Thin Air

by George Simpson

  They were outside, on the starboard edge of the navigating bridge. Silently, they made their way aft.

  They went down the ladder, then kept low to the deck, which was still wet from the Philadelphia rains, and headed for the stern. In the semi-darkness under dimmed work- lights, Hammond could see that a heavy net covered the shed doors. Steel mesh vanished into murky water, cable strands glistening dully in the thin reflections.

  "We're not going, to make it out that way," Hammond Whispered. Yablonski nodded.

  Both men moved cautiously back to the starboard side and peered down the length of the shed. The platform and ramp beyond were deserted. The only sound they heard was the gentle lapping of water against the Sturman's hull.

  They crept across the gangplank and down to the loading dock in silence. Hammond still carried the submachine gun.

  Double steel doors were recessed into the back wall, a safety light glimmering over them. Hammond peered through the long window of the control room. It was empty. There were phones inside. If they could just get in there, call Smitty, get him to warn MAGIC....

  He scanned the edges of the doors for any trace of wiring that would indicate a security system. Finding none, he slowly depressed the bar and pushed one door open.

  Hammond went through first. Yablonski followed quickly, easing the door shut until it closed with a soft click, the echo swallowed up in a long, windowless hallway that stretched off to their right.

  Hammond tried the door to the control room. It was locked. He was tempted to shoot it open, but that would be the end. They'd never complete the phone call. He gave up.

  A faint light illuminated the far end of the corridor. Cautiously, they made for that light, past steel doors closed and numbered. Their feet scraped on a concrete floor.

  They rounded the distant corner to face an open locker room some twenty yards ahead. They padded toward it, hugging the wall, every sense alert.

  At the entrance, Hammond peered in. The room widened five feet on either side of the open entryway; there were green metal lockers on either wall and a pair of wooden benches down the center. And no one around.

  They walked in and Yablonski sank down on one of the benches, his eyes scanning the lockers. Hammond went to the far exit, a pair of double wooden doors with a glass port in each. He looked through and saw another light where the next corridor made a bend to the left. Hammond propped the submachine gun up against one of the lockers. He jiggled a few of the doors. They were all locked.

  "You want to open them?" murmured Yablonski.

  Hammond nodded. "We could use some more appropriate duds—and this seems to be the nearest haberdashery."

  Yablonski rose and grabbed one of the door handles.

  "Put your hands up here," he said, "one above the other below mine. It'll cut down the noise."

  "You've done this before?"

  "The terror of P.S. 146."

  Hammond braced his hands across the locker door. Yablonski squeezed, then twisted suddenly, snapping the handle off. Hammond's palms had absorbed most of the sound. He opened the locker and found a white lab coat with a name across the breast pocket. He grabbed a hard hat sitting on the shelf and slipped it on his head. A little big, but all the better, It would conceal his eyes. He ripped the nameplate off the coat and shrugged into it.

  Cas broke into another locker and got a similar outfit for himself. Just before he swung the second door shut, Hammond reached in and snagged an aluminum clipboard. "Good prop," he said.

  Yablonski shrugged. "What about the gun?"

  "A little conspicuous," Hammond said, and deposited the submachine gun in the locket, then closed it. "Let's see how far we get with just the disguise."

  Yablonski smiled grimly. "Fine, but if we run into trouble don't shoot anybody with that clipboard."

  They went through the double doors, eased down the next corridor and around the bend. They ignored an elevator and took a stairway to the next floor.

  Muffled sounds of activity floated down the corridor. Moving briskly, they headed for the noise, looking for all the world as if they owned the place.

  The room they entered was two hundred feet long and two levels high. The ceiling was networked with catwalks, tracks, and overhead gantries. The floor was flat concrete and around the walls were electronic monitoring stations to which various projects were hooked up. A forklift zipped by on electric motors, carrying a large square piece of machinery to another side of the room. Men moved about, dressed exactly like Hammond and Yablonski, in white lab coats, even carrying clipboards. And in a central area, technicians were clustered around a low scaffold surrounding the silver shell of something Hammond recognized immediately.

  He looked for cover and spotted several rows of metal bins along the near wall, supply stations for wiring and parts. He nudged Yablonski and they moved behind the bins. Hammond set his clipboard on the edge of one. Yablonski pulled out two boxes of wiring and they made a show of taking inventory while they watched what was going on.

  Hammond pointed out the scaffold and the silver shell and whispered to Yablonski, "That's satellite casing for an orbital instrument package. This must be the assembly station for the Vandenberg project they're working on."

  "Nice to know something around here is legitimate."

  Three men in lab coats and hard hats were placing a panel inside the casing. They slipped it through the opening and hooked it up. Hammond wondered if that casing already contained the weapons guidance system everybody was fussing over. A supervisor on the floor watched a computer readout. One of the men on the scaffold shouted down, "Third module in place!" The supervisor nodded, picked up a phone and dialed.

  Gradually, Hammond became aware that all work had stopped. Everybody was standing quietly, waiting.

  Hammond and Yablonski stood uneasily by the bins, continuing to list parts on the clipboard, wondering if the sudden quiet meant their escape had been discovered.

  A door at the opposite end of the room opened to admit a small group of technicians, who moved quickly toward the scaffolding. Dr. Edmond Traben, President of MTL, was in the center of them. Two men followed, pushing a flatbed dolly on which was a three-foot-high piece of machinery covered with a tarp.

  They stopped at the scaffold and Traben climbed a short ladder to join the technicians crouched around the silver casing. He stuck his head in for a personal inspection. Satisfied, he withdrew and motioned to a man on the catwalk above.

  The hook of a chain hoist was lowered from the ceiling by a hydraulic motor. One of the men nearest the flatbed grabbed the descending hook while the other gently pulled the covering off the concealed device.

  Hammond sucked in his breath: it was another teleporting pedestal.

  Stunned, he watched them guide it off the dolly. It rose slowly toward Traben and the waiting technicians, and Hammond followed its arcing path, mesmerized.

  "That's it!" He snapped out of it. "They're going to put one of those up in space! There is no goddamned weapons guidance system," he hissed, "or if there is, these technicians believe that pedestal is part of it!"

  The pieces fell into place. With a receiving station in orbit, Bloch could virtually eliminate the enormous expense and materiel required to launch space stations and orbiting satellites. He could send up a vault like the one in his Georgetown bathroom as well as an army of men in spacesuits, supplies, prefabricated and pressurized sections for living quarters, weapons systems....Hell, the guidance device was small potatoes. What if he sent up a couple of homemade ICBMs with nuclear warheads? He could beam anything he wanted up to this little station...anything.

  The possibilities were staggering...and endless.

  The pedestal had stopped moving. One of the technicians stood on the edge of the scaffold platform and guided it into place, the overhead chain following on its wheeled track.

  Hammond shuddered. Smitty had said that MTL was supposed to deliver the satellite package to Vandenberg Air Force Base in four weeks. Som
e package, he thought. It was about to be stuffed with the Cracker Jack prize of all time.

  He turned to Yablonski and muttered, "We've got to stop them."

  "With what? Your clipboard?

  Hammond looked at the men clustered around the scaffolding. It would be suicidal to barge through and start ripping out wires and gear. How much could they accomplish before they were dragged down and battered senseless? They had to try something that was as much a diversion as an assault.

  "Why don't we just go out the far door and get to a phone?" Yablonski suggested, angry that Hammond was willing to chance everything when they were so close to safety. "They're not ready to launch that thing."

  Hammond shook his head. "I can't risk another Navy snafu." He glanced back at Traben coldly. "Besides, I owe them a few."

  His eyes scanned the room, stopping when he spotted a fire hose in a glass case on the side wall. He pointed it out to Cas.

  They left the clipboard at the bins and sauntered toward the wall, Hammond muttering instructions and Yablonski nodding as they approached the hose case.

  "It's wired to an alarm system," Yablonski whispered, his face fixed in a forced smile.

  Hammond didn't care about the alarm; in fact, it would probably help create the confusion they wanted. But he was trying to estimate the hose length. What if he couldn't get close enough to the scaffold? It would be too late to turn back. Still, it was their only chance.

  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, k
nees 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.