"Hey, what's that?" Rusty said. He turned and shouted, "Mr. Phillips, you'd better see this."

On the monitor, the shuttle astronauts, clothed in orange pressure suits, emerged from the orbiter's hatch, climbing through the White Room chamber onto the gantry structure. They moved carefully but efficiently, one at a time, like kids in a fire drill. One by one the astronauts sprinted from the access hatch.

The mounted surveillance cameras could not track the figures, but the crewmembers proceeded with a clear sense of urgency.

Since they had not queried the LCC for further instructions before popping the emergency hatch, their actions took Mr. Phillips by surprise. He had expected them to be a bit more obedient. "Ms. Hunter, I thought you told those astronauts to stay in place." He straightened his tie, waiting for her response.

Nicole shook her head, struggling to keep a smug smile off her face. "These are highly trained astronauts, and they have minds of their own. No matter how much you planned to keep them in the dark, they could see the explosion at the VAB. They know something is definitely wrong, and it's not surprising that they might respond to a changed situation. You couldn't expect them to stay put without giving them any more information."

"Ah, but I can." Mr. Phillips smoothed his jacket. Control. I have to keep control. His mind spun through the possibilities, seeing options clearly defined like numbers on a stock-price sheet. Times like these separated the great men from the good.

He flipped open his PDA again, looking at decision trees, contingencies he had outlined on the flow chart of the morning's caper. Two hours left, and he expected to have a king's ransom in his hand.

Years ago he had discovered the intoxicating beauty of cold logic, sound reasoning . . . and its tremendous rewards. He had been forced to bury his feelings then, and do the logical thing; it had hurt at the time, but the lesson he had learned that stark December day in Connecticut, walking away from the ma.s.s of IV lines, wires, pumps, and breathing tubes after switching them off had brought him his rightful fortune from his pathetic mother. Just as this decision would bring him an even greater treasure.

He closed his eyes as he gathered strength from his own convictions. He snapped them open. "Though those astronauts are true national heroes, they are half of my collateral . . . and letting them go simply won't do."

He picked up the walkie-talkie and tuned to a specific frequency, punching the "talk" b.u.t.ton. "Jacques, this is Mr. Phillips. Are you still in position at the APC?"

After a quick burst of static, Jacques acknowledged, "I am here, Monsieur Phillips."

On the other side of the observation deck, Yvette's water-blue eyes narrowed at the mention of her lover. Mr. Phillips drew his mouth tight. The . . . ravenous devotion of those two to each other was incomprehensible to him-as was any amount of deep affection. But then he himself had not been through the hard lives the two magnificently beautiful specimens had endured. What they did in their private hours was none of his business. Yvette and Jacques had never let him down when it counted, and they had gambled everything on his being able to pull off this one caper.

"What are you planning to do?" Nicole Hunter asked. Her voice had a hysterical edge. "Pleasereconsider-"

Mr. Phillips popped another breath mint into his mouth, ignoring her. "Jacques, would you be so kind as to take out your rifle and explain to the Atlantis crew that we don't wish for them to leave at this point."

Mr. Phillips could imagine the young blond grinning from ear to ear. "Oui, Monsieur Phillips. I understand. Guaranteed bull's-eye."

Four astronauts had already emerged from the crew compartment. They hustled away from the shuttle hatch, crossing the gantry access arm over to the emergency escape baskets. Seconds later Mr. Phillips saw the Belorussian gymnast Alexandra Koslovsky, the grim-faced mission commander Marc Franklin, then the dark, wiry form of the pilot Vick Green hurrying across the metal framework high above the ground.

The Russian liaison, Andrei Trovkin, watched the beautiful cosmonaut standing on the gantry. The amba.s.sador's face grew florid as he lunged to his feet. "I will not allow you to harm her-"

Yvette moved with sinuous grace and amazing speed. In an instant she stood behind the broad-shouldered amba.s.sador with her hand gripped around her razor-edged bra.s.s knuckles. She used the side of her fist to pound on the base of Trovkin's neck, careful to keep the shark-tooth blades from slicing his skin, but enough to send him crashing back into his chair, stunned.

"Please remain seated, Monsieur," Yvette said, narrowing her empty ice-blue eyes. "Merci."

Mr. Phillips looked oddly at the Russian liaison, puzzled at the sudden outburst; then he glanced back to the TV, noting the slender blond cosmonaut. He thought he remembered a certain detail, something that might be advantageous for later. With rapid strokes of the blunt stylus, he checked his Personal Data a.s.sistant, calling up the file on Alexandra Koslovsky.

"Ah, I see it now, Amba.s.sador Trovkin. So those rumors about you and Comrade Koslovsky must be true. Too bad." Mr. Phillips turned to Yvette as the Russian liaison sat seething but helpless in his pain.

"Yvette, my dear, I just hope your precious Jacques doesn't miss his shots and hit the hydrogen tank instead."

Yvette's nostrils flared in indignation. "Jacques is an expert sharpshooter, Monsieur Phillips. He will hit the target, nothing else."

"I suppose we've already had our quota of mistakes for today," Mr. Phillips said dryly. "I'm sure the rest of our plan will come off without a hitch."

34.

ARMORED PERSONNEL CARRIER.

BREATHING HARDER AS HE struggled overland, Iceberg kept his gaze fixed toward his goal-the launchpad. His crew. His shuttle. He saw helicopters hovering on the horizon, security forces held at bay.

Distant alarms sounded on the gantry, and he recognized the emergency evacuation signals, loud blasts used only when the crew intended to make a rapid and unplanned escape from the launchpad.

Good, Gator had finally gotten the message. At least somebody was listening.

He pa.s.sed a line of low Georgia pines and wild palmettos to spot the rescue Armored Personnel Carrier, at its a.s.signed station only a few hundred yards away. Just sitting there! Why wasn't the APC rumbling toward the launchpad right now, if the astronauts were attempting to evacuate? Dammit, that was the vehicle's sole purpose for being there! The APC crew could roll into action faster than he could with a broken foot and a soggy cast.

Before he could call attention to himself, though, the armored hatch popped open. A lone figure rose out of the interior, unaware of Iceberg's presence as he withdrew a sharpshooter's rifle and braced it on the top of the vehicle. The guy was dressed in a sand-colored camouflage outfit, nonregulation. He stood silhouetted against the yellow-splotched APC like a jet flying across a full moon. He had broad shoulders, white-blond hair that dazzled in the sunlight, and tanned skin.

As Iceberg crouched down into the foliage in disbelief, he watched the uniformed man adjust something at one end of the rifle-a telescopic sight? The blond swung his professional weapon in a slow one-eighty infront, then another full arc to the rear, scanning the area around the shuttle.

Iceberg dropped to the underbrush, hitting his already bruised hands and digging Mory's battered automatic rifle into his shoulder. He bit back the pain. Must be another terrorist! This Phillips character had his people everywhere, swarming like c.o.c.kroaches.

A roll of sweat formed on Iceberg's forehead. He had to do something, and do it fast. "Cool it," he said to himself like a prayer. "Chill out." But the words no longer gave him strength.

The APC was probably the terrorists' safety valve-a last-ditch defense against any NASA security forces sneaking into the restricted launch area. The blond-haired thug probably had standing orders to take out the shuttle if the astronauts tried to escape. The terrorist had only to fire one well-placed shot into Atlantis'?, external tank, and the resulting inferno would make the VAB explosion look like amateur night on the Fourth of July.

Iceberg knew he was too far away to get in a good shot with his commandeered a.s.sault rifle-he couldn't count on his own accuracy anyway, not with his battered and bedraggled condition. Besides, astronauts weren't chosen for their target-shooting abilities. He just wished he had one of those Sidewinder missiles he used to shoot when he was flying F-15s.

He had to stop the sniper some other way. Iceberg felt his stomach go sour. Cool. . . chill. . . frosty . . .

Yeah, right. Gritting his teeth from the pain in his hands, he pushed up, the decision made. If he kept quiet he could sneak up on the APC . . . he hoped. Move fast, move quiet.

Holding his rifle steady with one hand, he crouched and sprinted for the armored vehicle, tripping through the creepers and thick bushes that played h.e.l.l with his broken foot, snagging on the wet, clammy cast. He just hoped the moon boot support would hold up long enough for him to do what he had to do.

Iceberg followed the winding track of an overgrown dirt road and the trampled path the APC had crushed on its way into position. He had at least two hundred yards to cover-and no telling how much time. His foot hurt, big-time, but unless he kept moving, his broken bones would be the least of his worries.

Far away, the astronauts continued their evacuation routine, small figures in the distance, high up on the gantry.

The sniper settled down into the APC, keeping only his head and rifle in view out of the armored hatch.

He sighted in the shuttle-and fired.

35.

ATLANTIS.

GATOR RACED DOWN THE crew access arm, leaving the White Room chamber behind him. With the emergency alarms going off and the surveillance camera covering their escape, he didn't want to guess what the terrorists might do.

The crew had to get to the emergency egress baskets and reach safety.

Purvis and Burns had already climbed in the baskets aligned at the edge of the fixed launch structure.

Each of the five two-person baskets hung from a long wire that stretched twelve hundred feet down to a wide-mesh catch net and blast-shielded emergency bunker.

"Go, go!" Gator yelled as he ran, waving his arms for the two mission specialists to get going. "Just think of it as an amus.e.m.e.nt park ride!"

Burns didn't look up as he braced himself against the dangling basket. "Hit it!"

Purvis smashed his arm down on the release lever. The basket jerked once, then started trundling down the long cable with a growing whine, picking up speed.

Marc Franklin stood ready to help the two Russian payload specialists; they scrambled aboard the next basket in line even as Burns and Purvis slid out of sight. The Russian's basket lurched once and started sliding down the wire. Orlov let out a loud, ridiculous whoop as they sped off to safety.

Franklin reached the third basket just before Alexandra Koslovsky. He started to get in but stopped and turned to Gator. "Hurry-you take this one."

Then Gator heard the sound of a bullet ping against the metal of the gantry. Another bullet whizzed by,slicing through the air.

"Somebody's using us for target practice!" Gator said. His heart clawed up his throat. If a bullet hit the external tank, the whole launchpad would be consumed by a million pounds of explosive fuel. "Just get on!"

he yelled. "I'm right behind you-I'll ride solo."

At the bottom, the first basket slammed into the netting, throwing Purvis free with the impact. Burns managed to hold on; then he scrambled out to drop beside his fellow mission specialist. As the second basket crashed into the wobbly net, the first two astronauts struggled to open the emergency bunker.

From above, Franklin looked around, confused by the echoing gunfire. He started to climb into the basket, then stopped, turning to yell a question back at Gator.

Alexandra, racing full-out, tried to stop her forward momentum as Franklin hesitated getting into the basket. They collided. Seventy pounds lighter than the shuttle commander, Alexandra bounced back. She tried to get her footing but slipped. Her leg slid underneath the lower railing guard that ran along the walkway.

As she tried to get up, a look of terror crossed her face. "I cannot move!"

Gator crawled on the metal gantry walkway, trying to duck from the ricocheting bullets. "Are you all right?"

She strained to move. "I am stuck."

He knelt to examine her foot. Alexandra had somehow slipped under the metal railing at the edge of the access arm. Her slender foot was caught between criss-crossed metal bars. If her foot had only been bigger, it could not have pushed through. From the angle at which she lay, it looked impossible to get her out.

Another bullet ricocheted around the fixed metal structure. Gator flinched instinctively. Franklin crouched down beside them, out of breath, his eyes wide. He looked wildly around. "Let's go-the shots are coming from the APC below." Finally he noticed Alexandra's twisted position on the metal walkway.

"She's stuck." Gator tried pushing up on her foot, but Alexandra winced. They had to get out of there, and get out now. He looked at the cosmonaut. "Can you turn your leg?"

Alexandra grimaced and tried to reposition herself. She pushed up on her hands but was unable to turn. She shook her head. "I cannot move at all."

"Okay, we'll turn you." Gator motioned to Franklin. "Pick her up."

"We'll be targets, plain as day!"

"Shut up and help me lift, Commander," ordered Gator. "We've got to get her foot free."

Gator reached under Alexandra's arms. Franklin positioned himself at her torso. Gator said, "One, two, lift." Alexandra was light, but with her foot stuck awkwardly under the metal railing, it was unwieldy to lift her. "Now rotate her this way."

Alexandra's clenched lips turned white, but she didn't cry out for them to stop. They just about had her in a position where her foot could come free when another bullet clanged against the superstructure.

"Hurry!" Franklin said, hunching down, nearly losing his grip.

Gator stood up to get in better position when something spun him around. The impact was like a plane crash. It felt as if someone had shoved a hot needle into his back or his side ... or somewhere. Alexandra slipped out of his arms. He staggered back and opened his mouth-then another bullet hit him.

Gator felt himself falling. Even the floor of the gantry seemed very far away, and surrounded in blackness.

36.

LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER.

ON ONE OF THE TV monitors in the VIP observation deck, Nicole watched the orange-suited form of Gator Green jerk like a marionette twitched by an epileptic puppeteer. The shuttle pilot crumpled to the metal walkway as Marc Franklin dove for cover. Gator lay motionless on the gantry, his body obscured by the metal framework Nicole gasped in shock. She felt so d.a.m.ned isolated and ineffective here. She whirled to snap at Mr.

Phillips. "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d! You could have let me talk- The little man ignored her and slicked back his hair, then turned to the news cameramen, who kept their lenses trained on the LCC hostages. "Replacing a good pilot is going to be difficult, but luckily the crew is cross trained."

Alexandra Koslovsky struggled where she lay trapped in the superstructure. Even in the silent video image, a bright puff of ricochet showed that gunfire continued to pelt the gantry.

Nicole controlled herself, trying to think of something, anything, that might help. "Look, if you want your little treasure chest full of diamonds, you'd better start showing some good faith. Call off your sniper. Tell him to stop shooting."

Mr. Phillips raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I'll consider it. Can you get the remaining astronauts back in the shuttle?"

Nicole swallowed, knowing the crew was completely out of contact. Gator had been shot-if he wasn't dead already, he needed medical help. Only Franklin and Koslovsky remained on the gantry.

Mr. Phillips squinted down at the monitor as Alexandra struggled to free herself. Franklin crawled over and tried to help her, though he seemed torn between leaving for the escape basket and freeing the trapped Belorussian. A bright shot spanged from the metal less than a foot away from Alexandra's head.

"Oh my, that was a close one," Mr. Phillips said. "But no points for a near miss." He raised his eyebrow, as if expecting laughter from the audience.

Instead, it finally triggered Amba.s.sador Andrei Trovkin to act.

The burly, nearsighted Russian had remained silent since his pummeling by Yvette, apparently cowed.

Now, he took everyone by surprise. His face scarlet with rage, Trovkin lunged out of his chair and collided with Mr. Phillips like a steel wrecking ball. "You will die first, little man!" he bellowed in his thick Russian accent.

Trovkin grappled Mr. Phillips to the floor. He sledge-hammered a fist into the other man's stomach, causing the Personal Data a.s.sistant to clatter out of his pocket.

Yvette had already swung into action.

In less than a second the lithe blond woman was across the room, her arms literally ripping Andrei Trovkin from Mr. Phillips as if gravity had been turned off.