Thomas Hoover - Project Cyclops

Naturally there also were grenades. They had plenty of the standard M26 fragmentation type, but since these frequently were next to useless in a hostage situation, they planned to rely more on stun grenades and smoke grenades. The same was true of the AN-M14 incendiary hand grenade, a two-pound container of thermite that burned at over four thousand degrees Fahrenheit for half a minute. It was fine for burning up a truck, but not recommended for a room full of hostages. Better for that was the M15 smoke grenade, which spewed white phosphorus over an area of about fifteen yards. Smoke, of course, could work both ways, also slowing up the deploying team.

Last but not least were the tear-gas grenades. To temporarily neutralize an entire room, ARM had long used the M7 tear-gas grenade, which dispersed CN, chloraceteophenone. It was not a gas but a white crystalline powder similar to sugar that attacked the eyes, causing watering and partial closing, and simulated a burning sensation on the skin. If conditions seemed to require, they sometimes used a stronger chemical agent called CS-military shorthand for orthochlorobenzalmalononitrile. It, too, was a white crystalline powder similar to talc that produced immediate irritating effects that lasted from five to ten minutes. The agent (in a cloud form) caused a severe burning sensation of the chest. The eyes closed involuntarily, the nose ran, moist skin burned and stung-thereby rendering anybody in the immediate area incapable of effective action. He would choose which one to use when the time came…

After Hans had helped Dimitri double-inventory the equipment list, Armont looked over the dark-brown crates one last time, then gave the go-ahead for loading. One good thing, he thought: since Andikythera is Greek, we won't be crossing any international borders; nothing will have to be smuggled through customs.

Reggie, impatient as always, was eyeing the clock at the far end of the hangar. "We've already filed the fight plan. I think it's time we made this a go op. What time is the next radio check with Vance?"

"That's scheduled for 2340 hours," Armont answered. "After we're airborne. We'll go over the blueprints and compare them against the disposition of the friendlies and hostiles using his intel. Then we can decide the best way to take the place down."

The boys are getting itchy, he told himself. They want to get this over with and get back to their lives. Who can blame them? This screw-up never should have happened in the first place. Spiros let the client set the parameters for a job-which violates the first rule. He is going to have a lot to answer for when this is over. But settling that will have to wait till later.

"All right," he said, starting up the Cessna's metal stairs and heading for the cockpit. "Let's get tower clearance and roll."

The technicians in Command were all sprawled across their desks, demoralized and still in shock. Georges LeFarge shared their mood. Cally had disappeared hours ago, and he was beginning to think he was on his own.

The trajectories that Peretz wanted computed were finished. Now the Israeli wanted to work on the telemetry. And he wanted to do it himself. He had taken his place at the console and started programming a new set of instructions into Big Benny, the Fujitsu supercomputer. It looked as if he was coordinating some of the trajectory telemetry with the electronic signaling to the vehicle, and he was setting some sort of timer.

LeFarge pondered the significance of these actions. He wants something to happen when the VX-1 aborts and begins descent, he told himself. And it has to be done with split-second timing. What can he be planning?

He felt helpless as he sat watching, the control room around him now silent and listless. Locked out of his own computer, he felt rudderless and lost. He was realizing computers were a friend that could easily be turned against you. It was a moment of recognition that brought with it pure anguish.

Dr. Abdoul Kirwani, ambassador of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan to the United States of America, sat rigidly facing the small desk in the Oval Office. When the call requesting a meeting had come from Johan Hansen's chief of staff the previous evening, he had hastily sent a secure telex to Islamabad to inquire if he needed any updating.

He did. And it was a disaster.

"It's past due time we met personally, Mr. Ambassador," President Johan Hansen was saying. "I regret that the press of affairs over the last month forced me to postpone receiving you sooner. State tells me your credentials are impeccable and you're doing a first-class job of getting up to speed."

Abdoul Kirwani nodded his thanks, modestly but with ill- concealed pride. He was a tall, elegant man with a trim mustache and deep, inquisitive eyes. Some said he could have been a double for Omar Sharif. A deeply guarded secret was that he cared more about the ragas of Indian classical music than he did about diplomacy. He had made no secret, however, of his admiration for Johan Hansen. The American President's refocus of the superpower's priorities was a refreshing breath of rationality and sanity in an irrational, insane world.

All of which made this particular meeting even more distressing.

“Thank you, Mr. President. My government wishes me to express its appreciation for the excellent cooperation we have received and the traditional American hospitality my family and I have enjoyed since we arrived. Shireen, I must say, loves this country as much as I do. She studied at Smith many years ago, and is especially fond of New England." He smiled. "We Pakistanis always yearn for places with a cool climate."

“Then perhaps someday you'll accord me the honor of letting Christin and me show you my new presidential hideaway in the Berkshires." Hansen smiled back, chafing to cut the diplomatic bullshit. "Perhaps sometime this autumn. We think it's one of the most beautiful spots on earth."

"We would be most honored." He nodded again, reading the President's mind-state perfectly.

"Now." Hansen could contain himself no longer. "I want you to understand, Mr. Ambassador, that what I am about to say is not directed toward you personally. My staff tells me you have been a private advocate, for some years now, of reducing and even eliminating nuclear weapons worldwide. That, as you know, is my desire as well. So you and I see eye to eye. Unfortunately, however, we live in a world where realities still assume precedence over noble ambitions."

"I agree with you, Mr. President, sadly but wholeheartedly." The Pakistani ambassador nodded lightly, dreading what he knew was about to come. So the U.S. already knows, he realized. This disaster is going to turn out even worse than I'd feared.

"The topic of nuclear proliferation brings us, I am afraid, to the subject at hand. You will forgive me if we set aside our views on the scenic American countryside for another day. Time, unfortunately, is short. I think you will understand why when you hear what I have to say." Hansen leaned back in his heavy chair, hoping he had given the right signals. He had been entirely sincere when he said he liked Kirwani and did not relish the task immediately at hand. "Mr. Ambassador, you will not be surprised to learn that this country is well aware of the gross violations of the nuclear nonproliferation treaty that have taken place since Pakistan refused to sign in 1968. The entire world knows about your uranium hexafluoride plant at Dera Ghazi Khan, and the Kahuta facility where it is enriched using German centrifuges. We also know what that enriched uranium"-he glanced down at his notes-"in the ninety-five percent range, is being used for. However, we have not been able to dissuade your government from the course it has taken." He paused. "Quite frankly, there's not a hell of a lot we could do about it without having to make some very undiplomatic accusations against our staunchest ally on the Asian subcontinent."