"Ah, then we've got the right place. Wouldn't want to do anything illegal."

From the backseat Rusty guffawed. Mr. Phillips turned and raised an eyebrow toward him. The redhead shut up.

Rusty frequently got on his nerves, but Mr. Phillips restrained himself from getting rid of him. For old times' sake . . . but tolerance was getting harder.

After the crash of his investment portfolio, and after he had vanished from the trading floor, he had needed to commit "physical suicide." He would disappear with a hefty profit even though his own investments had proved disastrous and had wrecked a once strong family fortune. He would reemerge from the ashes as a new person, leading a new life, with no strings attached.

But after he had rigged his Porsche convertible to go over the cliff on the rugged New England coast, sending it down into an automobile graveyard of jagged rocks and crashing surf, he had turned around in the last moment to see Rusty pull up in a battered pickup truck, watching the entire spectacle and grinning at Mr. Phillips's misfortune.

Rusty had understood exactly what Mr. Phillips was up to-and burst out laughing. The redhead had taken him home, wanting a piece of the cloak-and-dagger lifestyle. He'd had absolutely nothing to lose in his own life, and since that time Rusty had proven a valuable compatriot, someone who didn't mind getting his hands dirty, someone who could vanish into a crowd in places where Mr. Phillips wouldn't demean himself.

What he lacked in sophistication, Rusty made up in enthusiasm.

After today, everything would pay off . . . or nothing would.

The three of them climbed out of the car, and Mr. Phillips slid his PDA into the pocket of his suit jacket, then popped a breath mint in his mouth. "Everybody ready? It's show time."

He looked up at the tall white building. The Launch Control Center was a "mid-sixties modern"

structure, four stories tall with white siding and curved corners. Banks of narrow vertical windows faced toward the launchpads, covered with long black shields that had been put in place during the Apollo days, when immense Saturn V rockets lifted off with such a powerful blast that debris from a launch explosion could conceivably pelt the LCC more than three miles away.

Rusty opened the trunk of the car and removed their weapons. He checked the thumb safety and tossed a Colt OHWS handgun with a flash-and-noise suppressor to Yvette, who caught it smoothly and slid it into her clinging jumpsuit. She took her FAMAS G2 automatic a.s.sault rifle and extra magazines of ammunition. Rusty pocketed his own Colt OHWS and took another a.s.sault rifle for himself. He extended a 9-mm Beretta toward Mr. Phillips, who politely waved it away. "Suit yourself, Mr. Phillips." He stuck the Beretta in his other pocket. His freckled face was flushed with excitement. He shouldered a backpack of ammunition.

They had left one more guard dead in his shack just outside the LCC parking lot, and this time they had not bothered to use a disguised replacement. Part of him was disgusted that each step had proven so easy thus far-it had been only six months since they had sabotaged the Ariane rocket; he would have thought NASA's heightened security awareness might have lasted a bit longer than that. He supposed after today some jobs would come under serious review.

The time for subtlety was over. Now their plan called for brashness and quick thinking. They had to get inside the building without drawing attention to themselves-TV cameras and the press bleachers lay half a mile to the south, and they could turn the LCC into an armed fortress filled with hostages.

"Let's move inside," Mr. Phillips said. He adjusted his tie and the s.p.a.ce shuttle lapel pin. "I don't want to depend too heavily on our grace period." He held the gla.s.s door open for Yvette. She nodded at his politeness.

The lobby was decorated with dark blue cushioned chairs, courtesy telephones, and a Plexiglas-encased model of the entire Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center. Rusty held his pistol with the silencer up in the air; Yvette hung her a.s.sault rifle over her left shoulder.

A lobby guard turned as they entered. Another creaked forward in his chair behind a security desk,standing up in surprise as he saw the weapons. "Excuse me! You can't-" The other guard fumbled for his side arm clipped into its holster.

Rusty brought down his handgun and squeezed off two shots, rapidly moving from one guard to the other. Thin coughing sounds came from his silencer. The two guards dropped onto the linoleum floor.

"Like shooting sitting geese," said Yvette.

"Ducks," Rusty corrected. "Sitting ducks."

Mr. Phillips pointed to the rest room doors. "Drag the two bodies into the ladies' room. It's probably used less than the gentlemen's, unless NASA hired a great many more female employees since I last checked."

"What about the blood?" Rusty said, motioning to the floor.

"We'll have to leave it for the night custodian." Mr. Phillips said. "Quickly now."

Rusty and Yvette each took a guard by the arms and dragged the bodies across the linoleum floor. The guards' black shoes squeaked on the tiles. Yvette kicked open the door to the rest room and hauled the first man inside, while Rusty followed.

Waiting, Mr. Phillips inspected the educational models on display, like a tourist. Pursing his lips, he studied the mockup of the cube-shaped Vehicle a.s.sembly Building, launchpad 39A, and the Orbiter Processing Facility where the shuttles were reconditioned and prepared for each launch. The left-hand wall was lined with wooden plaques, each bearing the mission patch design for every shuttle launch. Beneath each plaque dangled two small metal tags, engraved with the launch date and landing date for each STS mission.

He heard a high-pitched cry and then another m.u.f.fled gunshot in the ladies' room. Frowning, he pulled out his pocket watch. He forced himself to be patient, but time was running short. What had Rusty stumbled into now?

Yvette and Rusty stepped out of the bathroom, letting the wooden door sigh shut on pneumatic hinges.

Rusty brushed his hands together as if proud of a job well done. Yvette breathed deeply, her cheeks flushed with excitement. She glided her handgun back into her pocket. "A woman fixing her makeup in front of the mirror," she said.

"She looked such a mess!" Rusty laughed. "Definitely!"

Mr. Phillips flashed a disgusted look; the redhead had no tact whatsoever. Although Rusty had helped him in the past, he would have to reevaluate the redhead's terms of employment after they were finished.

"How unfortunate," said Mr. Phillips. He drew in a deep breath, feeling elated at clearing the last obstacle before entering the control center. "All right now, double quick."

He led the way across the lobby, knowing exactly where to go. He had spent the same amount of time preparing for this mission as NASA normally spent preparing for a shuttle liftoff itself. He knew the floor layout of the LCC as well as he knew the interior of the Connecticut house where he had grown up. Even better. Because he had dreamed of coming here, to the nerve center of the s.p.a.ce program, while he had hated his mother's cold, old mansion. Mother's house had been dark and lonely; the LCC was vibrant, full of energy, a taste of the future.

He took the corridor to the left. The building was an artifact of the sixties, with thick coats of beige paint on the cinderblock wall, a brown vinyl baseboard against a linoleum floor. Mr. Phillips shook his head, distressed at the austere conditions. A high-tech agency such as NASA should have the sleekest, most modern facilities . . . but much of their facilities looked like something out of an old television rerun.

Inexcusable, he thought, but telling.

"Launch Control itself is on the third floor," Mr. Phillips said. "Provided we can get up to the mezzanine VIP viewing area before anyone discovers our handiwork, we should be home free." He used his fingers to brush down his lapels.

"Should we take the stairs?" Rusty said.

Mr. Phillips pursed his lips and shook his head. "No, we'll use the elevators. No sense getting out of breath. We'll need our stamina for . . . other things." He felt the adrenaline surge through his veins. The excitement reminded him of stepping out onto the trading floor for the very first time. He was about to make a killing.

Rusty began to laugh again, and this time Mr. Phillips ignored him.

12

LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER.

RETURNING TO THE MAIN firing floor of the Launch Control Center, Nicole Hunter slid her badge through the magnetic-strip reader to gain access.

"The crew has boarded the shuttle, and the hatch is sealed," one of the station chiefs told her. "Pad is cleared and safed."

"Right on time," Nicole said, with a glance at the countdown clock on the wall. Though Commander Franklin had a conscientious crew, as Launch Director she was the one responsible for making sure everything happened down to the precise second. Remember the six Ps, she thought: Prior preparation prevents p.i.s.s-poor performance-and n.o.body did it better than NASA. She ran a hand quickly through her brown-gold hair, then moved along, keyed up ... and loving it.

One of the women station chiefs looked up and announced, "The last bus has returned from the launchpad. Beach Road, Kennedy Parkway, and the crawler access road are now closed."

"Copy that," said one of the other technicians.

"Perimeter gates six T, four, and two C are green. Aerial surveillance reports the area as secure,"

announced another.

"APCs in place for emergency rescue. Standing by."

Nicole looked down at her own checklist, watching the items. The information flew at her like water spraying from a fire hydrant. One station after another checked in. Nicole glanced down at a TV monitor from the launchpad cameras, seeing the gantry and the stately shuttle with its rust-brown external tank and tall solid rocket boosters like fat white pencils tacked to each side. The Rotating Service Structure had moved aside, but the venting "beanie cap" remained firmly in place atop the external tank. Wisps of cirrus clouds drifted across the screen.

Nicole looked out the window; the morning sky shone perfectly clear, no clouds. That's odd. She slurped the dregs of her sweet dark coffee and tossed the plastic foam cup in a wastebasket. She dismissed the discrepancy as someone else demanded her attention.

"Guard gates checking in for their final report," said a station tech. "Everyone gives the clear-" The man frowned, spoke into his microphone again, waited. "Everyone checks in except for one guard gate."

Nicole felt a wash of concern. "One of the perimeter gates?"

"No, perimeter gates are all green," the man said. "It's the station directly outside the LCC. Right next door, nowhere close to the launch-pad."

Nicole heaved a short sigh of relief. "He's probably out gawking at the shuttle with his binoculars. Call Security Control. Have them cover the gate and admonish the guard for leaving his station. Proceed with the countdown."

She looked around, saw teams intent at their stations, some speaking into telephones, others studying computer displays. Dot-matrix printers doc.u.mented each step. The entire LCC was a whirring, smoothly running machine in high gear.

She touched the tiny gold key on her necklace and smiled, totally satisfied with her position and her responsibility.

Nicole called her deputy over, a quiet, older man with a short crew cut. "Handle the floor for a few minutes," she said. "I'm going back to the VIP area to hold some hands and coddle a barracuda."

Securing the gla.s.s door with her badge, she trotted up the mezzanine steps to where the honored guests looked down at the activity like spectators at a zoo. The technicians had by now become accustomed to performing their daily routine under a magnifying gla.s.s.

Amba.s.sador Andrei Trovkin, the Russian liaison, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out the narrow windows toward the launchpad. On a low hill to the right stood press stands crowded with TV crews and newspaper photographers. They would get a breathtaking view of the launch across the Banana River toward Cape Canaveral. Separate white-sided buildings bore the logos of major networks, ABC, NBC, CBS, and CNN. Behind them sat the old trailers of NASA's Media Relations Bureau. On a tall flagpole an American flag hung limp in the morning stillness. The digital numbers on the large countdown clock winked down for the press.

"Feeling the suspense build, Amba.s.sador Trovkin?" she asked the Russian.

He turned to her with a preoccupied smile. "I am astonished how wonderfully public Americanlaunches are," he said. "In Russia they never used to be announced at all. Oh, and call me Andrei, please."

"Then you must call me Nicole."

"Thank you." He nodded to her.

She turned to one of the runners. "Would you get me another coffee please? Two sugars-"

The young man nodded. "-and no cream. I know, Ms. Hunter." He turned to dash down the steps just as the elevator chime rang.

The doors slid open, and three strangers emerged, blocking the runner's way. One of the newcomers-a statuesque woman with close-cropped hair so blond it looked white-shoved the runner into the cinderblock wall, as if batting a fly out of the way. The strangers jogged briskly up the mezzanine stairs and spread out.

With the freeze-frame vision brought about from adrenaline, Nicole saw that the blond woman carried a compact automatic a.s.sault rifle. One man who emerged with her-bright orange-red hair and a coppery spattering of freckles across his face-brandished two handguns, one with a prominent phallic silencer screwed to the barrel. A compact a.s.sault rifle was strapped across his chest.

The dapper man between them looked calmly in charge. He was quite short, no more than five feet, dressed in a dark pinstripe suit that sported a gold-and-white s.p.a.ce shuttle pin on the lapel. His demeanor and appearance reminded her of a comically polite English butler.

"Excuse me, who are you?" Nicole said, feeling a tightness in her chest. She stepped back to push the silent alarm that would summon the security guards from the lobby.

"That alarm won't be necessary," the nattily dressed man said, his lips drawn together into a flowerbud frown. "I'm afraid no one is available to take your call downstairs."

The redhead chuckled, but the short man silenced him with a sharp glance before he turned to the others gathered in the observation deck. "May I have your attention, please? My name is Mr. Phillips. I believe we have about five minutes before the first of your security forces arrives, so I would like to lay down a few ground rules. They'll be most useful. Yvette, Rusty-would you join me?"

Trovkin, Senator Boorman and his aides, and the other guests stood up with a mixture of indignation and uncertainty, looking at the ominous weapons. Boorman's crew of four cameramen turned. Sensing news in the making, they pointed their video cams at Mr. Phillips and his two companions.

Nicole froze, her mind spinning. She couldn't sort out the procedures she had learned for dealing with a situation like this.

"I apologize for the intrusion," the dapper man said, "but unfortunately I have found it necessary. There will be a slight modification to the launch plans today, but I'm fully aware of your launch window, Ms.

Nicole Hunter." His direct use of her name startled her, although the ident.i.ty of the Launch Director was certainly no secret. "So I will make every effort to prevent a delay. I know how costly scrubbing a shuttle launch can be."

Nicole blinked. This was crazy-unless this Phillips character had an army of people covering him, literally hundreds of NASA, military, and state police would be here within the next few minutes. "Whoever you are, I think you underestimate the defenses of the s.p.a.ce center." She stepped forward but stopped when the freckled man leveled one of his pistols at her not more than five feet away.

"Thank you, Rusty," said Mr. Phillips. He turned to Nicole. "Should your security people charge in here like a bunch of superheroes, they may encounter some unexpected obstacles."

Squaring his broad shoulders, Andrei Trovkin strode next to Nicole, his face florid with rage. "How dare you bring guns here? This mission has half Russian crew! You are causing international incident!"

Mr. Phillips pulled his lips tight, as if annoyed at the interruption. He studied the badge on Trovkin's chest. The urbane man barely came up to the Russian's sternum. "Ah, my foreign friend, let's make good use of the few minutes until NASA Security rears its ugly head." He pulled out a gray-cased Personal Data a.s.sistant, flipped open the liquid-crystal screen, and withdrew a stylus. Touching the screen and selecting names, he called up a file and studied the words on the screen.

"Here we are!" he said triumphantly. "Andrei Ivanovich Trovkin, born in Belorus, received a degree in engineering and aeros.p.a.ce science, completed Air Force and cosmonaut training, but was excused"-he said the word slowly, as if with distaste-"from further cosmonaut service due to a heart murmur. Pity."

Mr. Phillips shook his head. "Just like Deke Slayton-but he finally got a chance to fly on the Apollo-Soyuz mission, so don't give up hope."

As Trovkin sputtered, Nicole turned to Phillips, calm and professional. All they needed were a few more minutes and security would be here. She wanted to keep him talking. "So you've done your homework. What is it you want?"

Senator Boorman stepped up, his face stormy and indignant, putting on an air of command he musthave used often on the Senate floor. "Our nation has a clearly stated policy of refusing to negotiate with terrorists. Whatever you have planned is hopeless." The news cameras quickly pointed at him, capturing every moment of the tableau.

"Ah, Senator Boorman," Mr. Phillips said with ill-concealed distaste, "let me see." He glanced down at his PDA screen, calling up new data. "My, what a long file you have. But one thing stands out." He raised his eyebrows curiously. "Why exactly were you arrested wearing woman's underwear coming out of the sorority dorm in nineteen sixty-five? May twenty-fifth? Do you recall that incident, Senator Boorman?"

The senator gasped, then turned red with anger. "I won't be intimidated-"

Mr. Phillips cut him off. "I've already intimidated you, and I've got condensed files on every person here, so maybe we'll have a show-and-tell for the television audience. But that will have to be later, since we need to move rather quickly on this-I have only another minute before your cavalry arrives. And I fear I may need to make my point, unless NASA Security is willing to take my a.s.surances at face value." He stepped up to one of the video cameras positioned high in a corner. Looking up, he cleared his throat and spoke directly to the camera.

"First, I know we're being monitored by security personnel. Let me a.s.sure you that if any attempt is made to enter this building, we will shoot our hostages. All of them. It's as simple as that." He snapped his finger at the tall blond woman, the one he had called Yvette.

Holding her a.s.sault rifle on the crowd of VIPs, Yvette withdrew a small respirator mask from one of the green satchels she carried. She handed it to Mr. Phillips, who dangled it up to the camera. "Second, we have gas masks, and our hostages don't. If any gas comes in, the hostages die. Need I say more?" He tossed the mask back to Yvette; she caught it with a casual flick of her wrist. "So, do not attempt to enter this building. I also have numerous colleagues stationed at strategic positions around the entire launch site, and they have orders to severely punish any misbehavior."

Stepping away from the camera, Mr. Phillips folded his hands together and raked his gaze over his audience. "Ms. Hunter, you are the person with whom I wish to speak." He glanced sidelong at the senator.

"I've always had little respect for . . . that man and his narrow-minded politics."

Nicole kept her expression stony, but inside she felt a horrid fear. She had to play him out, take this carefully.

Mr. Phillips glanced at the security video cameras in the ceiling. "Rusty, could you remove those please? Leave one, but shoot the rest. I prefer to have more direct control over the images broadcast from here."

Rusty pointed the pistol in his right hand at the observation cameras. "Definitely!" With short hisses of silenced gunshots, gla.s.s, metal, and black plastic flew as the cameras blew apart.

The news reporters pointed their own lenses at the spectacle.

Just for effect, Rusty fired two more times into the acoustic ceiling panels. Boorman's aides drew around the senator. Most of the others cringed, but Nicole made a great effort to stand stock-still, without flinching. Everyone would be looking to her, and as much as she felt like cowering, she had to be strong.

"Now, if you will all be patient," Mr. Phillips said quietly, "I will issue my demands and explain the consequences if you do not meet them. Let us keep the shuttle astronauts unaware of the situation for the moment. We wouldn't want them to overreact."

He checked his pocket watch, then snapped it shut again, I a.s.sure you, everything is under control." He smiled pleasantly. "And I do very much enjoy being in control."