Project Cyclops Part 3

"But what route would you take?" Bill was digging into the pocket of his blazer for a weathered briar pipe. "Does anybody really know?"

"I've looked into it, and just about everything Homer talked about has been located, in some place or another. We know exactly where the site of Troy was, so that'd be the spot to push off. Starting at the Dardanelles Strait, Ulysses first went north and sacked a city on the coast of Thrace. Then he took a heading almost due south, pa.s.sing through the Cyclades islands and by the north side of Crete, then put in at the north sh.o.r.e of Africa, where--"

"So, you intend to do it by the book," Bates had interjected.

"Only way." He had sipped his tequila, feeling his excitement growing, then continued. "From there it's up to the western tip of Sicily, Polyphemus land, then northwest to Sardinia. Then over to Italy and down the west coast, where Ulysses ran afoul of Circe. Next it's south, past the Galli Islands, where the Sirens sang, after which I make the Straits of Messina and down to Malta, the island of Calypso. Finally it's northeast to Corfu, and from there it'd be a straight shot on down to Ithaca. Home plate."

"You'll never make it." Bill was thoughtfully filling his pipe.

"Bet you ten grand I can do it in a fortnight."

"I'll probably never see the money, but you're on." Bates had grabbed the bet, with a big, winner's grin. . . .

So far, it had gone virtually without a hitch. Using old paintings, he had worked up precise engineering drawings for the vessel, then engaged with a small shipyard in Istanbul to build it. The Turkish workers could scarcely believe their eyes. The ship was a Greek vase come to life, and already the world press had given him plenty of coverage.

Everybody liked the idea of a long shot.

He had taken plenty of long shots sailing the Caribbean over the last eight years, but he had no experience with an early October storm in the Aegean. Tonight was building into a serious problem. All signs pointed to a typical autumn blowout. He glanced at the low-lying clouds moving in from the north, darkening the sky and building rapidly. He knew that in these waters, light autumn breezes could easily whip into thrashing gales. Yeah, Bill's radar was right. The weather was real.

And it scared him, a lot.

Well, he figured, it was time. He had been lucky so far. The Ross DSC radio still worked, and the patchwork sail hadn't ripped--yet. . . .

Then it happened. The nightmare. Without warning the winds suddenly changed around to the north, going from thirty knots to sixty in what seemed only a second. As the linen sail strained, he threw his weight against the tiller, hoping to hold his course. Now more than ever, with the storm on him, he wanted to keep on all his canvas and try to get into the lee of the island as soon as possible. It was definitely time to cut the bravado and start thinking about the sea anchor.

"_Odyssey II_, come in," the radio crackled, and he recognized Bates'

voice once more. "Do you read?"

He reached down and picked up the small black mike, then yelled against the howl of wind. "I copy you, but make this quick. No time to chat."

"I had another look-see at the radar, Mike, and I just noticed something else you should know about. We show you at almost the same position as a U.S. Navy ship of some kind. Part of the Sixth Fleet probably. Take care you miss her."

He clicked the mike to transmit. This time he didn't want

to bother switching channels. "Some kind of exercise, probably. What's her cla.s.s?"

"Can't tell. But she's still a h.e.l.l of a lot bigger than you are, pal.

They may pick you up on their radar, but again maybe not. Just take care."

"I'll keep an eye out for lights. Thanks." He clicked off the mike again, then looked around. But the Aegean, what he could see of it, remained dark and empty. Somehow, though, the black made it just that much scarier.

He leaned back into the tiller, still trying to hold as much of the wind in the sail as possible. The waves were lashing him now, cold and relentless. And _Odyssey II _was beginning to heel precariously, forcing him to apply helm, throwing his full hundred and eighty pounds against the heavy wooden portside tiller. It was one of a pair, port and starboard--the old Greek idea being that whenever a ship leaned away from the wind, lifting the windward rudder out of the water, the helmsman still had a lee rudder for control. But when he took her to starboard and tried to round the island, the wind and tides would be full abeam. With a shallow-draft, low-ballast vessel like this, that was going to be dicey. . . .

He reached for the life jacket he had secured to the mast, a new Switlik Fastnet Crew Vest MK_II_. Normally he did not bother, but this was not the time to go macho. It had a 35-pound buoyancy and a 4,000- pound breaking strength, enough for any seas.

Now the wind was gusting even harder, kicking up yet more swell. The Aegean sunset was concluding, its red clouds turned purple and darkening fast, a presage that visibility would shortly be a thing of the past.

The past, _a la recherche du temps perdu_. This trip, regardless of his bet with Bill, was also about recent times gone by. His father had died, the revered Michael Vance, Sr., the undisputed Grand Old Man of archaeology at Penn. It turned out to be a far greater loss than he had antic.i.p.ated, like a chunk of himself torn away. He still missed their late-hours "discussions"--heated arguments, really. He had been trying to wrench away the future, the old man trying to hang on to what he knew best: the past. It had been a dynamic tension filled with mutual love. And now he felt guilty. But why? There was no reason.

He also had gone through another of life's milestones, a divorce. Eva Borodin, a dark-haired daughter of Russian aristocracy, a college sweetheart, had come back into his life after a digression of ten years. The second time around was supposed to be a charm, right?

The soap operas were wrong on that one, the same way they were about most other things in real life. Although the divorce, now a year ago, had been businesslike and amicable, it still had hurt. For the past year he had been sitting around and brooding--about life, love, middle age, death.

He still found himself wearing his wedding ring. Why? It just made him think of her even more. No, the truth was, everything reminded him of her and how much he needed her. What he had not realized--until she was gone--was that needing somebody was the richest experience of life.

He sighed into the wind. The challenge of his _Odyssey_ enterprise was supposed to take his mind off all that. Was it working?

Maybe. But so far the jury was still out. . . .

He gripped the tiller harder and glanced up at the sail. Running downwind, the cut.w.a.ter on the bow was going to be a real problem. But just another half hour, probably, and--

Christ! Bill's warning was on the mark. A ma.s.sive hulk loomed dead ahead, running with no lights. It was as long as a football field, the bow towering up like a battering ram. She was moving in off his portside stern--he guessed she was making at least fifteen knots. High above the bridge, antennas and communications gear showed faintly against the twilight gloom, gray and huge. Not recommended for close encounters . . . but he still had time to tack and give her a wide berth.

He threw his weight against the tiller, veering to leeward. Once clear, he would bring the bow about and let the cut.w.a.ter top her wake like a surfboard, keeping him from taking water. Then he would be on his way, into the storm and the night.

Maybe he did not even have a problem. They probably had picked him up on their radar by now. It did not mean they would veer off course, but they might throttle her down a few notches, just to be neighborly. . .

He was still leaning on the tiller, watching the monolithic hulk skim silently past, when he noticed a throaty roar beginning to drown out the slap of the ship's wake against the side of _Odyssey II'_s_ _hull.

After a few moments, as it grew in ominous intensity, he realized it was coming in from the south. What in h.e.l.l!

He whirled to look, and spotted a chopper, alt.i.tude about eight hundred meters. What was it doing here? Had Bill been that worried, enough to risk sending his hot new Agusta Mark _II_ out in this weather to . . .

No, it was way too big. When he finally saw it clearly, the stubby wings and rocket pods, he realized it was a Soviet Mi- 24D, a Hind.

Over the mottled camouflage paint he discerned the blue star and white background of the Israeli Air Force. Odd.

He knew they had captured one once, an export model from the Syrian Air Force, but they would never fly it this far into international airs.p.a.ce. It was a prize. What's more, this bird was fully armed--with dual heat-seeking missiles secured at the tips of each stubby wing, just beyond the twin rocket pods. Then it a.s.sumed an attack mode. . . .

7:43 P.M.

Sabri Ramirez stepped down to the weapons station again, gazed out through the huge bubble, and smiled. "Shut down the radar. Their IWB must not have any reason for alarm. They're probably running our IFF through Gournes right now."

The Israeli nodded, then reached over to switch off all systems that the Americans might interpret as weapons guidance. Next he clicked on the low-light TV. Unlike radar, it was a pa.s.sive system that would not alert the ship that she was being ranged.

Ramirez pictured the control room of the USS Glover crowded with curious young seamen glued to their monitoring screens, probably happy to have a little excitement. Their IFF would be reporting an Israeli chopper. But the minute the visual ID came through, all h.e.l.l would break loose.

So far, he told himself, it had been a textbook approach. Airspeed was down to ninety-five knots, alt.i.tude eight hundred meters. Carefully, carefully. First rule. Don't spook the quarry. We don't need radar.

We'll be pa.s.sive, heat-seeking. No ECM they can throw at us will make any difference.

"Under two minutes now," he said. "It's time."

"No pain, no gain." Peretz flipped on the radio. "USS Glover, we're going to have to ditch. We have a crew of three--pilot, copilot, and navigation trainee."

"We have emergency crews on starboard side, ready to pick you up. Do you have Mae Wests?"

"Life jackets on. Standard-issue yellow. With dye markers and salt.w.a.ter-activated beacons. We'll--"