Project Cyclops

Chapter One

  7:25 p.m.

  "Do you read me, Odyssey II? Come in." The radio crackled on channel sixteen, the ocean mariner's open line. "Goddammit Mike, do you copy? Over."

  Michael Vance was exhilarated, and scared. The salty taste of the Aegean was in his mouth as he reached for the black mike of his radio, still gripping the starboard tiller. His water­proof Ross DSC 800 was topside, since there was no other place for it.

  He was lean, with leathery skin and taut tanned cheeks all the more so for his having spent the last three days fighting the sea. He had dark brown hair and a high forehead above eyebrows that set off inquiring blue eyes. His face had mile­age, yet was curiously warm, with a slim nose that barely showed where it had been broken year before last—during an ARM special op in Iran.

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

  "Who else would it be, you loony gringo? Hey, I'm get­ting a damned lot of static. How about switching channels? Over to seventy."

  "Seventy, confirmed." He pushed in the code, his fingers slippery and wet. The wind was already gusting up to thirty knots, while his boat was crabbing across the growing swell. "Okay, Lotus-Eater, you're on."

  "Listen, old buddy," the voice continued, clearer now that it was digital, "our weather radar shows a squall building in the north, up in the Sporades, and it looks like it could be a real bear. It's going to be all over your butt in no time. Thought I'd better let you know. You ought to try and hole up down on the south side of Kythera."

  Kythera was an island just off the southeast tip of Greece's Peloponnesus. It was now looming off Vance's starboard bow, barren mountains and sheer cliffs.

  "I've been watching it," he yelled back into the mike, holding it close to shield it from the howl of wind. The gale was coming in at an angle to the waves, creating two swells running at ninety degrees, and the sea was getting short and confused. "But I think I can ride it out. I'm making probably seven or eight knots." He paused, then decided to add a little bravado. No point in admitting how worried he was. "Just a little rock and roll."

  'That's horseshit, friend. This thing's for real. You'd better head for cover." It was the profane, over-smoked voice of Bill Bates, CEO of SatCom, who'd been monitoring his trip using the awesome electronics he'd installed on the little island of Andikythera, fifteen kilometers south of Kythera. "Even old Ulysses himself had that much sense, and it's common knowledge that guy didn't know fuck-all about sailing. Took him ten years to get home. Remember that inlet on the south side of the island, that little harbor at Kapsali? We put in once for a drink last year. I respectfully suggest you get your ass over there and drop anchor as soon as possible."

  "And let you win? No way, Jose." He was jamming his weight against the starboard tiller, and the radio was distract­ing. As far as he was concerned, the wager with Bates was ironclad: retrace Ulysses' route in a fortnight and do it with­out ever touching land. "I just think you're getting worried. You suddenly remembered we've got ten large riding on this. Somebody's got to lose, and it's going to be you, pal."

  "You're a headstrong idiot, Michael," Bates sputtered. "Fuck the ten grand. I don't want it and you don't need it. I'm hereby going on record as taking no responsibility for this idiotic stunt, from this point on. You're really pushing your luck."

  "We both know this ain't about money. I've got a reputa­tion to live up to." Like finding out how many ways I can kill myself, he thought. Jesus! How did I get into this?

  He reached to secure the linen sail line to a wooden cleat. The heightening swell was churning over the gunwales, soak­ing him as it drove the bow to leeward.

  "Well, for once in your life use some sense. The risk isn't worth it. Our weather radar here at the facility tells no lies, and you should see it. This is going to be a granddaddy. I've triangulated your position and you're only about four klicks off the east side of Kythera. You could still run for that little harbor down south before it hits."

  "I know where I am. I can just make out the island off my starboard bow. About two o'clock." It's tempting, he told himself. Damned tempting. But not just yet.

  'Then go for it." Bates coughed. "Listen, you crazy nut-cake, I have to get back out to Control. We've got a major run-up of the Cyclops laser system scheduled tonight for 2100 hours. So use your head for once, goddammit, and make for that anchorage."

  "Your views are taken under advisement. But a great American philosopher once said it ain't over till it's over." He pushed the thumb switch on the microphone, clicking it off. Then he switched it on again. "By the way, amigo, good luck with the test." The Cyclops was going to power the world's first laser-driven space vehicle. Who knew if it would work?

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

  "See you then." If I'm still around, he thought. He clicked off his mike, then switched back to channel sixteen. The radio was the only electronic equipment he had permitted himself. He enjoyed monitoring the Greek chatter coming from the island fishing boats and trawlers, which worked nights. Lots of bragging.

  Now, though, the bursts of talk on the open channel were all about the building storm. The fishing boats this night had abandoned the Aegean to the massive inter-island ferries. In fact, those white multi-deck monsters were his real concern, more than the storm. Odyssey II had no radar, and his tiny mast lantern would just melt into the rain when the storm hit. Sailing in the dark and in a squall was a game of pure de­fense; he had to keep every sense alert—sight, hearing, even smell. He prayed the ferry lanes would be empty tonight. A Nomicos Line triple-decker could slice his little homemade toy in half without ever knowing he was there.

  Odyssey II was a thirty-eight-foot wooden bark, planked construction of cypress on oak, that no sane man would have taken out of a marina. But Michael Vance was hoping to prove to the world that the fabled voyage of Ulysses from Troy back to Greece could have happened. Unlike anything seen afloat for almost three thousand years, his "yacht" was, in fact, an authentic replica of a single-masted Mycenaean warship. Painted lavender and gold—the ancient Greeks loved bold colors—she could have been a theme-park ride. But every time he looked her over, he felt proud.

  His browned, cracked fingers gripped the wet wood as the sea churned ever higher, now blotting out the dim line of the horizon. The storm was arriving just as daylight faded— the worst moment.

  Enough thinking, he ordered himself, audibly above the gale. It's bad for the reflexes. Just keep the tiller to leeward and don't shorten sail. Go for it. Just get around Kythera, then heave to and lie in the lee till the worst is over. Another five, maybe six kilometers should do it.

  Vance wasn't Greek; he was American and looked it. As for Greece and things Greek, he preferred tequila over ouzo, a medium-rare sirloin to chewy grilled octopus. All the same, years ago he had gotten a Ph.D. in Greek archaeology from Yale, taught there for two years, then published a celebrated and radical theory about the Palace of Knossos on Crete. The book had caused an uproar in the scholarly community, and in the aftermath he had drifted away from the world of the ancient Greeks for several years. With this project, he liked to think, he was coming back home. He had just turned forty-four, and it was about time.

  Age. More and more lately he realized he preferred old, well-crafted things: stick-shift transmissions, tube amplifiers, vinyl recordings. Anything without numbers that glowed. Odyssey II was as close to that feeling as he could get.

  Coming in now was his first real weather, and he had his numb, pained fingers crossed. His creation had certain histor­ically precise features yet to be fully tested in high seas. He had built her in the style of ships in Homer's time, which meant she was hardly more than a raft with washboard sides. Four meters across the beam, with a shallow draft of a meter and a half, she was un-decked except for a longitudinal gang­way over the cargo and platforms at the bow and stern, pro­tected with latticework to deflect enemy spears. It did not help much, however, against the swell. The keel ext
ended forward at the bow, supposedly for additional lateral plane, and that was a plus when reaching with the wind abeam or tacking to windward, but now, running downwind, it in­creased her tendency to sheer about. All his strength was needed on the tillers just to keep her aright.

  There were other problems. Maybe, he thought, Ulysses had them, too. He'd reproduced the ancient Aegean practice of tying the ends of the longitudinal wales together at the stern, then letting them extend on behind the ship and splay outward like the tail feathers of some magnificent phoenix. Although he loved the beauty of it, now that "tail" was catch­ing the wind and making steering even tougher.

  Probably should have left the damn thing off, he'd often lectured himself. But no: Odyssey II had to be exactly au­thentic . . . or what was the point? No guts, no glory. The ancient Greeks were the astronauts of their age, the Aegean their universe, and he wanted to recapture the triumphs and the fears of Homer's time, if only for a fortnight.

  7:28 p.m.

  "Sir, we got an RQ from the Glover." Alfred Konwitz, a twenty-year-old Oklahoman with a thirty-eight-inch waist and known to the evening radio shift affectionately as Big Al, lifted off his headphones and reached for his coffee, extra cream and sugar, which he kept in a special Thermos cup.

  The United States has two bases on the southern Mediterranean island of Crete, strategically close to Libya and the Middle East in general. They are the naval and air base at Souda Bay, which is large enough to accommodate the entire Mediterranean Sixth Fleet, and the communications base at Gournes, in the southern outskirts of Iraklion, Crete's capital city.

  He and Staff Sergeant Jack Mulhoney were at Gournes, on the fourth floor of the faceless gray building that housed operations for the massive battery of antennas. They both knew the Glover was a Garcia-class frigate, technically part of the Sixth Fleet, on a routine but classified intelligence-gath­ering assignment a hundred kilometers northwest of Souda Bay.

  "They've got an Israeli chopper Mayday," Konwitz con­tinued. "They need a verify. See if it's a scheduled op or what."

  Jack Mulhoney was busy with paperwork—more damned forms every day—and did not really want to be bothered. He got off at midnight, and the staff officer had ordered it com­pleted and on his desk, by God, by 0800 tomorrow. Or else.

  'Then run it by Traffic," he said without looking up. Forms. "Maybe it's some exercise. You could call down to the Mole and see if it's on his schedule."

  The Mole was Charlie Molinsky, who ran the Traffic Sec­tion on the second floor. If the Israeli chopper was on a regular op, he would have it in the computer.

  "Roger." Konwitz punched in the number and asked Molinsky to check it out. As he waited, he found himself wishing he were back in Oklahoma, hunting white-tail deer on his uncle's ranch. They were as thick as jackrabbits.

  He only had six months more to go, and he could not wait to get out. He had joined at age seventeen to get a crack at electronics, and—true to its word—the Navy came through. When he got out, he was going to open his own shop and get rich fixing VCRs. Hell, everybody who had one was always saying how they broke down all the time and how much they cost to fix. Who said the Japs didn't create jobs in Amer­ica. . . .

  Suddenly he came alive. "He's got a negative, sir. He's asking if we could get Glover to reconfirm."

  "Christ, switch me on." Mulhoney shoved aside the pile of paper and reached for his headset. "Glover, this is Gournes. Do you copy? Over."

  He listened a second, then continued. "Roger. We have no ID on that bogey. Repeat, negative ID. Can you recon­firm?"

  While he was waiting, he punched up a computer screen and studied it. The Glover had reported a position at latitude 36°20' and longitude 25° 10' at 1800 hours. And their bearing was last reported to be two-five-zero. Nothing else was in the vicinity.

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

  Then his headphones crackled. "Verified IFF. Definitely Israeli code. Do you copy?"

  "I copy but I don't buy it. Proceed with caution. Config­ure for a bogey unless you can get a good visual."

  "Roger. But can you get through to Israeli Control? There's a hell of a storm coming down out here right now, and visuals don't really cut it."

  "I copy you, Glover. Hang on and we'll try to get some­thing for you." He flipped off the headset and revolved in his chair, concern seeping into his ruddy features. "Al, see if the people downstairs can get through on their hot line to Israeli Air Control. Military. Ask them if they know anything about a chopper in the vicinity of the Glover. Tell them we need a response now. Priority. Could be we've got a bogey closing on one of ours, maybe using a phony IFF. I want them to clear it."

  "Aye, aye, sir," he said crisply, then reached for the phone again. He spoke quickly, then waited, drumming his fingers on the vinyl desk. . . .

  7:31 p.m.

  As another gust hit, Vance glanced up at the rigging, pray­ing it would hang together. Instead of canvas, the wide, shal­low square sail was made of small linen cloths sewn together, like those made on the tiny looms of ancient times. It was a single-masted reefing sail, invented just in time for the Trojan War, with an upper yard fitted with a system of lines whereby it could be furled up and then secured aloft. When he got south of the island and hove to, he would drop the sea anchor and reef her, but for now he wanted every square inch.

  He was tired and thirsty, but he had no time for even a sip of water. With the sea rising, waves were pounding over the primitive sideboards and soaking him to the skin. Next the squalls would come—though maybe a little rain would feel good, improve the personal hygiene. . . .

  He was used to problems. For the past five years he had operated a three-yacht charter sail business out of Nassau, the Bahamas, living aboard one of the vessels, a forty-four-foot Bristol two-master christened The Ulysses. In fact, this whole enterprise had begun there when, after a day of sailing, he and Bill Bates were unwinding over drinks one hot and humid afternoon at a club near the Hurricane Hole Marina. Vance, attired in shorts and a T-shirt, his standard sailing outfit, was sipping his Sauza Tres Generaciones tequila and feeling great.

  "You know, Bill, I've been thinking," he had said. "I want to try something that's never been done before."

  "What? You mean try paying your bills on time?" Bates had laughed, knowing Vance seemed to have a perennial cash-flow problem.

  "Very funny." He had ignored the crack and swirled the ice in his glass, then pulled out a piece to chew. "No, this is serious. Ever check out the paintings of the early ships on Greek vases?"

  "Can't say as I have." Bates had reached down and was brushing a fleck of dirt off his perfectly white leather Sperry Top-Siders. As always, his pale blue Polo blazer remained crisp, his West Marine "Weatherbeater" cap immaculate.

  "Well, hear this out. I think there's enough detail in some of the pictures I've seen to actually re-create one. And I checked it out: there's also a pretty good description of one in The Odyssey."

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

  "Not just build one; anybody could do that." He had leaned back, hoping to add a touch of drama to what was next. "I want to sail one through the Aegean. Do a rerun of The Odyssey, the classic quest."

  "Get serious." Bates laughed.

  "Couldn't be more. I want to build one—single mast, square sail—and go for it. Recreate Ulysses' Odyssey. And no nav gear. Just the stars."

  "But what route would you take?" Bill was digging into the pocket of his blazer for a weathered briar pipe. "Does anybody really know?"

  "I've looked into it, and just about everything Homer talked about has been located, in some place or another. We know exactly where the site of Troy was, so that'd be the spot to push off. Starting at the Dardanelles Strait, Ulysses first went north and sacked a city on the coast of Thrace. Then he took a heading almost due south, passing through the Cyclades islands and by the north side of C
rete, then put in at the north shore of Africa, where—"

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

  "Only way." He had sipped his tequila, feeling his excite­ment growing, then continued. "From there it's up to the western tip of Sicily, Polyphemus land, then northwest to Sardinia. Then over to Italy and down the west coast, where Ulysses ran afoul of Circe. Next it's south, past the Galli Is­lands, where the Sirens sang, after which I make the Straits of Messina and down to Malta, the island of Calypso. Finally it's northeast to Corfu, and from there it'd be a straight shot on down to Ithaca. Home plate."

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

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

  "I'll probably never see the money, but you're on." Bates had grabbed the bet, with a big, winner's grin. . . .

  So far, it had gone virtually without a hitch. Using old paintings, he had worked up precise engineering drawings for the vessel, then engaged with a small shipyard in Istanbul to build it. The Turkish workers could scarcely believe their eyes. The ship was a Greek vase come to life, and already the world press had given him plenty of coverage. Everybody liked the idea of a long shot.

  He had taken plenty of long shots sailing the Caribbean over the last eight years, but he had no experience with an early October storm in the Aegean. Tonight was building into a serious problem. All signs pointed to a typical autumn blow­out. He glanced at the low-lying clouds moving in from the north, darkening the sky and building rapidly. He knew that in these waters, light autumn breezes could easily whip into thrashing gales. Yeah, Bill's radar was right. The weather was real. And it scared him, a lot.

  Well, he figured, it was time. He had been lucky so far. The Ross DSC radio still worked, and the patchwork sail hadn't ripped—yet. . . .

  Then it happened. The nightmare. Without warning the winds suddenly changed around to the north, going from thirty knots to sixty in what seemed only a second. As the linen sail strained, he threw his weight against the tiller, hop­ing to hold his course. Now more than ever, with the storm on him, he wanted to keep on all his canvas and try to get into the lee of the island as soon as possible. It was definitely time to cut the bravado and start thinking about the sea anchor.

  "Odyssey II, come in," the radio crackled, and he recog­nized Bates’ voice once more. "Do you read?"

  He reached down and picked up the small black mike, then yelled against the howl of wind. "I copy you, but make this quick. No time to chat."

  "I had another look-see at the radar, Mike, and I just noticed something else you should know about. We show you at almost the same position as a U.S. Navy ship of some kind. Part of the Sixth Fleet probably. Take care you miss her."

  He clicked the mike to transmit. This time he didn't want to bother switching channels. "Some kind of exercise, proba­bly. What's her class?"

  "Can't tell. But she's still a hell of a lot bigger than you are, pal. They may pick you up on their radar, but again maybe not. Just take care."

  "I'll keep an eye out for lights. Thanks." He clicked off the mike again, then looked around. But the Aegean, what he could see of it, remained dark and empty. Somehow, though, the black made it just that much scarier.

  He leaned back into the tiller, still trying to hold as much of the wind in the sail as possible. The waves were lashing him now, cold and relentless. And Odyssey II was beginning to heel precariously, forcing him to apply helm, throwing his full hundred and eighty pounds against the heavy wooden portside tiller. It was one of a pair, port and starboard—the old Greek idea being that whenever a ship leaned away from the wind, lifting the windward rudder out of the water, the helmsman still had a lee rudder for control. But when he took her to starboard and tried to round the island, the wind and tides would be full abeam. With a shallow-draft, low-ballast vessel like this, that was going to be dicey. . . .

  He reached for the life jacket he had secured to the mast, a new Switlik Fastnet Crew Vest MKII. Normally he did not bother, but this was not the time to go macho. It had a 35-pound buoyancy and a 4,000-pound breaking strength, enough for any seas.

  Now the wind was gusting even harder, kicking up yet more swell. The Aegean sunset was concluding, its red clouds turned purple and darkening fast, a presage that visibility would shortly be a thing of the past.

  The past, a la recherche du temps perdu. This trip, regard­less of his bet with Bill, was also about recent times gone by. His father had died, the revered Michael Vance, Sr., the un­disputed Grand Old Man of archaeology at Penn. It turned out to be a far greater loss than he had anticipated, like a chunk of himself torn away. He still missed their late-hours "discussions"—heated arguments, really. He had been trying to wrench away the future, the old man trying to hang on to what he knew best: the past. It had been a dynamic tension filled with mutual love. And now he felt guilty. But why? There was no reason.

  He also had gone through another of life's milestones, a divorce. Eva Borodin, a dark-haired daughter of Russian aristocracy, a college sweetheart, had come back into his life after a digression of ten years. The second time around was sup­posed to be a charm, right?

  The soap operas were wrong on that one, the same way they were about most other things in real life. Although the divorce, now a year ago, had been businesslike and amicable, it still had hurt. For the past year he had been sitting around and brooding—about life, love, middle age, death.

  He still found himself wearing his wedding ring. Why? It just made him think of her even more. No, the truth was, everything reminded him of her and how much he needed her. What he had not realized—until she was gone—was that needing somebody was the richest experience of life.

  He sighed into the wind. The challenge of his Odyssey enterprise was supposed to take his mind off all that. Was it working?

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

  He gripped the tiller harder and glanced up at the sail. Running downwind, the cutwater on the bow was going to be a real problem. But just another half hour, probably, and—

  Christ! Bill's warning was on the mark. A massive hulk loomed dead ahead, running with no lights. It was as long as a football field, the bow towering up like a battering ram. She was moving in off his portside stern—he guessed she was making at least fifteen knots. High above the bridge, antennas and communications gear showed faintly against the twilight gloom, gray and huge. Not recommended for close en­counters . . . but he still had time to tack and give her a wide berth.

  He threw his weight against the tiller, veering to leeward. Once clear, he would bring the bow about and let the cutwa­ter top her wake like a surfboard, keeping him from taking water. Then he would be on his way, into the storm and the night.

  Maybe he did not even have a problem. They probably had picked him up on their radar by now. It did not mean they would veer off course, but they might throttle her down a few notches, just to be neighborly. . . .

  He was still leaning on the tiller, watching the monolithic hulk skim silently past, when he noticed a throaty roar begin­ning to drown out the slap of the ship's wake against the side of Odyssey II’s hull. After a few moments, as it grew in omi­nous intensity, he realized it was coming in from the south. What in hell!

  He whirled to look, and spotted a chopper, altitude about eight hundred meters. What was it doing here? Had Bill been that worried, enough to risk sending his hot new Agusta Mark II out in this weather to . . .

  No, it was way too big. When he finally saw it clearly, the stubby wings and rocket pods, he realized it was a Soviet Mi-24D, a Hind. Over the mottled camouflage paint he dis­cerned the blue star and white background of the Israeli Air Force. Odd.

  He knew they had captured one once, an export model from the Syrian Air Force, but they would never fly it this far into international airspace. It was a prize. What's more, this bird was fully armed—with dual heat-seeking missiles se­cured at the tips of each stubby wing, just beyond the tw
in rocket pods. Then it assumed an attack mode. . . .

  7:43 p.m.

  Sabri Ramirez stepped down to the weapons station again, gazed out through the huge bubble, and smiled. "Shut down the radar. Their IWB must not have any reason for alarm. They're probably running our IFF through Gournes right now."

  The Israeli nodded, then reached over to switch off all systems that the Americans might interpret as weapons guid­ance. Next he clicked on the low-light TV. Unlike radar, it was a passive system that would not alert the ship that she was being ranged.

  Ramirez pictured the control room of the USS Glover crowded with curious young seamen glued to their monitor­ing screens, probably happy to have a little excitement. Their IFF would be reporting an Israeli chopper. But the minute the visual ID came through, all hell would break loose.

  So far, he told himself, it had been a textbook approach. Airspeed was down to ninety-five knots, altitude eight hun­dred meters. Carefully, carefully. First rule. Don't spook the quarry. We don't need radar. We'll be passive, heat-seeking. No ECM they can throw at us will make any difference.

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

  "No pain, no gain." Peretz flipped on the radio. "USS Glover, we're going to have to ditch. We have a crew of three—pilot, copilot, and navigation trainee."

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

  "Life jackets on. Standard-issue yellow. With dye markers and saltwater-activated beacons. We'll—"

  "Hawk One, our Traffic guys at Gournes just reported they can't get a positive verify on you."

  'Tell them to check again," Peretz suggested matter-of-factly. "Maybe they screwed up in—"

  "We'll have them run it through one more time. Routine security. But you've got to keep a three-thousand-meter pe­rimeter till—"

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

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

  "Israeli Hawk One, this is Tactical Action Officer Vince Bradley. Who the hell are you? We VID you as a Mi-24 gunship."

  Peretz had switched off his mike and was loosening his helmet strap. "You got it right, asshole."

  7:44 p.m.

  Vance watched as the Hind approached on the starboard side of the destroyer, heading straight for it and dropping altitude. What in hell was going on?

  He lunged for the radio, and switched it to the military emergency frequency, hoping to pick up some clue that would explain it all. Probably not much of a chance. If this was a Sixth Fleet operation, they would be scrambling every­thing.

  Nothing. So he flipped over and started scanning the U.S. Navy tracking frequencies—216.8 through 217.1 megahertz—in the meantime trying to keep the tiller in hand.

  The radio was alive, agitated voices yelling back and forth. It was an argument, the helo claiming it was making a flyby for an emergency ditch, the frigate not exactly buying the story.

  No kidding. He'd checked out the chopper in close-up as she came over, and he'd seen nothing wrong. Everything looked to be in perfect working order. The only obvious thing out of the ordinary was that she was fully armed. Whoever was flying her was using some kind of bogus Mayday to get in close. But by now it was too late to try and give the frigate a warning.

  7:45 p.m.

  "Perfect timing," Ramirez said, moving down to the weapons station and taking Peretz’ place. "We're inside forty-five seconds. Now just keep her on the deck. First we neutralize the forward gun turret."

  "Taking airspeed to fifty knots." Salim was praying now. "Allau Akbar!"

  “USS Glover.” Ramirez had switched on the helmet mike again. We have a confirmed ditch. Oil pressure just went entirely. We’ll be taking her by the bow.”

  "I repeat, who the hell are you?" the TAO's voice came back on the radio. "We still have no confirm on your IFF. If you make a pass, I'll assume hostile intent."

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

  He immediately clicked on the radar. In less than ten seconds he'd be in position to lay a Swatter directly into the forward gun turret. Command on the Glover knew it, and at that moment the gun was swiveling, coming around.

  Suddenly a blaze streaked past them in the sky as the forward gun fired and a telltale tracer ripped by. It was in­tended as a warning.

  But now the gun glowed on the IR interrogation screen.

  Thank you very much, Ramirez thought, and flipped a switch, activating the starboard Swatter's heat-seeking guid­ance system.

  7:46 p.m.

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

  He slammed down the phone and whirled around to Jack Mulhoney. "Full denial, sir. Israeli Control says they have no military aircraft operating anywhere in that sector of the Ae­gean. They double-confirm. That's Class A. Hard."

  "We're in the shit. Some son of a bitch is closing on one of ours, and we don't even know who he is." He picked up the headphones, then switched on the scrambler. "Glover, do you read me? I think it's a bogey. I can't tell you that officially, but you'd better alert your TAO in the next five seconds or it'll be your ass, sailor."

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

  "Glover, what—?"

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

  "How many—?"

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

  "What are—?"

  Sounds behind the radio voice had erupted in turmoil. Something catastrophic was going on.

  "Al," he turned quickly, "get Command. I think we've got an Israeli-ID'd Hind taking hostile action on the Glover."

  He didn't realize it, but with those words he had played directly into Sabri Ramirez's hands. The scenario was now a lock.

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

  7:47 p.m.

  Vance watched as the frigate got off a warning tracer, but to no effect. The Hind ignored it, as a stream of 57mm rock­ets from under the chopper's stubby starboard wing flared down, while the radar-slaved machine gun beneath the nose opened fire. Then the weapons operator on the Hind loosed a starboard-mounted heat-seeking Swatter, and an instant later flames erupted on the frigate's bow, an orange and black ball where the forward gun turret had been. As it spiraled upward into the night, the turret and its magazine exploded like a giant, slow-motion cherry bomb.

  He could see sailors running down the decks, could hear the sound of a shipboard fire alarm going off, the dull horn used for emergencies. They were calling all hands to station, but their response had come too late. The false-flag approach had caught the U.S. Navy off guard, its defenses down.

  The radio crackled alive with a Mayday. Were there any other ships in the area? he wondered. Anybody to take out the bastards in the chopper?

  Now it was banking, coming around, bringing the frigate's stern into its deadly view. Then a blaze of 57mm rockets poured in, engulfing the communications gear and antennas. Next the weapons operator loosed a second Swatter directly into the bridge.

  Christ!

  Seconds later it had transformed the midsection of the frigate into a ball of fire. He watched aghast as the blast flung the men on the bridge outward through the glass partition.

  He plunged for cover just as the first airborne shock wave ripped Odyssey II's linen sail loose from its lines. When he rose to try and grab the starboard tiller, a second shock wave caught him and flung him savagely against the mast.

  The next thing he knew, he was clinging to the portside gunwale, one hand still tangled in the lines that had been ripped from the sail. The night sky had turned a blood red, reflecting down off the low-lying clouds.

  Then he felt a tremor in the hull as a massive wave caught him and the pegs that held the stern together—so lovingly installed—sheared. The aft section of O
dyssey II instanta­neously began to come apart. The light woods would float— she was, after all, hardly more than a raft with sides—but she would be helpless. His handmade marvel had been reduced to a bundle of planks, barely holding together, sail in shreds, twin rudders demolished.

  For a moment he counted himself lucky. His body un­scathed, he probably could weather the storm by just hanging on.

  Then it happened. Whether through luck or skill, the chopper's weapons operator laid another one of the Swatter missiles into the frigate's stern section, causing a massive sec­ondary explosion, a billowing ball of fire that punched out near the waterline. This time, he knew, a wall of water would come bearing down on him, sending a terminal shock wave through what was left of Odyssey II.

  You've got to try and keep her aright, he told himself. Try and lash yourself down with one of the lines. . . .

  The wall of water hit, hurtling him over the side. He grasped for a section of gunwale, but it was too late. The wave obliterated everything. Now the swell was churning against his face as he tried to stroke back, his lungs filling with water. His arms were flailing, hands trying desperately to grasp the slippery cypress planking. The Switlik vest was holding, so he was in no danger of drowning. Yet.

  Fighting the swell with his left hand, spitting water, he reached out with his right, trying to catch any piece of wreck­age floating by. Finally, he succeeded in wrapping a line around his wrist. He gasped, choking, and caught his breath. Then, still grasping the line, he draped his left arm across Odyssey II's shattered side and used the line to pull himself over, into what was left of the hold. If he could stay with her, he figured, he might still have a chance.

  Just as he tried to rise to his feet, however, he looked up to see the mast slowly heeling over, coming straight down. He toppled backward, hoping to dodge it, but it slammed him just across the chest. The world swirled into blackness, as even the light from the blazing ship behind him seemed to flicker.

  Stay conscious, he told himself. Stay alive.

  Holding onto the toppled mast, using it as a brace, he managed to rise. And now the Hind had completed its grue­some handiwork and was banking. Again it was going to pass directly overhead.

  By God, he thought, this thing isn't over. Those bastards are not going to get off scot-free.

  7:50 p.m.

  "You used the Swatters!" Salim was shoving the throttle levers forward as he banked. His voice was incredulous. "You said we were just going to disable the TRSSCOMM system and the radars with rockets."

  TRSSCOMM was short for Technical Research Ship Spe­cial Communications. The frigate was equipped with batter­ies of listening antennas, an elaborate system of sensors and sophisticated computers, and various hydraulic systems on the stern needed to twist and turn the various dishes. But it also was manned.

  What was the point of mass murder? Ramirez had ex­plained that the Glover was a spy ship that worked for the U.S. National Security Agency, the NSA. Normally it oper­ated within a small region, in a special "hearability" area just off Crete where a fluke in the weather allowed it to eavesdrop on all the Middle East; the crew could even watch Cairo television.

  Salim was stunned. Ramirez, he had suddenly realized, was a madman. It was one thing to require an occasional killing in an operation this complex—after all, he had had to shoot his weapons operator in order to steal the Hind—but an all-out attack on a U.S. frigate was pointless. The stakes had just gone through the roof.

  However, Salim's younger brother, Jamal, had exactly the opposite reaction. With a surge of pride he exclaimed, "Praise be to God," and fell to his knees on the rear litter. This was a leader he would follow anywhere.

  The others did not share Jamal's joy. They considered themselves professionals, and overkill was not businesslike. However, they merely glanced at each other and kept silent. Squabbling with Ramirez served no purpose.

  "We were only going to take out their tracking capabil­ity," Salim said again, his anger growing.

  "It's time you understood something." Ramirez handed his headset to the Israeli, Dore Peretz, and stepped up from the weapons station, his voice sounding above the roar of the engines. "I am in charge of this operation. If I think an action is necessary, I will take it. Does anyone here want to dis­agree?"

  The question was answered with silence. He had just killed dozens of men. They all knew one more would hardly matter.

  7:52 p.m.

  Vance pulled himself across the planking and stretched for a box of gear stowed beneath the stern platform. In it was a constant traveling companion: his chrome-handled 9mm Walther. Although the concept of downing a Hind gunship with small-arms fire had been tested in Afghanistan and found wanting, he was so angry his better judgment was not fully in play.

  The pistol remained in its waterproof case. Quickly he took it out, unwrapped it, and clicked a round into the cham­ber. Then he tried to steady himself against the fallen mast.

  The Hind was about a hundred meters away now, coming in low. Were they going to strafe? No, they probably didn't realize he was there.

  They were about to be in for a surprise.

  He could see the weapons-system operator inside the lower bulletproof bubble. Forget it. And the pilot, seated just above him, was similarly invulnerable. No way. Furthermore, the dual rocket pods beneath each short wing were probably armored. Again no vulnerability.

  Aside from the poorly protected gas tanks there was only one point worth the trouble. If . . .

  It was about to pass directly overhead, and he saw that he was going to be lucky. One Swatter missile remained, se­cured on the hard-point tip of the stubby starboard wing. It was the only shot he had.

  But if he didn't get it, they would get him. One touch of the red firing button by the weapons operator and Odyssey II would be evaporated.

  He took careful aim at the small white tube on the wing, still nestled on its launcher, and squeezed off a round. But at that instant Odyssey II dipped in the swell and he saw sparks fly off the fuselage instead. The chopper passed blissfully overhead, its engine a dull roar above the howl of the sea.

  7:54 p.m.

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

  "What? That's impossible." Ramirez whirled, then stepped in behind him to look. Lights from the control panel winked over his shoulders, while below them the Aegean was dark and gray. "Check the look-down radar."

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

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

  "Idiot, nobody's fishing here now. Not with this weather." He looked up and shouted to the cockpit. "Salim, take her about, one-eighty, and we'll strafe the son of a bitch."

  The 12.7mm nose cannon was slaved to the radar, another of the Hind's many well-designed, and lethal, features. While Ramirez watched—he would have moved back into the gun­nery seat himself, but there was no time—Dore Peretz switched on the nose cannon. When the target locked on the radar, he pushed the fire control under his right hand.

  7:55 p.m.

  A flare of machine-gun fire, hopping across the churning sea, caught the side of Odyssey II and sprayed flecks of wood around him. But the swell was making him an elusive target. The line of fire had not really done any damage, not this time.

  They knew he was there, though. Now the chopper was banking and returning for another pass.

  Maybe, he thought, they're going to stick with the nose cannon. They won't bother wasting rockets or a multi- thousand-dollar Swatter missile on the wreckage of a raft. The bastards are just having some target practice, a little fun and games.

  He saw the flames from the nose cannon begin as the massive Hind started its second pass. This was it. Odyssey II was about to be history.

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

  Holding to the gunwale and readying himself, he took careful aim at the starboard Swatter, still perched like a thin white bird on the stubby w
ingtip. He steadied the Walther, on semiautomatic, and began firing—oblivious to the line of strafing coming his way.

  He saw the rounds glancing off the armored wing, and the sparks guided his aim. The clip was going fast, but then . . .

  Bingo.

  A flare erupted, then an orange fireball, neatly severing the starboard wingtip. The missile had detonated, but just as it did, the Hind's strafing caught Odyssey II right down the middle, shearing her in half.

  7:56 p.m.

  "Stabilize her!" Peretz felt himself flung against the bul­letproof bubble that shielded the weapons station. A blinding explosion jolted the Hind, and the accompanying shock wave from the detonating Swatter spun it around thirty degrees. Several gauges in the instrument panel had veered off scale.

  Salim reached up and cut the power to the main rotor, then eased the column and grabbed the collective pitch lever with his left hand. In less than a second the Hind had righted herself. Slowly the instruments began coming back as the electrical system recovered from the impact.

  "Tail rotor's okay," he reported, checking the panel. "Al­timeter reads five hundred meters." He looked up. "What in the name of God happened?"

  "Our last Swatter detonated. The question is, why?" Ra­mirez answered. He was staring angrily out the high-impact plastic of his bubble at the wreckage of the starboard wing.

  Dore Peretz, now in the weapons station in the nose, was talking to himself. "I got the bastard."

  7:57 p.m.

  He shoved the Walther into his belt and dove into the swell, the cold waters crashing against his face. The Odyssey II was reduced to debris. His labor of love, half a year's work, all evaporated in an instant. The Zen masters were right: never get attached to physical things.

  He avoided the deadly shards of wood, then seized onto a section of the mast that had blown in his direction. The Hind was banking and turning now, assuming a heading due south. That, he realized, was the direction of Andikythera, site of SatCom's new complex. Was it their next target?

  That didn't make any sense. Bill's project was commer­cial; it had no military value. Or at least none he could imag­ine.

  But now he had only one thing on his mind. He secured his life vest tighter and held on to the mast, the salty Aegean in his face. The current was taking him due south, the same direction the chopper had headed.