Now what?
Vance rose and started walking toward an opening he saw that led into
the underground launch facility. Maybe, he was thinking, he could slip
into Launch Control and somehow sabotage the vehicle itself. A dark
tunnel branched off on his right--the lights were off--so he probably
could go directly
Okay, he thought, assume one of the bombs must already be installed on
the first vehicle and ready for launch. But given all the krytron
detonators the Pakistani had, there could well be more. Maybe you
should try and find them, see what you can learn. Could there be a way
to disable the weapon now poised up there without having to reach it?
Maybe disarm it electronically?
He tried to guess what the firing mechanism could be. Clearly if you
were planning to deliver a nuke, you were going to need some way to
control the detonation. So how did it work? Maybe a pressure apparatus
that could blow it on the way down, during the reentry phase? Why not?
As the vehicle encountered denser and denser atmosphere, pressure could
activate a switch that sensed the altitude and instigated detonation at
a preprogrammed height.
Or . . . another possibility was a radio-controlled device connected to
the guidance system in the computer. That would be trickier, but it
might ultimately be more reliable.
It also might be easier to abort. In fact, the whole thing might be
doable from here on the ground. . . .
But what if he got caught? His Uzi was empty; Cally had his Walther;
and nothing now stood between him and the terrorists except his own . .
. bad luck.
As he edged into the darkened tunnel, he felt the coolness envelop him.
The whole operation now felt as though it were in a shroud. . . .
He was almost at the end when he heard the steel door behind him slam
shut. He whirled to look, but nothing betrayed any sign of life.
Instead there was only stony silence, punctuated by the mechanical hum
of the facility's underground environmental control system. But as he
turned back, two figures stood in the doorway ahead.
Oh, shit!
He hit the floor just as it started, a ricochet of bullets slapping
around him. Then, as abruptly as the fusillade had begun, it stopped.
He was so astonished to still be alive he barely heard the voice from
the smoky doorway cut through the sudden silence. Then it registered,
accent and all.
"Is that you, my friend?" A pause. "You are like the cat with nine
lives, and until a second ago you had used only eight. I assume your
ninth got you through my colleagues' burst of impetuosity just now. But
I want to see you before I kill you."
"Your counting system needs work," Vance said, still in shock. He
gingerly pulled himself up off the floor, fully expecting to be shot
then and there. The thought made him giddy, feeling like a Zen master
living as though already dead. "I've got eight and a half left."
"So it is you." The accent was unmistakable. "Don't make me sorry I
didn't let Wolf here finish you just now. However, this matter is
personal. I want the satisfaction of doing it myself."
Vance stepped into the light. "Sabri Ramirez. I can't really say it's a
pleasure to meet you." The giddy feeling was growing. "I feel like I'm
going to need a shower, just being in the same space."