By Kevin J. Anderson
As American and Russian astronauts take their positions aboard the commute Atlantis, terrorists grab the Kennedy area heart and threaten to explode the commute if their calls for aren't met, and it's as much as the mission's injured former commander to forestall them. 35,000 first printing.
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Sample text
It was not yet six o'clock, and they had minutes to spare. He found himself breathing hard, and sweat rolled down his face, more from the damned humidity than the physical exertion. He used his camouflaged sleeve to brush away the perspiration, then fumbled in his back for a portable beeper. Cueball remained vigilant, inspecting the territory they had taken. Mory punched in the Skypage number and entered a code in the small transmitter. Mr. Phillips needed to be kept apprised of their progress.
Yeah," Iceberg muttered. He turned away from the small TV set and looked through his binoculars at the launchpad. ' " Iceberg studied the shuttle as Nicole's interview continued. Her voice brought back the memory of her being on the training team with them, and the fun they'd had with so many things in common, when she was part of operations, not management and fluff. He supposed the world needed those kinds of people—the maintenance crews, the launch infrastructure, even the PR flacks and lobbyists that ran interference before Congress.
I heard that, Gator! " Major Arlan Burns was the crew's sole remaining Air Force officer—now that Iceberg had been pulled from the mission. Gator waved the comment aside with a laugh. Stooping down, he climbed into the shuttle, using the mid-deck wall as the floor. He walked in a low crouch, stepping over hand and foot grips, and made his way to the flight deck. There the pilot's seat was on the far right, its back to the floor. The front section of the flight deck was covered with lighted panels, old screen displays, and switches masked by metal guards—technology straight from the seventies, but it worked, virtually guaranteed not to fail.