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.