Ignition. Part 20

He straightened his tie and walked to where Nicole had primly seated herself, folding her hands on her navy slacks. The Launch Director waited, a coiled ma.s.s of resistance and reluctant cooperation. "Ms.

Hunter, I believe this falls under your area of expertise. I must be able to observe the shuttle and the gantry, to make sure my bargaining chip has not been tampered with in these last, most crucial moments of our transaction. There's no telling what your boyfriend might be doing out there."

"He's not my boyfriend," Nicole said.

"That's not my problem," Mr. Phillips answered. He held up the detonator box, rubbing his thumb in a light caress over the firing b.u.t.ton. "I want you to get the video back on at the launchpad-immediately, if not sooner." He snickered. "My mother used that phrase a lot. I've always hated it myself."

Moving stiffly, Nicole turned to the controls in front of her. She played with the computer terminal for a few moments, looked at the meaningless words on her screen as if she didn't think Mr. Phillips knew what was going on. He hated it when people underestimated his intelligence.

She looked up soberly, fingering her gold necklace charm as if it were some sort of talisman. "I can't do that. The line's been severed. It's physically impossible to bring the cams back on-line unless the cable is repaired. And I can't find the break from here."

Mr. Phillips shook his head, heaving a long disappointed sigh. "I don't think so, Ms. Hunter. Apparently I know your own safety lockout systems better than you do . . . or could it be that you're lying to me?"

Nicole pressed her lips into a pale hard line but made no comment.

"I know there are shutdown points at many places in the loop, and I also know that the video can be rerouted from the source. As Launch Director you are capable of determining where this emergency cutoff was thrown. I would like you to do that for me-right now, please."

Nicole hesitated. Her hands twitched on the keyboard as if she were on the verge of crossing her arms in defiance again. Mr. Phillips rolled his eyes toward the acoustic panels on the ceiling. "So late in the game, everyone in this room is expendable. I would advise that you not force me to prove my resolve yet another time. We've still got a few hostages left."

That did the trick, and Nicole moved rapidly to check her status board. She used every system as if she had been trained on it. A very well-rounded astronaut, this Ms. Hunter.

"We can see the shutdown didn't occur here in the LCC," Nicole said. She swallowed, as if reluctant to give the answer, glancing through the slanted windows toward the crowded technicians still trapped on the firing floor.

Mr. Phillips waited patiently, tapping his fingers together. "Yes? Do tell." He glanced toward Rusty.

The redhead saw the glance and gave a high laugh.

"It's . . . in the TV relay bunker," she said quietly, sounding defeated. "The control point for the security monitoring cameras."

"Impossible. The bunker's been neutralized."

Nicole merely shrugged.

Mr. Phillips turned to scowl at Rusty, whose face flushed with surprise, masking his forest of freckles with a ruddy tinge. "That was your department, Rusty. Could this be evidence of sloppy work?"

The redhead frowned deeply, angrily. "The fat b.i.t.c.h was dead! I checked her. And we b.o.o.by-trapped the door to kill anybody coming in . . ." He drew a sudden quick breath. "The geek with gla.s.ses! Maybe he didn't get a full dose. Yvette said the blow dart would kill him but-"

"But somehow it didn't turn out as planned," Mr. Phillips finished, letting his disappointment show through again. He felt suddenly hot, as if the temperature had soared. This would ruin everything. "Why can't Yvette just use a gun like everybody else?" Rusty grumbled. "d.a.m.n s...o...b..at."

Mr. Phillips worked at his collar as the heat seemed to grow. Everyone in the room watched him.

d.a.m.n, he had used Yvette to neutralize the bunker, and she had never failed him before. But the signs were all there-this was the most critical part. Without the video he had no way to check on the bomb on the shuttle. Everything depended on this-the ransom, the escape. Everything.

He strutted across the room. He didn't like it, but he was forced to play his last card. "Rusty, now you're going to have to go take care of it yourself. I don't like being left alone with our guests here. No telling what misbehavior they might consider, but there's nothing for it. You must go tend to the mess."

He snapped his finger. "Hand me the Beretta. You take another a.s.sault rifle out of the car for yourself, but leave the rest of the toys for me. Dump them in the lobby. I have to prepare for the arrival of our helicopter. Now go on, and don't dawdle along the way. We need you back here as soon as possible."

Rusty looked determined and eager. The redhead's pa.s.sion more than made up for his lack of foresight.

"I'll get him, Mr. Phillips. You can count on me. Definitely!"

Mr. Phillips nodded absently. "You do that." He wasn't sure if he had sent Rusty out on this mission in the hopes that the young man might become a casualty. He felt he had more than made up for any outstanding obligations he owed Rusty, even if the redhead had helped to establish a new life for Mr.

Phillips, back when it had mattered. But as much as he disliked being left alone, being able to see the shuttle was too important for the rest of the plan.

Mr. Phillips cradled the Beretta in his hand and held the detonator in the other. He didn't like to use weapons, which were so loud and heavy and uncertain. He preferred employing other people for that, but he had to be flexible. No plan could be too rigid to account for circ.u.mstances.

After Rusty dashed down the LCC steps and out of the building, Mr. Phillips leaned back in a creaking chair and surveyed the hostages in front of him. "I know you must be considering how to overpower me, and I naturally get rather edgy in situations like this. It's the burden of responsibility, you know-but because the stakes are so high, I will be less understanding if anything, anything at all, makes me nervous."

He swept the pistol across the hostages, most of whom flinched in fear. Only Nicole sat back, meeting his gaze. "Besides"-he waved the detonator-"I can always blow the shuttle as a last resort. It'll only take me a second."

He wished he had thought to get a cup of coffee, but by now the pot would be sour and bitter, several hours old. And he had noted that the LCC provided only powdered artificial creamer, which he despised. If they had kept real cream, Mr. Phillips might have made someone get him a cup.

"Let's just sit back and relax for this last half hour, everybody." Mr. Phillips crossed one leg over the other. "I've got an idea. Does anyone know the Yale fight song?"

46.

NASA TELEVISION RELAY BUNKER.

SITTING ON THE EDGE of his creaking chair in the video blockhouse, Amos Friese watched his array of TV monitors, barely restraining a self-satisfied chuckle. By cutting 'the video feed from the launchpad, he had caused one heck of a lot confusion inside the Launch Control Center! Mr. Phillips certainly found it distressing.

"I hope you find that exhilarating, suckers," Amos said. He had thrown a wrench in the terrorists'

plans, and now he felt elated-glad to have done something. It was only a small flicker of vengeance for what they had done to Cecelia-but it was better than nothing. Iceberg would have slapped Amos on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

But, unfortunately, the plan backfired on him.

Watching on the LCC monitor, Amos saw Mr. Phillips dispatch the freckle-faced thug to the video relay bunker. The redhead nodded eagerly after receiving his instructions, and ran out of view . . . coming here, coming to get him. Him! "Uh-oh," Amos said. As he watched from inside the once safe blockhouse, he felt a hard lump of ice form in the pit of his stomach, spreading fingers of frost through his bloodstream. His nostrils flared as he breathed heavily. "Man oh man, am I in trouble."

Rusty would never settle for a simple tranquilizer dart, as the blond woman had. Because Amos had screwed up their plans, the redhead would want blood-his blood, and lots of it.

Amos jumped out of his chair and looked around, seeking help-but he found nothing to a.s.sist him. He was inside the restricted launch area, and it was him alone to fight against an overzealous thug with a machine gun.

He had to hide.

Amos looked for nooks or crannies into which he could squeeze his body-then he saw sunlight spilling in through the ruined blockhouse entry and rubble from the b.o.o.by-trap explosive.

Maybe he could run outside, far from the bunker.

Amos could just run out of the building, take his old Firebird, or maybe even the NASA security vehicle, and drive off-but then he would be painfully obvious and vulnerable on the empty and restricted roads.

Rusty was probably already in his own car and would have no trouble chasing after him.

Or he could head out on foot and duck into the dense underbrush. The thickets of palmettos, creepers, and scrub oak would hide him from prying eyes-and he would be left alone to make his peace with the coral snakes and the wild boars and the alligators. This was Merritt Island National Wildlife Sanctuary, after all.

But then he thought of Iceberg, out there doing what he could to save the day. No, Amos would stay here. Not because of his fear of the wild animals, but because running away meant flat-out surrendering to the bad guys . . . and he just couldn't do that.

These people had already killed Cecelia. They had tried to kill him, threatened to blow up Atlantis and its crew, and taken Nicole Hunter hostage. Iceberg was already out fighting his own battles against the thugs, so Amos certainly couldn't just cower in the bushes and wait for help.

He wondered what his brother would have done in this situation. Iceberg would stay and slug it out, of course. He would come out swinging his bare fists if he could find no other weapon-and he would probably take out three or four of the slimeb.a.l.l.s before they finally gunned him down.

Amos knew he couldn't succeed doing that. He wasn't a brawny hero-type. Admit it, he thought. I'm a nerd with delusions of grandeur, and would cause no harm whatsoever. Do not pa.s.s Go! Do not collect $200.

He had to use his head. He had time, not much . . . but enough, if he could come up with a kind of plan.

And he had an advantage in that he knew Rusty was coming.

His throat went dry, and he considered sucking on another one of the jawbreakers from the big jar on his desk. Instead Amos took out his second can of Jolt Cola, popped it open, and shot it down. It seemed like only seconds before the supercharged drink hit him like a bag of pure sugar.

Wow! That was great. He popped open a third can, gulped it, and felt the energy surge through his veins.

Man oh man did he need that!

As he sipped the last of the cola, Amos thought of his childhood. He and his older brother, Adam-before Adam had adopted his call sign Iceberg-had played in the snow-covered mountains around Colorado Springs. The two boys were Air Force brats, their father a.s.signed to the USAF Academy for a few years, before they were hauled off to Dayton, Ohio . . . then Albuquerque, New Mexico . . . then San Antonio, Texas.

Amos remembered playing hide-and-seek in the quiet, cold pine forests of Colorado, wrapped in his insulated winter jacket to keep him from catching a cold. His mother never failed to make sure Amos dressed warmly because his health was always bad.

The two boys would play war, hiding in ambush and then attacking each other with s...o...b..a.l.l.s. But it was always a one-sided battle. Adam knew how to track his little brother, how to find every place the kid went to hide. More often than not, young Amos got a s...o...b..ll in his face, cold and wet, splattering across his gla.s.ses, until he surrendered.

It was all good fun, but Iceberg always won.

Now, in the damp and cold blockhouse, Amos crushed the aluminum can into a satisfying mangled lump of thin metal, but it did little to convince him of his strength. He flexed his fingers. Now, down to business.

He was left to fend for himself, all alone against a well-armed a.s.sa.s.sin.

And this time Amos would get more than a s...o...b..ll in his face if he was caught.

47

LAUNCHPAD 39 A GANTRY.

FEELING AS IF HE had completed a marathon, Iceberg climbed the last fifteen steps to level 195.

They were by far the hardest. He could barely keep himself conscious with all the pain, all the exhaustion .

. . but if he slipped, he had a long way to fall.

Iceberg shook a drizzle of sweat from his short, dark hair. Pin-sized gnats and voracious mosquitoes buzzed around his head. The hard rifle dug between his shoulder blades, growing heavier by the moment.

He was tempted just to shrug it off and let it fall, but even that seemed to take too much effort.

He pulled himself up the endless stairs using the metal railing, keeping the weight off his cracked and soggy cast, lifting his body to balance on one foot before moving to the next step. The dissolving Fiberglas and plaster of Paris inside the cast made a slimy muck around the sensitive skin of his swollen foot-but he had so many other discomforts that one more didn't make much difference. He just wished he had swallowed a few more buffered aspirin before this whole mess started.

The gantry's crew access arm wasn't more than ten feet from him, but it seemed to stretch away with every step. In the distance, Iceberg saw rows of cars blocking every road into the ma.s.sive s.p.a.ce complex.

Whoever this Phillips character was, he had NASA security standing around with their thumb up their a.s.s.

Just a little farther. Grunting, he staggered up the last few metal stairs. He felt his biceps aching, his hands burning, his legs trembling, his foot shouting with pain. Hold out a another few feet- "Colonel Friese? I don't believe it! Good G.o.d alive, am I glad to see you!" Dr. Marc Franklin's voice called from above. The disheveled astronaut peered over the edge, amazed. "You could have gotten killed by coming up here like that. Lucky that sniper didn't see you."

It seemed too surreal. Through an exhausted haze Iceberg saw the man who had taken his place commanding the Atlantis mission. No, not taken his place, he corrected himself-the man who'd been a.s.signed by NASA to sit in the left-hand seat.

"No need to worry about the sniper anymore," Iceberg said. Franklin extended his arm. Iceberg instinctively wanted to decline the a.s.sistance but shoved aside his misgivings. He had the rest of his crew to rescue and a bomb to disarm. He balanced himself on his good foot and held up a sweat-slicked hand.

Franklin grabbed it firmly and helped pull him up onto the wide access arm. "Let's get you safe."

Franklin inspected Iceberg's damaged cast, his battered features. Iceberg sprawled out, exhausted.

"Safe?" he said with a groan. "I'd hate to see what you call dangerous." He waved off further mothering.

"Where's Gator? I saw him get hit. How is he?"

Franklin shook his head. "He's still alive, but not good. And Koslovsky's got her foot caught under the lower railing by the escape baskets. With Gator down, I can't get her free." He screwed up his face, looking as though he bore the burden for the entire mishap.

"Got to get them out of here," Iceberg said. "You, too. Right away." He tried to stand. d.a.m.n, he felt dizzy. He should never have stretched out-it only moved the blood to his head. Franklin reached over to help him walk down the access arm, but Iceberg waved the hand away. "I'm okay."

"Yeah, right, Colonel." Franklin didn't sound convinced. "Looks like you've got everything under control."

Iceberg worked his way down the access arm like an old man trying to walk after a car accident. "You don't know half the story. Let's get to Gator and Alexandra."

The shuttle pilot sprawled on his back, unconscious. Iceberg saw a dark blood splotch on his chest, soaking into the orange jumpsuit. His upper right arm was also crimson. Iceberg knelt beside him. "Hey, Gatorman-can you hear me?" His friend did not respond.

Iceberg looked up at Franklin. "We've got to get him out of here right away. Looks like he's in shock."

He wavered slightly as he stood. "Let's free Alexandra; then we can discuss our next step."

"Right."

The trapped cosmonaut lay on her side, nursing her leg. Her boot was just pet.i.te enough to have slipped in the small gap between the floor and the lower railing, and now at an angle she couldn't pull it out. "Can you move it at all?" She tried to rotate her ankle. "No. But I do not believe I am otherwise injured. Otherwise I would have to wear a cast like you, Colonel Iceberg!"

"Very funny."

Franklin squatted next to him and pointed. "If we both lift and turn, we'll be able to pull her out.

Lieutenant Commander Green and I were trying that . . . uh, when he was shot."

"You're right. It needs both of us." Iceberg moved around behind her. "Here. I'll pick her up while you turn her leg." He slipped his hands underneath Alexandra's armpits, gripping the slick orange pressure suit.