Rusty swiveled toward the sound and let out another spray of bullets, sweeping from side to side like a man with a sprinkler hose. Shots took out the wall of TV monitors and video control panels. Cathode-ray tubes imploded, sparks flew, and smoke curled into the air. Bullets ricocheted, zinging around the concrete interior of the blockhouse.

The sound was deafening. Amos reached up to pull over his desk for more protection, but the jar of round jawbreakers toppled off, shattering; the candies bounced and skittered over the painted cement just in front of Rusty.

"Hey, you've shot everything else-but you missed me! What a klutz!" Amos shouted into the din.

Rusty lumbered forward as fast as he could charge, limping because of his smashed shin. The sounds of the crackling electrical fires drowned Amos's movement as he crept to one side. The fire-suppression sprinklers in the ceiling turned on, spraying everything with water.

Rusty lunged like a maddened bull, shooting off another quick burst-then he lost his footing on the carpet of bouncing jawbreakers. He stumbled forward, off balance in a drunken ballet, yowling, swinging his machine gun around-and he tripped on Cecelia's body sprawled on the floor.

Amos stood stock-still, watching in astonishment as Rusty went down like a felled tree, clipping the side of his head on the bulky desk. The redhead landed face-first so hard that even over the sparking electronics and hissing sprinklers, Amos could hear Rusty's teeth click together as his chin smacked the cement floor.

Trembling with disbelief over his victory, Amos stood above the unconscious freckle-faced terrorist, fists clenched against his hips and breathing hard. "Don't call me a geek," he said.

Amos bent down to check, making sure that Rusty was indeed out cold. He whispered into the redhead's ear, "Next time, mess with somebody your own size-you might have a better chance."

51.

LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER.

THROUGH THE BLOWN-OUT WINDOWS of the LCC, Nicole could hear the helicopter approach, a fluttering machine hum that brought a relieved grin to Mr. Phillips's face. "Isn't that a wonderful sound?"

He stood up to his full height of no more than five feet. "Like sleigh bells at Christmas."

Nicole looked up at him. "Or the sound of a cell door slamming and the clink of a key being thrown away forever."

Mr. Phillips shrugged. "To each his own."

He waved Rusty's pistol around, making eye contact with every one of the hostages. "Unfortunately,"

he said, "my team is now scattered around the s.p.a.ce center in positions that make it less convenient for an easy pickup. Since nothing would be accomplished by spreading the blame around, suffice it to say that none of it is my fault, and all of it is yours."

Nicole let her anger twist itself into sarcasm, as much as she thought she could get away with, one small step back from open defiance. "Why don't you just take the money and run? Screw the rest of your team."

Mr. Phillips considered what Nicole had said. "If I must, I will take the diamonds for myself-but I would rather not leave my colleagues in the lurch. They were willing to work on a percentage basis, and we've been through a lot together. We're a team."

"You deserve each other," Nicole said.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You may consider me a bad man, Ms. Hunter-but I'm an honorable bad man."

"I suppose that makes all the difference," Nicole said.

Senator Boorman leaned over to hush her, his usually plodding voice now high-pitched. "We're almost out of this-after all my work negotiating, don't ruin it!"

With a crackle over the open radio channel, the helicopter pilot checked in. "This is Air Force helicopter Charlie niner-three on approach, bearing ransom briefcase." The pilot's voice was soft and uninflected,evened out by the m.u.f.fled chatter of helicopter engines. "I am nearing the Launch Control Center and awaiting specific instructions for rendezvous."

Senator Boorman stood up from his seat and reached for the radio, as if he were in charge. His square-jawed face smiled confidently, but Mr. Phillips stopped him. "That won't be necessary, Senator."

Boorman's expression grew stormy. "Let me talk to the pilot. This was my deal."

"Yes," Mr. Phillips replied, "but I trust Ms. Hunter's capabilities more than I trust your own. No offense," he said, his tone clearly implying a great deal of offense.

Mr. Phillips handed the radio to Nicole, and she grabbed it out of his hand. She could think of no further effective resistance, no way to fight against him. And this close to the end of the crisis, she didn't dare give him an excuse to kill anyone else.

"Tell the pilot to land in the LCC parking lot, just outside the main doors," he said crisply. "We'll meet him momentarily."

Nicole did as Mr. Phillips asked, and the pilot acknowledged without further comment.

The little man sighed, then smiled, raising his eyebrows. "There. See how simple things can be?"

Outside, the throbbing chopper noise grew louder. "Exhilarating!"

Mr. Phillips pointed his pistol straight up and fired one round into the acoustic ceiling tiles. "Since I'm una.s.sisted, I'm afraid I must do this in a more traditional manner," he said. "Due to logistical difficulties, I'll be taking only two hostages with me." He swept his gaze across the gathered people in the VIP observation deck. "I think my choices are obvious. The rest of you, into the side room. Quickly, now! Ms. Hunter and Senator Boorman, would you accompany me, please?"

Nicole let herself settle more heavily in her chair, resigned. She had known this would happen.

Boorman, though, seethed as if he could stand no more of the indignity. The remaining hostages hurried into the side room, which Mr. Phillips locked.

Mr. Phillips picked up the radio transmitter himself and broadcast on the open band. "Attention NASA.

My name is Mr. Phillips . . . the man holding your shuttle hostage?" he said, as if they wouldn't remember who he was. "I'd like to request that you clear the skies for our departure. That includes your chase helicopters and tracking aircraft. Our helicopter has arrived, and we must be on our way.

"I have Launch Director Nicole Hunter and Senator Charles Boorman as my companions to ensure my safety. Oh, and don't forget that I have my finger on the detonator b.u.t.ton that could make quite a mess of Atlantis."

He clicked off, then directed the pistol at his two high-profile hostages. "Now then, you two-shall we go meet the helicopter?"

52.

ARMORED PERSONNEL CARRIER.

JACQUES GROANED, AND HIS eyelids fluttered open. The pain in his head wouldn't go away. The sunlight made him squint, and when he shut his eyes again, he saw the pain as red fingers pressing against his eyeb.a.l.l.s, squeezing his temples, digging into his back. He wanted to kill somebody. Anyone would do.

He started coughing. His throat was dry. The pain overwhelmed him again, and he felt like giving up, closing his eyes and dying- Images of his sister Yvette swirled around him, his beloved Yvette, with her silky soft thighs, full b.r.e.a.s.t.s, moist and sensuous lips. . .Somehow she was with him.

And then he remembered. Colonel Adam Friese. Iceberg. The astronaut with a broken foot.

Jacques forced his eyes open. He lay outside the Armored Personnel Carrier, carefully situated in the shade cast by the vehicle. The launchpad complex soared high above him; he must be right at the base of the gantry. He saw no one around.

Jacques struggled to an elbow. His hands and wrists hurt, as though he had been bound. He spotted some nylon rope lying twisted on the ground next to him, its ends neatly severed with a sharp knife. He briefly remembered someone cutting him free-Yvette? He shook his head. But how? She was still at theLCC with Mr. Phillips. He was too groggy to remember details-but she had looked like an avenging angel.

It must have been Yvette. He had never seen anything so beautiful, not even in dreams.

Pulling himself upright, he had to grab onto the APC to keep himself steady. Where was his lover, if she had come here to rescue him? What had happened to that s.a.d.i.s.tic Iceberg?

Jacques searched the complicated metal labyrinth of the Fixed Service Structure cradling Atlantis. As far as he could tell from his position, the gantry was deserted.

Jacques staggered around the vehicle, swaying with dizziness, fumbling for his walkie-talkie. He would give Mr. Phillips a call, warn him about Iceberg's meddling. But the radio was gone, stolen.

He stopped as he heard a scream from above him. High above. He held his hand up to shield his eyes, squinting-then he saw the falling figure plunge from the gantry's topmost access arm, the gaseous vent hood where he had planted the bomb.

Time seemed to elongate as he focused on the shape of a falling human being-a woman. She hit the side of the external tank and bounced. The screaming stopped, and the body tumbled.

Even from this distance he recognized Yvette. He had spent enough time studying her body, her curves, her soft skin, her hard muscles. She struck the gantry and continued to fall, a broken doll. It couldn't be!

Yvette was with Mr. Phillips, safe back at the Launch Control Center. Unless Iceberg had somehow managed to destroy the plan, and Yvette had been sent to stop him. "No!" he screamed.

Yvette's body impacted the concrete pad on the far side of the gantry with a popping sound like a grapefruit hit with a baseball bat. The noise carried across the silent, shut-down launchpad complex.

Jacques pushed away from the APC and staggered toward the gantry, shaking his head, insisting that it had to be some kind of mistake. He reached the elevator and punched the b.u.t.ton. Nothing. He angrily pulled the emergency override switch, but again nothing happened. The machinery remained dead. Then he remembered that he had shot out the controls himself.

Jacques turned to the winding access stairs that ran all the way up the gantry, hundreds of meters above him. He tried to step up and almost fell. He caught himself by hanging on to the narrow metal steps, but a wave of dizziness caused him to collapse back down against the concrete.

His eyes filled with tears. His skull pounded, probably with a severe concussion. He was too weak to reach his beloved Yvette. Not strong enough even to go to her.

He remembered the times she had been at his side, when she would soothe him, pull him to her breast, and run her hands through his pale blond hair. He remembered when he would turn to her, after he had given his body to those men-old men, fat men, or just men bored with their wives-and he had brought home the money that would get the two of them through another day. Yvette would always be there, and she would make love to him for hours to erase the pain that wouldn't go away. . .

And now, he couldn't even reach her side.

Jacques dropped to his knees, sobbing. The concrete radiated heat, the humidity soaked his clothes with sweat, but his grief throbbed around him in waves. He stared up at the gantry, the monumental white beast of the shuttle, gleaming as the sun reflected off its surfaces.

If Iceberg had thrown Yvette off the top access arm, then he must have discovered the bomb. A tremor shook through him like an earthquake. He should never have mentioned the bomb. Iceberg would never have found it, and Yvette would not have had to climb the hundreds of stairs to stop him-where she had met her death.

Without his precious Yvette, he had no reason for living. They'd been together all their lives, from the orphanage to when Mr. Phillips had rescued them from the streets. Continuing without her was incomprehensible to him. Just as her death had been.

Jacques staggered back toward the APC, where he hoped to find his sharpshooter's rifle. The man who had murdered his sister must not escape. Jacques could not allow it.

53.

ATLANTIS GANTRY, VENT ACCESS ARMONCE MORE, ICEBERG SCRUTINIZED the colored block of plastique attached to the external tank. He didn't have much time. What if Mr. Phillips decided to blow the shuttle anyway once his suitcase full of gems arrived? It would certainly distract any pursuers on his tail.

The mid-morning sun beat down, and the humidity grew thicker with each pa.s.sing second, making it difficult to breathe. Iceberg's clothes clung to his body. The soft, crumbling cast made his left leg feel like a nightmare from the knee to his toes, barely held together by the moon boot covering. His stinging hands were slippery with sweat and fresh blood, and he tried to dry them on his pants one at a time as he held the railing with his other hand.

A cold shower would have felt marvelous at the moment. A cold beer even better. Instead, he was stuck with cold reality.

He tried to imagine he was back at the Academy at Colorado Springs, getting ready for a gymnastics meet: all alone in a huge, hollow gym, with no one watching.

No mistakes. Total concentration. This was it.

Iceberg drew in a breath. He grasped the railing with his left hand and flexed his fingers. Three, two, one-he swung out, levering himself away from the narrow access arm with his aching biceps until he dangled over empty s.p.a.ce. No spotters or padded mats below to catch his fall.

Don't look down. Cool, chill, frosty . . .

He made a grab for the plastic explosive. The puttylike brick was only inches away, tantalizing, just out of reach. He held out his fingers and strained, grunting, trying to unpop his joints so that he might somehow extend them another centimeter. . . .

Exhausted and discouraged, he swung back to safety on the access arm. He panted, groaning deeply.

He saw no way to reach the device-his arms weren't long enough, and the bomb had been placed too low, now that the access arm had swung partway back during the countdown.

He thought about using the rifle he had brought, but the reddish substance would be soft, with nothing solid to hook onto. He would have to do it by hand. Somehow.

Catching his breath, Iceberg tried again. He moved as far from the access arm as he could, his fingers barely gripping the railing. He gained half an inch, but he'd need another two-and two inches didn't come easy.

There had to be another solution. Just as he had been taught in pilot training, if one procedure doesn't work, don't focus on it; keep your head out of the c.o.c.kpit and try another procedure. Keep trying until something works.

Or until the plane crashes.

He stood back against the railing, looking for another way to tackle the problem. Maybe if he lay flat on the access arm and anch.o.r.ed himself by wrapping his legs around the lowest rail . . . His body protested at the mere thought, but he clamped his teeth together and did it anyway.

Moving onto his stomach, he pushed out until his chest extended over the platform where the external tank dropped off. He saw the concrete nearly three hundred feet below him. The blond woman had made quite a splash-and Iceberg had no desire to join her.

He let himself hang down, legs crossed, body screaming in all-too-familiar pain. Iceberg bent his knees, reaching backward toward the tank. He was low enough, but he needed another half foot.

He heard the stuttering sound of the distant helicopter landing at the LCC. Perspiration flowed off his forehead. Phillips, he thought. Iceberg wouldn't have more than a few minutes until the terrorist would be far enough away to detonate the shuttle and get off scot-free.

Iceberg still couldn't reach-unless he hooked his bad foot over one of the support posts on the railing.

That would do it.

Cold needles of sweat stung him as he thought of the agony he would have to endure. He'd have to support his body with the broken bone in his foot. He wasn't sure he could even remain conscious long enough to remove the explosives.

But if he pa.s.sed out, at least he wouldn't notice the long fall-or worse yet, the sudden stop at the bottom.

Any other day he'd have hesitated, but with the sound of the helicopter at the LCC, Iceberg gritted his teeth and scooted out, putting more and more weight on his cast. White-hot swords shot up his leg, but he tried to keep focused on the bomb. Rescuing Atlantis. He imagined the bones resnapping, jutting through his skin- His fingertips touched the rectangular block. He tried to get his hands around the soft, smooth corners.

Finally, he dug his fingers in, got a grip, and pulled- The bomb stuck to the external tank.

He felt himself sliding from the access arm overhead and clamped his legs together like a vise. He nearly fainted from the new wash of agony, and he didn't know how much longer he'd be able to hold on.

Iceberg lurched out and grabbed the bomb, cursing it with a long string of imaginative insults. He pulled, using his hard cast as an anchor-and the weakened cast cracked. Pain flashed like a supernova in his head.

But the plastique block tore free of the tank, leaving adhesive strips behind.