Thomas Hoover - Project Cyclops

"Okay, Reggie," Armont yelled, "time to earn your share."

"What bloody share? It's fifteen percent of nothing." Hall sighed and stared out the Cessna's open doorway. Even in the dim moonlight he could see the whitecaps thrown up by the chop, and he felt his testicles tighten. "This is going to be a hell of an insertion." He re-cinched the straps of the backpack containing his gear.

Armont watched him swing out and down, knowing he hated the moment, then motioned for Hugo Voorst to step up to the doorway. "Hurry. We may be eating some cannon fire any time now."

Voorst moved up quickly. He glanced toward the cockpit one last time, then seized his gear and dropped down. His brother, who was still setting the charge, would be the last out.

"Our new escort is going to have us dead to rights in about sixty seconds," Willem announced from up front. "Everybody out, now."

Armont was securing the last of the gear needed for the insertion and the assault, readying it to be passed through the hatch, while Willem Voorst was finishing with the charge of C-4.

Armont looked around the cabin one last time, hoping they had gotten everything they absolutely needed. Several crates of backup gear would have to be left, but unexpected contingencies went with the territory. With that sober last thought, he signaled to Voorst, who was ready with the detonator. "Set it for forty-five seconds. That should be enough." As the Dutchman nodded, he reached for the rope and dropped.

Willem spun the dials on the timer, then wrapped it against the dull orange stick of C-4 and tossed it into the copilot's seat. In seconds he was at the open doorway, swinging down the line and into the dark below.

Now Morton was really puzzled. The pilot had just gone into the drink. What had happened? Maybe, he was thinking, he should call in a Huey for a rescue op?

No, this setup was starting to smell to high heaven. They had refused to change their heading, so the bastards had to be up to no good. No legitimate civilian aircraft would ignore a U.S. Navy wave-off…

Now… finally he could make a visual, rough through the downpour, but it looked like… it was a fucking seaplane. So instead of responding to orders to vector out of the airspace, they had settled in. Wiseguys.

Well, even with the stormy sea down there, they still could take off, leave the same way they came in, and nothing would be made of it. First, though, they needed a short lesson in aviation protocol.

"Frank, let me handle this. I'm going to get their fucking attention." Using his right thumb, he toggled the weapons selector on the side of the throttle quadrant down from SP/PH, past SW, and into the setting marked GUNS. The 20mm cannon was primed with two tracers, which should give the bastards something to think about.

Now the red radar lock on his HUD was flashing. That asshole down there, whoever it was, was in for a big fucking surprise…

His thumb was about to depress the red "fire" button when the first explosion came: down below a giant fireball illuminated the night sky, followed by secondaries! Jesus!

Medical supplies, right! That innocent-looking little Cessna was a flying munitions bin. They really were terrorists.

A pillar of black smoke now covered the entire area. He ordered Brady to switch off the weapons station, and then, his hand trembling, he toggled his oxygen regulator up a notch, trying to catch his breath as he pulled back on the stick.

"Ulysses," Armont's voice was coming over the radio, mixed with static. "Do you copy?"

At least they're okay, Vance thought. "Transmission is lousy, Sirene. What happened?"

"We had to take a swim. About twenty klicks too soon."

"Which means we definitely scratch the original ETA, right? Does the twenty-four still look firm?"

"Assuming we don't get any more surprises. This one is turning into a bitch."

"Don't they all?" Vance said.

"Everybody is in good shape. So nothing else has changed."

Vance looked around the mountain and wished he could believe that. The whole thing could have been over in another three or four hours. Now the terrorists had time to arm the vehicles and maybe even get one up. Life was about to get a lot more complicated.

He finally spoke into the mike. "Let's keep in radio contact. The deployment here keeps changing. Who knows what it'll be like by then."

"We roger that." Armont spoke quickly to somebody else, then came back. "There should be plenty of time to chat."

"For you, maybe, but I'm not so sure how much spare time there's going to be on this end. I'll try to hold everything down till 0200 tomorrow, but it's going to be tough. If you can't raise me, then just proceed as planned. I'll be expendable."

“That's a touching sentiment, Ulysses, but you know that's not the way we work. Our people always come first."

"Keep thinking that way. It's an inspiring concept."

"Okay, we'll review procedures and wait to hear from you. That's all for now."

"Roger. Have fun." He sighed.

Up ahead through the dark rain loomed the rugged atoll of an island. It was not large enough to have any vegetation; it really was only a giant granite outcropping that nearly disappeared every time a breaker washed over it. This, Pierre reflected with chagrin, is going to be our staging area, as well as our new home for a full day. A little camouflage would handle the problem of detection by any snooping USN flyovers, but the boys weren't going to get much sleep.

“This is a hell of a deployment base," Reggie was saying, his voice barely audible over the sputter of the two out- boards. The two black Zodiac rafts were now side by side, keeping together. His normally florid complexion had turned even more deeply ruddy from the cold and frustration. "How in bloody hell did it come to this?"

Armont was so frustrated he could barely manage a civil answer. "It came to this because we let a client spec a job. We left a piece of security to the client, always a bad idea." He climbed over the side of the Zodiac, splashing through the surf, and began securing the first line to a jagged outcropping. Around them the cold waves of the Aegean lapped through the rain. Dawn was hours away, and there was nothing to do now-except recriminate.

Dimitri Spiros, who had installed the security system for the SatCom facility, waded ashore looking as sheepish as he felt. He had only himself to blame for the penetration, he knew, and he had no intention of trying to defend it now.

"What can I say?" He grimaced and caught the line Hans was tossing to him. "I should have put my foot down. Sometimes pleasing the client up front means not pleasing him at the end. If something goes wrong, it's always your fault, not his. Human nature. I didn't listen to my own better judgment. Bates claimed they had enough security, and I let him get away with it."

"It's in the past now," Armont said, biting his tongue. "We all keep learning from our mistakes. Just as long as the education doesn't get too expensive."

Hans was setting up the camouflage that would cover them during the daylight hours to come. They had prepared for most contingencies and had brought enough camouflage netting to cover them and the rafts, which they now had dragged onto the atoll to serve as beds. They would take turns sleeping, letting whoever felt like it grab a few winks.

Now Armont was staring into the dark sky, thinking… thinking there must be a better way to pay for your caviar.

"We're on our own," Vance said, clicking off the mike and looking around the darkened blockhouse. "Marooned."

Cally, who had been listening to the radio exchange, already had other things to think about. She was engaged by the computer terminal, checking out the status of the facility.