If she hadn't already thought as much, Nicole would have decided that Mr. Phillips had gone completely insane. "But what about the submarine? What are you talking about?"

Mr. Phillips loosened his tie and unb.u.t.toned the top of his dress shirt. He spread the fabric apart to reveal another garment underneath, a garish floral print of blue and pink and green-a cheesy Hawaiian shirt.

He removed his jacket, then struggled out of his dress shirt. "Tourist disguise," he said, raising his eyebrows as if waiting for her to congratulate him on his cleverness. "I'm also wearing Bermuda shorts-plaid, of course-but I'll remove my pants at a less embarra.s.sing moment, if you don't mind."

They rushed above the waves, arrowing back toward land. The sh.o.r.eline was a blurry green-and-tan line growing larger in the morning's haze. "But. . . why Disney World?" she said, completely baffled.

Mr. Phillips rubbed his hands together, then loosened his garish Hawaiian shirt, fluttering the fabric to get himself some air. He looked much more comfortable, a stranger in casual clothes. "It's quite ingenious, actually. While everyone is searching miles and miles of empty ocean, crisscrossing, knowing they must have missed something-you and I will be heading overland to Orlando. Even if the spotters do manage to track us and figure out who we are, we'll be all finished before they can come after us."

"But I don't get it," she said. "I thought you were trying to escape." Mr. Phillips laughed. "So I will. You will land me smack in the middle of the most densely populated spot in the southeastern United States- the Walt Disney World parking lot! Of course the helicopter will cause quite a ruckus, but I'll just vanish into the crowd, another tourist with a suitcase. Thanks to our timing"-he glanced at his pocket watch and smiled-"we are going to arrive right in the midst of the gate-opening fiasco, the craziest time of the day. You don't think one man alone can just evaporate in the middle of all that? They'll never find me."

"You've got to be kidding."

His eyes became cold. "Certainly not. The parking lots in the Magic Kingdom alone hold twelve thousand cars, and over thirty thousand people go into the parks every day most of them right around now. I just love trivia."

"You're such a trivial man-no wonder," she retorted. He scowled at her but wasted no further energy on banter.

They broke past the beach, but Nicole kept the helicopter just above the treetops as they flew over the wild swamps filled with lush greenery, matted trees, and drainage ditches, a primeval world.

Mr. Phillips chuckled and turned to toss his suit jacket in the back of the c.o.c.kpit when he suddenly froze. He spun about to look behind him, scanning the empty pa.s.senger compartment.

But he spotted no ransom briefcase.

"What!" he squawked. He leaned over the back of the seat, peering down as if he could ransack the c.o.c.kpit with his eyes. He swished with his manicured hands but felt nothing. "My treasure!"

Nicole said nonchalantly, "Admission prices are a little high at Disney World these days, Mr. Phillips.

You seem to be a bit strapped for cash."

Mr. Phillips scrambled to unbuckle his seatbelt, hyperventilating in wordless rage and alarm. He climbed over the seat into the back where the senator had crouched as a hostage. He dug under the seats, practically excavating the tiny pa.s.senger area-but the gem-filled briefcase was gone.

"Boorman!" he screamed. Nicole stayed mute, letting the little man think the senator had run off with the ransom. "I want my jewels back!" Livid, he grabbed the seat beside Nicole, raging. He stood at his full height, not even needing to duck in the low c.o.c.kpit.

Then they both heard a loud throbbing noise from below that grew to a deafening roar.

Mr. Phillips poked his head out the open pa.s.senger side. Nicole glanced over to see Iceberg's battered chopper roaring up from underneath, barely holding together in the aftereffects of the missile detonation. He appeared out of nowhere, closing the gap between them as if they were about to collide in the air. Her heart leaped.

"What is that man doing here?" Mr. Phillips cried.

Over the c.o.c.kpit radio, Iceberg's voice spoke to Nicole. "Hey, Panther! You always wanted to be on top. You're cleared hot for an evasive maneuver."

Her face grim, Nicole jerked the stick to one side, abruptly tilting her aircraft.

The helicopter lurched, taking Mr. Phillips by surprise. He lost his grip on the edge of the pa.s.senger chair, and he whirled in one last frozen instant, staring at her with those flinty eyes that had once been filled with cold mirth but now held only terror.

He flailed his hands, and his mouth opened-but no words came out. He lurched forward and slipped.

His fingers caught for just an instant- then he plunged overboard, falling out into open air with a thin cry of surprise.

He had time to thrash his arms only once until he fell headfirst into the blurring blades of Iceberg's helicopter, roaring up from below. Mr. Phillips exploded into a mist of red spray and chunks of flesh that vanished into a rapidly dissipating scarlet rain.

"Exhilarating," Nicole said.

Iceberg's helicopter nearly flipped from the impact on the tip of his blades. The little man's body had damaged the rotor. The helicopter wobbled, out of control like a bucking horse, and started to go down.

Nicole's heart froze as she saw Iceberg fight in the c.o.c.kpit-his jaw set, his face stony. The helicopter lurched in the air, and she paced him, trying to help and trying to stay out of the way.

Finally, only a few meters above the treetops, Iceberg regained control. The engine stuttered, then caught firmly again, and he gained alt.i.tude. He rose up grinning, flying parallel to her, waving across at her from his own c.o.c.kpit.

Nicole slumped back in her pilot's seat, exhausted, looking down. At least you went out with a splash, Mr. Phillips," she said to herself. She thought the little man would have appreciated the joke.

65

NASA TELEVISION RELAY BUNKER.

BY THE TIME NASA security teams finally arrived at the television relay bunker, Amos Friese already had the situation well in hand.

Holding the deadly a.s.sault rifle he had pried from Rusty's fingers, he stood watch, pacing back and forth on the painted concrete floor. With all the video monitors shot out, Amos had no way of knowing what else had gone on during the retaking of Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center, but he intended to hold his bunker against whatever foes might come against him.

As he had proven with the red-headed terrorist, the bad guys had better think twice before they challenged Amos Friese again.

While Rusty was out cold, Amos had used a utility knife to cut several electrical cords from the backs of the now useless monitors and wrapped them around the thug's freckled wrists and ankles. He enjoyed tying the man hand and foot, trussing him like a pig. It seemed fitting.

For good measure Amos also wrapped the man's hands with a thick layer of cellophane tape from the dispenser on his desktop, but Amos didn't know how well that would hold.

When Rusty eventually returned to consciousness, he had struggled, working himself into painful exhaustion. The redhead had quickly learned the futility of grumbling threats and curses, once Amos stuffed an old cleaning cloth in the prisoner's mouth. The grimy rag was saturated with solvent to clean dust off desks and TV screens, and must have tasted awful.

Rusty continued to glare at him, making Amos quite pleased.

His face haggard, his clothes torn from the ordeal, Amos stood watching his captive. Even with the loud air conditioner still on, he found himself perspiring so much that he tore a strip from another cleaning rag and wrapped it around his forehead to keep the salty droplets from running into his eyes.

When the NASA security troops broke into the blockhouse, they stared at the two men, rapidly a.s.sessing the situation and wisely realizing that they had better not mess with Amos.

The lead man, a tall, thin Hispanic security officer with very close-cropped dark hair and a chin shaven so clean it was like gla.s.s, nodded down at the seething redheaded terrorist. "Just this one, sir?"

Without taking his gaze from his captive, Amos nodded. "Yep, one prisoner. The only one left."

Something in his eyes and hardened features kept the guards from asking more.

"According to our intelligence, this is the only member of the terrorist team to survive."

"Good," Amos said coldly. "Maybe I could be the one to interrogate him."

Rusty tried to say something behind the gag in his mouth, but the words came out only as gurgling grunts. Amos thoroughly enjoyed the light of terror in the redhead's eyes.

A fourth security officer jogged in after inspecting the wreckage of the doorway. He noted the sweater-draped woman on the floor. "Looks like three bodies," he reported, "two NASA security from a b.o.o.by-trapped door, plus this one."

As the guards moved to pick Cecelia up from the floor, Amos turned to them. "Be careful with her," he said.

"We will, sir," said the clean-shaven security man. Amos reluctantly let them remove the machine gun from his grip. His arms and hands felt numb. The adrenaline rush was better than slamming down a six-pack of Jolt Cola in an hour. He hoped that his brother had made out as well.

In fact, he decided he might even challenge Iceberg to a rematch of that s...o...b..ll fight. . .

66

KENNEDY s.p.a.cE CENTER.

FLICKING THE CONTROLS IN the helicopter's c.o.c.kpit, Iceberg pushed the wipers to high as he tried to get rid of the remnants of spattered blood from the windshield, a grim reminder of Mr.

Phillips's demise.

He was lucky that his main rotor blades hadn't broken apart with the little man's sudden weight. This copter had been through quite a pounding already in one morning, but the blades must have just nicked the man with the tip. It was enough.

He followed Nicole's craft, keeping her in sight half a mile in front of him as they flew back to the Launch Control Center, War Zone Central, he thought. The Florida coast looked a mottled green and brown, contrasting with the deep blue ocean farther east. A nice, peaceful place for a paradise vacation. . .

The smoldering launchpad still belched fire and smoke, a funeral pyre for the s.p.a.ce shuttle Atlantis.

Iceberg knew the whole world had been watching the crisis. The blase public had tragically been reminded of the vulnerability of the s.p.a.ce program, that flying into orbit would never be a ho-hum bus ride.

Somehow, Iceberg didn't think the death of Atlantis meant the end of the s.p.a.ce program. Maybe something so dramatic would finally make Joe Six-pack realize its value. NASA cost the country a minuscule percent of the federal budget, yet delivered more than any comparable government program.

Commercializing s.p.a.ce was the last great hope for the nation's future, and maybe this disaster would rally the public behind it.

Iceberg could barely make out fire trucks and emergency vehicles parked in a semicircle around the concrete pad. The smoke billowed into the atmosphere like a smoldering volcano. But launchpad 39B and its intact gantry still stood tall in the Florida swamps. Endeavour waited to launch.

As he flew, Iceberg felt utterly exhausted. His ankle throbbed, his muscles ached, his palms were still raw, and he felt as though he had been used as a dummy in a series of crash tests.

His radio clicked. It was Nicole's voice on an open channel. "KSC, this is Panther in one of two Air Force helicopters approaching the restricted launch area. Request immediate clearance and permission to land at the Launch Control Center. Reporting loss of one terrorist. No other casualties. Acknowledge."

"Roger that, Panther!" came an excited voice over the radio. "Terrorist lost?"

"Total loss," Iceberg said into the microphone. "This is Colonel Friese, flying wing. We are both safe.

Senator Boorman is unharmed, but he's going to need a pickup out in the swamps. Over."

The voice acknowledged. "Proceed to Launch Control. You know the landing area-and congratulations on getting back here. We've all been following the events."

Nicole's voice came back. "Please have medical personnel available at the landing site-I think Iceberg's going to need a few painkillers. Maybe finally he'll hold still long enough to get treatment."

Iceberg wearily clicked the b.u.t.ton on his microphone twice to indicate he agreed.

As they flew in over the Banana River, the Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center looked more and more like a battlefield. Smoke from the destroyed VAB still curled into the air like a greasy fingerpainting. Several burning vehicles lay strewn on the cleared roadways. A flight of F-16s flew high CAP-Combat Air Patrol-in a holding pattern high overhead; a lumbering C-130 flew in an oval racetrack with its forward-looking infrared sensors deployed.

Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center would never be the same. It had been a victim of a b.l.o.o.d.y attack, but the astronauts and the s.p.a.ce program had been victorious, though at a terrible cost.

At lower alt.i.tudes, the air boiled with military helicopters, some bearing NASA markings, others with COAST GUARD or AIR FORCE written on the sides. A menacing-looking MH-60 helicopter, guns poking from its nose and air-to-ground missiles hanging from its stubby wings, swooped in to keep watch over them as they approached the LCC. Iceberg hoped the pilots weren't trigger happy. He'd had enough of playing GI Joe for a while.

The Launch Control Center's parking lot was packed with cars, flashing emergency lights, ambulances, and people milling around. Military trucks and surly-looking security guards with weapons lined the road leading to the Admin area. The press stands to the south of the LCC were jammed with TV cameras, all turned toward their approaching choppers. The only good that Iceberg latched onto was knowing that, with the Russian Mir station waiting for supplies, NASA would have to get the next shuttle up without delay.

The urgency would prevent them from sliding into years of paralysis, as had happened after the Challenger accident. He supposed Endeavour-already in place on launchpad 39B-would be frantically refitted for the Mir resupply mission. Maybe now the U.S. would take s.p.a.ceflight more seriously, build on the shuttle'slegacy, and invest in true "leapfrog" technologies such as Single-Stage-to-Orbit s.p.a.cecraft.

Military police cleared the landing zone as Nicole and Iceberg flew their helicopters in. Two ambulances waited at the periphery, lights flashing.

Pulling back on the stick, Iceberg signaled for Nicole to land before touching down beside her. He felt the skids settle onto the pavement with a bounce. A half dozen men and women ducked their heads and ran out to his copter. He released the rotors and cut the engine, slumping back in his seat. Maybe now he could take a nap-except the pain had tripled in the last few seconds, now that he knew he could slump into exhaustion.

NASA security officers rushed out of the LCC, heading for ambulances and emergency vehicles.

Several sheet-wrapped bodies came out on stretchers. Other uniformed personnel worked together to escort the remaining trembling hostages to safety. Engineers and station managers from the firing floor milled about, angry, excited, like a swarm of ants.

Iceberg swung stiffly out of the burn-stained c.o.c.kpit, stepping gingerly on his one good foot, keeping off his crumbling cast. He winced and nearly collapsed from the pain. Perhaps it would be a good idea if he waited for a helping hand. . .

With the rotor still running, Nicole leaped out of her helicopter. She ducked down and raced over to Iceberg, nearly bowling him over with a large hug, which she covered up as an effort to help him to stand.

They embraced for a few seconds longer than was necessary, then stepped slowly apart.

Nicole looked at him for a moment. "Thanks, Iceberg." Then, seeming embarra.s.sed, she said, "I knew you'd be too stupid to give up."

Through his elation, Iceberg still felt as if something was missing. He looked around. "I need to see my crew," he said.

He had always insisted on being the star of the show-but now the team of astronauts had found themselves in a deep bind without him. They had fended for themselves, despite his efforts to help. Iceberg realized that the others did matter-but that he couldn't always be there for them.

Before Nicole could answer about the crew, Iceberg staggered again in amazement. "And Amos! Oh G.o.d, my brother, Amos. Is he okay?"

Nicole nodded, flashing him an impish grin. "Yeah, I checked on the radio before I landed. Amos had a few adventures of his own. He's on his way to the LCC. I think you'd be proud of him, Iceberg."

"Of course I'm proud of him," he said, puzzled that she'd even mention it. "He's my own brother."

Nicole pressed her lips together, silent. Iceberg sighed, and his shoulders slumped. "I guess there's no 'of course' about it. It isn't obvious. Maybe I didn't tell him often enough that I'm proud of the things he does.

Amos is a good video jockey, you know, maybe the best there is. He understands gadgets better than anything I can comprehend."

Nicole nodded carefully. Iceberg put his arm around her shoulder and leaned on her. They started walking to the LCC.

Nicole said, "And you don't know the half of it-all by himself, he captured one of the terrorists, who's been babbling like a parrot ever since, trying to make a plea bargain with anyone close enough to listen. He is the only one left alive of the bunch."

The emergency personnel approached. Two women and a man, dressed in the white shirt of paramedics, carried first-aid gear. They jogged up, out of breath. As they drew near, Nicole waved them off. "I'll get Iceberg inside. You just leave him to me." Nicole and Iceberg made their way through the growing crowd to the LCC.