Project Cyclops Part 5

Vance watched as the frigate got off a warning tracer, but to no effect. The Hind ignored it, as a stream of 57mm rockets from under the chopper's stubby starboard wing flared down, while the radar-slaved machine gun beneath the nose opened fire. Then the weapons operator on the Hind loosed a starboard-mounted heat-seeking Swatter, and an instant later flames erupted on the frigate's bow, an orange and black ball where the forward gun turret had been. As it spiraled upward into the night, the turret and its magazine exploded like a giant, slow- motion cherry bomb.

He could see sailors running down the decks, could hear the sound of a shipboard fire alarm going off, the dull horn used for emergencies.

They were calling all hands to station, but their response had come too late. The false-flag approach had caught the U.S. Navy off guard, its defenses down.

The radio crackled alive with a Mayday. Were there any other ships in the area? he wondered. Anybody to take out the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in the chopper?

Now it was banking, coming around, bringing the frigate's stern into its deadly view. Then a blaze of 57mm rockets poured in, engulfing the communications gear and antennas. Next the weapons operator loosed a second Swatter directly into the bridge.

Christ!

Seconds later it had transformed the midsection of the frigate into a ball of fire. He watched aghast as the blast flung the men on the bridge outward through the gla.s.s part.i.tion.

He plunged for cover just as the first airborne shock wave ripped _Odyssey II's _linen sail loose from its lines. When he rose to try and grab the starboard tiller, a second shock wave caught him and flung him savagely against the mast.

The next thing he knew, he was clinging to the portside gunwale, one hand still tangled in the lines that had been ripped from the sail. The night sky had turned a blood red, reflecting down off the low-lying clouds.

Then he felt a tremor in the hull as a ma.s.sive wave caught him and the pegs that held the stern together--so lovingly installed--sheared. The aft section of _Odyssey_ _II_ instantaneously began to come apart. The light woods would float-- she was, after all, hardly more than a raft with sides--but she would be helpless. His handmade marvel had been reduced to a bundle of planks, barely holding together, sail in shreds, twin rudders demolished.

For a moment he counted himself lucky. His body unscathed, he probably could weather the storm by just hanging on.

Then it happened. Whether through luck or skill, the chopper's weapons operator laid another one of the Swatter missiles into the frigate's stern section, causing a ma.s.sive secondary explosion, a billowing ball of fire that punched out near the waterline. This time, he knew, a wall of water would come bearing down on him, sending a terminal shock wave through what was left of _Odyssey II_.

You've got to try and keep her aright, he told himself. Try and lash yourself down with one of the lines. . . .

The wall of water hit, hurtling him over the side. He grasped for a section of gunwale, but it was too late. The wave obliterated everything. Now the swell was churning against his face as he tried to stroke back, his lungs filling with water. His arms were flailing, hands trying desperately to grasp the slippery cypress planking. The Switlik vest was holding, so he was in no danger of drowning. Yet.

Fighting the swell with his left hand, spitting water, he reached out with his right, trying to catch any piece of wreckage floating by.

Finally, he succeeded in wrapping a line around his wrist. He gasped, choking, and caught his breath. Then, still grasping the line, he draped his left arm across _Odyssey II's _shattered side and used the line to pull himself over, into what was left of the hold. If he could stay with her, he figured, he might still have a chance.

Just as he tried to rise to his feet, however, he looked up to see the mast slowly heeling over, coming straight down.

He toppled backward, hoping to dodge it, but it slammed him just across the chest. The world swirled into blackness, as even the light from the blazing ship behind him seemed to flicker.

Stay conscious, he told himself. Stay alive.

Holding onto the toppled mast, using it as a brace, he managed to rise.

And now the Hind had completed its gruesome handiwork and was banking.

Again it was going to pa.s.s directly overhead.

By G.o.d, he thought, this thing isn't over. Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are not going to get off scot-free.

7:50 P.M.

_

_"You used the Swatters!" Salim was shoving the throttle levers forward as he banked. His voice was incredulous. "You said we were just going to disable the TRSSCOMM system and the radars with rockets."

TRSSCOMM was short for Technical Research Ship Special Communications.

The frigate was equipped with batteries of listening antennas, an elaborate system of sensors and sophisticated computers, and various hydraulic systems on the stern needed to twist and turn the various dishes. But it also was manned.

What was the point of ma.s.s murder? Ramirez had explained that the _Glover _was a spy ship that worked for the U.S. National Security Agency, the NSA. Normally it operated within a small region, in a special "hearability" area just off Crete where a fluke in the weather allowed it to eavesdrop on all the Middle East; the crew could even watch Cairo television.

Salim was stunned. Ramirez, he had suddenly realized, was a madman. It was one thing to require an occasional killing in an operation this complex--after all, he had had to shoot his weapons operator in order to steal the Hind--but an all-out attack on a U.S. frigate was pointless.

The stakes had just gone through the roof.

However, Salim's younger brother, Jamal, had exactly the

opposite reaction. With a surge of pride he exclaimed, "Praise be to G.o.d," and fell to his knees on the rear litter. This was a leader he would follow anywhere.

The others did not share Jamal's joy. They considered themselves professionals, and overkill was not businesslike. However, they merely glanced at each other and kept silent. Squabbling with Ramirez served no purpose.

"We were only going to take out their tracking capability," Salim said again, his anger growing.

"It's time you understood something." Ramirez handed his headset to the Israeli, Dore Peretz, and stepped up from the weapons station, his voice sounding above the roar of the engines. "I am in charge of this operation. If I think an action is necessary, I will take it. Does anyone here want to disagree?"

The question was answered with silence. He had just killed dozens of men. They all knew one more would hardly matter.

7:52 P.M.

Vance pulled himself across the planking and stretched for a box of gear stowed beneath the stern platform. In it was a constant traveling companion: his chrome-handled 9mm Walther. Although the concept of downing a Hind gunship with small-arms fire had been tested in Afghanistan and found wanting, he was so angry his better judgment was not fully in play.

The pistol remained in its waterproof case. Quickly he took it out, unwrapped it, and clicked a round into the chamber. Then he tried to steady himself against the fallen mast.

The Hind was about a hundred meters away now, coming in low. Were they going to strafe? No, they probably didn't realize he was there.

They were about to be in for a surprise.

He could see the weapons-system operator inside the lower bulletproof bubble. Forget it. And the pilot, seated just above him, was similarly invulnerable. No way. Furthermore, the dual rocket pods beneath each short wing were probably armored. Again no vulnerability.

Aside from the poorly protected gas tanks there was only one point worth the trouble. If . . .

It was about to pa.s.s directly overhead, and he saw that he was going to be lucky. One Swatter missile remained, secured on the hardpoint tip of the stubby starboard wing. It was the only shot he had.

But if he didn't get it, they would get him. One touch of the red firing b.u.t.ton by the weapons operator and _Odyssey II_ would be evaporated.

He took careful aim at the small white tube on the wing, still nestled on its launcher, and squeezed off a round. But at that instant _Odyssey II_ dipped in the swell and he saw sparks fly off the fuselage instead.

The chopper pa.s.sed blissfully overhead, its engine a dull roar above the howl of the sea.