fighters flew close formations, letting the island know that whenever they wished they could bomb and strike, but that they chose not to do so at this moment.
This little island was in the palm of the American Navy and was being reminded of it constantly. Rubin had shrewdly ordered more consciousness sessions to remind Powies the aircraft were only an illusion of power. They themselves, in themselves, were the real power. They had to have a lot of sessions because Navy jets breaking the sound barrier every twenty minutes were hard to call an illusion.
“Don't worry about the planes or the ships or the guns. They won't matter.”
“I hope you're right,” said the engineer, who had been having headaches until he joined Poweressence and had learned that keeping his eyes closed a half-hour a day while concentrating on his power source would relieve him of the pain. His own doctor had said this was a standard way of relieving some minor forms of headaches. But ever since he had joined, he felt better about everything, especially when counselors would listen to his problems and help him trace them, reminding him that he was good in himself.
Like a true Powie he refused to listen to those who said it was just amateur therapy and group mind control.
It was the one thing in his life that seemed free of everything, free of all the constraints of his entire life. But looking now at the two-mile strip of beach and the naval power all around them, he had doubts whether the man who had made him a Warrior of Zor could pull it off. Even this man, this great mind in a poor frail body hacking up the results of four packs a day of unfiltered cigarettes, could not make the beach larger, or the U.S. Navy disappear.
“Don't worry,” said Rubin. “It'll work. It'll work like it's always worked. It works all the time. That's not the problem.”
“If that's not the problem, what is?”
“What I'm going to have to do if it doesn't.”
The engineer shuddered. No matter how frail this man looked, he was a genius of organization. Whether it came from his thoughts about planets the engineer did not know. But the man understood what great generals knew about reinforcing and contingency plans. What bothered him was that there was nothing that seemed to bother Rubin Dolomo, since he came out from behind the screen and told the engineer that now he and other Warriors of Zor could know his true identity.
* * *
He kept telling himself that his fear was the negative voice from the past. He saw that his partner, too, was trying to get in contact with his positive self.
Perhaps because he had been a classics scholar, Robert Kranz felt especially nervous this day. Athens, Greece, had once been the center of Western intellectual thought. But that was twenty-five hundred years ago.
Now it was home to revolutionary groups and had an airport that was, to hijackers, what an engraved invitation was to a dinner guest.
Robert Kranz and his fellow warrior in the cause of Poweressence had a choice of either bringing the weapons on board the plane and stashing them, or buying them outside the open gate from a dissident group of Palestinians who had seized the concession from the Red Army Brigades of Revolution.
More hijackings had originated in Athens, the Arab assured Kranz and his companion, than any other airport in the world.
“And for good reason. Not only do they not care, you've got people in power here who hate America. And who hijacks planes? The British? The Israelis? The French? No. So why should they change things? My friend, you have come to the right place.”
“I don't know,” said Robert Kranz. “I couldn't bring my weapons in on an American plane so I had to buy them here in Athens. I just don't know if I should pay premium price at the airport sale.”
The Arab pulled Robert Kranz closer to him so the noise from the jet engines would not drown out what he was about to say. They were just outside the perimeter gate, which was a loose connection of links that could be walked through.
“Friend,” said the Arab. “You look like a smart boy. You wouldn't come here if you didn't know what you were doing. Right?”
“Actually, we were sent,” said Robert. His partner still had his eyes closed, working on his fear.
“Smart people. They know the business. If you're going to do your business, Athens is the place to do it. Now you can put your bombs and guns in a valise, wrap them up in fiberglass, and walk right through their metal detectors. You could make them look like other things.”
“We had thought of that,” said Robert.
“Or you could have your friend here walk through the gate and give some ground-crew guy a hundred dollars and maybe the weapons will be left where you want them. And maybe not. Maybe he'll take your money and keep your weapons and sell them again.”
“That's possible,” said Robert.
“But with me you have a guaranteed weapons placement you can count on. I take credit cards. If the weapons aren't there, you can cancel payment.”
Robert thought about that for a moment. But he remembered what Mr. Dolomo said:
“In an operation like this, the more people involved, the more chances for it not to work. Get your guns and grenades there, but test them. Test them anywhere you won't get arrested, but test them. There are certain places on the plane where you can stash them. Here is a list drawn up by our engineer.”
Robert looked at the list. He looked at the Arab. He decided against letting the Arab place the weapons.
“I'll pay cash, but I've got to have weapons that work.”
“Actually they don't have to work, you know. The pilot only has to think they work.”
So that was why Mr. Dolomo had told him where to fire the guns so the plane would not be disabled in flight, thought Robert. He was not to kill anyone, but to make the crew think they were capable of killing someone.
“I want real working weapons.”
“That'll cost more. But don't be crazy. Don't take a real hand grenade. Those things can go off and take down the whole plane with you. You really want the dummy in a grenade. I can give you the American pin-pull and lever- release or the popular Russian. I don't like the Russian myself, because once you pull the pin it really is all over. It reflects their national character. On the other hand, with the American grenade you can even put the pin back. I would go American for your grenade,” said the Arab.
“American for the grenade, without the powder in it,” said Robert. He tried to keep his stomach from jumping around by remembering a positive part of his body that would put it all back into calm control. It wasn't working. But brilliant Mr. Dolomo had an answer for that too. In his wisdom he had said:
“Never mind that shit, Robert. Just get on board the plane with the weapons. It'll work fine. If you're scared, to hell with it.”
The Arab had a nice assortment of handguns and field guns.
“There is nothing like the Kalashnikov rifle, except in airplane aisles the barrel can get in the way. And a passenger can grab it, although I must say, if you are dealing with American passengers you often have help. We had a fine hijacking to Beirut recently where an American actually reminded one of us that we had forgotten a gun in the lavatory. You just can't beat that in passenger cooperation.”
“You're talking pistols,” said Robert.
“I definitely am,” said the Arab. “And let me recommend a heavy butt. You don't want to go onto an aircraft with a flimsy butt that can only be used to hold. You want heft because you are going to have to be beating people over their heads with it. It's your crowd control.”
“We already knew that.”
“So you've done this before?”
“No. First time.”
“Well then, you know you need at least two guns apiece, one for the belt and another for the hand. You can always use one in each hand. You've got to appear somewhat hysterical so they will think you're really going to go through with any insane thing, like killing yourselves too.”
“But you see, we will if we have to,” said Robert, who, after he had paid an exorbitant price for the guns and dummy grenades, offered to clean a bit of dirt from the salesman's hand with a cotton swab that he held in a rubber
