Ignition. Part 21

Franklin looked at him skeptically. "Sure you can hold her?"

Without answering, Iceberg gained purchase on the flooring, careful not to put additional force on his own bad foot, then grunted as he lifted. Alexandra helped as she could.

Once the cosmonaut was up, Franklin rotated her leg, reaching down between the metal bars. She winced but made no outcry. Blood stained his fingers. "s.h.i.+ft her to the right."

Iceberg grunted and started to move. He put more weight on his cast-a sharp pain shot up his leg. He suppressed a yelp, feeling sweat break out on his forehead, fighting not to collapse.

"That's good. Let me know if I'm hurting you," Franklin said to her.

"Just get me free!" she cried, then hissed something in Russian.

Franklin hesitated, then quickly jerked her lower leg. Alexandra gasped as Iceberg almost toppled backward. "One more time," Franklin said. "I think I've got it." He didn't wait for an answer and tugged at her leg.

She gave a sharp cry. Her booted foot slipped out from the narrow s.p.a.ce.

Iceberg staggered back, trying to keep from falling off the gantry. He steadied himself, then let the cosmonaut slump to the metal flooring. Sitting, Alexandra rubbed her ankle through the pressure suit. She staggered to her feet, unmindful of any pain. "We must go from here."

Iceberg turned back for his injured friend. "I'll carry Gator to the emergency baskets-"

Franklin pushed him aside. "I'll carry him. You can't even walk." Iceberg nodded. The replacement commander had a point. "Okay, you and Alexandra get Gator down the emergency basket, then into the bunker. There must be medical supplies there."

"Aren't you going to help us?" Franklin looked at the ragged edge of his composure. "You're not going to stay up here."

Iceberg drew a deep breath. "My turn for bad news-there's a bomb planted up by the oxygen venting hood."

"A bomb?" Franklin's eyes widened. "In addition to that sniper, and these injuries, now we've got to worry about a bomb?"

Iceberg craned his neck to look toward the top of the rust-red external tank. The beanie cap hooked to the tip of the tank seemed incredibly high. "The access arm was only partially retracted during the countdown sequence. Wonderful. But I've got to take care of that bomb."

"Have you ever disarmed explosives?" Franklin said incredulously. "Is that one of your many hidden talents? How much extra did NASA train you?"

Iceberg pressed his lips together. "I guess I'm having a lot of new experiences today." His head pounding, he wiped sweat out of his eyes and turned to the shuttle commander. "Look, Franklin, the external tank itself is going to be the real bomb-the terrorists only need to use a few pounds of plastique to set the whole launchpad off. What I intend to do is get those explosives far enough away where they won't cause any damage. Piece of cake."

"But the elevator's dead-how are you going to get up there?"

"What is this, Twenty Questions? Same way I got up here."

Franklin said in exasperation, "You'll never make it. Look at yourself! We need to get down to the emergency bunker, where we'll all be safe."

Iceberg felt his face grow stony. The replacement commander was showing his true colors as a whiner, looking for problems instead of solving them. "I'm going. Now help Alexandra get Gator down to the ground. Save yourself if you want-as long as you save them, too."

He started limping for the ladders on the gantry. He had only another hundred feet to climb.

Only.

And this time it was a metal-runged ladder, not stairs.

Franklin's voice called out. "I can't stop you, can I?"

Iceberg drew himself up. It would be easy to go down in the last basket, rest in the bunker, and ride this out in safety. G.o.d knew he'd done enough in this fight. But he'd come too far to let that slimeball Phillips win. Iceberg turned and shook his head. "No, you can't stop me." Franklin looked up at him, his face filled with uncertainty. "Well, suit yourself." It took him considerable effort, but Franklin said, "And be careful, Colonel. Good luck up there."

Iceberg grudgingly gripped the replacement commander's hand, wincing at the pain in his shredded palm. "Thanks."

Reaching the ladder, he slung the rifle over his shoulder. He patted the walkie-talkie he had gotten from Jacques, then took a deep breath before s.h.i.+fting his mind into neutral. He started pulling himself up. First push up as far as he could on his good foot, then pull with his stinging hands before hopping to the next rung with his broken foot, hoping the damaged cast wouldn't fall apart. Just like one of the NASA torture-training exercises. One rung at a time. Another rung. Another one.

From the other side of the gantry superstructure, he heard an emergency basket release with a clatter, then a high-pitched whine as the basket accelerated down the twelve-hundred-foot-long line.

Now his crew was safe. Finally.

Trying to ignore the sweat that rolled into his eyes, Iceberg hauled himself up, a meter at a time. Even this high, bugs homed in on his droplets of perspiration; birds swooped around the high levels of the gantry, as if showing off their aerial skills.

His mind went on autopilot, just like on a cross-country flight, allowing time to stream past him. Before he knew it, he would be at the pinnacle of the external tank, keeping company with a bomb. . .

Finally, he pulled himself over the edge of the gaseous oxygen vent arm, one of the highest points on the gantry. The KSC launch area spread out before him. America's s.p.a.ceport-a great tourist attraction, drawing huge crowds to watch each shuttle launch. Iceberg hoped he wouldn't give them an even more spectacular show if he messed up removing the bomb. Seeing the flat swampland in all directions and the gray-blue Atlantic to the east, he felt alone on top of a skysc.r.a.per. Even the launchpad's tall water tower stood below his height now, waiting to dump three hundred thousand gallons of water into the flame trench and launch platform during the first twenty seconds of liftoff.

Part of the gantry rose still higher above and to his left, with a heavy crane arm rotated out of the way and a white-encased lightning rod pointing toward the sky. Below, electrical towers and telephone poles dotted the verdant landscape, looking like matchsticks. The Launch Control Center was a large white building barely visible through the morning's humid haze.

The view gave him enough of an adrenaline high to numb the waves of pain, but not enough to take away his caution. Somewhere down there were the NASA security troops, blindsided by the terrorist siege.

A half dozen helicopters were visible, keeping their distance. Mr. Phillips still held Nicole hostage at the LCC.

Iceberg had to take it one step at a time, like a checklist. "Cool down," he told himself. "Chill out." His crew was safe. Next, he'd take care of the bomb. Then go get Phillips.

"Break's over," he said, checking his watch. The helicopter bringing the ransom would be due any time now. He just prayed that he had enough time to disarm the explosives first. Once he got his money, Mr.

Phillips just might punch the detonator anyway.

He unslung his rifle for greater freedom of movement, setting it on the narrow walkway. Wisps of white vapor curled around the vent ports at the top of the external tank. The rust-red tanks were huge, manufactured in Louisiana and s.h.i.+pped by barge to the Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center- and now, with an explosive device to provide the spark, the tank contained over half a million gallons of liquid hydrogen and oxygen just waiting to mix together and ignite. . .

As Iceberg started crawling for the top of the tank down the narrow access arm, he heard a noise from the ladder below. He felt a chill. Had a terrorist followed him up here? But how could they have known where he was with the gantry cameras shut off?

He turned around, inching back toward the ladder, ready to defend himself. He could use a second of surprise, grab the intruder, and fling him backward off the high vertical ladder.

Marc Franklin's face appeared, flushed but determined. "Need some help?"

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing up here? I heard the escape basket-"

Franklin hauled himself onto the vent access arm. "Face it, Colonel, you can't get rid of that bomb by yourself."

"You're crazy," Iceberg said.

Franklin raised an eyebrow. "Hey, I wasn't the one playing Rambo." He started for the shuttle across the access arm, squeezing past Iceberg. "Just shut up so we can both find those explosives."

Iceberg started to retort. Of course he needed Franklin's help, but with the other commander here, it felt as if he had lost control again, putting someone else in charge. Franklin had stepped into his territory before. On the other hand, Nicole would have told Iceberg-in no uncertain terms-that his reaction was only so much macho bulls.h.i.+t. They didn't have time for a p.i.s.sing contest over responsibility. He swallowed his pride. But just a little. "Okay, Franklin. Let's move out and inspect the tank. It would be nice if this access arm went out all the way, but we've got to make do. I always wondered if my gymnastics would turn out to be practical after all."

"Right," Franklin said simply, moving forward. He looked down at the battered rifle Iceberg had discarded, but made no comment.

They were nearly twice as high above the ground as they had been on the lower walkway to the crew compartment. Plus, the vent access arm was much narrower, more utilitarian in function, existing only for an oxygen vent hose and a lone technician to reach the very top of the external tank. Grasping the handrails, Franklin leaned over the edge and inspected the red insulated tank.

"Look for anything out of the ordinary," Iceberg said as he scanned the other side of the external tank's bulging hull. With each pa.s.sing moment he felt the sick dread grow. Franklin was probably right. They didn't have any business up here, trying to play hero.

Chill . . . cool . . . Boy, would he be embarra.s.sed if he set off the explosive himself, blowing them all sky-high.

But if he ran to safety in the emergency bunker, Iceberg would have to wait for somebody else to take care of the situation, twiddling his thumbs while the countdown reached zero and Mr. Phillips pushed the detonator b.u.t.ton. Good-bye Atlantis.

Iceberg would never be able to live with himself for giving up. They had to find the bomb.

Reaching the tip of the access arm, he noticed a dark red b.u.mp on the otherwise smooth sh.e.l.l of the tank.

He frowned. The bulge was a similar rust-red color to the rest of the tank, but it had a squarish, too-symmetric look. Like a block of clay. He felt a thrill roll over him. "Hey, Franklin. Look at this."

The replacement commander appeared next to him, leaning out over the railing. Franklin emitted a low whistle. "That's it, I'll bet. Way down there." He gulped, as if summoning courage. "I guess I'll go get it."

Iceberg shook his head. "No, let me. Gymnastics, remember?"

Franklin looked at him, incredulous. "With the condition you're in, you don't look like you could tie your shoe without collapsing." Iceberg bristled, but the replacement commander continued, "Use the walkie-talkie on your belt and call Security. They can get a demolitions expert to walk us through this."

Iceberg put a hand on the walkie-talkie he had taken from Jacques. "I've got the endurance and the balance, Franklin. You get on the radio. You're a scientist, not an athlete."

This was his shuttle, and Franklin was being bullheaded about the whole thing. Iceberg was in better physical shape, better trained, more dedicated than this wimpy scientist-turned-astronaut. He extended the walkie-talkie as if it were a blunt weapon.

Franklin said, "Don't be so d.a.m.ned independent-were you out sick during 'teamwork training' ?"

"What makes sense is to let the best person do the job."

"That's what I'm telling you!" Franklin looked just as coldly back at him. "Someone needs to dangle out and pluck that bomb off the external tank, and I wasn't running around fighting terrorists all day. The longer you argue about it, the sooner it's going to blow."

Iceberg set his jaw. Cool. . . frosty . . . chill . . . Man, did this guy p.i.s.s him off. He took a step forward, then winced, the broken bones in his foot throbbing. He tried to shove the pain away. But it didn't help.

As much as he hated to admit it, Franklin had a point. He had to convince himself that what mattered now was getting the job done. Not who did it. It ran against his grain as a type A compet.i.tor, but he had to accept it.

Iceberg said gruffly, "All right, I'll make the call. Just be careful."

Franklin barely nodded, then eased his way farther along the access arm. "Right."

Fuming, Iceberg took the walkie-talkie, intending to punch in the channel for NASA Security-but then he realized that the frequency had been hardwired to Mr. Phillips's private channel. The terrorists could hold their conversations, but Iceberg couldn't switch to anything else. "Oh, dammit!"

The other commander had already climbed over the handrail and was about to reach out toward the rust-colored tank. He looked unbalanced, ready to fall any second. And only the pavement far below would catch him.

48

LAUNCH CONTROL CENTER.

SECONDS TICKED AWAY, TRICKLING into minutes. Nicole watched Mr. Phillips's feigned relaxation quickly wear off as his impatience seized center stage. The little man paced the gla.s.s-walled room, kicking his step stool aside as he held his Beretta up in the air.

"What is taking everybody so long?" he said, his voice brittle, his words clipped. He fumbled in his suit jacket and pulled out his pocket watch, though numerous clocks adorned the LCC walls.

"The helicopter will be here momentarily, but I can't see a thing. Why hasn't Rusty got those gantry cameras on again? Why haven't Yvette or Jacques checked in with me?" He looked to Nicole as if she might give him an answer, and she fought hard to keep a satisfied smile from her lips.

"And what is your Iceberg up to?" s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his face up in an expression of hard determination, he grabbed the walkie-talkie again and thrust it toward her. "I don't like this. Here. Contact your boyfriend and tell him to surrender."

Nicole blinked her dark eyes, genuinely astonished. "Iceberg-surrender? And you think he'll listen to me? You'd better check his personal file on that computer of yours, Mr. Phillips. You seem to have faulty data."

"I don't buy faulty data." Lifting Rusty's handgun, he pushed it against her temple. She didn't flinch as much this time. "We'll just have to give him a greater incentive to surrender."

Nicole hesitated. If there was any good time to resist the man, this was it. With no one here to back him up, surely someone in the room would be able to overpower him-Yet, the dead bodies in the corner showed just how far Mr. Phillips was willing to go; he seemed much more jumpy than at the beginning of the siege as all of his plans reached their tensest moments. And no telling how many more might die if she tried anything now.

Her shoulders slumping, she picked up the walkie-talkie. With a shrug to show him that she didn't think his tactics would work, she clicked the "talk" b.u.t.ton. "Iceberg, come in. This is Panther, over." She waited a moment, then clicked the mike again. "Iceberg, Panther."

When his ragged voice finally came back over the speaker, Iceberg sounded breathless, exhausted.

"I'm kind of busy, Panther."

She tried to sound casual, letting a fake drawl creep into her voice. "Yeah, well things aren't too relaxing here either. We can't see a thing on the surveillance cameras, and that's got certain people a bit upset. The power's been cut to the elevators as well."

Iceberg answered, his voice rough, panting, "So I noticed. Look, can we just go out to dinner sometime if you want to chitchat? I'm preoccupied at the moment."

She swallowed. "All right, let's do dinner after this is over-Original Fat Boy's in Cocoa Beach. But for now Mr. Phillips wants you to, uh, surrender."

Iceberg coughed a short laugh into the speaker. "Surrender? He doesn't know me very well."

"That's what I told him."

"Well, did he at least say 'Please' ?"

"No," Nicole said, swallowing a thick lump in her throat as he pressed the barrel of the weapon hard enough to leave a bruise on her temple. "But, um, he is holding a gun to my head. I think he plans to do some redecorating of the LCC if you don't cooperate with him. He's already killed two hostages."

She heard Iceberg's short intake of breath, and then a long pause. Finally he said, "Dammit, Panther, I-".

She knew he was fighting for words, so she saved him the embarra.s.sment and cut him off. "Senator Boorman has already negotiated the settlement. The ransom briefcase is on the way-and Mr. Phillips has got a bad case of terrorist PMS."

Mr. Phillips jammed the gun against her head in annoyance, but she didn't flinch. "Right now it's time to throttle back and stand down before anybody else gets killed-including yourself."

A long silence followed, and Nicole could almost hear him wrestling with his thoughts. She knew he still cared about her, didn't want to see her trapped in such an untenable situation-but Iceberg wouldn't admit his feelings for her, any more than she would admit similar feelings for him.

But she knew he could never give up. Finally, he spoke in a thick voice. "Panther, I. . . I can't do that."

"You're right," she whispered. Oh G.o.d, what have we done?

Mr. Phillips grabbed Nicole's brown-gold hair and pressed the pistol harder still, speaking through clenched jaws; then he shoved her away. "I set the priorities here, Ms. Hunter." He s.n.a.t.c.hed the walkie-talkie out of her hand and backed off. He squeezed the "talk" b.u.t.ton. "Colonel Iceberg, you don't know what you're up against-"

Iceberg's voice came back loud and clear, cutting off the little man's rant. "Look, I don't have to listen to any more of this bulls.h.i.+t. I'm confident in Panther's negotiating skills-that's what she's good at. Look to her for a solution, not me. But if you hurt her in any way, you're the one who has to face the consequences, Phillips."