The pilot jumped out of his craft, the visor still down on his helmet. "Here, sir, let me help you!" He wore captain's bars on his dark green Nomex flight suit. He spoke loudly to be heard over the whine of the thrumming engines. "Shoot, you look pretty beat up, Colonel-sure you're okay? Are we going to be flying out any wounded? The rescue helicopter has full facilities."

Iceberg leaned against the side of the aircraft, ready to collapse, wanting to get inside, to be away from this site of devastation. The co-pilot hopped down and joined them. "Howdy, Colonel. Need any help?"

Iceberg motioned with his head to the bunker. "The crew might need some."

"I'll check it out." He turned and trotted for the bunker.

The pilot gave Iceberg a hand, helping him up into the c.o.c.kpit, looking at the battered automatic rifle.

"Can I take your weapon, sir? Uh, shouldn't you be over at the ambulance chopper?"

Iceberg shook his head as he slumped down into the co-pilot's seat like a piece of luggage. "This'll be fine." The rescue helicopter looked very far away right now. "I don't think I could make it all the way over there, Captain. Just tell me what's going on. Are the hostages from the LCC all right? Did they catch the b.a.s.t.a.r.d behind all this?"

The captain chewed his gum, popping it in tiny bubbles. "Things were really crazy. We heard the terrorist leader shot his original pilot, then forced Senator Boorman and Ms. Hunter to go with him. He's got a few Stinger missiles and a launcher, and he's threatened to shoot down anyone who follows him. We flew in low so n.o.body would see us-right over the treetops."

"So Panther's got the stick," Iceberg muttered. Figured. What the h.e.l.l else could go wrong today?

The young man took a deep breath, turning his helmet to look regretfully at the frantic activity, the tower of smoke still roiling up from the gantry. Iceberg saw flashing lights half a mile away from approaching ground rescue equipment.

"n.o.body pursuing the guy?" Iceberg said in disbelief, forcing himself to sit upright.

The pilot shook his helmeted head. "We've got orders to stand down so as not to set him off, sir.

NASA's cleared the skies. We almost didn't even get this rescue mission approved."

Iceberg pointed at the lone helicopter flying away from Kennedy. Barely visible, it was skimming low over the ocean. "Then who's in that copter?"

"No idea, sir. Probably another mission."

Right, thought Iceberg-but he knew. That was Phillips, flying low, just as the rescue team had. The tracking teams would never pick him out of the ground clutter unless someone followed him visually-and right now. "Let me use your radio," he growled, reaching toward the control panel.

"Hey, slow down, Colonel." The pilot put out a hand to stop Iceberg. He popped his gum. "Cape Canaveral cleared us in only under radio silence."

Iceberg bristled. "Listen, Captain-if we don't stop Phillips now, we'll never see him or the good senator alive again." Not to mention Nicole.

The captain's gum popped faster. He looked around the sky. Iceberg couldn't see the captain's eyes through the darkened shade. "Sorry, Colonel. I've got my orders." His voice took on a patronizing tone.

"You need medical attention, not more excitement. Don't worry, sir-I'm sure somebody's got the situation under control."

Iceberg cursed silently. All this and they were still dropping the ball-probably fighting among the agencies as to who had the tracking responsibility while Phillips slipped away.

He motioned back toward the bunker and softened his voice, intentionally looking ready to collapse at any moment-it wasn't a difficult act to perform. It took his remaining strength to remain calm. "All right, Captain. Our first priority is to get my injured crewmember out of here. I think your buddies might need a hand in the bunker with a stretcher. My pilot was hurt pretty bad."

"I really shouldn't abandon you here alone, sir. And I'm not allowed to leave my aircraft."

Rotorheads! Iceberg thought. "No need to go out of visual range, Captain," he said, "but I'd feel a lot better if you could verify for me that my crew is okay. Your co-pilot may need some help." He sagged in the seat with a groan. "Be sure you hurry back and tell me. Maybe bring one of those medics over here."

He winced in pain that wasn't at all faked. "If they can spare a few minutes."

The captain looked uncertainly toward the activity. "Please don't touch anything in the c.o.c.kpit, Colonel.

Remember, no radio transmissions."

"I won't touch a thing. Now get moving."

The pilot glanced at the emergency crew running across the flat gra.s.s to the emergency bunker. "Yes, sir. Back in half a minute" He dashed off.

As soon as the captain had stepped away, Iceberg strapped in and reached down to throttle up the mainrotor. "Like riding a bicycle," he muttered. "Never forget how to do this." He breathed a sigh of thanks for the helicopter time NASA had shoved down his throat. Back then, being a "rotorhead" had seemed a fate worse than death for a fighter pilot. Now it proved a useful skill.

But flying the craft would still be quite the challenge, especially working the pedals with his injured foot. He wondered if he was going to get a medal for this-or a court martial.

The duped pilot stopped abruptly halfway to the bunker. He spun around and shouted something.

Iceberg started the rear rotor. The pilot sprinted back toward the chopper, red-faced and angry.

Out of the corner of his eye Iceberg caught a glimpse of an ambulance roaring down the road through the gra.s.sy swampland. Four large fire trucks followed behind it, as well as two dark Broncos. NASA Security.

Iceberg glanced over the helicopter controls and satisfied himself that things looked airworthy. No time for the full-fledged checklist.

At the bunker, a security paratrooper shouted to the rescue troops and came charging toward the helicopter, holding his automatic weapon in front of him. The rest of the stunned Atlantis crew watched Iceberg in shock.

The pilot ran full-out, only a few steps from the copter. "Sir, take your hands off the controls-now!"

Making his decision in a flash, Iceberg swung out the battered rifle he had taken from the VAB. The pilot had no way of knowing it couldn't fire a shot. "Back off, son! I've had a bad day, and my fuse is d.a.m.ned short!"

The pilot pulled up so abruptly he had to catch himself to keep from falling over backward.

Iceberg didn't give him time to think. The rotors caught. He reached down to engage the throttle. "Here goes."

The helicopter moved forward, then sideways. Iceberg compensated as it lifted off the ground and brought the nose down. The rotors bit the air, and finally he rose like an elevator.

The two NASA security vehicles raced ahead of the rescue vehicle, tearing across the gra.s.s toward the smoldering launch pad and skidded to a stop at the bunker. Uniformed personnel poured out, bristling with weapons.

Iceberg reached down for the radio but stopped before he picked up the microphone. He didn't want to receive any orders he'd have to ignore No use swatting the hornet's nest once it had fallen from the tree.

He had more important things to do.

Wheeling the helicopter around, Iceberg pushed the throttles to the max and set out for the ocean, after Phillips.

61.

ESCAPE HELICOPTER.

THE HELICOPTER SKIMMED OVER the tangled swampland of the Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center and the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge: a strange combination of untamed wilderness and high-tech s.p.a.ce-launch facilities. They headed toward the strip of sand that formed Canaveral Beach and the low, steamy line of the ocean.

Nicole swallowed, not knowing how far they were going or how this journey would end. She looked toward the pa.s.senger seat and narrowed her dark eyes. "Phillips isn't even your real name, is it?"

The little man laughed and then stroked his hair back in place with one palm. "Of course not," he said, "but the name should be familiar to you." He raised an eyebrow, but she didn't answer. He sighed in disappointment, and she was glad to disappoint him. "General Sam Phillips was in charge of the s.p.a.ce shuttle program at its inception-quite an important man in moving our nation to the next phase of s.p.a.ce exploration. Considering my plan, it's quite an ironic alias, don't you agree? 'Phillips'?"

She stared straight ahead as she flew. "Actually, I was thinking more of a pointy-headed screwdriver."

Mr. Phillips suddenly squirmed in his seatbelt to look behind their craft, scowling as he stared out the open door of the pa.s.senger side. Wind whistled through the airy carriage of the helicopter.Nicole also looked behind her-and saw the black insect shape of another helicopter roaring after them. An MH-53J, a military craft, in hot pursuit. Her own craft shot past the strip of beach as the sun reflected from the waves, then continued out over open ocean.

"I said we weren't to be followed," Mr. Phillips said. "Why does everyone have such a problem following instructions today?"

"They're crazy," Boorman said. "They're going to get us all killed. They wouldn't risk that."

"At least they're persistent," Nicole said.

Mr. Phillips frowned. "I wish they'd bother someone else."

The c.o.c.kpit radio crackled, but Nicole knew even before the words came that this wasn't NASA Security. The voice caused shivers up her spine.

"Land the helicopter, Phillips," Iceberg said. "It's over. You can't get away."

Mr. Phillips ground his teeth together. He turned to Nicole. "Your Iceberg is quite a pain in the a.s.s."

Nicole nodded. "I absolutely agree with you."

Iceberg's transmission continued. "Set the helicopter down, Panther. Phillips won't harm you-he needs you to fly the helicopter. Do you hear me?"

She picked up the handset. "How could you tell it was me? Is it my flying style?"

"Yeah, I recognized a talented pilot who's a bit rusty."

She felt a surge of confidence. "Maybe I'll get the chance to practice a bit more."

"Your Iceberg is quite astute about my not being able to kill you at the moment," Mr. Phillips said.

"Maybe I should shoot the good senator instead."

Nicole threw a glance to the back as Mr. Phillips swung his pistol toward Senator Boorman. Boorman's eyes widened as he fell back against his seat, raising his hands to shield himself.

But Mr. Phillips turned back to the front. "No, I'd be doing everybody a favor. That's probably what your Iceberg wants me to do, anyway." He gestured quickly with his pistol. "He's close behind us. Turn around and head back inland. You can't evade him over the open ocean. There are no obstacles."

"Where should I go, then?" she said, stubbornly indecisive. "You're the one with the map."

Mr. Phillips peered out the open side of the helicopter. "Head down the Cape to the old gantries and the swamps. I'm giving you the chance to demonstrate that you're a better pilot than he is. Romantic compet.i.tion-how wonderful."

His face became hard. "Understand one thing, Ms. Hunter-if your boyfriend captures us, I intend to take you all down with me. You, him, and the senator." He waved his pistol in the same tiresome threat. "It would behoove you to do some fancy flying."

Nicole pressed her lips together and kept quiet, trying to calculate how she might somehow thwart his plans.

She shot overland, cruising south away from the roiling flames and smoke on the shuttle launchpad. She headed toward a group of tall structures to the south on a narrow spit of land, big black cubes stacked like industrial building blocks for the t.i.tan rocket program. The Solid Motor a.s.sembly Building and the Solid Motor a.s.sembly and Readiness Facility, named-with NASA's usual penchant for brilliant acronyms-the SMAB and the SMARF.

Nicole circled tightly around the monolithic buildings, but Iceberg's helicopter stuck close behind her.

She roared past the black wall of the SMAB, up over the flat roof where she could look down at the ventilation ducts, the guardrails. Normally the solid motor facilities would have been filled with workers-but the entire complex stood far too close to the shuttle pad for safety, and had been evacuated for launch day.

Farther down the spit of land, the active t.i.tan launch gantries towered above the swamps and the sluggish Banana River, looking like open-air superstructures of government buildings with high aspirations and insufficient funding. A tall white rocket stood linked to the gantry for an Air Force launch scheduled to go up in two weeks.

"What is this, Panther-catch me if you can?" Iceberg said over the radio.

"More like hide-and-seek," Nicole answered quickly as her craft streaked much too close to the open metal gantry and the conical tip of the t.i.tan rocket protruding above the dark girders. "I've got no choice."

She jerked the stick sharply to one side, tilting her helicopter as if it were an amus.e.m.e.nt park ride. In the back Boorman squawked as if he were about to become an amateur skydiver, grabbing for any handhold. Mr. Phillips lurched, sliding partway off his seat toward the open pa.s.senger side, but his seatbelt held him in place. He gripped the arm of his chair.

"It won't work, Ms. Hunter," Mr. Phillips said. "I can try, can't I?"

"I need an airsickness bag," Boorman moaned. The clean white sides of the t.i.tan rocket curved close to them like a smokestack. The gantry looked like a nest of metal arms waiting to s.n.a.t.c.h their helicopter out of the sky. The slightest ding on the rotor blades would turn them into fiery shrapnel. Nicole had seen enough explosions for one day. She felt cold sweat seeping out of her pores, drenching her rayon suit; her focus was honed to razor sharpness.

It was an adrenaline high she had not experienced in nearly a year. Iceberg spiraled the opposite direction around the rocket and came out in front of them, swooping down so that Nicole had to pull up severely to avoid the backwash of his rotor blades.

"I've got an idea," Mr. Phillips said. "Head down the Cape and out into the open swamps."

The little man reached behind him to fish for his satchel of small missiles. He hauled the package to the front, tucking the pistol in his lap and rummaging in the sack. He pulled out one of the javelin-like missiles, then worked to a.s.semble the launcher tube. Cramped in his seat, he swiveled the cylindrical launcher from side to side so that he came close to smacking Nicole in the face.

"Watch out if you don't want us to crash," she said. "Excuse me." Mr. Phillips finished a.s.sembling the launcher and then leaned forward in his seat, extending the tube out the open side of the helicopter. "Just fly steady and fly low."

From the back Boorman cried, "Oh my G.o.d! He's going to shoot the helicopter. He's going to kill all of us!"

Nicole clamped her jaws together. She felt inclined to shoot Boorman herself if he didn't shut up and let her concentrate.

Below, Georgia pine hunched over sandy soil; the entire landscape was a carpet of greenery-weeds, gra.s.s, creepers. She skimmed low over sinuous drainage ca.n.a.ls that dead-ended in a network of slow creeks that connected the ocean with the Cape and the wide channel of the Banana River. Nicole increased speed to gain distance from Iceberg, giving him a better chance, but he followed tight behind her.

"Here I go, still chasing your tail, Panther. I thought we'd gotten over all this stuff."

She grabbed the radio. "Iceberg, I'm supposed to shake you somehow so Mr. Phillips doesn't have to fire a missile at you. Any suggestions?" She hoped he might take the hint, that he might let them slip away so they all had a better chance of surviving . . . but then, Earth might also cease to rotate. It was just as likely a scenario as Iceberg giving up.

Mr. Phillips looked up from the launch tube. "That's enough chitchat on the radio, Ms. Hunter."

Up ahead she saw a tall metallic forest of aerodynamic structures on display, what the Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center lovingly called the "Rocket Garden."

Mr. Phillips peered through the curved windshield of the helicopter. "Ah, complex twenty-six," he said, "the Air Force s.p.a.ce Museum." He smiled. "I tried to visit it once, but apparently it's only open to the public on infrequent days, so I've never seen it."

"Well, take a good look," Nicole said. "We're going to fly close-per your instructions."

The flat area had once been the launch site for Alan Shepherd's Redstone rocket, the United States's first manned launch in 1961. The cracked asphalt around it encircled several low blockhouses, abandoned control bunkers that had been used for the original launches.

She tore her helicopter around the display areas, flying tight around a Thor Able on display and weaving past other rocketry artifacts that stood like metal trees: a Pershing Missile, a Polaris, a Nike Ajax winged like a Flash Gordon rocket. The tallest structure was the restored Redstone gantry from Shepherd's flight, painted red and standing like an elevator shaft that had been ripped out of a skysc.r.a.per and erected upright on the concrete.

The two helicopters weaved around the rockets on display, playing tag in a forest of technological relics.