He knew where the devices were, how to find them, and-he hoped- how to avoid setting them off.

He just had to keep cool, nerves of ice, frosty control.

Iceberg thought about a course called SERE he'd taken at the Academy-Survival, Escape, Resistance, and Evasion. The E and E part had been a major component during the Cold War, and even when peace broke out, knowing how to evade the enemy had saved pilots like Captain Scott O'Grady when he had been shot down over Bosnia.

As he E and E'ed across the swampy turf, Iceberg found himself having fun keeping out of sight from the distant roving NASA patrols, even with his broken foot. He hoped the cast would hold up in its protective moon boot covering. It would really be a b.i.t.c.h if sand got inside the cast where he couldn't scratch.

Iceberg crept onto a small rise and spotted the shuttle, perfectly visible in the spotlights and the competing dawn light. This would be a good place to establish his base. Endeavour, ready for its own launch within the next month, stood on the other pad farther in the distance. He flopped down, out of sight from the launchpad and, more importantly, out of view from the LCC building and the rest of Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center operations.

His foot throbbed like crazy, but he had managed to keep the cast dry. He rubbed the skin around the cast just below his knee, annoyed at the deep-seated itch within his bones that he couldn't reach. With a sigh, he distracted himself by concentrating on the activity around him.

NASA security helicopters flew low over the brush-covered ground as they searched for anyone attempting an illegal entry-such as Iceberg. But now that the sun had splashed over the horizon and added the warmth of dawn to the swampland, the aircraft had to rely more on sight and less on the sensitiveinfrared detectors to detect any people below them.

Effective launch-day sweeps were nearly an impossible task, more difficult than the Coast Guard searching for a person bobbing in the ocean, because in the ocean people didn't have bushes, sand dunes, hollows, and trees to hide them. Iceberg had ridden in the NASA security helicopters once during astronaut training as they had skimmed over the site, searching for imaginary terrorists. They hadn't found any, of course, but he still remembered the thrill of zipping above the spa.r.s.e vegetation, popping up over a small rise, and startling an alligator crawling through the swamp toward the wide, sluggish Banana River.

Iceberg looked over his shoulder as he settled into his private little viewing area. From here, if he stood above the vegetation level, he could still barely make out the guard shack, though he had taken a circuitous route across what must have been two miles of swamp.

He glanced at his watch. The shuttle crew would have ridden the Crew Transfer Vehicle out to the pad by now. His crew.

One morning, more than a month before the scheduled launch date, Iceberg had used his clearance and his badge to enter the Orbiter Processing Facility, where Atlantis was being outfitted for the mission. In the hangar-like building, teams of workers combed the giant orbiter, testing every minuscule system, every connection, every stress point.

The doors yawned open in the back; the shuttle was so tall that a separate notch had been cut above the doors to allow the tail fin to slip through. Sunlight spilled in from outside, brighter than the garish naked bulbs shining from catwalks far above. Jump-suited workers pa.s.sed back and forth, carrying clipboards, comparing checklists.

Iceberg had stood under Atlantis, admiring the craft, watching technicians test every one of the specially shaped ceramic heat tiles on the bottom of the hull, replacing those in need of repair, approving the undamaged pieces. They installed gap fillers between the tiles, designed to keep the searing heat from reaching the aluminum hull. He had walked around silently staring, watching, feeling like a kid in a toy store.

One of the shift supervisors asked if he needed anything, but Iceberg waved him away, wanting only to look at the craft, to "kick the tires" before launch.

He had been so confident then.

After Iceberg's injury, NASA had put that straitlaced idiot Marc Franklin in as commander. Besides being a civilian, Franklin didn't have the right stuff to be a shuttle commander. Sure, the guy had flown a couple of missions before, and he'd actually done a pretty good EVA on that last flight when they hauled in the Wake Shield. But there was one h.e.l.l of a difference between following orders as part of a crew and running the whole shooting match. It was a matter of mind-set. Why else did the military spend so much time grooming its people for the particular demands of command?

Iceberg tried to push the sour thoughts out of his mind as he settled in. No changing it now. He had broken his own foot, and he couldn't blame anyone else for that. His people knew their stuff. They could pull off the mission, even with Franklin as commander.

He opened his pack and dug out a bottle of buffered aspirin, double strength. He debated for a second, then dry-swallowed three tablets to cut the pain in his foot. He didn't want to be bothered in case he had to hightail it back to Salvatore's shack in a hurry.

Iceberg pulled out his binoculars and a TV Walkman. Leaning back, he extended the antenna and tuned to the launch coverage from channel 7. He saw a picture of Atlantis sitting on the pad, a feed from Amos's TV relay bunker. On television, though, the shuttle looked brighter, with a high scudding of clouds above.

Iceberg glanced up-the sky was absolutely clear. He frowned. That's funny, he thought. Were the TV cameras picking up something he couldn't see, or was he getting a ghost reflection on the screen?

Iceberg tried to get better reception. The talking head from channel 7 came on and explained that the launch was in the middle of a built-in hold. He lay p.r.o.ne, setting the miniature TV to the side as he got out the binoculars. He surveyed the area. Ants marched along the sand, upset at his presence. With a sharp gust of breath, he blew them away from his face, then focused the binoculars.

Technicians in white bunny suits moved around the launch structure. Nearly a mile in front of him sat the nearest M-113 Armored Personnel Carrier, ready to roar into action at the launchpad if called. The seven safety lines-the emergency exit system-fanned out from the 195-foot level of the Fixed Service Structure to a safety bunker twelve hundred feet away.

Iceberg was situated perpendicular to the flame trench, part of the flame deflector system that bisected the hardened launchpad. The trench divided the pad lengthwise, five hundred feet long, sixty wide, forty deep. Nearby, a water tower stood ready to dump its contents down onto the pad in the first seconds of launch for cooling and noise suppression. During ignition, flames from the shuttle's main engines and solid rocket boosters blasted down the trench and out the sides. The deadly orange cloud from the solid rocketbooster's fuel would drift harmlessly out to sea.

But Iceberg figured his position was safe enough.

On the launchpad the final checkout crew was making their last rounds. By now the countdown should be within T minus twenty minutes.

Iceberg rolled over on the rise and adjusted the volume on the Walk-man. Nicole Hunter's smiling, professional face took up most of the small TV screen. The words LAUNCH DIRECTOR were set at the bottom of the screen, but instead of Nicole's voice, the reporter from channel 7 gushed over the audio. "So do you think your past training as an astronaut gives you more credibility with the crew when you have to make tough calls?"

"Tough calls? Give me a break," Iceberg snorted at the TV. "She has a checklist, doesn't she?"

"Absolutely," said Nicole. "I even have a checklist. And the astronauts know they have one of their own calling the shots. Since I've been out there on the pad myself, I know what thoughts are rolling through their minds right now."

"Yeah," Iceberg muttered. He turned away from the small TV set and looked through his binoculars at the launchpad. "I bet my crew's thinking 'Let's cut the PR bulls.h.i.t and light this friggin' candle.' "

Iceberg studied the shuttle as Nicole's interview continued. Her voice brought back the memory of her being on the training team with them, and the fun they'd had with so many things in common, when she was part of operations, not management and fluff.

He supposed the world needed those kinds of people-the maintenance crews, the launch infrastructure, even the PR flacks and lobbyists that ran interference before Congress. But Nicole had been an astronaut, one of the chosen few who had actually slipped the earthly bonds and- as corny as it sounded-touched the face of G.o.d. Then she gave it up.

Nicole claimed she had to look at her long-term career goals. It sounded like a line from some self-help tape she had listened to. Now, though, she was sitting in the limelight, along with Franklin, Gator, and the rest of his crew.

And here he was, hiding in the dirt, swatting mosquitoes.

For now he'd just sit back and relax, let the others enjoy the thrills while he laid low and kept out of sight. He'd always wondered what the tourists felt like at a launch.

7.

SWAMPS,.

NORTH BANANA RIVER.

AIR BUBBLES CHURNED THE surface of the still, tepid water. Biting flies buzzed angrily up from floating weeds at the surface. The half-submerged heads of two alligators cut through the water like dark boats as they swam away from the bubbles, grunting. The alligator-infested water served as a natural barrier to stop curious onlookers from approaching the restricted Launch Complex. Unless the intruders were prepared. A dark blue trail of dye extended from the bubbles, diffusing into the water, barely visible as the low sun filtered through the trees. The alligators avoided the foul-smelling repellent, crawling onto the soggy sh.o.r.e to get away. A fat bull alligator opened his mouth in frustration but made no attempt to reenter the water.

The small tributary ran inland and stopped between the shuttle launchpads and the ma.s.sive Vehicle a.s.sembly Building. To the north, Atlantis stood prepared on its gantry, lit by morning light.

The bubbles in the water grew more intense, and two masked faces broke the surface at the same time. The men wore black wetsuits and scuba gear, the dark blue repellent foaming around them. Once on land, they would have to watch out for snakes and wild boars. Surmountable problems.

The frogmen swam silently toward sh.o.r.e, scanning for NASA helicopters above. But the dawn had driven the aircraft high, spotting for obvious intruders.

The two men stood in the shallow water, their flippers sinking into the muck. Behind them they draggeda black waterproof satchel that looked like a body bag, heavy with weapons. The first man dropped the air hose from his mouth and raised his face mask. His scraggly beard dripped water as he sniffed the sour-smelling air. "Ah, sightseeing in the swamps-eh, Cueball?"

The second, larger man raised his mask as well but did not speak. His ebony head was smooth and hairless as a black billiard ball. He looked quizzically at Mory, the first man, and made a hand signal.

Mory sniffed again, scowling at the stench of rotted vegetation, searching for a hidden human presence-gas fumes from patrolling Jeeps, rifle oil from foot patrols, human body odor.

Looking behind him, Mory saw that their alligator repellent had quickly diffused through the water.

Good-it certainly stank. After being let off from a private, hidden yacht six hours earlier, they had timed their arrival on sh.o.r.e perfectly. Any sooner, and the IR sensors on board the NASA helicopters could have detected them; any later, and the blue dye would have been clearly visible in the sunlight.

Mory spotted a small depression under a tangled canopy of creeper-covered mangroves, framed by palmettos. There they could remain hidden from the Vehicle a.s.sembly Building and the launchpad. Perfect.

A little camouflage and they would be completely invisible as they set up. They quickly removed their flippers and hung them from their belts.

Mory tugged on the floating satchel, gesturing toward the depression with his other hand. "We'll hide the equipment there." Cueball nodded and picked up the rear of the bag. Their feet made squishing sounds in the muck as they climbed onto sh.o.r.e and into hiding.

Mory sniffed the air and turned just as another alligator slipped into the water with a surprisingly graceful splash. He smoothed the weeds and soft ground around the equipment bag so that he could open it on a flat surface. His hand struck hard, thin metal embedded in the ground.

"Lookee here." He dropped to his knees and started digging carefully around the device. Scooping sand from around the metallic pipe, he uncovered a thin whip antenna and several sophisticated sensors ending in a bulbous cavity that held a battery.

Cueball's eyes widened. The hairless man pounded his fist to get Mory's attention and used sign language.

Mory grinned. "You're right. It's a sonic sensor-probably has a motion component as well. But it's not doing our NASA friends much good now, is it?"

Cueball glanced at his watch; then a slow grin spread across his face. He pantomimed someone being hit by a blow dart.

Mory tossed the deactivated sensor to the side. "Come on, we've got a timetable to follow. Keep your eyes open and your weapon ready in case we have to take out one of NASA's roving patrols, though I'd prefer to save the excitement for later."

Cueball struggled to remove his wetsuit. The bald man's chest rippled with muscles, his ma.s.sive arms as thick as Mory's legs.

Under the wetsuits the men wore swimming trunks. Mory broke the watertight seal on the equipment bag and pulled out mottled, sand-colored camouflage and a pair of boots. He tossed Cueball the larger set of camouflage and footgear. In moments the two had transformed themselves from scuba divers to camouflaged militia.

Mory unzipped the heavy equipment bag the rest of the way, peeling back two different waterproof layers to pull out the weaponry. Cueball bent to help him, unfolding a pair of 7.62-mm Valmet M78 long-barrel automatic rifles with scopes, armor-piercing sh.e.l.ls, a pair of FAMAS G2 a.s.sault rifles, high-power binoculars, two radios, backpacks, a shoulder-mounted Stinger missile launcher, and six small missiles. "Enough for a real party," Mory said.

He brushed back wetness from his scraggly beard, then crouched at the top of the rise, pressing binoculars against his face. He caught a faint whiff of helicopter fuel, oily exhaust-but the fumes were stale by now, no threat. He slapped at a mosquito that landed on his face. d.a.m.n bugs.

At least they were better than the alligators.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Cueball had buried the scuba gear inside the equipment bag, but left their weapons exposed and available. He s.n.a.t.c.hed a few broken branches from a nearby deadfall to cover the disturbed sand.

"Good," Mory said. "Let's start hiking. Half a mile straight ahead will put us well within range. I don't want to risk shooting from this far out." Cueball nodded, then turned to pick up his share of the weaponry- which was far more than half. Each man hung an a.s.sault rifle over his shoulder while carrying a sniper's rifle. He grabbed the shoulder-mounted missile launcher as Mory pulled on a sleek backpack.

Crouching and loaded down, Mory led the way, weaving around small clumps of vegetation and sand, keeping as low as possible. His boots crunched on the underbrush and slurped in the muck. Behind himCue-ball looked around like a machine programmed to perform a search-and-destroy mission.

They made the distance in little more than twenty minutes. Atlantis loomed on its launchpad like a sacrificial lamb; Mory caught glimpses of the Armored Personnel Carrier nearest the gantry. Good. They'd be able to cover Jacques from here as well.

Mory stopped and shrugged off his pack. The nearest road was a quarter mile away, so they'd be invisible from an unexpected vehicle patrol. He motioned for Cueball to set up post. The silent man reconnoitered the area and positioned himself where he had a view of both the shuttle complex and the Vehicle a.s.sembly Building. No one would be able to get in or out without being seen.

Mory joined his companion, then glanced at his watch. It was not yet six o'clock, and they had minutes to spare. He found himself breathing hard, and sweat rolled down his face, more from the d.a.m.ned humidity than the physical exertion. He used his camouflaged sleeve to brush away the perspiration, then fumbled in his back for a portable beeper.

Cueball remained vigilant, inspecting the territory they had taken. Mory punched in the Skypage number and entered a code in the small transmitter. Mr. Phillips needed to be kept apprised of their progress.

Satisfied that the message had been sent, Mory settled back to wait for the show.

8.

LAUNCHPAD 39 A.

NAVY LIEUTENANT COMMANDER "GATOR" Green stepped out of the NASA camper-van that served as the Crew Transfer Vehicle at the base of Atlantis. He felt his heartbeat increase.

This was even better than running onto a lighted football field. This was it-two hours before launch and no more practicing. No more of the endless NASA drills to get him as comfortable as possible with his first real flight as pilot of the shuttle. He just wished Iceberg were here.

His bird stood on the pad, beautiful and white, blessed by thousands of engineers. Named for the Woods Hole Oceanographic Inst.i.tute's research ship in service from 1930 to 1966, OV-104, Atlantis towered 184 feet from the bottoms of its two solid rocket boosters to the top of the rust-red external tank.

White fumes of liquid oxygen and hydrogen vented from their tanks.

Technicians stopped their work and applauded as Gator and his fellow astronauts stepped from the Crew Transfer Vehicle. NASA television cameras and flashbulbs lined the walkway; Gator paused as a dozen hands reached out to pat him on his back. He'd come a long way from when he was a boy growing up in the Atlanta ghetto. Luckily, the Navy had been open to an ambitious, good-humored black kid with excellent grades . . . and a kid who kept trying and trying until someone said yes.

A Russian voice spoke behind him, deep but very female. "Are you stopping for portrait painting, Lieutenant Commander Gator? You are holding up the rest of us."

Gator joked, "Not at all, Comrade. After you." He knew the Russians were sensitive about using the outdated communist t.i.tle.

Cosmonaut Alexandra Koslovsky stepped past him, grinning. Since the orange pressure suit hid her lithe features, she did not look like so much of an athlete, but Alexandra was one of the stars of this flight, scheduled to perform the first U.S.-Russian tandem s.p.a.ce walk.

"I didn't expect so many gawkers," said Gator. "They must have shown up to see our Russian friends."

"Then maybe I should stop for portrait instead of you," Alexandra said over her shoulder.

Gator laughed and turned back to the cordon of applauding NASA and contractor personnel. Now, this is the way it should always be, he thought. He started toward the elevator that would take the crew up the gantry to the White Room, where they would board the shuttle.

He shook hands with more well-wishers, technicians from KSC's operations contractor, NASA contractors, even a few high-level managers distinguished from the rest by the ties beneath their work overalls. The seven astronauts crammed into the elevator, grateful for the relative silence.

"I prefer this sendoff to what Belorus gave us," Alexandra said. "Our press does not get as excited as yours." "The difference is our press never even knows of launch," said Orlov, one of Alexandra's fellow cosmonauts. Gator and the other Americans chuckled politely. Only recently had the Russian press even been allowed to attend s.p.a.ce launches.

The elevator began its rattling climb. Gator said, "It may not seem like a big deal to you Eastern Europeans, but our press loves 'firsts'- like last year's resupply mission to Mir, or this joint U.S.-Russian s.p.a.ce walk. We made such a big deal over Sally Ride, our first female astronaut, although your first female cosmonaut, Valentina Tereshkova, upstaged her by two decades."

Dr. Marc Franklin, the replacement mission commander, interjected, "You should have seen the sendoff they gave the guys back in the Apollo years, when we won the moon race."

Open mouth, insert foot, thought Gator. Having to get used to a new shuttle commander in the past week and a half had been difficult for the crew. It didn't help that Franklin came off as an inflexible, humorless horse's a.s.s. Franklin's intentions were right on, and the man had a reputation for being a solid worker. But he was certainly not a leader.

Orlov appeared offended by Franklin's comment, but Alexandra took it with grace, leaning over to stage-whisper into Gator's ear. "Dr. Franklin has not been given vodka and caviar initiation. We can hold nothing against him."

Gator covered a snicker. Back at one of their outings during the first months of training with the cosmonaut crew, Alexandra had reverently brought in a gift she'd carried in her personal possessions, a small jar of Beluga caviar and an oily gray-green bottle of state-produced vodka from one of the distilleries in her home city of Minsk. Alexandra had stored the vodka in the freezer, then carefully spread the caviar like tiny black pearls on crackers, adding chopped white onion. She pa.s.sed the crackers out to the crew members like a priest distributing the host.

Gator had looked strangely at the stuff, sniffing. "If it weren't for the onions, it would smell just like fish eggs. Now at least it smells like fish eggs and raw onions together."

Alexandra nodded, then ate her cracker with obvious delight, as did the other two Russian mission specialists. The two American specialists, Major Arlan Burns and Frank Purvis, were not so enthusiastic.

Frank Purvis ate his delicately, making polite comments, and Arlan Burns gulped his in one bite, as if taking medicine.

Gator had looked at Iceberg, both waiting for the other to pop the caviar in his mouth. With unspoken a.s.sent, they bit simultaneously. Luckily, Alexandra's shots of vodka scalded away the taste while bringing tears to Gator's eyes. He was very glad when they switched back to drinking beer. . .

"I watched news conference before getting in Crew Transfer Vehicle. Your Senator Boorman,"

Alexandra said into the brief, awkward silence. "I am surprised at lack of support a political figure gives s.p.a.ce program in public, especially while at launch center. What do financial records have to do with astronaut accomplishments?"