Nicole hated the word downsizing, but she'd had to learn a whole new language when she'd gone into management. Even as an astronaut she'd been taught to speak in carefully phrased sentences when dealing with the media, but upon moving into administration she'd learned how much more meticulous she had to be just to survive.

Nicole placed her hands on her slender hips and self-consciously brushed a strand of gold-brown hair back into place. Her job had never before demanded that she remain so aware of her appearance, makeup, hair, wardrobe. She'd had little respect for the NASA public relations handlers when she was an astronaut, and even less as a Naval aviator; but she wasn't running through training courses now, or making PR appearances at schools, or even pressing the flesh at shopping mails during community service events. The TV cameras were on and she had to look in control, as well as tend to her real duties on the firing floor.

Now she strode through the cl.u.s.ters of computer workstations, a general inspecting her troops. Clad in a white silk blouse and a rayon suit, navy jacket, and snug slacks, she felt duly presentable for the cameras.

Nothing flashy, but professional, a step up from the hot-dog test pilots and c.o.c.ky astronauts. She lived in emotional Whitewater, and she rode it like an expert.

Though compact and pet.i.te, she was not a delicate flower but a dynamo-as she'd had to be to survive the rigors of astronaut training and to keep up with Iceberg. No one on the firing floor seemed intimidated by her presence, not that Nicole expected them to be.

She glanced up at the gla.s.sed-in VIP viewing area half a floor up, where a dozen or so special visitors and their guests watched the LCC activities, awaiting the launch. Though it was Nicole's job to treat each distinguished guest with respect, not all observers were particularly welcome.

With his back turned to the frenzied activities and computer checks as if they were irrelevant, Senator Charles Boorman lectured to the news cameramen he had brought onto the observation deck, choosing his words carefully to make certain he didn't end up misquoted. Being too far from the cameras seemed to make him uneasy.

Nicole fumed-normally it was against NASA policy to bring the media here, but the senator didn't think rules applied to him. "Surely, you don't have anything to hide?" he had asked with a tight smile, but with a look that she knew was dead serious. And so the Launch Control Center had scrambled to make facilities available to accommodate Boor-man's paparazzi.

Boorman did not choose to sit outside in the bleachers over at the Banana Creek VIP viewing site-similar to the facilities where she and Iceberg had watched the disastrous Ariane launch down in French Guiana-nor did he accept one of the special roped-off areas on the NASA Causeway that looked east toward the pads. She suspected that Boorman wanted to schmooze at the LCC, complete with air-conditioning and hot coffee. He was not a vocal enemy of the s.p.a.ce program. He simply afforded it no interest whatsoever, remaining firmly in the "let's solve all the problems on Earth before we look to the stars" camp of pipe dreamers. But his duties had brought him here for the Atlantis launch.

Nicole pulled her lips tight, watching the man's gaunt face lit like a revivalist preacher's. He waved his big hands at the end of long arms, and she thought he might be speaking on the perceived faults of the new treaty before his Senate committee, which required his recommendation before it could be ratified.

Boorman had often expressed his doubts about continued joint ventures with the Russian s.p.a.ce program, afraid that this treaty could open up a black hole of funding forever. He was much more interested in keeping the projects in this country, and in his own state.

The senator offered his opinions, well aware of the fact that here of all places, on launch day, his views about the s.p.a.ce program were not welcome. But he was getting the attention, just as he wanted. And Nicole had to be nice ... at least to his face. She had learned that during her intensive grooming for the Launch Director's slot.

She turned to the EE COM station tech and gestured with her chin toward the observation deck. "So what's the 'distinguished gentleman' talking about now?"

The tech tapped his earphone, staring distantly at the acoustic tiles in the ceiling as if he had been listening in all along. "Same old, same old." He reached into a cubbyhole next to his monitor and pulled out a roll of toilet paper-NASA Kleenex-and ripped off a wad of sheets to wipe away the dust clinging to his monitor.

Up in the VIP booth, the senator turned to look toward Nicole, seeming to stare directly through her.

The TV news cameras followed. Nicole put on a dazzling smile and waved back at the reporters. She hoped the cameras got that. The big countdown clock blinked as each number reeled down. Phones rang repeatedly-stations reporting in, checklists being verified. Another phone jangled nearby; the Range Safety technician picked it up, then began punching numbers into her computer monitor.

"Ms. Hunter," Ground Control called, holding up a beige phone, "got a report for you from the video relay bunker."

"I'll take it here." Nicole went to the nearest station and picked up the phone, punching in the line.

"Hi, Ms. Hunter. This is Amos Friese down at the relay bunker, Iceberg's brother."

"Stow that, Amos. I know who you are!" She laughed in spite of her reluctance to think about Iceberg.

Amos had always been quiet and shy, overwhelmed by the shadow of his brother. The shy kid had tagged along on enough barbecues and launch team parties that he should have felt more comfortable talking to her. "What's your report?"

Amos said in a nervous voice, "Have you received word from my backup, Cecelia? Cecelia Hawkins?

She was due here before me, but the blockhouse was empty when I got in. Air-conditioning's turned up, though."

Great, thought Nicole, groaning inwardly at yet another snafu. Scrub the launch because of a missing tech. She kept her voice soft and calm, knowing how easily Amos could get nervous. "What's her criticality code?"

"Uh, she's Level Two."

Nicole felt relieved. That meant the person was there as backup for an automated system. "You saw the launch-day traffic coming in, Amos. She might be stuck in a jam. We've still got plenty of time in the countdown. Don't sweat it."

"Not to worry, Ma'am," Amos said, as if gathering courage. "Worst-case scenario, I can handle this whole setup by myself. You can count on me."

"Thanks for checking in," Nicole said rea.s.suringly, then hung up the phone and turned to look for the next item that demanded her attention. She felt uncomfortably warm in her suit, glad of the LCC air-conditioning. Outside it would be far worse as the sun rose.

Months, even years, of preparation had gone into this morning's event. Every launch had its share of complications and joys, but this flight had been a particular political hot potato. The Russian Mir s.p.a.ce station, the new backbone of the International s.p.a.ce Station-if it ever got off the ground before they redesigned it for the fiftieth time-depended on the U.S. s.p.a.ce shuttle for regular resupply missions, and this time nearly half the crew consisted of Russian nationals. The Belorussian cosmonaut Alexandra Koslovsky, who had trained at Star City outside Moscow and at the Baikonur Cosmodrome, was scheduled to perform a s.p.a.ce walk in an American Manned Maneuvering Unit.

It was particularly important that Amos had all his video cameras up and functional with feeds piped in to the LCC to record every aspect of the launch. It would make great publicity footage for next year's funding presentations.

Overlapping conversations became a droning buzz inside the center, growing louder as the countdown progressed and sequence after sequence was completed: CAPCOM, EGIL, DPS, INCO, MOD, and a dozen other Scrabble-nightmare acronyms.

"Open loop test with the Eastern Range checks out."

"Orbital maneuvering system engines read optimal."

"Conducting gimbal profile checks, all A-okay."

Nicole felt like a shuttlec.o.c.k in a badminton match-but it was her job to answer every detail as it came up. She was the captain of the ship, and everyone looked to her.

She fingered her gold necklace, the tiny charm pendant her father had given her-an old-fashioned key.

"The key to the future," he had told her solemnly. "Follow your dreams, and it'll unlock all the doors you need."

She had followed her true desires, first resigning her Naval commission, then changing course to go into Launch Control and the many NASA political duties she found so engaging. She could have been an average astronaut, or an excellent s.p.a.ce program administrator. She had chosen excellence over mediocrity. Unfortunately, that little gold key hadn't been enough to unlock Iceberg's mind about her decision-for him, any career other than being an astronaut was a waste of time.

"Excuse me, Ms. Hunter," another technician called. "The roadblock vehicles are prepared and the guards are ready to stop traffic. The Crew Transfer Vehicle is in front of the Operations and Checkout Building, and the astronauts have finished suiting up. They're ready to board the CTV for the launchpad."

"Good," Nicole said, snapping back to her duties. "Have they made their press statements yet?"

"Yeah, they read the cue cards," the technician said. "They've all departed the ready room. Oh, wait."She touched her earphones. "Lieutenant Commander Green wants to speak to you before we hand him over to CAPCOM." Johnson s.p.a.ce Center in Houston, CAPCOM, controlled all communications with the astronauts once they boarded the shuttle.

"Put him on." A video feed from one of the private NASA cameras appeared on the television monitor in front of her. The technician slid her rolling chair aside to give Nicole room to talk.

"Howdy, Panther," Lieutenant Commander Vick Green said. His face was a smooth chocolate brown, his eyes large, his cheekbones high, giving him a look of deep intelligence and a broad good humor.

"Yo, Gator," she said, bristling a bit. After years of astronaut training, everyone had gotten so accustomed to their call signs that it seemed second nature now-except that her old call sign of "Panther"

reminded Nicole too much of the past. "Everything check out? How was breakfast?"

"Steak and eggs, as usual," Gator said, grinning. "But I feel light as a feather. Wish you were coming with us. We're having a great time- even without Iceberg. Don't tell him I said that."

Nicole had gotten good at masking any change in expression when it came to discussions about Iceberg. "It was his own hot-dog stunt that pulled him from the mission."

"That's our Iceberg," Gator said. "Hey, after we get down, how about we all go back to the Fat Boy's in Cocoa Beach? Just the three of us. Heck, bring Amos along, too. I hear they're still having their all-you-can-eat barbecue chicken special."

"Gator, you're thinking with your stomach again. I'll pa.s.s." She recalled the times their training group had gone to the old astronaut hangout, a small building with white siding and a crumbly asphalt parking lot only a few blocks up from the oceanside strip. Inside, the barbecue joint was lined with dingy, heavily varnished booths. Folded paper menus carried sticky, greasy fingerprints like badges of honor, and a smell of smoke and sauce hung in the air like fog in the morning. Autographed photos of astronauts and test pilots hung on the paneled walls. Nicole and Iceberg, Gator Green and his latest girlfriend, and others often hung out to eat ribs and drink pitchers of beer.

Gator shook his head good-naturedly. "See what happens when you get two stubborn people too close to each other. I bet Iceberg would come along if I dared him. Maybe you two could arm wrestle."

Nicole leaned forward and said quietly, "Shouldn't you be concerned with the mission and not my personal life, Mister?"

"Sure, Panther." He seemed momentarily embarra.s.sed. "Did Iceberg show up in the VIP area for the launch? I'd like to have the crew say good-bye to him."

Nicole forced a laugh. "You think Iceberg would show up here with all the reporters? So they can ask him embarra.s.sing questions and make him look pathetic on TV? For once I agree with him. He's probably sleeping in, taking the day off."

Gator's eyes widened in utter disbelief. "Sleeping in? Iceberg? If you say so, Panther."

"I'm the Launch Director." Nicole smiled. "People listen when I say things."

"Right, boss," Gator said. "Too good for us lowly astronaut types. Hey, I'll have CAPCOM relay a message from the shuttle. The Crew Transfer Vehicle is ready for boarding."

"Good luck, and G.o.dspeed, Gator," Nicole said.

She had just enough time to take a deep breath and collect her thoughts before someone else called.

"Miss Hunter! Excuse me, Miss Hunter." She saw the EE COM station tech holding his headset and waving at her. "I think you'd better hear this-you won't believe what the senator's talking about now."

With a lump forming in her stomach, she grabbed the headphones, snugging them over her ears.

Boorman's nasal yet ponderous voice plodded along as if in an attempt to add import to every word.

". . . have chosen to launch a routine investigation into the financial records of every member of the astronaut corps. To answer your question, though, just because Colonel Friese is no longer Mission Commander does not excuse him from my inquiry."

Nicole tore the headset off, losing her temper and barely managing to put the lid back on it. Smile for the cameras, she thought. "Excuse me 1 m going up to the VIP bubble."

"But, Miss Hunter-the astronauts are loading the CTV!"

Nicole fought to keep her voice steady as she looked toward Senator Boorman. You know where to find me. This won't take long."

4

NASA TELEVISION RELAY BLOCKHOUSE.

INSIDE THE TV RELAY blockhouse, Amos Friese could sit back in his government surplus chair and watch the launch from every perspective, thanks to the array of video cameras. Next best thing to being there!

NASA Select and the commercial TV channels would cull the best footage from Amos's tapes and run it on a twenty-second spot in the evening news-unless they had something more important to show, such as a politician's cat mysteriously acquiring a limp, for instance.

With a wall full of TV monitors, this was the primo seat in the house. He was such a s.p.a.ce buff he loved to watch it all . . . even though it meant he had to stay inside a clammy old blockhouse rather than experience the earth-shaking roar directly within sight of the pad.

He wondered how close Iceberg had managed to get. Amos thought of his brother, the big shot astronaut. The former Mission Commander had spent months in training, running simulators, memorizing control panels and subsystem linkages and backup computer programs-yet only last month Iceberg had secretly invited his little brother over just so Amos could hook up Iceberg's new direct broadcast satellite dish! As a management major at the USAF Academy, Iceberg was great at memorizing procedures, but someone had to hold his hand to get him past the technical details. Amos had laughed at his brother's quandary, and Iceberg had threatened him with dire embarra.s.sments if Amos ever told a soul about it. Not that he ever would.

Alone in the bunker, Amos sat back in his old chair. It was comfortable enough, but it squeaked like a miser's wallet-standard gray government-issue, left over from the Apollo days, as was this mildewy old blockhouse that connected the launch-control monitoring systems, the video cameras on the gantry, and those positioned around the launchpad itself.

His desk was cluttered with cryptically marked videotapes, a chain of paper clips, an orange windup s.p.a.ce shuttle toy, and a big jar of colorful jawbreakers, one of his vices. The jawbreakers didn't taste very good, but at least they lasted a long time.

He gulped from a can of Jolt Cola, checking his watch. His reflexes needed to be sharp, and he had to be wide awake. As if sneaking Iceberg inside the restricted area wasn't enough of an eye-opener! In fact, most of the thrills in Amos's whole life had to do with ill-advised schemes his big brother talked him into.

But he wouldn't have traded them for anything.

He just wished Cecelia would show up. He could cover for her without much trouble, as he had told Launch Director Hunter. The cameras knew what they were supposed to do; the videoca.s.settes were already recording. He was a relatively useless cog in the system, though NASA did not waver in its "man in the loop" philosophy.

But Cecelia had never been late before, and he was worried about her.

He glanced over at the other desk, saw her coffee cup, her plastic plants. Thinking about Cecelia sent a chill up his spine-which embarra.s.sed him a great deal.

Cecelia was full-figured with black hair, dusky features, generous lips, and the sweetest voice he'd ever heard. She was a video tech like himself . . . they had so much in common and they worked so closely together, how could he not like her? Amos had been terrified Iceberg would figure it out, would tease him mercilessly about the budding romance or use his bulldozer personality to force his little brother into proceeding too swiftly. But Iceberg had sensed the attraction and had been supportive, nothing more-much to Amos's relief. Sometimes his brother proved that even he had soft spots.

The air conditioner blasted on, making the refrigerated air inside the bunker even more tomblike. Amos felt cold to the bone, with an added shiver caused by concern for Cecelia. He went to the coat rack and pulled on a thick white cable-knit sweater, letting it hang loose, then went to double-check his video feeds from the remote cameras.

Down the corridor, the heavy blockhouse door swung inward on its recently oiled hinges. He jumped, startled, as Cecelia Hawkins bustled in, looking sheepish and somewhat uneasy. "Hi, Amos. Sorry I'm late."

She feigned a smile.

"I was getting worried about you!" he said. She was dressed in a magenta-and-green flowery top with black slacks. The flush to her cheeks only made her more beautiful.

He had often wondered what Cecelia might look like with a skirt snug against her ample hips-butAmos would have to ask her out to see that. NASA policy allowed for no uncovered legs, no shorts or skirts, because of the danger of injury out in the processing areas. He still thought she looked nice in slacks, though.

Cecelia shot a nervous glance over her shoulder. Amos finally noticed two other figures entering behind her, a man and a woman negotiating a cart through the equipment-crowded corridor. Both stood tall and muscular, wearing nondescript Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center jumpsuits. The pale-blond woman was built like a mud wrestler, and she was a knockout; the word leaped to Amos's mind. His attention was drawn to her like a magnet, even with Cecelia there.

The exotic woman's cheekbones were broad and flat, her face so tanned the color looked artificial. Her short hair was nearly white, matching bleached-pale eyebrows that stood out like bright blazes on her bronzed forehead. Her eyes were a watery blue, as if she had stared directly into the sun and had faded the color out of them.

The man accompanying her had carrot-orange hair and a face so spattered with freckles it seemed as if the skin coloring had been scrubbed raw. Together, the two of them pushed a cart laden with video components and diagnostic tools, wires, and extra videotapes, each carefully labeled with cryptic coding.

"Hey, what's this, Cecelia?" He nodded to both of them. "Howdy, I'm Amos Friese. A little late to be running an unscheduled check, isn't it?"

"They're just here to help out, Amos." Cecelia stepped forward, flicking her dark brown eyes from side to side and not meeting his gaze. Suddenly he felt very warm in his thick sweater, despite the air-conditioning.

The two workers brought the cart into the small central room of the blockhouse. The rusty-haired man picked up three coded tapes and shuffled them, checking his watch and selecting one of the black plastic cases.

"Cecelia, we don't need any a.s.sistants," Amos said. "The station is so automated we could sleep through the launch."

Cecelia lowered her voice, and a shadow of panic fluttered across her eyes. "Amos, just be quiet."

Carrot-top chuckled. Amos blinked, momentarily confused enough to wonder if he should sound an alarm.

Cecelia gripped his arm so tightly he could feel each of her fingers even through the sleeve of his thick sweater. She said in a hushed, awed voice, "They're here from the CIA, Amos-they've got badges and everything. We have to cooperate with them."

Amos blinked in surprise, turning to look at the two strangers. The redhead nodded with a serious expression that seemed somehow mocking. "You bet. Because of the international ramifications of this mission, Russian crewmembers and all, we're here to increase security monitoring, check for encrypted signals. All in our nation's best interests." "Oui," said the blond woman.

"I thought CIA people always wore suits and ties," Amos said lamely, not sure what to do, how to react in this remarkable situation. "That's the FBI," Carrot-top answered. "Just relax." "I even called the number they gave me," Cecelia said. "They checked out."

The beautiful Amazon woman selected a narrow metal pipe as long as her forearm. She held it to her face, studying its two polished ends. "Perhaps this will help you relax." Her thick French accent sounded like melted chocolate in her mouth.