Thomas Hoover - Project Cyclops

Problem was, though, the bogey had responded to the Kennedy's radio room with some "medical charter" malarkey and then shut down. What was that all about? And now? Were these guys really having radio and nav problems, like they'd said, or were they about to try something funny, some amateur attempt at evasion?

Well, he thought, if that's their game, they're pretty fucking dumb. So what the hell was the real story? He'd learned one thing in fifteen years of Navy: when you didn't know what could happen, you planned for the worst.

He switched on the intercom and ordered Brady to turn on the television-camera system (TCS), the F-14's powerful nose video, and use the radar to focus it, bringing up the image from down below for computer optimization.

"Yankee Bravo, this is Birdseye," he said into his helmet mike. 'That bogey that ID'd itself as Icarus Delta One has still got a heading of about two-seventy, but now he's definitely losing altitude. In fact, he's practically in the drink. We're trying to get him on the TCS and take a look."

"Roger," came back the voice. "We've lost radio contact. Advise extreme caution. Whoever the hell he is, he's a bogey. I want him the hell out of this airspace. Don't waste time with the TCS. Get a visual."

"Copy, Yankee Bravo, want me to fly down for a look-see?"

"Confirmed, Birdseye. And assume you've got a hostile on your hands. Caution advised. Repeat, assume he's a hostile."

"Roger. We copy."

Morton tapped the stick and his F-14 banked into a steep dive, 74,000 pounds of steel plummeting downward.

What am I doing? he asked himself again as he watched his altimeter begin to spin. I buzz the guy and I'll probably scare hell out of him. He'll wind up in the soup for sure. And if he still doesn't respond, then what? Am I supposed to shoot down a civilian?

The very thought made his new mustache itch, a clear sign of nerves. Such things had been done before, but Captain Jake Morton had never done them and he had no interest in starting a new trend in his career. He had a wife and kids he still had to look in the face.

On the other hand, a close encounter would definitely get their attention. But then, these were international waters, and the legality of interdicting civilian traffic was not all that obvious, and might be even less obvious in a court of law some faraway day. Particularly if it really was a medical emergency situation like those bozos down there claimed. Could make for exceptionally bad press. Which didn't do a thing for promotions in the U.S. Navy.

"All right," Armont said, reaching for the microphone. "We've got to confirm with Mike. He's got to know what's going on."

He flicked the dial on the radio. "Ulysses, do you read? Come in."

"I copy. What's the story?"

"Insert is a definite abort. Repeat, abort insert. We're expecting some company. Red, white, and blue."

"That's going to blow everything."

"You've got a roger, Ulysses."

"How far are you from Andikythera?"

"Looks like about twenty klicks," Armont answered.

"You were timed for 0200. Can vou still make it tonight at all?"

"Doubtful. Even with the two Zodiacs and outboards, by the time we reached there it'd be almost daylight. We may have to revise the insert, plus twenty-four."

"How about your gear?" Vance's voice betrayed his concern. "We'll need hardware. The hostiles are loaded for bear. You-"

"We'll do what we can. We don't like it either… Uh- oh." He had just glanced at the radar. "Company's here, Ulysses. Stay up on this frequency."

"Copy."

Armont turned to Voorst. "Okay, we've got to ditch now. That's probably an F-14"-he pointed to the radar screen- "and he's going to be on us in less than two minutes. We have to give him something to talk about back in the briefing room."

Willem Voorst was staring through the cockpit windscreen at the dark, choppy sea skimming by just below the fuselage. "Hang on."

The ARM gear was packed in waterproof containers, and the Zodiac rafts were by the doors, ready to eject.

Willem loosened his flight helmet and dropped the flaps. "I hope this baby is insured by somebody."

"It's insured," Armont said, grimacing to think of the paperwork that lay ahead. "We just had a malfunction. That's my professional opinion."

The storm had cut visuals to a minimum, and the puddle hopper down there was still not responding. Morton figured if giving the guy a flyby didn't get his attention, then Command would want to hand him a little heat, say a tracer from the Tomcat's 20mm cannon. He prayed it wouldn't come to that, because that might well cause the guy to pee in his pants and go down for sure.

What the hell was going on, anyway? The wing had shipped out of Souda, battle-ready, with less than an hour's notice. There still hadn't been a briefing. The whole thing was some top-secret exercise nobody could figure. And now this bullshit.

He thought again about the rumor going around the flight deck of the Kennedy that an AWACS had been brought up from Saudi to monitor all air traffic in the area. What the hell was that about? Command had dropped a hint about terrorists, but this whole mobilization seemed like using a Phoenix missile on a mosquito.

Then, just as he had feared, the radio crackled again. "Birdseye, this is the TAO. I've just got you authorization to lay a tracer alongside that bogey if he refuses to acknowledge your flyby."

"Please repeat for verify." Morton had expected it, but he wasn't about to jeopardize his career over a misunderstood radio transmission.

"You have positive authorization to lay one tracer in the vicinity of Icarus Delta One. Monitor her response and we will advise follow-up procedure."

"Roger. But first let me try to raise them on the radio one last time." That cooks it, Morton told himself. Guess they want to play hardball with these assholes. Whatever this so- called "exercise" is all about, somebody upstairs is taking it all very seriously.

But then who knew? Maybe those guys down there were terrorists. Word had already reached the Kennedy's lower decks about the Glover being shot all to hell in a false-flag attack, which meant caution was the byword. The rumor mill also had it that terrorists had seized one of the small Greek islands in this area. Was that it? Was the Navy's quarantine intended to keep them from bringing in reinforcements? To interdict them if they tried to get away? Had the U.S. Navy been made into a watchdog?-a pretty lowly station after the glories in the Gulf.

He spoke over the cockpit intercom, the ICS, advising Brady of the authorization. It was a formality, since Frank had monitored all the radio talk.

Brady said, "Shit," then flipped on the F-14's weapons station and armed it.

"We're hot."

The radio crackled again, and this time Willem Voorst flicked a switch so the entire cabin could hear.

"Delta One, this is Captain Jake Morton, United States Navy. I'm giving you one last warning. You have been instructed to alter your heading to three-four-zero and exit this airspace. If you do not comply, I am authorized to employ whatever degree of force is necessary to make sure you do not proceed. What is your intention? I repeat, what is your intention?"

"All right," Armont said, "this is it."

The pontoons bounced across the chop as Voorst touched down. He reversed the props and in seconds had brought the Cessna to an abrupt halt, its frail fuselage bobbing like a cork. With the storm coming up, the sea was rougher than it looked.

Hans immediately opened the door, then nodded back to the cabin and reached for the line attached to the first raft. He had done this dozens of times before, but it always was scary. You had to watch out for the motor, inflate the raft from the doorway, then get your gear in, all the while keeping hold of the line. Do it wrong and you could lose the whole thing.