Thomas Hoover - Project Cyclops

"Hallelujah." He felt his spirits momentarily rise, though not his energy. "Maybe this means all that stock you paid me for the boat will end up being worth the paper it's printed on. Truthfully, I was beginning to worry."

“Told you it'd all work out," he grinned. "No faith. Come on, amigo, I've got to break the news to the troops." He strode to the door, or the opening that was left after the C-4 had removed the door, and surveyed the remains of Command. The technicians and systems analysts were filing back in, but mostly it was a scene of purposeful lethargy. The horror of the last day and a half had taken a terrible toll. Eyes were vacant, hair unkempt, motions slow and aimless. Several of those who had previously quit smoking were bumming cigarettes.

He whistled with two fingers, and the desultory turmoil froze in place. "Okay, everybody," he said, his voice not quite a shout. "It's official. We're back in business. You've all still got a job."

The glassy-eyed stares he received back suggested nobody's thoughts had extended that far yet. Nobody was in a particular mood to let themselves think about the future.

“That's the good part," Bates went on, oblivious. “The other news is there won't be bonuses or stock dividends this year. We'll be lucky just to service our debt. But anybody who hangs in there for twelve months gets half a year's pay extra, as a bonus. I'll do it out of my own pocket if I have to. And if you play your cards right, we could be talking stock options, too."

There were a few smiles and thumbs-up signs, more to hearten Bates, whom they revered, than to celebrate. Nobody had the capacity left to feel particularly festive. At the same time, nobody was about to abandon ship. Not now, now that they were needed more than ever.

Vance was leaning on the wall behind him, watching it all and thinking. Okay, so Bill was about to be rich, and SatCom had gotten enough free publicity to last into the next century. But the real notoriety should be going to the question that had haunted the world for four decades: what would happen if terrorists got their hands on a nuclear device? This time the consequences-although intended to be devastating-had in fact been peripheral, an inconsequential detonation somewhere halfway into space. But the question that still hung over the world was, what would happen the next time? It was a question Bill Bates had too much on his mind today to think about. Maybe he never would.

J.J. shook his head in disgust as he looked over the shambles that was the gantry. Dr. Andros had just phoned from Command, asked him to undertake a preliminary assessment of the condition of the facility, just to ballpark the extent of damage. The assignment was already depressing him. Still, from what he could see so far, things could have been worse. There was no obvious physical injury to VX-2 or to the transmission antennas up on the hill, though the testing and corrections could take weeks. The gantry was a total loss, no doubt about that, but otherwise the major physical structures on the island appeared unscathed. The main reason, naturally, was that almost everything important-including the superconducting coil and the Fujitsu-was well underground.

The main scene now was all the bodacious helicopters, Hueys, on the landing pad and all the Army commandos milling around. Jesus! How did everybody in Launch Control miss what was really going on? Looking back, the whole thing was fishy from the word go.

Now the Army types were collecting the bodies of the terrorists and acting like they had cleaned up the place all by themselves. Guess that was going to be the official story…

Mr. Bates had already come down to Launch, shook everybody's hand, and thanked the crews for hanging in there. He looked a little shook up, but he wasn't talking like it. Totally upbeat. You had to love the guy. He also delivered the news that as soon as things settled down, SatCom was going to kick some ass in the space business.

Jordan Jaegar looked up at the brilliant Greek sunshine and grinned in spite of himself. Shit, he couldn't wait.

"It's all been handled," Armont was saying. Vance had finally decided to venture out of Bates’ office and see how things were going. The Bates Motel had taken some heavy gunfire around the entrance, but it was still usable, with the ARM team milling around and readying to depart. Down below, the sea had never looked bluer. "Nobody knows anything. Our favorite state of affairs."

Vance was still trying to take it all in. "How's Spiros doing?"

“They took him out on one of the Hueys," Armont said. "Hugo went, too.”

"Are they going to be all right?"

"Hugo's okay. He even knocked back a couple of Guinnesses before he left, saying they would help ease the stabbing pain. Can you believe? As for Dimitri, the Deltas had a medic along, and he gave him a better than fifty-fifty shot. Said nothing vital seemed beyond repair."

“Thank goodness for that at least."

"Poor guy, he felt personally responsible for the whole mess. I think that was why he sort of lost his better judgment there for a second when we rushed Command and got careless."

"It can happen," Vance said. Looking back, he decided he had lost sight of better judgment several times over the past few hours.

The rest of the ARM team was checking out the gear and tying crates, all the while working on their second case of beer. Departure was imminent.

"Well," Vance added finally, "it was a nightmare, start to finish. What more can you say."

"Well, not entirely," Armont observed, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his voice. "Bates is going to let us use the Agusta to fly back to Paris. And when we get there, one of the terrorists who got blown up is going to suddenly reappear. Jean-Paul Moreau."

"Know him well," Vance said, remembering the beating and his sense of hopelessness at the time. "Better not let me see the bastard. He might not make it back to Paris in one piece."

"Well, Michael, that would be very ill-advised. He's worth a small fortune. If the Greeks were to get hold of him, he could piss on the court system here and keep it mucked up for years, so we're taking him straight back to Paris." He paused to glance around. "Nichols is giving us an Apache escort as far as international airspace will permit. But you don't know anything about any of this. Keep your nose clean."

"Nichols?" The name didn't mean anything, but then his mind was still mostly in neutral.

"Major General Eric Nichols. No reason you should know him. Runs the Deltas. Good man, by the way. First rate. I've had my eye on him for a number of years. Could be he'll end up being our first Yank. Well, our second besides you."

"So this was really a recruiting drive." Vance laughed. Suddenly he was feeling almost giddy again, this time from the release of all the stress.

"You take them where you can get them." Armont nodded, then looked around and whistled. "Okay, everybody, bring down the Agusta and start loading the gear. We're gone." He turned back to Vance. "How about you? Coming?"

"No," he said, almost not even catching the question. “Think maybe I'll stick around. Make sure Bill is okay. You know, unfinished business."

"Right." Armont laughed. "I think I saw your 'unfinished business,' Michael. Don't you think she might be a little young for you. You're starting to get like me now, middle-aged."

"Well, working for ARM doesn't help, but then you do have a gift for pointing out the obvious." The way he felt, starting over looked tougher all the time.

"On the other hand, why not. As a romantic Frenchman, I can only wish you bonne chance." He patted him on the back. "What more can I say."

“Thanks." Vance had to smile. Armont was gallant to the end, and a man who prided himself on knowing what things mattered in life. "At my age, you need all the luck you can get."