Vance had never been more scared in his life. This made a day at a
stormy helm seem like a Sunday stroll. The down-draft was spinning him
violently now, a lesson that rappelling was not for the faint of heart.
Then he remembered some basic physics and held out his arms, helplessly
flapping like a wounded bird. But it was enough, as his spin
immediately slowed.
He was dizzy now, but when he came around, he got an overview of the
launch facility, and the glimpse made him realize that something had
gone terribly wrong. What were those? Two Apache helicopters were
hovering and they were firing on . . . on the Bates Motel. Just beyond
the fallen gantry.
Why! Ramirez and all his goons were gone or dead.
Bill Bates, who also had seen it all, had a better understanding of
what was under way. It was a massive failure of communications.
Thinking as quickly as he could, he started negotiating the Agusta
around, situating VX-1 between him and the Apaches. The fucking Delta
Force had come in like gangbusters and was shooting at the wrong
target. There was no time to try to raise them on the radio, and
besides, he only had two hands.
Down below, Vance slammed against the hard metal of the nose, and then
rotated, one-handed, to try to take measure of what to do next. It
wasn't going to be easy, that much was sure. The payload bay was sealed
with a Teflon ring, which was itself secured with a series of
streamlined clamps that were bolted from inside, designed for automated
control. But . . . there also was lettering next to a thumb-operated
hatch that read EMERGENCY RELEASE.
He flipped it open and, bracing himself against the side of the silver
cone to try to overcome the destabilizing down- draft, looked in. A red
button, held down for safety by another thumb latch, stared back.
What the heck, he thought, you've got nothing to lose. He flipped the
thumb safety, and then--bracing himself to try to slow his erratic spin--
slammed a heel into the button. Nothing happened for a second, but then
the Teflon clamps on the cargo bay began to click open one by one.
Up above him, Cally was yelling something, but he couldn't make out her
voice above the roar of the engines. Anyway, whatever it was, it would
have to wait. There was only one thing left to do, and he had to press
on. The clamps were now released, but the cargo bay was still closed. .
. .
At that moment, he began experiencing yet another failure of nerve.
There could only be a minute left, two at most, and he didn't have the
slightest idea what to do next.
Then he noticed the heavy release levers, positioned beneath the Teflon
clamps and circling the three sides of the streamlined door. Once more
bracing himself against the slippery side of the nose, he began
clicking them open, starting on the left and working his way around.
Time is surely running out, he told himself. This could end up being
the stupidest stunt ever attempted. The roar of the Agusta above was so
deafening he could barely think. He felt all of his forty-nine years, a
weight crushing down on him with the finality of eternity. . . .
Then the last clamp snapped free, and he watched as the door opened by
itself, slowly swinging upward. It was heavy, shaped like the pressure
door on an airplane fuselage, and designed to withstand the frictional
heat of space flight. But the spring mountings on the recessed hinges
were intended to open and close automatically.
And there sat a metallic sphere outfitted with a jumble of connectors
and switches. So that's what a bomb looks like, he marveled. It was
somehow nothing like he had imagined, if he had had time to imagine.
Now Bates had lowered the helo just enough to allow him to slide inside
and take the weight off the line. Finally he could breathe, but again
the matter of passing seconds had all his attention. If the vehicle
really was going up at 7:48, then there probably was less than a minute
left now to get the device unhooked and out.
He looked it over, puzzling, and decided on one giant gamble, one all-
or-nothing turn of the wheel. It was a terrifying feeling.
Quickly he untied the wire from around his waist, and began looping it
around the metal sphere: once, twice, three times. There was no time,
and no way, to disconnect the telemetry, so the device would simply
have to be ripped out. One thing was sure: if it blew, he would never
be the wiser.
When he had the wire secure, or as secure as he could make it, he
looked out the door and gave Cally a thumbs-up sign, hoping she would
understand. She did. She turned and yelled something to Bates, and a
moment later the Agusta began to power out as the pitch of the blades
slowly changed. The line grew taut, then strained against the sides of
the bomb, tightening his knots.
Will the wire hold? he wondered, and does this little toy helo have
enough lift to yank this thing out of here? It's like pulling a giant
tooth.
Then there was a ripping sound as the connectors attached to the sphere
began tearing loose. So far so good, he thought. At least the telemetry
is now history. If the vehicle goes up now, it'll be orbiting a dud.
Mission partly accomplished.
Then the bomb pulled away from its last moorings and slammed against
the side of the door, leaving him pinned against the frame, unable to
breathe. But he instinctively grabbed the line and wrapped his legs
around the sphere, just as it rotated and broke free. As it bumped
against the doorframe of the payload bay, he barely missed hitting the
closing door, but he ducked and swung free, into the open air, riding
the device as though it were a giant wrecking ball.