Isaac Mannheim gazed down through the glass partition of the old Bell
Jetranger and wondered again what he was seeing. The pilot couldn't
raise Command on the radio, and now he was grumbling that the pad
looked unsafe.
The boy had a point. The surrounding hurricane fence had been half
ripped away, and there was oil everywhere on the asphalt. The place
looked as though a raging bull elephant had powered its way through,
knocking aside everything in its wake. What in blazes had happened? A
tornado?
He surveyed the area, and something even more ominous caught his eye.
What was it, that thing half-buried in the trees, about two-thirds the
way up the mountain? Now he strained to see through the smudgy windows,
just making out the wreckage of some sort of military helicopter.
Next he turned and looked in the other direction, down toward the
launch vehicles. That's odd. Another helicopter was parked down there.
It was big, a military gray, but no one was around it.
"It looks like there was a crash on the pad or something," the young
Greek pilot shouted over the roar of the engines, his dark, serious
eyes fixed gravely on the scene. His name, sewn in Greek on his tan
shirt, was Mikis; his father owned the 1981 Jetranger, and the
business. Flying this far from Athens meant he would have to refuel to
make it back, and nobody was around to take care of that. Moreover, the
situation definitely looked unsafe.
"I can see that," Mannheim responded dryly, his voice faint above the
noise. "Which is why you need to be careful. We don't want to add
another casualty."
"Something funny is definitely going on," Mikis continued, to no one in
particular. He had already discovered the eccentric American professor
with a baseball cap didn't care all that much for small talk. And he
had no patience whatsoever for small talk that pointed out the obvious.
"I don't like this, but I'll have to put her down. I'm already on my
auxiliary tank."
For once Mannheim allowed his thoughts to stray to the concerns of
someone else. "There's an airfield at Kythera. You could make it there,
if you just touched down here and dropped me off."
"Are you sure you want to do that?" Mikis was gripping the stick,
frowning behind his aviator shades. "We can't raise anybody here on the
radio, and now there's this mess. Let me take you to Kythera with me.
The whole deal looks weird."
"No," Mannheim shouted back. "I have to find out what's happened."
This project is like Sarah, he thought, his estranged daughter coming
to mind. I had to do everything I knew how to try to keep her from
making the wrong decisions. Then he remembered ruefully that she had
gone ahead and made them anyway. But he had been there always, ready to
give her advice.
Mikis shrugged, clearly worried, and gave the Jetranger some pedal,
circling to search for signs of life. There was nothing. The bleak
granite cliffs were barren, and the cool blue of the light surf washed
against an empty shoreline. He had not seen this space facility before,
but everybody had heard about it. The most impressive sight was, of
course, those silver spires down at the other end of the island. Those
had to be their vehicles, but nobody was around them now. Puzzled, he
examined the huge dormitory-type residence in the middle of the island
and the supply buildings, lined along a paved segment connecting the
landing pad with the main building, and still saw no one.
"Look, I'm going to just drop you off and then get the hell out of
here," he yelled over. He was easing up on the collective, taking her
in. "I'll buy petrol on Kythera. I don't see anybody around, and this
place gives me the creeps."
"You've done all you need to," Mannheim shouted back. "Something . . ."
His voice trailed off as he finally saw some movement. A figure was
coming down the mountain, carrying what looked like an automatic
weapon.
"We'd better make this quick."