“Just watch your ass. We’ll be fine,” Lyons admonished.
Schwarz hung up and looked out the window as the plane taxied to a halt. A silver Hummer with blue trim rolled up to the tarmac, and he saw Hal Brognola looking out one of the back windows.
Sabrina Bertonni stirred in her seat, looking up at him. “We’re there?”
Schwarz nodded, grabbing his gear. “Yup. Are you sure that you’re up to this?”
Bertonni shrugged. “Someone has to implement the upgrades on the samples we sent on ahead. Besides, I’m not the one riding tons of thrust into space.”
Schwarz rolled his eyes. “When you put it that way, it sounds scary.”
The scientist’s lips tightened. She’d been brought into this knowing there was the possibility of sabotage or infiltration on the flight to the International Space Station. There was a good chance that this flight would end up in flames, just like the Challenger and Columbia. Instead of voicing her doubts, she picked up her bag and disembarked with Schwarz. They clambered down the roll-up steps as Jordan Broome and Brognola got out of the NASA Hummer.
“Captain Broome, this is Henry Miller,” Brognola introduced. “Miller, Captain Jordan Broome, the commander of the USS Arcadia. Have you met Dr. Sabrina Bertonni, Broome?”
The astronaut nodded. “On a few instances, usually while going over testing protocols for the thrusters.”
Schwarz offered his hand. “Permission to come on board, Captain?”
Broome took the offered hand and shook it, a moment of challenge rising as he applied a strong grip. Fortunately, the Able Team electronics genius was used to such testosterone-soaked rituals. His own hand was tight, and Broome’s efforts to make the handshake uncomfortable were foiled by his own strong grasp. “Permission granted, Lieutenant Miller.”
Schwarz grinned. “Call me Gadgets.”
Broome nodded. “Kind of figured that Miller wasn’t a real moniker.”
“Oh, it is. But people keep wanting me to recite from Tropic of Cancer. ”
Broome chuckled. “So, how is June?”
Schwarz winked. “I’m sure you’ve seen the movie, Captain Broome.”
The astronaut laughed. “Call me Jordie.” His tone returned to seriousness after a moment. “You’re going to have some trouble. The rest of the crew isn’t going to like Pie Komalko being kicked to have you put in.”
“Is there an official explanation as to why?” Schwarz asked Brognola.
“You’re one of the few Burgundy Lake survivors in any condition to work with the experimental prototypes that survived the assault,” Brognola replied. The big Fed glanced at Sabrina Bertonni, whose expression had darkened at the mention of the incident that had claimed the lives of so many colleagues.
“Right. A few had been sent on ahead,” Schwarz replied with a nod, giving Bertonni’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Her green eyes flicked to him, and her mouth turned up in the closest thing to a smile she could manage. Schwarz sympathized with her. “We’ll work on upgrading the test samples to meet the current generation that was lost.”
“We?” Broome asked. “So the nickname fits. You can work on the thrusters?”
“I’ve been discussing the work with him on the flight over,” Bertonni noted. “He’s a quick study, and assisting me, we’ll get everything running better than the modules you were going to take up.”
“Of course, that’s between my preflight responsibilities,” Schwarz noted.
“Komalko will help you out with that. With the two of you working on it, you’ll be able to halve the time needed for the checks, freeing up room for the module upgrades,” Broome stated. “But first, you’re going to have to meet the rest of the crew.”
Schwarz nodded. His introduction as an outsider would leave him vulnerable to anyone in NASA who could have been a turncoat. If the enemy had been able to slip an insider into Burgundy Lake, a top-secret facility with only a small staff, the sprawling Cape Canaveral could potentially be a minefield of danger.
That was Schwarz’s job, though. To flush the enemy by setting himself up as bait. Glancing at Bertonni, he realized that she would be under the gun, as well, so he had more than his own life at stake.
Staring into the bright blue Florida afternoon, he knew both of their lives were on the line to keep the sky from falling.
CHAPTER SIX
Union Park, Florida
Andre Costa took the glass topper off his carafe of brandy to pour his third drink in as many minutes. His phone had rung five minutes ago, informing him of a new arrival at Cape Canaveral, taking the place of one of the crew of the space shuttle Arcadia.
It was supposed to be because of a need to upgrade the experimental prototype thruster modules that had been lost at Burgundy Lake. His hand shook, liquor sloshing around inside his crystal tumbler, and he wished that the alcohol would take effect faster. He took a hard pull on the brandy, then choked as he drank too quickly. The brandy burned in his sinuses and he wiped tears from his eyes. A sneezing fit left him dizzy, compounded by the alcohol burning through his bloodstream.
He’d performed a quick relay of phone calls to the next contact down the line after he’d gotten the call. It had taken only a minute of dialing, but he was shaken, wondering how the hell he’d gotten hooked up in all of this. Costa stood up, trembling from his burning nostrils and tear ducts, wishing that the allure of easy money as a drug lawyer hadn’t brought him to Orlando. Though it wasn’t the kind of hot spot that Miami was, it still received a lot of cases. The lion’s share of cases he took were on behalf of the students at the University of Central Florida, charged with possession, not intent to sell. Of course, this attracted the attention of El Toronado, one of the biggest suppliers in Union Park, who took an interest in some of the students who were selling for him to get a little extra cash on the side for their extracurricular activities.
El Toronado was the only name Costa knew him by, but it was enough. One of the most feared businessmen in Orlando, he had his fingers in cases that stretched from Winter Garden on the shores of Lake Apopka all the way to Titusville.
More than once, Costa had been asked to help out at Cape Canaveral Air Station with civilian employees who had attracted attention. Costa was glad that the Judge Advocate General and the code of Military Justice kept him out of protecting whichever Naval airmen were involved in El Torondo’s operations, but he still had staff members running research to assist the JAG defenders in those cases.
Costa was glad he never was involved in defending any of El Toronado’s shooters, but that pleasure ended when he was approached by a man with photographs of his meeting with the Union Park drug lord.
“You’ll be our conduit,” the man stated.
“For what?” Costa asked.
“Just take the calls and pass them on. You’ll be protected from prosecution under attorney-client privilege,” the stranger told
