Project Cyclops
by
Thomas Hoover
."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 ...
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