Project Cyclops Part 12

"What's next?" Ramirez said quietly to Peretz.

"The code for the doors has to be punched in there--" he pointed. Behind the desk was a computer terminal that reported the security status of all the sectors. Its green screen remained blank, flashing no alerts.

"Disable them," Ramirez ordered, the first test of the Israeli's technical skills. In the hours to come, he would prove indispensable.

Or so he claimed. "Then deactivate the access code and we ought to be able to just walk in."

While Jamal was rearranging the guard's body, leaving him slumped over the desk as though asleep, Ramirez locked the entry doors behind them, then stepped behind the desk and dimmed the lobby lights. Finally he slipped off his flight suit and tossed it behind the desk.

Right on schedule.

They headed toward Command. He knew that if you control the brain, you are master of the body, and now they had to seize that brain. So far their smooth progress surpa.s.sed his hopes. But the next phase was crucial, allowed for no foul-ups. He still feared his ad hoc troops might get trigger-happy and destroy some of the critical equipment; he had even considered making them use blanks, but that was taking too big a risk.

"The gates of Paradise are about to be opened," Jamal declared through his black beard, his crazed eyes reflecting back the lights on the security door as they changed from red to green and a muted buzzer sounded. "Allah has given this to us."

Ramirez said nothing, merely straightened the hand-tailored cuffs of his charcoal Brioni. Then he stepped back to watch as the door to Command Central slowly began sliding to the left.

8:39 P.M.

Cally was thinking about how much she would love a pizza, heavy on the cheese and Italian sausage. No, just heavy on the cholesterol. Why was it that the only things that tasted good were all supposed to be bad for you? She had long ago determined never to let it bother her. Like Scarlett, she'd think about it tomorrow. The heck with it. Everybody needed a secret sin. And that was the worst part of being here on Andikythera. You couldn't just pick up a phone. . . .

She stared across the cavernous room, her stomach grumbling, and looked at the large overhead screen intended to track the s.p.a.ce vehicle after lift-off. Then she glanced around at the rows of desks with computer workstations that lined the floor. It was almost as though she had a small army under her command. All this power, and she still couldn't order up a pizza. What was wrong with this picture? She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she completely failed to notice the new arrivals.

8:40 P.M.

As Ramirez took position, he quickly noticed everything. At the far end, beneath the huge master screens, a wide desk commanded the room.

And behind it sat a dark-haired woman whose history he had committed to memory. She was the one that counted.

Odd that a woman should be in charge . . . but then a woman had even been elected president of a major Muslim country. Once. All things were possible, now and then.

It did not matter to him, not the way he knew it mattered to these two Iranians. He lived in the real world; they lived in a world that did not exist. They, he knew, would say it did not exist _yet_. Well, that was their problem, not his. . . .

Gradually, as one technician after another became aware of them standing in the doorway, all activity ceased. Ten men, dressed in black, all armed with Uzis. Their image triggered a reflexive response of fear throughout the room, nurtured by decades of terrorism in the news.

Ramirez surveyed the room. None of the American technicians had any weapons. As antic.i.p.ated, he had caught the prey unprepared. Indeed, he had hoped to avoid gunfire. Keep the staff calm. They would be needed.

"You will continue, please, as you were." His voice sounded over the room, English with only a trace of accent. But that trace of accent was bloodless. The authority with which he spoke let everybody know that the command chain had just changed.

Cally turned to stare at the intruders, puzzled. They were strangers .

. . now the sight of their automatic weapons registered . . . and they were armed. They sure didn't work for SatCom. How the h.e.l.l did they get through facility security?

Their leader--she noted that he was wearing a sharp Italian suit, not commando mufti, and he was doing the talking-- was scanning the room as though he already owned it. And, in truth, he did. Like the American emba.s.sy in Tehran, SatCom had been caught sleeping. But there was no gesturing of weapons. He seemed to want to maintain normality.

They're terrorists, her intuition was screaming. But no, her rational mind answered back. It couldn't be true. Terrorism operated a universe away from Andikythera; it wasn't supposed to touch the lives of anybody outside the hot spots.

Now their spokesman was strolling down the aisle between the computer terminals, headed her way. She figured him for late forties, educated, subject to reason. He seemed rational, or at least businesslike. He could have been a SatCom VP from Arlington dropping by for a surprise inspection. The rest, except for a couple of Arabs with beards, looked like Eurotrash hoods.

"Miss Andros, I presume," the man said, then laughed. "It is a pleasure to meet you. At last."

"What are you doing here?" Her disorientation was being rapidly replaced by anger. "This is a restricted area."

The man smiled . . . almost politely . . . and seemed to ignore the question. "You are absolutely correct. Very reasonable, and proper. But please, you and your staff must just continue on and pay no attention to us. Your head-office check-in is scheduled for 2200 hours. You will, of course, report nothing amiss. Which will be true." He bowed lightly.

"I'm sure they will want to know how the Cyclops power-up went. In fact, we are all anxious for the answer to that."

His words echoed off the hard, neon-lit surfaces. Command Central, its pale blue walls notwithstanding, had never seemed more stark.

"I'd appreciate it very much if you would leave," she said, holding her voice quiet. "This is private property. You are trespa.s.sing."

The man just smiled again and walked over to examine the big screens.

"These things have always intrigued me. Like something in the movies.

Buck Rogers." He turned back. "Please, don't let my layman's curiosity interfere with your work."

Bill, Bill. She thought of SatCom's CEO in his office, just beyond the doors at the far end of the room. You've got a radio. And you can see this room on a security monitor. Can't you--

The door at the far end opened, and there stood William Bates.

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" his voice boomed over the room.

"My name need not concern you," the terrorist in the suit answered.

"Just call me Number One. But I will favor you by returning your question."

"And I'll give you the same answer, Number One, or whoever the h.e.l.l you are," Bates replied, not moving. "Whatever you're thinking, there's nothing here to steal. You're wasting your time. What's more, you're trespa.s.sing on American property. So take those goons with you and get the h.e.l.l out the same way you came in."

"American property? Americans seem to think the whole world is their property." He smiled once more. "But let me put your mind at ease. We are not here to steal. And if you cooperate, no one in this room will be harmed."

Cally looked him over, asking herself whether she believed him. Not for a minute. She suddenly realized this man would kill anyone who got in his way; it was etched into his eyes.

"Now, Miss Andros . . . you should order your people to proceed with the countdown. My understanding is that the first vehicle is scheduled to be launched in less than sixty-five hours. We certainly want nothing to disrupt your timetable."

She stared at him more closely, puzzled. If he and these creeps weren't here for blackmail, threatening to destroy the facility, against a payoff, then what could they possibly want?

"You don't give the orders here." Bates moved toward the man. "I do."

He dropped his voice as he pa.s.sed Cally. "Don't do a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing."

Then he looked up. "You will leave right now, or I'll call my security staff."

"That would be most unwise. At least two of them would be unable to respond." He nodded toward the door. "You are welcome to check outside.

But come, we're all wasting precious time."

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h. I won't--"

"Well, well," the man interrupted, "could it be I am luckier than I dreamed possible? Could it be that I have the honor to be speaking to none other than William Bates? Have we snared the CEO? No, that would be too much good luck."