The current swept him inexorably southward, while behind him the bundle
of planks that remained of _Odyssey_ _II_ was dispersing rapidly. He
cursed himself for having lost the Ross DSC radio. On the other hand,
he considered himself lucky just to be in one piece. Luckier than the
crewmen of the USS Glover. It was heartrending. Seeing a tragedy coming
and not being able to stop it: that was the worst possible nightmare.
He wanted to go back to try and help, but the sea made it impossible.
He pulled himself over the bobbing, drifting mast, feeling it slam
against his face as the sea tossed it like a matchstick. All around him
lethal splinters of _Odyssey_ _II_ sliced through the water, jagged
spears driven by the swell. The dark engulfed him, lightened only by
the billowing remains of the Navy frigate now some thousand yards away.
Somewhere, dear God, it's got to be somewhere. Let it still be strapped
to the mast. The idea seemed stupid at the time, but now . . .
He felt his way down until his fingers touched a slippery nylon cord.
Was it . . . yes.
Maybe there is a God.
The straps were tangled, which was not supposed to happen, and
fragments of cypress planking from the sides of the ship had punctured
the nylon cover, but his Switlik search-and-rescue raft was still
dangling from the remains of the mast. Now for one more minor miracle:
Could he manage to pull it free before everything disappeared into the
dark and the swell?
He flailed with one hand to keep his head afloat, while his fingers
grappled with the bowline knot. Finally the knot loosened, and he
wrenched it loose.
Jesus, is there going to be anything left? Would it still inflate?
He grappled with the fiberglass canister that contained the raft, then
popped it open. With his last remaining strength he pulled on the
tether, discharging the bottled carbon dioxide that caused the Switlik
to hiss to life. Part of it. He realized the lower buoyancy tube had
been ripped to shreds by the 12.7mm machine gun of the Hind that had
destroyed the mast, but the upper one had somehow escaped intact. So he
was half-lucky.
It was yellow, hexagonal, and it looked like heaven. He had never used
one before, and he had never realized how it felt. Like an oversized
inner tube.
With a surge of relief, he pulled himself aboard, inching in as he felt
the swell pound over him, and then he drew out the folding oars and
extended them. With his new course he knew he would miss the harbor at
Kythera recommended by Bates--no way could he battle the current and
make it. The vagaries of wind and sea were driving him almost due
south. It was the direction the chopper had taken--straight for the
little island of Andikythera.
Could they breach SatCom's security and get in? Probably. The setup
installed by ARM was industrial-level only. He had cautioned Bill about
that.
He grimaced and plied his strength to the two small aluminum oars. The
way the wind and seas were taking him, he would find out soon enough.
Again he lamented the loss of the radio--with it he could get out a
Mayday alerting any ships around that might mount a rescue of the
frigate's survivors. He also could try warning the SatCom facility that
trouble was headed their way. The problem was, the Hind had a top speed
of over a hundred and fifty knots. If Andikythera was its destination,
it probably was already there.
The cold sea stung his face and the tossing waves were making him
slightly seasick, but he felt alive again. Almost by instinct he looked
up to try to find the stars, loving how crisp and striking they could
be over the Aegean. Nothing yet, but there were glimmers in the north.
A good sign. The storm was blowing over now, the clouds starting to
open up again.
If Bill tries the radio, he'll probably figure I've just vanished from
the earth.
He half felt like it. As the cold autumn waters of the Aegean surged
around him, its six-foot waves washing over his partially inflated
Switlik, he thought about Bill Bates. He was a friend, a very good
friend. Was he about to be in trouble?
Although Bates was a world-class executive, he also was a dedicated
family man. He had a model wife back in Arlington and two model sons,
both deposited in model private academies. His wife, a blond WASP old-
fashioned enough to have the same family name as a prominent
Philadelphia bank, never seemed to tire of her charity obligations, so
it was his sons he took with him sailing in the summers. That was how
Vance had met him, sailing with the boys in the Bahamas.
Bill was highly regarded in industry circles as the CEO's CEO, and not
without reason. For one thing, less inconsequential than most would
think, he looked the part. His steel-gray hair was always trimmed to
the precise millimeter, his tanned cheeks were forever sleek from a
workout at his club, or whatever club was handy on his perpetual
travels. He had once claimed he knew the location of more health clubs
than any man in America.
Best of all, though, he knew how to raise money. When he described a
pending enterprise, he did it with the gleaming eye of the true
believer. Even in a dicey investment environment, he always generated
the enthusiasm sufficient to ensure that a new stock issue sold out and
closed higher than the offering price on the day it was floated. The
man could sell sunlamps in the Sahara.
He competed hard in everything he did. When he decided, some years
after he and Vance had become acquainted, that he wanted to spend
summers racing, he did not bother buying his own yacht; instead he flew
to Nassau and leased the fastest boat he knew. At that moment, the
vessel filling that description was the Argonaut, owned by Windstalker,
Ltd. It was a forty-four-foot sloop, highly regarded throughout the
racing fraternity. Its owner, however, never let any of his three
yachts out of the harbor without first undertaking a personal checkout
of the new skipper--even if it was an old friend.
Vance remembered it well. Bill manned the helm, a mahogany wheel always
kept well polished, and they were making a solid eight knots on the
Speedo. It was one of those mornings in the islands when everything
seemed as clear as a desert sky. No cruise ships were scheduled into
the harbor, and the stinkpot powerboats were mercifully in limited
supply. The wind was perfect and the water as smooth as a glittering
mirror. Best of all, Bates was handling the helm as though he had been
there all his life.
"Think we can get her up to ten knots?" he'd asked, shielding his eyes
as he studied the genoa, a gleaming triangle of white above the bow.
Vance had leaned back and tested the wind. "Give her a little touch on
the helm, to starboard, and I think she might come through for you." He
was proud of his recent refurbishing of the boat--the latest Northstar
digital satnav gear, brand-new sails that cost a fortune, a complete
renovation of the instrument station down below.
Bates tapped the wheel and the genoa bellied even more. "I like this
fucking boat a lot, Mike," he declared. "So here's the deal. I want to
lease her for three months, take her to Norfolk, get a crew together,
and get everybody comfortable with her."
"I think we can talk." Vance had to smile. The yacht would be in good
hands, and a three-month charter was a dream come true for a guy in his
business.
"Matter of fact, I wanted to ask you to help me out with something
else, too. Some security work."
"Hey, I'm just a simple charter-boat operator. Not my line."
"Don't bullshit me, pal." He laughed. "You know SatCom is building a
new industrial facility in the Aegean."
"A private space facility."
"I think American technology is getting a bum rap, Michael," he said
with sudden seriousness. "I plan to change that."
"The Journal says you want to try and give the Europeans a run for the
roses."
He looked over, the wind whipping his glistening hair. "You keep in
touch pretty damned good for a simple sailor. But I tell you, if we
succeed, we'll literally change the way space is used. I'll be able to
put a satellite into orbit for a song. Just between us, I'm building
the biggest private spaceport anywhere. The French operation in Guiana
won't hold a candle to it. I've already got ten geostationary orbital
slots locked up with the World Administrative Radio Conference. Even
NASA better keep a grip on their jockstrap."
"Where's the money coming from? The usual suspects?"
"Who else." He laughed, then tapped the helm slightly more to
starboard. "The stock was over-the-counter and it was hell and gone in
three fucking hours. Bang. Out the door. Matter of fact, it's now
trading almost fifteen percent above the original offering price." He
shrugged. "I should have issued more. But like a stupid son of a bitch,
I had a failure of nerve. Didn't go with my instincts."
"Next time, how about letting me in on the action?"
"You're a goddamn piece of work, Michael. And so's this boat. Tell you
what. I'll make you a deal. I figure you're expecting about four thou a
week for this baby, correct?"
"Anything for a friend."
"Right." He laughed. "I want her for twelve weeks. So . . . what if I
paid you with some of my personal SatCom stock? Fifty thou worth at the
current price? How's that sound?"
"Deal," Vance said, without hesitation. He'd heard a lot of big-time
bull in the charter business, but Bates was a straight shooter. The
temporary gap in cash flow was going to make meeting the three
mortgages--one for each boat--tough, but he liked the sound of the
project."
"This isn't going to leave you strapped, is it?" Bates looked a trifle
worried.
"I'll manage. As I always say, two in the bush is worth one in the
hand."
"Michael, half the time you don't have a pot to piss in. I know that.
You're the lousiest personal-finance manager I know." He laughed out
loud and tapped the helm, bringing her to port a notch. "Which is one
of the world's great ironies, considering what you do for ARM."
"You hear things, too." He had never really discussed his ARM work with
Bates.
"You're good. I know that. Word gets around." He paused. "Matter of
fact, I wanted to ask you a favor. I was hoping you could work up a
contract for me with your people. As I said, I need some security for
that facility in Greece."
"What kind?"
"That's for your guys to say. It just has to be good. We're going to be
installing some proprietary technology that's light-years beyond
anything that's ever been seen before. And we're going to rock a lot of
boats in the business. There're a hell of a lot of Europeans who'd love
to know what we're up to. There's a real chance of industrial
espionage."
"So what's the program? Perimeter surveillance? Security guards? We
could probably arrange the subcontracting."
"I'd appreciate it. Your guys know Europe, the local scene. I've got a
feeling that's going to be important."
"No problem." The truth was, this was exactly the kind of no-risk work
the boys at ARM liked. Nobody shooting at you. "I'll put in a call to
Paris if you like. Something probably can be arranged."
"Good." Bates nodded, as though a handshake were already involved. One
more thing off his checklist. "Mainly I want some physical-security
stuff. You know--fences, alarms, that kind of crap."
"We've got a guy in Athens who specializes in that. He won't give
estimates over the phone, but if you'll let him look over the site,
he'll price the job for you right down to the drachma. With various
options. But you'd be smart to go with his top-of-the-line
recommendation. Try to nickel and dime him and he'll walk. I've seen
him do it."
"So what's this so-called 'top of the line' likely to run me?" Bates
had asked.
"Well, there are the systems you can see and the ones you can't." He'd
laughed. "The ones you can't see cost more."
"I already told you I need the best."
"Then you probably want to go MAD," Vance said, his eyes hiding a
twinkle.
"What the hell are you talking about?" He looked over, annoyed and
puzzled.
"Magnetic anomaly detectors. You bury special transmitting cables
beneath the ground, outside the perimeter, so that they build an
invisible electromagnetic field around and above their location.
Anything--doesn't even have to be metal--that enters the field will
distort it. If you go with the Sentrax system, made by an outfit in
Switzerland called Cerberus, you can have the whole thing linked to a
central console that displays the layout of the perimeter on computer
screens."
"Sounds good. We're practically going to have computers in the
bathrooms."
"Won't come cheap."