Project Cyclops Part 81

"No b.a.l.l.s," Vance snorted. "Bill, for G.o.dsake, let's give it a shot.

Maybe we can at least disable it, turn it into a dud."

Bates was still dubious as he gazed upward. "Buddy, I don't want to be hovering over that thing when the Cyclops kicks in. Do you realize--"

"Come on, where's your backbone." He waved to Cally, who was now coming around the corner of the gantry. 'Thanks for not shooting me."

"When I saw Ramirez start killing everybody, I a.s.sumed you two were next. It was then or never." She looked exhausted.

"You a.s.sumed right. We were on the hit list. Thanks." He kissed her on the forehead, where her hair was still plastered. "Now will you help me talk some sense into this guy? I say we could at least try to mess up the bomb before the Cyclops launches it. They've got it programmed for Souda Bay."

"You're kidding." Bates was transfixed.

"That's what he claimed. Come on, let's . . . hang on a second." He turned and trotted over to the doorway of Launch, where he seized a coil of electrical wire. "This may come in handy." Coming back, he punched Bates' arm. "Let's give it a try. No guts, no glory."

"Souda Bay. Christ!" Bates glanced again at his watch. "Mike, we've got less than nine minutes."

7:38 A.M.

"I copy," Nichols said into his mike. "When did the chopper lift off?"

"The AWACS picked it up at . . . just after 0730 hours," came the voice from the Kennedy. It was General Max Austin. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are bugging out."

"So what do we do now? Try and intercept them?"

"We're taking care of that from here. Fixed-wing. First, though, we've got to figure out if there really are hostages aboard, like they claim.

But don't worry about it. There's nowhere they can hide. Your mission is still the same. Secure the facility. There could still be some of them left, so just interdict anything that tries to egress."

"That's a confirm. If it moves, it f.u.c.king dies."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

7:42 A.M.

Dawn had arrived, though the mantle of light fog was still adding a hazy texture to the air. The sun-up had a freshness that reminded Vance of the previous morning, the first glimmerings of daybreak. Now, though, visibility was hampered by the residual moisture in the air, just enough to give the world a pristine sheen. What would the morning look like, Vance wondered, if a nuclear device exploded at Souda Bay on nearby Crete? It was a possibility difficult to imagine, but the results were not.

Bates began spooling up the power, and slowly the blue-and-white striped Agusta Mark II started lifting off the pad. Fortunately it had been prepped the previous day and was ready to fly.

"This is going to be dicey, Mike," Bates yelled back from the c.o.c.kpit, his voice just audible above the roar of the engines. "I don't know how exactly you expect to manage this."

"I don't know either," Vance yelled in reply. "Try and see if you can hover just above the payload bay. Very gently."

Cally was helping him circle the insulated wire about his waist, then his crotch, making a kind of seat. Finally he handed her the free end and shouted, "Here, can you secure this around something?"

"Around what?" she yelled back.

"Anything that looks st.u.r.dy. And then hang onto it."

"Ever done this before?" She had found a steel stmt by the door. "I haven't."

"Are you kidding! That makes us equally experienced."

"Well, remember one thing--the downdraft from the main rotor is going to buffet you like crazy. Be prepared."

"Right." He was already trying mental games to avoid vertigo. The closest thing he could think of was looking out the windows of a tall building, and even that scared him. He liked working close to the ground. Very close.

As Bates guided the Agusta quickly down toward the launch pad and the vehicles, visibility was no more than a quarter of a mile. And since he had not bothered switching on the radar, he was totally unaware of the two Apache AH-64s now approaching from the south at 180 mph. It was a mistake.

7:44 A.M.

"Sir, we've just picked up some new action on the island," Manny Jackson, in the first Apache, said into his radio. He could scarcely wait to get in and take down the island. These camel-jockey terrorists needed to be taught a lesson once and for all. He had lost a cousin, nineteen years old, in the Beirut bombing, and this was the closest he was ever going to get to a payback. "Guess there were more of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Ten to one they're taking up another chopper."

"No way are we going to allow that to happen," Nichols declared. He was in the lead Huey, two kilometers back. "The first batch may have got away, but not these. From now on, n.o.body down there moves a hair. We're about to teach them a thing or two about air supremacy."

"They don't seem to be going anywhere. Just moving down the island.

What do you think it means?" He was wondering what a lot of it meant.

Why was Souda Bay being evacuated? They weren't calling it that, but an evacuation was exactly what was under way. A big hurry-up to get the fleet into blue water, all nonessentials ordered to take a day off with pay, a sudden token of "thanks" from Uncle Sammy for jobs well done.

Bulls.h.i.t. . . .

"Probably picking up hostages," came back Nichols's voice. "Who the h.e.l.l knows? But our mission is to make sure they don't leave the ground."

"You've got it, sir." He reached down to the weapons station and flipped the red switch that armed the Hughes 30mm chain gun. Its twelve hundred rounds, he figured, should be enough to handle the problem.

7:46 A.M.

"What in blazes is he doing?" Pierre Armont wondered aloud. He was standing with Beginald Hall at the southern entrance of the SatCom living quarters, the Bates Motel, gazing out over the launch pad and trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Five minutes earlier they had watched in dismay as the Sikorsky lifted off. Now this.

"Looks to be some d.a.m.n-fool trapeze stunt," Reggie Hall muttered, shaking his head. "He's going to get himself killed. What in b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l?"

He caught his breath as he watched Vance begin rappelling down some kind of thin line dangling out the open door of the chopper, spiraling from the downdraft of the main rotor. It was something of a circus aerial act--definitely not recommended for civilians. He clearly didn't have the slightest idea how to use his arms to stabilize the spin. A rank amateur. . . .