The Omega Command

by Jon Land

  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.

  “See you tomorrow morning, Blainey,” Wareagle said fondly before snapping McCracken’s helmet into place.

  “Hopefully.”

  “Hope has nothing to do with it. Just give yourself up to the spirits. They’ll take care of the rest.”

  “I thought you said they don’t roam the skies.”

  “The skies will be new for them … as they will for you.”

  Blaine shrugged.

  He kept his eyes away from those leading him from the preparations building toward the shuttle van that would take him to the launching pad. Wearing a helmet at this point was not an unheard-of practice but not the expected one either. The guards and technicians, though, didn’t seem to be paying much attention. This was, after all, just a dry run. The real thing was tomorrow and they were saving their enthusiasm and emotion for then. Today being Christmas was a blessing as well, an added preoccupation for workers forced to be away from their families.

  Wareagle’s mission, meanwhile, was to remain in the preparations building and keep anyone from entering the room in which the real weapons officer lay unconscious until Blaine was safely on board Pegasus.

  McCracken was helped into the waiting van that drove across the black tar toward the shuttle. The gantry still rested near it, to be removed as soon as Pegasus’s final crew member was deposited inside. Blaine breathed easier. Besides the driver, only two men had accompanied him in the van, and neither spoke.

  Blaine, though, was boiling inside his suit and the confinement of it was nearly unbearable. Never mind the fact that he was about to suffer a launch into deep space with no training or preparation whatsoever. Worrying about that would do him no good at this point. The fact was he would soon be on board Pegasus, leading it on an intercept course with the killer satellite that would begin its deadly pass at eight P.M. that evening.

  The two men who had accompanied him helped Blaine down out of the van and joined him in a small elevator that was open in the front. The ride up the gantry to the shuttle’s hatchway seemed interminable. Blaine passed through it uneasily with the men’s assistance and then climbed upward to the front cabin dragging his air conditioner along. As he drew nearer the cockpit, an impatient voice laced with a southern accent found his ears.

  “I don’t know where he is, I tell ya. They told me he’s on his way, boss. … Yeah, I know. But I’m just saying that if I get up in space and can’t take a shit, I might open a window and let it fall right on your lap.” The speaker, the commander obviously, turned toward Blaine as he made his way through the doorway into the cockpit, holding tight to the handgrips. “It’s about time, Gus.” Then, back into his headset, “He’s here, boss. We’re ready to begin the launch sequence.”

  By the time the captain turned
toward him again, McCracken had his helmet off and a nine-millimeter pistol in his hand.

  Captain Paul Petersen did a double take, eyes bulging. “What the blue blazin’ fuck is—”

  Blaine cut him off with his best rendition of a Spanish accent. “Take thees plane to Cuba, mahn.”

  “You’re being what?” Nathan Jamrock emptied a pile of Rolaids onto his desk.

  “Hijacked,” came Petersen’s monotonal reply.

  “You can’t hijack a space shuttle!” Jamrock shrieked. “The flight’s not even scheduled until tomorrow.”

  “We’re bumping things up a bit,” a new voice said.

  “Who is this?”

  “Santa Claus. I left my sleigh in a tow zone last night and I’ve got to get back to the North Pole pronto. The wife, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Jamrock,” Blaine continued in a more serious tone, “I have a bomb on board this shuttle wired to go off with a simple touch of my finger. Twenty pounds of potent plastic explosives. Captain Petersen will confirm all this later. For now, just consider what would happen if Pegasus’s multi-ton fuel tanks went up. Remember Challenger? I’ve heard the effects on ground level would not be unlike a minor nuclear explosion of over three kilotons. Lots of damage. Kiss Cape Canaveral good-bye.”

  Jamrock popped four Rolaids into his mouth. The man knew what he was talking about. How he had gotten on board the shuttle was something else again. But he had done the impossible and thus must be assumed capable of anything.

  “Okay,” he relented, “how much do you want?”

  “Money? None. I want the shuttle. It launches within one hour or I push the button.”

  “What? That’s … impossible!”

  “A dry run is close enough to the real thing to make the necessary changes, Mr. Jamrock.”

  “No, we can’t work that way. The program’s different since reactivation. We can’t take chances. Lives are at stake.”

  “My point exactly. One hour.”

  Jamrock searched for a way out, couldn’t find one. “Why?” he managed. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Is this communication line open?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Can anyone else hear what we’re saying, dammit?”

  “A few,” Jamrock admitted. “I put out the emergency signal.”

  “Well, I hope they’ve got top security clearances,” Blaine said into his mouthpiece, gun still held on the pilot and copilot. “This isn’t a random act, Mr. Jamrock, nor is it political. I know the basis of Pegasus’s mission tomorrow. Only tomorrow will be too late.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Adventurer was destroyed by something in space and you’re sending Pegasus up to return the favor. This shuttle’s armed with laser cannons that may or may not be a match for what it’s going to be taking on upstairs.”

  “How do you—”

  “It doesn’t matter. I know what we’re fighting here. I know what it’s capable of and I know who put it up there. And I know what’s going to happen at eight o’clock tonight if it isn’t destroyed. But most of all I know the damn thing’s coordinates so you brains down here can plot an intercept course heading.”

  “You’re not making any sense,” Jamrock gasped, realizing he was.

  “You’ve got to trust me.”

  “How can I trust someone who’s trying to hijack a space shuttle?”

  “I’m not trying, Jamrock. I’ve already done it. And don’t even bother considering anything melodramatic like a commando raid because it won’t work and a lot of innocent people would get blown up for the effort.”

  Jamrock hesitated. He needed to stall while security got a fix on what was going on. The FBI was already on the way.

  “I need specifics. Names, dates, explanations of who’s behind these … things you allege.”

  “There’s no time. If you haven’t called the President yet, you’re about to. Let me speak to him.” Blaine smiled faintly. “Tell him it’s McCrackenballs, and I’m ready to bust some more nuts.”

  Chapter 33

  THE CUBICLE CONTAINING the direct line to the White House was hot and stuffy, suffering from poor ventilation. Jam-rock completed a summary of what had just happened.

  “Did the shuttle commander confirm the existence of these explosives?” the President asked at the end.

  “He’s no expert but he said they’ve got the potential to cause a big bang. Security’s already issued me a report on how they could take the shuttle back. We’ve got contingencies for this sort of—”

  “No!” the President ordered. “Under no circumstances will you do anything of the kind. You don’t know who we’re dealing with here. Just trust me.”

  “That’s what McCracken said.”

  “Well, maybe we should.”

  “Sir?”

  “Patch a line through to him for me, Nate. Let’s hear what he’s got to say.”

  “We tried to locate you after you called in from Newport,” the President told Blaine minutes later. “Stimson’s death knocked us for a loop. We didn’t realize it was you he was still running.”

  “Somebody made it hard for me to drop by. As they say, there’s a price on my head.”

  “Placed by whom?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “We’ve still got fifty-one minutes until your launch.”

  And Blaine highlighted as best he could the events of the last ten days from Easton’s discovery and subsequent murder, to its connection with Sahhan and the PVR; from the shootout at Madame Rosa’s, to his trip to Paris which led him to San Melas and Krayman Industries’ second army. Here he switched tracks to the discoveries made by Sandy Lister, confirmed and elaborated on by Simon Terrell. Finally, Blaine related the events on Horse Neck Island and his subsequent trip to Florida. In all, the story took twenty minutes to tell, a labyrinth journey of death and violence leading, perhaps irrevocably, to a new system of order in the United States.

  “And you say these Krayman people are everywhere?” the President asked.

  “They’re Hollins people now but, yes, everywhere it matters. They’re poised to take control. No one’s above suspicion. You’ve got to be as careful as I do.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Order the shuttle to launch, Mr. President,” McCracken told him. “We’ve got to intercept that satellite before it begins transmitting its signal.”

  “And Sahhan’s troops?”

  “According to the contingency plan, they won’t mobilize until the satellite does its part. Without the satellite they’ll be neutralized and so will the mercenaries.”

  “You make it sound simple.”

  “I don’t mean to. It’s anything but. Just because Pegasus goes up doesn’t necessarily mean it’s going to succeed. If it doesn’t, you’ll have to stop Sahhan with more conventional methods. I’d recommend putting some contingency wheels of our own in motion now, like preparing the army to mobilize into all major cities. Otherwise lots of people might not be opening their Christmas presents next year.”

  “Right,” the President said. Then after a pause he spoke again. “I’m going to order Jamrock to get the shuttle up as soon as he can. I don’t suppose there’s any way of persuading you to vacate the cockpit.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Then have a nice flight.”

  “You don’t mind, fella, I’d appreciate you puttin’ that thing down now,” Captain Petersen requested, his eyes on Blaine’s pistol.

  “I feel better with it in my hand.”

  “Look, I’m on your side. If you can help us find the damn thing we’re supposed to shoot down, I say fuck the rest of ’em. But have you ever been up in a space ship before?”

  “I was always good on roller coasters.”

  “Yeah, well, multiply that feeling by about five and you’ve got yourself three Gs, which is what we’ll be facing at takeoff. Better men than you have passed out from the pressure.”
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  “I brought my Dramamine.”

  “We are at T-minus twenty-two minutes to lift-off.”

  Activity at both the Johnson Space Center in Houston and Kennedy Space Center in Florida became frantic with the announcement that the dry run had become the real thing. Personnel scurried about, the most practical ones stealing a few minutes to toss plastic covers over their cars to prevent damage from the hot dust the launch would scatter over a quarter-mile radius.

  “We are at T-minus twenty minutes. …”

  The emergency alarm had shrilled through the base for a full minute after the launch order was received from the White House.

  “This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill. Emergency launch procedures now in effect. Emergency launch procedures now in effect.”

  Since the run-through included all the procedures of the actual launch, the Pegasus crews in both Houston and Florida were able to pick up where the drill left off, albeit with a faster stride and more resolute approach. The only problem encountered thus far had been a burned-out motor in the gantry which had to be moved from the launching pad before Pegasus could take off. The Florida ground crew ended up towing it out of the way with the help of two bulldozers.

  “We are at T-minus twelve minutes. …”

  “All systems are go. All light are green.”

  On board Pegasus Captain Petersen was helping Blaine strap himself into takeoff position, with the gun still making him nervous as he tightened the straps around McCracken’s waist and chest.

  “I hope you plan on puttin’ that thing away before we take off, fella.”

  “Just as soon as you’re strapped in too, Commander,” Blaine told him, his eyes on the ever-silent copilot as well.