Ignition. Part 9

"But the checklist-"

The commander ignored her partner as she swung the hatch up with a grunt. The muggy air mixed with the metallic, air-conditioned clamminess of the vehicle. She pushed her shoulders out to look around.

She never felt the bullet take off the back of her head.

Jacques shot the b.i.t.c.h between the eyes before she had a chance to cry out. Moments earlier he'd been wondering how he would get the rescue team to open the APC hatch-but they'd done so without even being asked.

"Merci" he said.

As the b.i.t.c.h slumped down, he shoved her body back inside and clambered on top of the opening. A frightened voice squawked from within the APC.

Jacques bent down into the armored vehicle, knocking the corpse aside. A helmeted head turned toward him, and Jacques saw a young man, quite good-looking. Too bad to have to waste good meat. The crewman tried to disentangle himself from his commander's bloodied body that had toppled onto him, and groped for his side arm.

Jacques pumped two quick shots into the young man's chest. He hoped the bullets wouldn't rattle around the closed compartment, where a ricochet might damage the equipment. The young man gurgled and tried to catch himself, sliding down onto the metal floor.

Jacques leaned back out of the APC, turned around, and descended the ladder into the vehicle. Pulling his small tool kit inside, he closed the hatch.

He picked up the dead crewman by his shoulders and dragged him to the adjoining compartment meant to carry rescued astronauts. He ran a hand over the young man's cheek, now lolling against the chest. Such nice, soft skin . . .

Straightening, he pulled the b.i.t.c.h's body by an arm and tossed her on top of the young man, out of his way.

Now, to a.s.sess the situation. He took a moment to familiarize himself with the APC instrumentation, smearing blood away from one digital readout; the interior of the vehicle looked like a wall-to-wall videogame. Everything was in place, just as Mr. Phillips had promised. Good. Jacques fumbled in his pants and pulled out a portable beeper and pushed the b.u.t.ton several times, sending the next expected signal.

He squatted, opening his tool kit to reveal a jumble of metal parts. Working patiently and methodically, he a.s.sembled a 7.62-mm FR-G2 high-powered sniper's rifle. After wiping the barrel with a cloth, he carefully attached a laser bore sighter to zero in the rifle. It took a few precious minutes, but it was worth it for the increase in accuracy. He'd wait here, a mole in their safety net, as the rifle's eight-hundred-meter range was well within the astronauts' terminus point.

No one would suspect a thing.

19

LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER.

MR. PHILLIPS USED A pocket mirror that he had borrowed at gunpoint, from one of Senator Boorman's aides He stroked his eyebrows with a fingertip, then took his comb to straighten his hair. He wanted to be sure he made a good first impression.

He brushed the front of his suit jacket, dismayed at the rumpled quality it had acquired from his exertion in the humid air outside. Now in the heavily air-conditioned LCC, he felt uncomfortably clammy He hadn't planned to perspire so much. The careful organization of his entire scheme should have allowed him to pull it off without breaking into a sweat-but he had to be flexible.

"Very well," Mr. Phillips said and handed the mirror back to the terrified aide. "Thank you." When she seemed afraid to retrieve it, he snapped, "I don't have all day!" Like a skittish rodent she grabbed the mirror and tucked it back into her purse. Mr. Phillips regained his composure and turned to Rusty. "How do I look?"

"Definitely ready for TV, Mr. Phillips," the redhead said with a grin.

"Just as I thought." He pulled out the short step stool one of the LCC workers had retrieved from an office down the hall and climbed up to stand an additional foot taller. "The camera never knows the illusion,"

he said sotto voce. He smiled self-deprecatingly at the hostages, then popped another breath mint in his mouth.

Andrei Trovkin glared coldly, furious at him, as he expected; Senator Boorman held his mouth tight, as if he were trying to figure out how to cut a deal somehow.

The Launch Director herself seemed a ma.s.s of conflicting impulses. Most of the archival pictures he had seen of Nicole Hunter had been taken during astronaut training events, and she looked quite different now in her navy suit and pants, white silk s.h.i.+rt, delicate gold necklace. He knew from his research that she had been one of the VIP observers at the Ariane explosion in French Guiana, so when he announced his own connection to that spectacular explosion, she would be well aware of what he could accomplish. It would be quite amusing to watch her reaction.

Down the half flight of stairs Yvette paced in front of the badge-locked door to the main firing floor, keeping the stymied engineers at their stations, not knowing what to do with the launch countdown on hold.

Mr. Phillips stood on the step stool and peered around, running his well-rehea.r.s.ed speech over in his head. Rusty's stock videotape of old shuttle-launch footage would soon run out in the TV relay bunker, letting the NASA televisions see the real Atlantis again now that his team had secured their objective. If the government would just accede to his demands, everybody could live happily ever after.

"Show time! Cameras on me, please," he said to the captive reporters. "I have the announcement you've all been waiting for." He whispered conspiratorially over at Nicole. "I'm a little nervous, so wish me luck."

"You'll need it," she said with an edge to her voice.

One of the cameramen panned around the VIP deck, focusing on the nervous expressions of the hostages. Mr. Phillips clapped his hands like a gunshot. "I said cameras on me Rusty, if you could provide a reminder the next time anyone diverts their attention from the real story?"

"Definitely, Mr. Phillips," Rusty said, and waved his pistol around. Mr. Phillips sniffed at the wayward cameraman. "Mr. Channel Seven-make sure you get the focus right. This is real news for once in your life." Embarra.s.sed and angered, the reporter ducked behind his video cam.

"Good morning, and thank you for your attention," Mr. Phillips began. It wasn't the Gettysburg Address, but he had worked hard on the speech. "You may call me Mr. Phillips, since we are about to enter into business dealings.

"The s.p.a.ce shuttle is mankind's flags.h.i.+p into s.p.a.ce, our vehicle to take us to the future. But some of you have forgotten how precious, how complex . . . how expensive our shuttle is. Many have grown bored with the near-flawless performance of this marvel of technology. Today, the American people must decide how much it is worth to them.

"Because I believe the s.p.a.ce shuttle is so precious, I'm going to sell you its safety. My colleagues and I have planted explosives on Atlantis, and if you agree to pay my very reasonable price, I will not blow it up." He smiled sweetly for the camera.

"My team has secured the entire area around the launchpad for the purpose of these negotiations. We have already demonstrated our resolve in numerous ways, as NASA can attest.

"This"-he held up a small remote control device-"will detonate the explosives, if I so choose. I know numbers are tiresome, but let me explain that there are over a million pounds of propellant in each of Atlantis's two solid rocket boosters, plus one point six million pounds of liquid hydrogen and oxygen in the external tank. Enough to make quite an explosion.

"We all recall the Challenger disaster. Another such occurrence- especially a preventable one-would be a devastating blow to American prestige, not to mention the loss of the brave astronauts who are even now waiting in the shuttle pending the outcome of our discussions. I'm sure my hostages here at the Launch Control Center would be equally disappointed. I'll ask the cameras to pan across our distinguished visitors, so you can see the guests I have with me."

Rusty prodded the cameraman, who turned his video cam on Nicole, Trovkin, and Senator Boorman.

They looked grim-faced into the lens.

"The problem with gold, or even paper money, is that it tends to get very heavy in large quant.i.ties, and I am unfortunately limited to the amount I'm able to carry conveniently. I must get the most value per pound of ransom," Mr. Phillips continued. "Therefore, I'm asking for a single st.u.r.dy briefcase, dimensions not smaller than twenty inches wide by fourteen inches tall by four inches thick, stuffed chock full of diamonds and other precious gems. Rubies, emeralds, sapphires . . . oh, and I have a particular fondness for alexandrite. Each gem in an individual packet marked with carat, color, and clarity, the way they come at diamond wholesalers. No gems smaller than one carat, please, and no larger than two. Decent quality stones, of course."

He knew that world-cla.s.s gems were frequently traceable, and that their true worth would be severely devalued when he had to sell them through various black-market outlets, but he had no doubt he could still turn a decent profit. Gems he could liquidate for ready cash anywhere in the world, while Swiss bank accounts did not always remain secret. Besides, after the debacle he had personally witnessed on Wall Street, he wanted nothing more to do with electronic transfers of funds.

"I have a loupe, a Mohs' scale, and gemology expertise, so don't play games with me. I intend to select fifty stones at random and test them for authenticity. If I find any fakes-and I will find them-then I would have no choice but to void our transaction." He frowned sternly.

"While it's impossible for me to a.s.sign an exact dollar amount for such a suitcase full of gems, you'll realize that the price is quite a bargain, regardless. The replacement cost of a new s.p.a.cecraft is close to two billion dollars, not to mention the amount of time it would take, since our country has foolishly mothballed the production facilities for additional orbiters."

Mr. Phillips folded his hands in front of him. "These are my terms: You have four hours for the suitcase to be delivered here, along with a rescue helicopter for myself and my team; then we will be on our way. If everything goes smoothly, Atlantis can even blast off tomorrow to meet its launch schedule with the Mir station."

"How do we know you're not bluffing?" Senator Boorman said.

Rusty swung the heavy handgun directly at the senator, who turned gray and held his big hands up in surrender. The cameraman from channel 7 wavered the lens toward Boorman, then remembered Mr.

Phillips's threat and swung the focus back to where it was.

"Excuse me, Senator, but I have not yet yielded the floor." He frowned. "However, since I've been so rudely interrupted-by a man who should know better, being thoroughly familiar with Roberts Rules of Order-if you check your records you will find that an unmanned Chinese Long March rocket was destroyed at its launch complex eleven months ago. We were responsible for that. Also, we exploded an Ariane 44L rocket in Kourou, French Guiana, some six months ago, and can offer proof." He held up the remote. "Don't make us prove our skills again, please." From her seat, Nicole Hunter looked at him in amazement. "The Ariane! You did-" Then she cut herself off, as if to deny him the pleasure of her surprise.

He reached into the front pocket of his suit and removed the mission patch he had taken from the hapless security guard where Duncan now held the perimeter. He tossed it on the counter and gestured toward it.

"Focus in on this," he said quickly and quietly. The cameras crowded closer. The new mission patch, not yet released to anyone but the astronauts themselves, showed a colorful design collaboratively chosen by the Russian and American crew-an eagle and bear reaching toward the stars. Mr. Phillips waited a moment as the cameras zoomed in on the original three astronaut names written across the top: FRIESE, GREEN, BURNS; the other four names were written on the bottom.

"The choice is yours," Mr. Phillips said. "Do you want to lose a two-billion-dollar s.p.a.cecraft, as well as the lives of seven heroic astronauts, for the sake of a few s.h.i.+ny rocks?" He pulled out his pocket watch, flipped it open, and paused for effect. "You have four hours. Please don't make me destroy this marvel of engineering. Thank you for your time." He smiled. "I now return you to your regularly scheduled programming."

20.

GUARD SHACK.

ICEBERG DUCKED OUT OF sight of the impostor guard, the man who had murdered Salvador. He drew in several breaths, trying to clear his head, but his pulse wouldn't slow.

Armored ATVs blown up, a whole NASA security team wiped out, a helicopter detonated in midair. And his friend the old guard was dead! The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Iceberg drew in several more breaths, trying to stay calm, to keep his hands from shaking in rage.

Cool.

Frosty It had always sounded good before, but now he had to put it into practice.

Okay, he thought. What to do? He switched his priorities from finding out what was going on to just trying to survive. But no way was he going to hide under a bush until someone else took care of the problem. The SERE training he'd taken at the USAF Academy sure as h.e.l.l hadn't covered this-but it had taught him to react. The leathery-faced sergeant who had instructed the cadets had insisted that these techniques were applicable in a wide variety of situations. Time to prove it.

Iceberg tried to restore his cold facade while going over the options. Think! He had to find out for certain if Salvador was really dead, or if the old man needed medical attention . . . and he sure couldn't waltz up to the shack and take the motionless guard's pulse.

But earlier this morning he had scrambled to within a mile of the launchpad without being detected by NASA's most sophisticated sensors; sneaking close to one guy at a guard shack should be a Cakewalk by comparison.

Iceberg scooted on his hands and knees across the thick weeds and vines, careful to avoid b.u.mping his foot cast. The mosquitoes found him easily; small animals rustled through the underbrush. He just hoped he didn't spook a snoozing alligator.

Iceberg counted off paces as he moved. Every time he reached a hundred, he peeked over a small rise or peered between bushes to check his progress. The impostor guard sat in his lawn chair, arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the carnage, a thin smile on his face. The man stretched, then got up and went back inside the shack to watch his TV monitor.

Iceberg ducked and continued moving. Slide and scoot, keeping his tender foot protected, careful not to make any noise. It infuriated him that he couldn't just rush to the shack and see if he could help Salvador.

He lost count of the minutes, but finally Iceberg found himself within twenty yards. He saw little or no cover on three sides of the shack and the road-only short, scrubby gra.s.s and sandy-muddy dirt torn up in patches from the nocturnal rootings of the prevalent wild pigs.

He rose to a crouch and starting jogging through the tall weeds as fast as his broken foot and its dragging cast would allow him, gaining momentum in a strange, hippity-hop stride. He hid, panting, beside the three-wheeled vehicle Salvador had used to patrol the KSC backroads.

Inside the shack, with his back turned, the ponytailed thug rocked back in his chair as he watched the TV monitors. The image of Atlantis filled one of the screens while Nicole Hunter and Senator Boorman showed on another. Even with the quick glance he got, Iceberg could tell Nicole looked visibly upset.

Iceberg crept around the side of the hut. His heart yammered, his hands grew slick with sweat. The sounds from the TV were louder now. The thug laughed at something on the broadcast, then tossed a cigarette b.u.t.t out the door of the shack.

Finally reaching Salvador's slumped form discarded like a piece of garbage, Iceberg found that the old guard's chest didn't move at all, and his head lolled at an impossible angle, as if his neck had been snapped.

Dead-no question about it.

Iceberg felt his anger mount. With an icy determination hardening in his gut, he quietly patted down Salvador's body but found no weapon. The impostor guard must have stripped the old guard of his gun. Inside the shack, the thug stood up. He turned down the sound on the TV, stepping cautiously outside.

Iceberg cursed, having lost his element of surprise without even developing a plan of attack. He desperately wished he had some sort of weapon, anything. He flexed his hands, knowing he'd run out of time.

The long-haired impostor popped around the corner of the shack, Salvador's pistol drawn. "Gotcha, mate!"

Iceberg plunged into the leafy underbrush to one side of the guard shack, ducking, tearing vines out of the way. He stumbled on weeds and interlocked bushes that smacked against the hard sh.e.l.l of his cast and its protective moon boot.

"Yo!" the impostor shouted. "Bad idea." With sharp cracks, he began firing his pistol. Iceberg watched a branch splinter less than a foot away from his head; another bright tan gouge suddenly appeared on the trunk of a pine. He ducked and weaved, Escape and Evasion, unable to traverse a straight path through the swamp forest even if he had wanted to. The thick underbrush and his broken foot prevented him from moving quickly.

Iceberg dropped to his hands and knees, making progress through the thicket toward the road where the wrecked NASA security vehicles lay. If he could just manage to get there, take brief shelter behind the ruined ATVs, he could find a weapon inside, even if he had to tear it from the hands of dead NASA security personnel. At least he'd be able to shoot back.

The impostor fired again, and a bullet tore through the weeds behind him. He had gotten ahead of where the long-haired man thought he was.

Iceberg finally reached a spot even with the nearest smoldering ATV, but he would have to cross at least fifteen feet of open terrain to get to the vehicle. He'd be a sitting duck if he tried to cross the clearing.

No more wasted time thinking about possibilities. He had to make a run for it. Three, two, one . . . go!

Instinctively, he wanted to give a battle yell, but Iceberg clamped his lips shut. Silence might gain him an instant more time. He charged out of the underbrush straight toward the vehicles. His foot screamed in pain, but he told it to shut up. Cover, shelter . . . weapons.

The impostor spun toward him, running full out, cursing and trying to aim his pistol.

Iceberg put on extra speed with his strange, lurching gait. His foot felt as if a bear trap had just closed about it.

The impostor shot once. The bullet grazed past him, just missing. That was too close.

Iceberg saw another glint of metal out of the corner of his left eye, the dark blue steel of three rifle barrels. In the bushes next to the road he saw the unattended weapons mounted on tripods, automatic a.s.sault rifles. And tripwires.

"Holy s.h.i.+t!" he cried, then spun about, diving to the ground in the opposite direction. Iceberg skidded across the scrubby gra.s.s just as the automatic weapons fire spat out, criss-crossing the air where he had just stood.

Now he lay out in the open, in the middle of the gra.s.sy clearing, with no shelter in sight.

The impostor ran forward, his pistol waving. "You're making this too easy for me, mate!"

Iceberg covered his head with his hands, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to sink into the ground. He couldn't just lie here and be shot. He'd have to run, crawl, do anything. But there was no cover, no weapons, no way in h.e.l.l of surviving. . . .

The next sound was a boom as loud as a cannon shot.

Chunks of turf and dirt rained around him, and Iceberg looked up to see a dissipating explosion, as if a small volcano had erupted out of the ground. He saw no sign of the long-haired impostor, only a crater in the gra.s.s. The mud pattering all around had a decidedly reddish tinge.

A land mine! The thug had stepped on one of his own land mines! Iceberg got to his hands and knees, stunned and disbelieving.

Iceberg stood up on shaky legs, looked around him at the rough gra.s.s, the patches of muddy dirt, the numerous gouges that he had thought were caused by the common wild boars . . . but now might simply be the marks of buried land mines.

Buried explosives all around.

Swallowing in his dry throat, Iceberg very gingerly made his way back to the guard shack. . . Of course, the impostor guard's gun had also been blasted somewhere, lost in the underbrush . . . even if it did remain serviceable. He needed a weapon, but he had no intention of prodding around in a minefield looking for it.

Finally reaching the shack, he felt as if he had partic.i.p.ated in a marathon gymnastics meet back at the Academy in Colorado Springs. Still gasping for breath, he straightened Salvador's chair and flopped down,barely keeping himself from pa.s.sing out. His foot throbbed like a pile driver.

From the small building he had an un.o.bstructed view of Phillips Highway, the north-south road coming in from Cape Canaveral, as well as the east-west access road. The terrorists must have considered it a good place to set up an ambush. Smoke still rose from the shot-up and burning security ATVs.