[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
not yet released to anyone but the astronauts themselves, showed a colorful design collaboratively chosen by the Russian and American crew an eagle and bear reaching toward the stars. Mr. Phillips waited a moment as the cameras zoomed in on the original three astronaut names written across the top: FRIESE, GREEN, BURNS; the other four names were written on the bottom. "The choice is yours," Mr. Phillips said. "Do you want to lose a two-billion-dollar spacecraft, as well as the lives of seven heroic astronauts, for the sake of a few shiny rocks?" He pulled out his pocket watch, flipped it open, and paused for effect. "You have four hours. Please don't make me destroy this marvel of engineering. Thank you for your time." He smiled. "I now return you to your regularly scheduled programming." 20 GUARD SHACK CEBERG DUCKED OUT OF I sight of the impostor guard, the man who had murdered Salvador. He drew in several breaths, trying to clear his head, but his pulse wouldn't slow. Armored ATVs blown up, a whole NASA security team wiped out, a helicopter detonated in midair. And his friend the old guard was dead! The bastards. Iceberg drew in several more breaths, trying to stay calm, to keep his hands from shaking in rage. Cool. Frosty It had always sounded good before, but now he had to put it into practice. Okay, he thought. What to do? He switched his priorities from finding out what was going on to just trying to survive. But no way was he going to hide under a bush until someone else took care of the problem. The SERE training he'd taken at the USAF Academy sure as hell hadn't covered this but it had taught him to react. The leathery-faced sergeant who had instructed the cadets had insisted that these techniques were applicable in a wide variety of situations. Time to prove it. Iceberg tried to restore his cold facade while going over the options. Think! He had to find out for certain if Salvador was really dead, or if the old man needed medical attention . . . and he sure couldn't waltz up to the shack and take the motionless guard's pulse. But earlier this morning he had scrambled to within a mile of the launchpad without being detected by NASA's most sophisticated sensors; sneaking close to one guy at a guard shack should be a Cakewalk by comparison. Iceberg scooted on his hands and knees across the thick weeds and vines, careful to avoid bumping his foot cast. The mosquitoes found him easily; small animals rustled through the underbrush. He just hoped he didn't spook a snoozing alligator. Iceberg counted off paces as he moved. Every time he reached a hundred, he peeked over a small rise or peered between bushes to check his progress. The impostor guard sat in his lawn chair, arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the carnage, a thin smile on his face. The man stretched, then got up and went back inside the shack to watch his TV monitor. Iceberg ducked and continued moving. Slide and scoot, keeping his tender foot protected, careful not to make any noise. It infuriated him that he couldn't just rush to the shack and see if he could help Salvador. He lost count of the minutes, but finally Iceberg found himself within twenty yards. He saw little or no cover on three sides of the shack and the road only short, scrubby grass and sandy-muddy dirt torn up in patches from the nocturnal rootings of the prevalent wild pigs. He rose to a crouch and starting jogging through the tall weeds as fast as his broken foot and its dragging cast would allow him, gaining momentum in a strange, hippity-hop stride. He hid, panting, beside the three-wheeled vehicle Salvador had used to patrol the KSC backroads. Inside the shack, with his back turned, the ponytailed thug rocked back in his chair as he watched the TV monitors. The image of Atlantis filled one of the screens while Nicole Hunter and Senator Boorman showed on another. Even with the quick glance he got, Iceberg could tell Nicole looked visibly upset. Iceberg crept around the side of the hut. His heart yammered, his hands grew slick with sweat. The sounds from the TV were louder now. The thug laughed at something on the broadcast, then tossed a cigarette butt out the door of the shack. Finally reaching Salvador's slumped form discarded like a piece of garbage, Iceberg found that the old guard's chest didn't move at all, and his head lolled at an impossible angle, as if his neck had been snapped. Dead no question about it. Iceberg felt his anger mount. With an icy determination hardening in his gut, he quietly patted down Salvador's body but found no weapon. The impostor guard must have stripped the old guard of his gun. Inside the shack, the thug stood up. He turned down the sound on the TV, stepping cautiously outside. Iceberg cursed, having lost his element of surprise without even developing a plan of attack. He desperately wished he had some sort of weapon, anything. He flexed his hands, knowing he'd run out of time. The long-haired impostor popped around the corner of the shack, Salvador's pistol drawn. "Gotcha, mate!" Iceberg plunged into the leafy underbrush to one side of the guard shack, ducking, tearing vines out of the way. He stumbled on weeds and interlocked bushes that smacked against the hard shell of his cast and its protective moon boot. "Yo!" the impostor shouted. "Bad idea." With sharp cracks, he began firing his pistol. Iceberg watched a branch splinter less than a foot away from his head; another bright tan gouge suddenly appeared on the trunk of a pine. He ducked and weaved, Escape and Evasion, unable to traverse a straight path through the swamp forest even if he had wanted to. The thick underbrush and his broken foot prevented him from moving quickly. Iceberg dropped to his hands and knees, making progress through the thicket toward the road where the wrecked NASA security vehicles lay. If he could just manage to get there, take brief shelter behind the ruined ATVs, he could find a weapon inside, even if he had to tear it from the hands of dead NASA security personnel. At least he'd be able to shoot back. The impostor fired again, and a bullet tore through the weeds behind him. He had gotten ahead of where the long-haired man thought he was. Iceberg finally reached a spot even with the nearest smoldering ATV, but he would have to cross at least fifteen feet of open terrain to get to the vehicle. He'd be a sitting duck if he tried to cross the clearing. No more wasted time thinking about possibilities. He had to make a run for it. Three, two, one . . . go! Instinctively, he wanted to give a battle yell, but Iceberg clamped his lips shut. Silence might gain him an instant more time. He charged out of the underbrush straight toward the vehicles. His foot screamed in pain, but he told it to shut up. Cover, shelter . . . weapons. The impostor spun toward him, running full out, cursing and trying to aim his pistol. Iceberg put on extra speed with his strange, lurching gait. His foot felt as if a bear trap had just closed about it. The impostor shot once. The bullet grazed past him, just missing. That was too close. Iceberg saw another glint of metal out of the corner of his left eye, the dark blue steel of three rifle barrels. In the bushes next to the road he saw the unattended weapons mounted on tripods, automatic assault rifles. And tripwires. "Holy shit!" he cried, then spun about, diving to the ground in the opposite direction. Iceberg skidded across the scrubby grass just as the automatic weapons fire spat out, criss-crossing the air where he had just stood. Now he lay out in the open, in the middle of the grassy clearing, with no shelter in sight. The impostor ran forward, his pistol waving. "You're making this too easy for me, mate!" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |