Chapter 2

Recreate Ulysses' _Odyssey_. And no nav gear. Just the stars."

"But what route would you take?" Bill was digging into the pocket of
his blazer for a weathered briar pipe. "Does anybody really know?"

"I've looked into it, and just about everything Homer talked about has
been located, in some place or another. We know exactly where the site
of Troy was, so that'd be the spot to push off. Starting at the
Dardanelles Strait, Ulysses first went north and sacked a city on the
coast of Thrace. Then he took a heading almost due south, passing
through the Cyclades islands and by the north side of Crete, then put
in at the north shore of Africa, where--"

"So, you intend to do it by the book," Bates had interjected.

"Only way." He had sipped his tequila, feeling his excitement growing,
then continued. "From there it's up to the western tip of Sicily,
Polyphemus land, then northwest to Sardinia. Then over to Italy and
down the west coast, where Ulysses ran afoul of Circe. Next it's south,
past the Galli Islands, where the Sirens sang, after which I make the
Straits of Messina and down to Malta, the island of Calypso. Finally
it's northeast to Corfu, and from there it'd be a straight shot on down
to Ithaca. Home plate."

"You'll never make it." Bill was thoughtfully filling his pipe.

"Bet you ten grand I can do it in a fortnight."

"I'll probably never see the money, but you're on." Bates had grabbed
the bet, with a big, winner's grin. . . .

So far, it had gone virtually without a hitch. Using old paintings, he
had worked up precise engineering drawings for the vessel, then engaged
with a small shipyard in Istanbul to build it. The Turkish workers
could scarcely believe their eyes. The ship was a Greek vase come to
life, and already the world press had given him plenty of coverage.
Everybody liked the idea of a long shot.

He had taken plenty of long shots sailing the Caribbean over the last
eight years, but he had no experience with an early October storm in
the Aegean. Tonight was building into a serious problem. All signs
pointed to a typical autumn blowout. He glanced at the low-lying clouds
moving in from the north, darkening the sky and building rapidly. He
knew that in these waters, light autumn breezes could easily whip into
thrashing gales. Yeah, Bill's radar was right. The weather was real.
And it scared him, a lot.

Well, he figured, it was time. He had been lucky so far. The Ross DSC
radio still worked, and the patchwork sail hadn't ripped--yet. . . .

Then it happened. The nightmare. Without warning the winds suddenly
changed around to the north, going from thirty knots to sixty in what
seemed only a second. As the linen sail strained, he threw his weight
against the tiller, hoping to hold his course. Now more than ever, with
the storm on him, he wanted to keep on all his canvas and try to get
into the lee of the island as soon as possible. It was definitely time
to cut the bravado and start thinking about the sea anchor.

"_Odyssey II_, come in," the radio crackled, and he recognized Bates'
voice once more. "Do you read?"

He reached down and picked up the small black mike, then yelled against
the howl of wind. "I copy you, but make this quick. No time to chat."

"I had another look-see at the radar, Mike, and I just noticed
something else you should know about. We show you at almost the same
position as a U.S. Navy ship of some kind. Part of the Sixth Fleet
probably. Take care you miss her."

He clicked the mike to transmit. This time he didn't want

to bother switching channels. "Some kind of exercise, probably. What's
her class?"

"Can't tell. But she's still a hell of a lot bigger than you are, pal.
They may pick you up on their radar, but again maybe not. Just take
care."

"I'll keep an eye out for lights. Thanks." He clicked off the mike
again, then looked around. But the Aegean, what he could see of it,
remained dark and empty. Somehow, though, the black made it just that
much scarier.

He leaned back into the tiller, still trying to hold as much of the
wind in the sail as possible. The waves were lashing him now, cold and
relentless. And _Odyssey II _was beginning to heel precariously,
forcing him to apply helm, throwing his full hundred and eighty pounds
against the heavy wooden portside tiller. It was one of a pair, port
and starboard--the old Greek idea being that whenever a ship leaned away
from the wind, lifting the windward rudder out of the water, the
helmsman still had a lee rudder for control. But when he took her to
starboard and tried to round the island, the wind and tides would be
full abeam. With a shallow-draft, low-ballast vessel like this, that
was going to be dicey. . . .

He reached for the life jacket he had secured to the mast, a new
Switlik Fastnet Crew Vest MK_II_. Normally he did not bother, but this
was not the time to go macho. It had a 35-pound buoyancy and a 4,000-
pound breaking strength, enough for any seas.

Now the wind was gusting even harder, kicking up yet more swell. The
Aegean sunset was concluding, its red clouds turned purple and
darkening fast, a presage that visibility would shortly be a thing of
the past.

The past, _a la recherche du temps perdu_. This trip, regardless of his
bet with Bill, was also about recent times gone by. His father had
died, the revered Michael Vance, Sr., the undisputed Grand Old Man of
archaeology at Penn. It turned out to be a far greater loss than he had
anticipated, like a chunk of himself torn away. He still missed their
late-hours "discussions"--heated arguments, really. He had been trying
to wrench away the future, the old man trying to hang on to what he
knew best: the past. It had been a dynamic tension filled with mutual
love. And now he felt guilty. But why? There was no reason.

He also had gone through another of life's milestones, a divorce. Eva
Borodin, a dark-haired daughter of Russian aristocracy, a college
sweetheart, had come back into his life after a digression of ten
years. The second time around was supposed to be a charm, right?

The soap operas were wrong on that one, the same way they were about
most other things in real life. Although the divorce, now a year ago,
had been businesslike and amicable, it still had hurt. For the past
year he had been sitting around and brooding--about life, love, middle
age, death.

He still found himself wearing his wedding ring. Why? It just made him
think of her even more. No, the truth was, everything reminded him of
her and how much he needed her. What he had not realized--until she was
gone--was that needing somebody was the richest experience of life.

He sighed into the wind. The challenge of his _Odyssey_ enterprise was
supposed to take his mind off all that. Was it working?

Maybe. But so far the jury was still out. . . .

He gripped the tiller harder and glanced up at the sail. Running
downwind, the cutwater on the bow was going to be a real problem. But
just another half hour, probably, and--

Christ! Bill's warning was on the mark. A massive hulk loomed dead
ahead, running with no lights. It was as long as a football field, the
bow towering up like a battering ram. She was moving in off his
portside stern--he guessed she was making at least fifteen knots. High
above the bridge, antennas and communications gear showed faintly
against the twilight gloom, gray and huge. Not recommended for close
encounters . . . but he still had time to tack and give her a wide
berth.

He threw his weight against the tiller, veering to leeward. Once clear,
he would bring the bow about and let the cutwater top her wake like a
surfboard, keeping him from taking water. Then he would be on his way,
into the storm and the night.

Maybe he did not even have a problem. They probably had picked him up
on their radar by now. It did not mean they would veer off course, but
they might throttle her down a few notches, just to be neighborly. . .
.

He was still leaning on the tiller, watching the monolithic hulk skim
silently past, when he noticed a throaty roar beginning to drown out
the slap of the ship's wake against the side of _Odyssey II'_s_ _hull.
After a few moments, as it grew in ominous intensity, he realized it
was coming in from the south. What in hell!

He whirled to look, and spotted a chopper, altitude about eight hundred
meters. What was it doing here? Had Bill been that worried, enough to
risk sending his hot new Agusta Mark _II_ out in this weather to . . .

No, it was way too big. When he finally saw it clearly, the stubby
wings and rocket pods, he realized it was a Soviet Mi- 24D, a Hind.
Over the mottled camouflage paint he discerned the blue star and white
background of the Israeli Air Force. Odd.

He knew they had captured one once, an export model from the Syrian Air
Force, but they would never fly it this far into international
airspace. It was a prize. What's more, this bird was fully armed--with
dual heat-seeking missiles secured at the tips of each stubby wing,
just beyond the twin rocket pods. Then it assumed an attack mode. . . .

7:43 P.M.

Sabri Ramirez stepped down to the weapons station again, gazed out
through the huge bubble, and smiled. "Shut down the radar. Their IWB
must not have any reason for alarm. They're probably running our IFF
through Gournes right now."

The Israeli nodded, then reached over to switch off all systems that
the Americans might interpret as weapons guidance. Next he clicked on
the low-light TV. Unlike radar, it was a passive system that would not
alert the ship that she was being ranged.

Ramirez pictured the control room of the USS Glover crowded with
curious young seamen glued to their monitoring screens, probably happy
to have a little excitement. Their IFF would be reporting an Israeli
chopper. But the minute the visual ID came through, all hell would
break loose.

So far, he told himself, it had been a textbook approach. Airspeed was
down to ninety-five knots, altitude eight hundred meters. Carefully,
carefully. First rule. Don't spook the quarry. We don't need radar.
We'll be passive, heat-seeking. No ECM they can throw at us will make
any difference.

"Under two minutes now," he said. "It's time."

"No pain, no gain." Peretz flipped on the radio. "USS Glover, we're
going to have to ditch. We have a crew of three--pilot, copilot, and
navigation trainee."

"We have emergency crews on starboard side, ready to pick you up. Do
you have Mae Wests?"

"Life jackets on. Standard-issue yellow. With dye markers and
saltwater-activated beacons. We'll--"

"Hawk One, our Traffic guys at Gournes just reported they can't get a
positive verify on you."

'Tell them to check again," Peretz suggested matter-of-factly. "Maybe
they screwed up in--"

"We'll have them run it through one more time. Routine security. But
you've got to keep a three-thousand-meter perimeter till--"

"Dammit, sailor, oil pressure's in the red. We're taking her by your
starboard bow. Ready your crews."

Suddenly another voice came on the radio. It was older.

"Israeli Hawk One, this is Tactical Action Officer Vince Bradley. Who
the hell are you? We VID you as a Mi-24 gunship."

Peretz had switched off his mike and was loosening his helmet strap.
"You got it right, asshole."

7:44 P.M.

_

_Vance watched as the Hind approached on the starboard side of the
destroyer, heading straight for it and dropping altitude. What in hell
was going on?

He lunged for the radio, and switched it to the military emergency
frequency, hoping to pick up some clue that would explain it all.
Probably not much of a chance. If this was a Sixth Fleet operation,
they would be scrambling everything.

Nothing. So he flipped over and started scanning the U.S. Navy tracking
frequencies--216.8 through 217.1 megahertz--in the meantime trying to
keep the tiller in hand.

The radio was alive, agitated voices yelling back and forth. It was an
argument, the helo claiming it was making a flyby for an emergency
ditch, the frigate not exactly buying the story.

No kidding. He'd checked out the chopper in close-up as she came over,
and he'd seen nothing wrong. Everything looked to be in perfect working
order. The only obvious thing out of the ordinary was that she was
fully armed. Whoever was flying her was using some kind of bogus Mayday
to get in close. But by now it was too late to try and give the frigate
a warning.

7:45 P.M.

"Perfect timing," Ramirez said, moving down to the weapons station and
taking Peretz' place. "We're inside forty-five seconds. Now just keep
her on the deck. First we neutralize the forward gun turret."

"Taking airspeed to fifty knots." Salim was praying now. "_Allau
Akbar_!"

"USS Glover." Ramirez had switched on the helmet mike again. "We have a
confirmed ditch. Oil pressure just went entirely. We'll be taking her
by the bow."

"I repeat, who the hell are you?" the TAO's voice came back on the
radio. "We still have no confirm on your IFF. If you make a pass, I'll
assume hostile intent."

"Sorry. No time to play this by the book," he replied. "We're
ditching."

He immediately clicked on the radar. In less than ten seconds he'd be
in position to lay a Swatter directly into the forward gun turret.
Command on the _Glover _knew it, and at that moment the gun was
swiveling, coming around.

Suddenly a blaze streaked past them in the sky as the forward gun fired
and a telltale tracer ripped by. It was intended as a warning.

But now the gun glowed on the IR interrogation screen.

Thank you very much, Ramirez thought, and flipped a switch, activating
the starboard Swatter's heat-seeking guidance system.

7:46 P.M.

"Right." Alfred Konwitz snapped to attention. "Yes, sir."

He slammed down the phone and whirled around to Jack Mulhoney. "Full
denial, sir. Israeli Control says they have no military aircraft
operating anywhere in that sector of the Aegean. They double-confirm.
That's Class A. Hard."

"We're in the shit. Some son of a bitch is closing on one of ours, and
we don't even know who he is." He picked up the headphones, then
switched on the scrambler. "_Glover_, do you read me? I think it's a
bogey. I can't tell you that officially, but you'd better alert your
TAO in the next five seconds or it'll be your ass, sailor."

"This is Bradley," came back a new voice. "We just-- Jesus!"

"_Glover_, what--?"

"Hostile action . . . do you copy? We've got a hostile."

"How many--?"

"It's visual ID'd as a Russian Mi 24-D. With Israeli markings. We're
taking fire forward--"

"What are--?"

Sounds behind the radio voice had erupted in turmoil. Something
catastrophic was going on.

"Al," he turned quickly, "get Command. I think we've got an Israeli-
ID'd Hind taking hostile action on the _Glover_."

He didn't realize it, but with those words he had played directly into
Sabri Ramirez's hands. The scenario was now a lock.

When Jack Mulhoney turned back to his radio, he only heard static.

7:47 P.M.

Vance watched as the frigate got off a warning tracer, but to no
effect. The Hind ignored it, as a stream of 57mm rockets from under the
chopper's stubby starboard wing flared down, while the radar-slaved
machine gun beneath the nose opened fire. Then the weapons operator on
the Hind loosed a starboard-mounted heat-seeking Swatter, and an
instant later flames erupted on the frigate's bow, an orange and black
ball where the forward gun turret had been. As it spiraled upward into
the night, the turret and its magazine exploded like a giant, slow-
motion cherry bomb.

He could see sailors running down the decks, could hear the sound of a
shipboard fire alarm going off, the dull horn used for emergencies.
They were calling all hands to station, but their response had come too
late. The false-flag approach had caught the U.S. Navy off guard, its
defenses down.

The radio crackled alive with a Mayday. Were there any other ships in
the area? he wondered. Anybody to take out the bastards in the chopper?

Now it was banking, coming around, bringing the frigate's stern into
its deadly view. Then a blaze of 57mm rockets poured in, engulfing the
communications gear and antennas. Next the weapons operator loosed a
second Swatter directly into the bridge.

Christ!

Seconds later it had transformed the midsection of the frigate into a
ball of fire. He watched aghast as the blast flung the men on the
bridge outward through the glass partition.

He plunged for cover just as the first airborne shock wave ripped
_Odyssey II's _linen sail loose from its lines. When he rose to try and
grab the starboard tiller, a second shock wave caught him and flung him
savagely against the mast.

The next thing he knew, he was clinging to the portside gunwale, one
hand still tangled in the lines that had been ripped from the sail. The
night sky had turned a blood red, reflecting down off the low-lying
clouds.

Then he felt a tremor in the hull as a massive wave caught him and the
pegs that held the stern together--so lovingly installed--sheared. The
aft section of _Odyssey_ _II_ instantaneously began to come apart. The
light woods would float-- she was, after all, hardly more than a raft
with sides--but she would be helpless. His handmade marvel had been
reduced to a bundle of planks, barely holding together, sail in shreds,
twin rudders demolished.

For a moment he counted himself lucky. His body unscathed, he probably
could weather the storm by just hanging on.

Then it happened. Whether through luck or skill, the chopper's weapons
operator laid another one of the Swatter missiles into the frigate's
stern section, causing a massive secondary explosion, a billowing ball
of fire that punched out near the waterline. This time, he knew, a wall
of water would come bearing down on him, sending a terminal shock wave
through what was left of _Odyssey II_.

You've got to try and keep her aright, he told himself. Try and lash
yourself down with one of the lines. . . .

The wall of water hit, hurtling him over the side. He grasped for a
section of gunwale, but it was too late. The wave obliterated
everything. Now the swell was churning against his face as he tried to
stroke back, his lungs filling with water. His arms were flailing,
hands trying desperately to grasp the slippery cypress planking. The
Switlik vest was holding, so he was in no danger of drowning. Yet.

Fighting the swell with his left hand, spitting water, he reached out
with his right, trying to catch any piece of wreckage floating by.
Finally, he succeeded in wrapping a line around his wrist. He gasped,
choking, and caught his breath. Then, still grasping the line, he
draped his left arm across _Odyssey II's _shattered side and used the
line to pull himself over, into what was left of the hold. If he could
stay with her, he figured, he might still have a chance.

Just as he tried to rise to his feet, however, he looked up to see the
mast slowly heeling over, coming straight down.

He toppled backward, hoping to dodge it, but it slammed him just across
the chest. The world swirled into blackness, as even the light from the
blazing ship behind him seemed to flicker.

Stay conscious, he told himself. Stay alive.

Holding onto the toppled mast, using it as a brace, he managed to rise.
And now the Hind had completed its gruesome handiwork and was banking.
Again it was going to pass directly overhead.

By God, he thought, this thing isn't over. Those bastards are not going
to get off scot-free.

7:50 P.M.

_

_"You used the Swatters!" Salim was shoving the throttle levers forward
as he banked. His voice was incredulous. "You said we were just going
to disable the TRSSCOMM system and the radars with rockets."

TRSSCOMM was short for Technical Research Ship Special Communications.
The frigate was equipped with batteries of listening antennas, an
elaborate system of sensors and sophisticated computers, and various
hydraulic systems on the stern needed to twist and turn the various
dishes. But it also was manned.

What was the point of mass murder? Ramirez had explained that the
_Glover _was a spy ship that worked for the U.S. National Security
Agency, the NSA. Normally it operated within a small region, in a
special "hearability" area just off Crete where a fluke in the weather
allowed it to eavesdrop on all the Middle East; the crew could even
watch Cairo television.

Salim was stunned. Ramirez, he had suddenly realized, was a madman. It
was one thing to require an occasional killing in an operation this
complex--after all, he had had to shoot his weapons operator in order to
steal the Hind--but an all-out attack on a U.S. frigate was pointless.
The stakes had just gone through the roof.

However, Salim's younger brother, Jamal, had exactly the

opposite reaction. With a surge of pride he exclaimed, "Praise be to
God," and fell to his knees on the rear litter. This was a leader he
would follow anywhere.

The others did not share Jamal's joy. They considered themselves
professionals, and overkill was not businesslike. However, they merely
glanced at each other and kept silent. Squabbling with Ramirez served
no purpose.

"We were only going to take out their tracking capability," Salim said
again, his anger growing.

"It's time you understood something." Ramirez handed his headset to the
Israeli, Dore Peretz, and stepped up from the weapons station, his
voice sounding above the roar of the engines. "I am in charge of this
operation. If I think an action is necessary, I will take it. Does
anyone here want to disagree?"

The question was answered with silence. He had just killed dozens of
men. They all knew one more would hardly matter.

7:52 P.M.

Vance pulled himself across the planking and stretched for a box of
gear stowed beneath the stern platform. In it was a constant traveling
companion: his chrome-handled 9mm Walther. Although the concept of
downing a Hind gunship with small-arms fire had been tested in
Afghanistan and found wanting, he was so angry his better judgment was
not fully in play.

The pistol remained in its waterproof case. Quickly he took it out,
unwrapped it, and clicked a round into the chamber. Then he tried to
steady himself against the fallen mast.

The Hind was about a hundred meters away now, coming in low. Were they
going to strafe? No, they probably didn't realize he was there.

They were about to be in for a surprise.

He could see the weapons-system operator inside the lower bulletproof
bubble. Forget it. And the pilot, seated just above him, was similarly
invulnerable. No way. Furthermore, the dual rocket pods beneath each
short wing were probably armored. Again no vulnerability.

Aside from the poorly protected gas tanks there was only one point
worth the trouble. If . . .

It was about to pass directly overhead, and he saw that he was going to
be lucky. One Swatter missile remained, secured on the hardpoint tip of
the stubby starboard wing. It was the only shot he had.

But if he didn't get it, they would get him. One touch of the red
firing button by the weapons operator and _Odyssey II_ would be
evaporated.

He took careful aim at the small white tube on the wing, still nestled
on its launcher, and squeezed off a round. But at that instant _Odyssey
II_ dipped in the swell and he saw sparks fly off the fuselage instead.
The chopper passed blissfully overhead, its engine a dull roar above
the howl of the sea.

7:54 P.M.

"We're taking fire!" Peretz shouted from the weapons station down
below.

"What? That's impossible." Ramirez whirled, then stepped in behind him
to look. Lights from the control panel winked over his shoulders, while
below them the Aegean was dark and gray. "Check the look-down radar."

Peretz flipped a switch on his left and scanned the screen.

'There's something down there. Maybe a fishing--"

"Idiot, nobody's fishing here now. Not with this weather." He looked up
and shouted to the cockpit. "Salim, take her about, one-eighty, and
we'll strafe the son of a bitch."

The 12.7mm nose cannon was slaved to the radar, another of the Hind's
many well-designed, and lethal, features. While Ramirez watched--he
would have moved back into the gunnery seat himself, but there was no
time--Dore Peretz switched on the nose cannon. When the target locked on
the radar, he pushed the fire control under his right hand.

7:55 P.M.

A flare of machine-gun fire, hopping across the churning sea, caught
the side of _Odyssey II_ and sprayed flecks of wood around him. But the
swell was making him an elusive target. The line of fire had not really
done any damage, not this time.

They knew he was there, though. Now the chopper was banking and
returning for another pass.

Maybe, he thought, they're going to stick with the nose cannon. They
won't bother wasting rockets or a multi- thousand-dollar Swatter
missile on the wreckage of a raft. The bastards are just having some
target practice, a little fun and games.

He saw the flames from the nose cannon begin as the massive Hind
started its second pass. This was it. _Odyssey II _was about to be
history.

But not before he gave her one last blaze of glory.

Holding to the gunwale and readying himself, he took careful aim at the
starboard Swatter, still perched like a thin white bird on the stubby
wingtip. He steadied the Walther, on semiautomatic, and began firing--
oblivious to the line of strafing coming his way.

He saw the rounds glancing off the armored wing, and the sparks guided
his aim. The clip was going fast, but then . . .

Bingo.

A flare erupted, then an orange fireball, neatly severing the starboard
wingtip. The missile had detonated, but just as it did, the Hind's
strafing caught _Odyssey II_ right down the middle, shearing her in
half.

7:56 P.M.

"Stabilize her!" Peretz felt himself flung against the bulletproof
bubble that shielded the weapons station. A blinding explosion jolted
the Hind, and the accompanying shock wave from the detonating Swatter
spun it around thirty degrees. Several gauges in the instrument panel
had veered off scale.

Salim reached up and cut the power to the main rotor, then eased the
column and grabbed the collective pitch lever with his left hand. In
less than a second the Hind had righted herself. Slowly the instruments
began coming back as the electrical system recovered from the impact.

"Tail rotor's okay," he reported, checking the panel. "Altimeter reads
five hundred meters." He looked up. "What in the name of God happened?"

"Our last Swatter detonated. The question is, why?" Ramirez answered.
He was staring angrily out the high-impact plastic of his bubble at the
wreckage of the starboard wing.

Dore Peretz, now in the weapons station in the nose, was talking to
himself. "I got the bastard."

7:57 P.M.

_

_He shoved the Walther into his belt and dove into the swell, the cold
waters crashing against his face. The _Odyssey II _was reduced to
debris. His labor of love, half a year's work, all evaporated in an
instant. The Zen masters were right: never get attached to physical
things.

He avoided the deadly shards of wood, then seized onto a section of the
mast that had blown in his direction. The Hind was banking and turning
now, assuming a heading due south. That, he realized, was the direction
of Andikythera, site of SatCom's new complex. Was it their next target?

That didn't make any sense. Bill's project was commercial; it had no
military value. Or at least none he could imagine.

But now he had only one thing on his mind. He secured his life vest
tighter and held on to the mast, the salty Aegean in his face. The
current was taking him due south, the same direction the chopper had
headed.

CHAPTER TWO

7:58 P.M.

"Damn it!" Ramirez looked down at the weapons' readouts. "Did you have
the Swatter armed? The system should have been off. If it was on, he
could have detonated it by impact."

Peretz stared a second longer at the wreckage of the vessel below, then
glanced back at his instruments and paled. "I thought it was . . . it
must have malfunctioned. No fucking way--"

"Carelessness. Stupid carelessness." Ramirez bent his head and examined
the wing, then checked the status readouts on the weapons system. "We
lost the starboard rocket pod, too."

Peretz took one look and realized it was true. The rocket pod had been
shorn away, leaving the tangled metal of the wing completely bare. But
the Hind did not need its wings for stability; they were merely for
armaments.

"Well, so what? I wasted the fucker, whoever he was." He tried a smile,
sending a web of lines through his tan as the lights of the weapons
panel played across his face. It was the way he always disguised
nervousness.

Damn you, Ramirez was thinking. An Israeli cowboy. I would kill you on
the spot except that I need you.