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El Sobrante, California
Cyclops Conspiracy: An Adam Weldon Thriller
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Published by Whitewater Press
Copyright © 2021 William McGinnis
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Kindle Edition: January 2021
McGinnis, William
Cyclops Conspiracy: An Adam Weldon Thriller
ISBN: 978-1-7336547-5-3
Cover design: Joseph Belocura Lloa
eBook design by Andrew Benzie: www.andrewbenziebooks.com
Technical Assistance: Will Farley McGinnis
To Western Civilization.
Contents
Map of the Western Aegean Sea
Chapter 1: The Strait of Gibraltar
Chapter 2: Athens
Chapter 3: Sounion
Chapter 4: Cyclops: My Eye
Chapter 5: Finikas Harbor
Chapter 6: Rinia
Chapter 7: Saadet
Chapter 8: Ermoupolis
Chapter 9: Cyclops: Jihad
Chapter 10: The Zorba Dance
Chapter 11: Aboard Deniz
Chapter 12: Paros
Chapter 13: Naousa Marina
Chapter 14: Cyclops: Taqiyya
Chapter 15: Dido and Humbaba
Chapter 16: The Party
Chapter 17: Profit
Chapter 18: Cyclops: Apostasy
Chapter 19: The Wide Aegean
Chapter 20: Folegandros
Chapter 21: Milos
Chapter 22: Helios
Chapter 23: Monemvasia
Chapter 24: The Standoff
Chapter 25: Limenas Geraka
Chapter 26: Spetsai
Chapter 27: Baltiza Creek
Chapter 28: Close-Hauled
Chapter 29: Idra
Chapter 30: Idra Harbor
Chapter 31: Patriot
Chapter 32: Galel
Chapter 33: Mohammad
Chapter 34: Cyclops: Purity
Chapter 35: The Saronic Gulf
Chapter 36: Athens
Chapter 37: The Oval Office
Chapter 38: The White House
Chapter 39: Cyclops: Allahu Akbar
Chapter 40: The Big Event
Chapter 41: Dupont Circle
Chapter 42: The Washington Monument
Author’s Note
About the Author
Chapter 1
The Strait of Gibraltar
“T
hirteen suitcase nukes?” Adam Weldon looked skeptical.
“I’m afraid so,” the admiral answered. “On their way to target cities in Europe and America.”
“Not good,” Tripnee said.
The three of them sat in the center cockpit of the nine-million-dollar, 70-foot sloop, Dream Voyager, as it glided on autopilot in light winds under full sail eastward through the Strait of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean Sea. The cliffs of Morocco’s Atlas Mountains slid by to starboard, while the Rock of Gibraltar towered to port.
Admiral Ty Jeppesen’s motor launch followed in their wake a respectful two hundred yards back, while the United States aircraft carrier USS Nimitz followed two miles behind that.
“Why such extraordinary lengths to tell us this in person?” Tripnee asked.
“Because America, Europe, the world, needs your help.” The tall, somewhat world-weary admiral, an old Navy SEAL buddy of Adam’s, exuded authority and urgency.
Eyes narrowed, Tripnee said, “But we need a break from all that.”
“I realize that. The thing is, you’re the perfect people, in the perfect position, to quite literally prevent World War III.”
Adam asked, “How?”
Tripnee crossed her arms, frowning.
“Back in the ’eighties,” Jeppesen said, “as the Cold War wound down, eighty-four portable nuclear bombs the size of attaché cases went missing in the Soviet Union. Just one could devastate a city the size of Paris or New York. If thirteen—or any number—were set off in Europe or America by Iran-backed terrorists, the inevitable response would be to obliterate Iran and who knows what else. Russia, Iran’s ally, would counterattack, and we’d be thrust straight into World War III.”
“But why me and Adam?” Tripnee demanded, scowling.
“Thirteen of these bombs will soon be smuggled through the Greek islands aboard sailboats—”
“Why sailboats?” Tripnee interrupted. “Why not private jets?”
“Private planes would’ve worked years ago,” Jeppesen answered, “but now, both big airports and shipping hubs, and also smaller airports, have scanners and sensors, and often, bomb-sniffing dogs.”
“And sailboats and yachting marinas are still below the radar,” Adam said.
“Exactly.” Jeppesen nodded.
“You haven’t answered my question. Why me and Adam?” Tripnee asked again.
“The two of you sailing Dream Voyager look the part. You’re glamorous. You’ll blend into the Greek islands boating scene.”
“Lots of your people can sail. Get them.”
“You both speak Arabic.”
“Not convincing.”
“The real reason?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Okay. The real reason: You’re the best.”
“Flattery will get you everything. Not.”
“Seriously,” Jeppesen insisted. “You’re both savvy and resourceful, and deadly when needed. Let’s face it, you’ve had more success taking down conspiracies than anyone else we have.”
“Humph.” Tripnee glowered, immobile.
“What Ty is too diplomatic to say,” Adam said to Tripnee, “is that we’re also unofficial, below the radar, and expendable.”
“Well,” the admiral admitted, “there is that.”
“So, if something happens to us, there’s full deniability,” Tripnee said. “That’s some sales pitch.”
Adam asked, “So what is the situation?”
“We’re looking at a new Islamic terrorist threat group, calls itself the Jamaat-e al-Aliemlaq, that operates in the Greek islands.” Jeppesen looked out over the sun-drenched water toward the eastern horizon. “Means ‘Cyclops Group,’ and we think it’s a mix of ISIS, al Qaeda, and the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps. They’re constantly changing, adapting. Iran supplies weapons. To finance their operations, they raid antiquities, arrange for human trafficking, you name it. All manner of dirty, nasty stuff. What’s weird, despite being religious fanatics intent on getting into Paradise by imposing Allah’s law, the Shari’a, on all the world, some of them have developed a taste for the good life: sailing, partying, carousing on the idyllic islands of the Aegean. We need to penetrate this group, as soon as possible—no later than yesterday, we’ve got to identify and track the key operatives and their boats, and find and secure those bombs.”
“Spread throughout the Aegean? That’s six thousand islands,” Tripnee blurted out.
“We have leads.” The admiral locked eyes with her. “You’ll have to be resourceful. Use your wits.”
Adam scratched his head and rubbed his chin. And eventually nodded.<
br />
Tripnee rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Also, Interpol is sending an agent who will join you and brief you in Athens. An expert in high-tech spycraft, including electronic eavesdropping and drone facial recognition technology. The latest stuff to give you an edge.
“I won’t lie, the slightest slip-up could get you killed. Also, we have constraints. People breathing down our necks. Senators and House people who oppose operations like this. People with no idea of the challenges we face, and no understanding of what’s at stake, are ready to hold hearings and scream bloody murder, and even send the three of us to jail if things go wrong.”
“Same ol’, same ol’,” Adam said. “What about the president?”
“We have his full backing.”
Adam felt his old friend’s stress. The admiral, as a key mover and shaker in the world of US espionage, had always displayed tremendous grace under pressure, but here, within sniper range of the Rock of Gibraltar, Ty Jeppesen’s voice and hands trembled with suppressed intensity as he concluded, “The stakes could not be higher. Will you help us?”
Tripnee, eyes narrow, neck muscles corded, rose up and jabbed a finger in front of Jeppesen’s face. “How the hell can we say no?” She stormed down the companionway.
Jeppesen signaled his motor launch to come alongside. Before departing, Adam’s longtime friend said, “Just so you know: Interpol and the Greek authorities are good, but we’re pretty sure they have leaks, and probably a mole. Best not to look to them for any help.”
“Good to know.”
“Also, you must be getting famous. Interpol specifically requested you.”
Chapter 2
Athens
F ive days and 1,640 nautical miles after the admiral’s bombshell visit, Dream Voyager swept northward across the Saronic Gulf toward Athens. An impossible feat for most sailboats, but an easy romp for Adam’s extraordinary craft. The boat, after all, had been specially conceived by acclaimed nautical designer, Bruce Farr, to perform like a Ferrari while providing the luxury of a Rolls Royce.
As Athens came into view, Adam and Tripnee sat together at the helm, marveling at the sight of the Parthenon on the Acropolis towering above the fabled city.
Tripnee said, “The Cradle of Western Civilization.”
Nudging her in the ribs, Adam asked, “What about your ‘Down with the Patriarchy’ campaign? Wasn’t this where the patriarchy got launched?”
“Ancient Greece was patriarchal, all right,” she said, poking him back.
“And?”
“And they also had plenty of amazing, badass women who didn’t take any shit.” She jabbed him again, hard.
“That was a badass poke.”
“But imagine how this sight must have overawed everyone who sailed into Athens in ancient times—and how it gave pause to anyone thinking about attacking the place.”
The Alimos Kalimaki Marina was a madhouse, pulsating with hustle and bustle. With sails furled, Adam motored deep into the marina’s labyrinth of fairways, while Tripnee hung fenders off the stern and along both gunwales. A dazzling collection of gorgeous yachts—all Med-moored, that is, tied up stern-to to the quay—extended as far as the eye could see. Every boat was a beehive of activity, some loading and heading out, others going nowhere, just teeming with people partying.
Finding no open quays, Adam picked a spot where the yachts on either side looked loosely packed. But were they loose enough for him to jostle them aside and force his way in?
He aimed his stern into a narrow opening between two boats, dropped anchor, and powered backward. Tripnee added fenders to both stern corners and readied the mooring lines. The trick was to pry the boats on either side apart without grinding boat-to-boat. Slowly, ever so slowly, with fenders squeezed almost, but not quite flat, the boats to starboard and port shifted aside as he eased Dream Voyager farther and farther back until, finally, they were in.
People materialized from neighboring boats to receive their mooring lines, which they passed through rings on the quay, then tossed back to be secured to stern cleats.
Tripnee said, “Good job, Adam, docking the boat. I didn’t think it would fit.”
Silly, Adam thought, but this simple appreciation meant the world to him.
Tripnee and Adam showered, dressed, closed and locked all hatches, and set the alarms. On shore, first, they checked in with the harbormaster and cleared Greek customs. Next, they visited a nearby supermarket where they filled a taxi with supplies to restock Dream Voyager.
After packing everything on board, they again locked up and set the alarms, and again set off, this time deep into Athens.
A thirty-minute Uber ride through teeming, sweltering streets brought them to the edge of the historic Plaka District which surrounded the Acropolis. Here they made their way on foot through ancient, twisting streets no wider than alleyways to a particular outdoor café. Taking seats at a shaded table, Tripnee ordered an ouzo and Adam a coffee. Here, soon, they were to meet their tech-savvy Interpol contact, S.I. Katopodis.
Adam studied their surroundings, his back to a stone wall, his senses alert. A steady flow of people, mostly tourists, but also local folks of all sorts, flowed past.
Tripnee glanced around, then looked up and let out a low gasp when she saw, far above, the Parthenon shimmering in heat waves rising from the city.
Then, off in a different direction, something in his peripheral vision caught Adam’s attention. A tiny drone moved slowly along at rooftop level, about fifty feet above them. He pointed it out to Tripnee. As they watched, it swooped down to hover a dozen feet from them, where it did a little dance, swinging from side-to-side, twirling and doing backflips. Then the hummingbird-sized quadracopter shot up, disappearing skyward.
“Why do I sense our tech-savvy Interpol guy is a hot-shot drone pilot?” Adam mused.
“Why do you assume S.I. Katopodis is a man? Could just as easily be a woman.”
“You got me.” Adam smiled. “Unconscious bias, perhaps. But, I dunno, what do we know? Super tech-savvy. A veteran Interpol undercover operative. A counter-terrorism expert. Speaks five languages. Skilled in hand-to-hand and small-arms combat. Explosives expert. Their top authority on Greece and the Aegean. And, I gather, an experienced sailor, to boot. Pardon me if I say the odds are Katopodis is a man.”
“Typical patriarchal chauvinist bullshit.”
Just then a tall, very fit-looking woman with wild, luxuriant, shoulder-length blond hair and striking blue-green eyes approached their table.
“Adam and Tripnee? Hi, I’m Agent Katopodis.”
Chapter 3
Sounion
“C all me Sophia,” the woman said as they all shook hands. Adam gestured for her to sit down, but she remained standing. “Thank the lord you’re here,” she said with an appealing German accent. “There’s no time to spare. We’ve got to get to Finikas Marina on the island of Syros. I’ll fill you in once we’re underway.”
Tripnee and Adam exchanged glances.
“Well, all right,” Tripnee said. “No beating around the bush.”
“Amen,” Adam said.
An hour later, after helping Sophia and Tripnee move a taxi-load of Sophia’s technical gear aboard Dream Voyager, Adam checked out of the marina at the harbor master’s office.
A wraith-thin, uniformed member of the Greek Coast Guard, a sort of naval policeman, said, for the third time, “Strong meltemi. Not possible to go to Cyclades. Saronic Gulf yes. Cyclades, no.”
And for the third time, Adam explained, “You don’t understand. I sail. I know what I’m doing.”
The young Greek kept shaking his head.
Should he just walk away, ignore this petty official, and sail to the Cyclades anyway? Probably not the way to go. Doing this might call attention to Dream Voyager just when their mission called for a low profile.
Adam dialed a number, explained the situation, and handed his cell phone to the official. The gaunt-faced Greek coast guardsman sp
oke briefly, but mostly listened. Two or three minutes later, looking chastened, he handed the phone back, and said quietly, “Sail where you want.” Apparently, Sophia had some clout.
Soon thereafter, while Tripnee and Sophia pulled in the stern mooring lines, Adam eased the throttle forward, and Dream Voyager crept away from the Kalamaki quay. Oh-oh. The harbor exit was to port, but an errant anchor chain from a neighboring boat rubbed hard against their starboard side rotating them to starboard. Worse, the chain passed close under their keel and looked like it would at any moment disable their propeller.
Adam looked back. A middle-eastern-looking guy on the quay pulled out an Uzi machine pistol. “Gun! Get down!”
Tripnee dropped fast. But Sophia froze. Adam reached out and pulled her down below the cockpit rim moments before bullets hissed by inches over their heads, ripping into the stern bulkhead of Dream Voyager’s cabin. The barrage was intense—but brief. Probably one full clip. Then silence.
Adam risked a quick look. The guy had already disappeared along the quay. But who knew if he might return or if there were others?
With Tripnee and Sophia still hunkered low in the cockpit, Adam stood up and accelerated forward, cranking the wheel full to port.
Come on, baby, turn, turn. And don’t lose your prop.
But the neighbor’s anchor chain wouldn’t budge, and Dream Voyager swung inexorably to starboard. Amazingly, though, the prop missed the mooring line.
Checking all around for gunmen, Adam realized he was heading straight into a narrow dead end lined with costly yachts. Despite countless near-death encounters as a SEAL, his heart was pounding. Hello, pandemonium. Fortunately, it was clear what to do. But was the fairway wide enough? And more importantly, was he about to be pulverized by another Uzi barrage?
Dream Voyager, in reverse, had what sailors call prop walk to starboard. Adam developed speed along the right side of the fairway, turned hard to port, then, just before his bow hit a majestic yacht on the left side of the fairway, he cranked the wheel the other way and accelerated in reverse. This stopped his forward motion, propelled him backward, and continued the boat’s counterclockwise spin. Trouble was, another dazzling yacht loomed a few feet off his stern.
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