As Ramirez took position, he quickly noticed everything. At the far
end, beneath the huge master screens, a wide desk commanded the room.
And behind it sat a dark-haired woman whose history he had committed to
memory. She was the one that counted.
Odd that a woman should be in charge . . . but then a woman had even
been elected president of a major Muslim country. Once. All things were
possible, now and then.
It did not matter to him, not the way he knew it mattered to these two
Iranians. He lived in the real world; they lived in a world that did
not exist. They, he knew, would say it did not exist _yet_. Well, that
was their problem, not his. . . .
Gradually, as one technician after another became aware of them
standing in the doorway, all activity ceased. Ten men, dressed in
black, all armed with Uzis. Their image triggered a reflexive response
of fear throughout the room, nurtured by decades of terrorism in the
news.
Ramirez surveyed the room. None of the American technicians had any
weapons. As anticipated, he had caught the prey unprepared. Indeed, he
had hoped to avoid gunfire. Keep the staff calm. They would be needed.
"You will continue, please, as you were." His voice sounded over the
room, English with only a trace of accent. But that trace of accent was
bloodless. The authority with which he spoke let everybody know that
the command chain had just changed.
Cally turned to stare at the intruders, puzzled. They were strangers .
. . now the sight of their automatic weapons registered . . . and they
were armed. They sure didn't work for SatCom. How the hell did they get
through facility security?
Their leader--she noted that he was wearing a sharp Italian suit, not
commando mufti, and he was doing the talking-- was scanning the room as
though he already owned it. And, in truth, he did. Like the American
embassy in Tehran, SatCom had been caught sleeping. But there was no
gesturing of weapons. He seemed to want to maintain normality.
They're terrorists, her intuition was screaming. But no, her rational
mind answered back. It couldn't be true. Terrorism operated a universe
away from Andikythera; it wasn't supposed to touch the lives of anybody
outside the hot spots.
Now their spokesman was strolling down the aisle between the computer
terminals, headed her way. She figured him for late forties, educated,
subject to reason. He seemed rational, or at least businesslike. He
could have been a SatCom VP from Arlington dropping by for a surprise
inspection. The rest, except for a couple of Arabs with beards, looked
like Eurotrash hoods.
"Miss Andros, I presume," the man said, then laughed. "It is a pleasure
to meet you. At last."
"What are you doing here?" Her disorientation was being rapidly
replaced by anger. "This is a restricted area."
The man smiled . . . almost politely . . . and seemed to ignore the
question. "You are absolutely correct. Very reasonable, and proper. But
please, you and your staff must just continue on and pay no attention
to us. Your head-office check-in is scheduled for 2200 hours. You will,
of course, report nothing amiss. Which will be true." He bowed lightly.
"I'm sure they will want to know how the Cyclops power-up went. In
fact, we are all anxious for the answer to that."
His words echoed off the hard, neon-lit surfaces. Command Central, its
pale blue walls notwithstanding, had never seemed more stark.
"I'd appreciate it very much if you would leave," she said, holding her
voice quiet. "This is private property. You are trespassing."
The man just smiled again and walked over to examine the big screens.
"These things have always intrigued me. Like something in the movies.
Buck Rogers." He turned back. "Please, don't let my layman's curiosity
interfere with your work."
Bill, Bill. She thought of SatCom's CEO in his office, just beyond the
doors at the far end of the room. You've got a radio. And you can see
this room on a security monitor. Can't you--
The door at the far end opened, and there stood William Bates.
"Who the hell are you?" his voice boomed over the room.
"My name need not concern you," the terrorist in the suit answered.
"Just call me Number One. But I will favor you by returning your
question."
"And I'll give you the same answer, Number One, or whoever the hell you
are," Bates replied, not moving. "Whatever you're thinking, there's
nothing here to steal. You're wasting your time. What's more, you're
trespassing on American property. So take those goons with you and get
the hell out the same way you came in."
"American property? Americans seem to think the whole world is their
property." He smiled once more. "But let me put your mind at ease. We
are not here to steal. And if you cooperate, no one in this room will
be harmed."
Cally looked him over, asking herself whether she believed him. Not for
a minute. She suddenly realized this man would kill anyone who got in
his way; it was etched into his eyes.
"Now, Miss Andros . . . you should order your people to proceed with
the countdown. My understanding is that the first vehicle is scheduled
to be launched in less than sixty-five hours. We certainly want nothing
to disrupt your timetable."
She stared at him more closely, puzzled. If he and these creeps weren't
here for blackmail, threatening to destroy the facility, against a
payoff, then what could they possibly want?
"You don't give the orders here." Bates moved toward the man. "I do."
He dropped his voice as he passed Cally. "Don't do a goddamn thing."
Then he looked up. "You will leave right now, or I'll call my security
staff."
"That would be most unwise. At least two of them would be unable to
respond." He nodded toward the door. "You are welcome to check outside.
But come, we're all wasting precious time."
"You son of a bitch. I won't--"
"Well, well," the man interrupted, "could it be I am luckier than I
dreamed possible? Could it be that I have the honor to be speaking to
none other than William Bates? Have we snared the CEO? No, that would
be too much good luck."
We're screwed, Cally thought. He knows. Now they'll hold Bill for
ransom. He's pure gold. Rich and famous.
"You will kindly take a seat, Mr. Bates," the man went on.
"The hell I--"
One of the bearded men carrying an automatic weapon stepped forward and
slammed the metal butt into Bates' stomach, sending him staggering
backward. He tried to catch his balance, but failed and collapsed
ignominiously onto the gray linoleum.
"Again, we're squandering time," the spokesman, the one in charge,
continued calmly. "Where were we? Oh yes, the power-up." He turned
around. "Now, Miss Andros, none of us wants that report to be late, do
we? It would look bad for everybody."