Iceberg jammed his eyes shut and arched his back, trying to force himself back up to the platform, feeling muscles strain to the ripping point in his abdomen and legs. The cast weakened, softened by water, abused by rough treatment.

He heaved himself back around, and finally collapsed on the narrow metal access arm.

Gulping deep breaths of the stifling air laced with the chemical smells around the launchpad, Iceberg gingerly placed the device on the platform. His foot felt as if it were going to burst. Right now, amputation seemed as good an answer as any.

Colors of nausea and dizziness washed over his eyes as he pried open the painted plastic top. A small radio receiver was embedded next to an array of wires. Iceberg felt his heart sink. He hoped one of them wouldn't be a fail-safe device that would detonate the bomb if he messed with it.

He had convinced himself that the bomb wouldn't be so sophisticated.

He thought he heard the helicopter's engines start to pick up in intensity over at the LCC. Iceberg wet his lips. Mr. Phillips, with his diamonds and rubies in hand, could blow the shuttle at any instant.

54.

LAUNCHPAD 39A.

JACQUES CLIMBED BACK OUT of the Armored Personnel Carrier, swinging his high-powered rifle for balance. It had taken him too long-precious minutes-just to get inside the APC, secure his weapon, clear the jammed cartridge, and reload it. Now he was ready to kill.

His side ached, his head felt as if it would explode from the pain. His vision blurred, his skull pounded. He almost certainly had a concussion. And Yvette was dead.

Jacques knew that if he had been just a little quicker when Iceberg had surprised him in the first place, all of this would never have happened. He could have shot the rest of the shuttle crew, ma.s.sacring them in their emergency bunker if he had to, and the launchpad area would still be secure. Mr. Phillips would even now be swooping in with his escape helicopter, along with Yvette and the ransom money, to take him away.

But he didn't care about the money. Not anymore.

Jacques crawled on his hands and knees on the top of the APC. He positioned himself for an un.o.bstructed view of the shuttle. The metal hinge on the vehicle's entry hatch dug into his back, providing more than enough support for what he had to do. More than enough.

It wouldn't be hard. Hitting the shuttle's external tank with the rifle from this distance should ignite the highly volatile fuel. Jacques would ensure that his sister's death had not been in vain, even if that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Iceberg somehow managed to defuse the bomb. At this point, the bomb itself was irrelevant.

Squinting through the telescopic sight, he scanned the gaseous oxygen access arm again but could see no one high above. The gantry seemed abandoned.

As he took careful aim, Jacques remembered the admonishment Mr. Phillips had given him: The cryogenic tank has an aluminum exterior, so you will be shooting though the skin of the external tank as well as much insulation.

He wished he had armor-piercing rounds. The small-caliber bullets would have difficulty penetrating the insulation, the outer skin, and then the inner tank. It might require several direct hits.

But Jacques knew from the model he had studied where the most vulnerable spots were located. Mr.

Phillips had briefed them thoroughly, drilled them over and over.

Jacques tried to find the tank's stress points in his sights. Only a single bullet had to penetrate. "Just onetiny hole," he said. "Just a spark."

He drew the rifle up and settled back for some target practice.

55.

LAUNCHPAD 39 A, ATLANTIS GANTRY.

WITH NO BETTER ALTERNATIVE. Iceberg grasped the detonator wires. Maybe he would be blown to bits in the next five seconds He'd never hear or see the twenty pounds of explosives going off in his hands. He would be vaporized before his brain could process the information, or send a flicker of pain.

But if he didn't do anything, and do it now, Mr. Phillips would set off the bomb anyway.

Iceberg closed his eyes as he yanked the wire out, disconnecting the radio receiver from the block of plastic explosives. The wire leads came free of the claylike substance with a faint sucking sound.

Nothing happened.

Which meant he was still alive-and the bomb was disarmed.

Iceberg stood, shaking from the experience, drenched in sweat. Although his mind comprehended that he was safe, just looking at the remains of the bomb made him ill. Best leave it alone, he thought. The experts could dispose of the rest later. For now, the device was neutralized.

He wiped his raw, sweaty hands on his pants and decided not to wait around, not with the way this day was going.

Gripping the railing, he limped toward the metal ladder, not looking forward to the ordeal of another descent. Cool, wispy fumes that smelled like wet dust circled around him; the cryogens must be bleeding out like crazy in the rising morning heat. The shuttle should have soared into orbit hours ago.

Struggling past Marc Franklin's body, Iceberg paused to stare down at the fallen mission commander.

He swallowed a lump in his throat. The s.p.a.ce program had had its share of martyrs, from the astronauts who had died in the Apollo 1 fire, to the Challenger crew, to the innumerable test pilots and trainees who had perished for each step of progress. But no one should have to die like this.

"Sorry, Marc," he muttered. "We should have checked our six."

He plucked up the battered rifle again and slung it over one shoulder, as if it were an old friend.

Reaching the edge of the ladder, Iceberg punched the b.u.t.ton to see if the elevator power had come back on-but no such luck. At least the video cams were still out of service. Amos must still be hanging in there, keeping the terrorists blinded. "Thanks, little brother," he muttered, then started the agonizing descent.

Going down was a h.e.l.l of a lot easier than struggling up. He could drop two or three rungs at a time, and all he had to do was to support his weight with his aching arms and land on his good foot. Shifting into autopilot mode again, he proceeded carefully, not counting the rungs, not thinking, not looking down.

He finally reached the crew level.

Two of the five emergency baskets remained anch.o.r.ed. It would be a wild ride, but he could hole up in the emergency bunker with the remainder of his crew. He had to check on Gator, make sure the wounded pilot was doing better. Now, at last, he could rest. . .

Like a long-distance runner reaching a much-antic.i.p.ated finish line, Iceberg crawled into the nearest basket, collapsing into the flexible cage. Almost there. Stay cool, frosty. . . He placed his rifle next to him.

His arm felt as heavy as a redwood tree as he lifted it smash down the release lever.

The metallic spang of a sniper's bullet took him completely by surprise.

"Not again!" he cried, ducking into the basket.

Another bullet struck, but this time the clang came from against the ma.s.sive external tank.

Looking below, he spotted the APC at the bottom of the gantry. He caught a fleeting movement on top of the armored vehicle, someone sitting by the hatch, his head sporting a shock of white hair.

Jacques! The sniper had gotten free somehow!

A third bullet crashed against the rust-red tank. And Iceberg realized that Jacques wasn't shooting at him.

Jacques was intentionally trying to hit the external tank! Iceberg smashed down the lever, and the emergency basket disengaged from the dock. With a high-pitched whine the basket catapulted down the wire. He sped away, picking up speed as he flew toward the emergency bunkers. He felt as if rocket engines were shoving him along.

Iceberg gripped the basket's rim and watched the gantry recede as he continued to accelerate. The shuttle looked hazy and pristine through the humidity.

Below, Jacques continued shooting.

The hydrogen in the external tank was extremely volatile. Visions of the Hindenberg explosion raced through his head. If Jacques bored through the tank, the fireball would engulf him in a second before he could ever reach the emergency bunker.

The ground rushed toward him. The safety net at the bottom looked incredibly flimsy. He braced himself, keeping his head rigid against the basket's padded backboard. He pushed his arms against the seat, waiting for the impact.

Another shot rang out.

Iceberg slammed against the back of the basket, swept up in the catch-net as he crashed to the ground.

Without an instant's delay to recover from the shock, he clambered over the side, kicking out with his good leg. He rolled to the ground and pushed up, gritting his teeth at the pain. So, what was another broken bone or two?

He heard the distant thuds of bullets as Jacques continued shooting.

Iceberg almost collapsed, but he forced himself to go on. Any hesitation and he'd die. He threw himself against the vaultlike door of the emergency bunker, and bounced back.

It didn't open.

He worked at the lever, frantically trying to get in. Was it jammed? The tightness in his stomach almost crippled him. Why wouldn't it open? He used the b.u.t.t of his rifle to pound on the door.

Suddenly, the heavy hatch opened from the inside, and Alexandra Koslovsky grabbed at him. "Colonel Iceberg! Come in quickly!"

At the APC, Jacques shot his rifle one more time. This time, the bullet struck home.

56.

LAUNCHPAD 39A.

JACQUES SAW THE BULLET strike, and he knew he had found the mark. He never heard the sound. His brain could not process the events that took place in less than a thousandth of a second.

Insulation sprayed out as the bullet broke through the aluminum wall of the external tank.

Spark.

Ignition.

Fueled by tons of liquid oxygen in the cryogenic tank just above the hydrogen, the fireball engulfed the entire pad. In a second, a flaming storm of terrifying strength vaporized and melted the majority of the gantry.

Atlantis blazed.

Before Jacques could blink, the shock wave from the explosion imploded him, pulverizing his bones, crushing his internal organs like a meat mallet.

Then the fireball swallowed him up, blasting the Armored Personnel Carrier aside and torching the rest of launchpad 39A.

Inside the emergency bunker, Iceberg collapsed. Alexandra Koslovsky and Major Arlan Burns slammed the door shut just as the ground started moving.

Less than a second later they were all slammed to the bunker floor as a shock wave rocked the building. A deafening white-noise roar thundered through the enclosed shelter, deafening despite the heavy fortification and insulation. The lights blinked and went out, leaving the Atlantis crew in suffocating darkness.

But the noise outside went on and on.

57.

LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER.

THE HUGE EXPLOSION OF Atlantis on the launchpad was so spectacular that, even three miles away, it bathed the LCC in bright yellow-and-orange light. The fireball roared upward and outward with equal speed, as if the terrorists had dropped an atomic bomb on Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center.

It took several seconds for the distance-damped boom to rattle the shutters of the observation deck.

Nicole felt the brief overpressure wave pa.s.s through the windows that had already shattered in the explosion of the much closer VAB.

If Nicole had had any sense, if her reactions had been as finely tuned and high strung as an astronaut's were supposed to be, she could have lunged sideways and tackled Mr. Phillips in that instant, ending the whole situation. But for a brief eternity it seemed that no one could move, no one could respond with more than openmouthed astonishment, their faces flat, gaping in horror and disbelief. Even Senator Boorman seemed profoundly affected.

Mr. Phillips stared at the detonation control box in his left hand, as if it had betrayed him. "But I didn't push the b.u.t.ton! I didn't push it!"

Nicole suddenly came to her senses, and she coiled, ready to spring. Something had gone wrong, and Mr. Phillips was screwed. His plan had fizzled. The little man could salvage nothing now . . . and he knew it.

Before Nicole could move, though, the terrorist snapped his pistol around and fired into the Plexiglas observation walls that angled out into the upper firing floor. He shot out the static-filled video monitors and blasted one of the telephone banks in front of him. The observation deck filled with smoke, shards, sparks, and screams. The gunshots killed all thoughts of resistance.

Mr. Phillips grabbed Nicole's arm, yanking her in front of him next to Boorman. "Quickly now. Time to go, so don't dawdle." He buried the Beretta in the small of her back, and she heard the sound of him quickly reloading. "I believe in happy endings, don't you?"

He pushed Nicole forward. She and the senator stumbled down three flights of stairs into the lobby.

Behind them she still heard the quiet sounds of terror mixed with relief as the other hostages found themselves still alive, sobbing, babbling . . . possibly even free. From the yells and rattling sounds inside the sealed-off firing room, Nicole suspected it might be only a matter of moments before the rest of the technicians managed to batter their way out-but it would be too late.

Downstairs, through the LCC lobby windows, she spotted the Air Force helicopter that had just landed on the hot asphalt out front. With its rotors still turning, it appeared to have been shielded from the blast by the Launch Control Center itself.

The sky was china blue, and the sun pounded down-a great day for a s.p.a.ce launch. But everything had gone wrong.