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  A short, stout, balding man in his early fifties rises through the opening. He is not Sam. Rhonda stares at him. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘If you speak again you die.’ The man has a French accent and holds a silenced pistol in his right hand.

  Rhonda’s first thought is that it’s a prank, a bad one, something Sam and the White Room boys had cooked up for her because she could be a pain-in-the-arse hardarse.

  ‘We haven’t got time for this —’

  The pistol spits.

  Henri turns to Nico and gestures at the two remaining crew members. ‘Tie them down then get started.’ Nico nods and moves into the flight deck.

  The Frenchman triggers his walkie and speaks into it: ‘Tam, show them.’ He then pulls a black ski mask from his pocket and slides it on.

  **

  Tam is slumped on his side, eyes closed, breathing shallow. The cottonmouth’s poison has all but completed its assignment. All he wants to do is rest but he can’t until he completes one final task. He slowly moves his hand across the MacBook’s keyboard and types three letters.

  V I D

  Now he can sleep.

  **

  The video monitors in Firing Room Four blink out of grey hash and all 180 people gasp as one.

  Severson steps forward and studies the monitor. It shows a high, wide-angle image of the crew access arm. Two men stand, wearing black ski masks and holding silenced pistols. On their knees in front of them are astronaut Nigel Dunderfield, Sam ‘the Walrus’ and technician Baz Kay. Their wrists and ankles are bound together with thick zip ties and their mouths are taped shut. To Nigel’s left, lying face down, is Rick Calvin. Severson can see he’s dead.

  The White Room’s door judders open. A third man, also wearing a ski mask, backs out onto the crew access arm. He’s short and stout and drags something behind him. Severson can’t see what it is - then he can.

  Another body. One of the shuttle crew.

  Christ, it’s Rhonda.

  No, Steinhower. It’s Steinhower. Severson is horrified. The poor bastard. Steinhower could be an annoying whiner but no one deserves that - a bullet in the chest, from the look of it. The short guy deposits the body next to Calvin’s.

  Severson rubs at his face, horrified by what’s happening, any thought of being cool a distant memory.

  The short man takes the comms box and headset from Steinhower’s body, pulls them on, triggers the switch and talks directly into the security camera. ‘Mr Burke, I am now the commander of Atlantis and its remaining crew.’

  ‘Who the hell is this?’ Severson tries to invest the question with authority. It doesn’t work. His voice cracks and flutters like a nervous fourteen-year-old who’s thrown caution to the wind and asked out the prom queen in front of her quarterback boyfriend.

  ‘I’m sure you remember the Challenger fiasco in 1986 and the Columbia disaster in 2003. They will seem like minor footnotes in the history of this space program unless you obey my every word.’

  Severson’s sure the accent is French. The man gestures to the hostages kneeling on the catwalk. ‘Do not speak unless you are answering a question. For each command you disobey one of these men will die. Is this clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Allow no security or SWAT personnel to approach pad 39A. Is this understood?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what you expect will happen —’

  The Frenchman fires his pistol into Nigel Dunderfield’s temple. The young man slumps to the ground.

  ‘I said do not speak unless you are answering a question. Now, once again, allow no security personnel to approach pad 39A. Is this understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stand by for further instructions.’

  Severson stares at the monitor, stunned, his face blanched. His first thought is for the dead men and the remaining crew. His second thought is for how he’s worked too long and hard to let his career end like this. He must fix this, and quickly.

  The launch team murmur, in shock. Someone sobs. Every eye in the room is on Severson as they await their director’s guidance. Severson’s hand moves to his comms box switch, the other moves to his headset microphone. He wants to rally the troops, to outline a course of action, to lead. He opens his mouth to speak - but doesn’t say a word. He’s got nothing.

  **

  12

  Shooting that man was not something Henri enjoyed, but the launch director needed to understand that dissent would not be tolerated. Henri believed the message had now been clearly received.

  With Dirk in tow Henri leaves Cobbin with the hostages and quickly enters the White Room. He pulls off the ski mask, swings off his backpack and takes out a black flight suit. It’s similar to the orange Advanced Crew Escape Suit NASA astronauts wear, including a ventilation and cooling system and integrated pressure bladders to stop blood pooling in the legs during high-G-force manoeuvres.

  Henri swaps his Nomex suit for the flight suit and deposits the pistol in his backpack. As planned, Rick Calvin’s helmet and gloves hang on the White Room’s wall, awaiting their late owner. Henri twists them onto the suit’s locking rings then flips up the helmet’s visor. The whole procedure takes less than ninety seconds.

  Backpack in hand, Henri slides through the shuttle’s circular entry hatch. Once inside he turns to Dirk. ‘See you soon.’

  ‘Happy trails, Commander.’ They clasp hands and share a grin, then Henri disappears into the belly of Atlantis.

  **

  Judd watches the German seal up the shuttle’s hatch. The astronaut has crawled along the horizontal duct, squeezed through the air-conditioning junction then up the long vertical duct that runs parallel to the White Room’s inner wall.

  He lies on a short horizontal section of duct that ends at a mesh screen that pulls air out of the White Room. His legs dangle down the vertical shaft as he peers through the vent, placed high on the White Room’s wall, opposite where the German seals the hatch. Judd’s surprised the man knows how to do it, it’s a complicated process, but of more interest to him is why. Why is he sealing the hatch?

  Ockham’s Razor. The principle, devised by a fourteenth-century Franciscan friar named William of Ockham, postulated that, all things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually correct. And the simplest explanation is that this group is trying to hijack the shuttle.

  Judd doesn’t believe it can be done. It’s not even something NASA considers a serious possibility. Someone blowing up the shuttle, yes, that’s a possibility; a ground-to-air missile would do the trick. Or someone taking astronauts hostage, yes, that’s a possibility. But someone stealing a space shuttle off the pad? Launching it into orbit? That was Hollywood nonsense.

  The shuttle is the most complicated vehicle ever built. You need years of training to understand its myriad systems. Even an astronaut who understood the ship would need someone in Launch Control willing to push the right button at the right time. So Judd’s certain there must be another reason the German’s sealing the hatch. He just doesn’t know what it is.

  And where’s Rhonda? The simplest explanation is that she’s still inside the shuttle. From where Judd lies he can’t see anyone except the German. He doesn’t even know how many buddies Tango brought to this party, apart from the older guy with the French accent who’s now inside the spacecraft. Simply, he knows nothing so he needs to stop wasting time and find out.

  He takes a deep breath, readies himself for the trip down the duct, then through the vent and into the White Room where he will tackle the German, knock him out and, if all goes well, end this thing.

  Ready. Set. He doesn’t go. He needs the element of surprise, the only advantage on offer tonight. He must wait until the German turns his back.

  **

  Henri works his way across the flight deck like a kid scaling a jungle gym then settles into the commander’s chair. He glances at his female hostages, both strapped into the seats behind him. Hel
mets on, their wrists are ziplocked to the seat’s alloy frames with thick cable ties. They do not speak. They have seen firsthand the penalty for that transgression.

  Martie Burnett’s head is bowed and she stares at the ventilation hose attached to her flightsuit’s waist. Her body language is obvious: she is cowed. Not so Rhonda Jacolby in the chair to her left. As he expected, her eyes are locked on him. She takes him in, weighs him up, searches him out. She seeks a weakness. An oversight. An opening. A way to regain control of her ship. He finds her defiance admirable, if misguided.

  Henri buckles in and turns to Nico beside him. The Italian studies the MacBook Pro clamped to the side of the instrument panel. Its Thunderbolt port is linked via cable to an open panel beside the LCD screens in front of him. ‘How long?’

  Nico works the MacBook’s keyboard, reads its screen: ‘One minute.’

  **

  If they launch this shuttle the manned space program will cease to exist. Rhonda’s sure of it. First Challenger then Columbia then strike number three, this colossal screw-up. They’ll pull the plug on the whole damn thing. She can’t let that happen. This is her ship so it is her responsibility.

  She strains against the fat plastic cable tie that encircles her left wrist. It doesn’t budge. She tries the same with her right arm. It moves, opens. She tilts her head, studies it. The cable tie has been placed on the wrong way around, so the teeth aren’t engaged with the locking mechanism. When the guy with the Italian accent strapped it down he did it wrong. If she pulls on it her arm will come free. She doesn’t get excited, just thinks about what to do next. She saw the Italian place his pistol in the backpack that rests beside him, which is, at a stretch, within her reach. If she can get her hand on that gun, fire it if needed, then this ends here. She knows it’s easier thought than done but she can’t see another option. She must try.

  She turns to Martie. Their eyes meet and Rhonda takes in her friend’s face. It’s the drained visage of a person unaccustomed to death, who has just witnessed a friend slaughtered before her eyes. It is the polar opposite of Rhonda’s resolve.

  Rhonda moves her left arm, shows her friend the tie. Martie stares at her. Rhonda silently mouths the words: ‘Get ready —’

  ‘Henri, her left arm isn’t tied down properly.’

  ‘What?’ Nico turns, grabs the pistol from his backpack, studies Rhonda’s arm. He’s mortified by the mistake.

  Rhonda stares at Martie. It’s the second time she’s been flabbergasted this week. ‘You’re with them?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’ The apology sounds genuine.

  ‘Thank you, Ms Burnett.’ Nico unbuckles his belts, leans back, yanks off the cable tie, straps it on properly, makes sure it’s secure. He slides back into his chair, nods a chastened ‘sorry’ to Henri.

  Rhonda’s eyes drill into Martie. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘You won’t understand.’

  ‘Understand what?’

  Henri turns to the southerner. ‘Maybe she will.’

  ‘No, she won’t.’ Martie looks at Rhonda. ‘But even if you understood the reason you’d never agree with our course of action so there’s no point discussing it.’ Her voice is calm, measured, like she long ago found justification for the actions she would take tonight.

  Rhonda has no words. She’s never had her feelings for someone she held close turn so abruptly. She’d seen it happen in movies and on television, but had always thought it a lazy contrivance. Yet here she was, hating a woman who had been her best friend just moments ago. ‘Why are you strapped into the chair?’

  The Frenchman answers. ‘Because we knew you’d try something and would confide in your friend.’

  ‘I’m sorry, darlin’.’ Again, Martie sounds genuine.

  Nico turns from the MacBook to Henri, nods. ‘We’re ready.’

  The Frenchman triggers his comms box and speaks into his headset’s microphone. ‘Mr Burke, you have fifteen seconds to untether the umbilical or another one of your people will die.’

  Henri knows that if the shuttle is tethered it can’t fly. The umbilical fuel lines that link the spacecraft to the gigantic ball-shaped bottles at the far corners of the pad need to be disconnected before launch, otherwise they will rip free and spew liquid hydrogen and oxygen across the launch complex, after which the noxious chemicals will be ignited by the heat of the shuttle’s engines and the whole kit and caboodle will explode.

  **

  Severson wishes he could stop time. He’d then be able to plan a course of action. Instead he has fifteen seconds. Less, because he’s wasting precious seconds wishing he could stop time.

  Should he untether the umbilical? He doesn’t know. What he does know is what’s displayed on the monitor in front of him. One of the masked men holds a gun to Sam the Walrus’s head.

  ‘Five seconds, Mr Burke.’

  Severson has the power to decide the old man’s fate. To play God. He turns to Jeremiah Wexford, who sits to his right. The bearded technician stares at him and waits for his order, fingers poised over his keyboard.

  Severson nods.

  **

  A low clunk. Judd knows the sound. The fueling umbilical is being untethered from the shuttle. He still doesn’t believe the shuttle can be launched but now thinks this group just might try. Considering the explosive power contained within the external tank and solid rockets, it makes what he needs to do now all the more urgent.

  The German turns around.

  That’s the advantage Judd needs. He punches the mesh screen in front of him, grabs the end of the vent with both hands and hauls himself into the room head first, the sound of his body sliding along the narrow metal duct nothing short of deafening. He drops and hits the floor. His injured hip screams in protest but he blanks out the pain, scrambles to his feet and charges the German.

  The German thinks the sound is coming from the crew access arm outside. He pivots towards the White Room’s door and completely turns his back to Judd.

  Yes! Judd now has the element of surprise. And, even better, a pistol is shoved into the German’s belt behind his back. If Judd can get that gun this all ends now. He lunges towards it.

  Tango in Berlin realises his mistake and pivots and Judd misses the pistol. The consolation prize is that he hits Tango hard, drives him into the far wall. They bounce off and thump to the floor.

  Judd lands on top of the German, their faces so close he can smell his breath, which is surprisingly fresh. Judd headbutts him. Tango’s head flicks back and whacks the thin carpet. Judd scrambles to his knees and wrenches at the German’s torso, to turn him over and get the pistol.

  Tango’s fist connects where Judd’s jaw meets his skull. The pain is exquisite. Stunned, Judd keels over and slumps to the ground without throwing out a hand to break his fall. If the situation wasn’t so dire it’d be comical. His head hits the carpet with a dull noise.

  The German finds his feet, drags the Glock from his belt and swings it towards his attacker.

  **

  Nico works the MacBook’s keyboard.

  ‘IMU pre-flight alignment, GPC and BFS complete.’

  Henri nods as Nico hears a sharp intake of breath from behind him. Clearly Ms Jacolby’s surprised they have control of the spacecraft.

  Running a software package of Nico’s own design, the MacBook is linked via a high-speed USB2 cable to a port on one of Atlantis’s five IBM AP-101 flight computers. Years ago, when the tender went out to convert the shuttle fleet’s old-style analogue flight deck to an entirely digital ‘glass’ flight deck, Nico hacked into the server of the bidder with the weakest security and downloaded the specs. After three months of studying the plans and writing code, he created a software package that allows him to control all the spacecraft’s systems from his MacBook without interference from Launch Control.

  Unfortunately, taking control of some launch pad functions, such as untethering the fuel umbilical and retractin
g the catwalk, had proved to be impossible. The only way that can happen is through the good graces of the man in charge of Launch Control.

  **

  Dirk aims his pistol at Judd Bell. He wasn’t dead after all, but he soon will be. He won’t be able to expose Dirk’s true identity and the German couldn’t be more relieved about that.

  The astronaut flicks up his right foot. It hits the fleshy underside of Dirk’s left hand and the pistol is knocked upwards.

  ‘Scheisse.’ Dirk’s so busy being relieved he takes too long to pull the trigger. He re-aims, but the astronaut swings his foot again. It has more power this time and kicks the weapon clean out of Dirk’s hand. The Glock loops across the room and hits carpet a metre from the door.