Project Cyclops Part 62

Actually, he found himself thinking, it might just be possible. The guidance system would be tested to the limit, but if the weather eased up a little . . .

The aboveground structures for Launch were just ahead, including the two pads with the vehicles sprouting into the sky. From the looks of things, they were both unharmed, with VX-1 clearly prepped and ready for launch. Then he paused to examine the collapsed gantry and shook his head in dismay, heartsick at the sight. That was going to cost a fortune to repair.

He shrugged sadly and moved on.

He knew it was going to be a beehive of activity inside the tech areas now. The entire SatCom Staff was on duty, which was standard for a "go"

power-up situation. Which meant that they had to be holding Vance somewhere out of the way. The question was where. Where? He tried to think.

There were some spare-parts bays, locations where items that constantly needed replacing could be held ready to hand. But everything was clicking now, with those areas pretty much out of the loop. So . . .

maybe that would be the place to start checking.

The main entry-points for the bays were, naturally enough, from the inside. But there also was a large loading dock on the south that allowed gear to be delivered directly from the warehouse. Maybe that would be the logical place to try and slip in. He was feeling better now, energized. Why not go in, have a look.

4:22 A.M.

Jean-Paul Moreau punched him again, then waited for a response. There wasn't one, but only because Michael Vance was near to pa.s.sing out.

They had taken him not to the Bates Motel but to an unused room at the periphery of Launch. Its original purpose wasn't clear, but whatever it was, it no longer appeared to be used for anything--the ideal location to beat somebody's brains half out.

"You have a remarkably low tolerance for this, you sleazy _batard_."

Vance merely moaned. He had been trying mystical techniques for blocking out the pain. G.o.d, he hated pain. So he attempted to focus his mind on something else, on little things like working on his boat, on making love, on Caribbean sunsets. Instead what he got was the vision of a nuclear bomb going off somewhere, and the anger he had felt when Ramirez and his thugs blew up the U.S. frigate. Still, any emotion, any feeling he could muster, seemed to drive back the pain, make it more endurable. Now he was focusing as best he could on the long-haired, blond French goon who was pummeling him. Whack. Love. Whack. Hate.

Whack. Anger. Boiling, seething anger. It was almost working. Almost.

He moaned again. Then for one last time he tried to smile. "Jesus, what sewer did Ramirez dredge to come up with you guys?"

"Good. Good. Keep talking," Moreau said. "Sounds mean you are still alive. It means you still can feel." And he hit him again, hard in the stomach, taking his breath away once more. The moans had become airless grunts.

Jean-Paul Moreau had readily accepted the job of softening up the f.u.c.ker who had caused them so much trouble. It was intended to be a partial compensation for his having endured the radar treatment, and also it felt good to be able to work over the very son of a b.i.t.c.h who had done it. There was, indeed, justice in the world. Justice that you made for yourself. He was now making his own justice, and it felt terrific.

Vance knew he couldn't take much more of a pounding without pa.s.sing out. Moreau was a professional who didn't specialize in breaking bones; instead he confined himself to internal trauma. That seemed to be his particular area of expertise. He also was careful to make sure his victim remained conscious.

Which meant, Vance knew, that this part of the program was drawing to a close. He couldn't handle much more pain, the fact of which he knew this French thug with the streaming blond hair was well aware. What, he wondered, was the point anyway? Sadism? Ramirez was still waiting in line to dish out his own particular brand of revenge. And Ramirez had forgotten more about dispensing pain than this creep would ever know. .

Thunk. Another blow to the stomach took his breath away once more. He felt his consciousness swim back and forth, scarcely there any more.

When was this going to end? He would have signed away anything just to stop the punishment for a few seconds, and he was on the verge of throwing up. Surely it had to be over soon. He felt like a boxer who had just gone fifteen rounds with no referee. Time for the bell.

His battered mind tried to put together a guess about what was next.

Maybe after this Eurotrash had had his fun, Ramirez would show up for the coup de grace. It would almost be welcome. Or maybe nothing was going to happen. Maybe Ramirez would just leave him to be blown up with the rest of the facility.

Where was Pierre? If ARM wasn't coming in for another whole day, who knew where this disaster was headed. What was Cally doing? And Bill?

Were they safe?

He cursed himself again for s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up the golden opportunity to deactivate the gantry and bring the proceedings to a halt. Instead of doing what he had planned, he tried to take a shortcut. Now he realized that had been a major mistake. And now, with ARM not coming in for another whole day, the only chance left was to try and stall.

4:37 A.M.

The wind was howling and rain spattered on the loading dock--it should have been protected, but you can't do everything--as Mannheim briskly made his way up the metal steps. The large sliding door was locked, but he still had the magnetized card that clicked it open. A b.u.t.ton on the wall started it moving along the rollers . . . just enough to slide through . . . there, he was in.

Inside was a long hallway cluttered with various crates-- either just delivered or ready to be removed, he was not sure --and he had to feel his way along, not wanting to risk turning on the lights.

For an instant, as he stumbled among the sharp corners, he really felt his age. This was not something for a retired engineering professor to be muddling with. He should be back in Cambridge growing orchids in his greenhouse. What in blazes was he doing . . . ?

Then he noticed the light emerging from under one of the doors, and as he stepped closer, he heard two voices. One of them belonged to the man who had saved him, Michael Vance. The other . . . the other had to be one of the terrorists. Now what?

4:51 A.M.

"You know, I hate to spoil all the fun you're having." Vance tried to look at Moreau, but he could barely see through the swelling of his puffy eyelids. "But I've got some unsettling news. You and the rest of Ramirez's hoods are about to be in a deep situation here. The minute you try to send that bomb up, you can tip your hat and kiss your a.s.s good-bye. Better enjoy this while you can."

"What do you mean?"

"That nuke you've got primed. It pains me to tell you, pardon the joke, but your gang isn't exactly the crew of rocket scientists you think you are. The second the Cyclops laser hits the first vehicle, there's going to be a lift-off, all right. Only it's likely to be this island that's headed for orbit. And you with it. Why in h.e.l.l do you think I was trying to stop it?" Was it true? he wondered. Think. Try to make it sound convincing.

"What are you talking about?" Moreau's blue eyes bristled.

"Just thought you ought to know the bottom line. If you're planning to liberate the oppressed ma.s.ses or whatever, this is a h.e.l.l of a way to start. By nuking yourself. That should really impress everybody with your dedication."

"You are going to die anyway, so what do you care?"

"Got a point there. Guess I'm just wasting my time. But there are a few people here on the island that I like--you, incidentally, are not among them--and I would kind of hate to see them get blown away because of your f.u.c.king incompetence." He paused, trying to breathe. "As it happens, I had a chat with the project director. She told me how that system works. The nuts and bolts are a little complicated, but it boils down to what happens inside the rocket when the Cyclops laser starts up. Surely you know the energy in the Cyclops creates plasma in the vehicle--that's loose atoms--which becomes the propellant." Vance looked at him. "You do know that, don't you?"

Moreau nodded, almost but not quite understanding what he was talking about.

"Good, because the interesting part comes next. You don't create this atomic soup called plasma without generating a lot of electromagnetic noise--in other words, radio garbage." You know, he thought to himself, it's getting to sound better and better all the time.

"These technical things do not concern me," Moreau declared with a shrug.

"They may not concern you, pal, but they might concern the bomb. What if one of the radio signals produced just happens to be the one that triggers its detonator? And believe me, with the smorgasbord of radio noise that plasma produces, the chances are easily fifty-fifty. I hope you feel lucky, a.s.shole."

"I don't believe you." He sat down, in a spare chair, beginning to appear a little uncertain.

"You hotshots are a little over your head here. Maybe you ought to pa.s.s that information to the chief." Anything to get him out of here, Vance was thinking. Anything to give me a little time to recover. "I suggest you think about it." He struggled to rise, but then realized he was tied into the chair. 'Congratulations. I think you just about beat me to a pulp."

"It was my pleasure." Moreau looked him over, his expression now definitely troubled. "Now I should beat you again for lying."

"If it's all the same, I think you might be smart to keep me conscious for a while longer. Maybe I can tell you how to solve your problem."