There were only jour minutes and thirty-two seconds left.
The blood from his torn skin had clotted on the line, and his first efforts tore the clots loose. He gasped at the pain. "This is Mission Control," a voice drawled on the screen. "How's it look to you, Gord?"
"Everything's A-OK from here," a second voice replied. "We're go for P equals one."
"That was Flight Commander Gordon Nash replying to a question from Mission Control, Houston," the announcer's voice cut in. "The count is now three minutes, forty-eight seconds to lift off, with all systems go…"
Sweating, he felt fresh blood ooze from the back of his hands. The rope slid easily over the lubrication it provided. On the fourth try he was able to work it over one knuckle and the widest part of his twisted palm.
And then suddenly his hand was free.
"T minus two minutes, fifty-six seconds," the voice announced. Nick closed his ears to it. His fingers were stiff, hampered by pain. He tore at the stubborn cord with his teeth.
Seconds later both hands were free. He loosened the rope around his neck, pulled it up over his head and went to work on his ankles, fingers shaking with strain…
"In exactly two minutes, the Apollo spacecraft, renamed Phoenix One…"'
He was on his feet now, moving stiffly toward the door that he saw illuminated in the spillover from the screen. It wasn't locked. Why would it be? And there were no guards outside. Why would there be? They were all gone, rats who'd deserted the doomed ship.
He hurried along the deserted hall, surprised to find Hugo, Wilhelmina, Pierre and family all in place on his person. But then again, why not? What defense would they be against the holocaust to come?
He tried the stairwell first, but it was locked, then the elevators — but the buttons had been removed. The top floor was sealed off. He hurried back along the hall, trying doors. They opened into empty, deserted rooms. All except one, which was locked. Three hard raps with his heel tore the metal loose from the wood and the door flew back.
It was a control center of some kind. The walls were lined with TV monitors. One of them was on. It showed the Phoenix One on the launching pad, poised for takeoff. Nick swung around, looking for a telephone. There was none, so he began switching the remaining monitors on. Various wards and corridors of the Medical Center shimmered into view. They were crowded with patients. Nurses and doctors could be seen moving along the hallways. He twisted the sound volume up and reached for a mike, hoping that his voice would reach them, warn them in time…
Suddenly he stopped. Something had caught his eye.
The monitors clustered around the one that showed the rocket on its launch pad — they were recording various views of the Cape Kennedy Moon Port, and one of those views, Nick knew, was not open to regular TV cameras! The one showing the top secret interior of the Launch Control Blockhouse.
He plugged the mike jack into the corresponding number on the console. "Hello!" he yelled. "Hello! Do you receive me? Launch Control Blockhouse, this is the GKI Medical Center. Do you receive me?"
He realized what had happened. Simian had gotten some of his directional engineers to build a secret two-way link with the Cape for use in emergencies.
A shadow moved across the screen. An incredulous voice barked: "What the hell's going on here?" A face blurred into close-up focus — a grim, lantern-jawed military face. "Who authorized this linkup? Who are you?"
Nick said: "I've got to get through to General McAlester — without delay."
"You'll get through all right," the military type rasped as he snatched up a telephone, "right through to J. Edgar Hoover. Gratz here, Security," he barked into the receiver. "Hold the count. There's something screwy going on. And get McAlester over here — on the double."
Nick gathered saliva back into his dry mouth. Slowly he began to breathe again.
He sent the Lamborghini hurtling along palm-lined Ocean Avenue. The sun shone brightly out of a cloudless sky. The homes of the wealthy swung past behind their discreet hedges and wrought-iron fences.
He looked like a handsome, carefree playboy out for a mid-afternoon spin, but agent N3's thoughts were steeped in vengeance and destruction.
The car radio was on. A voice was saying, "…a pinhole leak in the Saturn propellant tank has caused an indefinite delay. We understand they're working on it now. If the repair work takes the Phoenix One past the 3:00 p.m. launch deadline, the mission will be scrubbed for twenty-four hours. Stay tuned to WQXT Radio for further developments…"
That was the story that he and McAlester had decided on. It would keep Simian and his crowd from getting suspicious. At the same time it would keep them nervous, on the edge of their chairs, their eyes pinned to the TV set until Nick could reach them.
He knew they were in Palm Beach — at Cathay, Simian's seaside villa. He'd recognized those coconut palms fanning past the financier's shoulder as he'd leaned forward in the Lincoln to adjust the closed-circuit TV controls. They were the palms that lined his private driveway.
N3 hoped he would be able to beat the special AXE mop-up crew to the scene. He had a personal score to settle.
He glanced at his watch. He'd left Miami an hour ago. A planeload of guidance control engineers were now winging their way south from Cape Kennedy. They would have exactly forty-five minutes to disengage the complicated electronic nightmare that Simian had constructed. If it took longer than that, the mission would be scrubbed until tomorrow. But then what was a twenty-four hour delay compared to the flaming destruction of a city?
Another plane, a small, private one, was on its way north at this moment, and Nick's best wishes — as well as a couple of fond memories — went with it. Hank Peterson was flying Joy Sun back to her post at the Kennedy Space Port's Medical Center.
Nick reached down, driving one-handed as he slipped Wilhelmina from her hiding place.
He entered Cathay's grounds through an automatic gate which lifted when the Lamborghini passed over a treadle. A tough-looking type in a green uniform came out of a kiosk, did a double take, and came running toward him, tugging at his service holster. Nick slowed. He stretched his right arm out, shoulder high, and squeezed the trigger. Wilhelmina bucked just a trifle and the GKI guard thudded face forward into the ground. Dust billowed up around him.
A second shot sounded and the Lamborghini's windshield shattered, raining glass over Nick. He hit the brakes, opened the door and dived out in one smooth motion. He heard a gun roar behind him as he rolled and another bullet punched into the dust where his head had been. He spun a half-turn, then reversed the spin and came up shooting. Wilhelmina bucked twice in his hand, then twice more, coughing gutturally, and the four GKI guards coming around both sides of the kiosk went sprawling as the slugs struck home.
He swung around in a half crouch, left arm protecting his vitals in the approved FBI manner, the Luger held low, ready. But there was no one else. The dust settled on the five bodies.
Had they heard the shots in the villa? Nick measured the distance with his eye, recalled the sound of the surf and doubted it. He walked over to the bodies and stood looking down at them. He had aimed high, resulting in five terminal cases. He chose the largest and hauled it into the kiosk.
The GKI uniform he put on got him close enough to the next set of guards to dispatch one with Hugo, the other with a karate chop to the neck. That got him inside the villa. The sound of TV and voices drew him along the deserted halls to a covered flagstone terrazza off the east wing.
A group of men stood in front of a portable TV set. They were wearing dark glasses and terrycloth robes and had towels looped around their necks. They seemed on the verge of heading toward a pool, visible just to the left of the terrazza, but something on the TV was holding them. It was a news commentator. He was saying: "We expect the announcement at any moment. Yes, here it is. It's just come in. The voice of NASA communicator Paul Jensen from Mission Control in Houston saying the Phoenix One mission has been scrubbed for twenty-four hours…"