Project Cyclops

  Chapter Seven

  2:18 P.M.

  Pierre Armont was forty-six, with gray temples and a body appropriate to an Olympic wrestler. He had full cheeks, a heavy mustache, and suspicious dark eyes that constantly searched his surroundings. It was an innate survival instinct.

  He never went out without a tie and a perfect shoeshine, not to mention a crisp military bearing that sat as comfortably on him as a birthright. He prided himself on his ability to instill discipline while at the same time leading his men. Al­though he liked to command, he wanted to do it from the front, where the action was. Here in Paris he ran a worldwide business from a gray stone townhouse situated on the Left Bank in an obscure cul-de-sac at the intersection of Saint-Andre des Arts and rue de l'Ancienne Comedie. Fifty meters away from his ivy-covered doorway, the rue de Seine wound down to the river, playing host to one of Paris's finer open-air produce markets, while farther down, rows of small galleries displayed the latest in Neo-Deconstructionist painting and sculpture. An avid amateur chef and art collector, he found the location ideal. From his house, where the French aviator Saint-Exupery once wrote, he could march a few paces, along cobblestones as old as Chartres, and acquire a freshly plucked pheasant, a plump grouse, aromatic black truffles just hours away from the coun­tryside, or an abstract landscape whose paint was scarcely dry. It was the best of all worlds: everything he loved was just meters away, and yet his secretive courtyard provided perfect urban privacy and security, with only the occasional blue-jeaned student from the Academie de Beaux-Arts wandering into his courtyard to sketch. He was rich and he knew how to live well; he also risked his life on a regular basis.

  He claimed it made his foie gras taste even better.

  He worked behind a wide oak desk flanked by a line of state-of-the-art communications equipment, and along one walnut-paneled wall stood rows of files secured inside teak-wood-camouflaged safes. His wide oak desk could have be­longed in the office of a travel agent with a very select clientele. However, it served another purpose entirely: it was where he planned operations for ARM.

  Pierre Armont headed up the Association of Retired Mer­cenaries, and he had been busy all day. But he was used to emergencies. What other people called problems, ARM thought of as business.

  The Association of Retired Mercenaries was a secretive but loose group of former members of various antiterrorist organizations. The name was an inside joke, because they were far from retired. Although they were not listed in the Paris phone book, governments who needed their services somehow always knew how to find Pierre. ARM took on nasty counterterrorism actions that could not occur officially. They rescued hostages unreported in newspapers, and they had terminated more than a few unpleasant individuals in covert actions that never made the evening news.

  At the moment, as he was thinking over the insertion strategy for Andikythera, he was gazing down on his private courtyard and noticing that the honking from the boulevard Saint-Germain indicated that Paris's mid-afternoon traffic had ground to a halt. Again. He had just hung up the scrambled phone, after a thirty-minute conversation with Reggie Hall, the second today. London was on board, so everything was a go. He was looking forward to this one. Some batards had mucked with an ARM job. They had to be taken down.

  Armont was retired from France's antiterrorist Groupement d'Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale, known as GIGN, ideal experience for his present occupation. Over the years "Gigene" had carried out, among other things, VIP pro­tection in high-threat situations and general antiterrorist ops. Mostly commandos in their twenties and early thirties, Gigene operatives had to pass a grueling series of tests, in­cluding firing an H&K MP5 one-handed while swinging through a window in a quick entry called the pendulum tech­nique. Known for their skills in inserting by helicopter, either by rappelling or by parachuting, they could also swim half a mile under water and come out blasting, using their specially loaded Norma ammo.

  Armont's particular claim to fame was the invention of a sophisticated slingshot that fired deadly steel balls for a silent kill. He had trained antiterrorist units in a number of France's former colonies, and had secretly provided tactical guidance for the Saudi National Guard when they ejected radical Mus­lims from the Great Mosque at Mecca.

  These days, however, he was a private citizen and ran a simple business. And as with all well-run businesses, the customer was king. If problems arose, they had to be resolved; if a job did not stick, you sent in a repair team. An American member of ARM named Michael Vance, who normally did not participate in the operations end of the business, had turned up at the wrong place at the right time. A Reuters confirmation of the loss of the U.S. communications ship defi­nitely meant some bad action had gone down in the eastern Med. Vance's analysis that it was a preliminary to seizure of the SatCom facility on Andikythera probably was correct. Armont's secretary had spent the day on the phone trying to reach the island, but all commercial communications with the site were down. There was no way that should have hap­pened, even with last night's rough storm.

  He had liked Michael Vance the minute he met him, three years earlier. He considered Mike reliable in complet­ing his assignments—be they quick access to a "secure" bank computer file or a paper trail of wire transfers stretching from Miami to Nassau to Geneva to Bogota. Vance's regular mis­sions for ARM, however, were those kinds of transactions, not the street action, and Armont could only hope he could also manage the rougher end of the business.

  The organization had checked out the man extensively, as they did all new members, and ARM's computer probably knew as much about him as he did himself. It was an oddball story: son of a famous Penn archaeologist, he had been by turns an archaeologist himself, a yachtsman, and a low-level spook. After he finished his doctorate at Yale and had taught there for two semesters, he had published his dissertation—claiming the famous Palace of Minos in Crete was actually a hallowed necropolis—as a book. It had caused a lot of flap, and to get away for a while, he had taken a vacation in Nassau to do some big-game fishing. Before the trip ended, he had bought an old forty-four-foot Bristol sailboat in need of mas­sive restoration. It was a classic wooden vessel, which meant that no sooner had he finished varnishing the thing from one end to the other than he had to start over again.

  But he apparently liked the life. Or maybe he just enjoyed giving the academic snakepit a rest. The computer could not get into his mind. Whatever the reason, however, the sail­boat, which had begun as a diversion, soon became some­thing else. By the time he had finished refurbishing her, she was the most beautiful yacht in the Caribbean, and everybody around Nassau wanted a shot at the helm. He had a charter business on his hands.

  Then his saga took yet another turn. The Nassau Yacht Club, and the new Hurricane Hole Marina across the bridge on Paradise Island, comprised a yachting fraternity that in­cluded a lot of bankers. Nassau, after all, had over three hun­dred foreign commercial banks, and its "see no evil" approach to regulation and reporting made it a natural haven for drug receipts. With a lot of bankers as clients, before long Vance knew more than any man should about offshore money laundering. He did not like that part of the scene, but the bankers loved his yacht, and they paid cash.

  As he once told it, he eventually found out why. At least for one of them. One sunny afternoon the vice president of the European Consolidated Commercial Bank, an attractive blond-haired young Swiss mover known to Vance only as "Werner," was docking The Ulysses at Hurricane Hole, bringing her back from a three-day sail, when the DEA swooped down, flanked by the local Bahamian police. Armed with warrants, they searched the boat and soon uncovered fifty kilos of Colombian export produce. Seems "Werner" had sailed The Ulysses to some prearranged point and taken it on, planning to have divers stash the packages in the rudder-trunk air pocket of one of the giant cruise ships that tied up at Nassau's four-berth dock. Vance heard about it when he got a call from the harbormaster advising him that his prized Bristol had just been seized as evidence in a coke
bust. He was out of business.

  That afternoon Bill Bates had coincidentally flown in on Merv Griffin's Paradise Island commuter airline and come over to Hurricane Hole, wanting to charter The Ulysses for a week of sailing and fishing. Vance had to inform him his fa­vorite Bahamian yacht had just acquired a new owner.

  Bates could not believe he had flown into such a screw-up. Vance was having his own problems with disbelief, too, but paying the mortgage was his more immediate concern. The DEA had the boat, but before long he wouldn't have to worry about that any more. That problem, and the boat, would soon belong to the mortgage-holding bank over on Bay Street.

  He immediately slapped the DEA with a two-million-dollar lawsuit, just to put on some heat. His lawyer claimed he didn't have a hope in hell.

  But two weeks later a Bahamian judge, after lunch with the mortgage-holding banker, summarily ordered the DEA to release the yacht. To Vance's surprise, the U.S. Drug En­forcement Administration cheerfully complied and turned it over the same afternoon. He immediately dropped the law­suit, writing off the whole affair as a triumph for truth, justice, and the Bahamian way of banking. Or so it seemed.

  Only later did he unearth the Byzantine complexities of what really had happened. The affair had somehow come to the attention of The Company, and there had been a flurry of phone calls to the DEA in New Orleans from Langley, Vir­ginia. A month later, while he was in the States attending a Yale alumni function, he'd found himself talking to two ear­nest Washington bureaucrats, who congratulated him on beating the system. Huh?

  They then described their need for a "financial consul­tant" in Nassau, somebody who knew the right people. Maybe he would consider taking the job; it could merely be a favor for—they hinted broadly—a favor.

  Here was the problem: the CIA desperately needed help in trying to keep track of the cocaine millions being laun­dered through Nassau's go-go banks. The Company wanted some local assistance getting certain off-the-record audits, from clean bankers who were tired of Nassau being a haven for dirty cash.

  He hated drugs and drug money, so he had seen nothing wrong with the idea. He even ended up training some green­horns out of Langley in the subtle art of tracing wire trans­fers. Two years later he got his payoff. They formed their own in-house desk to do what he had been doing and retired him. He was, it turned out, too successful.

  But the word on such skills got around, and two months later Pierre Armont had approached him about joining ARM. They needed somebody good at tracing hot money, fre­quently the most reliable trail of a terrorist operation, and everybody close to the business had identified him as the best around.

  By that time he had formally incorporated a charter oper­ation in Nassau as Windstalker, Ltd., with three boats, three mortgages, and a big monthly nut. So he had signed on, only later discovering that along with ARM's extra cash came a lot of travel, many responsibilities, and occasional death threats. He took them seriously enough to start carrying his own pro­tection, a chrome-plated 9mm Walther. Armont approved.

  Vance had always been well paid. It was expected. Any­body who hired ARM—usually because there was nowhere else left to turn—knew the best did not come cheap. A good two-week op could pull down fifty thousand pounds sterling for every man on the team, which was why the boys drove BMWs and drank twelve-year-old Scotch. But no client ever complained about the price. Or if they did, they didn't com­plain to Pierre. Payment was always cash, half up front and the rest on delivery. Any client who welshed on the follow-through would be making a very ill-considered career deci­sion.

  He pulled the blinds and turned to his desk. Faxes sent via ARM's secure, encrypted system covered the surface. The team was coming together. His secretary Emile, a young Frenchman who came in mornings and worked in the next room, had already booked the necessary flights. By 1800 hours tomorrow everybody would be assembled in Athens and ready to insert.

  Armont intended to lead the operation himself . . . un­less Vance, as the man on the ground, proved the logical choice. Since he was already in place, always the best loca­tion, he would in any case have to be point man.

  He had talked the job over with "Hans" in Frankfurt at 1030 hours, just after he had gotten the call from Athens, and together they had picked six operatives. Vance would make seven. He calculated that would be plenty.

  "Hans" was the nom de guerre of a former GSG-9, Ger­many's green-beret-sporting Grenzschutzgruppen 9. GSG-9, headquartered at St. Augustin just outside Bonn, had a nine- million-dollar underground training range that included a communications and intel unit, aircraft mockups, an engineer unit, a weapons unit, an equipment unit, a training unit, and a strike unit. In his fifteen years with GSG-9, Hans had been known to achieve 95 percent accuracy with an H&K MP9 when firing from a moving vehicle or even rappelling down a rope from a hovering chopper. Now retired, he brought to ARM many talents: as well as participating in the on-site op, he usually acted as liaison officer because of his flawless En­glish.

  He also knew which old-timers from GSG-9—that was anybody over thirty-five—were looking for an op, and if the job required some younger talent he used his connections to get current members temporarily released from their units. When needed, he could arrange for special-purpose weapons otherwise "unavailable" or restricted. Once, when a sniper-assault situation called for a hot new IR scope, he borrowed one from the St. Augustin armory overnight, made a drawing, then had it copied in Brussels by noon the next day. He knew where to find ARM field operatives and what shape they were in—which ones had been shot up, broken legs in para­chute drops, or gone over the edge with a case of nerves and too much booze.

  Best of all, though, he could usually locate a wanted ter­rorist. GSG-9 was hooked directly into a massive computer in Wiesbaden informally known as the Kommissar. Hans could still tap into the Kommissar, which tracked various world terrorist groups, constantly updating everything known about their methods, their membership, and—most importantly—their movements.

  These days he operated a rundown biergarten in Frank­furt, at least as his cover, and there were suspicions he man­aged to drink up a lot of its profits. In any case, he was in ARM for the money, and he never pretended otherwise. So when Armont rang him, he was immediately all ears. Never failed.

  "Pierre, alio! Comment allez vous?" Even at ten-thirty in the morning Hans could be cheerful. Armont, definitely a night person, never understood how he did it.

  "Bien, considering." Armont knew Hans was more comfortable in English than in French, and he hated speaking German. "What're you doing for the next couple of days?"

  "Got something?" The German's interest immediately perked up.

  "There's a little cleanup . . ."

  After he gave him a quick briefing on the situation via their secure phone, Hans was extremely unhappy.

  "Dimitri screwed up. It's not our problem."

  "I say it's our problem," Pierre replied. "We guarantee our work and you're either in, or you're out. Permanently. Those are the rules."

  "All right." Hans sighed. "Can't blame me for not liking it, though."

  "So who do you think we need?" Armont asked. Hans knew the people better than he did.

  "Well, we definitely should have Reggie," he replied straightaway. "He's the best negotiator we've got, and also he can get us some of the hardware we'll be needing."

  The man in question was Reginald Hall. Just under fifty, he was a stocky ex-small-arms instructor, regimental sergeant major, retired, of the SAS, Britain's Special Air Service. In the old days he headed up a unit known in the press as the CRW, Counter Revolutionary Warfare section, called "the special projects blokes" by those on the inside.

  He finally quit after successfully leading an assault on the Iranian embassy in London on 5 May 1980—which, to his astonished dismay, was televised live. He'd gotten famous overnight, and after thinking it over for a weekend, he de­cided the time had come to cash it in. These days he ran a small company that purportedly bought an
d sold used sports firearms. That was a polite way of saying he dabbled in the international arms trade, though not in a big way. But when­ever ABM needed a special piece of equipment, as often as not Reggie found a way to take care of it.

  He did not do it for love. Even though he was happily retired down in Dorset, Thomas Hardy country, with a plump Welsh common-law wife, he occasionally slipped away—much to her chagrin—to take on special ops for ARM. Maybe his neighbors thought he had bought their matching Jaguars with his army pension or the sale of used Mausers.

  "I'll call him as soon as we hang up. He spent some time in the Emirates or some damn place and claims to speak a little Arabic." He was thinking. "Okay, who else could we use?"

  "How about the Flying Dutchmen?" Hans said.

  He was referring to the Voorst brothers, Willem and Hugo, both former members of the Royal Dutch Marines' "Whiskey Company." That was the nickname of a special group officially known as the Marine Close Combat Unit. Both bachelors, though never short of women, they lived in Amsterdam and took on any security job that looked like it would pay. They also ran a part-time aircraft charter opera­tion.

  "We might need a chopper for the insert. Think they can handle it on such short notice?"

  The Voorst brothers would occasionally arrange, through their old connections, for a Dutch military helicopter to get lost in paperwork for a weekend. Whiskey Company was a club, and everybody was going to retire someday. What went around came around. Besides, there was plenty of spare change in it for those who made the arrangements.

  "With nobody paying? It'll take some fast talking."

  "So far, this thing's being done on spec. We're just mak­ing good on a job."

  "Don't remind me," Hans groaned. "Don't want to hear it. I think we'd better just rent something in Athens." He paused. "But I also think we ought to take along the Hunter. He'd be the man to handle grenades. He loves those damned things better than his wife."

  They were both thinking of Marcel, formerly of the Bel­gian ESI, Escadron Special d'lntervention. While with ESI, he had fathered their famous four-man units, pairs of two-man teams, and had come up with the idea of carrying a spare magazine on the strong-side wrist to facilitate rapid mag change. ESI was known informally as Diana Unit, and since Diana was the huntress of mythology, Marcel had become known as the Hunter. But not till after he had earned the sobriquet. A former Belgian paratrooper, ex-Angola, he got the nickname after a special op there, when he had saved an entire ARM team by taking out a room of terrorists with three stun grenades, tear gas, and an Uzi—while wearing an antiflash hood called a balaclava plus a gas mask, a little like working under water. Marcel liked the nickname.

  "I'll see if I can reach him. The Antwerp number."

  "Well, we'll probably need him." Hans paused. "And Vance is already on site. That'll make all the difference."

  "He's good. If you can get all the others, I think we'll have what we need."

  'Then, let's get started. I'll try to reach everybody and have them in Athens by late tomorrow. Fax me an equipment list and I'll talk that over with Spiros. See what he can get together for us down there and save having to ship it."

  "You know, mon cher," Hans had said, "this is no way to start a day."

  1:29 p.m.

  "It was there for the National Security Agency, the NSA," admitted Theodore Brock, his special assistant for national security affairs. The atmosphere in the Oval Office was heat­ing up.

  "I'm now well aware of that," the President snapped, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "What I'm not well aware of is who the hell authorized it?"

  The Oval Office, in the southeast corner of the White House West Wing, was, in the eyes of many, a small, unimposing prize for all the effort required to take up resi­dence. John Hansen, however, seemed not to notice. He commandeered whatever space he happened to occupy and made it seem an extension of his own spirit. In fact, he rather liked the minimalist quarters, heritage of a time when U.S. presidents had much less weight on their shoulders. From here the wide world opened out. For one thing, the commu­nications here and in the Situation Room in the basement put the planet at his fingertips. Next to a gigantic push-button multiline telephone was another, highly secure and modern­istic, digital voice transmission system that could take him anywhere.

  As the old-fashioned Danish grandfather clock—his only personal item in the office—began to chime the half hour, he glanced once more over the crisis summary that Alicia Win­ston had hastily assembled and had waiting on his desk when he returned from New York. Her office was conveniently just behind one of the three doors that led into the Oval Office. Another led to his personal study, passing through a small kitchen, from which now came the aroma of fresh-brewed Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. The third opened onto a cor­ridor, with the standard six Secret Service people, through which he expected to see his national security adviser appear at 1:45 p.m. Then, according to his schedule, he had to try to put all this out of his mind at 2:30, when he was due to host a delegation of troglodytes from the Hill. Nuclear disarmament did not have a lot of friends in Tennessee and Washington State. He was going to have to make some concessions, he knew, but politics was about compromise, always had been.

  "Apparently the ship was put into place without authori­zation," Brock went on. "There was some back-channel re­quest from NSA. They wanted to keep tabs on a space project on an island in the Aegean."

  "SatCom. Now we're spying on Americans, is that it?" Hansen leaned back in his high, Kevlar-protected chair and tossed a telling glance toward Morton Davies, his chief of staff, who monitored most of his incoming calls. They both had received an earful on the Cyclops project from his old professor, Isaac Mannheim—who claimed it would demon­strate to the world that America's private sector still had plenty of life left, could stand up to the Europeans and the Japanese when it came to innovation. SatCom's indepen­dence from government, at least to Mannheim's way of think­ing, was precisely its greatest virtue.

  "Well, damn NSA," he continued. "This is an outrage."

  He recalled that he'd sent the new director, Al Giramonti, a pointedly worded memo on that very subject. When John Hansen took office, the National Security Agency was still liberally exercising its capacity to monitor every phone call in America from its vast array of listening antennas at Fort Meade. He had resolved to terminate the practice. He thought he had.

  "It was just routine surveillance," Brock insisted, squirm­ing. He was in his late fifties, bright, with horn-rimmed glasses and a high forehead. He also was black, and he felt he had more than the usual obligation to make his President look good. "There was a satellite test launching in the works. The whole project has been kept under wraps, and NASA wanted to know what was going on. The National Security Agency had a platform in the area, so it all more or less meshed. There was nothing—"

  "And what do the Israelis have to say for themselves?" the President pushed on. "The Hind had their markings."

  "They deny they had anything to do with it." He squinted toward Hansen, trying to seem knowledgeable yet uncommit­ted. Which way was the wind going to blow next? "Even though the helo was plainly ID'd by—"

  "That's what they claimed in '67," Hansen fumed, cutting him off, "when they strafed, torpedoed, and napalmed NSA's Liberty, which was clearly in international waters. They were hoping to prolong the Six-Day War long enough to roll into Syria, and they didn't want us to monitor their plans. So they took careful pains to knock out all our SIGINT capability in the region, just happening to kill a dozen seamen in the pro­cess. Afterwards the lying fuckers told our embassy in Tel Aviv it was all a mistake and sent flowers. If anybody else in the world had done that, we'd have nuked them."

  "Well, at the time the Glover was hit, it wasn't monitoring Israeli SIGINT," Brock noted, adjusting his glasses. "We think they're clean on this one. At least what we have from Fort Meade so far seems to bear that out. They're still run­ning a computer analysis, though, pulling out all
the voice and code used by the Israeli Air Force during that time. We didn't have that capability back in 1967. In a few more hours we'll be able to put that question to rest, one way or another."

  "Okay, maybe we should go slow till then. So in the meantime, let's take them at their word for a moment and examine the other possibilities." Hansen revolved in his chair and stared out the bulletproof window behind him. The Washington sky was growing overcast. And the clock was running. This whole screw-up would be in tomorrow's Wash­ington Post, garbled, just as sure as the sun was going to come up. CNN had already picked up the BBC's "rumor" and was running it on their "Headline" service, hinting the U.S. intel­ligence community had been caught with its pants around its ankles, again.

  "There's more," Brock said, interrupting his thoughts. "The Iranians have been screaming about a stolen Hind for four days, blaming us, of course. But they've quietly let Mossad know they think it may have strayed into Pakistan, maybe as a diversion, and then ended up heading out for one of the Gulf states, probably Yemen. The Israelis have reason to be­lieve it was delivered to a Yemeni-flagged freighter in the Persian Gulf, then taken through the Suez Canal and into the eastern Med. After that, all contact was lost."

  Iran, the President thought. Pakistan. None of it sorted into a picture. Unless . . .

  "Incidentally," Morton Davies, Chief of Staff, interjected, "the Israelis also have one other bit of intel that seems to have somehow gotten lost in all of NSA's Cray supercom­puters. An Israeli 'fishing trawler' picked up a Mayday they triangulated as coming from somewhere north of Crete. It supposedly claimed—the transmission was a bit garbled—to emanate from the very Hind that had attacked the ship. The broadcast said that terrorists had taken over the SatCom facil­ity on the island of Andikythera. If that's true, it would be the one that the Glover was monitoring."

  Hansen stared at him. "Are we supposed to believe any of this? That unknown terrorists are behind this whole thing? That's exactly the kind of disinformation the Israelis have used on us in the past. Besides, it doesn't click. If terrorists did do it, they'd damned sure want the credit. Nobody throws a rock this size through your window unless there's a note attached. So where is it?"

  That's when the import of what Davies had said hit him. SatCom. It was going to be the pride of America, a symbol . . . My God, it was a rocket launch facility.

  He reached down and touched the blue button on the desk intercom on the right side of his desk.

  "Alicia."

  "Sir," came back the crisp reply.

  "Have NSA send over any recent PHOTOINT they have on the Greek island of Andikythera. By hand. I want it yester­day."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Ted," he said, turning back to Brock, "somehow this time I've got an uncomfortable feeling the medium may be the message."

  1:49 p.m.

  "To understand the operation of this facility," Isaac Mann­heim was saying, "you need to appreciate the technology we've installed here." He was resting against the trunk of a tree, gazing wearily down the mountain at the sun-baked asphalt of the facility stretching below.

  "I've already got a rough idea how it works," Vance re­plied. He was pondering the quiet down below. "It's the people I want to know more about."

  "Well, of course, that's my primary concern as well." The old man shrugged. "But we are on the verge of an experiment that will change the world for all time. That's just as impor­tant."

  "Not in my book."

  "Perhaps. But all the same, I think I should tell you a few technical details about the facility. Since you say you're famil­iar with its general workings, you probably know that its heart is a twenty-gigawatt laser we call the Cyclops. Using it, we can send a high-energy beam hundreds of miles into space without losing appreciable energy. Our plan is to use that beam of energy, which we can direct very accurately, to power a satellite launch vehicle."

  "I understand that."

  "Excellent," he said, as though encouraging a student. Then he pushed on. "In any case, the Cyclops itself is a repetitive-pulsed, free-electron laser, which means the com­puter can tune it continuously to the most energy-efficient wavelength, a crucial feature. It starts with an intense beam of electrons which it accelerates to high velocity, then passes through an array of magnets we call the 'wiggler.' Those mag­nets are arranged in a line but they alternate in polarity, which causes the electrons passing through to experience rapid variations in magnetic-field strength and direction. What happens is, the alternating magnetic field 'wiggles' the beam of electrons into a wave, causing them to emit a mi­crowave pulse—which is itself then passed back and forth, gaining strength at every pass. Eventually it saturates at a level nearly equal to the power of Grand Coulee Dam, and then—"

  "Maybe you ought to get to the point," Vance said, feeling he was receiving a college lecture. He used to give college lectures, for chrissake, in archaeology. Were they just as te­dious? he suddenly wondered.

  "Of course." He pushed on, oblivious. 'The whole opera­tion is controlled by our Fujitsu supercomputer. The hardest part is getting the microwave pulses and the electron pulses to overlap perfectly in the wiggler. That part of the Cyclops, called the coaxial phase shifter, requires delicate fine-tuning. The alignment has to be critically adjusted, the focusing per­fect, the cavity length—"

  "Get back to the vehicle. I think I've heard all I need to know about the wonders of the Cyclops."

  "Very well. The energy is focused, in bursts, from up there." He turned and pointed up the mountain. "That instal­lation is a phased-array microwave transmission system, which delivers it to the spacecraft. To a port located on the sides of the vehicles down there. The port is a special heat-resistant crystal of synthetic diamond. Once inside, the beam is directed downward into the nozzle, where it strikes dry ice and creates plasma, producing thrust. The vehicle is single-stage-to-orbit."

  "Nothing is burned." Vance had to admit it was a nifty idea. If you could do it.

  “That's correct. The laser beam creates a shock wave, a burst of superheated gas moving at supersonic velocity out of the nozzle. By pulsing the beam, we form a detonation wave that hits the nozzle chamber and—"

  "So it's really Star Wars in reverse," Vance interjected. "Bates is using all that fancy research in high-powered lasers to put up a satellite instead of shooting one down."

  “The power is comparable. The superconducting coil we use to store power can pulse as high as twenty-five billion watts. The dry ice that is the 'propellant' is only about three hundred kilograms, a tiny percentage of the vehicle's weight, and since the vehicle is virtually all payload, we should be able to put it into a hundred-nautical-mile orbit in a matter of minutes. The beam energy will be roughly five hundred gigawatts per second and—"

  "I get the picture," Vance interjected, tired of numbers. "But what you're really saying is that this transmission system up here on the mountain is the key to everything. If it goes down, end of show."

  He was thinking. The terrorists had not destroyed any­thing, at least not up here. Which probably meant they in­tended to use it. The prospect chilled him.

  "Okay, let's work backward to where the people are," he continued. "What's down below us here? The power has to get up here somehow.

  "We're at one end of the island, down a bit from Com­mand, which is underground. That's where the computer is, which handles the output frequencies of the Cyclops and also the trajectory analysis. It gets data from a radar up here on the mountain and uses that to provide guidance for the laser beam as the vehicle gains altitude. There are giant servo-mechanisms that keep the parabolic antennas trained on the vehicle as it lifts off the pad and heads into orbit. They also retrieve all the telemetry from the spacecraft, and—"

  "What's belowground down there?" He was pointing to­ward the vehicles.

  "That area has an excavated space below it for the multi- cavity amplifier bay. It's—"

  "The what?"

  "That's where the free-electron laser
, the Cyclops, begins pumping up. Then the energy is sent up here"—he pointed back up the mountain—"to the phased-array transmission system."

  "Right. So underground it's shaped something like a dumbbell, with the technical management staff at this end and then the operating people down there. What's in be­tween? Just a big connecting tunnel?'

  "Correct. And, of course, the communications conduits. For all the wiring."

  Okay, Vance thought. Now we're getting somewhere. The terrorists will be split up. That's going to make things easier, and harder. They could be taken out one group at a time, but there also could be hostages at peril all over the place. These situations are always a lot cleaner when all the hostages are in one location.

  "Any other connections?"

  "Well, there's really only one." He shrugged, and ran his hand through his mane of white hair. Vance thought it made him look like an aging lion. "As you can imagine, these levels of power mean there are enormous quantities of waste heat. So Bates tunneled water conduits between a submerged pumping station on the other side of the island and a number of locations."

  Vance's pulse quickened. "What do they lead to?"

  “They run from the computer in Command, and the power plant down at the other end of the island, right be­neath where we are now and . . . actually, one leads up to those heat exchangers there—" He was pointing up the mountain, past a large cinderblock building at the edge of the phased-array radar installation.

  A tunnel filled with water, Vance thought. There's been enough swimming for a while. But if the system is off, then . . .

  "Then there must be an entry-point up there some­where."

  He smiled and nodded wistfully. "I assume there must be. But I don't know where it is."

  "Think it's big enough for somebody to get into?"

  "It should be. Everything was over-engineered, since we weren't sure how much waste heat there would be."

  "So all I have to do is get into the heat exchanger, then hope there's some air left in Bill's granite water pipe."

  The old man looked worried. "Do you realize the kind of energy that goes through that conduit? If they should turn on the pumps, you'd be drowned in an instant and then dumped out to sea."

  "I've already been drowned once on this trip. Another time won't matter." He shrugged. "But I've got to get inside and find out how many terrorists there are and where they're keeping the people.'' Once I figure out their deployment, he was thinking, we can plan the assault.

  "It's dangerous," Mannheim mumbled. "That conduit was never intended to have anybody—"

  "I'm forewarned." He was apprehensively rising to his feet and wincing at his aches. "All you have to do is get me inside."

  2:36 p.m.

  Georges LeFarge felt like he was getting a fever. Or maybe the room was just growing hot. All he knew was, he was miserable. He swabbed at his face with a moist paper towel and tried to breathe normally, telling himself he had to keep going, had to stick by Cally. This was no time to give in to these creeps and get sick.

  Ardent and intense, Georges looked every inch the com­puter hacker he was; but he also was one of the finest aero­space engineers ever to come out of Cal Tech. Although his long hair and so-so beard were intended to deliver a fierce political statement, his benign blue eyes negated the mes­sage. He was an idealist, but one filled with love, not hate. His politics were as simplistic as his technical skills were state-of-the-art: he never managed to understand why every­one in the world did not act rationally.

  He had grown up in New York's Soho district, living in a mammoth, sparsely furnished loft with his mother, a widely praised painter of massive, abstract oils—usually in black and ocher. Her depressing paintings were huge, but her income only occasionally was, and Georges's memory of his child­hood was years of alternating caviar and spaghetti. His French Canadian father had long since returned to a log-and-clay cabin in northern Quebec, never to be heard from again.

  He also remembered his mother's string of lovers, an emotional intrusion he never quite came to accept. The day he went off to MIT, on a National Merit Scholarship, was the happiest of his life. Or at least he had thought so until he got a call from Cally Andros asking him to come to work for SatCom.

  He was now thirty-four, single, and he loved girls, or the idea of girls. No, the truth was that he loved one girl, and had forever. She was now his boss. After years of separation, they had finally dabbled at an affair here on Andikythera, but he had to admit it hadn't worked. At first it had seemed a good idea, his boyhood dream come true, but now he had realized maybe they were better off just being friends. She became a different person in bed, and one he found slightly terrifying.

  But given what had just happened, all that seemed part of another, forgotten place and time.

  In addition to having a fever, he was bone-tired and his neck ached. But he wanted desperately to stay alert. He stroked the wispy beard he had been trying to grow for the last four months, gazed at the terminal, and warned himself to stop thinking like an engineer and try to think like a terrorist. These European criminals had shown up just in time for the first space shot, which meant they had something planned that needed a vehicle. They weren't going to hold the facility for ransom: there was nothing here they could steal. Also, they had been very careful not to damage any of the systems.

  Which meant their real program, whatever it was, needed the Cyclops to work and a vehicle to lift off. If that didn't happen, they were screwed. So, he thought, you sabotage Thursday's shot and you nix their plot, whatever it is.

  But Cally would have a fit. Mr. Bates needed a success, and soon, or the whole SatCom gamble would go down the tubes. It was a lose-lose scenario. What to do?

  Simple. Just keep working for now and hope. What else was there?

  On the screen in front of him now was the output of a program in progress, this one called HI-VOLT, which was a daily low-power warm-up of the coils of the phased-array radar system on the mountain. The computer methodically checked all the power systems for any hint of malfunction, and the program had to be run, rain or shine. It was now time to kick on the pumps and heat exchangers and get going. Something to do. . . .

  The cursor was flashing, ready for the "power on" com­mand. He hit the Enter key, activating the pumps for the heat exchangers, then turned to see Cally approaching, wind­ing her way through the workstations, led by the head terror­ist, the fucker who called himself Number One. LeFarge could not get over the fact the bastard looked like an execu­tive from the Arlington office, only better dressed.

  "Georges, you've got to kill HI-VOLT," Cally said. Al­though she looked normal, there was extreme anxiety in her voice. The strain was coming through. "We have to do a dif­ferent run." She was passing her fingers nervously through her hair. He loved her dark, Mediterranean tresses. "A trajec­tory analysis using SORT."

  The Fujitsu supercomputer they were using was pro­grammed with a special NASA program developed by Mc­Donnell-Douglas Astronautics Co. Called SORT, an abbreviation for Simulation and Optimization of Rocket Trajectories, it minimized the laser energy required for an insertion trajectory into low earth orbit. It also calculated the on-board nozzle vectors to adjust altitude while the vehicle was in flight. Midcourse corrections. All you had to do was program everything in.

  "Now? But I just started—"

  "Here's a list of what he wants." She glanced at Number One again, then handed over a sheet of blue paper.

  He took it and looked down. Maybe they were about to tip their hand. But what could they know about computers?

  He finally focused on the sheet. What? These weren't satellite trajectories, these were longitude and latitude coor­dinates. Then he studied it more carefully. They were abort targets.