Project Cyclops

  Chapter Nineteen

  7:42 a.m.

  Dawn had arrived, though the mantle of light fog was still adding a hazy texture to the air. The sun-up had a freshness that reminded Vance of the previous morning, the first glim­merings of daybreak. Now, though, visibility was hampered by the residual moisture in the air, just enough to give the world a pristine sheen. What would the morning look like, Vance wondered, if a nuclear device exploded at Souda Bay on nearby Crete? It was a possibility difficult to imagine, but the results were not.

  Bates began spooling up the power, and slowly the blue-and-white striped Agusta Mark II started lifting off the pad. Fortunately it had been prepped the previous day and was ready to fly.

  "This is going to be dicey, Mike," Bates yelled back from the cockpit, his voice just audible above the roar of the en­gines. "I don't know how exactly you expect to manage this."

  "I don't know either," Vance yelled in reply. “Try and see if you can hover just above the payload bay. Very gently."

  Cally was helping him circle the insulated wire about his waist, then his crotch, making a kind of seat. Finally he handed her the free end and shouted, "Here, can you secure this around something?"

  "Around what?" she yelled back.

  "Anything that looks sturdy. And then hang onto it."

  "Ever done this before?" She had found a steel strut by the door. "I haven't."

  "Are you kidding! That makes us equally experienced."

  "Well, remember one thing—the downdraft from the main rotor is going to buffet you like crazy. Be prepared."

  "Right." He was already trying mental games to avoid vertigo. The closest thing he could think of was looking out the windows of a tall building, and even that scared him. He liked working close to the ground. Very close.

  As Bates guided the Agusta quickly down toward the launch pad and the vehicles, visibility was no more than a quarter of a mile. And since he had not bothered switching on the radar, he was totally unaware of the two Apache AH-64s now approaching from the south at 180 mph. It was a mistake.

  7:44 a.m.

  "Sir, we've just picked up some new action on the island," Manny Jackson, in the first Apache, said into his radio. He could scarcely wait to get in and take down the island. These camel-jockey terrorists needed to be taught a lesson once and for all. He had lost a cousin, nineteen years old, in the Beirut bombing, and this was the closest he was ever going to get to a payback. "Guess there were more of the bastards. Ten to one they're taking up another chopper."

  "No way are we going to allow that to happen," Nichols declared. He was in the lead Huey, two kilometers back. "The first batch may have got away, but not these. From now on, nobody down there moves a hair. We're about to teach them a thing or two about air supremacy."

  "They don't seem to be going anywhere. Just moving down the island. What do you think it means?" He was won­dering what a lot of it meant. Why was Souda Bay being evacuated? They weren't calling it that, but an evacuation was exactly what was under way. A big hurry-up to get the fleet into blue water, all nonessentials ordered to take a day off with pay, a sudden token of "thanks" from Uncle Sammy for jobs well done. Bullshit. . . .

  "Probably picking up hostages," came back Nichols's voice. "Who the hell knows? But our mission is to make sure they don't leave the ground."

  "You've got it, sir." He reached down to the weapons station and flipped the red switch that armed the Hughes 30mm chain gun. Its twelve hundred rounds, he figured, should be enough to handle the problem.

  7:46 a.m.

  "What in blazes is he doing?" Pierre Armont wondered aloud. He was standing with Reginald Hall at the southern entrance of the SatCom living quarters, the Bates Motel, gaz­ing out over the launch pad and trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Five minutes earlier they had watched in dis­may as the Sikorsky lifted off. Now this.

  "Looks to be some damn-fool trapeze stunt," Reggie Hall muttered, shaking his head. "He's going to get himself killed. What in bloody hell?"

  He caught his breath as he watched Vance begin rappelling down some kind of thin line dangling out the open door of the chopper, spiraling from the downdraft of the main ro­tor. It was something of a circus aerial act—definitely not recommended for civilians. He clearly didn't have the slight­est idea how to use his arms to stabilize the spin. A rank amateur. . . .

  What was that sound? His senses quickened and he turned to squint at the southern horizon. Through the light fog he could hear the faint beginnings of a dull, familiar roar, and he realized immediately it was choppers coming in. He quickly pulled out his Tasco binoculars and studied the morning sky—two helos, both looking like ungainly spiders. Yes, they had to be Apaches. What else.

  Great, he thought, once more the U.S. has got its timing dead on. The first time they showed up and managed to keep us from getting Ramirez, and this time they decide to drop in just after his Sikorsky took off, probably taking him and the last of his goons out, undoubtedly with a few hostages for good measure. From all appearances, he had gotten away. Again. It was sickening.

  Now the gunships were dropping altitude and moving in, boldly, with the authority their firepower commanded. He wondered if the teams on board might actually be unaware that Ramirez had escaped.

  "We ought to go out and signal them in," Armont said. "Let them know how useless—"

  Warning flares erupted from the Hughes 30mm in the nose of the first Apache, missing the Agusta by no more than fifty meters.

  "Christ! They don't know who the friendlies are." He immediately canceled his impromptu plan to head out and wave. The U.S. Army was in no mood to dialogue.

  "Do they think Mike's a terrorist?" Reggie asked, incred­ulous. But even as he said it, he realized that must be exactly what they thought. They were going to try to force down the Agusta. Or shoot it down.

  "Reggie, draw their fire!" Armont yelled. Almost by in­stinct, he raised his Steyr-Mannlicher assault rifle and opened up on the lead helicopter, going for the well-protected GE turboshaft on the left. "Don't try to kill anybody, for godsake. Just distract them."

  'This is insane," declared Willem Voorst, who had come out to see what all the excitement was about. "What are you doing? I don't want to go to war with the United States of America."

  Then he noticed the blue-and-white Agusta hovering over VX-1, Vance dangling, and put it all together. Without a fur­ther word he aimed his MP5 and got off a burst, watching as it glinted harmlessly off the second Apache's left wing.

  Miraculously it worked. The Army's favorite helicopters were huge, with a main rotor almost fifty feet in diameter, but they could turn on a dime and these did. They came about and opened fire with their chain guns on the cinderblock portico where Armont and Hall and Voorst were ensconced.

  The 30mm rounds tore around them, sending chunks of concrete flying, but the structure was temporarily solid enough to provide protection. Armont ducked out and got off another burst, keeping on the heat, then back in again.

  Now the Agusta was hovering just above the nose of the VX-1 vehicle, and Vance had disappeared on the other side. What, Armont wondered again, could he possibly be doing with the vehicle . . . ? Then the answer hit him, as transparent as day.

  Merde! He's going to try and retrieve the bomb.

  Good Christ, he thought, the man has gone mad. He may know how to trace hot money halfway around the globe, but he doesn't know zip about a nuclear device. He'll probably set the thing off by accident and blow the entire island to—

  A spray of cannon fire kicked up a line of asphalt next to where he was standing, and he retreated for cover deeper behind the cinderblock portico. They're not going to fool around long with that chain gun, he told himself. We're going to be looking at rockets soon, and then it's game up.

  "We've done what we can for Michael," he yelled, getting off one last burst. "We've got to get back inside before they get tired of playing around and just fry this place."

  "I hear you," Willem
Voorst agreed, already headed deeper inside. "Mike's on his own."

  7:47 a.m.

  Vance had never been more scared in his life. This made a day at a stormy helm seem like a Sunday stroll. The down-draft was spinning him violently now, a lesson that rappelling was not for the faint of heart. Then he remembered some basic physics and held out his arms, helplessly flapping like a wounded bird. But it was enough, as his spin immediately slowed.

  He was dizzy now, but when he came around, he got an overview of the launch facility, and the glimpse made him realize that something had gone terribly wrong. What were those? Two Apache helicopters were hovering and they were firing on . . . on the Bates Motel. Just beyond the fallen gantry.

  Why! Ramirez and all his goons were gone or dead.

  Bill Bates, who also had seen it all, had a better under­standing of what was under way. It was a massive failure of communications. Thinking as quickly as he could, he started negotiating the Agusta around, situating VX-1 between him and the Apaches. The fucking Delta Force had come in like gangbusters and was shooting at the wrong target. There was no time to try to raise them on the radio, and besides, he only had two hands.

  Down below, Vance slammed against the hard metal of the nose, and then rotated, one-handed, to try to take mea­sure of what to do next. It wasn't going to be easy, that much was sure. The payload bay was sealed with a Teflon ring, which was itself secured with a series of streamlined clamps that were bolted from inside, designed for automated control. But . . . there also was lettering next to a thumb-operated hatch that read emergency release.

  He flipped it open and, bracing himself against the side of the silver cone to try to overcome the destabilizing down- draft, looked in. A red button, held down for safety by an­other thumb latch, stared back.

  What the heck, he thought, you've got nothing to lose. He flipped the thumb safety, and then—bracing himself to try to slow his erratic spin—slammed a heel into the button. Noth­ing happened for a second, but then the Teflon clamps on the cargo bay began to click open one by one.

  Up above him, Cally was yelling something, but he couldn't make out her voice above the roar of the engines. Anyway, whatever it was, it would have to wait. There was only one thing left to do, and he had to press on. The clamps were now released, but the cargo bay was still closed. . . .

  At that moment, he began experiencing yet another failure of nerve. There could only be a minute left, two at most, and he didn't have the slightest idea what to do next.

  Then he noticed the heavy release levers, positioned be­neath the Teflon clamps and circling the three sides of the streamlined door. Once more bracing himself against the slip­pery side of the nose, he began clicking them open, starting on the left and working his way around.

  Time is surely running out, he told himself. This could end up being the stupidest stunt ever attempted. The roar of the Agusta above was so deafening he could barely think. He felt all of his forty-nine years, a weight crushing down on him with the finality of eternity. . . .

  Then the last clamp snapped free, and he watched as the door opened by itself, slowly swinging upward. It was heavy, shaped like the pressure door on an airplane fuselage, and designed to withstand the frictional heat of space flight. But the spring mountings on the recessed hinges were intended to open and close automatically.

  And there sat a metallic sphere outfitted with a jumble of connectors and switches. So that's what a bomb looks like, he marveled. It was somehow nothing like he had imagined, if he had had time to imagine.

  Now Bates had lowered the helo just enough to allow him to slide inside and take the weight off the line. Finally he could breathe, but again the matter of passing seconds had all his attention. If the vehicle really was going up at 7:48, then there probably was less than a minute left now to get the device unhooked and out.

  He looked it over, puzzling, and decided on one giant gamble, one all-or-nothing turn of the wheel. It was a terri­fying feeling.

  Quickly he untied the wire from around his waist, and began looping it around the metal sphere: once, twice, three times. There was no time, and no way, to disconnect the telemetry, so the device would simply have to be ripped out. One thing was sure: if it blew, he would never be the wiser.

  When he had the wire secure, or as secure as he could make it, he looked out the door and gave Cally a thumbs-up sign, hoping she would understand. She did. She turned and yelled something to Bates, and a moment later the Agusta began to power out as the pitch of the blades slowly changed. The line grew taut, then strained against the sides of the bomb, tightening his knots.

  Will the wire hold? he wondered, and does this little toy helo have enough lift to yank this thing out of here? It's like pulling a giant tooth.

  Then there was a ripping sound as the connectors at­tached to the sphere began tearing loose. So far so good, he thought. At least the telemetry is now history. If the vehicle goes up now, it'll be orbiting a dud. Mission partly accom­plished.

  Then the bomb pulled away from its last moorings and slammed against the side of the door, leaving him pinned against the frame, unable to breathe. But he instinctively grabbed the line and wrapped his legs around the sphere, just as it rotated and broke free. As it bumped against the doorframe of the payload bay, he barely missed hitting the closing door, but he ducked and swung free, into the open air, riding the device as though it were a giant wrecking ball.

  7:48 a.m.

  "Those bastards firing on us have gone inside," Philip Sexton yelled. "Let them wait. Let's stop the damned chop­per from egressing." He was pointing through the wind­screen of the Apache. "Orders are to keep everybody on the ground."

  Manny Jackson hit the pedals. Nothing to it. There, al­most in his sights, was the striped Agusta chopper, with a terrorist hanging beneath it. Probably fell out. He was hang­ing on to something, though what it was you really couldn't tell through the thin mist.

  It didn't matter. The guy was open and in the clear. This was the beginning of what was going to be a marvelous oper­ation, taking these bastards down. With a feeling of immense satisfaction, he reached for the weapons station.

  And then his world went blue.

  7:49 a.m.

  Cally stared out the open door of the Agusta and felt her heart skip a beat. A beam of energy, so strong it ionized the air and turned it deep mauve, seemed to be engulfing Mi­chael. Staring down, she was almost blinded by its intensity. He was there, she was sure, but where she could not tell.

  Then it shut off for a second, and she realized it had been directed toward the base of VX-1. Next came an enormous clap of thunder as the splintered air collapsed on itself, send­ing out shock waves. Just like lightning, she thought. The Cyclops is sending energy as though it were lightning. . . .

  Then the blue flashed again, and this time it began micro­second pulses, like a massive strobe light. All the action was now highlighted in jerky snippets of vision, as unreal as a disco dance floor. The air around the beam was being turned to plasma, ionized pure atoms . . . but the next burst of en­ergy came from the propulsion unit of VX-1, which slowly began discharging a concentrated plume out of its nozzles, a primal green instead of the usual reds and oranges of a con­ventional rocket.

  The Cyclops had just gone critical, right on the money, ionizing the dry-ice propellant in VX-1. Would the impulse be enough to lift it off? she wondered. Was Isaac's grand scheme going to work? Years had been spent planning for this moment. She felt her heart stop as she waited for the answer, totally forgetting the man who was dangling just below the chopper, bathed in the hard, pulsing strobes.

  7:50 a.m.

  As Manny Jackson grappled for the collective, blinded by the intense monochromatic light engulfing him, a clap of thunder sounded about his ears, deafening him to the roar of the Apache's turboshafts.

  What in hell! Had one of the nuclear devices been deto­nated? No, his instincts lectured, he was still alive. If it had been a nuke, he would be atoms by
now, sprayed into space. This had to be something else.

  Now his vision was returning, the blue receding into quick flashes, and the chopper seemed to be stabilizing. Maybe, he thought, I'm not going to be permanently blind. But I've got to get this bird on the ground. We'll just have to take our chances. Then the realization of what had happened finally sank in. The damned Cyclops laser had switched on. They had arrived too late. . . .

  He was thrown against the windscreen as the Apache slammed into the asphalt and collapsed the starboard leg of the retractable gear.

  "Jesus!" He turned back to the cabin, forehead bleeding, and yelled, "Everybody okay?"

  The assault team was still strapped in, and nobody seemed the worse for the bumpy landing. The Apache was a tough bird, hero of tank battles in Iraq.

  "No problem," came back a chorus of yells. They were already unfastening their straps and readying their weapons.

  "All right," he bellowed, killing the power. "Everybody out. Let's take cover and kick ass."

  7:50 a.m.

  Vance heard the thunder and felt the shock wave almost simultaneously. He gripped the wire, trying to hold on, and felt it cut deep into his palms. The pain seemed to work in opposition to the numbing effects of the shock wave that had buffeted him, assaulting his eardrums and his consciousness. For a moment he forgot where he was, shut out all thought, and just hung onto the wire with his last remaining energy.

  In the Agusta up above, Bates was struggling with the controls, trying to keep stabilized as the pressure pulse from the Cyclops swept down the island. The dangling bomb, and Vance, were serving as a counterweight, holding the small commercial helo aright. It was all that kept it from flipping as the sudden turbulence assaulted the main rotor.

  The energy that filled the air now had yet another release. As his eardrums recovered, Vance heard a new roar, deeper and throatier than the sound of the Agusta, welling up around him. Down below, wave after wave of pressure pulses were drumming the air, and he watched spellbound as VX-1 shud­dered, then began to inch upward into the morning sky. It was a gorgeous sight, the lift-off of the world's first laser-driven space vehicle.

  Was Cally watching this moment of triumph? he won­dered. She should be ecstatic, even in spite of all the rest.

  But would the vehicle make it to orbit? he suddenly asked himself. With the payload gone, wouldn't the weight parame­ters be all out of whack. But then maybe it didn't matter. The mere fact that it was going up should be enough to cover Bates’ contractual obligations with his investors.

  That was down the road. He was so mesmerized by the sight of the lift-off that he had totally forgotten he was wrapped around a nuke, hanging on for all he had as the asphalt loomed fifty feet below, like Slim Pickens riding the bomb down in that famous closing scene from Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove.

  Then the pain in his hands refocused his attention. The bomb down below, he figured, was now permanently inoper­able. But Ramirez still had Mannheim as a hostage, and he had made good his escape. Which meant he was still in the terrorists' catbird seat. Using innocents for a shield rather than slugging it out fair and square.

  As the Cyclops continued to pulse, and VX-1 edged up­ward into the morning mist, Bates steered the Agusta toward the old landing pad where it had originally been parked. In moments he had eased down the bomb, just as though set­tling in a crate of eggs, no more than twenty feet from where they had taken off five minutes earlier. It was a marvel of professionalism.

  As the weapon bumped onto the asphalt, Vance had a sudden thought. The damned thing was useless now, and harmless. But what about the other one, the one Ramirez had taken with him in the Sikorsky?

  "Michael, are you all right?" Cally had leapt from the open door of the Agusta, looking as disoriented as he had ever seen her. "You were only a few feet away when the Cyclops turned on. For a minute there, I couldn't even see you. What was it like?"

  "Try the end of the world. Like a thousand bolts of light­ning, all aimed at one place."

  "A perfect description." She smiled and reached to help him stand up. "I'd never realized there'd be a thunderclap when it switched on at full power. God, what a sight." She was beaming at the thought, exhilarated that all SatCom's work had been vindicated.

  "You know," he said, "speaking of the end of the world, we came pretty close. I hate to think what would happen if a bomb actually went off on Crete."

  "I've got a sinking feeling the end of the road wasn't go­ing to be Crete at all," Bates declared, stepping down from the Agusta. "I've been thinking. Something that little Israeli prick let drop as we were coming out to start up the Sikorsky finally sank in. He was rambling on about retargeting the vehicle. You know, I think it was going to come back here. He had the trajectory set to begin and end right here on Andikythera. After he bugged out, of course."

  "Nice," Vance said. "I actually kind of admire his balls. He was going to nuke Ramirez."

  "And us."

  "That part's a little harder to like, I grant you." He turned and gazed down toward the two Apaches that had landed. "By the way, what were those all about? The Delta Force saving us?"

  "Who knows?" He seemed to have a sudden thought. "Let me get on the radio and try to call them off. Before they actually end up killing somebody."

  "While you're doing that, I'd like to try and raise Pierre. Find out what's happening at his end."

  "There's a walkie-talkie in the cockpit," Bates said. "Use it."

  7:55 a.m.

  "Michael, thank God it's you," Armont said into the mike. "Guess what, we almost went to war against the U.S. Special Forces. We have just surrendered. Incidentally, nice work up there. Or maybe you just got lucky." He laughed. "Seeing you rappelling leads me to suggest that you probably ought to stick to other lines of work."

  "I hear you," Vance said. "By the way, the bad news is Ramirez got away."

  "So he was in the Sikorsky?" Armont sighed with resigna­tion. "Blast, I was afraid of that."

  "Well, this may not be over yet. The vehicle got up, but we're not quite sure where it's headed, bomb or no bomb. I want to try to get into Command, or what's left of it, and try to find out. Before some Delta cowboy fires a Hellfire missile in there."

  "Good idea," Armont agreed. "It would also be nice to keep a handle on Ramirez's getaway chopper. But I assume somebody will interdict him. The almighty U.S. Navy owns this airspace, as we found out the hard way."

  "Don't count on anything. He took along Mannheim as a hostage. Insurance. This guy is no slouch. I'd be willing to bet he's got something up his sleeve. One thing he's got is at least one more bomb. Bill saw it on the chopper. And he might be just crazy enough to use it, God knows where."

  “Then I don't know what the U.S. can do if he's got a hostage, and a bomb. They're sure as hell not going to shoot him down. Where do you think he's headed?"

  “That's question number two, but if we can get into Com­mand, maybe we can figure out a way to track him from there. Somehow."

  "Good luck," Armont said quietly, and with feeling. "And stay in touch."

  8:01 A.M.

  Dore Peretz’ chest still felt like it was on fire, a burning sensation that seemed to spread across the entire front of his torso; in fact, he felt like shit. And he had almost been blinded by the intense blue laser strobes that had purged the island when the Cyclops kicked on. However, in all the con­fusion surrounding the lift-off of VX-1, nobody had bothered to wonder where he was. That part suited him fine.

  Donning the bulletproof vest around midnight had been the best idea of his life. . . . No, that wasn't true. The best of all was coming up.

  Sometimes, he thought, life could have a moment so deli­cious it made up for all your past disappointments. And you could either seize that moment, or you could forever let it pass, wondering what it would have been like. Not this one, baby.

  As he passed through the lobby, he noticed the security door leading into Command had been blown away with some kind of military ex
plosive. Probably C-4. Curious, he paused and assessed the damage. Hey, the television down in Launch hadn't really done the assault justice. Must have been one hell of a show.

  Then he stepped inside and checked out the scene.

  Jesus! The place was a mess, showed all the signs of a bloody assault. Luckily, however, the emergency lights were working, their harsh beams perfect for what he wanted to do now. There was definitely plenty of evidence of gunfire, flecked plaster from the walls, and over there . . . Christ! It was Jamal, or what was left of Jamal. Little fucker's neck looked like he'd had a close encounter with a chain saw. Not far away was Salim, shot in the face. Then, on the other side of the room, was the body of the last German Stasi, Peter Maier. His demise had come neatly, right between the eyes.

  Smooth piece of work, you had to admit. The only asshole unaccounted for was Jean-Paul Moreau. So what happened to that arrogant French prick? Did he escape, get cap­tured? . . . Who gave a shit?

  Meditations on fate, the absolute. The truth was, it was more than a little chilling to see the bodies of three dudes you'd come in with only a day before. . . .

  Well, fuck it. These other guys had known the risks. If they didn't, then they were jerks. Down to business.

  He knew what he was looking for, and he had left it next to the main terminal. And there it was.

  While he was working, he would block out the ache in his chest by thinking about the money. Hundreds of millions. Tax free. Even if you spent ten million a year, you could never spend it all. What a dream.

  Then he had an even more comforting reflection. Every­body had seen him shot. They wouldn't find the body, but they would naturally assume he was dead, too. He would have the money, and he would be officially deceased.

  He almost laughed, but then he sobered, recalling he had only a scant few minutes to wrap things up.

  He slipped the component into its slot, then rummaged around for the connectors. He had left them dangling when he removed the black box, and they were conveniently at hand. They were color-coded, and besides, he had a perfect photographic memory and knew exactly what went where. Seconds later the diodes gleamed. On line.

  Okay, baby, let's crank.

  The real radio gear, he knew, was in Bates’ office, which stood at the far end of the room, its door blown away. Bates had plenty of transmission and receiving equipment in there, so that would be the perfect place to take care of business.

  He picked up the device, now ready, and carried it with him, heading over. The main power switch that controlled Bates’ radios had been shut off, but it was just outside the door and easy to access. He pushed up the red handle, and walked on through, watching with satisfaction as the gear came alive. Over by the desk was Bates’ main radio, a big Magellan, already warming up. Life was sweet.

  He clicked on the receiver stationed next to the transmit­ter and began scanning. Ramirez, he figured, would probably be on the military frequencies now, spewing out a barrage of threats about blowing up Andikythera. That had been the agreed-upon egress strategy, assuming the confusion created when the bomb took out Souda Bay wasn't enough.

  And sure enough, there he was, on 121.50 megahertz, just as planned. Peretz decided to listen for a minute or so before breaking in.

  "I won't bother giving you our coordinates," came his voice, "since we show a radar lock already. I warn you again that any attempt to interfere with our egress will mean the death of our hostage and a nuclear explosion on the island."

  How about that, Peretz thought. The getaway scenario is still intact, right down to the last detail. Gives you a warm feeling about the continuity of human designs.

  He and Sabri Ramirez had planned it carefully. The Si­korsky would be taken to fifteen thousand feet, its service ceiling, whereupon anybody left would be shot. The controls would then be locked, and they would don oxygen masks and jump, using MT-1X parachutes, the rectangular mattress-appearing chutes that actually are a non-rigid airfoil. MT-lXs had a forward speed of twenty-five miles per hour and could stay up long enough to put at least that many miles between the jump point and the landing. They were, in effect, make­shift gliders, and they presented absolutely no radar signa­ture. While the Sikorsky continued on its merry way, on autopilot, they would rendezvous with the boat that was wait­ing, then be off to Sicily, with nobody the wiser. The chopper would eventually crash into the ocean halfway to Cypress, leaving no trace.

  The only part about that plan that bothered Dore Peretz from the first was whether Sabri Ramirez was intending to kill him along with the rest of the exit team. Nothing would prevent it. There was supposed to be some honor among thieves, but . . .

  Enough nostalgia. The moment had come to have a little fun. He flicked on the mike. "Yo, my man, this is your techni­cal associate. Do you copy?"

  There was a pause in the transmission, then Ramirez's voice came on, loud and clear. "Get off this channel, whoever you are."

  "Hey, dude, is that any way to talk? We have a little business to finish. By the way, how's the weather up there? Chutes still look okay?"

  "What in hell," came back the voice, now abruptly flus­tered as the recognition came through. "Where are you?"

  "Dead, I guess. But hey, I'm lonesome. Maybe it slipped your mind I was supposed to be part of the evacuation team."

  "What do you want?"

  "Want? Well, let's see. How about starting with a little respect."

  "Fuck you, Peretz."

  "Now, is that any way to talk? If that's how you feel, then I just thought of another small request. I also want you to transfer your part of the money into my account at Banco Ambrosiano. As a small gesture of respect. I want you to get on the radio and see about having it arranged. Or I might just blow the scenario for you." He had to laugh.

  There was radio silence as Ramirez appeared to be contemplating this alternative. It clearly was unpalatable.

  "You've got a problem there, my friend. One of time. I'm sure we're being monitored, so let me just say there's been a change of plans. You would have been part of it, but unfortu­nately . . ."

  "Hey, asshole, there's no change of plans. You figured it for this way all along. But now there is going to be a change. I hate to tell you what the new scenario is . . . yo, hang on a sec."

  He had looked up to see Bill Bates and Michael Vance entering the office. "Come on in and join the fun, guys." He waved his Walther and grinned. "We're about to have a blast."

  Vance walked through the door, bloody and exhausted. "And I thought Ramirez was the only one who could manage to return from the dead." He tried to smile, but his face hurt too much. "Either he was using blanks, or you were wearing a bulletproof vest. Somehow I doubt it was the former. So what happened? Have a business disagreement with your partner in crime?"

  Peretz was grinning. "That's how it is in life sometimes, man. Friendship is fleeting." He gestured them forward.

  Bates had moved in warily, still stunned by the carnage among the workstations in Command. "I suppose I have you and Ramirez to thank for tearing up the place out there." He walked over to the desk. "Nice to see that my radio gear is back on and working."

  "It's working fine," Peretz replied, then waved his Walther toward the couch opposite the desk. "Now sit the fuck down. Both of you."

  "You're staring at beaucoup hard time, pal." Vance did not move. "I can think of several countries who're going to be fighting over the chance to put you away. This might be a propitious moment to consider going quietly."

  "Quietly?" There was a mad gleam in his eye. "I never did anything quietly in my life. You're in luck, asshole. You're about to have a front-row seat at history in the making."

  He turned back to the radio and switched to transmit. "Yo, my man, looks like we have nothing more to say to each other. Which means it's time for a fond farewell."

  What's he about to do? Vance wondered. He's about to screw Sabri Ramirez, but how?

  Then it dawned. There was one bomb left, and Bill had said it
was on the Sikorsky. Probably radio-controlled, and Peretz had a radio, right there. God help us!

  "Hey," he almost yelled, "get serious. What you're about to do is insane. You don't use a nuke to take out a single thug. Even a thug like Sabri Ramirez. You've gone crazy."

  In fact, Vance told himself, Peretz was looking a little, more than a little, mad. He had a distant fix in his visage that was absolutely chilling. The world had been waiting decades now for a nutcake to get his hands on a nuclear trigger. Maybe the wait was over.

  "Look, peckerhead, I'm sorry if you find this unsettling." Peretz was still holding the Walther. "However, don't get any funny ideas." He laughed. "You know, it's almost poetic. For years now Israel has been the world's biggest secret nuclear power, but nobody ever had the balls to show our stuff. I'm about to become my nation's most daring ex-citizen."

  He turned back to the radio. "You still there, asshole?"

  There was no reply. The radio voice of Sabri Ramirez didn't come back.

  "He's jumped." Peretz looked up and grinned a demented grin. "He's in the air. Perfect. Now he'll get to watch."

  He plugged in the device he had been carrying, a UHF transmitter. Then he flicked it to transmit, checked the liquid crystals that told its frequency, and reached for a red switch.

  "No!" Vance lunged, trying to seize the Walther as he shoved Peretz against the instruments. The crazy son of a bitch was actually going to do it.

  Peretz was strong, with the hidden strength of the termi­nally mad, and after only a second, Vance realized he didn't have a chance; he was too beat up and exhausted. Bill Bates, too, was suffering from absolute fatigue, but he also leapt forward, grappling with Peretz and trying to seize his auto­matic.

  With Vance as a distraction, Bates managed to turn the pistol upward. Peretz was still gripping it like a vise, how­ever, and at that moment it discharged, on automatic, sending a spray of rounds across the ceiling. Vance tried to duck away, and as he did, Peretz kneed him, shoving him to the floor. Bates, however, still had a grip on his right wrist, holding the pistol out of range. Again it erupted, another hail of automatic fire, but as it did, Bates managed to shove Peretz against the desk, grabbing his right elbow and twisting.

  The Walther came around, locked on full automatic, and caught Dore Peretz in the side of his face. As blood splattered across the room, Bates staggered back, while Peretz collapsed onto the desk with a scream, then twisted directly across the transmitter.

  He was dead instantly. And as he crumpled to the floor, almost by magic, the background noise from the radio on the Sikorsky stopped, replaced by a sterile hiss.

  "Thank God," Bates whispered, breathless, and reached to help Vance up. "Are you okay, Mike?"

  "I think so," he mumbled, rising to one trembling knee. "At least we—"

  The room shook as a blistering shock wave rolled over the island. Outside, the distant sky above the eastern Mediterra­nean turned bright as the midday sun. Fifteen thousand feet above the Aegean, a blinding whiteness appeared unlike any­thing a living Greek had ever seen.