VEHICLE a.s.sEMBLY BUILDING.

ICEBERG SAT WITHIN THE gla.s.sed-in command post of the cavernous Vehicle a.s.sembly Building, tensely watching the lower bay door, feeling all alone. As he saw the two men approach, a sense of relief washed over him.

"It's about time, NASA Security." He had wondered how long it would take the s.p.a.ce agency forces to sweep past the terrorists. He stood, keeping the weight off his cast.

The two men crept into the VAB, looking from side to side. As they entered, they rotated around a common center, keeping their weapons pointed outward, prepared for a surprise attack.

Iceberg started to limp toward the door when it struck him that these two moved too stealthily, too silently. Something didn't seem quite right.

"Why do I get the feeling this isn't the cavalry?"

Maybe it was the fact that they wore mud-streaked camouflage outfits. Or maybe it was just the oversized backpack that held what looked like too much ammunition for a security detail.

He muttered, "They don't exactly look like they're here to help."

He ducked out of the confining command post, not wanting to be there unprotected and alone, on the vast empty floor under High Bay number 3. He hissed in pain as he limped toward the steel-reinforced concrete walls and the elevators that led up to the high bays. Time to switch plans again, he thought. He had to get out of sight until he figured out what these two heavily armed men were after.

There didn't seem much question, though, that they were after him. He punched the "open" b.u.t.ton, but the red-painted doors of the cargo elevator refused to budge. A loud clank echoed from above and the lift started down. Iceberg pushed the b.u.t.ton again and again, urging the door to open. "Come on, come on!"

The silhouettes of the two intruders appeared against the big rectangle of outside sunshine from the lower bay doors. Bright industrial lights shone garishly from above. Catwalks and access arms on the Mobile Launcher Platform-used for a.s.sembly of the solid rocket boosters and for mating the shuttle's external tank to the orbiter-masked part of the glare.

The VAB operations had ceased following the standard launch-day evacuation, and the sound of the elevator engine and hydraulics seemed as loud as thunder as the elevator continued its descent. The two shadowy intruders hustled toward High Bay 3.

The cargo elevator doors finally ground open. Iceberg stumbled inside and punched the b.u.t.ton for level 3, which would take him away from immediate harm, yet where he could keep an eye on the intruders.

As the elevator lurched upward, Iceberg held the rails inside, keeping weight off his left foot. His head pounded, and his entire body sprouted aches like weeds. This made the NASA astronaut training tortures seem like a Sunday bicycle ride. He hadn't put out this much sweat since trying out for the wrestling team his doolie year at the Air Force Academy.

There might be something to a calm, desk jockey job like Panther's after all.

When the elevator doors opened, Iceberg took one deep breath before he made his way out onto the high walkway. Red metal railings bordered the path. He crept forward, moving slowly so that the motion would not attract the attention of the two enemies below. He held the rail, gritting his teeth, as residual pain thudded through his entire foot; it had probably swollen into the cast.

Looking three levels down to the floor, Iceberg saw the creeping, heavily armed figures. He felt cold sweat break out along his skin. "Chill out," he said to himself.

He narrowed his eyes in the dimness of the vast building, studying the two intruders as they glided into the enclosed low bay, scuttling like plague rats. They must be searching for the elevator.

It would take their eyes a moment to adjust after coming in from the bright Florida sunshine, so Iceberg used that to his advantage. Study the enemy, find his weakness . . . he tried to remember all that Military Studies c.r.a.p he hadn't paid attention to when he'd been a cadet. Think. Deception. Speed.

Iceberg edged over and studied the two. One man was large and muscular with skin the color of mahogany. His head was completely bald and so shiny it glistened, as if he used furniture polish on his scalp. The other man, who carried the backpack, had sharp narrow features that made him look like a weasel. His cheeks were covered with wispy, wiry hair in a pathetic attempt at a beard. He walked forward with his aquiline nose eerily raised, as if he were sniffing the air.

The open s.p.a.ces of the VAB were filled with lifting cranes, dangling chains from overhead girders in heavy-duty block-and-tackle arrangements, pumping systems, safety fences. Fluttering yellow plastic tape demarcated an area designated for recent propellant fueling. DANGER-DO NOT CROSS.

In front of him in High Bay 3 stood a pair of cylindrical solid rocket boosters, canisters of propellant twelve feet in diameter that looked like white grain silos. Heavy cranes stacked and mated each booster section on the two-story Mobile Launcher Platform, a technological island that provided a transportable launch base for the shuttle to be hauled out to the launchpad by the slow-moving crawler transporter.

Below, the two terrorists stepped stealthily across the floor. They swept their eyes upward, scanning the high catwalks. The weaselly guy sniffed again. Iceberg remained in the shadows above, knowing they would spot him instantly if he moved.

But Iceberg had never been one to sit around and hide when he could conceive of a course of action.

He studied the catwalk beside him, searching for something he could use as a weapon, not just to defend himself but to take an active role.

He spotted only a bench bolted to the floor, a case of disposable plastic safety goggles, and a tool locker. Stepping quietly and trying not to put much weight on his broken foot, Iceberg crept forward.

Farther down the catwalk he saw a rack of gas canisters: oxygen, acetylene, and compressed helium. The helium and oxygen were in large metal tanks that were chest high, far too heavy to heave-but one of the blowtorch acetylene tanks was the size of a small scuba tank, easy enough to lift. . . and when accelerated by three stories of height, it just might make a decent bomb. Iceberg had always prided himself on his ability to improvise.

He withdrew the tank and staggered to the rail. Below him the two thugs continued searching possible hiding places in the lower levels, still without calling out or making a sound. The two were quite methodical, working on a grid search pattern. It would be only a matter of time before they came up level by level to flush him out. Iceberg had to act while he had a height advantage.

As they walked under him, he ran his mind through parabolic trajectories, doing a few calculations to determine how far out he had to toss the tank so it would drop straight on the head of one of the men. Just like lobbing an old Mark 5 bomb. He did his best, allowed for their movement below-then heaved the heavy projectile.

He watched it sail out silently, pirouetting in the air as it began to drop like a stone. The containers were pressurized, but thick-walled. He hoped it would hit the ground and blow up, eliminating both men.

The tank struck the concrete less than a foot behind the bald black man.

The metal canister did not explode but ricocheted off the cement with a monstrous clang. Both men practically leaped out of their skins. The bald man remained silent, but the weasel scrambled backward,yelling and looking around. He fired short wild bursts of his automatic rifle into the distant walls, where the bullets ricocheted off the concrete and flew into the open high bay. Weasel swung his rifle around, looking for another target. The gunshots still echoed in the enclosed VAB.

With grim satisfaction Iceberg saw a spreading wet spot in the weasel's crotch.

The bald man silently extended his arm, pointing toward the third-level catwalk, indicating Iceberg's hiding place.

Uh-oh, thought Iceberg, backing up. He turned to the waiting elevator, punching the b.u.t.ton for the red metal doors to groan open again. He could hear Weasel shouting below to the bald thug.

"Cueball, go up there and get him! I'll come around the other side as soon as I check in. I want to twist that b.a.s.t.a.r.d's head off myself." He brushed at his damp pants.

Silently, Cueball hustled off to the metal stairs. Just as the elevator doors ground open, Iceberg heard Weasel grab his walkie-talkie. "Mr. Phillips, this is Mory. We've got him cornered in the VAB." He paused as the m.u.f.fled voice crackled back. Iceberg couldn't understand the words. "Yes, he's being annoying-but we'll take care of it. Mory out."

Leaning back into the elevator, Iceberg punched the b.u.t.ton for the top level of the high bay. He could think of no way to outrun them, but if he could lure them to follow to the highest levels, Iceberg could double back and get down, escape the VAB on the all-terrain buggy.

Iceberg emerged from the top level of the catwalk, and now the floor was very, very far down. It seemed as if he had already reached halfway to orbit by taking an elevator instead of a s.p.a.ce shuttle.

Unlike a normal building with floors and offices each step of the way, the Vehicle a.s.sembly Building was a giant boxed-in open s.p.a.ce, like a hangar.

Iceberg had gained breathing room for the moment, but he didn't know what to do next. The bad guys must have seen him get into the elevator, and they knew he wasn't on floor 3 anymore. Should he try to get their attention somehow, trick them? He crept along the catwalk delicately, trying not to drag his cast.

Suddenly, on the opposite wall of the high bay four floors below him, he saw the muscular bald man, Cueball, stalking down another narrow walkway, his high-powered rifle in hand. The bald man glanced up at the movement and noticed Iceberg above. Their eyes met from across the gulf of open air. Cueball's mouth opened but no sound came out. Iceberg had suspected the man was mute, and now he could not call attention to Mory.

But Cueball aimed with his rifle and quickly popped off two shots. Iceberg dove backward against the wall, ducking down. The bullets missed him by yards, leaving white starflowers where they had ricocheted.

But the sound of the gunfire and the spang of impact was enough to tell Mory where Iceberg had hidden.

Iceberg scuttled along. The solid rocket boosters stood like white pillars in the open s.p.a.ce. One of the yellow-painted 250-ton lifting cranes stretched out in the open while other chains, block and tackle, and pulleys dangled from the high ceiling overhead.

He moved back to the elevator. He should take the stairs, but the thought of descending all the way back down to ground level with a broken foot seemed almost worse than being shot outright by the terrorists.

As he reached the elevator, though, he saw the indicator lights moving. The hum of machinery brought the lift up to the top floor. Someone was coming to get him. Mory.

Just as the elevator chimed with the car's arrival, Iceberg flattened himself against the wall beside the red-painted doors. His heart pounded. His vision focused to crystal clarity. He saw the open s.p.a.ce, the long drop, and the thin dangling chains in front of the safety rail by the elevator. The metal doors creaked open, and weasel-faced Mory strode out in a crouch, fanning his a.s.sault rifle in front of him, ready to take out his target.

Iceberg didn't give him a chance.

With his good foot he shoved off from the wall and launched forward like a torpedo. Iceberg struck Mory's side just as he was turning, and smashed into the lumpy pack-and Iceberg kept going.

Mory let out a cry, and a burst of rifle fire sprayed into the open air- but Iceberg shoved the weaselly man forward into the safety rail with enough impact that the thug's breath exploded out of him. Without pausing to think, Iceberg grabbed one of the dangling chains and whipped it in several loops around Mory's ankle. Iceberg put his shoulder into the shove and knocked the bearded man over the railing.

Mory shrieked in terror as he sailed out into empty s.p.a.ce, falling several feet until the thin chain caught.

Iceberg heard the crunch of the ankle snapping, as if the chain were a noose around a condemned man's neck.

Mory dangled upside down over the high bay, flailing with his hands to reach the rail, to find somestability. The automatic a.s.sault rifle dropped, tumbling in the air. It struck the floor with a loud clatter several seconds later.

"Help!" Mory cried. "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d." His face was a bright beet color as he hung suspended. The wet spot at his crotch had darkened.

Iceberg grabbed the chain and hauled Mory closer. The chain tore into Iceberg's hand. The thug reached out, flailing for the safety rail, but Iceberg kept the weaselly man from reaching it. "Who are you?

What are you after?"

"f.u.c.k you," Mory said.

Iceberg swung the chain, making the man dangle farther out in the open bay. He grunted from Mory's weight. The weasel wailed in terror from the height and from the pain of the chain wrapped around his snapped ankle.

"How many times are we going to have to do this?" Iceberg panted. "Who are you?"

"Get me down! I'm not telling you anything."

Iceberg leaned over the rail and looked down. He gained purchase against the railing and hauled Mory up another foot, then released the chain.

Mory fell two feet and stopped with a sudden jerk. He screamed.

It took Iceberg a moment to catch his breath before he said, "From this level the Vehicle a.s.sembly Building is five hundred and twenty-five feet high. Imagine the splash pattern you'd make. I can keep quoting you statistics . . . or you can start telling me some answers."

"All right, all right!" Mory cried. "Just get me closer to the rail."

Iceberg pulled the chain, hand over hand. Slowly he brought his captive near, swinging Mory around-but just then the weaselly man's eyes widened with surprise and relief. Iceberg turned, yanking the man on the chain just as Cueball appeared on the stairwell, firing his high-powered rifle.

Iceberg swung Mory as a shield. Two bullets tore long b.l.o.o.d.y channels through the weaselly man's side and exited through his rib cage.

Iceberg didn't have any choice but to grab one of the other chains. With his hands wrapped around the links, he swung out over s.p.a.ce.

The chain spun in his hands, rattling and vibrating as the block-and-tackle ratcheted. He dropped, swinging toward another level, yelling in his own terror. The chain dropped him, slowly catching with trip mechanisms in the pulley as Iceberg swung to a catwalk three floors down. Smashing into the railing, he let go of the chain.

He fell and rolled onto the catwalk, striking it with his shoulder. His palms were b.l.o.o.d.y. He winced as he opened and closed his hands.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he exhaled a great painful breath. "Man, I never want to do that again."

Iceberg lay trembling, dreading the prospect of getting back to his feet and running-but he knew he had to.

Cueball wouldn't give him a chance to recuperate.

Up on the top level of the high bay, the big bald man reached out to grab the chain and pulled Mory back toward the rail.

The other man bled profusely from the two gunshot wounds, moaning pitifully. He coughed blood and looked with bleary relief into Cueball's face-but the black man remained expressionless as he struggled to pull the backpack and the Stinger missiles from Mory's shoulders. He tugged, and Mory's ankle gave another sharp snap, evoking a wail of increased pain.

Cueball set his high-powered rifle behind him. He carefully held the launcher, then fit a missile inside.

He smiled, showing square white teeth as he admired the new weapon.

Mory groaned once more. Distractedly, Cueball unwrapped the chain from his broken ankle and let his partner drop 525 feet to the floor below.

25

LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER.

DURING THE TENSE MOMENTS in the VIP viewing deck, Nicole watched Senator Boorman's demeanor evolve from shock to gradually increasing alertness. She cringed to think what he might do, what ill-advised solutions he might come up with. After witnessing the cameraman's violent murder, the senator now seemed to be turning cold, calculating.

The body of the channel 7 cameraman lay slumped against the wall, sticky with blood-a reminder to them all. Mr. Phillips ignored the corpse as he strutted back and forth, glancing at the various TV monitors that showed the Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center, Atlantis on the launchpad, the Vehicle a.s.sembly Building, and the LCC's main firing floor.

Yvette paced restlessly in the confined observation deck like a caged tiger; her leg and arm muscles rippled as she walked. Rusty had been sent below to guard the sealed door to the crowded firing floor.

Senator Boorman drew himself up, finally making his move. "It's time I had a word with you, Phillips."

The dapper man turned, incredulous that the senator had spoken. "That's Mister Phillips to you, Senator. We are not on a first-name basis. A man with your political savvy should understand a bit about respect."

"Excuse me, sir," Boorman amended smoothly. "I apologize. I've considered how I might be able to help you-as you requested. If it will help resolve this situation without further bloodshed, I would be willing to make a few phone calls, check with my political network, and get you what you want. We can end this situation without letting it get more"- he glanced uncomfortably at the dead news cameraman-"more complicated. We all want to get out of here alive."

The senator's gray eyes gleamed, and Nicole felt cold inside. She had far less confidence in his abilities and motivations. He had spent decades politicking, but not much time in the real world facing life-or-death situations.

"I love uncomplicated situations," Mr. Phillips said. "Very well. Yvette, see to it that the esteemed senator gets an outside telephone line." The little man raised his eyebrows. "Show us your brilliant political prowess, Senator. Get me a briefcase full of gems, by hook or by crook, and I'll give you your s.p.a.ce shuttle back."

Boorman flared his nostrils but did not reply. Nicole could tell from his expression that Boorman didn't really care whether or not he got the shuttle back; he simply wanted to get out of this intact, no matter what the cost to the s.p.a.ce program.

As soon as Yvette nodded to him, Boorman s.n.a.t.c.hed up a phone like a man with a mission, as if he had stepped into his familiar element once again. His aide pulled out a small black book and looked up telephone numbers for him, muttering them into Boorman's ear as he dialed. The senator sat back in a chair and feigned relaxation, ready to make a deal. As he began chatting into the phone, Nicole got the distinct impression that Boorman had begun to enjoy himself.

She could see why Iceberg hated bureaucrats so much.

Mr. Phillips startled Nicole by speaking close to her ear. His breath smelled strongly of peppermint.

"Ms. Hunter, I hope you don't think too ill of me. I have admired your career for some time now. I've known that great things were in store for you once you left the Navy, whether you chose to be an astronaut or to play politics at NASA. From a certain point of view, you and I are really on the same side."

Nicole snorted, wary of Mr. Phillips's game. "What could we possibly have in common?"

He waggled a finger at her. "Tut tut, Ms. Hunter, no need to be rude. We were both present at the disastrous Ariane launch, for example. We're both just trying to make a living."

She narrowed her eyes, squeezing her lips into a moue of disgust. "Why couldn't you just knock over a bank or something?" Then Nicole drew a deep breath and looked at him more curiously. "In fact, why didn't you just rob a bank? Why did you pick something so spectacular and so high risk? You know you don't have a chance of pulling it off, with the entire country now gearing up against you."

Mr. Phillips raised a finger. "Ah, but I do have a chance. A chance- and that's all I need. To be truthful, though, I did consider robbing a bank. In fact, I considered many different options. I am, if nothing else, a very meticulous man. After I had decided on the need to undertake such an operation, I sat down and wrote out possible operations, then jotted down detailed lists of pros and cons."