to bother switching channels. "Some kind of exercise, probably. What's
her class?"
"Can't tell. But she's still a hell of a lot bigger than you are, pal.
They may pick you up on their radar, but again maybe not. Just take
care."
"I'll keep an eye out for lights. Thanks." He clicked off the mike
again, then looked around. But the Aegean, what he could see of it,
remained dark and empty. Somehow, though, the black made it just that
much scarier.
He leaned back into the tiller, still trying to hold as much of the
wind in the sail as possible. The waves were lashing him now, cold and
relentless. And _Odyssey II _was beginning to heel precariously,
forcing him to apply helm, throwing his full hundred and eighty pounds
against the heavy wooden portside tiller. It was one of a pair, port
and starboard--the old Greek idea being that whenever a ship leaned away
from the wind, lifting the windward rudder out of the water, the
helmsman still had a lee rudder for control. But when he took her to
starboard and tried to round the island, the wind and tides would be
full abeam. With a shallow-draft, low-ballast vessel like this, that
was going to be dicey. . . .
He reached for the life jacket he had secured to the mast, a new
Switlik Fastnet Crew Vest MK_II_. Normally he did not bother, but this
was not the time to go macho. It had a 35-pound buoyancy and a 4,000-
pound breaking strength, enough for any seas.
Now the wind was gusting even harder, kicking up yet more swell. The
Aegean sunset was concluding, its red clouds turned purple and
darkening fast, a presage that visibility would shortly be a thing of
the past.
The past, _a la recherche du temps perdu_. This trip, regardless of his
bet with Bill, was also about recent times gone by. His father had
died, the revered Michael Vance, Sr., the undisputed Grand Old Man of
archaeology at Penn. It turned out to be a far greater loss than he had
anticipated, like a chunk of himself torn away. He still missed their
late-hours "discussions"--heated arguments, really. He had been trying
to wrench away the future, the old man trying to hang on to what he
knew best: the past. It had been a dynamic tension filled with mutual
love. And now he felt guilty. But why? There was no reason.
He also had gone through another of life's milestones, a divorce. Eva
Borodin, a dark-haired daughter of Russian aristocracy, a college
sweetheart, had come back into his life after a digression of ten
years. The second time around was supposed to be a charm, right?
The soap operas were wrong on that one, the same way they were about
most other things in real life. Although the divorce, now a year ago,
had been businesslike and amicable, it still had hurt. For the past
year he had been sitting around and brooding--about life, love, middle
age, death.
He still found himself wearing his wedding ring. Why? It just made him
think of her even more. No, the truth was, everything reminded him of
her and how much he needed her. What he had not realized--until she was
gone--was that needing somebody was the richest experience of life.
He sighed into the wind. The challenge of his _Odyssey_ enterprise was
supposed to take his mind off all that. Was it working?
Maybe. But so far the jury was still out. . . .
He gripped the tiller harder and glanced up at the sail. Running
downwind, the cutwater on the bow was going to be a real problem. But
just another half hour, probably, and--
Christ! Bill's warning was on the mark. A massive hulk loomed dead
ahead, running with no lights. It was as long as a football field, the
bow towering up like a battering ram. She was moving in off his
portside stern--he guessed she was making at least fifteen knots. High
above the bridge, antennas and communications gear showed faintly
against the twilight gloom, gray and huge. Not recommended for close
encounters . . . but he still had time to tack and give her a wide
berth.
He threw his weight against the tiller, veering to leeward. Once clear,
he would bring the bow about and let the cutwater top her wake like a
surfboard, keeping him from taking water. Then he would be on his way,
into the storm and the night.
Maybe he did not even have a problem. They probably had picked him up
on their radar by now. It did not mean they would veer off course, but
they might throttle her down a few notches, just to be neighborly. . .
.
He was still leaning on the tiller, watching the monolithic hulk skim
silently past, when he noticed a throaty roar beginning to drown out
the slap of the ship's wake against the side of _Odyssey II'_s_ _hull.
After a few moments, as it grew in ominous intensity, he realized it
was coming in from the south. What in hell!
He whirled to look, and spotted a chopper, altitude about eight hundred
meters. What was it doing here? Had Bill been that worried, enough to
risk sending his hot new Agusta Mark _II_ out in this weather to . . .
No, it was way too big. When he finally saw it clearly, the stubby
wings and rocket pods, he realized it was a Soviet Mi- 24D, a Hind.
Over the mottled camouflage paint he discerned the blue star and white
background of the Israeli Air Force. Odd.
He knew they had captured one once, an export model from the Syrian Air
Force, but they would never fly it this far into international
airspace. It was a prize. What's more, this bird was fully armed--with
dual heat-seeking missiles secured at the tips of each stubby wing,
just beyond the twin rocket pods. Then it assumed an attack mode. . . .