Zero-G (31 page)

Myra felt Gary wiggling under her arm. A moment later, a dim light illuminated his face.

“No. No bars. I'm sorry, Grandpa.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, buddy. There may not be ser vice in this area, or the metal sides of this container may be blocking the signal. Let me see that for a moment.”

The light moved from Gary to Benjamin. “Did you know that during the 9/11 attacks, the people in the Twin Towers used cell phones as flashlights to make their way down darkened stairways? I've heard of others doing the same thing during fires.”

First, he held the phone near the thin crack that separated the two doors. No light came through the thin separation where the doors met because a flange on one of the doors overlapped the second. Next Benjamin used the weak light from the phone and studied the rods that ran from floor to ceiling — the rods for the locking mechanism that held the doors in place.

He took hold of the rod and tried to move it up and down, but it traveled less than a quarter of an inch. “On the outside, this thing may look like it's ready to fall apart, but it's pretty sound inside. There is no way I'm going to be able to free us this way. The guy has thought of everything.”

Still using the cell phone as a flashlight, Benjamin worked his way around the base of the container and then made another circuit examining the ceiling where it met the walls. Myra watched every step. He found nothing to give them hope. Finally, Benjamin made his way over to her and the children, then sat down on the floor.

“What now, Grandpa?” Penny's question pierced Myra's soul.

“I think it's time we started praying for ideas.”

They joined hands and Benjamin began to pray. Myra did her best to focus on his words, but her mind continued to run to her husband. If they were in danger, certainly he must be too.

A hot stream of tears ran down her cheeks. For the first time since being locked in the large container, she was glad for the dark. . . .

Ganzi was confused. He had successfully followed the black Lincoln Continental along the path from the hotel to the SpaceVentures location, but just when the car should have made a right and headed north to the spaceport, it sped up and continued west. This put him in a tough spot. It was easy for one driver to follow another if one was patient and allowed sufficient space between cars, but it also required a good measure of other traffic. When he left the hotel, he had all those things, but the closer they came to the spaceport, the thinner the line of cars became. Still, there was sufficient traffic for Ganzi to keep himself somewhat hidden, but that all changed when the Lincoln shot past the only road to the spaceport. If Ganzi followed, the other driver would see him within minutes.

His training overruled his desire. He made the turn like every other driver headed to view the launching, but with one change. Five minutes later, Ganzi pulled a U-turn and resumed his pursuit of the Lincoln, hoping that enough time had passed that the driver would not become suspicious. When the Lincoln pulled down a dirt road, Ganzi's time trailing the car was over — there was no way he could follow the Lincoln without giving himself away.

He pulled the van to the side and watched at a distance. A rooster tail of dust took to the air as the Lincoln sped down the dusty path.

Not good. Not good at all.

He had no doubt that Commander Tucker's family was in trouble.

Once again, he checked his cell phone for a signal. He had none. Not willing to believe the indicator, he attempted to place a call. The phone had not lied to him — he was in a dead zone. In retrospect, he wished he had asked Verducci for a satellite phone.

In frustration, he tossed the phone on the passenger seat and lifted a powerful pair of binoculars to his eyes. At least he had those. Binoculars were standard fare for surveillance. The dust cloud left behind by the Lincoln ended about a mile down the road, too far for Ganzi to make out details. Despite the distance, however, he was able to see what looked like a small white structure, but nothing more.

Why did he go down that road?
It didn't make sense. He began to run through his options, and none pleased him. One, he could drive the road itself and see with his own eyes what the driver had in mind. Of course, he would need some kind of cover story. After all, what were the odds of two cars going down the same deserted dirt road? He doubted he could fabricate any story that would pass even the least suspicious mind.

He could turn around and go back, but then he would have to explain why he had failed to follow the family as ordered. He didn't relish that idea.

The third option was the one he was doing right then — sit and wait. It had been only a few minutes, but it felt like hours, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong. Several times he told himself that maybe this road led to a new entrance — perhaps a more secure entry point, one not known to him, but his mind refused to accept it. If the road stopped where the dust trail ended, then the car couldn't have traveled far enough to reach the southern perimeter of the spaceport. It would be several miles short.

Something moved in the distance. He refocused the binoculars and strained his eyes to see. From a place near the pale white structure came a new column of dust. This time it indicated a vehicle headed south —headed toward him. The driver was coming back. He doubted he could avoid detection. Even if he drove off now, the long, flat desert road would make him easy to spot. Ganzi needed a cover story, and he needed it quickly.

He wasted no time in pulling a U-turn and parking the van on the shoulder of the desert road. Less than two minutes later, Ganzi stood near the right rear of the vehicle, the van's jack and tire iron in clear view of the edge of the shoulder. He bent and rubbed his bare hands on the dirty tire, then marked his face with a line or two of filth. His goal was to make it appear as if he had just changed the tire. He also had taken the time to place a 9mm Beretta in his belt at the small of his back. An untucked shirt covered the weapon.

He had to wait only a few minutes before the Lincoln pulled on the macadam and turned east backtracking the way it had come. Ganzi was determined to play his part; he straightened and kept his back turned to the approaching car. He heard the car slow, its tires crunching sand between asphalt and rubber. Acting like a frustrated driver, Ganzi picked up the tire iron and tossed it into the back of the van, being careful to keep the door partly closed so as not to allow the driver of the Lincoln clear eyeshot into the surveillance vehicle. When Ganzi reached to pick up the jack, the car had come to a stop next to him.

The driver of the Lincoln lowered the passenger window. “Need some help, friend?”

The man looked to be in his late twenties, good-looking, and dressed for his part as a driver. He also had the same damaged ear that Ganzi had noted when he first came to pick up Commander Tucker.

Ganzi forced himself straight and stretched his back like a man who had just finished hard labor. He approached the car and leaned in the open window. The driver was alone — not a good sign.

“Hey, thanks for stopping. I appreciate the offer, but the deed is done. I should be back on the road in a couple minutes.”

“You sure?” The driver exited the vehicle, and Ganzi's neurons began to fire all at once. “I've got a few extra minutes.”

“I do appreciate you stopping, not many people do that these days. But really, I've got it taken care of. Tire is already on.”

“Glad to hear it.” The driver produced a gun and aimed with a steady hand at Ganzi's head.

“Whoa, what are you doing?” Ganzi took a step back, his right hand moving slowly to the weapon in his belt.

“I'm not an idiot, pal. I saw your van in the hotel parking lot and I saw you on the road behind me. You've been following me, haven't you?”

“Why would I want to follow you? I'm just here to record the launch. My day has already been bad enough. If you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you'd lower that thing.”

“You're not very good at what you do, are you? Who are you working for? You working for MedSys? You one of the dogs they sent after me?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Just put the gun away, and we both can get back on the road.”

“I don't think so.”

Ganzi dove to the side of the van just as something hot and sharp pierced his left shoulder, forcing him to the ground. A cry of pain raced from his lips. Pushing himself to his knees, he reached for his gun. He was too slow. He heard the driver's footsteps on the granite; he felt the still-hot barrel pressed against the back of his neck.

“On your feet.” The order came with a jerk on his shirt, and a half second later, Ganzi's face was pressed against the metal of the van, the gun digging into his flesh. The driver removed the weapon from Ganzi's belt and took a step back. “Turn around.”

Ganzi did but struggled to remain erect. Blood, hot and sticky, poured from his wound. “Looks like you have the advantage.” The words came out dry and not much louder than a whisper.

“I always have the advantage.” He motioned to the passenger door with his gun, holding Ganzi's weapon in his free hand. “Get in.”

“And if I don't?” The fire in his shoulder had spread to the rest of his body. He struggled to keep his stomach down.

The gunman aimed his weapon at Ganzi's right foot.

“Okay, okay, you win.” Ganzi was doing his best to stay conscious. He made his way to the passenger door, opened it, and despite the searing pain, forced himself onto the seat. His assailant kicked the door shut and tapped the glass with the gun.

“Roll it down.”

Ganzi did and the pain from the movement almost made him vomit. “All right, I'll tell you who I'm working for.”

“I no longer care.”

Ganzi heard nothing when the gun fired.

Two miles down the road, Quain pulled the Lincoln to the shoulder. After making sure no one observed him, he stepped from the car and threw the gun he had taken from the man into a clump of scrub oak. Seconds later, he was on the road again and headed for his next destination.

So far, the day was turning out just fine.

TWENTY-NINE

T
he rumbling of wheels along a rough runway stopped the moment
Condor
lifted
Legacy
into the air. Only the sound of the launch vehicle's massive GE engines permeated the cabin. Tuck watched the white concrete runway draw away from him as the craft climbed through crystalline air. With each moment, the ground below withdrew — the end of the runway passed beneath them, giving way to the brown dirt and sage of the desert terrain. Scrub brush, juniper bushes, and Joshua trees scrolled beneath them.

The whine of motors drawing landing gear into
Condor
joined the symphony of sounds. Tuck closed his eyes for a moment and offered a prayer of gratitude for the safe takeoff and for the privilege of being part of the mission. Once again, he was flying to space. He would not fly as high, he would not fly as long, he would not fly as fast — but he would fly, and at the moment that was all that mattered.

Jim Tolson's voice oozed through the headphones. “Stand by for port bank for fly by.”

“Standing by for port bank for fly by.” Tuck's words echoed in his helmet.

The aircraft tilted to the left as Jim conducted a wide turnabout. The flight mission called for one flyby low enough for spectators to take photos. Tuck initially opposed the idea, preferring to save fuel for any unexpected events they might experience in the flight. He had been overruled. A few minutes later, the craft leveled off and began its return trip to the spaceport. Tuck wondered if his family waved as he passed overhead.

“Film at eleven.” Burke seemed to be enjoying the flight.

Donnelly added his opinion. “And at five and throughout the day. We are making history; wherever history is being made, the media will be present.”