Chapter Twelve
Launch Control Center
Returning to the main firing floor of the Launch Control Center, Nicole Hunter slid her badge through the magnetic-strip reader to gain access.
“The crew has boarded the shuttle, and the hatch is sealed,” one of the station chiefs told her. “Pad is cleared and safed.”
“Right on time,” Nicole said, with a glance at the countdown clock on the wall. Though Commander Franklin had a conscientious crew, as Launch Director she was the one responsible for making sure everything happened down to the precise second. Remember the six Ps, she thought: Prior preparation prevents piss-poor performance—and nobody did it better than NASA. She ran a hand quickly through her brown-gold hair, then moved along, keyed up … and loving it.
One of the women station chiefs looked up and announced, “The last bus has returned from the launchpad. Beach road, Kennedy Parkway, and the crawler access road are now closed.”
“Copy that,” said one of the other technicians.
“Perimeter gates six T, four, and two C are green. Aerial surveillance reports the area as secure,” announced another.
“APCs in place for emergency rescue. Standing by.”
Nicole looked down at her own checklist, watching the items. The information flew at her like water spraying from a fire hydrant. One station after another checked in. Nicole glanced down at a TV monitor from the launchpad cameras, seeing the gantry and the stately shuttle with its rust-brown external tank and tall solid rocket boosters like fat white pencils tacked to each side. The Rotating Service Structure had moved aside, but the venting “beanie” cap remained firmly in place atop the external tank. Wisps of cirrus clouds drifted across the screen.
Nicole looked out the window; the morning sky shone perfectly clear, no clouds. That’s odd. She slurped the dregs of her sweet dark coffee and tossed the plastic foam cup in a wastebasket. She dismissed the discrepancy as someone else demanded her attention.
“Guard gates checking in for their final report,” said a station tech. “Everyone gives the clear—” The man frowned, spoke into his microphone again, waited. “Everyone checks in except for one guard gate.”
Nicole felt a wash of concern. “One of the perimeter gates?”
“No, perimeter gates are all green,” the man said. “It’s the station directly outside the LCC. Right next door, nowhere close to the launchpad.”
Nicole heaved a short sigh of relief. “He’s probably out gawking at the shuttle with his binoculars. Call Security Control. Have them cover the gate and admonish the guard for leaving his station. Proceed with the countdown.”
She looked around, saw teams intent at their stations, some speaking into telephones, others studying computer displays. Dot-matrix printers documented each step. The entire LCC was a whirring, smoothly running machine in high gear.
She touched the tiny gold key on her necklace and smiled, totally satisfied with her position and her responsibility.
Nicole called her deputy over, a quiet, older man with a short crewcut. “Handle the floor for a few minutes,” she said. “I’m going back to the VIP area to hold some hands and coddle a barracuda.”
Securing the glass door with her badge, she trotted up the mezzanine steps to where the honored guests looked down at the activity like spectators at a zoo. The technicians had by now become accustomed to performing their daily routine under a magnifying glass.
Ambassador Andrei Trovkin, the Russian liaison, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out the narrow windows toward the launchpad. On a low hill to the right stood press stands crowded with TV crews and newspaper photographers. They would get a breathtaking view of the launch across the Banana River toward Cape Canaveral. Separate white-sided buildings bore the logos of major networks: ABC, NBC, CBS, and CNN. Behind them sat the old trailers of NASA’s Media Relations Bureau. On a tall flagpole an American flag hung limp in the morning stillness. The digital numbers on the large countdown clock winked down for the press.
“Feeling the suspense build, Ambassador Trovkin?” she asked the Russian.
He turned to her with a preoccupied smile. “I am astonished how wonderfully public American launches are,” he said. “In Russia they never used to be announced at all. Oh, and call me Andrei, please.”
“Then you must call me Nicole.”
“Thank you.” He nodded to her.
She turned to one of the runners. “Would you get me another coffee please? Two sugars—”
The young man nodded. “—and no cream. I know, Ms. Hunter.” He turned to dash down the steps just as the elevator chime rang.
The doors slid open, and three strangers emerged, blocking the runner’s way. One of the newcomers—a statuesque woman with close-cropped hair so blond it looked white—shoved the runner into the cinderblock wall, as if batting a fly out of the way. The strangers jogged briskly up the mezzanine stairs and spread out.
With the freeze-frame vision brought about from adrenaline, Nicole saw that the blond woman carried a compact automatic assault rifle. One man who emerged with her—bright orange-red hair and a coppery spattering of freckles across his face—brandished two handguns, one with a prominent phallic silencer screwed to the barrel. A compact assault rifle was strapped across his chest.
The dapper man between them looked calmly in charge. He was quite short, no more than five feet, dressed in a dark pinstripe suit that sported a gold-and-white space shuttle pin on the lapel. His demeanor and appearance reminded her of a comically polite English butler.
“Excuse me, who are you?” Nicole said, feeling a tightness in her chest. She stepped back to push the silent alarm that would summon the security guards from the lobby.
“That alarm won’t be necessary,” the nattily dressed man said, his lips drawn together into a flowerbud frown. “I’m afraid no one is available to take your call downstairs.”
The redhead chuckled, but the short man silenced him with a sharp glance before he turned to the others gathered in the observation deck. “May I have your attention please? My name is Mr. Phillips. I believe we have about five minutes before the first of your security forces arrives, so I would like to lay down a few ground rules. They’ll be most useful. Yvette, Rusty—would you join me?”
Trovkin, Senator Boorman and his aides, and the other guests stood up with a mix of indignation and uncertainty, looking at the ominous weapons. Boorman’s crew of four cameramen turned. Sensing news in the making, they pointed their videocams at Mr. Phillips and his two companions.
Nicole froze, her mind spinning. She couldn’t sort out the procedures she had learned for dealing with a situation like this.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” the dapper man said, “but unfortunately I have found it necessary. There will be a slight modification to the launch plans today, but I’m fully aware of your launch window, Ms. Nicole Hunter.” His direct use of her name startled her, although the identity of the Launch Director was certainly no secret. “So I will make every effort to prevent a delay. I know how costly scrubbing a shuttle launch can be.”
Nicole blinked. This was crazy—unless this Phillips character had an army of people covering him, literally hundreds of NASA, military, and state police would be here within the next few minutes. “Whoever you are, I think you underestimate the defenses of the space center.” She stepped forward but stopped when the freckled man leveled one of his pistols at her not more than five feet away.
“Thank you, Rusty,” said Mr. Phillips. He turned to Nicole. “Should your security people charge in here like a bunch of superheroes, they may encounter some unexpected obstacles.”
Squaring his broad shoulders, Andrei Trovkin strode next to Nicole, his face florid with rage. “How dare you bring guns here? This mission has half Russian crew? You are causing international incident!”
Mr. Phillips pulled his lips tight, as if annoyed at the interruption. He studied the badge on Trovkin’s chest. The urbane man barely came up to the Russian’s sternum. “Ah, my foreign friend, let’s make good use of the few minutes until NASA Security rears its ugly head.” He pulled out a gray-cased Personal Data Assistant, flipped open the liquid-crystal screen, and withdrew a stylus. Touching the screen and selecting names, he called up a file and studied the words on the screen.
“Here we are!” he said triumphantly. “Andrei Ivanovich Trovkin, born in Belorus, received a degree in engineering and aerospace science, completed air force and cosmonaut training, but was excused”—he said the word slowly, as if with distaste—“from further cosmonaut service due to a heart murmur. Pity.” Mr. Phillips shook his head. “Just like Deke Slayton—but he finally got a chance to fly on the Apollo-Soyuz mission, so don’t give up hope.”
As Trovkin sputtered, Nicole turned to Phillips, calm and professional. All they needed were a few more minutes and security would be here. She wanted to keep him talking. “So you’ve done your homework. What is it you want?”
Senator Boorman stepped up, his face stormy and indignant, putting on an air of command he must have used often on the Senate floor. “Our nation has a clearly stated policy of refusing to negotiate with terrorists. Whatever you have planned is hopeless.” The news cameras quickly pointed at him, capturing every moment of the tableau.
“Ah, Senator Boorman,” Mr. Phillips said with ill-concealed distaste, “let me see.” He glanced down at his PDA screen, calling up new data. “My, what a long file you have. But one thing stands out.” He raised his eyebrows curiously. “Why exactly were you arrested wearing woman’s underwear coming out of the sorority dorm in nineteen sixty-five? May twenty-fifth? Do you recall that incident, Senator Boorman?”
The senator gasped, then turned red with anger. “I won’t be intimidated—”
Mr. Phillips cut him off. “I’ve already intimidated you, and I’ve got condensed files of every person here, so maybe we’ll have a show-and-tell for the television audience. But that will have to be later, since we need to move rather quickly on this—I have only another minute before your cavalry arrives. And I fear I may need to make my point, unless NASA Security is willing to take my assurances at face value.” He stepped up to one of the videocameras positioned high in a corner. Looking up, he cleared his throat and spoke directly to the camera.
“First, I know we’re being monitored by security personnel. Let me assure you that if any attempt is made to enter this building, we will shoot our hostages. All of them. It’s as simple as that.” He snapped his finger at the tall blond woman, the one he had called Yvette.
Holding her assault rifle on the crowd of VIPs, Yvette withdrew a small respirator mask from one of the green satchels she carried. She handed it to Mr. Phillips, who dangled it up to the camera. “Second, we have gas masks, and our hostages don’t. If any gas comes in, the hostages die. Need I say more?” He tossed the mask back to Yvette; she caught it with a casual flick of her wrist. “So, do not attempt to enter this building. I also have numerous colleagues stationed at strategic positions around the entire launch site, and they have orders to severely punish any misbehavior.”
Stepping away from the camera, Mr. Phillips folded his hands together and raked his gaze over his audience. “Ms. Hunter, you are the person with whom I wish to speak.” He glanced sidelong at the senator. “I’ve always had little respect for … that man and his narrow-minded politics.”
Nicole kept her expression stony, but inside she feel a horrid fear. She had to play him out, take this carefully.
Mr. Phillips glanced at the standard videocameras in the ceiling. “Rusty, could you remove those please? Leave one, but shoot the rest. I prefer to have more direct control over the images broadcast from here.”
Rusty pointed the pistol in his right hand at the observation cameras. “Definitely!” With short hisses of silenced gunshots, glass, metal, and black plastic flew as the cameras blew apart.
The news reporters pointed their own lenses at the spectacle.
Just for effect, Rusty fired two more times into the acoustic ceiling panels. Boorman’s aides drew around the senator. Most of the others cringed, but Nicole made a great effort to stand stock-still, without flinching. Everyone would be looking to her, and as much as she felt like cowering, she had to be strong.
“Now, if you will all be patient,” Mr. Phillips said quietly, “I will issue my demands and explain the consequences if you do not meet them. Let us keep the shuttle astronauts unaware of the situation for the moment. We wouldn’t want them to overreact.”
He checked his pocketwatch, then snapped it shut again. “I assure you, everything is under control.” He smiled pleasantly. “And I do very much enjoy being in control.”