Project Cyclops

  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 snap-links, 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 l
earn 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°30' to
36°30' and longitude 20°00' to 22°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, Siren."

  "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 you 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.