Thin Air (43 page)

He took a deep breath and yanked open the door.

For the first few seconds, Hammond was the only one in motion. Everyone else in the huge room froze, riveted by the clanging bell, then Yablonski cupped his hands and yelled:

"FIRE!"

There was pandemonium.

The lab coat flying behind him, Hammond sprinted through the work force, holding the nozzle firmly in his hands while Yablonski reeled out hose from the drum and continued to yell "Fire!" every couple of seconds.

Men scattered, some looking for the source of the fire, others rushing to exits or running to help Hammond, most thankfully ignoring Yablonski, who fed hose and tried to read the instructions on the water valve at the same time.

Hammond plunged through the knot of milling technicians as Yablonski hit the valve. Hammond stood for what seemed an eternity, waiting for the water, then his eyes locked with Traben's. The doctor was still standing on the platform. His mouth flew open.

"Stop that man!" Traben spluttered.

The nozzle jumped in Hammond's hands and the water tore out of the hose, the sound drowning out the warning. Hammond directed a powerful stream at four men moving toward him. The force blew them back and gave Hammond room to maneuver.

He dodged between the men pressing around him and kept them at bay. He heard Traben's thin screeching behind and above him, and he whirled to blast the white-faced scientist square in the chest. Traben shot backwards off the scaffold and landed in a knot of men.

Hammond swung the nozzle and watched with satisfaction as water ripped into the opening of the satellite casing, rocking it on the platform. The other technicians scattered, jumping to the floor. Ruptured equipment cascaded after them.

Hammond ducked a pair of clutching hands and spun away, lowered the nozzle, and played water over the circle of men closing in on him. Thundering pressure forced them to retreat.

Then Hammond heard Yablonski screaming for him somewhere to the rear. He aimed the stream back into the satellite and glanced back to see what was happening.

Yablonski was trying to fend off the men crowding around him at the water valve. Hammond whirled the hose and blasted them from ninety feet away. But he was too late. Yablonski went down under a tangle of arms and legs.

Hammond raced toward him, but the hose went limp: someone had shut off his water. He heard voices rise in a shout behind him, then he was buffeted from all sides, swarmed over by a mass of excited men, all trying to take their anger out on him with their fists.
 

The punishment finally stopped. Hammond was hauled up, his arms firmly pinned behind his back. He faced panting, furious faces. Then the circle parted.

Edmond Traben, his clothing soaked and his face twisted into a mask of hatred, stopped only a foot away, his eyes boring into Hammond's.

"Do you know what you've done?" he asked hoarsely,

Hammond returned the stare, then nodded slowly.

24

Coogan walked briskly across the assembly room. He glanced down at the pool of water spreading over the concrete floor, then waded through the crowd of scientists to inspect their drenched satellite.

Several technicians with rags were already vigorously trying to wipe the instruments clear. But it was a hopeless mess. Delicate wiring had been blown apart by the high-pressure spray. Exposed printed circuit boards that hadn't yet been sealed behind protector panels were bent out of shape. Transistors had popped free. Micro-circuitry was already clogging with lubricants blown down from parts that hadn't been degreased yet.

The pedestal had been knocked over, crushing part of the satellite's computer system. Coogan bent down and stared into the pedestal casing. It was a quarter full of water. The coils were soaked.

Behind him, Traben was growling curses. Coogan turned to push through the technicians and found himself facing Hammond, who greeted him with a smug grin. Yablonski was a few feet away, firmly gripped by two engineers.

When he saw Coogan, Traben was livid. He screamed, "You're head of security! How the hell did they get out?"

Coogan's arm snaked out and seemed to rest, on Traben's back. No one saw his fingers pinch the nerve. Traben's mouth opened and his face went pale. Coogan relaxed his grip but his eyes silently warned Traben to shut up. That part of it Hammond saw, and wondered how Coogan had the nerye to do this to his boss.

Coogan's gaze flicked for an instant to Hammond, then he turned to the milling technicians and gave them an authoritative smile. "Everybody back to work. We're under control here now. Nothing to worry about."

He clasped a couple of men on the back and urged them along. One of the Chinese scientists who had been wiping down the flooded instruments turned a particularly anguished face on Coogan as he was being herded away.

"Terrible," the man said. "Just terrible..."

He twisted away from Coogan and marched up to Hammond and Yablonski, berating them with a string of Chinese invective rising in pitch to near-hysteria. The other scientists permitted the Chinese to handle it for a moment, then suddenly they were all yelling.

Coogan muscled through and held up his arms for silence. He shouted above the din, "Quiet! Everybody quiet! Leave this to me!"

Hammond was sure that he had guessed- right about MTL: most of the scientists were quite unaware of what they were really working on.

The Chinese was only two feet away from him, staring at him now with tear-filled eyes. "Why?" Hammond heard him ask, barely comprehensible in the shouting. "Why you do this?"

"I'm a Naval investigative officer," Hammond explained. "What you're working on here is illegal—"

He shouldn't have spoken. Several men surged forward, wanting blood. Coogan had to shove them back like rowdies from a street gang. Traben shrank back to the satellite and watched, horrified.

"Get back!" yelled Coogan. "Every goddamned one of you! Get a grip on yourselves! It's under control!" He grabbed the Chinese and pushed him back with the others. The shouting died down and Hammond seized his opportunity.

"I'm a Naval investigative officer!" His voice rang out in the abrupt silence, loud enough for everyone to hear. "These men are—!"

Coogan whirled and belted him in the jaw, cutting him off. Hammond fell back, sprawling. Two more security men came bounding in, uniformed company cops. Coogan shouted at them to take Hammond and Yablonski out.

Hammond hovered between pain and consciousness and wasn't aware where he had been moved until he found himself in a bare corridor with a security man gripping his arms in a classic wrestling hold. Yablonski was held the same way, knees down to the floor. Their lab coats and hard hats had been removed and tossed on the floor.

Coogan charged through the door, followed by Traben, who continued to berate him. "Where were you, Coogan? I thought these men were under heavy guard. Do you have any idea what they've done?"

Coogan whirled on him. "Look, you run your end and I'll run mine!"

"But they've set me back months!"

"That's enough!"

Traben gaped at him, incredulous but silent.

"Report to Bloch and have him meet us back aboard the
Sturman."

Traben seemed to shrink again. Hammond began to have a clearer idea of who was running things around here. Traben cast a sidelong look at Hammond and Yablonski, then muttered, "I want them out of the way."

Coogan said nothing.

Traben headed for the elevator and called back at the last second, "And do it yourself. McCarthy is hopeless!"

The elevator doors closed on him and Coogan turned back to Hammond, coldly assessing him.

Hammond still managed a pained grin. "Dissension in the ranks?"

Coogan let loose with a balled fist to his gut. Hammond's eyes flew open in shock. He gagged once, then slumped to the floor.

Yablonski's right hand instinctively curled; his whole body quivered with rage. He scowled at the pistol Coogan was leveling on his head.

"Pick up your friend," Coogan said.

The guard released his hold and Yablonski's hands dropped to the floor to break his fall. Anger rippled through him again and he stared at the waving pistol only a yard away. He could make it in one leap, but he knew the bastard was just aching to shoot him.

He dragged Hammond halfway to his feet and looked right into Coogan's eyes.

Coogan smiled and prodded him with the pistol. They began to walk back through the plant, one security man in the lead and the other in the rear. Hammond was a dead weight, but Yablonski didn't mind. He was contemplating revenge.

They re-entered the shed. Coogan threw on the work lights and marched Hammond and Yablonski back aboard the
Sturman.
He took them up to the bridge and opened the door, sending them in with the two armed guards.

He picked up Hammond's head by grabbing a tuft of hair and asked coldly, "Where's McCarthy?"

Hammond blinked, his jaw slack and throbbing. "I ate him," he said thickly.

Coogan flung him aside and marched out.

Hammond had a fleeting image of Coogan doing the same thing to Jan, flinging her away like a rag doll after doing other things to her, unspeakable, unthinkable things. Hammond went on thinking about it. It kept him mad—and that would keep him alive.

Coogan returned a few minutes later with McCarthy, who had a tennis-ball-sized lump on his head. Coogan's jaw worked, but he said nothing about the dead guard in the captain's cabin.

They were silent for nearly ten minutes, eyeing each other across the bridge—Hammond and Yablonski forced to sit in a corner of the deck, while Coogan leaned against the engine room telegraph stand. McCarthy paced impatiently.

Footsteps echoed along the main deck below, then clanged on the ladder up to the bridge. The hatch opened and Traben looked in uneasily. He entered carrying a doctor's bag, which he set with conspicuous significance at Coogan's feet.

Francis Bloch stepped in after him, gazed impassively at his prisoners, and shook his head in regret. "I had hoped we would work out our differences amicably," he said. "But your actions have made that impossible."

Hammond sighed. "I hope we're not going to get another lecture."

"Hardly." Bloch smiled. "What would be the point?"

"As long as we both realize that you're not in this to relieve the world of anything but dollars."

"I never said I was different, Commander. It's my way of going about it that's unique."

"No, it isn't." Hammond groaned. It hurt to speak. "You're like any other thief. It's just the scale of it that's frightening."

"I'd like to know something," Yablonski said, then waited for complete attention. "What were you intending to use that device in the satellite for?"

Bloch continued to smile as he replied, "A hole card, Mr. Yablonski. I've spent years perfecting something I believe I can handle better than anyone else. When it's brought out in the open, there's going to be uproar about how it was financed. If anyone tries to come in and take it away from me, I want the ability to protect myself—and I want it immediately apparent
how."

There was silence, then Yablonski continued, playing dumb, "I don't get it. So you've got a receiving station in space. So what?"
      

Hammond gave a cracked laugh, then said dryly, "It's simple. He's going to put his satellite into orbit, then teleport some kind of nuclear device up to it. Probably got little gnomes building it in some back room right now."

Bloch shook his head sympathetically. "It pains me, Commander, to see such a bright man throw away a promising future. You've added up one and one too many times."

"I just did it again," said Hammond. "You'll have to build another satellite. The present one is a
wash.
Forgive the pun."

Bloch shrugged. "It'll take some time to fix."

"Rebuild," Hammond corrected.

"You've actually set the Navy back, not us. We just won't be able to deliver their satellite on time. But in any case, what have you accomplished? You're not going to be around when it's launched."

He turned to Coogan. "They're all yours."

Bloch moved to the door, held it open for Traben, who shook his head and said, "I want to be sure."

Bloch nodded and went out. Hammond listened for the footsteps retreating down the ladder and across the deck.

"Okay, boys," Coogan said. "Up against the wall."

The security men hoisted Hammond and Yablonski up and threw them face first against the aft bulkhead.

"Take off your shirts," Coogan ordered. "Come on!"

Slowly they complied, stripping down to the waist. Hammond looked at his belly. It was bruised and aching.

"Okay, turn around."

They turned and Coogan studied them, his eyes glinting in the weak light. He pushed himself away from the engine stand and reached down for the black bag.