Project Daedalus

by Thomas Hoover

  Chapter Nineteen

  Friday 8:37 a.m.

  As Vance stepped off the motorized cart, the hangar around him was shrouded in white vapor. The swirling cloud on the ground, the eerie chiaroscuro of the lights, the amplified voice that ticked off the countdown-all added to the other-worldliness of the scene. And above the turmoil two giant spaceplanes loomed, silver monoliths that seemed to hover atop the pale mist.

  Chariots of the gods, he thought, gazing up.

  The Russian technicians had carefully suited him exactly as Yuri Androv, right down to his boots. Next to his skin was the dark-blue flight suit and cotton-lined leather cap issued to all Soviet pilots, and over these came a pressurized G-suit fabricated from a heavy synthetic material; it felt like a mixture of nylon and Teflon. This was topped off with the flight helmet, complete with a removable reflecting visor, which conveniently prevented anyone from seeing his face.

  Although the helmet restricted his peripheral vision, he still could hear clearly through headphones miked on the outside, although they did make the din of the hangar sound tinny and artificial. A Velcro-backed insignia of the Minoan Double Ax adhered to his chest; he was posing as a Mino Industries pilot.

  For all its unfamiliarity, however, his gear felt very much like the rubber wet-suit he donned for scuba diving at depths. The two hoses fastened to his abdomen could have been connectors for compressed air tanks and his helmet the oxygen mask. He felt equally uncomfortable. Only the damned flippers were missing.

  Since his RX-10 G-suit was designed for high-altitude flight, intended to do double-duty as an emergency backup in case of cockpit decompression, he had to carry along his own personal environmental-control unit, a white, battery-powered air conditioner the size of a large briefcase. It hummed lightly as it cooled and dehumidified the interior of his suit, keeping his faceplate moisture-free. The recycled air he was breathing smelled stale and vaguely synthetic.

  The most uncomfortable part of all, however, not to mention the most nerve-racking, had to be the six sticks of C-4 plastic explosive and their radio-controlled detonators now secured against his chest.

  Since the Soviet engineers had suited him up in a separate room, avoiding any contact with the Mino Industries doctors who'd been giving Androv his preflight physical, he'd yet to see Yuri Andreevich Androv clearly. He had a partner and he hadn't even had a good look at him yet.

  "The other M-I pilot will be arriving in a few minutes," Androv was announcing to the white-jacketed Japanese technicians standing by the Personnel Module. "He was delayed in the briefing." For their benefit he was speaking English, which, to Vance's surprise and relief, was almost perfect. They nodded as he continued. "We'll just go on up in the module. I want to check over the cockpit one last time, make sure there're no last-minute glitches."

  The Personnel Module resembled a small mobile home, except its pneumatic lift could elevate it sixty feet straight into the air, permitting direct access to the cockpit's side hatch. It was worlds away from the fourteen-foot metal ladder used to access a MiG cockpit.

  "Flight deck." He was speaking through his helmet mike as he pointed up. "Understand? Cockpit." Then he turned and motioned for Vance to follow as he stepped in.

  "Hai." Vance nodded gravely, Japanese style. "Wakarimasu."

  Let's hope the haze keeps down visibility, he was thinking. This place is sure to have video monitors everywhere. And this fancy elevator is probably bugged too.

  Intelligence from Command Central was that Tanzan Mino's two Yakuza "pilots" were receiving a last-minute briefing from the CEO himself. Still, they were certain to show up soon. This was no time to dawdle.

  The technicians closed the door of the module, then activated the lift controls. As it began gliding upward, Androv glanced over and gave Vance a silent thumbs-up. He flashed it back, then set down the heavy air-conditioning unit and shifted his weight from foot to foot, still trying to get the feel of the suit.

  Maybe, he told himself, this test pilot game is easier than it looks. But only so long as you never actually have to leave terra firma. Then it's probably more excitement than the average person needs.

  The upward motion halted with a lurch and the module door automatically slid open. At first glance the open cockpit of the USSR's latest plane made him think of the inside of a giant computer. Nothing like the eye-soothing green of a MiG interior, it was a dull off-white in color and cylindrical, about ten feet in diameter and sixteen feet long. Three futuristic G-seats equally spaced down the center faced a bank of liquid crystal video screens along one wall, and lighting was provided by pale orange sodium vapor lamps integrated into the ceiling.

  The real action was clearly the middle G-seat, which was surrounded by instrument consoles and situated beneath a huge suspended helmet, white enamel and shaped like a bloated moth. Everything about the controls bespoke advanced design philosophy: Instead of the usual flight stick placed between the pilot's knees, it had a multiple-control sidestick, covered with switches and buttons, situated on the pilot's right, something only recently introduced in the ultramodern American F-16 Falcon.

  Although the throttle quadrant was still located on the left-hand console, in standard fashion, it, too, had a grip skillfully designed to incorporate crucial avionics: the multiple radars, identification-friend-or-foe (IFF) instrumentation, instrument landing system (ILS), and tactical air navigation (TACAN).

  He realized they'd utilized the new Hotas concept-hands on throttle and stick-that located all the important controls directly on the throttle and flight stick, enabling the pilot to command the instruments and flight systems purely by feel, like a virtuoso typist. Even the thin rudder pedals looked futuristic. The whole layout, in severe blacks and grays, was sleek as an arrow.

  In the end, however, maybe it was all redundant. According to Andrei Androv this vehicle incorporated an advanced control system called equipment vocal pour aeronef; it could be flown entirely by voice interface with an artificial intelligence computer. All flight and avionics interrogations, commands, and readouts could be handled verbally. You just talked to the damn thing and it talked back. The twenty-first century had arrived.

  The other two G-seats in the cockpit, intended for research scientists, were positioned on either side of the pilot, about four feet away, with no controls whatsoever. All this baby needed was Androv and his computer.

  There was more. The space was cylindrical, which could only mean one thing: It was designed to be rotated, again probably by the computer, adjusting the attitude or inclination of the pilot continuously to make sure the G-forces of acceleration and deceleration would always be acting down on him, like gravity, securing him into that special G-seat. And why not? Since there was no windscreen, the direction the pilot faced was irrelevant-up, down, or even backward; who cared?

  And the helmet, that massive space-moth intended to be lowered over the pilot's head. From the briefing, he knew that the screens inside were how the pilot "saw." Through voice command to the central computer he could summon any of the three dozen video terminals along the walls and project them on the liquid crystal displays before his eyes.

  "So far, so good," Androv said, stepping in and down. Vance followed, then reached back to secure the hatch. It closed with a tight, reassuring thunk. The silent blinking of computer screens engulfed them.

  "By the way, it's up there," Vance said quietly, shifting his head toward the newly installed video camera positioned just above the entry hatch. Androv glanced up, nodded, and together they turned away from it. Then without further conversation they each ripped off their Velcro-secured insignias-Androv's, the Soviet air force red star bordered in white; Vance's, the double ax-and exchanged them.

  "How much time?" Androv whispered.

  "Just give me ten minutes." He held up his heavy wrist-watch. Together they checked and synchronized.

  "Good luck." Androv nodded and gave another thumbs- up sign, then clasped him in an awkward Russian hug. Vance braced h
imself for the traditional male kiss, but thankfully it didn't come. "Do svidania, moi droog," he said finally, standing back and saluting. Then he grinned and continued in accented English, "Everything will be A-okay."

  Without another word he swung open the hatch, passed through, and stepped into the personnel module.

  Vance watched him depart, then turned back to examine the Daedalus cockpit more closely. It was a bona fide marvel.

  Screens, banks of screens, all along the wall-almost like a TV station's control room. Everything was there. Looking across, left to right, he saw that the engine readouts were placed on top: white bars showing power level, fan rpm, engine temperatures, core rpm, oil pressure, hydraulics, complete power-plant status. The next row started on the navigation and avionics: the radar altimeter, the airspeed indicator, the attitude-director indicator (AID) for real-time readings of bank and dive angle, the horizontal situation indicator (HSD) for actual heading and actual track, and on and on. All the electronics modules were already operating in standby mode-the slit-scan radar, the scanners, the high-resolution doppler. Other screens showed the view of the hangar as seen by the video cameras on the landing gear, now switched over from their infrared mode to visible light.

  The avionics, all digital, were obviously keyed to the buttons and switches on the sidestick, the throttles, and the two consoles. Those controls, he realized upon closer inspection, could alter their function depending on which display was being addressed, thereby reducing the clutter of separate buttons and toggle switches on the handgrips.

  The cockpit was not over-designed the way so many modern ones tended to be: instead it had been entirely rethought. There were probably two hundred separate system readouts and controls, but the pilot's interface was simple and totally integrated. It was beautiful, a work of pure artistry.

  Which made him sad. He'd always been an aviation buff, and the thought of obliterating a creation this spectacular provoked a sigh.

  On the other hand, H-bombs were probably beautiful too. This was another vengeful Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds. Ridding the planet of its first hypersonic weapons delivery system would be a public service to all humankind.

  But first things first. He had no intention of allowing his next moves to be on TV. The newly installed monitor, part of the "retrofit," was about to get a small adjustment.

  Strolling back toward the entry hatch, he quickly detached the reflecting outer visor that was designed to drop down over the front of his flight helmet. Then he reached up and wedged the silvered portion against the lens. The camera would continue to operate, relaying back no malfunction signals, but it would be sending a picture of the ceiling. Next he unzipped his flight suit and carefully unstrapped the package riding against his chest. Inside were the six taffy-colored bars of C-4 plastic explosive, each an inch square and six inches long, all wrapped in clear Cellophane. They almost looked like candy, but they could blow this entire plane through the hangar's roof.

  The charge had to be set before the two Mino-gumi pilots were delivered by the Personnel Module. When they arrived, he'd simply pretend to be Yuri Androv and say they all had to go back down for a final check of their pressure-suit environmental systems. The moment they were clear, he'd activate the radio and detonate. Then the fun would begin.

  There. The two consoles on either side of the central G-seat, that's where he'd wedge the charges. It was the perfect place, the central nervous system. After one last, wistful look at the banks of video displays along the wall, he set to work.

  Friday 8:43 a.m.

  "Do you understand?" Tanzan Mino asked. It sounded more like a command. They were in the Mino Industries Prep Section, a preflight briefing room that led directly into the hangar. The faceplates of the two pilots' flight helmets were raised, allowing him to see their eyes. "Any deviation from the prescribed maneuver blocks will signal a problem."

  "Hai, Mino-sama," both men nodded grimly. They had come here in the cockpit of his personal Boeing, and they were not happy with their new assignment. Neither had the slightest desire to risk his life in the service of the oyabun's megalomania. The command to serve as last-minute "co-pilots" in the Daedalus, however, was an offer they could not refuse.

  "Should anything happen, you will radio Flight Control immediately, and we will use the plane's artificial intelligence system, the AI module, to bring it back and land it."

  "Hai." They nodded again.

  "You will not be expected to take the controls," he went on. "The computer can override all commands from the cockpit. You will merely ensure the prescribed flight sequence is adhered to."

  He paused, intending to collect his thoughts, but an oddity on the newly installed cockpit monitor caught his notice. He cursed himself for not having kept an eye on it. He'd been too busy briefing the pilots and now . . .

  Something about the picture was strange. The perspective had changed. He reached over and, with the push of a button, transferred the image to the large liquid crystal screen on the side wall. Yes, it was definitely wrong. He couldn't quite tell . . . Had someone jostled the camera? There was still a full half hour before . . .

  Something had happened in the cockpit.

  The prep crews were scheduled to be finished by now-he glanced at a screen and confirmed that the checklists had already been punched-so no one had permission to be inside the plane. From this point on, only the pilots were authorized to be there.

  Androv. Where was he? He was supposed to be in the Soviet Flight-Prep Sector now, across the hangar.

  He turned to Taro Ikeda, who was monitoring a line of video screens. "Check with Flight Prep. Has the Soviet pilot completed his preflight physical? Has it been signed off?"

  "Let me see." He moved immediately to comply. After he tapped a keyboard, a number matrix appeared on his computer screen, showing the status of all the preflight sequences. Quickly he called up the pilot sequence.

  "His physical has been completed, Mino-sama. Everything is checked off. He logged out fifteen minutes ago."

  "Then where is he?"

  "I'll try and find out."

  He reached for a phone and punched in the main number for the Flight Prep sector. The conversation that followed was quick and, as it continued, caused a look of puzzlement to spread over his already-worried face.

  "Hai, domo arigato gozaimashta," he said finally and hung up. As he turned back he was growing pale. "Mino-sama, I think there may be a problem. They say he has already left the sector, but-"

  "All right then, where has he gone?"

  "Sector Security says he left with one of your pilots, Mino-sama, headed for the hangar."

  The room grew ominously silent. They were both now staring at the two Mino Industries pilots, standing directly in front of them.

  "There must be some mistake." Tanzan Mino inhaled lightly. "Are you sure you understood correctly?"

  "It's obviously impossible. I agree."

  "Then what's going on? Whatever it is, I think we'd better find out. Immediately." He motioned for the two pilots to accompany him as he rose and headed for the door. "Stay close by. We're going to the hangar."

  Taro Ikeda briskly followed after them into the corridor. If anything went wrong now, he would be the one held responsible. Some vandal tampering in the cockpit was the last thing he needed. Everything had gone smoothly with the countdown so far this morning; he shuddered at the prospect of a last-minute hold.

  Ahead of him, Tanzan Mino was striding down the hallway, kobun bodyguards in tow, headed directly for the wide hangar doors.

  Friday 8:49 a.m.

  She was still having trouble thinking clearly. Michael was in the hangar, was actually in one of the planes. What was he doing here?

  She barely noticed when a kobun walked in and settled her suitcase on the metal desk. He glanced at it, said something in Japanese, and disappeared out the door.

  The case was heavy leather, acquired from a little side-street shop by Victoria Station. It looked just as it had
when she and Michael stashed the Uzi back in London. They'd deliberately bought a case heavy enough to conceal a weapon inside. Had Mino's people gone through it? Discovered the automatic?

  "Is this it?" Vera was asking.

  "That's the one." She reached down.

  "No," Vera said, staying her hand, "I will open it myself." With a quick motion she pulled around the zipper, then flipped back the heavy leather top. There lay a battered map of Crete, under it Michael's book on the palace, piles of rumpled clothes . . .

  This isn't how it's supposed to happen, she was thinking. The automatic's down in the bottom, in a separate section, but if Vera probes a little she'll find it. I've got to make her-

  "There's no printout here." Comrade Karanova finished

  digging through the clothes and looked up. "But then there never really was, was there, Dr. Borodin? Perhaps what you'd hoped to find was this . . ."

  She pulled open the top drawer of the metal desk and lifted out a shiny black automatic. It was an Uzi.

  "You didn't really think you could do something as amateurish as smuggle a weapon into this facility." She shoved it back into the drawer.

  "Congratulations. You've done your homework." So much for surprising Vera Karanova. Apparently that wasn't something easily managed.

  "Now we will print a new copy of the protocol," she said, shoving the suitcase over to one corner of her desk. "I don't want to waste any more time."

  "Right. Time is money."

  So now it was up to Michael. Maybe if she could stall Vera long enough, whatever he was involved in would start to happen.

  Glancing out again at the vapor-shrouded floor of the hangar, she fleetingly wondered if maybe she'd been seeing things. No, she was certain. That walk, that funny walk he always had when he didn't feel in control. She knew it all too well; she knew him all too well. He'd arrived on the hangar floor riding on that little motorized cart, together with the Soviet pilot, and they'd both entered the hydraulic personnel carrier and been raised up to the cockpit. Then the carrier had come back down and disgorged the Soviet pilot, who'd immediately disappeared into the haze. Which meant Michael still had to be up there.

  What was he doing? Had he somehow thrown in his lot with the Soviets? He certainly wouldn't work for Tanzan Mino, so that meant there had to be a revolt brewing. The thing now was to link up, join forces. It was hard to figure.

  Oh, shit.

  Coming through the wide hangar doors, headed for the same personnel transporter Vance had taken, was Tanzan Mino and a host of his kobun bodyguards, followed by two more men in pressure suits. He looked as though he had every intention of-yes, now he was saying something to the operators of the personnel carrier. They all were going up.

  Whatever Michael was doing, Mino-san wasn't going to be pleased. The whole scene was about to get crazy. Did Mike have a weapon? Even if he did, he wouldn't stand a chance.

  Friday 8:52 a.m.

  "Take it up."

  Tanzan Mino was marching up the steps of the Personnel Module, accompanied by six kobun in black leather jackets and the M-I pilots.

  The operators glanced at each other, then moved to comply. One Japanese pilot had just come down and disappeared into the haze. Now two more had arrived, along with the CEO. Were there three Japanese pilots? Things were starting to get peculiar. But then this was no ordinary flight; it was the big one.

  The door clicked shut with a quiet, pneumatic whoosh, and the module began its ascent. As they rode, Tanzan Mino reflected that in less than an hour this vehicle would be setting new records for manned flight. The world would hear about it from a press conference he would hold in Tokyo, carried live around the globe. That press briefing would also announce a new alliance between Japan and the Soviet Union. It would be a double coup. The planet's geopolitics would never again be the same.

  The module glided to a halt and its door opened.

  He'd been right. The cockpit hatch was sealed, which meant somebody was inside. The Soviet pilot must be up to something. But what?

  Then, unbidden, the pressure hatch started opening, slowly swinging back and around, and standing there, just inside, was a man in a pressure suit. There was no reflecting visor on his helmet now to hide his face.

  Friday 8:53 a.m.

  Vance stared at the small army facing him, including Tanzan Mino and his two pilots. This definitely was not the drill. Something had gone very, very wrong. Had some of the Soviet ground crews lost their nerve and talked? Whatever had happened, things were headed off the track.

  The C-4 explosive was set. But this was hardly the moment to activate the detonators and blow the place.

  "How did you get here?" The CEO's eyes narrowed to slits.

  "I decided to take you up on that tour."

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  "Planning a vacation. Checking out the transportation."

  "Very amusing, Dr. Vance," he said, staring at a length of C-4, a glass and metal detonator shoved into its side, wedged next to the sidestick. "But who else is part of your scheme? You didn't arrange this unassisted."

  "Why would anybody else be involved? I just thought it'd be fun to kick off today's celebration with a bang."

  "I'm afraid you will have to be disappointed." He turned to the kobun. "Clear the cockpit. Sweep it. And then," he glanced up, "after Dr. Vance replaces the visor on his flight helmet, we will escort him to my office for a very brief and undoubtedly very illuminating interview."

  Friday 9:03 a.m.

  "What's happening?" Vera had turned to watch through the white haze as the last kobun dismounted from the personnel module, following Tanzan Mino and the three pilots.

  "Maybe there's been a glitch in the countdown after all." Eva was trying to sound casual. Vera couldn't know the tall pilot in the middle, the one being helped along by Tanzan Mino's musclemen, was Michael. "Looks like Major Androv has got himself into some trouble."

  She could tell Vance was mad as hell. They'd probably roughed him up a little there in the cockpit, just to get started, and now they were intending to really go to work on him. But he must be part of a group, so where was everybody else?

  "Androv has to fly the plane today. We have everything scheduled. Why are they taking him away?" Vera turned and stalked for the door. "This cannot be permitted. Whatever the problem is, it has to be solved right here. Now. The flight must go forward. Too much is riding on it."

  Eva watched her stride out into the white haze of the hangar. She wanted to follow, but then she thought of something better.

  Friday 9:05 a.m.

  He was wondering when to try and make a break. But how far could he get, encumbered with the pressure suit?

  Where's the backup? Are they going to let me just twist in the wind?

  The original scenario had fallen apart, but that didn't mean the game was over. The Soviet engineers he'd seen clearly wouldn't be any help in a crisis, but the test pilot Androv was another story. He'd surely try to pull something back together. Where was he? Probably still up in the other cockpit, getting Daedalus II ready. So now . . .

  That's when he saw her, coming out of an office whose doorway was only half visible through the clouds of mist. It looked like . . . Vera Karanova. She was striding directly toward them, intercepting Tanzan Mino's small procession.

  "Where are you taking him?" She pointed toward Vance, glancing at his Red Star insignia, as she addressed the godfather in English.

  "Are you attempting to interfere in my affairs now, too?" Tanzan Mino demanded as he paused to stare.

  "I just want to know what it is you're doing," she replied.

  "I am handling a problem," he said coldly as he examined her. "There is a traitor, or traitors, among the Soviets. I intend to find out who's involved."

  "What do you mean?" An edge of nervousness entered her voice.

  Vance was coming up. "Sorry I screwed up, Vera," he said in English. "So close yet so far. Somebody must have blown the whistle."

>   "You're not-" She stared as he lifted the visor of his flight helmet.

  "But what the hell," he went on. "We gave it a shot. Nothing ventured, nothing-"

  "We?" She examined him, puzzled.

  "I suspected all along you could not be trusted." Tanzan Mino's calm facade seemed to crack as his face flushed with anger. "But I had no idea you would actually betray the entire project. Sabotage the vehicle."

  "I don't know anything about sabotage." She clearly was startled, attempting to maintain calm in her voice. "If Vance has-"

  "It appears I'm surrounded by treachery and traitors." His voice quavered as he stepped over to one of the kobun, then reached in and withdrew the 9mm Walther automatic from the man's shoulder holster. When he turned back, his eyes were opaque with anger and paranoia. He'd clearly snapped, lost it. "Mr. Vance, I want to know the names of everyone who was involved in this plot. Everyone. If I am satisfied you are telling the truth, then perhaps I will consider sparing your miserable life. Otherwise . . ."

  He turned back to Vera. She was staring at the gun, her face ashen, not letting herself believe what her eyes were telling her. The white mists of the hangar swirled around them, creating ghostly shadows across the expressionless faces of the kobun.

  "You made a very grave error in judgment," he was saying to her. "I don't yet know precisely what you were expecting to accomplish, but whatever it was, I can assure you I am not a man who tolerates disloyalty."

  His expression was strangely distant as he raised the pistol and fired, one precise round, a dull thunk barely audible above the din of the hangar.

  Vance watched in dismay as Vera Karanova stumbled backward, her dark eyes uncomprehending. It was a gangland-style execution, quick and preemptory, the time-honored way. No appeals or due process.

  He'd been hoping merely to gain some time for Androv, not cause her to be murdered on the spot. Now Tanzan Mino turned to him, still gripping the pistol. His face was distorted in irrational fury. "Perhaps I made a mistake just now, Dr. Vance. What do you think?"

  "Probably a pretty serious one."

  "Yes, now that I reflect on it, I'm inclined to agree. The culprit we seized red-handed was you. You are the one I should be making an example of." He was raising the Walther again.

  It began so quickly he almost didn't realize it was happening. From out of the swirl of mist that engulfed Daedalus /'s landing gear a white-haired old man appeared, grasping a pistol. Tanzan Mino turned to stare, just in time to hear him yelling-in Russian.

  "Release him. Release my son. I order you." He was closing on the group, about twenty feet in front of them, brandishing the weapon uncertainly. Vance couldn't make out what caliber it was, but he doubted it mattered. Andrei Androv clearly had no idea how to use it. His was an act of desperation.

  Then another realization clicked.

  He said "my son." He thinks I'm Yuri.

  Before anybody could move, a white pressure suit materialized out of the distant haze around Daedalus II. It was Yuri Androv, running toward his father, shouting. "Nyet! Don't-"

  "Release him, I tell you." Andrei Androv didn't hear him as he continued to move menacingly on Tanzan Mino. The outcome was inevitable.

  Vance ducked and rolled for the Personnel Module just as the kobun's line of H&K automatics flared.

  Andrei Androv lurched, gray hair flying, and managed to get off two rounds. But instead of hitting a kobun, he caught one of the Mino Industries pilots, visor up, directly in the face.

  Comrade Doktor Andrei Petrovich Androv, dean of Soviet propulsion technology, chief designer of the Daedalus, died instantly, his eyes still fixed in determination. However, Tanzan Mino's kobun weren't tidy. One of them squeezed off a couple more rounds just as Yuri Androv ran up and leaned over his father's crumpled body. With a groan, he spun around and staggered against the huge 22-ply tires of Daedalus /'s starboard landing gear.

  It still wasn't over. As Vance scrambled against the Personnel Module, he caught a glimpse of something that, faintly visible through the clouds of cryogenic fog, apparently was escaping everybody else. Another woman was standing in the door of the office where Vera Karanova had been. Holding an Uzi.

  How had she managed to get her hands on that?

  Not a second too soon. She can sweep the floor. Just get out of the way and give her an opening. Maybe there's still time.

  He began scrambling for the base of the Personnel Module. Now the white mist was obscuring everything, and Tanzan Mino seemed to have enveloped himself in it. He was nowhere to be seen. However, his presence was not missed by his kobun, who were still taking care of business.

  The next agenda item, Vance realized, was himself. As he tried to roll under the module, one was turning, raising his automatic . . .

  Now Eva was yelling, "Michael, stay down."

  The kobun all whirled back, but she was ready. Stock extended, full auto.

  Jesus, he thought, that hood in the back is holding enough C-4 to clear a small arena. If she hits one of the detonators . . .

  It was either a lucky or an unlucky shot. After eight rounds, less than a second's worth, a blinding ball of fire erupted where the kobun had been, sending a shock wave rolling through the open space of the hangar, knocking over technicians almost a hundred feet away. As Vance was slammed under the Personnel Module, out of the corner of his eye he saw Eva being thrown against the doorframe of the office. The air blossomed with the smell of deadly C-4, like acrid Sterno. Not for nothing did the U.S. military swear by it.

  Now Yuri Androv was peeling himself off Daedalus II's landing gear, his flight suit blackened and smudged. Blood from a bullet wound was running down the right sleeve.

  They'll be coming for us all, Vance thought. Tanzan Mino's probably somewhere radioing for more guards right now.

  Eva was stalking through the smoke, still grasping the Uzi.

  "Michael, are you all right?"

  "Hell of a morning." He was pulling himself out from under the Personnel Module, awkwardly trying to straighten his flight helmet. "You took out the palace guard, everybody but Mr. Big. Congratulations. And I thought CIA had a patent on that kind of operation."

  Already emergency alarms had begun a high-pitched whine, blaring through the cavernous hangar. Everything around them was chaos.

  "You know," she yelled above the noise, "he's going to kill us immediately. There's no way he's going to-"

  "I figure we've got about two minutes to think of something," he yelled back and pointed. "Check on the pilot. His name is Androv."

  "I know. I met him last night." She turned and stared. "We had a small misunderstanding."

  "Well, let's see if he's still in any condition to fly."

  "You mean?"

  "How else? You got any better ideas, I'd like to hear them."

  Yuri Androv had worked his way through the carnage of the explosion, the scattered remains of Tanzan Mino's phalanx of kobun, to again bend over the form of his father. Once more the cloud of obscuring mist was flowing over the scene, blanking it.

  At that moment, however, a pale glow laid itself around them, the murky light of overcast dawn. Vance realized the Soviet technicians had thrown open the hangar doors and were scrambling out onto the tarmac.

  Good, let them. We might just follow suit.

  Now Yuri Andreevich Androv was approaching, clasping his right arm.

  "We've got to get him fixed," Vance said briskly, looking him over, "put on a tourniquet."

  "Think he can still fly?"

  "I say we make him fly."

  With his left hand Androv peeled back his helmet visor and kissed Eva. "Spacebo," he said in Russian, "you did what I would have done if I'd had a weapon. But now I don't know what-"

  "How's your arm?" Vance cut in. "We've got to make a decision right now. When the reinforcements arrive, it's game over. One little Uzi won't handle their firepower."

  Androv frowned. "Can you fly?"

  "Never handled anything bigger than a
Lear," Vance replied. "And then only as copilot."

  It didn't seem to matter. Androv glanced at the open door of the Personnel Module and motioned to them.

  "Then come on. Let's hurry." Now he was searching the hangar. Finally he spotted the man he wanted.

  "Pavel," he yelled in Russian, "have the starter trolleys been engaged yet?"

  "Da," came the reply.

  "Then prepare Daedalus I for power-up and get the hell out. We're go for rpm."

  "What do you mean? The tow trucks haven't even been-"

  "Forget the tow trucks. It's going to be afterburners, right here. Get the rest of your people in the clear."

  Afterburners were rings of nozzles that sprayed fuel into the superheated exhaust gases of a jet engine, creating a burst of power. In military aircraft they were used to produce surges in thrust during takeoff and dogfights.

  "Afterburners! In the hangar. Yuri, all the hydrogen storage tanks could blow. You'd destroy Daedalus II. Just incinerate it."

  "That's the idea." He was already mounting the steps of the Personnel Module, not looking back. "There's only going to be one plane left. The one I take."

  "The computer." Eva had started up the steps, but then she froze and turned back, handing Vance the Uzi. "I have to get it."

  "There's no time." He reached for the weapon, its muzzle still hot. "We've got-"

  "Michael, I didn't come this far just to let the protocol slip through our fingers." She was running past him now, back down. "Only take a second."

  He knew it was pointless to argue. And besides, maybe she was right. Who knew where they'd end up?

  Now Androv had faltered and was leaning shakily against the open doorway of the module, the right sleeve of his pressure suit covered in blood. Vance took advantage of the ticking moments to step up and examine it.

  "You need a bandage." He started tearing away the synthetic cloth. "Or better yet, a tourniquet."

  "No." Androv glanced at his arm and grimaced. "There's not-"

  "You're going on adrenaline right now, my friend. But when the shock wears off . . ." He looked around the interior of the module, but there was nothing to cut with, so he just ripped away a large portion of Androv's sleeve and parted the material. A savage furrow was sliced across his bicep.

  "I don't want you to pass out." He tore a section of the sleeve into a strip and then, struggling with his heavy gloves, began binding it above the wound. The hangar was still bedlam, people running and yelling on every side, alarms sounding. As he was finishing the tourniquet, Eva came bounding up the metal steps carrying her Zenith. They were ready.

  Androv quickly secured the door and activated the controls. Through a smoke-smeared window they watched the bloody hangar floor disappear into the haze. The world suddenly turned dreamlike, an unreality highlighted by the soft whoosh of the pneumatic lift beneath them. Then the module lurched to a halt.

  Vance led the way through the open hatch. "Looks like somebody forgot and left the lights on."

  "Pavel told me the starter trolleys were engaged," Androv said in Russian as he climbed through, then stepped down. He continued in English. "Petra can initiate power-up."

  "Petra?" Vance turned back. "You mean the-"

  "Our co-pilot." He pointed toward a large liquid crystal screen at the far end of the cabin, now blank. "I want to try and use her to override Flight Control for the rest of the sequence."

  "Short circuit the countdown?"

  "I've never done it, but . . ." He walked over and reached down to flip a square blue switch on the right-hand console. "Let's see if she's awake this morning."

  He glanced up as the screen blinked on and a large black-and-white double-ax logo materialized, set against the red and white of a Japanese flag. Next he pushed a button on the sidestick and spoke.

  "Petra, report countdown status."

  "All preflight sequences nominal." The eerie, mechanical sound of a woman's voice, speaking Russian, filled the space. "Do you acknowledge?"

  "Affirmative," he answered back. "You will now initiate ignition sequence. Bypass remaining countdown procedure."

  "That is an override command. Please give authorization code."

  "Code P-18. Systems emergency."

  "The countdown is now T minus nineteen minutes twenty-eight seconds. All systems are nominal. Therefore Code P-18 is not a valid command."

  "Shit," he whispered under his breath. "Petra, verify P-18 with Flight Control." He paused for a split second, then pushed a button on the console and commanded, "Abort instruction." Another pause, then, "Repeat verify abort command for N equals one over zero."

  "What was that?" Eva was wedging her laptop under the left-hand G-seat.

  "I think, I hope I just put her command-monitor function into an infinite loop. She'll just continuously start and stop the verification procedure. Maybe it'll render that subroutine incapable of blocking the other system functions."

  "You're going to confuse her head? Good luck."

  He settled himself in the central seat, then reached up and began unlatching the huge flight helmet. As he did, his eyes were suddenly flooded with grief.

  "They killed him." He paused for a moment and just stared. Vance thought he'd finally become befuddled from the shock. But then he choked back his emotion and continued. "We're going on the deck. Under their goddam radar."

  "What did you say?" Vance strained to catch his words. The English was slurred.

  He seemed to grow faint, his consciousness wane, but he finally revived as he finished yanking the giant helmet down over his head.

  Vance's headphones came alive as he heard the Russian. "Daedalus I to Control. Do you read? I am now bringing up core rpm for starboard cluster, outboard trident." A second later, he continued, "We have S-O ignition."

  "Yuri," came a startled radio voice, "what in hell is going on! You can't-"

  "Portside cluster, outboard. Rpm up," he continued in Russian, his voice halting. "We have P-O ignition."

  "Yuri, you can't-?"

  "Starboard cluster, inboard. Bringing up. Portside cluster, inboard-"

  "Androv, for godsake, have you gone mad?"

  "Sergei, I told them to clear the hangar. I'm taking her to full power."

  "The liquid hydrogen tanks are in there. You could blow the whole hangar to hell if you use afterburners. You must be crazy!"

  "The bastards gunned him down, Sergei." He caught a sob. "It was my fault. I should have warned-"

  "What are you talking about? Gunned who down?"

  But Yuri Androv's mind was already elsewhere, drifting into a grief-obsessed dream state.

  "Engine start complete," he continued. "Beginning pre-takeoff sequence."

  Will he be able to get this thing off the ground? Vance was wondering. He's shot up and now he's falling apart.

  Guess we're about to find out. The fuselage cameras are showing an empty hangar. Everybody's run for cover.

  "Eva, want to take that seat? I'll take this one. No free drinks in this forward cabin section." He was speaking through his upraised helmet visor as he eased himself into the right-hand G-seat.

  "And buckle up for safety." She settled herself in the left. "Let's just hope he can still manage this monster. It's a Saturn V with wings."

  "He's got his talking computer, if she'll still cooperate. Do me a favor and translate now and then."

  "Machines are supposed to translate for people, not the other way around. We're in space warp."

  "I believe it."

  As he pulled down the overhead seat straps, he found himself wondering what Daedalus would feel like in full afterburner mode. Those turboramjets made a Boeing 747's massive JT-9Ds look like prime movers for a medium-sized lawnmower.

  "Power to military thrust." Androv was easing forward the twin throttles, spooling them up past three-quarters power. Daedalus had begun to quiver, shaking like a mighty mountain in tectonic upheaval.

  "Prepare for brake release."

  The scree
ns on the wall above reported fuel consumption edging toward three hundred pounds of JP-7 a second.

  "Yuri," the radio crackled, "don't-"

  "Pavel's got his men out of the hangar, Sergei. I can see on my screen. I'm going cold mike now. No distractions. Just wish me luck."

  There was a click as he switched off the communications in his helmet. He missed a new radio voice by only a second. It was speaking in English.

  "Dr. Vance, what is going on? He's just cut his radio link with Flight Control. He's deranged. I order you to halt the flight sequence. He could destroy both planes by going to afterburners in the hangar. I demand this be stopped."

  Vance glanced up at the TV monitors. An auxiliary screen showed Tanzan Mino standing at the main Flight Control console, surrounded by more kobun, who had muscled aside the Russian technicians. He also noticed that a lot of Soviet brass were there too.

  "Looks like you've got a problem."

  "I'm warning you I will shut you down. I can activate the automatic AI override three minutes after takeoff. The plane will return and land automatically."

  "Three minutes is a long time." Vance wondered if it was true, or a bluff. "We'll take our chances."

  "You'd leave me no choice."

  "May the best man win."

  "Petra, brake release." Yuri Androv's voice sounded from beneath his helmet.

  "Acknowledged."

  Vance looked across to see his left hand signal a thumbs-up sign, then reach down for the throttle quadrant. The vehicle was already rolling through the wide doors of the hangar, so if there were an explosion now, at least they'd be in the clear.

  Androv paused a second, mumbled something in Russian, then shoved the heavy handles forward to Lock, commanding all twelve engines to max afterburner. The JP-7 fuel reading whirled from a feed of three hundred pounds a second to twenty-one hundred, and an instant thereafter the cockpit was slammed by the hammer of God as the monitor image of the hangar dissolved in orange.