"You're all going to be cons before the day is over," Nicole muttered.

Mr. Phillips gave her a look of long-suffering patience before he continued. "My team and I came up with many possibilities. But how many people remember just a bank robber? Everyone remembers an outrageous bandit such as D. B. Cooper-he's become an American legend. I'm not just an ordinaryperson, and this caper will put me on the cover of every magazine."

His smile carried an air that was at once swelled with ego and coldly calculating. "Besides, the potential payoff was much higher in holding the shuttle hostage. Each oil rig erected in the North Sea, for example, costs the petroleum companies nearly a billion dollars to build-I've seen their expense sheets-but the corporations are willing to make such expenditures because the profit potential is so extreme."

Nicole crossed her arms over her chest. "But an operation like this one must have cost you a fortune just to put together, all the plans, all the weapons, all the thugs. If you're already rich, why risk everything to get more? And don't give me a lame answer that 'one can never have enough money.' "

Mr. Phillips seemed to be enjoying the repartee. "The weapons did cost, but my team members work on commission, just as contingency attorneys in a corporate lawsuit. It isn't easy to get people to work on a percentage basis these days, but they know the potential payoffs, especially for four hours of work. Some of them are in it because they like the excitement, some of them feel they owe me a favor, the others . . .

well, they have their own reasons."

Nicole could imagine a bloodthirsty wildcard like Rusty agreeing to do anything just to get a little excitement in his life.

"Now, given that I wanted to do something spectacular, we could have threatened to destroy the Statue of Liberty, the Hoover Dam, the Washington Monument, Wall Drug in South Dakota. . . ." Mr. Phillips raised his eyebrows. "But I'm not a particularly murderous man-all those other possibilities would have risked the lives of thousands of people, but even if I do blow up Atlantis, the maximum number of deaths would only be seven, all of them astronauts who knew the risks when they climbed on board. Not to mention a few incidental civilians, such as our reporter friend from channel seven.

"Another item in the pros column-I know high-tech, and I love technology, specifically the s.p.a.ce program, perhaps even more pa.s.sionately than you do. I adore NASA. This operation had a certain appeal to me."

"You've got a weird way of showing your affection," she said with a snort.

He looked at the detonator box, as if admiring its components. "Perhaps you haven't thought it through, Ms. Hunter. I want to force this country to value their s.p.a.ce program, their future. There's too much apathy among the public.

"I used to rise at the crack of dawn to watch the live NASA coverage on TV. Not many people get up for a launch anymore-in fact, the news networks usually just have a sound bite," he sniffed, "as if a shuttle launch is 'regular news.'

"But with what I'm doing today"-he gestured with his well-manicured hand around the LCC-"I'm going to make the viewing public put their money where their mouth is. Today, they must decide if their s.p.a.ce program is worth anything to them. TANSTAAFL-are you familiar with that acronym, Ms.

Hunter? NASA's full of acronyms."

She answered slowly, "There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch." What is this guy getting at?

Mr. Phillips beamed, and his lips curled upward. "Very good-and it's absolutely right. There ain't no such thing as a free lunch. America is going to have to pay to keep their s.p.a.ce shuttle. Love it or lose it- don't you agree that's a worthwhile question to pose?"

"And you're betting they'll pay up," Nicole said.

Mr. Phillips shrugged. "As I said, I've got to make a living somehow."

Nicole narrowed her dark eyes. "Some of us do it in legal ways."

Mr. Phillips seemed unaffected by her venom. "Ms. Hunter, if you've been out in the business world as long as I have, you'd know that legal methods can be just as brutal as any act of terrorism. Ever try to cross a stockbroker? Wall Street is just as much a war zone as the Persian Gulf ever was."

Senator Boorman hung up the phone, fl.u.s.tered and disturbed. He rubbed his square jaw with one of his large-knuckled hands. His color had gone pale.

"Success, Senator?" Mr. Phillips asked with cheerful optimism.

Boorman shook his head. "I'm encountering resistance from people on the Hill. Getting so many gems all together in one place is going to be tough. They keep pa.s.sing me from one person to another. I can't even get hold of the NASA Administrator-the president called him into a National Security Council meeting."

"Welcome to the real world," Nicole muttered.

Boorman lashed out at her. "I'm the head of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Ms. Hunter, and this is an emergency situation. n.o.body should be putting me on hold."

"Then I suggest you try calling someone else," Mr. Phillips said coldly. "Our countdown clock is ticking,"

He held up the small black detonator controls. "We don't have much time if we're going to save thisshuttle."

"Yeah," Nicole said derisively, "because you care about the s.p.a.ce program so much."

Mr. Phillips spoke with an edge to his voice. "I do care, Ms. Hunter- more than you'd ever know. But don't take that to mean I won't blow up Atlantis. I've discarded much dearer things to me for less."

He held up one finger and his face pinched with an intensity she had seen before only on the faces of Shakespearean actors. "Listen to me. You've got a weathered old memorial kiosk at complex thirty-four over at the Cape, on the site of the launchpad fire of Apollo One that killed Grissom, White, and Chaffee.

"You've got a sealed Minuteman missile silo out on ICBM Road that holds the recovered wreckage from Challenger, cemented shut so that n.o.body can sell pieces for souvenirs. And just downstairs in the lobby, one wall is filled with plaques for all the missions-only one plaque has no landing date. Challenger, again. A national wound.

"I've been to your beautiful astronaut's memorial erected at s.p.a.ceport USA to honor all those who have died serving in the American s.p.a.ce program-and there are plenty of blank spots remaining. Do you really want me to fill in a few new names? Seven more names?" He ticked them off on his hand. "Franklin, Green, Burns, Koslovsky, Orlov, Purvis, Nichi."

Nicole met his gaze coldly. Finally, she shook her head.

"The shuttle is a magnificent machine, a marvel of engineering," said Mr. Phillips. "The astronauts are true heroes-don't force me to make them into martyrs." He stabbed his finger at her. "But I'll do it if you can't cough up my price."

One of the telephones inside the firing floor began to ring, startling everyone with its loud sound even behind the Plexiglas walls. The noise would normally have been drowned out in the bustle of prelaunch activities. Now, though, everyone turned toward the sound. The phone rang a second time.

It was the telephone on the Launch Director's desk. "It would appear someone is trying to call you, Ms.

Hunter," Mr. Phillips said.

"I'm the Launch Director," she answered, feigning disinterest. "It's supposed to be a busy day for me."

But her heart pounded with intense fear-could it be Iceberg? She knew Mr. Phillips had sent two killers after him in the VAB.

The phone rang again. No one moved to pick it up. Nicole wondered if she should reach out and punch the b.u.t.ton to transfer the call to the observation deck. Finally, after a fourth ring, her eyes locked with Mr.

Phillips's. He nodded briefly. "Go ahead, answer it."

She reached out and paused to concentrate on her movements, making sure that her hand didn't tremble. Then she grabbed a headset and depressed the b.u.t.ton to transfer the call. "h.e.l.lo?" she said, hoping it was Iceberg, hoping for him to say that he had taken care of the two terrorists and was now coming to rescue everyone in the LCC. That would be just the way he'd do it-in front of all the cameras . . . and get himself killed in the process.

On the phone she heard only silence, then the distant sound of a scuffle, faded shouting. "h.e.l.lo?" she said again, more loudly-then she heard nothing else. Nicole swallowed hard and hung up.

Mr. Phillips watched her intently. "Yes?" he asked. "I suppose it must be your friend Colonel Friese?"

"Wrong number," she said.

"Ah," he said, clearly disbelieving her. "Well, at least it wasn't a telephone solicitor." Mr. Phillips spun on his heel. "I'll go see how our friend the senator is doing." He stepped away to hover behind Boorman, who was still talking heavily into another phone.

Nicole sat back in a rush, dizzy from adrenaline. Andrei Trovkin turned from his perpetual position of staring out the narrow launch windows toward the distant gantry. He kept his voice low as he spoke to Nicole.

"I feel like helpless baby. How is it that a gang of bullies can cause such enormous problems?" He shook his head, then scratched his close-cropped brown hair, straightening his black-rimmed gla.s.ses. He heaved a heavy sigh. "We find ourselves trapped in little room like accountants with nothing more important to do. We are outside of loop in grand s.p.a.ce program." He looked up at the ceiling. "Ah, to be inside c.o.c.kpit of Atlantis at this moment. You and I, my friend, were both cut out to be brave astronauts-that little man Phillips makes me want to do something."

Nicole looked around, and her eyes met the pale deep-freeze gaze of Yvette as she prowled among the hostages. "You'll just get yourself killed," she muttered to Andrei.

"Unfortunately, you are correct," he agreed.

Withdrawing into herself, Nicole pondered the Russian's words. He did have a point-perhaps the two of them were cut out to be astronauts- but she didn't agree with his a.s.sessment. She and the amba.s.sadormay have started out with the same goals, intent on exploring s.p.a.ce, riding rockets into orbit-but Andrei had left the cosmonaut program for medical reasons. Nicole, on the other hand, had chosen to step out of the race, walking away from the rigors of training to become a desk jockey rather than following her dreams. She touched the gold key on her necklace. No, she had simply chosen different dreams, but they were still her dreams.

That had been one of the main reasons her relationship with Iceberg had crumbled. They'd once had much in common, but she couldn't compete with him anymore. Iceberg didn't know how to deal with her change of heart. He couldn't fathom it. He was always a bulldozer, insisting on his way or no way. He made Nicole feel she had taken the easy way out- and it stung because she suspected Iceberg may have been exactly right. She glanced at the video monitor, seeing the close-up of the motionless shuttle on the launchpad. Knowing the crew was in peril caused her insides to knot up. Conflicting thoughts whirled in her head. She could have been there herself. She might have been one of the trapped astronauts in the c.o.c.kpit, waiting for some manager to come to the rescue.

Trovkin reminded her very much of Iceberg, wanting to take action, insisting on tackling any problem with a thick skull and balled fists. She thought about Iceberg battling terrorists by himself in the Vehicle a.s.sembly Building, taking matters into his own hands, fighting impossible odds. It was exactly the way he liked it.

26.

VEHICLE a.s.sEMBLY BUILDING.

FINDING IMPENDING DEATH TO be a great motivator, Iceberg picked himself up from the hard floor of the high walkway, where he had been thrown from the chain. Unfortunately, he saw no convenient rocks to crawl under; he knew he had to move. Now.

Chill. . . cool . . . frosty . . .

He wished he could use one of the VAB's heavy lifting cranes just to help himself stand up. He hadn't felt this bad since he'd gotten the c.r.a.p beat out of him in boxing cla.s.s at the Academy. Talk about deja vu.

As he moved, his entire body let out a silent clamor of pain. "All nerve endings firing quite efficiently, yes sir." He wondered if his body were covered with a thousand small bruises-or just a dozen huge ones.

He had been so careful to contact the Atlantis pilot compartment and warn the astronauts there, rather than directly calling the LCC, so as not to tip his hand. How had these thugs known he was hiding inside the VAB? Maybe Marc Franklin hadn't taken him seriously, and blabbed. What a guy.

Iceberg wished he could have gotten more information from weasel-faced Mory. How many more terrorists did Mr. Phillips have? He had to contact somebody, now that the terrorists knew about him anyway. Nicole would be his first choice. Despite his reluctance, he had nothing to lose- and he needed help as soon as possible.

But right at the moment, Cueball was coming.

Staggering with every step, Iceberg worked his way down the walkway toward one of the cargo elevators again. He waited for the bald man to appear with high-powered rifle in hand. But the red elevator door remained sealed, without the vibration of the cable or a descending car.

Iceberg found an emergency phone near the elevator and picked up the receiver, listening to the dial tone as he panted and fought back the dizziness brought about by stabbing pains in his foot and ankle. His hands dripped blood from where his palms had been sc.r.a.ped open. The buffered aspirins he had taken earlier that morning had given up on him.

He punched in the familiar number for the LCC firing floor. Now that his secret was already blown, he had to let her know what he had done, and what he intended to do. And this might be his only chance. As mission commander, he knew the Launch Director's private extension, of course.

How could he remember such a thing as Nicole's phone number, when he was trying to forget everything about her? What a waste of brain cells!

The phone rang once, then a second time. He glanced behind himself, but he could hear nothing. Hesaw no motion. The VAB stood hushed and expectant, and Iceberg felt very exposed. Cueball must be coming after him in silence. Iceberg felt his heart thudding. The phone rang again. "Come on, Panther-come on!" he muttered.

Then he heard the hydraulics of the elevator. Cueball was on his way down, coming after him.

Against his ear, the phone rang a fourth time. "Nicole, pick up the phone!"

The elevator dinged. The hydraulics sighed. Iceberg dropped the phone and let it clack against the cinderblocks, dangling on its cord. He grabbed a small red fire extinguisher mounted to the wall.

The elevator door opened, and the burly bald man lurched out with a satchel slung over one shoulder.

He held his long rifle in both hands. Sweat glistened on his polished scalp.

Just as Cueball turned toward him, Iceberg hefted the fire extinguisher toward the big man's chest.

"Here-catch!"

With a grunt of surprise, the bald man instinctively flinched away from the heavy object, letting his rifle dip.

Iceberg leaped sideways behind Cueball, sliding between the doors of the elevator as they began to glide shut automatically. He felt his adrenaline soaring, barely enough to m.u.f.fle the pain in his foot cast to a dull thud. Iceberg pounded the b.u.t.ton for floor 1. The doors sealed.

"Down, down-come on!" Iceberg said.

He heard a thud as Cueball hit the door with the flat of his hand, and then again with a clang as he battered with the discarded fire extinguisher. But the elevator was already descending, too late for the thug to get at him.

Iceberg breathed rapidly. His foot hurt like a son of a b.i.t.c.h. He didn't want to move at all-but he had to. The elevator reached the bottom of the High Bay and opened onto the vast concrete floor cluttered with equipment. But now that he had a head start from Cueball, he had to make his way across the open interior of the VAB, get to the bright outside where he could climb on his all-terrain buggy and roar off across the swamps.

Feets don't fail me now!

With a glance behind him, Iceberg tried to see if the burly mute had climbed into another elevator or was taking the stairs-but he saw nothing, heard nothing. He found that even more frightening.

Hobbling at the best speed he could manage with his c.o.c.keyed gait, Iceberg scrambled across the concrete floor, dodging pumps and generators, parked forklifts, big steel bells used as test weights for the lifting cranes. Knowing Cueball's high-powered weapons, he felt the targeting cross crawling over his skin.

Making his way directly for the yawning outer door of the high bay, he hurried for the shelter of the tall Mobile Launcher Platform, on which stood the stacked solid rocket boosters. The sunshine glared brightly on the top of the platform, casting a jungle of shadows. He pa.s.sed under the flexible yellow barrier tape.

Iceberg struggled along, taking cover in camouflaging shadows and in construction equipment. The VAB's vast open floor seemed as large as Nebraska. But no shots came.

He pa.s.sed the splattered remains of Mory lying in the middle of an open loading area. The body was crumpled, as if a giant hand had tossed him in a puddle of red paint. A 525-foot drop sure could make a mess of things.

Iceberg focused on the battered automatic rifle Mory had dropped from high above. Squatting, he picked it up and scanned wildly around. His palms felt like shredded sausages, but it was good to have a weapon in his hands.

He laughed at himself, thinking how he had earlier tried to convince himself he wouldn't be getting into any shootouts-no sir, not this ole boy! He'd just wanted to make a phone call to the shuttle c.o.c.kpit.

From now on, he would be prepared for anything.

Taking the rifle, Iceberg worked his way toward the rectangle of sunlight from the outer bay doors. The way out. The bald thug wouldn't be able to see him hidden inside the steel labyrinth of the Mobile Launcher Platform, but Iceberg couldn't hide here forever. He was hurt and could barely move. Cueball knew where he was.

Ahead, daylight beckoned. Iceberg limped along like a car with two flat tires. Still no gunshots.

Salvador's three-wheeler waited just outside. He could get to it in only a few minutes. Finally Iceberg pa.s.sed out from under the Mobile Launcher Platform. He ducked, increasing his speed because now he was out in the open again, heading for the towering, wide-open doors. He made an easy target. His foot was killing him.

Almost home free. He risked a glance back to the dim interior of the VAB, turning to see if he could glimpse the muscular black man. Iceberg spotted movement on one of the catwalks of the High Bay three stories up. His stomach dropped. Cueball hadn't been chasing him after all. He had been getting into position.

On the high walkway the bald thug had set up a missile launcher and loaded it with what looked like an explosive-tipped Stinger. Even from far away, Iceberg could see the man's eyes lock on him. Cueball's silent face broke into a wide grin, showing big teeth.

"Oh, s.h.i.t-" Iceberg said, as his pain vanished into the background. He turned the commandeered rifle toward Cueball and let off a half dozen rounds. The automatic weapon belched bullets as its momentum drove the stock into his side. He heard a spray of ricochets against metal.

Cueball ducked. Iceberg knew he hadn't hit anything, but he might have bought himself a few seconds.

He lurched forward, stepping on his heavy cast but not caring as he made a beeline out the door. If that missile hit him, he'd need a tombstone instead of a cast.

He collapsed onto the seat of the all-terrain buggy. Grasping the handle, he started the engine and roared off on the fat tires, trying to put as much distance between him and the VAB as possible, make a moving target for the missile.