Thomas Hoover - Project Cyclops

"Icarus Delta One, we've got an exercise under way for the next seventy-two hours. No civilian aircraft are allowed within a sector from latitude 33°30' to 36°30' and longitude 20°00' to 22°30'. We're going to vector you back to Athens."

Spiros switched off his mike and yelled back at Armont. "Problem. Looks like the U.S. Navy's cordoned off Andikythera. It's hot. Doesn't sound like they're going to take no for an answer."

"So that's what all the radio activity was about." Armont's dark eyes flashed satisfaction that at least one mystery was solved, but they quickly turned grim. "Well, we've got to go in. Give them the cover again and insist it's an emergency. They can check it out. It's all in the flight plan we filed." Which was, of course, bogus. The routing was intended to take them directly over Andikythera, where they would ditch. "See if they'll buy the 'medical emergency' story and give us an IFF and clearance," he continued. "But whatever happens, we're damned sure not going to turn back."

"I'll give it a shot," Spiros yelled, "but I don't think it's going to happen. They're going to insist we exit from the area, then file another flight plan that takes us around it. Standard."

"Well, try anyway," Armont barked, knowing that the Greek was right. Things were definitely headed off the track.

Spiros clicked on the mike. "Yankee Bravo, we have a flight plan filed with Athens Control. Nobody advised us this airspace was off limits. We're making an emergency delivery of blood plasma to the Apollonion General Hospital in Iraklion. We filed a manifest with the flight plan. It's a perishable cargo and we have to have it in their hands by 0600 hours tomorrow."

"Sorry about that, Delta One, but this airspace has been quarantined to all civilian traffic as of 2100 hours. No matter what's on your manifest. You're going to have to radio Athens and amend your filing."

Spiros shrugged, clicked off his mike, and glanced back with an "I told you so" look. "Now what? They've acquired us on radar, so there's no way we can proceed. We try it and they'll scramble something and escort us out of the area at gunpoint. I'd say we're reamed."

It was a tough call, but Armont made it without hesitation. He strode toward the cockpit and shouted to Voorst, "Take her down to three hundred meters. And get ready."

The Dutchman nodded as Armont stepped back to the cabin. "Okay, gentlemen, listen up. We have to make a decision and I think we'd better vote on it. We've got three options. We can cancel the op and turn back; we can go on the deck and try our luck at evading their radar; or we can abort and take our chances. If we do that, they'll probably mount a search, but with any luck we'll be written off. I say we do it. Word of warning, though-if we screw this one up, the organization is going to take some heat."

The men looked at each other, each doing his own quick calculus. It wouldn't be the first time ARM had found itself having to work outside the system to save the system. Frequently the group or government that hired them ended up-for political expediency-formally denouncing whatever they had done. But it was a flap accompanied by a wink, and it always dissipated after any obligatory moral indignation was ventilated. This time, however, if the op went sour it might not be so easy to explain away.

Reginald Hall, the most conservative of them all, looked the most worried. He had a good civilian cover and he wanted to keep it that way. "You know, if we get picked up and detained, it's going to be bloody sticky. Half of the new chaps at Special Projects these days think I raise radishes for a living. It would be bloody awkward to end up in a Greek jail, or worse. Don't think I'd get invited to the Queen's Birthday anymore."

Hans was smiling. "Reggie, you old fossil, let me get this straight. You don't mind getting killed on an op, but you don't want to get embarrassed socially. I'd say you've got a priorities problem."

"The difference," Hall replied testily, "is that I can control what happens on a regular op. But now you're saying we might have to fight our way through the U.S. Navy just to get in. That's bloody imprudent, mates."

"Well," Armont interjected, shouting as he gazed around the cabin, "I'm waiting. We're still about thirty klicks out, which means that if we ditch her now, an insert tonight is out of the question. Plus, we'll be exposed. I'm waiting to hear a veto. If we're going to risk everybody's balls just to save Vance, it's got to be unanimous. Whatever we do, we do together." He paused. "I know what you're thinking-can Vance handle it for another twenty-four hours? Personally, I think he can put together enough moves to gain us the time, but who knows." He looked around with an air of finality. "Okay, I take it silence is consent."

That was when Willem shouted from the cockpit. "Pierre, we've just acquired an 'escort.' About fifteen klicks out and closing fast."

"All right, lads," Armont ordered. “Time to get the show going. Break out the Zodiacs and assemble your gear."

The cabin erupted in action. They had been expecting to deplane at sea, but this was not how they had planned to do it.

"I've suspected all along we were a bunch of damned fools," Armont laughed as he strode toward the cockpit. "Now I know for sure." He glanced at his watch. "Sixty seconds."

He passed Spiros as he reclaimed the copilot's seat next to Willem Voorst. "What was our ETA for Andikythera?"

"We would have made the set-down site in twenty-three more minutes."

"Okay, I've got to alert Michael." He flicked on the sideband. "Ulysses, do you copy?"

"Loud and clear, Sirene."

"Looks like we've got a problem, old buddy. The trusty USN has shut down the airspace around the island. Closed it to commercial traffic."

"Don't like the sound of that. It's getting a little lonesome down here."

"From the look of things, it may get worse. We're going to have to slip the original insertion. We'll need another twenty-four hours. Can you hang on that long?"

"Hey, I'm making new friends all the time. No problem. The downside is that the rockets may start going up. I'm still trying to get a handle on that end of it. Now it sounds like I may have to look into trying to reschedule things a little."

"We need a breather," Armont said. "Our options don't look too good at this end. But we'll be there, so don't believe anything you hear on the radio. All things may not be what they appear."

"Copy that. Have a nice day."

"Roger." Armont clicked off the mike. "All right." He turned and motioned Spiros back to the cockpit. "Tell them we're losing radio contact. And our navigation gear is going. Say we're going to have to reduce altitude and fly with a compass and visuals. Maybe that will muddy things long enough to get us down."

Dimitri Spiros hit the radio and delivered the message. To total disbelief.

“That's a crock, Delta One. Assume a heading of three-four-zero immediately and get the hell out of this airspace. Immediately. Do you acknowledge?"

“Transmission breaking up," Spiros replied, toggling the switch back and forth as he did to add some credibility to his assertion.

“That's more bullshit, Delta One. Either you acknowledge or-"

Spiros switched off the microphone. "We've got to put her in. Now."

Captain Jake Morton was piloting the F-14D Super Tomcat and he honestly couldn't believe this was all that serious. He and his radar-intercept officer, Frank Brady, had been scrambled on short notice and, though he relished the chance to clock a little flight time, he felt in his bones that this was a red herring.

He didn't even have a wingman, which told him that Command on the Kennedy probably wasn't too excited either. The blip on the VSD, vertical simulation display, was some tin can cruising just above the chop down there, pulling around a hundred knots and now losing altitude. Obviously just some civilian asshole, who wasn't going to make it unless he pulled out damned soon. He had to be close to stall.