Ignition. Part 8

Now, the only thing on the screen was a distant shot of Atlantis. The technicians had cleared the launch area before the T minus twenty hold, which had been extended for some reason Nicole hadn't yet bothered to explain. Maybe she just needed to touch up her makeup, or maybe she had found a green card that wasn't on a checklist.

Iceberg leaned back, propping the miniature TV in the soft dirt so he could have an un.o.bstructed view of the pad. Atlantis looked beautiful in the clear morning sky. Daylight caught the top of the gantry as cryogenic oxygen and hydrogen boiled faint wisps of steam into the muggy air.

The TV replayed an earlier interview with the Launch Director. Here, alone with his thoughts where no one could see him, Iceberg had to admit that Nicole looked good on the tube. d.a.m.n good, in fact. She'd kept her cool dealing with numb nuts from Washington and those pestering reporters. Of course, if shecould put up with him, then an antagonistic senator would have been a piece of cake. Iceberg never had the patience for all those dances with words. He wanted to do something, not explore how many different ways one could talk about it.

But talking and planning had always been Nicole's style. Stand up against the odds and fight it out, finding some political compromise that let both sides feel they had won. She didn't give up easily. Except when it came to being an astronaut.

Iceberg shook his head. He dug his fingers into the dirt, wishing the launch would hurry up and happen.

Get that shuttle up into the sky! He hated just sitting here with nothing to do but think.

He caught a glimpse of the countdown clock superimposed on the lower right corner of the TV picture, and frowned. The extended hold had been going on for quite a while. Of course, unplanned delays happened all the time. Maybe the NASA bureaucrats couldn't make up their minds about what type of toilet paper to put on board.

The scene switched from a far-off view of the shuttle to an image from a camera on top of the Fixed Service Structure, showing the oxygen vent access arm partially retracted. Then another view, this time of the shuttle's main engines. The pad looked deserted, as it should have been.

Iceberg leaned forward and turned up the sound. Something still didn't seem right. On the TV those cirrus clouds above the shuttle were still there, but it must be some kind of ghost image on the screen. He saw no clouds for miles around.

The sound of a low-flying helicopter startled him. The copter suddenly burst over the brush-covered rise, flying like a bat out of h.e.l.l. Its down-wash threw up debris and toppled the small Walkman TV.

"s.h.i.t!" Iceberg scrambled away, hopping on one foot to get to cover. A streak of pain shot through his foot where the healing bones ground together like fingernails on a chalkboard. The helicopter wheeled in the sky and headed to his left, as if it were searching for something. Him, probably.

Iceberg cursed. He must have set off some kind of alarm, tripping one of the motion or sonic sensors.

And now they were out looking for him. Maybe he was the reason for the extended hold in the countdown.

He knew he was going to look like a fool.

The helicopter made another pa.s.s, but Iceberg wasn't sure whether they had spotted him. Then the craft roared off, straight for the launchpad.

He felt a sour feeling creep into his stomach as he realized that the guard Salvador was probably being hara.s.sed this very minute. The poor guy had worked at KSC for years without getting into trouble; now Iceberg had involved him in something that just might get the old guard fired.

Iceberg could BS his way through whatever reprimands might come his way. He'd get a slap on the wrist, and he'd have to kiss some nonflying puke's rear end. But they'd let him off. After all, he was a modern-day hero-shuttle commander and senior member of the astronaut corps.

He just hoped that he'd be able to sweet-talk the bureaucrats into letting Salvador off as well.

Well, if they were out looking for him, they'd eventually find him. Especially with this broken foot.

Better to surrender now and cut his losses, let the countdown continue, get his crew up into s.p.a.ce during the launch window.

Iceberg gathered up his TV and binoculars, then trudged gingerly toward the guard shack, ready to make up a good story.

16.

LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER.

INSIDE THE LCC, NICOLE watched a NASA security helicopter chop its way through the air, thundering across the sky toward the launch-pad where Atlantis waited, its countdown frozen. Three other copters swept low over the restricted launch area, hunting for additional terrorists. A firecracker sound of gunshots had echoed down the hall, coming from the stairwell that looked out on the LCC parking lot. Far away, Rusty shot repeatedly, letting out whoops of delight every time he hit his targets. Nicole moved over to the wall beside Andrei Trovkin, peering through the vertical observation windows. She placed her handsagainst the thick gla.s.s as the dark insect shape of the helicopter pounded away, skirting the LCC toward the swamps. Her heart pounded with instinctive relief that help was on the way . . . yet she felt an inner dread of what might happen. The terrorists seemed to have few compunctions about murder.

"Do helicopters really think they can stop this madman?" Trovkin snorted with a glance back at Mr.

Phillips, who studiously inspected his fingernails, oblivious to his precarious hold on the situation.

Rusty returned from down the hall, wiping sweat from his freckled forehead and grinning. He shouldered his automatic a.s.sault rifle. "Bull's-eye! I think I won myself a stuffed teddy bear. You should have seen those security troops running like ants under a hot magnifying gla.s.s!"

With a disappointed sigh, Mr. Phillips shook his head. "Duncan tells me we've had some excitement out by his guard shack as well, and now these pesky helicopters. NASA doesn't seem to be taking our threat seriously, which I find quite exasperating. Don't they even want to hear what I have to say before they come blasting in? Talk about short attention spans."

He picked up his walkie-talkie and tuned to the chosen frequency. "Mory, are you there? How would you like to do a little duck hunting?"

With a squelch of static a man's thin, nasal voice came back. "Ready and waiting, Mr. Phillips. Any problem with Cueball doing the honors? He's pretty anxious for some action, and he needs the target practice."

Mr. Phillips sounded impatient. "I asked you, Mory. I don't want to risk missing, not with the television networks watching. That would be most embarra.s.sing."

"No problem. Does it matter which helicopter I take out?"

Mr. Phillips pursed his lips. "Just make it spectacular for our viewers out in TV land."

"Stay tuned for the Fourth of July," Mory answered, signing off.

Mr. Phillips wore a smug smile that Nicole wanted to wipe off his face with a hot iron. Her stomach tightened as she forced down her hot-tempered reflex. "Let me get on the radio, Mr. Phillips. I'll tell the security teams to back off so you can issue your demands."

"I think I'd prefer a more dramatic demonstration," he said. "Watch."

A white finger of fire erupted from the swampy lowlands as the unseen sniper launched a deadly projectile.

"A Stinger missile," Mr. Phillips said. "Lightweight, portable, easily fired, easy to aim. A thousand and one uses."

The missile targeted the NASA helicopter closest to the LCC. The pilot swerved his aircraft, but the ground-launched rocket moved at intercept speed. The Stinger struck the helicopter, and both exploded in a huge flash displayed on the TV screens.

"Not as great a technological marvel as the s.p.a.ce shuttle, but still exhilarating, nonetheless," Mr. Phillips said, then grabbed the walkie-talkie. "Good shot, Mory."

Nicole found herself hyperventilating, her heart pounding. "You just killed those men!"

"Let us not be s.e.xist here," Mr. Phillips said. "One of the crew could have been a woman. And you're forgetting the three security vehicles out by the gate-there could have been women on that security team as well. And who knows how many Rusty shot out in the LCC parking lot? I'm sure it wasn't just men. We believe in equal opportunity."

He grew suddenly serious. "The stakes are required to be high, Ms. Hunter. NASA must realize this is not a game." He punctuated his words by jabbing a slender finger in her direction. "I needed to establish that at the outset, so my demands will be heard with due consideration."

He handed her one of the telephones. "However, you have made a good suggestion. Before we cut off the outside phone lines, if you would be so kind as to contact NASA Security, perhaps you could prevent further loss of life if they agree to back off."

Nicole hesitated. What else could she do? Phillips lifted an eyebrow as she raced over the options in her mind . . . The little man had the upper hand. She took the phone, desperate to salvage the situation. Her hands were sweaty. "What do you want me to say?" She felt defeated.

"Just tell them to restrain themselves, stay out of the restricted area. I also know about NASA's roving security patrols around the swamps, so tell them to sit tight and keep away from the Launch Control Center. My people are infiltrated throughout the site, as you've just seen. I call the shots here, no pun intended, and Security will have to sit on their hands until they receive further instructions from me."

Nicole's mind whirled, trying to focus. Her thoughts threatened to cascade over into panic-but she fought the confusion down. She had to handle this situation delicately, pretend it was one of the crash simulator routines in which Iceberg had always excelled. This would be the crisis of her career, and there were numerous lives at stake, as Mr. Phillips had so clearly demonstrated. The sooty stain in the sky from the helicopter explosion dissipated, but its memory would leave a scar in her mind forever.

She gripped the phone and made the call.

Beside her, Mr. Phillips flipped through the pages of the Wall Street Journal Senator Boorman's aide had left on the table. Flicking frequent glances at Nicole and the other hostages, he scanned down the tiny print on the stock pages, scowling distastefully.

Struggling out of his chair, Senator Boorman cleared his throat, as if he considered it part of the process of making any sort of important speech.

Mr. Phillips turned to him and brightened. "Ah yes, Senator, I believe it's time we had a talk. As chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, you must be very well connected with powerful people. I may need your a.s.sistance to negotiate my demands."

The senator scowled. "Cooperation wasn't exactly on my mind, sir."

"It's in your own best interests to resolve this situation."

Boorman grudgingly nodded. "If that's the best way out of this mess."

Mr. Phillips looked thoughtfully at him. "How heroic, Senator," he said. "Just what I expected of you.

We'll see to you later, though. I haven't yet even made my demands."

Nicole looked up sharply from the phone. "Let's get on with it before anyone else dies."

"Don't rush me, Ms. Hunter. It's my fifteen minutes of fame," he said simply. He rubbed his upper lip again. "I'm going to bask in it."

17.

GUARD SHACK.

ICEBERG HAD HOBBLED TO within a half mile of the guard shack-still keeping a low profile, miserably wondering the best way he could surrender to minimize the problems for Salvador-when the NASA helicopter exploded overhead. A ball of fire roiled in the air the sound of the blast came like a thunderclap.

Iceberg dropped to the muddy, weedy ground, heedless of his cast and the sharp increase of pain that shot from his toes to his knee "Holy s.h.i.t!"

Swallowed by the weeds, he frantically looked around, scanning the sky. The fireball diffused into a low red glow, but the detonation had left a purple afterimage in his sight. Burning debris fell from the air, raining down on the thick vegetation, and a dull quietness hung over the swamps as heavy as the humidity.

He was sure he'd seen the curving trail of a ground-launched missile just before the explosion.

"Chill out, cool, frosty . . ." he muttered, hoping the repeated words might calm him. "Now, more than ever." He dug his hands in the soft dirt while lying still, trying to make sense of what he had witnessed. It was some sort of IR missile, launched on the ground and guided by an infrared sensor.

Years ago as part of his Air Force training, he had brought down an unmanned target drone with an IR missile, but at the time he had been strapped in an F-15 and flying over the Gulf of Mexico, safely shooting on a test range. This was friggin' serious. Iceberg dismissed any notion of the NASA security detail looking for him. Something else was going on, and he had blundered smack into the middle of it.

Without raising his head, Iceberg shrugged off his daypack. He fumbled through the canvas bag and pulled out the Walkman TV. The network reporters from the press stands broadcast long-range shots of the exploding helicopter and jabbered about some other SWAT operation over at the LCC building, but n.o.body seemed to know anything.

Here, inside the guard gates, Iceberg sure as h.e.l.l wasn't going to hide like a field mouse, not with his friend Salvador possibly in danger, not with his crew out there on Atlantis . . . and not with Panther in the Launch Control Center. Although he was still an active-duty Colonel in the USAF, it had been years since he'd partic.i.p.ated in war exercises. As an astronaut, he lived in a different world entirely. He wasn't sure he was ready for this.

Well, he'd just have to refresh his memory. Iceberg crawled toward the guard shack and made a hundred yards before he rea.s.sessed the situation.

His foot hurt like a son of a b.i.t.c.h, but after the destroyed copter, NASA Security might shoot first and ask questions later. He had to be slick and quiet, a snake in the gra.s.s until he knew what was going on.

He kept in the lee of the small dunes, crouching beneath and behind the thick underbrush, Georgia pines, tangled creepers intent on breaking his other foot. His clumsily rushed evasion tactics weren't good enough to thwart a full-fledged search, but at least he wasn't calling attention to himself.

Still hidden, Iceberg came to an abrupt halt, astonished. Down the road from the guard shack, black-and-white smoke rolled up into the sky from three motionless security ATVs. One rested on its side, where it had blown up. Bodies of the security team lay sprawled half out of the vehicles; bullet holes looked like starbursts on the black ATVs. The men and women had been mowed down, a total slaughter.

He listened, straining for the sounds of sirens, but he heard nothing. No rescue vehicles, no backup troops. Everything was too d.a.m.ned quiet!

He started crawling forward again, his inner alarm bells ringing. Far ahead, he saw a lone figure step out of the small, metal-walled shack. At least Salvador would be able to tell him what was going on. . .

Iceberg rose, intending to wave, when he noticed that this rangy man was smaller and thinner than the old guard's tall figure. The stranger wore the uniform of a NASA security guard, but he made no move toward the scattered bodies, the smoldering ATV wreckage. He took a long drag from a cigarette, then walked around the shack by the off-road motorbike, kneeling to inspect some wires in the gra.s.s. He reminded Iceberg of a Doberman on patrol in an equipment yard.

Iceberg dug out his small field gla.s.ses, straining to see what the man was doing. He had intended to use the little binoculars to watch the shuttle lift off, to see the solid rocket boosters ignite-now he watched a terrorist's preparations instead.

The strange guard looked small and shifty, out of place, with long hair tied back in a ponytail. He tucked down the collar of his security uniform. Iceberg turned the focusing k.n.o.b until he spotted cables running from the man's position to a battery of. . . rifles mounted on tripods?

Iceberg discerned a dark clump propped against the back of the hut. He swung his binoculars over toward the weeds and squinted. With a sharp intake of breath, he recognized Salvador. The old guard's head hung on his chest at an unnatural angle, as if he had been carelessly dumped there.

The impostor guard seemed satisfied with the cable connections. He surveyed the area again, then flicked the b.u.t.t of his cigarette off into the long gra.s.s. He lit up another one, then sat down casually in the colorful folding lawn chair, holding an a.s.sault rifle, waiting.

18.

LAUNCHPAD PERIMETER.

SITTING IN AN ARMORED Personnel Carrier a mile away from the launchpad was the ultimate job for a firefighter. The APC's heavy armor would shield the two-person crew from the ignition blast or unexpected debris; the top hatch was required to be closed during the countdown ever since, contrary to NASA regulations, one crew had been caught sitting exposed on top of their armored vehicle gawking at the launch.

If something went wrong with the shuttle before it lifted from the pad, the astronauts would try to escape. As the crew rode emergency baskets down the long escape wires, the APC would roar toward the terminus to pick them up. The astronauts could hole up in fortified bunkers, but if the danger was great enough, and if the firefighters had time, the astronauts could scramble inside the APC and rumble away in relative safety. Standard emergency procedures, frequently reviewed, but hopefully never required.

The two-person rescue crew sat inside their vehicle, routinely ready but not expecting problems. In all previous launches, the APC had roared into action only once-when a computer glitch had shut down the shuttle main engines after ignition, but before the solid rocket boosters had lit. In that instance, the emergency procedures had worked perfectly, as expected.

So when the sirens blared, distant gunshots rang out, and the helicopter exploded overhead, the rescuecrew was justifiably startled.

The APC commander grabbed her radio. "Launch Control, APC here. I'm picking up sirens, and we've detected an explosion. Is there a problem? Should we evacuate the crew?"

Launch Control sounded tense. "Negative, APC. This is part of a, uh, planned exercise. No further data at this time."

"Planned exercise? We haven't been notified! A helicopter just exploded!"

"I say again, keep on hold, APC. Take no action. Control out." The commander frowned and picked up her checklist, then tossed it aside in disgust. She unbuckled from her seat.

"How can they have a planned exercise without reading us into it?" Her crewman turned as she struggled to stand in the cramped compartment. The adjoining compartment had enough room to hold the astronauts, but the command alcove was jammed with radios, computer screens, and high-tech video systems.

The APC commander started to undo the upper hatch. "I'm going to take a look-see. 'Take no action'-give me a break!"