Chapter Nine
Guard Fence—Restricted Area
As the commandeered NASA car drove away from the video-relay blockhouse, Mr. Phillips lounged back in the front passenger seat, studying his handheld personal data assistant. He adjusted the brightness on the small liquid crystal screen and squinted at the list displayed by the computer.
Things To Do Today.
Using a blunt stylus to scroll through the data file that detailed every point in the shuttle countdown sequence, he ticked off the events that had already occurred. He rubbed one finger along his cleanshaven upper lip and studied the parallel timeline for his team, marking each activity his people had completed and the tasks in which they were presently engaged.
He cleared his pager of the message that had appeared just moments before: PACKAGE PLANTED—JACQUES. “Good.” He used the stylus to check that item off on the touch-sensitive screen.
As Duncan drove the car north along the narrow grass-lined road, puffing on a menthol cigarette, Mr. Phillips fumbled in his front pocket and withdrew the pocketwatch. He looked up from the watch and the open PDA to note their location and allowed himself a warm, satisfied smile. “Precisely on time.” He twisted in his seat to see Yvette and Rusty sitting in the back, both flushed with excitement. “Success comes through careful planning,” he said to them. “And we have been careful indeed.”
“You always are, Mr. Phillips,” Rusty said.
Duncan tossed long gray-brown hair out of his eyes and glanced away from the road toward the passenger seat. “We’re about half a mile from the guard shack, Mr. Phillips,” he said in his cheery Australian accent, tossing the cigarette butt out the window.
“All right, pull over to the side of the road, please. Yvette, my dear, would you care to drive? We’ll need your expertise in a few moments.”
“Oui, Monsieur Phillips,” she said.
Duncan pulled off onto the flat damp grass beside the road, leaving fresh tire tracks among others already pressed into the soft sandy ground. Shifting the government car into park, he opened the squeaking door and climbed out, holding it open for the pale-blond Amazon.
Mr. Phillips scanned the area as Duncan and Yvette exchanged places. The road was deserted. The NASA vehicle had allowed them to gain access to the eastern security road, which they had driven up from Cape Canaveral earlier that morning. The terrain lacked the rugged, rocky features Mr. Phillips had known growing up near the New England coast; here in the lowlands they were sure to be spotted if they acted out of place.
Yvette slipped behind the wheel and slid the seat back as far as it would go. She adjusted the mirror, then clicked the left turn signal before pulling back onto the deserted road. She drove the white government sedan at precisely the posted speed limit, never straying over the divider line.
Mr. Phillips turned back to the PDA and pointed the stylus to the other items on the list. “Rusty,” he said, “you’re sure all the motion sensors are disabled? The videoloops playing in the TV bunker are a perfect substitute?”
“Definitely, Mister Phillips,” Rusty said. “I picked a video to match the weather and time conditions for this launch. NASA will keep watching their screens, but they’ll be seeing last year’s launch. Sooner or later somebody’s going to notice the difference—but they’ll be snowed long enough.”
Mr. Phillips checked that item off as complete, then straightened the gold-and-white cloisonné space shuttle pin at his lapel. The pager in his pocket went off, and he pulled it out to scan the brief message on its tiny screen. “READY—MORY.”
“Ah,” he said with a smile, “our aquatic friends are in position. Good.” He used the charcoal-gray stylus to checked off the next item on the list, then clicked shut the lid on the handheld PDA. “Only two more steps in phase one. Everything is proceeding with remarkable efficiency.”
“Approaching the gate, Monsieur Phillips,” Yvette said, slowing down.
“Onward and upward,” he said. “Just like a bull market.”
From the back seat, Duncan said, “After today we won’t need to do any more working for the rest of our lives, mates.”
Mr. Phillips frowned and turned to him. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Duncan.”
Not much larger than a telephone booth, the guard shack stood alone by the road. Bright red letters on a white signboard admonished, “Warning, Restricted Area.”
An older, mustached man sat outside the shack in a colorful folding lawn chair, the kind one could buy for a few dollars at a discount department store. Seeing their white NASA car approach, the guard stood to wait for them. From the casual way he moved and the friendly expression on his face, it was apparent that he expected no trouble. They were probably the hundredth car to pass through in the last few hours. This old man would pose no problem at all.
Yvette brought the car to a gentle stop as the guard came around toward the driver’s side window. She carefully turned the crank to lower the glass, then shifted the car into park so she could use both of her hands.
“Excuse me, my good man,” Mr. Phillips said, leaning close to Yvette, “isn’t this the way to the rocket?”
Yvette whispered, “Monsieur Phillips, I will need room—if you could lean back?” He pressed himself against the passenger door, out of the way.
“Sorry, folks,” the guard said with an Hispanic accent as he stooped to Yvette’s window. He was swarthy and potbellied. “This area is restricted for the launch. Everybody’s been cleared beyond this point. The last van hauling the remaining workers from the launchpad is due out here any minute. You’ll have to drive back to the causeway and park your car there to watch the launch, or you can drive around to the Banana River VIP viewing site.” He frowned. “Could I see your passes please?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Mr. Phillips said quietly.
The guard raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?” He leaned into the car, unable to believe what Mr. Phillips had said.
Yvette struck in one fluid motion. She whipped her left arm over the old guard’s neck. The man struggled. He gasped as Yvette tightened her grip. Pulling his head sharply down, she viciously twisted his head and slammed him down against the door again, crushing his larynx. A loud snapping sound reverberated throughout the car, and the guard fell slack, his eyes bugging out in astonishment, rapidly growing dull with death.
“Something caught in your throat?” Mr. Phillips said. He reached over, planted his hand on the guard’s head and shoved, toppling the old man away from the driver’s door to prevent messy stains on his suit.
Mr. Phillips found it amazing that Yvette could move so well in such a cramped space. Exhilarating! She was so professional, and so entertaining. The only other person remotely comparable was her dear lover, Jacques.
Duncan scrambled out of the car as Rusty holstered the silenced pistol he had taken out, just in case Yvette ran into difficulty. Yvette remained behind the wheel while the others did their duties; she had already done hers.
Mr. Phillips waited primly beside her. “Pop the trunk for them, Yvette,” he said.
Duncan came around and bent over, gripping the fallen guard under the armpits. He relieved the old man of his sidearm, then dragged him through the thick grass into a bog of weeds and underbrush behind the shack, hiding the body from the main road. He wiped his hands on his nondescript jumpsuit, then shucked out of it to reveal a gray NASA security uniform. Kneeling, he unfastened the guard’s badge pinned it on himself. He then folded the jumpsuit and stuffed it behind the body. Sooner or later, some animal would take care of the details.
From the trunk, Rusty lifted the box of carefully packed landmines and carried them around behind the shack next to an old, empty watercooler. A three-wheeled all-terrain vehicle sat parked behind the shack, like a grown kid’s toy. Rusty returned to haul out the tripods, tripwires, motion sensors, and five FAMAS G2 automatic assault rifles, piling them beside the shack for Duncan to set up once they had left him in position.
Mr. Phillips took a moment to step out of the car for a stretch. Curious, he peeked into the guard shack, wondering what kind of man would just sit there in boredom all day long waiting for something to happen … and then be completely unprepared for it when it did. He shook his head.
Numerous mission patches adorned the walls, like poor man’s trophies. On the speckled Formica counter lay a new cloth patch for this morning’s Atlantis launch, colorful and embroidered, showing a bear and an eagle. How patriotic. Mr. Phillips picked it up, fingering the rough, regular texture of fine threads.
His lips formed a gentle smile as he pocketed the patch, smoothing his suit jacket. “It’ll make a fine memento … might even be worth something someday.” This launch—or lack thereof—was sure to go down in history.
Mr. Phillips turned to view the distant shuttle on the launchpad. The orbiter waited like a bridled stallion, ready to leap into the void of space. He stared in awe, slowly shaking his head. Such a magnificent machine. A technological marvel. The pinnacle of mankind’s engineering achievements. Elegant, sleek, fantastically complicated … yet deceptively simple.
He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to blow it up.
Rusty brushed his hands on his coverall and came back to the car, jumping into the open rear door. “Ready to go!”
“All right, Duncan, take your position in the shack,” said Mr. Phillips. “The technicians’ van is due out from its last routine checks on the launchpad. Be sure to wave to the driver, since we’re all friends here. Then close the gate and plant your landmines and set up your targeting systems.”
“Aye, Mr. Phillips,” Duncan said, settling down into the colorful folding lawn chair. He yawned, just like a real security guard, and placed his assault rifle under his chair.
Yvette shifted the car into drive. Mr. Phillips glanced at his pocketwatch again as he slammed the passenger door and buckled his seatbelt. “Now we double back and get to the Launch Control Center,” he said. “We’ve got a schedule to keep.”