Project Cyclops Part 60

"I'd guess he's at about a thousand meters now," Pierre was saying.

Above them the SH-60F Seahawk was sweeping past, clearly on a recon.

"Maybe he won't pick us up, not with the swell this high."

Armont didn't really believe his own words. The Seahawk carrier-based helo, the U.S. Navy's preeminent ASW platform, had come in hard from the south and it was searching. The question was, what for?

Whatever it was, the guy was all business. And given his APS-124 radar-- not to mention his forward-looking IR capabilities--eluding detection was going to be tough.

'They must have figured out we scammed them," Reggie declared. "I was afraid it was going to catch up with us. What with the electronic a.s.sets the U.S. has got deployed in this region, you'd almost have to expect it. Probably the f.u.c.king radio. Which means we've got to keep silence from here on in. d.a.m.n."

Armont squinted through the dark. "Let's wait and see what happens. As far as I know, those things don't carry any cannon, just a couple of ASW torpedoes. We're a pretty small fish. Let's hold firm for now."

They hunkered down and motored on, watching as the Navy chopper growled on toward the north. Maybe, everybody was thinking, the crew had missed them. Maybe they were after somebody else. Maybe . . .

No, it was coming back again, sweeping, on a determined mission to locate something.

"They're going to pick us up sooner or later," Willem Voorst predicted.

"It's just a matter of time."

The wind and sea were growing ever more unruly. But that was not going to save them. They all knew it.

"I've got a terrible idea," Reggie said, almost yelling to be heard.

"It's going to mean we go in with a bare-bones complement of equipment, but I'm beginning to think we don't have any choice."

"What are you suggesting?" Armont asked, his voice almost swept away by the storm.

"We cut loose one of the rafts, leave a radio transmitting a Mayday. By the time they realize they've been had, we'll be at the island."

"What about their IR a.s.sets?" Armont wondered back.

"Okay, good point. So we set a flare, and maybe attach a couple of life jackets with a salt.w.a.ter beacon. That'll engage their IR."

"And what do we do? This motor will still have an IR signature."

Hall thought a moment. "We could cover everything with some of the plastic camouflage. That should cut down the heat signature enough."

"Reggie, I don't think that's such a hot idea," Spiros yelled, the rain in his face. "We're not going to be able to shake them that easily."

"Don't be so sure. There's a good chance a decoy would keep them off our scent for a while. Might just give us enough time, mates."

The Seahawk had swept past again, banked, and now was coming back.

Clearly working a grid, maybe getting her electronics up to speed.

Nothing about it boded particularly well--for some reason it was lit, a long white streak in the dark. Long and lean and ideal to drop ASW drogues, the carrier-based Sikorsky SH-60F incorporated 2,000 pounds of avionics and was even designed to carry nuclear depth bombs, though the choppers were never "wired" for the weapon. Its maximum cruising speed was 145 mph, with a one-hour loitering capability. Given time, it would find them.

"Willem, how much farther do you reckon we've got to go to make the island?" Armont shouted over the growing gale and the roar of the two outboards.

"My guess is we're looking at another eight or ten kilometers. But I vote with Reggie. We've got no choice but to try a decoy setup. Let's keep this raft--the engine is running better--and start moving over whatever gear we absolutely have to have."

He knew there might well be some dispute over that, with each man having a pet piece of equipment he deemed himself unable to live without. But the men of ARM were pragmatists above all, and they would bend over backward to reach a consensus.

They began sorting the gear, hastily, and the selections being made cut down their a.s.sault options. Balaclavas would be kept, along with rappelling harnesses and rope. The heavier ordnance had to be left, the grenade launchers and shotguns. They quickly pulled over a case of tear-gas grenades, but the others they left. Radios, of course, had to be saved, and the Heckler & Koch MP5s and the Mac-10s. No Uzis: those were for cowboys. Each man had his own handgun of choice, but the rounds of ammo were cut down to a bare minimum.

As they sorted the gear, they were making an unspoken strategic decision concerning how the insertion would be structured. Without the heavy firepower, they would be fighting a guerrilla war, focusing on taking out Ramirez, and hoping the firefight would be over in seconds.

If it lasted more than fifteen minutes, they were finished.

The result might well be an a.s.sault more risky than it otherwise would have been. But, as Reggie was fond of saying, you can't have everything. Sometimes you can't even come b.l.o.o.d.y close.

3:33 A.M.

"Seahawk One, this is Bravo Command. Come up with anything yet?" It was the radio beside Delta Captain Philip s.e.xton, who was flying copilot in the Seahawk. Lieutenant Manny Jackson was pilot, while the airborne tactical officer was Lieutenant James Palmer II and the sensor operator was Lieutenant Andrew McLeod. "Any hint of unintelligent life down there?"

"Andy says the d.a.m.ned radar's picking up too much chop, Yankee Bravo.

Don't think we're going to find these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. It's the proverbial needle in the you-know-what. This baby finds subs, not dinghies. Looks like all we're getting so far is fish scatter. Just noise."

"Then you might want to see if the IR will give you anything," came Nichols's voice. "The f.u.c.kers have clamped down, total radio silence, but they've got to be there somewhere."

"Roger, we copy. Don't know if we've got the sensitivity to pick up a thermal, though. Not with this weather and sea."

"Copy that. So try everything you've got, even sonar. Or the mag anomaly detector. h.e.l.l, try all your toys. These b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are close to slipping through, and no way can that be allowed to happen."

"You've got a rog, sir," s.e.xton replied. "I'll have Andy give the IR a shot and see what we get."

3:39 A.M.

"They're staying right on us," Hugo Voorst observed, looking up. "They don't have us yet, but they've probably figured out we'd make a beeline for Andikythera, so all they have to do is just work the corridor for all it's worth."

"Then let's get on with it." Armont nodded through the rain. "Do we have everything you think we might need?"

"We've got everything we can b.l.o.o.d.y well keep afloat," Reggie yelled back. "We're leaving half of what we need." He knew that seven men in the single Zodiac, together with their

gear, was going to be pus.h.i.+ng it to the limit. The sea was still rising, which meant they would be bailing for their lives as soon as they cut loose.

"All right, then, Willem, set the timer on the flares." Armont shook his head sadly.

"If we keep having to abandon equipment," Hall could be heard grumbling, "this is going to be a d.a.m.ned expensive operation. Where in b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l is it going to end? When we're down to a bow and arrow each?"

"It's beginning to feel that way now," Willem Voorst groused. He had finished and was clambering into the single raft. With his weight aboard, it listed precariously, taking water as the waves washed over.

He settled in, grabbed a plastic bucket, and started bailing.

Now the Seahawk was coming down the line again, making an even slower pa.s.s. Time had run out.