Chapter Four
NASA Television Relay Blockhouse
Inside the TV relay blockhouse, Amos Friese could sit back in his government surplus chair and watch the launch from every perspective, thanks to the array of video cameras. Next best thing to being there!
NASA Select and the commercial TV channels would cull the best footage from Amos’s tapes, run it on a twenty-second spot in the evening news—unless they had something more important to show, such as a politician’s cat mysteriously acquiring a limp, for instance.
With a wall full of TV monitors, this was the primo seat in the house. He was such a space buff he loved to watch it all … even though it meant he had to stay inside a clammy old blockhouse rather than experience the earth-shaking roar directly within sight of the pad.
He wondered how close Iceberg had managed to get.
Amos thought of his brother, the big shot astronaut, former Mission Commander had spent months in training, running simulators, memorizing control panels, and subsystem linkages and backup computer programs—yet only last month Iceberg had secretly invited his little brother over just so Amos could hook up Iceberg’s new direct broadcast satellite dish! As a management major at the USAF Academy, Iceberg was great at memorizing procedures, but someone had to hold his hand to get him past the technical details. Amos had laughed at his brother’s quandary, and Iceberg had threatened him with dire embarrassments if Amos ever told a soul about it. Not that he ever would.
Alone in the bunker, Amos sat back in his old chair. It was comfortable enough, but it squeaked like a miser’s wallet—standard gray government-issue, left over from the Apollo days, as was this mildewy old blockhouse that connected the launch-control monitoring systems, the videocameras on the gantry, and those positioned around the launchpad itself.
His desk was cluttered with cryptically marked videotapes, a chain of paperclips, an orange wind-up space shuttle toy, and a big jar of colorful jawbreakers, one of his vices. The jawbreakers didn’t taste very good, but at least they lasted a long time.
He gulped from a can of Jolt Cola, checking his watch. His reflexes needed to be sharp, and he had to be wide awake. As if sneaking Iceberg inside the restricted area wasn’t enough of an eye-opener! In fact, most of the thrills in Amos’s whole life had to do with ill-advised schemes his big brother talked him into. But he wouldn’t have traded them for anything.
He just wished Cecelia would show up. He could cover for her without much trouble, as he had told Launch Director Hunter. The cameras knew what they were supposed to do; the videocassettes were already recording. He was a relatively useless cog in the system, though NASA did not waver in its “man in the loop” philosophy.
But Cecelia had never been late before, and he was worried about her.
He glanced over at the other desk, saw her coffee cup, her plastic plants. Thinking about Cecelia sent a chill up his spine—which embarrassed him a great deal.
Cecelia was full-figured with black hair, dusky features, generous lips, and the sweetest voice he’d ever heard. She was a video tech like himself … they had so much in common and they worked so closely together, how could he not like her? Amos had been terrified Iceberg would figure it out, would tease him mercilessly about the budding romance or use his bulldozer personality to force his little brother into proceeding too swiftly. But Iceberg had sensed the attraction and had been supportive, nothing more—much to Amos’s relief. Sometimes his brother proved that even he had soft spots.
The air conditioner blasted on, making the refrigerated air inside the bunker even more tomblike. Amos felt cold to the bone, with an added shiver caused by concern for Cecelia. He went to the coat rack and pulled on a thick white cable-knit sweater, letting it hang loose, then went to double-check his video feeds from the remote cameras.
Down the corridor, the heavy blockhouse door swung inward on its recently oiled hinges. He jumped, startled, as Cecelia Hawkins bustled in, looking sheepish, somewhat uneasy. “Hi, Amos. Sorry I’m late.” She feigned a smile.
“I was getting worried about you!” he said. She was dressed in a magenta-and-green flowery top with black slacks. The flush to her cheeks only made her more beautiful.
He had often wondered what Cecelia might look like with a skirt snug against her ample hips—but Amos would have to ask her out to see that. NASA policy allowed for no uncovered legs, no shorts or skirts, because of the danger of injury out in the processing areas. He thought she looked nice in slacks, though.
Cecelia shot a nervous glance over her shoulder. Amos finally noticed two other figures entering behind her, a man and a woman negotiating a cart through the equipment-crowded corridor. Both stood tall and muscular, wearing nondescript Kennedy Space Center jumpsuits. The pale-blond woman was built like a mud wrestler, and she was a knockout; the word leaped to Amos’s mind. His attention was drawn to her like a magnet, even with Cecelia there.
The exotic woman’s cheekbones were broad and flat, her face so tanned the color looked artificial. Her short hair was nearly white, matching bleached-pale eyebrows that stood out like bright blazes on her bronzed forehead. Her eyes were a watery blue, as if she had stared directly into the sun and it washed all color out of them.
The man accompanying her had carrot-orange hair and a face so spattered with freckles it seemed as if the skin coloring had been scrubbed raw. Together, the two of them pushed a cart laden with video components and diagnostic tools, wires, and extra videotapes, each carefully labeled with cryptic coding.
“Hey, what’s this, Cecelia?” He nodded to both of them. “Howdy, I’m Amos Friese. A little late to be running an unscheduled check isn’t it?”
“They’re just here to help out, Amos.” Cecelia stepped forward, flicking her dark brown eyes from side to side and not meeting his gaze. Suddenly he felt very warm in his thick sweater, despite the air conditioning.
The two workers brought the cart into the small central room of the blockhouse. The rusty-haired man picked up three coded tapes and shuffled them, checking his watch, and selecting one of the black plastic cases.
“Cecelia, we don’t need any assistants,” Amos said. “The station is so automated we could sleep through the launch.”
Cecelia lowered her voice, and an edge of panic fluttered across her eyes. “Amos, just be quiet.”
Carrot-top chuckled. Amos blinked, momentarily confused enough to wonder if he should sound an alarm.
Cecelia gripped his arm so tightly he could feel each of her fingers even through the sleeve of his thick sweater. She said in a hushed, awed voice, “They’re here from the CIA, Amos—they’ve got badges and everything. We have to cooperate with them.”
Amos blinked in surprise, turning to look at the two strangers.
The redhead nodded with a serious expression that seemed somehow mocking. “You bet. Because of the international ramifications of this mission, Russian crewmembers and all, we’re here to increase security monitoring, check for encrypted signals. All in our nation’s best interests.”
“Oui,” said the blond woman.
“I thought CIA people always wore suits and ties,” Amos said lamely, not sure what to do, how to react in this remarkable situation.
“That’s the FBI,” Carrot-top answered. “Just relax.”
“I even called the number they gave me,” Cecelia said. “They checked out.”
The beautiful Amazon woman selected a narrow metal pipe as long as her forearm. She held it to her face, studying its two polished ends. “Perhaps this will help you relax.” Her thick French accent sounded like melted chocolate in her mouth.
She lifted the tube to her mouth, then blew a sharp puff. Amos instinctively flinched as a bright red dart shot toward him. He stumbled backward, but the dart struck him in the chest. He felt a prick through the thick sweater.
“Ow!” He slapped the red tassel-tailed dart off of him. The point where the needle struck him burned. “What’s the big idea?”
His vision became blurry. Everything smeared with fog … losing focus, and he knew he had been drugged. I always hated shots, he thought. Then his knees melted and flowed like water beneath him. He slumped to the concrete floor of the blockhouse.
Yvette watched as Cecelia Hawkins knelt beside her nerdy coworker, glaring at her. “Why did you do that?” The fat bitch held the geek’s hand with her pudgy fingers, then stroked his cheek. He breathed deeply like a kid asleep with a teddy bear. She carefully removed his round glasses, then stood uncertainly, indignantly. “He wouldn’t have caused any trouble!”
“Just couldn’t take that risk,” Rusty said.
Yvette slipped the blowgun back onto the tray. Humor the bitch for another minute. That’s all we need. “Are all the sensors functioning properly?” she asked, not bothering to hide her accent anymore. When Cecelia hesitated, Yvette snapped, “I asked you a question!”
“Uh, yes, they’ve been double-checked for the launch.” Cecelia said, looking nervously down at Amos.
Ignoring her, Rusty stepped up to the control panel and scanned the readouts, knocking Amos’s clipboard aside. He selected one of the videotapes they had brought with them. “This is a good loop,” he said. “Right weather conditions, right time of day—the sun will be up in minutes.”
Yvette leaned over the controls, looming over Cecelia, who seemed to grow more uncomfortable with each passing second. “Explain how these systems work.”
“It’s—uh—it’s all quite simple,” Cecelia stammered. “H-How much do you need to know?”
“Everything.”
Cecelia looked longingly down at the geek’s sleeping form, then shuffled in front of the console. Carefully, but quickly, she led them through the routines, growing more terrified by the minute. Her skin had a moist, grayish appearance. “Look, maybe I’d better help Amos.”
Rusty interrupted and pointed to a small color screen, ignoring the plump woman entirely. “It’s all pretty standard—everything’s relayed through here. These banks monitor the motion and sonic sensors, these ones do the videocameras. They’ve even got separate banks for the LCC and other stations.”
Cecelia forced a nervous laugh. “Yes, they tell us that a chimpanzee could probably do it.”
Rusty snorted again. Yvette considered it only one of the many unpleasant sounds he often made.
She picked up the silvery blowgun and fitted another dart into its end. “I’m afraid we’ll need a bit more privacy, mademoiselle. My apologies.”
Before Cecelia could move, Yvette touched the blow gun to her lips and with a quick burst of breath, sent a stinging red needle into the soft flesh of Cecelia’s arm.
“What did you do that for?” Cecelia swatted the dart. “I cooperated—”
Yvette turned away, disgusted at the bitch’s weakness. She gathered her material as she heard Cecelia take a few stutter steps. “My, God. I can’t breathe—”
Yvette didn’t turn as she heard Cecelia crash to the floor.
Less than five minutes later, Rusty turned from the control systems. “The loop tape’s in place. Motion detectors disabled, sonic sensors off, IR feeds scrambled. We’re ready to rock, if Jacques is finished with his part on the gantry.”
“Don’t worry. By now he has the explosives armed,” said Yvette with an edge to her voice. Rusty should have known better than to question Jacques’s dependability.
Yvette stood up from the frame of the blockhouse’s blast door leading outside, adjusting the wires she had installed. She placed the delicate contact sensors on the hinges and the open gap of the door. “If anybody tries to enter without disabling these sensors, they’ll find an unpleasant surprise.”
Rusty indicated the motionless forms of Amos and Cecelia on the floor. “Think I should put a bullet through these two in case they wake up from their nap too soon?” He started to pull out a pistol from his jumpsuit.
Yvette raised her white eyebrows, annoyed at him for questioning her actions now. Rusty forgot who was in charge. “Each of those darts contained enough tranquilizer to knock out an elephant. Quite a fatal overdose for humans. See for yourself—the bitch is dead. They will sleep until hell snows over.”
“Until hell freezes over,” Rusty corrected.
She said softly, her words like weapons, “Is there a difference?”
Rusty saw the pure edge in her gaze. “Definitely not,” he said, returning his pistol to his jumpsuit.
“Let us go.” She glanced at her watch. “Monsieur Phillips is waiting.”
They left the blockhouse as Yvette clipped arming sensors to the wired explosives. Pulling the blast door shut, they engaged the booby-trap.
A white OFFICIAL USE ONLY sedan drove up with a front-seat passenger already inside. Yvette and her partner climbed into the back, slamming the doors behind them.
The car roared off to the next stop.