"Kevin J. Anderson -1996- Ignition (v1.0) (txt)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anderson Kevin J)

Mr. Phillips heard a rustling sound from the left and glanced up to see a khaki-clad security guard trudging out of the jungle from one of the narrow access roads. The guard, whose bronzed skin and long black hair showed his Amerindian descent, held his rifle loosely; mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes.

Taken completely by surprise, the guard stopped as he saw the short, formally dressed man sitting with his companions in a Jeep. Mr. Phillips's mouth drew tight at the guard's utterly dumbfounded expression.

The guard brought up his rifle and swept it around. "Halte! Quest-ce que vous faites la? Je vous arrъte!" he barked in French. The entire restricted area had supposedly been swept clean of bystanders.

Mr. Phillips turned away from the intruder in annoyance. It had been hard enough slipping inside the secure area-first the bribe, then the unpleasant disposal of the official who had given them entrance. He disliked this additional inconvenience . . . but Mr. Phillips had allowed for such contingencies in his planning.

Jacques tucked the detonator into his pocket. Pretending to surrender, he lifted his hands above his head and translated. "He wants to know what we're doing here, Monsieur Phillips. His accent is very bad. He is placing us under arrest."

Mr. Phillips raised his eyebrows. "Oh, he is?"

Silent as a cobra, fluid as a deer, a lithe blond woman slipped out of the underbrush behind the guard. From her waistband she slipped out a thin stiletto so sharp and pointed it might have been an ice pick.

She moved without hesitation, crossing the ten meters without a sound. The guard stopped as if he suddenly heard something-then the woman struck, jamming the stiletto into the base of his back. Without a word, she rammed it up his spinal column all the way to the hilt, as if trying to dig crabmeat out of a shell.

The guard twitched and jiggled like a pithed frog. His fingers slipped from the trigger guard, and he dropped his rifle. The muscular blond woman jerked her wrist, and the stiletto slipped back out with a wet pop. The guard fell to the muddy ground as if unplugged.

"Thank you, Yvette," Mr. Phillips said. "Your timing, as usual, is impeccable." Nonchalantly she wiped the blood from her blade on the wide, glossy leaf of a rubber plant and glided the stiletto back into her belt.

Rusty paid no attention to the encounter, still staring toward the white rocket on the launchpad. "We should've just had Mory use one of his Stinger missiles, like we did in China. We could be back on the beach by now, having a swim. Definitely." He gave a short, high laugh.

Mr. Phillips spoke to him the way a patient father would. Unlike the other members of the team, Rusty was not a professional, and Mr. Phillips had to cut him some slack. "Different goals, Rusty. We proved in China that we can slip into a highly restricted area. Here, we must demonstrate that we can plant an explosive surreptitiously and detonate it at our convenience."

"But why not blow it up now, while the rocket's still on the pad? Why wait until it launches?" Rusty swatted at another bug.

Mr. Phillips shook his head. "By waiting, we control the situation. Much greater impact. . . much more exhilarating."

"Yeah, sure," Rusty said, obviously not understanding the nuances-but then, the redhead wasn't paid to think. "I just want to hear the ka-boom."

As blond as Jacques, Yvette strode on her long legs over to meet him by the Jeep. Two sets of water-blue eyes, the color of ice melting in the heat, locked together. The pair spoke quietly in French; Yvette ran a hand up and down Jacques's arm. They then kissed each other long and hard, oblivious to the rest of the team. Breathing quickly, their mouths opened as they deepened the kiss with lingering tongues. Jacques let his fingers drift in a tightening circle around the swell of her right breast.

Mr. Phillips clapped his hands. "Time enough for that later!"

The two broke apart, glazed with perspiration and breathing shallowly.

"Let's keep an eye on the clocks, everybody," Mr. Phillips said. "Less than a minute to go."

The Toucan VIP Observation Site at the Kourou launch facility was designed to accommodate dignitaries, but Colonel Adam "Iceberg" Friese didn't see it as anything more than a set of bleachers shaded by a canvas awning. Dust, humidity, and glaring sun made sitting on the aluminum bleachers almost unbearable.

It didn't matter to him, though-he had been through far greater hardships as an astronaut. Now, he was more interested in seeing the spectacular launch of the Ariane 44L.

But what made him far more uncomfortable than the heat or the rustic conditions was the petite woman sitting next to him-a powerhouse inside a pretty, trim exterior. Her short brown-gold hair, though tinged with perspiration in the thick humidity, was still styled just so, her makeup perfect. In his memories of her, she rarely wore makeup. Now she looked every bit the administrator, working her way up the professional ladder.

"At least you're managing to keep a smile on your face, Iceberg," Nicole Hunter said quietly out of the corner of her mouth.

"I'm here representing my fellow astronauts," he answered, his voice cold. Like an iceberg. She herself had been one of those astronauts, and a Naval aviator, to boot-until her recent change of heart. "It's my obligation as a professional."

"Yeah, we're both such professionals." She wore a colorful but conservative cotton blouse and skirt, panty hose that must have been hot as hell in the Tropics-with earrings and a delicate gold necklace, for God's sake.