TV showed a small landing pad approximately thirty meters on each side
with a private helicopter parked in the middle of a black and white
bull's-eye in the center. He knew that ARM--a group he had long hated--
had ringed the island with a first-class industrial security system.
Five years ago, he recalled, they had killed three of his operatives in
Beirut, in a futile attempt to kill him. What's more, it never made the
papers. Typical. The security system they had developed for the island
was good, but it made no provision for this kind of penetration. It
pleased him to at last make fools of them.
"We're coming in," Salim announced. He touched the rudder pedal with
his left foot to hold their heading and grasped the collective pitch
lever as he eased the engines toward idle. "There's already a helo on
the pad. Looks like a new Agusta."
"I know about it. Just set down next to it, inside the landing
perimeter. I want this to be simple."
Tonight, he knew, they had scheduled the first full power-up of the
Cyclops. Everything depended on how that test went, but he couldn't
postpone the takeover any longer. This was it. . . .
Abruptly he wondered if the damaged wing would affect stability on
touchdown? They would soon find out.