Chapter 1

http://creativecommons.org/

THOMAS HOOVER

"A high-tech launch site, a missing nuke, and Arab terrorists with
nothing to lose . . ."

In the sun-dappled waters of the Aegean, ex-agent Michael Vance pilots
the _Odyssey II_, a handmade replica of the sailcraft of the ancient
hero Ulysses. Out of nowhere, a Russian Hind gunship with Arab
terrorists at the helm fires upon the tiny ship below. The terrorists'
destination is a tiny Aegean island where a U.S. aerospace corporation
carefully guards the Cyclops 20-megawatt laser launch facility. But
the company security force is no match for the firepower of the Arab
invasion and the launch site is quickly overrun. With helpless horror,
the executives can only watch as renegade technicians convert the
launch vehicle into a ballistic missile that can deliver their stolen
thermonuclear warhead to any city in the U.S.

Left for dead amid the smoking ruins of _Odyssey II_, Michael Vance
washes up on the occupied island - and becomes America's only hope.

Zen Culture

The Zen Experience

The Moghul

Caribbee

Wall Street _Samurai_

(The _Samurai_ Strategy)

Project Daedalus

Project Cyclops

Life Blood

Syndrome

www.thomashoover.info

OPM 0987654321

KEY WORDS:

THOMAS HOOVER (Author)

PROJECT CYCLOPS (Novel: Techno Thriller)

Arab Terrorists, Laser, Aegean, Odyssey, Aerospace, Ballastic Missile,
Thermonuclear Warhead, Ulysses, U.S. Navy, Israeli Terrorist, Hind,
Spacecraft, satellite, Pakistan nuclear bomb, mercenaries

PROJECT CYCLOPS

PREFACE

7:22 P.M.

"Keep her above three hundred meters on the approach." Ramirez's hard
voice cut through the roar of the 2,200-hp Isotov turboshafts. Down
below, the cold, dusk-shrouded Aegean churned with a late autumn storm.
"Any lower and there'll be surface effect."

"I'm well aware of that," the Iranian pilot muttered, a sullen response
barely audible above the helicopter's noise and vibration. It stopped
just short of open disrespect.

Sabri Ramirez did not mind. The two Iranians had been an unfortunate
necessity, but in three days they would be dead. The others, the
professionals, were the ones who counted. When he hand-picked the
European terrorists now resting on the four litters in the main cabin,
he had gone for the best. Each man had a track record and a purpose.
Ramirez, however, was the leader, fully in control. He had planned,
financed, and now commanded the operation.

In the ghostly light of late evening, his sleek cheeks, iron- shaded
temples, and trim mustache gave no hint of the extensive plastic
surgery that had created this, his latest face. He wore a black
jumpsuit, like the others, but under his was a $2,000 Brioni charcoal
double-breasted--perhaps more suited for a three-star dinner in Paris,
at L'Ambroisie or La Tour d'Argent, than the operation at hand. All the
same, he felt comfortably at home in this Hind-D helicopter gunship,
the most lethal assault machine ever. Their operation had two
objectives, and the first had just appeared on the bright green cockpit
radar.

It was the 2,600-ton U.S. frigate Glover, Garcia class, which the
National Security Agency had converted into a Mid-East spy platform.
Loaded with missile-tracking and communications-monitoring antennas, it
had to go.

Ramirez expected no difficulties. Like the USS Stark, the frigate
disabled by Iraqi Exocet missiles in the Persian Gulf in 1988, it was a
perfect target. With only one gun, it would be child's play for a
fully-armed Hind.

"Activate IFF," he ordered, glancing back at the instrument panels.
"They should acquire us on radar within two minutes now."

"IFF on." Salim Khan, the still-brooding Iranian, nodded and reached
for the interrogator/responsor in the panel on his right. They were
using the NATO Identification System, a low-band interrogator, into
which they had programmed the false Israeli Identification Friend or
Foe code. The gray box would receive the electronic query, "Are you a
friend?" and it would automatically reply, "Yes, this aircraft is
friendly."

Ramirez watched with satisfaction as the green numbers flashed.
Deception, he thought. The key to everything.

In the intelligence dossiers of Mossad, and the U.S. CIA, he was known
as the Hyena, killer of hundreds in Europe and the Middle East. But his
most cherished recent fact in those dossiers was the item declaring the
disbanding of his private organization. He thankfully had been written
off. Of course, the self-important analysts reasoned over their pipes
and printouts, of course the chimera named Sabri Ramirez must be dead.
His unmistakable touch had not been on a bombing in years. The playboy
terrorist who flaunted silk suits, had cellars of rare vintage wines in
Tripoli, Damascus, Baghdad, and Beirut . . . that man wouldn't just
retire. He had to be _gone_.

They were half right. He had wearied of the squabbles and disputes of a
far-flung organization; however, he had not lost his taste for money.
Or his hatred of the United States.

Now that NATO was falling apart, America was trying to take over the
Middle East--aided by its European lackeys. But he had put together a
plan that would end America's global military intimidation once and for
all. Not coincidentally, he was going to acquire eight hundred million
dollars in the process.

"We'll be exposed," he continued, "but just for about three minutes.
They only have one gun, a .38 caliber DP Mark 30, mounted on the
forward deck. It is in plain view. Remember I need a clear ten-second
window for the Swatter. After we neutralize their main ordnance, we
come about and strafe the communications gear."

He hoped this dense Iranian understood the approach profile. He had
briefed the man over and over, but still he was not sure it had sunk
in. He examined Salim Khan one last time--the bulky face with sunken,
almost depressed eyes--and stifled a sigh of exasperation. Iranians.

Still, he had better not offend the man's much-vaunted honor. After
all, Salim had single-handedly stolen the Hind gunship they were now
flying from the Iranian Air Force, providing a crucial component in the
overall operation. A rare prize, the Hind had been secretly purchased
by the IAF from an Afghan rebel unit--which had captured it in 1987.
Iran had wanted to see one up close, against the day the Soviets might
turn their anti-Islamic paranoia against them and try to invade. That
day had never come. And now this disaffected air force lieutenant had
simply stolen it. At last, Ramirez thought with satisfaction, their
valued prize would be put to use.

Salim Khan had mastered the Hind's controls years before, had flown it
often, and just four days ago he had taken it up, shot his weapons
operator, and used a fake identity to file a new flight plan, setting
down to refuel in Rawalpindi. The theft had caused a tempest. When they
discovered it, the mullahs had blamed America and engineered a
demonstration in the streets of Tehran so they could bray in the press.

But by that time he had already taken it out over the gulf and landed
it on the camouflaged Greek cargo ship they had waiting. After
navigating the Suez Canal, that ship was now anchored safely off
Crete's main port of Iraklion. For Salim Khan, who had twice been
passed over for promotion to captain, the taste of revenge in that
theft was sweet indeed.

"The most important part of the approach," Ramirez went on, "is to make
sure we're ID'd by their VIS, their Visual Identification System. It's
crucial they make our Israeli markings."

The Hind-D looked like nothing else in the world, one of a kind. Its
visual profile, dark green against the sunset hues of the sky, should
be unmistakable. Or so he hoped. Almost sixty feet long and over twenty
feet high, it had a main rotor fifty-five feet in diameter and a heavy,
retractable landing gear. The tandem stations in the nose for the
weapons operator, and the pilot above him, had individual canopies,
with the rear seat raised to give the pilot an unobstructed forward
view. Any schoolboy should be able to identify one a mile away, as well
as its Israeli markings--the blue Star of David in a white circle.

"I still think it's unnecessary," Salim Khan mumbled into his beard.
"It only adds to our risk. It would be better--"

"A visual ID is essential." Ramirez cut him off. "When they make it,
they'll go through the Sixth Fleet HQ in Gournes for verification,
then--"

'They just acquired us on radar," the Iranian interjected, as a high-
pitched alert sounded from the instrument panel and a line of green
warning diodes turned red.

"Right on schedule." Ramirez nodded. "The U.S. Navy never sleeps." He
turned and motioned to one of the men crouched on a litter in the main
cabin, shouting above the noise. "Peretz, it's time to start earning
your share."

Dore Peretz, a veteran of the Weizman Institute, was a specialist in
strategic weapons and their delivery. But that was another life. Now he
was free-lance. Ramirez had picked him for his technical skills, and
his greed.

He rose and made his way forward, working carefully through the jumble
of legs and automatic weapons. He was younger than he appeared; his
prematurely salt-and-pepper hair made him look late forties, though he
actually was only thirty-nine. He settled into the weapons station
below Salim, pulling down his black turtleneck, the better to
accommodate a flight helmet, and went to work.

"Are you ready?" he asked Salim, in perfect Farsi.

"I am ready if God is ready," the Iranian replied grimly, his eyes
beginning to gleam from the strain.

Peretz reached down and switched the radio to 121.50 megahertz, the
military emergency channel.

"Mayday. Mayday. Israeli Hawk One requesting permission for emergency
approach." He then repeated the announcement in Hebrew. It was, of
course, a pointless gesture for the illiterate Americans, but for now
verisimilitude counted.

"We copy you, Hawk One. This is USS Glover. We've acquired you on
radar," came back the response, a Southern drawl, young and slightly
nervous. "What seems to be the problem?"

"One of our turboshafts has started losing oil pressure. We could use a
visual check. What's your position?" He glanced down at the green radar
screen and grinned. It showed the frigate's coordinates to within
meters.

The radioman complied with his request, then continued. "There could be
a problem, Hawk One. The storm's just pushed the sea over four feet.
It's a helluva--"

"Permission to approach. We have a situation here," he continued in
English.

"Have to check that with the TAO. We've got a perimeter," came back the
uneasy answer.

"Fuck your perimeter, sailor." Peretz' voice was harder now. "This is
Lieutenant Colonel Leon Daniel, Israeli Air Force. We've got an
emergency and we're coming in. Tell that to your TAO, and get us
perimeter clearance. We're coming by." He switched off his mike.

"Well done." Ramirez nodded his approval. "Just the right combination
of entreaty and bravado. I think the Americans will be stymied. The
good-neighbor policy they like to talk about."

He leaned back and wished he had a cigar. The other men waiting,
crouched in the dark, had understood only some of the English. They
were four Germans, a Frenchman, and a Greek.

"Conditional clearance granted," crackled the radio. "But we have to
visual ID you first. Approach from vector three-two-zero. Emergency
rescue op being readied, just in case."

"Roger, USS Glover," Peretz spoke back sharply, in his best military
style. "Keep the coffee hot."

"It's always hot, sir. This is the U.S. Navy."

"Appreciated."

"Glad to be of help, Hawk One."

Peretz clicked off the radio and turned around. "I think they bought
it."

"So far so good," Ramirez nodded.

He descended the three steps down into the lower cockpit, the weapons
station, and stood behind Peretz, looking it over again. The Hind's
offensive capability included a four-barrel Gatling-type 12.7mm machine
gun in a turret under the nose, as well as 32-round packs of 57mm
rockets secured on hardpoints on each stubby auxiliary wing. Finally,
the wingtips carried four Swatter homing antitank missiles, two on each
side. Plenty of firepower for what he intended.

"Remember," he said to Salim as he moved back up, "no hint of hostile
action until after they make the ID." Would the stubborn Iranian hold
steady? Stick to the procedure?

He checked his watch. Four and a half minutes should take them inside
the VIS range. The altimeter showed that they were now at eleven
hundred meters, and so far the Iranian was bringing her in perfectly.
Of course, after the frigate confirmed they were flying a Hind . . .
but by then it would be too late. . . .

_"I was doubling Cape Maleas when the swell, the current, and the North
Wind combined to drive me sidelong off my course and send me drifting
past Kythera. The force of the gusts tore my sails to tatters, and for
nine days I was chased by those accursed winds across the fish-infested
seas. But on the tenth I made the country of the Lotus-Eaters."

From The Odyssey: Book Nine_

CHAPTER ONE

7:25 P.M.

"Do you read me, _Odyssey II_? Come in." The radio crackled on channel
sixteen, the ocean mariner's open line. "Goddammit Mike, do you copy?
Over."

Michael Vance was exhilarated, and scared. The salty taste of the
Aegean was in his mouth as he reached for the black mike of his radio,
still gripping the starboard tiller. His waterproof Ross DSC 800 was
topside, since there was no other place for it.

He was lean, with leathery skin and taut tanned cheeks all the more so
for his having spent the last three days fighting the sea. He had dark
brown hair and a high forehead above eyebrows that set off inquiring
blue eyes. His face had mileage, yet was curiously warm, with a slim
nose that barely showed where it had been broken year before last--
during an ARM special op in Iran.

"Is that you, Bill? Good to hear your voice, but this is a hell of a
time--"

"Who else would it be, you loony gringo? Hey, I'm getting a damned lot
of static. How about switching channels? Over to seventy."

"Seventy, confirmed." He pushed in the code, his fingers slippery and
wet. The wind was already gusting up to thirty

knots, while his boat was crabbing across the growing swell. "Okay,
Lotus-Eater, you're on."

"Listen, old buddy," the voice continued, clearer now that it was
digital, "our weather radar shows a squall building in the north, up in
the Sporades, and it looks like it could be a real bear. It's going to
be all over your butt in no time. Thought I'd better let you know. You
ought to try and hole up down on the south side of Kythera."

Kythera was an island just off the southeast tip of Greece's
Peloponnesos. It was now looming off Vance's starboard bow, barren
mountains and sheer cliffs.

"I've been watching it," he yelled back into the mike, holding it close
to shield it from the howl of wind. The gale was coming in at an angle
to the waves, creating two swells running at ninety degrees, and the
sea was getting short and confused. "But I think I can ride it out. I'm
making probably seven or eight knots." He paused, then decided to add a
little bravado. No point in admitting how worried he was. "Just a
little rock and roll."

'That's horseshit, friend. This thing's for real. You'd better head for
cover." It was the profane, oversmoked voice of Bill Bates, CEO of
SatCom, who'd been monitoring his trip using the awesome electronics
he'd installed on the little island of Andikythera, fifteen kilometers
south of Kythera. "Even old Ulysses himself had that much sense, and
it's common knowledge that guy didn't know fuck-all about sailing. Took
him ten years to get home. Remember that inlet on the south side of the
island, that little harbor at Kapsali? We put in once for a drink last
year. I respectfully suggest you get your ass over there and drop
anchor as soon as possible."

"And let you win? No way, Jose." He was jamming his weight against the
starboard tiller, and the radio was distracting. As far as he was
concerned, the wager with Bates was ironclad: retrace Ulysses' route in
a fortnight and do it without ever touching land. "I just think you're
getting worried. You suddenly remembered we've got ten large riding on
this. Somebody's got to lose, and it's going to be you, pal."

"You're a headstrong idiot, Michael," Bates sputtered. "Fuck the ten
grand. I don't want it and you don't need it. I'm hereby going on
record as taking no responsibility for this idiotic stunt, from this
point on. You're really pushing your luck."

"We both know this ain't about money. I've got a reputation to live up
to." Like finding out how many ways I can kill myself, he thought.
Jesus! How did I get into this?

He reached to secure the linen sail line to a wooden cleat. The
heightening swell was churning over the gunwales, soaking him as it
drove the bow to leeward.

"Well, for once in your life use some sense. The risk isn't worth it.
Our weather radar here at the facility tells no lies, and you should
see it. This is going to be a granddaddy. I've triangulated your
position and you're only about four klicks off the east side of
Kythera. You could still run for that little harbor down south before
it hits."

"I know where I am. I can just make out the island off my starboard
bow. About two o'clock." It's tempting, he told himself. Damned
tempting. But not just yet.

'Then go for it." Bates coughed. "Listen, you crazy nut-cake, I have to
get back out to Control. We've got a major run-up of the Cyclops laser
system scheduled tonight for 2100 hours. So use your head for once,
goddammit, and make for that anchorage."

"Your views are taken under advisement. But a great American
philosopher once said it ain't over till it's over." He pushed the
thumb switch on the microphone, clicking it off. Then he switched it on
again. "By the way, amigo, good luck with the test." The Cyclops was
going to power the world's first laser-driven space vehicle. Who knew
if it would work?

'Thanks, we may need it. Catch you again at 2300."

"See you then." If I'm still around, he thought. He clicked off his
mike, then switched back to channel sixteen. The radio was the only
electronic equipment he had permitted himself. He enjoyed monitoring
the Greek chatter coming from the island fishing boats and trawlers,
which worked nights. Lots of bragging.

Now, though, the bursts of talk on the open channel were all about the
building storm. The fishing boats this night had abandoned the Aegean
to the massive inter-island ferries. In fact, those white multi-deck
monsters were his real concern, more than the storm. _Odyssey_ _II_ had
no radar, and his tiny mast lantern would just melt into the rain when
the storm hit. Sailing in the dark and in a squall was a game of pure
defense; he had to keep every sense alert--sight, hearing, even smell.
He prayed the ferry lanes would be empty tonight. A Nomicos Line
triple-decker could slice his little homemade toy in half without ever
knowing he was there.

_Odyssey II_ was a thirty-eight-foot wooden bark, planked construction
of cypress on oak, that no sane man would have taken out of a marina.
But Michael Vance was hoping to prove to the world that the fabled
voyage of Ulysses from Troy back to Greece could have happened. Unlike
anything seen afloat for almost three thousand years, his "yacht" was,
in fact, an authentic replica of a single-masted Mycenaean warship.
Painted lavender and gold--the ancient Greeks loved bold colors--she
could have been a theme-park ride. But every time he looked her over,
he felt proud.

His browned, cracked fingers gripped the wet wood as the sea churned
ever higher, now blotting out the dim line of the horizon. The storm
was arriving just as daylight faded-- the worst moment.

Enough thinking, he ordered himself, audibly above the gale. It's bad
for the reflexes. Just keep the tiller to leeward and don't shorten
sail. Go for it. Just get around Kythera, then heave to and lie in the
lee till the worst is over. Another five, maybe six kilometers should
do it.

Vance wasn't Greek; he was American and looked it. As for Greece and
things Greek, he preferred tequila over ouzo, a medium-rare sirloin to
chewy grilled octopus. All the same, years ago he had gotten a Ph.D. in
Greek archaeology from Yale, taught there for two years, then published
a celebrated and radical theory about the Palace of Knossos on Crete.
The book had caused an uproar in the scholarly community, and in the
aftermath he had drifted away from the world of the ancient Greeks for
several years. With this project, he liked to think, he was coming back
home. He had just turned forty-four, and it was about time.

Age. More and more lately he realized he preferred old,

well-crafted things: stick-shift transmissions, tube amplifiers, vinyl
recordings. Anything without numbers that glowed. _Odyssey_ _II_ was as
close to that feeling as he could get.

Coming in now was his first real weather, and he had his numb, pained
fingers crossed. His creation had certain historically precise features
yet to be fully tested in high seas. He had built her in the style of
ships in Homer's time, which meant she was hardly more than a raft with
washboard sides. Four meters across the beam, with a shallow draft of a
meter and a half, she was undecked except for a longitudinal gangway
over the cargo and platforms at the bow and stern, protected with
latticework to deflect enemy spears. It did not help much, however,
against the swell. The keel extended forward at the bow, supposedly for
additional lateral plane, and that was a plus when reaching with the
wind abeam or tacking to windward, but now, running downwind, it
increased her tendency to sheer about. All his strength was needed on
the tillers just to keep her aright.

There were other problems. Maybe, he thought, Ulysses had them, too.
He'd reproduced the ancient Aegean practice of tying the ends of the
longitudinal wales together at the stern, then letting them extend on
behind the ship and splay outward like the tail feathers of some
magnificent phoenix. Although he loved the beauty of it, now that
"tail" was catching the wind and making steering even tougher.

Probably should have left the damn thing off, he'd often lectured
himself. But no: _Odyssey II _had to be exactly authentic . . . or what
was the point? No guts, no glory. The ancient Greeks were the
astronauts of their age, the Aegean their universe, and he wanted to
recapture the triumphs and the fears of Homer's time, if only for a
fortnight.

7:28 P.M.

"Sir, we got an RQ from the Glover." Alfred Konwitz, a twenty-year-old
Oklahoman with a thirty-eight-inch waist and known to the evening radio
shift affectionately as Big Al, lifted off his headphones and reached
for his coffee, extra cream and sugar, which he kept in a special
Thermos cup.

The United States has two bases on the southern Mediterranean island of
Crete, strategically close to Libya and the Middle East in general.
They are the naval and air base at Souda Bay, which is large enough to
accommodate the entire Mediterranean Sixth Fleet, and the
communications base at Gournes, in the southern outskirts of Iraklion,
Crete's capital city.

He and Staff Sergeant Jack Mulhoney were at Gournes, on the fourth
floor of the faceless gray building that housed operations for the
massive battery of antennas. They both knew the Glover was a Garcia-
class frigate, technically part of the Sixth Fleet, on a routine but
classified intelligence-gathering assignment a hundred kilometers
northwest of Souda Bay.

"They've got an Israeli chopper Mayday," Konwitz continued. "They need
a verify. See if it's a scheduled op or what."

Jack Mulhoney was busy with paperwork--more damned forms every day--and
did not really want to be bothered. He got off at midnight, and the
staff officer had ordered it completed and on his desk, by God, by 0800
tomorrow. Or else.

'Then run it by Traffic," he said without looking up. Forms. "Maybe
it's some exercise. You could call down to the Mole and see if it's on
his schedule."

The Mole was Charlie Molinsky, who ran the Traffic Section on the
second floor. If the Israeli chopper was on a regular op, he would have
it in the computer.

"Roger." Konwitz punched in the number and asked Molinsky to check it
out. As he waited, he found himself wishing he were back in Oklahoma,
hunting white-tail deer on his uncle's ranch. They were as thick as
jackrabbits.

He only had six months more to go, and he could not wait to get out. He
had joined at age seventeen to get a crack at electronics, and--true to
its word--the Navy came through. When he got out, he was going to open
his own shop and get rich fixing VCRs. Hell, everybody who had one was
always saying how they broke down all the time and how much they cost
to fix. Who said the Japs didn't create jobs in America. . . .

Suddenly he came alive. "He's got a negative, sir. He's asking if we
could get Glover to reconfirm."

"Christ, switch me on." Mulhoney shoved aside the pile of paper and
reached for his headset. "Glover, this is Gournes. Do you copy? Over."

He listened a second, then continued. "Roger. We have no ID on that
bogey. Repeat, negative ID. Can you reconfirm?"

While he was waiting, he punched up a computer screen and studied it.
The Glover had reported a position at latitude 36 deg.20' and longitude
25 deg. 10' at 1800 hours. And their bearing was last reported to be
two-five-zero. Nothing else was in the vicinity.

Damn. He didn't like the feel of this one. His instincts were telling
him something was wrong.

Then his headphones crackled. "Verified IFF. Definitely Israeli code.
Do you copy?"

"I copy but I don't buy it. Proceed with caution. Configure for a bogey
unless you can get a good visual."

"Roger. But can you get through to Israeli Control? There's a hell of a
storm coming down out here right now, and visuals don't really cut it."

"I copy you, Glover. Hang on and we'll try to get something for you."
He flipped off the headset and revolved in his chair, concern seeping
into his ruddy features. "Al, see if the people downstairs can get
through on their hot line to Israeli Air Control. Military. Ask them if
they know anything about a chopper in the vicinity of the Glover. Tell
them we need a response now. Priority. Could be we've got a bogey
closing on one of ours, maybe using a phony IFF. I want them to clear
it."

"Aye, aye, sir," he said crisply, then reached for the phone again. He
spoke quickly, then waited, drumming his fingers on the vinyl desk. . .
.

7:31 P.M.

As another gust hit, Vance glanced up at the rigging, praying it would
hang together. Instead of canvas, the wide, shallow square sail was
made of small linen cloths sewn together, like those made on the tiny
looms of ancient times. It was a single-masted reefing sail, invented
just in time for the Trojan War, with an upper yard fitted with a
system of lines whereby it could be furled up and then secured aloft.
When he got south of the island and hove to, he would drop the sea
anchor and reef her, but for now he wanted every square inch.

He was tired and thirsty, but he had no time for even a sip of water.
With the sea rising, waves were pounding over the primitive sideboards
and soaking him to the skin. Next the squalls would come--though maybe a
little rain would feel good, improve the personal hygiene. . . .

He was used to problems. For the past five years he had operated a
three-yacht charter sail business out of Nassau, the Bahamas, living
aboard one of the vessels, a forty-four-foot Bristol two-master
christened _The Ulysses_. In fact, this whole enterprise had begun
there when, after a day of sailing, he and Bill Bates were unwinding
over drinks one hot and humid afternoon at a club near the Hurricane
Hole Marina. Vance, attired in shorts and a T-shirt, his standard
sailing outfit, was sipping his Sauza Tres Generaciones tequila and
feeling great.

"You know, Bill, I've been thinking," he had said. "I want to try
something that's never been done before."

"What? You mean try paying your bills on time?" Bates had laughed,
knowing Vance seemed to have a perennial cash-flow problem.

"Very funny." He had ignored the crack and swirled the ice in his
glass, then pulled out a piece to chew. "No, this is serious. Ever
check out the paintings of the early ships on Greek vases?"

"Can't say as I have." Bates had reached down and was brushing a fleck
of dirt off his perfectly white leather Sperry Top-Siders. As always,
his pale blue Polo blazer remained crisp, his West Marine
"Weatherbeater" cap immaculate.

"Well, hear this out. I think there's enough detail in some of the
pictures I've seen to actually re-create one. And I checked it out:
there's also a pretty good description of one in The

_Odyssey_."

Bates had looked up from his Bacardi and Perrier. "So you want to try
and build--"

"Not just build one; anybody could do that." He had leaned back, hoping
to add a touch of drama to what was next. "I want to sail one through
the Aegean. Do a rerun of the _Odyssey_, the classic quest."

"Get serious." Bates laughed.

"Couldn't be more. I want to build one--single mast, square sail--and go
for it.