Iceberg released the "talk" b.u.t.ton. Picking up his broken rifle, he forced another grin-for no otherreason than to rattle Jacques.

The sniper sneered at him. "You can't stop us, stupid man. It is all over your television. There are enough explosives on the external tank to take out the entire launchpad complex-and Monsieur Phillips controls the detonator. The access arm was retracted during the countdown, so you cannot reach the bomb I planted. It is you who's lost."

Iceberg's face drained of color. A bomb on the external tank! Trying to control his rage, he picked up Jacques by the ropes and slammed him against the armor, then let him drop back. He shook his head in disgust, reining in his temper. "You aren't worth it."

Iceberg picked up his rifle. After seeing the sniper shoot at the astronauts on the gantry, after watching Gator fall, after seeing the bodies of the APC crew murdered in cold blood and stuffed in the back compartment, Iceberg would have shot the b.a.s.t.a.r.d himself if he'd had a working gun.

Instead, he hit Jacques on the side of the head with the rifle b.u.t.t again. He couldn't afford to have the jerk get loose. Blood dribbled from his temple wound, and the sniper lay still.

Iceberg took several deep breaths, then wiped his face with the back of his hand. He glanced toward the shuttle, knowing his time was running out.

"So many terrorists, so little time," he said.

40.

LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER.

RAISING HIS EYEBROWS AT the vehemence of Iceberg's outburst, Mr. Phillips stared at the walkie-talkie. "My such language from a respected astronaut!" He pursed his lips, hiding his annoyance that the pest was still alive. "Some people just can't control themselves under pressure. I see why he was taken off the Atlantis crew "

He glanced over at Nicole Hunter, who was grinning in a childish expression of utter delight upon learning that Iceberg still lived. He scowled. "Don't allow yourself to be so pleased, Ms. Hunter. Just because Colonel Friese has survived so far doesn't mean we can't rectify the situation."

On the countertop, the walkie-talkie remained silent. Nicole didn't say a word, but her continued smug expression made him want to stride over, carrying the step stool with him, so he could climb up and stare her eye to eye.

Yvette's frost-pale eyes blazed wide, her tanned face flushed with urgency. "Monsieur Phillips, that man has done something to my brother." She tucked the saw-bladed knuckle knife into her waist satchel, preparing to leave. "I will . . . punish him."

Mr. Phillips saw the deep furnace of love in Yvette's cold eyes, the rage that shone on her bronzed face. He couldn't afford to have Colonel Friese making more trouble, and they only had another hour and a half to meet the deadline. More important, he would never be able to stop her, no matter what he said, if her lover and brother was in danger. It was better to focus Yvette's energy than to allow her to simmer.

It intimidated him to be left with only trigger-happy Rusty to hold the hostages in the LCC. This wasn't how he had planned it. He thought of poor Duncan a.s.signed to the guard gate, a colleague who had helped the team on other missions, a man who hated authority and hated the establishment. But Duncan no longer answered his radio-perhaps Iceberg had done something to him, as he claimed . . . not to mention the debacle in the Vehicle a.s.sembly Building and the certain deaths of Cueball and Mory. Mr. Phillips hoped NASA Security continued to believe in a veritable terrorist army hidden throughout the KSC site.

On the bright side, with every death of a team member, the respective shares of the shuttle ransom grew larger and larger to the survivors.

Also, seeing Nicole Hunter's dark eyes dart away with a flicker of uncertainty, afraid of what the big blond woman might do to Iceberg, made it all worthwhile.

He shooed Yvette away with a wave. "Go save your dear Jacques," he said as he watched Nicole, "and make certain the outcome is unpleasant for Iceberg." He held up a finger. "Send Rusty up here as you leave." Even with only the trigger-happy redhead, Mr. Phillips knew he had the upper hand so long as he held the detonator b.u.t.ton. "Don't worry about the rest of those pesky astronauts above on the gantry-no one can reach them now that Jacques took out the elevator."

"Oui, Monsieur Phillips. I'll see to Jacques . . . and Iceberg." With her rangy legs, she sprinted out, anxious to save her lover. Yvette always made an extremely effective deterrent.

Mr. Phillips walked to the counter and picked up a phone. He held it up to Nicole. "Ms. Hunter, I need you to contact your security forces. Yvette must have clear pa.s.sage-any problems she encounters will mean an instant response on my part." He held up the detonator b.u.t.ton. "Is that clear?"

Nicole nodded stiffly, looked at Andrei Trovkin's body on the floor, and made the call, feeling numb, in shock.

The freckle-faced redhead ran up the half flight of stairs two steps at a time to join Mr. Phillips in the VIP observation deck. He grinned, breathless with his own excitement. He held both handguns out, like a cowboy, and his a.s.sault rifle was strapped to his chest.

"A heavier responsibility has fallen on just the two of us, Rusty," Mr. Phillips said with a thin smile.

"You and I must baby-sit our friends."

Rusty beamed. "Definitely, Mr. Phillips."

Senator Boorman slumped in his chair like a limp doll and continued staring at the silent phone, as if mentally willing it to ring. He tossed jittery glances at the two corpses in the corner under the narrow shattered windows, at the gla.s.s from the VAB explosion still on the floor. Mr. Phillips raised his voice.

"Senator, have you given up?" Boorman frantically held up both hands. "I've made all the calls," he said.

"I'm waiting. The NSC is discussing it right now. This decision has to go the highest levels."

Mr. Phillips gave him a cold smile, then snapped open his pocket watch. "Our time is running out. While I do enjoy your company, Senator, you wouldn't believe how many items remain on my list of Things to Do Today."

Nicole Hunter snorted. "Or we could just wait a few minutes while Iceberg takes out the rest of your goons."

Mr. Phillips rounded on her, trying hard to keep his temper in check. But before he could say anything, the senator blurted, "Hasn't your boyfriend already caused enough damage, Hunter? If it wasn't for him, we could have been out of this a long time ago."

Nicole's face turned pale, then flushed in embarra.s.sment. She back-pedaled, leaning into her chair.

"He's not my boyfriend."

Mr. Phillips drew a sharp breath. He reached inside his jacket for the PDA, nipped open the small screen, and used the stylus to scroll down through the files. There it was, clearly marked. "How could I have missed this before?"

During her time as an astronaut trainee, Nicole Hunter-call sign Panther-had engaged in a lengthy, steamy relationship with her fellow astronaut Adam "Iceberg" Friese.

But since Colonel Friese had been taken off the flight manifest, Mr. Phillips had not marked his information files as priority. The cross-reference had not been apparent, and now the discovery filled him with a warm glow. "Exhilarating!" he said with a knowing smile.

Nicole avoided his gaze. Now Mr. Phillips had a much stronger bargaining chip the next time the renegade astronaut called. And knowing Iceberg's legendary ego, Mr. Phillips was certain he'd call.

41.

ATLANTIS GANTRY.

THE SHOOTING FINALLY STOPPED. When Dr. Marc Franklin reached his injured pilot's side, he was stunned to find the young astronaut still breathing. Franklin heard a thick gurgling in the man's chest.

He had been hit twice, once in the shoulder, once low in the chest. But at least Gator was alive.

Fallen backward on the walkway, Alexandra Koslovsky struggled to release her foot from the metal grating. "I feel stupid." "Feel stupid later," Franklin said curtly. "Let me think of something here, unless you've got any suggestions."

He considered loading Gator into the escape basket and sending the pilot down the long wire to safety while he, Franklin, worked to get Alexandra loose. But with the other four crewmembers already holed up in the emergency bunker, there would be no one to help the injured man once the emergency net stopped him. Someone had to ride along to take care of him.

That meant the only thing to do was to free Alexandra. Step one. Just like an impromptu checklist.

Franklin crawled up, expecting the sniper fire to begin again at any moment, and started tugging at her leg to help her out. He couldn't fathom how she had ever managed to slip her foot beneath the railing-she must have had her toes pointed straight down like a ballerina. So much for the graceful s.p.a.ce walker.

Alexandra gasped as he tugged. She tried to speak, but her ankle seemed to hurt too much. Franklin slowly twisted it around to find any way of freeing her without pushing her leg deeper, but it seemed hopeless.

"You . . . must save yourself," she finally said. "Take Lieutenant Commander Gator with you."

"No."

"At least you will save someone," she said. "Two out of three."

"I said no. I'm the commander of this mission and that's the end of it." Franklin struggled harder. d.a.m.n her slim legs, and d.a.m.n these low metal railings.

Part of Franklin's mind screamed for him to save himself, just as Alexandra had urged, to carry Gator into the basket and ride down to safety. But he couldn't stand the thought of leaving her behind-a part of his crew, which he was supposed to lead. Provide a good example. And throw in the fact that Alexandra Koslovsky was a cosmonaut, and a woman-if Franklin abandoned her up here, NASA would never live it down. He wouldn't be able to live with himself.

This should have been a routine mission, another triumph for the s.p.a.ce program. He was qualified, respected; he had trained for all of his duties. But not this! Angry at how the circ.u.mstances had conspired against him, Franklin jerked harder on her pinned leg. Alexandra cried out in pain.

By the book, he thought. Follow the checklists. Franklin had been trained to minimize his losses, maximize the return. That had been drilled into him in every astronaut training cla.s.s, though it certainly wasn't the way the much-vaunted Commander Iceberg would have done it.

But then, he didn't worship Iceberg the way the rest of the crew seemed to. Granted, the former commander had tipped them off to the hostage situation, but it had forced the whole crew to react without orders, getting them into this whole mess. He had no idea what delicate negotiations their brash action had screwed up back at the LCC. Now, judging from the other disasters he had seen around the site, smoke trails from other explosions, the sniper shooting at them on the gantry, he supposed Iceberg was still running around, mucking up the situation.

In fact, if Iceberg had followed the rules weeks ago-resting and taking care of himself-instead of showing off with his back flip and breaking his foot, Marc Franklin would be safe right now, watching the launch from elsewhere. He would have taken his responsibilities more seriously.

But then, I'm not Iceberg, he thought sourly as he pulled on Alexandra's ankle once again. Thank G.o.d.

42.

NASA TELEVISION RELAY BLOCKHOUSE.

INSIDE THE VIDEO RELAY bunker, Amos Friese swallowed the sharp, sour lump in his throat. He felt like a rabbit hiding in a hole, and the forest was filled with prowling wolves.

He straightened the body of Cecelia Hawkins, running his fingertips along the smooth fabric of her floral-print blouse, touching her cold arms as he folded them peacefully in place. He had already closed her half-open dark eyes. That had been the hardest part.

His knees creaked as he struggled to stand. He sucked in a deep breath, searching for courage as hewent to ransack the mildew-smelling blockhouse for supplies, for some way to cover Cecelia . . . because that seemed like the appropriate thing to do. He couldn't think beyond that at the moment.

Fighting leftover dizziness, Amos scrounged in storage lockers and found coaxial cables, extra fuses of varying amperages, a tool kit, a fire extinguisher, and an old jar of instant coffee crystals that had fossilized into a strange sedimentary lump. But he came up with nothing that would serve as a covering sheet.

Finally, Amos removed his gla.s.ses, then tugged the thick sweater over his head. His hair stuck up in odd tufts, and he straightened it down with the palm of his hand. He took the sweater to Cecelia's body, draping it over her head and chest.

"Sorry, Cecelia," he whispered to her. "It's the best I can do." Around the corner, the bunker's blast door still hung open from where the b.o.o.by-trap explosion had rocked it off its hinges. Shards of sunlight lit the outer corridor. He avoided the bodies of the two fallen NASA security men outside, stopping only long enough to make sure both were dead. He couldn't think of anything to do for them.

He couldn't think of anything to do at all. Iceberg would have had the answer, would have swung into action, would have gone looking for solutions or, finding none, he would have created them out of thin air.

Amos wondered if more security would come to rescue him, or if the bad guys would return first. The best thing for him to do would be to go back and watch his video monitors-no, not just watch them, study them. Once he understood the entire situation, maybe then he could figure out a way to help NASA.

He felt faint as he slumped into the old government-issue chair. His body rebelled from the aftereffects of the tranquilizer dart, as well as grief over Cecelia's death. His stomach roiled, and he popped one of his fruit-flavored jawbreakers in his mouth, hoping that would settle him down. It didn't, but at least it eased his terror-dry throat.

Just watching the scenes displayed by the surrounding cameras, Amos could see that the entire Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center was in "deep kimchee," as his brother would have said. He had no idea how many terrorists were out there, but anyone could see that the bad guys had the upper hand- at the moment. And, judging by the gantry images on the monitors, Iceberg was out in the thick of things . . . no big surprise there. Iceberg didn't know how to stay put, even with a broken foot.

With the one remaining camera in the Launch Control Center he saw two murdered bodies against the wall in the VIP observation deck. Nicole Hunter seemed to be handling the situation bravely, though she looked fl.u.s.tered, completely out of options. Amos knew exactly how she felt.

He watched the tigerlike blond-Yvette?-set off under orders to go get Iceberg. Here, sitting on the sidelines, Amos desperately tried to figure a way that he could give her some alternatives, or at least help his brother.

Amos had watched the four astronauts from Atlantis take the escape wire down and reach the safety of the blast bunker, but Gator Green, Dr. Franklin, and the Russian cosmonaut Koslovsky all remained on the gantry, under sniper fire. Gator was down with a gunshot wound.

With the gantry surveillance cameras, the terrorists in the LCC could also see everything that happened up there. Mr. Phillips, the little guy in charge, had a big advantage because n.o.body could surprise him.

Iceberg could never sneak up there, nor could the astronauts slip away.

Mr. Phillips was able to keep an eye on everything.

But all those images came through Amos's TV relay bunker. Maybe he could do something about that.

He allowed himself a small grin as he finally plotted a course of action.

Due to multiply redundant NASA safety procedures, numerous shutdown points existed around the control net inside the restricted launch area. Because so many things could go wrong at any point in the countdown, any authorized person in the loop who witnessed a potentially dangerous problem had the power to call for a stop, to cancel the ignition order and halt the launch.

Amos's relay bunker was one of those shutdown points. The huge responsibility had been awe-inspiring when he first realized it, but it had quickly become just part of the job.

And now Amos had to use it. Iceberg and Nicole and the Atlantis crew were counting on him-even though they didn't know it. But he needed to make sure that someone didn't reroute the video feed. He needed to ensure the cut was permanent.

He froze, intimidated by what he was about to do-but Iceberg was out there, with the blond a.s.sa.s.sin coming after him. And Nicole was being held hostage in the LCC. Gator had been shot, maybe killed. The s.p.a.ce shuttle itself was threatened.

Some situations called for drastic action.

It would be up to him, Amos Friese, to take this next step.

Rummaging through the bank of fiber-optic cable, Amos yanked out the video connections to launchpad 39A. The surveillance cameras on the gantry went dead. The video transmissions winked out, leaving onlystatic on half the monitor screens. Now the terrorists were blinded.

"Okay, Iceberg," Amos mumbled. "The rest is up to you."

43.

LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER.

STILL REVELING IN THE knowledge that Iceberg had survived- so far-Nicole glanced at the bank of TV monitors showing Atlantis vulnerable and trapped on its launchpad. The video screens blinked, then all went blank at the same time.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Rusty yelled. "Hey, Mr. Phillips!" He whipped out both of his handguns and pointed them at the hostages, as if he wanted to shoot someone, anyone, just to blow off a little steam.