Project Cyclops Part 58

"I repeat," Spiros spoke again, "you must identify yourself. Otherwise I will shut down this frequency."

"They've started a countdown. They plan a launch in less than six hours. And Mike is gone. I don't even know if he's dead or alive."

Spiros glanced around at the others, wondering what to do. The frequency was being compromised, but probably it was worth the risk.

His instincts were telling him she was for real.

"Miss, whoever you are, you must identify yourself." He paused a moment, thinking. Then he asked, "Where is Ulysses?"

"I told you, he's disappeared. He screwed up and destroyed the gantry, and then he vanished. But I think they've already loaded a bomb in the payload bay of VX-1."

Spiros clicked off the microphone. "She knows Vance's code name. But half the Aegean probably knows that by now." He clicked the mike back on. "I'm giving you one more opportunity to identify yourself, or this conversation will be terminated."

"I'm Cally Andros, project director for SatCom. I was with Michael Vance when he talked to somebody in Athens named Dimitri yesterday morning. And I was with him a couple of hours ago when he was talking to you. How do you think I knew this frequency? What in h.e.l.l do I have to do to convince you people that the a.s.sault can't wait? They have a countdown in progress. I don't know what they plan to do, but there's a very good chance a bomb is going somewhere."

"I think she's legit," Spiros said, clicking off the microphone again.

"It adds up. Sounds like Mike was trying to shut them down and must have managed to muck things up. I thought he was better than that. But this is very bad news."

By now everybody was rousing, intent on the radio conversation. A storm was coming down, and now the whole plan was about to get revised.

Again. Worse still, the insert would have to be managed without a point man. Unless . . .

"Dr. Andros," Armont began, "please tell me precisely what happened to Michael Vance. I want to know if he is still alive, and if so, where he is."

She told him what she knew, in a way that was repet.i.tive and rambling.

It also was convincing.

"Do you think they can launch in this kind of weather?"

"The storm will probably let up by daybreak. That's how the weather usually works here. I don't think it's going to be a problem."

"All right," Armont interjected. "Looks like we'd better come in. I would ask you where you are now, but that might compromise your safety.

I do have one more request, though. Could you stay by the radio and a.s.sist us after insertion, telling us--as best you know--how the hostiles are deployed? It could be very helpful. And possibly save a lot of lives."

"Yes, I'll do anything you want me to. But you can't wait

until tomorrow night. If you do, there may not be any point in coming at all."

"Then stay up on this frequency," Armont said, and nodded to the others. "You'll be hearing from us."

It was a gamble, taking the word of some anonymous voice on the radio, but sometimes you had to go with your instincts. As he looked around, they all agreed.

2:09 A.M.

"Did you get it?" Radioman First Cla.s.s Howard Ansel asked. The radio room at Gournes had been particularly hectic the last few hours, but he was glad he had thought of scanning single-sideband. Ansel was twenty- eight and had eyes that reminded people of the German shepherds he raised back home in Nebraska.

"It's on the tape," Big Al replied, lifting off his headphones and scratching at his crew cut. "But I don't have the G.o.dd.a.m.nedest idea what it means."

"Doesn't matter. It was somewhere off Andikythera. Which means it's automatically cla.s.sified Top Secret. Whatever the h.e.l.l's going on, it sounds like some bad s.h.i.t. What was that about a launch? Going in? Is this some kind of priority exercise?"

"Who the h.e.l.l knows? But we've got orders."

He picked up the phone and punched in the number for his supervising officer.

2:12 A.M.

Armont felt the cold surf slam against his leg as they slipped the two black Zodiacs back into the swell, taking care to avoid the jagged rocks along the water's edge. The surf was washing over them, and everything felt cold and slippery. Reginald Hall was the first to pull himself aboard, after which he looked back, as though trying to account for everybody and everything. The weather was starting to clamp down now, faster than anybody could have expected.

"Pierre, _vite, vite_," Hans was already in the second Zodiac, tossing a line across. Their "insertion platforms," both equipped with small outboard motors, were lashed together with a nylon line. "Hurry up." He turned and used an oar to hold the raft clear. "We need to get moving before this thing gets ripped to pieces." Neoprene was tough, but there were limits.

Willem Voorst tossed the last crate of equipment into the second craft, then grasped a line Hugo had thrown and pulled himself aboard. Dimitri Spiros went next, and then Armont. The wind and current were already tugging them toward the south, so the outboards would have some help in battling the choppy sea.

Reggie Hall was muttering to himself as he tried to start the engine.

He b.l.o.o.d.y well didn't fancy anything about the way things were going.

Everything about this op was starting to give him the w.i.l.l.i.e.s. When this much went wrong this soon, you hated to think about what things would be like when the going really got tough.

As they motored into the dark, Willem Voorst kept an eye on the eastern horizon, watching for the first glimmer, and prayed the storm would keep down visibility. He also monitored the compa.s.s and hoped they could stay on course. Where had the weather come from? The woman who had said her name was Andros was probably right, though; this one would blow out by dawn, but in the meantime it was a h.e.l.l of a ruckus. And the reception coming up on the island wasn't going to be brandy and a dry bed, either.

"You know," Reggie was yelling, "this b.l.o.o.d.y weather might even be a help with the insertion. If it keeps up, it could be the perfect cover."

"What we really have to hope," Armont shouted back, "is that a storm like this might force them to delay the launch. She said it wouldn't, but who knows. Still, we can't count on it. By the way, how're we doing?"

"I think we've already made a kilometer or maybe a klick and a half,"

Hans yelled. "If we can keep making this kind of

headway, we should make landfall just before 0500 hours. In time to join everybody for morning coffee." He looked around. "This has got to be the stupidest thing we've ever tried to do. We're just motoring into a s.h.i.tstorm." He shook his head, and the raindrops in his hair sprayed into the dark. "I can't f.u.c.king believe we're doing it. I really can't f.u.c.king believe it."

2:15 A.M.

"d.a.m.n," Major General Nichols said, covering the mouthpiece of the phone. He was on the Kennedy, in Mission Planning, talking on secured satellite phone to JSOC Control in the Pentagon. "Gournes picked up some radio traffic on sideband. Some a.s.sholes are talking about trying to go in. Whoever the h.e.l.l they're working for, they could screw things up royally." He spoke again into the receiver. "Do you have a lead on where they are?" He nodded. "Right, my thinking exactly. Which means they probably blew up that plane as a diversion. And our F-14 jockey suckered for it." He paused again. "No, we're not scheduled to go in for another twenty-four hours. But that may have to be pushed up. I'd say we have two choices. Either we interdict these dingbats, or we just go ahead and get it over with, take out the launch vehicle and--" He paused again.