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Ignition - [1996]
Kevin J. Anderson and Doug Beason


To the men and women of NASA,
America's space program,
who continue to ignite
our dreams of
the future


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not have been possible without the many contributions of the following: Milt Finger of the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory; Tina Pechon, Manny Virata, and Bill Johnson of NASA Public Affairs at the Kennedy Space Center; Charlie Parker from NASA; Michael "Mini" Mott of NASA HQ; Dr. Kerry Joels; Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Beason; Major Lon Enloe; and Norys Davila.

Along the way, we also received valuable advice from Dean Koontz, Al Zuckerman, Richard Curtis, Patrick Nielsen Hay den, Joseph M. Singer, Brian Lipson, Amy Victoria Meo, Lil Mitchell, Scott Welch, Philippa Pride, Janet Berliner, Bob Fleck, Mark Budz, Marina Fitch, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Dean Wesley Smith, Deb Ray, Ines Heinz, General Tom Stafford, Joe Domenici, and, as always, Rebecca Moesta Anderson and Cindy Beason.


AUTHORS' NOTE

While we have done extensive research on NASA, the Kennedy Space Center, the Johnson Space Center, the European Space Agency's Ariane program, and other topics for this book, many specific details have been intentionally changed. The locations of certain buildings and facilities-particularly the Vehicle Assembly Building and the Launch Control Center-have been moved, and some NASA security procedures have been altered in order to preserve the integrity of these national assets.


PROLOGUE

Arianespace Launch Center
Kourou, French Guiana

THE THICK HUMIDITY WAS a magnifying glass, amplifying the sun's heat in the coastal jungles of French Guiana. Just north of the small town of Kourou, security patrols locked gates and inspected chain-link fences in preparation for the launch of an Ariane 44L rocket, flagship of the European Space Agency.

On roads freshly bulldozed through the South American jungle, khaki-uniformed guards patrolled the swampy lowlands of the Guiana Space Center. One guard stopped to light a cigarette. Though armed, the guards were complacent-unaware of the sabotage team deep inside the complex.

The Ariane countdown continued.

Mr. Phillips sat on the springy seat of his camouflaged Jeep and raised binoculars to his eyes, carefully adjusting the focus. He wore an immaculate white suit and tie, despite the jungle heat. His movements were spare and meticulous, as if he planned each step down to the bending of a finger joint. He studied the towering launch vehicle on ELA-2, the pad for all Ariane 4 rockets.

Impressive construction, he thought. Very impressive. Mr. Phillips pressed a snow-white handkerchief to his forehead to absorb the perspiration that glistened there, and tucked a strand of his dark hair back into place. If he didn't pay attention to the small details, then the larger ones would defeat him.

The heat was oppressive, unlike the cool dampness in Connecticut where he'd spent much of his first life. He buried the momentary discomfort, moving past it as he had with so many other obstacles before.

Beside him in the Jeep, an eager young man with sunburned skin and a mop of coppery hair swatted an insect. "Damn bugs," he said, then slapped the same spot on his arm again and again, though the insect was most certainly dead. "After this humidity, Florida's going to seem like paradise. Definitely."

Mr. Phillips gave him a wry smile. "One mission at a time, Rusty. Please stop your fidgeting-you're ruining my focus." Even Florida had miserable humidity, but again, the discomfort would only be temporary. He studied the rocket's contours as if it were a desirable woman. A tall spire with a bulbous rounded head, the unmanned 44L resembled a shining white lance with four smaller rockets strapped around its base.

Unfortunately, this particular rocket wouldn't make it to orbit. Not today-not ever.

In front of him, leaning against the hood of the camouflaged Jeep, stood Jacques, his hair so blond he looked almost albino, though his skin had achieved a golden tan. In one hand he held the detonator, a box no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. Jacques had always been good with explosives.

Mr. Phillips pulled out his pocket watch and studied the hour. Patience, he told himself. He straightened his tie, then reached into his pocket for a breath mint.