13.

ATLANTIS FLIGHT DECK.

GATOR GREEN REACHED DOWN to the center console on Atlantis's flight deck and flipped through the laminated checklist resting on his leg. Same as in all the simulations-only this time it was for real. It should have made no difference, no matter that he was decked out in a pressure suit and wore his helmet. He stopped just before touching the switch and read from the checklist. "Orbital maneuveringsystem pressurization check."

"Check," Marc Franklin said in a flat, professional voice. Franklin read from an identical checklist in the mission commander's chair on the left-hand side of the compartment.

Gator flipped both switches marked OMS ENG. "Armed." He swung his attention to the overhead panel, near Franklin. "Increasing cabin pressure to sixteen point seven psi."

Franklin watched the results carefully. "Cabin leak check complete."

Gator clicked his mike. "Control, Atlantis. OMS pressure on, cabin vent check complete."

"Roger that."

Atlantis vibrated with internal pumps, relays, and switches groaning under the constant contracting and expansion from the cryogenic fuel in the external tank. The shuttle seemed alive and anxious to go as Gator went methodically through the rest of the checklist.

He completed the voice check as Franklin reached down to close both cabin vent switches. As they completed the sequence, the voice from CAPCOM came over the radio. "Change of plan, Atlantis. We are continuing to extend our hold. Please stand by."

Gator sighed and clicked his mike. "Copy that." He wondered how long the delay would be this time.

He looked over at Franklin. Although it was the commander's fourth s.p.a.ce flight, the older man looked as nervous as a rookie but capped it off with a brittle, forced stoicism that only increased the tension for Gator. On his other flights, Franklin had been a mere mission specialist. It must make one h.e.l.l of a difference knowing you're responsible for the entire crew, Gator thought. He wondered if Iceberg ever felt that way.

If this mission had gone off as originally planned, Gator knew that Iceberg would probably have been fast asleep in the commander's chair during the extended hold, catching a few winks. The man oozed coolness, and his calm att.i.tude infected every member of the crew so that no one had any doubt the mission would be a complete success.

He remembered being with Iceberg and Nicole at a cookout on the patio of his rented bachelor pad in Canaveral City, flipping burgers on a smoking Weber grill, horsing around to show off for Monique, a woman he had ended up dating for only two months. He splashed Tabasco sauce on the burgers as they sizzled over the flames, urging his guests to drink more lemonade. He had gotten it into his head that he wanted to try to make some fresh-squeezed lemonade the way his mother had done it once, and so he spent the afternoon making a G.o.dawful mess of his kitchen, ma.s.sacring a whole bag full of lemons-and, dammit, Iceberg and Nicole were going to drink the stuff, no matter how much sugar they needed to add.

Monique had told him later that night how much she envied the stability apparent in Iceberg and Nicole's relationship. . . .

Now, up on the flight deck, he and Franklin had an indefinite amount of time to kill. Gator tried to loosen some of the tension that permeated the cabin. He turned off his mike so that his voice would not be broadcast over the shuttle, much less over the radio. He leaned close to Franklin. "Hey, Marc-once we dock with Mir, it'd be easy to remain connected; let us stay up there awhile. You know, continue glasnost by giving some of their crew a break. We could have a poker game."

Franklin looked up from studying the flight checklist again. His eyes were red, tired through the helmet.

"You must be kidding."

Gator fought to keep a straight face. Of course I'm kidding. "They might want to take a vacation on board Atlantis while we explore their station. Every nook and cranny. n.o.body else needs to know."

Alexandra Koslovsky leaned forward from her mission specialist seat, situated just behind the pilot and mission commander's position. Her long straw-colored hair was stuffed inside the fabric Snoopy headgear.

"Discussing travel plans, Lieutenant Commander Gator?"

Franklin stiffened. "We're just going over the post-launch checklist, Cosmonaut Koslovsky." He didn't sound convincing.

Gator gave Alexandra a wink. "And to think we could have opened up a new frontier for international relations."

Franklin snorted, realizing his leg had been pulled. He turned back to the checklist. "You've had your fun, Gator. No more, understand?"

"That's a rog," said Gator. "Just trying to lighten things up." He turned to the next item on the checklist: Load flight plan OPS-1 into the computer. He'd have to load the program after the hold. Whenever it ended.

From here on out it was following a set schedule of checklists. It reminded him of preparing for a game at Annapolis, with the play strategy laid out days in advance. All he had to do was to run on the football field, with four thousand midshipmen yelling their heads off, waving their white wheel caps in the air-andexecute the plan without errors.

At the back of his mind, as had probably happened with every single astronaut in the past decade, was the image of the Challenger disaster, the shuttle pa.s.sing through max q with all readouts indicating complete success-until that gut-wrenching moment when it all went wrong. How could anyone sit aboard the shuttle on the launchpad and not think of that while waiting for the countdown to commence?

Gator pushed the image out of his mind. He couldn't afford to dwell on it. With or without Iceberg as commander, this mission was going to go. Nothing could stop them now.

With Franklin, he ran though the post-launch checklist again, all the time glancing at the mechanical switches, old cathode-ray tubes, LED switches, and computer pads. Gator reached to his right and reattached the checklist to a Velcro pad, then stretched. He glanced at the countdown clock and frowned in concern. "Hey, Marc-we're pushing up against the hold limit."

Franklin scanned a row of lighted b.u.t.tons, double-checked the countdown clock himself. He clicked the microphone. "CAPCOM, Atlantis. You're keeping mighty quiet out there. What's going on? Give us some good news."

It took a disquietingly long moment for Houston to come back. "Atlantis, CAPCOM. We are still in an indefinite hold. Standby one."

Gator raised his brows and looked at Franklin. "What do you think? Are they looking for an abort?

What could it be?" The ground crew had a perfectionist reputation before okaying a launch.

Franklin looked grim, then disgusted. He flicked the comm switch again. "CAPCOM, can you give us details?"

"That's a negatory. No data at this time, Atlantis."

Gator clicked his own mike, letting disbelief trickle into his voice. "Come on, you don't have an indication of the problem? Are we scrubbing the launch?"

"The hold was directed by the Launch Director herself. We'll feed you more information as we get it from KSC."

Gator shifted in his seat. Lying on his back staring up into the sky was getting d.a.m.ned uncomfortable.

"CAPCOM, put me through to Panther-uh, Ms. Hunter, I mean."

"Sorry, Atlantis. We're having comm problems with Launch Control. We'll keep you updated."

"Comm problems?" Gator sounded incredulous.

"We've got to shut down, Atlantis-we'll be out of communication with you for a while. Relax while we deadstart the comm link."

Gator clicked his microphone twice to signify that he understood the directions. He frowned. Deadstart the system? That's weird. He shrugged. Somebody probably found a hangnail somewhere.

"Not much we can do," Franklin said. "You heard CAPCOM "

"How about letting us unbuckle and get some blood back in our feet, Marc? No telling how long these clowns are going to keep us waiting."

Franklin looked grim. "Our launch window won't allow more than a half hour hold before we have to reschedule." He started to unfasten his straps while speaking over the in-board intercom to the rest of the crew. "Okay, let's take a short break, helmets off-but be ready to strap back in."

Now unbuckled, Alexandra Koslovsky leaned forward. She grasped the back of his seat to support herself. "What do you think the problem is, Lieutenant Commander Gator?"

Gator twisted and looked at the pretty Russian cosmonaut. He gave her a disarming grin. "Who knows-gremlins, probably. No launch goes without some kind of hitch"

14.

SECURITY CONTROL, KSC.

EMERGENCY KLAXONS BLARED THROUGHOUT the main NASA security complex. Many buildings were empty, with workers camping out in folding lawn chairs in the parking lots or gathered on viewing stands to watch the impending launch. But the alarms screamed on. Khaki-and-black uniformed guards poured from Security Control, carrying automatic rifles and struggling to tug on flak jackets. They wore thick black boots with steel-plated insoles and head-mounted microphones with tiny speaker earplugs. The guards ran for their black all-terrain vehicles, slammed heavy doors, and started their engines.

Radios mounted inside the ATVs spat out sharp voices: "All teams, this is a priority one alert. This is not an exercise-repeat, not an exercise. Hostage situation at LCC and possible danger to pad thirty-nine A. Sensors and video cameras have been neutralized, situation unknown."

Team members scrambled to fall in as the crisp voice continued barking orders. "Employ scenario G for Golf. Teams switch to respective b.u.t.tons: Team One, switch to b.u.t.ton one; Team Two, b.u.t.ton two . . ."

Each five-person security unit changed to a preset channel in addition to the coordinating frequency used by Security Control. Cool excitement permeated the teams; they had trained for this moment for years, but no one had really thought they would be called into action. Who would have the nerve-the gall -to attack the Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center?

Seven ATVs squealed out of the parking lot. Three headed for the guard gate at the southeast point of the restricted launch area; the other four raced up State Highway 1, toward the threatened Launch Control Center.

On the Gulf sh.o.r.e across the Florida peninsula, U.S. Central command Headquarters at McDill Air Force Base was notified of a potential national emergency unfolding. The message percolated through the command's enlisted force, the first line of administration that monitored the launch. Several minutes pa.s.sed before the news reached someone with the authority to take direct action. The Air Force special operations C-130 aircraft that had earlier been routinely monitoring the vicinity from high above was diverted from its standoff area.

Twenty miles south at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station, a team of elite Air Force security policemen charged into action. News of the alert spread from the Federal Emergency Management Agency to the Department of Defense crisis-management network as military personnel methodically prepared for a decisive response.

Back at Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center, whining sounds came from two helicopters squatting on the center of a concrete pad as the pilots revved onboard auxiliary power units. It would take two full minutes until they could start their rotors, and the required time seemed to take forever to the pilots and guards that had rushed on board and strapped themselves in, ready to go. Four helicopters already patrolling the skies tipped their rotors toward the LCC.

The first black all-terrain vehicle screeched up to the white Launch Control building. The five-person security team poured out of the armored vehicle and, using the bulk of the ATV as a shield, readied their weapons while crouching.

The team leader raised her fist. "Team One, check in. Alpha here."

Each person keyed his head-mounted microphone. "Bravo."

"Charlie."

"Delta."

"Echo."

Satisfied that her team was ready, the leader gripped the cool muzzle of her M-16 automatic rifle.

"Orders are to surround the building only. Do not get closer than fifty feet. Execute."

The team spread out as the backup ATVs roared up from Security Control. The team leader keyed her mike. "Team one is in position and the situation is in hand. Waiting for your instruction."

"Proceed with caution, Alpha," said Security Control. "We have a hostage situation in there with some VIPs."

As Team 1 sprinted for the perimeter of the tall white building, a barrage of automatic rifle fire rang out from the stairwell on the third story. Instantly, two members of Team 1 fell to the ground as if they had been struck with baseball bats; a third spun in his tracks, hit in the arm.

Team 1 Leader dove for cover behind a parked car as she screamed into her microphone. "Back off, back off! Security Control, live fire- abort G for Golf." She huddled beside the parked car and gasped for breath. Bullets showered all around the vehicle. Adjacent windshields burst, and gla.s.s shattered, falling to the ground like broken icicles. The other ATVs spun their wheels in an effort to back away.

Team 1 Leader tried to get a glimpse of her team members, taking a tally of casualties. She spotted two of the four members lying on the ground, their blood seeping onto the black pavement. She shouted into her headset. "Team One, report! Alpha here."

"Echo. I'm okay under cover behind a red pickup truck."

"Delta," came a weaker voice. "I'm hit. Bleeding. I can last a little while, though." A voice came over her head-mounted earphone. "Team One, this is Security Control. What is your a.s.sessment?"

"We're still under fire. Three team members. .h.i.t." Breathing deeply she looked at the second hand on her watch and counted the number of bullets she heard smack into the ATV and around her. "Things have tapered off, but there's still plenty of action."

"Can you spot where the firing is coming from?"

"I think there's only one gunman, but he means business. Appears to be shooting from the third-floor stairwell, a perfect strategic position."

"Offer medical a.s.sistance to your team members, if you can do it safely. Reinforcements on the way.

Do not proceed with the a.s.sault."

She sat back to wait while the bullets continued to rain around her.

Three black ATVs roared up to Salvador's guard shack at the far southeast point of the restricted launch area. The security personnel inside the vehicles gripped the sleek barrels of their weapons as they listened to the updates coming from their colleagues in Team Alpha outside the LCC. "Sounds like they got a war going on over there!" Just as they approached the guard gate, the first ATV drove over a tripwire, triggered a land mine, and flew up into the air.

Mounted on tripods hidden in the brush at the side of the road, remote-controlled a.s.sault weapons opened fire. A volley of bullets ripped into the sides of the black ATVs. Gla.s.s shattered, metal punctured by the armor-piercing rounds. Screams from the jumpsuited guards quickly died out. The first ATV rolled over in the ditch and groaned, a molten hulk.

Twenty yards down the road, just outside the guard shack, a lone man clicked his radio. "Yo, Mr.

Phillips-Duncan at checkpoint one. No survivors for the first wave. Three vehicles down. A beauty."

It took only an instant for the answer from the LCC. "Very good, Duncan. Thank you. Perhaps our NASA friends will listen more attentively from here on out."

Satisfied, Duncan turned back to watch for more incoming traffic. Plenty of land mines remained scattered around the area, and he could easily pick off anyone who tried to disarm them.

He strode forward to reload the expended magazines of ammunition. He lit a menthol cigarette, rifle in hand, and went back to his lawn chair to wait.

15.

ONE MILE FROM LAUNCHPAD 39A.

ICEBERG SAT BEHIND THE brush-covered rise, well hidden from the routine search patterns and confident that he would remain undiscovered. The launchpad was in the distance, its access road more than a mile away. He heard sirens behind him, probably the last warning blasts of security personnel to clear the restricted area. Under other circ.u.mstances, this might have felt like a picnic.

But he should have been up there in the c.o.c.kpit right now.

Iceberg watched NASA's coverage of the launch on the Walkman TV. He didn't waste much time worrying about politics, but he thought Senator Boorman had dominated the news for far too long. Didn't the reporters have their priorities straight on launch day at least?