The Omega Command (40 page)

“Nightbird’s still on the island.”

“With the spirits guiding his bullets. He will stop them from pursuing us in boats and then he will steal a boat for himself and return to the dock where we started.” Wareagle’s eyes looked up at the boatman. “She will be safe with him until Nightbird returns.”

Blaine accepted because he had to. “I’m sorry about your men, Indian,” he offered lamely.

“They have made their peace with the spirits, Blainey. They are better off than you and I.” He paused. “The spirits laughed when you spoke of going to Florida. I heard them. We must not tempt their good graces. They have helped us get this far. To ask for more would be to mock that favor. Ask for too much and you receive nothing.”

“Then we’ll have to help ourselves, Indian. Cape Canaveral’s our next stop, and we’ve got to get there by late tomorrow morning.”

“What lies there for us, Blainey?”

“Our only remaining means to stop that satellite from activating Omega: an armed space shuttle called
Pegasus
. It’s scheduled to launch on Friday with a practice run-through tomorrow. We’re going to pay the shuttle a Christmas visit, Johnny.”

“To help it on its way?”

“To hijack it.”

Chapter 32

FOR NATHAN JAMROCK
it had already been a ten-Rolaids day, and he had stored an extra pack in his pocket in anticipation of things getting even worse.

“Say again, Paul,” he said into his headset from his position in the control room of the Johnson Space Center in Houston.

“I said, screw all the other preparations tests,” came back the voice of
Pegasus
commander Paul Petersen from the cabin of the shuttle seven hundred miles away in Florida. “Just make sure you get the crappers workin’ this time. Plumbers charge a hell of a price for a house call in outer space.” Petersen was a cornbread southerner from Alabama who’d dreamed of being an astronaut ever since John Glenn orbited the Earth in
Friendship
7. Taking care of bodily needs and functions in outer space hadn’t occurred to him much in those days.

Jamrock popped another pair of Rolaids into his mouth. “The commodes check out fine, Paul.”

“Sheeeee-it, that’s what you said last time and I nearly died of spontaneous combustion when I had to hold my crap in for two days.”

“We got the problem fixed.”

“I’m fixin’ on bringing ya back a shoe box full if you’re wrong, boss.”

In spite of himself, Jamrock smiled. Petersen was the right man for this mission. No question about it. Career air force and a military man all the way and this was, after all, a military mission. It was also the most important mission Jamrock had ever been associated with.
Pegasus
had to go up tomorrow. It was as simple as that. Before that could happen, though, almost a thousand tests had to be successfully completed. After
Challenger
, NASA could not afford to submit itself to second-guessing. And yet, if
Pegasus
couldn’t make it up … Jamrock chose not to complete the thought. He’d give himself another ten minutes and then chew two more Rolaids.

“Commander, this is Jamrock, do you read?”

“Dirty books, boss, read ’em all the time. What can I do for ya?”

Jamrock consulted a clipboard his assistant had just handed him. “We have clearance on all primary boosters, fuel flows, and jettisoning outlets.”

“Gonna get to work on the crappers now, boss?”

“Launch countdown stands at T-minus twenty-four hours, thirty-one minutes, Paul. We’ll be ready to start your lift-off run-through anytime you’re ready.”

“Me and Bob would be more than happy to oblige ya, but the weapons officer ain’t made it here yet.”

“Where the hell is he?”

“Since this is a precise run-through, he’s probably taking a crap like he will before lift-off tomorrow. I’ll tell ya, boss, we should be carryin’ diapers up this time just in case.”

“Get back to me when the weapons man is on board, Paul.”

Jamrock stripped off his headset and massaged his temples. He hated run-throughs even more than he hated launches, because although he was in charge, he wasn’t in control. From seven hundred miles away from the launch pad, all he had to rely on were faceless voices and endless dials, gauges, and computer overviews. Once
Pegasus
was in the air, it was his baby, but until then too many things could go wrong. Not that the situation would be any different once this particular shuttle reached outer space.

Commander Paul Petersen was worried about taking a crap once they achieved orbit.

Jamrock was worried about what
Pegasus
might find up there.

Forgetting his ten-minute time limit, he chewed two more Rolaids.

Two hours earlier a car holding two NASA inspectors from Houston passed through the high security gate of Cape Canaveral on its way to the Kennedy Space Center. The car’s occupants made their way immediately into the preparations area, where astronauts were given their final tests and meals prior to boarding. Since their passes allowed open access, no one challenged the inspectors. And since their home base was Houston, no one expected to know them, though a seven-foot man with Indian features would certainly make for conversation later.

The route Blaine McCracken and Johnny Wareaeagle had taken from Horse Neck Island to Florida had been long and arduous. The boatman promised to watch over Sandy Lister until Nightbird arrived and agreed to take care of the medical arrangements himself if the sharpshooter failed to make it off the island. Wareagle gave him the name and address of a doctor his people used in emergencies.

“He doesn’t ask questions,” Johnny explained.

The pounding storm ruled out Portland Airport, necessitating a drive to Boston to reach the nearest functioning airport. Before setting out in one of the jeeps, McCracken called a number in New York. He had already catalogued what he would need for Christmas and he knew of only one man who could come up with the goods.

“Wow!” Sal Belamo exclaimed when McCracken had completed his list. “What you fixin’ to do?”

“Long story, Sal.”

“You ask me, cut it short. I think those balls of yours have gone to your head.”

“Can you pull it off?”

“No sweat with the clothes and ID badges. I’ll take a box of Crayolas over to a friend of mine. As for the other stuff …”

“I need it, Sal. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t crucial.”

“It ain’t easy to come by, pal, especially on Christmas Eve.”

“I’ve got faith in you. I’ll call from LaGuardia in about six hours. We’ll drink a Christmas toast.”

“I’ll bring the star from the top of my tree. You ask me, you’re gonna need some magic to pull off whatever you got planned.”

Blaine and Johnny made the long drive south to Boston. The snow had given way to rain when they boarded the shuttle to New York. Their clothes were damp and filthy, but there was no chance of changing until they met up with Belamo. Blaine called him as promised and thirty minutes later they met in a LaGuardia Airport bar. Sal said
all
the requested merchandise was outside in the trunk of his car. It hadn’t been easy to obtain, he reiterated, and guzzled the rest of his drink.

At four A.M. a suitcase filled with clothes concealing various other items Blaine had requested was loaded onto a plane bound for Miami. McCracken and Wareagle booked separate seats so each could watch for suspicious activity around the other. They rested in prearranged shifts until the plane landed in Miami ninety minutes past sunrise. They booked a room at a roadside motel, showered, and changed into another set of the clothes Belamo had obtained for them. Wareagle’s were a poor fit, but they’d do. All that really mattered were the badges they’d wear pinned to their lapels, and those badges were perfect, a fact later borne out by their swift, unchallenged entry onto the grounds of Cape Canaveral and the Kennedy Space Center.

They made themselves scarce until eleven A.M., playing the role of simple observers who checked procedures and jotted down notes. They spoke with few others and did nothing to attract undue attention.

Just before eleven the shuttle commander and first officer, in full gear, made their way to the launching pad with a heavy security escort. Since this was a dress rehearsal for tomorrow’s launch, every step was identical to those to be followed tomorrow.

But tomorrow was too late. By tomorrow Hollins’s killer satellite would have shut down NASA along with the rest of the country.

There were three crew members assigned to
Pegasus’
s maiden flight. The remaining one—the flight engineer, a cover in this case for weapons officer—was having some trouble with his equipment back upstairs in the preparations building. This was his first flight and he was experiencing the usual jitters. Blaine and Wareagle rode the elevator up to the floor on which he was dressing. The area was under heavy security, and only their badges permitted them access. They were directed to the weapons officer’s dressing room and knocked, then entered without waiting for a reply. The security men in the corridor were told not to interrupt. This was official NASA business. Don’t expect the flight engineer for another twenty minutes, the guards were told.

It was actually almost a half hour later when the helmeted flight engineer emerged from the room toting his air conditioner. The Indian had subdued the weapons officer quietly and applied an ancient hold that would keep him unconscious for hours. They had swiftly loaded the contents of Wareagle’s briefcase into the air conditioner and Johnny, calling upon his expertise in demolitions, made the proper connections while Blaine stripped the space suit off the man whose place he would take. The suit felt heavy and restricting on Blaine, and without Wareagle’s help, he would never have gotten himself into it.

“See you tomorrow morning, Blainey,” Wareagle said fondly before snapping McCracken’s helmet into place.

“Hopefully.”

“Hope has nothing to do with it. Just give yourself up to the spirits. They’ll take care of the rest.”

“I thought you said they don’t roam the skies.”

“The skies will be new for them … as they will for you.”

Blaine shrugged.

He kept his eyes away from those leading him from the preparations building toward the shuttle van that would take him to the launching pad. Wearing a helmet at this point was not an unheard-of practice but not the expected one either. The guards and technicians, though, didn’t seem to be paying much attention. This was, after all, just a dry run. The real thing was tomorrow and they were saving their enthusiasm and emotion for then. Today being Christmas was a blessing as well, an added preoccupation for workers forced to be away from their families.

Wareagle’s mission, meanwhile, was to remain in the preparations building and keep anyone from entering the room in which the real weapons officer lay unconscious until Blaine was safely on board
Pegasus
.

McCracken was helped into the waiting van that drove across the black tar toward the shuttle. The gantry still rested near it, to be removed as soon as
Pegasus
’s final crew member was deposited inside. Blaine breathed easier. Besides the driver, only two men had accompanied him in the van, and neither spoke.

Blaine, though, was boiling inside his suit and the confinement of it was nearly unbearable. Never mind the fact that he was about to suffer a launch into deep space with no training or preparation whatsoever. Worrying about that would do him no good at this point. The fact was he would soon be on board
Pegasus
, leading it on an intercept course with the killer satellite that would begin its deadly pass at eight P.M. that evening.

The two men who had accompanied him helped Blaine down out of the van and joined him in a small elevator that was open in the front. The ride up the gantry to the shuttle’s hatchway seemed interminable. Blaine passed through it uneasily with the men’s assistance and then climbed upward to the front cabin dragging his air conditioner along. As he drew nearer the cockpit, an impatient voice laced with a southern accent found his ears.

“I don’t know where he is, I tell ya. They told me he’s on his way, boss. … Yeah, I know. But I’m just saying that if I get up in space and can’t take a shit, I might open a window and let it fall right on your lap.” The speaker, the commander obviously, turned toward Blaine as he made his way through the doorway into the cockpit, holding tight to the handgrips. “It’s about time, Gus.” Then, back into his headset, “He’s here, boss. We’re ready to begin the launch sequence.”

By the time the captain turned toward him again, McCracken had his helmet off and a nine-millimeter pistol in his hand.

Captain Paul Petersen did a double take, eyes bulging. “What the blue blazin’ fuck is—”

Blaine cut him off with his best rendition of a Spanish accent. “Take thees plane to Cuba, mahn.”

“You’re being
what
?” Nathan Jamrock emptied a pile of Rolaids onto his desk.

“Hijacked,” came Petersen’s monotonal reply.

“You can’t hijack a space shuttle!” Jamrock shrieked. “The flight’s not even scheduled until tomorrow.”

“We’re bumping things up a bit,” a new voice said.

“Who is this?”

“Santa Claus. I left my sleigh in a tow zone last night and I’ve got to get back to the North Pole pronto. The wife, you know.”

“
What?
”

“Mr. Jamrock,” Blaine continued in a more serious tone, “I have a bomb on board this shuttle wired to go off with a simple touch of my finger. Twenty pounds of potent plastic explosives. Captain Petersen will confirm all this later. For now, just consider what would happen if
Pegasus
’s multi-ton fuel tanks went up. Remember
Challenger?
I’ve heard the effects on ground level would not be unlike a minor nuclear explosion of over three kilotons. Lots of damage. Kiss Cape Canaveral good-bye.”

Jamrock popped four Rolaids into his mouth. The man knew what he was talking about. How he had gotten on board the shuttle was something else again. But he had done the impossible and thus must be assumed capable of anything.

“Okay,” he relented, “how much do you want?”