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 fabricat
ion 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 wo
oden 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 i
t 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.