Thomas Hoover - Project Cyclops

Dore Peretz knew exactly what the critical go/no-go points in the countdown were; he had researched the Cyclops system extensively. He also knew that after auto mode, there would be no altering the orbital abort and the timing of the detonation. Once auto mode began, he was home free. He could split.

The trajectory he had programmed with SORT was not for Souda Bay but for low orbit. One orbit. The abort had been preset. The bomb was going to be delivered right back here on Andikythera. It was brilliant. Get the money in place, get out, and then wipe out the island, all evidence of the operation.

Including Sabri Ramirez.

The world would then think that all the terrorists were dead. And they would be-all, that is, except Dr. Dore Peretz.

In truth, he was thinking, this was almost the most fun he'd had in years. The actual most fun had been the memo he had presented to Sabri Ramirez concerning the new split of the money. All along he had thought the phrase fifty-fifty had a nice solid ring. What point was there in spreading the ransom all over the place? Giving it to a bunch of assholes?

Which was why Dore Peretz had, two weeks earlier, established an account in the same Geneva bank where Ramirez was having the money delivered. The memo had instructed Ramirez to advise the bank to move half the money into that account as soon as it arrived. And when funds were deposited into that account, the bank was instructed to move them yet again-well beyond the reach of anybody.

All he needed now was proof that Ramirez had faxed the bank with the new instructions. So had he? The time had come to check in with the bastard and find out. Then it was over. All he would have to do after that was commandeer the chopper and get the hell out.

The only missing link was somebody to fly the Sikorsky, and the perfect choice for that little task was in the next room, a certain Vietnam fighter-pilot turned CEO…

He motioned for Georges LeFarge. "Okay, everything's set. Auto mode. We've got exactly sixty-eight minutes to liftoff. Is that enough excitement for you?"

LeFarge did feel something of a thrill, in spite of his better judgment. He didn't know why Peretz would want to abort the flight-which he knew was what SORT had been programmed to do-but at least VX-1 was going up. And when you worked on a project like this, there was only one real payoff-when the vehicle left the pad. All the months, years, of preparations led up to that final moment…

"I want Bates," Peretz declared, pointing toward the closed office door. "So, go and get him. That's an order. It's time he got in on the fun. After all, this is his baby.

Georges turned away from his useless workstation, still shaken by the sight of auto mode clicking in, and walked back toward the door. Bates had been locked in there, mainly to keep him quiet. But now things were starting to happen. Several members of the terrorist group had come in, started readying weapons, and were acting nervous.

Well, Georges thought, maybe they're worried the U.S. might just get off its ass and come in, do something about this outrage. The terrorists had plenty of heavy weapons, and now they were checking them out and slapping in clips of ammunition. Bill Bates was not going to like what he saw…

He opened the door and motioned for Bates to come out. He slowly rose from his chair, looking beat and haggard, and came. Georges's first impression was that he was missing a large slice of his old zip. He looked like a man near defeat- exhausted, even disoriented.

"How are you feeling?" Peretz asked.

"How do you think?" Bates growled, looking around at all the assembled terrorists now readying their weapons. The place was turning into an armed camp.

"Just a friendly inquiry," Peretz went on, flashing his empty grin. "We're about to start the fireworks up at Launch, and I didn't want you to miss out on any of it." He paused to check the countdown scrolling on the terminal in front of him. "So…" he continued, turning back, "I think it's time we three-you, me, and Georges here-took a small stroll and checked out how things are going."

"Mind telling me what in blazes you're up to?" Bates demanded. His voice was still strong even though he had lost much of the spring in his step. "If you fuckers have killed any more of my people, I'm going to see to it personally that-"

"Take it easy, man," Peretz interjected. "As long as nobody causes any trouble, then nobody gets hurt." He turned and motioned for Jean-Paul Moreau. "Keep an eye on this place. He swept his arm over the sea of technicians and systems analysts. "Everything's right on target with the countdown." It was an impromptu private joke, a spur-of-the-moment thing, that he found delightful.

Jean-Paul Moreau, his reflexes now slowing slightly from lack of sleep, did not get the joke, and he did not like the feeling he was getting. Dore Peretz was a canny little fucker, and he suddenly seemed in a great hurry to get out of Command. Was the batard up to something? It was puzzling, and troubling.

He adjusted his blond ponytail and gazed around the room, now a cacophony of preflight activity. Keeping everybody in line was the least of his problems. These white-shirted engineers were so scared that if you said jump, they'd all stand up and ask how high. No, what bothered him was not knowing what the damned Israeli had up his sleeve. Peretz was planning something, probably intending to leave somebody to hold the bag.

And it wasn't hard to figure out who that somebody was…

"You know," he said to Peretz, "everybody has orders to stay at their posts and keep security, in case there's an assault. You pulling out of here is not part of the plan."

"Hey, I've been handling this thing so far, and the launch is set. Now I need to check on the telemetry and data hookups at Launch-if that's okay with you. I've taken care of my end, so now all you've got to do is keep any of these assholes from getting on the computer and trying to screw things up. Nobody so much as touches a keyboard, got it?"

"Got it." Moreau nodded, hating the little son of a bitch even more.

"Good," he said, turning back to Bates. "Okay, baby, we're gone."

Hugo Voorst was lying propped against a rock, his shoulder bandaged with white strips of gauze from the first-aid kit. Now that the flow of blood had been staunched, Marcel was injecting him with a shot of morphine to quell the looming pain. Happily the hit was clean, just a flesh wound and nothing serious, but he would be of no further use on the mission. Worse still, he actually had become a liability. The only thing to do was to leave him where he was, with an H amp;K machine pistol for protection, and proceed. You didn't like to abandon anybody, but…

Voorst, for his own part, mainly felt sheepish. Giddy though he was, the result of mild shock, his Dutch stoicism was still holding up. "I'll be all right," he was saying, a slow grin covering his face as the narcotic kicked in. "Sorry to be a party pooper."

"You got lucky," Hans soothed, checking the bandage one last time. "You get to take a little time off. But you may still have a chance to give us some backup if things get hot."

Armont had not said anything, leaving the kidding around to the younger men. They needed it to keep up their macho. The hard truth was, the whole operation was rapidly turning into a disaster of the first magnitude. Everything possible had gone wrong. And now he had no idea where Vance was. The situation had gone red, the odds deteriorating rapidly.

Ramirez had been lured out, but he had been saved by the deus ex machina of an unexpected but short-lived attack from their rear. What had that been all about?

Then he noticed a glint in the sky, through the early dawn, and realized it was a helo, far in the distance, banking as its pilot began turning back. He looked more carefully and counted four. All egressing.