Project Cyclops Part 13

We're screwed, Cally thought. He knows. Now they'll hold Bill for ransom. He's pure gold. Rich and famous.

"You will kindly take a seat, Mr. Bates," the man went on.

"The h.e.l.l I--"

One of the bearded men carrying an automatic weapon stepped forward and slammed the metal b.u.t.t into Bates' stomach, sending him staggering backward. He tried to catch his balance, but failed and collapsed ignominiously onto the gray linoleum.

"Again, we're squandering time," the spokesman, the one in charge, continued calmly. "Where were we? Oh yes, the power-up." He turned around. "Now, Miss Andros, none of us wants that report to be late, do we? It would look bad for everybody."

CHAPTER FOUR

7:02 A.M.

When Vance caught his first clear sight of Andikythera's sheltered inlet, the storm had pa.s.sed over in the night and Homer's "rosy- fingered dawn" was displaying all her splendored glory. With only a slight effort he had altered his course and reached the island. Now, as he rowed in through the still, turquoise waters, only light surface ripples lapped against his Switlik. As quickly as it had come, the turmoil in the seas had vanished. He hoped it was a good omen.

He looked down and realized the water was so crystalline he could see the bottom, now at least ten meters below. Although he had visited many islands, he had never seen anything more perfect than Andikythera.

Despite being bone-tired and soaked to the skin, conditions that exacerbated his anger, the sight of the island momentarily buoyed his spirits. It reminded him of a thousand Caribbean mornings, the feeling of rebirth and renewal.

Andikythera had always been private, and never more so than now. It was an industrial site these days, pure and simple. No ferries deposited tourists here, no fis.h.i.+ng boats docked in the mornings. Nothing but granite cliffs surrounded the secrets held inside.

The heavy construction equipment, the prefabricated buildings, the facility's high-tech components, all had come through this harbor. Now, however, the dock was deserted; the off-loading cranes and giant mechanical arms highlighted against the morning sky stood idle.

Everything had been delivered, was in place, and was humming. The only vessel now tied up was a sailing yacht, Bill's twenty-eight-foot Morgan, leased specially so he could keep his hand in while here. Great boat. . . .

Abruptly he stopped rowing.

Think a minute, he told himself. You can't risk using the inlet. No way.

On the right and left sides of the harbor, steep crags of white granite speckled with scrub cypress guarded the sh.o.r.e, while the towering cliffs of the north mirrored the coastline of a thousand Greek islands.

Unlike the postcard photos for sale everywhere on the tourist islands-- featuring topless Swedish blondes and trim Italian playboys, gold chains glinting--this was the real Greece, harsh and severe. Only a few seabirds swirling over the near sh.o.r.e, adding their plaintive calls to the silence-breaking churn of surf pounding over the rocks, broke the silence.

He studied the island, trying to get his bearings. Just as Bill had said, it appeared to be about three miles long, maybe a couple of miles wide. As though balancing the radar-controlled mountain at one end, at the opposite terminus stood the launch vehicles, now just visible as the tip of two giant spires, gleaming in the early suns.h.i.+ne like huge silver bullets. And somewhere beneath this granite island, he knew, was the heart of the Cyclops, SatCom's computer-guided twenty- gigawatt laser. . . .

There was no sign of anybody monitoring his approach. The early light showed only pristine cliffs, cold and empty.

Careful now. First things first.

He rowed under a near cliff, then slipped off the yellow raft and into the knee-deep waters of the near sh.o.r.e, still dazzlingly clear. It reminded him again of the Caribbean. Maybe Bill unconsciously had an island there in mind when he decided to move everything here.

The water was cold, refres.h.i.+ng as he moved in. He collected what he needed from the raft and stood a minute wondering what to do with it.

Then inspiration struck. It only weighed sixty-five pounds, so why not use it?

It was a standard Switlik, which meant inflation had been automatic.

The deflation would take a while, so he started it going as he hefted the heavy yellow hulk and headed up the hill. He wanted it empty, but not entirely.

The security Dimitri Spiros had installed was high-tech and good. He had not gone to the trouble of burying cables all around the place with magnetic anomaly detectors. That would have required blasting through a lot of granite and did not really seem worth the tab. Instead he had surrounded the place with a chain-link fence and topped that with free- spinning wheels of razor wire known as Rota-Barb, which prevented an intruder from smothering the cutting edges with cloth. Then, just to make sure, across the top and at several levels below, he had added lines of Sabretape with an enclosed fiber-optic strand. A pulse of light was transmitted through the length of the tape, and if it was disturbed, detectors at a central guard location would know immediately when and where.

Now Vance had to try to penetrate a system he had actually been involved, indirectly, in setting up. The ultimate irony.

The jagged granite tore at his hands as he struggled up, picking his way through the cl.u.s.ters of scrub cedar that clung to the steep ascent and dragging the Switlik by its nylon straps. The cliff rose a good two hundred feet and was almost sheer, but he located enough niches to haul himself forward. Finally, exhausted and hands bleeding, he pulled himself over the top. Then he dragged up the remains of the raft.

Ahead, just in front of the towering communications mountain, he discerned ARM's industrial security installation, a ten-foot-high chain-link fence interwoven with fiber optics. Beyond it on a helicopter pad sat Bill's new Agusta, a hot 109 Mark II with all the latest modifications, including two 450-hp Allison engines. It sat there, its blue trim like ice, a ghostly apparition against the lightening sky.

Poised alongside was a brooding hulk that dwarfed the Agusta--a Soviet Mi-24D, one of its stubby wings a tangled ma.s.s of metal.

So the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were here. He'd guessed right.

He saw no guards around it, but who knew.

He would find out soon enough, but one thing was sure: it must have a radio on board. The U.S. Navy would be very interested in identifying the location of its hostile. Maybe he should just switch on the Hind's c.o.c.kpit IFF, let it start broadcasting. If the s.h.i.+p that was attacked had been interrogating the Hind, there'd probably be knowledge somewhere of the codes it was transmitting.

Easy. Just take it easy. Go in behind the chopper, handle the fence, and then rush the thing from the back. If anybody's guarding it, you'll be taking them from their blind side.

Grasping the Switlik, with the Walther tucked firmly into the waist of his soaked trousers, he dashed for the corner of the fence behind the Hind. He was barefoot, the way he always sailed, and the granite felt sharp and cutting under his feet. But being barefoot was going to help him take the fence.

Okay, he thought, the fiber-optic alarm system is going to blow, no matter what. Just get in and get on the radio quick, then worry about what comes next.

He knew the only way to defeat a Rota-Barb system was at the corners, where the spinning rolls of wire intersected at a right angle. As he approached the corner, he looked up and checked out his chances. Yep, with the Switlik to smother the barbs it might just be possible.

He looped one of the nylon straps, then leaned back and heaved the raft up onto the top of the fence. It caught and was hanging there but--just as he had hoped--the strap pa.s.sed over and down the other side. Next he reached through, seized it, and tied it securely to the heavy chain links of the fence. Now it would hold the raft in place as he climbed from the outside.

Holding the hand straps of the raft, he clambered up and

made it to the top. Then he rolled himself into the rubber and pushed over. A second later he dropped shoulder-first onto the asphalt of the landing pad. Home.

The razor wire had shredded the raft, and the fiber-optic security system would have detected the entry, but he was in. If any guards were left alive, they probably had other things to worry about.

Or so he hoped.

At that instant he thought he heard a sound, and whirled back. No, he had only caught the chirp of a morning bird, somewhere in the cl.u.s.ter of trees down toward the sh.o.r.e. The island again seemed as serene as a paradise.

He crouched a moment, grasping the Walther, then shoved a round into the chamber. The early morning light showed the Hind in all its glory.

It was dark green, with a heavy, retractable landing gear--a magnificent machine. And a lethal one. Originally intended as an ant.i.tank weapon, the Mi-24 had quickly become a high-speed tool for air-to- ground combat. To reduce vulnerability to ground fire, its makers subst.i.tuted steel and t.i.tanium for aluminum in critical components and replaced the original blade-pocket design with gla.s.sfiber-skinned rotors. . . .

The only defect of this particular example was the absence of the starboard auxiliary wing, including the rocket pod. Its arrival and accurate landing here spoke volumes for the flying skills of whoever had been at the controls. If the weapons operator had possessed comparable talent, Vance reflected, he might not be standing here now.

But, he noted again, it had Israeli markings. Had the Israelis really attacked a U.S. frigate? That made no sense. For one thing, they couldn't have flown a Hind this far without refueling. Its combat radius was only about a hundred miles.

Then he looked more closely and realized that the Israeli Star of David in a circle of white had merely been papered on. So it was a false-flag job. Which more than ever left open the question--who the h.e.l.l were they?

Gripping the Walther, he slid open the door to the cargo bay and examined the darkened interior. It was empty save for a few remnants of packing crates. He climbed in and checked them over. They had been for weapons. He saw some U.S. markings on one: a crate of M79 grenade launchers. Another had contained Czech ZB-26 light machine guns, with spare boxes for C-Mag modifications, giving them 100-round capability.