Chapter One
Kennedy Space Center
Six Months Later
Zero-dark-early—three a.m. on a launch morning, and the Kennedy Space Center was as busy as Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Passing checkpoints, a steady stream of traffic crawled along the access roads—Kennedy Parkway, Phillips Parkway, NASA Parkway—the chain of headlights glittering like a sinuous caterpillar.
Away from the traffic, past the badge gates and barricades that blocked off the restricted area from all but authorized personnel, a beat-up old Pontiac Firebird pulled onto the scrubby grass beside the road, leaving tire tracks next to the many others there. From here, the guard shack was within easy hobbling distance.
“Thanks for the ride, kid.”
“Sure, Iceberg. Be careful out there—don’t break anything else.”
Iceberg grunted as he swung his leg out of his little brother’s car, moving far too slowly for someone who, up until a few weeks ago, had been in peak physical condition. The damned cast slowed him down as much as a ball and chain, covering his foot, his ankle—nearly up to his knee. And all for just a couple of broken bones, little ones at that. You’d think he was an old lady with arthritis, rather than NASA’s hottest astronaut.
Ex-hottest astronaut, Iceberg thought sourly.
He gazed at the illuminated space shuttle on the nearest launchpad, three miles away. Atlantis. Under a brilliant glare of spotlights, white vapors vented from the shuttle’s liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen tanks. The launch gantry, the massive concrete flame buckets, and the rest of Launch Complex 39A looked surreal in the darkness three hours before dawn.
Only two days earlier another shuttle, Endeavor, had been rolled onto the second launchpad, 39B—but that was for another mission. Somebody else’s mission, so it didn’t matter to him.
The shuttle crew—Iceberg’s crew—would be suiting up, getting ready, eating their mission breakfast … the people he’d trained with for the past year, led, cajoled, prodded, and pushed into preparing for this launch. They were the world’s slickest mission specialists. Now they would have to make do without the world’s slickest mission commander.
His brother, Amos, pushed his heavy-rimmed round glasses up on his nose and leaned over from the drivers seat. “Birth control” glasses the astronauts called them, because no girl would be caught dead within a hundred feet of someone wearing the old-style spectacles. But then, Amos spent more time staring into video monitors than looking in mirrors. He leaned over from the driver’s seat.
“Just try not to get me in any trouble, Iceberg,” Amos said as a NASA security helicopter flew low over the road, drowning out his words. Wearing a goofy smile, he waited for the noise from the helicopter to abate. He removed one hand from the steering wheel and smeared down his mussed, dark hair, though he didn’t manage to knock a single strand back into place.
“I wouldn’t risk you, kid—I’ll just get myself in trouble.”
Officially, Iceberg was supposed to be at home, resting. Fat chance. Iceberg had called Amos, the one person he could absolutely count on not to spill the beans.
A half dozen NASA choppers patrolled the launch area, hooking out over the ocean to deter curious maritime onlookers who bobbed on their crafts in the Atlantic. High overhead, an Air Force C-130 special operations plane flew in a tight racetrack pattern around the launch area, scanning for trespassers with sophisticated forward-looking infrared sensors. Somewhere out in the jungle surrounding the Launch Complex were security forces, but they could be miles away.
“Come to the Space Society meeting next week?” Amos said hopefully. “You could give your assessment of how the mission went. Besides, you owe me big-time for this.”
“If that’s the price I have to pay,” Iceberg said. His thin lips formed his quirky smile that turned up first the left corner of his mouth, then the right.
“That’s great!” His little brother sometimes reminded him of a puppy, wanting nothing more than to be loved.
Leaning into the front seat, Iceberg rummaged through his daypack. The tiny Walkman TV and his snack seemed surprisingly heavy. He’d rather have brought a small two-way radio to communicate with his crew, but that would have given NASA some extreme heartburn.
“See you after the launch, kid. And say hi to Cecelia for me. She’s on shift with you this morning, isn’t she? No hanky panky.”
Amos flushed crimson with embarrassment. “Some of us have duties to perform on launch day.” He pushed his glasses back up his nose.
“Sure wish I did.” Iceberg pulled the daypack out of the car and swung it over his shoulder. He wore a light cotton shirt and shorts in neutral colors for hiding in the underbrush. The temperature would rise quickly after dawn. Right now, the air felt cool on his bare, muscular thighs, but the supposedly lightweight fiberglass cast on his lower leg was going to get awfully hot before long. He had covered it with a moisture-proof “moon boot” as a precaution against the rough terrain he might have to cover. At least he could walk on it.
Shutting the door of the Pontiac behind him, he started hobbling toward the gate. The old car roared forward and stopped briefly at the guard shack before being waved into the launch area. In less than a mile Amos would turn off to the communications relay bunker nestled within the restricted launch area. The kid’s job was about as essential as tits on a bull, but NASA procedures dictated that two warm bodies had to be present to oversee the video relay during each manned launch, even though everything was completely automatic.
A sign on a post read RESTRICTED LAUNCH AREA—KEEP OUT! Iceberg made his way carefully to the guard shack. Light from inside spilled to the ground through an open door. A three-wheeled all-terrain vehicle was parked next to the small structure. All around Iceberg, the swamp insects and frogs made a din as loud as a rock concert.
The guard would be busy this morning, after letting so many people through, checking so many extra badges. One might think the guards were more alert during the intense launch-day preparations—but Iceberg knew to worry most during the slow times, when guards were bored and apt to imagine terrorists in every bush.
As Iceberg approached, keeping to the side of the road, a uniformed man stepped out of the shack. The guard was nearly as tall as the door, thick waisted, and sporting a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache. The outside light from the shack shone down on him. He put a hand on his hip holster as Iceberg’s shadowy figure approached, drowned out by the lights.
“Keep where I can see you,” the guard said.
Iceberg laughed and continued toward the guard shack. “Stay frosty, Salvatore, you old goat. Do they even give you any bullets for that gun?”
The guard relaxed, then called out with a thick Hispanic accent. “Iceberg! What are you doing way out here? You should have the best seat in the house on today of all days.”
“The best seat is in the shuttle cockpit, Salvatore—and they don’t let you fly with a broken foot.” He scratched his dark brown hair, which he kept cut short to minimize the hassle when wearing various helmets.
Salvatore chuckled and fingered his chin. “No, I mean in the VIP area, with the rest of the important people at Launch Control.”
Iceberg snorted. “That’s my crew out there, and no way in hell am I going to watch this launch with a bunch of non-flying bureaucrats! You don’t see any real astronauts inside those air-conditioned rooms.” He could imagine all the TV cameras, the questions he’d have to field, the journalists with tape recorders urging him to tell the “sad story” of how he had missed his chance to command the mission through a clumsy accident. The reporters would spend more time looking at him than watching the launch. A great “angle” for their stories.
Salvatore lifted his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you thought your Panther was a bureaucrat. This would be a good chance for you to see her.”
“Shows you how long you’ve been alone in this shack, old man,” said Iceberg. “These days she’d rather tear me apart than let me get close to her. Anyway, she goes by Nicole now, not Panther.” Eight months out of the corps and she had become a true paper pusher, one hundred percent. The ice queen is in her element now. She’d keep herself so busy with all the dignitaries at the VIP viewing area, she wouldn’t even notice he was missing.
Salvatore motioned him into the cramped shack. “So you’ll keep me company? I feel honored. Not many people come up the east road through Canaveral.” He shook his head. “I’m glad I am not guarding the tourist gate today—what a mess!”
Iceberg grunted as he limped through the door. Salvatore had done the tiny security hut justice, transforming it into a comfortable place in which to sit and keep watch. Blue-and-white checkered curtains covered the windows; a cable TV tuned to NASA Select showed a close-up view of Atlantis; four monitors with a video feed from Amos’s relay bunker lined one wall.
Salvatore had pinned two rows of shuttle crew patches over the door, his collection commemorating the numerous missions he had worked. The old guard had been here as long as Iceberg could remember; he was as much an icon as the old Redstone launchpads, now abandoned in place, rusted and overgrown with the Florida jungle.
“I appreciate the hospitality, old friend, but I’d rather be alone for this shot,” Iceberg said. He set his daypack on the narrow counter next to the black telephone, rummaging among the items there. “I’m going to go deeper inside the site. I’ll get a mile or so from the pad, find a comfortable spot.”
He finally found what he was looking for. He pulled out a hand-sized patch with the embroidered picture of an eagle and bear reaching toward the stars. “You need one of these for your collection. It’s one of the original crew patches, still has my name on it—only six in existence, far as I know.”
Placing his coffee on the desk, Salvatore reached for the patch. He squinted, then grinned like a kid who had just found a rare baseball card as he spotted the names FRIESE, GREEN, BURNS embroidered at the top. “This is even more of a collector’s item!”
Iceberg smiled back wearily. “Up until a week ago, they planned to make thousands of those. But now, my friend, you have one of the only such patches ever made. The rest have Dr. Marc Franklin’s name on them.”
The sound of NASA security helicopters droned in the background, scanning the grounds with infrared seekers; before long, the sun would rise and play havoc with the IR spotting scopes. High clouds over the launch area were tinged with pink like cotton candy; in the east the ocean glowed a dull red at the horizon.
Iceberg struggled to his feet and shouldered the pack. “Got to get going.”
Salvatore sipped his coffee, still admiring the rare mission patch. He nodded to the array of security TV monitors. “Be careful of my sensors. I’d rather you didn’t trip an alarm and get me fired!”
“Don’t worry.” Iceberg laughed. “I know how to get around this place with my eyes closed.”
“It’s not just the sensors,” Salvatore called after him. “Watch out for the alligators and wild pigs and snakes—they can creep up on you when you’re off the road.”
“They won’t want to mess with me.” Turning toward the shuttle, Iceberg saw the jungle spread out before him, dense and difficult to cross. He struck out toward the waiting behemoth, dazzling in the spotlights. Soon, the Atlantis crew would be taking their places, ready for launch. His crew.
Without him.