Ignition. Part 11

Nicole Hunter's voice came back slowly over the speaker. "Atlantis, we need this channel open. I repeat, we're holding at T minus twenty and your instructions are not to interfere. Copy that?"

"Sorry to bother you, Launch Control. We've had a communication from Iceberg that-"

Gator grabbed the mike away from him. "Roger that, Launch. We'll keep quiet. Atlantis out." He switched off the radio, then turned to Franklin. He could barely control his anger. "What are you thinking, Commander? Houston controls all communications to the crew, not the LCC. They've been cut off somehow."

"She's the Launch Director, and we're supposed to stay put," Franklin said, stubbornly oblivious. "How much clearer could she have been?"

"She didn't even answer your questions! None of them. If everything was all right, Houston would be going ape-s.h.i.t right now. Something is wrong."

Franklin thought for a second, trying to concoct an excuse that even he could believe. "You heard her: There's a communications breakdown. And maybe she didn't understand what I was trying to say."

It was Gator's turn to snort. "Give me a break, Commander. Panther not only understood it, but she confirmed what Iceberg told us."

"You're crazy."

"And you're stupider than h.e.l.l. Sir." His frustration and anger finally drove away his usual good humor.

"I just spoke with Panther about Iceberg not more than two hours ago. She knows how he acts-she almost married the guy, and he was commander of this crew until last week. We know him, too. And you're just being dense." Then he dropped his voice, somewhat cowed by his own words. "No disrespect, sir, but this is an emergency situation."

Franklin looked around the c.o.c.kpit, as if trying to come to grips with the situation. His face hardened, but his overt anger faded. "You really think this ridiculous story is true?"

Gator felt his heart pound harder than he had imagined it would during the actual launch. "I believe Iceberg. That's the important part. The scary thing is-what are we going to do about it?"

23

LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER.

NICOLE SWITCHED OFF THE radio link to Atlantis, working to keep her expression calm and emotionless, though a hurricane raged inside her. Showing fear, showing panic, showing any sort of indecision would only provoke these terrorists, and she didn't want to give Mr. Phillips an excuse or make anything easier for him.

Iceberg! Here? She struggled to keep her surprise from showing.

She had known the shuttle crew would immediately suspect something out of the ordinary when she called them directly instead of going through Houston CAPCOM. The precedent of using CAPCOM had been set in the Mercury era, when the astronauts would only communicate with one of their own-a Capsule Communicator. Now she'd have to figure out her next step. She hoped the Atlantis crew wouldn't do anything foolish.

Touching the delicate gold key on its chain around her neck, she tried to focus. Her father had called it the key to her future, able to unlock her dreams. But she wouldn't have a future anywhere if she didn't resolve this disaster somehow. She had to a.s.sess the situation, put the pieces together, and make some sort of solution work.

"Just how long do you expect the crew to wait, Mr. Phillips?" she said, hoping to distract him. She had caught Franklin's comment, and though she couldn't figure out how Iceberg had gotten himself involved, she knew that it was just his style. As usual, she wanted to strangle him for barging in like a bulldozer. He never took ill-considered actions, but he never wavered from his determination either, and his stunts might endanger the lives of everyone.

"They'll just have to wait as long as is necessary," the little man answered, annoyance showing on his face. He tapped his fingertips together and paced around the VIP observation deck. "A great deal of forethought went into this operation, Ms. Hunter-perhaps as much as goes into preparing for a shuttle launch. The Atlantis crew wasn't supposed to speak to you about the extended hold until"-he pulled out his PDA and flipped it open to scan down the items on his list-"until about ten minutes from now.

Fortunately, as with any NASA launch, we have allowed for problems in our own private countdown.

"I do, however, need to determine exactly how the crew was contacted and alerted as to our presence, and how to keep it from happening again. Clearly, someone has clued them in. Feel free to make any helpful suggestions."

"I'm afraid you would find my suggestions particularly unhelpful," Nicole retorted, "and anatomically impossible to boot."

"Now, now. Don't let the stress get to you," Mr. Phillips said. He picked up a walkie-talkie and depressed the "transmit" b.u.t.ton. "Duncan, come in please. Duncan, are you there?" He waited while everyone else in the VIP deck remained motionless, terrified.

Nicole ransacked her brain for something to do but came up with no solutions. She looked down at the rows of concerned engineers and technicians in the security-locked firing room. The LCC workers were clearly restless, their faces either livid or pale. The preposterous situation had already rattled them, but the call from the Atlantis crew had pushed many over the brink.

"Come on, Duncan-answer me," Mr. Phillips said into the walkie-talkie.

Rusty snorted. "Probably out taking a p.i.s.s. You just can't count on some people."

Mr. Phillips shot a sharp glance at him. "Our Duncan is far too much of a professional to wander away." He tried three more times, then slammed the set down. "Something has happened to him. Most distressing."

Nicole fought to hide her hopes.

She did not see how the ruckus started on the firing floor-but in a moment all the technicians and engineers were shouting, clamoring, waving their clenched fists up at the windows for Mr. Phillips to see, while others pushed toward the security-locked doors where Yvette stood guard with her weapon.

"Oh, now what is it?" Mr. Phillips said.

Yvette came sprinting up. "I have smashed the code lock at the door, Monsieur Phillips. I'm not sure they believe our gunmen are standing outside the emergency exits."

Mr. Phillips shook his head, stroking his lapel. "They seem to have a misconception as to their options,"

he said. "Ms. Hunter, I defer to your authority. Get on the intercom and tell your people to cease this childishness instantly, or I'll ask Rusty to make an example of someone. You'd like that wouldn't you, Rusty?"

"Definitely, Mr. Phillips. There's plenty to choose from." Nicole gritted her teeth and resisted for just a second. Mr. Phillips picked up on her emotion but did not give her a chance to express it. He spoke coldly. "Ms. Hunter, if you don't make the announcement this instant, I will show you just how unimportant some of these hostages are to me."

Nicole believed him utterly. She grabbed the microphone. Even with her hands tied here, at least she could prevent other people from getting killed. That had to be her first priority.

"This is the Launch Director. Firing Floor, keep it down! You have to sit quiet or these"-she cleared her throat-"these gentlemen will start killing hostages. There's nothing you can do from your stations."

She prayed under her breath that they would believe her. Their noise quieted to an uneasy muttering. "Let's just wait it out."

"Very good, Ms. Hunter," Mr. Phillips said, straightening his tie. "I should have recruited you as part of our team. Such an aura of command! It sends shivers down my spine. Ever think of using your talent on Wall Street?" He smiled at her. She glowered back.

Mr. Phillips started pacing. He seemed deeply disturbed about his missing Duncan but struggled to cover it with aloofness. He tapped a finger against his lip. "Let us consider this-we're controlling all communications with the shuttle, but somehow the crew was contacted in the c.o.c.kpit. The astronauts are aware of our situation, at least partially. So someone has alerted them from the ground. Correct me if I'm wrong, but that must not be a simple thing to do. Otherwise our astronauts would be getting radio solicitation calls from life insurance salesmen as they await the countdown."

Rusty laughed, but Mr. Phillips didn't revel in the humor. He continued his a.n.a.lysis. "Therefore I must a.s.sume that with your superhuman abilities as Launch Director, Ms. Hunter, you can determine where that bothersome call originated. I want to know immediately." He stopped his pacing and turned to grip the edge of a table. His fingers tightened, as if he were fighting to keep his composure.

Nicole sat down, purposely sliding away from the banks of phones and computer terminals, and crossed her arms over her chest. Iceberg was a pain in the b.u.t.t, but she would never set him up for these a.s.sa.s.sins.

"If you think I'm going to lift a little finger to help you, you're-"

Mr. Phillips pounded his fist on the counter, losing his cool in an alarming emotional change. "I have no desire to argue the point! I have a precise timetable to keep."

He shifted his flinty gaze from Rusty to Nicole, past the senator and his aides, to the news cameramen.

He smoothed his hair, then spoke in measured tones. "Yvette, would you be so kind as to kill one of the cameramen? Our friend Ms. Hunter seems unconvinced of our resolve."

The big blond woman reached into her waist satchel, rummaging among the clanking sharp-bladed exotic weapons she carried.

The cameramen glanced at each other. Two put down their cameras, rigid with fear. Mr. Phillips eyed them dispa.s.sionately. "Oh, go ahead and do the one from channel seven. I never liked channel seven."

The singled-out cameraman blinked, unsure what was going on. With a smile of satisfaction Yvette withdrew a strange, looped blade from her collection-a set of bra.s.s knuckles with razor-edged sawteeth that looked like wicked shark fins extending from her fist.

"Wait a minute," Nicole blurted, standing up. "Okay, I believe you- Mr. Phillips just sighed. "But I'm afraid I don't believe you, Ms. Hunter-and I don't want to have to go through this discussion every time I make a simple request." He nodded to Yvette.

With a springy step the blond Amazon stalked toward the cameraman like a predator. The man raised his heavy video cam and backed against one of the narrow viewing windows. "Hey, wait a minute," the cameraman squawked as Yvette approached him with calculated slowness, confidence. "I didn't do anything. Hold it!"

Rusty held everyone else at bay with his two big pistols, smiling as he watched the lithe blond. Yvette's pale blue eyes seemed like tiny disks of frost. She swept her bladed fist back and forth, making a swishing sound.

"Mr. Phillips, I told you I would do it." Nicole bolted up and stepped forward. "Stop this bullying behavior. It's . . ." What would affect him? What would get his attention? "It's uncivilized."

He looked at her, his eyebrows raised. "Yes, I suppose it is."

Yvette bent over, her eyes narrowing as she coiled to spring. The helpless man held his video cam as if it were a shield. "Back off!"

"Oh, brother! This takes too long." Rusty released the thumb safety, casually pointed his handgun, and fired. With a quick coughing sound, a single bullet slammed into the reporter's chest, smashing him against the wall. Bright red smears ran down the cinderblock where the bullet had penetrated.

Rusty lunged forward to rescue the heavy video cam as the man slumped, gagging and coughing blood.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed the camera from rubbery fingers, then held it up and used the fabric of his jumpsuit to polishaway two droplets of blood from the lens. "Whew!" he said. "Expensive equipment."

Yvette, thwarted from her enjoyment, glared at Rusty, then moved in on him instead. The redhead stepped back and brought up his handgun.

Mr. Phillips interposed himself between Yvette and Rusty. "Calm down, both of you," he said. "Rusty, you must not be so impulsive. If I can't count on you to follow orders-explicitly-I will consider cutting you from seven-and-a-half percent down to five."

"Hey, Mr. Phillips! You owe me, after all I've-"

"Yes, Rusty, as you never fail to remind me. But you must follow the plan and do as I say. Besides, you're stealing all of Yvette's fun."

"Tell her not to take so long next time," he said petulantly. "Didn't you say we're on a tight schedule?"

"Yes, we are," Mr. Phillips said. "Yvette, perhaps you should try to enjoy yourself a bit less next time."

"Oui." She glanced at Rusty. "Next time."

Senator Boorman gasped, hyperventilating. He stood but was unable to speak. Nicole, felt as if she had turned to ice, suffocating in regrets. She should have argued more, insisted that Mr. Phillips stop-or she should have argued less in the first place, did what the terrorist told her to do. It was the coward's way out-but if she had cooperated immediately, that man wouldn't now be dead. He lay soaked in blood on the floor, as if accusing her.

Andrei Trovkin stood up, then sat down again, simmering enough that his black-rimmed eyegla.s.ses seemed on the verge of steaming up. He gazed at Nicole, then at the others, but managed to restrain himself, though he looked as if he wanted to go berserk.

Nicole slumped back in her chair. She gripped the padded arms to keep from trembling. An internal sound like roaring wind pa.s.sed her ears, but she could not concentrate. Think. Think! How could she get out of this?

She needed to draw on all her skills as a cool-headed negotiator, all the politics she had learned after leaving the astronaut program and entering the cutthroat world of upper management. This negotiation had a prize far more important than simple budgetary victories. Shooting off her mouth had just cost the life of an innocent man. She felt powerless-and she suspected that was exactly what Mr. Phillips wanted.

The little man folded his hands in front of him as if he were patiently praying in front of an audience.

"Now that I have your full attention, Ms. Hunter," he said, "I shall ask you again. Where did the radio call come from? Did it come from a would-be hero on the firing floor below? Who is this Iceberg, and how did he get in touch with Atlantis? I need to know, and you must tell me."

"No, the call didn't come from the firing floor." Her shoulders slumped. "Iceberg is the call sign for Colonel Adam Friese, the former commander of this mission-and he is definitely not here," she said dully.

"It'll take me a minute to track where the call came from."

"Colonel Friese!" Mr. Phillips exclaimed. "The poor man with the broken ankle?"

"Broken foot," Nicole said, pleased to be able to correct him. With numb fingers she punched into the keyboard and studied one of the monitors at the guest station. Behind the gla.s.s wall stood her now-unoccupied Launch Director's station on the firing floor, the chair pointedly empty, but she couldn't go down there now. She had to do what she could to solve the mystery from up here.

Mr. Phillips's intuition was right. Very few communications systems had the ability to reach the c.o.c.kpit directly. Iceberg couldn't have just picked up a radio and spoken to Gator, though he did know the command frequencies. Given the right transmitting equipment, the correct security protocol, he could reach his former crew. . .

A message flashed up on her terminal, and Nicole sat bolt upright. Of course, the Vehicle a.s.sembly Building!

Mr. Phillips saw her reaction. "Yes, Miss Hunter? And what answer do you have for me?"

"I . . . uh . . ." she mumbled, her mind whirling.

Mr. Phillips tapped his fingers on the countertop, whistling the theme from the game show Jeopardy.

He nodded to Yvette, who still clenched the razor-edged blade over her knuckles. Nicole got the point.

"The VAB," she said dully. "The Vehicle a.s.sembly Building. That's where the call came from."

Nicole felt a rush of adrenaline. Iceberg was inside the secure zone. The VAB had been evacuated well before the launch, and these terrorists claimed to have secured the perimeter beyond that point. But Iceberg had gotten himself trapped somewhere inside. Always where he wasn't supposed to be . . . that was just like him.

She should have known something was up the moment Mr. Phillips tossed the mission patch onto the counter. The name FRIESE embroidered at the top now leaped out at her. She couldn't imagine how Phillips had gotten the old patch, but that didn't matter right now. She felt a surge of anger, knowing how volatile the dapper little man was. If Iceberg was running around inside KSC, a loose cannon, a maverick, she hoped he didn't screw everything up. Negotiations would be delicate enough.

Then she realized they had very little to lose. Her own tactics weren't doing much good, as the murdered cameraman showed. Iceberg might even be their only hope.

Mr. Phillips grabbed the walkie-talkie again and tuned to a specific frequency. He clicked the "transmit"

b.u.t.ton and spoke. "h.e.l.lo, Mory? Mr. Phillips here." He tensed for a moment until an acknowledgment crackled over the speaker. "Good, at least one team member is where he's supposed to be! Would you and Cueball please make your way to the Vehicle a.s.sembly Building? We seem to have a pest, and he has holed himself up there. I would consider it a personal favor if you two would remove him with . . . what is the Hollywood phrase? Ah, yes. With extreme prejudice."

"Acknowledged, Mr. Phillips," came the nasal voice over the speaker.

Nicole clenched her fists but kept her mouth shut, afraid a careless comment might cost another life.

Iceberg had gotten himself into a mess, as usual, and he would have to fend for himself.

But he was good at doing that.

Mr. Phillips checked his PDA and read a brief s.n.a.t.c.h of information. "Colonel Adam Friese, call sign Iceberg. Ah! Our former commander has a rather checkered record on file. Seems to be quite competent, but he can barely walk with his foot in a cast that goes up to his knee." He glanced at his watch. "And we have three and a half hours until the gems arrive."

He flipped shut the PDA. "I don't suppose Iceberg will be any problem at all."

24.