Chapter Fourteen
Security Control
Kennedy Space Center
Emergency klaxons blared throughout the main NASA Security complex. Many buildings were empty, with workers camping out in folding lawn chairs in the parking lots or gathered on viewing stands to watch the impending launch. But the alarms screamed on.
Khaki-and-black uniformed guards poured from Security Control, carrying automatic rifles and struggling to tug on flak jackets. They wore thick black boots with steel-plated insoles, and head-mounted microphones with tiny speaker earplugs. The guards ran for their black all-terrain vehicles, slammed heavy doors, and started their engines.
Radios mounted inside the ATVs spat out sharp voices: “All teams, this is a priority one alert. This is not an exercise—repeat, not an exercise. Hostage situation at LCC and possible danger to Pad thirty-nine A. Sensors and video cameras have been neutralized, situation unknown.”
Team members scrambled to fall in as the crisp voice continued barking orders. “Employ scenario G for Golf. Teams switch to respective buttons: Team One, switch to button one; Team Two, button two …”
Each five-person security unit changed to a preset channel in addition to the coordinating frequency used by Security Control. Cool excitement permeated the teams; they had trained for this moment for years, but no one had really thought they would be called into action. Who would have the nerve—the gall to attack the Kennedy Space Center?
Seven ATVs squealed out of the parking lot. Three headed for the guard gate at the southeast point of the restricted launch area; the other four raced up State Highway 1, toward the threatened Launch Control Center.
On the Gulf shore across the Florida peninsula, U.S. Central Command Headquarters at McDill Air Force Base was notified of a potential national emergency unfolding. The message percolated through the command’s enlisted force, the first line of administration that monitored the launch. Several minutes passed before the news reached someone with the authority to take direct action. The air force special operations C-130 aircraft that had earlier been routinely monitoring the vicinity from high above was diverted from its stand-off area.
Twenty miles south at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station, a team of elite air force security policemen charged into action. News of the alert spread from the Federal Emergency Management Agency to the Department of Defense crisis-management network as military personnel methodically prepared for a decisive response.
Back at Kennedy Space Center, whining sounds came from two helicopters squatting on the center of a concrete pad as the pilots revved onboard auxiliary power units. It would take two full minutes until they could start their rotors, and the required time seemed to take forever to the pilots and guards that had rushed onboard and strapped themselves in, ready to go. Four helicopters already patrolling the skies tipped their rotors toward the LCC.
The first black all-terrain vehicle screeched up to the white Launch Control building. The five-person security team poured out of the armored vehicle and, using the bulk of the ATV as a shield, readied their weapons while crouching.
The team leader raised her fist. “Team One, check in. Alpha here.”
Each person keyed his head-mounted microphone. “Bravo.”
“Charlie.”
“Delta.”
“Echo.”
Satisfied that her team was ready, the leader gripped the cool muzzle of her M-16 automatic rifle. “Orders are to surround the building only. Do not get closer than fifty feet. Execute.”
The team spread out as the backup ATVs roared up from Security Control. The team leader keyed her mike. “Team One is in position and the situation is in hand. Waiting for your instruction.”
“Proceed with caution, Alpha,” said Security Control. “We have a hostage situation in there with some VIPs.”
As Team 1 sprinted for the perimeter of the tall white building, a barrage of automatic rifle fire rang out from the stairwell on the third story. Instantly, two members of Team 1 fell to the ground as if they had been struck with baseball bats; a third spun in his tracks, hit in the arm.
Team 1 Leader dove for cover behind a parked car as she screamed into her microphone. “Back off, back off! Security Control, live fire—abort G for Golf.” She huddled beside the parked car and gasped for breath. Bullets showered all around the vehicle. Adjacent windshields burst, and glass shattered, falling to the ground like broken icicles. The other ATVs spun their wheels in an effort to back away.
Team 1 Leader tried to get a glimpse of her team members, taking a tally of casualties. She spotted two of the four members lying on the ground, their blood seeping onto the black pavement. She shouted into her headset. “Team One, report! Alpha here.”
“Echo. I’m okay, under cover behind a red pickup truck.”
“Delta,” came a weaker voice. “I’m hit. Bleeding. I can last a little while, though.”
A voice came over her head-mounted earphone. “Team One, this is Security Control. What is your assessment?”
“We’re still under fire. Three team members hit.” Breathing deeply she looked at the second hand on her watch and counted the number of bullets she heard smack into the ATV and around her. “Things have tapered off, but there’s still plenty of action.”
“Can you spot where the firing is coming from?”
“I think there’s only one gunman, but he means business. Appears to be shooting from the third floor stairwell, a perfect strategic position.”
“Offer medical assistance to your team members, if you can do it safely. Reinforcements on the way. Do not proceed with the assault.”
She sat back to wait while the bullets continued to rain around her.
Three black ATVs roared up to Salvatore’s guard shack at the far southeast point of the restricted launch area. The security personnel inside the vehicles gripped the sleek barrels of their weapons as they listened to the updates coming from their colleagues in Team Alpha outside the LCC.
“Sounds like they got a war going on over there!”
Just as they approached the guard gate, the first ATV drove over a tripwire, triggered a landmine, and flew up into the air.
Mounted on tripods hidden in the brush at the side of the road, remote-controlled assault weapons opened fire. A volley of bullets ripped into the sides of the black ATVs. Glass shattered, metal punctured by the armor-piercing rounds. Screams from the jumpsuited guards quickly died out. The first ATV rolled over in the ditch and groaned, a molten hulk.
Twenty yards down the road, just outside the guard shack, a lone man clicked his radio. “Yo, Mr. Phillips—Duncan at checkpoint one. No survivors for the first wave. Three vehicles down. A beauty.”
It took only an instant for the answer from the LCC. “Very good, Duncan. Thank you. Perhaps our NASA friends will listen more attentively from here on out.”
Satisfied, Duncan turned back to watch for more incoming traffic. Plenty of landmines remained scattered around the area, and he could easily pick off anyone who tried to disarm them.
He strode forward to reload the expended magazines of ammunition. He lit a menthol cigarette, rifle in hand, and went back to his lawn chair to wait.