Thomas Hoover - Project Cyclops

He was thrown against the windscreen as the Apache slammed into the asphalt and collapsed the starboard leg of the retractable gear.

"Jesus!" He turned back to the cabin, forehead bleeding, and yelled, "Everybody okay?"

The assault team was still strapped in, and nobody seemed the worse for the bumpy landing. The Apache was a tough bird, hero of tank battles in Iraq.

"No problem," came back a chorus of yells. They were already unfastening their straps and readying their weapons.

"All right," he bellowed, killing the power. "Everybody out. Let's take cover and kick ass."

Vance heard the thunder and felt the shock wave almost simultaneously. He gripped the wire, trying to hold on, and felt it cut deep into his palms. The pain seemed to work in opposition to the numbing effects of the shock wave that had buffeted him, assaulting his eardrums and his consciousness. For a moment he forgot where he was, shut out all thought, and just hung onto the wire with his last remaining energy.

In the Agusta up above, Bates was struggling with the controls, trying to keep stabilized as the pressure pulse from the Cyclops swept down the island. The dangling bomb, and Vance, were serving as a counterweight, holding the small commercial helo aright. It was all that kept it from flipping as the sudden turbulence assaulted the main rotor.

The energy that filled the air now had yet another release. As his eardrums recovered, Vance heard a new roar, deeper and throatier than the sound of the Agusta, welling up around him. Down below, wave after wave of pressure pulses were drumming the air, and he watched spellbound as VX-1 shuddered, then began to inch upward into the morning sky. It was a gorgeous sight, the lift-off of the world's first laser-driven space vehicle.

Was Cally watching this moment of triumph? he wondered. She should be ecstatic, even in spite of all the rest.

But would the vehicle make it to orbit? he suddenly asked himself. With the payload gone, wouldn't the weight parameters be all out of whack. But then maybe it didn't matter. The mere fact that it was going up should be enough to cover Bates’ contractual obligations with his investors.

That was down the road. He was so mesmerized by the sight of the lift-off that he had totally forgotten he was wrapped around a nuke, hanging on for all he had as the asphalt loomed fifty feet below, like Slim Pickens riding the bomb down in that famous closing scene from Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove.

Then the pain in his hands refocused his attention. The bomb down below, he figured, was now permanently inoperable. But Ramirez still had Mannheim as a hostage, and he had made good his escape. Which meant he was still in the terrorists' catbird seat. Using innocents for a shield rather than slugging it out fair and square.

As the Cyclops continued to pulse, and VX-1 edged upward into the morning mist, Bates steered the Agusta toward the old landing pad where it had originally been parked. In moments he had eased down the bomb, just as though settling in a crate of eggs, no more than twenty feet from where they had taken off five minutes earlier. It was a marvel of professionalism.

As the weapon bumped onto the asphalt, Vance had a sudden thought. The damned thing was useless now, and harmless. But what about the other one, the one Ramirez had taken with him in the Sikorsky?

"Michael, are you all right?" Cally had leapt from the open door of the Agusta, looking as disoriented as he had ever seen her. "You were only a few feet away when the Cyclops turned on. For a minute there, I couldn't even see you. What was it like?"

"Try the end of the world. Like a thousand bolts of lightning, all aimed at one place."

"A perfect description." She smiled and reached to help him stand up. "I'd never realized there'd be a thunderclap when it switched on at full power. God, what a sight." She was beaming at the thought, exhilarated that all SatCom's work had been vindicated.

"You know," he said, "speaking of the end of the world, we came pretty close. I hate to think what would happen if a bomb actually went off on Crete."

"I've got a sinking feeling the end of the road wasn't going to be Crete at all," Bates declared, stepping down from the Agusta. "I've been thinking. Something that little Israeli prick let drop as we were coming out to start up the Sikorsky finally sank in. He was rambling on about retargeting the vehicle. You know, I think it was going to come back here. He had the trajectory set to begin and end right here on Andikythera. After he bugged out, of course."

"Nice," Vance said. "I actually kind of admire his balls. He was going to nuke Ramirez."

"And us."

"That part's a little harder to like, I grant you." He turned and gazed down toward the two Apaches that had landed. "By the way, what were those all about? The Delta Force saving us?"

"Who knows?" He seemed to have a sudden thought. "Let me get on the radio and try to call them off. Before they actually end up killing somebody."

"While you're doing that, I'd like to try and raise Pierre. Find out what's happening at his end."

"There's a walkie-talkie in the cockpit," Bates said. "Use it."

"Michael, thank God it's you," Armont said into the mike. "Guess what, we almost went to war against the U.S. Special Forces. We have just surrendered. Incidentally, nice work up there. Or maybe you just got lucky." He laughed. "Seeing you rappelling leads me to suggest that you probably ought to stick to other lines of work."

"I hear you," Vance said. "By the way, the bad news is Ramirez got away."

"So he was in the Sikorsky?" Armont sighed with resignation. "Blast, I was afraid of that."

"Well, this may not be over yet. The vehicle got up, but we're not quite sure where it's headed, bomb or no bomb. I want to try to get into Command, or what's left of it, and try to find out. Before some Delta cowboy fires a Hellfire missile in there."

"Good idea," Armont agreed. "It would also be nice to keep a handle on Ramirez's getaway chopper. But I assume somebody will interdict him. The almighty U.S. Navy owns this airspace, as we found out the hard way."

"Don't count on anything. He took along Mannheim as a hostage. Insurance. This guy is no slouch. I'd be willing to bet he's got something up his sleeve. One thing he's got is at least one more bomb. Bill saw it on the chopper. And he might be just crazy enough to use it, God knows where."

“Then I don't know what the U.S. can do if he's got a hostage, and a bomb. They're sure as hell not going to shoot him down. Where do you think he's headed?"

“That's question number two, but if we can get into Command, maybe we can figure out a way to track him from there. Somehow."

"Good luck," Armont said quietly, and with feeling. "And stay in touch."

Dore Peretz’ chest still felt like it was on fire, a burning sensation that seemed to spread across the entire front of his torso; in fact, he felt like shit. And he had almost been blinded by the intense blue laser strobes that had purged the island when the Cyclops kicked on. However, in all the confusion surrounding the lift-off of VX-1, nobody had bothered to wonder where he was. That part suited him fine.

Donning the bulletproof vest around midnight had been the best idea of his life… No, that wasn't true. The best of all was coming up.

Sometimes, he thought, life could have a moment so delicious it made up for all your past disappointments. And you could either seize that moment, or you could forever let it pass, wondering what it would have been like. Not this one, baby.

As he passed through the lobby, he noticed the security door leading into Command had been blown away with some kind of military explosive. Probably C-4. Curious, he paused and assessed the damage. Hey, the television down in Launch hadn't really done the assault justice. Must have been one hell of a show.