Chapter Seven
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 shore 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 massive Vehicle Assembly 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 shore, 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 dragged a 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 facemask. 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 shore perfectly. Any sooner, and the IR sensors onboard 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 Assembly 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 shore 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 something 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 massive 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 shells, a pair of FAMAS G2 assault 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. Damn 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 leaving their weapons exposed and available. He snatched 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 assault 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 him Cueball 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 was 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 Assembly 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 damned 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.