Amos, thought Nicole with sudden realization. Had Iceberg's little brother shut down the video feeds from the relay bunker? She drew in a breath but kept the information to herself.

Mr. Phillips's face blanched. He tapped on one of the dead gray monitors with a smooth fingernail, as if that might somehow help. He opened his pocket watch and studied the time. He kept his voice low, cold, threatening. "Explain what has just happened, Ms. Hunter." He snapped his watch closed. "Without delay."

He tugged on his tie as he strode toward her. He did not look happy.

Nicole studied the little man. Things were crumbling around him as his deadline approached. Was he losing control? She decided to take a gamble, albeit a small one. "It looks to me like the power went out."

"And why is that?" he asked.

Nicole shrugged. "Maybe Yvette tripped over an extension cord. She was in such a hurry."

"I do not find your att.i.tude amusing, Ms. Hunter." Distractedly, he brushed the front of his jacket, where dried bloodstains still marked a splatter from Trovkin's death. Mr. Phillips straightened his white-and-gold shuttle pin, then took a deep breath to calm himself. "My guess is that it has something to do with your not-so-charming beau, Colonel Iceberg."

He took out the walkie-talkie he had used to contact Jacques at the APC and set it on the counter in front of Nicole. "It's time to call him to the princ.i.p.al's office. If you would do the honors, please, Ms.

Hunter? Let us speak with this Iceberg."

She shook her head, tossing her short brown-gold hair from side to side. "He won't listen to you.

Iceberg's a very stubborn man."

Mr. Phillips snapped his fingers at the redhead beside him. "Rusty, hand me one of your guns, please."

Mr. Phillips held out his hand while staring down Nicole. Rusty slapped one of the pistols into his palm like a medical a.s.sistant handing a scalpel to a surgeon.

"I like to think of myself as a patient man, Ms. Hunter, but there are limits-and you have reached them." Mr. Phillips brought the pistol to bear against Nicole's forehead, pushing it forward. He moved the last inch slowly, tantalizingly, until the cold barrel pressed directly between her eyes. "Do you want me to pile three bodies in the corner, or is two enough?" He leaned over and whispered in her ear. "You see, I've come much too far to put up with any further setbacks. We're b.u.t.ting up against my deadline. Less than an hour to go. This is where-how do you astronauts put it?-the rubber meets the road."

Nicole felt the hard, deadly circle burning the front of her skull. She froze, too tense even to breathe. It seemed as if her heart had stopped beating. "You wouldn't kill me yourself," she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "You'd have someone else dirty their hands."

"I'll do it!" Rusty piped up.

Mr. Phillips hesitated. He pulled back and smoothed his lapels, all the time looking at her curiously.

"You're quite right, Ms. Hunter." He turned and held the pistol by its trigger guard, handing it back to the redhead. "Rusty, take this and shoot Ms. Hunter."

Grinning wildly, Rusty s.n.a.t.c.hed the pistol away from Mr. Phillips and turned it toward Nicole.

"No, wait. . . wait!" Her breath quickened.

Mr. Phillips held up a hand to stop Rusty. The redhead frowned in disappointment.

With a trembling hand Nicole reached out to pick up the walkie-talkie. Leering like a playground bully,Rusty pressed the pistol against her head hard enough that it would leave a mark. She tried to ignore the threat, putting the walkie-talkie against her ear and mouth. She clicked the "talk" b.u.t.ton.

"Iceberg! Iceberg, come in. This is . . . this is Panther. Over." She released the b.u.t.ton, listening to a hiss of static. It had been a long time since she had used that call sign. It brought back too many memories that she couldn't afford to dredge up. . .

She repeated her message and waited. She hoped he wouldn't play games, not now. Rusty pressed the pistol even harder. "Iceberg, this is Panther" she said. "Answer, dammit. It's important."

She was about to try again when his voice crackled back. "Panther, are you okay?"

She bit her lip to keep it from trembling, then pushed the "transmit" b.u.t.ton. "Just having a ball. You know how hectic launch day is." She drew a deep breath and extended the walkie-talkie toward him, still holding the "talk" b.u.t.ton down. "Mr. Phillips, meet my friend Iceberg."

Mr. Phillips held his hands behind his back and leaned forward to speak into the walkie-talkie. "A pleasure, Colonel Iceberg. However, I must tell you we don't appreciate your meddling. If you continue to be a nuisance, you will have to face the consequences. Consequences poor Ms. Hunter will experience."

Nicole swallowed hard. "Did you get that, Iceberg? Over."

The long, silent pause on the walkie-talkie told her just how angry he must be. She knew Iceberg didn't like to feel helpless, didn't like to be reminded that he wasn't in control. He expected to be the center of attention, the problem solver, the great commander-and now he was all alone. And she was here in the LCC, as ineffective as he was.

Finally, Iceberg answered slowly. "Panther, do you want me to come over and put this guy's chin through his forehead?"

Rusty began to giggle. "Just let him try it!"

Mr. Phillips frowned. "I am not amused by displays of bravado, Rusty-not from this crippled astronaut who thinks he's too important . . . or from you, either."

The redhead looked cowed. "Sorry, Mr. Phillips. You're the boss."

With prompting from Mr. Phillips, Nicole squeezed the "transmit" b.u.t.ton again. She spoke as she looked over at the body of Andrei Trovkin. "Iceberg, you can't handle it yourself. You've got a broken foot, and they outnumber you and outgun you. This is not a training exercise. And . . . and I don't want you killed."

Her dread grew with her certainty that he planned to do something stupid. "Iceberg, don't be bullheaded. These people are ready to blow up Atlantis if they don't get their way."

He finally answered back, his own frustration and anger directed at her. "Sure, Panther-I'll leave it to you and Boorman. You just keep sitting around discussing the situation. Why don't you all have a meeting?

That'll solve everything. Talk, talk, talk it over." The words were laced with scorn. "Meanwhile, though, I've got to do whatever I can to help my crew. They're my responsibility-no matter what some penny-ante gangster has in mind."

The transmission cut off momentarily; then Iceberg clicked back. "Oh, I forgot to follow protocol and say 'Over and Out.' " Then Nicole heard only static, stung by his words.

Mr. Phillips walked up to Rusty and with a finger lifted the pistol from Nicole's forehead. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "I should have read my horoscope this morning. 'Scorpio: Taking large s.p.a.cecraft hostage may be more inconvenience than it's worth.' " He shook his head.

Senator Boorman, who had kept himself apart from this entire exchange, hung up his own telephone and bolted out of the chair with a smug look on his face. "I got it!" he said, clenching his fist triumphantly, as if this was the best thing he could have imagined in his entire life.

"They'll pay your ransom, Mr. Phillips. The helicopter is on its way, complete with your briefcase full of gemstones-it'll be here within the hour."

44.

LAUNCHPAD 39A.

YANKING ONE MORE TIME on the rope that bound the unconscious form of Jacques, Icebergjammed the walkie-talkie onto his own belt clip and tried to ignore his swirling thoughts of Nicole.

Trying to talk reasonably with her drove him crazy as always. The "new" Nicole wanted to negotiate, map out the implications, reach compromises-rather than just making up her mind to do something. But a lot of touchy-feely discussions would not solve the terrorist problem, nor would it rescue his crew.

It was typical of management types-the same people who had brought him artsy-fartsy solutions like Zero Defects, Management By Objective, and TQM would rather sit around the campfire and sing k.u.mbaya than attack the problem head on. He had to charge in. Action not words. Easier to apologize afterward than to ask permission in the first place.

Iceberg took a brief inventory. Jacques's rifle had jammed and remained unloaded, while Mory's battered weapon wouldn't shoot. So much for Iceberg's terrorist-smashing a.r.s.enal. He didn't have the time to break down and repair either rifle-but at least he had stopped the sniper fire, and now he could go see about his friend Gator . . . see if he was still alive.

Next stop, launchpad 39A.

If he was in shape, with his foot in perfect condition, Iceberg could make the run in a few minutes.

Now, though, if he tried to walk that far, even hopping on one leg, it would take him half an hour.

And that was precious time he didn't have. Iceberg glanced at his watch. According to the broadcast ultimatum, the ransom money was due in fifty minutes. Time to book.

He tumbled the limp form of the blond terrorist into the APC hatch like an old mail sack. "Sorry about this," Iceberg said, "but you'll get over it." Jacques dropped with a painful-sounding thud. Iceberg hoped the blow would knock him out for a little longer.

Moving gingerly, breathing through clenched teeth because of the pain in his bones and muscles, Iceberg eased himself through the APC's hatch. The inside of the vehicle remained hot and dark; it smelled oily, with overtones of gunpowder and blood from the slaughtered rescue crew. At the moment, though, he couldn't be choosy. Shouldering Jacques's bound form aside, he made his way to the control panel. It felt great to sit down, but now his aches turned to agony as his body had a chance to realize just how much damage it had suffered.

Iceberg looked around and tried to recall the routine. All astronauts were required to go through APC training, so he set to work powering up the armored rescue vehicle. He reached up to the right and flipped two switches before setting the vehicle in gear.

The diesel engine coughed once, then twice more before dying. Iceberg slammed his hand against the control panel. "Okay, big guy- what gives?" He tried again, but the engine refused to turn over.

Looking around the cramped area, he found the checklist. "When all else fails . . ." He scanned the instructions until he spotted two steps he'd neglected. The next time he tried to bring the engine up, it started like a charm.

The APC vibrated, and the control area filled with a high-pitched whirring as various diagnostic systems came to life. The exterior video screen flicked on to show an un.o.bstructed view of the shuttle. The entire launch area looked weirdly deserted-as it should have been during the final countdown.

He reached down and shoved the vehicle into gear. The APC lurched forward at a crawl, then shifted into a higher gear. Soon Iceberg b.u.mped across the desolate area at twenty-five miles an hour-which seemed a mind boggling speed after all he'd been through.

"Now this is more like it," Iceberg said. He glanced over at Jacques, out cold. He hoped the sniper was having nightmares.

He drove up to the white concrete pad surrounding the gantry, past a chain-link inner security fence bearing a red-white-and-blue banner that proclaimed GO ATLANTIS! in huge letters.

Iceberg drove around to the elevator side of the launch superstructure and throttled down the APC engine. His watch showed that four minutes had pa.s.sed-so far so good. He looked at Mory's automatic rifle in the seat beside him, then decided to take it anyway. A good club was better than a b.l.o.o.d.y fist.

Hauling himself out of the APC, he blinked in the harsh sunlight. Jacques still lay like discarded garbage in the dimness of the vehicle, tied up and unconscious, incapable of causing further harm. Iceberg lowered himself over the side of the vehicle and started limping toward the gantry elevator.

The launch complex remained quiet. Too quiet. Usually, the air was filled with the sound of access arms swinging out, cranes moving, guard patrols and technicians milling about. Now, he heard only the creaking and groaning of the shuttle's cryogenic tanks and a distant hum of two backup generators.

Four of the Atlantis crewmembers had holed up in the emergency bunker at the end of the escape lines, far from the flame bucket and launchpad. But Gator Green and two other crewmembers remained high up at the shuttle crew level, almost two hundred feet aboveground.

And he knew Gator had been shot. Iceberg hobbled to the gantry elevator, using the broken rifle as a crude walking stick. His damp cast had started going soft at the edges, losing its support. He stabbed the elevator b.u.t.ton.

Glancing up, he thought the gantry and shuttle looked like an immense skysc.r.a.per overhead.

Somewhere even higher was the explosive package Jacques had boasted about planting.

Iceberg punched the b.u.t.ton again for the elevator, but nothing happened. No sound of hydraulics, no motors running, no motion whatsoever. No lights winked on-not even security lights. Stepping back, he scanned the launchpad complex. He heard nothing but the sound of distant generators.

And then it hit him. Backup generators. They must have kicked in to keep venting the volatile liquid fuel and oxidizers, providing a minimum of emergency electrical power to keep things from blowing up all by themselves.

But the rest of the launchpad power had been cut.

He stopped, stunned. If those secondary generators had kicked on, that meant there was an electrical short somewhere, a short that could cause a spark to ignite the hydrogen vapor bleeding off from the fuel tank. Had the sniper taken out the elevator power box? And was Mr. Phillips watching him even now?

Iceberg jerked his head up to see the surveillance camera. The light on the camera was off.

Iceberg stepped to the side. The camera didn't follow his motion.

What was going on? Even without the elevator power box, the emergency generator system should be running the video cameras.

Unless someone had physically shut them off. That's the only way it could happen.

Iceberg grinned. It had to be Amos. Phillips would be blinded, unable to see Iceberg or any other rescue efforts on the gantry. Now with the sniper removed from the picture and the cameras switched off, Iceberg was free to act. Way to go, little bro!

But, of course, without power the elevators would never work either. And Iceberg had no choice but to climb to level 195 using the winding metal stairs. With a broken foot in a cast that had started to fall apart.

He shuddered, then shook his head to clear his vision. He slung the broken rifle over his shoulders and limped up to the long flight of stairs. Two hundred feet up.

"This is going to be one h.e.l.l of a long climb," Iceberg said.

Running his hands up the warm metal rails alongside the narrow steps, he pulled himself up, then hopped on his good foot. His biceps bulged with the strain. He'd have to proceed with agonizing slowness, step by step. Cool. . . chill . . . frosty. . .

But instead of thinking about the ordeal, Iceberg just did it.

45.

LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER.

WHEN MR. PHILLIPS HEARD that the ransom suitcase was on its way, his elation helped him to rebound from the bad news about the blacked-out cameras on the gantry. Up and down, like a bouncing bull market. Exhilarating!

"All good things come to those who wait," Mr. Phillips said with a grin. He could barely suppress his excitement. He strutted to the windows that overlooked the firing floor, feeling in total control. Technicians and engineers sat glumly at their workstations below him; some scowled, others looked up in resignation.

Remarkable.

The firing floor looked uncannily like the stock exchange's trading floor after the market took a dive, stunned workers filled with cowed desperation. It was as if interest rates had hiccuped, and first the bonds then the stocks had plummeted . . . traders selling short, never quite believing that the science-and-technology sector would rebound. Once again Mr. Phillips felt the satisfying warmth of defeating a technological genie, and this time it was the shuttle program.

The emotional high rivaled that from his early teens when he had finally, cleverly switched off his mother's life-support system, after years of wishing for her to die. He had led a lonely life as a child, waiting and waiting for the promise of wealth she would bequeath him upon her death, but technological advanceshad kept her frail and useless body alive, for years denying him an inheritance and freedom. He had overcome the system then that had kept her from dying-and today he had overcome the system again.

Mr. Phillips turned as Senator Boorman cleared his throat. The senator looked around the VIP room as if seeking approval of his toil and selfless effort in arranging for delivery of the gems, but no one applauded.

Judging from his track record, the senator probably expected a substantial campaign contribution-say, a percentage of the ransom.

Mr. Phillips pointed a narrow finger at Boorman. "You'd best make sure the briefcase isn't rigged, no explosive dye packets or other Hollywood gimmicks. I would be quite angry to discover any FBI pranks."

His heart pounded with the thrill, yet he maintained his calm demeanor. Just a short while longer, and all would be triumphant fanfares and infamy in the news media . . . and once again, financial security, but this time for a very long time.

He could deal with that.

Mr. Phillips turned to Rusty. "We must prepare for our departure. However, there's an uncomfortable loose end that I'd like to see to."