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 twin rocket pods. Then it assumed an attack mode. . . .7:43p.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."7:44p.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.7:45p.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 theGloverknew 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.7:46p.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 theAegean. 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 24-D. 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 theGlover."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.7:47p.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 rippedOdyssey II'slinen 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 ofOdysseyIIinstantaneously 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 ofOdyssey 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 acrossOdyssey II'sshattered 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.7:50p.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 theGloverwas 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 offCretewhere a fluke in the weather allowed it to eavesdrop on all theMiddle East; the crew could even watchCairotelevision.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 theopposite 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.7:52p.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 inAfghanistanand 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 hardpoint 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 andOdyssey IIwould 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 instantOdyssey IIdipped 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.7:54p.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 theAegeanwas 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.7:55p.m.A flare of machine-gun fire, hopping across the churning sea, caught the side ofOdyssey IIand 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 IIwas 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 wingtip. 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 caughtOdyssey IIright down the middle, shearing her in half.7:56p.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."7:57p.m.He shoved the Walther into his belt and dove into the swell, the cold waters crashing against his face. TheOdyssey IIwas 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 saltyAegeanin his face. The current was taking him due south, the same direction the chopper had headed.Chapter Two7:58p.m."Damn it!" Ramirez looked down at the weapons' readouts. "Did you have the Swatter armed? The system should have been off. If it was on, he could have detonated it by impact."Peretz stared a second longer at the wreckage of the vessel below, then glanced back at his instruments and paled. "I thought it was . . . it must have malfunctioned. No fucking way—""Carelessness. Stupid carelessness." Ramirez bent his head and examined the wing, then checked the status readouts on the weapons system. "We lost the starboard rocket pod, too."Peretz took one look and realized it was true. The rocket pod had been shorn away, leaving the tangled metal of the wing completely bare. But the Hind did not need its wings for stability; they were merely for armaments."Well, so what? I wasted the fucker, whoever he was." He tried a smile, sending a web of lines through his tan as the lights of the weapons panel played across his face. It was the way he always disguised nervousness.Damn you, Ramirez was thinking. An Israeli cowboy. I would kill you on the spot except that I need you. It was an arrogant mistake, and I can't let it happen again. It won't happen again.He turned and moved back up to the cockpit. "What's our status?""Sideslip is nominal," Salim reported grimly, his dark eyes glancing down at the churning sea only a couple of hundred meters below them. "I think we're going to be all right.""We have just had an example of how an oversight can destroy an operation," Ramirez declared, turning back to the main cabin. "We will not succeed if we get careless, lose discipline. I have planned this operation down to the last small detail. You have all been briefed, over and over." He paused and examined the men. Sometimes he felt as if he were lecturing children, but these were no children. "Each of you knows what his job is. I expect you to do it with exactness and precision. The next oversight anyone here makes will be his last. Am I understood?"There was silence, then finally a voice came from the litters in the darkened cabin aft, barely audible above the roar of the twin engines. It was Jean-Paul Moreau, the Frenchman. He hated flying, and he particularly hated flying with an Iranian at the controls."What the hell happened?""Someone on . . . presumably a raft of some kind. We took a couple of rounds of small-arms fire." He glanced back, making sure his voice reached Peretz in the weapons station. "The last Swatter was left turned on, armed, and it must have been hit. Probably the detonator. A stupid oversight.""Looks like the mistake was mine," came the voice of Peretz, trying, unsuccessfully, to sound contrite. "Can't win them all, baby."Back to his smart-ass self, Ramirez thought, still gritting his teeth in anger. But he pushed it aside. "Forget it. In this business you only look back if you can profit from your mistakes. We just learned what happens when we forget our mission. The matter is closed.""Now"—he returned his attention to the main cabin— "when we set down at the facility, I expect total discipline. Nothing less will be tolerated. Is that understood?" He motioned Peretz out of the weapons station and took his place there.Would these men hold together the way he required? As he looked them over, he felt confident. He had had enough experience to smell success.Sabri Ramirez had definitely been around the track. Born inVenezuelaalmost half a century earlier, the son of a prominent Marxist lawyer, he had become an ardent revolutionary by age twenty. At twenty-five he went off toCuba, but it was only later, while attendingPatriceLumumbaUniversityin theSoviet Union, that he discovered his true ideological core —it turned out he actually despised "the oppressed of the earth," along with curfews, books, and lectures. No, what he really wanted to join was not the Party, but the party—good living, women, fame. And he wanted the last most of all. After nine months his lack of ideological fervor got him summarily expelled. He actually felt relief.With an eye to where the action was, he immigrated toBeirut. . . and prudently became a Muslim by conversion. Then he started making contacts—Beiruthad always been a good place to make contacts. The payoff was quick. He was young, obviously brilliant, and he would do anything. In the early 1970s he was recruited by the terrorist group known as the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine and assigned leadership of its European unit. Off he went toParis, the posting of his dreams.He had long fantasized about making himself a legend as one of the world's leading terrorists, and he was soon succeeding beyond his fondest imaginings. In 1974 he graduated from the PFLP and formed his own group. A Middle Eastern gun-for-hire, it was known as the Organization of the Armed Arab Struggle. The designation, he thought, had a nice revolutionary ring, which he had long since learned mattered. His new enterprise—terrorism-to-go—soon attracted such major clients asLibyaandIraq. Among his more celebrated achievements were the bombing of aFrenchCulturalCenterinWest Berlin, exploding a suitcase bomb at aMarseillesrailroad station, and placing an incendiary device aboard the French "bullet train."Although he never had cared about ideology, he appreciated the importance of a correct political stance in the Islamic world, and therefore he frequently posed as the leader of an "armed struggle" against the "Zionist Enemy." But always, however, at a profit. He had, in fact, perfected the fine art of extortion, pressing the "reactionary" regimes ofEgypt,Jordan,Kuwait,Saudi Arabia, and the Gulf sheikdoms into paying protection money disguised as "revolutionary donations." After he engineered the 1975 OPEC incident inViennain which eleven oil ministers were taken hostage, and then blew up a seaside resort, killing a Kuwaiti official, he began receiving regular payoffs from all theGulf states.Finally, in 1984, he closed out operations under the OAAS name, moved toDamascus, and began training Syrian intelligence agents. By that time, he had become a chimera, a legend whose nickname, the Hyena, was linked to every car bomb inEurope. And by that time also, the Hyena (a name he despised) had become the stuff of popular fiction, as well as of dossiers on three continents.Having reduced terrorism to a science—a boring science —he then temporarily retired. But now, after the American invasion of theMiddle East, he had decided to come back for one last score, to do what he had been dreaming about for years. The Americans had unwittingly provided the perfect opportunity. Why not seize it? This time, however, he wanted to do it himself, not with an army of half-crazed radical Muslims. . . .He stepped up to the cockpit and examined the rows of gauges. "Hold the airspeed under a hundred knots. And make sure you keep her on the deck."Then he checked down below. "Peretz, this time make sure all the weapons stations are switched off. That'soff."The Israeli nodded, this time without his usual grin.Now the Hind had begun its final approach. The low-lightTV showed a small landing pad approximately thirty meters on each side with a private helicopter parked in the middle of a black and white bull's-eye in the center. He knew that ARM—a group he had long hated—had ringed the island with a first-class industrial security system. Five years ago, he recalled, they had killed three of his operatives inBeirut, in a futile attempt to kill him. What's more, it never made the papers. Typical. The security system they had developed for the island was good, but it made no provision for this kind of penetration. It pleased him to at last make fools of them."We're coming in," Salim announced. He touched the rudder pedal with his left foot to hold their heading and grasped the collective pitch lever as he eased the engines toward idle. “There's already a helo on the pad. Looks like a new Agusta.""I know about it. Just set down next to it, inside the landing perimeter. I want this to be simple."Tonight, he knew, they had scheduled the first full power-up of the Cyclops. Everything depended on how that test went, but he couldn't postpone the takeover any longer. This was it. . . .Abruptly he wondered if the damaged wing would affect stability on touchdown? They would soon find out.8:10 p.m.The current swept him inexorably southward, while behind him the bundle of planks that remained ofOdysseyIIwas dispersing rapidly. He cursed himself for having lost the Ross DSC radio. On the other hand, he considered himself lucky just to be in one piece. Luckier than the crewmen of the USS Glover. It was heartrending. Seeing a tragedy coming and not being able to stop it: that was the worst possible nightmare. He wanted to go back to try and help, but the sea made it impossible.He pulled himself over the bobbing, drifting mast, feeling it slam against his face as the sea tossed it like a matchstick. All around him lethal splinters ofOdysseyIIsliced through the water, jagged spears driven by the swell. The dark engulfed him, lightened only by the billowing remains of the Navy frigate now some thousand yards away.Somewhere, dear God, it's got to be somewhere. Let it still be strapped to the mast. The idea seemed stupid at the time, but now . . .He felt his way down until his fingers touched a slippery nylon cord. Was it . . . yes.Maybe there is a God.The straps were tangled, which was not supposed to happen, and fragments of cypress planking from the sides of the ship had punctured the nylon cover, but his Switlik search-and-rescue raft was still dangling from the remains of the mast. Now for one more minor miracle: Could he manage to pull it free before everything disappeared into the dark and the swell?He flailed with one hand to keep his head afloat, while his fingers grappled with the bowline knot. Finally the knot loosened, and he wrenched it loose.Jesus, is there going to be anything left? Would it still inflate?He grappled with the fiberglass canister that contained the raft, then popped it open. With his last remaining strength he pulled on the tether, discharging the bottled carbon dioxide that caused the Switlik to hiss to life. Part of it. He realized the lower buoyancy tube had been ripped to shreds by the 12.7mm machine gun of the Hind that had destroyed the mast, but the upper one had somehow escaped intact. So he was half-lucky.It was yellow, hexagonal, and it looked like heaven. He had never used one before, and he had never realized how it felt. Like an oversized inner tube.With a surge of relief, he pulled himself aboard, inching in as he felt the swell pound over him, and then he drew out the folding oars and extended them. With his new course he knew he would miss the harbor at Kythera recommended by Bates—no way could he battle the current and make it. The vagaries of wind and sea were driving him almost due south. It was the direction the chopper had taken—straight for the littleislandofAndikythera.Could they breach SatCom's security and get in? Probably. The setup installed by ARM was industrial-level only. He had cautioned Bill about that.He grimaced and plied his strength to the two small aluminum oars. The way the wind and seas were taking him, he would find out soon enough. Again he lamented the loss of the radio—with it he could get out a Mayday alerting any ships around that might mount a rescue of the frigate's survivors. He also could try warning the SatCom facility that trouble was headed their way. The problem was, the Hind had a top speed of over a hundred and fifty knots. If Andikythera was its destination, it probably was already there.The cold sea stung his face and the tossing waves were making him slightly seasick, but he felt alive again. Almost by instinct he looked up to try to find the stars, loving how crisp and striking they could be over theAegean. Nothing yet, but there were glimmers in the north. A good sign. The storm was blowing over now, the clouds starting to open up again.If Bill tries the radio, he'll probably figure I've just vanished from the earth.He half felt like it. As the cold autumn waters of theAegeansurged around him, its six-foot waves washing over his partially inflated Switlik, he thought about Bill Bates. He was a friend, a very good friend. Was he about to be in trouble?Although Bates was a world-class executive, he also was a dedicated family man. He had a model wife back inArlingtonand two model sons, both deposited in model private academies. His wife, a blond WASP old-fashioned enough to have the same family name as a prominent Philadelphia bank, never seemed to tire of her charity obligations, so it was his sons he took with him sailing in the summers. That was how Vance had met him, sailing with the boys in theBahamas.Bill was highly regarded in industry circles as the CEO's CEO, and not without reason. For one thing, less inconsequential than most would think, he looked the part. His steel-gray hair was always trimmed to the precise millimeter, his tanned cheeks were forever sleek from a workout at his club, or whatever club was handy on his perpetual travels. He had once claimed he knew the location of more health clubs than any man inAmerica.Best of all, though, he knew how to raise money. When he described a pending enterprise, he did it with the gleaming eye of the true believer. Even in a dicey investment environment, he always generated the enthusiasm sufficient to ensure that a new stock issue sold out and closed higher than the offering price on the day it was floated. The man could sell sunlamps in theSahara.He competed hard in everything he did. When he decided, some years after he and Vance had become acquainted, that he wanted to spend summers racing, he did not bother buying his own yacht; instead he flew toNassauand leased the fastest boat he knew. At that moment, the vessel filling that description was the Argonaut, owned by Windstalker, Ltd. It was a forty-four-foot sloop, highly regarded throughout the racing fraternity. Its owner, however, never let any of his three yachts out of the harbor without first undertaking a personal checkout of the new skipper—even if it was an old friend.Vance remembered it well. Bill manned the helm, a mahogany wheel always kept well polished, and they were making a solid eight knots on the Speedo. It was one of those mornings in the islands when everything seemed as clear as a desert sky. No cruise ships were scheduled into the harbor, and the stinkpot powerboats were mercifully in limited supply. The wind was perfect and the water as smooth as a glittering mirror. Best of all, Bates was handling the helm as though he had been there all his life."Think we can get her up to ten knots?" he'd asked, shielding his eyes as he studied the genoa, a gleaming triangle of white above the bow.Vance had leaned back and tested the wind. "Give her a little touch on the helm, to starboard, and I think she might come through for you." He was proud of his recent refurbishing of the boat—the latest Northstar digital satnav gear, brand-new sails that cost a fortune, a complete renovation of the instrument station down below.Bates tapped the wheel and the genoa bellied even more. "I like this fucking boat a lot, Mike," he declared. "So here's the deal. I want to lease her for three months, take her toNorfolk, get a crew together, and get everybody comfortable with her.""I think we can talk." Vance had to smile. The yacht would be in good hands, and a three-month charter was a dream come true for a guy in his business."Matter of fact, I wanted to ask you to help me out with something else, too. Some security work.""Hey, I'm just a simple charter-boat operator. Not my line.""Don't bullshit me, pal." He laughed. "You know SatCom is building a new industrial facility in theAegean.""A private space facility.""I think American technology is getting a bum rap, Michael," he said with sudden seriousness. "I plan to change that.""The Journal says you want to try and give the Europeans a run for the roses."He looked over, the wind whipping his glistening hair. "You keep in touch pretty damned good for a simple sailor. But I tell you, if we succeed, we'll literally change the way space is used. I'll be able to put a satellite into orbit for a song. Just between us, I'm building the biggest private spaceport anywhere. The French operation inGuianawon't hold a candle to it. I've already got ten geostationary orbital slots locked up with the World Administrative Radio Conference. Even NASA better keep a grip on their jockstrap.""Where's the money coming from? The usual suspects?""Who else." He laughed, then tapped the helm slightly more to starboard. "The stock was over-the-counter and it was hell and gone in three fucking hours. Bang. Out the door. Matter of fact, it's now trading almost fifteen percent above the original offering price." He shrugged. "I should have issued more. But like a stupid son of a bitch, I had a failure of nerve. Didn't go with my instincts.""Next time, how about letting me in on the action?""You're a goddamn piece of work, Michael. And so's this boat. Tell you what. I'll make you a deal. I figure you're expecting about four thou a week for this baby, correct?""Anything for a friend.""Right." He laughed. "I want her for twelve weeks. So . . . what if I paid you with some of my personal SatCom stock? Fifty thou worth at the current price? How's that sound?""Deal," Vance said, without hesitation. He'd heard a lot of big-time bull in the charter business, but Bates was a straight shooter. The temporary gap in cash flow was going to make meeting the three mortgages—one for each boat—tough, but he liked the sound of the project.""This isn't going to leave you strapped, is it?" Bates looked a trifle worried."I'll manage. As I always say, two in the bush is worth one in the hand.""Michael, half the time you don't have a pot to piss in. I know that. You're the lousiest personal-finance manager I know." He laughed out loud and tapped the helm, bringing her to port a notch. "Which is one of the world's great ironies, considering what you do for ARM.""You hear things, too." He had never really discussed his ARM work with Bates."You're good. I know that. Word gets around." He paused. "Matter of fact, I wanted to ask you a favor. I was hoping you could work up a contract for me with your people. As I said, I need some security for that facility inGreece.""What kind?""That's for your guys to say. It just has to be good. We're going to be installing some proprietary technology that's light-years beyond anything that's ever been seen before. And we're going to rock a lot of boats in the business. There're a hell of a lot of Europeans who'd love to know what we're up to. There's a real chance of industrial espionage.""So what's the program? Perimeter surveillance? Security guards? We could probably arrange the subcontracting.""I'd appreciate it. Your guys knowEurope, the local scene. I've got a feeling that's going to be important.""No problem." The truth was, this was exactly the kind of no-risk work the boys at ARM liked. Nobody shooting at you. "I'll put in a call toParisif you like. Something probably can be arranged.""Good." Bates nodded, as though a handshake were already involved. One more thing off his checklist. "Mainly I want some physical-security stuff. You know—fences, alarms, that kind of crap.""We've got a guy inAthenswho specializes in that. He won't give estimates over the phone, but if you'll let him look over the site, he'll price the job for you right down to the drachma. With various options. But you'd be smart to go with his top-of-the-line recommendation. Try to nickel and dime him and he'll walk. I've seen him do it.""So what's this so-called 'top of the line' likely to run me?" Bates had asked.
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 twin rocket pods. Then it assumed an attack mode. . . .
7:43p.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."
7:44p.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.
7:45p.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 theGloverknew 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.
7:46p.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 theAegean. 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 24-D. 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 theGlover."
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.
7:47p.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 rippedOdyssey II'slinen 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 ofOdysseyIIinstantaneously 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 ofOdyssey 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 acrossOdyssey II'sshattered 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.
7:50p.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 theGloverwas 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 offCretewhere a fluke in the weather allowed it to eavesdrop on all theMiddle East; the crew could even watchCairotelevision.
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.
7:52p.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 inAfghanistanand 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 hardpoint 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 andOdyssey IIwould 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 instantOdyssey IIdipped 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.
7:54p.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 theAegeanwas 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.
7:55p.m.
A flare of machine-gun fire, hopping across the churning sea, caught the side ofOdyssey IIand 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 IIwas 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 wingtip. 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 caughtOdyssey IIright down the middle, shearing her in half.
7:56p.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."
7:57p.m.
He shoved the Walther into his belt and dove into the swell, the cold waters crashing against his face. TheOdyssey IIwas 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 saltyAegeanin his face. The current was taking him due south, the same direction the chopper had headed.
7:58p.m.
"Damn it!" Ramirez looked down at the weapons' readouts. "Did you have the Swatter armed? The system should have been off. If it was on, he could have detonated it by impact."
Peretz stared a second longer at the wreckage of the vessel below, then glanced back at his instruments and paled. "I thought it was . . . it must have malfunctioned. No fucking way—"
"Carelessness. Stupid carelessness." Ramirez bent his head and examined the wing, then checked the status readouts on the weapons system. "We lost the starboard rocket pod, too."
Peretz took one look and realized it was true. The rocket pod had been shorn away, leaving the tangled metal of the wing completely bare. But the Hind did not need its wings for stability; they were merely for armaments.
"Well, so what? I wasted the fucker, whoever he was." He tried a smile, sending a web of lines through his tan as the lights of the weapons panel played across his face. It was the way he always disguised nervousness.
Damn you, Ramirez was thinking. An Israeli cowboy. I would kill you on the spot except that I need you. It was an arrogant mistake, and I can't let it happen again. It won't happen again.
He turned and moved back up to the cockpit. "What's our status?"
"Sideslip is nominal," Salim reported grimly, his dark eyes glancing down at the churning sea only a couple of hundred meters below them. "I think we're going to be all right."
"We have just had an example of how an oversight can destroy an operation," Ramirez declared, turning back to the main cabin. "We will not succeed if we get careless, lose discipline. I have planned this operation down to the last small detail. You have all been briefed, over and over." He paused and examined the men. Sometimes he felt as if he were lecturing children, but these were no children. "Each of you knows what his job is. I expect you to do it with exactness and precision. The next oversight anyone here makes will be his last. Am I understood?"
There was silence, then finally a voice came from the litters in the darkened cabin aft, barely audible above the roar of the twin engines. It was Jean-Paul Moreau, the Frenchman. He hated flying, and he particularly hated flying with an Iranian at the controls.
"What the hell happened?"
"Someone on . . . presumably a raft of some kind. We took a couple of rounds of small-arms fire." He glanced back, making sure his voice reached Peretz in the weapons station. "The last Swatter was left turned on, armed, and it must have been hit. Probably the detonator. A stupid oversight."
"Looks like the mistake was mine," came the voice of Peretz, trying, unsuccessfully, to sound contrite. "Can't win them all, baby."
Back to his smart-ass self, Ramirez thought, still gritting his teeth in anger. But he pushed it aside. "Forget it. In this business you only look back if you can profit from your mistakes. We just learned what happens when we forget our mission. The matter is closed."
"Now"—he returned his attention to the main cabin— "when we set down at the facility, I expect total discipline. Nothing less will be tolerated. Is that understood?" He motioned Peretz out of the weapons station and took his place there.
Would these men hold together the way he required? As he looked them over, he felt confident. He had had enough experience to smell success.
Sabri Ramirez had definitely been around the track. Born inVenezuelaalmost half a century earlier, the son of a prominent Marxist lawyer, he had become an ardent revolutionary by age twenty. At twenty-five he went off toCuba, but it was only later, while attendingPatriceLumumbaUniversityin theSoviet Union, that he discovered his true ideological core —it turned out he actually despised "the oppressed of the earth," along with curfews, books, and lectures. No, what he really wanted to join was not the Party, but the party—good living, women, fame. And he wanted the last most of all. After nine months his lack of ideological fervor got him summarily expelled. He actually felt relief.
With an eye to where the action was, he immigrated toBeirut. . . and prudently became a Muslim by conversion. Then he started making contacts—Beiruthad always been a good place to make contacts. The payoff was quick. He was young, obviously brilliant, and he would do anything. In the early 1970s he was recruited by the terrorist group known as the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine and assigned leadership of its European unit. Off he went toParis, the posting of his dreams.
He had long fantasized about making himself a legend as one of the world's leading terrorists, and he was soon succeeding beyond his fondest imaginings. In 1974 he graduated from the PFLP and formed his own group. A Middle Eastern gun-for-hire, it was known as the Organization of the Armed Arab Struggle. The designation, he thought, had a nice revolutionary ring, which he had long since learned mattered. His new enterprise—terrorism-to-go—soon attracted such major clients asLibyaandIraq. Among his more celebrated achievements were the bombing of aFrenchCulturalCenterinWest Berlin, exploding a suitcase bomb at aMarseillesrailroad station, and placing an incendiary device aboard the French "bullet train."
Although he never had cared about ideology, he appreciated the importance of a correct political stance in the Islamic world, and therefore he frequently posed as the leader of an "armed struggle" against the "Zionist Enemy." But always, however, at a profit. He had, in fact, perfected the fine art of extortion, pressing the "reactionary" regimes ofEgypt,Jordan,Kuwait,Saudi Arabia, and the Gulf sheikdoms into paying protection money disguised as "revolutionary donations." After he engineered the 1975 OPEC incident inViennain which eleven oil ministers were taken hostage, and then blew up a seaside resort, killing a Kuwaiti official, he began receiving regular payoffs from all theGulf states.
Finally, in 1984, he closed out operations under the OAAS name, moved toDamascus, and began training Syrian intelligence agents. By that time, he had become a chimera, a legend whose nickname, the Hyena, was linked to every car bomb inEurope. And by that time also, the Hyena (a name he despised) had become the stuff of popular fiction, as well as of dossiers on three continents.
Having reduced terrorism to a science—a boring science —he then temporarily retired. But now, after the American invasion of theMiddle East, he had decided to come back for one last score, to do what he had been dreaming about for years. The Americans had unwittingly provided the perfect opportunity. Why not seize it? This time, however, he wanted to do it himself, not with an army of half-crazed radical Muslims. . . .
He stepped up to the cockpit and examined the rows of gauges. "Hold the airspeed under a hundred knots. And make sure you keep her on the deck."
Then he checked down below. "Peretz, this time make sure all the weapons stations are switched off. That'soff."
The Israeli nodded, this time without his usual grin.
Now the Hind had begun its final approach. The low-light
TV showed a small landing pad approximately thirty meters on each side with a private helicopter parked in the middle of a black and white bull's-eye in the center. He knew that ARM—a group he had long hated—had ringed the island with a first-class industrial security system. Five years ago, he recalled, they had killed three of his operatives inBeirut, in a futile attempt to kill him. What's more, it never made the papers. Typical. The security system they had developed for the island was good, but it made no provision for this kind of penetration. It pleased him to at last make fools of them.
"We're coming in," Salim announced. He touched the rudder pedal with his left foot to hold their heading and grasped the collective pitch lever as he eased the engines toward idle. “There's already a helo on the pad. Looks like a new Agusta."
"I know about it. Just set down next to it, inside the landing perimeter. I want this to be simple."
Tonight, he knew, they had scheduled the first full power-up of the Cyclops. Everything depended on how that test went, but he couldn't postpone the takeover any longer. This was it. . . .
Abruptly he wondered if the damaged wing would affect stability on touchdown? They would soon find out.
8:10 p.m.
The current swept him inexorably southward, while behind him the bundle of planks that remained ofOdysseyIIwas dispersing rapidly. He cursed himself for having lost the Ross DSC radio. On the other hand, he considered himself lucky just to be in one piece. Luckier than the crewmen of the USS Glover. It was heartrending. Seeing a tragedy coming and not being able to stop it: that was the worst possible nightmare. He wanted to go back to try and help, but the sea made it impossible.
He pulled himself over the bobbing, drifting mast, feeling it slam against his face as the sea tossed it like a matchstick. All around him lethal splinters ofOdysseyIIsliced through the water, jagged spears driven by the swell. The dark engulfed him, lightened only by the billowing remains of the Navy frigate now some thousand yards away.
Somewhere, dear God, it's got to be somewhere. Let it still be strapped to the mast. The idea seemed stupid at the time, but now . . .
He felt his way down until his fingers touched a slippery nylon cord. Was it . . . yes.
Maybe there is a God.
The straps were tangled, which was not supposed to happen, and fragments of cypress planking from the sides of the ship had punctured the nylon cover, but his Switlik search-and-rescue raft was still dangling from the remains of the mast. Now for one more minor miracle: Could he manage to pull it free before everything disappeared into the dark and the swell?
He flailed with one hand to keep his head afloat, while his fingers grappled with the bowline knot. Finally the knot loosened, and he wrenched it loose.
Jesus, is there going to be anything left? Would it still inflate?
He grappled with the fiberglass canister that contained the raft, then popped it open. With his last remaining strength he pulled on the tether, discharging the bottled carbon dioxide that caused the Switlik to hiss to life. Part of it. He realized the lower buoyancy tube had been ripped to shreds by the 12.7mm machine gun of the Hind that had destroyed the mast, but the upper one had somehow escaped intact. So he was half-lucky.
It was yellow, hexagonal, and it looked like heaven. He had never used one before, and he had never realized how it felt. Like an oversized inner tube.
With a surge of relief, he pulled himself aboard, inching in as he felt the swell pound over him, and then he drew out the folding oars and extended them. With his new course he knew he would miss the harbor at Kythera recommended by Bates—no way could he battle the current and make it. The vagaries of wind and sea were driving him almost due south. It was the direction the chopper had taken—straight for the littleislandofAndikythera.
Could they breach SatCom's security and get in? Probably. The setup installed by ARM was industrial-level only. He had cautioned Bill about that.
He grimaced and plied his strength to the two small aluminum oars. The way the wind and seas were taking him, he would find out soon enough. Again he lamented the loss of the radio—with it he could get out a Mayday alerting any ships around that might mount a rescue of the frigate's survivors. He also could try warning the SatCom facility that trouble was headed their way. The problem was, the Hind had a top speed of over a hundred and fifty knots. If Andikythera was its destination, it probably was already there.
The cold sea stung his face and the tossing waves were making him slightly seasick, but he felt alive again. Almost by instinct he looked up to try to find the stars, loving how crisp and striking they could be over theAegean. Nothing yet, but there were glimmers in the north. A good sign. The storm was blowing over now, the clouds starting to open up again.
If Bill tries the radio, he'll probably figure I've just vanished from the earth.
He half felt like it. As the cold autumn waters of theAegeansurged around him, its six-foot waves washing over his partially inflated Switlik, he thought about Bill Bates. He was a friend, a very good friend. Was he about to be in trouble?
Although Bates was a world-class executive, he also was a dedicated family man. He had a model wife back inArlingtonand two model sons, both deposited in model private academies. His wife, a blond WASP old-fashioned enough to have the same family name as a prominent Philadelphia bank, never seemed to tire of her charity obligations, so it was his sons he took with him sailing in the summers. That was how Vance had met him, sailing with the boys in theBahamas.
Bill was highly regarded in industry circles as the CEO's CEO, and not without reason. For one thing, less inconsequential than most would think, he looked the part. His steel-gray hair was always trimmed to the precise millimeter, his tanned cheeks were forever sleek from a workout at his club, or whatever club was handy on his perpetual travels. He had once claimed he knew the location of more health clubs than any man inAmerica.
Best of all, though, he knew how to raise money. When he described a pending enterprise, he did it with the gleaming eye of the true believer. Even in a dicey investment environment, he always generated the enthusiasm sufficient to ensure that a new stock issue sold out and closed higher than the offering price on the day it was floated. The man could sell sunlamps in theSahara.
He competed hard in everything he did. When he decided, some years after he and Vance had become acquainted, that he wanted to spend summers racing, he did not bother buying his own yacht; instead he flew toNassauand leased the fastest boat he knew. At that moment, the vessel filling that description was the Argonaut, owned by Windstalker, Ltd. It was a forty-four-foot sloop, highly regarded throughout the racing fraternity. Its owner, however, never let any of his three yachts out of the harbor without first undertaking a personal checkout of the new skipper—even if it was an old friend.
Vance remembered it well. Bill manned the helm, a mahogany wheel always kept well polished, and they were making a solid eight knots on the Speedo. It was one of those mornings in the islands when everything seemed as clear as a desert sky. No cruise ships were scheduled into the harbor, and the stinkpot powerboats were mercifully in limited supply. The wind was perfect and the water as smooth as a glittering mirror. Best of all, Bates was handling the helm as though he had been there all his life.
"Think we can get her up to ten knots?" he'd asked, shielding his eyes as he studied the genoa, a gleaming triangle of white above the bow.
Vance had leaned back and tested the wind. "Give her a little touch on the helm, to starboard, and I think she might come through for you." He was proud of his recent refurbishing of the boat—the latest Northstar digital satnav gear, brand-new sails that cost a fortune, a complete renovation of the instrument station down below.
Bates tapped the wheel and the genoa bellied even more. "I like this fucking boat a lot, Mike," he declared. "So here's the deal. I want to lease her for three months, take her toNorfolk, get a crew together, and get everybody comfortable with her."
"I think we can talk." Vance had to smile. The yacht would be in good hands, and a three-month charter was a dream come true for a guy in his business.
"Matter of fact, I wanted to ask you to help me out with something else, too. Some security work."
"Hey, I'm just a simple charter-boat operator. Not my line."
"Don't bullshit me, pal." He laughed. "You know SatCom is building a new industrial facility in theAegean."
"A private space facility."
"I think American technology is getting a bum rap, Michael," he said with sudden seriousness. "I plan to change that."
"The Journal says you want to try and give the Europeans a run for the roses."
He looked over, the wind whipping his glistening hair. "You keep in touch pretty damned good for a simple sailor. But I tell you, if we succeed, we'll literally change the way space is used. I'll be able to put a satellite into orbit for a song. Just between us, I'm building the biggest private spaceport anywhere. The French operation inGuianawon't hold a candle to it. I've already got ten geostationary orbital slots locked up with the World Administrative Radio Conference. Even NASA better keep a grip on their jockstrap."
"Where's the money coming from? The usual suspects?"
"Who else." He laughed, then tapped the helm slightly more to starboard. "The stock was over-the-counter and it was hell and gone in three fucking hours. Bang. Out the door. Matter of fact, it's now trading almost fifteen percent above the original offering price." He shrugged. "I should have issued more. But like a stupid son of a bitch, I had a failure of nerve. Didn't go with my instincts."
"Next time, how about letting me in on the action?"
"You're a goddamn piece of work, Michael. And so's this boat. Tell you what. I'll make you a deal. I figure you're expecting about four thou a week for this baby, correct?"
"Anything for a friend."
"Right." He laughed. "I want her for twelve weeks. So . . . what if I paid you with some of my personal SatCom stock? Fifty thou worth at the current price? How's that sound?"
"Deal," Vance said, without hesitation. He'd heard a lot of big-time bull in the charter business, but Bates was a straight shooter. The temporary gap in cash flow was going to make meeting the three mortgages—one for each boat—tough, but he liked the sound of the project."
"This isn't going to leave you strapped, is it?" Bates looked a trifle worried.
"I'll manage. As I always say, two in the bush is worth one in the hand."
"Michael, half the time you don't have a pot to piss in. I know that. You're the lousiest personal-finance manager I know." He laughed out loud and tapped the helm, bringing her to port a notch. "Which is one of the world's great ironies, considering what you do for ARM."
"You hear things, too." He had never really discussed his ARM work with Bates.
"You're good. I know that. Word gets around." He paused. "Matter of fact, I wanted to ask you a favor. I was hoping you could work up a contract for me with your people. As I said, I need some security for that facility inGreece."
"What kind?"
"That's for your guys to say. It just has to be good. We're going to be installing some proprietary technology that's light-years beyond anything that's ever been seen before. And we're going to rock a lot of boats in the business. There're a hell of a lot of Europeans who'd love to know what we're up to. There's a real chance of industrial espionage."
"So what's the program? Perimeter surveillance? Security guards? We could probably arrange the subcontracting."
"I'd appreciate it. Your guys knowEurope, the local scene. I've got a feeling that's going to be important."
"No problem." The truth was, this was exactly the kind of no-risk work the boys at ARM liked. Nobody shooting at you. "I'll put in a call toParisif you like. Something probably can be arranged."
"Good." Bates nodded, as though a handshake were already involved. One more thing off his checklist. "Mainly I want some physical-security stuff. You know—fences, alarms, that kind of crap."
"We've got a guy inAthenswho specializes in that. He won't give estimates over the phone, but if you'll let him look over the site, he'll price the job for you right down to the drachma. With various options. But you'd be smart to go with his top-of-the-line recommendation. Try to nickel and dime him and he'll walk. I've seen him do it."
"So what's this so-called 'top of the line' likely to run me?" Bates had asked.