When Vance caught his first clear sight of Andikythera's sheltered
inlet, the storm had passed over in the night and Homer's "rosy-
fingered dawn" was displaying all her splendored glory. With only a
slight effort he had altered his course and reached the island. Now, as
he rowed in through the still, turquoise waters, only light surface
ripples lapped against his Switlik. As quickly as it had come, the
turmoil in the seas had vanished. He hoped it was a good omen.
He looked down and realized the water was so crystalline he could see
the bottom, now at least ten meters below. Although he had visited many
islands, he had never seen anything more perfect than Andikythera.
Despite being bone-tired and soaked to the skin, conditions that
exacerbated his anger, the sight of the island momentarily buoyed his
spirits. It reminded him of a thousand Caribbean mornings, the feeling
of rebirth and renewal.
Andikythera had always been private, and never more so than now. It was
an industrial site these days, pure and simple. No ferries deposited
tourists here, no fishing boats docked in the mornings. Nothing but
granite cliffs surrounded the secrets held inside.
The heavy construction equipment, the prefabricated buildings, the
facility's high-tech components, all had come through this harbor. Now,
however, the dock was deserted; the off-loading cranes and giant
mechanical arms highlighted against the morning sky stood idle.
Everything had been delivered, was in place, and was humming. The only
vessel now tied up was a sailing yacht, Bill's twenty-eight-foot
Morgan, leased specially so he could keep his hand in while here. Great
boat. . . .
Abruptly he stopped rowing.
Think a minute, he told himself. You can't risk using the inlet. No
way.
On the right and left sides of the harbor, steep crags of white granite
speckled with scrub cypress guarded the shore, while the towering
cliffs of the north mirrored the coastline of a thousand Greek islands.
Unlike the postcard photos for sale everywhere on the tourist islands--
featuring topless Swedish blondes and trim Italian playboys, gold
chains glinting--this was the real Greece, harsh and severe. Only a few
seabirds swirling over the near shore, adding their plaintive calls to
the silence-breaking churn of surf pounding over the rocks, broke the
silence.
He studied the island, trying to get his bearings. Just as Bill had
said, it appeared to be about three miles long, maybe a couple of miles
wide. As though balancing the radar-controlled mountain at one end, at
the opposite terminus stood the launch vehicles, now just visible as
the tip of two giant spires, gleaming in the early sunshine like huge
silver bullets. And somewhere beneath this granite island, he knew, was
the heart of the Cyclops, SatCom's computer-guided twenty- gigawatt
laser. . . .
There was no sign of anybody monitoring his approach. The early light
showed only pristine cliffs, cold and empty.
Careful now. First things first.
He rowed under a near cliff, then slipped off the yellow raft and into
the knee-deep waters of the near shore, still dazzlingly clear. It
reminded him again of the Caribbean. Maybe Bill unconsciously had an
island there in mind when he decided to move everything here.
The water was cold, refreshing as he moved in. He collected what he
needed from the raft and stood a minute wondering what to do with it.
Then inspiration struck. It only weighed sixty-five pounds, so why not
use it?
It was a standard Switlik, which meant inflation had been automatic.
The deflation would take a while, so he started it going as he hefted
the heavy yellow hulk and headed up the hill. He wanted it empty, but
not entirely.
The security Dimitri Spiros had installed was high-tech and good. He
had not gone to the trouble of burying cables all around the place with
magnetic anomaly detectors. That would have required blasting through a
lot of granite and did not really seem worth the tab. Instead he had
surrounded the place with a chain-link fence and topped that with free-
spinning wheels of razor wire known as Rota-Barb, which prevented an
intruder from smothering the cutting edges with cloth. Then, just to
make sure, across the top and at several levels below, he had added
lines of Sabretape with an enclosed fiber-optic strand. A pulse of
light was transmitted through the length of the tape, and if it was
disturbed, detectors at a central guard location would know immediately
when and where.
Now Vance had to try to penetrate a system he had actually been
involved, indirectly, in setting up. The ultimate irony.
The jagged granite tore at his hands as he struggled up, picking his
way through the clusters of scrub cedar that clung to the steep ascent
and dragging the Switlik by its nylon straps. The cliff rose a good two
hundred feet and was almost sheer, but he located enough niches to haul
himself forward. Finally, exhausted and hands bleeding, he pulled
himself over the top. Then he dragged up the remains of the raft.
Ahead, just in front of the towering communications mountain, he
discerned ARM's industrial security installation, a ten-foot-high
chain-link fence interwoven with fiber optics. Beyond it on a
helicopter pad sat Bill's new Agusta, a hot 109 Mark II with all the
latest modifications, including two 450-hp Allison engines. It sat
there, its blue trim like ice, a ghostly apparition against the
lightening sky.
Poised alongside was a brooding hulk that dwarfed the Agusta--a Soviet
Mi-24D, one of its stubby wings a tangled mass of metal.
So the bastards were here. He'd guessed right.
He saw no guards around it, but who knew.
He would find out soon enough, but one thing was sure: it must have a
radio on board. The U.S. Navy would be very interested in identifying
the location of its hostile. Maybe he should just switch on the Hind's
cockpit IFF, let it start broadcasting. If the ship that was attacked
had been interrogating the Hind, there'd probably be knowledge
somewhere of the codes it was transmitting.
Easy. Just take it easy. Go in behind the chopper, handle the fence,
and then rush the thing from the back. If anybody's guarding it, you'll
be taking them from their blind side.
Grasping the Switlik, with the Walther tucked firmly into the waist of
his soaked trousers, he dashed for the corner of the fence behind the
Hind. He was barefoot, the way he always sailed, and the granite felt
sharp and cutting under his feet. But being barefoot was going to help
him take the fence.
Okay, he thought, the fiber-optic alarm system is going to blow, no
matter what. Just get in and get on the radio quick, then worry about
what comes next.
He knew the only way to defeat a Rota-Barb system was at the corners,
where the spinning rolls of wire intersected at a right angle. As he
approached the corner, he looked up and checked out his chances. Yep,
with the Switlik to smother the barbs it might just be possible.
He looped one of the nylon straps, then leaned back and heaved the raft
up onto the top of the fence. It caught and was hanging there but--just
as he had hoped--the strap passed over and down the other side. Next he
reached through, seized it, and tied it securely to the heavy chain
links of the fence. Now it would hold the raft in place as he climbed
from the outside.