Ignition. Part 5

Gator made a raspberry sound. "Haven't you heard that astronauts are all private millionaires?"

"In Russia politicians understand importance of s.p.a.ce flight, and public's need for heroes," said Alexandra. "Even with end of Cold War and fragmentation of Soviet Union, we have cooperation among independent nations for our s.p.a.ce program."

Gator said, "Unfortunately in our society, a lot of Neanderthals go into politics."

"Then our countries are actually not so different," Orlov laughed. The elevator b.u.mped to a stop at level 195 and the White Room chamber. Franklin pretended he had never made his clumsy comment, or perhaps did not even notice. "Okay, kids-leave the politics back on Earth. It's time to rock and roll. We've got a mission to accomplish."

White jump-suited technicians lined the orbiter access arm that led to the White Room connected to the shuttle. The five-foot-wide, sixty-five-foot-long access arm looked like a gladiator tunnel. The last few techs applauded as Gator strolled toward the shuttle. Yep, I could get used to this real fast, he thought.

And everybody said I had a big ego when I was just a Navy football player.

He reached the circular hatch on the orbiter's left side, which led directly to the mid-level of the craft.

A tech stood on either side to a.s.sist him; another waited just inside the shuttle. "Good luck, Lieutenant Commander," said one of the techs as she held out a hand to help him through the access way. "My daughter wants to be an astronaut, just like you."

Gator shook the woman's hand and saw a lot of his mother in her eyes. His mother had pushed him never to accept the mediocre. "Make sure your daughter goes to Annapolis, then," Gator said, "and not any of those other two d.i.n.ky schools that try and pa.s.s for military academies."

"I heard that, Gator! Don't lead that young lady astray." Major Arlan Burns was the crew's sole remaining Air Force officer-now that Iceberg had been pulled from the mission. Gator waved the comment aside with a laugh. Stooping down, he climbed into the shuttle, using the mid-deck wall as the floor. He walked in a low crouch, stepping over hand and foot grips, and made his way to the flight deck. There the pilot's seat was on the far right, its back to the floor.

The front section of the flight deck was covered with lighted panels, old screen displays, and switches masked by metal guards-technology straight from the seventies, but it worked, virtually guaranteed not to fail. Gator stepped over the mission specialist's chair and climbed into his seat on his back in a sitting position.

Commander Franklin followed, and they both strapped into their seats up front. Gator scanned the console, concentrating on focusing his mind on the mission. Just like the simulator. He glanced at the panels-front, left side, next to the commander, center, right, next to the pilot overhead- and at the upgraded flatscreens. All there, no surprises.

They had another few minutes before it was time to remove the Velcro-backed cue cards from the flight-deck file and attach them to the instrument panel. He put on his headset and plugged into the console.

This would be the last time in the two-week mission he had a moment to himself to collect his thoughts.

So here he was, Annapolis's smallest football player on top of the biggest Roman candle in the country.

He glanced over at Franklin. The new commander looked over his shoulder at the white-suited techs helping the astronauts climb aboard. Alexandra strapped in directly behind him in the mission specialist's seat; her Russian comrades were on the mid-deck with Burns and Walker, out of sight. Franklin allowed everyone to spin up their stations by themselves.

Even with the well-rehea.r.s.ed routine, Gator still thought it would be comforting to have Iceberg's cool hand guiding them. He started to wonder about his friend, but Franklin's voice came over the intercom.

"Voice check, kids. On my count."

Gator turned his attention back to the flight. A little more than one hour to go. From here on out it was by the book, no surprises.

9.

GUARD FENCE-RESTRICTED AREA.

AS THE COMMANDEERED NASA car drove away from the video-relay blockhouse, Mr. Phillips lounged in the front pa.s.senger seat, studying his handheld personal data a.s.sistant. He adjusted the brightness on the small liquid crystal screen and squinted at the list displayed by the computer. Things to Do Today.

Using a blunt stylus to scroll through the data file that detailed every point in the shuttle countdown sequence, he ticked off the events that had already occurred. He rubbed one finger along his clean-shaven upper lip and studied the parallel timeline for his team, marking each activity his people had completed and the tasks in which they were presently engaged.

He cleared his pager of the message that had appeared just moments before: PACKAGE PLANTED-JACQUES. "Good." He used the stylus to check that item off on the touch-sensitive screen.

As Duncan drove the car north along the narrow gra.s.s-lined road, puffing on a menthol cigarette, Mr.

Phillips fumbled in his front pocket and withdrew the pocket watch. He looked up from the watch and the open PDA to note their location and allowed himself a warm, satisfied smile. "Precisely on time." He twisted in his seat to see Yvette and Rusty sitting in the back, both flushed with excitement. "Success comes through careful planning," he said to them. "And we have been careful indeed."

"You always are, Mr. Phillips," Rusty said.

Duncan tossed long gray-brown hair out of his eyes and glanced away from the road toward the pa.s.senger seat. "We're about half a mile from the guard shack, Mr. Phillips," he said in his cheery Australian accent, tossing the cigarette b.u.t.t out the window.

"All right, pull over to the side of the road, please. Yvette, my dear, would you care to drive? We'll need your expertise in a few moments."

"Oui, Monsieur Phillips," she said. Duncan pulled off onto the flat damp gra.s.s beside the road, leaving fresh tire tracks among others already pressed into the soft sandy ground. Shifting the government car into park, he opened the squeaking door and climbed out, holding it open for the pale-blond Amazon.

Mr. Phillips scanned the area as Duncan and Yvette exchanged places. The road was deserted. The NASA vehicle had allowed them to gain access to the eastern security road, which they had driven up from Cape Canaveral earlier that morning. The terrain lacked the rugged, rocky features Mr. Phillips had known growing up near the New England coast; here in the lowlands they were sure to be spotted if they acted out of place.

Yvette slipped behind the wheel and slid the seat back as far as it would go. She adjusted the mirror, then clicked the left turn signal before pulling back onto the deserted road. She drove the white government sedan at precisely the posted speed limit, never straying over the divider line.

Mr. Phillips turned back to the PDA and pointed the stylus to the other items on the list. "Rusty," he said, "you're sure all the motion sensors are disabled? The video loops playing in the TV bunker are a perfect subst.i.tute?"

"Definitely, Mister Phillips," Rusty said. "I picked a video to match the weather and time conditions for this launch. NASA will keep watching their screens, but they'll be seeing last year's launch. Sooner or later somebody's going to notice the difference-but they'll be snowed long enough."

Mr. Phillips checked that item off as complete, then straightened the gold-and-white cloisonne s.p.a.ce shuttle pin at his lapel. The pager in his pocket went off, and he pulled it out to scan the brief message on its tiny screen. "READY-MORY."

"Ah," he said with a smile, "our aquatic friends are in position. Good." He used the charcoal-gray stylus to check off the next item on the list, then clicked shut the lid on the handheld PDA. "Only two more steps in phase one. Everything is proceeding with remarkable efficiency."

"Approaching the gate, Monsieur Phillips," Yvette said, slowing down.

"Onward and upward," he said. "Just like a bull market." From the backseat, Duncan said, "After today we won't need to do any more working for the rest of our lives, mates."

Mr. Phillips frowned and turned to him. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Duncan."

Not much larger than a telephone booth, the guard shack stood alone by the road. Bright red letters on a white signboard admonished, "Warning, Restricted Area."

An older, mustached man sat outside the shack in a colorful folding lawn chair, the kind one could buy for a few dollars at a discount department store. Seeing their white NASA car approach, the guard stood to wait for them. From the casual way he moved and the friendly expression on his face, it was apparent that he expected no trouble. They were probably the hundredth car to pa.s.s through in the last few hours. This old man would pose no problem at all.

Yvette brought the car to a gentle stop as the guard came around toward the driver's side window. She carefully turned the crank to lower the gla.s.s, then shifted the car into park so she could use both of her hands.

"Excuse me, my good man," Mr. Phillips said, leaning close to Yvette, "isn't this the way to the rocket?"

Yvette whispered, "Monsieur Phillips, I will need room-if you could lean back?" He pressed himself against the pa.s.senger door, out of the way.

"Sorry, folks," the guard said with a Hispanic accent as he stooped to Yvette's window. He was swarthy and potbellied. "This area is restricted for the launch. Everybody's been cleared beyond this point.

The last van hauling the remaining workers from the launchpad is due out here any minute. You'll have to drive back to the causeway and park your car there to watch the launch, or you can drive around to the Banana Creek VIP viewing site." He frowned. "Could I see your pa.s.ses, please?"

"No, I'm afraid not," Mr. Phillips said quietly.

The guard raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?" He leaned into the car, unable to believe what Mr.

Phillips had said.

Yvette struck in one fluid motion. She whipped her left arm over the old guard's neck. The man struggled. He gasped as Yvette tightened her grip. Pulling his head sharply down, she viciously twisted his head and slammed him down against the door again, crushing his larynx. A loud snapping sound reverberated throughout the car, and the guard fell slack, his eyes bugging out in astonishment, rapidly growing dull with death.

"Something caught in your throat?" Mr. Phillips said. He reached over, planted his hand on the guard's head, and shoved, toppling the old man away from the driver's door to prevent messy stains on his suit.

Mr. Phillips found it amazing that Yvette could move so well in such a cramped s.p.a.ce. Exhilarating!

She was so professional, and so entertaining. The only other person remotely comparable was her dearlover, Jacques.

Duncan scrambled out of the car as Rusty holstered the silenced pistol he had taken out, just in case Yvette ran into difficulty. Yvette remained behind the wheel while the others did their duties; she had already done hers.

Mr. Phillips waited primly beside her. "Pop the trunk for them, Yvette," he said.

Duncan came around and bent over, gripping the fallen guard under the armpits. He relieved the old man of his side arm, then dragged him through the thick gra.s.s into a bog of weeds and underbrush behind the shack, hiding the body from the main road. He wiped his hands on his nondescript jumpsuit, then shucked out of it to reveal a gray NASA security uniform. Kneeling, he unfastened the guard's badge and pinned it on himself. He then folded the jumpsuit and stuffed it behind the body. Sooner or later, some animal would take care of the details.

From the trunk, Rusty lifted the box of carefully packed land mines and carried them around behind the shack next to an old, empty water-cooler. A three-wheeled all-terrain vehicle sat parked behind the shack, like a grown kid's toy. Rusty returned to haul out the tripods, tripwires, motion sensors, and five FAMAS G2 automatic a.s.sault rifles, piling them beside the shack for Duncan to set up once they had left him in position.

Mr. Phillips took a moment to step out of the car for a stretch. Curious, he peeked into the guard shack, wondering what kind of man would just sit there in boredom all day long waiting for something to happen . .

. and then be completely unprepared for it when it did. He shook his head.

Numerous mission patches adorned the walls, like poor man's trophies. On the speckled Formica counter lay a new cloth patch for this morning's Atlantis launch, colorful and embroidered, showing a bear and an eagle. How patriotic. Mr. Phillips picked it up, fingering the rough, regular texture of fine threads.

His lips formed a gentle smile as he pocketed the patch, smoothing his suit jacket. "It'll make a fine memento . . . might even be worth something someday." This launch-or lack thereof-was sure to go down in history.

Mr. Phillips turned to view the distant shuttle on the launchpad. The orbiter waited like a bridled stallion, ready to leap into the void of s.p.a.ce. He stared in awe, slowly shaking his head. Such a magnificent machine. A technological marvel. The pinnacle of mankind's engineering achievements. Elegant, sleek, fantastically complicated . . . yet deceptively simple.

He sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to blow it up.

Rusty brushed his hands on his coveralls and came back to the car, jumping into the open rear door.

"Ready to go!"

"All right, Duncan, take your position in the shack," said Mr. Phillips. "The technicians' van is due out from its last routine checks on the launchpad. Be sure to wave to the driver, since we're all friends here.

Then close the gate and plant your land mines and set up your targeting systems."

"Aye, Mr. Phillips," Duncan said, settling down into the colorful folding lawn chair. He yawned, just like a real security guard, and placed his a.s.sault rifle under his chair.

Yvette shifted the car into drive. Mr. Phillips glanced at his pocket watch again as he slammed the pa.s.senger door and buckled his seatbelt. "Now we double back and get to the Launch Control Center," he said. "We've got a schedule to keep."

10.

LAUNCHPAD 39 A.

JACQUES DIDN'T BLINK WHEN the Klaxon on the pad gave a startling blast, announcing the planned hold at T minus twenty minutes. Spooked by the sudden sound, a group of snowy egrets beat their wings in unison and flew gracefully away from the mangroves next to the launch complex. Activity heightened around the pad as the last teams of technicians prepared to leave.

A voice echoed over the intercom. " Technicians, clear the area. We're ready to continue the countdown. I say again, all technicians clear the area. Once clear, the countdown will resume at T minus twenty minutes." The army of white-suited techs moved away from the shuttle in an orderly fashion; some waited for the elevators in the Fixed Service Structure; those already on the ground hustled over to waiting buses.

Whistling with satisfaction, Jacques picked up his tool kit and moved along, just as a NASA tech was expected to do. His tool kit weighed ten kilograms less without the explosive device and detonators.

Standing in the elevator as it began the long descent, Jacques took one last glance at the gaseous oxygen vent access arm. The plastique was out of sight from the main gantry, blending into the insulating foam encasing the ma.s.sive external tank. As the countdown continued, the access arm would retract, leaving the bomb behind, and unreachable.

The elevator b.u.mped to a stop at level 250. A pair of technicians walked in and ignored Jacques. One carried a clipboard and spoke with the other, obviously a trainee from the symbol on the person's badge.

They were in deep discussion about the final checklist procedure.

Jacques turned so they couldn't see his face. He acted as calm as when he and Yvette had been hustling Johns on the streets of Cahors, aloof as they sold their bodies, disconnected from the reality around them. It was the only way to survive, the same now as it was then-disconnect flesh and mind. Do what was necessary.

When he was younger it had been difficult to take the strangers' money, to do whatever the men wanted. He did not try to understand what pleasure they drew from their acts, because he knew he would always return to Yvette's arms, where she would hold him, rock him gently, then make love in her attempt to cleanse him and herself of what they had gone through. It was the only way for them to survive on the streets.

As the elevator rattled down the gantry, Jacques felt disconnected from his body again as he ran through Mr. Phillips's plan. The technician he had already killed was just a small sacrifice for what they had to accomplish. An "investment," Mr. Phillips would have called it. Jacques held the man's electronic badge tightly in his fist; the badges would be read by computer scanners at the exits to ensure that everyone had left the pad. NASA would not resume the countdown until the area was cleared.

He spotted the Armored Personnel Carrier at the edge of the launch-pad complex. A technician walked out to the vehicle to give a new water bottle to the guards stationed there. Good. No one would suspect anything.

The last banks of spotlights on the gantry spilled bright patches of light on the ground, brighter than the morning sunshine. Jacques watched the stream of technicians exit the area. It was difficult to see all of them as they walked in and out of the glare. Security guards stood around the gates, but they all looked outward. Jacques felt warm with satisfaction, knowing that no one suspected the threat coming from within.

The elevator b.u.mped to a stop at ground level, and the other two technicians walked off. Jacques pa.s.sed a computerized checkpoint, sliding his badge through a magnetic-strip reader. Intentionally fumbling as if he hadn't succeeded at first, he swapped his own badge with that of the dead tech's, then slid it through the reader again. All personnel accounted for.

One group of people filtered off to the right, toward the first bus. Jacques joined the end of the crowd, and as they stopped to file into the vehicle, he slowly backed up to the ma.s.sive flame trench, in the deep well of shadow out of the spotlights. In the dark shelter Jacques immediately began to unzip his white bunny suit. He looked from side to side as he stripped off the uniform, exposing a sand-camouflaged jumpsuit. No one approached.

Balling it up, he stuffed the suit in his nearly empty tool kit; it was too risky to leave the suit lying around. Grasping the kit, Jacques crouched low and slipped toward the Armored Personnel Carrier. Since the security cameras were broadcasting only a continuous loop of landscape visuals, thanks to the work of Yvette, he would be safe from electronic surveillance.

The APC sat in a strategic position nearly a mile from the shuttle, close enough to the escape slidewires that it could roar in to rescue the astronauts in case of an emergency.

But Jacques had an entirely different purpose in mind for it.

11

LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER.

WHEN YVETTE PULLED THE white NASA car into the crowded parking lot of the Launch Control Center, Mr. Phillips pointed to the left. "There-an empty s.p.a.ce up front. They must have known we were coming."

Yvette eased past vans, pickups, and cars, most of which bore Challenger memorial license plates, though a few said SAVE THE MANATEE. Mr. Phillips squinted to read painted words on the curb, black letters on a scuffed white background. "Government Vehicle Parking Only," he said.