Chapter Eleven
Launch Control Center
When Yvette pulled the white NASA car into the crowded parking lot of the Launch Control Center, Mr. Phillips pointed to the left. “There—an empty space up front. They must have known we were coming.”
Yvette eased past vans, pickups, and cars, most of which bore Challenger memorial license plates, though a few said SAVE THE MANATEE. Mr. Phillips squinted to read painted words on the curb, black letters on a scuffed white background. “Government Vehicle Parking Only,” he said. “Ah, then we’ve got the right place. Wouldn’t want to do anything illegal.”
From the back seat 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 in her clinging jumpsuit. She took her FAMAS G2 automatic assault rifle and extra magazines of ammunition. Rusty pocketed his own Colt OHWS and took another assault 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 a 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 space shuttle lapel pin. “I don’t want to depend too heavily on our grace period.” He held the glass 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 Space Center. Rusty held his pistol with the silencer up in the air; Yvette hung her assault 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 sidearm 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 tile.
“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 Assembly 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 muffled gunshot in the ladies room. Frowning, he pulled out his pocketwatch. 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 re-evaluate 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 space 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.