Willem Voorst was at the controls of the Cessna as they powered through
the Aegean night, their heading 210 as they closed rapidly on
Andikythera. He was holding their altitude at five hundred meters,
their airspeed just under a hundred knots, barely above stall. When
they were about ten klicks out, he would take the plane down to two
hundred meters, then set down about two kilometers northeast of the
island. The last stage of the insertion would be via two Zodiac rubber
raiding craft and then, finally, scuba.
Everything still looked like a go. Reggie was leading Hans and the rest
of the team through a final review of the facility blueprints, while
Armont was in the cockpit, on the sideband radio to Vance. . . .
"Roger, Sirene," Vance was saying, "we're in the communications
blockhouse, up on the mountain, so we're a little out of touch, but our
best guess is that Terror One is still down at Launch. Everybody else
is scattered all over the facility. That suggests an obvious option."
"Copy, Ulysses," Armont replied. "That means Plan B. We'll have to take
down that point, and then secure the devices. Behead the dragon, then
see what's left."
"My hunch," Vance concurred, "is that if you take out Ramirez the rest
of them will fold. He's their main man. But I suggest extreme caution.
He's a pro."
"Copy that, Ulysses. Hang on while I put you on standby. Don't go
away."
"I copy."
Armont paused to search the sea below with his IR goggles while he
scanned the military frequencies. Neither pleased him. A new storm was
growing, building in intensity, and it would complicate matters. But
even worse, the military frequencies on the radio were abuzz.
"Reggie, something's going on around here and I don't like it," he
shouted back to the cabin, his voice strong above the roar of the
engines as he scanned frequencies. "There's too much radio traffic in
the area, all scrambled. What do you think? I'm worried the Americans
are--"
Then it came. The radio crackled in crisp military English.
"Unidentified aircraft, this is United States Navy warship Yankee
Bravo. You are entering a controlled sector. This airspace is currently
off limits to civilian aviation. Please identify yourself. Repeat, we
must have your ID and destination."
"Shit," Armont blanched. He turned back to the cabin and motioned for
Dimitri Spiros to come to the cockpit and take the headset.
"Give them the cover. We're a medical charter. Delivering emergency
blood supplies to Apollonion General in Heraklion. Strictly civilian."
Spiros nodded, took the headset, and settled himself in the copilot's
seat. 'This is Icarus Aviation's Delta One. We have an approved flight
plan from Athens to Iraklion, Crete. What's the problem, Yankee Bravo?"
"Icarus Delta One, we've got an exercise under way for the next
seventy-two hours. No civilian aircraft are allowed within a sector
from latitude 33 deg.30' to 36 deg.30' and longitude 20 deg.00' to 22
deg.30'. We're going to vector you back to Athens."
Spiros switched off his mike and yelled back at Armont. "Problem. Looks
like the U.S. Navy's cordoned off
Andikythera. It's hot. Doesn't sound like they're going to take no for
an answer."
"So that's what all the radio activity was about." Armont's dark eyes
flashed satisfaction that at least one mystery was solved, but they
quickly turned grim. "Well, we've got to go in. Give them the cover
again and insist it's an emergency. They can check it out. It's all in
the flight plan we filed." Which was, of course, bogus. The routing was
intended to take them directly over Andikythera, where they would
ditch. "See if they'll buy the 'medical emergency' story and give us an
IFF and clearance," he continued. "But whatever happens, we're damned
sure not going to turn back."
"I'll give it a shot," Spiros yelled, "but I don't think it's going to
happen. They're going to insist we exit from the area, then file
another flight plan that takes us around it. Standard."
"Well, try anyway," Armont barked, knowing that the Greek was right.
Things were definitely headed off the track.
Spiros clicked on the mike. "Yankee Bravo, we have a flight plan filed
with Athens Control. Nobody advised us this airspace was off limits.
We're making an emergency delivery of blood plasma to the Apollonion
General Hospital in Iraklion. We filed a manifest with the flight plan.
It's a perishable cargo and we have to have it in their hands by 0600
hours tomorrow."
"Sorry about that, Delta One, but this airspace has been quarantined to
all civilian traffic as of 2100 hours. No matter what's on your
manifest. You're going to have to radio Athens and amend your filing."
Spiros shrugged, clicked off his mike, and glanced back with an "I told
you so" look. "Now what? They've acquired us on radar, so there's no
way we can proceed. We try it and they'll scramble something and escort
us out of the area at gunpoint. I'd say we're reamed."
It was a tough call, but Armont made it without hesitation. He strode
toward the cockpit and shouted to Voorst, "Take her down to three
hundred meters. And get ready."
The Dutchman nodded as Armont stepped back to the cabin. "Okay,
gentlemen, listen up. We have to make a decision and I think we'd
better vote on it. We've got three options. We can cancel the op and
turn back; we can go on the deck and try our luck at evading their
radar; or we can abort and take our chances. If we do that, they'll
probably mount a search, but with any luck we'll be written off. I say
we do it. Word of warning, though--if we screw this one up, the
organization is going to take some heat."
The men looked at each other, each doing his own quick calculus. It
wouldn't be the first time ARM had found itself having to work outside
the system to save the system. Frequently the group or government that
hired them ended up--for political expediency--formally denouncing
whatever they had done. But it was a flap accompanied by a wink, and it
always dissipated after any obligatory moral indignation was
ventilated. This time, however, if the op went sour it might not be so
easy to explain away.
Reginald Hall, the most conservative of them all, looked the most
worried. He had a good civilian cover and he wanted to keep it that
way. "You know, if we get picked up and detained, it's going to be
bloody sticky. Half of the new chaps at Special Projects these days
think I raise radishes for a living. It would be bloody awkward to end
up in a Greek jail, or worse. Don't think I'd get invited to the
Queen's Birthday anymore."
Hans was smiling. "Reggie, you old fossil, let me get this straight.
You don't mind getting killed on an op, but you don't want to get
embarrassed socially. I'd say you've got a priorities problem."
"The difference," Hall replied testily, "is that I can control what
happens on a regular op. But now you're saying we might have to fight
our way through the U.S. Navy just to get in. That's bloody imprudent,
mates."
"Well," Armont interjected, shouting as he gazed around the cabin, "I'm
waiting. We're still about thirty klicks out, which means that if we
ditch her now, an insert tonight is out of the question. Plus, we'll be
exposed. I'm waiting to hear a veto. If we're going to risk everybody's
balls just to save Vance, it's got to be unanimous. Whatever we do, we
do together." He paused. "I know what you're thinking--can Vance handle
it for another twenty-four hours? Personally, I think he can put
together enough moves to gain us the time, but who knows." He looked
around with an air of finality. "Okay, I take it silence is consent."
That was when Willem shouted from the cockpit. "Pierre, we've just
acquired an 'escort.' About fifteen klicks out and closing fast."
"All right, lads," Armont ordered. "Time to get the show going. Break
out the Zodiacs and assemble your gear."
The cabin erupted in action. They had been expecting to deplane at sea,
but this was not how they had planned to do it.
"I've suspected all along we were a bunch of damned fools," Armont
laughed as he strode toward the cockpit. "Now I know for sure." He
glanced at his watch. "Sixty seconds."
He passed Spiros as he reclaimed the copilot's seat next to Willem
Voorst. "What was our ETA for Andikythera?"
"We would have made the set-down site in twenty-three more minutes."
"Okay, I've got to alert Michael." He flicked on the sideband.
"Ulysses, do you copy?"
"Loud and clear, Sirene."
"Looks like we've got a problem, old buddy. The trusty USN has shut
down the airspace around the island. Closed it to commercial traffic."
"Don't like the sound of that. It's getting a little lonesome down
here."
"From the look of things, it may get worse. We're going to have to slip
the original insertion. We'll need another twenty-four hours. Can you
hang on that long?"
"Hey, I'm making new friends all the time. No problem. The downside is
that the rockets may start going up. I'm still trying to get a handle
on that end of it. Now it sounds like I may have to look into trying to
reschedule things a little."
"We need a breather," Armont said. "Our options don't look too good at
this end. But we'll be there, so don't believe anything you hear on the
radio. All things may not be what they appear."
"Copy that. Have a nice day."
"Roger." Armont clicked off the mike. "All right." He turned and
motioned Spiros back to the cockpit. "Tell them we're losing radio
contact. And our navigation gear is going. Say we're going to have to
reduce altitude and fly with a compass and visuals. Maybe that will
muddy things long enough to get us down."
Dimitri Spiros hit the radio and delivered the message. To total
disbelief.
"That's a crock, Delta One. Assume a heading of three-four-zero
immediately and get the hell out of this airspace. Immediately. Do you
acknowledge?"
"Transmission breaking up," Spiros replied, toggling the switch back
and forth as he did to add some credibility to his assertion.
"That's more bullshit, Delta One. Either you acknowledge or--"