started to lift off, however, the gunmen's focus

switched away from Vance, and he realized they had no intention of

letting it escape. As it left the pad and banked to gain altitude, the

lead terrorist dropped to a prone position on the asphalt and took aim

directly at the cockpit, where the pilot was just visible behind the

glare of the windscreen. With a range of only fifty yards, Vance

realized, taking him out would be easy.

It was. The AK-47 was on full auto, and one burst splintered away the

windscreen, exploding it and leaving what remained spattered with

blood. The pilot was thrown against the shattered glass, then left

hanging halfway through. He never knew what hit him.

The fuselage began to pirouette into a sickening spiral, but the firing

continued, as though to kill what was already dead. The gunman's

obsessed, Vance thought. He's also emptying his magazine.

Now's the time. Make a move while he's still distracted. These thugs

want the old man alive, whoever he is. So why not try and ruin their

day, get him before they do.

The Bell continued to autorotate in a series of circles. Then it

abruptly nosed straight downward, and a second later it veered toward

the side of the cliff abutting the sea. A splintering crash replaced

the sound of the engine as the rotors slammed against the granite,

shearing away--whereupon the fuselage bounced down the steep wall of the

cliff and into the water. In moments the seabed swallowed it up.

In the meantime Vance had reached the landing pad, a few meters away

from the old man, who was stumbling distractedly across the asphalt,

staring in the direction the chopper had disappeared and so shocked by

the sight he seemed not to realize he was walking directly into the

hands of the men who had killed the pilot.

Vance wanted to shout, but then he thought better of it. What was the

point? The old man clearly was unable to think. He had to be pulled out

quickly and with a minimum of risk. No, the best thing to do was lay

down a line of covering fire and go for him.

He opened up the Uzi on semiauto and dashed for the Agusta.

1:25 P.M.

Wolf Helling hit the ground rolling, bringing up his Kalashnikov, set

on automatic. The renegade guard was back to shoot it out, firing from

somewhere in the area of the pad.

Good. He was going to trap the fucker. This time he would handle the

situation personally; he would not have to depend on a bunch of

incompetent East German Stasi burnouts.

He glanced back and saw the two trailing behind him. When the guard had

opened fire, they'd dived and stumbled pell-mell for the cover of the

storage sheds. They wouldn't be any help, but he'd known that already.

It didn't matter. This was going to be one-on-one. And easy.

The chopper had been lost, which was a shame. Although Ramirez's orders

were to seize it when it arrived, that had not been possible. You win

some, you lose some.

Amid the gunfire the old man had reached the SatCom helicopter, while

the guard was now making a dash for its protection, too, even as he

covered himself with another spray from the automatic that the damn

fools had let him get.

Fortunately his aim was wild again, probably because he was running,

and the rounds sailed by harmlessly. And he was in the open.

Now.

Helling trained his AK-47, long barrel and heavy clip, on him and

pulled the trigger. . . .

His clip was empty.

_Scheisse_! He cursed himself for having used the gun on automatic. At

ten pops a second, you could wipe out a 35- round clip before you could

sneeze.

Still cursing, he pushed the button releasing the clip and slammed in

another. But he was too late; by that time the guard had disappeared

behind the SatCom helicopter. The two East Germans were firing randomly

and ineffectually from the safety of the storage sheds, holding their

weapons around the corners and spraying blindly. Idiots. They were

providing cover, but since they had no idea where they were aiming,

they were endangering him at least as much as their target.

And now the bastard had reached the cover of the helicopter. He was

safe for the moment. But only for the moment.

1:27 P.M.

_"Don't shoot," Isaac Mannheim shouted as he saw the unshaven, barefoot

man roll next to him, an Uzi giving off bursts of rounds.

"Get down," Vance yelled back, then shoved him onto the asphalt beside

the blue-and-white Agusta. "You picked a hell of a time to come

visiting. There're some new natives, and they're not overly friendly."

"Who are you?" The old man's ancient eyes were brimming with alarm and

confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"At the moment I'm trying to keep you alive." Vance checked the clip of

the Uzi. There were about seven rounds left. With three hoods out

there, all with Kalashnikovs, seven rounds would not go very far.

Was anything usable in the Agusta? he asked himself. He peered through

the glass of the cockpit, searching. It looked empty. Except for--

A blast of fire careened by the canopy, and he again yanked Mannheim

down onto the asphalt. Then he cautiously raised up enough to recon the

situation.

The hoods were all advancing now, scurrying forward from building to

building as they gave covering blasts from their automatics. However,

the two farthest back did not seem to be overly enthusiastic.

"They're going to kill us, too," Mannheim stammered. "Can you--?"

"Just stay down," Vance interrupted him. "I'm probably the one they

want to get rid of. If they'd wanted you dead, believe me, you would be

by now."

He opened the door and hurriedly surveyed the cockpit more closely.

Yes, he had seen it right . . .

Attached to the back firewall, ready for emergency use, was a rack of

smoke grenades, factory fresh, the kind used for signaling in case the

helo went down.

He remembered that grenade smoke was designed to cling to the ground

rather than rise, and with a burn time between one and two minutes, a

good grenade could produce a quarter million cubic feet of HC smoke.

Maybe, he thought, I just got lucky.

He peeled one off the rack and checked it over. Yep, American M-18,

which everybody knew was the best. The can was about the size of a Diet

Coke, and it was military gray. It even gave the flavor on the side--

this one was red, but they also came in yellow and white. Nice to have

around if you went down in wooded terrain.

He looked toward the gunmen approaching and made the decision on the

spot. With a quick motion he clenched the handle with his right hand

and yanked the steel pin with his left. When he looked up again, they

had closed the distance, now only about thirty yards. Time for a

touchdown.

He drew back and lobbed the can directly at the lead terrorist.

The time delay was one and a half seconds. It landed just in front of

the first man, bounced once, and blew--an eruption of red that engulfed

him.

Beautiful.

With a quick twist he yanked the rack from the side of the cockpit and

began hurling the cans as fast as he could. Finally, he grabbed the

startled old professor by the arm, then dropped the last grenade at

their feet.

"Time to move the party. There's cover in the rocks up there."

Mannheim stumbled backward as the smoke bomb exploded, and Vance

realized he would never make it. He would have to be dragged, or

carried. And since dragging was out of the question, there really was

only one option.

He bent down and grabbed the old man around the waist, then lifted him

over his shoulder. It turned out he was hardly more than skin and

bones, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, tops. After spending the last

four days heaving the tillers of the late, lamented _Odyssey_ _II_, the

load seemed like a feather.

Some more random gunfire exploded behind them as he struggled and

stumbled up the rocky slope, but now a dense cloud of red completely

obliterated the scene below. The M-18 grenades were still billowing,

totally obscuring the landing pad and the roadway.

When they reached the first clump of brush leading up the mountain, he

settled Mannheim onto the ground. The old professor was choking from

the smoke, totally disoriented, and babbling. Vance clapped a hand over

his mouth, then urged him onward.

"No talking. If they find us, we're going to have some really lousy

odds."

He removed his hand, and immediately Mannheim started again.

"Whoever you are, I guess I have to thank you for saving my life." He

puffed over the stones. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of Bill Bates, the man supposedly in charge around here."

"I'm Isaac Mannheim. This project--"

"The godfather." Vance looked him over. "Bill's talked about you. MIT,

right?"

"The Cyclops is my--"

"Nice to meet you. Now who in the hell are these thugs?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, we can assume they're not part of Bill's technical support

team." He glanced down the hill, toward the drifting cloud of red

smoke, then back at the old man. "But if you've been involved in this

project, then you must know the layout here."

"I know it very well. But--"

"Good. We're going to have to keep moving, at least till it gets dark,

but while we're doing that, I want you to get me up to speed on where

things are. Give me the setup. And tell me how many personnel are here

and where they are."

Mannheim pointed down the hill, at a point just past the storage sheds.

"The people are housed in the Bates Motel, which is over there, beyond

that row of buildings."

Vance looked it over. At the moment it seemed deserted.

"Where's the entrance?"

"You can go in directly from the connecting corridor underground, or

you can use the front entrance, there."

"What if the entrance topside were locked? Then it would he secure,

right?"

"I suppose so." He still seemed disoriented, though he was recovering.

"Of course there are fire exits at various places in the underground

network, as well as the security lobby over there. And then, the

storage sheds can be accessed from below."

"But all of those entry-points can be sealed, right?"

"Yes. In fact, they can be sealed electronically, from Command. The

staff controls everything from there."

Vance looked down at the white surf rippled across the blue. "So if

somebody wanted to take over this place, that's where they would start,

right? Hit that and you're in like a bandit. It's the head office."

"That's correct." Mannheim nodded.

"Good. We know where to focus. Now you're going to tell me how I can

get there."

CHAPTER SEVEN

2:18 P.M.

Pierre Armont was forty-six, with gray temples and a body appropriate

to an Olympic wrestler. He had full cheeks, a heavy mustache, and

suspicious dark eyes that constantly searched his surroundings. It was

an innate survival instinct.

He never went out without a tie and a perfect shoeshine, not to mention

a crisp military bearing that sat as comfortably on him as a

birthright. He prided himself on his ability to instill discipline

while at the same time leading his men. Although he liked to command,

he wanted to do it from the front, where the action was.

Here in Paris he ran a worldwide business from a gray stone townhouse

situated on the Left Bank in an obscure cul-de-sac at the intersection

of Saint-Andre des Arts and rue de l'Ancienne Comedie. Fifty meters

away from his ivy-covered doorway, the rue de Seine wound down to the

river, playing host to one of Paris's finer open-air produce markets,

while farther down, rows of small galleries displayed the latest in

Neo-Deconstructionist painting and sculpture. An avid amateur chef and

art collector, he found the location ideal. From his house, where the

French aviator Saint-Exupery once wrote, he could march a few paces,

along cobblestones as old as Chartres, and acquire a freshly plucked

pheasant, a plump grouse, aromatic black truffles just hours away from

the countryside, or an abstract landscape whose paint was scarcely dry.

It was the best of all worlds: everything he loved was just meters

away, and yet his secretive courtyard provided perfect urban privacy

and security, with only the occasional blue-jeaned student from the

Academie de Beaux-Arts wandering into his courtyard to sketch. He was

rich and he knew how to live well; he also risked his life on a regular

basis.

He claimed it made his _foie gras _taste even better.

He worked behind a wide oak desk flanked by a line of state-of-the-art

communications equipment, and along one walnut-paneled wall stood rows

of files secured inside teak-wood-camouflaged safes. His wide oak desk

could have belonged in the office of a travel agent with a very select

clientele. However, it served another purpose entirely: it was where he

planned operations for ARM.

Pierre Armont headed up the Association of Retired Mercenaries, and he

had been busy all day. But he was used to emergencies. What other

people called problems, ARM thought of as business.

The Association of Retired Mercenaries was a secretive but loose group

of former members of various antiterrorist organizations. The name was

an inside joke, because they were far from retired. Although they were

not listed in the Paris phone book, governments who needed their

services somehow always knew how to find Pierre. ARM took on nasty

counterterrorism actions that could not occur officially. They rescued

hostages unreported in newspapers, and they had terminated more than a

few unpleasant individuals in covert actions that never made the

evening news.

At the moment, as he was thinking over the insertion strategy for

Andikythera, he was gazing down on his private courtyard and noticing

that the honking from the boulevard Saint-Germain indicated that

Paris's mid-afternoon traffic had ground to a halt. Again. He had just

hung up the scrambled phone, after a thirty-minute conversation with

Reggie Hall, the second today. London was on board, so everything was a

go. He was looking forward to this one. Some _batards_ had mucked with

an ARM job. They had to be taken down.

Armont was retired from France's antiterrorist Groupement

d'Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale, known as GIGN, ideal

experience for his present occupation. Over the years "Gigene" had

carried out, among other things, VIP protection in high-threat

situations and general antiterrorist ops. Mostly commandos in their

twenties and early thirties, Gigene operatives had to pass a grueling

series of tests, including firing an H&K MP5 one-handed while swinging

through a window in a quick entry called the pendulum technique. Known

for their skills in inserting by helicopter, either by rappelling or by

parachuting, they could also swim half a mile under water and come out

blasting, using their specially loaded Norma ammo.

Armont's particular claim to fame was the invention of a sophisticated

slingshot that fired deadly steel balls for a silent kill. He had

trained antiterrorist units in a number of France's former colonies,

and had secretly provided tactical guidance for the Saudi National

Guard when they ejected radical Muslims from the Great Mosque at Mecca.

These days, however, he was a private citizen and ran a simple

business. And as with all well-run businesses, the customer was king.

If problems arose, they had to be resolved; if a job did not stick, you

sent in a repair team. An American member of ARM named Michael Vance,

who normally did not participate in the operations end of the business,

had turned up at the wrong place at the right time. A Reuters

confirmation of the loss of the U.S. communications ship definitely

meant some bad action had gone down in the eastern Med. Vance's

analysis that it was a preliminary to seizure of the SatCom facility on

Andikythera probably was correct. Armont's secretary had spent the day

on the phone trying to reach the island, but all commercial

communications with the site were down. There was no way that should

have happened, even with last night's rough storm.

He had liked Michael Vance the minute he met him, three years earlier.

He considered Mike reliable in completing his assignments--be they quick

access to a "secure" bank computer file or a paper trail of wire

transfers stretching from Miami to Nassau to Geneva to Bogota. Vance's

regular missions for ARM, however, were those kinds of transactions,

not the street action, and Armont could only hope he could also manage

the rougher end of the business.

The organization had checked out the man extensively, as they did all

new members, and ARM's computer probably knew as much about him as he

did himself. It was an oddball story: son of a famous Penn

archaeologist, he had been by turns an archaeologist himself, a

yachtsman, and a low-level spook. After he finished his doctorate at

Yale and had taught there for two semesters, he had published his

dissertation--claiming the famous Palace of Minos in Crete was actually

a hallowed necropolis--as a book. It had caused a lot of flap, and to

get away for a while, he had taken a vacation in Nassau to do some big-

game fishing. Before the trip ended, he had bought an old forty-four-

foot Bristol sailboat in need of massive restoration. It was a classic

wooden vessel, which meant that no sooner had he finished varnishing

the thing from one end to the other than he had to start over again.

But he apparently liked the life. Or maybe he just enjoyed giving the

academic snakepit a rest. The computer could not get into his mind.

Whatever the reason, however, the sailboat, which had begun as a

diversion, soon became something else. By the time he had finished

refurbishing her, she was the most beautiful yacht in the Caribbean,

and everybody around Nassau wanted a shot at the helm. He had a charter

business on his hands.

Then his saga took yet another turn. The Nassau Yacht Club, and the new

Hurricane Hole Marina across the bridge on Paradise Island, comprised a

yachting fraternity that included a lot of bankers. Nassau, after all,

had over three hundred foreign commercial banks, and its "see no evil"

approach to regulation and reporting made it a natural haven for drug

receipts. With a lot of bankers as clients, before long Vance knew more

than any man should about offshore money laundering. He did not like

that part of the scene, but the bankers loved his yacht, and they paid

cash.

As he once told it, he eventually found out why. At least for one of

them. One sunny afternoon the vice president of the European

Consolidated Commercial Bank, an attractive blond-haired young Swiss

mover known to Vance only as "Werner," was docking _The Ulysses_ at

Hurricane Hole, bringing her back from a three-day sail, when the DEA

swooped down, flanked by the local Bahamian police. Armed with

warrants, they searched the boat and soon uncovered fifty kilos of

Colombian export produce. Seems "Werner" had sailed _The Ulysses _to

some prearranged point and taken it on, planning to have divers stash

the packages in the rudder-trunk air pocket of one of the giant cruise

ships that tied up at Nassau's four-berth dock. Vance heard about it

when he got a call from the harbormaster advising him that his prized

Bristol had just been seized as evidence in a coke bust. He was out of

business.

That afternoon Bill Bates had coincidentally flown in on Merv Griffin's

Paradise Island commuter airline and come over to Hurricane Hole,

wanting to charter _The Ulysses _for a week of sailing and fishing.

Vance had to inform him his favorite Bahamian yacht had just acquired a

new owner.

Bates could not believe he had flown into such a screw-up. Vance was

having his own problems with disbelief, too, but paying the mortgage

was his more immediate concern. The DEA had the boat, but before long

he wouldn't have to worry about that any more. That problem, and the

boat, would soon belong to the mortgage-holding bank over on Bay

Street.

He immediately slapped the DEA with a two-million-dollar lawsuit, just

to put on some heat. His lawyer claimed he didn't have a hope in hell.

But two weeks later a Bahamian judge, after lunch with the mortgage-

holding banker, summarily ordered the DEA to release the yacht. To

Vance's surprise, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration cheerfully

complied and turned it over the same afternoon. He immediately dropped

the lawsuit, writing off the whole affair as a triumph for truth,

justice, and the Bahamian way of banking. Or so it seemed.

Only later did he unearth the Byzantine complexities of what really had

happened. The affair had somehow come to the attention of The Company,

and there had been a flurry of phone calls to the DEA in New Orleans

from Langley, Virginia. A month later, while he was in the States

attending a Yale alumni function, he'd found himself talking to two

earnest Washington bureaucrats, who congratulated him on beating the

system. Huh?

They then described their need for a "financial consultant" in Nassau,

somebody who knew the right people. Maybe he would consider taking the

job; it could merely be a favor for--they hinted broadly--a favor.

Here was the problem: the CIA desperately needed help in trying to keep

track of the cocaine millions being laundered through Nassau's go-go

banks. The Company wanted some local assistance getting certain off-

the-record audits, from clean bankers who were tired of Nassau being a

haven for dirty cash.

He hated drugs and drug money, so he had seen nothing wrong with the

idea. He even ended up training some greenhorns out of Langley in the

subtle art of tracing wire transfers. Two years later he got his

payoff. They formed their own in-house desk to do what he had been

doing and retired him. He was, it turned out, too successful.

But the word on such skills got around, and two months later Pierre

Armont had approached him about joining ARM. They needed somebody good

at tracing hot money, frequently the most reliable trail of a terrorist

operation, and everybody close to the business had identified him as

the best around.

By that time he had formally incorporated a charter operation in Nassau

as Windstalker, Ltd., with three boats, three mortgages, and a big

monthly nut. So he had signed on, only later discovering that along

with ARM's extra cash came a lot of travel, many responsibilities, and

occasional death threats. He took them seriously enough to start

carrying his own protection, a chrome-plated 9mm Walther. Armont

approved.

Vance had always been well paid. It was expected. Anybody who hired

ARM--usually because there was nowhere else left to turn--knew the best

did not come cheap. A good two-week op could pull down fifty thousand

pounds sterling for every man on the team, which was why the boys drove

BMWs and drank twelve-year-old Scotch. But no client ever complained

about the price. Or if they did, they didn't complain to Pierre.

Payment was always cash, half up front and the rest on delivery. Any

client who welshed on the follow-through would be making a very ill-

considered career decision.

He pulled the blinds and turned to his desk. Faxes sent via ARM's

secure, encrypted system covered the surface. The team was coming

together. His secretary Emile, a young Frenchman who came in mornings

and worked in the next room, had already booked the necessary flights.

By 1800 hours tomorrow everybody would be assembled in Athens and ready

to insert.

Armont intended to lead the operation himself . . . unless Vance, as

the man on the ground, proved the logical choice. Since he was already

in place, always the best location, he would in any case have to be

point man.

He had talked the job over with "Hans" in Frankfurt at 1030 hours, just

after he had gotten the call from Athens, and together they had picked

six operatives. Vance would make seven. He calculated that would be

plenty.

"Hans" was the _nom de guerre _of a former GSG-9, Germany's green-

beret-sporting Grenzschutzgruppen 9. GSG-9, headquartered at St.

Augustin just outside Bonn, had a nine- million-dollar underground

training range that included a communications and intel unit, aircraft

mockups, an engineer unit, a weapons unit, an equipment unit, a

training unit, and a strike unit. In his fifteen years with GSG-9, Hans

had been known to achieve 95 percent accuracy with an H&K MP9 when

firing from a moving vehicle or even rappelling down a rope from a

hovering chopper. Now retired, he brought to ARM many talents: as well

as participating in the on-site op, he usually acted as liaison officer

because of his flawless English.

He also knew which old-timers from GSG-9--that was anybody over thirty-

five--were looking for an op, and if the

job required some younger talent he used his connections to get current

members temporarily released from their units. When needed, he could

arrange for special-purpose weapons otherwise "unavailable" or

restricted. Once, when a sniper-assault situation called for a hot new

IR scope, he borrowed one from the St. Augustin armory overnight, made

a drawing, then had it copied in Brussels by noon the next day. He knew

where to find ARM field operatives and what shape they were in--which

ones had been shot up, broken legs in parachute drops, or gone over the

edge with a case of nerves and too much booze.

Best of all, though, he could usually locate a wanted terrorist. GSG-9

was hooked directly into a massive computer in Wiesbaden informally

known as the Kommissar. Hans could still tap into the Kommissar, which

tracked various world terrorist groups, constantly updating everything

known about their methods, their membership, and--most importantly--their

movements.

These days he operated a rundown _biergarten_ in Frankfurt, at least as

his cover, and there were suspicions he managed to drink up a lot of

its profits. In any case, he was in ARM for the money, and he never

pretended otherwise. So when Armont rang him, he was immediately all

ears. Never failed.

"Pierre, _alio! Comment allez vous?" _Even at ten-thirty in the morning

Hans could be cheerful. Armont, definitely a night person, never

understood how he did it.

"_Bien_, considering." Armont knew Hans was more comfortable in English

than in French, and he hated speaking German. "What're you doing for

the next couple of days?"

"Got something?" The German's interest immediately perked up.

"There's a little cleanup . . ."

After he gave him a quick briefing on the situation via their secure

phone, Hans was extremely unhappy.

"Dimitri screwed up. It's not our problem."

"I say it's our problem," Pierre replied. "We guarantee our work and

you're either in, or you're out. Permanently. Those are the rules."

"All right." Hans sighed. "Can't blame me for not liking it, though."

"So who do you think we need?" Armont asked. Hans knew the people

better than he did.

"Well, we definitely should have Reggie," he replied straightaway.

"He's the best negotiator we've got, and also he can get us some of the

hardware we'll be needing."

The man in question was Reginald Hall. Just under fifty, he was a

stocky ex-small-arms instructor, regimental sergeant major, retired, of

the SAS, Britain's Special Air Service. In the old days he headed up a

unit known in the press as the CRW, Counter Revolutionary Warfare

section, called "the special projects blokes" by those on the inside.

He finally quit after successfully leading an assault on the Iranian

embassy in London on 5 May 1980--which, to his astonished dismay, was

televised live. He'd gotten famous overnight, and after thinking it

over for a weekend, he decided the time had come to cash it in. These

days he ran a small company that purportedly bought and sold used

sports firearms. That was a polite way of saying he dabbled in the

international arms trade, though not in a big way. But whenever ABM

needed a special piece of equipment, as often as not Reggie found a way

to take care of it.

He did not do it for love. Even though he was happily retired down in

Dorset, Thomas Hardy country, with a plump Welsh common-law wife, he

occasionally slipped away--much to her chagrin--to take on special ops

for ARM. Maybe his neighbors thought he had bought their matching

Jaguars with his army pension or the sale of used Mausers.

"I'll call him as soon as we hang up. He spent some time in the

Emirates or some damn place and claims to speak a little Arabic." He

was thinking. "Okay, who else could we use?"

"How about the Flying Dutchmen?" Hans said.

He was referring to the Voorst brothers, Willem and Hugo, both former

members of the Royal Dutch Marines' "Whiskey Company." That was the

nickname of a special group officially known as the Marine Close Combat

Unit. Both bachelors, though never short of women, they lived in

Amsterdam and took on any security job that looked like it would pay.

They also ran a part-time aircraft charter operation.

"We might need a chopper for the insert. Think they can handle it on

such short notice?"

The Voorst brothers would occasionally arrange, through their old

connections, for a Dutch military helicopter to get lost in paperwork

for a weekend. Whiskey Company was a club, and everybody was going to

retire someday. What went around came around. Besides, there was plenty

of spare change in it for those who made the arrangements.

"With nobody paying? It'll take some fast talking."

"So far, this thing's being done on spec. We're just making good on a

job."

"Don't remind me," Hans groaned. "Don't want to hear it. I think we'd

better just rent something in Athens." He paused. "But I also think we

ought to take along the Hunter. He'd be the man to handle grenades. He

loves those damned things better than his wife."

They were both thinking of Marcel, formerly of the Belgian ESI,

Escadron Special d'lntervention. While with ESI, he had fathered their

famous four-man units, pairs of two-man teams, and had come up with the

idea of carrying a spare magazine on the strong-side wrist to

facilitate rapid mag change. ESI was known informally as Diana Unit,

and since Diana was the huntress of mythology, Marcel had become known

as the Hunter. But not till after he had earned the sobriquet. A former

Belgian paratrooper, ex-Angola, he got the nickname after a special op

there, when he had saved an entire ARM team by taking out a room of

terrorists with three stun grenades, tear gas, and an Uzi--while wearing

an antiflash hood called a balaclava plus a gas mask, a little like

working under water. Marcel liked the nickname.

"I'll see if I can reach him. The Antwerp number."

"Well, we'll probably need him." Hans paused. "And Vance is already on

site. That'll make all the difference."

"He's good. If you can get all the others, I think we'll have what we

need."

'Then, let's get started. I'll try to reach everybody and have them in

Athens by late tomorrow. Fax me an equipment list and I'll talk that

over with Spiros. See what he can get together for us down there and

save having to ship it."

"You know, _mon cher_," Hans had said, "this is no way to start a day."

1:29 P.M.

"It was there for the National Security Agency, the NSA," admitted

Theodore Brock, his special assistant for national security affairs.

The atmosphere in the Oval Office was heating up.

"I'm now well aware of that," the President snapped, not bothering to

hide his annoyance. "What I'm not well aware of is who the hell

authorized it?"

The Oval Office, in the southeast corner of the White House West Wing,

was, in the eyes of many, a small, unimposing prize for all the effort

required to take up residence. John Hansen, however, seemed not to

notice. He commandeered whatever space he happened to occupy and made

it seem an extension of his own spirit. In fact, he rather liked the

minimalist quarters, heritage of a time when U.S. presidents had much

less weight on their shoulders. From here the wide world opened out.

For one thing, the communications here and in the Situation Boom in the

basement put the planet at his fingertips. Next to a gigantic push-

button multiline telephone was another, highly secure and modernistic,

digital voice transmission system that could take him anywhere.

As the old-fashioned Danish grandfather clock--his only personal item in

the office--began to chime the half hour, he glanced once more over the

crisis summary that Alicia Winston had hastily assembled and had

waiting on his desk when he returned from New York. Her office was

conveniently just behind one of the three doors that led into the Oval

Office. Another led to his personal study, passing through a small

kitchen, from which now came the aroma of fresh-brewed Jamaican Blue

Mountain coffee. The third opened onto a corridor, with the standard

six Secret Service people, through which he expected to see his

national security adviser appear at 1:45 P.M. Then, according to his

schedule, he had to try to put all this out of his mind at 2:30, when

he was due to host a delegation of troglodytes from the Hill. Nuclear

disarmament did not have a lot of friends in Tennessee and Washington

State. He was going to have to make some concessions, he knew, but

politics was about compromise, always had been.

"Apparently the ship was put into place without authorization," Brock

went on. "There was some back-channel request from NSA. They wanted to

keep tabs on a space project on an island in the Aegean."

"SatCom. Now we're spying on Americans, is that it?" Hansen leaned back

in his high, Kevlar-protected chair and tossed a telling glance toward

Morton Davies, his chief of staff, who monitored most of his incoming

calls. They both had received an earful on the Cyclops project from his

old professor, Isaac Mannheim--who claimed it would demonstrate to the

world that America's private sector still had plenty of life left,

could stand up to the Europeans and the Japanese when it came to

innovation. SatCom's independence from government, at least to

Mannheim's way of thinking, was precisely its greatest virtue.

"Well, damn NSA," he continued. "This is an outrage."

He recalled that he'd sent the new director, Al Giramonti, a pointedly

worded memo on that very subject. When John Hansen took office, the

National Security Agency was still liberally exercising its capacity to

monitor every phone call in America from its vast array of listening

antennas at Fort Meade. He had resolved to terminate the practice. He

thought he had.

"It was just routine surveillance," Brock insisted, squirming. He was

in his late fifties, bright, with horn-rimmed glasses and a high

forehead. He also was black, and he felt he had more than the usual

obligation to make his President look good. "There was a satellite test

launching in the works. The whole project has been kept under wraps,

and NASA wanted to know what was going on. The National Security Agency

had a platform in the area, so it all more or less meshed. There was

nothing--"

"And what do the Israelis have to say for themselves?" the President

pushed on. "The Hind had their markings."

"They deny they had anything to do with it." He squinted toward Hansen,

trying to seem knowledgeable yet uncommitted. Which way was the wind

going to blow next? "Even though the helo was plainly ID'd by--"

"That's what they claimed in '67," Hansen fumed, cutting him off, "when

they strafed, torpedoed, and napalmed NSA's Liberty, which was clearly

in international waters. They were hoping to prolong the Six-Day War

long enough to roll into Syria, and they didn't want us to monitor

their plans. So they took careful pains to knock out all our SIGINT

capability in the region, just happening to kill a dozen seamen in the

process. Afterwards the lying fuckers told our embassy in Tel Aviv it

was all a mistake and sent flowers. If anybody else in the world had

done that, we'd have nuked them."

"Well, at the time the Glover was hit, it wasn't monitoring Israeli

SIGINT," Brock noted, adjusting his glasses. "We think they're clean on

this one. At least what we have from Fort Meade so far seems to bear

that out. They're still running a computer analysis, though, pulling

out all the voice and code used by the Israeli Air Force during that

time. We didn't have that capability back in 1967. In a few more hours

we'll be able to put that question to rest, one way or another."

"Okay, maybe we should go slow till then. So in the meantime, let's

take them at their word for a moment and examine the other

possibilities." Hansen revolved in his chair and stared out the

bulletproof window behind him. The Washington sky was growing overcast.

And the clock was running. This whole screw-up would be in tomorrow's

Washington Post, garbled, just as sure as the sun was going to come up.

CNN had already picked up the BBC's "rumor" and was running it on their

"Headline" service, hinting the U.S. intelligence community had been

caught with its pants around its ankles, again.

"There's more," Brock said, interrupting his thoughts. "The Iranians

have been screaming about a stolen Hind for four days, blaming us, of

course. But they've quietly let Mossad know they think it may have

strayed into Pakistan, maybe as a diversion, and then ended up heading

out for one of the Gulf states, probably Yemen. The Israelis have

reason to believe it was delivered to a Yemeni-flagged freighter in the

Persian Gulf, then taken through the Suez Canal and into the eastern

Med. After that, all contact was lost."

Iran, the President thought. Pakistan. None of it sorted into a

picture. Unless . . .

"Incidentally," Morton Davies, Chief of Staff, interjected, "the

Israelis also have one other bit of intel that seems to have somehow

gotten lost in all of NSA's Cray supercomputers. An Israeli 'fishing

trawler' picked up a Mayday they triangulated as coming from somewhere

north of Crete. It supposedly claimed--the transmission was a bit

garbled--to emanate from the very Hind that had attacked the ship. The

broadcast said that terrorists had taken over the SatCom facility on

the island of Andikythera. If that's true, it would be the one that the

Glover was monitoring."

Hansen stared at him. "Are we supposed to believe any of this? That

unknown terrorists are behind this whole thing? That's exactly the kind

of disinformation the Israelis have used on us in the past. Besides, it

doesn't click. If terrorists did do it, they'd damned sure want the

credit. Nobody throws a rock this size through your window unless

there's a note attached. So where is it?"

That's when the import of what Davies had said hit him. SatCom. It was

going to be the pride of America, a symbol . . . My God, it was a

rocket launch facility.

He reached down and touched the blue button on the desk intercom on the

right side of his desk.

"Alicia."

"Sir," came back the crisp reply.

"Have NSA send over any recent PHOTOINT they have on the Greek island

of Andikythera. By hand. I want it yesterday."

"Yes, sir."

"Ted," he said, turning back to Brock, "somehow this time

I've got an uncomfortable feeling the medium may be the message."

1:49 P.M.

"To understand the operation of this facility," Isaac Mannheim was

saying, "you need to appreciate the technology we've installed here."

He was resting against the trunk of a tree, gazing wearily down the

mountain at the sun-baked asphalt of the facility stretching below.

"I've already got a rough idea how it works," Vance replied. He was

pondering the quiet down below. "It's the people I want to know more

about."

"Well, of course, that's my primary concern as well." The old man

shrugged. "But we are on the verge of an experiment that will change

the world for all time. That's just as important."

"Not in my book."

"Perhaps. But all the same, I think I should tell you a few technical

details about the facility. Since you say you're familiar with its

general workings, you probably know that its heart is a twenty-gigawatt

laser we call the Cyclops. Using it, we can send a high-energy beam

hundreds of miles into space without losing appreciable energy. Our

plan is to use that beam of energy, which we can direct very

accurately, to power a satellite launch vehicle."

"I understand that."

"Excellent," he said, as though encouraging a student. Then he pushed

on. "In any case, the Cyclops itself is a repetitive-pulsed, free-

electron laser, which means the computer can tune it continuously to

the most energy-efficient wavelength, a crucial feature. It starts with

an intense beam of electrons which it accelerates to high velocity,

then passes through an array of magnets we call the 'wiggler.' Those

magnets are arranged in a line but they alternate in polarity, which

causes the electrons passing through to experience rapid variations in

magnetic-field strength and direction. What happens is, the alternating

magnetic field 'wiggles' the beam of electrons into a wave, causing

them to emit a microwave pulse--which is itself then passed back and

forth, gaining strength at every pass. Eventually it saturates at a

level nearly equal to the power of Grand Coulee Dam, and then--"

"Maybe you ought to get to the point," Vance said, feeling he was

receiving a college lecture. He used to give college lectures, for

chrissake, in archaeology. Were they just as tedious? he suddenly

wondered.

"Of course." He pushed on, oblivious. 'The whole operation is

controlled by our Fujitsu supercomputer. The hardest part is getting

the microwave pulses and the electron pulses to overlap perfectly in

the wiggler. That part of the Cyclops, called the coaxial phase

shifter, requires delicate fine-tuning. The alignment has to be

critically adjusted, the focusing perfect, the cavity length--"

"Get back to the vehicle. I think I've heard all I need to know about

the wonders of the Cyclops."

"Very well. The energy is focused, in bursts, from up there." He turned

and pointed up the mountain. "That installation is a phased-array

microwave transmission system, which delivers it to the spacecraft. To

a port located on the sides of the vehicles down there. The port is a

special heat-resistant crystal of synthetic diamond. Once inside, the

beam is directed downward into the nozzle, where it strikes dry ice and

creates plasma, producing thrust. The vehicle is single-stage-to-

orbit."

"Nothing is burned." Vance had to admit it was a nifty idea. If you

could do it.

"That's correct. The laser beam creates a shock wave, a burst of

superheated gas moving at supersonic velocity out of the nozzle. By

pulsing the beam, we form a detonation wave that hits the nozzle

chamber and--"

"So it's really Star Wars in reverse," Vance interjected. "Bates is

using all that fancy research in high-powered lasers to put up a

satellite instead of shooting one down."

"The power is comparable. The superconducting coil we use to store

power can pulse as high as twenty-five billion watts. The dry ice that

is the 'propellant' is only about three hundred kilograms, a tiny

percentage of the vehicle's weight, and since the vehicle is virtually

all payload, we should be able to put it into a hundred-nautical-mile

orbit in a matter of minutes. The beam energy will be roughly five

hundred gigawatts per second and--"

"I get the picture," Vance interjected, tired of numbers. "But what

you're really saying is that this transmission system up here on the

mountain is the key to everything. If it goes down, end of show."

He was thinking. The terrorists had not destroyed anything, at least

not up here. Which probably meant they intended to use it. The prospect

chilled him.

"Okay, let's work backward to where the people are," he continued.

"What's down below us here? The power has to get up here somehow.

"We're at one end of the island, down a bit from Command, which is

underground. That's where the computer is, which handles the output

frequencies of the Cyclops and also the trajectory analysis. It gets

data from a radar up here on the mountain and uses that to provide

guidance for the laser beam as the vehicle gains altitude. There are

giant servo-mechanisms that keep the parabolic antennas trained on the

vehicle as it lifts off the pad and heads into orbit. They also

retrieve all the telemetry from the spacecraft, and--"

"What's belowground down there?" He was pointing toward the vehicles.

"That area has an excavated space below it for the multi- cavity

amplifier bay. It's--"

"The what?"

"That's where the free-electron laser, the Cyclops, begins pumping up.

Then the energy is sent up here"--he pointed back up the mountain--"to

the phased-array transmission system."

"Right. So underground it's shaped something like a dumbbell, with the

technical management staff at this end and then the operating people

down there. What's in between? Just a big connecting tunnel?'

"Correct. And, of course, the communications conduits. For all the

wiring."

Okay, Vance thought. Now we're getting somewhere. The terrorists will

be split up. That's going to make things easier, and harder. They could

be taken out one group at a time, but there also could be hostages at

peril all over the place. These situations are always a lot cleaner

when all the hostages are in one location.

"Any other connections?"

"Well, there's really only one." He shrugged, and ran his hand through

his mane of white hair. Vance thought it made him look like an aging

lion. "As you can imagine, these levels of power mean there are

enormous quantities of waste heat. So Bates tunneled water conduits

between a submerged pumping station on the other side of the island and

a number of locations."

Vance's pulse quickened. "What do they lead to?"

"They run from the computer in Command, and the power plant down at the

other end of the island, right beneath where we are now and . . .

actually, one leads up to those heat exchangers there--" He was pointing

up the mountain, past a large cinderblock building at the edge of the

phased-array radar installation.

A tunnel filled with water, Vance thought. There's been enough swimming

for a while. But if the system is off, then . . .

"Then there must be an entry-point up there somewhere."

He smiled and nodded wistfully. "I assume there must be. But I don't

know where it is."

"Think it's big enough for somebody to get into?"

"It should be. Everything was over-engineered, since we weren't sure

how much waste heat there would be."

"So all I have to do is get into the heat exchanger, then hope there's

some air left in Bill's granite water pipe."

The old man looked worried. "Do you realize the kind of energy that

goes through that conduit? If they should turn on the pumps, you'd be

drowned in an instant and then dumped out to sea."

"I've already been drowned once on this trip. Another time won't

matter." He shrugged. "But I've got to get inside and find out how many

terrorists there are and where they're keeping the people.'' Once I

figure out their deployment, he was thinking, we can plan the assault.

"It's dangerous," Mannheim mumbled. "That conduit was never intended to

have anybody--"

"I'm forewarned." He was apprehensively rising to his feet and wincing

at his aches. "All you have to do is get me inside."

2:36 P.M.

Georges LeFarge felt like he was getting a fever. Or maybe the room was

just growing hot. All he knew was, he was miserable. He swabbed at his

face with a moist paper towel and tried to breathe normally, telling

himself he had to keep going, had to stick by Cally. This was no time

to give in to these creeps and get sick.

Ardent and intense, Georges looked every inch the computer hacker he

was; but he also was one of the finest aerospace engineers ever to come

out of Cal Tech. Although his long hair and so-so beard were intended

to deliver a fierce political statement, his benign blue eyes negated

the message. He was an idealist, but one filled with love, not hate.

His politics were as simplistic as his technical skills were state-of-

the-art: he never managed to understand why everyone in the world did

not act rationally.

He had grown up in New York's Soho district, living in a mammoth,

sparsely furnished loft with his mother, a widely praised painter of

massive, abstract oils--usually in black and ocher. Her depressing

paintings were huge, but her income only occasionally was, and

Georges's memory of his childhood was years of alternating caviar and

spaghetti. His French Canadian father had long since returned to a log-

and-clay cabin in northern Quebec, never to be heard from again.

He also remembered his mother's string of lovers, an emotional

intrusion he never quite came to accept. The day he went off to MIT, on

a National Merit Scholarship, was the happiest of his life. Or at least

he had thought so until he got a call from Cally Andros asking him to

come to work for SatCom.

He was now thirty-four, single, and he loved girls, or the idea of

girls. No, the truth was that he loved one girl, and had forever. She

was now his boss. After years of separation, they had finally dabbled

at an affair here on Andikythera, but he had to admit it hadn't worked.

At first it had seemed a good idea, his boyhood dream come true, but

now he had realized maybe they were better off just being friends. She

became a different person in bed, and one he found slightly terrifying.

But given what had just happened, all that seemed part of another,

forgotten place and time.

In addition to having a fever, he was bone-tired and his neck ached.

But he wanted desperately to stay alert. He stroked the wispy beard he

had been trying to grow for the last four months, gazed at the

terminal, and warned himself to stop thinking like an engineer and try

to think like a terrorist. These European criminals had shown up just

in time for the first space shot, which meant they had something

planned that needed a vehicle. They weren't going to hold the facility

for ransom: there was nothing here they could steal. Also, they had

been very careful not to damage any of the systems.

Which meant their real program, whatever it was, needed the Cyclops to

work and a vehicle to lift off. If that didn't happen, they were

screwed. So, he thought, you sabotage Thursday's shot and you nix their

plot, whatever it is.

But Cally would have a fit. Mr. Bates needed a success, and soon, or

the whole SatCom gamble would go down the tubes. It was a lose-lose

scenario. What to do?

Simple. Just keep working for now and hope. What else was there?

On the screen in front of him now was the output of a program in

progress, this one called HI-VOLT, which was a daily low-power warm-up

of the coils of the phased-array radar system on the mountain. The

computer methodically checked all the power systems for any hint of

malfunction, and the program had to be run, rain or shine. It was now

time to kick on the pumps and heat exchangers and get going. Something

to do. . . .

The cursor was flashing, ready for the "power on" command. He hit the

Enter key, activating the pumps for the heat exchangers, then turned to

see Cally approaching, winding her way through the workstations, led by

the head terrorist, the fucker who called himself Number One. LeFarge

could not get over the fact the bastard looked like an executive from

the Arlington office, only better dressed.

"Georges, you've got to kill HI-VOLT," Cally said. Although she looked

normal, there was extreme anxiety in her voice. The strain was coming

through. "We have to do a different run." She was passing her fingers

nervously through her hair. He loved her dark, Mediterranean tresses.

"A trajectory analysis using SORT."

The Fujitsu supercomputer they were using was programmed with a special

NASA program developed by McDonnell-Douglas Astronautics Co. Called

SORT, an abbreviation for Simulation and Optimization of Rocket

Trajectories, it minimized the laser energy required for an insertion

trajectory into low earth orbit. It also calculated the on-board nozzle

vectors to adjust altitude while the vehicle was in flight. Midcourse

corrections. All you had to do was program everything in.

"Now? But I just started--"

"Here's a list of what he wants." She glanced at Number One again, then

handed over a sheet of blue paper.

He took it and looked down. Maybe they were about to tip their hand.

But what could they know about computers?

He finally focused on the sheet. What? These weren't satellite

trajectories, these were longitude and latitude coordinates. Then he

studied it more carefully. They were abort targets.

CHAPTER EIGHT

2:37 P.M.

The conduit was roughly a meter and a half in diameter and pitch dark.

He had expected that and had extracted a waterproof flashlight from an

emergency kit in the wreckage of the Hind. It was helping, but not all

that much. With the heat exchangers off, no water was flowing. The

stone walls were merely moist, the curved sides covered with slime.

The tunnel sloped downward from the installation on the mountain as a

gentle incline, and although the gray algae that swathed its sides now

covered him, he had found niches in the granite to hang onto as he

worked his way down.

Then it had leveled out, matching the terrain, and that was when he

encountered the first water, now up around his waist. The radars up the

hill, he realized, were only one of the producers of waste heat. Ahead,

the tunnel he was in seemed to join a larger one from another site, as

part of a general confluence.

Thank God all the systems are in standby, he thought. If those massive

pumps down by the shore start up, they'll produce a raging torrent

that'll leave no place to hide. . . .

As he splashed through the dark, he found himself pondering if this was

what he had been placed on the planet to do. Maybe he should never have

left Yale. The pay was decent, the hours leisurely, the company

congenial. Poking around in the hidden secrets of the past always gave

solace to the spirit. What did humanity think about three thousand

years ago? Five thousand? Five hundred? What were their loves, their

hates, their fears, their dreams? Were they the same as ours? And why

did humanity always need to worship something? Where did the drive come

from to create--poetry, music, painting? These were all marvelous

mysteries that we might never unravel, but they were among the most

noble questions anyone could ask. What makes us human? It was the

immortal quandary.

But when you asked that, you also had to ask the flip-side question.

How could humanity create so much that was bad at the same time? So

much tyranny, greed, hurt? How did all that beauty and ugliness get

mixed up together down in our genes? Maybe he was about to find out

more about the evil in the heart of man, coming up. . . .

He splashed and paddled his way onward, his flashlight sending a puny

beam ahead, and tried to relate his location to the rest of the

facility. Before entering through the heat exchanger atop the mountain,

he had grilled Mannheim on the specifics of site layout. The old man,

however, hadn't really known much about the nuts and bolts of the

facility; his head was out in space somewhere. All the same, Vance

found himself liking him, in spite of his encroaching senility. Even

Homer was said to nod. Just hope you live long enough to get senile

yourself.

Back to business. Ahead, settled into the top of the conduit, was a

metal door just large enough for a man to work through. What was that

for? he wondered. Maintenance access? If so, it must lead into the main

facility somewhere.

He felt his way around the curved sides of the conduit, searching for

flaws in the granite where he could get a handhold. Then he reached up

and tested the door.

The metal was beginning to rust from the seawater, but it still looked

workable. A large black wheel in the center, inset with gears, operated

sliding bolts that fit into the frame.

This has to be fast, he told himself. Do a quick reconnoiter of the

place and make mental notes. Look for entry-points and escape routes.

Then get back in time for the radio chat with Pierre. About three

hours, two to be on the safe side.

He braced himself against the stone sides of the conduit and--holding

the flashlight with one hand--tried to budge the metal wheel.

Nothing. The contact with seawater had frozen it with rust. He tried

again, shoving the flashlight into his belt and, grappling in the dark,

twisting the wheel with both hands. Was it moving?

He felt a faint vibration make its way down the stone walls of the

conduit, then there was a hum of huge electric motors starting

somewhere. Somebody was turning on the systems.

He listened as the vibration continued to grow, and now the water level

was beginning to rise, as the pumps down by the shore began priming.

Were they about to turn them on full blast? The involuntary rush of his

pulse and his breathing made him abruptly aware of how close the

confining tunnel felt, the tight hermetic sense of claustrophobia. For

the first time since landing on Andikythera he felt real fear. He hated

the dark, the enclosed space, and now he was trapped.

Idiot, how did you get yourself into this? You're going to be drowned

in about thirty seconds.

Now the roar of water began to overwhelm the hum of the pumps. The

conduit was filling rapidly, and flow had begun. He realized that only

about a foot of airspace remained at the top. Praying for a miracle, he

heaved against the metal wheel one last time, and finally felt it break

loose, begin to turn.

2:38 P.M.

"Abdoullah" had finished unpacking the second crate, and now he

examined what he had: two fifteen-kiloton nuclear devices, made using

enriched uranium-235 from the Kahuta Nuclear Research Center. He smiled

again to think they had been smuggled out right from under the noses of

the officials at Kahuta, directly up the security elevators leading

down to the U235 centrifuge at Level Five.

The research center was situated more or less in between the sister

cities of Rawalpindi and Islamabad, in northeast Pakistan, where it was

surrounded by barren, scrub-brush rolling hills that looked toward the

looming border of Afghanistan. Kahuta was the heart of Pakistan's

nuclear-weapons program, and its many levels of high-security

infrastructure were buried deep belowground. The only structure visible

to a satellite was the telltale concrete cupola and an adjacent

environmental-control plant for air filtration. Security was tight,

with high fences, watchtowers, and an army barracks near at hand.

The security was for a reason. In 1975 Pakistan began acquiring

hardware and technology for a plant capable of producing weapons-grade

uranium. Bombs require 90 percent enrichment, and when the U.S.

discovered the project, it had threatened to cut off aid if any uranium

was enriched beyond 5 percent. Pakistan agreed, then went right ahead.

Between 1977 and 1980, using dummy corporations and transshipments

through third countries, the government smuggled from West Germany an

entire plant for converting uranium powder into uranium hexafluoride, a

compound easily gasified and then enriched. Two years later the Nuclear

Research Center purchased a ton of specially hardened "maraging" steel,

from West Germany, which was delivered already fabricated into round

bars whose diameter exactly matched that of the (also) German gas

centrifuges under construction at Kahuta. Shortly thereafter, the plant

at Dera Ghazi Khan was on-line, producing uranium hexafluoride

feedstock for the Kahuta enrichment facility, and the Kahuta facility

was using it to turn out U235 enriched uranium in abundance.

At the same time, Pakistani operatives were hastening to acquire high-

speed American electronic switches called krytrons, the triggering

devices for a bomb. Their efforts to obtain nuclear detonators required

several tries, but eventually they got what they needed. They dispensed

with above-ground testing of the nuclear devices they had assembled,

having procured the necessary data from China, and instead just went

ahead and made their bombs. They then secured them on Level Five of the

Kahuta reprocessing facility--against the day they would be needed.

Until now. Liberating two of those well-guarded A-bombs had required a

lot of unofficial cooperation from the plant's security forces.

Batteries of surface-to-air missiles protected Kahuta from air

penetration, and elite paratroopers and army tanks reinforced the many

checkpoints, making sure that no vehicle, official or private, could

enter or leave the complex without a stamped authorization by the

security chief. Only a lot of money in the right hands could make two

of the devices disappear. Sabri Ramirez had seen to that small

technicality. . . .

Abdoullah patted one of the nuclear weapons casually and admired it.

The bomb itself was a half meter in diameter, its outer casing of Octol

carefully packed inside a polished steel sheath embedded with wires.

Expensive but available commercially, Octol was a 70-30 mixture of

cyclote-tramethvlenetetranitramine and trinitrotoluene, known

colloquially as HMX and TNT. It was stable, powerful, and the

triggering agent of choice for nuclear devices. Inside the Octol

encasing each device were twenty-five kilograms of 93 percent enriched

U235. When the external Octol sphere was evenly detonated, it would

compress the uranium core sufficiently to create a "critical mass,-'

causing the naturally occurring radioactive decay of the uranium to

focus in upon itself. Once the radiation intensified, it started an

avalanche, an instantaneous chain reaction of atom-splitting that

converted the uranium's mass into enormous quantities of energy.

The trick to making it work was an even, synchronous implosion of the

outer sphere, which was the job of the high-tech krytron detonator

switches. . . .

Which, Abdoullah realized, were still in the Sikorsky. The krytrons

were packed separately and handled as though they were finest crystal.

"Rais," he said, looking up and addressing his Berkeley classmate now

standing by the door, "I need the detonators."

"Well, they're in the cockpit, where we stowed them." He was tightening

his commando sweatband, itching to try out his Uzi, still unfamiliar.

Would the others notice? In any case, he wasn't here to run errands.

"Then go get them, for chrissake." He had considered Rais to be an

asshole from the day they first met in the Advanced Quantum Mechanics

class at college. Nothing that had happened since had in any way

undermined that conviction. The guy thought he was hot stuff, God's

gift to the world. It was not a view that anybody who knew him shared.

"Why don't _you_ go get them?" Rais said, not moving.

"Because I want to check these babies over and make sure everything is

a go." What a jerk. "Come on, man, don't start giving me a lot of shit,

okay? This is serious. Everybody's got to pull his weight around here."

Rais hesitated, his manhood on the line, and then decided to

capitulate. At least for now. Abdoullah was starting to throw his

weight around, get on the nerves. The guy was real close to stepping

out of line.

"All right, fuck it." He clicked the safety on his Uzi on and off and

on, then holstered it.

"As long as you're at it, why don't you just take them directly down to

the clean room. We'll be assembling everything there anyway, since

that's where the elevator is they use to go up and prep the vehicles."

"That's cool. See you down there." Rais closed the door and walked out

into the Greek sunshine. He was starting to like this fucking place.

2:39 P.M.

Vance shoved the metal door open just as the roar of the onrushing

water reached the confluence at the intersection of the tunnel, a mere

hundred yards ahead. The tunnel was almost full now, the water flow

increasing.

They're about to turn on the Cyclops, he thought. You've got about

fifteen seconds left.

He pulled himself through the metal door, soaked but alive, and rolled

onto a cement floor. With his last remaining strength he reached over

and tipped the metal door shut, then grabbed the wheel and gave it a

twist. Down below he could feel the wall of water surge by.

He thought he was going to faint, but instead he took a deep breath and

pulled out the flashlight. . . .

. . . And found himself in a communications conduit, consisting of a

concrete floor with Styrofoam insulation overhead. All around him

stretched what seemed miles of coaxial cables, wrapped in huge circular

strands. The conduit also contained fiber-optics bundles for carrying

computer data to guide the parabolic antennas up on the mountain as

they tracked the space vehicle.

The major contents of the conduit, however, were massive copper power-

transmission cables. What had Mannheim warned? How many gigawatts per

second? The numbers were too mind-boggling to comprehend, or bother

remembering. All they meant was that if the Cyclops were suddenly

turned on, the Gaussian fields of electromagnetic flux would probably

rearrange his brain cells permanently.

He rose and moved down the conduit, feeling along its curved sides, his

back braced against the large bundle of power wires in the center while

ahead of him the darkness gaped. A few yards farther, though, and the

probing beam of his flashlight revealed a terminus where some of the

shielded fiber optics had been shunted off into the wall, passing

through a heavy metal sleeve.

Although it was welded into a steel plate bolted to the side of the

wall, large handles allowed the bolts to be turned without the aid of

special wrenches. Whoever designed the fiber optics for this tunnel, he

thought, didn't want a lot of Greek workmen down here waving tools

around after a long lunch of guzzling retsina. The fibers were too

vulnerable to stand up to any banging.

He grasped the handles and began to twist one, finding the bolts well

lubricated. After four turns, it opened. The second yielded just as

easily. Then the third and the fourth.

He took a deep breath, thinking this might be his first encounter with

the hostages, and the terrorists. Then he slid the metal plate back

away from the wall and tried to peer through. The opening was

approximately a meter wide, with the bundle of fiber-optics cables

directly through the middle. Still, he found just enough clearance to

slip past and into the freezing cold of the room used to prep the

payloads for the vehicles.

2:40 P.M.

"What's this all about?" LeFarge looked again at the sheet, then up at

Number One. "SORT is intended to calculate orbital parameters. Optimize

them."

"And if there is an abort? It has to go down somewhere."

"You're talking about a pre-specified abort?" LeFarge was trying to

sound dumb. "The Cyclops can't power an ICBM." It probably could, but

he didn't want to mention that.

The terrorist who called himself Number One was not impressed. "That's

a question we will let the computer decide. I happen to believe it can.

You just send it up, then you abort. When you fail to achieve orbital

velocity, it comes down. The nose has a reentry shield, since you are

planning to reuse the vehicle. It should work very nicely."

Georges looked at Cally. He did not want to admit it, but this guy was

right. He had thought about that a lot. Any private spaceport could be

seized by terrorists and turned into a missile launch site. Was that

their plan?

"I won't do it," he heard himself saying. "I refuse."

"That is a mistake," Number One replied calmly. "I will simply shoot

one of your technicians here every five minutes until you begin." He

smiled. "Would you like to pick the first? Preferably someone you can

manage without."

"You're bluffing." He felt a chill. Something told him what he had just

said wasn't true. This man, with his expensive suit

and haircut, meant every word. He was a killer. Georges knew he had

never met anyone remotely like him.

"Young man, you are an amateur." His eyes had grown narrow, almost

disappearing behind his gray aviator shades. "Amateurs do not know the

first thing about bluffing. Now don't try my patience."

He turned and gestured one of the technicians toward them. He was a

young man in his mid-twenties. He came forward and Number One asked his

name.

"I'm Chris Schneider," he said. His blond hair and blue eyes attested

to the fact. His father was a German farmer in Ohio, his mother a

primary-school teacher. He had taken a degree in Engineering from Ohio

State, then stumbled upon the dream job of his life. He was now

thinking about moving to Greece.

"I'm sorry to have to make an example of you, Chris," Number One said,

drawing out his Walther. . . .

2:41 P.M.

Vance realized he was in a satellite "clean room," painted a septic

white with bright fluorescents overhead. Along one wall were steel

tables, several of which held giant "glove boxes" that enabled a worker

to handle satellite components without human contamination. Alongside

those were instruments to measure ambient ionization and dust. Other

systems in the room included banks of electronic equipment about whose

function he could only speculate.

And what was that? . . . there, just above the door . . . it looked

like a closed-circuit TV monitor, black-and-white. It seemed to be

displaying the vague movements of a large control room, one with banks

of computer screens in long rows and marshaled lines of technicians

monitoring them. He studied the picture for a second, wondering why it

seemed so familiar, and then he realized it looked just like TV shots

of the Kennedy Space Center.

Shivering from the cold, he moved closer to the screen, which was just

clear enough to allow him to make out some of the figures in what had

to be the command center. However, he saw only staffers; no sign of

Bill Bates. One individual stood out, his suit and tie a marked

contrast to the general open-shirt atmosphere, and he looked like he

was giving the orders. He was now chatting with a woman and another,

younger man, seated at a keyboard.

Then the well-dressed guy turned and beckoned one of the staffers

forward. He said something to him and then--Jesus!--he pulled a pistol. .

. .

2:42 P.M.

"No!" Cally screamed, but it was already too late. Before Chris

Schneider even saw it coming, Ramirez shot him precisely between the

eyes, neatly and without fanfare. The precision was almost clinical,

and he was dead by the time he collapsed onto the gray linoleum tiles

of the floor. His body lay motionless, his head nestled in a growing

pool of dark blood.

Georges LeFarge looked on unbelieving. Had he really seen it? No, it

was too grotesque. Chris, murdered in cold blood right before his eyes.

They had been talking only yesterday about going to Crete for the

weekend, maybe renting a car. . . . Death had always been an

abstraction, never anything to view up close. He had never seen a body.

He had never even imagined such things could really happen; it was only

in the movies, right? Until this moment he had never confronted actual

murder ever in his life.

Calypso Andros felt a shock, then a surge of emotional Novocain as her

adrenaline pumped. Right then and there she decided that she was going

to kill this bastard herself, personally, with her own hands. Number

One, whoever he was, was a monster. No revenge . . .

Then the superego intervened. He's still got the gun. Wait, and get the

son of a bitch when he's not expecting it.

"Georges," she said quietly, finally collecting herself, "you'd better

do what he says."

LeFarge was still too astonished to think, let alone talk.

This horror was outside every realm of reason. He had no way to file it

within any known category contained in his mind.

"She is giving you excellent advice," Number One was saying. "You would

be wise to listen. In any case, I merely want you to demonstrate the

technical capabilities of this system." He smiled as though nothing had

happened. "An intellectual exercise."

Georges looked at Cally and watched her nod. Her eyes seemed almost

empty. Was it shock? How could she manage to carry on?

Well, he thought, if she can do it, then so can I.

Slowly he revolved and examined the computer terminal in front of him.

The cool green of the screen was all that remained recognizable, the

only thing to which he could still relate.

"All right." He barely heard his own words as he glanced down at the

sheet. "I'll see if I can put in a run."

The room around them was paralyzed in time, the single thunk of the

pistol having reverberated louder than a cannon shot. Like Georges,

none of the other young technicians had ever witnessed an overt act of

violence. It produced a new reality, a jolt that made the senses

suddenly grow sharper, the hearing more acute, the periphery of vision

wider.

Still in shock, he typed an instruction into his Fujitsu workstation,

telling it to start back-calculating the trajectory of an abort

splashdown for various locations. Then he began typing in the numbers

on the sheet. The first coordinates, he realized at once, were

somewhere close. But where?

2:43 P.M.

Vance watched the control room freeze as the body slumped to the floor,

and he felt his fingers involuntarily bunch into a fist. The bastards

were killing hostages already. They definitely were terrorists, right

out of the textbook. Kill one, and frighten a thousand. Except they

might not stop with one. He foresaw a long day. And night.

The victim had been hardly more than a college kid. Murdered at random,

and for no other apparent reason than to frighten the rest into

submission. A technique that was as old as brutality. But that

terrorist trick, management by intimidation, worked both ways. Take

away their Uzis and these smug bastards could just as easily be turned

into quivering Jell-O. All human beings had psychological pressure

points that could be accessed. What separated the wheat from the chaff

was what happened when somebody got to those points. He often wondered

what he would do. He prayed he would never have to find out. . . .

Then he watched as the young man at the terminal began typing in

something off a sheet of paper. Whatever the terrorist had intended to

accomplish by his wanton murder, apparently it had worked. The other

technicians were all staring down at their screens, scared to move.

Whatever had gone on, everybody was back to business. But what did

these thugs want?

Sadly he turned away from the screen to reexamine his surroundings . .

. and noticed a workstation, situated off to the left side of the door.

What had Bill once said? They practically had computer terminals in the

bathrooms. This one obviously was intended for quick communications

with the command crews from here in this freezing white room.

Keeping an eye on the TV monitor, he moved over to take a look.

Instructions began appearing on the bright green screen, indicating it

was tied into a computer network at the facility. Yes, somebody--

probably the young analyst out there--was typing in a complex series of

commands. Above that, on the screen, another sequence had been aborted.

It had been some sort of run called HI-VOLT. That must have been what

had jolted him when he was out in the conduit.

He studied the screen, trying to figure out what was going on. Only the

hum of air conditioning broke the silence, and the quiet helped him to

think. . . .

Of course! These bastards were planning to use the Cyclops--or worse,

its spacecraft--to . . . what?

He recalled seeing the second chopper arrive and the boys unload two

crates. Its cargo wasn't going to be a Christmas present to the world.

Whatever it was, they were poised to deliver it just about anywhere on

the globe.

So what was their target? He studied the computer screen, hoping to get

an inkling. But he saw only numbers. In pairs. They looked like . . .

latitude and longitude. Coordinates. What did that mean? The first ones

were nearby, maybe somewhere near Crete. So what were they doing?

Reprogramming the vehicle into a missile? Terrific.

That was the first half of the bad news. The second half was that

whatever they were up to, there also seemed a good chance they might

try to blow up the SatCom facility after they were finished, just to

cover their tracks. Dead men make no IDs in some faraway courtroom

years from now.

He could probably terminate that plan by just sabotaging some of the

fiber optics in the conduit, thereby putting the whole facility out of

commission. But that would screw Bill too, and probably end up costing

SatCom millions. Bates was close enough to being suicidal already. This

was probably going to put him over the edge in any case.

Keep that as a last-ditch option, he told himself. And besides,

everything at the moment was only guesswork. The thing to do first was

to get a better handle on the situation without the terrorists knowing.

The question was how.

He looked around the room again, wondering. And then his eye fell on

the terminal and a thought dawned. Why not see if you can interrupt the

computer run in progress and have a chat with the analyst at the

keyboard, the one with the beard now typing in the numbers appearing on

the green screen?

He reached down and tested one of the keys, but nothing happened. The

data being typed in just kept on coming. What now? How to cut into the

system and send him a little personal E-mail? Get his attention.

Something. Then he realized the keyboard had an on/off switch, which

was currently shunting it out of the system.

Guess that's to keep somebody from screwing up a run by leaning against

it, he thought. How much time is there? Any minute now somebody could

come wandering in. Probably this window of opportunity only had a few

minutes to go.

He switched on the keyboard and again gave a letter a tap. This time it

instantly appeared on the screen, highlighted. A glance at the TV

monitor told him that the startled analyst at the keyboard had frozen

his fingers in mid-tap, bringing everything to a halt.

Quickly he started typing, hoping that none of the terrorists had the

brains to be monitoring the computers.

DON'T STOP. JUST ANSWER.

The young analyst, he could tell from the monitor, had a funny look on

his face, obvious even through his scraggly beard. But he was cool.

WHO ARE YOU? came back the answer.

A FRIEND. NEED INFORMATION. FAST. HOW MANY TERRORISTS?

TEN. The reply appeared. BUT I THINK ONE WAS KILLED.

Plus those who came in on the Sikorsky this morning, Vance thought.

Looked like another three. Then he typed in another question.

WHAT DO THEY WANT?

DON'T KNOW. MAYBE USE VEHICLES. The typing was quick and experienced.

THEY SAY FACILITY TO KEEP OPERATING NORMALLY.

WHERE IS BATES? Vance typed back. IS HE OKAY?

IN HIS OFFICE. THINK HE'S OKAY.

That's a relief, he thought. Guess Bill's still got some hostage value

to them.

TELL HIM ULYSSES HAS LANDED. BE OF GOOD CHEER.

The answer came back. WHO ARE YOU? I'M SCARED. THEY KILLED CHRIS.

I SAW IT. BUT THAT'S PROBABLY ALL FOR A WHILE. STANDARD TERROR TACTICS.

NOW ERASE THIS CONVERSATION.

Something was typed on the screen and their words immediately all

disappeared. And just in time. . . .

2:48 P.M.

Rais had finished retrieving the box of krytrons from the cockpit of

the Huey and was headed down the elevator for the area directly below

and south of the launch facility, the clean room where SatCom's

expensive communications satellites were going to be prepped for

launch. Abdoullah was a jerk, but he had been right about that: it was

the obvious location to install the detonators and set the timing

mechanisms.

As the elevator door opened, his Uzi was still holstered just below his

right hip and in his hands was the box of detonators, all carefully

secured in their beds of bubble-wrap. He stepped into the hallway, then

headed down for the closed door of the clean room.

2:58 P.M.

"William Bates, I must say, made a wise choice when he hired you to run

this project, Miss Andros," Ramirez was saying. He had just lit a new

cigar. "I have to commend his judgment."

"Well, if you think I'm doing such a great job, you'd better let me go

on doing it," Cally managed to answer, trying to get a grip on herself.

She had her arms crossed, mainly to try to keep her hands from shaking.

When Chris was shot, she was so stunned she'd repressed the horror. Now

the numbness was wearing off and she wanted to scream. Just one long

wail to purge everything. She was biting her lip to try to repress the

impulse. "I need to go down to the launch facility and check with the

tech crews."

Toughen up and think, she told herself. These terrorists are up to

something, and the sooner you figure out what it is, the better for

everybody.

"As a matter of fact"--he nodded--"I need to go down myself and see how

things are proceeding. So why don't we both go, Miss Andros."

"Around here I'm called Dr. Andros." She was feeling her control coming

back. Two could play the power game.

"But of course." He nodded. "In a professional environment we all like

to be treated accordingly. I respect that, and expect no less myself."

He surveyed the room, its SatCom technicians still stunned. Then his

eye caught the tall, bearded Iranian, Salim, now lounging by the door

with his Uzi, and motioned him over.

"Get this body out of here."

The Iranian nodded and strolled over. Cally studied him, wondering. She

had been trying to size up the team for some time, and she still had

not figured them all out. But this one, heavy-set and defiantly

bearded, seemed somewhat at odds with the others. He clearly had no

taste to clean up Number One's murder; you could see it in his eyes.

"Where--?"

"In the lobby. It's disrupting the professional environment."

He nodded again and without a word grabbed Chris Schneider by the

shoulders and began dragging him past.

"Dr. Andros"--Number One turned back to her--"already I feel closer to

you than I do to half of my men. I think you and I will make a good

team."

"You have got to be fucking kidding."

He merely laughed, then spoke to another of the terrorists, a young

Arab. After apparently ordering him to stay behind in Command to keep

an eye on things, he motioned Cally to lead the way through the

security doors.

They edged around Salim, still moving the body, and out into the lobby.

The first thing she noticed was that the guard was missing from the

front security station. Instead a wide dark stain covered the desk.

Blood.

She whirled on Number One. "What happened to Milos, you bastard?"

"Regrettably he is no longer with us." He shrugged, not pausing as he

took her arm and shoved her on.

"You mean you murdered him, too?" She felt herself about to explode.

She had loved that Greek, who spent more time worrying about soccer

scores than he did about security. Thinking about his death, she felt a

wave of nausea sweep over her. "You bloodthirsty--"

"Please, we're going to try to be professionals, remember," he

interrupted her calmly. "We will be working together in the days ahead,

and animosity will serve no purpose."

She thought of several responses, but squelched them all. Talking

wasn't going to make things any better. In that respect, he was right.

Talk would have no effect.

They were facing the tunnel leading to the mechanical- systems sector

at the other end of the island. The large metal doors, operated from

the security system at the desk, had been opened, slid back, and

permanently secured. The short- circuiting of the security system had

disabled all the electronic locks in the facility.

Scrutinizing them, she felt sadness. All the months of fine-tuning and

technical calibration throughout the facility, had all that effort been

wasted? Probably not, she suspected. These goons, true to their word,

had taken great pains not to disturb anything in Command. So far

everything had apparently conformed to their plan, except for something

to do with a helicopter. Whatever that was, it had taken them by

surprise. What was it?

Ramirez said nothing as they started down the asphalt pavement of the

underground passageway. Over a thousand meters long and illuminated by

fluorescent lighting, its cinderblock walls were wide and high enough

to accommodate a standard Greek truck or two small lorries. Cally noted

the deserted guard desk at the far end. Had he been killed as well? she

wondered.

"Let me put your mind at ease," Number One announced, as though reading

her thoughts. "The other guards have merely been disarmed and locked in

their quarters. As I said, we have no desire for any unnecessary

bloodshed."

"More lies?" She tossed her hair.

"You should try to believe me. Again, trust will make things easier for

us both."

She pushed past the doors at the end of the passageway and together

they entered the first sector, Launch Control. Beyond, another set of

doors led to the giant underground installation for the superconducting

coil, which fed into a massive glass tube holding the wiggler, heart of

the Cyclops. Above that, now unseen, stood the launch vehicles,

"rockets" that carried no fuel.

Neither was yet primed; they planned to ready the vehicle designated

VX-1 just before launch. In fact, nothing had happened since the test

the night before. Tech crews were checking the instruments, knowing

only that a communications breakdown with Command had occurred and some

strange visitors had shown up in a helicopter. Something was going on,

but nobody knew what.

"A very impressive installation," Number One said, watching as the

technicians all nodded their greetings. "Incidentally, there is no

point in alarming any of them now. For the moment, you should just

proceed normally."

"That's why you're here, right?" she shot back. "To make sure there's

all this normality. Things were pretty normal before you and your band

of thugs barged in."

"We are colleagues now, Dr. Andros. I'm here to observe the lift-off we

all are so anxious for. Please, for starters I would like to tag along

and have you show me around. You're a congenial guide."

You bet, she thought. You'll discover how "congenial" I am soon enough.

Of course, she had not yet formulated a strategy. One bright spot was

the voice on the radio this morning? Was somebody on the island still

free? She had peeked out into the lobby long enough to learn that the

mysterious "guard" had shot one of the Germans and then escaped. So who

was it? That was what she wanted to find out next. . . .

But first, business. She approached Jordan Jaegar, a young Cal Tech

graduate and friend of Georges who had been with the project from the

start.

"J.J., how long did the coil temperature stay nominal?"

Although he had a master's in mechanical engineering, Jordan sported

shoulder-length hair and had just gotten a tattoo on his right bicep--an

elaborate rendering of his initials, J.J., which he much preferred to

be called. He liked the fact Dr. Andros remembered that.

"For just over twenty-one minutes," he announced with pride, his eyes

discreetly taking in her hourglass figure. "Long enough. Then it

started creeping up, but we'd have almost inserted into orbit by that

time. And after twenty-nine minutes it was only five degrees Celsius

higher. No sweat, Dr. Andros."

Who, J.J. was wondering, was this hotshot standing next to Dr. Andros?

He had seen a lot of SatCom brass come and go, but this dude was

definitely new. What was his scene? No question, though, the boss lady

was really pissed about something. She also did not seem interested in

introducing this new creep to anyone. Fine. There was enough to worry

about without more head-office brass.

Cally nodded. "The on-line readout in Command showed that the Cyclops

reached saturation at twelve point three-five gigawatts."

"Right," J.J. agreed. "The wiggler went critical and we used the phased

array to dissipate the energy." He beamed. "Hell, we could have sent

her up last night. The whole thing was textbook."

He knew she already knew all that. But he figured there was no harm in

impressing this front-office creep that all the money they'd spent

hadn't been wasted. SatCom was definitely on-budget from his section.

Management had to be happy. Payoff time was just around the corner.

This time next week, SatCom's stock was going to be pure gold. After

VX-1 went up, there wouldn't be any more shit from Arlington. They'd be

passing out stock bonuses like fucking peppermints. He figured a hot

new Nissan was definitely in his future.

"Good," Dr. Andros said, but she seemed distracted, having trouble

staying focused. Something was definitely wrong, but she was hiding it.

"How about sending a data summary to my terminal in Command."

Cally walked on past J.J., thinking as fast as she could. None of the

technicians here knew what had happened. When they found out, were they

going to fall apart, endangering everybody and everything? Maybe, she

thought; it would be better now to just continue normally as long as

possible.

Number One, whoever he was, wasn't carrying an Uzi now; instead he had

a 9mm skillfully concealed beneath his double-breasted. It was all very

stylish. He was keeping the takeover on low profile, at least down here

where the vehicles were. Maybe, she told herself, he doesn't feel as

sure of himself here, or maybe he needs to keep their plans a secret.

So they're definitely up to something.

As they walked past the massive steel housings enclosing the wiggler's

controls, Ramirez suddenly paused and cleared his throat.

"Dr. Andros, what is the payload for the test launching? You certainly

wouldn't put a multimillion-dollar communications satellite at peril

during your maiden run."

He isn't stupid, she thought. He understands the economics of the

satellite business.

"It's just a test. With a dummy payload."

"Good. We will have a real payload for you. It won't be low-cost, but

it will definitely get you some attention. We--"

At that moment his walkie-talkie crackled.

3:00 P.M.

Abdoullah had completed his inspection and, together with Shujat, was

loading the crates back onto the small trucks intended to move them

down to the clean room.

"We'll have to adjust the timers very carefully," he was saying to

Shujat, now bent over with him, "make sure they're synched critically

with the trajectory."

The second Pakistani engineer nodded. "Right. So we'll do it when the

trajectory computer runs are completed. That's scheduled for 2200 hours

tonight."

"Sounds good." Abdoullah clicked on his black walkie-talkie, a small

Kenwood, and tried to sound professional. "Firebird Two to Firebird

One. Do you read?"

There was a burst of static, and then Ramirez's voice sounded. "I copy

you, Firebird Two. Any problems?"

"Negative. The items look in perfect condition. We are taking them down

to the clean room now to install the detonators."

"Fine," Ramirez replied. "I'll meet you there." The radio voice paused.

"Incidentally, be aware there is somebody loose on the island who seems

a trifle out of synch with the situation."

"Where is he?" He was signaling for Shujat to come over and listen.

Having a problem or two always made things more fun.

"Probably up at the communications complex on the mountain. So far he's

only been a nuisance, but the matter will have to be resolved. In the

meantime, don't let anything slow down your work. We need to be

prepared for the next phase, including whatever time flexibility we

might need."

Abdoullah did not exactly like the sound of that. He had a troubling

feeling that Number One wasn't exactly telling everybody the whole

plan. He was not a man you instinctively trusted. Who the hell was he.

really. Of course, in this business you didn't necessarily trust

anybody, but still, when you were working together it was nice to think

that everybody was on the same wavelength.

In his view, a lot of questions still needed answering. Like where had

the money come from to mount this operation? The preparations, the

bribes, the equipment and the second chopper, the Sikorsky--the Hind, he

knew, had been stolen --the payments to all the third parties involved.

Everything had required money, tons of it, but the man known as Number

One clearly had all he needed. So how had this character come up with

all those millions of bucks?

His intuition told him that not everybody was going to make it to the

safe house in Malta when the time came. At the moment he had confidence

only in Rais and Shujat. And Rais was a jerk. In fact, he hadn't seen

him since he went out to get the krytrons from the cockpit of the

Sikorsky, but he should be down in the clean room by now. . . .

3:01 P.M.

Vance heard a sound outside the clean room, footsteps. Somebody was

approaching, but not with a walk that suggested familiarity with the

place.

This might turn out to be his hoped-for break. Maybe he was about to

have a nice face-to-face with one of the terrorists. At last, an

opportunity for some answers.

He slipped back against the wall next to the door, his wet clothes

chilling him in the low temperature. But he sensed that things were

about to warm up. The person behind the door paused for a second, then

shoved it open. A box appeared, then a face. It was young and cocky.

"Don't even think about making a sound, asshole." He slapped his

Walther against the guy's cheek, then yanked the Uzi from his leg

holster and pulled him into the room. Next he kicked the door shut and

shoved his new guest to the floor. The box he was carrying thumped down

beside him.

In the glare of the fluorescents the "terrorist" looked like an aging

graduate student, except he was wearing a Palestinian _kaffiyeh_. Vance

ripped it away, rolled him over, and inserted the Uzi into his mouth. A

metal barrel loosening the teeth, he knew, did marvels for a wiseguy's

powers of concentration. That was one of the first lessons he'd picked

up from the boys at ARM. And this one was no exception. He stared up,

genuine terror in his eyes, and moaned.

"Speak English? Just nod."

He dipped his forehead forward, eyes still in shock.

"Good. Now we're going to play Twenty Questions. That's about the

number of teeth you've got, so each time I get an answer I don't buy,

one of them goes. And when we run out of teeth, you won't be able to

talk any more, so I'll just blow your head off. Okay, how're we doing?

We understand each other so far?"

He nodded again and gave an airless grunt.

"Great. Looks like we're on a roll. Now, how many more of your team is

in there? Hold up fingers. Very slowly. I was never good at fast

arithmetic."

His eyes were cloudy, but he managed to lift five fingers.

This guy is one of the new arrivals, Vance thought. I counted three of

them. So that means two others are down here as well. Those first guys

were the pros, but this kid barely knows which end of an Uzi to hold.

"Do they know you came back here?" He rattled the barrel of the Uzi

around in his mouth, just to keep him focused.

Again he nodded, even more terrified.

Okay, he thought, we're going to have to make this a short chat.

"Are there hostages down here?"

Again the man nodded.

"How many?"

He just shrugged, clearly having no idea.

Well, Vance thought, maybe it's time to get this show on the road.

He slowly removed the barrel, then ripped off a portion of the kaffiyeh

lying on the floor, balled it, and stuffed it into his mouth. Next he

tore off a longer strip and tied it around his head, securing the gag.

The eyes were still terrified.

"By the way," he said, "what's in the box?"

A new look of even-greater horror entered the eyes. He's really scared

now, Vance thought. Interesting.

"Well, well, maybe we ought to take a look."

He reached over and opened the lid. There, nestled inside several

layers of bubble-wrap, were what looked like large, oversized blue

transistors.

Bingo, he thought, what have we here? Could it be these are the tickets

to the upcoming show. This ain't chopped liver.

"Okay, pal, on your feet. We're going to get moving. Just you and me.

And we're going to take along your little box of toys. You can tell me

what they are later."

The young terrorist started to rise, gingerly.

"See that opening over there"--he pointed--"where the wires enter into

the conduit? We're going through there, you first. You're about to have

some experience in mountain climbing. The workout might do you good."

That was when the door opened.

CHAPTER NINE

3:18 P.M.

Vance cocked the Pakistani's Uzi and trained it on the door, not sure

what to do. The fear was that he might inadvertently kill a friendly.

Hostage situations always presented that harrowing possibility. Quick

identifications and quick decisions were what made good antiterrorist

teams. He was afraid he had neither skill. He wasn't even that great a

shot.

But events were to break his way for a change. As the door swung in, he

saw a woman framed there. He needed only to lock eyes with her to know

she was a friendly. Okay, one ID out of the way. Then a man behind her,

dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, reached out to seize her and pull

her in front of him.

No good. As Vance watched, mesmerized, she elbowed him in the chin,

sending him reeling backward and out into the hallway. Then, before he

could recover, she slammed the door, using her other elbow to hit the

blue Airlock button next to the frame. With electronic efficiency, the

red "Sealed" light above the door blinked on and bolts around the edges

clicked into place.

She turned, still shaking, and looked at him. "Please tell me you're

not one of them, too."

"No way. I'm just a tourist." Vance examined her and liked her on the

spot. She was a stunner, with dark hair and an eye-catching sweater

emblazoned with the SatCom logo-- one of those take-charge women made

for the modern age. Exhibit A: she'd just iced the thug in the hallway.

"And who are you?"

Instead of answering, she glanced over at the Pakistani, his mouth

gagged. "I see you've already met one of our new guests."

"We got acquainted informally. Not exactly a meaningful relationship."

He stared at the door, wondering how long it would hold. "By the way,

is that guy outside who I think he is? Didn't he just shoot somebody in

your control room?"

"He did. And you were probably about to be next." She took time to

examine him more closely. He couldn't tell if she liked what she saw,

but her look quickly turned to puzzlement. "You're soaking wet."

"I had an afternoon dip."

"What? You swam here?" She looked about the room, then back. "How--"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Who are you?"

"Mike Vance." He extended his hand. "Friend of Bill's. It's a long

story. In real life I run a sailboat charter operation back in the

Bahamas. And you?"

"Cally Andros. I run this place, or at least I did until last night."

She shook his hand, tentatively. "So what are you doing here?"

"As I said, just an island tourist. But I've got to tell you, Greek

hospitality isn't what it used to be." He reached down and picked up

the box with the krytrons. "Now what do you say we get out of here

before that guy outside comes blasting in?"

"Through that door?" She laughed. 'That's an inch and a

half of steel. Even better, it's fail-safe, which means that if the

electronics fail, it stays in the locked mode anyway."

He liked her snappy answers. "Nothing lasts forever. I strongly

recommend we do ourselves a favor and move along." He turned and

indicated the open panel where the wiring entered. "How does the back

way sound to you?"

"You came in through there?" She clearly was startled. "You're either

very smart, or very stupid. That's where--"

"I'll tell you what's really stupid. Standing around while those goons

figure out how to take out that door. Because there's something in here

I've got a feeling they're going to want back very badly."

"You mean him?" She pointed at the Pakistani, still gagged, hunching

down on the floor.

'This one? Doubt that. He's just a water carrier. No, I'm talking about

the gadgets inside this box."

"What . . . ?"

"Check them out." He passed it over. "What do you think?"

She lifted out one of the glass-covered units, three wires extending

from one end, and her dark eyes widened. "My God, do you know what this

is?"

'Tell me."

"It's a krytron." She rotated it in her hand, gently, as though it were

crystal. "I've never actually seen one before, only pictures. You can

trigger a nuclear device with one of these. They're worth millions on

the black market."

"Guess we just made the Fortune Five Hundred." He laughed. "If we live

long enough to cash them in. Should be lots of buyers around the Middle

East."

"Do you realize--?"

'The nightmare's finally come true? Looks that way." He sighed.

"Terrorists are building a bomb. Or, more likely, they've managed to

steal one somewhere."

"One?" She shivered from the cold and pulled at her sweater. 'There

must be more than one, if they've got all these detonators."

"But a bomb is just another chunk of enriched uranium without these,

right?"

"Well, if they're planning to do more than threaten . . . Oh, my God."

She froze. "That explains why they've got Georges changing

trajectories. They--"

"What! Are they tinkering with your rockets?"

"So far just the computer-guidance part. But if they put a bomb on VX-

1, who knows what they could end up doing?"

"How does nuclear blackmail sound? But nobody goes to this much trouble

just to shake down a corporation. There're lots of easier ways." He

paused to ponder. Ten to one it's not SatCom they're holding for

ransom. They're aiming for a lot higher stakes. They're probably

planning to shake down a country somewhere. No prizes for guessing

which one."

"The U.S.," she guessed anyway. "Think they can get away with it?"

"Probably not without these." He closed the box. "Maybe we've just

pulled the plug. So let's take these and get out of here."

She glanced down at the surly Pakistani. "What about him?"

"We could take him with us, as a bargaining chip, but I don't think

he's worth the bother." Vance reached over and turned his face up. "How

about it? Do your buddies out there care whether you live or die?"

His eyes betrayed his fear they did not.

"Didn't really think so," Vance revolved back. "I say we leave him.

They'll probably execute him anyway, for being a screw-up and losing

these." He tucked the box under his arm, then turned back one last

time. 'Tell your chief we're going to take good care of them. They're

the world's insurance policy." He pointed toward the opening into the

wiring shaft. "Want to go first?"

'The conduit?" She frowned.

"You get used to it. It's just--"

"I really can't believe any of this is happening." She turned, walked

over, and--with only minor hesitation--began climbing through.

At that moment, the Pakistani suddenly rolled to his feet and lunged

for the sealed door. Vance whirled to try and catch him, but it was too

late. He had already thrown his body against the release button. The

seal clicked off, and in an instant their security evaporated.

"Go!" he turned back and yelled, but she was already through.

What now? he wondered fleetingly. Stay and shoot it out, or disappear.

The second option had more appeal.

He dived for the open grate of the conduit, but the door was already

opening. The Paki couldn't yell, but when the door slid back, he pushed

through . . . and was cut down by a fusillade of automatic-weapons

fire. The impact blew him back into the room, sending his riddled body

full length across the floor.

Vance swung around the Uzi and laid down a blast of covering fire

through the doorway, which had the effect of clearing the opening for a

second. He got off a couple of last rounds, just for good measure, then

turned and hurled himself into the communications shaft.

No sooner had he pulled himself inside than rounds of fire began

ricocheting through behind him. The aim, however, was wide, and he

managed to flatten himself and stay out of the way.

Then the firing abruptly stopped.

They must have seen what's in here, he realized, all the wiring.

"Are you all right?" It was Cally's voice, somewhere in the dark ahead.

"I'm doing fine." He paused, hating the next part. "Only one small

problem."

"What--?"

"I managed to drop our insurance policy on the floor in there. They're

back in business."

3:20 P.M.

Isaac Mannheim checked his watch and then gazed down the hill, marking

the time with growing impatience. Coping with inactivity, he felt, was

the most extraordinarily difficult task in life. In fact, he never

understood how anybody could retire, when three lifetimes would not be

adequate for all one's dreams. The tall man who had saved his life

earlier in the day had departed almost an hour and a half ago. Where

was he? This waiting around was not accomplishing a damned thing.

He rose off the rock where he'd been sitting, and stretched. Enough of

this lollygagging about; he had to get down there and find out what was

happening. Already he assumed that something had interfered with the

schedule. This afternoon's agenda included a communications power-up of

the servomechanisms that guided the phased-array transmitter through

the trajectory. He had even warned the tall stranger about it before he

descended into the conduit. Well, he seemed to carry luck around with

him, because the power-up had begun, then suddenly halted. But that

meant somebody was mucking with the timetable. It was necessary to stop

these people, whoever they were, from causing any more interference.

In times like these, he figured, it paid to be pragmatic. So give them

a piece of whatever it was they wanted and they'd go away. It always

worked. Even the student sit-ins of the sixties could have been tamed

with a few gestures, a handful of concessions. If he'd been in charge,

the problem would have disappeared.

So this time he would take the initiative. These people had no reason

to want to stop the project--which meant, logically, that they had to be

after something else. So why not just let them have it and then get on

with matters?

After squinting at his watch one last time, he shrugged and started

down the hill, working his way through the rocks and scrub brush. The

sun beat down fiercely, making him thirsty and weak, while the sharp

rocks pierced the lightweight shoes he had worn for the plane. But the

other, sturdier pair he had packed was lost with the helicopter. . . .

Well, so be it. The first rule of life was to make do with what you

had, manage around problems, and he intended to do exactly that.

Shrugging again, he gingerly continued his climb. On his left he was

passing the landing pad, with the slightly beat up Agusta, the sight of

which momentarily discomfited him. But surely Bates had it insured.

Still, the whole business was damned irritating, start to finish.

As he walked onto the asphalt of the connecting roadway and headed for

the entrance to Command, he puzzled over how these thugs could have

penetrated the facility in the first place and why Security had not

handled the problem. That was bloody well what SatCom was paying its

layabout Greek guards to do. Thev should have nipped the whole mess in

the bud.

He turned and scanned the mountain one last time, but still spied

nobody. The chap who saved his life must have gotten lost. Or killed.

With a shrug he walked directly up to the SatCom entry lobby and shoved

open the glass door. To his surprise nobody was manning the security

station. And an ominous dark stain covered the desk. Why hadn't anybody

cleaned that up?

Readying his lecture, he dug out his security card and headed across

toward the door to Command.

3:21 P.M.

"Let them go," Ramirez said. "We have what we need." He bent down and

picked up the box.

"What about the woman?" Wolf Helling asked. "Can we work without her?"

"She'll be back." Ramirez seemed to be thinking aloud. "I'll see to

it."

"But--"

"There are ways." He cut him off. "It's not a problem."

"What do you want us to do here?" Helling inquired finally, skepticism

in his voice. He stepped over to look at the body of Rais, staring down

dispassionately. One less amateur to deal with. He had shot the

Pakistani by accident, but the kid was unreliable. And this job had no

room for unreliability.

"Just get on with arming the devices," he said, checking his Rolex.

"I'm going back to Command." It's time, he was thinking, for an

important phone call.

3:39 P.M.

"I figure it like this," Vance said, trying to sound confident. "We

take out the guy in charge, behead the dragon, and we've solved a large

part of the problem. He seems to like shooting people, even his own

men." He paused, then looked at her. "By the way, do you know who he

is? Could be a real help."

"I have no idea," Cally said, shaking her head. "Just that he's a

killer." She was straightening her clothes after climbing out of the

conduit and through the heat exchanger. "He murdered Chris for no

reason. Why would he do that?" Her voice began to choke, and she

stopped.

Vance reached over and patted her hand. She had been through a lot. "He

needs to scare you and everybody working for you. But try and hang on.

You'll be getting some professional reinforcements soon. A few friends

of mine known as ARM."

"ARM? Isn't that the security bunch that wired this facility in the

first place?" She stared at him, then made a face. "Some job."

"What can I say?" He winced. "They don't usually have these problems."

"And now these same guys are going to come back and save us? That's

really comforting."

"Try thinking positive." It was the best he could do.

She clearly viewed that response as inadequate, but she was too

exhausted to argue. "Well, at this point I don't have any better ideas.

But I'm worried about what may happen if there's a lot of shooting."

"Part of our job is to try and make sure nobody gets hurt. Keep the

friendlies out of harm's way."

"Great." Her spunk was coming back. "We're probably going to have to

keep them out of the way of your incompetent rescuers as well."

"Have faith. These guys've had plenty of experience. It won't be the

first time."

"And what about you?" She looked him over again. "How much experience

have you had?"

"You want an honest answer?"

"I take it that means none."

"Pretty close. So till they get here we just ad-lib." He settled under

a tree and leaned back against the trunk. "Now, how about describing

their leading man. I didn't get a very good look at him."

She was quiet for a moment, as though to collect her memories, and then

she produced a description so thorough it would have impressed a Mossad

intelligence officer. By the time she finished, Vance was grinning.

"Well, what do you know. He's alive after all. Looks like ARM is in for

some unfinished business."

"What do you mean?"

"I think you just described somebody who slipped past Pierre in Beirut

about five years ago. He's been in the terrorist game a long, long

time, but he hasn't been heard from since. Everybody started believing

he was dead. Or hoping."

"You know who he is?"

"It could only be one guy. Sabri Ramirez." He felt mixed emotions. This

would be a real prize for Pierre and the others, if they could get him.

The problem was getting him. Nobody had ever managed to come close.

"Who's that?"

Vance wondered if he really ought to tell her. Or shade the truth down

a bit.

"Let me put it like this. He's no ordinary criminal. He's probably

murdered a hundred people if you added up all the bombings. Mossad has

been trying to assassinate the bastard for fifteen years." Vance leaned

back, his mind churning, and touched his fingertips together. "This

puts things in a whole new perspective. I knew he was a pro, had to be,

but we're about to go up against the world's number-one terrorist. The

king." His blue eyes grew thoughtful. "I've got to warn Pierre ASAP.

The tactics may have to be changed."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"If Ramirez thinks he's trapped, he'll just lash out. Always happens.

He goes crazy and gets irrational when he's cornered, which means

negotiations are useless."

"Jesus." She shuddered, her eyes seeming to go momentarily blank. "I

didn't sign on for this."

"Makes two of us." He settled back in the grass, then yanked up a

handful, fresh and fragrant, and sniffed it. "I came for sun and sea.

Not to help re-kill a dead man."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She plopped down beside him under the

tree.

"Seems reasonable to guess he's been quote dead unquote for five years

because he wants to be. It's not a bad condition to be in. For one

thing, people stop looking for you. You can start reusing your old

hideaways. And then you can put together a really big score. The Hyena

returns."

"The Hyena?"

"That's what Mossad calls him. The story is he hates it, but it sort of

sums up his line of work. The Hyena. The world's number-one killer-for-

hire."

"God. I knew there was something about him, although in a way he seemed

so . . . the man in the Brooks Brothers suit. But when he gunned down

Chris in cold blood . . . still, this goes way beyond anything I could

ever have dreamed."

"Looks like SatCom just made the big time. Right up there with the OPEC

ministers he kidnapped in 1975, then auctioned off all over the Middle

East. This is even bigger. It's going to be the crown jewel of his

career." He stopped to muse. "What's it like to be famous and

officially dead at the same time?"

"Maybe the best thing would be if he were really dead."

"You read my mind."

2:18 P.M.

"Mr. President." It was the voice of Alicia on the intercom. 'There's a

call holding on line three. It's Dr. Mannheim."

He glanced up, distracted. In the interest of more space, the operation

had moved from the Oval Office to the Cabinet Room, where Stuart's

wooden-jawed portrait of George Washington gazed down on the papers

strewn around the eight-sided table. Seated there with him were his

chief of staff, Morton Davies; the special assistant for national

security affairs, Theodore Brock; head of the Joint Chiefs, Ed Briggs;

as well as the head of the CIA and the secretary of defense. The Vice

President was giving a speech at a California fund-raiser, but his

contribution was not particularly desired, or missed. Let him make

speeches and wave the flag.

He reached over and picked up the handset. "Tell him I'll get back to

him. Is he at home?"

"He's calling from somewhere in Greece. The SatCom--"

"Damn. Can't I call him back? I really don't have time--"

"I think you might want to take this, sir." Her voice was crisp and

neutral as always, but he knew what the edge in her intonation meant.

This is priority.

"SatCom?" Suddenly it clicked. He had been too distracted for the name

to register at first.

"He's almost babbling. Something about a helicopter. He's--"

"Put him on. And have the damned thing traced." He hit the speaker

button.

"Isaac. What's--"

"Johan, he's got a gun at my head." The voice was unmistakable. It had

made students quake for forty years. It had made _him _quake. Now it

was quivering. He had never heard his old professor in such a state.

Very, very unlike Isaac.

"Dr. Mannheim?"

"They made me call this number. I know I'm not supposed--"

"Who's they?" The connection was intermittent, but he still could make

it out.

"The . . ." He paused, then seemed to be reading. "The Resistance Front

for a Free Europe. They've taken over the SatCom facility here,

everybody. They shot down my helicopter. They killed--"

"What did you say? Helicopter?" Hansen's pulse quickened. Was Isaac

talking about the Israeli Hind that had attacked the Glover? And what

was this Resistance Front--for something or other . . . "Free Europe?"

Europe was already free. Maybe too damned free, given all the ethnic

turmoil.

The connection chattered, then another voice sounded. Hansen noted a

trace of an accent, but he couldn't identify it. "Johan Hansen, this is

to inform you that all the American engineers here are safe at the

moment. We have no desire to harm anyone. We merely want our demand

addressed."

Hansen glanced at Brock, who nodded, then pushed a button next to the

phone that allowed him to record both sides of the conversation.

"This had better not be a prank."

"It's no prank. The staff of SatCom is now hostage."

"Listen, whoever you are, the United States of America doesn't

negotiate with hostage takers. We never have before and we're not about

to start now."

"I'm afraid the rules of the past no longer apply. In fact, I have no

desire to negotiate either. There is nothing to negotiate. We have a

very simple demand. And you have no alternative."

"You've got that backwards, whoever you are. You have no alternatives.

You can release whatever hostages you have and get the hell out of

there. That's your one option."

"We would be delighted to comply. As I said to you, we merely have a

small nonnegotiable demand. I assume we are being recorded, but you may

wish to take notes nonetheless. In case you have any questions."

"If you're talking about ransom, I can tell you now it's absolutely

unthinkable."

"That kind of intransigence will get us nowhere." He sighed, a faint

hiss over the line, and then continued. "You may consider our demand as

merely a small repayment to the Muslim peoples, large portions of whose

homeland America has seen fit to devastate. That payment will be eight

hundred million dollars, to be delivered according to conditions that

will be specified by fax. I assume you will wish some time to make the

arrangements. You have twenty-four hours."

"You're out of your mind," Hansen said firmly. "You've got a hell of a

nerve even--"

"Don't make me repeat myself. I will fax you the bank information. As I

said, you have twenty-four hours. If you have not wire-transferred the

funds by that time, an American military installation in Europe will be

incinerated. And without your frigate Glover, sent to spy on the

Islamic peoples of the region, you will have no inkling where that

installation will be."

"Just what do you think you're going to do?"

"The same thing America once did to Japan. Only this time with a little

help from one of your so-called 'non-nuclear' allies."

Hansen pulled up short. Was this the nightmare every U.S. President had

feared--a nuclear device in the hands of terrorists. No, this took it

one step further; the terrorists had just seized the means to deliver

the device. It was that nightmare compounded.

He glanced at Ed Briggs, whose face had just turned ashen. They both

were thinking the same thing: What kind of military action was

possible? The answer was not going to be simple. Then he turned back to

the phone.

"Listen, I want . . ." He paused, because the line had gone dead.

9:04 P.M.

"How does an ETA of 0200 hours sound to you?" Dimitri Spiros was using

an unsecured radio, but he had no choice. "That'll give us about

twenty-nine hours. Enough time to get everything together."

"I'll have the welcome mat out." Vance's radio voice was interrupted

periodically with static. The man sounded stressed out, but Spiros had

already interrogated him about the overall situation.

"Our plan right now is to come in by seaplane, set down two klicks to

the north, and stage the actual insertion using Zodiacs. Pierre wants

to get everything together here in Athens by 1600 hours tomorrow.

That's firm. We'll have a briefing and then--you know the rest."

"Try not to overfly this place. It's pretty small and there are lots of

islands down in this part of the world."

"Michael, I'm Greek, for godsake." He bristled. "We'll make it, seas

permitting. And the weather looks like a go for now."

"All right, here's the drill. Right now there are friendlies in Command

and down at Launch. You have the plans for that, right?"

"Right. And how about the Bates Motel?"

"The living quarters? At the moment I think they've got some friendlies

in there, too, but it's currently cut off from the rest of the

facility, no communications of any kind, and it's not heavily guarded.

We can worry about it last. The heavy hitters and the hardware will be

at the two other places."

"What else do you know?" Spiros pressed.

"It gets even better. These guys have got at least one nuclear device.

All signs are they have plans--probably to use the Cyclops system for

delivery."

"I don't like the sound of that," Spiros said. "Who's leading it?"

"This is the very best part. I think it might be Ramirez."

"Sabri? The Hyena?"

"Could be."

He snorted in disbelief. "No way. The Kommissar has had him dead for

three years."

"The Hyena has many lives. I actually got a look at him. Plastic

surgery, maybe, but I've got a feeling it's none other than." There was

a pause as Vance seemed to be checking something. "You know, we

probably should cut this short. These guys have long ears. But just a

word of warning: don't underestimate what he's capable of. I saw him

shoot a staffer here in cold blood, just to get everybody's attention.

When the time comes, things are going to get rough."

"That's how we're used to playing. Until somebody shows us a better

way."

"Well, there's a good chance they're planning to arm at least one of

the vehicles. After that it's anybody's guess."

"Nuclear blackmail?"

"Could be. Anyway, the fun part is, I got hold of the triggering

mechanisms. For about five minutes."

"And then you politely gave them back?"

"It's a long story."

"Aren't they all," Spiros said. Then, "Well, do us all a favor, stay

alive till we can make the insertion."

"That's an idea I could get with."

"By the way, do you have anything on their schedule? When does the

balloon go up?"

"I don't know. You might hear something at your end. Ramirez has got to

be talking to somebody by now. Demands, the usual. We need to find out

what he wants. Maybe it'll all be over by the time you get here."

"Don't count on it. These things take a while. In the meantime, I'll

get Pierre to have Hans chat up the Kommissar. If Germany's intel

computer files have anything, he can probably pull it out quick

enough."

"I do have another information source." Vance paused. "A new partner.

And she's tough."

"She? What the hell are you talking about? Michael, this is not really

the time for such things."

"I should get to fraternize with the hostages. One of the perks.

Otherwise what do I get out of this job? She also happens to be the one

who runs this place. She gave Ramirez the slip." A laugh sounded over

the line, mixed with the static. "Incidentally, she doesn't think too

much of your security job."

"Very funny." Spiros's gruff voice suggested he didn't mean it. "But

maybe you should send her back inside. Might actually be safer there."

"Highly doubtful."

"All right. What about Bates?"

"The word is he's still okay. But they know who he is and I expect

they'll put on the pressure when the time comes. There's an old

professor here, too, the guy who dreamed this whole thing up, and

they've got him. Name's Mannheim. First name Isaac. Why don't you find

out anything you can about him. I had him here with me, but when I went

down to reconnoiter, he disappeared. My guess is he wandered off and

got himself taken."

"Sounds like you're on the case. Let's synchronize and talk again

tomorrow at 0800 hours, local."

"Okay. We're counting on you. Don't mind telling you I'm scared. We're

outgunned and Ramirez has started killing people."

"Michael, we're working as fast as we can. Just be by a radio

tomorrow." Dimitri Spiros switched off the microphone and lapsed into

troubled thought.

3:29 P.M.

Events were getting serious enough that the operation had been moved

down to the Situation Room, in the White House basement. Scarcely

twenty feet on a side, it was dominated by a teak conference table,

with leather-bound chairs lining the walls. Although it appeared

cramped by corporate standards, especially when the full National

Security Council met, its close quarters intensified the focus needed

for international crisis management. Besides, in the new age of

electronic decisions, it was state-of-the-art, making up in technology

what it lacked in spaciousness. Installed behind the dark walnut panels

that covered three of the walls was the latest in high-tech electronic

equipment, including a variety of telecommunications terminals, video

monitors, and apparatus for projecting and manipulating images on the

large screen on the fourth wall--normally concealed by a drawn curtain

but now open and ready.

"We'll have to work through Joint Special Operations Command," the

President was saying as he looked around the room. The five people

there were intensely at work--their coat jackets crumpled across the

chairs, shirt sleeves pushed back, ties loosened or off. They included

Chief of Staff Morton Davies, Special Assistant for National Security

Affairs Ted Brock, and Head of the Joint Chiefs Ed Briggs. "So we're

about to find out if this country has any counterterrorist assault

capability."

Special Operations Command had been created in the eighties after the

string of embarrassing communication snafus during the Grenada

invasion. Headquartered at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, it had

overall control and supervision of America's major commando units.

"I guess the first decision they'll have to make," he continued, "is

who we should send in."

There were two options. The Navy had a 175-frogman unit, Sea-Air-Land

Team Six, operating out of the Little Creek Naval Amphibious Base near

Norfolk, Virginia. SEAL Team Six specialized in underwater demolitions,

clandestine coastal infiltrations, hand-to-hand operations. The other

unit trained to carry out hostage-rescue missions was Delta Force,

headquartered in a classified installation at Fort Bragg. The SEALs

were high profile, whereas everybody denied the very existence of

Delta's assault team--called "shooters" in military parlance. Delta

Force was probably the worst-kept secret in America.

"Shouldn't we hold up a minute and talk first about the hostages?"

Morton Davies wondered aloud. "How much risk is there?"

"There's always risk," Hansen declared. "With anything you do in this

office, there's always a downside. What was it Harry Truman said about

the place where the buck stops? Well, I've got an uncomfortable feeling

I'm about to find out what he was talking about." He turned and hit the

intercom. "Alicia, get hold of Admiral Cutter and tell him to get over

here. We've got to get Special Operations in on this ASAP."

"Yes, sir," came the quick reply. Despite the migraine now increasing

her tension, she continued to offer Johan Hansen total support. In

fact, she rejoiced at the opportunity. His wife, off somewhere

dedicating flower parks in America's inner cities, certainly provided

none.

That, at least, was what Alicia Winston preferred to think.

"Another worry I've got," the President continued after he had clicked

off the intercom, "is how to keep this out of the press as long as

possible. If there's any truth to their bomb hints, we'll need to try

and minimize the panic factor. From here on, every aspect, even the

smallest insignificant detail, is classified. Top Secret."

'The Israelis will most certainly get with that," Ted Brock observed

wryly, nervously cleaning his horn-rims for what seemed the tenth time

that hour. The strain was all over his face.

"Now," the President continued, "SatCom is on Andikythera. Do we have

any KH-12 PHOTOINT of the island here yet?"

"It's in, Mr. President," Briggs said, then pushed two green buttons on

an electronic console on the conference table. A photo came up on the

screen behind them, a dull black-and-white rectangle.

'That's it?" Hansen said, annoyed. He scanned the photo, then looked

around. "Ed, there's not enough detail here to use. How long before we

can get some computer enhancement of this? A blowup."

"I thought you would want that," Briggs answered, "so I've already made

the arrangements. We're on-line to NSA. We should be able to get it in

about ten minutes."

"Then we'll wait." He switched off the screen and turned back. "Okay,

we have to start planning our first move. For the moment let's talk

about logistics. If we have to make an insert, what do we need?"

"Well, to begin with, ISA would have to have twenty-four hours,

minimum, to get somebody in there on the ground to gather enough intel

to support a move," Briggs announced, almost apologetically.

The President sighed. ISA was the Army's Intelligence Support Activity,

which provided intelligence for Delta Force and SEAL Team Six. As an

intelligence organization, ISA was required to secure Central

Intelligence Agency approval before entering foreign countries--which

meant institutional gridlock and bureaucratic tie-ups before they could

even get started.

"Then forget it. We'll just have to use satellite PHOTOINT and pray.

The next problem is, who can we get there and how long would it take?"

He knew that the Air Force's Special Operations Wing and the Army Task

Force supported long-range missions by Delta Force and the SEALs. Were

they ready?

"Well, let's back up a second,'' Briggs interjected. "We can't just

send in a task force cold. They'd need to practice an assault on

something resembling the same kind of terrain."

No country in Europe, the President knew, had ever given permission for

American commando bases on their territory. So why would they suddenly

permit an assault rehearsal?

"That's going to be a tough sell. We're talking about Greek soil. But

if these terrorists really have a nuclear device, then the government

of Greece might well take an interest in what happens to it. Still, we

don't know for sure. It'd be--"

"They'd damned well better take an interest," Briggs declared. "If

these terrorists plan a demonstration bombing, they could just be

thinking about the air and naval facility at Souda Bay. Which would

mean taking out the western end of Crete. Every anti-American in the

world would doubtless cheer. They'd claim that our presence in a

country makes it a military target. There'd be a groundswell of

sentiment worldwide to send us packing. Everywhere."

The chief of staff was thinking. "Do you suppose these fuckers have

really got a bomb? What did he mean about checking with our closest

allies?"

The President had already been pondering that. "Well, the Israelis have

a nuclear arsenal, of course, but they also have enough safeguards to

take care of anything. They even shot down one of their own planes once

when it accidentally strayed over the Dimona plutonium-reprocessing

facility. Nobody is going to steal one of theirs. The same goes for

South Africa."

"So who does that leave?" Stubbs asked. He had a feeling he already

knew.

"Let's save the obvious for last," Hansen answered. "And let me give

you a quick briefing on who's in the bomb business on this planet. It

just happens to be a particular interest of mine."

He leaned back. "In the Middle East proper, only one country presently

has full capability. That is, obviously, Israel. They have, in fact, a

lot more bombs than anybody realizes. Their plutonium-reprocessing

plant at Dimona extracts plutonium from the spent fuel in their

research reactor there, and CIA claims they've got at least two hundred

strategic nuclear weapons. Normal plutonium bombs need eight kilograms

of the stuff, but we think they've come up with a sophisticated way to

make one with five. Then there're the tactical nukes. They've got

nuclear artillery shells, nuclear landmines in the Golan Heights, and

hundreds of low-yield neutron bombs. That's more or less common

knowledge, but what's less well known is that they've also got fusion

capability-- H-bombs. Which, God help us, I assume is not our problem

here today. Then there's Libya, though they're still trying to get

enough enriched uranium together to become a credible threat. Having

only one or two bombs means that if you start anything, somebody else

is going to finish it, so you need a lot before you get going. Iraq,

thankfully, has been put out of business. Of course, there's still

India, which has plenty of unrestricted plutonium and they've even

claimed they could make a bomb in a month. We happen to think they've

already done it. Because . . ." He paused. "Because we know damned well

Pakistan has."

"There's your non-Caucasian in the fuel supply," Davies noted. "The

fuckers."

The special assistant for national security affairs, Theodore Brock,

who happened to be black, did not find Davies' Alabama good-old-boy

remark especially amusing.

"Exactly," Hansen continued, wondering when he would have a good public

excuse to send Davies to greener pastures. 'That's got to be the 'ally'

the bastard was talking about. It's a Muslim country, and their

controls are a joke. It's the obvious choice."

Brock agreed solemnly. "We can start with an inquiry through their

embassy. But it's going to be sticky."

The President nodded, wishing he had a hot line to the desk of every

head of state in the world. It would make this kind of crisis so much

more manageable.

Part of the problem, he thought, was how do you ask somebody if they've

lost something that they've never admitted having in the first place? A

marvel of diplomacy was in order. Still, he would have to do it. At

worst, a denial wouldn't prove the terrorists did not have a bomb, but

if the answer was affirmative, then knowing the size of the device

could be crucial.

"We're receiving the enhanced satellite photos now." Briggs was pulling

the first sheet off the machine. "Looks like ten-meter grids." He

scanned over it. "But I don't see much. There're two big rockets here,

but they seem to be all right."

"Which is in line with their threat to use them," Hansen observed

dryly.

"I don't suppose a surgical air strike is possible?" Briggs wondered

aloud. If the Gulf War had shown anything, it was the power of air

superiority.

Hansen tried unsuccessfully to smile. "You're asking me to go to the

Greek government and ask them if they would mind terribly if we bombed

one of the islands in their Aegean tourist paradise, their cash cow.

And, by the way, we'd probably kill a few hundred Greek civilians in

the process. But we'd explain that we need to do this because I got an

unsettling phone call. With no proof of anything." He sighed. "Keep

thinking. This has to be a commando insertion. And, frankly, I'd just

as soon Athens got a phone call after it happened, not before. For a

lot of reasons."

"You know, there's something funny right here." Briggs was bent over,

squinting. "Here, next to what appears to be a radar complex." He

looked up. "Gentlemen, I think I've located our Hind. Or what's left of

it. Looks like it was smashed into the side of the mountain, just below

where the radars are."

"Let me have a look." The President stepped over. "You mean there?" He

picked up a magnifying glass. "I'm no expert, but whatever it is, it's

big. It could be a Soviet assault helicopter, you're right."

"There appear to be two other choppers on the site as well." Briggs

continued to study the photo. "One down here on the helipad looks to be

a light commercial model. But there's another one over here, down by

the launch vehicles. It's bigger."

The President looked. "You're right. I see them. That big one down by

the vehicles is probably how they brought in the damned bomb, if they

actually have one. Most likely the Hind wasn't up to the job, maybe

took some fire from the Glover. So they used a second one to deliver

the package. Nice logistics."

"Too damned nice. I'm beginning to believe this is in no way a hoax."

"Roger." Ted Brock had been on the phone and now was hanging up. "That

was Special Operations Command, sir. Cutter's people want to use a

Delta task force, but they'll need at least forty-eight hours to get

them in place for an operation."

"Forty-eight hours!" Hansen exploded. "Our crack counterterrorist

assault force needs two days just to get into position to do what

they're trained for?"

"Well, we'll be using an Air Force C-130 to deploy the Deltas to Souda

Bay. And then they'd need at least two Combat Talons for the final

insertion. Those are all kept down at the Air Force's First Special

Operations Wing, you know, Hurlburt Field in Florida."

"I know that, Ted," Hansen said.

Brock nodded sheepishly, then continued. "Well, after the insertion,

they'd need support from our long-range HH-53 Pave-Low choppers, but

only three are flying at the moment. And--"

"I get the picture." The President cut him off. "Transportation is

lousy and half the equipment we need is somewhere else or in

maintenance. Any other bad news?"

"One thing, an assault would have to be at night. It's the only way

that makes any sense. Which means more special equipment. If they go in

during daylight, it's going to be a slaughter of the hostages,

particularly if these bastards are armed the way we have to assume. And

from the looks of everything so far, I'd say they know how the game is

played. Which means that even if we do our best, it's going to be

tricky. They're going to assume we're coming. The way I figure it, even

with no rehearsals, forty-eight hours would be tight."

"We invest millions training the finest counterterrorist units in the

world and then they can't be deployed in less than half a week?" He

exhaled angrily, remembering a classified internal Pentagon study that

claimed the best time to launch a successful assault with the least

number of casualties among hostages was within twenty-four hours of

their capture. "It's a goddamn outrage."

"Forty-eight hours, minimum, Mr. President. And even so, that's pushing

it." He squirmed. "There's a lot of paperwork that'll have to be

processed, and--"

"Well, tell Cutter to get the Special Forces mobilized and moving,"

Hansen interjected. "In the meantime, our job is going to be to try and

find out what happened. Do they really have a nuke, and if they do, how

in hell did they get it and what are they planning to do with it?"

CHAPTER TEN

9:22 P.M.

"It's very simple," Ramirez said to Jean-Paul Moreau. After the phone

call, he had sent Mannheim to the Bates Motel and returned to Launch.

Let Washington stew awhile. They were probably now trying to figure out

how to get their antiterrorist units into Greece. Their nightmare

logistics would be fun to watch. "We have to find them. And get him.

Alive if possible, but we can't be fussy. The time to do it will be

just after midnight, when we're finished here."

Moreau disagreed. "I'd say the sooner the better. The longer they're

free, the more problems they can cause." Crossing Ramirez was not

something to be done lightly, but he felt strongly that the operation

was not going as smoothly as it should have. It was time for a little

damage control.

"Well, he's probably back on the mountain," Ramirez said calmly. "If

you want to, then go on up and get him. Take the RPG-7; it's light. But

be careful you don't damage anything."

He was right about the weight. At slightly over ten kilos, the RPG-7

was one of the best bangs-for-the-ounce around. It

was a guerrilla special, a Soviet-designed 40mm launcher that loosed a

rocket with an oversize hollow-charge rocket-warhead 85mm in diameter.

Fired from the shoulder, it was deadly against lightly armored vehicles

and structures. Used on personnel, it was lethal. They had brought

along a Pakistani clone of the latest Soviet model, a two-piece version

that was easy to move about, yet assembled quickly.

"But remember," Ramirez went on, "so far all we have to show for trying

to take out this nuisance is a wrecked helo. Don't botch it again."

"That was because you left the work to German amateurs," Moreau

remarked dryly. "This time I'll take care of it myself. Personally."

"I'm counting on that," Ramirez said, his eyes expressionless behind

his gray shades.

9:43 P.M.

"We'll be working together, kid," Dore Peretz was saying. "We're a

team." He swept back his mane of salt-and-pepper hair, then moved next

to Georges LeFarge. The young engineer didn't like anything about the

Israeli, right down to the cheap aftershave he was wearing, but he had

to admit the guy seemed unfazed by all the hardware that controlled Big

Benny, the Fujitsu supercomputer.

It was a correct assessment. Dore Peretz was definitely in his element.

He had taken his Ph.D. from the University of Chicago in 1984, then

returned to Israel to accept a high-paying research job at the Weizman

Institute, Israel's top- secret nuclear facility near Tel Aviv. During

the next seven years he had advanced to the level of senior institute

scientist, becoming an expert in every technology connected with

nuclear weapons.

From the specialty of mass destruction he graduated to another hot

topic--the emerging preeminence of smart weapons. Conventional delivery

technologies, the war in the Gulf had shown, were no match for the new

"smart" antimissile systems. It was back to the drawing board. What

Israel needed in her arsenal was the next generation of weaponry.

He had gone on to head up a research team that played computerized war

games, studying the "what ifs" of whole new generations of technologies

matched against each other. The end result of this fascination was that

he became a computer and missile-guidance expert--which, when added to

his knowledge of nuclear weapons, made him a double-threat man.

It also made him perfect for what Sabri Ramirez wanted to do.

When Ramirez found him, he already had departed the institute, and also

for reasons that suited Ramirez perfectly. Whereas Dore Peretz had an

IQ off the scale, his social development was considered--even by those

who tried to like him--as scarcely progressed beyond the infantile. His

was an independent . . . make that irreverent . . . temperament that

was bound to clash with the bureaucracy of a straitlaced place like the

institute. He had particular trouble fitting in with the deadly-

serious, high-security environment that surrounded military contract

research. The problem had been obvious from the first day he arrived,

but his genius was such that it had been overlooked and worked around

by both sides. His final rupture with the Israeli defense establishment

resulted from what--to his mind--was a totally compelling event.

He had personally developed a computer-assist program that provided

special procedures for the quick arming of a nuclear device in case

Israel found itself facing an imminent attack. It was important, and it

worked.

He had expected, reasonably enough, a rousing financial tribute for

this effort, or at the very least a citation. What he got instead was

screwed. When the yearly Summary of Technical Research arrived on his

desk January last, he discovered the computer program had been

"created" by the vice president in charge of his section, with the

"assistance" of someone named Dr. D. Peretz.

A reaming by an incompetent bureaucrat whom he had hated from the

beginning was the last straw. He resigned in traditional style,

papering the institute with a fusillade of memos that reviewed in

detail the failings of its top management and then for good measure

scrambling the electronic combination on his personal safe as he was

readying to walk out the door.

At that point he did not know what he wanted to do next, but he was

damned sure it would not involve further interaction with a

bureaucracy.

Being no dummy, he also fully anticipated the response to his outrage.

And sure enough, he found he had transformed himself into a high-

profile security risk that Mossad suddenly found very interesting.

Israel's intelligence service remembered all too well the case of

Mordecai Vanunu, the thirty-one-year-old technician who had worked at

the plutonium separation facility at the Dimona complex for nine years,

then left in a huff and sold pictures and a detailed description of the

facility to the London Sunday Times. Mossad had no intention of letting

it happen again.

Dore Peretz was interrogated for weeks, threatened repeatedly, then

placed under close surveillance. They had no grounds to arrest him, but

they were going to intimidate the hell out of him.

Their harassment, however, achieved precisely the opposite effect. They

galvanized his anger. In a degree of soul searching quite foreign to

his normal mental activity, he found himself wondering why he owed

Israel such allegiance in the first place. This was their thanks for

all his service.

So why not give it back to the bastards, in spades? He became a

"scientific adviser" to the PLO.

That only confirmed Mossad's fears and intensified their harassment:

his phone was tapped, his mail opened, his stylish Tel Aviv apartment

repeatedly and blatantly searched in his absence. The overall effect

was cumulative, rendering him an ever-more-vociferous critic of

Israel's conservative coalition government.

It was at this time, when his name was being linked to the PLO, that

Sabri Ramirez got wind of him and knew he had found a gold mine--a

disaffected, activist Israeli nuclear and rocket expert looking for a

cause. He sounded perfect, and he was. Ramirez approached him at a

demonstration supporting a Palestinian homeland, and made him an offer

he could not refuse. How would he like to get rich? He would not need

to betray his country, merely lend his skills to help teach the

Americans a lesson.

Fuck Israel, he had declared. Then in a lower voice he had added--come

to that, fuck the Palestinians, who were basically a pain in the ass.

Acquiring personal wealth was a much more inspiring cause. He could not

get work in Israel, any kind of work, and he was fast running through

his savings.

Ramirez advanced him thirty thousand American dollars on the spot, in

crisp hundreds. He immediately dropped his PLO affiliation and began

lowering his profile--much to Mossad's relief. Their surveillance eased

up as they gratefully turned to more pressing matters, and four months

later he took advantage of his new freedom to slip into Jordan one

night and from there make his way, a week later, to Beirut. It was in

that ravaged city that he and Sabri Ramirez worked out the technical

details of the plan.

. . . Which thus far had gone perfectly.

"We'll be modifying the payload," he announced, turning to the

keyboard. "Therefore the weight will be different, so we'll have to

factor that into the SORT program on the Fujitsu and run it again."

Shit, LeFarge thought, he knows about SORT. Which probably means he

knows everything he needs to make VX-1

fly.

9:45 P.M.

"I have a question," Michael Vance was saying. They were still resting

on the hill, and he felt himself fighting back waves of exhaustion.

"Could they get that vehicle down there off the ground without you

being in Command?"

"I hate to admit it"--Calypso Andros exhaled ruefully and leaned back

against the tree--"but they probably could. We've already had a final

test of the power-up, everything. The Fujitsu has all the controls set.

There's nothing left to do except initiate the launch routine and then

let the computer take over."

"So Bill was about to be rich." He grinned, then picked up a small

white stone and flung it down the hill. "He might even have been able

to pay off our bet. If I'd won."

"What bet was that?"

"Long ago and in another country." He shrugged, hardly caring anymore.

"It was a damned stupid stunt. We had a sailor's bet, and I lost. As it

happens, your new guests here pitched in to help. But those are the

breaks."

"Well, let's talk about the real world." She seemed scarcely to hear

what he had said. Or maybe she wasn't interested. Vance sensed she was

trying to feign normality, adopting a facade that denied the horror of

watching her young technician being shot dead. "Do you think they're

going to kill anybody else?"

What should I say? he wondered. Feed her a comforting lie, or tell her

the truth? He looked her over and decided on the latter.

"Hate to say it, but if it's really Ramirez, he'll kill anybody he

vaguely feels like. I saw him hit a U.S. frigate with a Swatter. You've

got to call that mass murder. A ton of casualties, and for no good

reason. He caught himself before he said more, the memory still

chilling. "Then again, I'd guess he's not going to take out anybody

important or technically crucial, at least for now. Which should

include Bates and Mannheim. He's got to be figuring he can use the big

names for headlines and leverage, if he needs it."

"I can't believe that the U.S. isn't going to send in the Marines,

especially when they find out he's got a bomb."

"Don't get your hopes up. There are a couple of problems with that. The

first is that they may not be allowed on Greek soil, and even if they

are, it could take several days for them to mount an operation."

"That's one." She looked at him. "What's the other?"

"The other is that if the U.S. should decide to mount an assault, it

could well turn into a bloodbath. I'm almost wishing they don't. Delta

Force and the SEALs are well trained, but as far as anybody knows,

they've never been used to carry out a straight hostage-rescue. They'd

probably come in here like John Wayne and tear this place apart. I

don't even want to think about the carnage." His voice trailed off.

"Take it from me. The people ARM is sending in are better suited for

the job at hand. They also can deploy a lot quicker than the U.S.

government."

"Well, somebody better come. And soon." She had caught a strand of her

tangled hair and was twisting it, distractedly making the tangle worse.

"What do you think these thugs really want?"

"I'd guess money's part of the package. But since Ramirez doesn't seem

to be trying to extort SatCom, at least not yet, he probably has

something bigger in mind." He slowly turned to her. "Tell me something.

These vehicles are intended to go into orbit, right? But what if one

didn't make it." He had a sudden thought. "Or what if one of them did

make it, and then the orbital trajectory got altered somehow? Retrofire

and reentry. You could set it down pretty much where you wanted,

couldn't you?"

She stared at him uncertainly. "What are you suggesting?"

"That there are two ways to play this. Somebody could use these

vehicles to deliver a bomb someplace. Or they could be used to put a

bomb into orbit, to be delivered later." He leaned back. "Am I right or

not?"

Her eyes darkened, and she suddenly found herself sorry she had ever

come back to Greece. For this. Then she caught herself and answered

him. "I suppose either one is possible. The reentry trajectory is

precisely controlled. In fact, we power it down, more or less like the

space shuttle."

"And the whole thing can be done within an hour or so, right? That is,

once it's in orbit."

"A low-earth insertion means a full orbit of about ninety minutes for a

satellite." She was thinking. "If the vehicle itself stays in orbit,

then--"

"Everything would still be controlled from down here, correct?"

"We beam power up to the vehicle using the Cyclops.

That's the whole idea." She was thinking. "What you're saying is, once

they get a vehicle, and a bomb, into orbit, they've got a loaded gun

pointed at any place they choose."

"Doesn't that sound like the worst-case scenario?"

"They'll never pull it off." It was more a hope than a statement of

fact.

"How are you going to stop them? If Ramirez thinks you're not

cooperating, then all he has to do is start killing more of your staff

until you do." He looked down the hill, where the facility was now dark

except for the yellow sodium lights around the storage sheds and the

blaze of floods that illuminated the two vehicles. "But I definitely

think they're going to try some kind of launch. You said they're being

very careful not to disturb anything. So what are the possibilities?"

"The easiest thing would be not to bother putting it into orbit at

all," she answered after a moment. "In fact, Number One or Sabri

Ramirez or whoever he is had Georges running some trajectory aborts. It

all fits."

"Also, you've got two vehicles, and that box had enough detonators for

several bombs. So, say they had two nuclear devices? They use the first

one as a small demo, to prove they're serious. Sort of like we did on

Hiroshima. And hold the second one in reserve. For more blackmail." He

reached up and touched the bark of the tree above. "But any way you

look at it, they seem to be dead serious about delivering a nuke

somewhere. Where?"

"You know, there's a U.S. base not far from here."

"Souda Bay?"

"It's on Crete."

"So close they probably couldn't miss." He thought about it. "Taking

out that base could decimate the U.S. Sixth Fleet. It would be a very

attention-getting demonstration. Think they could really do it?"

"Crete would just be a short hop for VX-1."

"It's easy and it's a nightmare. Sounds pretty good for . . . uh-oh."

He pointed down. Moving through the shadows at the far edge of the

facility, past the bright circles cast by the sodium lights, was a

group of black figures. "Guess it had to happen."

9:46 P.M.

"But I'm still finishing the trajectory-default analysis I was supposed

to do," LeFarge said to Dore Peretz, hoping he could stall. "I'm only

half--"

"I'm telling you to abort those runs." The truth, Peretz reflected, was

that Ramirez had jumped the gun on the trajectory analysis. Maybe he

just wanted to keep this computer jockey busy, or maybe he didn't

understand the technical side of things well enough. In any case, it

had to be redone since the crucial payload parameters were going to be

new, a substantial weight differential that would impact the power

input controls. "Kill what you're doing and let me see what you've got

so far. If you're on the right track, then we'll do a quick rerun with

revised numbers."

LeFarge grimaced, then turned back to the keyboard and gave the order

to abort, directing the output to the battery of printers. The quiet

hum of zipping lasers began, barely audible above the ambient noise of

the room. When the first printer finished, Peretz ripped out the stack

of paper and began looking it over.

"All right." He nodded with satisfaction. "This is enough. The power

inputs"--he pointed--"right here, will need to be reentered to conform to

the altered weight coefficients of the new payload. I'll have to get

them."

He turned away and clicked on his black Kenwood walkie-talkie. Moments

later he was asking somebody some technical questions. He then waited,

humming to himself, while the answers were procured. Finally he nodded

and jotted them down on the bottom of the printout.

"Got it. You double-verified, right? Okay. Ten-four." He clicked off

the handset and looked up. "All fixed." He walked back and laid down

the paper on LeFarge's desk. "Okay, start over and run it with these."

Georges looked at the numbers. The new payload was 98.3 kilograms.

There it was. What now?

He knew the answer. He had no choice but to give Peretz what he wanted.

He had planned to make some changes in SORT that would screw up the

whole launch routine, but now, with the Israeli looking over his

shoulder, that was going to be impossible. This creep knew exactly how

the program worked. He probably could spot any changes a mile away.

Cally, Cally, where are you? Are you okay? Are you getting help? Let me

know where you are, at least. I can't stop these guys all by myself.

He sighed, tugged at his wisp of beard, and called up the data input

file for SORT. Then he began inserting the new parameters. Around

Command the other staffers were perfunctorily carrying out housekeeping

chores at their workstations, the routine checks and runs they did

every day. LeFarge suspected the stakes had just been raised, but he

had no idea what they were.

9:48 P.M.

She looked down. "Where? I don't see anything."

"Over there. By the side of the sheds. There's a saying: in the

darkness, only the shadows move. See them?" He rose and looked around.

"Guess we'd better start thinking up a plan here."

Although trees shielded the base of the mountain, the top had been

cleared and flattened to accommodate the battery of antennas. The only

possible protection was a low cinderblock structure on the side nearest

the facility.

"You're right," she said finally, squinting. "I do think I see

something. Yes. They look like they're headed our way. Toward the trees

and then right up the hill. Oh, shit."

The sight made something click in her head, and her fear turned again

to anger. Terrorists, she knew, always planned to wear down their

captives, make them pliable. She wasn't going to let it happen.

"Looks like three or maybe four." Who needed this? he sighed to

himself. "Uh-oh, I think I see something else. They're carrying

something with them and I don't like the looks of what I think it is."

As he stared down, he was wondering: How would they choose to try and

take the mountain? A direct assault? A two- pronged pincer? Or would

they use some other technique? And what were they carrying? Some of the

hardware they'd brought in the Hind?

"At least we've got the high ground," he continued finally, trying to

think through the odds. "Let's hope that counts for something. It's

mostly open, so we can see them." Then he reflected on the downside.

"But they can see us if we make a run for the top of the hill. It's too

far. So there's not much we can do except just wait. The one little Uzi

isn't going to do much good."

"Let's think a minute," she said, turning and looking up the hill.

'They're about to pass through the trees down there, which should give

us enough time to get to the blockhouse. . . ." She pointed. There at

the dark crest was the cinderblock emplacement that housed the on-site

operation controls for the radars. "Let's go up there. I've just had an

idea."

"I'm game." He nodded, feeling his adrenaline starting to build again.

"Standing here is not going to do anything for us."

It was a quick climb, through the slivers of granite outcropping that

cut their way out of the shallow soil. When they reached the

cinderblock structure, she punched in a security code on the keypad

beside its black steel door and shoved it open. "If they haven't shut

down the terminal in here yet, maybe I can get Georges on the computer

net. He can shunt over control of those servomechanisms up there and

then . . ."

He followed her inside. As he did, fluorescent lights clicked on to

reveal an array of radar screens and a main computer terminal. "Hey,

can we kill the beacon?" He frowned. "Whatever you're planning better

be doable in the dark."

"No problem." She activated the terminal, then pointed toward the door.

"The light switch is right there. Think you can handle it?"

He clicked it off and let the wisecrack pass. Then he turned back. "Now

what?"

"God, I've never had anybody coming to kill me. The stories are right.

It really does concentrate the mind." She began typing on the keyboard.

"I had a thought. We're networked into the Fujitsu from all over the

facility with LAN, so--"

"And that's computer lingo for a local-area network, or something."

"Right." She nodded. "At one point we had to hook all the workstations

together, for a special test. Part of this area was connected into the

network, so we could do some of the work from up here, but we always

kept the larger servomechanisms on the main system, for safety reasons.

Georges set it all up so everything has to be operated from down there,

where the power drain can be monitored. Right now I need to get hold of

him and have him do some things."

She was still typing. And then she got what she wanted.

9:51 P.M.

. . . HELLO, SOHO. BLUEBIRD NEEDS A FAVOR. CAN YOU SWITCH ON THE

SERVOS?

LeFarge stared at the screen, not believing his eyes. Cally was on the

LAN. A window had appeared at the lower right- hand of his screen, and

her terminal ID was . . . terrific, it was the blockhouse up the hill.

He slipped a glance at Peretz, standing over by the water cooler, then

quickly typed in an acknowledgment.

SOHO NEVER LETS BLUEBIRD DOWN

Then came the specific directions. She was asking him to switch control

of the servos for Radar One over to her terminal. What was she doing?

The radars were always controlled by Big Benny, the Fujitsu here in

Command. He grimaced. Switching the big radar over to her workstation

was a tall order. And the Israeli bastard was waiting for his SORT run.

So now the trick was to try to do both things at once.

He split the screen and went to work.

9:52 P.M.

"Georges is a genius," she said, turning back, "but this may not

actually be possible. Nobody's ever done it before."

"Whatever you're planning had better be possible or we've got to begin

thinking up a Plan B, and quick." He was staring out the open door.

"Because our new friends are definitely on their way and ready for a

close encounter."

"Georges has got to hook this terminal directly to the Fujitsu--which

isn't how we normally use it--and then give me control of the routine

that runs the servos. In effect he has to put them on manual."

"Don't think you're going to manage it in time," he said. He was

thinking this was no time to get experimental, but he decided to keep

the thought to himself. Instead he nervously checked the Uzi. Three

rounds were left in the last remaining clip. He regretted all the

random firing he had done over the last few hours. Now every round had

to be hoarded as though it were the last. On the other hand, maybe he

was lucky just to have the damned Uzi at all, along with the few puny

rounds left. The trick now was to try not to have to use them.

Down below them the four black figures had already moved past the

helicopter landing pad and were about to be swallowed up in the copse

of trees that began at the base of the hill. But now a sliver of moon

had appeared from behind a bank of clouds in the east, casting an eerie

pale glow onto the scene. He found himself deeply wishing for an IR

scope, which would be a great help, bring them right up.

"I just lost them in the trees," he said, turning back. "Which means

we've got about five minutes left for whatever you've got in mind."

"Trust me." She was still typing. 'This workstation just logged onto

the big system, so the main servo program is now accessible from here.

Georges, I love you. Now all I have to do is try and override the

internal checks that go through the Fujitsu down in Command."

Vance was staring, not quite sure what he was expected to say. "Then

what?"

"Hopefully it's a surprise," she laughed, a trifle grimly.

Just be quiet and let me work." Then her voice swelled with nger. "The

bastards. This is going to be a pleasure. After what they did to Chris,

maybe I'll get to return the favor."

Vance started to say something, but stopped when he noticed the first

signs of motion at the edge of the copse of brush. The killers were

emerging, and the sight gave him a chill. They're the hunters and we're

the quarry, he thought, it's going to be like a giant turkey-shoot,

played with automatics.

"You know . . ." He turned back. '"here's still time for you to give

yourself up. They'd probably rather have you live anyway. You could do

the white-flag thing and I could use the confusion to try and make it

into the brush down here, toward the shore. Those guys are carrying

something that looks suspiciously like heavy weaponry. But that's a

riddle we don't want to solve empirically."

"Look, trust me," she shot back. "I know what I'm doing . . . I think.

Don't you have any faith?"

"We may not know each other well enough to be having his conversation."

"As a matter of fact, you're exactly right." She hurriedly finished

typing. "Okay, Georges has the control set up now and we're on line.

Hang on."

She reached down to flip a large red switch on the side of he console.

Immediately one of the large green cathode-ray tubes began to glow.

What it showed, however, was not the usual sweeping line going round

and round. Instead it dismayed the crisp outline of the VX-1 space

vehicle at the other end of the island. Next she flipped another

switch, then reached for a mouse that was connected to the keyboard.

She zipped it across, and the focus of the radar picture changed,

almost as though it were a zoom lens. The image of the vehicle became

larger and smaller. He realized the radar could be focused.

Then she called in another routine.

"I'm going to cut the power for a second, take it down cross the

facility and onto the base of the mountain, and then I'll power up

again."

He watched as the outline of the island, in exquisite detail, swept

over the screen.

"I thought this thing was only for transmission. How can it be sending

back images?"

"There's the phased-array section for powering the vehicle with

microwaves--that's part of the Cyclops--but we also have to have a

guidance section, for keeping the beam on track. The Cyclops is the

gun, but the guidance radar here is what we use to aim it." She was

concentrating on the screen "Now, where do you think our friends are

down there?"

'They're probably halfway up the hill by now."

"Let's take a look." She brought down the focus, then began scanning.

"Hold on." He stayed her hand, bringing the mouse to halt, and then

pointing to the lower left corner of the large screen. "Didn't

something move just then, right there?"

"Where?"

There." He took the mouse and guided the image to center screen. "Where

is that in the real world? It's got to be close."

She zipped the mouse again, bringing up the detail. A number scrolled

at the bottom of the screen. "Four hundred meters, to be exact."

9:59 P.M.

As Moreau emerged from the last copse of cypress, he scanned the

mountain, towering upward in the moonlit night, and wondered where the

bastard would be holed up. There was one obvious place--in the

cinderblock control house.

Yeah, ten to one that's where he had to be. The guy was stupid, riding

a lucky streak. It was over.

On the other hand, he thought, there's no reason not to take this slow.

Just in case. The fucker wasn't _that_ stupid.

He looked down as a limb of thorny bramble caught his black trousers,

tearing a hole near the knee. "_Je m'en fiche!_"

Although he lived by terrorism, Jean-Paul was a confirmed denizen of

Paris's _rive gauche_ and he had little use for roughing it here on

this godforsaken island in the bowels of the Aegean. Who needed it? On

the other hand, tonight's expedition promised some diversion. It was

always a pleasure to take out some jerk who was specializing in making

a bloody nuisance of himself. If he could assassinate the chairman of

Renault, he figured, he could handle this asshole guard.

Moreau had brought along Stelios Tritsis, reasoning that a native Greek

could best guide them up this rugged mountain, but he also had

Helling's two Stasi fuck-ups. _Merde! _What a lousy idea it had been to

include them in the first place. Ramirez had lost sight of his better

judgment.

He looked back to check them over. They were carrying he RPG-7, as

ordered, but he doubted they had the slightest idea how it was fired.

Though possibly they were teachable retardates.

He revolved and stared up the mountain, wondering whether the

blockhouse contained any technical apparatus that he had to be wary of.

Maybe, he thought, I'd better just use a stun grenade. . . . What was

that? He checked through the IR scope of his Kalashnikov just to be

sure: one of the giant radar dishes was turning.

What in hell did that mean?

Then he caught a flicker of light from the blockhouse. So he bastard

was in there. But was he trying to pull something?

Okay, time to get serious. The place is well away from the radars and

antennas. So just send a stun grenade through the door and take out the

fucker's eardrums. No frags: no muss, no fuss. Then clean up the place

at leisure.

He motioned for Schindler and Maier to bring up the launcher.

10:01 P.M.

"What are you doing?" Peretz asked. He sensed the lad at he terminal

was up to something because he'd split the screen and was typing in a

second batch of commands on the lower half.

CC to Ian NET.RAD

"Just some systems cleanup." LeFarge tried to lie as convincingly as he

knew how.

EXPN to JRAD

"Better not try to bullshit me, pal. It could be very unhealthy."

LeFarge was already aware of that. But he kept on typing trying to look

as casual as he could. Almost, almost there.

10:02 P.M.

"The bastard is in the blockhouse. There." Moreau motioned for the

first German Stasi, Schindler. "But get a move on. He may be up to

something."

With Moreau directing them, they quickly slipped the two sections of

the launcher together to form a single tube approximately a meter and a

half in length. The rocket grenade on the forward end looked like a

round arrowhead while the back was flared to dissipate the exhaust

gases. The sight and rangefinder occupied the center, and just in front

of that was the handgrip and trigger.

When they had finished, he checked it over, then surveyed the mountain,

where the heavy servomechanisms controlling the radars continued to

rotate.

Wait a minute, he told himself with a sudden chill in his groin.

Something's wrong. He's tilting the radar dishes _down._

_Mon Dieu!

_"Get ready."

10:03 P.M.

"We just ran out of time," Vance said, slamming the door shut. "Looks

like they've got a grenade launcher. If they can manage to blast

through this door, it's going to ruin our day once and for all."

"Georges is still on-line, and I'm turning the servos as fast as I

can." Her voice betrayed the strain.

"Well, get on with it. They're setting up to fire. I'd guess you've got

about thirty seconds to pull off this miracle of yours."

"I think a hundred and sixty degrees will do it," she said, her voice

now deceptively mechanical, all business. Suddenly he could envision

her running this facility and barking orders right and left. "We're at

one-twenty now. I just don't know if I can focus it in time. Georges

always handled this."

She was tapping on the keyboard, some message to LeFarge. A cryptic

reply appeared on the screen, next to what appeared to Vance to be

computer garbage. Then the motion of the giant servomechanisms seemed

to pick up speed. The radar antennas were swiveling around, and down.

"We're almost ready. Let me get Georges to transfer the power controls

to full manual."

"Christ!" He cocked his Uzi.

"Look," she exploded. "I'm doing my part. How about you doing yours?

Slow them down."

"I don't want to waste any rounds until it's absolutely necessary."

But it looked like that time had come. He opened the door again and

stepped through. Down below, the moon glistened on the rocks, and one

of the gunmen was aiming a grenade launcher. "How long--?"

"Just a couple more seconds now. . . ."

"It's now or never." He took careful aim on the man holding the

launcher. "I'm going to count to five."

That was when he heard her say, "Got it."

10:04 P.M.

"All right," Moreau barked, "fire on three."

Schindler had just finished fine-adjusting the crosshairs, the

rangefinder portion of the complex optical sight. With inflight

stability for the rocket provided by tail fins that folded out after

launch, the RPG-7 had a 500-meter range against static targets. Though

a crosswind could affect the accuracy, tonight, thankfully, there was

none. This one couldn't miss, if there wasn't a sudden gust.

He tested the trigger confidently, sights on the open doorway, and

hoped Moreau was right when he claimed the concussion grenade would

render anybody inside totally incapacitated.

His eyes on the target, he failed to notice a flashing green light that

had just clicked on next to the main antenna up above, atop the

mountain. . . .

. . . When jet fighters are launched from carriers, it is standard

practice to turn off an aircraft's radars until the planes are

airborne, the reason being that the energy in the intense

electromagnetic radiation can literally knock a man flat with an

invisible wave. Memorable things happened to the eyes and ears. In this

case, however, the radar could have no such total effect, since the

random clumps of trees down the hill scattered and diffused the energy.

It was, however, one of the most powerful radars on earth. . . .

10:05 P.M.

Vance watched as something hit the men below, something that seemed

like a giant, invisible mallet. They stumbled backward, while a grenade

rocketed harmlessly into the night sky.

"Congratulations." He lowered his Uzi. "I'm impressed. I think our new

friends down there are, too. Yep, you made a very definite impression.

Now, how about leaving that thing on long enough for us to get out of

here and back up the hill? Maybe just fry the bastards for a while."

"How does eight minutes sound to you?"

"Should be time enough for us to scurry back down the rabbit hole.

Maybe take a moonlight swim in a tunnel." He was liking her more and

more all the time. Not a bad piece of work.

"I'll tell Georges to cut the power in eight," she said.

Then she added, "Look, why don't we head for the hotel. You look

bushed."

"You mean go down to the Bates Motel?" I'm being invited to a motel by

this woman? He smiled. I must be dreaming.

"We can cut around by the shore. That's probably the last place anybody

is going to look for us now."

"Sounds good." It did. He was dead tired and hungry. Tomorrow was going

to be a long, long day.

"The other reason I want to go down is to try and find Isaac," she

added.

"The half-cracked professor?"

"Well, he only seems that way. Behind all those eccentricities is a

mind you wouldn't believe. But whatever we find, I think we both need

to knock off for a while and get recharged."

"Let's give it a try. I think everybody's brain, and nerves, could use

a breather. I know mine could."

"We're out of here." She was already typing instructions into the

keyboard.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

9:15 P.M.

Fayette-Nam--as they called Fayetteville, North Carolina, in the 1960s--

hosts the largest army base in the world: Fort Bragg, home of the XVIII

Airborne Corps. Breaking the monotony of the harsh red Carolina clay

around it, the town sports a variety of go-go bars, honkytonks, and

tattoo parlors to refresh and spiritually solace the base's hundred

thousand personnel. Known far and wide as a "macho post," Fort Bragg

houses front-line units ready to mobilize on a moment's notice. During

the Persian Gulf crisis, they were among the first to ship.

The post deserves its macho reputation for a number of reasons, not the

least being a highly classified square-mile compound, referred to

locally as the Ranch, that nestles in a remote and secure corner of its

sprawling 135,000 acres. There, protected by a twelve-foot-high fence,

with armed guards and video cameras along the perimeter, is the nerve

center for Delta Force, America's primary answer to terrorism. Now part

of the Joint Special Operations Command--informally known as "jay-soc"--

Delta Force is the pick of the U.S. Special Forces, a unit of some

seventy men specifically organized, equipped, and trained to take down

terrorist situations. Of course, Delta Force formally does not exist--

"The only Delta we know about is the airline," goes the official quip.

Although they rarely have an opportunity to display their capability,

Delta personnel practice free-fall parachute jumps from thirty thousand

feet, assault tactics on aircraft using live ammo and "hostages," high-

tech demolitions, scuba insertions, free-climbing techniques on

buildings and rock faces-- all the skills needed to take terrorists by

surprise, neutralize them, and rescue hostages. The leadership of this

nonexistent organization occupies a large windowless concrete building

topped by a fifty-foot communications bubble--which recently replaced

Delta's former shabby quarters in the old Fort Bragg stockade.

Since the late 1980s, Delta Force has been led by Major General Eric

Nichols, a fifty-three-year-old Special Forces veteran of Vietnam who

holds an advanced degree in nuclear engineering. He is short--barely

five feet ten--with darting gray eyes and an old scar down his left

cheek. He also moves with the deftness of a large cat. Like his hand-

picked men, he is highly intelligent, physically honed to perfection,

and possessed of a powerful survival instinct. His only weakness is a

taste for Cuban cigars, which he satisfies with Montecristos smuggled

to him by resistance forces on the island--acquaintances whose identity

no conceivable amount of torture could extract.

When Nichols breached the open doorway of the new officers' lounge,

those in attendance were deep in a cosmic game of five-card stud, with

two--Lieutenant Manny Jackson and Captain Philip Sexton--particularly

engrossed, hoping desperately that the hand they now had in play would

somehow miraculously recoup their staggering losses for the evening. He

paused a moment, involuntarily, and surveyed the men, feeling a surge

of pride, as always, in the way they carried themselves. A bearing that

in others might have seemed arrogance on them only affirmed their

competent self-assurance.

And why not? Usually fewer than half a dozen volunteers finished out of

a class of fifty: a lightweight like Chuck Norris wouldn't stand a

chance. Mostly in their early thirties, with the powerful shoulders of

bodybuilders, the "shooters" of Delta Force did not resemble run-of-

the-mill service types. For one thing, since they had to be ready for a

clandestine op at a moment's notice, they deliberately looked as

unmilitary as possible, right down to their shaggy civilian haircuts.

Although they wore olive-drab one-piece jumpsuits during daily

training, here--informally "off the Ranch"--it was sports shirts,

tattered jeans, and sneakers.

Naturally he noticed the poker game--bending the regs was, after all,

Delta Force's modus operandi--and he just as routinely suppressed a

smile. He simply wouldn't "see" it.

But with the monetary stakes he counted on the table, he realized that

his news could not have come at a worse time. On the other hand,

legitimate ops were few and far between, and they were always eager for

action. Some real excitement, at last. He knew every man in the vinyl-

trimmed gray room would feel a rush of adrenaline.

He took a deep breath and broke up the party.

"Heads up, you screw-offs." It was his everyday formal greeting. "Bad

news and good news. Report to the briefing room at 2130 hours, with all

personal gear. Be ready to ship."

There was a scramble to salute, followed by a frenzied bustle to

collect the money still lying on the table. In seconds everybody was

reaching for his jacket. They had only fifteen minutes, but they were

always packed.

The briefing room was a windowless space next to the Ranch's new

headquarters building. It contained a long metal table in the center,

blackboards and maps around the walls, and the far end was chockablock

with video screens and electronic gear. As the unit members filed in,

they noticed that maps of the eastern Mediterranean now plastered the

left-hand wall. Next to these they saw blowups of KH-12 photos of a

small island, identified only by latitude and longitude coordinates.

"All right, listen up," Nichols began, almost the instant they had

settled. He had just fired up a brand-new Cuban Montecristo and was

still trying to get it stoked to his satisfaction. "I've picked twenty-

three men. I'll read off the list, and if you don't hear your name,

you're dismissed."

He read the list, watched much of the room clear, and then continued.

"Okay, you're God's chosen. I picked the guys I happen to think are

best suited to the way I see the op shaping up. To begin with, we're

going to be airborne by 2300 hours, which a check of your watches will

inform you is less than an hour away. Which means no bullshit between

now and when we ship out. We'll be flying Bess--everybody's favorite C-

130-- with two in-flight refuelings. Destination officially classified,

but if you guessed Souda Bay I'd have to say 'no comment.' Wherever it

is we're going, we're scheduled in at 1630 hours local tomorrow. For

now I want to go over the general outlines of the op. There'll be a

detailed briefing after we land. In the meantime, I've put together a

packet of maps and materials for everybody to study on the plane. I

suggest you hone your reading skills. Now, here's what I'm authorized

to tell you."

They listened intently and without interruption as he proceeded to give

a rundown. They would be making a scuba insertion onto a Greek island--

operational maps with the general geography were in the packet--where an

unknown number of hostiles had seized an American industrial facility

and were holding hostages. He then provided a rough description of the

SatCom facility using satellite maps. They would rehearse the insertion

at an appropriate location in the vicinity and then chopper to a

carrier some twenty klicks south of the island, where they would

undergo their final prep.

It was a thorough, if circumspect, briefing--which was what they

expected. Since its inception, Delta had always operated on a top-

security basis. Information always came as late into an operation as

possible, on the theory that it was a two-edged sword and lives were at

stake. Frequently the command did not divulge the real background and

strategic purpose of an op until after its conclusion, thereby avoiding

sending in men with extractable information.

Questions? Right away they all had plenty. What was the layout of the

facility on the island? How many hostiles were there? How were they

equipped? What was the disposition of the hostages? How many? Was their

objective merely to extract the friendlies, or were they also ordered

to "neutralize" all the hostiles?

Answer: You'll get a further briefing at the appropriate time.

The biggest question of all, however, was why the urgency? Why was

Delta being called in to take down a situation that had no military

dimensions. Where were the civilian SWAT teams? If this was merely an

industrial matter, why wasn't somebody negotiating?

They knew "Bess" was already being loaded with the gear the brass would

think they would need. In addition, however, each man had certain

nonissue items, something to take along as a talisman for luck--a backup

handgun strapped onto the ankle, an extra knife. Carrying such

paraphernalia was against the regs, of course, but Major General

Nichols always took such niceties in stride. If the job got done, he

had selective blind spots as far as such things were concerned.

Nichols actually knew a lot more than he had told his men. He had

already planned the op in his head. For the insertion, backup would be

provided by two Apaches that would be armed and ready to carry out a

rocket attack on the facility radars and the two launch vehicles. Once

they had secured the hostages, they were going to treat the terrorists

to a goddamn big surprise. There would be no place to hide. If he had

to, he was prepared to blow the place to hell. Let the insurance

companies worry about it.

11:43 P.M.

The electric sign MEETING IN PROGRESS over the door to the

Situation Room had been illuminated for hours. Inside, Hansen sat in a

tall swivel chair at one end of a long table staring at a detailed map

of the eastern Mediterranean now being projected on the giant screen at

the end of the room. In the subdued, recessed lighting, half-drunk cups

of cold coffee stood around the central teakwood table. A fourth pot

was already brewing in the kitchenette, while the rotund Chairman of

the Joint Chiefs, Edward Briggs, had resorted to doing knee bends to

stay alert.

"All right," Hansen was saying, "we've got the Special Forces in the

game. That gives us a military option. But I'm wondering . . . maybe we

should just go ahead and evacuate Souda. At the minimum get the Sixth

Fleet out of there. As a safety precaution. We could manufacture some

exercise that would at least get most of our assets clear."

If the bastards had a nuke, he was thinking, a well-placed hit could

make Pearl Harbor look like a minor skirmish. Right now the entire

complement of carriers in the Mediterranean was there, not to mention

destroyers, frigates, and a classified number of aircraft. The

destruction would run in the untold billions; the loss of life would be

incalculable.

"Where would we deploy them?" Briggs rose, bent over one last time to

stretch his muscles, then straightened. "Assuming we could get them

clear within twenty-four hours, which would be pushing our luck, we'd

have to figure out what to do next."

"Well, assuming there's available draft, we could deploy some of them

around the island. We'd give those bastards who hijacked the place a

little something to occupy their minds. Might make them think long and

hard about getting back to Beirut or wherever the hell they came from."

"You're talking about a tall order. I don't think we could really

mobilize and evacuate the base in that kind of time frame. And even if

we could, our operations in the Med would be disrupted to the point it

would take us months to recover."

"Well, Ed," the President snapped, "those are the kinds of problems

you're supposedly being paid to solve. If we're not mobile, then what

the hell are we doing in the Med in the first place?" The question was

rhetorical, but it stung--as intended.

"I'll see if I can get a scenario ready for you by 0800 hours

tomorrow." He tried not to squirm. They both knew he had already cut

the orders deploying Fort Bragg's Special Forces to Souda, to be ready

in case an assault was needed. The last resort. "In the meantime, I

certainly could arrange for the base to go on a practice alert--cancel

all leave and get everybody on a ship-out basis."

"I think you should do that, at the very least." Should I inform the

Greek government? Hansen wondered again. No, let's see if this can be

handled without opening a can of worms about whose sovereign rights are

uppermost here. The relationship with Greece had, for all its ups and

downs, been generally cordial. With any luck they would never have to

be involved or, with supreme good fortune, even know. . . .

"Then have Alicia get Johnson over at the Pentagon on the line," Briggs

said, "and he can cut the orders. We've never moved this fast before,

so we're about to find out where our glitches are. Don't be surprised

if there aren't plenty."

"Just be happy if the American taxpayer never finds out what he's

getting for his money," the President responded. "And speaking of

money, we've been faxed a string of account numbers for a bank in

Geneva. This is going to have to come out of a budget somewhere, so who

do I stiff to pay off these bastards? Or make them temporarily think

I'm paying them off. It's got to be some discretionary fund that has

minimal accountability. And I don't want the CIA within a mile of this:

that place is like a sieve."

Briggs pondered. "I can probably come up with the money by juggling

some of the active accounts in Procurement. Cash flow is a marvelous

thing if it's handled right. You can rob Peter to pay Paul, and then

make Peter whole by robbing somebody else. Then the end of the fiscal

year comes around and you withhold payment from some contractor while

you hold an 'investigation.'" He smiled. "Believe me, there are ways."

The President wasn't smiling. "Don't tell me. I don't think I want to

hear this. But if you're going to play bingo with the books, then you'd

damned well better do it quick, and on the QT."

"That'll be the easiest part. I've already got some ideas."

"Just make sure I don't end up with another Iran-Contra brouhaha on my

neck. I won't be able to plead senility and let a few fall guys take

the rap."

Briggs had foreseen as well the glare of television lights in the

Senate hearing room. Worse still, it did not take too challenging a

flight of imagination to figure out who would end up being the patsy.

He would have to fall on his sword to protect the Presidency.

Washington had a grand tradition of that. He could kiss good-bye to a

comfortable retirement in Arizona next to a golf link.

"You can be sure I will take the utmost care, Mr. President." And he

was smiling even though Hansen was not.

"All right, now about the Special Forces. Once we get them to Souda

Bay, I want a quick rehearsal and then I want them deployed just

offshore, on the Kennedy, ready to move. Which means that whatever

support they'll need has to be ready by the time they arrive. What have

you got on that?"

"A task force shipped out for Souda tonight, Mr. President. Their C-130

is already in the air. The problems are at the other end. Once they're

in-theater, we're still looking at a prep time of twelve hours,

minimum. There's just no way they can mount an assault any sooner than

that."

The President winced, already thinking about his other problem. If they

did have a nuclear device, or devices, whose was it? The signs all

pointed in one direction. The Israelis claimed the stolen Iranian Hind

had stopped over in Pakistan. There probably was no need to look any

further. But now he needed somehow to get a confirmation. Or was the

threat of a bomb just a hoax?

He had a meeting at ten o'clock in the morning with the Pakistani

ambassador. It would have to be handled delicately, with a lot of

circumlocutions and diplomatic niceties, but he damn well intended to

get some plain answers.

10:41 P.M.

"So this is the Bates Motel I've heard so much about," Vance said,

casting a glance down the dull, cinderblock walls. "Hitchcock's version

had a lot more character."

"You're right," Cally agreed. "But wait till you see what it's like

upstairs. It sort of gives new meaning to the phrase no frills.' A hell

of a place to cut corners, given all the money Bill poured into this

facility, but he said he wasn't building a resort." She gestured around

the utilities room, where a maze of insulated steam and hot-water pipes

crisscrossed above their heads like a huge white forest. "Anyway,

welcome back to the slightly unreal real world."

"Maybe what we need is less reality, not more. But if you can find us a

beer, I think I could start getting the hang of the place. Let's just

try not to bump into anybody."

"Okay, my feeling is that if we stay out of Level Three, upstairs,

we'll be all right. That's got to be where they're holding everybody

who's not on duty. Locked away for safekeeping."

They had entered Level One via a trapdoor in the stone water conduit

that picked up waste heat from the environmental control unit in the

residential quarters. Around them now was silence, save for the clicks

and hums of motors and pumps.

"All right, who do we see about something to eat?" He had just finished

drinking deeply from a spigot on one of the incoming cold-water pipes.

Even though he was still soaking wet from the trip through the conduit,

he was feeling severely dehydrated and the water tasted delicious, as

though it had come from a well deep in the island's core. It had.

"You see me," she replied. "We're going to head straight for the

kitchen. There's got to be something edible there. So let's take the

elevator up and see what's on the menu. I think today was supposed to

be calamari."

"I'd settle for a simple American T-bone if you've got one in the

freezer. The more American the better. I'm sort of down on Greece at

the moment."

"You can have pretty much what you want here. As long as it's not a

pizza or a decent hamburger." She was pushing the button to summon the

elevator. The lights above the door told the story of the facility:

three levels, with the top being the living quarters; Level Two being

services such as food preparation and laundry; Level One, utilities.

"Hit two," she said as the bell chimed, and she stepped on, taking one

last glance about the basement. The elevator whisked them up quickly,

then opened onto another empty hallway.

"You know," she said, her voice virtually a whisper, "this corridor is

almost always full of people. I guess they really do have everybody

confined to quarters. Lucky us."

"They're thorough, and they know what they're doing. They--"

That's when he noticed the line of explosives that had been placed

along the wall next to the elevator, neat yellow bars of Semtex,

wrapped in cellophane. The first was wired to a detonator, which was in

turn connected to a digital timer.

"Hello, take a look." He nodded down. "Guess my wild hunch was right.

They're not planning to leave any witnesses when this is over. When

they're finished, they'll just pack everybody in here and blow up the

place. Nice and tidy. Won't even interfere with the computers, just in

case they need to keep them running for a while after they leave."

He bent down and examined the timer, now scrolling the minutes in red

numbers. It was set to blow in just over twenty-nine hours.

"Guess we just got the inside track on their timetable."

"My God," she said, looking at the device as though it were a cobra.

"Can't we just turn it off?"

"Sooner or later we'd better, but it's still got plenty of time left on

it." His voice turned slightly wistful. "Tell you the truth, I'd rather

some of the guys from ARM did it. I'm slightly chicken when it comes to

bomb-squad operations. Cut the wrong wire and . . . eternity takes on a

whole new perspective." He shrugged. "Also, there's a chance it's

booby-trapped somehow. The thing's a little too obvious, sitting out

here in plain view. When something looks too easy, I always get

suspicious. Maybe for no reason, but . . ." He motioned her away. "I

suggest we forget about that for now and focus on finding a steak. I

also wouldn't fling a hot shower back in your face."

"That's only on Level Three. It may have to wait." She took his arm.

"Come on. I don't like being around bombs, even if they have timers."

She led the way down the abandoned corridor, its lighting fluorescent

and its floor covered with gray industrial carpet. There was a total,

almost palpable silence about the place that made it feel all the more

eerie and abandoned. It seemed utterly strange and alien.

"The kitchen is in here," she said, pushing open a large steel door.

Vance stepped in and surveyed it: all the fixtures needed for a mess

that served several hundred people three meals daily. In fact, it

looked as though the evening's cleanup operation had been halted in

mid-wash. Dirty pots sat cold on the big industrial stoves, and piles

of half-peeled vegetables were on the wide aluminum tables. The storage

lockers, refrigerators, and freezers were located across the room,

opposite.

"By the way." He had a sudden thought. 'This place must have TV

monitors somewhere, am I right? Every other place here does."

"Well, you're right and you're wrong. It does, but they're on the

blink. It always seemed like a stupid idea anyway, almost like spying,

and then one day somebody just cut the wires. Probably one of the

cooks. I never bothered getting them fixed. I just couldn't think of

any good reason to bother."

"Well, for once laziness paid off. Maybe we're safe here for a while."

He had opened the freezer. "Hello, Lady Luck has decided to get with

the program." He was pulling out two thick steaks. "Care to join me?"

"Those are there for Bill," she noted, then laughed. "I'd still rather

have a pizza, but I don't guess he'll mind if we dip into his private

stock."

"So I repeat the question." He was already unwrapping two, both thick.

"Yes, of course. I'm famished." She shivered. "And I also wouldn't mind

a set of dry clothes."

"Maybe one of these will warm you up." He was popping the steaks into a

gleaming white microwave for a quick thaw.

"Right."

"And while dinner is coming along, how about drawing me a diagram of

what's up there. Maybe we can go up later, take a look around."

"Let's eat first. I'm too wired to think." She switched on one of the

large, black electric grills. "My vote is that we just sit tight for

now."

And why not? This man with the sexy eyes and healthy laugh attracted

her. Mercurial in his spirits, he appeared willing to take chances.

Just the way she remembered her father. And Alan. But she wondered why

he was here risking his life for a bunch of total strangers. Even Alan

wouldn't have done that.

"You know, Mike Vance, I have to tell you, you don't look much like a

commando."

"Guess what? I'm not."

"You know what I mean. For that matter, you don't look like the guys

who came and installed our wonderful security system. I'd like to know

your real story."

"How are retired archaeologists supposed to look? But I wasn't good

enough at it, or maybe I was too good at it--I'm not sure which--and as a

result I ended up doing what I really wanted to for a living. Running a

sailboat business." He looked her over. "You seem to like what you're

doing, too. And from what I've seen, I'd say Bill's getting a bargain,

no matter what he's paying you."

She laughed. "I'd say you're an even better bargain. He's getting you

for free."

"Freebies are only a deal if they pan out." He lifted their steaks out

of the microwave and flipped them onto the grill. They immediately

sizzled deliciously, a sound he had loved since he was a child growing

up in Pennsylvania. It all mingled together with the scent of trees and

summer.

"God, those smell great." She came over to take a look. "I think the

aroma is giving me some backbone. There's nothing like the smell of

grease."

"I figured you'd come around." He patted her chastely on the back, half

imagining it was farther down, then lifted one of the steaks to see how

they were going. Well. Just like his spirits.

But now she was moving off again into a space of her own. She

scrutinized his weathered face, feeling a little hopeful that maybe,

finally, she had run across somebody like Alan. Though she still hardly

knew a damned thing about him.

"With people I meet for the first time, I like to play a little game,"

she said finally. "It's always interesting to try and guess. What are

they really like? Does character show?"

"What happens if you guess right?" He nudged a steak. "Do you own their

soul? Like some primitive tribes think a photograph captures their

spirit?"

"Guess you'll have to find out, won't you?" She checked him over again.

"Okay." He smiled and gave her the same look back. "But it's only fair

if we both get to play. So, if one of us hits the truth, what happens

then. Do we get to go for Double Jeopardy?"

"Be warned. The prince who learns the princess's secrets can end up

getting more than he bargained for." She came back, full of feeling.

Then she paused for a second, thinking, and began. "All right, I get to

go first. Woman's prerogative. And I want to start with the sailboat--

what did you call it? _Odyssey_ _II_?--and what it says about you. I

think it means you're a doer, not a talker. I like that."

"Maybe." He felt uncomfortable, not sure what to say, so he decided to

let it pass. "Now it's my turn." He leaned back and examined her,

hoping to get it right. Make a good first impression. Ignore the fact

she's a knockout, he lectured himself, at least for now. Look for the

inner woman.

"You like it here," he started. "But the isolation means everybody

knows everybody. No privacy. And you're a very private person. So--to

use that famous cliche--you bury yourself in your work. You could be

happier."

"That goes for you, too," she quickly began, a little startled that his

first insight had been so close to the mark. "And you're a loner. The

good news is . . . I think you're pretty loyal. To friends. To women.

The downside is you keep your friends to a close circle."

"Hey, I'd almost think you've been reading my mail." He seemed vaguely

discomfited. "But I'll bet you suffer from the same malady. You made

some tight friends early on, but not much in that department since.

They're all engineers, and mostly you talk shop. Oh, and no women. You

want them but you don't respect them enough. They're not as committed

as you are. In fact, your last good friend was in college. Sometimes

you have trouble getting next to anybody."

"Well, for the record I'll admit that my best friend was from before

college, and it's a he. Georges." She decided to skip over the matter

of Alan Harris. He had been a friend as well as a lover. A good friend,

or so she thought. Once. "But I think the buzzer just went off. Game

over."

"Whoa, don't bail out now, just when it's getting good. This was your

idea, remember? And I'm not through." He leaned back. "Okay, let's

really get tough. Go personal. You figure falling for some guy might

just end up breaking your heart. Maybe it already happened to you once

or twice. So these days you don't let things go too far." He rubbed at

his chin as he studied her. "How'm I doing?"

"The rules of the game don't include having to answer questions." She

took a deep breath. Mike Vance was definitely better at this than she'd

reckoned. "But if you want to keep going, we'll have round two. Back to

you. I'd guess you're always in control, or you want to be. So what

happens is, you co-opt the things and people around you, make them work

for you. And from the way things have gone so far, I'd say luck seems

to be on your side; some people are like that and you're one of them."

"Don't be too sure." He checked the steaks again, then flipped them

over. They were coming along nicely, the fat around the edge beginning

to char the way he liked. "Luck always has a way of running out

eventually."

"Tell me about it . . ." she said, letting her voice trail off.

"But I'd also guess you're a homebody in your soul. You like a roaring

fire and a glass of wine and a good book over going out to paint the

town."

"And you're probably just the opposite. You want to be out in the sun

and wind and rain. Sitting around bores you."

"Guilty." He nodded. "Now for round three. That glass of wine you have

with the book is probably something tame. Say, Chablis."

"You drink . . . mmmm, let me see. Scotch is too mundane. I'll bet it's

tequila. Straight."

"You're psychic. But you missed the lime."

"Oh, I almost forgot the most important thing." She grew somber. "You

like a good battle. So taking on these thugs is going to be the most

fun you've had all week."

"That's where you just went off the track." His eyes narrowed, the

corners crinkling. "We're definitely on the wrong end of the odds here.

These bastards are dug in, they've probably got A-bombs, and we know

for sure they've got a lot of helpless people in their grasp. That's

not a recipe for heroics. It's more like one for pending tragedy." He

paused, deciding it was definitely time to change the subject.

"Speaking of tragedies, it would be a major one if we didn't have a

Greek salad to go with those steaks."

He walked over and checked the fridge. Sure enough, there was a massive

bowl of ripe, red tomatoes sitting next to a pile of crisp cucumbers.

Most important of all, there was a huge chunk of white feta cheese.

Yep, the chef had to be Greek. And up there, on a high kitchen shelf,

were rows and rows of olives, curing in brine. Throw them all together

with a little oregano, lemon juice, and olive oil, and the traditional

side dish of Greece was theirs.

"Just the stuff." He pulled down a jar of olive oil and one of dark

Greek olives. Then he selected some tomatoes and a cucumber and went to

work.

"You know, you're not a half-bad Greek chef. My mother would have loved

you. You're making that salad exactly the way she used to." She made a

face. "Every day. God, did I get sick of them. All I wanted to eat was

french fries. So when I finally got away, off at college, I practically

lived on cheeseburgers and pizza for years after that."

"Shame on you. This is very wholesome. Very good for your state of

mind." He finished slicing the tomatoes, then opened the fridge and

fished out a couple of brown bottles of the local beer. "Retsina would

be the thing, but this will have to do." He looked over. "By the way,

how're the steaks coming?"

"Looks like our feast is ready." She pulled them off the grill and onto

plates. "How long has it been since you ate?"

"Think it's about two days now." He finished tossing the salad and

served them each a hearty helping. "Didn't realize how famished I was

till I smelled those T-bones broiling." He popped the caps on the beers

and handed her one. "Bon appetit. Better eat hearty, because this may

be the last food we're going to see for a while."

She took a bite, then looked up, chewing. "It's delicious. And I want

to say one more thing about our game a while ago." She stopped to

swallow. "And I mean this. It's always a little sad when I see a person

who can do a lot of things but doesn't really find total satisfaction

in any of them. Nothing they ever do really makes them happy. And I

think that's you, really. I'll bet that whenever you're doing one

thing, you're always thinking about some other things you could be

doing. Which means you're never really content. You always want more."

"That's pretty deep stuff." He had launched hungrily into his steak.

"Maybe you're right, but I'm not going to come out and admit it. It's

too damning. So let me put it like this. Maybe I happen to think it's

possible to care about a lot of things at once. That's--"

"Such as?"

"Well, okay, I'll give you a 'for instance.' I like sailing around

these islands, but all the time I'm doing it, I'm thinking about what

it must have been like two, three thousand years ago. The archaeology.

It's intrigued me as long as I can remember. My dad was the same; he

spent his life digging around in Crete. I thought that was the most

marvelous thing in the world, so I did it, too. For years. Even wrote a

book about that island once. I loved the place. Still do."

"That's funny. I was born practically in the shadow of

Crete, and yet I've only been there a couple of times." She sighed.

"Well, what happened? I mean to your love affair with Crete. Sounds

like that's what it was."

"Maybe I loved the place too much. I don't know." He paused to take a

drink of the beer, cold and refreshing. "Well, when you love somebody,

or something, you want to find out everything there is to know about

them. But when I did that, and told what I'd concluded was the real

story, or what I passionately believed was the real story, nobody

wanted to hear it. I had some ideas about the island's ancient age of

glory that didn't jibe with the standard theories. Made me very

unpopular in the world of academia. Scholars don't like their boats to

be rocked."

"And you let that get you down?" She snorted. Being a woman, she'd had

an uphill battle all her life. Men could be such babies sometimes.

"See, when the world's against you, that's when you're supposed to

fight hardest. That's always been my rule. I'm not a quitter. Ever."

He winced and stopped eating. "Hey, I'm back, aren't I? In Greece." He

looked at her, impulsively wanting to touch her again. "But it's nice

to have somebody like you to pitch in and help. Maybe we'll manage

something together."

"Maybe you should have had somebody around the first time." God, he was

really reminding her of Alan. The same buttons. "Maybe you're not as

tough as you think."

"Adversity depresses me. Like bad weather. I prefer life without too

many psychodramas." And this Greek fireball, he told himself, had

psychodrama written large all over her. Still . . .

"Then the question now is what I should do." She looked at him, taking

a last bite. "Go back, or stay with you."

"We need to learn from _Ulysses'_ experience with the Cyclops," Vance

said, clicking back into the real world. "The one-eyed giant had

trapped him and his crew and was devouring them one by one. So how did

they overcome him? They got him plastered on some good Greek wine, then

put out his eye with a burning post. That done, they proceeded to

exploit his disability."

"What are you saying?" She frowned.

"This guy is killing off your people, right? Pierre is coming in with

his crew to try and take this place down, but in the meantime it would

be good if we took a shot at putting out their eyes."

"Put out their eyes?" She was still puzzled.

"It's a metaphor. It would be extremely helpful if we could blind them

enough that they didn't know ARM was coming in. Couldn't 'see' the

team. Maybe shut down the radars, something."

"Michael"--it was the first time she had used his name, and she liked

it--"that's why we're in this mess in the first place. There are no

radars that could spot an insertion. That's how these bastards got in

here in the first place. Bill gets the Saddam Hussein Military

Preparedness Award. There is no radar to monitor the shore."

He laughed. "Okay, but now that oversight has turned into a plus.

What's good for the goose is good for the you- know-what. If there are

no peripheral radars, then they're not going to know where Pierre and

the boys make their insertion."

"Right. The bad guys are already blind. It's got to make a difference."

'Then what we need to do"--he was thinking aloud--"is to get them all

together in one place."

'They're not going to let it happen." She was questing, too. "Unless .

. . unless we can make it happen. Something . . ."

"Keep thinking," he said. "I don't have any ideas either, but somebody

better come up with one."

"Well, let's go back up on the mountain before they find us here," she

said finally, clearly itching to get going and do something. "We're

going to screw these guys, wait and see."

Vance nodded, wishing he could believe it as confidently as she did.

10:49 P.M.

Sabri Ramirez stood watching as the last of the krytron detonators was

secured in the ganglia of wiring that surrounded the explosive Octol

sphere. Now one of the bombs was armed. He liked the looks of it. The

next--

"They haven't come back yet," Wolf Helling said, interrupting his

thoughts. "Do you think there was a problem?" He was warily watching

the bomb and its timer being assembled, trying to calm his nerves. This

was not like playing with a yellow lump of Sematach. One false move and

you would be vaporized. Any man who pretended it didn't scare him was a

liar, or worse, a fool. Maybe both.

The bomb did not frighten Ramirez; his mind did not dwell on risk. He

assumed the Pakis knew their job--they damned well better. No, his

current concern also was what had happened to Moreau. He had expected

his unit to return before now. So far they had taken over an hour on

what should have been a simple operation. With hostages dispersed in

three locations, Ramirez feared that things were getting spread thin.

Gamal had been keeping watch over the guards and the off-duty shifts on

Level Three of the accommodations facility, while Peretz was holding

things together in Command, but still it would be better if four of the

team were not out chasing over the island trying to find some rogue

guard. He had tried to reach them on his walkie-talkie, but so far he

had not been able to raise anybody. That was particularly troubling.

Why should all the radios suddenly go dead?

"If there was some difficulty up the hill, surely they're handling it."

Ramirez tried to push aside his misgivings. He actually felt it was

true, or should be true. He had checked out Moreau's credentials

carefully, investigating beyond the popular myth, and what he had found

did nothing to diminish the legend of the blond demon, Jean-Paul. . . .

"Now, we're ready to secure this baby into the payload container,"

Abdoullah was saying. "I measured it already, and it should fit with no

problem. But we'll need to hook up the detonators with the telemetry

interface, and for that we need

Peretz' input. He'll use the Fujitsu in Command to blow this thing, but

it all has to be synchronized with the trajectory control."

"He's there now," Ramirez said, "updating the trajectory runs. That's

scheduled to be completed in"--he checked his watch--"about twenty

minutes. When he gets through, we can go ahead with the detonators.

Everything is on schedule."

For some reason Abdoullah did not like the precise tone of Ramirez's

voice. Right, he thought, everything is on schedule. So when Shujat and

I have finished our part, what then? Will we be "accidentally" gunned

down, the way Rais was? You claimed that was a screw-up, but you're not

the kind of guy who makes that kind of mistake. Okay, so maybe Rais got

careless. Was that your way of making an example of him?

He motioned Shujat to help lift the first shiny sphere into the heat-

resistant Teflon payload container. On a conventional launch, the

container was designed to be deployed by radio command when the VX-1

vehicle had captured low earth orbit. The nose of the vehicle would

open and eject it, after which the satellite payload would release.

This launch, however, was--

"Hey, they're back," Helling announced, watching the door of the clean

room open.

Ramirez looked up, and realized immediately that something was wrong.

Jean-Paul Moreau's eyes seemed slightly unfocused, and his sense of

balance was obviously impaired --a man stumbling out of a centrifuge. He

also was rubbing at his ears, as though his head were buzzing.

"What in hell happened?" He had never seen anyone with quite this set

of symptoms before. They looked like men who had been too close when a

homemade bomb went off.

"The bastard was up on the hill, and he managed to get control of one

of the radars. Let me tell you, there's nothing like it in the world.

You feel your head is going to explode. I can barely hear." He then

lapsed into French curses.

Stelios Tritsis still had said nothing. He merely watched as Rudolph

Schindler and Peter Maier set down the RPG-7 and collapsed onto the

floor.

"Then let him go for now." Ramirez wanted to kill them all, then and

there. "But get that damned thing out of here." He indicated the

grenade launcher. "And the rest of you with it. Take turns getting some

sleep and report back to me at 0600 hours. We'll soon have our hands

full. The natives here are going to start getting restless. When that

happens, the next man who fucks up will have to answer to me."

They all knew what that meant.

11:16 P.M.

Dore Peretz had just finished checking over the trajectory analyses and

he was satisfied that guidance would not pose a problem. With SORT

controlling the trajectory at lift-off, a vehicle could be set down

with pinpoint accuracy. Midcourse correction, abort--the whole setup was

going to be a cakewalk.

The kid LeFarge was good, good enough to make him think he could do

without the Andros bitch. Right now nothing indicated that it could not

all be handled from right here in Command, with the staff at hand.

Okay, he thought, one more chore out of the way. Now it's time to start

setting up the telemetry hookup with the radio-controlled detonators. .

. .

CHAPTER TWELVE

10:05 P.M.

"Is there anything we need to go over again?" Pierre Armont inquired,

looking around the dusty, aging Athens hangar with a feeling of wary

confidence. The weather-beaten benches and tables were cluttered with

maps of Andikythera and blueprints of the SatCom facility, scattered

among half-empty bottles of ouzo and Metaxa. He had just completed his

final briefing, which meant the time had come to board the Cessna

seaplane that would be their insertion platform. The team seemed ready.

Hans had come through with the troops they needed; Reggie sat bleary-

eyed but prepared, nursing a final brandy; the brothers Voorst of the

Royal Dutch Marines were austerely sipping coffee; Dimitri Spiros was

quietly meditating on the condition of the equipment; and Marcel of the

Belgian ESI was sketching one last paper run-through of the insertion.

When nobody spoke, Armont glanced at his watch and frowned. This final

briefing had gone longer than expected, but he had to cover more than

the usual number of complexities.

For one thing, the hostages apparently were scattered all over the

place, always a problem. Unless the team could strike several locations

simultaneously, the element of surprise would be forfeited. That meant

the insertion had to be totally secure, giving the team time to split

up, get positioned, and stage the final assault with split-second

coordination. Carrying out one op was dicey enough: he was looking at

three, all at once. The alternate strategy would be to focus

exclusively on Ramirez. Take him out first, blow their command

structure, and hope the others would fold.

The decision on that option would have to be made in about two hours,

just before they set down the plane two kilometers west of the island

and boarded the Zodiacs for insertion. That was when Vance was

scheduled to radio his intel on the disposition of the hostiles and the

friendlies. What a stroke of luck to have him there, a point man

already in place to guide the team in.

"All right, then," Spiros said, finally coming alive, "let's do a final

check of the equipment. We need to double-inventory the lists and make

sure everything got delivered. I don't want to hear a lot of crap from

you guys if somebody can't find something later on."

The others nodded. Dimitri had had to scramble to get all the hardware

together, and Reginald Hall had had to make some expensive last-minute

arrangements to obtain a set of balaclava antiflash hoods for

everybody. When there were hostages everywhere, the safest way to storm

the terrorists was with nonlethal flash grenades, which produced a

blinding explosion and smoke but did not spew out iron fragments. But

their use required the assault to function in the momentarily

disruptive environment they created. The hoods, which protected the

wearer's face and eyes from the smoke and flash, were crucial. And

since your local hardware store did not stock them, he had borrowed a

set from the Greek Dimoria Eidikon Apostolon, a SWAT unit of the Athens

city police trained to provide hostage rescue, securing six on a "no

questions asked" basis, even though everybody there knew they had only

one use.

Word of the hostage-taking down on Andikythera had not yet leaked out

to the world, so DEA had not been consulted. But their record of

security at the Athens Hellinikon Airport was so miserable he doubted

they ever would be considered for a job like this. Though the DEA had

trained with the German GSG-9, the British SAS, and the Royal Dutch

Marines, they still were basically just cops. A real antiterrorist

operation would be out of their league.

DEA had no illusions about that, and they also knew that Spiros was

with ARM, arguably the best private antiterrorist organization in the

world. So if they granted Dimitri a favor, they knew they could someday

call on ARM to repay in kind. In the antiterrorist community, everybody

was on the same team. Everybody understood the meaning of quid pro quo.

Most of the rest of the equipment had been retrieved from the ARM

stocks the organization kept stored in Athens. Governments frowned on

the transportation of heavy weaponry around Europe, so the association

found it convenient to have its own private stocks at terminals in

London, Paris, and Athens. It made life simpler all around.

Reggie Hall had dictated the equipment list as he drove in to London in

his black Jaguar, cursing the glut of traffic on the A21. Once he

reached the ARM office there, a small inconspicuous townhouse in South

Kensington, he faxed the list to Athens, then caught a plane. Dimitri

had checked out the list against the ARM inventory in the warehouse and

quickly procured whatever was lacking. It had been packaged into

crates, then taken by lorry to this small side terminal of the

Hellinikon Airport, ready to be loaded on the unobtrusive Cessna

seaplane he had leased for the operation.

By that time the rest of the team had already started arriving. Then,

two and a half hours ago, Pierre had begun the briefing.

A counterterrorist operation always had several objectives: protecting

the lives of hostages and procuring their safe release, isolating and

containing the incident, recovering seized property, and preventing the

escape of the offenders. But this time there was a twist to the usual

rules. In a special-threat situation like this, possibly involving

nuclear weapons, the recovery of those devices was the paramount

priority.

The way Armont had planned the assault, ARM could manage with a seven-

man team instead of the nine most special-reaction outfits normally

used. He would be team leader, which meant his responsibilities

included supervision as well as being in charge of planning and

execution, controlling cover and entry elements, and determining

special needs.

Since Vance was already on the ground, he would be point man, providing

reconnaissance and recommending primary and alternate routes of

approach. The point man in an assault also led the entry element during

approach and assisted the defense men in the security. Finally, he was

expected to pitch in and help with the pyrotechnics as needed.

The defense man would be Marcel, the Belgian, who would cover for the

Voorst brothers during the assault and provide security for Vance

during the approach. He would also double as point man when required

and protect the entry team from ambush during approach. Another duty

was to cover the entry element during withdrawal and handle the heavy

equipment.

Hans would serve as the rear security man, following the entry element

during movement and providing close cover during withdrawal. He would

be second in command, and also would bring in whatever equipment was

needed.

Since Reggie was a crack shot, the best, he would be the standoff

sniper, maintaining surveillance on the subject area from a fixed

position, monitoring radio frequencies, and providing intelligence on

hostile movements. He also would neutralize by selective fire anybody

who posed an imminent threat to the entry team.

Spiros would be the observer, keeping a record of everything for an

after-action summary, providing security for Reggie, and assisting in

locating hostile personnel. He would relieve Hall as necessary, and

handle the CS or smoke if Pierre signaled for it.

That was it for assignments. Everybody would be doing more or less what

they always did. So far so good.

The next item was intelligence. Normally you tried to gather as much as

you could on-scene, and presumably Vance was taking care of that. For

the rest of it, Armont had dug up blueprints for all the buildings from

the files, and on the plane from Paris he had meticulously numbered the

levels, sectorized the windows, and labeled all the openings,

ventilation shafts, et cetera. At the briefing just completed, he had

used the blueprints to designate primary and secondary entry-points. He

would fine-tune his strategy with Vance by radio once they had made the

insertion; and then, after he had located all the terrorists and

confirmed the situation of the hostages, they would use the blueprints

to plan the assault.

Next came the equipment. Since the assault would be at night, they

would need vision capabilities. That included M17A1 7x50 binoculars,

starlight scopes, and infrared scopes. Then the radios, which had to be

multi-channeled, with one channel reserved strictly for the team, and

have cryptographic (secure voice) capability. The surveillance radio

package--compact in size, with a short antenna--included a lapel mike,

push-to-talk button, and earpiece. All members of the team would have a

radio, worn in a comfortable position and out of the way. As usual they

would employ strict communication discipline, using their established

call signs and codes as much as possible.

Other personal equipment included chemical light wands, luminous tape,

gloves, protective glasses, disposable inserts for hearing protection,

black combat boots, lightweight body armor, balaclavas, flashlights,

knives, first-aid pouches. Insertion gear included grapple hooks,

several hundred feet of half-inch fibrous nylon rope, locking

snaplinks, and rappelling harnesses.

Finally there was the weaponry. Everybody would carry a .45 caliber

automatic pistol and a .38 caliber revolver with a special four-inch

barrel. The assault team would use H&K MP5s except for Armont and Hall:

Pierre preferred a Steyr-Mannlicher AUG and Reggie had brought along an

Enfield L85A1, in addition to his usual AK-47. Then, just in case, they

had the heavy stuff: M203 40mm launcher systems, M520-30 and M620A

shotguns, modified 1200 pump shotguns, and 9mm PSDs. God help us,

Armont thought, if we need all this.

Naturally there also were grenades. They had plenty of the standard M26

fragmentation type, but since these frequently were next to useless in

a hostage situation, they planned to rely more on stun grenades and

smoke grenades. The same was true of the AN-M14 incendiary hand

grenade, a two-pound container of thermite that burned at over four

thousand degrees Fahrenheit for half a minute. It was fine for burning

up a truck, but not recommended for a room full of hostages. Better for

that was the M15 smoke grenade, which spewed white phosphorus over an

area of about fifteen yards. Smoke, of course, could work both ways,

also slowing up the deploying team.

Last but not least were the tear-gas grenades. To temporarily

neutralize an entire room, ARM had long used the M7 tear-gas grenade,

which dispersed CN, chloraceteophenone. It was not a gas but a white

crystalline powder similar to sugar that attacked the eyes, causing

watering and partial closing, and simulated a burning sensation on the

skin. If conditions seemed to require, they sometimes used a stronger

chemical agent called CS--military shorthand for

orthochlorobenzalmalononitrile. It, too, was a white crystalline powder

similar to talc that produced immediate irritating effects that lasted

from five to ten minutes. The agent (in a cloud form) caused a severe

burning sensation of the chest. The eyes closed involuntarily, the nose

ran, moist skin burned and stung--thereby rendering anybody in the

immediate area incapable of effective action. He would choose which one

to use when the time came. . . .

After Hans had helped Dimitri double-inventory the equipment list,

Armont looked over the dark-brown crates one last time, then gave the

go-ahead for loading. One good thing, he thought: since Andikythera is

Greek, we won't be crossing any international borders; nothing will

have to be smuggled through customs.

Reggie, impatient as always, was eyeing the clock at the far end of the

hangar. "We've already filed the fight plan. I think it's time we made

this a go op. What time is the next radio check with Vance?"

"That's scheduled for 2340 hours," Armont answered.

"After we're airborne. We'll go over the blueprints and compare them

against the disposition of the friendlies and hostiles using his intel.

Then we can decide the best way to take the place down."

The boys are getting itchy, he told himself. They want to get this over

with and get back to their lives. Who can blame them? This screw-up

never should have happened in the first place. Spiros let the client

set the parameters for a job--which violates the first rule. He is going

to have a lot to answer for when this is over. But settling that will

have to wait till later.

"All right," he said, starting up the Cessna's metal stairs and heading

for the cockpit. "Let's get tower clearance and roll."

11:32 P.M.

The technicians in Command were all sprawled across their desks,

demoralized and still in shock. Georges LeFarge shared their mood.

Cally had disappeared hours ago, and he was beginning to think he was

on his own.

The trajectories that Peretz wanted computed were finished. Now the

Israeli wanted to work on the telemetry. And he wanted to do it

himself. He had taken his place at the console and started programming

a new set of instructions into Big Benny, the Fujitsu supercomputer. It

looked as if he was coordinating some of the trajectory telemetry with

the electronic signaling to the vehicle, and he was setting some sort

of timer.

LeFarge pondered the significance of these actions. He wants something

to happen when the VX-1 aborts and begins descent, he told himself. And

it has to be done with split-second timing. What can he be planning?

He felt helpless as he sat watching, the control room around him now

silent and listless. Locked out of his own computer, he felt rudderless

and lost. He was realizing computers were a friend that could easily be

turned against you. It was a moment of recognition that brought with it

pure anguish.

10:01 A.M.

Dr. Abdoul Kirwani, ambassador of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan to

the United States of America, sat rigidly facing the small desk in the

Oval Office. When the call requesting a meeting had come from Johan

Hansen's chief of staff the previous evening, he had hastily sent a

secure telex to Islamabad to inquire if he needed any updating.

He did. And it was a disaster.

"It's past due time we met personally, Mr. Ambassador," President Johan

Hansen was saying. "I regret that the press of affairs over the last

month forced me to postpone receiving you sooner. State tells me your

credentials are impeccable and you're doing a first-class job of

getting up to speed."

Abdoul Kirwani nodded his thanks, modestly but with ill- concealed

pride. He was a tall, elegant man with a trim mustache and deep,

inquisitive eyes. Some said he could have been a double for Omar

Sharif. A deeply guarded secret was that he cared more about the ragas

of Indian classical music than he did about diplomacy. He had made no

secret, however, of his admiration for Johan Hansen. The American

President's refocus of the superpower's priorities was a refreshing

breath of rationality and sanity in an irrational, insane world.

All of which made this particular meeting even more distressing.

"Thank you, Mr. President. My government wishes me to express its

appreciation for the excellent cooperation we have received and the

traditional American hospitality my family and I have enjoyed since we

arrived. Shireen, I must say, loves this country as much as I do. She

studied at Smith many years ago, and is especially fond of New

England." He smiled. "We Pakistanis always yearn for places with a cool

climate."

"Then perhaps someday you'll accord me the honor of letting Christin

and me show you my new presidential hideaway in the Berkshires." Hansen

smiled back, chafing to cut the diplomatic bullshit. "Perhaps sometime

this autumn. We think it's one of the most beautiful spots on earth."

"We would be most honored." He nodded again, reading the President's

mind-state perfectly.

"Now." Hansen could contain himself no longer. "I want you to

understand, Mr. Ambassador, that what I am about to say is not directed

toward you personally. My staff tells me you have been a private

advocate, for some years now, of reducing and even eliminating nuclear

weapons worldwide. That, as you know, is my desire as well. So you and

I see eye to eye. Unfortunately, however, we live in a world where

realities still assume precedence over noble ambitions."

"I agree with you, Mr. President, sadly but wholeheartedly." The

Pakistani ambassador nodded lightly, dreading what he knew was about to

come. So the U.S. already knows, he realized. This disaster is going to

turn out even worse than I'd feared.

"The topic of nuclear proliferation brings us, I am afraid, to the

subject at hand. You will forgive me if we set aside our views on the

scenic American countryside for another day. Time, unfortunately, is

short. I think you will understand why when you hear what I have to

say." Hansen leaned back in his heavy chair, hoping he had given the

right signals. He had been entirely sincere when he said he liked

Kirwani and did not relish the task immediately at hand. "Mr.

Ambassador, you will not be surprised to learn that this country is

well aware of the gross violations of the nuclear nonproliferation

treaty that have taken place since Pakistan refused to sign in 1968.

The entire world knows about your uranium hexafluoride plant at Dera

Ghazi Khan, and the Kahuta facility where it is enriched using German

centrifuges. We also know what that enriched uranium"--he glanced down

at his notes--"in the ninety-five percent range, is being used for.

However, we have not been able to dissuade your government from the

course it has taken." He paused. "Quite frankly, there's not a hell of

a lot we could do about it without having to make some very

undiplomatic accusations against our staunchest ally on the Asian

subcontinent."

Kirwani turned slightly pale. Although he worried about India's growing

nuclear capacities as much as the next Pakistani, he still did not

particularly like the idea of his country having its own secret nuclear

program, developed in part to counter India's. The world needed more

dialogue, he believed, not more destruction.

However, he wasn't being paid to defend his personal views. "Mr.

President, I'm not authorized to discuss the strategic security

arrangements of my country, as I am sure you can appreciate."

"Yes," Hansen said, "I can appreciate a hell of a lot, Mr. Ambassador.

For instance, I can appreciate the multi-billions in military and

economic assistance we've lavished on Pakistan over the years. There

are those in this administration who think that gives us the right to a

hearing. You know, back when Ronald Reagan was President, his

administration argued that we could slow down Pakistan's nuclear

program by giving you every other possible kind of military aid. So we

poured in everything you asked. However, all that aid seems not to have

slowed your government's nuclear efforts for so much as a minute.

"In fact," Hansen went on, the memory still making him seethe, "what

you did was turn to China for the data you needed to manufacture

nuclear weapons without testing. That was the thanks we got. Then--"

"An unproven accusation, Mr. President," Kirwani interjected lamely.

"Yes, China denied it, too, but the Reagan administration took it

seriously enough that they halted formal approval of a trade pact with

China for almost a year in retaliation. We had hard evidence, believe

me. And then--"

"Mr. President, we are not, I'm sure, here to give each other history

lectures. Certainly neither of us has forgotten that during those years

there were 120,000 Soviet troops in Afghanistan, just over our border.

We had legitimate security concerns that could not always--I am speaking

hypothetically, of course--be addressed with a strictly conventional

deterrent." Kirwani tried to smile. "You do understand, of course, that

this conversation is entirely hypothetical."

"Of course, so let's travel a little farther into never-never land.

What we do know is that the Soviet threat in Afghanistan is now a thing

of the past; world conditions have changed dramatically; and there are

those in Congress who may choose to wonder why Pakistan still has any

justification to stockpile--hypothetically, of course--these

'unconventional' weapons. American aid is not written in stone. Now, is

that diplomatic enough for you, Mr. Ambassador?"

"We are allies, Mr. President," Kirwani replied calmly, "and allies

work in concert toward mutual goals, each bringing to their alliance

whatever contribution can further the ends of both. I do hope your

government believes it has received as much as it has contributed over

the years."

Hansen tried not to smile. We never "receive" as much as we

"contribute," he was thinking. But then that's how the damned game is

played.

"In the interest of diplomacy, Mr. Ambassador, I suggest we move this

'theoretical' discussion along. We have reason to believe that a

certain number of 'unconventional' weapons may now be in hands neither

of us would wish. The question is, how many weapons are involved and

what is their yield?"

Ambassador Kirwani had been expecting the inquiry. It was like waiting

for the other shoe to drop. The government in Islamabad was beside

itself, appalled that controls had been so lax and that now the world

was going to know exactly the extent of Pakistan's nuclear program.

Before this ghastly situation was resolved, years of secrecy were going

to be blown away. Yet in truth part of him was half-relieved that the

cat was out of the bag, finally. For either India or Pakistan to loose

nuclear weapons on the Asian subcontinent would be to unleash the wrath

of Allah upon billions of innocents. It was truly unthinkable.

"You do understand, Mr. President, that before this conversation

continues we must both agree that it never took place. Furthermore,

even if it should take place, it would be purely hypothetical."

After Hansen nodded grimly, Kirwani continued. "We both know the

Israelis have had uranium bombs, not to mention hydrogen bombs, for

many years and yet they have never

admitted it publicly. By maintaining a diplomatic fiction they have

kept their Arab neighbors quiet on the subject. They are never called

to account. The government of Pakistan merely asks to be accorded the

same latitude to conduct our security arrangements as we best see fit.

The Israelis know it is not in their interest to rattle nuclear sabers,

and we know that as well." He edged forward in his chair. "That is,

assuming we possessed such sabers, which I in no way acknowledge."

"I think we're beginning to understand each other." Hansen nodded. "So

perhaps that counts as progress. Of course this conversation never took

place, and lest you're wondering, I don't have the Oval Office bugged,

the way that idiot Nixon did. I believe terms like 'confidentiality'

and 'off the record' still have meaning."

Kirwani found himself yearning for a cigarette, though he knew smoking

was forbidden here in this presidential sanctuary.

"Very well, then, speaking hypothetically and confidentially, I am

authorized to inform your government that we have reason to believe

that there may be two uranium bombs, in the fifteen-kiloton-yield

range, that may be . . . in the wrong hands somewhere in the world.

Needless to say, my government is extremely concerned about this and is

currently taking steps to establish a full . . . accounting of the

situation." Kirwani realized it sounded lame. But his government had

authorized him to deliver those words only.

"God help us," Hansen sighed. It's true. Or maybe just a coincidence.

"When were these hypothetical weapons found to be missing?"

"If such a thing were to be true," Kirwani continued, ever cautious;

"it might well have been just over a week ago." A final pause. "And we

have no idea where they are."

12:15 A.M.

Ramirez watched with satisfaction as Abdoullah and Shujat began loading

the first device into the payload capsule. Shujat had carefully

attached the wiring of the krytrons to a "black box" of computer chips,

which was itself connected to a radio receiver, part of the telemetry

for VX-1. With the bomb primed, the unsuspecting SatCom crew could now

move the weapon--its fifteen kilograms of weapons- grade U235 waiting to

be imploded upon itself--up the gantry and into the satellite bay of VX-

1. That completed, work would begin on preparing the second device,

which was going to serve as a backup.

When Peretz finished, only the computer would know the location of the

first target. Total security, which meant nobody would be able to

activate any antimissile defense systems. All of Europe would be at

risk, though the real target would in fact be among the most obvious.

With the U.S.'s entire Mediterranean Sixth Fleet now anchored at Souda

Bay, a nuclear explosion there would change the equation of power

throughout Europe and the Middle East.

It was high time. The so-called Eastern Bloc had turned its back on its

Muslim friends in the region, leaving them to fend for themselves. The

East had betrayed the Arab cause, just as it had betrayed him.

In the old days, Eastern European governments hired him in desperation,

then half the time tried to kill him after he had carried out their

objectives. Even a long-term purchaser of his services, Romania's

Nicolae Ceausescu, had eventually turned against him. But he had seen

it coming, even back when he had been the personal gun-for-hire of that

late strongman, enjoying the hospitality of his plush seaside resort.

That time, his Beretta 9mm had saved the day. And now, here, now that

the launch time for the first vehicle was drawing near, he was feeling

more and more comfortable about the 9mm under his jacket. This ad hoc

collection of operatives he had brought along was going to start

getting edgy, more so as the hours ticked by.

The first to crack, he knew, would be the two remaining Pakistani

engineers. But they were amateurs, which meant they posed no real

threat. More than that, their usefulness was soon going to be at an

end. . . .

No, they weren't the problem now. The problem was going to be egress

when this was all over. But the old man who had been the President's

professor years ago was a hostage made in heaven. And then, of course,

there was the CEO, Bates. Nobody was going to shoot down a chopper with

those two luminaries aboard.

Although egress was the long-term consideration, there also was a

short-term concern. Salim was reporting from Command that the radio had

a lot of scrambled traffic. The airwaves were beginning to have the

feeling of an assault in the making. . . .

"Okay, we're ready," Shujat announced, standing back to admire his

handiwork: the armed bomb nestled in its case, surrounded with bubble-

wrap. The truck that would take it from the clean room to the gantry

area was standing alongside the bench. The weapon itself, accompanied

by its electronics, weighed over a hundred kilograms, but they used a

forklift to lower it down. Very carefully.

Shujat was nervous. Although Octol was an extremely stable compound,

which made it an ideal explosive to implode the enriched uranium, still

. . . your instincts said to be careful. One nice thing about a nuke,

though: if it went off accidentally, you'd never know. You'd be

vaporized before your neurons and synapses had a chance to get their

act together. You were gone, baby. Atoms.

"Take it up and get it on the vehicle," Ramirez ordered. "From now on

we work straight through."

The two Pakistanis nodded and began slipping a large plastic covering

around the crate. The clean-room procedure, which they were following,

involved encasing a satellite payload in a sterile plastic wrap to

protect it from contamination when it was being transferred to the

gantry area. They zipped up the plastic, after which Shujat unsealed

the airlock door and returned to help Abdoullah roll the white three-

wheeled truck through.

Down the hallway they glided, with all the insouciance of two grocery

boys delivering a case of beer. The launch facility was compact and

efficient, and the gantry elevator was only some fifty meters from the

clean room. The hallway itself was now deserted, as all the SatCom

personnel were dutifully in their prescribed work areas. Via computer

messages Peretz had advised the SatCom tech crews that the Arlington

office had put the launch schedule on a crash basis and everybody had

to stay at his post. There had been grumbling, but everybody was

determined to get with the program. After all, SatCom was a team.

An electronic eye opened the sealed doors leading into the gantry area.

It, too, was spotlessly clean, with technicians busying to ready the

elevator. Everything was being prepared for a countdown.

Ramirez looked the scene over, straightening his tie. How ironic, and

amusing, to have all these fresh-faced young Americans doing your

bidding. The sense of power, and irony, was delicious.

"This is the new payload," he announced, with the authority that had

long since become second nature. "Open the elevator and take it up."

J.J. was there and he looked Ramirez over again, still wondering who

this guy was. Dr. Andros hadn't been around for a while, and all of a

sudden this asshole was calling the shots. Was he Bill Bates' new

second-in-command? It didn't make any sense, but then something funny

was definitely going on. The communications system with Command was all

screwed up; nobody could reach Dr. Andros; everybody was ordered to

stay at their posts and not take a break; and there had even been what

sounded like gunfire from the sector where the clean room was. None of

these things boded well.

But he said nothing, just nodded in acquiescence and opened the door

leading to the gantry module. The two new SatCom technicians, who had

also shown up with the new AIC (asshole in charge), rolled on the cart--

which was carrying some mysterious new payload.

The gantry elevator itself operated inside a mobile tower that rolled

on rails, thereby allowing it to be motored next to the vehicle and--at

the lower level--opened into the launch facility. From the lower level,

technicians could insert the payload module, which then would be

hoisted to the top of the gantry and inserted into the vehicle's nose

cone. When the vehicle was fully prepped and ready for launch, they

would roll the gantry, with its elevator, some fifty meters down the

track.

Until thirty minutes earlier, the gantry elevator had been stationed at

the midpoint of the vehicle, where technicians were loading the

"propellant" and making the final adjustments to the quartz mirrors and

nozzles. Now that they had finished that task, they could begin the

countdown. Only the payload remained to be installed.

J.J. watched as the technicians secured the trolley, its plastic-

wrapped package, and the two new dudes--a couple of camel jockeys some

of the guys said they thought they'd seen at Berkeley--into the module

and closed the door. In half an hour's time it would be installed and

the countdown could begin.

11:24 P.M.

Willem Voorst was at the controls of the Cessna as they powered through

the Aegean night, their heading 210 as they closed rapidly on

Andikythera. He was holding their altitude at five hundred meters,

their airspeed just under a hundred knots, barely above stall. When

they were about ten klicks out, he would take the plane down to two

hundred meters, then set down about two kilometers northeast of the

island. The last stage of the insertion would be via two Zodiac rubber

raiding craft and then, finally, scuba.

Everything still looked like a go. Reggie was leading Hans and the rest

of the team through a final review of the facility blueprints, while

Armont was in the cockpit, on the sideband radio to Vance. . . .

"Roger, Sirene," Vance was saying, "we're in the communications

blockhouse, up on the mountain, so we're a little out of touch, but our

best guess is that Terror One is still down at Launch. Everybody else

is scattered all over the facility. That suggests an obvious option."

"Copy, Ulysses," Armont replied. "That means Plan B. We'll have to take

down that point, and then secure the devices. Behead the dragon, then

see what's left."

"My hunch," Vance concurred, "is that if you take out Ramirez the rest

of them will fold. He's their main man. But I suggest extreme caution.

He's a pro."

"Copy that, Ulysses. Hang on while I put you on standby. Don't go

away."

"I copy."

Armont paused to search the sea below with his IR goggles while he

scanned the military frequencies. Neither pleased him. A new storm was

growing, building in intensity, and it would complicate matters. But

even worse, the military frequencies on the radio were abuzz.

"Reggie, something's going on around here and I don't like it," he

shouted back to the cabin, his voice strong above the roar of the

engines as he scanned frequencies. "There's too much radio traffic in

the area, all scrambled. What do you think? I'm worried the Americans

are--"

Then it came. The radio crackled in crisp military English.

"Unidentified aircraft, this is United States Navy warship Yankee

Bravo. You are entering a controlled sector. This airspace is currently

off limits to civilian aviation. Please identify yourself. Repeat, we

must have your ID and destination."

"Shit," Armont blanched. He turned back to the cabin and motioned for

Dimitri Spiros to come to the cockpit and take the headset.

"Give them the cover. We're a medical charter. Delivering emergency

blood supplies to Apollonion General in Heraklion. Strictly civilian."

Spiros nodded, took the headset, and settled himself in the copilot's

seat. 'This is Icarus Aviation's Delta One. We have an approved flight

plan from Athens to Iraklion, Crete. What's the problem, Yankee Bravo?"

"Icarus Delta One, we've got an exercise under way for the next

seventy-two hours. No civilian aircraft are allowed within a sector

from latitude 33 deg.30' to 36 deg.30' and longitude 20 deg.00' to 22

deg.30'. We're going to vector you back to Athens."

Spiros switched off his mike and yelled back at Armont. "Problem. Looks

like the U.S. Navy's cordoned off

Andikythera. It's hot. Doesn't sound like they're going to take no for

an answer."

"So that's what all the radio activity was about." Armont's dark eyes

flashed satisfaction that at least one mystery was solved, but they

quickly turned grim. "Well, we've got to go in. Give them the cover

again and insist it's an emergency. They can check it out. It's all in

the flight plan we filed." Which was, of course, bogus. The routing was

intended to take them directly over Andikythera, where they would

ditch. "See if they'll buy the 'medical emergency' story and give us an

IFF and clearance," he continued. "But whatever happens, we're damned

sure not going to turn back."

"I'll give it a shot," Spiros yelled, "but I don't think it's going to

happen. They're going to insist we exit from the area, then file

another flight plan that takes us around it. Standard."

"Well, try anyway," Armont barked, knowing that the Greek was right.

Things were definitely headed off the track.

Spiros clicked on the mike. "Yankee Bravo, we have a flight plan filed

with Athens Control. Nobody advised us this airspace was off limits.

We're making an emergency delivery of blood plasma to the Apollonion

General Hospital in Iraklion. We filed a manifest with the flight plan.

It's a perishable cargo and we have to have it in their hands by 0600

hours tomorrow."

"Sorry about that, Delta One, but this airspace has been quarantined to

all civilian traffic as of 2100 hours. No matter what's on your

manifest. You're going to have to radio Athens and amend your filing."

Spiros shrugged, clicked off his mike, and glanced back with an "I told

you so" look. "Now what? They've acquired us on radar, so there's no

way we can proceed. We try it and they'll scramble something and escort

us out of the area at gunpoint. I'd say we're reamed."

It was a tough call, but Armont made it without hesitation. He strode

toward the cockpit and shouted to Voorst, "Take her down to three

hundred meters. And get ready."

The Dutchman nodded as Armont stepped back to the cabin. "Okay,

gentlemen, listen up. We have to make a decision and I think we'd

better vote on it. We've got three options. We can cancel the op and

turn back; we can go on the deck and try our luck at evading their

radar; or we can abort and take our chances. If we do that, they'll

probably mount a search, but with any luck we'll be written off. I say

we do it. Word of warning, though--if we screw this one up, the

organization is going to take some heat."

The men looked at each other, each doing his own quick calculus. It

wouldn't be the first time ARM had found itself having to work outside

the system to save the system. Frequently the group or government that

hired them ended up--for political expediency--formally denouncing

whatever they had done. But it was a flap accompanied by a wink, and it

always dissipated after any obligatory moral indignation was

ventilated. This time, however, if the op went sour it might not be so

easy to explain away.

Reginald Hall, the most conservative of them all, looked the most

worried. He had a good civilian cover and he wanted to keep it that

way. "You know, if we get picked up and detained, it's going to be

bloody sticky. Half of the new chaps at Special Projects these days

think I raise radishes for a living. It would be bloody awkward to end

up in a Greek jail, or worse. Don't think I'd get invited to the

Queen's Birthday anymore."

Hans was smiling. "Reggie, you old fossil, let me get this straight.

You don't mind getting killed on an op, but you don't want to get

embarrassed socially. I'd say you've got a priorities problem."

"The difference," Hall replied testily, "is that I can control what

happens on a regular op. But now you're saying we might have to fight

our way through the U.S. Navy just to get in. That's bloody imprudent,

mates."

"Well," Armont interjected, shouting as he gazed around the cabin, "I'm

waiting. We're still about thirty klicks out, which means that if we

ditch her now, an insert tonight is out of the question. Plus, we'll be

exposed. I'm waiting to hear a veto. If we're going to risk everybody's

balls just to save Vance, it's got to be unanimous. Whatever we do, we

do together." He paused. "I know what you're thinking--can Vance handle

it for another twenty-four hours? Personally, I think he can put

together enough moves to gain us the time, but who knows." He looked

around with an air of finality. "Okay, I take it silence is consent."

That was when Willem shouted from the cockpit. "Pierre, we've just

acquired an 'escort.' About fifteen klicks out and closing fast."

"All right, lads," Armont ordered. "Time to get the show going. Break

out the Zodiacs and assemble your gear."

The cabin erupted in action. They had been expecting to deplane at sea,

but this was not how they had planned to do it.

"I've suspected all along we were a bunch of damned fools," Armont

laughed as he strode toward the cockpit. "Now I know for sure." He

glanced at his watch. "Sixty seconds."

He passed Spiros as he reclaimed the copilot's seat next to Willem

Voorst. "What was our ETA for Andikythera?"

"We would have made the set-down site in twenty-three more minutes."

"Okay, I've got to alert Michael." He flicked on the sideband.

"Ulysses, do you copy?"

"Loud and clear, Sirene."

"Looks like we've got a problem, old buddy. The trusty USN has shut

down the airspace around the island. Closed it to commercial traffic."

"Don't like the sound of that. It's getting a little lonesome down

here."

"From the look of things, it may get worse. We're going to have to slip

the original insertion. We'll need another twenty-four hours. Can you

hang on that long?"

"Hey, I'm making new friends all the time. No problem. The downside is

that the rockets may start going up. I'm still trying to get a handle

on that end of it. Now it sounds like I may have to look into trying to

reschedule things a little."

"We need a breather," Armont said. "Our options don't look too good at

this end. But we'll be there, so don't believe anything you hear on the

radio. All things may not be what they appear."

"Copy that. Have a nice day."

"Roger." Armont clicked off the mike. "All right." He turned and

motioned Spiros back to the cockpit. "Tell them we're losing radio

contact. And our navigation gear is going. Say we're going to have to

reduce altitude and fly with a compass and visuals. Maybe that will

muddy things long enough to get us down."

Dimitri Spiros hit the radio and delivered the message. To total

disbelief.

"That's a crock, Delta One. Assume a heading of three-four-zero

immediately and get the hell out of this airspace. Immediately. Do you

acknowledge?"

"Transmission breaking up," Spiros replied, toggling the switch back

and forth as he did to add some credibility to his assertion.

"That's more bullshit, Delta One. Either you acknowledge or--"

Spiros switched off the microphone. "We've got to put her in. Now."

11:26 P.M.

Captain Jake Morton was piloting the F-14D Super Tomcat and he honestly

couldn't believe this was all that serious. He and his radar-intercept

officer, Frank Brady, had been scrambled on short notice and, though he

relished the chance to clock a little flight time, he felt in his bones

that this was a red herring.

He didn't even have a wingman, which told him that Command on the

Kennedy probably wasn't too excited either. The blip on the VSD,

vertical simulation display, was some tin can cruising just above the

chop down there, pulling around a hundred knots and now losing

altitude. Obviously just some civilian asshole, who wasn't going to

make it unless he pulled out damned soon. He had to be close to stall.

Problem was, though, the bogey had responded to the Kennedy's radio

room with some "medical charter" malarkey and then shut down. What was

that all about? And now? Were these guys really having radio and nav

problems, like they'd said, or were they about to try something funny,

some amateur attempt at evasion?

Well, he thought, if that's their game, they're pretty fucking dumb. So

what the hell was the real story? He'd learned one thing in fifteen

years of Navy: when you didn't know what could happen, you planned for

the worst.

He switched on the intercom and ordered Brady to turn on the

television-camera system (TCS), the F-14's powerful nose video, and use

the radar to focus it, bringing up the image from down below for

computer optimization.

"Yankee Bravo, this is Birdseye," he said into his helmet mike. 'That

bogey that ID'd itself as Icarus Delta One has still got a heading of

about two-seventy, but now he's definitely losing altitude. In fact,

he's practically in the drink. We're trying to get him on the TCS and

take a look."

"Roger," came back the voice. "We've lost radio contact. Advise extreme

caution. Whoever the hell he is, he's a bogey. I want him the hell out

of this airspace. Don't waste time with the TCS. Get a visual."

"Copy, Yankee Bravo, want me to fly down for a look-see?"

"Confirmed, Birdseye. And assume you've got a hostile on your hands.

Caution advised. Repeat, assume he's a hostile."

"Roger. We copy."

Morton tapped the stick and his F-14 banked into a steep dive, 74,000

pounds of steel plummeting downward.

What am I doing? he asked himself again as he watched his altimeter

begin to spin. I buzz the guy and I'll probably scare hell out of him.

He'll wind up in the soup for sure. And if he still doesn't respond,

then what? Am I supposed to shoot down a civilian?

The very thought made his new mustache itch, a clear sign of nerves.

Such things had been done before, but Captain Jake Morton had never

done them and he had no interest in starting a new trend in his career.

He had a wife and kids he still had to look in the face.

On the other hand, a close encounter would definitely get their

attention. But then, these were international waters, and the legality

of interdicting civilian traffic was not all that obvious, and might be

even less obvious in a court of law some faraway day. Particularly if

it really was a medical emergency situation like those bozos down there

claimed. Could make for exceptionally bad press. Which didn't do a

thing for promotions in the U.S. Navy.

11:31 P.M.

"All right," Armont said, reaching for the microphone. "We've got to

confirm with Mike. He's got to know what's going on."

He flicked the dial on the radio. "Ulysses, do you read? Come in."

"I copy. What's the story?"

"Insert is a definite abort. Repeat, abort insert. We're expecting some

company. Red, white, and blue."

"That's going to blow everything."

"You've got a roger, Ulysses."

"How far are you from Andikythera?"

"Looks like about twenty klicks," Armont answered.

"You were timed for 0200. Can vou still make it tonight at all?"

"Doubtful. Even with the two Zodiacs and outboards, by the time we

reached there it'd be almost daylight. We may have to revise the

insert, plus twenty-four."

"How about your gear?" Vance's voice betrayed his concern. "We'll need

hardware. The hostiles are loaded for bear. You--"

"We'll do what we can. We don't like it either. . . . Uh- oh." He had

just glanced at the radar. "Company's here, Ulysses. Stay up on this

frequency."

"Copy."

Armont turned to Voorst. "Okay, we've got to ditch now. That's probably

an F-14"--he pointed to the radar screen-- "and he's going to be on us in

less than two minutes. We have to give him something to talk about back

in the briefing room."

Willem Voorst was staring through the cockpit windscreen at the dark,

choppy sea skimming by just below the fuselage. "Hang on."

The ARM gear was packed in waterproof containers, and the Zodiac rafts

were by the doors, ready to eject.

Willem loosened his flight helmet and dropped the flaps. "I hope this

baby is insured by somebody."

"It's insured," Armont said, grimacing to think of the paperwork that

lay ahead. "We just had a malfunction. That's my professional opinion."

11:33 P.M.

The storm had cut visuals to a minimum, and the puddle hopper down

there was still not responding. Morton figured if giving the guy a

flyby didn't get his attention, then Command would want to hand him a

little heat, say a tracer from the Tomcat's 20mm cannon. He prayed it

wouldn't come to that, because that might well cause the guy to pee in

his pants and go down for sure.

What the hell was going on, anyway? The wing had shipped out of Souda,

battle-ready, with less than an hour's notice. There still hadn't been

a briefing. The whole thing was some top-secret exercise nobody could

figure. And now this bullshit.

He thought again about the rumor going around the flight deck of the

Kennedy that an AWACS had been brought up from Saudi to monitor all air

traffic in the area. What the hell was that about? Command had dropped

a hint about terrorists, but this whole mobilization seemed like using

a Phoenix missile on a mosquito.

Then, just as he had feared, the radio crackled again. "Birdseye, this

is the TAO. I've just got you authorization to lay a tracer alongside

that bogey if he refuses to acknowledge your flyby."

"Please repeat for verify." Morton had expected it, but he wasn't about

to jeopardize his career over a misunderstood radio transmission.

"You have positive authorization to lay one tracer in the vicinity of

Icarus Delta One. Monitor her response and we will advise follow-up

procedure."

"Roger. But first let me try to raise them on the radio one last time."

That cooks it, Morton told himself. Guess they want to play hardball

with these assholes. Whatever this so- called "exercise" is all about,

somebody upstairs is taking it all very seriously.

But then who knew? Maybe those guys down there were terrorists. Word

had already reached the Kennedy's lower decks about the Glover being

shot all to hell in a false-flag attack, which meant caution was the

byword. The rumor mill also had it that terrorists had seized one of

the small Greek islands in this area. Was that it? Was the Navy's

quarantine intended to keep them from bringing in reinforcements? To

interdict them if they tried to get away? Had the U.S. Navy been made

into a watchdog?--a pretty lowly station after the glories in the Gulf.

He spoke over the cockpit intercom, the ICS, advising Brady of the

authorization. It was a formality, since Frank had monitored all the

radio talk.

Brady said, "Shit," then flipped on the F-14's weapons station and

armed it.

"We're hot."

11:38 P.M.

The radio crackled again, and this time Willem Voorst flicked a switch

so the entire cabin could hear.

"Delta One, this is Captain Jake Morton, United States Navy. I'm giving

you one last warning. You have been instructed to alter your heading to

three-four-zero and exit this airspace. If you do not comply, I am

authorized to employ whatever degree of force is necessary to make sure

you do not proceed. What is your intention? I repeat, what is your

intention?"

"All right," Armont said, "this is it."

The pontoons bounced across the chop as Voorst touched

down. He reversed the props and in seconds had brought the Cessna to an

abrupt halt, its frail fuselage bobbing like a cork. With the storm

coming up, the sea was rougher than it looked.

Hans immediately opened the door, then nodded back to the cabin and

reached for the line attached to the first raft. He had done this

dozens of times before, but it always was scary. You had to watch out

for the motor, inflate the raft from the doorway, then get your gear

in, all the while keeping hold of the line. Do it wrong and you could

lose the whole thing.

"Okay, Reggie," Armont yelled, "time to earn your share."

"What bloody share? It's fifteen percent of nothing." Hall sighed and

stared out the Cessna's open doorway. Even in the dim moonlight he

could see the whitecaps thrown up by the chop, and he felt his

testicles tighten. "This is going to be a hell of an insertion." He re-

cinched the straps of the backpack containing his gear.

Armont watched him swing out and down, knowing he hated the moment,

then motioned for Hugo Voorst to step up to the doorway. "Hurry. We may

be eating some cannon fire any time now."

Voorst moved up quickly. He glanced toward the cockpit one last time,

then seized his gear and dropped down. His brother, who was still

setting the charge, would be the last out.

"Our new escort is going to have us dead to rights in about sixty

seconds," Willem announced from up front. "Everybody out, now."

Armont was securing the last of the gear needed for the insertion and

the assault, readying it to be passed through the hatch, while Willem

Voorst was finishing with the charge of C-4.

Armont looked around the cabin one last time, hoping they had gotten

everything they absolutely needed. Several crates of backup gear would

have to be left, but unexpected contingencies went with the territory.

With that sober last thought, he signaled to Voorst, who was ready with

the detonator. "Set it for forty-five seconds. That should be enough."

As the Dutchman nodded, he reached for the rope and dropped.

Willem spun the dials on the timer, then wrapped it against the dull

orange stick of C-4 and tossed it into the copilot's seat. In seconds

he was at the open doorway, swinging down the line and into the dark

below.

11:40 P.M.

Now Morton was really puzzled. The pilot had just gone into the drink.

What had happened? Maybe, he was thinking, he should call in a Huey for

a rescue op?

No, this setup was starting to smell to high heaven. They had refused

to change their heading, so the bastards had to be up to no good. No

legitimate civilian aircraft would ignore a U.S. Navy wave-off. . . .

Now . . . finally he could make a visual, rough through the downpour,

but it looked like . . . it was a fucking seaplane. So instead of

responding to orders to vector out of the airspace, they had settled

in. Wiseguys.

Well, even with the stormy sea down there, they still could take off,

leave the same way they came in, and nothing would be made of it.

First, though, they needed a short lesson in aviation protocol.

"Frank, let me handle this. I'm going to get their fucking attention."

Using his right thumb, he toggled the weapons selector on the side of

the throttle quadrant down from SP/PH, past SW, and into the setting

marked GUNS. The 20mm cannon was primed with two tracers, which should

give the bastards something to think about.

Now the red radar lock on his HUD was flashing. That asshole down

there, whoever it was, was in for a big fucking surprise . . .

His thumb was about to depress the red "fire" button when the first

explosion came: down below a giant fireball illuminated the night sky,

followed by secondaries! Jesus!

Medical supplies, right! That innocent-looking little Cessna was a

flying munitions bin. They really _were _terrorists.

A pillar of black smoke now covered the entire area. He ordered Brady

to switch off the weapons station, and then, his hand trembling, he

toggled his oxygen regulator up a notch, trying to catch his breath as

he pulled back on the stick.

11:45 P.M.

"Ulysses," Armont's voice was coming over the radio, mixed with static.

"Do you copy?"

At least they're okay, Vance thought. "Transmission is lousy, Sirene.

What happened?"

"We had to take a swim. About twenty klicks too soon."

"Which means we definitely scratch the original ETA, right? Does the

twenty-four still look firm?"

"Assuming we don't get any more surprises. This one is turning into a

bitch."

"Don't they all?" Vance said.

"Everybody is in good shape. So nothing else has changed."

Vance looked around the mountain and wished he could believe that. The

whole thing could have been over in another three or four hours. Now

the terrorists had time to arm the vehicles and maybe even get one up.

Life was about to get a lot more complicated.

He finally spoke into the mike. "Let's keep in radio contact. The

deployment here keeps changing. Who knows what it'll be like by then."

"We roger that." Armont spoke quickly to somebody else, then came back.

"There should be plenty of time to chat."

"For you, maybe, but I'm not so sure how much spare time there's going

to be on this end. I'll try to hold everything down till 0200 tomorrow,

but it's going to be tough. If you can't raise me, then just proceed as

planned. I'll be expendable."

"That's a touching sentiment, Ulysses, but you know that's not the way

we work. Our people always come first."

"Keep thinking that way. It's an inspiring concept."

"Okay, we'll review procedures and wait to hear from you. That's all

for now."

"Roger. Have fun." He sighed.

12:23 A.M.

Up ahead through the dark rain loomed the rugged atoll of an island. It

was not large enough to have any vegetation; it really was only a giant

granite outcropping that nearly disappeared every time a breaker washed

over it. This, Pierre reflected with chagrin, is going to be our

staging area, as well as our new home for a full day. A little

camouflage would handle the problem of detection by any snooping USN

flyovers, but the boys weren't going to get much sleep.

"This is a hell of a deployment base," Reggie was saying, his voice

barely audible over the sputter of the two out- boards. The two black

Zodiac rafts were now side by side, keeping together. His normally

florid complexion had turned even more deeply ruddy from the cold and

frustration. "How in bloody hell did it come to this?"

Armont was so frustrated he could barely manage a civil answer. "It

came to this because we let a client spec a job. We left a piece of

security to the client, always a bad idea." He climbed over the side of

the Zodiac, splashing through the surf, and began securing the first

line to a jagged outcropping. Around them the cold waves of the Aegean

lapped through the rain. Dawn was hours away, and there was nothing to

do now--except recriminate.

Dimitri Spiros, who had installed the security system for the SatCom

facility, waded ashore looking as sheepish as he felt. He had only

himself to blame for the penetration, he knew, and he had no intention

of trying to defend it now.

"What can I say?" He grimaced and caught the line Hans was tossing to

him. "I should have put my foot down. Sometimes pleasing the client up

front means not pleasing him at the end. If something goes wrong, it's

always your fault, not his. Human nature. I didn't listen to my own

better judgment. Bates claimed they had enough security, and I let him

get away with it."

"It's in the past now," Armont said, biting his tongue. "We all keep

learning from our mistakes. Just as long as the education doesn't get

too expensive."

Hans was setting up the camouflage that would cover them during the

daylight hours to come. They had prepared for most contingencies and

had brought enough camouflage netting to cover them and the rafts,

which they now had dragged onto the atoll to serve as beds. They would

take turns sleeping, letting whoever felt like it grab a few winks.

Now Armont was staring into the dark sky, thinking . . . thinking there

must be a better way to pay for your caviar.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

11:47 P.M.

"We're on our own," Vance said, clicking off the mike and looking

around the darkened blockhouse. "Marooned."

Cally, who had been listening to the radio exchange, already had other

things to think about. She was engaged by the computer terminal,

checking out the status of the facility.

"Hate to tell you this, but it's worse than you know." She was staring

at the screen. "They've taken over the Fujitsu. They've locked out all

the other workstations and there's a countdown in process. Look!

Somebody's on Big Benny who knows all about SORT."

"About _what_? Sort?"

"SORT's the program that sets up the automatic lift-off sequence. Once

it's started, it proceeds like clockwork. The Cyclops comes up to

power; the radars are all switched on; and the vehicle's electronics go

to full alert status. The main console in Command controls everything

and nothing can prevent the launch from proceeding unless it's stopped

from there."

"How long have we got?"

"It's in the abbreviated mode. That's a six-hour countdown."

He looked at her. "So you're saying we've got roughly six hours to get

down there and stop it?"

"Six hours on the nose."

"How about your friend, Georges?"

"He's logged off the computer. Like I said, it's somebody else. They

must have brought along their own specialist. Guess they came

prepared."

"One more problem," Vance observed with a sigh. "First Ramirez, and

then this one. Guess we'll have to neutralize him, too. If that's the

only way to stop the launch. This is getting dirtier all the time."

"There's no way to do it except get into Command," Cally went on. "But

even then shutting it down's not that simple. Once it goes into auto

mode, you can't just flip a switch. But still, that's the only place--"

"You're talking about a frontal assault that could get bloody," Vance

said. "They might kill more of your technicians. No, the assault will

have to wait for ARM. We're going to need to work a different way." He

paused. "Maybe it's time we blew up something."

"You mean--?"

"What's the definition of a terrorist? It's somebody who uses well-

placed acts of violence to disrupt society's normal functions, right?

Murder one and frighten a thousand. A terrorist is somebody who takes

on a more powerful organization by hit-and-run tactics. Scaring them."

"So?" She looked at him quizzically, her dark eyes puzzled.

"Well, they've taken over the facility now, which means they're the

establishment, and we're the outsiders. The tables are turned, which

means we have to become terrorists against them."

"But--"

"We don't have much to work with, so we're going to have to do some

improvising." He turned thoughtful, scratching at his chin. "How about

some 'mollys'--throw together some gasoline, sulfuric acid, sugar . . .

and maybe a little potassium chlorate for ignition?"

"Mollys? You mean--"

"Molotov cocktails. And if you design them for acid ignition, then you

can blow them with a bullet. Not a bad little standoff bomb."

"I'm not so keen on blowing up equipment. It's hard enough to get

things to work around here when we try."

"Ditto the fiber-optics cables, I suppose?"

"That would be even worse. We'd be down for months."

"Okay, nothing crucial." He strolled to the open doorway and looked

down the hill, pondering. "We just need to put something out of

commission that could be fixed easily later on. And you know what: I

think I see the perfect target."

"What are you talking about?" She rose, stepped over, and followed his

gaze.

"Right down there. That gantry. It's the only way to prep the satellite

payload, right? Maybe we could take that out. It would keep them from

installing a bomb, put them out of business without damaging the

vehicle. Nothing serious. They won't be able to use it, but you can put

it back into operating condition in a couple of days, with the right

parts. Think that's possible?"

She seemed disposed to the concept, though still none too keen. "Okay,

but I've got a better idea. How about just blowing up a portion of the

rails it moves on? Then they couldn't roll it away from the vehicle to

launch."

"Sounds intelligent to me, but I've got a hunch we'd better not wait

too long." He was feeling energized after the steak. "Matter of fact,

I'd say there's no time like the present. Where can we find some

chemicals? Even the kitchen would be a place to start."

"I've got a better idea," she interjected. "There's a construction

shed. It might have something left from back when."

Then why don't we go down and have a look?" he mused. "Figure out if

there's anything we can liberate."

That's fine with me." She sighed, not sounding as though

she meant it. "All we have to do is manage to get down there without

being spotted and killed."

"I don't know how much more excitement I can take." He definitely felt

out of control, human prey, and he hated every minute of it.

"That goes for me, too." But she was already switching off the

workstation.

By now the trek down the hill was getting to be all too familiar--the

bristly Greek scrub, the rough outcroppings. Some night birds twittered

nervously, but otherwise only their labored breathing broke the

silence. The harshness of the terrain made him think again about the

Greek character, ancient and modern. To stand up to a land like this,

you had to be tough.

Which brought his thoughts again to the dark-haired woman by his side.

Once in a while you ran across somebody with whom you absolutely

clicked. He believed in love at first sight--he had been an incorrigible

romantic all his life--and this was definitely the feeling he had now.

And he thought-- well, hoped--she felt the same. Could it be true? Maybe

it was just the fact they were working together. They were both strong-

willed, and he sensed real potential for friction.

"What are you going to do when this is all over?" she was asking, a

wistful tone entering her voice. "Just go back to sailing?"

"You sound as though you already assume it's going to be over." He

laughed, in spite of himself. Was she thinking the same thing? "I

admire your optimism. But to tell you the truth, if we live through

this, I'm hoping to try my _Odyssey_ trek all over again." He took her

hand as they navigated the stones. "Want to come along? Make it a

twosome?"

"Maybe." Her tone said she was intrigued, and she didn't drop his hand.

"It sounded pretty heroic."

"Well, it was mainly just . . . a challenge." He shrugged, continuing

on down the dark trail. "Calling it heroic is maybe a bit much."

"No way." Her voice had a wonderful finality. "I think your attempt to

recreate the voyage of Ulysses was a heroic undertaking. Period." She

paused. "You know, maybe I

shouldn't tell you this, but you remind me an awful lot of somebody I

used to know."

"Who's that?"

"His name doesn't matter, but it was Alan Harris. He was a biochemistry

professor. Tall like you, older than me. I guess I made a fool of

myself over him, looking back."

Vance didn't know quite what to say. "What happened?"

"What do you think happened? Older guy, smart, lovesick student looking

for . . . never mind. When I think about it, I don't know whether to

laugh or cry." Then her mood abruptly changed. "Okay, the construction

shed is right over there." She was pointing through the dark and the

light spatters of rain that had suddenly appeared. Was it beginning to

storm again? "It's always locked, but it's got its own separate

computer control, so it won't be shut down like everything else. All

anybody has to do to get in is just to code in a requisition. That's

how we keep inventory."

He led the way, keeping to the shadows. "Well, can you tell it to 'open

sesame' and let us in?"

She nodded, then entered a small portico next to the entryway. There,

on a terminal, she typed in the code that would disconnect the heavy

electronic locks on the shed's door. Moments later he heard a click and

watched the green diodes on the locks start to glow. Next it swung open

and the fluorescent lights came on to reveal a perfect high-tech

fabrication shop, with rows of precision machine tools lined up in neat

rows, the floors spotless. Looking around, he wondered what kind of

chemicals he could scrounge. There had to be something. . . .

12:10 A.M.

"Everything checks here," Wolf Helling said, looking at the wide board

of lights in Launch Control. 'The Pakis went up on the elevator and

wired in the device. Nobody here had any inkling what it is." He was

speaking on his walkie-talkie to Dore Peretz, who was still operating

the Fujitsu out of Command. "I think we're ready."

'Then you d better roll the gantry the hell back, away from the

vehicle," Peretz' voice barked. "My next item in the countdown is to

test the alignment on the Cyclops, make sure the vehicle is receiving

power."

"Okay," Helling replied. 'The electronics are all in a positive state

of mind here, but I guess you can't be too safe. By the way, how's

everybody doing there? Having any trouble?"

"Our guests are getting with the program," came the answer. "I've even

got an engineer friend here named Georges who's going to be a great

help when the time comes. Small attitude problem, but nothing I can't

manage."

"Well, keep them all frightened. It's the best way. I'll get started

with the rollback. Should only take a few minutes."

"Go for it," Dore Peretz said.

12:15 A.M.

Vance felt the cold steel rails, glistening lightly in the thin

moonlight, and wondered how long it would take to set the charge.

He also wondered if his impromptu bomb would work as planned. It

should. In the shop Cally had led him directly to a cache of British-

made gelignite, left over from the days of excavation. He had shaped a

so-called "diamond" charge which, when wrapped around a rail and

detonated with a fuse, would produce shock waves that would meet at the

center, then be deflected at right angles, shattering the metal. It was

a little-known bomber's trick--one he learned from Willem Voorst--that

usually produced total deformation and fracture.

He had insisted that she let him handle this one alone, claiming there

was no need to endanger two people, and finally she had agreed. Dr.

Calypso Andros: she had already proven she could take control of a

situation, like the one up the mountain, and handle it. That cool would

come in handy later.

He also liked her New York street smarts. Yet beneath it all, he sensed

something was wrong. She mentioned some guy named Alan, then clammed

up. Funny. Reminding a woman of some old boyfriend could be a mixed

blessing. Sometimes you got to take credit for the other guy's

failings. . . .

Well, that cuts both ways. Admit it, he finally lectured himself.

Calypso Andros reminds you of Eva Borodin.

She was the temperamental Slavic beauty who had been the love--on and

off--of his life. That was the bottom line. He still wore her wedding

ring. He had loved her more than anything, and after she left he had

tried everything he could think of to help forget her. None of it had

worked. Even now, here, the thought of her kept coming back. . . .

But enough. Concentrate on the job at hand and get going.

Quickly he began securing the soft explosive. Although his instinct

still was just to blow the whole gantry and have done with it, he

agreed with Cally that that was a no-no. The idea was sabotage, not

demolition. The difference might not be all that subtle, but there was

a difference.

The gantry, a huge derrick on wheels, was illuminated by intensely

focused floodlights from a battery across from the vehicles. The tracks

were about sixty meters long, which suggested the distance it had to be

away from VX-1 before the vehicle could lift off. So if he could

destroy the tracks close enough, the gantry would be stuck in place,

making a launch impossible.

The gelignite should do it, he told himself. The charge was going to

wrap almost perfectly around the rails. This ought to be a snap. . . .

At that moment, he felt a tremor in the rails and looked up to see the

lights on the gantry flicker as its motors revved to life. Then it

started rolling; like a monolith, slow and assured, it began inching

away from the vehicle and toward him.

12:18 A.M.

"Okay, it's moving back," Helling said. "I guess this thing--"

Suddenly, as abruptly as it had begun, the gantry halted, its steel

wheels screeching to a stop along the tracks.

"What happened?" Ramirez's eyes narrowed as he gazed out through the

viewing window. A red indicator had come up on the console, flashing.

The gantry, bathed in floodlights, was just standing there, stubbornly

still.

"The control went into a safety mode." The German was staring at the

console. "According to the lights here, the track sensors shut it down.

Maybe the rails are obstructed."

12:19 A.M.

Good safety system, Vance thought. He could feel them now, beneath the

explosive--electronic sensors on the tracks, a thin line of parallel

wires held by insulators, had detected his tampering and halted the

gantry.

Wait a minute, he suddenly thought, maybe I don't have to blow the

track after all. Why not just short-circuit these wires and let the

thing's own safety system shut it down? They may not figure out for

hours what the problem is.

With a grin he began going along the track, feeling his way through the

dark as he twisted the parallel safety tripwires together every few

feet, making certain they shorted.

12:20 A.M.

"Well, we don't have time to tinker with it now," Ramirez declared,

feeling his pique growing. "There's only a problem if it's a

malfunction of the motors, and they don't report a problem." He pointed

down to the console. "So just switch it over to manual."

Helling stirred uneasily. "I'm not sure it's such a good idea to

override the safety system. We don't know--"

"When I'm in need of your views, I'll ask for them." Ramirez cut him

off. "Now go to manual and get on with it."

Wolf Helling was a risk-taker, but only when he knew the downside. If

the gantry motors shut down, he figured there probably was a reason.

On the other hand, the first device already had been loaded onto VX-1,

all systems checked, the preflight punch lists taken care of. Maybe it

was better to go ahead and keep Ramirez's mind at ease rather than

worry too much about the technicalities. After all, unanimity was as

important as perfection.

"If you say so," he declared finally. "But it's risky. I take no

responsibility for this."

He flipped the gantry control motors to override and shoved the

operating lever forward. . . .

Outside the glass partition the huge gantry again began to inch along

its steel tracks, moving away from the vehicle.

"See," Ramirez said coldly and with satisfaction. "It was probably a

malfunction of the indicator lights. We don't have time to troubleshoot

every little glitch that crops up. Now increase the speed and let's get

on with it."

Wolf Helling, his precise Prussian mind clicking, was liking Ramirez's

recklessness less and less. On the other hand, he knew better than to

contradict the temperamental South American he'd hired on with.

"Let's keep the speed the way it is. And I think I ought to go out and

check the track, just to be sure."

"If you want to, but don't take too long."

12:21 A.M.

Uh-oh. Vance felt the tracks suddenly shiver. Then with what sounded

like a painful grind of metal on metal, the gantry started moving

again. They'd decided to override the safety shutoff.

Okay, he thought, back to the original plan. He turned and retraced his

steps to the place where he had left the gelignite, feeling along the

track until his fingers touched it. It was still in place, but there

was no time now to set up a fuse.

Which meant there was only one other way to blow it.

Quickly he secured the diamond-shaped patch more tightly around the

steel, then looked up to check the gantry. It was now about five meters

away, its wheels inching along the rails with a ponderous inevitability

as its electric motors hummed.

He pulled out his sailor's tin of matches and withdrew one. Relieved it

was still dry, he scraped the match across the bottom of the can and it

flamed in the dark. Next he quickly pressed the wooden end into the

soft gelignite, making a target he could see from a distance.

After checking it one last time, he rose and dashed for the safety of

the nearest shed, pulling the Uzi from his belt and chambering a round.

He leaned against a darkened wall and took careful aim, on semi-auto.

The gantry was only a meter away from the charge when he finally

squeezed off a round. It kicked up a spray of gravel next to the rails,

the small stones glistening in the floodlights like small shining stars

as they erupted slightly to the left of where he had placed the charge.

Damn. He knew the match could be seen, as well as the flare of the Uzi,

but maybe nobody was watching. In any case, he adjusted his aim and

quickly fired again. But this time he had moved the sight too far to

the right. Again the gravel splayed, another sparkle under the lights,

but once more nothing happened.

Now the gantry's wheels were about to pass directly over the explosive.

If the thing was going to be immobilized, he had one shot left. He took

careful aim and squeezed the trigger. . . .

To the sound of a dull click. His last round had misfired.

12:22 A.M.

"Something's going on out there," Ramirez yelled, grabbing Helling's

arm. "I saw flashes of light. Somebody's shooting. See it? Over there."

He was pointing.

"That's exactly why I wanted to check it out." At last, Helling

thought. Maybe now he'll listen to reason. "Look, I'm going to shut

this damned thing down right now. Till we know what's going on."

He hit the control and applied the brakes.

12:23 A.M.

He had just squandered his last rounds and his chance to cripple the

gantry. He sighed involuntarily. _C'est la vie._

At that instant, however, whoever was manning the controls locked the

wheels and there was the loud screech of metal on metal. He watched the

wheels slide across the patch of gelignite, creating instantaneous

frictional heat.

Immediately a blinding white flare erupted from the tracks, followed by

the loud crack of an explosion. He watched as the first steel wheel was

sheared away and the gantry lurched awkwardly forward. Next the axle

ground into the gravel next to the track as the motion of the giant

tower tilted it askew. It had not toppled over, but it was leaning

dangerously. Whatever might be required to repair it, the gantry was no

longer functional. SatCom was shut down for the foreseeable.

He was less than happy with his handiwork. Cally's going to kill me--

that was his first thought--after her long diatribe about not doing any

big damage.

Then he watched as it got worse. The gantry jerked again as the axle

cracked from the stress and began slowly to heel. Like the slow crash

of a tumbling redwood--he almost wanted to shout "timberrrr"--it toppled

forward, landing with an enormous crash that shook the very ground

around him. Angle-iron and lights splintered into the granite-strewn

soil that separated the launch pad from the rest of the facility. Now

the gantry lay like a fallen giant. . . .

As he watched, he slowly recognized he had achieved nothing but

malicious damage. By collapsing, the gantry was now out of the way,

below the sight lines between the Cyclops system on the mountain and

the vehicle. They still could launch.

VX-1 must already be armed, he realized; the bomb is aboard and set to

fly.

12:24 A.M.

"Goddammit I warned you it was a mistake," Helling exploded, still

stunned by the view out the window. The gantry had just heeled over and

collapsed onto the track.

"At least it fell out of the way," Bamirez declared calmly. "No

problem." He cursed himself for not taking Helling's advice. For once

the German had been right. "Nothing's changed. We launch on schedule.

But right now we have some unfinished business."

"What--?"

"That bastard from up on the mountain. He had to be the one

responsible. I know it was him. I can smell it." He drew out his 9mm

Beretta and clicked off the safety, then angrily motioned for Helling

and headed out the door. "Come on, let's get the son of a bitch. I'm

going to kill him personally."

12:25 A.M.

Now what?

Vance rose and started walking toward an opening he saw that led into

the underground launch facility. Maybe, he was thinking, he could slip

into Launch Control and somehow sabotage the vehicle itself. A dark

tunnel branched off on his right--the lights were off--so he probably

could go directly

Okay, he thought, assume one of the bombs must already be installed on

the first vehicle and ready for launch. But given all the krytron

detonators the Pakistani had, there could well be more. Maybe you

should try and find them, see what you can learn. Could there be a way

to disable the weapon now poised up there without having to reach it?

Maybe disarm it electronically?

He tried to guess what the firing mechanism could be. Clearly if you

were planning to deliver a nuke, you were going to need some way to

control the detonation. So how did it work? Maybe a pressure apparatus

that could blow it on the way down, during the reentry phase? Why not?

As the vehicle encountered denser and denser atmosphere, pressure could

activate a switch that sensed the altitude and instigated detonation at

a preprogrammed height.

Or . . . another possibility was a radio-controlled device connected to

the guidance system in the computer. That would be trickier, but it

might ultimately be more reliable.

It also might be easier to abort. In fact, the whole thing might be

doable from here on the ground. . . .

But what if he got caught? His Uzi was empty; Cally had his Walther;

and nothing now stood between him and the terrorists except his own . .

. bad luck.

As he edged into the darkened tunnel, he felt the coolness envelop him.

The whole operation now felt as though it were in a shroud. . . .

He was almost at the end when he heard the steel door behind him slam

shut. He whirled to look, but nothing betrayed any sign of life.

Instead there was only stony silence, punctuated by the mechanical hum

of the facility's underground environmental control system. But as he

turned back, two figures stood in the doorway ahead.

Oh, shit!

He hit the floor just as it started, a ricochet of bullets slapping

around him. Then, as abruptly as the fusillade had begun, it stopped.

He was so astonished to still be alive he barely heard the voice from

the smoky doorway cut through the sudden silence. Then it registered,

accent and all.

"Is that you, my friend?" A pause. "You are like the cat with nine

lives, and until a second ago you had used only eight. I assume your

ninth got you through my colleagues' burst of impetuosity just now. But

I want to see you before I kill you."

"Your counting system needs work," Vance said, still in shock. He

gingerly pulled himself up off the floor, fully expecting to be shot

then and there. The thought made him giddy, feeling like a Zen master

living as though already dead. "I've got eight and a half left."

"So it is you." The accent was unmistakable. "Don't make me sorry I

didn't let Wolf here finish you just now. However, this matter is

personal. I want the satisfaction of doing it myself."

Vance stepped into the light. "Sabri Ramirez. I can't really say it's a

pleasure to meet you." The giddy feeling was growing. "I feel like I'm

going to need a shower, just being in the same space."

Ramirez stared at him, startled. "How do you know who I am?"

"I'll bet half the bozos who came with you don't know, do they?" Vance

looked him over, feeling his life come back. Stand up and take it like

a man. "Back from the dead. It's a miracle."

"Yes, I am back. But you soon will be entering that condition, and I

doubt very much you will be returning."

Vance's mind flashed a picture of Ramirez strafing the Navy frigate,

shooting the SatCom technician. Not to mention, he was planning to

detonate a nuclear device somewhere in the world. Not a man given to

idle threats.

He was also known to love torture, part of his personal touch.

"Incidentally," Ramirez went on, "perhaps you should pass me that Uzi.

I assume the clip is empty, but it's liable to make my friend Wolf here

nervous."

"Wouldn't want that, would we." Vance handed it over, metal stock

first.

"Thank you." Ramirez took it and tossed it to the emaciated, balding

man standing next to him. "By the way, you know my name but I still do

not know yours."

"Vance. Mike Vance." Why not tell him? he thought. It hardly matters

now.

"Vance . . . that name rings a bell . . . from somewhere . . ." The

thoughtful look turned slowly to a smile. "Ah yes, as I recall you work

free-lance for ARM." He paused, the smile vanishing as he mentioned the

name. "So tell me, are they planning to try to meddle here? That would

be a big mistake, Mr. Vance, I can assure you."

More bad news, Vance thought. Ramirez is no fool. He must have known we

did the security for this place.

"I've got a feeling they're going to be interested in what happens to

me, if that's what you mean."

Ramirez moved closer, looking squarely in his face. "You know, the eyes

of a man always tell more about him than any words he can say. And your

eyes give you away. You're lying, and you're scared." He stepped back

and smiled.

"And I'll tell you something," Vance continued, meeting his stare.

"When I look in your eyes, I don't see anything. But even a hyena can

know fear. Your time will come." It was pointless bravado, but it felt

good to say it.

"We'll see who can know fear." Ramirez scowled angrily at the use of

the nickname he hated. "We will also learn something about your

tolerance for pain, Mr. Vance. In very short order. You are not very

popular with some of my men."

"They're not very popular with me." The defiance just kept coming; he

wasn't sure from where. "And I've got some other news for you. You're

about to find out that Andikythera is a very small, vulnerable

objective."

"You persist in trying to antagonize me, Mr. Vance. I could easily have

had you killed just now, and spared myself this pointless interview."

"Why didn't you?" The giddy feeling was coming back.

"I wanted to show you how stupid you really are."

He's right about that, Vance told himself. I think I've just proved it.

"But your nine lives have run out. I'm afraid I'm no longer interested

in this conversation." He turned away and motioned for Wolf Helling.

"Let me just shoot him and get it over with," the German said.

"Not just yet," Ramirez replied after a moment's thought. "No, I think

Jean-Paul would enjoy softening him up first."

6:15 A.M.

"Mr. President," the voice said, "have you made your decision yet?"

John Hansen felt his anger growing. The voice on the other end of the

phone exuded the self-assurance of a man who was holding something

unspeakably horrible over your head. Either he could bluff with the

best of them, or he knew exactly what he was doing. Which was it?

He looked over at Theodore Brock, who had been at his desk, just down

from the Oval Office, early, arranging for the wire transfers of the

funds to Geneva. The eight hundred million dollars had been placed in a

numbered account in a branch of the Union Bank of Switzerland, just in

case. The objective, however, was never to take the final step and

transfer it into the accounts the terrorist had designated in Banco

Ambrosiano. Brock now sat on the couch across, fiddling with his

glasses. A cup of coffee sat next to him, untouched.

"We've accepted your proposal, in principle," Hansen replied, nervously

drumming his fingertips on the desk. He scarcely could believe the

words were emerging from his mouth. "We have some conditions of our

own, concerning the hostages, but I think it's possible to come to

terms, given time. Arrangements are being made concerning the money."

"According to the procedures I faxed you?" the voice asked.

"Not entirely," Hansen went on, beginning what was going to be his own

gamble. "The funds will have to be handled through our embassy in

Switzerland. It may take a few days."

There was a moment of silence on the other end, then,

"You don't have a few days, Mr. President. Time has run out. You have

to make a decision. Either you honor our demands or you must be

prepared to accept the consequences. And I assure you they are

terrible. Which will it be?"

"It is going to be neither," Hansen replied coolly, sensing he still

had leverage. "It is in both our interests to satisfy our objectives.

Including the safety of the hostages on the island. If we have to work

together to accomplish that, then we should. It's the logical, rational

way to proceed."

"Mr. President, this world is neither logical nor rational," came back

the voice, now noticeably harder. "The timetable does not allow

latitude for delays. You--"

"Let me put it like this," Hansen interjected, trying to catch him off

balance. "You have the choice of doing it the way it can be done, or

not doing it at all. Which do you want it to be?"

"I've given you an ultimatum," the voice replied tersely, its sense of

control returning. "The only question left is whether or not you intend

to honor it."

Hansen stole a glance at his wristwatch, thinking. He needed to stall

for time, but clearly it wasn't going to be so easy. The Special Forces

had reached Souda Bay, but they would not be in position to begin an

assault for several more hours.

"I told you I'm working on it," he said finally. "These things take--"

"The funds can be wire-transferred in minutes to the Geneva accounts I

listed for you." The voice was growing cocky. "There's no need for

brown paper bags and unmarked bills."

Hansen suddenly felt his anger boil, his composure going. Sometimes it

was better to go with your gut than with your head. Then the scenario

could be played out on your own terms. The hell with this bastard. Why

not just call his bluff? He wasn't going to use the weapon, or weapons,

even if he had them. He would gain nothing by that. The threat of using

a bomb was his only bargaining chip.

"You know," he said, "I'm thinking maybe I don't want to play your game

at all."

"That is a serious error in judgment, Mr. President. I am not playing

games."

"As far as I'm concerned, you are." Hansen looked up to see Alicia

ushering Ed Briggs into the office. God, he thought, do I look as

haggard as he does?

"I'm offering you a deal." His attention snapped back to the phone and

he continued. "Give me another day to arrange for the money. Another

twenty-four hours. That's the best you're going to get."

"We both know that is a lie," came back the voice. "If you expect me to

accept that, you are an even bigger fool than I imagined. Since you

don't appear to believe my seriousness, the time has come for a

demonstration."

"I'm waiting. The chances of you delivering a nuke, which is what I

assume you have, are about the same as Washington being hit by a

meteorite. The odds are a lot better that you'll just blow yourself up.

Criminals like you are long on tough talk and short on technology."

"This conversation is getting us nowhere. So just to make sure we

understand each other, let me repeat the terms once again. The eight

hundred million must be wired to the accounts I listed at the Geneva

branch of Banco Ambrosiano within the next five hours. If it is not,

the consequences will be more terrible than I hope you are capable of

imagining. The loss of life and property will be staggering."

"Keep him talking," Briggs whispered across. "Keep a line open.

Dialogue the fucker till--"

Hansen cleared his throat and nodded. "Look, if you'll just hold off a

few more hours, maybe something can be done about the problems with the

money. You have to try and understand it's not that easy . . ." His

voice trailed into silence and he looked up. "The bastard cut the line,

Ed. He's gone." He cradled the hand piece. "Shit."

Will the son of a bitch be ruthless enough to use one of those nukes?

he was wondering. You can't really know, he answered himself. With a

lunatic, you damned well never know.

12:40 A.M.

Bill Bates was still in his office, trying to do some heavy thinking

and put his problems into sequential order. The first problem was that

the bastards were killing his people, mostly just to make an example

and instill terror. The next one he wasn't so sure about, but from what

he had seen in his occasional glimpses of Control, Cally was missing.

Apparently she had gone off with the fucker who called himself Number

One and hadn't come back. Was she down at Launch? Doing what?

Well, Calypso Andros was a tough cookie. They might pressure her and

threaten her, but she would stand up to them. These terrorists were

just cowards with automatics; he could smell that much a mile away.

The next problem was SatCom itself. He hated to find himself thinking

about it at a time like this, but the company was built on a pyramid of

short-term debt--construction loans that could be rolled over and

converted to long-term obligations only if the test launch proceeded as

scheduled. It already had been postponed once, and the banks were

getting nervous. If these thugs derailed the Cyclops for any length of

time, the banks were going to move in and try to foreclose on all the

computers and equipment. The litigation would stretch into the next

century.

SatCom. On the brink. High-risk all the way, but what a dream. Almost

there, and now this.

He found himself thinking about his wife, Dorothy. She had been

supportive--she always was--from the very first. Maybe after eighteen

years of struggle she had had misgivings about gambling everything on

this one big turn of the roulette wheel, but she had kept her thoughts

to herself. Which was only one more reason why he loved her so. She had

been all their married life, always there with a real smile and a hug

when the going got the roughest. It made all the difference.

But now, now that the whole enterprise was in danger of going down the

tubes, he felt he had let her down. For the first time ever. Even his

briar pipe tasted burned out, like ashes. He had taken every cent he

could beg or borrow and had gambled it all on space. Only to have a

group of monsters barge in and wreck everything. Now what? He honestly

didn't know.

He had flown an A-6 Intruder in Vietnam, but hand-to-hand with

terrorists was something else entirely. The bastards had shut down all

the communications gear when they moved in. The phones were out, the

radio, and even his personal computer terminals had been shunted out of

the system. He could count and he knew what automatic weapons could do.

No, this one was out of his control.

He glanced around his office, paneled in light woods and hung with

photographs of Dorothy and the two boys--his favorite was during a

regatta in Chesapeake Bay. There also were photos of the Cyclops system

and the VX-1 vehicle, the latter caught in the austere light of

sunrise, the blue Aegean in the background.

He shook his head sadly, rose, and made his way out into the cavernous

room that was Command. The fluorescent lights glared down on a

depressing sight--the staff disheveled and living in stark fear--one

armed hood at the computer, another lounging by the doorway. . . .

12:45 A.M.

Georges LeFarge looked up to see Bates coming out of his office and

into the wide, vinyl-floored expanse that was Command. He assumed the

CEO had been sitting moodily in his office, dwelling on the imminent

foreclosure of SatCom's creditors. He must have been puffing up a storm

on his pipe because a cloud of smoke poured out after him. And he

looked weary--his eyes told it.

Nobody down at Launch Control knew they had been taken over by

terrorists. Peretz had carefully made sure that all communications from

Command were monitored and controlled. Number One had gone down there,

but he apparently had managed to fool everybody into thinking he and

all his hoods were SatCom consultants. One thing you had to say for

them, they were masters of deceit. Number One could pass for a high-

powered European executive, and he was playing the authority thing to

the hilt.

"Are you bastards having fun?" Bates walked over and addressed Dore

Peretz.

The Israeli looked up and grinned. "More than that, we're making

history. Fasten your seat belt, 'cause your first test launch is going

to be a real show-stopper. A one-of-a-kind."

"This facility doesn't need any more 'show-stoppers,' as you put it,

pal." Bates looked him over with contempt. "We were doing just fine

before you barged in."

"Live a little, baby." Peretz beamed back. "Lie back and enjoy it."

"Let me break some news to you, chum. This organization isn't going to

just roll over and give you the store. Now I want to talk to that

greaseball who calls himself Number One. It's time we got some

consideration for my people here. They need food and they need to be

rotated so they can get some rest. There's going to be hell to pay, and

in short order. I can guarantee it."

"Hey, man, ease up." Peretz leaned back, then rotated away from the

console. "Everybody's okay. Don't start getting heavy. We're just about

ready to party."

"Right." Bates walked past, headed for the door. "I want to see what

you fuckers have done to my people down at Launch. I'm going over

there."

"You're not going anywhere, asshole," Peretz declared, "so just sit

down and make yourself comfortable." He turned and signaled the Iranian

lounging at the door, barking something to him in Farsi.

The man was carrying his Uzi by the strap, almost as though it were a

toy, but in a second he clicked to attention, brought it up, and

chambered a round. Bates glared at him, then turned away, knowing when

he was licked. He might try and take the bastard, but it probably

wasn't worth the risk. Not yet. The time would come.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

1:45 A.M.

"Isaac, wake up." She shook him, trying to be as quiet as possible.

Outside a new storm was building, but the large barracks room in Level

Three of the Bates Motel was dark and deserted, with the staff all now

mobilized for the upcoming launch. 'Thank God I found you."

His eyelids fluttered, and then he slowly raised up and gazed at her,

his look still somewhere between sleep and waking. He seemed to be in a

drug-induced, or shock-induced, torpor. "What? . . . Cally, is that

you?"

"Isaac, there's been a disaster. I don't know where Bill is, but the

gantry's been destroyed. He blew it up. Jesus, when I told him to be

careful and--"

"Cally." He finally managed to focus on her presence. Then he looked

around. "What's going on? Where--?"

"Everybody's down at Launch," she interjected impatiently. 'These hoods

have taken over the Cyclops and they've started a countdown. I want to

get you out of here, and then try to radio someone. Now."

"What . . . what are you talking about?" He was still staring at her

groggily. "Radio who?"

"The people who set up the original security system. They--

"ARM?"

"They're coming in. To get rid of these hoodlums."

"Well, good luck. But the man who saved me, what was his name? He

mentioned something about it. Then he disappeared. I don't--"

"That's who blew up the gantry. His name is Vance." She quickly

recounted the story. "I told him not to blow it up, but he didn't

listen. All he accomplished was to make things worse." She was so

outraged she could barely speak. The idiot! The fuck-up!

Mannheim's mind seemed to be clearing. "A countdown. But why would

Georges--?"

"He isn't involved, at least I don't think so. He's been replaced by

one of their people. They've taken over Big Benny, somebody who knows

how to run SORT."

Mannheim exhaled. "Then, what are we supposed to do?"

"It gets worse. Not only is the gantry gone, but I'm afraid they've

taken Mike prisoner."

"Mike?" He was still trying to get his bearings.

"Vance." She was suddenly embarrassed by the implied familiarity.

Isaac, she noted, hadn't missed it, and he raised an eyebrow. "Look,"

she continued, "he may be dead by now, who knows. But I want to get you

out of here, and then try to raise ARM on the radio. They were going to

delay everything for a day, but now they've got to get in here and stop

the launch." She paused, shaking from the strain. "Isaac, I'm not as

strong as I thought I was." Her voice quavered. "I'm scared to death.

For you, for Bill, for Georges, for Mike. For all of us. Even worse,

I'm scared for the world."

"What do you mean?" He was finally coming alive. With a faint groan he

rubbed his glassy eyes and brushed back his mane of white hair.

"I've got a sneaking suspicion that those bastards have put a nuclear

weapon in the payload bay of VX-1."

"Good God. And now you say the gantry is gone? How will we get it

down?"

"Look, let's not worry about that part just yet. We just have to stop

them from going through with the countdown. We can disarm the bomb

later."

"All right, then." He was on the side of his bed, searching for his

shoes. "Get me out of here."

She led him out into the darkened hallway. The separate rooms were all

locked, giving no clue who was still around. Where was the SatCom

security staff? she suddenly wondered. Were they locked up in their own

safe little enclave somewhere? Wherever they were, they wouldn't be any

help now. They undoubtedly were unarmed and demoralized.

With a sigh she pushed open the door and they stepped out into the

storm. Wind was tearing across the island, bringing with it the taste

of the Aegean, pungent and raw. It felt cool, a refreshing purge after

the stuffiness of the Bates Motel. The rain lashed their faces,

cleansing away some of the feeling of the nightmare, and she knew that

the few wild goats that had not been captured and removed would now be

huddled in the lee behind a granite ledge they liked, bleating

plaintively. There was a wildness, a freeness about Andikythera, as the

winds tore across and through the granite outcroppings--and the sea

churned against the timeless rocks of the shore--that made it feel like

nowhere else on earth.

Get practical, she ordered herself, forget the romance. The storm would

probably be over well before morning, but in the meantime it would just

make things that much harder for ARM to reach the island. If they made

it at all, it would be around dawn, just in time to watch the launch.

Damn Vance.

2:05 A.M.

"Somebody's on the frequency," Hans declared abruptly. The ARM team had

been settled in for just slightly over an hour, trying to keep plastic

sheets over them to ward off the rain as they attempted to alternate

taking naps. However, in spite of the weather he had kept open the

single-sideband frequency Vance had been using, just in case. Up until

now, it had been a continuous hiss of empty static.

"What the hell . . . ?" Armont pulled back the plastic, wiped the rain

from his eyes, and lifted a questioning eyebrow. Around them the dark

Aegean churned against their granite islet. "Vance's crazy to be on the

radio now. He'd better have a blasted good reason."

"It's not him. It sounds like a woman." Hans had a puzzled look on his

face as he handed Pierre the headset, shielding it haphazardly from the

rain.

"He mentioned something about a woman when we talked yesterday," Spiros

said, snapping out of his morose reverie. "Maybe it's the same one. She

was with him then."

"Well, whatever's going on, I think we all should hear this." Armont

unplugged the headphones from the radio, then turned up the volume, the

better to overcome the rain and roar of surf.

"Sirene, do you read me?" the voice was saying. "Oh, God, please

answer."

"I copy," Spiros said into the microphone. He was as puzzled, and

troubled, by this development as by all the rest. "Who the hell is

this?"

"Thank God," came back the voice. "You can't wait. You've got to come

in now."

"I repeat," Spiros spoke again, "you must identify yourself. Otherwise

I will shut down this frequency."

"They've started a countdown. They plan a launch in less than six

hours. And Mike is gone. I don't even know if he's dead or alive."

Spiros glanced around at the others, wondering what to do. The

frequency was being compromised, but probably it was worth the risk.

His instincts were telling him she was for real.

"Miss, whoever you are, you must identify yourself." He paused a

moment, thinking. Then he asked, "Where is Ulysses?"

"I told you, he's disappeared. He screwed up and destroyed the gantry,

and then he vanished. But I think they've already loaded a bomb in the

payload bay of VX-1."

Spiros clicked off the microphone. "She knows Vance's code name. But

half the Aegean probably knows that by now." He clicked the mike back

on. "I'm giving you one more opportunity to identify yourself, or this

conversation will be terminated."

"I'm Cally Andros, project director for SatCom. I was with Michael

Vance when he talked to somebody in Athens named Dimitri yesterday

morning. And I was with him a couple of hours ago when he was talking

to you. How do you think I knew this frequency? What in hell do I have

to do to convince you people that the assault can't wait? They have a

countdown in progress. I don't know what they plan to do, but there's a

very good chance a bomb is going somewhere."

"I think she's legit," Spiros said, clicking off the microphone again.

"It adds up. Sounds like Mike was trying to shut them down and must

have managed to muck things up. I thought he was better than that. But

this is very bad news."

By now everybody was rousing, intent on the radio conversation. A storm

was coming down, and now the whole plan was about to get revised.

Again. Worse still, the insert would have to be managed without a point

man. Unless . . .

"Dr. Andros," Armont began, "please tell me precisely what happened to

Michael Vance. I want to know if he is still alive, and if so, where he

is."

She told him what she knew, in a way that was repetitive and rambling.

It also was convincing.

"Do you think they can launch in this kind of weather?"

"The storm will probably let up by daybreak. That's how the weather

usually works here. I don't think it's going to be a problem."

"All right," Armont interjected. "Looks like we'd better come in. I

would ask you where you are now, but that might compromise your safety.

I do have one more request, though. Could you stay by the radio and

assist us after insertion, telling us--as best you know--how the hostiles

are deployed? It could be very helpful. And possibly save a lot of

lives."

"Yes, I'll do anything you want me to. But you can't wait

until tomorrow night. If you do, there may not be any point in coming

at all."

"Then stay up on this frequency," Armont said, and nodded to the

others. "You'll be hearing from us."

It was a gamble, taking the word of some anonymous voice on the radio,

but sometimes you had to go with your instincts. As he looked around,

they all agreed.

2:09 A.M.

"Did you get it?" Radioman First Class Howard Ansel asked. The radio

room at Gournes had been particularly hectic the last few hours, but he

was glad he had thought of scanning single-sideband. Ansel was twenty-

eight and had eyes that reminded people of the German shepherds he

raised back home in Nebraska.

"It's on the tape," Big Al replied, lifting off his headphones and

scratching at his crew cut. "But I don't have the goddamnedest idea

what it means."

"Doesn't matter. It was somewhere off Andikythera. Which means it's

automatically classified Top Secret. Whatever the hell's going on, it

sounds like some bad shit. What was that about a launch? Going in? Is

this some kind of priority exercise?"

"Who the hell knows? But we've got orders."

He picked up the phone and punched in the number for his supervising

officer.

2:12 A.M.

Armont felt the cold surf slam against his leg as they slipped the two

black Zodiacs back into the swell, taking care to avoid the jagged

rocks along the water's edge. The surf was washing over them, and

everything felt cold and slippery. Reginald Hall was the first to pull

himself aboard, after which he looked back, as though trying to account

for everybody and everything. The weather was starting to clamp down

now, faster than anybody could have expected.

"Pierre, _vite, vite_," Hans was already in the second Zodiac, tossing

a line across. Their "insertion platforms," both equipped with small

outboard motors, were lashed together with a nylon line. "Hurry up." He

turned and used an oar to hold the raft clear. "We need to get moving

before this thing gets ripped to pieces." Neoprene was tough, but there

were limits.

Willem Voorst tossed the last crate of equipment into the second craft,

then grasped a line Hugo had thrown and pulled himself aboard. Dimitri

Spiros went next, and then Armont. The wind and current were already

tugging them toward the south, so the outboards would have some help in

battling the choppy sea.

Reggie Hall was muttering to himself as he tried to start the engine.

He bloody well didn't fancy anything about the way things were going.

Everything about this op was starting to give him the willies. When

this much went wrong this soon, you hated to think about what things

would be like when the going really got tough.

As they motored into the dark, Willem Voorst kept an eye on the eastern

horizon, watching for the first glimmer, and prayed the storm would

keep down visibility. He also monitored the compass and hoped they

could stay on course. Where had the weather come from? The woman who

had said her name was Andros was probably right, though; this one would

blow out by dawn, but in the meantime it was a hell of a ruckus. And

the reception coming up on the island wasn't going to be brandy and a

dry bed, either.

"You know," Reggie was yelling, "this bloody weather might even be a

help with the insertion. If it keeps up, it could be the perfect

cover."

"What we really have to hope," Armont shouted back, "is that a storm

like this might force them to delay the launch. She said it wouldn't,

but who knows. Still, we can't count on it. By the way, how're we

doing?"

"I think we've already made a kilometer or maybe a klick and a half,"

Hans yelled. "If we can keep making this kind of

headway, we should make landfall just before 0500 hours. In time to

join everybody for morning coffee." He looked around. "This has got to

be the stupidest thing we've ever tried to do. We're just motoring into

a shitstorm." He shook his head, and the raindrops in his hair sprayed

into the dark. "I can't fucking believe we're doing it. I really can't

fucking believe it."

2:15 A.M.

"Damn," Major General Nichols said, covering the mouthpiece of the

phone. He was on the Kennedy, in Mission Planning, talking on secured

satellite phone to JSOC Control in the Pentagon. "Gournes picked up

some radio traffic on sideband. Some assholes are talking about trying

to go in. Whoever the hell they're working for, they could screw things

up royally." He spoke again into the receiver. "Do you have a lead on

where they are?" He nodded. "Right, my thinking exactly. Which means

they probably blew up that plane as a diversion. And our F-14 jockey

suckered for it." He paused again. "No, we're not scheduled to go in

for another twenty-four hours. But that may have to be pushed up. I'd

say we have two choices. Either we interdict these dingbats, or we just

go ahead and get it over with, take out the launch vehicle and--" He

paused again.

"What do you mean, we can't?"

His eyes narrowed.

"Don't give me that 'classified' bullshit. I've got Top Secret

clearance and I damned well have a 'need to know.' "

A long pause ensued. "Jesus! Now you tell me. 'Nuclear material'? What

the hell does that mean? You're planning to send in my boys to take

down a nuke! This is the first I've heard . . . Thanks a lot for

telling me. Good Christ!" He paused once more. "Okay, let me think.

I'll get back to you."

He settled the phone back in its cradle and looked around Mission

Planning, the gray walls covered with maps. "Shit, this whole thing is

coming apart."

"What is it?" General Max Austin asked. He was two-star, with steel-

gray hair. As the base commander for Souda, he had been placed in

charge of Operation Lightfoot, code name for the action to retake

Andikythera. Even though they had known each other for fifteen years,

Nichols was not necessarily pleased to have this REMF, rear-echelon

motherfucker, running the show. Austin had been given the undemanding

post on Crete for a year mainly as an excuse to bump up his rank in

preparation for retirement.

"The whole op is rapidly going to hell in a handbag," Nichols said.

"The Pentagon conveniently left one small fact out of my briefing

papers. I'd kill somebody, if only I knew who." He looked up. "Max, we

may have to send the Deltas in tonight. Just get this damned thing over

with."

"That's not possible," Austin declared without hesitation. "This

operation can't go off half-cocked. You of all people ought to know

that."

"Well, sometimes circumstances don't wait around for the textbooks. The

Gournes SIGINT team just intercepted some radio traffic. Somebody's out

there talking, and they know more than we do. They're probably free-

lance clowns, most likely mercenaries, but they're claiming the bad

guys may be about to launch one of the vehicles, within the next few

hours. So they're planning to hit the place tonight."

"Well, they won't stand a chance," Austin said.

"I agree, but what they can do is royally fuck up our insertion.

They'll disrupt the hell out of everything and probably get a lot of

the hostages killed."

"Okay," Austin mused, sipping at his coffee, "we've got two problems

here. Maybe they should be handled separately. First we interdict these

guys going in, and then we decide what to do next."

'The best way to solve them both at once, two birds with one stone, is

with a preemptory strike on the island," Nichols insisted again. "Right

now. Tonight. We just go in and take the place down."

"No way, Eric," Austin interjected. 'That's going to skew the risk

parameters in our ops analysis. We'd have to scrap our computer

simulation and virtually start over. Hell, that alone could take us

three hours."

All those fancy analyses are best employed wiping your bum, Nichols

heard himself thinking, almost but not quite out loud. We've got nobody

on the ground, so we're working with satellite intel, and SIGINT--which

ain't giving us shit 'cause those bastards aren't talking on their

radios.

"Let me make sure I heard it right a minute ago," Nichols went on. "We

can't just take out the launch vehicles, a surgical strike, because

there's a chance there could be nuclear material on board?"

"You've got it right. I'd hoped not to have to tell you. So consider

this Classified. The whole op has been jacked up to a Vega One. We've

never had anything that serious before."

That's nuclear, Nichols told himself. Well, he figured, why not. If the

terrorists did have a bomb.

"This damned thing is hot," Austin continued. "They don't get any

hotter. So there's no way in hell I'm going to go around procedures. If

you and your boys don't do this clean, it's going to mean our next

command, yours and mine, will be somewhere within sight of Tierra del

Fuego. If there's a nuclear incident here, the Greek government would

probably tear up our mutual-defense treaty and convert the base at

Souda into a souvlaki stand. Am I making myself clear?"

"If I hear you right, what you're saying is, no way can we afford to

fuck this one up."

"I've always admired your quick grasp of the salient points in a

briefing. So, we're going to do this by the goddamn book; we're going

to dot every goddamn 'i' and cross every goddamn 't' and get every

goddamn detail of this op, right down to the color of our goddamn

shoelaces, approved, signed off, and ass-kissed in triplicate. That

Iranian hostage disaster did not exactly make a lot of careers. Again I

ask you, Eric, am I getting the fuck through?"

"In skywriting. The only small problem I see, sir, is that while

everybody is carefully protecting their pension, those assholes on the

island may start slaughtering hostages, or put this 'nuclear material'--

which I have just learned about in such a timely fashion--into goddamn

orbit. And then my Deltas are going to be in the middle of a shitstorm

they easily could have prevented if they'd been given the chance.

They're my boys, and I don't really take kindly to that happening.

_Sir_." He reached in his breast pocket for a cigar, the chewing of

which was his usual response to stress.

"So what exactly do you propose we do?" Austin asked.

"The most obvious first thing would be to interdict this bunch of

mercenary jerkoffs and keep them from going in there and getting a lot

of people killed. I say we should find them and stop them, using

whatever force it takes. There are enough civilians in harm's way as it

is." He leaned forward. "Look, if we have to dick around waiting on the

Pentagon before we can go in, at least we can stop these mercenary

assholes. It has to be done. And we don't need some computer study

before we get off our ass. I want to take them down, and nobody has to

even know about it. If it comes out in some debriefing someday, we'll

worry about it then."

"All right, maybe I agree with you," Austin sighed. "They should be

interdicted. What do you want? A Pave-Low?"

"Just give me an SH-60. To pick them up. I'm going to put the love of

the Lord into these amateurs, then bring them in. Hell, they're

probably well-intentioned, just doing what somebody paid them to do."

And who could blame that somebody, he found himself thinking, if it

takes the U.S. of A. this long to cut through its damned bureaucracy

and mount an operation.

"All right, I'll give you a Seahawk," Austin said. "It can be prepped

and ready to go by"--he glanced at his watch--"0300 hours. Will that be

enough?"

"Guess it'll have to be." By that time, he was thinking ruefully, we

could be taking the island. And with that thought he decided to hell

with protocol and fired up his well-chewed cigar.

"Look, Eric, I know what you're thinking," Austin said after a pause.

"That an old fart like me is cramping your guys' style. And, dammit,

maybe there's a grain of truth in that-- hell, more than a grain. But

here's the downside. If your Deltas go in half-cocked and get cut up,

we're going to get blamed. On the other hand, if they don't go in till

Washington says so, then, yes, maybe it'll be too late, but it's going

to be on somebody else's service record, not ours. I'm protecting your

boys, whether you see it or not. If we only go in on orders, then the

Deltas are not going to be the ones taking the heat if this thing falls

apart."

"Just get me the damned chopper," Nichols said quietly.

3:15 A.M.

Mannheim looked at her. "Cally, we need to try and find him. This Vance

fellow. If his friends are going to try and come in, then they'll need

him to help them. He'll know what they require a lot better than you

will."

She found herself nodding grimly, agreeing. Isaac Mannheim was no

dummy.

"They must either have captured him or shot him," she said. "Or both.

He would have come back by now unless there was a problem. But if he's

still alive, then they probably have him down at Launch. And it's going

to be very dangerous for us to go down there, Isaac."

"I'm an old man. Maybe I've outlived my usefulness." It was strange

talk for Isaac Mannheim, but he was turning wistful, perhaps even

defeated. "I do know one thing. He risked his life for me. I owe it to

him to at least find out what happened. So let me go by myself."

She did not like the sound of that. "Look, maybe I--"

"No, not you. They've got to be looking for you. But they probably just

think I'm an old fool"--he laughed--"and maybe they're right. At any

rate, at least I can go down there and wander around a bit. Everybody

knows I'm harmless. As long as it doesn't look like I'm going anywhere,

I don't think they'll bother with me. At least not right now. If

they're busy with the countdown, they're not going to trouble with a

deranged old man. I'm small potatoes."

"Isaac, you're a very big potato." She wanted to hug him. "But you're

also just about the most wonderful man I know. I love you to death.

Just be careful, please?"

Now it was his turn to smile, the old face showing its wrinkles more

than ever. "I'm not dead yet. And with any luck I won't be for a

while." He looked at his watch. "By the way, when do you think those

friends of his are likely to show up?"

'They didn't say, but I expect they might get here in a couple of

hours."

"Well, Dr. Andros, we're not licked yet. With any luck there won't even

be a launch. Maybe the weather. In the meantime, why don't I check the

empty storage bays in Launch. Just a hunch." He rose and kissed her,

then began to shuffle down the hill.

3:20 A.M.

"I'd guess he's at about a thousand meters now," Pierre was saying.

Above them the SH-60F Seahawk was sweeping past, clearly on a recon.

"Maybe he won't pick us up, not with the swell this high."

Armont didn't really believe his own words. The Seahawk carrier-based

helo, the U.S. Navy's preeminent ASW platform, had come in hard from

the south and it was searching. The question was, what for?

Whatever it was, the guy was all business. And given his APS-124 radar--

not to mention his forward-looking IR capabilities--eluding detection

was going to be tough.

'They must have figured out we scammed them," Reggie declared. "I was

afraid it was going to catch up with us. What with the electronic

assets the U.S. has got deployed in this region, you'd almost have to

expect it. Probably the fucking radio. Which means we've got to keep

silence from here on in. Damn."

Armont squinted through the dark. "Let's wait and see what happens. As

far as I know, those things don't carry any cannon, just a couple of

ASW torpedoes. We're a pretty small fish. Let's hold firm for now."

They hunkered down and motored on, watching as the Navy chopper growled

on toward the north. Maybe, everybody was thinking, the crew had missed

them. Maybe they were after somebody else. Maybe . . .

No, it was coming back again, sweeping, on a determined mission to

locate something.

"They're going to pick us up sooner or later," Willem Voorst predicted.

"It's just a matter of time."

The wind and sea were growing ever more unruly. But that was not going

to save them. They all knew it.

"I've got a terrible idea," Reggie said, almost yelling to be heard.

"It's going to mean we go in with a bare-bones complement of equipment,

but I'm beginning to think we don't have any choice."

"What are you suggesting?" Armont asked, his voice almost swept away by

the storm.

"We cut loose one of the rafts, leave a radio transmitting a Mayday. By

the time they realize they've been had, we'll be at the island."

"What about their IR assets?" Armont wondered back.

"Okay, good point. So we set a flare, and maybe attach a couple of life

jackets with a saltwater beacon. That'll engage their IR."

"And what do we do? This motor will still have an IR signature."

Hall thought a moment. "We could cover everything with some of the

plastic camouflage. That should cut down the heat signature enough."

"Reggie, I don't think that's such a hot idea," Spiros yelled, the rain

in his face. "We're not going to be able to shake them that easily."

"Don't be so sure. There's a good chance a decoy would keep them off

our scent for a while. Might just give us enough time, mates."

The Seahawk had swept past again, banked, and now was coming back.

Clearly working a grid, maybe getting her electronics up to speed.

Nothing about it boded particularly well--for some reason it was lit, a

long white streak in the dark. Long and lean and ideal to drop ASW

drogues, the carrier-based Sikorsky SH-60F incorporated 2,000 pounds of

avionics and was even designed to carry nuclear depth bombs, though the

choppers were never "wired" for the weapon. Its maximum cruising speed

was 145 mph, with a one-hour loitering capability. Given time, it would

find them.

"Willem, how much farther do you reckon we've got to go to make the

island?" Armont shouted over the growing gale and the roar of the two

outboards.

"My guess is we're looking at another eight or ten kilometers. But I

vote with Reggie. We've got no choice but to try a decoy setup. Let's

keep this raft--the engine is running better--and start moving over

whatever gear we absolutely have to have."

He knew there might well be some dispute over that, with each man

having a pet piece of equipment he deemed himself unable to live

without. But the men of ARM were pragmatists above all, and they would

bend over backward to reach a consensus.

They began sorting the gear, hastily, and the selections being made cut

down their assault options. Balaclavas would be kept, along with

rappelling harnesses and rope. The heavier ordnance had to be left, the

grenade launchers and shotguns. They quickly pulled over a case of

tear-gas grenades, but the others they left. Radios, of course, had to

be saved, and the Heckler & Koch MP5s and the Mac-10s. No Uzis: those

were for cowboys. Each man had his own handgun of choice, but the

rounds of ammo were cut down to a bare minimum.

As they sorted the gear, they were making an unspoken strategic

decision concerning how the insertion would be structured. Without the

heavy firepower, they would be fighting a guerrilla war, focusing on

taking out Ramirez, and hoping the firefight would be over in seconds.

If it lasted more than fifteen minutes, they were finished.

The result might well be an assault more risky than it otherwise would

have been. But, as Reggie was fond of saying, you can't have

everything. Sometimes you can't even come bloody close.

3:33 A.M.

"Seahawk One, this is Bravo Command. Come up with anything yet?" It was

the radio beside Delta Captain Philip Sexton, who was flying copilot in

the Seahawk. Lieutenant Manny Jackson was pilot, while the airborne

tactical officer was Lieutenant James Palmer II and the sensor operator

was Lieutenant Andrew McLeod. "Any hint of unintelligent life down

there?"

"Andy says the damned radar's picking up too much chop, Yankee Bravo.

Don't think we're going to find these bastards. It's the proverbial

needle in the you-know-what. This baby finds subs, not dinghies. Looks

like all we're getting so far is fish scatter. Just noise."

"Then you might want to see if the IR will give you anything," came

Nichols's voice. "The fuckers have clamped down, total radio silence,

but they've got to be there somewhere."

"Roger, we copy. Don't know if we've got the sensitivity to pick up a

thermal, though. Not with this weather and sea."

"Copy that. So try everything you've got, even sonar. Or the mag

anomaly detector. Hell, try all your toys. These bastards are close to

slipping through, and no way can that be allowed to happen."

"You've got a rog, sir," Sexton replied. "I'll have Andy give the IR a

shot and see what we get."

3:39 A.M.

"They're staying right on us," Hugo Voorst observed, looking up. "They

don't have us yet, but they've probably figured out we'd make a beeline

for Andikythera, so all they have to do is just work the corridor for

all it's worth."

"Then let's get on with it." Armont nodded through the rain. "Do we

have everything you think we might need?"

"We've got everything we can bloody well keep afloat," Reggie yelled

back. "We're leaving half of what we need." He knew that seven men in

the single Zodiac, together with their

gear, was going to be pushing it to the limit. The sea was still

rising, which meant they would be bailing for their lives as soon as

they cut loose.

"All right, then, Willem, set the timer on the flares." Armont shook

his head sadly.

"If we keep having to abandon equipment," Hall could be heard

grumbling, "this is going to be a damned expensive operation. Where in

bloody hell is it going to end? When we're down to a bow and arrow

each?"

"It's beginning to feel that way now," Willem Voorst groused. He had

finished and was clambering into the single raft. With his weight

aboard, it listed precariously, taking water as the waves washed over.

He settled in, grabbed a plastic bucket, and started bailing.

Now the Seahawk was coming down the line again, making an even slower

pass. Time had run out.

"All right, cut her loose," Armont ordered.

The radio they left had been set to broadcast a Mayday; the engine was

locked at full throttle; and a couple of life jackets with saltwater-

activated beacons had been tied to a line and tossed overboard. The

flares had been set to a timer, giving them three minutes to put some

blue water between them and the decoy.

With a sigh, Dimitri Spiros leaned out and severed the last connecting

line.

3:47 A.M.

"I've just picked up a Mayday," Jackson yelled. "From somewhere in this

quadrant. I think we've located our bogey, and he's in trouble." He

banked the Seahawk, trying to get a fix. "Not surprising with these

seas." He gave the instruments a quick check. "They can't be far away.

Andy, anything happening on IR?"

"Nothing to write home about. There's--Jesus! It looks like . . ." He

glanced out the cockpit window. "The hell with the IR. We've got a

visual on this baby. He's right down there." He pointed. "See it? Let's

take her in and see what we can see."

"You've got it." Jackson hit the collective and banked, heading down.

Yep, he thought, no doubt about it. There was an emergency flare. Maybe

the fuckers had capsized. Maybe there was a God.

3:51 A.M.

"I think they went for it," Armont declared, his voice almost lost in

the storm. It's going to take them a while to figure out the raft is

empty, and then some more time to make sure there's nobody in those

life jackets. I think we've milked maybe half an hour out of this."

"Then we're home free," Dimitri said, staring toward the dark horizon.

"We should make landfall just before first light"

"One thing, though," Reginald Hall reflected. "We can't risk any more

radio contact. We're clearly being monitored. So whatever happened to

Michael, he's on his own."

Armont said nothing in reply, merely scanned the turbulent skies.

Maybe, he thought, the weather had worked to their advantage, had saved

them from interdiction by the U.S. Navy. But would it be enough to

delay the launch? He was beginning to think the storm might clear in

time--given the way Aegean downpours tended to come and go--and not even

put a dent in the schedule.

3:54 A.M.

Ramirez walked into Command, wondering. Peretz was at the main

workstation, the one normally controlled by Georges LeFarge, and he was

wearing a big grin, the stupid one he sported so often. So what was the

problem? He had sent a computer message to Launch, saying they needed

to talk. What was this about? He suspected he already knew.

The room was busy, resounding with the clatter of key

boards, the whir of tape drives, the buzz of fans, the hum of

communication lines, the snapping of switches. Above them a digital

clock showed the countdown, clicking off the hours, minutes, and

seconds, while next to it were the three master video screens: the

first giving the numerical status of the Cyclops power-up sequence, the

second depicting the Fujitsu's latest orbital projection, being lines

across a flat projection of the globe, and the third showing a live

feed from the base of VX-1, where the antlike images of SatCom Launch

Control staffers could be seen methodically readying the vehicle, not

having any idea what was about to go up.

"Got a little item to go over with you," Peretz said, in Arabic, not

looking up from his screen. "A minor business matter."

"What's on your mind?" Ramirez asked in English. "We're all busy."

Peretz glanced in the direction of Salim, who was standing by the door,

keeping a watchful eye on the staffers. Salim, he knew, spoke Farsi as

a first language and English as a second. Like many Iranians, he had

not deigned to learn Arabic. Peretz, on the other hand, spoke it

fluently. Furthermore, he had brushed up on it in his recent

experiences with the Palestinians. Ramirez, of course, had spoken it

for almost twenty years, finding it indispensable for his business

dealings in the Islamic world.

"The time is overdue for us to have a business chat," Peretz continued

in Arabic, revolving around in his chair. "I've been thinking over the

money. It strikes me that the split ought to be 'to each according to

his ability,' if you know what I mean. You're a card-carrying Marxist,

right?"

"If you insist," Ramirez replied, immediately realizing he had been

right about the direction the conversation was going to take. He also

understood the reason for the Arabic. "You may have the quotation in

reverse, but I assume you did not call me down here to discuss the

finer points of collectivist ideology."

"Nobody ever called you dumb, friend," Peretz went on, now settling

comfortably into the mellifluous music of the Arabic. He actually liked

the language better than Hebrew, understood why it was the perfect

vehicle for poetry. "So I expect you won't have any trouble

understanding this.'' He was handing Ramirez a plain white business

envelope, unsealed.

Sabri Ramirez suppressed an impulse to pull out his Beretta and just

shoot the fucker between the eyes. The only thing that surprised him

was why this extortion--for that surely was what it was--had been so long

in coming. Peretz had been planning this move all along.

After a moment's pause, he took the envelope and held it in his hand,

not bothering even to look down at it. Instead he let his gaze wander

around the room, taking in the rows of video terminals, some with data,

some with shots of the working areas, together with the lines of shell-

shocked staffers. Then his gaze came back to Peretz, a novice at the

trade.

This inevitable development, in fact, almost saddened him. He had, over

the past couple of months, acquired almost a fondness for the Israeli.

He even had come to tolerate his irreverent humor, if that's what it

could be called. Thus he had begun to wonder, in a calculated way, if

they might have a partnership that could continue beyond the current

episode. A good tech man was hard to find. . . .

"Do I need to bother opening this?" he said finally. "Why don't I just

guess. At this point you feel your services have become indispensable,

so you want to restructure the distribution of the money. You want to

cut out the others, and I suppose there's even a chance you want to cut

me out as well."

"Cut you out?" Peretz grinned again. "Never crossed my mind. The way I

see it, we're business partners, baby, colleagues. I'd never, ever try

and screw a partner, surely you know that. What do you take me for? No,

man, I just think there's no point in giving monetary encouragement to

all these other assholes."

"And what if I don't choose to see it your way?" Ramirez kept his voice

calm.

"Well, there could be a lot of problems with the countdown, if you know

what I mean. There's only one guy around here who could fix it. So I

think teamwork is essential. You do your part and I do mine. The old

'extra mile.'"

"Your 'extra mile,' I take it, is to finish the job you were hired for

in the first place." Ramirez found keeping his voice even to be more

and more difficult. But he had to bide his time. A quick glance at

Salim told him that the Iranian did not have an inkling of what was

going on.

"You might say that." Again the inane grin.

"And mine is to restructure the dispersals of the money afterwards."

Ramirez's eyes had just gone opaque behind his gray shades. "Something

like that."

"Not 'afterwards.' Now. It's all in the envelope."

'Tell you what," Ramirez said finally, his anger about to boil over.

"I'm going back to Launch, and I'll take this with me. What's the point

in opening it here, raising questions."

"You'd better take this problem seriously, believe me," Peretz

interjected, vaguely unnerved by Ramirez's icy noncommittal. "I'm not

kidding around."

"Oh, I take you quite seriously, Dr. Peretz." He was extracting a thin

cigar from a gold case. "I always have. You will definitely get

everything you deserve."

"I intend to."

3:55 A.M.

Isaac Mannheim stumbled through the torrential rain, wondering if the

terrorists were stupid enough to try a launch in this kind of weather.

Actually, he found himself thinking, it might just be possible. The

guidance system would be tested to the limit, but if the weather eased

up a little . . .

The aboveground structures for Launch were just ahead, including the

two pads with the vehicles sprouting into the sky. From the looks of

things, they were both unharmed, with VX-1 clearly prepped and ready

for launch. Then he paused to examine the collapsed gantry and shook

his head in dismay, heartsick at the sight. That was going to cost a

fortune to repair.

He shrugged sadly and moved on.

He knew it was going to be a beehive of activity inside the tech areas

now. The entire SatCom Staff was on duty, which was standard for a "go"

power-up situation. Which meant that they had to be holding Vance

somewhere out of the way. The question was where. Where? He tried to

think.

There were some spare-parts bays, locations where items that constantly

needed replacing could be held ready to hand. But everything was

clicking now, with those areas pretty much out of the loop. So . . .

maybe that would be the place to start checking.

The main entry-points for the bays were, naturally enough, from the

inside. But there also was a large loading dock on the south that

allowed gear to be delivered directly from the warehouse. Maybe that

would be the logical place to try and slip in. He was feeling better

now, energized. Why not go in, have a look.

4:22 A.M.

Jean-Paul Moreau punched him again, then waited for a response. There

wasn't one, but only because Michael Vance was near to passing out.

They had taken him not to the Bates Motel but to an unused room at the

periphery of Launch. Its original purpose wasn't clear, but whatever it

was, it no longer appeared to be used for anything--the ideal location

to beat somebody's brains half out.

"You have a remarkably low tolerance for this, you sleazy _batard_."

Vance merely moaned. He had been trying mystical techniques for

blocking out the pain. God, he hated pain. So he attempted to focus his

mind on something else, on little things like working on his boat, on

making love, on Caribbean sunsets. Instead what he got was the vision

of a nuclear bomb going off somewhere, and the anger he had felt when

Ramirez and his thugs blew up the U.S. frigate. Still, any emotion, any

feeling he could muster, seemed to drive back the pain, make it more

endurable. Now he was focusing as best he could on the long-haired,

blond French goon who was pummeling him. Whack. Love. Whack. Hate.

Whack. Anger. Boiling, seething anger. It was almost working. Almost.

He moaned again. Then for one last time he tried to smile. "Jesus, what

sewer did Ramirez dredge to come up with you guys?"

"Good. Good. Keep talking," Moreau said. "Sounds mean you are still

alive. It means you still can feel." And he hit him again, hard in the

stomach, taking his breath away once more. The moans had become airless

grunts.

Jean-Paul Moreau had readily accepted the job of softening up the

fucker who had caused them so much trouble. It was intended to be a

partial compensation for his having endured the radar treatment, and

also it felt good to be able to work over the very son of a bitch who

had done it. There was, indeed, justice in the world. Justice that you

made for yourself. He was now making his own justice, and it felt

terrific.

Vance knew he couldn't take much more of a pounding without passing

out. Moreau was a professional who didn't specialize in breaking bones;

instead he confined himself to internal trauma. That seemed to be his

particular area of expertise. He also was careful to make sure his

victim remained conscious.

Which meant, Vance knew, that this part of the program was drawing to a

close. He couldn't handle much more pain, the fact of which he knew

this French thug with the streaming blond hair was well aware. What, he

wondered, was the point anyway? Sadism? Ramirez was still waiting in

line to dish out his own particular brand of revenge. And Ramirez had

forgotten more about dispensing pain than this creep would ever know. .

. .

Thunk. Another blow to the stomach took his breath away once more. He

felt his consciousness swim back and forth, scarcely there any more.

When was this going to end? He would have signed away anything just to

stop the punishment for a few seconds, and he was on the verge of

throwing up. Surely it had to be over soon. He felt like a boxer who

had just gone fifteen rounds with no referee. Time for the bell.

His battered mind tried to put together a guess about what was next.

Maybe after this Eurotrash had had his fun, Ramirez would show up for

the coup de grace. It would almost be welcome. Or maybe nothing was

going to happen. Maybe Ramirez would just leave him to be blown up with

the rest of the facility.

Where was Pierre? If ARM wasn't coming in for another whole day, who

knew where this disaster was headed. What was Cally doing? And Bill?

Were they safe?

He cursed himself again for screwing up the golden opportunity to

deactivate the gantry and bring the proceedings to a halt. Instead of

doing what he had planned, he tried to take a shortcut. Now he realized

that had been a major mistake. And now, with ARM not coming in for

another whole day, the only chance left was to try and stall.

4:37 A.M.

The wind was howling and rain spattered on the loading dock--it should

have been protected, but you can't do everything--as Mannheim briskly

made his way up the metal steps. The large sliding door was locked, but

he still had the magnetized card that clicked it open. A button on the

wall started it moving along the rollers . . . just enough to slide

through . . . there, he was in.

Inside was a long hallway cluttered with various crates-- either just

delivered or ready to be removed, he was not sure --and he had to feel

his way along, not wanting to risk turning on the lights.

For an instant, as he stumbled among the sharp corners, he really felt

his age. This was not something for a retired engineering professor to

be muddling with. He should be back in Cambridge growing orchids in his

greenhouse. What in blazes was he doing . . . ?

Then he noticed the light emerging from under one of the doors, and as

he stepped closer, he heard two voices. One of them belonged to the man

who had saved him, Michael Vance. The other . . . the other had to be

one of the terrorists. Now what?

4:51 A.M.

"You know, I hate to spoil all the fun you're having." Vance tried to

look at Moreau, but he could barely see through the swelling of his

puffy eyelids. "But I've got some unsettling news. You and the rest of

Ramirez's hoods are about to be in a deep situation here. The minute

you try to send that bomb up, you can tip your hat and kiss your ass

good-bye. Better enjoy this while you can."

"What do you mean?"

"That nuke you've got primed. It pains me to tell you, pardon the joke,

but your gang isn't exactly the crew of rocket scientists you think you

are. The second the Cyclops laser hits the first vehicle, there's going

to be a lift-off, all right. Only it's likely to be this island that's

headed for orbit. And you with it. Why in hell do you think I was

trying to stop it?" Was it true? he wondered. Think. Try to make it

sound convincing.

"What are you talking about?" Moreau's blue eyes bristled.

"Just thought you ought to know the bottom line. If you're planning to

liberate the oppressed masses or whatever, this is a hell of a way to

start. By nuking yourself. That should really impress everybody with

your dedication."

"You are going to die anyway, so what do you care?"

"Got a point there. Guess I'm just wasting my time. But there are a few

people here on the island that I like--you, incidentally, are not among

them--and I would kind of hate to see them get blown away because of

your fucking incompetence." He paused, trying to breathe. "As it

happens, I had a chat with the project director. She told me how that

system works. The nuts and bolts are a little complicated, but it boils

down to what happens inside the rocket when the Cyclops laser starts

up. Surely you know the energy in the Cyclops creates plasma in the

vehicle--that's loose atoms--which becomes the propellant." Vance looked

at him. "You do know that, don't you?"

Moreau nodded, almost but not quite understanding what he was talking

about.

"Good, because the interesting part comes next. You don't create this

atomic soup called plasma without generating a lot of electromagnetic

noise--in other words, radio garbage." You know, he thought to himself,

it's getting to sound better and better all the time.

"These technical things do not concern me," Moreau declared with a

shrug.

"They may not concern you, pal, but they might concern the bomb. What

if one of the radio signals produced just happens to be the one that

triggers its detonator? And believe me, with the smorgasbord of radio

noise that plasma produces, the chances are easily fifty-fifty. I hope

you feel lucky, asshole."

"I don't believe you." He sat down, in a spare chair, beginning to

appear a little uncertain.

"You hotshots are a little over your head here. Maybe you ought to pass

that information to the chief." Anything to get him out of here, Vance

was thinking. Anything to give me a little time to recover. "I suggest

you think about it." He struggled to rise, but then realized he was

tied into the chair. 'Congratulations. I think you just about beat me

to a pulp."

"It was my pleasure." Moreau looked him over, his expression now

definitely troubled. "Now I should beat you again for lying."

"If it's all the same, I think you might be smart to keep me conscious

for a while longer. Maybe I can tell you how to solve your problem."

"If you are so wise, then tell me now." Moreau said.

"With all due respect, I don't talk to messenger boys." He tried to

shift his weight, but his body hurt no matter what he did. "You

wouldn't understand anyway. It's too technical. Why don't you let me

have a chat with that genius you've got running the computer? He's the

only one around here who could possibly understand what I'm talking

about."

And he's the one, Vance told himself, who now holds the key to

everything. Remove him and their whole house of cards crumbles.

"You mean the Israeli." He fairly spat out the words. "He's--"

"So, this operation is multinational."

"Peretz is handling the computer."

"Peretz. Is that his name?" Now we're getting somewhere, Vance thought.

If I can get in the same room with the bastard, maybe I can rearrange

his brain cells.

"He is supposed to be a computer specialist." Moreau's voice betrayed

his contempt. "Maybe he is. But he thinks he knows everything. Whenever

anybody tries to tell him anything, he just laughs and makes bad jokes.

He won't listen to you."

"Well, why don't we give it a shot anyway?"

Moreau examined him closely, still skeptical but beginning to have

second thoughts. "Why would you want to do this, anyway? Help us?"

"Like I told you, I figure you're going to end up detonating that bomb

somewhere. Frankly I'd just as soon it wasn't fifty feet from where I'm

standing, make that sitting. I do have a small sense of self-

preservation left. So why don't you do everybody a favor and let me

talk to this Peretz? He has to change the radio frequency that

detonates the bomb to digital mode. If that thing is controlled with

plain old UHF the Cyclops may just set it off before it ever leaves the

pad."

Vance knew he was talking over this thug's head. He was talking over

his own head. But who knew? His fabrication might even be true. The

story, though, probably could use some work. "Look," he said finally,

"why don't you raise him on that walkie-talkie and let me talk to him?"

Moreau frowned at the idea. "We've gone to radio silence except for

emergencies."

"I'd say this qualifies."

"That remains to be seen." He paused. "I'll go and tell him what you

said. Then he can decide for himself what he wants to do."

"I don't want to belabor the obvious here, but time is running a little

short."

"I'll be back. If he says you are lying, I may just kill you myself."

Whereupon he opened the door and walked straight into a befuddled Isaac

Mannheim.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

5:03 A.m.

They had used the same insertion procedure off Beirut three years

earlier, so there was nothing about this that was new. Standard

procedure. As had been planned all along, they donned scuba gear at

five hundred meters out, packed their equipment in waterproof bags, and

entered the churning water. After the raft was punctured, obliterating

all evidence, the seven men of ARM set out, underwater, for the rugged

shoreline of Andikythera.

Their scuba gear was invisible against the dark sea as, one by one,

they emerged through the breakers and into the last remnants of rain

from the storm. They faced a short ledge of surf-pounded rocks

immediately abutted by a sheer granite cliff--exactly what they

expected, indeed what they wanted.

They were greeted by silence from up above, which gave lope that the

insertion had gone undetected. So far. They were in, with the only

problem being they no longer had Vance to serve as point man. They

would be proceeding blind.

But not too blind. Back in Athens they had studied the schematics of

the facility carefully and had concluded the most vulnerable insertion

point would be Launch Control. Added to that, Ramirez was last reported

to be there, and the objective was to take him out as quickly and

efficiently as possible. That also was the place where they believed

they could shut down the operation quickest and get their hands on the

weapons. Everything came together: hit Launch.

They had discussed renewing radio contact with the woman named Andros,

in hopes she might be able to give them an update on the disposition of

the hostiles and friendlies. But they decided to wait and see first if

they could handle it alone. Radio security was nonexistent, as they had

already discovered. For now, the downside of breaking radio silence

outweighed the upside. Later, perhaps, when it no longer mattered.

After he had pulled off his scuba gear, Armont took out his IR scope

and surveyed the top of the cliff and the coastline. Both looked clear.

"All right, it's going to be light soon," he whispered. "Let's get up

there and get to work."

Dimitri Spiros nodded, then began donning an old SatCom uniform he had

brought, left over from his days on the island, hoping to pass himself

off as a company staffer if need be and get in position to act as point

man--since Vance was not part of the picture now. Spiros would guide the

unit in, using a secure radio to coordinate the overall operation with

Pierre, and with Reggie, who would be standoff sniper.

By the time Dimitri was finished, they were ready. Marcel tossed a

grapple up the side of the steep cliff and it lodged somewhere near the

top. Next Spiros tested the line, then started making his way up,

inserting silent spikes into the crevasses as he climbed. The granite

was firm, with enough irregularities to hold onto. When he reached the

top and signaled the all-clear, the others immediately followed, with

Hans bringing up the rear after he had secured the gear with ropes,

ready to hoist.

As the last black satchel topped the cliff, they went to work, breaking

out the hardware they would need. The light of dawn had opened just

enough for everybody to see what they were doing, yet remain little

more than shadows in the early mist. Or was it fog? The dark made it

hard to tell, but it was a magic moment that would not last long.

Since Reggie was the standoff sniper, he normally would have begun

installing his IR scope, but now, with dawn so near, the need for IR

capability was problematical. Not being seen was as great a concern as

seeing.

Just ahead, barely visible, was the Rota-Barb fence. Since Spiros had

installed it, he strode ahead and did the honors, cutting the razor

wire quickly and efficiently. With daylight approaching, there was no

time for niceties such as scaling; they would just have to take the

chance that the security system was no longer operative.

They carried the equipment through, then scouted the approach. Up the

rocky hill they could see two silver spires, now illuminated with

spotlights. After a few moments of thoughtful silence, Reggie Hall

nodded and pointed toward an outcropping of rocks located near the

north entrance to Launch Control, indicating with hand signs that they

would provide the best location for overall surveillance. He would set

up there, a look-down spot from where he could handle the standoff-

sniper chores, ready at any time to neutralize any hostiles who might

emerge from Launch. It also was a good spot from which to monitor

hostile radio traffic.

Having done this many times before, they were ready. Armont and Hans,

together with the brothers Voorst, would lead the assault, while Marcel

would be at the rear of the entry element, serving as defense man,

covering for them and providing security. As point man, Spiros would

supply backup for Marcel if things got hot or if somebody tried to

ambush the entry team during approach and entry, or during withdrawal.

The Greek would also be in charge of directing any pyrotechnics.

In addition to acting as commander, Armont would assume his usual role

as security man, providing covering fire for the entry element during

the assault and more close cover during withdrawal. He also would be in

charge of any other equipment they might need.

Since the assignments reflected ARM's standard configuration, with

everybody in their usual slot, there was no need to squander time

reviewing who would be where. . . .

In moments they were ready, silencers attached, poised to move through

the dark, early morning haze. It was providing a small semblance of

cover, but not for long. They hoped they could take Launch Control fast

enough that there would be no time for the terrorists to use hostages

as human shields. If that happened, there was sure to be bloodshed.

Just to be on the safe side, Armont did a quick run-through of the

assault with hand signals. He was just finishing when Reggie Hall's

radio came alive in a burst of static.

"Sirene, please come in." It was a woman's voice. "Do you read?"

"Blast," he whispered, his face rapidly turning florid in the dim mist.

"Didn't we tell her radio silence was essential?" He quickly switched

on the microphone. "Ulysses One, get off this channel. Sirene is here."

"Thank God. But you've got to try and find Mike. Isaac went to look for

him, but he hasn't come back."

"You mean Mannheim?" Armont took the microphone. "Where did he go?"

"He said he was going to try the empty loading bays down at Launch,"

she said. "He hasn't come back, so maybe he found him. Could you try

there?"

Reggie turned to Armont with a questioning look that needed no words.

It was, simply, What do we do now?

On this one, Armont had no better idea than anyone else. They all knew

where the loading bays were, since the blueprints had made that plain

enough. The problem was the sequence. Should they go ahead with the

assault as planned, to take the time to try to find him and pull him

out? Her intel on his location was just a guess, but it was a start.

ARM's rules always had been that their own people came first. So if

they knew where Vance might possibly be, nothing else mattered.

According to the rules, they had to drop everything and try to pull him

out. Even if it jeopardized the operation. Those were the rules. No

exceptions.

For that matter, Armont suddenly thought, why not try

and bring her in out of the cold, too? Then they would have a personal

guide to the whole layout. It seemed to make a lot of sense,

particularly since radio security was already shot to hell.

He clicked on the microphone again. "Can you meet us there? Where you

think he is?"

"Copy. Give me eight minutes." And the radio clicked off.

I hope we've got eight to spare, Armont thought, checking his Krieger

watch. The minutes were ticking away.

"Okay, we'll change the plan," he whispered. "We'll make the insertion

through the loading bays." He nodded to Hans and the Voorst brothers,

and without so much as a word they tightened their black hoods and

headed up through the mist.

5:19 A.M.

She heaved a sigh of relief as she put down the microphone and prepared

to stumble down the hill. She realized she had violated protocol by

breaking radio silence, but she was almost as worried about Michael

Vance as she was about the facility. And it was a disturbing

realization. Or maybe not so disturbing. True, he had screwed up, but

then everybody did that from time to time. Even Alan . . . there it was

again. But come on, the resemblance was almost scary. And she was also

beginning to hate him for the same reasons she had hated Alan. It was

the anger, and maybe the guilt. . . .

She had told them eight minutes. So get moving. It was going to be

tight. First find Mike, and Isaac. If that was possible. And then go on

to the real business of the morning. Whoever was on the Fujitsu had to

be stopped, even if it meant more damage to the facility. The cost no

longer mattered. SatCom could be rebuilt, everything. But if one of

those Third World bombs were set off somewhere, it would be another

Hiroshima. The horror of it would be unthinkable.

She prayed a short prayer, something she hadn't done in twenty-five

years, and started down the hill.

5:20 A.M.

Out the wide windows of Launch Control the searchlight- illuminated

spires of VX-1 and VX-2 gleamed through the early mist. Sabri Ramirez

studied them, thinking about logistics. With all the scrambled radio

traffic in the area, he had a sneaking suspicion--more than a suspicion--

that a Special Forces assault was being set up. But that's what all the

hostages were for.

Everything was on schedule, just as planned. According to Peretz, the

last tests of the telemetry had been completed and the countdown was

proceeding without a hold. Outside, in the vast bay that was Launch,

technicians buzzed, a sea of white coats. Lines of workstations showed

voltage and amperage values for the power buildup in the coil.

Calculations of wind shear were being made, and preliminary tests were

being run on the guidance system. The "orbops" team, orbital

operations, was busy running up orbital and attitude numbers, readying

their input commands. The irony was, they still didn't have a clue they

were about to send up a nuclear device. American ingenuity turned on

itself, in a fearsome symmetry. . . .

'Take a look at what I found."

Ramirez whirled, hearing the voice, and was startled to see Jean-Paul

Moreau coming in through the doorway of Launch Control leading the old

Jew professor, Isaac Mannheim. Where did he come from? The old man was

supposed to be sedated and sequestered away for safekeeping in the

living quarters. Guess it hadn't worked. Here he was, bumbling about.

On the other hand, maybe this was a stroke of timing. He was about to

be needed again, and this saved the trouble of having to go and get

him.

"Where was he?"

"Wandering around the loading docks," Jean-Paul said, still shoving

Mannheim ahead of him. "I think there's a technical question we need to

run by him."

"What?"

"That bastard Vance just claimed that the Cyclops laser may set off the

device when it starts up. I didn't get it exactly. He wants to talk to

Peretz. Something about plasma and stray radio frequencies."

"Sounds like an invention to me," Ramirez said, looking Mannheim over.

The old man, his baseball cap askew, was clearly as mad as a loon. What

would he know about anything? On the other hand, he was a scientist, so

it wouldn't hurt to ask.

"Well, what about it, Herr Doctor Professor?" He walked over and

straightened the old man's cap. "Is your laser going to produce random

radio signals?"

"Of course not," Mannheim declared. 'That's what is so ideal about this

system. There's nothing to interfere with the telemetry. No static. No--

"I thought so," Moreau muttered, cutting him off. With a flourish of

his blond hair, he turned to go back to the loading bay. "I'm leaving

him here. Vance was lying. Just as I thought. He's going to regret--"

The walkie-talkie on Ramirez's belt crackled and he grabbed it

instantly. "What do you want? I ordered radio silence."

"Firebird One, this is Hacker," came the voice of Peretz. "I turned on

the security system for a look-see, and lo and behold I think there's a

possible penetration in progress. Down on the south shore. In sector

fifty-six of the fence. Could be a malfunction, but maybe somebody

ought to check it out."

Ramirez groaned silently. Was this the assault he had been half

expecting? If so, it was coming quicker than he had planned. Which

meant that having Mannheim here was definitely a stroke of luck.

"Wait." He motioned for Moreau, who had turned and was headed through

the doorway. "I want you here till we find out what this is. Could be a

false alarm, but then maybe not."

Okay, he thought quickly, where is everybody? Time to batten down.

Peretz, of course, was in Command, along with Salim. Wolf Helling was

here in Launch, coordinating telemetry between Peretz and the

Pakistanis. Stelios was keeping tabs on the prisoners now in the living

quarters, the Bates Motel. Jamal was on patrol around the perimeter--why

hadn't he noticed anything?--together with the two Stasi. And Jean-Paul

was here.

The first thing to do would be to raise Jamal on the radio and have him

check out the situation there in the south. And if it really was a

penetration, then the two most expendable members of the team right now

were the Stasi. They were the cannon fodder. Let them earn their share.

"All right," he said to Peretz, "we'll check it out. Ten- four."

While Jean-Paul watched, he quickly raised Jamal on the walkie-talkie

and repeated what Peretz had said. "It could be a malfunction of the

sensors, but who the hell knows. If this is the real thing, then we'll

have to take steps. But once we escalate, everything is going to get

more complicated."

"I'll have Schindler check it out and get back to you in three

minutes," Jamal barked back. "We'll keep the line open till I know for

sure what's going on."

"All right, but you'd better get ready for trouble. My hunch is that

this may be the beginning. If it is, then we've got our work cut out.

You know what I mean." He clicked it off, then turned to Jean-Paul.

"Okay, forget about Vance for now. I want you to go over to Command and

help Salim get the security into shape. I'm not sure he knows what the

hell he's doing."

"Check," Jean-Paul Moreau said. "I'll take care of everything."

He walked out the door and into Launch, then headed for the tunnel

leading to Command. Ramirez, he knew, had a contingency that was

supposed to stop an assault in its tracks. He only hoped it would work

as planned.

5:23 A.M.

As she moved down the hill, dawn was beginning to show dimly through

the fog to the east, promising an early morning clearing of the skies.

The prospect made her fearful. The dark had been better, a shroud to

cover mistakes. Now, without the fog, she would be almost as exposed as

the barren rocks that pockmarked the hillside. The birds this morning

were strangely silent, as though they knew ill doings were afoot. Even

the pale, fog-shrouded glimpse of VX-1 and VX-2 down at the other end

of the island had never seemed more plaintive. She had worked for

almost three years to put those vehicles into space, and now she had to

try and stop the very thing she had been aiming for all that time.

She had told the ARM team she could be there in eight minutes, but now

she realized that was optimistic. Though she was moving as fast as she

could manage, hugging the line of the security fence, the island seemed

to be getting bigger all the time. And smaller.

The fence, which had seemed so reassuring when it was installed, wove

among the trees and rocks as it went down the hill, almost a meandering

presence. But it was not hard to follow, even in the reduced visibility

of the half-dark and fog. The trick, she realized, was going to be

finding the ARM team. Or maybe they would find her. Finding things was

what they were supposed to be good at. . . .

Thank God. There was somebody up ahead, barely visible through the dim

light. Only one, however, which immediately made her wonder.

She paused, drew a deep lungful of the fresh morning air, and waited to

see what he would do. For one thing, he was moving along as though he

was searching, yet with an air of owning the terrain.

Shit, it was one of Ramirez's men, out on patrol. She recognized him.

It was one of the European hoods who had barged into Command the

fateful evening now half a lifetime away.

Quickly she tried to melt into the shadow of a tall bush, but she was

too late. His head jerked around and he saw her. Up came an automatic.

He was dressed in black, and as he approached her, he flashed a crooked

smile, then produced a German accent. "So, it's you. We've been missing

you."

"Which one of them are you?" She didn't know what else to say.

"I am Max Schindler," he replied, in heavily accented English. He was

at least thirty pounds overweight, the hard-earned rewards of a

lifetime of potatoes and strudel. He looked like a puffing, black

balloon. "Number One vill be pleased to have you return to us. He

thought you were an assault." He laughed as he gestured her forward

with the weapon. "Come on. This morning, I think, is going to go

quickly. Just another couple of hours and the real excitement will

begin."

"I can hardly wait."

"Good"--it sounded more like goot--"you are going to have a circle-side

seat." He seemed extremely pleased with himself, both with his own

humor and with the fact that he had been the one who would be bringing

her back.

"You mean ringside. Great." The time was already flashing by, she

thought--the eight minutes she had given ARM were undoubtedly up--which

meant they probably would be changing plans again, working their way.

Would they just forget about her and move on? "Tell me, how did a smart

guy like you end up working for a maniac like Ramirez?"

"Who?"

'The guy you call Number One. I hear he's really Sabri Ramirez. Didn't

you know?"

The German's startled look betrayed his disbelief. His small, pig-like

eyes narrowed. "Who told you such a thing?"

"Just a little birdie."

Schindler shrugged, unconvinced, then pushed her on. "That's

impossible. Everybody knows Sabri Ramirez has been dead for two, maybe

three years."

Well, she thought, with any luck he soon will be.

"Whatever you say," she continued.

"It's absurd. Ramirez was South American. Number One is from Beirut.

Now come on, hurry. Just keep your hands where I can see them."

Schindler was almost shoving her around a rocky outcrop. "We have to

get up to Launch before he gets impatient and sends somebody else out

looking."

"Well, if you're in such a big rush, there's a quicker way

to get into Launch than the way we're going. We can just enter through

the loading bays"--she pointed--"up there. We don't have to go all the

way around."

"Are they unlocked?" He looked up and squinted through the mist. The

bays were distinguishable by tall metal doors that were sized to

accommodate some of the large vehicle components that had been

delivered over the past couple of years. They could just be seen now,

dark silhouettes against the horizon.

"The big doors are probably locked, but there's a side entrance that's

always open." She paused. "Do what you want. But I guarantee you it's

quicker than going around."

"All right"--he nodded, a quick bob of his beefy neck-- "you lead the

way."

What she really was thinking about was the rocks and trees covering

that back route. This German blimp escorting her would be no match if

she simply took matters into her own hands and made a dash.

Why not? It was a desperate move, but this was a desperate moment.

"Wait . . ." She bent over, as though to tie a shoelace, and when she

came up, she was swinging. Schindler was tired, and perhaps because of

that he was caught completely off guard, staggering backward. It was

the moment of disorientation she needed. She grabbed at the Uzi, hoping

to wrench it from his grasp. He may have been surprised, and

overweight, but he had lost none of his dogged Stasi tenacity. His one-

handed grip tightened on the weapon as his other hand flew up to defend

his face.

Now she had one hand on the breech of the automatic, and with the other

she reached out and seized the muzzle. It was the leverage she needed

to swing the butt of the metal stock up against his jaw. The blow

caught him with his mouth open, smashing his lower lip against his

teeth and slicing his tongue.

He emitted a moan and yanked the Uzi away with both hands.

But now Calypso Andros was already stumbling through the brush, up the

hill and into the fog.

Schindler felt his bleeding lip as he recovered his balance, and he

fleetingly considered just taking her out with a quick burst, nice and

simple. Though Number One had insisted she be returned alive, he told

himself he was mad enough he didn't care. He wanted to kill the bitch.

But the second he took to make that calculation proved to be crucial.

She had gotten into the heavy brush that ringed the hill farther up.

_Scheisse_.

He plunged after her, puffing and seething. It was one thing not to

have found her; it was another to have had her within his grasp and

then let her escape. He would be a laughingstock, again. Wolf Helling,

who had given him this job, would be humiliated once more. It was

unacceptable, unthinkable.

The rocks along the fenceline were jagged, cutting into his boots as he

half ran, half stumbled through the dim light. She was up there,

somewhere. She had said something about the loading bay, so she

probably was headed there. In any case, there weren't that many places

to hide. It was just a matter of time. Just a matter of time. . . .

5:24 A.M.

Ramirez was talking to Peretz again on his walkie-talkie. "I've been

monitoring the scrambled radio traffic, and I've begun to have a sixth

sense about the situation. I think we're about to have some uninvited

guests from the U.S. Special Forces; ten to one it's Delta. Are you

ready?"

"Jean-Paul just came in, and he says we're totally secure, baby. SatCom

thoughtfully lined this place with steel. Ain't nobody gonna waltz into

this little enclave of ours without a press pass. Rest easy, man. Keep

cool."

"Well, I'm thinking I should send you some more backup, just in case."

What I really should do is shoot you and just use the backup. "By the

way, how does the schedule look?"

"The countdown's now being handled entirely by the computer. So far

there are no holds. Lift-off is coming up exactly as scheduled."

"Good," Ramirez spoke back, "keep me updated on a ten- minute

framework." He paused, thinking. "Incidentally, is there any way we

possibly could speed it up?"

"Things are pretty tight as they stand. There might be some shortcuts,

but I'm not sure I know this system well enough to start fooling

around. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, know what I mean?"

"An original sentiment," Ramirez responded dryly. "But don't be

surprised at anything that may happen here in the next ninety minutes.

There may be a setup for an assault, but I'll take care of it."

"It's a tough game coming down here. But ain't nobody gonna fuck with

us, 'cause we got all the big cards."

"They may try it, though. So make sure that place is tight, and have

Jean-Paul and Salim double-check all the entries. The chances are good

we're going to take a hit, and soon."

"No problem from down here. I told you we're covering it."

What do you know, you smart-ass? Ramirez asked himself grimly. "All

right, but as soon as Jamal checks in, I'm sending him over there, too.

And one of the Stasi. Stelios can handle the living quarters by

himself. Just keep the countdown going, no matter what else happens."

"Okay, but the only way this thing is gonna fly is if you made those

bank arrangements the way I wanted. One hand washes the other, as the

saying goes. Otherwise, I'm just going to shut the whole thing down. I

mean it, man."

"It has been taken care of," Ramirez said. "I faxed Geneva. They'd just

opened that desk, but I should have a confirmation back in a few

minutes."

With that announcement he clicked off the mike.

And smiled. Peretz' memo had explained he wasn't demanding blackmail;

what he wanted was more like an equitable readjustment of the take. And

why not? the memo had reasoned. Without his computer skills, nothing

could have been possible. He wanted written proof that when the ransom

money came in, it would automatically be split, with half going to a

new account he specified.

What an amateur. It was almost depressing.

5:27 A.M.

She stumbled through the brush wondering where they were. They must

have come in from the south, which meant they were already near the

entrance to the loading bay. Go for that, she told herself, pushing on.

The bramble was scraping her face and hands, tearing her clothes. She

was going to look like she'd been run through a shredder, she thought.

A bloody mess.

Then she heard something whiz by, the first shot, and knew the German

was closing in, his weapon on semiauto. With a rush of desperation, she

threw herself on the ground and tried to merge with the damp leaves and

underbrush. And she felt terrible. Mike had screwed things up, but she

hadn't done much better.

Then, out of the mist just up the hill, a figure appeared. Two figures.

Three. Moving with quick, catlike motions. She wanted to yell, to warn

them, but maybe all she would be doing was alerting the damned German

hood trying to kill her. No, they were supposed to be professionals, so

let them handle it their own way.

Then she heard another whiz of a round singing by and saw a fleck of

dirt fly up only inches from where she lay. Again the hard crack of the

German's automatic followed.

All right, ARM. You're supposed to be such hotshots. Do something and

do it now!

The three dark figures answered the shots as though they were in a

ballet, all dropping to a crouch virtually in unison.

They were using silencers, so the rounds came as a series of dull

thunks, but each figure fired only once, or at most, twice. And when

she turned to look back, her pursuer was nowhere to be seen. . . . No,

he was slumped over a bush, motionless.

As one of the hooded figures came up to her and began lifting her to

her feet, two of the others advanced cautiously on the German. Their

caution, however, was unnecessary. He was as lifeless as the granite

rocks around them.

Well, she thought, these guys sure know how to treat a lady.

5:28 A.M.

Jamal cursed the morning fog that had settled in, understanding it was

probably moisture left over from the storm. Then he checked his watch

and realized that Schindler was overdue. Which was typical. He was

beginning to wonder how the German nation had acquired its famous

reputation for punctuality. And efficiency. Both were, in his opinion,

grossly undeserved. Helling's recommendation that those three screw-ups

be brought along did not reflect well on his judgment.

He clicked on his walkie-talkie. "Firebird Six, do you copy? Is

everything CQ where you are? It's check-in time."

There was no answer. The jerk had gone down by the south security

fence, where something was amiss. Was he in trouble? Everybody was tied

up now, getting ready for the launch. He wondered if they were going to

find themselves shorthanded, not having as much firepower as they

needed.

"Firebird Six, come in. Cut the games."

Again silence.

Which gave him a very bad feeling. There was no reason for the radio to

conk out suddenly. The rule was they always kept their channels open.

This was trouble. Time to alert Ramirez. Either Schindler had fucked

up, or they had been penetrated.

5:30 A.M.

Major General Eric Nichols was so relieved he scarcely knew whether to

laugh or cry, and he rarely had been seen to do either. Actually, his

feeling was more one of surprise. For once something was going right.

After diddling and dabbling for almost ten hours, the Pentagon--Fort

Fuck-up--had actually made a decision. It was so unprecedented it might

even merit a place in the annals of military history. Such rare moments

were to be savored.

Maybe they had gotten tired of running computer "risk analyses." Or

maybe their damned computer had broken down. Whatever the reason,

however, the exalted pay grades upstairs had decided to get off dead

center and just let him assault the damned island. The op was a go.

The civilian assholes had been headed off at the pass, which meant one

less thing to worry about. Now all that remained was to figure how to

get the boys in safely and take down the place. And at last he knew

there were nukes. Great communication system the Army had, making sure

everybody had been briefed and was totally up to speed. Christ!

He sat still a moment after setting down the phone, breathing a short

prayer. Although appearances would not suggest it, he was in fact a

religious man at the core. He had been close enough to death enough

times to conclude that there were indeed no atheists in foxholes, and

he figured what was good enough for foxholes was good enough for the

rest of the time. Besides, what harm did it do?

"All right." He turned and glanced at Max Austin. "I guess the computer

has got everything planned. Looks like we can go in after all. How's

that for efficiency? Just as it gets bright enough for my guys to be

risking their asses, we get the green light. I'd say that's just about

perfect timing."

Austin nodded slowly, then rose to check the teletype machine to see if

the orders had really come through. This op was going to be by the book

or not at all. If it turned into a nuclear incident, there were going

to be inquiries up the wazoo.

"Looks like it's really going down," Austin said, yanking off a sheet.

"So I'll cut the orders and get us mobilized here. How long before you

can get your boys in the air?"

"Well, since this is going to have to be a daylight op, we might as

well use the Apaches and not fuck around. We'll just hit the bastards

with enough firepower to take out the command-control radars up on the

hill. That ought to shut down any chance they could get anything

launched. Then we've just got a hostage situation to deal with, and if

we have to, we can just starve them out. It'll only be a matter of

time. Maybe, God willing, we can keep the friendly casualties to a

minimum."

Austin did not like the image of the headlines Nichols's assault plan

suddenly conjured up. Any heavy property damage and there was going to

be hell to pay.

"I don't like it, Eric," he said. "The word I get is that we're not to

damage the infrastructure any more than is absolutely essential. Which

means no first strikes on command-and-control. This isn't Iraq, for

godsake; this is American property."

"You're saying my main orders are to save the infrastructure?"

Nichols's tone was deliberately wry.

"You've got it. I want you to get in there fast, take down the

hostiles, and get this situation the hell over with. That's the best

way to put this problem behind us and fast. The last thing this man's

army needs is a month's worth of gory headlines. Some quick casualties

can look unavoidable and be over with in a day. A long-drawn-out

situation can make us all look like jerks."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"You didn't hear a damned thing, at least not from me. But if you know

what's good for the Army, and for the country, you'll get in there and

take down the place in a morning, neutralize the hostiles with extreme

prejudice, and let the Army write the headlines with a press release."

Nichols knew what he was hearing: the groundwork for "deniability." And

he despised it. This kind of "cover your ass" bullshit was one of the

things that gave him such contempt for desk jockeys.

"All right," he said smoothly, covering his disgust, "if you want to

play it that way, then we can sure as hell do it. I don't suppose my

opinion in the matter is of a hell of a lot of interest to the

Pentagon."

"Truthfully, no."

"Okay." He leaned back. "Doing it the Pentagon's way,

there would be two points we need to assault. There's the computer

control center, and then there's the launch facility. There're probably

terrorists at both, so we've got to take down both locations

simultaneously. And both, unfortunately, are underground, which also

means we've got to figure out how to get in, get down there, and do it

fast."

"What would be your insertion strategy, given what we've just

discussed?"

"Well, I've already got the alternatives rehearsed. Right now I think

we should stage a diversionary landing on the coast by a SEAL team,

then use the confusion to let the main assault team insert from

choppers. My main worry is not the hostages, but getting my own boys

shot up going in. It's going to be a cluster-fuck if some of those

bastards can get a bead on the task force that's arriving by chopper.

Could mean a lot of casualties. Let something go wrong and I don't even

want to think about how many of my men could get chewed up. But we've

been rehearsing that assault option and I think we can get twenty men

on the ground in about ninety seconds."

The difference, he was thinking, was that he had been planning to do it

under cover of darkness. To suddenly have to revise the entire strategy

and try and take down the place in broad daylight was calling every

assumption into question. But there was no time to try and devise yet

another assault. Shit. All because Washington kept changing its

signals, and when it did get them straight, somebody came up with this

bullshit about minimizing property damage. It was a goddamn outrage.

But that's what you had to expect when REMFs got mixed up in planning

an op. Shit.

"Well, twenty men should do it," Austin said. "And there'll always be

backup from the SEAL team that's providing the coastal diversion.

They'll be there, in-theater so to speak."

"Right." You don't know fuck-all about how an op like this goes down,

Nichols was thinking, and you have the balls to sit there and tell me

how to deploy my resources.

On the other hand, it sounds easy. Too easy. That's what's wrong with

it. The place would appear to be a crackerbox. But these bastards are

pros, so they must already have thought through everything we have.

Time to plan ahead of them.

"All right," Nichols concluded, rising. "I'll have everybody airborne

in fifteen minutes."

5:38 A.M.

Vance twisted around and tried to see his watch. He couldn't make out

the hands, but they both seemed to be pointing in the general direction

of down. Whatever that meant exactly, the time had to be getting on

toward dawn. The six hours that Cally had talked about, the six hours

left before the liftoff: how much of that time was left? It had to be

half gone.

What now? Maybe his cock-and-bull story had impressed the French hood

enough to get him out of the room for a while, but it wasn't going to

cut any ice with anybody who knew anything about lasers. Sooner or

later, he was going to come back. Not something to let the mind dwell

on.

One thing was sure: he felt like he had been run over by a truck. The

blood from the beating was slowly starting to coagulate, crusting on

his face. It had begun to itch, and something where his liver used to

be was emitting stabbing bursts of pain. It would come, then subside,

then come again. He tried to focus his eyes on the room, the piles of

empty crates, wondering if maybe a sharp object was protruding

somewhere, maybe something he could use to cut away at the cord that

held his hands.

Nothing, and it was a stupid idea anyway, left over from too many B

movies. But now his mind was beginning to attempt to function with a

little more rationality, and along with that came the glimmerings of an

idea. The bomb was aboard one of the vehicles and a countdown was under

way, now being handled by Bill's supercomputer. There was no obvious

way to stop it. Maybe, however, there was a not-so-obvious way. A last-

minute reprieve. Assuming he ever got the chance.

He groaned and leaned back, wondering . . .

What happened next came so fast he couldn't really comprehend it at the

time. Only later could he roughly reconstruct the dizzying confluence

of events. But that was as it should have been. The door was suddenly

slammed wide, and two smoke grenades plummeted into the room, followed

by a flash grenade. Next, through the smoke and confusion three men

dressed in black pullovers plunged through the opening and dropped to

their knees, MP5s at the ready.

Jesus! He gasped for breath, blinded by the flash grenade but still

trying to see through the billowing CS that was engulfing everything.

In what seemed like less than a second, one of the men appeared by his

side, and he saw a knife blade flash. A hand was slapped over his mouth

as another rough set of hands yanked him from the chair. His legs were

numb from the bindings, but they came alive as his weight went back

onto them. Terra firma had never felt better.

The men's faces were all covered in balaclavas, but one of them gave

two sharp clicks and, on that signal, they began to drag him out the

door.

He knew better than to say a word. The whole operation had been carried

out with clockwork precision and in perfect silence--except for the

destruction of the door. Had there been any terrorists in the room,

they would have been dead, scarcely knowing what had happened.

As they entered the hallway, one of the men pulled back his antismoke

hood. "You look like hell," Willem Voorst said. "Can you walk?"

"In a manner of speaking." He felt pain shooting up through his wobbly

legs. "I suppose I should ask what took you so long, only it hurts to

talk. You weren't scheduled in for another day. What happened?"

"We moved up the timetable, though you'd be amazed how many people

didn't want us to show up," Marcel remarked, his Belgian calm

returning. "The entire U.S. Navy, to be exact. We were made to feel

very unwanted."

"That's going to seem like a Welcome Wagon compared to what's coming

up." He paused and tried to inhale the comparatively smokeless air of

the hallway. "What's the plan? Do you want to try and take out Launch

Control, or do you want

to move on Command? . . ." That was when he saw Cally. "How did you get

down here?"

"Somebody had to lead these guys in," she said matter-of- factly. Her

face was scratched and her shirt torn. "No thanks to you. All we have

to thank you for is blowing up the gantry"

He just groaned. "Things got complicated."

"But you waited until it moved over the explosive before you blew it. I

saw the whole thing. How could you be so crazy!" Her anger was boiling.

"That wasn't what we agreed to."

"Like I said, things---"

"Please, give me a break. If you worked for me, I'd fire you on the

spot." It was clear she meant every word. "So after you screwed that

up, what was I supposed to do? I had no choice but to get on the radio.

Now look at the mess we're in. What happened?"

"To tell you the truth," Vance answered, "I'm not even quite sure

myself."

"Great. Just great."

"It's a jungle out there."

"No kidding."

"Later. I'll tell all," he said lamely, wanting desperately to change

the subject. "Right now, though, there's the matter of Ramirez. And by

the way, it is him. We had a one-on-one."

"What did he tell you?" Armont asked, his interest suddenly alive. "Did

he say what he wanted out of all this? Ransom or what?"

"We didn't make it that far. A personality conflict got in the way."

"No hint? Nothing?"

"Just that he knows exactly what he's doing. They're going to launch an

atomic bomb. Kill a lot of people somewhere. And I don't think the

payment of ransom is going to make them call it off. They're going to

take the money, then go ahead and do it anyway." He rubbed a hand

across his face, trying to feel a cut, then drew it away and examined

the blood in the half-light, not quite sure what he was seeing. "But I

still think that if we take him out, the rest of them will fold." He

looked at Cally, trying to meet the outraged glare she was bestowing on

him. "Any idea where he is now?"

'The last I knew, he was in Launch," she said, still visibly fuming.

"Then I guess that's the first objective."

"Jesus, do you want to go in shooting?" She looked around at the motley

men of ARM. "Those are my people in there, you know, my friends. It

could be a bloodbath."

"Doesn't have to be." Spiros had pulled back his balaclava and was

shaking Vance's hand with an air of genuine contrition. Maybe trying to

cheer him up after Cally Andros's blast. "Michael, I'm damned sorry

about all this. The whole thing is my fault, really."

"Spilt milk," Vance replied. "Now we have to look ahead."

"Well, it's my spilt milk, as you say," Spiros declared, "and I want to

clean it up myself. If all we need to do is take down Ramirez, I think

I can get in there and maybe do it without too much in the way of

pyrotechnics."

"What do you mean?" Armont asked.

"Let me go in by myself, alone. I've got a uniform, so I'll just be

another Greek mechanic. At least we should try that first. See what I

can do."

"Dimitri, that's a heroic offer," Armont said, "but--"

"No, it's not heroic, it's realistic. It's a chance, but one I think we

should take."

"We don't stay in business by taking chances," Armont declared, vetoing

him on the spot. "We go in as a team."

"All or nobody," Hans said. "It may not always be best, but those are

the rules."

"Exactly." Armont closed out the subject. "All or nothing. So let's get

out the blueprints and start assigning the entry-points."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

11:16 P.M.

"It's him," Alicia's voice came back over the intercom in the Oval

Office. By now it looked as disheveled as the Situation Room in the

basement.

"What?" Hansen said. "The son of a bitch is on the phone again? At this

hour?"

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Just a minute." He clicked off the intercom and returned to his other

call. "Caroline, I don't know. Just play it by ear and do the best you

can. Press Secretaries get paid for giving non-answers. Tell the

goddamn Post we have no comment. Try and make a deal. Say you'll give

their team an exclusive, deep background, just for them, if they'll

hold off another few hours to give us time to sort this out. Tell him

we promise not to give the Times anything fit to print until after

their deadline tomorrow. The late edition." He paused. "You're probably

right, but give it a shot anyway. Look, I've got to go."

He reached over and pushed a second button on the console.

"Yes."

"Mr. President," came the voice, its accent more pronounced now, "I

know you think you can recover this facility with an assault, but I

want to assure you that any such action would be a very costly

mistake."

"The only mistake that's been made so far was made by you. Going there

in the first place." Hansen glanced at the listing of his commitments

for the next day. Ted would have to cancel all of them. This wasn't how

the presidency was supposed to be. Nobody told him he would be spending

days on end negotiating with a criminal threatening mass murder.

"Let me put it like this," the voice went on. "If there is an assault,

all I have to do is retire to the lower level of the facility and then

detonate one of the nuclear devices I now have armed. It's radio-

controlled."

"If you want to commit suicide, then go ahead," Hansen said. What kind

of bluff was that? he wondered.

"Let me put your mind at ease," came the voice, as measured and secure

as it was foreboding. "My revolutionary colleagues and I will be at the

main power coil, which is buried at least three hundred feet below the

bedrock here. It is a ready-made bomb shelter. Any invading force,

however, would be vaporized, along with all the civilians."

"You'd never escape," Hansen shot back. "What's the point?"

"That remains to be seen. But what you have to ask yourself is whether

you are prepared to have a nuclear disaster in the Aegean."

On that point, Hansen admitted to himself, the son of a bitch had a

point. The political costs, not to mention the economic costs, would be

staggering.

"Look," he said, "you're proposing a scenario neither of us wants. It

would be irresponsible and immoral. Though I suppose those points don't

disturb you very much."

"Let me help your thought processes. You have twenty minutes, starting

now. If at the end of that time you can't assure me that the assault

has been called off--please don't bother to deny that one is imminent--

then what will happen will be on your hands." He paused. "Incidentally,

I also will bring Professor Mannheim to the phone then, and you can

explain to him why he is about to die. I am putting this line on hold.

You now have nineteen minutes and forty seconds." The phone went

silent.

Hansen stared at Ed Briggs, sitting bleary-eyed across on the couch,

then returned his gaze to the desk, noting the time on the digital

clock.

6:25 A.M.

"Alpha Leader, this is SEAL One," crackled the radio. "Bearing two-

zero-niner. Range five hundred meters. No hostile fire."

"Roger," Nichols replied. "Continue inbound." He clicked off his

walkie-talkie, then turned around and yelled to the men in the back of

the Huey.

"Okay, heads up. The assault is now in progress. We go in at 0630

hours."

The Deltas nodded as they checked their watches and spare ammo clips.

The twenty-three men were all wearing black pullover hoods, each with a

thin plastic microphone that looked like a phone operator's. Over these

they had Kevlar helmets with protective goggles and light balaclavas,

while their bulletproof assault vests included pockets filled with

grenades and extra ammo for their H&K MP5 assault submachine guns.

Nichols was using a squad of ten Navy SEALs to stage a diversionary

assault on the shoreline, the same kind of diversion that had been

employed so successfully by the SEALs in the war to liberate Kuwait.

After leaving the carrier, they would approach the island at forty mph

in a pair of Fountain-33 speedboats, powered by 1,000-hp MerCruiser

engines. About one kilometer offshore, they were scheduled to disembark

into two motorized Zodiac rubber raiding craft that they had lashed to

the bow. If all went according to plan, they would hit the coastline in

full view and provide diversionary fire, giving the real assault team

an opening to take the two main objectives.

That's when the serious action would begin. Nichols and his men would

then come in using Army choppers--two HH-1K Huey gunships and two AH-64A

Apaches. The Hueys would hover and drop off the insertion teams, while

the Apaches would provide backup firepower that--with their 30mm chain

guns, Hellfire missiles, and 70mm folding-fin rocket pods--could easily

be mistaken for the end of the world.

The assault was timed down to the second. Three minutes after the

diversionary SEAL action began, the two Hueys would set down in the

middle of the island and pour out the real assault teams, one team to

storm Command and the other to hit Launch Control, massively. He

figured if they took both at once, there would be no place for the

terrorists to hide. That was the best way they knew to accomplish their

first objective, which was to neutralize any nuclear devices safely.

The outstanding unknown, of course, was the location of those devices,

and their state of readiness.

You had to assume terrorists weren't suicidal, Nichols told himself . .

. but yet, what about Beirut and the Marine barracks, demolished by a

suicide mission? Such things were never outside the realm of

possibility. So if these crazy fuckers decided to go out in a blaze of

glory, it wouldn't exactly be a first. . . .

"Alpha Leader." The radio came alive again. "SEAL One objective secure.

No sign of any hostiles down here."

"Copy, SEAL One." Shit, Nichols thought. The bastards didn't go for it.

They're battening down, planning to make a stand. And why not? They've

got hostages. They think we're not going to hit the place.

They've got another thing coming. It's just going to be bloodier than

we had hoped. If they start using the hostages for human shields . . .

"Request permission to advance toward Launch Control," came the radio

again. "If we're going to provide that diversion, we're going to have

to go in."

Why not? Nichols thought. We're already improvising, but maybe the

bastards can still be drawn out. It's worth a try.

"Roger, SEAL One," he said, checking his watch. "Watch yourself. It

could be a setup." He knew the SEALs were lightly armed, with only a

German Heckler & Koch submachine gun each, plus a couple of M16s

specially equipped with M203 grenade launchers, the so-called "bloop

tube." Still, those boys could raise some hell.

"Confirmed."

"Copy. We'll slip in here for five. Kick hell out of anything that's

not nailed down."

"Roger, Alpha Leader. If they show their heads, they're gonna know

we're in town."

6:26 A.M.

"All right," Armont declared, "we make the insert here." He tapped his

finger on the blueprint. "We hit the nerve center of Launch with flash-

bangs and tear gas, and take it down. If we're lucky, Ramirez will

still be there, and that should be the end of it. He always controls an

operation totally. Nobody else will have any authority. That's his

style. If we handle it surgically, there shouldn't be any major

casualties among the friendlies."

The area around Launch Control was still foggy, illuminated mainly by

the lingering spotlights on two vehicles. No technicians were in

evidence, since the final stages of the countdown were underway and

nothing remained to be done to the exterior of VX-1. The dry ice

"propellant" had been installed and now the action was underground,

where the subterranean energy-storage system, the superconducting coil,

was being primed. At this point, most of the staffers were monitoring

the last-minute computer checks of the in-flight systems.

"Sounds good," Reggie said, pointing to a spot on the blueprint. "I'll

position myself right there, where I'll have a clear shot at the main

points of ingress and egress. Now let's move it before somebody checks

in with the security system and picks up our penetration."

Everybody else agreed, signifying it by a last-minute review of weapons

and gear. Everybody, that is, except Michael Vance, who had been

thinking, and worrying, about the irreversible step that a frontal

assault would represent. What if Ramirez had left Launch and gone back

to Command? The man had a habit of keeping on the move. It was an

innate part of his inner nature.

"You know . . ." He rubbed at his swollen face and winced at the pain.

"I'd like to suggest a different tack. A sort of 'look before you leap'

approach."

"What do you mean?" Armont asked distractedly, anxious to get the

assault under way while there was still a lingering cover of fog and

semi dark.

"Pierre, before the team assault, why don't you let me test the waters

a bit. See if I can't be a decoy long enough to make them show their

hand."

"Care to explain exactly what you have in mind?" Armont asked, always

willing to listen, if skeptically.

"They know I'm here. They don't know about the team, at least not yet.

And, more to the point, we don't know if Ramirez is really in there or

not. But assuming he is, instead of storming the place, why not let me

first see if I can't draw him out, at least give us a preview of his

resources."

"How would anybody go about doing that?" Reggie was double-checking the

sight on his Enfield L85A1 assault rifle, still anxious to get moving.

"Well," Vance went on, "he wants me. So maybe this is not the worst

time to use our heads instead of hardware. Why not use _me _as bait?"

"Michael," Armont interjected, "whatever you have in mind, you've done

enough already. This isn't your fight, and I can't in good conscience

ask you to do anything more. You just take care of those bruises and

let us handle it from here on out. Tell you the truth, you look like

hell."

Vance paused, trying to get a grip on his own feelings. "All right,

maybe it's just a vendetta on my part, unprofessional, but the real

truth is I'd like the chance to take him down myself." He realized he

had truly come to hate Ramirez, a killer without a conscience who

deserved anything he got. "Besides, there's another reason. I think

he's got an old professor in there somewhere, and I confess a certain

fondness for the man, in spite of all his bungling. If you rush the

place, God only knows what he's liable to do. Probably get himself

killed."

"I can understand you might feel you have a personal stake in this,"

Reggie Hall said finally, "but what exactly do you think you can do?

Remember the old saying, Shakespeare or somebody, a hero is the bloke

who died a-Wednesday."

"I don't plan to try and get killed. But why not let me take some flash

grenades and a gun? Go up there by the gantry and generate a little

excitement. If he's still there, maybe I can draw him out. He won't

realize I've got backup. You take it from there."

"I'm not sure I like it," Armont grumbled, slamming a clip into his

automatic. "If you ask me, there's been too damned much impromptu

strategy on this op already."

"On the other hand, Michael has a point," Hans interjected with

Germanic logic. "If we can separate Ramirez from the hostages, it could

prevent a lot of danger to the friendlies. My only worry is that if it

doesn't work, then we've blown the element of surprise. All of a sudden

we've got a firefight on our hands."

"We've got a firefight anyway," Marcel observed, "no matter what

happens. So why not?"

"I agree it's a gamble," Vance paused. "But the alternative could be a

genuine disaster." He took an MP5 from the bag of hardware they had

brought and checked the clip. "Does anybody strenuously object?"

"I do," Cally finally spoke up, her anger at him seeming to soften.

"We'll probably have to come and pick up the pieces. But you're right

about Isaac. Knowing him, he's liable to just walk into a line of fire,

out of sheer absentminded-ness."

"All right." Vance looked around. "While the fog is still in, I want to

go up." He was pointing. Why wait for a vote? Nobody seemed to be

strongly against it. "I'll come in from up there"--he pointed--"by the

base of what's left of the gantry, and try to draw him out. If nothing

else, it'll be diversion. If it doesn't work, you can still go in."

"All right, you win," Armont said. His eyes betrayed his lingering

misgivings. "But you're making yourself a target, so don't try any

heroics. If Ramirez does show his face, let us take it from there. This

isn't your game."

Willem Voorst nodded and pulled out an extra vest, already festooned

with grenades. He handed it to Vance, who slipped it on and secured it,

wincing silently from the pain in his rib cage.

"Just be bloody careful," Reggie Hall said. That and nothing more.

British understatement.

Calypso Andros had no such reserve. Her hair plastered across her face,

she reached up and impulsively kissed him on a swollen cheek. Then she

whispered good luck.

6:31 A.M.

"Alpha Leader, this is SEAL One. I think we've spotted some hostiles."

With a smile, Nichols clicked his radio to transmit. He was in the lead

Huey, now hovering slightly more than a kilometer away from the

shoreline of Andikythera.

"I copy, SEAL One. What's your status?"

"We're ready to get acquainted. Are you synchronized?"

"Roger," Nichols's terse voice replied back. "I want all hell to break

loose. And any bad guys you can pin down or neutralize will be much

appreciated. We insert in ninety seconds."

"We roger that, Alpha Leader. SEAL One team on full auto."

Nichols turned to his pilot, Manny Jackson. "Okay, it's a go. I want us

on the ground in nine-zero seconds."

6:32 A.M.

Vance moved quickly up the hill, toward the toppled gantry. Already he

had a view of the wide sloping window that was the center of Launch

Control, and he could see figures there, though not clearly enough to

know if Ramirez was one of them. Maybe they were SatCom staffers or . .

No. There was Ramirez, talking on the phone. And standing beside him

was the man Vance had come to love . . . Isaac Mannheim. The old

professor looked haggard, a perfectionist man who had despaired. He

clearly had lost touch with time and place. Then Ramirez handed him the

phone and barked something at him. Dejectedly he took it and started

speaking.

Damn. Any half-competent sniper could take out Ramirez here and now. He

thought he was safe, and he had never been more exposed. But this was

not a job for an amateur, not with Mannheim so close.

Okay, he thought, guess this is going to have to happen the hard way.

He extracted a flash grenade from the vest Willem had given him and got

ready to pull the pin.

6:33 A.M.

"Johan, he'll do it," Isaac Mannheim was saying into the handset that

Ramirez had thrust into his face. 'They have two devices. One is on VX-

1, ready for launch, and the other one is here. They say they've rigged

a radio-controlled detonator on it. He's going to use it if you don't

do whatever it is he wants."

"Let me talk to the son of a bitch again," Hansen said.

"All right, Johan. Please talk to him." Mannheim handed back the

receiver. His hand was shaking.

"Have you made a decision, Mr. President?" Ramirez inquired.

"Yes, goddammit. I've got an open line to Gournes. You can listen while

I issue the order to hold off the assault for six hours. Does that

satisfy you?"

"It will do for a start," Ramirez said. "Then we can talk about the

money."

And he listened as Hansen spoke tersely through the secure

communications link to Mission Control on the Kennedy.

What he did not hear in Hansen's conversation was the incredulity on

the other end of the line. But the assault is already under way,

General Max Austin was declaring, stunned. They were in communication

with Nichols, and the SEALs were about to open fire on the hostiles.

"Just scrub the operation," Hansen barked. "That's an order."

"That was a wise decision," Ramirez said, listening. "Now about the

money."

"Check with the bank in fifteen minutes," Hansen said, a note of

resignation in his voice. "It will be deposited. Now, I want you out of

there, all hostages safe, and those weapons disarmed and left."

"You have nothing to worry about," Ramirez declared, scarcely able to

contain his sense of triumph. "You have made a decision for humanity."

"Just get the hell gone. And don't try my patience." This time it was

Hansen's turn to abruptly break the connection.

Ramirez was cradling the receiver, savoring his triumph, when a

blinding flash erupted from the direction of the fallen gantry. And

there, in the momentary glare, stood Michael Vance.

6:34 A.M.

The leader of the SEALs, Lieutenant Devon Robbins, spoke into his thin

microphone. "Can you see them? We could use an IR scope." The SEALs had

split into two teams, as was their practice, and he was leading the

first.

"Hard to make out much in this fog," came back his point man,

Lieutenant Philip Pease, who was leading the second

team. Pease was exactly twenty meters away, all but invisible because

of his dark commando gear. He was studying the men up the hill with a

pair of 8x30mm Steiner stereo-optic binoculars. Though they were

designed for low light, he still could not see clearly. "But they're

dressed in black, and they look like they're armed."

"What else can you ID?"

"They're not together, exactly. It's almost as though they're deploying

for something."

"What the hell are they doing outside in the first place? Does it mean

the fuckers haven't gotten around to taking over the launch facility

yet? Maybe they're getting set up for their next move."

"Can't confirm anything, SEAL One. Just too much damned fog. . . .

Wait, yeah, they've got assault rifles of some kind. Looks like some

big-time shit. That's a definite confirm."

"Do they look like they're setting up?"

"All I can tell for sure is they're moving, spreading out. Something's

about to go down. Got to be baddies. Who else could they be?"

"All right, SEAL Two, our mission is to create a diversion, shake them

up, and let Nichols's chopper teams handle the heavy lifting. Those

Apaches can make a man give his heart to Jesus."

"You've got a rog on that, SEAL One. But if we're here to make an

impression, I say let's give them a big Navy welcome. Time for a close

encounter."

"We came to play. Get--"

A flare blossomed from somewhere up in the vicinity of the vehicles,

illuminating the fog into a huge white cloud, vast and mysterious.

"What in hell!" yelled Pease's voice on the radio. "That was farther

up. Maybe it's a two-point assault."

"Looked like it was over to the left. Can you tell what happened?"

"Must have been a flash-bang. These assholes brought their own

boombox."

"Okay, SEAL Two, we've got a mission. First things first.

For now we just neutralize those bastards in black. Looks like half our

hostiles are outside and in the clear. On the count of three."

The SEALS all clicked off the safeties on their MP5s and took aim,

wishing they could see something more than dark, vague outlines in the

fog.

6:35 A.M.

How the hell, Ramirez wondered, did Vance get on the loose again?

Moreau was supposed to have taken care of him. Had he screwed up, too?

I should have just let Wolf kill him in the first place and had done

with it. This time, I'll just handle it myself.

He checked his pockets, making sure he had extra clips for his Beretta

9mm and then he headed through the door leading into the open bay of

Launch. The SatCom systems engineers and ground-control specialists,

not privy to the wide windows of Launch Control, had no idea what had

just happened outside. They were too busy worrying about the fog,

making the final checks of the electronics, monitoring the countdown

clicking off. And all of them had laid side bets on whether the launch,

now scheduled for less than an hour and a half away, would be able to

proceed. The wagering leaned toward the fog clearing in time.

Ramirez strode past the bustling gray SatCom uniforms with a single-

mindedness that characterized his every move. How the hell, he was

wondering, did Michael Vance get on the island in the first place? He

was one of the back-office support types for ARM, a financial guy.

Nobody had ever ID'd him in an assault. It made no sense that he was

here, when none of the rest of the ARM operatives were around. Why

Vance, who was a nobody?

All the same, he had specialized in screwing up things ever since the

initial penetration. He had managed to wreck the Hind, destroy the

gantry, make a general nuisance of himself. The time had come to put a

stop to the annoyance and then get moving. If the money had been

delivered, as Hansen had claimed, then it was time to move on to the

next phase. Just take care of a few banking transactions, then put the

egress plan into motion.

He hit the lock control on the door, which had long since been

defaulted to manual, and strode out, his Beretta ready. The problem now

was finding that bastard Vance in the fog, but the reflected light off

the spots illuminating the vehicles was going to provide visibility.

Besides, the bastard was a cowboy, took chances right and left. He also

didn't seem to be a particularly competent marksman. . . .

6:36 A.M.

"There he is," Pierre Armont said, peering through the fog with his

Tasco Infocus Zoom binoculars. They did not require focusing, and with

a touch of a lever he jacked up the power from six to twelve. "I want

the sucker myself. We missed him in Beirut, but this time . . ."

Up above, Sabri Ramirez was gliding along the side of the fallen

gantry, an automatic in his hand. Ramirez, Armont knew, was famous for

his Beretta 9mm, used to such deadly effect over the years. It was his

trademark, always employed for assassinations.

But now, finally, after all the years. There was the Hyena, exposed and

clear. One shot. One shot would do it.

"He's mine." Armont leveled his MP5, captured Ramirez in the sight, and

clicked it to full auto. Vance was a genius. He had lured the Hyena

from his lair. Take him out, and the whole op would be over in time for

morning coffee.

6:37 A.M.

Ramirez was edging down the side of the gantry, the cold angle-iron

against his back, when there was an eruption of gunfire down the hill.

It was controlled, professional fire that seemed to be coming from two

locations. An assault.

Well, fuck Hansen. The President had lied, claiming he had called it

off. Had he lied about the money, too? The fleeting thought made him

seethe. But one problem at a time.

He quickly ducked behind the fallen gantry, disappearing into the

shadows. One more phone call, then a check with Geneva. If the money

hadn't been transferred, Souda Bay and the American Sixth Fleet were

both going to disappear in a nuclear cloud. In fact, they were anyway.

What better way to cover an egress?

6:38 A.M.

"What in--" Armont emitted a curse as all hell broke loose behind them.

A fusillade of automatic-weapons fire rained around, from somewhere in

the direction of the shoreline. It was almost like covering fire, not

well directed, and since everybody on the ARM team had long made a

practice of minimizing exposure at all times, he didn't expect

immediate casualties. But what in hell! Had Ramirez's terrorist team

encircled them, drawn them in? He felt like an idiot.

"Hostile fire!" He gave the signal to get down and take cover, swinging

his hand from above his head to shoulder level, but that was nothing

more than redundant instinct. The ARM team was already on the ground,

ready to return fire if so ordered.

Nobody, however, was wasting ammo on the darkness. The team had little

enough to spare, and besides--why give away your position and create a

target? The third consideration was that ARM never fired on an unknown.

They were, after all, civilians and answerable. An army could wreak

whatever havoc it pleased and later blame everything on the heat of

battle. ARM had to be damned sure who it was taking down.

By the time Armont's yell died away, everybody on the team had already

found cover behind the random outcroppings of rocks. Everybody, that

is, except Hugo Voorst, who spun around and stumbled backward, moaned,

then collapsed.

6:39 A.M.

"Hold your fire! Goddammit, hold your fire." The SEAL leader,

Lieutenant Devon Robbins, was pressing in his earpiece, incredulous at

what he was hearing. Around him the team was on the ground, in firing

position, keeping the terrorists up the hill pinned down. Next would

come the assault. "Roger, Alpha Leader, I copy. Does anybody know

what's going on with this whole fucked-up op? . . . I copy."

He looked around. "We just got aborted."

"What the fuck do you mean," the SEAL next to him, John McCleary, said.

He was slamming another clip into his MP5.

"The team is extracted. Now." Robbins could scarcely believe his own

words.

"You have got to be fucking kidding," came the radio voice of

Lieutenant Philip Pease. "We've got the assholes. A couple of grenades

from the blooper and then we take them. They're history."

"Hey, I just report the orders, I don't give them," Robbins replied.

"Immediate egress. That's the word. Who the fuck knows?"

"But what about the choppers? Nichols is coming in with the Apaches."

"Goumes says they're scrubbed, too. Everybody's on hold. Nichols just

about ate the fucking radio. He's going apeshit."

"Well, the hell with Gournes," came a third voice, through a black

pullover. "Maybe we had a 'radio failure.' The fuckers are pinned down.

Let's just go ahead and take them down. The whole op is blown. Now

they're going to know we're coming in."

"They probably figured on it anyway," Robbins said, clicking on the

safety of his MP5. "But who the hell cares. We're out of here. Flint,

you've got the rear. Use it. I'm on point. Let's hit the beach. In

five. Pass it on." He switched on his radio. "Listen up. Anybody not in

a Zodiac in five mikes swims."

6:40 A.M.

Georges LeFarge had been studying Peretz, trying to figure out what was

going on. One thing was sure: the countdown was about to switch into

auto mode--which meant the priming of the superconducting coil would

begin. When that happened, the Cyclops would be entering a very

delicate, and dangerous, phase. Shutting it down after auto mode

commenced required the kind of familiarity with the system he was sure

Peretz did not have. Mess up then and you could literally burn out the

huge power storage ring buried deep in the island's core--which was why

the Fujitsu was deliberately programmed to thwart any straightforward

command to abort. Ironically, the fail-safe mechanism was designed not

to shut down the Cyclops, but rather to carry through. At this stage,

the only way to abort the launch sequence safely was to bleed off the

power using the Cyclops's main radar, the way they had done early last

night. To simply flip a switch and turn everything off would be to risk

melting the multimillion-dollar cryogenic storage coil down under. The

whole thing was as bizarre as it was real. By continuing the countdown

until everything went into auto mode, Peretz was creating a monster of

inevitability.

He was currently trying to explain this to the Israeli, hoping the guy

could conceive the gravity of what he was about to do. "You don't

understand," he was pleading, his voice plaintive above the clicks of

switches and buzz of communications gear in Command, "you're going to

risk--"

"Hey, kid, chill out." Peretz did not bother to look up from his

terminal. A strip-chart recorder next to him was humming away as

voltage and amperage checks proceeded.

"But look." Georges pointed to the screen of an adjacent workstation.

"You've got less than three minutes left to abort the power-up. After

the auto-test sequence it's doing now is finished, the superconducting

coil starts final power-up. That's when everything switches to auto

mode. It's all automatic from then on. For a very good reason."

"Hey, that's why we're here, kid." Peretz was grinning his crazy grin.

'This is not some fucking dry run. This is the big one. I've got no

intention of shutting it down. We're gonna launch, dude."

Dore Peretz knew exactly what the critical go/no-go points in the

countdown were; he had researched the Cyclops system extensively. He

also knew that after auto mode, there would be no altering the orbital

abort and the timing of the detonation. Once auto mode began, he was

home free. He could split.

The trajectory he had programmed with SORT was not for Souda Bay but

for low orbit. One orbit. The abort had been preset. The bomb was going

to be delivered right back here on Andikythera. It was brilliant. Get

the money in place, get out, and then wipe out the island, all evidence

of the operation.

Including Sabri Ramirez.

The world would then think that all the terrorists were dead. And they

would be--all, that is, except Dr. Dore Peretz.

In truth, he was thinking, this was almost the most fun he'd had in

years. The actual most fun had been the memo he had presented to Sabri

Ramirez concerning the new split of the money. All along he had thought

the phrase fifty-fifty had a nice solid ring. What point was there in

spreading the ransom all over the place? Giving it to a bunch of

assholes?

Which was why Dore Peretz had, two weeks earlier, established an

account in the same Geneva bank where Ramirez was having the money

delivered. The memo had instructed Ramirez to advise the bank to move

half the money into that account as soon as it arrived. And when funds

were deposited into that account, the bank was instructed to move them

yet again--well beyond the reach of anybody.

All he needed now was proof that Ramirez had faxed the bank with the

new instructions. So had he? The time had come to check in with the

bastard and find out. Then it was over. All he would have to do after

that was commandeer the chopper and get the hell out.

The only missing link was somebody to fly the Sikorsky, and the perfect

choice for that little task was in the next room, a certain Vietnam

fighter-pilot turned CEO. . . .

He motioned for Georges LeFarge. "Okay, everything's set. Auto mode.

We've got exactly sixty-eight minutes to liftoff. Is that enough

excitement for you?"

LeFarge did feel something of a thrill, in spite of his better

judgment. He didn't know why Peretz would want to abort the flight--

which he knew was what SORT had been programmed to do--but at least VX-1

was going up. And when you worked on a project like this, there was

only one real payoff--when the vehicle left the pad. All the months,

years, of preparations led up to that final moment. . . .

"I want Bates," Peretz declared, pointing toward the closed office

door. "So, go and get him. That's an order. It's time he got in on the

fun. After all, this is his baby.

Georges turned away from his useless workstation, still shaken by the

sight of auto mode clicking in, and walked back toward the door. Bates

had been locked in there, mainly to keep him quiet. But now things were

starting to happen. Several members of the terrorist group had come in,

started readying weapons, and were acting nervous.

Well, Georges thought, maybe they're worried the U.S. might just get

off its ass and come in, do something about this outrage. The

terrorists had plenty of heavy weapons, and now they were checking them

out and slapping in clips of ammunition. Bill Bates was not going to

like what he saw. . . .

He opened the door and motioned for Bates to come out. He slowly rose

from his chair, looking beat and haggard, and came. Georges's first

impression was that he was missing a large slice of his old zip. He

looked like a man near defeat-- exhausted, even disoriented.

"How are you feeling?" Peretz asked.

"How do you think?" Bates growled, looking around at all the assembled

terrorists now readying their weapons. The place was turning into an

armed camp.

"Just a friendly inquiry," Peretz went on, flashing his empty grin.

"We're about to start the fireworks up at Launch, and I didn't want you

to miss out on any of it." He paused to check the countdown scrolling

on the terminal in front of him. "So . . ." he continued, turning back,

"I think it's time we three--you, me, and Georges here--took a small

stroll and checked out how things are going."

"Mind telling me what in blazes you're up to?" Bates demanded. His

voice was still strong even though he had lost much of the spring in

his step. "If you fuckers have killed any more of my people, I'm going

to see to it personally that--"

"Take it easy, man," Peretz interjected. "As long as nobody causes any

trouble, then nobody gets hurt." He turned and motioned for Jean-Paul

Moreau. "Keep an eye on this place. He swept his arm over the sea of

technicians and systems analysts. "Everything's right on target with

the countdown." It was an impromptu private joke, a spur-of-the-moment

thing, that he found delightful.

Jean-Paul Moreau, his reflexes now slowing slightly from lack of sleep,

did not get the joke, and he did not like the feeling he was getting.

Dore Peretz was a canny little fucker, and he suddenly seemed in a

great hurry to get out of Command. Was the _batard_ up to something? It

was puzzling, and troubling.

He adjusted his blond ponytail and gazed around the room, now a

cacophony of preflight activity. Keeping everybody in line was the

least of his problems. These white-shirted engineers were so scared

that if you said jump, they'd all stand up and ask how high. No, what

bothered him was not knowing what the damned Israeli had up his sleeve.

Peretz was planning something, probably intending to leave somebody to

hold the bag.

And it wasn't hard to figure out who that somebody was. . . .

"You know," he said to Peretz, "everybody has orders to stay at their

posts and keep security, in case there's an assault. You pulling out of

here is not part of the plan."

"Hey, I've been handling this thing so far, and the launch is set. Now

I need to check on the telemetry and data hookups at Launch--if that's

okay with you. I've taken care of my end, so now all you've got to do

is keep any of these assholes from getting on the computer and trying

to screw things up. Nobody so much as touches a keyboard, got it?"

"Got it." Moreau nodded, hating the little son of a bitch even more.

"Good," he said, turning back to Bates. "Okay, baby, we're gone."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

6:58 A.M.

Hugo Voorst was lying propped against a rock, his shoulder bandaged

with white strips of gauze from the first-aid kit. Now that the flow of

blood had been staunched, Marcel was injecting him with a shot of

morphine to quell the looming pain. Happily the hit was clean, just a

flesh wound and nothing serious, but he would be of no further use on

the mission. Worse still, he actually had become a liability. The only

thing to do was to leave him where he was, with an H&K machine pistol

for protection, and proceed. You didn't like to abandon anybody, but .

. .

Voorst, for his own part, mainly felt sheepish. Giddy though he was,

the result of mild shock, his Dutch stoicism was still holding up.

"I'll be all right," he was saying, a slow grin covering his face as

the narcotic kicked in. "Sorry to be a party pooper."

"You got lucky," Hans soothed, checking the bandage one last time. "You

get to take a little time off. But you may still have a chance to give

us some backup if things get hot."

Armont had not said anything, leaving the kidding around to the younger

men. They needed it to keep up their macho. The hard truth was, the

whole operation was rapidly turning into a disaster of the first

magnitude. Everything possible had gone wrong. And now he had no idea

where Vance was. The situation had gone red, the odds deteriorating

rapidly.

Ramirez had been lured out, but he had been saved by the _deus ex

machina _of an unexpected but short-lived attack from their rear. What

had that been all about?

Then he noticed a glint in the sky, through the early dawn, and

realized it was a helo, far in the distance, banking as its pilot began

turning back. He looked more carefully and counted four. All egressing.

"Take a look." He pointed toward the cluster of tiny dots slowly

diminishing in the dim sky. "Looks like somebody showed up just long

enough to screw us, then aborted. And now Mike is back in the Belly of

the Beast." He turned and peered at the fog-swathed floodlights, now

growing pale as dawn began arriving in earnest. Around them the dull

outlines of trees and rocks were lightening into greens and granite-

grays. "With the damned rocket still sitting up there ready to blast

off.

"All right," he continued after a thoughtful pause, "we know where

Ramirez is, but after all the shooting around here, the idea of a nice

clean insertion will have to go by the boards." He returned his gaze to

Launch Control. "No way in hell could we take Launch by surprise now.

Ramirez has got to know something is brewing. Which means we're going

to have to do things the old-fashioned way. Bad news for the hostages

if they don't know how to get out of the way, but we've got to deal

with the bomb, no matter what."

There was muttering and grumbling. ARM men did not fancy excessive

gunfire. They had all long passed that age of youthful denial when men

thought they were invulnerable. They had seen too much.

"By the way," Armont abruptly interrupted everybody's chain of thought,

"what happened to the woman who was here, Dr. Andros? Was she hit?"

Nobody had noticed, up until that point, that she was absent. They

quickly checked the rocks around the area, but she was nowhere to be

found.

"Forget about her," he finally decreed. "If she doesn't want to stay

with us, then she's not our problem." He thought a minute. "Maybe we

should break radio silence and see if we can raise Vance. He took a

unit with him."

"I'm against it," Willem Voorst declared. "As a matter of fact, I'm

against doing anything. If the U.S. is planning to come in here and

take down this place, then why should we risk our own ass. Let's just

get in a secure position and let them do our work for us. We've never

had that kind of help before. It might be refreshing. I think Michael

can take care of himself. Why--"

"No, we can't wait for them, whoever it was." Armont cut him off. "I

don't know what the hell they were really up to. And besides, if that

little demonstration we just had was any indication, their mode is

going to be to shoot first and ask questions later. So we have to

finish our job, just get it over with. And I'll tell you what I think.

Since Launch is a muck-up now, our best bet is to keep Ramirez off

guard for a while and go ahead and take down Command. Immediately,

before they realize what's going on. With any luck, maybe they won't be

expecting it." He looked around. "Make a three-point entry, flash-bangs

and tear gas. Just blow out the place." He paused to let the words

sink. "Well," he continued finally, "does anybody disagree?"

There were nervous frowns, but nobody did. Instead, they began silently

collecting their gear.

11:59 P.M.

Hansen had returned to the basement Situation Room, where maps and

operation plans cluttered the teakwood table and littered meal trays,

grease encrusting on the white china, were piled up in the corner. No

stewards were allowed in the room, and nobody else was going to clean

up. He had not slept for a day and a half, and he was now showing a

ragged shadow of beard. Ted Brock had heard some of his aides upstairs

commenting to each other _sotto voce_ that he had never seemed older.

"All right," he said. "I've called off the assault and given the

bastard six hours to clear out. I've also released the money, had it

wired to the account he wanted. So maybe now he'll leave quietly. Our

deal is that he frees the hostages unharmed, disarms the bombs, and

gets the hell out of there. But I'll tell you something else: he's not

going to live to spend a dime. The minute he's airborne, his ass is

ours. I want him shot out of the sky, and the hell with the

consequences."

"He'll probably take some civilians along with him," Briggs said.

"Hostages. We could be looking at some dicey press."

"All right, then, so we won't shoot him down; we'll just force him

down, the way we handled that Libyan passenger jet with terrorists

aboard. There was official flack for a week or so from the usual

quarters, but off the record everybody was applauding. When you do the

right thing, the world makes allowances for how you manage it."

Briggs remained skeptical, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He

wanted to have as little to do with the operation as possible. Sooner

or later there would be loss of life, he was sure of it, and the

chances were the losses would be massive. He had no interest in making

the history books as the author of a civilian massacre, terrorists or

no terrorists.

"All right, Mr. President, I'll tell the Deltas to keep their powder

dry until we play this one out." He had already heard from General Max

Austin, who said Nichols was fit to be tied, eating his cigars instead

of smoking them. Who could blame him? To have a Commander-in-Chief

micromanaging an anti-terrorist op violated every known canon of

military strategy. There might be a more surefire recipe for disaster,

but it was hard to conjure one offhand.

Hansen, for his own part, recognized the pitfalls of giving the

terrorists more time. However, he hoped it would end up being the rope--

make that false confidence--that would hang them.

He had wired the "ransom" money to the numbered account at Banco

Ambrosiano, as requested. There, his intelligence on the ground was

reporting, the eight hundred million had been split and transferred to

several other accounts. Then portions of it had been immediately wired

out--to a destination not yet known, though it damned well would be.

What, he wondered, was that all about? Were the terrorists in the

process of screwing each other? It was a possibility. Everything was a

possibility. But it also was smart, because it made recovering the

funds that much more difficult. They were, in effect, laundering it

even before they had made their getaway. These characters, whoever they

were, were taking no chances.

7:03 A.M.

"Load it on now," Ramirez was saying. "We're taking it with us." He

flashed a smile from behind his aviator shades. "You never know when

you'll need a nuke."

Abdoullah couldn't believe his luck. He had been sure that Number One

intended to try and kill him. But now it turned out to be the others,

the ones he'd sent over to Command, that he planned to leave in the

lurch.

Dawn was breaking, but there still was enough early fog to mask their

movements partially. It was definitely time to get the show on the

road. One of the bombs had been installed on the VX-1 vehicle and a

countdown was under way. When that bomb devastated Souda Bay, nobody

was going to be worrying about a lone chopper somewhere over the Med.

And with the other weapon still in their hands, the whole operation was

going like clockwork. The money was in place --he was now rich--and they

were packing to leave.

The bomb they were now loading actually made him think. Maybe, he mused

fleetingly, he could just kill Number One and return it. It would be

the final revenge for what the bastard did to Rais.

No, that was stupid. Better to just take the money and run. Lose the

heroics. In fact, given how things had gone so far, the whole thing was

almost too good to be true. In fact, that bothered him a little. More

than a little. He had seen too much double-dealing already to believe

anything Number One said or did.

He trusted Dore Peretz even less. The Israeli, he was sure, had a

private agenda of his own. He always seemed to. Maybe he was planning

to divert the bomb and take out Tel Aviv. He was crazy enough.

But who cared? They were getting out. Better still, Number One had

indicated he intended to take the old professor, the Jew, with them.

With him on board, Number One had declared, there was no danger that

the U.S. President would order the chopper shot down. The old guy made

a perfect passport.

But with Souda Bay being incinerated as they made their egress, it

hardly seemed to matter. . . .

He grasped the lever on the forklift and, aided by Shujat, hoisted the

bomb through the cargo hatch, guiding the edges of the crate. It

weighed almost as much as they did together, but by now they were used

to managing it. Interestingly, it still was wired to its radio-

controlled detonator, with the explosive charges intact. He had the

momentary thought that it should be disconnected, but now there was no

time. That was something that should be done with extreme care. Maybe

he would take care of it after takeoff, when they were airborne.

"Be careful," Ramirez went on. "But don't waste time. The vehicle is

going up, and then we're going to be out of here. In less than an

hour."

7:08 A.M.

"Team Two CQ," came Hans' voice on the walkie-talkie. He and Marcel

were in the overhead ventilation duct above Command, which had been

depicted in great detail in the blueprints. Hugo Voorst had been left

to fend for himself, while Willem had split off with Dimitri Spiros,

forming Team Three.

"Team Three CQ," Willem reported next. "Ingress looks like a go." He

and Dimitri were at the rear exit, which passed through Bill Bates'

office. They had entered through the tunnel that connected Bates'

office and the living quarters. The door had been set with C-4 and was

ready to blow.

"Copy. Team One CQ," Armont whispered into his own radio. He and

Reginald Hall were now in the outer lobby, and just ahead of them stood

the doors that led into Command. Together the teams formed a three-

pronged attack that would seal off all egress. "Take down anybody with

anything in their hands. And watch out for Michael. I don't think he's

in there, but you never can tell."

"If he is," Willem Voorst's voice said, "he'll know what to do."

As they waited, Reggie gazed around Reception in disgust. The deserted

guard desk looked as though it had been strafed by an automatic, almost

as if the terrorists intentionally were wreaking as much destruction as

possible.

"Cheeky bastards," he muttered under his breath. "Why do these

terrorist blokes always think they've got to trash a place?"

"Reggie," Armont whispered back, "these gentlemen did not attend Eton.

You have to learn to make allowances. And right now they appear to be

trying to deliver an atomic bomb into somebody's backyard, which would

tend to suggest they're not model citizens. One has to expect a

disheartening want of tidiness in such an element." He checked his

watch. "All right, get ready."

Ahead of them the doors to Command were closed--who knew if they were

locked or even booby-trapped? But it didn't matter. The C-4 had already

been attached around the frame. Exploding it and the other door

opposite would serve as a diversion, drawing the first fire and giving

Hans and Marcel the moment they needed to make their own ingress,

rappelling in under cover of flash grenades and mopping up.

That was the plan, at any rate. A three-point entry, with flash

grenades and tear gas. It usually worked.

Armont clicked on his walkie-talkie again and checked his watch. "All

teams alert. Assault begins in three-zero seconds. Starting now."

7:09 A.M.

Peering down into the room through the overhead grating, Hans felt his

palms grow sweaty. This was the moment he always hated. Even after all

his years with the assault squads, Spezialen-satztrupp, in GSG-9, he

had never gotten over this moment of soul-searching panic.

Twenty seconds.

He glanced up from his watch, then tested the rope he and Marcel would

use to rappel down into the room. Finally he adjusted the hood of his

balaclava one last time in an attempt to quell his nerves. It never

worked, of course, and it wasn't working now. Still, he always did it.

More helpful was checking the clip on his MP5. He had a spare taped to

the one now loaded, making it possible to just flip them over. A third

was taped to his wrist. It should be enough. Ten seconds.

That was the moment--it always happened--when he felt his mouth go dry.

Bone dry.

7:10 A.M.

Reggie, who normally served as standoff sniper, almost always used an

old AK-47 he had had for fifteen years and kept honed to perfection.

Nothing fancy, just deadly accuracy. Today, however, he was keeping it

in reserve, since this was close quarters. At the moment he was going

with his sentimental British favorite, an Enfield L85A1 assault rifle

that was the last product of the old Enfield Arsenal. Its special sling

meant it could be carried behind his back, and it was short, virtually

recoilless, and a marvel to behold on full-automatic.

For his own part, Armont had a Steyr-Mannlicher AUG assault rifle,

augmented with a Beta hundred-round C-Mag supposedly only available to

government organizations. He didn't like to bother changing clips,

which annoyed him as a waste of precious time, and the circular,

hundred-round dual magazine gave him--so he claimed--all the firepower he

needed. Besides, he liked to say, if a hundred rounds weren't enough to

take down an objective, then you hadn't planned it right and deserved

to be in the shit.

He gave five clicks into his walkie-talkie, which meant five seconds,

then stood back as Reggie got ready to blow the C-4.

7:10 A.M.

"Looks like you got it right," Peretz said with a crooked smile. He was

examining a fax whose letterhead read Banco Ambrosiano, Geneva. Ramirez

had just passed it over, and the correct account number was there,

together with the amount in dollars. His piece of the money, his bigger

piece, had been transferred to the separate account he had specified.

By now, according to the instruction he had left, it was already on its

way out. Home free.

He counted the zeroes again, not quite believing it. The villa he had

set his heart on was his. He had just acquired four hundred million

dollars. Some _countries _weren't worth that much, for godsake.

"Your generosity is touching." He folded the paper and slipped it into

his shirt pocket. He had left ironclad instructions at the bank. The

minute the funds were transferred, they would be wired to a bank in

Nassau, Bahamas, a bank known only to him. That way, Ramirez would have

no chance to fiddle the money back.

Ramirez said nothing, merely smiled. The fact was, this little Israeli

creep was an amateur. Five minutes after he had wired the instructions,

he had sent a second fax, countermanding them. That was the last thing

to worry about. More important was that Peretz had left his post at

Command and come down here to gloat. So it was a good thing he had sent

Jean-Paul and Jamal over there to keep an eye on things. They also had

taken the last Stasi, Peter Maier, with them. Schindler had

disappeared, presumably lost when the U.S. began its aborted attack.

They had proved to be useless, a fact he was going to point out to Wolf

Helling just before he shot him between the eyes.

This crude attempt at blackmail by Peretz was perfectly in character,

had in fact been telegraphed from the start. Which was why all the

contingency plans had been necessary.

Given Peretz' particularly obnoxious demand, he was tempted to move the

plan ahead and just shoot the son of a bitch now. Unfortunately,

though, he might still be needed. So the best course for the moment was

just to let him think he had gotten away with it. Besides, it was a

trifle early to finish thinning the ranks. All in due time. . . .

7:11 a.m.

It could have been the sound of a single explosion, even though it had

taken place at the two opposite entries to Command. Then, as one, Team

One and Team Three were inside, just behind the harmless explosions of

flash grenades and charges of CS they had blasted into the room.

Willem Voorst of Team Three was in first position as he virtually

pounced through the door just blown away with C-4, which now was a

curtain of smoke. While he sprayed the ceiling with rounds, sweeping

left to right, Dimitri Spiros was in second position, automatically

sweeping right to left.

"Get down," Voorst yelled in English, hoping the civilians would be

quick. Staffers dove for the gray linoleum, many yelling in pure

terror. In Voorst's experience, a couple of curious morons always

wanted to stand up and watch the action, frequently a lethal form of

entertainment. This time, however, everybody fortuitously hit the

floor.

On the far right, Salim Khan yelled and brought up his Uzi, mesmerized

by the balaclava-covered face of Voorst, but the Dutchman was already

far ahead of the game, and a single burst from his MP5 dropped him,

taking away the left side of his face. The bearded Iranian pilot never

realized what had happened, pitching forward without so much as a final

prayer.

One away, Voorst thought. But that was an easy one. An amateur.

On the opposite side of the room, Armont was in first position and Hall

was in second--both poised to take down anybody who showed hostile

intent. Together with Team Three at the back, their two-point entry was

like a Wagnerian crescendo that began a piece of music instead of

ending it. The melody was still to come.

Armont squinted through the hood of his balaclava into the billowing CS

that was enveloping the room. The confusion that obscured the

difference between friend and foe dismayed him. ARM had had no photos

of the terrorists to work with, no intelligence--other than the ID of

Ramirez--concerning their physical appearance.

The back of his mind, however, was telling him that they all were

dressed in black, just as the members of the ARM team were. So

everybody with a gun looked alike; the difference boiled down to who

was shooting at whom.

Reggie, in number-two position, had the best eyes of any of them, and

he had moved in behind Armont, those eyes sweeping the room. Try not to

waste the bloody place, he was lecturing himself. Show some class.

With the surprise still fresh, it now was time for Team Two to appear,

completing the three-point assault. Through the smoke two black figures

appeared out of nowhere, rappelling down into the very middle of the

chaos. First came Hans, followed by Marcel, both holding the rope in

one hand, an MP5 in the other.

While Willem Voorst and Dimitri Spiros were still firing, hoping to

draw the attention of the hostiles away from Team Two, Hans rotated on

his rope, and took measure of the room. He had less than a second to

get his bearings and to analyze the immediate threat from hostiles, the

peril to friendlies, and the one-time opportunities a quick window of

surprise offered. The main thing was to try to cut down the most

senior, experienced hostile in the room.

In the millisecond before his feet touched the floor, he saw what he

had hoped for: a man dressed in black, with long blond hair tied back

in a pony tail, carrying an Uzi. Better yet, he recognized him. Jesus!

It was Jean-Paul Moreau.

Interpol wants that bastard, he told himself, but they want him alive.

And there's a private bank-consortium bounty on his head of five

hundred thousand francs. He's found money. Alive.

7:11 A.M.

"What the hell!" Ramirez glanced at the TV monitor that was next to the

array of instruments and video screens looking out onto the launch pad.

Peretz whirled to look, as did Bill Bates. The scene was Command and

the image had grown fuzzy, as though the room were filled with smoke.

But there was no mistaking the chaos. SatCom staffers were on the

floor, while flashes of light darted across the screen as the camera

automatically panned back and forth.

Jesus! Bates thought. It looks like Nam. It's an assault. Who could it

be? Had the U.S. decided to get off its butt and start protecting its

citizens? They damned well had taken their time about it. . . .

Now he could see who was doing the shooting, and most of it seemed to

be coming from pairs of men dressed in black. There were--

Abruptly the screen went blank, switching to video noise. The panning

camera had been drilled by somebody's stray round.

7:12 A.M.

Through the chaos of the flash grenades and the tear gas Moreau had

missed seeing Hans and Marcel rappelling down. Instead he paused for

half a second, then hit the floor and rolled, ponytail flying,

intending to get as many of the hostages as possible between him and

the two members of the assault team at the front. He figured the

firepower would come from there. The rear entry, with the two guys

firing at the ceiling, was the diversion, intended to throw everybody

off.

He knew better. You never looked where the other side wanted you to.

That was playing into their hands. He got off a burst from his Uzi,

leaving a line of craters in the cinderblock walls next to the front

door. Wide and high. Bad placement. But the game wasn't over; it was

just beginning.

Now he had repositioned himself so that a terrified cluster of SatCom

staffers were between him and the front, and a line of terminals

protected him from the rear. Good. In the momentary pause, he slammed a

new clip into the Uzi.

These assholes aren't going to shoot up the hostages, he told himself.

That wasn't how professionals worked. And these guys, wearing

balaclavas, were professionals. They were fast, moving quickly, and not

providing a real target. _Merde_. But now you've got the advantage.

Just concentrate and take them out, one by one. You've been in tougher

spots before.

Dimitri Spiros, approaching from the rear, also had seen him, the

blond-haired terrorist who rolled behind a line of workstations. But

Spiros had not recognized him; to the Greek he was merely another

hostile to be taken down. He switched his MP5 to semiauto and carefully

took aim between the terminals, waiting for the creep to show himself.

Hans was not planning to wait. As his boots touched the floor, he took

aim and got off a single round, carefully wounding Moreau in the right

bicep. The French terrorist spun around, startled, but he sensed no

pain. Instead he felt satisfaction at knowing, now, where the third

entry-point had been. Life had just been simplified. A three-point

entry: standard, no problem. All you had to do was keep your wits.

He whirled and got off a burst toward Hans and Marcel, sending them

diving to the floor, then returned his attention to the pair at the

front. But now those two _batards _had taken cover. Where was Jamal?

Salim was dead, the stupid Iranian. Good riddance. But where was his

brother? Why wasn't he helping?

As it happened, during the first few seconds of the assault,

Jamal Khan had been making his own calculations. He had been figuring

an assault was overdue, and he had been prepared for it for several

hours now. He had long since donned a bulletproof vest, and he had made

sure he had two Uzis at hand, both loaded, together with five spare

clips.

The moment the first flash grenades went off, he rolled beneath a row

of workstations and shoved a handkerchief over his face, ready for the

tear gas he was sure would come next. Now he was surrounded by a

frightened cluster of SatCom staffers. The perfect shield.

Marcel had also surveyed the room as he rappelled in, and--by previous

arrangement--he had focused on the right half, whereas Hans took the

left. He had seen Jamal's roll and started to cut him down with a

blast, but then he thought better of it: there were too many friendlies

to take a chance on ricocheting lead. Just get into position and do it

right.

Pierre Armont also had seen Jamal duck out of sight, and he felt his

heart sink. The element of surprise had been used with all the effect

it could, and the result had been one terrorist killed and one wounded.

Now they were entrenching. Bad, very bad. . . .

Then a man on the other side of the room shouted something in German,

choking from the CS, stood up, and brought around an Uzi. That one was

stupid; he had identified himself and he was wide open.

Armont dropped him with a single burst, before he could even get off a

round. Clearly an amateur terrorist, he was standing in the clear, and

Armont's well-placed rounds sent him into a macabre dance of death.

Hans watched with satisfaction. Okay, he thought, that's two. Now what

about Moreau. It would be nice to take him alive, help salvage

something from this damned expensive disaster.

Moreau, however, had no intention of being taken alive; in fact, he had

no intention of being taken at all. He had rolled into the shelter of a

computer workstation and begun to spray the entrance indiscriminately.

Fortunately the shots were wild, posing no threat to the ARM team or

anybody else unless by ricochet.

By now Hans had taken cover behind the terminals situated in the center

of the room. This wasn't the movies, with the assault team standing

tall and shooting from the hip, particularly with all the friendlies

milling in the haze of tear gas. Besides, there were plenty of

hostiles, including the young Arab who had provided himself a secure

redoubt behind a row of workstations, surrounded by hostages. He knew

that stray bullets could not be tolerated. What to do? If Moreau kept

this up, he would have to be taken down, lethally, and damn the money.

A shame, really. The scene was rapidly turning into a standoff. The

worst thing that could happen.

But first things first. Determined to bag Moreau alive, he lobbed

another canister of CS across the room and into the clump of people and

hostages where the Frenchman was. A half-second later it exploded,

spraying its noxious powder across a full quarter of the room, and as

that was happening, he threw another flash grenade. The friendlies

would be blinded and overcome, he knew, but the effects would only last

for a few minutes and by that time everybody could be dragged into the

open air. It was better than being mowed down in a hail of fire.

The two grenades had the desired effect insofar as they momentarily

disoriented Moreau. And they gave Hans the opening he needed to get in

behind the row of terminals against the wall where the French terrorist

crouched. It was the last, best chance he would have to take the

bastard alive.

Moreau was on the floor now, gasping from the CS as he tried to get an

angle on what was happening. He knew he was going to be rushed, but he

wasn't sure from which direction. And as Hans moved in, that hesitation

proved to be a profound, primal mistake. Before he could plan his next

move, the German was on him, an MPS against his neck. He tried to bring

up his own Uzi, but by the time he had it halfway around, Hans had

kicked it aside and intercepted the move.

With a yelp of pain Moreau twisted away, trying to recover, and managed

to slam his left leg against Hans, knocking him off balance. Both were

now cursing loudly, mingling their epithets with threats. The battle

would have been even, had it not been for the fact that Hans was

wearing an encumbering balaclava.

Hans's flash grenade had illuminated the entire room with its blinding

explosion, and now Dimitri Spiros was making an end run along the far

wall, just below the huge projection TV screens, trying to encircle

Jamal before he had a chance to recover completely from the glare.

Across the room, Reggie saw what was happening and opened fire into the

ceiling, hoping to keep the Iranian pinned down, or at the very least

draw his fire. Confusion reigned.

Willem Voorst, who was in the center, analyzed the situation with a

clearer eye. The damned little Arab was not going to be taken down

easily. Spiros was heading into danger. Not thinking.

"Dimitri, no!"

'The little fucker," Spiros yelled. He was already moving, impossible

to stop. His Greek passion had superseded his better judgment, for he

was not wearing his bulletproof vest--a container of those had been left

inadvertently when the seaplane went down--and he was in no position to

put himself in harm's way.

Jamal was coughing and choking from the CS, but he had not yet been

totally immobilized. He saw Dimitri, a hooded figure in the smoke, and

responded by instinct, bringing around his Uzi and getting off a burst.

Although Spiros had seen it coming and tried to duck and roll, he was

not quick enough. Two rounds caught him in the chest, but not before he

had gotten off a well-practiced three-round burst from his MP5. One of

the slugs entered the center of Jamal's neck, above his bulletproof

vest, and literally ripped his throat open.

The Muslim radical who had helped kill two hundred and eighteen

defenseless Marines in Beirut collapsed in a pool of blood, having

exacted one last price. Dimitri Spiros was down, gravely wounded.

Willem Voorst was at his side in an instant. He took one look, then

rose and sent another blast of automatic fire into the Iranian Jamal,

whose life blood was already ebbing rapidly. It was an impulsive act of

anger definitely out of character for ARM, but the vengeance of the

moment seemed to call for something.

Jesus, Hans thought as he watched the tragedy unfold, still grappling

with Moreau, this is turning into a disaster. How did we manage such a

screw-up. And how many more of the bastards are there? They're like

vermin who keep showing up, just when you think you've got them all.

The area around him had become a cacophony of gasping, coughing SatCom

staffers, many moaning in fear, all near shock. But it works both ways,

Hans thought. If there are any more terrorists hiding among the

terminals, they're probably in the same condition.

Now, though, there was no motion anywhere in the room. It looked to be

over.

"Clear," Marcel said, the first, his voice garbled by the balaclava.

Hans crunched a knee against Jean-Paul Moreau's face and heard him

moan. "You little fucker," he yelled in French, and slugged him as hard

as he could. It had the desired effect. Moreau's body went limp, but

Hans, wanting to take no chances, immediately yanked his arms around

behind his back and handcuffed him.

"Clear," he yelled, still breathless.

"Clear," called Reggie, but not before looking around one last time,

squinting through the smoke. He thought, hoped, it was true. A bloody

great mess, that's what the assault had been, and Ramirez was still on

the loose.

"Objective CQ," Armont announced finally, even as he surveyed the scene

with bitterness and horror. Dimitri had screwed up twice, unforgivable,

and now he was on the critical list, hemorrhaging from the two holes in

his chest, barely conscious, with blood seeping out of the corner of

his mouth.

While Willem Voorst was already bent over him, trying to begin

stabilizing the crisis, Armont moved quickly to his side. "Hang on,

cheri. Can you hear me?"

Spiros nodded, though whether it was in answer to the question no one

could tell.

"Don't move. The blueprints show there's an emergency

medical facility here. They probably have a supply of plasma. We'll

pull you through."

This time Spiros tried to smile and raised his hand slightly, but

Armont gently took it and laid it back on the floor.

"Save your strength. We may need you again before this is over."

Then he rose up and looked around the room. "Start clearing everybody

out of here. And make sure there aren't any more of these fuckers

hiding among the friendlies."

Was it a clean job? he wondered. Did we hit any civilians? There was

enough gunfire to create a real possibility that somebody got nicked,

or worse.

He watched as Hans began shouting orders for the evacuation. The air in

the room was starting to be slightly breathable again, and everybody

seemed able to move. Three terrorists lay dead, and a fourth wounded

and handcuffed. All wore black pullovers. Maybe, he thought, just maybe

we had a little bit of luck on our side after all. It was about time.

But who could talk about luck with Dimitri lying there on the floor,

gravely critical. God damn the whole operation. It was Spiros's fault,

but this was no time to recriminate. He looked like his lung was

punctured. In fact, that was an optimistic prognosis. It could be much

worse. . . .

Well, Armont thought with relief, the SatCom people seem okay. Chalk up

one for marksmanship. Guess that's why we get paid so well.

He looked up at the large computer screen being projected on the wall

at the end of the room, which showed a countdown in progress. Ramirez's

scheme was still on track, though there was still almost half an hour's

time left. What now?

"All right," he declared, "let's make up a stretcher and get Dimitri

down to their medical room."

Hans pulled a syringe from the medical kit he always had with him and

gave the Greek a heavy shot of morphine in his inner thigh. In moments

it had surged through his system, causing his eyes to glaze and the

moaning to stop. Willem checked the wound again, then took some more

gauze pads and continued working. He figured if Spiros could be gotten

on intravenous plasma within the next fifteen minutes he might survive.

Willem Voorst was finishing the construction of a makeshift stretcher

from chairs and cushions, while Hans was checking over the civilians as

he ushered them out into the hallway, making sure none were injured . .

. and too deeply in shock to realize it.

He also was running an interrogation. "Who here knows how to stop the

countdown? Just shut the damned thing off?"

Nobody offered up his or her services, possibly because nobody wanted

to be held responsible for causing a meltdown in the multimillion-

dollar storage coil. There also was a more practical reason.

"Georges LeFarge was in charge of the countdown," a coughing, nervously

shaking young man finally volunteered. "He's not here now. The Israeli

guy took him over to Launch." He paused. "But the Fujitsu is in auto

mode now. We can't just flip a switch, at least not without doing

horrific damage to the coil. It has to be discharged through the

Cyclops."

"Then can you do that?" Hans asked.

"Not without Cally or Georges here," he replied decisively. "You screw

it up and you're talking millions of dollars." He shrugged. "No way

would I attempt it without somebody's say-so." His voice trailed off.

Hans pondered this, then shrugged. "Okay, you're saying everybody here

is scared to tinker with the Cyclops. So we'll still have to take down

Launch and get to the vehicle." He glanced back toward the smoky room,

thinking aloud. "But we were going to have to anyway, to get Ramirez.

Once we're there, maybe we can find a way to disable the vehicle some

other way."

The staffer looked dubious. "I don't know how. There's only one real

way to do it, by bleeding off the Cyclops. Anything else would be too

dangerous. Maybe--"

"Hans," Armont was shouting, interrupting them. "Come and help Willem

carry Dimitri through the tunnel. Do you remember where the medical

room was from the blueprints?"

"I memorized everything," he shouted back. "What do you think I get

paid for?"

'Then get on with it. Maybe there'll be somebody there who can help

out. Otherwise, you two just became doctors."

"I'll save him," Willem declared, trying to sound as confident as he

could. He knew, as they all did, that it would be a long shot. "But

what are you going to do now? We still have to get Ramirez."

"I'm aware of that," Armont snapped back. "But first we've got to get

these people out of here and somewhere safe." Then he had a thought.

"Maybe you should take them with you. Over to the Bates Motel. We could

make that our collection point for friendlies."

"All right," Hans agreed, partially, "but this is no time to split up.

You'd better come with us. If we run across any more of these assholes,

we'll need backup."

Armont nodded, realizing it made some sense. "Okay, then get the

people."

Hans looked down and checked over Jean-Paul Moreau. The Frenchman was

bleeding, too, but nothing about his wound appeared to be serious. A

tourniquet should hold him. "Some of them can carry out our friend

here." For a moment he considered telling Armont who their captive was,

but then he decided to do it later. Moreau might be more useful if he

didn't realize he had been recognized.

Then, with Armont on point and leading the way, they headed through the

tunnel that connected Bill Bates' office to the living quarters.

Minutes later Command sat as empty as a tomb, impotent and useless as

the countdown continued to scroll, the Fujitsu working the will of Dore

Peretz.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

7:12 A.M.

"Hansen lied," Ramirez was saying as he took one last glance at the

snowy TV monitor, which moments earlier had shown the chaos in Command.

"The son of a bitch lied. He didn't call off the assault after all. It

was just a stalling tactic." He turned to Peretz, anger deep in his

eyes. "We've been double-crossed."

"What do you care what happens to those assholes?" Peretz remarked

calmly, flashing his pale grin. "Good riddance. Let's just take the old

guy, like we planned, and get the hell out of here. We've got the

money, so who gives a shit."

"You have an inelegant but concise way of putting things," Ramirez

concurred. "But there's a final phone call I need to make. I want

Hansen to know what will happen if he tries to interdict us."

"Well, while you're doing that, I'll check out the chopper," Peretz

went on. "When we split, I don't want any problems."

"Is that why you brought him?" Ramirez pointed at Bates.

"Might as well have someone with some aviation experience look it

over." Peretz smiled again. "Besides, I think we may have just lost

Salim in all that excitement over in Command. So we're going to need a

pilot, right? What better than a war hero."

William Bates had been monitoring this exchange, not quite

understanding the underlying dynamics. He did perceive, however, that

Peretz was playing the scene as though he were in a game, and it looked

like a contest with only a single winner. Number One, however, was not

the kind of guy who struck you as a loser. But then Peretz didn't seem

like the losing type either. The Israeli was one wily son of a bitch,

and he had something up his sleeve. Was he intending to screw Number

One somehow and get away with all the marbles? Just how he intended to

do that was not yet clear, but there was no mistaking his faked attempt

at calm. If Number One didn't catch it, he was dumber than he looked.

And he didn't look dumb.

What, he wondered, had happened to Mike? Did the message LeFarge had

passed along, "Ulysses has landed," mean he was on the island

somewhere? And if he was here, had he called in ARM? Were they the ones

who had just stormed Command, not the U.S.? Whoever did it, they hit

the wrong place. The murdering bastard who called himself Number One

was here, and he was about to get away scot-free.

7:12 A.M.

Vance wanted to kick himself. He'd screwed up again, managing to blind

himself with his own flash grenade. And having done that, he'd thought

it the better part of discretion to take cover and hope Pierre and the

team could take out Ramirez with a clear shot. Instead, Ramirez got

away.

Why didn't they get him? Instead they got into some kind of firefight.

Heck, he thought, if I'd known they were going to blow it, I could have

tried to take him out myself, half blind or no.

Now, though, Ramirez was back in Launch, in the control room. Worse

still, he told himself, I've really screwed things up. I blew the

element of surprise. Now what?

He sat down, feeling like a prisoner of the fog, and began to engage in

extensive self-recrimination. He was afraid to use the radio, and he

didn't know where the ARM team was. Everything had to be rethought. . .

"Michael, is that you? Are you all right?" Cally was a pale apparition

in the half-light, now working her way around the remains of the

gantry.

"I'm terrific."

"Thank goodness. I almost gave up on finding you."

"What happened down there?" He was relieved to see her, but otherwise

he still felt miserable. Also, he wondered if she was still angry.

"We got ambushed by somebody. From the direction of the shoreline. I

didn't know there were so many of them." She looked back down the hill,

puzzled. "It was strange. There was a lot of firing, and then it just

stopped. But one of your guys got hit."

"Who?" Our first casualty, he thought. The disaster grows.

"I don't know his name. I think he was Dutch."

"Willem or Hugo?" Vance loved them both and felt his heart turn.

"I don't know, but it looked like he's going to be all right. I decided

not to stick around."

"So you don't know where they went? Pierre and the team."

"Haven't a clue."

Vance sighed. "Okay, the way I see it, we've only got one chance left.

But I have to get Bill to help."

"That's going to be next to impossible. They're still holding him in

Command."

"Not any more. I think I saw him through the window there a couple of

minutes ago." He pointed. "There in Launch."

"That's not a good sign." She sighed. "It could mean they may be

getting ready to leave. And they're probably going to take him with

them."

"Then we've got to break protocol. Get on the radio and try to locate

Pierre."

12:15 A.M.

"Look, you bastard," the President was saying into the phone. "I've

done everything you asked. I've deposited the money and pulled back all

American forces for six hours. Now you're going to live up to your end

of the agreement. You're going to disarm those weapons and get the hell

out of there. No hostages. I personally guarantee you safe passage." If

he'll believe that, Hansen was thinking, he's still writing letters to

Santa.

"Who do you think you're talking to?" Ramirez asked. "There's a force

on the island right now, that's got my people under fire. I no longer

can take responsibility for anything that happens."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hansen replied, genuinely

puzzled. Had the Deltas countermanded his orders? Carried out a rogue

operation? If so, there was going to be hell to pay. "If there's

somebody there, they're not part of the American armed forces. That's

your problem, not mine."

"It is your problem. I want you to put a stop to it."

"How the hell am I supposed to do that, exactly?" What can he be

talking about? Hansen was still wondering. "If you can't handle your

situation, then maybe you'd better go back to terrorist school. I've

kept up my end."

Ramirez proceeded to tell the President two things. First, when the

Sikorsky took off from the landing pad, Isaac Mannheim was going to be

on board, a hostage. He was their insurance. That much was true. The

second was a lie.

"The other thing you should know is that we have armed a nuclear device

and secured it on the island. The detonation sequence is radio-

controlled. If there is any interference with our egress, no matter at

what point, we will not hesitate to detonate it."

"You do that," Hansen said, "and you'll be tracked to the ends of the

earth. That's something I can guarantee you for absolute certain." He

had visions of his presidency going down in ruins. And if the story of

the money ever came out, the headlines . . .

"Then you also have the power to guarantee that it doesn't happen.

Think about it." With which cryptic farewell, the connection was

severed, for the last time. The fact that a fifteen-kiloton nuclear

bomb was about to obliterate Souda Bay, Crete, and the Sixth Fleet in a

matter of minutes was not mentioned.

7:18 A.M.

"Ulysses to Sirene. Do you read me?"

When his radio crackled, Armont was in the medical facility of the

Bates Motel, watching as a plasma IV was attached to Dimitri's arm. He

immediately grabbed for it.

"I copy, Mike, but make this quick. Are you all right?"

"Never better. Where are you guys? Sorry to break radio silence, but I

think Ramirez may be getting ready to pull out. Could be now or never."

"We took down Command," Armont said into his walkie- talkie.

"Neutralized four of the bastards and cleared it. Looks to be a clean

job as far as the friendlies are concerned. A minor miracle,

considering. And when we got here to the Motel, there was a Greek, one

of them, but we took care of him."

"Nice work."

'That's the good news. They're all here with us now, and they seem

okay." He leaned out and took a peek down the hall. The SatCom systems

engineers were all collapsed on the floor, drinking Cokes from the

machine at the end. "There's bad news, too. In the first place, nobody

there would shut off the countdown. They're just afraid to do it. Has

to do with melting some kind of coil. The bird is still going up."

"What's the second place? The other bad news?"

"Dimitri got shot up. He's in pretty bad shape. We're in the emergency

room now, just keeping him alive. We've got to evacuate him out of here

and soon."

"I hear you," Vance replied back. "But the only way I know of right now

is with one of the helos, either the Agusta or their Sikorsky. How long

can he hold on? We still need to take out Ramirez. I haven't given up."

"Michael, the airspace is closed around the island. Totally shut down.

I guarantee it. There's no way he could get a chopper out. He's

trapped, going nowhere. We're staying with Dimitri till we're sure he's

stabilized, and then we'll come down there and handle that son of a

bitch. All in time."

"All right," Vance said. "Take care of Dimitri. In the meantime, let me

see what I can do at this end. And while you're there, you might want

to sweep that place for explosives. I think they were planning to get

everybody inside and blow it. I found some C-4 on a timer down on the

second level. By the elevator. There may also be some more of them

hanging around there, so be careful."

"Only way we know."

7:20 A.M.

Major General Eric Nichols was in the Kennedy's Mission Control room,

fit to be tied. Now he was beginning to understand how the attempted

rescue of the American embassy hostages in Tehran could have turned

into such a disaster.

He lit a cigar and tried to relax. The op would be back on track in--he

checked his watch--another five and a half hours. Unless, of course, the

orders got changed again.

Then the blue phone on his desk rang. . . .

"Well, I'll be damned," he said, hanging up a few moments later. "I

knew this was going to be a cluster-fuck, but I think we've just

expanded the term." He looked over the Deltas waiting with him. "Would

you believe it's back on? Something happened, who knows what. But the

sons of bitches are pulling out, and they've threatened to nuke the

place if anybody tries to stop them. We're ordered to get in there

before anybody can get off the ground, keep them from having the

chance. I don't know if we're going to make it. He grinned. "But I'll

tell you one thing. This time we're going to just take the place down

once and for all. And the hell with micromanaging from Fort Fuck-up or

anywhere."

"Fuckin' A, S_ir_," Lieutenant Manny Jackson declared, reaching for his

flight jacket. "I say we just do a standoff with Hellfire missiles.

Take out their damned space vehicles and any choppers they've got. Then

they can just stick their nukes up their ass."

"Sorry, Jackson, but that's still our last resort. If we hit the

vehicles, there's the risk of nuclear material getting loose. No, what

we're going to do is take down their radar power source, the so-called

Cyclops, and any choppers they have, which ought to put them out of

business. And if that doesn't cause the bastards to throw in the towel,

then we'll call in a Tomcat and lay a couple of laser-guided missiles

right into those underground bunkers."

Nichols had studied the satellite photo intelligence they had, as well

as site plans and blueprints obtained from SatCom's executive offices

in Arlington, and he knew exactly where a missile would have the best

chance of penetrating Command and Launch Control. There might be some

civilian casualties, but they sure as hell wouldn't have the nukes in

there. A quick, decisive operation.

"All right," he added in conclusion, "let's rock and roll. And this

time there's going to be no recall, I don't care who tries."

7:21 A.M.

"How does it look?" Peretz was asking. He and Bill Bates had just

climbed aboard the Sikorsky, cold and gray in the light fog.

Bates had already checked it over from the outside. It was military,

and it appeared to be on loan from the Pakistani Air Force, with the

markings clumsily painted over. But it appeared to be in pristine

shape. Good maintenance.

"Let me see." He walked to the cockpit and looked over the rows of

instruments. Nothing obvious seemed amiss. "If there's fuel, it should

be able to fly. After all, it got in here from somewhere."

Peretz nodded with satisfaction, then clicked on his walkie-talkie.

"Firebird One, Bates says there may be some problems with the nav gear.

He wants to start it up and give it an instrument check. Probably just

feeding me some kind of bullshit, so why don't you send out Helling for

a minute? He should be in on this."

"What?" Bates mumbled. "I didn't--"

"I copy you," came back Ramirez's voice. "What seems to be the

problem?"

"Probably no big deal. Claims it's the in-flight computer. Something to

do with flight control."

"All right," Ramirez replied. "I'll send Wolf out if you think you need

him." The walkie-talkie clicked off, to the accompaniment of static.

"What are you talking about?" Bates looked up, feeling a chill. "I

don't see anything here that looks like a problem. Who the hell knows

if the in-flight computer is--"

"Just shut up," Peretz barked. "Now, start the engines."

"But--"

"Just do what I tell you." He was now grasping a Walther 9mm with what

appeared to be boundless self-assurance.

"You're the boss." Bates nodded, settling into the cockpit. He suddenly

realized that something not on the schedule was about to go down. All

along he'd had a feeling Peretz was up to something. Now it was more

than a feeling.

With a tremble of apprehension he hit the ignition button, then started

spooling up the power on the main rotor. Everything seemed to be

working normally, just as it should. This old crate, he figured, had a

lot of hours on the engines, but there was nothing to suggest any kind

of problem.

Coming toward them now, across the tarmac, was the famous German

terrorist, Wolf Helling. Bates glanced through the windscreen and

looked him over, thinking he looked annoyed. He had the hard face and

eyes of a killer, the kind of face you could only earn the hard way.

Suddenly the whole scenario clicked into place. This Israeli character

was about to try and pull a fast one on everybody. He had set the

vehicle to launch and now he was getting out. But what about the

German? Was he in on the scam?

Probably not, from the disgruntled look he had. Besides, this guy

Peretz was the quintessential loner. He had his marbles and the hell

with everybody else.

"What's the problem?" Helling asked as he stepped lightly up the metal

steps of the Sikorsky. "Is something--?"

He never had a chance to finish the sentence, as a dull thunk

punctuated the placement of a 9mm round directly between his eyes. The

half-bald leader of Germany's notorious Revolutionare Zellen pitched

into the chopper, dead before he reached the floor pallet.

"Fucking Nazi," Peretz said to no one in particular. "I've been waiting

a long time." Then he stepped over the body and headed for the cockpit.

"Okay, it's about to be post time, baby."

"You're going to bug out, aren't you?" Bates had turned around and was

staring at him. "You son of a bitch, you've got VX-1 set to launch and

now you're leaving while the leaving's good."

"It's not going to be that simple," he responded calmly. "But we are

about to make an unscheduled departure. You will be flying."

"And get shot down?" Bates said, rising and walking back from the

cockpit. "Come on, this place has got to be surrounded." He had hoped,

now feared, it was so. Surely the word on these terrorists was all over

the world by now. "You have got to be kidding. No way am I taking this

bird up. You're on your own, pal. I refuse."

"That would be a serious mistake, health-wise." Peretz smiled back.

"Because if you give me the slightest hint of trouble, you're going to

enjoy the same fate as this Nazi klutz, starting with your kneecaps. I

would advise you to be cooperative." He smiled again.

"Do what you want," Bates said, not quite feeling his own bravado. "But

you'll be flying it yourself."

"Don't press me, asshole," Peretz said. "Besides, there's a

nuclear weapon in that crate there." He pointed. "Nobody's going to lay

a finger on us."

7:22 A.M.

"Do you know how to handle this?" Vance handed Cally the MP5 he was

carrying. He had brought it up the hill to try to take out Ramirez, but

after the fiasco with the flash grenades, he hadn't fired a shot.

"I've got a pretty good idea," she replied, some of the old pique

coming back. "Somebody'd better use it. Besides, it doesn't exactly

require postgraduate research."

"Sometimes it takes some thought to keep from getting killed." He

sighed, then proceeded to show her how the safety worked. "Okay, what I

need is for you to give me some cover when I make the move. Call it our

last-ditch effort."

"What are you going to do?"

"What else? It's time I had a talk with Ramirez. If you can't lick

them, join them."

"You're kidding." She laid down the automatic and glared. "You're going

to just give up?"

"No, I'm going to offer him a deal. Maybe it'll work, and maybe not.

But I don't know what else to do."

She stared at him incredulously. "What kind of deal?"

"I don't know yet. I'm making this up as I go along. But maybe if I can

get in close to him, I can try to slow him down." What would happen, he

was wondering, if Ramirez saw him again? Just shoot him on sight? It

was possible, but then again maybe not. It was worth a try. "But you've

got to help. Create a diversion that'll give me an opening."

"All right, then." She shrugged. "Just tell me what you want me to do."

Now he was fiddling with his Walther, checking how many rounds were

left in the clip. There were two. He cocked it, then slipped it into

the back of his belt, pulling down the shirt over it.

"See that window there?" He was pointing toward the glassed-in viewing

station of Launch Control that overlooked the pad and the vehicles. "I

want to get him there, where you can see us both. Then when I give a

signal, a thumbs-up, I want you to open fire."

"On you both?" She looked incredulous.

"How about trying very hard not to hit either one of us. Just start

firing and distract them. Then I'll try to take care of Ramirez.

Somehow."

"You know, I don't know why you're doing this, but it seems awfully

dangerous."

"Maybe I'm trying to make amends for being such a screw-up." He was

half serious.

"That's very noble, but frankly I think we'd better wait for your

friends from ARM." She picked up the automatic and examined it again,

then looked him over. 'To be brutally honest, they've got a slightly

better track record."

"Good point. Except now they've got a casualty to worry about, and

we're running out of time. So this has to be solo." He kissed her, this

time on the lips. "Wish me luck."

"You're really going to do it, aren't you?"

"I'm going to try." He finished tucking in his shirt.

"You're crazy. You won't listen to anybody."

"Sometimes that's a help." He kissed her again, more lightly than he

wanted to. Was she still mad? It was hard to tell, but she was

definitely distant. "Okay, get ready. And for God's sake, don't hit me.

Fire wide."

"Wide?" She grinned.

"Extremely wide."

7:24 A.M.

"Thought you might be getting lonesome." Vance had walked into Launch

Control, directly through the entrance next to where the fallen gantry

had been. Ramirez had met him, with his Beretta 9mm trained on him from

the instant he came in the doorway.

"Always the joker, Mr. Vance." Ramirez did not appear to think he was

very humorous. "I see you're roaming around again, like a cat."

"Nine lives, remember."

"Yes, I should have put an end to them earlier." He gestured Vance

forward with the automatic. They now were in Launch Control, the wide

windows looking out over the vehicles. "But then I wanted you to

myself."

"Here I am." He felt a chill. Was Ramirez just going to shoot him

before he had a chance to do anything?

The terrorist, however, seemed to have other things on his mind. "You

know, you've been missing out on a lot of the fun. There was something

of a ruckus in Command just now. As it happens, it was on that TV

there." He pointed to a monitor, its screen now filled with snow. "A

decidedly second-rate entertainment, but I watched awhile anyway."

"Sounds exciting. Want to tell me what happened?"

"The broadcast encountered technical difficulties before the end. For

all I know, the show may still be going on. But perhaps I should break

some news to you. That assault force, whoever they were, merely saved

me the trouble of tidying up myself."

"You were planning just to murder all your helpers anyway, right?" He

settled into a sculptured chair next to a console, as casually as he

could manage. "Neatness. Guess I should have thought of that."

"You should have thought of a lot of things, Mr. Vance."

"And how about you? Did the ransom money come through? I assume this

operation had a price tag attached."

He laughed. "Of course the money came through. All eight hundred

million. What do you take me for?"

"Respectable chunk of change. So why in hell are you going to still

launch an A-bomb?" Even Vance was impressed by his perfidy. "That's not

very sporting."

"I'm not a sporting person."

"That's hardly a news flash." He felt his outrage spilling over. "Mind

telling me the target?"

"Not at all. I'm going to incinerate the U.S. air and naval base at

Souda Bay. The Americans don't care anything about civilians, as they

have shown any number of times, but they are very attached to their

Sixth Fleet."

"Jesus, you're totally mad." It was worse than he had imagined. "You're

going to kill hundreds, thousands. How in hell can you do that?"

"Easily. As a matter of fact, it's as good as done. In a few minutes."

He checked his watch, then glanced up and examined Vance a moment. "It

looks like Jean-Paul did a fairly good job. I should have told him to

just finish it."

"He got close enough, believe me."

"Looking at you, I'd have to agree." He smiled, eyes behind his gray

shades. "All right, Mr. Vance, I assume you came back in here for a

reason. What is it?"

"The truth is, I'm dropping by to see if we couldn't talk over a deal."

"I don't really think so."

"You may be able to set off a bomb, but the way things stand, no way

are you going to get out of here in one piece." He was trying out the

speech he had been rehearsing. "In case you didn't realize it, the U.S.

Navy has the airspace around the island totally closed down. The skies

over the eastern Med are currently an F-14 parking lot. But if you'll

put a stop to all this insanity, release the hostages, then--"

"Don't try to bluff me, Mr. Vance." He gestured him forward. "Come,

take a look at my collateral."

He led the way across to a second row of workstations, these on the

side and closer to the window. "When I leave, which is imminent, I will

have company. A certain professor. I think you've met him."

And sure enough, there in the comer sat Isaac Mannheim, looking as

though the world had already ended. The old man appeared to be in a

dark space of his very own, his face pitifully sunk in his hands.

"It can't be stopped," he was mumbling, almost incoherently. "Damn

them. There should be a special rung in hell for them."

"Don't worry," Vance assured him. "There is." He turned back to

Ramirez. "It isn't going to work. The U.S. is not going to be bluffed."

He hoped it was true. Somehow, though, he didn't feel all that

confident. Ramirez was smart, very smart, and the U.S. had a history of

screwing these things up. Just outside the window VX-1 awaited, primed

and about to lift off. Unlike the space shuttle, it had no clouds of

white condensate spewing out; instead, it stood serene and austere, its

payload prepared to wreak havoc on thousands of unsuspecting U.S.

citizens. The loss of life would be staggering.

"He got Johan to call off the assault," Mannheim continued,

interrupting his thoughts. "It was because of me. He wanted to save me.

He did, but he only made things worse. He should have just let them

kill me and have done with it."

Vance examined him and stifled a sigh. Now he had Mannheim to worry

about. He didn't want Cally to start shooting up the place with him in

the room, so he couldn't go to the window and signal her the way he had

planned. What to do?

"Look," he said finally, turning to Ramirez, "if you need insurance,

why not just take me and let Mannheim go? You and I have some

unfinished business. He's not part of it."

"He will go, all right. With me on the helicopter. You, on the other

hand, are . . ." Ramirez glanced out the wide window and fell silent as

he studied the Sikorsky. The main rotor was starting to power up, and

something about that seemed not to sit well with him. Suddenly he

seemed galvanized. He glanced at his watch, then checked the safety on

his Beretta.

Vance watched this, wondering what to do. Was this the golden moment to

try and take him? There were only the Pakis outside to worry about. . .

But Ramirez was already moving, grabbing Mannheim by the arm. Abruptly

he stopped, turned, and took aim at Vance, somewhere precisely between

his eyes.

Vance blanched. Jesus! Go for the Walther and get it over with.

But before he could move, Ramirez laughed and slipped the hand holding

the Beretta into his pocket, then gave a nod of his head, beckoning.

"Mr. Vance, I think I would like to have you join us after all. You're

right. We still have a few matters to settle." He stepped aside and

motioned. "But the time has come to bid farewell to Andikythera."

Ramirez was still dragging Mannheim along as they passed through

Launch, pausing only to nod lightly toward the two Pakistanis, who

immediately snapped to attention and followed. Amidst all the

excitement of the pending launch, nobody seemed to notice. They passed

through the outer door and onto the tarmac as an ensemble, Ramirez

holding Mannheim by the arm and guiding him.

7:31 A.M.

Bill Bates looked through the Sikorsky's wide windscreen and saw them

coming. The time had arrived, he realized immediately, to make a move.

Now or never. The Israeli's attempt to pull out early had just been cut

off at the pass, so why not see what would happen if the scenario got

shut down entirely?

He reduced the power, listening to the engines wind down, and rose.

"Guess my part of this is over," he announced. "You've got a go system,

so have a nice day. I'll be seeing you around."

Peretz' eyes momentarily flashed confusion, but he was wily enough to

recover immediately.

"Your help has been much appreciated," he smiled quickly. "Thank you

for checking everything out."

Should I tip off Number One, Bates asked himself. No, that flicker is

nobody's fool; he's already way ahead of this little twerp. And the

second he sets foot in here and sees that dead German hood, there's

going to be a lot of heavy-duty explaining to do.

Now Peretz was moving jauntily down the Sikorsky's folding steps,

carrying his Walther with an air that proclaimed nothing amiss.

Time to get out of here, Bates told himself. There's going to be hell

to pay.

He rose and headed down the stairs after Peretz as rapidly as he could.

"Mike, where've you been?" He waved at Vance. "We can't go on meeting

like this. What do you say we just pack it all in and go sailing?"

"Fine with me," Vance yelled back. "No time like the present."

At that moment, a shot rang out from somewhere in the direction of the

fallen gantry, whereupon Peretz whirled, leveled his Walther into the

mist, and got off a burst on full auto. Emptying the clip.

The scene froze, like a tableau. Vance's first thought was that Peretz

had overreacted. Nervous. And probably with good reason. But at least

Cally was trying to do her share. The problem was, the quarters were

too close.

The two Pakistanis were still standing on the tarmac, not quite

understanding what was happening, but Ramirez sized up the situation in

an instant. He shoved Mannheim up the steps ahead of him, ducked into

the protection of the Sikorsky's open door, and then turned back.

Peretz was slower, caught standing on the foggy tarmac next to the

bottom step. When he realized his Walther's clip was empty, he fished

another out of his pocket and quickly began trying to insert it.

"That won't be necessary, Dr. Peretz." Ramirez's voice was like steel.

"Let me take care of it." Whereupon he leveled his Beretta 9mm and shot

a startled Abdoullah squarely between the eyes. Before Shujat realized

it, he shot him, too, point blank in the left temple.

"What in hell are you doing?" Peretz yelled, watching them fall. He was

still trying to shove a new clip into his automatic, but now he was

losing his touch and it jammed. "That's not how we--"

"I suppose you thought me some kind of fool," Ramirez replied, shifting

his aim. "It's time I laid that fond illusion of yours to rest once and

for all."

"I don't appreciate your tone of voice." Peretz was still struggling

frantically with his Walther.

"And I don't appreciate you trying to make off with this helicopter. We

have just lost a crucial element of our relationship, the element of

trust."

"I never knew our 'relationship' had all that much trust in it." Peretz

looked up defiantly. "We had a business arrangement. I've kept up my

end to the letter."

Vance watched the exchange with mixed emotions. He

realized that Peretz, being no idiot, knew the situation had just gone

critical. He had begun stalling for time. It wasn't going to work.

But after Ramirez finishes with this computer clown, he told himself,

Bill and I are next. And with that thought, he reached around under his

shirt and circled his fingers around the Walther.

He had been right.

"It's over, you little son of a bitch." Ramirez fired point blank into

Peretz' chest. The Israeli jerked backward, stumbled, and crashed,

slamming his head against the hard asphalt. He didn't move.

Uh-oh, Vance thought. Now it's our turn.

He was standing next to Bates, while around them were three bodies of

terrorists. Ramirez, however, was safely inside the open doorway, out

of range for Cally.

Does she realize what's about to happen?

She must have, because just as Ramirez leveled his black Beretta to

finish off what he had started, there was another burst of fire from

the direction of the gantry. It was the diversion Vance needed. He dove

for the tarmac, rolled, and extracted the Walther he had shoved into

his belt.

Come on, baby, keep giving me cover.

"Mike," Bates yelled, seeing the pistol as he, too, dove for the

tarmac, "shoot the bastard. Now."

Vance aimed for the doorway, but it was already closing, the steps

coming up. Sabri Ramirez was not a man to engage in gunplay for the fun

of it. He was about to be gone. A second later the main rotor, which

had been idling, immediately began to whine into acceleration.

"We blew it," Bates boomed, his voice now almost drowned by the huge GE

turboshafts.

"The Hyena," Vance muttered, pulling himself up off the asphalt.

"Headed back to his lair. And there's not a damned thing anybody can do

about it."

"Not with Isaac on board," Bates concurred. "Sorry I yelled. You really

didn't have a chance." He was shielding himself from the downdraft as

he tried to stand up. "The fucker is getting away without a scratch.

Looks like he pulled it off."

"Right," Vance said, watching the giant Sikorsky begin to lift. "But

maybe there's one thing left we can do. How about trying to remove that

bomb"--he pointed up at VX-1--"before that thing goes up?"

"What in hell are you talking about?" Bates turned to squint at the

silver spire. 'There's no way."

"Well, I don't know, what about using the Agusta? It's probably still

flyable." He had turned back to watch the Sikorsky bank into the

thinning fog. Ramirez was just barely visible through the windscreen,

smiling as he disappeared into the mist.

"There's no time. Peretz told me that VX-1 is set to lift off at seven

forty-eight. The bastard had it timed exactly." Bates glanced at his

watch. 'That's just a few minutes."

"No balls," Vance snorted. "Bill, for godsake, let's give it a shot.

Maybe we can at least disable it, turn it into a dud."

Bates was still dubious as he gazed upward. "Buddy, I don't want to be

hovering over that thing when the Cyclops kicks in. Do you realize--"

"Come on, where's your backbone." He waved to Cally, who was now coming

around the corner of the gantry. 'Thanks for not shooting me."

"When I saw Ramirez start killing everybody, I assumed you two were

next. It was then or never." She looked exhausted.

"You assumed right. We were on the hit list. Thanks." He kissed her on

the forehead, where her hair was still plastered. "Now will you help me

talk some sense into this guy? I say we could at least try to mess up

the bomb before the Cyclops launches it. They've got it programmed for

Souda Bay."

"You're kidding." Bates was transfixed.

"That's what he claimed. Come on, let's . . . hang on a second." He

turned and trotted over to the doorway of Launch, where he seized a

coil of electrical wire. "This may come in handy." Coming back, he

punched Bates' arm. "Let's give it a try. No guts, no glory."

"Souda Bay. Christ!" Bates glanced again at his watch. "Mike, we've got

less than nine minutes."

7:38 A.M.

"I copy," Nichols said into his mike. "When did the chopper lift off?"

"The AWACS picked it up at . . . just after 0730 hours," came the voice

from the Kennedy. It was General Max Austin. "The bastards are bugging

out."

"So what do we do now? Try and intercept them?"

"We're taking care of that from here. Fixed-wing. First, though, we've

got to figure out if there really are hostages aboard, like they claim.

But don't worry about it. There's nowhere they can hide. Your mission

is still the same. Secure the facility. There could still be some of

them left, so just interdict anything that tries to egress."

"That's a confirm. If it moves, it fucking dies."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

7:42 A.M.

Dawn had arrived, though the mantle of light fog was still adding a

hazy texture to the air. The sun-up had a freshness that reminded Vance

of the previous morning, the first glimmerings of daybreak. Now,

though, visibility was hampered by the residual moisture in the air,

just enough to give the world a pristine sheen. What would the morning

look like, Vance wondered, if a nuclear device exploded at Souda Bay on

nearby Crete? It was a possibility difficult to imagine, but the

results were not.

Bates began spooling up the power, and slowly the blue-and-white

striped Agusta Mark II started lifting off the pad. Fortunately it had

been prepped the previous day and was ready to fly.

"This is going to be dicey, Mike," Bates yelled back from the cockpit,

his voice just audible above the roar of the engines. "I don't know how

exactly you expect to manage this."

"I don't know either," Vance yelled in reply. "Try and see if you can

hover just above the payload bay. Very gently."

Cally was helping him circle the insulated wire about his waist, then

his crotch, making a kind of seat. Finally he handed her the free end

and shouted, "Here, can you secure this around something?"

"Around what?" she yelled back.

"Anything that looks sturdy. And then hang onto it."

"Ever done this before?" She had found a steel stmt by the door. "I

haven't."

"Are you kidding! That makes us equally experienced."

"Well, remember one thing--the downdraft from the main rotor is going to

buffet you like crazy. Be prepared."

"Right." He was already trying mental games to avoid vertigo. The

closest thing he could think of was looking out the windows of a tall

building, and even that scared him. He liked working close to the

ground. Very close.

As Bates guided the Agusta quickly down toward the launch pad and the

vehicles, visibility was no more than a quarter of a mile. And since he

had not bothered switching on the radar, he was totally unaware of the

two Apache AH-64s now approaching from the south at 180 mph. It was a

mistake.

7:44 A.M.

"Sir, we've just picked up some new action on the island," Manny

Jackson, in the first Apache, said into his radio. He could scarcely

wait to get in and take down the island. These camel-jockey terrorists

needed to be taught a lesson once and for all. He had lost a cousin,

nineteen years old, in the Beirut bombing, and this was the closest he

was ever going to get to a payback. "Guess there were more of the

bastards. Ten to one they're taking up another chopper."

"No way are we going to allow that to happen," Nichols declared. He was

in the lead Huey, two kilometers back. "The first batch may have got

away, but not these. From now on, nobody down there moves a hair. We're

about to teach them a thing or two about air supremacy."

"They don't seem to be going anywhere. Just moving down the island.

What do you think it means?" He was wondering what a lot of it meant.

Why was Souda Bay being evacuated? They weren't calling it that, but an

evacuation was exactly what was under way. A big hurry-up to get the

fleet into blue water, all nonessentials ordered to take a day off with

pay, a sudden token of "thanks" from Uncle Sammy for jobs well done.

Bullshit. . . .

"Probably picking up hostages," came back Nichols's voice. "Who the

hell knows? But our mission is to make sure they don't leave the

ground."

"You've got it, sir." He reached down to the weapons station and

flipped the red switch that armed the Hughes 30mm chain gun. Its twelve

hundred rounds, he figured, should be enough to handle the problem.

7:46 A.M.

"What in blazes is he doing?" Pierre Armont wondered aloud. He was

standing with Beginald Hall at the southern entrance of the SatCom

living quarters, the Bates Motel, gazing out over the launch pad and

trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Five minutes earlier they

had watched in dismay as the Sikorsky lifted off. Now this.

"Looks to be some damn-fool trapeze stunt," Reggie Hall muttered,

shaking his head. "He's going to get himself killed. What in bloody

hell?"

He caught his breath as he watched Vance begin rappelling down some

kind of thin line dangling out the open door of the chopper, spiraling

from the downdraft of the main rotor. It was something of a circus

aerial act--definitely not recommended for civilians. He clearly didn't

have the slightest idea how to use his arms to stabilize the spin. A

rank amateur. . . .

What was that sound? His senses quickened and he turned to squint at

the southern horizon. Through the light fog he could hear the faint

beginnings of a dull, familiar roar, and he realized immediately it was

choppers coming in. He quickly pulled out his Tasco binoculars and

studied the morning sky--two helos, both looking like ungainly spiders.

Yes, they had to be Apaches. What else.

Great, he thought, once more the U.S. has got its timing dead on. The

first time they showed up and managed to keep us from getting Ramirez,

and this time they decide to drop in just after his Sikorsky took off,

probably taking him and the last of his goons out, undoubtedly with a

few hostages for good measure. From all appearances, he had gotten

away. Again. It was sickening.

Now the gunships were dropping altitude and moving in, boldly, with the

authority their firepower commanded. He wondered if the teams on board

might actually be unaware that Ramirez had escaped.

"We ought to go out and signal them in," Armont said. "Let them know

how useless--"

Warning flares erupted from the Hughes 30mm in the nose of the first

Apache, missing the Agusta by no more than fifty meters.

"Christ! They don't know who the friendlies are." He immediately

canceled his impromptu plan to head out and wave. The U.S. Army was in

no mood to dialogue.

"Do they think Mike's a terrorist?" Reggie asked, incredulous. But even

as he said it, he realized that must be exactly what they thought. They

were going to try to force down the Agusta. Or shoot it down.

"Reggie, draw their fire!" Armont yelled. Almost by instinct, he raised

his Steyr-Mannlicher assault rifle and opened up on the lead

helicopter, going for the well-protected GE turboshaft on the left.

"Don't try to kill anybody, for godsake. Just distract them."

'This is insane," declared Willem Voorst, who had come out to see what

all the excitement was about. "What are you doing? I don't want to go

to war with the United States of America."

Then he noticed the blue-and-white Agusta hovering over VX-1, Vance

dangling, and put it all together. Without a further word he aimed his

MP5 and got off a burst, watching as it glinted harmlessly off the

second Apache's left wing.

Miraculously it worked. The Army's favorite helicopters

were huge, with a main rotor almost fifty feet in diameter, but they

could turn on a dime and these did. They came about and opened fire

with their chain guns on the cinderblock portico where Armont and Hall

and Voorst were ensconced.

The 30mm rounds tore around them, sending chunks of concrete flying,

but the structure was temporarily solid enough to provide protection.

Armont ducked out and got off another burst, keeping on the heat, then

back in again.

Now the Agusta was hovering just above the nose of the VX-1 vehicle,

and Vance had disappeared on the other side. What, Armont wondered

again, could he possibly be doing with the vehicle . . . ? Then the

answer hit him, as transparent as day.

_Merde!_ He's going to try and retrieve the bomb.

Good Christ, he thought, the man has gone mad. He may know how to trace

hot money halfway around the globe, but he doesn't know zip about a

nuclear device. He'll probably set the thing off by accident and blow

the entire island to--

A spray of cannon fire kicked up a line of asphalt next to where he was

standing, and he retreated for cover deeper behind the cinderblock

portico. They're not going to fool around long with that chain gun, he

told himself. We're going to be looking at rockets soon, and then it's

game up.

"We've done what we can for Michael," he yelled, getting off one last

burst. "We've got to get back inside before they get tired of playing

around and just fry this place."

"I hear you," Willem Voorst agreed, already headed deeper inside.

"Mike's on his own."

7:47 A.M.

Vance had never been more scared in his life. This made a day at a

stormy helm seem like a Sunday stroll. The down-draft was spinning him

violently now, a lesson that rappelling was not for the faint of heart.

Then he remembered some basic physics and held out his arms, helplessly

flapping like a wounded bird. But it was enough, as his spin

immediately slowed.

He was dizzy now, but when he came around, he got an overview of the

launch facility, and the glimpse made him realize that something had

gone terribly wrong. What were those? Two Apache helicopters were

hovering and they were firing on . . . on the Bates Motel. Just beyond

the fallen gantry.

Why! Ramirez and all his goons were gone or dead.

Bill Bates, who also had seen it all, had a better understanding of

what was under way. It was a massive failure of communications.

Thinking as quickly as he could, he started negotiating the Agusta

around, situating VX-1 between him and the Apaches. The fucking Delta

Force had come in like gangbusters and was shooting at the wrong

target. There was no time to try to raise them on the radio, and

besides, he only had two hands.

Down below, Vance slammed against the hard metal of the nose, and then

rotated, one-handed, to try to take measure of what to do next. It

wasn't going to be easy, that much was sure. The payload bay was sealed

with a Teflon ring, which was itself secured with a series of

streamlined clamps that were bolted from inside, designed for automated

control. But . . . there also was lettering next to a thumb-operated

hatch that read EMERGENCY RELEASE.

He flipped it open and, bracing himself against the side of the silver

cone to try to overcome the destabilizing down- draft, looked in. A red

button, held down for safety by another thumb latch, stared back.

What the heck, he thought, you've got nothing to lose. He flipped the

thumb safety, and then--bracing himself to try to slow his erratic spin--

slammed a heel into the button. Nothing happened for a second, but then

the Teflon clamps on the cargo bay began to click open one by one.

Up above him, Cally was yelling something, but he couldn't make out her

voice above the roar of the engines. Anyway, whatever it was, it would

have to wait. There was only one thing left to do, and he had to press

on. The clamps were now released, but the cargo bay was still closed. .

. .

At that moment, he began experiencing yet another failure of nerve.

There could only be a minute left, two at most, and he didn't have the

slightest idea what to do next.

Then he noticed the heavy release levers, positioned beneath the Teflon

clamps and circling the three sides of the streamlined door. Once more

bracing himself against the slippery side of the nose, he began

clicking them open, starting on the left and working his way around.

Time is surely running out, he told himself. This could end up being

the stupidest stunt ever attempted. The roar of the Agusta above was so

deafening he could barely think. He felt all of his forty-nine years, a

weight crushing down on him with the finality of eternity. . . .

Then the last clamp snapped free, and he watched as the door opened by

itself, slowly swinging upward. It was heavy, shaped like the pressure

door on an airplane fuselage, and designed to withstand the frictional

heat of space flight. But the spring mountings on the recessed hinges

were intended to open and close automatically.

And there sat a metallic sphere outfitted with a jumble of connectors

and switches. So that's what a bomb looks like, he marveled. It was

somehow nothing like he had imagined, if he had had time to imagine.

Now Bates had lowered the helo just enough to allow him to slide inside

and take the weight off the line. Finally he could breathe, but again

the matter of passing seconds had all his attention. If the vehicle

really was going up at 7:48, then there probably was less than a minute

left now to get the device unhooked and out.

He looked it over, puzzling, and decided on one giant gamble, one all-

or-nothing turn of the wheel. It was a terrifying feeling.

Quickly he untied the wire from around his waist, and began looping it

around the metal sphere: once, twice, three times. There was no time,

and no way, to disconnect the telemetry, so the device would simply

have to be ripped out. One thing was sure: if it blew, he would never

be the wiser.

When he had the wire secure, or as secure as he could make it, he

looked out the door and gave Cally a thumbs-up sign, hoping she would

understand. She did. She turned and yelled something to Bates, and a

moment later the Agusta began to power out as the pitch of the blades

slowly changed. The line grew taut, then strained against the sides of

the bomb, tightening his knots.

Will the wire hold? he wondered, and does this little toy helo have

enough lift to yank this thing out of here? It's like pulling a giant

tooth.

Then there was a ripping sound as the connectors attached to the sphere

began tearing loose. So far so good, he thought. At least the telemetry

is now history. If the vehicle goes up now, it'll be orbiting a dud.

Mission partly accomplished.

Then the bomb pulled away from its last moorings and slammed against

the side of the door, leaving him pinned against the frame, unable to

breathe. But he instinctively grabbed the line and wrapped his legs

around the sphere, just as it rotated and broke free. As it bumped

against the doorframe of the payload bay, he barely missed hitting the

closing door, but he ducked and swung free, into the open air, riding

the device as though it were a giant wrecking ball.

7:48 A.M.

"Those bastards firing on us have gone inside," Philip Sexton yelled.

"Let them wait. Let's stop the damned chopper from egressing." He was

pointing through the windscreen of the Apache. "Orders are to keep

everybody on the ground."

Manny Jackson hit the pedals. Nothing to it. There, almost in his

sights, was the striped Agusta chopper, with a terrorist hanging

beneath it. Probably fell out. He was hanging on to something, though

what it was you really couldn't tell through the thin mist.

It didn't matter. The guy was open and in the clear. This was the

beginning of what was going to be a marvelous operation, taking these

bastards down. With a feeling of immense satisfaction, he reached for

the weapons station.

And then his world went blue.

7:49 A.M.

Cally stared out the open door of the Agusta and felt her heart skip a

beat. A beam of energy, so strong it ionized the air and turned it deep

mauve, seemed to be engulfing Michael. Staring down, she was almost

blinded by its intensity. He was there, she was sure, but where she

could not tell.

Then it shut off for a second, and she realized it had been directed

toward the base of VX-1. Next came an enormous clap of thunder as the

splintered air collapsed on itself, sending out shock waves. Just like

lightning, she thought. The Cyclops is sending energy as though it were

lightning. . . .

Then the blue flashed again, and this time it began microsecond pulses,

like a massive strobe light. All the action was now highlighted in

jerky snippets of vision, as unreal as a disco dance floor. The air

around the beam was being turned to plasma, ionized pure atoms . . .

but the next burst of energy came from the propulsion unit of VX-1,

which slowly began discharging a concentrated plume out of its nozzles,

a primal green instead of the usual reds and oranges of a conventional

rocket.

The Cyclops had just gone critical, right on the money, ionizing the

dry-ice propellant in VX-1. Would the impulse be enough to lift it off?

she wondered. Was Isaac's grand scheme going to work? Years had been

spent planning for this moment. She felt her heart stop as she waited

for the answer, totally forgetting the man who was dangling just below

the chopper, bathed in the hard, pulsing strobes.

7:50 A.M.

As Manny Jackson grappled for the collective, blinded by the intense

monochromatic light engulfing him, a clap of thunder sounded about his

ears, deafening him to the roar of the Apache's turboshafts.

What in hell! Had one of the nuclear devices been detonated? No, his

instincts lectured, he was still alive. If it had been a nuke, he would

be atoms by now, sprayed into space. This had to be something else.

Now his vision was returning, the blue receding into quick flashes, and

the chopper seemed to be stabilizing. Maybe, he thought, I'm not going

to be permanently blind. But I've got to get this bird on the ground.

We'll just have to take our chances. Then the realization of what had

happened finally sank in. The damned Cyclops laser had switched on.

They had arrived too late. . . .

He was thrown against the windscreen as the Apache slammed into the

asphalt and collapsed the starboard leg of the retractable gear.

"Jesus!" He turned back to the cabin, forehead bleeding, and yelled,

"Everybody okay?"

The assault team was still strapped in, and nobody seemed the worse for

the bumpy landing. The Apache was a tough bird, hero of tank battles in

Iraq.

"No problem," came back a chorus of yells. They were already

unfastening their straps and readying their weapons.

"All right," he bellowed, killing the power. "Everybody out. Let's take

cover and kick ass."

7:50 A.M.

Vance heard the thunder and felt the shock wave almost simultaneously.

He gripped the wire, trying to hold on, and felt it cut deep into his

palms. The pain seemed to work in opposition to the numbing effects of

the shock wave that had buffeted him, assaulting his eardrums and his

consciousness. For a moment he forgot where he was, shut out all

thought, and just hung onto the wire with his last remaining energy.

In the Agusta up above, Bates was struggling with the controls, trying

to keep stabilized as the pressure pulse from the Cyclops swept down

the island. The dangling bomb, and Vance, were serving as a

counterweight, holding the small commercial helo aright. It was all

that kept it from flipping as the sudden turbulence assaulted the main

rotor.

The energy that filled the air now had yet another release.

As his eardrums recovered, Vance heard a new roar, deeper and throatier

than the sound of the Agusta, welling up around him. Down below, wave

after wave of pressure pulses were drumming the air, and he watched

spellbound as VX-1 shuddered, then began to inch upward into the

morning sky. It was a gorgeous sight, the lift-off of the world's first

laser-driven space vehicle.

Was Cally watching this moment of triumph? he wondered. She should be

ecstatic, even in spite of all the rest.

But would the vehicle make it to orbit? he suddenly asked himself. With

the payload gone, wouldn't the weight parameters be all out of whack.

But then maybe it didn't matter. The mere fact that it was going up

should be enough to cover Bates' contractual obligations with his

investors.

That was down the road. He was so mesmerized by the sight of the lift-

off that he had totally forgotten he was wrapped around a nuke, hanging

on for all he had as the asphalt loomed fifty feet below, like Slim

Pickens riding the bomb down in that famous closing scene from

Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove.

Then the pain in his hands refocused his attention. The bomb down

below, he figured, was now permanently inoperable. But Ramirez still

had Mannheim as a hostage, and he had made good his escape. Which meant

he was still in the terrorists' catbird seat. Using innocents for a

shield rather than slugging it out fair and square.

As the Cyclops continued to pulse, and VX-1 edged upward into the

morning mist, Bates steered the Agusta toward the old landing pad where

it had originally been parked. In moments he had eased down the bomb,

just as though settling in a crate of eggs, no more than twenty feet

from where they had taken off five minutes earlier. It was a marvel of

professionalism.

As the weapon bumped onto the asphalt, Vance had a sudden thought. The

damned thing was useless now, and harmless. But what about the other

one, the one Ramirez had taken with him in the Sikorsky?

"Michael, are you all right?" Cally had leapt from the open door of the

Agusta, looking as disoriented as he had ever seen her. "You were only

a few feet away when the Cyclops turned on. For a minute there, I

couldn't even see you. What was it like?"

"Try the end of the world. Like a thousand bolts of lightning, all

aimed at one place."

"A perfect description." She smiled and reached to help him stand up.

"I'd never realized there'd be a thunderclap when it switched on at

full power. God, what a sight." She was beaming at the thought,

exhilarated that all SatCom's work had been vindicated.

"You know," he said, "speaking of the end of the world, we came pretty

close. I hate to think what would happen if a bomb actually went off on

Crete."

"I've got a sinking feeling the end of the road wasn't going to be

Crete at all," Bates declared, stepping down from the Agusta. "I've

been thinking. Something that little Israeli prick let drop as we were

coming out to start up the Sikorsky finally sank in. He was rambling on

about retargeting the vehicle. You know, I think it was going to come

back here. He had the trajectory set to begin and end right here on

Andikythera. After he bugged out, of course."

"Nice," Vance said. "I actually kind of admire his balls. He was going

to nuke Ramirez."

"And us."

"That part's a little harder to like, I grant you." He turned and gazed

down toward the two Apaches that had landed. "By the way, what were

those all about? The Delta Force saving us?"

"Who knows?" He seemed to have a sudden thought. "Let me get on the

radio and try to call them off. Before they actually end up killing

somebody."

"While you're doing that, I'd like to try and raise Pierre. Find out

what's happening at his end."

"There's a walkie-talkie in the cockpit," Bates said. "Use it."

7:55 A.M.

"Michael, thank God it's you," Armont said into the mike. "Guess what,

we almost went to war against the U.S. Special Forces. We have just

surrendered. Incidentally, nice work up there. Or maybe you just got

lucky." He laughed. "Seeing you rappelling leads me to suggest that you

probably ought to stick to other lines of work."

"I hear you," Vance said. "By the way, the bad news is Ramirez got

away."

"So he was in the Sikorsky?" Armont sighed with resignation. "Blast, I

was afraid of that."

"Well, this may not be over yet. The vehicle got up, but we're not

quite sure where it's headed, bomb or no bomb. I want to try to get

into Command, or what's left of it, and try to find out. Before some

Delta cowboy fires a Hellfire missile in there."

"Good idea," Armont agreed. "It would also be nice to keep a handle on

Ramirez's getaway chopper. But I assume somebody will interdict him.

The almighty U.S. Navy owns this airspace, as we found out the hard

way."

"Don't count on anything. He took along Mannheim as a hostage.

Insurance. This guy is no slouch. I'd be willing to bet he's got

something up his sleeve. One thing he's got is at least one more bomb.

Bill saw it on the chopper. And he might be just crazy enough to use

it, God knows where."

"Then I don't know what the U.S. can do if he's got a hostage, and a

bomb. They're sure as hell not going to shoot him down. Where do you

think he's headed?"

"That's question number two, but if we can get into Command, maybe we

can figure out a way to track him from there. Somehow."

"Good luck," Armont said quietly, and with feeling. "And stay in

touch."

8:01 A.M.

Dore Peretz' chest still felt like it was on fire, a burning sensation

that seemed to spread across the entire front of his torso; in fact, he

felt like shit. And he had almost been blinded by the intense blue

laser strobes that had purged the island when the Cyclops kicked on.

However, in all the confusion surrounding the lift-off of VX-1, nobody

had bothered to wonder where he was. That part suited him fine.

Donning the bulletproof vest around midnight had been the best idea of

his life. . . . No, that wasn't true. The best of all was coming up.

Sometimes, he thought, life could have a moment so delicious it made up

for all your past disappointments. And you could either seize that

moment, or you could forever let it pass, wondering what it would have

been like. Not this one, baby.

As he passed through the lobby, he noticed the security door leading

into Command had been blown away with some kind of military explosive.

Probably C-4. Curious, he paused and assessed the damage. Hey, the

television down in Launch hadn't really done the assault justice. Must

have been one hell of a show.

Then he stepped inside and checked out the scene.

Jesus! The place was a mess, showed all the signs of a bloody assault.

Luckily, however, the emergency lights were working, their harsh beams

perfect for what he wanted to do now. There was definitely plenty of

evidence of gunfire, flecked plaster from the walls, and over there . .

. Christ! It was Jamal, or what was left of Jamal. Little fucker's neck

looked like he'd had a close encounter with a chain saw. Not far away

was Salim, shot in the face. Then, on the other side of the room, was

the body of the last German Stasi, Peter Maier. His demise had come

neatly, right between the eyes.

Smooth piece of work, you had to admit. The only asshole unaccounted

for was Jean-Paul Moreau. So what happened to that arrogant French

prick? Did he escape, get captured? . . . Who gave a shit?

Meditations on fate, the absolute. The truth was, it was

more than a little chilling to see the bodies of three dudes you'd come

in with only a day before. . . .

Well, fuck it. These other guys had known the risks. If they didn't,

then they were jerks. Down to business.

He knew what he was looking for, and he had left it next to the main

terminal. And there it was.

While he was working, he would block out the ache in his chest by

thinking about the money. Hundreds of millions. Tax free. Even if you

spent ten million a year, you could never spend it all. What a dream.

Then he had an even more comforting reflection. Everybody had seen him

shot. They wouldn't find the body, but they would naturally assume he

was dead, too. He would have the money, and he would be officially

deceased.

He almost laughed, but then he sobered, recalling he had only a scant

few minutes to wrap things up.

He slipped the component into its slot, then rummaged around for the

connectors. He had left them dangling when he removed the black box,

and they were conveniently at hand. They were color-coded, and besides,

he had a perfect photographic memory and knew exactly what went where.

Seconds later the diodes gleamed. On line.

Okay, baby, let's crank.

The real radio gear, he knew, was in Bates' office, which stood at the

far end of the room, its door blown away. Bates had plenty of

transmission and receiving equipment in there, so that would be the

perfect place to take care of business.

He picked up the device, now ready, and carried it with him, heading

over. The main power switch that controlled Bates' radios had been shut

off, but it was just outside the door and easy to access. He pushed up

the red handle, and walked on through, watching with satisfaction as

the gear came alive. Over by the desk was Bates' main radio, a big

Magellan, already warming up. Life was sweet.

He clicked on the receiver stationed next to the transmitter and began

scanning. Ramirez, he figured, would probably be on the military

frequencies now, spewing out a barrage of threats about blowing up

Andikythera. That had been the agreed-upon egress strategy, assuming

the confusion created when the bomb took out Souda Bay wasn't enough.

And sure enough, there he was, on 121.50 megahertz, just as planned.

Peretz decided to listen for a minute or so before breaking in.

"I won't bother giving you our coordinates," came his voice, "since we

show a radar lock already. I warn you again that any attempt to

interfere with our egress will mean the death of our hostage and a

nuclear explosion on the island."

How about that, Peretz thought. The getaway scenario is still intact,

right down to the last detail. Gives you a warm feeling about the

continuity of human designs.

He and Sabri Ramirez had planned it carefully. The Sikorsky would be

taken to fifteen thousand feet, its service ceiling, whereupon anybody

left would be shot. The controls would then be locked, and they would

don oxygen masks and jump, using MT-1X parachutes, the rectangular

mattress-appearing chutes that actually are a non-rigid airfoil. MT-lXs

had a forward speed of twenty-five miles per hour and could stay up

long enough to put at least that many miles between the jump point and

the landing. They were, in effect, makeshift gliders, and they

presented absolutely no radar signature. While the Sikorsky continued

on its merry way, on autopilot, they would rendezvous with the boat

that was waiting, then be off to Sicily, with nobody the wiser. The

chopper would eventually crash into the ocean halfway to Cypress,

leaving no trace.

The only part about that plan that bothered Dore Peretz from the first

was whether Sabri Ramirez was intending to kill him along with the rest

of the exit team. Nothing would prevent it. There was supposed to be

some honor among thieves, but . . .

Enough nostalgia. The moment had come to have a little fun. He flicked

on the mike. "Yo, my man, this is your technical associate. Do you

copy?"

There was a pause in the transmission, then Ramirez's voice came on,

loud and clear. "Get off this channel, whoever you are."

"Hey, dude, is that any way to talk? We have a little business to

finish. By the way, how's the weather up there? Chutes still look

okay?"

"What in hell," came back the voice, now abruptly flustered as the

recognition came through. "Where are you?"

"Dead, I guess. But hey, I'm lonesome. Maybe it slipped your mind I was

supposed to be part of the evacuation team."

"What do you want?"

"Want? Well, let's see. How about starting with a little respect."

"Fuck you, Peretz."

"Now, is that any way to talk? If that's how you feel, then I just

thought of another small request. I also want you to transfer your part

of the money into my account at Banco Ambrosiano. As a small gesture of

respect. I want you to get on the radio and see about having it

arranged. Or I might just blow the scenario for you." He had to laugh.

There was radio silence as Ramirez appeared to be contemplating this

alternative. It clearly was unpalatable.

"You've got a problem there, my friend. One of time. I'm sure we're

being monitored, so let me just say there's been a change of plans. You

would have been part of it, but unfortunately . . ."

"Hey, asshole, there's no change of plans. You figured it for this way

all along. But now there is going to be a change. I hate to tell you

what the new scenario is . . . yo, hang on a sec."

He had looked up to see Bill Bates and Michael Vance entering the

office. "Come on in and join the fun, guys." He waved his Walther and

grinned. "We're about to have a blast."

Vance walked through the door, bloody and exhausted. "And I thought

Ramirez was the only one who could manage to return from the dead." He

tried to smile, but his face hurt too much. "Either he was using

blanks, or you were wearing a bulletproof vest. Somehow I doubt it was

the former. So what happened? Have a business disagreement with your

partner in crime?"

Peretz was grinning. "That's how it is in life sometimes, man.

Friendship is fleeting." He gestured them forward.

Bates had moved in warily, still stunned by the carnage among the

workstations in Command. "I suppose I have you and Ramirez to thank for

tearing up the place out there." He walked over to the desk. "Nice to

see that my radio gear is back on and working."

"It's working fine," Peretz replied, then waved his Walther toward the

couch opposite the desk. "Now sit the fuck down. Both of you."

"You're staring at beaucoup hard time, pal." Vance did not move. "I can

think of several countries who're going to be fighting over the chance

to put you away. This might be a propitious moment to consider going

quietly."

"Quietly?" There was a mad gleam in his eye. "I never did anything

quietly in my life. You're in luck, asshole. You're about to have a

front-row seat at history in the making."

He turned back to the radio and switched to transmit. "Yo, my man,

looks like we have nothing more to say to each other. Which means it's

time for a fond farewell."

What's he about to do? Vance wondered. He's about to screw Sabri

Ramirez, but how?

Then it dawned. There was one bomb left, and Bill had said it was on

the Sikorsky. Probably radio-controlled, and Peretz had a radio, right

there. God help us!

"Hey," he almost yelled, "get serious. What you're about to do is

insane. You don't use a nuke to take out a single thug. Even a thug

like Sabri Ramirez. You've gone crazy."

In fact, Vance told himself, Peretz was looking a little, more than a

little, mad. He had a distant fix in his visage that was absolutely

chilling. The world had been waiting decades now for a nutcake to get

his hands on a nuclear trigger. Maybe the wait was over.

"Look, peckerhead, I'm sorry if you find this unsettling." Peretz was

still holding the Walther. "However, don't get any funny ideas." He

laughed. "You know, it's almost poetic. For years now Israel has been

the world's biggest secret nuclear power, but nobody ever had the balls

to show our stuff. I'm about to become my nation's most daring ex-

citizen."

He turned back to the radio. "You still there, asshole?"

There was no reply. The radio voice of Sabri Ramirez didn't come back.

"He's jumped." Peretz looked up and grinned a demented grin. "He's in

the air. Perfect. Now he'll get to watch."

He plugged in the device he had been carrying, a UHF transmitter. Then

he flicked it to transmit, checked the liquid crystals that told its

frequency, and reached for a red switch.

"No!" Vance lunged, trying to seize the Walther as he shoved Peretz

against the instruments. The crazy son of a bitch was actually going to

do it.

Peretz was strong, with the hidden strength of the terminally mad, and

after only a second, Vance realized he didn't have a chance; he was too

beat up and exhausted. Bill Bates, too, was suffering from absolute

fatigue, but he also leapt forward, grappling with Peretz and trying to

seize his automatic.

With Vance as a distraction, Bates managed to turn the pistol upward.

Peretz was still gripping it like a vise, however, and at that moment

it discharged, on automatic, sending a spray of rounds across the

ceiling. Vance tried to duck away, and as he did, Peretz kneed him,

shoving him to the floor. Bates, however, still had a grip on his right

wrist, holding the pistol out of range. Again it erupted, another hail

of automatic fire, but as it did, Bates managed to shove Peretz against

the desk, grabbing his right elbow and twisting.

The Walther came around, locked on full automatic, and caught Dore

Peretz in the side of his face. As blood splattered across the room,

Bates staggered back, while Peretz collapsed onto the desk with a

scream, then twisted directly across the transmitter.

He was dead instantly. And as he crumpled to the floor, almost by

magic, the background noise from the radio on the Sikorsky stopped,

replaced by a sterile hiss.

"Thank God," Bates whispered, breathless, and reached to help Vance up.

"Are you okay, Mike?"

"I think so," he mumbled, rising to one trembling knee. "At least we--"

The room shook as a blistering shock wave rolled over the island.

Outside, the distant sky above the eastern Mediterranean turned bright

as the midday sun. Fifteen thousand feet above the Aegean, a blinding

whiteness appeared unlike anything a living Greek had ever seen.

CHAPTER TWENTY

12:10 A.M.

"My God," the President muttered, settling the red phone into its

cradle. "They did it. The bastards detonated one of them. NSA says

their SIGINT capabilities in the Med just went blank. An

electromagnetic pulse."

"I don't believe it," Morton Davies declared. Sitting on the edge of

his hard chair, the chief of staff looked as incredulous as he felt.

"We're tracking their helicopter with one of the AWACS we brought up

from Rijad. The minute they set down, we're going to pick them up,

rescue Mannheim and any other hostages, and nail the bastards. They

know they can't get away, so why . . . ?"

"He'd threatened to nuke the island," Hansen went on, "but I assumed

that had to be a bluff. Why in hell would he want to go ahead and do

it? It didn't buy him anything at this stage."

Edward Briggs was on a blue phone at the other end of the Situation

Room, receiving an intelligence update from Operations in the Pentagon.

As he cradled the receiver, he looked down, not sure how to tell Johan

Hansen what he had just learned. Mannheim.

"What's the matter, Ed? I don't like that look. What did--?"

"Mr. President." He seemed barely able to form the words. "Our people

just got a better handle on . . . It wasn't Andikythera."

"What?" Hansen jerked his head around, puzzlement in his deep eyes.

"What do you mean? Good Christ, not Souda Bay! Surely they didn't--"

"The detonation. Our AWACS flying out of southern Turkey monitored it

at around fifteen thousand feet. As best they can tell. They still--"

"What!"

'They say it looked to be about seventy miles out over the eastern Med,

in the direction of Cypress. Which is exactly where they were tracking--

"You mean . . ." His voice trailed off.

'That's right," Briggs said finally. "They think it was the helicopter.

The one they were flying out. An old Sikorsky S-61 series, we believe.

It--"

"What are you saying?" Hansen found himself refusing to believe it.

'That those idiots nuked themselves?" What the hell was the Pentagon

talking about? . . . My God. Isaac was--

"Doesn't exactly figure, does it?" Briggs nodded lamely. 'The

electromagnetic pulse knocked out all our non-hardened surveillance

electronics in the region, but Souda's intel section was hard-wired

into our backup SAT-NET and they claim they triangulated it.

Everything's sketchy, but that seems to be what happened."

"I can't believe it," Hansen said, running his hands over his face.

They were trembling. "The whole situation must have gotten away from

him. That's . . . the only way. It must have been a macabre accident.

Christ!"

"A damned ghastly one," Briggs agreed. "But I think you're right."

"It's the only explanation that makes any sense," Hansen went on. "He

probably decided to take one of the bombs with him, hoping to try this

again, and something went haywire." He suddenly tried a sad smile. "You

know, I warned that son of a bitch he didn't know what he was doing,

that he'd probably end up blowing himself up. Truthfully, I didn't

really think it would actually happen, though." He turned back to

Briggs. "The Pakistanis said the weapons they had were about ten or

fifteen kilotons. How big is that, Ed, in English?"

"Okay," Briggs said, pausing for effect, "that would be like a medium-

sized tactical, I guess." Truthfully he wasn't exactly sure.

"Well," Hansen mused, "I'm still convinced they intended it for Souda

Bay. And if they'd succeeded . . . but as it stands, I guess it was

more like a small upper-atmosphere nuclear test. A tactical nuke, you

say? The very term is an obscenity. But, you know, NATO had those all

over Germany not so long ago, on the sick assumption that the German

people couldn't wait to nuke their own cities." After a long moment,

during which a thoughtful silence held the room, Hansen continued.

"Tell me, Ed. What kind of impact would a weapon like that actually

have at that altitude?"

"My guess is the effects will be reasonably contained." He was doing

some quick mental calculus. "Okay, if you were directly under it, you'd

have been about three miles away, so you'd have taken a shock wave that

would have knocked out windows. And maybe produced some flash burns.

But we had the region cleared of civilian traffic, so maybe we're okay

on that score."

"What about fallout?" Hansen asked.

"Well, at that altitude the radioactive contamination should be mostly

trapped in the upper atmosphere and take several days to start

settling. By that time, it'll probably be diluted to the point it'll be

reasonably minimal. Nothing like Chernobyl. Hell, I don't know the

numbers, Mr. President, but then again he was over some fairly open

waters. Besides, like I said, we had a quarantine on all civilian air

and sea traffic--guess we see now what a good idea that was--so maybe we

can be optimistic."

"The bloody fools just committed hara-kiri, and took Isaac

with them." He found himself thinking about the warning his aged father

had given him that the job of President would age him half a lifetime

in four years. He now felt it had happened in two days.

"There's more," Morton Davies said, clicking off a third phone and

glancing at the computerized map now being projected on the giant

screen at the end of the room. "SatCom's laser-powered rocket did go

up. That's all they know for certain, but they think it's going into

orbit. Whatever the hell that means."

"What about the Deltas?" Hansen asked finally, remembering all the

planning. "And the assault? Did they--?"

"Right. Good question." He beamed. "JSOC Command reports that the

Deltas are on the island now and have it secured. They even retrieved

the bomb that those bastards were planning to put on SatCom's rocket.

They managed to get it removed before the launch."

"How?"

"I haven't heard yet, but at least we can take pride in the fact that

this country's antiterrorist capabilities got a full-dress rehearsal.

And they were up to the job."

The President nodded gravely, not quite sure what, exactly, had been

proved. That America could go in with too little, too late? If so, it

was sobering insight.

"All right, Morton, get Caroline in here first thing in the morning. I

want her to schedule a television speech for tomorrow night. Prime-

time. I don't know what I'll say, other than our Special Forces

minimized the loss of life. It's going to sound pretty lame."

"And what about the money? Is that going to get mentioned?"

Hansen laughed. "Not in a million years. That money's going to be

traced and retrieved today, or else. The Swiss know when to play ball.

And by the way, nobody here knows anything. About any of this. No

leaks, or off-the-record briefings. And I mean that. The less said, the

better."

"That might apply to the whole episode, if you want my opinion," Davies

observed.

"You know, Morton, yes and no." He turned thoughtful.

"Maybe some good can come of this disaster after all. It might just be

the demonstration we all needed to start the process of putting this

nuclear madness to rest, once and for all. The genie managed to slip

out of the bottle for a couple of days, and now we see how it can

happen. I think it's time we got serious about total disarmament and

on-site inspection."

Edward Briggs always knew Hansen was a dreamer, but this time he was

going too far. He did not like the idea of America scrapping its

nuclear arsenal, even if everybody else did the same. "That's going to

mean a lot of wheeling and dealing, Mr. President. It's going to be a

hard sell in some quarters."

Right, Hansen thought. And the hardest sell of all was going to be the

Pentagon. "Well, dammit, nothing in this world is easy. But this is one

move toward sanity that may have just gotten easier, thanks to that

idiot on the island. I'm going to rework that speech I've got scheduled

for the General Assembly. We lined up the Security Council, including

the Permanent Members, for the right reasons once before. I'm going to

see if we can't do it again. This time I think we've got an even better

reason."

8:23 A.M.

"All right, we can evacuate them on a Huey," Eric Nichols was saying.

"They'll take care of them on the Kennedy, courtesy of the U.S.

government. But just who the hell are you?"

He was in the upper level of the SatCom living quarters, talking to a

man in a black pullover who was packing a pile of Greek balaclavas into

a crate. What in blazes had gone on? He had arrived in the lead Huey,

to find one of the Apaches crash-landed, only one SatCom space vehicle

left, and the Deltas on the ground, futilely searching for terrorists.

But instead of terrorists, they had only come across this group of men

in black pullovers, who had surrendered en masse. Turned out they were

friendlies. And now this guy had just asked for a Huey to take out a

couple of their ranks who had been shot up, one pretty badly.

"My name is Pierre Armont," replied the man. He seemed to be the one in

charge, and he had a French accent.

"I mean, who the hell _are _you? And all these guys? CIA?" Nichols

couldn't figure any of it. Two minutes after he landed, a shock wave

pounded the island. Then when he tried to radio the Kennedy, to find

out what in good Christ had happened, he couldn't get through. There

was no radio traffic, anywhere. He had a sinking feeling he knew what

that meant. And now, these clowns. They didn't look like regular

military, but there was something about the way they moved. . . .

"We're civilians," Armont said cryptically. "And we're not here. You

don't see us."

'The hell I don't. What in blazes do you mean?" Nichols didn't like

wiseacres who played games. The problem was, these guys clearly weren't

desk jockeys, the one type he really despised. No, they seemed more

like a private antiterrorist unit, and he didn't have a ready-made

emotion for that.

"As far as you and the U.S. government are concerned, we don't exist,"

Armont continued. "It's better if we keep things that way."

Nichols looked around and examined their gear, trying to figure it. The

stuff was from all over the place--German, British, French, Greek, even

U.S. And not only was it from all over the globe, it was all top notch,

much of it supposedly not available to civilians. Where . . . and then

it hit. "You're the jokers we were trying to keep from coming in."

"You did a pretty good job of slowing us down." Armont nodded.

"Not good enough, it would seem." He laughed, a mirthless grunt.

"You're a crafty bunch of fuckers. I'll grant you one thing, though. At

least you knew enough not to put up with micromanaging from the other

side of the globe. You ended up doing exactly what we would have if

anybody had let us. Vietnam all over again." He was reaching into his

pocket for a Montecristo. He pulled out two. "Care to join me? Castro

may not be able to run a country for shit, but he can still make a

half-decent cigar."

"Thank you," Armont said, taking it. He hated cigars.

"By the way, I'm Eric Nichols."

"I know," Armont said. "JSOC." He had followed Nichols's career for

years, always with an idea in the back of his mind. "I also know you've

got one more year till retirement, but you don't seem like the retiring

type."

Nichols stared over the lighted match he was holding out and smiled.

"Tell me about it." Then he looked around at the men of ARM, the pile

of balaclavas and MP5s, vests of grenades. And

discipline, plenty of discipline. It was a sight that did his heart

good. "Your boys look like they've been around."

"In a manner of speaking." Whereupon Pierre Armont proceeded to give

Major General Eric Nichols an overview of the private club known as the

Association of Retired Mercenaries. Including the financial dimension.

Nichols nodded slowly, taking deep, thoughtful puffs on his

Montecristo. He was already way ahead of the conversation. "I think we

might need to have a talk when all this is over. A look into the

future."

"It would be my pleasure," Armont said. "Dinner in Paris, perhaps. I

know the perfect restaurant." He did. Les Ambassadeurs, in the Hotel

Crillon. French, though not too French. Rough-hewn Americans like

Nichols always got slightly uneasy when there was more than one fork on

the table and the salad came last.

"Sounds good to me," Nichols said. "Just as long as I won't be getting

any asshole phone calls from the Pentagon while we talk."

"I can virtually guarantee it," Armont replied. "But in the meantime,

we do need a favor or two from you. For starters, we would much prefer

to just be numbered among the civilians here." He smiled. "That is,

after all, what we are. Civilians with toys."

"And some pretty state-of-the-art ones at that," Nichols said, looking

around again. "But I sometimes have problems with my vision, can't

always be sure what I'm seeing. Like right now, for instance. I can't

seem to see a damned thing."

"Oh, and one other favor," Armont continued, nodding in silent

appreciation. "We took one of the terrorists alive, a certain Jean-Paul

Moreau, who is wanted in a string of bank robberies all over France.

It's Action Directe's idea of fund-raising. We'd like to remove him

back to Paris. There're some . . . parties there who will pony up

enough bounty to cover the costs of this operation and make us whole.

How about it? For purposes of your mission debriefing, can you just say

the precise number of hostiles remains to be fully established? When we

get back to Paris, he's going to fall out of a bus on the rue de Rivoli

and be captured." He paused, hoping. The Americans might not go for

this one. "We would be particularly grateful. And so would several

financial institutions I could name."

Nichols drew again on his Cuban cigar, starting to like this Frog a

lot. "Why the hell not? If you're not here, then I can't very well know

_who _you take out, can I? Never heard of the guy."

"Thank you very much," Armont said, and he meant it. This was indeed a

man he could work with. "I'm glad we see the situation eye to eye."

"Somebody at least ought to come out of this cluster-fuck whole,"

Nichols reflected wistfully. "Jesus, what a disaster."

Armont had turned to watch as the Deltas began easing Dimitri onto a

metal stretcher. He seemed alert, and he even tried to lift a hand and

wave. Armont waved back and shouted for him to take it easy. "By the

way, that Greek civilian over there is named Spiros. He runs a security

business out of Athens and never leaves town, which is why he wasn't

here."

"Got it." Nichols nodded. "Guess a lot of things didn't happen today."

He looked around. "But I've still got one question. We've already

counted about half a dozen dead hostiles. So if nobody was here, then

who exactly took down all these terrorist motherfuckers?"

"Well," Armont explained, "we both know Delta Force doesn't exist

either. So maybe this Greek sunshine gave them terminal heatstroke and

they all just shot themselves."

"Yeah," Nichols concurred with a smile, "damnedest thing."

9:31 A.M.

"Georges, what do you think?" Cally asked. "Can it be saved?"

"Well, first the good news. The Fujitsu is okay." He wheeled around

from the workstation. Command was a shambles, but he had managed to

find one auxiliary terminal that would still function. That

workstation, and the lights, were on, but not much else. "It was buried

deep enough in the bedrock that it escaped the EMP, the electromagnetic

pulse, from the blast. If we'd lost our sweetheart, we'd be dead in the

water."

"Any telemetry?"

"Yep." He smiled. "The tapes were on. We had Doppler, almost from

liftoff. The Cyclops computed our acceleration from it, and the results

look to be right on the money. The not-so-good news is that the last

telemetry we recorded, just before the bomb went off and the Cyclops

crashed, showed that VX-1 was about three minutes away from capturing

orbit. I think we probably made it, but I still can't say. However,

since Big Benny was already reducing power, getting ready to shut it

off anyway, maybe, just maybe we got lucky."

She sighed. "When will you know for sure?"

"Right now I'm trying to get Arlington on-line and tied into here. I'm

hoping we can patch into their satellite receiving station. Anyway, I

should know in a few minutes, assuming the vehicle is still sending

back telemetry."

"Care to venture a guess?" She collapsed into a chair next to him. This

was the first time she had been in Command for several hours and it

seemed almost strange. Whereas the staff over at Launch Control had

opened the champagne immediately after lift-off, still not fully aware

of all the behind-the-scenes drama, the Command technicians were too

shell-shocked to think, and they were only now slowly drifting back in.

Not the people in Launch, though. All they knew for sure was that they

had done their job, even if the gantry had collapsed for some

mysterious reason. VX-1 left the pad without a hitch. They had a

success.

"Well, if I had to lay odds," Georges went on, "I'd guess we captured

orbit, but it's going to be erratic. However, if we can get the Cyclops

up and running again, maybe we can do a midcourse correction." He

tapped something on the keyboard. "Yet another first for the never-say-

die SatCom team."

She had to laugh. "You look pretty cool, Soho, for somebody who just

lived through World War Three."

He tried unsuccessfully to smile. "Hey, don't go by appearances. I

tried to open a Pepsi just now and my hands were shaking so badly I

finally just gave up and went to the water fountain. Cally, I'm a

wreck. I'm still quivering. God." He pulled at his beard, then absently

added, "I'm going to shave this off. What do you think? It isn't me."

"It never was." She had refrained from telling him that earlier, but

now he seemed to want to talk about trivia, maybe just to take his mind

off all the heaviness around. And there were two new things she did not

want to tell him. The first was that millions of dollars were riding on

his every keystroke. The second was that she was thinking a lot right

now about somebody else.

9:43 A.M.

"Mike, I can't believe it," Bates said, hanging up the phone. The one

in his office was among the few still working, and it had been ringing

off the wall. "Know who that was?"

Vance had not been paying heavy-duty attention. He had been thinking

about the woman out there now talking to the computer hacker with the

scraggly beard.

"What? Sorry, Bill, I wasn't listening."

"Hey," he laughed. "Your mental condition isn't what it might be. Tell

you the truth, you look like a guy who just mixed it with a twenty-

horsepower fan, and lost. You really ought to go over to medical and

get your face looked after."

"The Deltas are probably still over there. If I showed up, I might just

get arrested. Don't think I could handle an interrogation right now.

Better to hide out for a while longer." The fact was, he still felt too

disoriented to think about how he must look. He hurt all over, and he

almost didn't care.

"Whatever you say." Bates shrugged. "Anyway, that guy on the phone just

now was a Jap by the name of Matsugami. He just happens to run NASDA."

"What's that?" Vance asked, trying to clear his mind enough to remember

the initials. The information was back there somewhere, but he just

couldn't reach it.

"You really are out of it, buddy. You of all people ought to know

perfectly well it's their National Space Development Agency. He says

they're disgusted with all the failures they've been having with the

American and European commercial rockets. He wants to talk about a

contract for SatCom to put up their next three broadcast satellites.

That means we get to haggle for six months while they try to trim my

foreskin, but I think we'll get the job. Laser propulsion is suddenly

the hottest thing since Day-Glo condoms. That bastard who took us over

just gave us a billion dollars of publicity." He laughed. "I'd almost

like to kiss what's left of his ass, except it's probably somewhere in

the ozone about now."

"Well, congratulations."

"Wait till Cally hears about this. She just may go into orbit herself."

"You've been on the phone for an hour." After Peretz was carried out,

he had collapsed onto the couch in Bates' office and tried to go to

sleep, but the goings-on had made it impossible. Bates had been talking

nonstop. "What else is happening out there in the world Ramirez was

planning to nuke?"

"He did nuke it. He just didn't manage to nuke it the place he

intended." Bates leaned back in his chair. "Well, it turns out good

news travels fast. Since VX-1 is up, our two prime banks in Geneva are

suddenly engaged in intimate contact between their lips and my nether

parts. 'Roll over your obligations? _Mais oui, Monsieur Bates.

Certainement. Avec plaisir. _Will you need any additional

capitalization? We could discuss an equity position.' The cocksuckers.

It was almost a shame to piss away that weapon on empty space. I could

have thought of a much better use."

"Hallelujah." He felt his spirits momentarily rise, though not his

energy. "Maybe this means all that stock you paid me for the boat will

end up being worth the paper it's printed on. Truthfully, I was

beginning to worry."

"Told you it'd all work out," he grinned. "No faith. Come on, amigo,

I've got to break the news to the troops." He strode to the door, or

the opening that was left after the C-4 had removed the door, and

surveyed the remains of Command. The technicians and systems analysts

were filing back in, but mostly it was a scene of purposeful lethargy.

The horror of the last day and a half had taken a terrible toll. Eyes

were vacant, hair unkempt, motions slow and aimless. Several of those

who had previously quit smoking were bumming cigarettes.

He whistled with two fingers, and the desultory turmoil froze in place.

"Okay, everybody," he said, his voice not quite a shout. "It's

official. We're back in business. You've all still got a job."

The glassy-eyed stares he received back suggested nobody's thoughts had

extended that far yet. Nobody was in a particular mood to let

themselves think about the future.

"That's the good part," Bates went on, oblivious. "The other news is

there won't be bonuses or stock dividends this year. We'll be lucky

just to service our debt. But anybody who hangs in there for twelve

months gets half a year's pay extra, as a bonus. I'll do it out of my

own pocket if I have to. And if you play your cards right, we could be

talking stock options, too."

There were a few smiles and thumbs-up signs, more to hearten Bates,

whom they revered, than to celebrate. Nobody had the capacity left to

feel particularly festive. At the same time, nobody was about to

abandon ship. Not now, now that they were needed more than ever.

Vance was leaning on the wall behind him, watching it all and thinking.

Okay, so Bill was about to be rich, and SatCom had gotten enough free

publicity to last into the next century. But the real notoriety should

be going to the question that had haunted the world for four decades:

what would happen if terrorists got their hands on a nuclear device?

This time the consequences--although intended to be devastating--had in

fact been peripheral, an inconsequential detonation somewhere halfway

into space. But the question that still hung over the world was, what

would happen the next time? It was a question Bill Bates had too much

on his mind today to think about. Maybe he never would.

9:51 A.M.

J.J. shook his head in disgust as he looked over the shambles that was

the gantry. Dr. Andros had just phoned from Command, asked him to

undertake a preliminary assessment of the condition of the facility,

just to ballpark the extent of damage. The assignment was already

depressing him. Still, from what he could see so far, things could have

been worse. There was no obvious physical injury to VX-2 or to the

transmission antennas up on the hill, though the testing and

corrections could take weeks. The gantry was a total loss, no doubt

about that, but otherwise the major physical structures on the island

appeared unscathed. The main reason, naturally, was that almost

everything important--including the superconducting coil and the

Fujitsu--was well underground.

The main scene now was all the bodacious helicopters, Hueys, on the

landing pad and all the Army commandos milling around. Jesus! How did

everybody in Launch Control miss what was really going on? Looking

back, the whole thing was fishy from the word go.

Now the Army types were collecting the bodies of the terrorists and

acting like they had cleaned up the place all by themselves. Guess that

was going to be the official story. . . .

Mr. Bates had already come down to Launch, shook everybody's hand, and

thanked the crews for hanging in there. He looked a little shook up,

but he wasn't talking like it. Totally upbeat. You had to love the guy.

He also delivered the news that as soon as things settled down, SatCom

was going to kick some ass in the space business.

Jordan Jaegar looked up at the brilliant Greek sunshine and grinned in

spite of himself. Shit, he couldn't wait.

10:22 A.M.

"It's all been handled," Armont was saying. Vance had finally decided

to venture out of Bates' office and see how things were going. The

Bates Motel had taken some heavy gunfire around the entrance, but it

was still usable, with the ARM team milling around and readying to

depart. Down below, the sea had never looked bluer. "Nobody knows

anything. Our favorite state of affairs."

Vance was still trying to take it all in. "How's Spiros doing?"

"They took him out on one of the Hueys," Armont said. "Hugo went, too."

"Are they going to be all right?"

"Hugo's okay. He even knocked back a couple of Guinnesses before he

left, saying they would help ease the stabbing pain. Can you believe?

As for Dimitri, the Deltas had a medic along, and he gave him a better

than fifty-fifty shot. Said nothing vital seemed beyond repair."

"Thank goodness for that at least."

"Poor guy, he felt personally responsible for the whole mess. I think

that was why he sort of lost his better judgment there for a second

when we rushed Command and got careless."

"It can happen," Vance said. Looking back, he decided he had lost sight

of better judgment several times over the past few hours.

The rest of the ARM team was checking out the gear and tying crates,

all the while working on their second case of beer. Departure was

imminent.

"Well," Vance added finally, "it was a nightmare, start to finish. What

more can you say."

"Well, not entirely," Armont observed, a hint of satisfaction creeping

into his voice. "Bates is going to let us use the Agusta to fly back to

Paris. And when we get there, one of the terrorists who got blown up is

going to suddenly reappear. Jean-Paul Moreau."

"Know him well," Vance said, remembering the beating and his sense of

hopelessness at the time. "Better not let me see the bastard. He might

not make it back to Paris in one piece."

"Well, Michael, that would be very ill-advised. He's worth a small

fortune. If the Greeks were to get hold of him, he could piss on the

court system here and keep it mucked up for years, so we're taking him

straight back to Paris." He paused to glance around. "Nichols is giving

us an Apache escort as far as international airspace will permit. But

you don't know anything about any of this. Keep your nose clean."

"Nichols?" The name didn't mean anything, but then his mind was still

mostly in neutral.

"Major General Eric Nichols. No reason you should know him. Runs the

Deltas. Good man, by the way. First rate. I've had my eye on him for a

number of years. Could be he'll end up being our first Yank. Well, our

second besides you."

"So this was really a recruiting drive." Vance laughed. Suddenly he was

feeling almost giddy again, this time from the release of all the

stress.

"You take them where you can get them." Armont nodded, then looked

around and whistled. "Okay, everybody, bring down the Agusta and start

loading the gear. We're gone." He turned back to Vance. "How about you?

Coming?"

"No," he said, almost not even catching the question. "Think maybe I'll

stick around. Make sure Bill is okay. You know, unfinished business."

"Right." Armont laughed. "I think I saw your 'unfinished business,'

Michael. Don't you think she might be a little young for you. You're

starting to get like me now, middle-aged."

"Well, working for ARM doesn't help, but then you do have a gift for

pointing out the obvious." The way he felt, starting over looked

tougher all the time.

"On the other hand, why not. As a romantic Frenchman, I can only wish

you _bonne chance_." He patted him on the back. "What more can I say."

"Thanks." Vance had to smile. Armont was gallant to the end, and a man

who prided himself on knowing what things mattered in life. "At my age,

you need all the luck you can get."

"_Merde_. In this life you make your own luck." With which

pronouncement he shook hands, then yelled for Hans to bring over the

list of gear for one last inventory.

7:47 P.M.

It was the end of the day and he could genuinely have used a tequila,

double, with a big Mexican lime on the side. Instead, however, he had

something else on the agenda. After an early dinner with Bill Bates, he

had talked Calypso Andros into a stroll down to the harbor, there to

meditate on the events of the past two days. They had agreed in advance

not to talk about Isaac Mannheim's death; Cally declared he would have

wanted it that way. His life was his legacy.

"I wonder if this island will ever be the same again," she was saying

as she leaned back against a rock. "You know, it was peaceful once,

before SatCom took over--there actually were sheep, a whole herd--but

even then it had a kind of purposefulness that was just the opposite of

chaos. We're the ones who disrupted it. SatCom. We remade it in our

image, and we tempted fate." She sighed. "God, this whole disaster

almost seems like a bad dream now. I wonder if the island will ever

know real peace again. There'll always be the memory to haunt

everybody."

"You know, when Ulysses came back to his island, he discovered it had

been taken over by a bunch of thugs. So he took away their weapons,

locked the doors, and straightened things out. It set a good

precedent."

"Well, it didn't exactly happen that cleanly this time, but we did get

them all. Every last one. And about half of them, you took care of

yourself. One way or another."

"Please," he stopped her. "Let's don't keep score. It's too

depressing."

"I'm not depressed. At least not about them. They came in here and

murdered people right and left. They deserved whatever they got. Good

riddance. The human race is better off."

"That's pretty tough," Vance said. "On the other hand, whereas they

claimed to be terrorists, they really were just extortionists. At least

Ramirez and Peretz were. For them this was all about money. Kidnapping

and ransom. So maybe you're right. The penalty for kidnapping is death.

They were looking at the max, no matter what court ended up trying

them."

"I'd say ARM just spared Greece or somebody a lot of trouble and

expense. Performed a public service."

"I suppose that's one way to look at it." He smiled. "But somehow I

don't think Pierre's going to get so much as a thank-you note. It never

happens. Things always get confused like this at the end, but as long

as he and the boys come out whole, they don't care."

His voice trailed off as he studied the sea. Along the coast on either

side, the pale early moon glinted off the breakers that crashed in with

a relentless rhythm. Yes, a bomb had exploded somewhere up there in

space, but the Aegean, even the jagged rocks around the island, still

retained their timeless serenity. The Greek islands. He never wanted to

leave. Right now, though, he was trying to work up his nerve to talk

seriously with Dr. Cally Andros--and the words weren't coming. How to

start . . .?

"Are you still here?" She finally broke his reverie. "Or are you just

gazing off."

"Sorry about that." He clicked back. "I was thinking. Wondering if

you'd still be interested in . . . in what we talked about yesterday."

"What?" She looked puzzled, then, "Oh, you mean--"

"Taking a sail with an old, slightly beat-up yacht-charter operator."

"You're beat up, there's no denying it." She laughed. "I hope you keep

your boats in better shape." She looked him over and thought again how

much he reminded her of Alan. The mistake that affair represented was

not one to be repeated blindly. Then again . . . "But I don't consider

you old. Experienced, maybe, but still functioning."

"Is that supposed to mean yes?"

"It's more like a maybe." She touched his hand. "What were you thinking

about, exactly?"

"What else? The _Odyssey_ thing." He looked out at the horizon, then

back. "Seems to me it deserves another try.

_Oh, the pearl seas are yonder,

The amber-sanded shore;

If you'll pardon my attempt to wax poetic."

She smiled. "Plagiarist. I know that one. And I also know there's

another line in it that goes,

_Troy was a steepled city,

But Troy was far away.

Far away. Get it? Or maybe it doesn't even really exist at all."

"Oh, it exists all right. You just have to want to find it." He picked

up a pebble and tossed it toward the surf, now rapidly disappearing in

the dusk. "So what are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying that maybe Troy was a real place and maybe not. But that's

almost beside the point. What it really is is a symbol for that

something or somebody we're all looking for. Whatever special it is we

each want. Like when I came here to work for SatCom. Space was my Troy.

It was what I wanted. And when you tried to re-create the voyage of

Ulysses, you were thinking you could make something that was a myth

into something that was real. Big impossibility."

"You're saying the search for Troy is actually just an inner voyage,

and I got caught up in trying to make it literal. The boat and all."

"Well, that's what myth is really about, isn't it? We make up a story

using real, concrete things to symbolize our inner journey."

"You're saying Ulysses could have sailed up a creek, for all it

mattered?"

'That's exactly what I'm saying." She leaned back. "Shit, I want a

pizza so bad right now I think I'm going crazy."

Vance was still pondering her put-down of his _Odyssey_ rerun,

wondering if maybe she wasn't onto something. Maybe he had learned more

about himself in two days on the island than he would have learned in

two years plying the Aegean.

"All right," she said finally. "I'm sorry. I've busted your chops

enough. You asked if I'd like to take a sail, and I said maybe. The

truth is, I would, but I've also got a journey of my own in mind."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, before I tell you, maybe I'd better make sure you meant it. For

one thing, what are you going to sail in?"

"Good question." Up until that moment he had not given much thought to

personal finance. The truth was, he was broke. "I don't know if I can

scrape up enough money to build an _Odyssey_ _III_. It's a problem."

"Well, I'll tell you what I think. I think Bill owes you at least a

boat for all you did."

He shrugged, not quite agreeing with her on that point. You don't pitch

in to help out an old friend, then turn around and send him an invoice.

"Maybe, maybe not. But in any case, it would be minus the ten grand I

owe him for the bet I lost."

"Come on"--she frowned--"that's not fair."

"Maybe not, but a deal's a deal. Poseidon was the god of the sea, and

the god of anger. This is Greece, so maybe the old gods are still

around. Maybe I tempted Poseidon and pissed him off. Anyway, the sea

got angry, and that's how it goes. The way of the gods. Ten big ones."

"Well," Calypso Andros said, "speaking of gods, Aphrodite was the

goddess of love and beauty. The Greeks were smart enough to give you a

selection. So you ought to think about burning some incense to her next

time. Or something. Maybe fall in love. I hear she likes that, too."

"Good suggestion." He glanced over.

"Michael, I feel so rootless," she said finally, leaning against him,

strands of hair across his shoulder. "Not close to anybody, really. Now

that SatCom doesn't need my mothering any more, I want to try and start

a few things over . . . and the place I want to start is Naxos. _My

_Odyssey."

He just nodded, understanding.

"I want to go back to my old home," she went on, almost a

sad confession. "I haven't been there for over twenty years. We had

such a beautiful little whitewashed house. Looked out on a bay. It was

tiny, but I still sneak back there in my dreams. I want to make sure it

survived."

"Don't think you have to worry. The shock wave was probably well

dissipated by the time it hit Paros and Naxos. Fact is, I doubt it did

any real damage to any of the islands."

'Then why don't we go there together? Your _Odyssey_ and mine."

"It's a done deal."

"Good." She straightened, suddenly becoming businesslike. "Just as soon

as we find out about VX-1. If it made orbit and if anything is

salvageable. Georges should know by tomorrow morning. Then I want to

split for a while."

"It would do us both good. Have to. And you know, since we're

definitely going to need some transportation, I think I'm getting an

idea." He nodded down toward the twenty-eight-foot Morgan, pristine

white, bobbing at anchor in the harbor. "Looks pretty seaworthy to me.

Think Bill would mind?"

"With all the SatCom stock I've got now?" She reached out and touched

his face. "I'll just fire him if he says a word."

* * *

BOOKS BY THOMAS HOOVER

Nonfiction

Zen Culture

The Zen Experience

Fiction

The Moghul

Caribbee

Wall Street _Samurai_

(The _Samurai_ Strategy)

Project Daedalus

Project Cyclops

Life Blood

Syndrome

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