Georges LeFarge had been studying Peretz, trying to figure out what was
going on. One thing was sure: the countdown was about to switch into
auto mode--which meant the priming of the superconducting coil would
begin. When that happened, the Cyclops would be entering a very
delicate, and dangerous, phase. Shutting it down after auto mode
commenced required the kind of familiarity with the system he was sure
Peretz did not have. Mess up then and you could literally burn out the
huge power storage ring buried deep in the island's core--which was why
the Fujitsu was deliberately programmed to thwart any straightforward
command to abort. Ironically, the fail-safe mechanism was designed not
to shut down the Cyclops, but rather to carry through. At this stage,
the only way to abort the launch sequence safely was to bleed off the
power using the Cyclops's main radar, the way they had done early last
night. To simply flip a switch and turn everything off would be to risk
melting the multimillion-dollar cryogenic storage coil down under. The
whole thing was as bizarre as it was real. By continuing the countdown
until everything went into auto mode, Peretz was creating a monster of
inevitability.
He was currently trying to explain this to the Israeli, hoping the guy
could conceive the gravity of what he was about to do. "You don't
understand," he was pleading, his voice plaintive above the clicks of
switches and buzz of communications gear in Command, "you're going to
risk--"
"Hey, kid, chill out." Peretz did not bother to look up from his
terminal. A strip-chart recorder next to him was humming away as
voltage and amperage checks proceeded.
"But look." Georges pointed to the screen of an adjacent workstation.
"You've got less than three minutes left to abort the power-up. After
the auto-test sequence it's doing now is finished, the superconducting
coil starts final power-up. That's when everything switches to auto
mode. It's all automatic from then on. For a very good reason."
"Hey, that's why we're here, kid." Peretz was grinning his crazy grin.
'This is not some fucking dry run. This is the big one. I've got no
intention of shutting it down. We're gonna launch, dude."
Dore Peretz knew exactly what the critical go/no-go points in the
countdown were; he had researched the Cyclops system extensively. He
also knew that after auto mode, there would be no altering the orbital
abort and the timing of the detonation. Once auto mode began, he was
home free. He could split.
The trajectory he had programmed with SORT was not for Souda Bay but
for low orbit. One orbit. The abort had been preset. The bomb was going
to be delivered right back here on Andikythera. It was brilliant. Get
the money in place, get out, and then wipe out the island, all evidence
of the operation.
Including Sabri Ramirez.
The world would then think that all the terrorists were dead. And they
would be--all, that is, except Dr. Dore Peretz.
In truth, he was thinking, this was almost the most fun he'd had in
years. The actual most fun had been the memo he had presented to Sabri
Ramirez concerning the new split of the money. All along he had thought
the phrase fifty-fifty had a nice solid ring. What point was there in
spreading the ransom all over the place? Giving it to a bunch of
assholes?
Which was why Dore Peretz had, two weeks earlier, established an
account in the same Geneva bank where Ramirez was having the money
delivered. The memo had instructed Ramirez to advise the bank to move
half the money into that account as soon as it arrived. And when funds
were deposited into that account, the bank was instructed to move them
yet again--well beyond the reach of anybody.
All he needed now was proof that Ramirez had faxed the bank with the
new instructions. So had he? The time had come to check in with the
bastard and find out. Then it was over. All he would have to do after
that was commandeer the chopper and get the hell out.
The only missing link was somebody to fly the Sikorsky, and the perfect
choice for that little task was in the next room, a certain Vietnam
fighter-pilot turned CEO. . . .
He motioned for Georges LeFarge. "Okay, everything's set. Auto mode.
We've got exactly sixty-eight minutes to liftoff. Is that enough
excitement for you?"
LeFarge did feel something of a thrill, in spite of his better
judgment. He didn't know why Peretz would want to abort the flight--
which he knew was what SORT had been programmed to do--but at least VX-1
was going up. And when you worked on a project like this, there was
only one real payoff--when the vehicle left the pad. All the months,
years, of preparations led up to that final moment. . . .
"I want Bates," Peretz declared, pointing toward the closed office
door. "So, go and get him. That's an order. It's time he got in on the
fun. After all, this is his baby.
Georges turned away from his useless workstation, still shaken by the
sight of auto mode clicking in, and walked back toward the door. Bates
had been locked in there, mainly to keep him quiet. But now things were
starting to happen. Several members of the terrorist group had come in,
started readying weapons, and were acting nervous.
Well, Georges thought, maybe they're worried the U.S. might just get
off its ass and come in, do something about this outrage. The
terrorists had plenty of heavy weapons, and now they were checking them
out and slapping in clips of ammunition. Bill Bates was not going to
like what he saw. . . .
He opened the door and motioned for Bates to come out. He slowly rose
from his chair, looking beat and haggard, and came. Georges's first
impression was that he was missing a large slice of his old zip. He
looked like a man near defeat-- exhausted, even disoriented.
"How are you feeling?" Peretz asked.
"How do you think?" Bates growled, looking around at all the assembled
terrorists now readying their weapons. The place was turning into an
armed camp.
"Just a friendly inquiry," Peretz went on, flashing his empty grin.
"We're about to start the fireworks up at Launch, and I didn't want you
to miss out on any of it." He paused to check the countdown scrolling
on the terminal in front of him. "So . . ." he continued, turning back,
"I think it's time we three--you, me, and Georges here--took a small
stroll and checked out how things are going."
"Mind telling me what in blazes you're up to?" Bates demanded. His
voice was still strong even though he had lost much of the spring in
his step. "If you fuckers have killed any more of my people, I'm going
to see to it personally that--"
"Take it easy, man," Peretz interjected. "As long as nobody causes any
trouble, then nobody gets hurt." He turned and motioned for Jean-Paul
Moreau. "Keep an eye on this place. He swept his arm over the sea of
technicians and systems analysts. "Everything's right on target with
the countdown." It was an impromptu private joke, a spur-of-the-moment
thing, that he found delightful.
Jean-Paul Moreau, his reflexes now slowing slightly from lack of sleep,
did not get the joke, and he did not like the feeling he was getting.
Dore Peretz was a canny little fucker, and he suddenly seemed in a
great hurry to get out of Command. Was the _batard_ up to something? It
was puzzling, and troubling.
He adjusted his blond ponytail and gazed around the room, now a
cacophony of preflight activity. Keeping everybody in line was the
least of his problems. These white-shirted engineers were so scared
that if you said jump, they'd all stand up and ask how high. No, what
bothered him was not knowing what the damned Israeli had up his sleeve.
Peretz was planning something, probably intending to leave somebody to
hold the bag.
And it wasn't hard to figure out who that somebody was. . . .
"You know," he said to Peretz, "everybody has orders to stay at their
posts and keep security, in case there's an assault. You pulling out of
here is not part of the plan."
"Hey, I've been handling this thing so far, and the launch is set. Now
I need to check on the telemetry and data hookups at Launch--if that's
okay with you. I've taken care of my end, so now all you've got to do
is keep any of these assholes from getting on the computer and trying
to screw things up. Nobody so much as touches a keyboard, got it?"
"Got it." Moreau nodded, hating the little son of a bitch even more.
"Good," he said, turning back to Bates. "Okay, baby, we're gone."