Ignition. Part 22

"That's Mister Phillips," he said with an edge to his voice.

But Iceberg's transmission blanked, leaving only static.

"What happened? Why did he switch off the radio?" he demanded, glaring at Nicole.

She bit her lip, wondering what the little man would do now. Knowing Iceberg, he probably did far worse than just switch it off."

49.

LAUNCHPAD 39 A, VENT ACCESS ARM.

HOLDING ON TO THE railing, Iceberg watched the walkie-talkie sail out into open air, tumbling, growing smaller as it dropped. It had felt so good to hurl Mr. Phillips's voice far away from him. "I hate tedious conversations."

The radio fell for a full four seconds before it impacted on the launch-pad pavement and exploded into dark shrapnel.

Dangling at the end of the vent arm as he tried to reach the camouflaged plastic explosive on the external tank, Marc Franklin let his mouth gape open. "Are you crazy?"

It took Iceberg a moment to answer, still too wound up by Phillips's intrusion, the threat to Nicole. His anger began to boil over, but he tried to think straight. "We're better off on our own."

Franklin slid back under the handrails to the access arm. "But what are we going to do? We don't have a checklist on how to disarm this thing-if we can even reach it!"

Iceberg turned to him. It was a gamble, but one they had to take. "I'm betting the bomb isn't too sophisticated, just a block of plastique with some sort of radio receiver as a detonator. The slimeball didn't have time to rig any complex b.o.o.by traps. He was too visible to everyone on the launchpad."

"But what if you're wrong?"

Iceberg drew in a breath. From what Nicole said, the ransom money was on its way. And the only other option was to hole up like a scared bunny in the emergency bunker-if that wacko Phillips didn't detonate the bomb before they got there. "Got a better idea?"

They stared at each other for a moment; then Franklin moved to the railing. "Okay, but I need you to help me, or I can't get to it."

Iceberg followed, biting back his pride. "Show me what I have to do."

Franklin squatted, pointing to the external tank. "You'll need to crawl out there and hold my arm while I swing out. It's just outside my reach if I have to hang on to the railing."

"I've got longer arms," said Iceberg. "I can make it, I think."

"Don't start that again-look at your palms. You'll have a hard enough time holding me."

Iceberg flexed his hands, which were sc.r.a.ped raw from the chains in the VAB, and still hurting from pulling himself up the rungs of the access ladder. He took a deep breath. Chill . . . "You're right. Let me get into position."

Leaving Franklin behind, he worked his way under the guardrail and inched out. He studied how the other man would get to the boxy device. If the partially retracted vent access arm had been in place, it would have been a simple step to reach down and pluck it off the tank's insulation. No such luck.

Up here, Iceberg seemed to be a thousand miles high, clutching a rickety scaffold. With him holding on to Franklin, they would have to swing out, away from the access arm over a dizzying height, like the Flying Wallendas.

He blinked the vertigo away, still trying to drive thoughts of Nicole and her own precarious situation out of his mind. Mr. Phillips had rattled him, but he couldn't be shaky, not now. Steady, cool, chill, frosty . . .

He shifted position and braced himself where he could carry Franklin's weight. Now or never. "Okay, Franklin," he said without looking back. "I'm in position. Let's get this show over with." Then Marc Franklin let out a scream of agony.

Iceberg whirled, lost his balance, and grabbed frantically for the metal rail. He watched in horror as a muscular, tanned woman-her hair as pale as Jacques's-lunged forward to stab Franklin a second time in the back with a long thin stiletto as sharp as an icepick.

Her face was set in a grim, inhuman smile. She ripped the long blade upward as if she were gutting a fish. Franklin's blood sprayed in all directions, splattering downward in arcs of scarlet rain as she shoved the body aside like a discarded carca.s.s. She held the knife up, letting blood run down the slender blade, over the hilt, and onto her hand.

"Oh s.h.i.t," Iceberg said, struggling to get into a defensive position. "Ah, merde," she replied with a smile.

She must have been six feet tall and looked even taller as she strode toward him with a rolling, catlike gait. From the other side of the guardrail, she sprang for Iceberg and slashed at his head.

He ducked, reeling backward, battling for balance on the narrow metal arm. The stiletto whipped through the air with a thin whistle, missing his throat by a centimeter.

Iceberg gripped the bar and pulled his feet up, forgetting about his cast, about the pain, about everything but smooth, fast motion. He used the guardrails like parallel bars at a gymnastics meet. He rocketed his legs underneath, swinging as hard as he could as he rotated his body.

He hit the Amazon's right kneecap with a perfect, full-force impact. He heard and felt a satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage. He hoped that he had at least damaged her more than he had damaged himself.

Her head and upper body whipped forward, but Iceberg's momentum knocked her back. She jackknifed to a sitting position on the access arm, but somehow she retained her grip on the thin, curved blade.

Iceberg grimaced, closing his eyes with the reverberating agony from the impact. He couldn't pa.s.s out now. Keep moving. Frosty . . . Iceberg tumbled over the railing, hopping back to the main access arm. He breathed deeply and tried to regain his focus.

The woman hissed so loudly it became a snarl. Her ice-blue eyes flashed at him in a fury that overwhelmed her own pain as she struggled, using one hand to haul herself to her feet. Reeling and overbalanced on one leg, she held her weapon loosely in an underhand grip, a professional knife-fighting position.

Iceberg hopped backward as he watched her. She crouched and crept forward, like a cat. She stabbed out, feinting, as if her smashed kneecap meant nothing to her. He tottered away, antic.i.p.ating her move.

"Colonel Iceberg," she said coolly in a French accent. "You do not look like an iceberg now-more like a snowflake."

Taking advantage of his surprise that she knew his name, the woman nicked his cheek with the tip of her knife, drawing a long red line of blood, part Franklin's, part his own.

He saw she was playing with him. That feint had been meant to wound, not kill. Foolishly, considering the circ.u.mstances, she wanted to keep slashing him, make him die from a thousand cuts rather than kill him outright.

Iceberg hopped back on one foot, antic.i.p.ating her next thrust, but she stung him in the face again. He felt his warm blood trickle down his cheek. Iceberg ignored the laceration. He'd have to concentrate, throw her off balance, maybe take out her other knee. His commandeered rifle lay at the other end of the access arm, far out of reach-not that it would have helped him much.

He wiped the blood away with a swipe of his hand and continued backing toward the narrow end of the access arm. "What do you want?"

"I want your life, b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You've met my dear brother Jacques. Did you enjoy beating him? Tying him up? I think you gave him a nasty concussion." She lunged again, disoriented from her own smashed knee.

"I'm going to enjoy killing you."

The dead-end of the access arm was behind him somewhere, not ten feet away. The woman's eyes brightened as she saw that she had him trapped. She tossed her knife from one hand to the other, toying with him. "Where are your fans now, Colonel Iceberg? No one is here to save you."At least she was talking. He held out an arm behind him, trying to feel for the guardrail. He'd have to time things perfectly-he didn't have anything to lose.

His knuckles brushed against the metal bar.

A smile grew on the woman's face. Tiny spatters of blood from her wild knife slashes dotted her tanned cheeks. "I am going to make this painful, Colonel Iceberg-"

She pounced, fully extending her upper body, taking all the weight off her injured knee.

Iceberg dropped, pushing his feet under her, bringing them up as he fell backward. He grunted as his feet caught her stomach. She looked surprised as the wind was knocked out of her. She doubled up, bending forward.

Iceberg kept rolling, using his angular momentum as she started to fall. He flipped her up and took advantage of her weight as well as his own. Good old gymnastics. With a final heave with both legs, he sent her flying over the top of him, beyond the railing. "Up and over!" he said.

Screaming, she plunged down, down, out of sight.

Heaving, ready to retch, Iceberg crawled to the side, catching sight of the woman as she hit the curved side of the external tank and bounced. Seconds later her doll-like body caromed off the gantry structure, dangled for a second, then splattered on the concrete pad nearly a hundred yards below.

Iceberg breathed heavily. He pulled his leg up, then yelped. Sweating, he figured he'd probably rebroken his foot, or maybe just his ankle this time. Maybe both.

He crawled over to Marc Franklin and stretched him out. Blood still oozed from the long, gaping wound in the other man's back. His ribs and spine had been ripped open, and he no longer breathed. His orange jumpsuit was soaked with crimson blood. His head rolled lifelessly to the side.

Catching his breath. Iceberg crawled over and reached up to the railing. Blackness surrounded him, and he just wanted to collapse, to forget everything. But he had to keep moving, stop thinking.

One step at a time. Cool, chill, frosty . . .

The bomb remained his biggest priority.

He heard a helicopter flying in the distance. Squinting, he identified it as an Air Force chopper, an MH-60, not one of the NASA security types that had been shot down earlier that morning. It chattered through the air in a beeline toward the Launch Control Center.

The ransom, coming in for Phillips.

Iceberg looked down at the block of explosives still attached to the external tank. The access arm was far away from it, and he'd have to swing out, holding himself with one hand in order to grab the smooth casing. He was all alone, with no one to help him.

He didn't have any other choice.

With a last glance back at Marc Franklin's body, Iceberg drew in a breath to steady himself, then climbed over the railing. The bomb sat just beyond his reach.

Keep moving. Don't think about it.

The sound of the distant helicopter grew louder. He didn't have much time. He just prayed the surveillance cameras remained shut down. Otherwise Phillips would see him and push the detonator b.u.t.ton.

50.

NASA TELEVISION RELAY BUNKER.

AMOS HID INSIDE THE cramped metal tool locker, shivering with fear. The clammy air smelled of rust, grease, and plastic, coaxial cables and ammonia-based gla.s.s cleaner. He took shallow breaths, since breathing made him move . . . and if he moved, he might make a noise . . . and he didn't want to make any noise at all.

He wondered how long he would have to stay hidden. Rusty should be coming any time now, armed and dangerous, ready for blood.

It was miserable crammed inside the locker, but it was better than being dead. Amos gripped the fire extinguisher like a safety blanket. Though the caffeine from the Jolt Colas had begun to sing through his veins, his mouth was dry again, no matter how furiously he sucked on the jawbreaker tucked against his cheek, like a chipmunk h.o.a.rding a prized nut.

A prize nut, Amos thought. That's me. He reconsidered running out to the dense underbrush, hiding in the swamps where the terrorists would never find him.

He heard a distant, m.u.f.fled sound, an automobile engine that fell silent. The thump of a car door slamming.

Too late.

Amos swallowed hard and listened hard. His heart pounded too loudly. His breathing was like a hurricane in his ears, accompanied by the roar of blood rushing through his eardrums.

From the doorway he heard the redhead's sarcastic voice as he stumbled upon the two victims of the b.o.o.by-trap explosion. "Whoa, having a blast, guys?" Rusty laughed. "Definitely!"

Amos held himself rigid, not making a sound. He heard footsteps, a chair shoved aside, the clack of something metal-a gun, a big gun- b.u.mping against metal shelves.

"Yoo-hoo!" Rusty called. "Come out, come out, you little geek! I know you're in there."

Amos wondered if he actually expected an answer.

He heard prowling movements out in the main chamber of the bunker. The thick walls blocked outside sounds and reflected the tiny noises, amplifying them.

His gla.s.ses began to steam up. Amos strained to see through the razor-edge line of light through the crack in the locker door.

Shadows moved about, flickering in a weird strobe light effect across his line of sight. The old blockhouse was small enough that it would be only a matter of time before Rusty found him. Man, oh man! he thought, afraid even to whisper the words.

His hiding place didn't seem at all like a good idea right now, and his weapons were utterly pathetic. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Maybe he should just give up and ask Rusty for a quick death.

The freckle-faced terrorist would squash him like a bug.

The air conditioner kicked on with a roar. Amos heard Rusty b.u.mp against the furniture as if suddenly startled; the thug must be tense as well. Rusty had to be wondering just what Amos had up his sleeve.

From what Amos had seen on the TV monitors, Iceberg had made a good accounting of himself, and several of the other bad guys were dead. How could they know that Amos had far less skill than his big brother? "Aww, isn't that sweet!" Rusty said in a voice thick with scorn. "Almost makes the fat b.i.t.c.h look like sleeping beauty. Maybe I should give her a kiss and see if she wakes up."

Amos, livid, fought to restrain himself. He remembered the teasing that other kids habitually inflicted upon the skinny brainy kid. It made no difference which city they lived in; his father's Air Force a.s.signments had taken them from one end of the country to the other, and the bullies were always the same.

Amos could endure the tauntings. He always had, even if now it was directed against Cecelia. He pictured the evil freckle-blotched creep bending over her, puckering his rubbery lips like slabs of sliced raw meat . . . or worse, pawing all over her cold, rigid body.

Often, his big brother had come to his rescue-but Iceberg couldn't always be there. No doubt Iceberg would have launched himself out and ripped the thug's head off his shoulders and plopped it right into his twitching hands like a fresh cantaloupe . . . but Amos had to move at the right time. It was his only chance.

Rusty moved around, hitting equipment, clumsy and full of bravado. "Well, I guess the geek b.u.g.g.e.red off. I suppose I'll have to go now."

Amos heaved a faint sigh of relief. But even as the sound left his lips, he realized Rusty's voice had been too loud, too calculated-as if the redhead meant to flush him out.

Suddenly the locker doors were ripped open with a rattle of metal, flooding Amos's hiding place with light. "Peekaboo!" Rusty crowed, wearing a huge grin.

Amos shoved the nozzle of the fire extinguisher forward like a tightly coiled spring suddenly released.

He squeezed the trigger and gave Rusty a long, loud blast of cold white foam right in the eyes.

Then, without hesitation, he slammed the extinguisher hard on Rusty's right shin. He ducked and slipped under the killer's arm, diving past him.

Shrieking with surprise and howling in pain, Rusty let out a reflexive chainsaw blast with his a.s.sault gun. Amos scampered to the other side of the relay bunker.

Rusty roared, blinded, drilling the metal tool locker with so many holes that it looked like a cheese grater.

"Over here, carrot head!" Amos called, and then ducked under the safety of one of the bulkygovernment-surplus desks.