Thomas Hoover - Project Cyclops

He motioned for Schindler and Maier to bring up the launcher.

"What are you doing?" Peretz asked. He sensed the lad at he terminal was up to something because he'd split the screen and was typing in a second batch of commands on the lower half.

CC to Ian NET.RAD

"Just some systems cleanup." LeFarge tried to lie as convincingly as he knew how.

EXPN to JRAD

"Better not try to bullshit me, pal. It could be very unhealthy."

LeFarge was already aware of that. But he kept on typing trying to look as casual as he could. Almost, almost there.

"The bastard is in the blockhouse. There." Moreau motioned for the first German Stasi, Schindler. "But get a move on. He may be up to something."

With Moreau directing them, they quickly slipped the two sections of the launcher together to form a single tube approximately a meter and a half in length. The rocket grenade on the forward end looked like a round arrowhead while the back was flared to dissipate the exhaust gases. The sight and rangefinder occupied the center, and just in front of that was the handgrip and trigger.

When they had finished, he checked it over, then surveyed the mountain, where the heavy servomechanisms controlling the radars continued to rotate.

Wait a minute, he told himself with a sudden chill in his groin. Something's wrong. He's tilting the radar dishes down.

Mon Dieu!

"Get ready."

"We just ran out of time," Vance said, slamming the door shut. "Looks like they've got a grenade launcher. If they can manage to blast through this door, it's going to ruin our day once and for all."

"Georges is still on-line, and I'm turning the servos as fast as I can." Her voice betrayed the strain.

"Well, get on with it. They're setting up to fire. I'd guess you've got about thirty seconds to pull off this miracle of yours."

"I think a hundred and sixty degrees will do it," she said, her voice now deceptively mechanical, all business. Suddenly he could envision her running this facility and barking orders right and left. "We're at one-twenty now. I just don't know if I can focus it in time. Georges always handled this."

She was tapping on the keyboard, some message to LeFarge. A cryptic reply appeared on the screen, next to what appeared to Vance to be computer garbage. Then the motion of the giant servomechanisms seemed to pick up speed. The radar antennas were swiveling around, and down.

"We're almost ready. Let me get Georges to transfer the power controls to full manual."

"Christ!" He cocked his Uzi.

"Look," she exploded. "I'm doing my part. How about you doing yours? Slow them down."

"I don't want to waste any rounds until it's absolutely necessary."

But it looked like that time had come. He opened the door again and stepped through. Down below, the moon glistened on the rocks, and one of the gunmen was aiming a grenade launcher. "How long-?"

"Just a couple more seconds now…"

"It's now or never." He took careful aim on the man holding the launcher. "I'm going to count to five."

That was when he heard her say, "Got it."

"All right," Moreau barked, "fire on three."

Schindler had just finished fine-adjusting the crosshairs, the rangefinder portion of the complex optical sight. With inflight stability for the rocket provided by tail fins that folded out after launch, the RPG-7 had a 500-meter range against static targets. Though a crosswind could affect the accuracy, tonight, thankfully, there was none. This one couldn't miss, if there wasn't a sudden gust.

He tested the trigger confidently, sights on the open doorway, and hoped Moreau was right when he claimed the concussion grenade would render anybody inside totally incapacitated.

His eyes on the target, he failed to notice a flashing green light that had just clicked on next to the main antenna up above, atop the mountain…

… When jet fighters are launched from carriers, it is standard practice to turn off an aircraft's radars until the planes are airborne, the reason being that the energy in the intense electromagnetic radiation can literally knock a man flat with an invisible wave. Memorable things happened to the eyes and ears. In this case, however, the radar could have no such total effect, since the random clumps of trees down the hill scattered and diffused the energy. It was, however, one of the most powerful radars on earth…

Vance watched as something hit the men below, something that seemed like a giant, invisible mallet. They stumbled backward, while a grenade rocketed harmlessly into the night sky.

"Congratulations." He lowered his Uzi. "I'm impressed. I think our new friends down there are, too. Yep, you made a very definite impression. Now, how about leaving that thing on long enough for us to get out of here and back up the hill? Maybe just fry the bastards for a while."

"How does eight minutes sound to you?"

"Should be time enough for us to scurry back down the rabbit hole. Maybe take a moonlight swim in a tunnel." He was liking her more and more all the time. Not a bad piece of work.

"I'll tell Georges to cut the power in eight," she said. Then she added, "Look, why don't we head for the hotel. You look bushed."

"You mean go down to the Bates Motel?" I'm being invited to a motel by this woman? He smiled. I must be dreaming.

"We can cut around by the shore. That's probably the last place anybody is going to look for us now."

"Sounds good." It did. He was dead tired and hungry. Tomorrow was going to be a long, long day.

"The other reason I want to go down is to try and find Isaac," she added.

"The half-cracked professor?"

"Well, he only seems that way. Behind all those eccentricities is a mind you wouldn't believe. But whatever we find, I think we both need to knock off for a while and get recharged."

"Let's give it a try. I think everybody's brain, and nerves, could use a breather. I know mine could."

"We're out of here." She was already typing instructions into the keyboard.

Fayette-Nam-as they called Fayetteville, North Carolina, in the 1960s-hosts the largest army base in the world: Fort Bragg, home of the XVIII Airborne Corps. Breaking the monotony of the harsh red Carolina clay around it, the town sports a variety of go-go bars, honkytonks, and tattoo parlors to refresh and spiritually solace the base's hundred thousand personnel. Known far and wide as a "macho post," Fort Bragg houses front-line units ready to mobilize on a moment's notice. During the Persian Gulf crisis, they were among the first to ship.

The post deserves its macho reputation for a number of reasons, not the least being a highly classified square-mile compound, referred to locally as the Ranch, that nestles in a remote and secure corner of its sprawling 135,000 acres. There, protected by a twelve-foot-high fence, with armed guards and video cameras along the perimeter, is the nerve center for Delta Force, America's primary answer to terrorism. Now part of the Joint Special Operations Command-informally known as "jay-soc"-Delta Force is the pick of the U.S. Special Forces, a unit of some seventy men specifically organized, equipped, and trained to take down terrorist situations. Of course, Delta Force formally does not exist-"The only Delta we know about is the airline," goes the official quip.

Although they rarely have an opportunity to display their capability, Delta personnel practice free-fall parachute jumps from thirty thousand feet, assault tactics on aircraft using live ammo and "hostages," high-tech demolitions, scuba insertions, free-climbing techniques on buildings and rock faces- all the skills needed to take terrorists by surprise, neutralize them, and rescue hostages. The leadership of this nonexistent organization occupies a large windowless concrete building topped by a fifty-foot communications bubble-which recently replaced Delta's former shabby quarters in the old Fort Bragg stockade.