Thomas Hoover - Project Cyclops

"Always the joker, Mr. Vance." Ramirez did not appear to think he was very humorous. "I see you're roaming around again, like a cat."

"Nine lives, remember."

"Yes, I should have put an end to them earlier." He gestured Vance forward with the automatic. They now were in Launch Control, the wide windows looking out over the vehicles. "But then I wanted you to myself."

"Here I am." He felt a chill. Was Ramirez just going to shoot him before he had a chance to do anything?

The terrorist, however, seemed to have other things on his mind. "You know, you've been missing out on a lot of the fun. There was something of a ruckus in Command just now. As it happens, it was on that TV there." He pointed to a monitor, its screen now filled with snow. "A decidedly second-rate entertainment, but I watched awhile anyway."

"Sounds exciting. Want to tell me what happened?"

"The broadcast encountered technical difficulties before the end. For all I know, the show may still be going on. But perhaps I should break some news to you. That assault force, whoever they were, merely saved me the trouble of tidying up myself."

"You were planning just to murder all your helpers anyway, right?" He settled into a sculptured chair next to a console, as casually as he could manage. "Neatness. Guess I should have thought of that."

"You should have thought of a lot of things, Mr. Vance."

"And how about you? Did the ransom money come through? I assume this operation had a price tag attached."

He laughed. "Of course the money came through. All eight hundred million. What do you take me for?"

"Respectable chunk of change. So why in hell are you going to still launch an A-bomb?" Even Vance was impressed by his perfidy. "That's not very sporting."

"I'm not a sporting person."

“That's hardly a news flash." He felt his outrage spilling over. "Mind telling me the target?"

"Not at all. I'm going to incinerate the U.S. air and naval base at Souda Bay. The Americans don't care anything about civilians, as they have shown any number of times, but they are very attached to their Sixth Fleet."

"Jesus, you're totally mad." It was worse than he had imagined. "You're going to kill hundreds, thousands. How in hell can you do that?"

"Easily. As a matter of fact, it's as good as done. In a few minutes." He checked his watch, then glanced up and examined Vance a moment. "It looks like Jean-Paul did a fairly good job. I should have told him to just finish it."

"He got close enough, believe me."

"Looking at you, I'd have to agree." He smiled, eyes behind his gray shades. "All right, Mr. Vance, I assume you came back in here for a reason. What is it?"

"The truth is, I'm dropping by to see if we couldn't talk over a deal."

"I don't really think so."

"You may be able to set off a bomb, but the way things stand, no way are you going to get out of here in one piece." He was trying out the speech he had been rehearsing. "In case you didn't realize it, the U.S. Navy has the airspace around the island totally closed down. The skies over the eastern Med are currently an F-14 parking lot. But if you'll put a stop to all this insanity, release the hostages, then-"

"Don't try to bluff me, Mr. Vance." He gestured him forward. "Come, take a look at my collateral."

He led the way across to a second row of workstations, these on the side and closer to the window. "When I leave, which is imminent, I will have company. A certain professor. I think you've met him."

And sure enough, there in the comer sat Isaac Mannheim, looking as though the world had already ended. The old man appeared to be in a dark space of his very own, his face pitifully sunk in his hands.

"It can't be stopped," he was mumbling, almost incoherently. "Damn them. There should be a special rung in hell for them."

"Don't worry," Vance assured him. "There is." He turned back to Ramirez. "It isn't going to work. The U.S. is not going to be bluffed."

He hoped it was true. Somehow, though, he didn't feel all that confident. Ramirez was smart, very smart, and the U.S. had a history of screwing these things up. Just outside the window VX-1 awaited, primed and about to lift off. Unlike the space shuttle, it had no clouds of white condensate spewing out; instead, it stood serene and austere, its payload prepared to wreak havoc on thousands of unsuspecting U.S. citizens. The loss of life would be staggering.

"He got Johan to call off the assault," Mannheim continued, interrupting his thoughts. "It was because of me. He wanted to save me. He did, but he only made things worse. He should have just let them kill me and have done with it."

Vance examined him and stifled a sigh. Now he had Mannheim to worry about. He didn't want Cally to start shooting up the place with him in the room, so he couldn't go to the window and signal her the way he had planned. What to do?

"Look," he said finally, turning to Ramirez, "if you need insurance, why not just take me and let Mannheim go? You and I have some unfinished business. He's not part of it."

"He will go, all right. With me on the helicopter. You, on the other hand, are…" Ramirez glanced out the wide window and fell silent as he studied the Sikorsky. The main rotor was starting to power up, and something about that seemed not to sit well with him. Suddenly he seemed galvanized. He glanced at his watch, then checked the safety on his Beretta.

Vance watched this, wondering what to do. Was this the golden moment to try and take him? There were only the Pakis outside to worry about…

But Ramirez was already moving, grabbing Mannheim by the arm. Abruptly he stopped, turned, and took aim at Vance, somewhere precisely between his eyes.

Vance blanched. Jesus! Go for the Walther and get it over with.

But before he could move, Ramirez laughed and slipped the hand holding the Beretta into his pocket, then gave a nod of his head, beckoning. "Mr. Vance, I think I would like to have you join us after all. You're right. We still have a few matters to settle." He stepped aside and motioned. "But the time has come to bid farewell to Andikythera."

Ramirez was still dragging Mannheim along as they passed through Launch, pausing only to nod lightly toward the two Pakistanis, who immediately snapped to attention and followed. Amidst all the excitement of the pending launch, nobody seemed to notice. They passed through the outer door and onto the tarmac as an ensemble, Ramirez holding Mannheim by the arm and guiding him.

Bill Bates looked through the Sikorsky's wide windscreen and saw them coming. The time had arrived, he realized immediately, to make a move. Now or never. The Israeli's attempt to pull out early had just been cut off at the pass, so why not see what would happen if the scenario got shut down entirely?

He reduced the power, listening to the engines wind down, and rose.

"Guess my part of this is over," he announced. "You've got a go system, so have a nice day. I'll be seeing you around."

Peretz’ eyes momentarily flashed confusion, but he was wily enough to recover immediately.

"Your help has been much appreciated," he smiled quickly. "Thank you for checking everything out."

Should I tip off Number One, Bates asked himself. No, that flicker is nobody's fool; he's already way ahead of this little twerp. And the second he sets foot in here and sees that dead German hood, there's going to be a lot of heavy-duty explaining to do.

Now Peretz was moving jauntily down the Sikorsky's folding steps, carrying his Walther with an air that proclaimed nothing amiss.

Time to get out of here, Bates told himself. There's going to be hell to pay.

He rose and headed down the stairs after Peretz as rapidly as he could. "Mike, where've you been?" He waved at Vance. "We can't go on meeting like this. What do you say we just pack it all in and go sailing?"