Thomas Hoover - Project Cyclops

"Around what?" she yelled back.

"Anything that looks sturdy. And then hang onto it."

"Ever done this before?" She had found a steel stmt by the door. "I haven't."

"Are you kidding! That makes us equally experienced."

"Well, remember one thing-the downdraft from the main rotor is going to buffet you like crazy. Be prepared."

"Right." He was already trying mental games to avoid vertigo. The closest thing he could think of was looking out the windows of a tall building, and even that scared him. He liked working close to the ground. Very close.

As Bates guided the Agusta quickly down toward the launch pad and the vehicles, visibility was no more than a quarter of a mile. And since he had not bothered switching on the radar, he was totally unaware of the two Apache AH-64s now approaching from the south at 180 mph. It was a mistake.

"Sir, we've just picked up some new action on the island," Manny Jackson, in the first Apache, said into his radio. He could scarcely wait to get in and take down the island. These camel-jockey terrorists needed to be taught a lesson once and for all. He had lost a cousin, nineteen years old, in the Beirut bombing, and this was the closest he was ever going to get to a payback. "Guess there were more of the bastards. Ten to one they're taking up another chopper."

"No way are we going to allow that to happen," Nichols declared. He was in the lead Huey, two kilometers back. "The first batch may have got away, but not these. From now on, nobody down there moves a hair. We're about to teach them a thing or two about air supremacy."

"They don't seem to be going anywhere. Just moving down the island. What do you think it means?" He was wondering what a lot of it meant. Why was Souda Bay being evacuated? They weren't calling it that, but an evacuation was exactly what was under way. A big hurry-up to get the fleet into blue water, all nonessentials ordered to take a day off with pay, a sudden token of "thanks" from Uncle Sammy for jobs well done. Bullshit…

"Probably picking up hostages," came back Nichols's voice. "Who the hell knows? But our mission is to make sure they don't leave the ground."

"You've got it, sir." He reached down to the weapons station and flipped the red switch that armed the Hughes 30mm chain gun. Its twelve hundred rounds, he figured, should be enough to handle the problem.

"What in blazes is he doing?" Pierre Armont wondered aloud. He was standing with Beginald Hall at the southern entrance of the SatCom living quarters, the Bates Motel, gazing out over the launch pad and trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Five minutes earlier they had watched in dismay as the Sikorsky lifted off. Now this.

"Looks to be some damn-fool trapeze stunt," Reggie Hall muttered, shaking his head. "He's going to get himself killed. What in bloody hell?"

He caught his breath as he watched Vance begin rappelling down some kind of thin line dangling out the open door of the chopper, spiraling from the downdraft of the main rotor. It was something of a circus aerial act-definitely not recommended for civilians. He clearly didn't have the slightest idea how to use his arms to stabilize the spin. A rank amateur…

What was that sound? His senses quickened and he turned to squint at the southern horizon. Through the light fog he could hear the faint beginnings of a dull, familiar roar, and he realized immediately it was choppers coming in. He quickly pulled out his Tasco binoculars and studied the morning sky-two helos, both looking like ungainly spiders. Yes, they had to be Apaches. What else.

Great, he thought, once more the U.S. has got its timing dead on. The first time they showed up and managed to keep us from getting Ramirez, and this time they decide to drop in just after his Sikorsky took off, probably taking him and the last of his goons out, undoubtedly with a few hostages for good measure. From all appearances, he had gotten away. Again. It was sickening.

Now the gunships were dropping altitude and moving in, boldly, with the authority their firepower commanded. He wondered if the teams on board might actually be unaware that Ramirez had escaped.

"We ought to go out and signal them in," Armont said. "Let them know how useless-"

Warning flares erupted from the Hughes 30mm in the nose of the first Apache, missing the Agusta by no more than fifty meters.

"Christ! They don't know who the friendlies are." He immediately canceled his impromptu plan to head out and wave. The U.S. Army was in no mood to dialogue.

"Do they think Mike's a terrorist?" Reggie asked, incredulous. But even as he said it, he realized that must be exactly what they thought. They were going to try to force down the Agusta. Or shoot it down.

"Reggie, draw their fire!" Armont yelled. Almost by instinct, he raised his Steyr-Mannlicher assault rifle and opened up on the lead helicopter, going for the well-protected GE turboshaft on the left. "Don't try to kill anybody, for godsake. Just distract them."

'This is insane," declared Willem Voorst, who had come out to see what all the excitement was about. "What are you doing? I don't want to go to war with the United States of America."

Then he noticed the blue-and-white Agusta hovering over VX-1, Vance dangling, and put it all together. Without a further word he aimed his MP5 and got off a burst, watching as it glinted harmlessly off the second Apache's left wing.

Miraculously it worked. The Army's favorite helicopters were huge, with a main rotor almost fifty feet in diameter, but they could turn on a dime and these did. They came about and opened fire with their chain guns on the cinderblock portico where Armont and Hall and Voorst were ensconced.

The 30mm rounds tore around them, sending chunks of concrete flying, but the structure was temporarily solid enough to provide protection. Armont ducked out and got off another burst, keeping on the heat, then back in again.

Now the Agusta was hovering just above the nose of the VX-1 vehicle, and Vance had disappeared on the other side. What, Armont wondered again, could he possibly be doing with the vehicle…? Then the answer hit him, as transparent as day.

Merde! He's going to try and retrieve the bomb.

Good Christ, he thought, the man has gone mad. He may know how to trace hot money halfway around the globe, but he doesn't know zip about a nuclear device. He'll probably set the thing off by accident and blow the entire island to-

A spray of cannon fire kicked up a line of asphalt next to where he was standing, and he retreated for cover deeper behind the cinderblock portico. They're not going to fool around long with that chain gun, he told himself. We're going to be looking at rockets soon, and then it's game up.

"We've done what we can for Michael," he yelled, getting off one last burst. "We've got to get back inside before they get tired of playing around and just fry this place."

"I hear you," Willem Voorst agreed, already headed deeper inside. "Mike's on his own."

Vance had never been more scared in his life. This made a day at a stormy helm seem like a Sunday stroll. The down-draft was spinning him violently now, a lesson that rappelling was not for the faint of heart. Then he remembered some basic physics and held out his arms, helplessly flapping like a wounded bird. But it was enough, as his spin immediately slowed.

He was dizzy now, but when he came around, he got an overview of the launch facility, and the glimpse made him realize that something had gone terribly wrong. What were those? Two Apache helicopters were hovering and they were firing on… on the Bates Motel. Just beyond the fallen gantry.

Why! Ramirez and all his goons were gone or dead.