Project Cyclops Part 2

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

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

Vance wasn't Greek; he was American and looked it. As for Greece and things Greek, he preferred tequila over ouzo, a medium-rare sirloin to chewy grilled octopus. All the same, years ago he had gotten a Ph.D. in Greek archaeology from Yale, taught there for two years, then published a celebrated and radical theory about the Palace of Knossos on Crete.

The book had caused an uproar in the scholarly community, and in the aftermath he had drifted away from the world of the ancient Greeks for several years. With this project, he liked to think, he was coming back home. He had just turned forty-four, and it was about time.

Age. More and more lately he realized he preferred old,

well-crafted things: stick-s.h.i.+ft transmissions, tube amplifiers, vinyl recordings. Anything without numbers that glowed. _Odyssey_ _II_ was as close to that feeling as he could get.

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

There were other problems. Maybe, he thought, Ulysses had them, too.

He'd reproduced the ancient Aegean practice of tying the ends of the longitudinal wales together at the stern, then letting them extend on behind the s.h.i.+p and splay outward like the tail feathers of some magnificent phoenix. Although he loved the beauty of it, now that "tail" was catching the wind and making steering even tougher.

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

7:28 P.M.

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

The United States has two bases on the southern Mediterranean island of Crete, strategically close to Libya and the Middle East in general.

They are the naval and air base at Souda Bay, which is large enough to accommodate the entire Mediterranean Sixth Fleet, and the communications base at Gournes, in the southern outskirts of Iraklion, Crete's capital city.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While he was waiting, he punched up a computer screen and studied it.

The Glover had reported a position at lat.i.tude 3620' and longitude 25 10' at 1800 hours. And their bearing was last reported to be two-five- zero. Nothing else was in the vicinity.

d.a.m.n. He didn't like the feel of this one. His instincts were telling him something was wrong.

Then his headphones crackled. "Verified IFF. Definitely Israeli code.

Do you copy?"

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

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

"I copy you, Glover. Hang on and we'll try to get something for you."

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

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

7:31 P.M.

As another gust hit, Vance glanced up at the rigging, praying it would hang together. Instead of canvas, the wide, shallow square sail was made of small linen cloths sewn together, like those made on the tiny looms of ancient times. It was a single-masted reefing sail, invented just in time for the Trojan War, with an upper yard fitted with a system of lines whereby it could be furled up and then secured aloft.

When he got south of the island and hove to, he would drop the sea anchor and reef her, but for now he wanted every square inch.

He was tired and thirsty, but he had no time for even a sip of water.

With the sea rising, waves were pounding over the primitive sideboards and soaking him to the skin. Next the squalls would come--though maybe a little rain would feel good, improve the personal hygiene. . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Odyssey_."

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

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

"Get serious." Bates laughed.

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