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? Discov-
ered 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.