"I understand," comforted Sir Isaac. "We'll get you some more fuel later, courtesy of SPACECOM. I'll be transmitting the orbital path, reference points, and timing data to your terminal in about thirty seconds."
"Okay, sir, I'm ready. After I get the data it will take me a couple of hours to reprogram the scope alignment."
"Right. And when you get that done, I want you to patch the video over to us in Cheyenne Mountain."
"No problem," said the controller. "Just tell me which satellite and the freq."
' 'We'll want it to come through on RealTime,'' said Sir Isaac. "I'll get you the specs when it's time to transmit."
The controller whistled. "The RealTime satellite? Wow, I guess you guys must rate. You know, you're gonna have a lynch mob on your doorstep when our clients find out their time on the scope has been bumped. Some of them have been waiting for two years to do their turn."
"I can empathize. Suffice it to say, we're not doing this because we want to. Okay, we're ready to transmit."
"Go," said the controller.
The proprietor looked like any middle-aged man who ran his own small business. His dark hair was thinning, his middle had developed a bit of a pot, he wore wire-framed glasses, and he was attired in a khaki uniform with the name Fred embroidered above the left breast pocket. Promptly at 7:00 a.m. he unlocked the pumps and cash drawer in preparation for another day of work at his Gas Saver discount service station. He turned on the coffee machine and had begun taking an inventory of parts and accessories when his first customer of the day rolled up in a station wagon. After filling his tank with super unleaded, the customer — who wore a Hawaiian shirt and wraparound sunglasses — surveyed the area carefully, then approached the proprietor.
"Excuse me," asked the customer. "But could you take a check?"
' 'We are a discount station,'' replied the proprietor. ' 'We only take cash."
"But I am from Milwaukee," said the customer politely.
The proprietor's face did not betray so much as a glimmer of recognition. "A check from Milwaukee is always welcome," he replied.
"That is most kind, but on second thought, I will pay cash." The customer handed over two five-dollar bills and quickly left. The proprietor extracted the small piece of paper sandwiched between the bills and tucked the money in the cash drawer.
A few minutes later, Ernie, the proprietor's unreliable, alcoholic assistant, stumbled in. The proprietor was well aware of Ernie's weakness — indeed, it was the main reason Ernie had been selected for employment. Ernie would die before betraying his boss, because the boss accepted him in spite of his affliction — and turned a blind eye to his frequent unannounced absences.
"Ernie," confided the proprietor, "I've had a family emergency come up and I may be gone most of today and possibly tomorrow. Could you handle things while I'm gone?"
Ernie's mottled face tried to express eagerness. "Sure thing, Mr. Tompkins. I done it for you before real good, you know that. You can count on me."
The proprietor patted Ernie on the shoulder and gave him a paternal smile. "I know I can, my friend. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"Hope it's nothin' serious," said Ernie.
The proprietor shook his head sadly. "Just an aunt who lives down in the Keys. Old age, I'm afraid."
"Gosh, I'm sorry."
"That's very kind of you, Ernie. As I said, I shouldn't be gone more than a day or so."
"Mr. Tompkins" left and drove to his apartment, somewhat grateful he would not be seeing Ernie for a while. Upon arriving he locked the door and pulled the drapes, then went to the bookshelf and withdrew a hardbound copy of Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. He sat down at the kitchen table with a pad and pencil and took out the slip of paper the man from Milwaukee had given him. Typed on the paper was a series of numbers. The first two digits indicated a page number of Don Quioxte, and each subsequent number indicated which letter in sequence should be taken from the page. Unless you knew exactly what edition of what book the man known as Mr. Tompkins was working from, the cipher would be unbreakable. It took him several minutes to finish, and when he did it took some moments for the impact of the message from Moscow Centre to sink in, for it read:
STOP SPACE SHUTTLE CONSTELLATION AT ALL COSTS
So this was it. The end of eight years of spying on the Kennedy Space Center. "Mr. Tompkins" allowed himself a few minutes of quiet reflection on his life in America, but only a few, for he had never cared much for sentimentality. Rising from the kitchen table, he methodically began his preparations to execute a contingency plan — a plan he'd literally worked years to perfect. He did not shrink from the task, for instructions from Moscow Centre were to be followed to the letter. The mere use of the Milwaukee code indicated it was vital. What the shuttle's mission was about did not concern him. He had his orders, and that was all that mattered.
"Mr. Tompkins" went to his bedroom bureau and pulled out the top drawer, then emptied the contents on the bed. With a pocket knife he pried out the false bottom of the drawer and extracted a U.S. Postal Service uniform. Then from another false-bottom drawer he retrieved a Heckler-Koch 9mm P7 automatic pistol, a silencer, and a clip of hollow-point ammunition. He'd selected the HK P7 because of its small size and the stopping power of the 9mm slug. Lastly, from the secret compartment of a third drawer, he pulled out an object about the size and shape of a dinner plate, as well as a small cardboard box with a false bottom, and two photo identification cards-one identifying him as a Kennedy Space Center employee, and the other as an inspector with the Occupational Safety and Health Administration.
He changed into the postal uniform, checked the action of the pistol, loaded it and chambered a round, then screwed on the silencer. He put the platelike object, the gun, the false-bottomed box, and the ID cards into a valise and tossed all of his "Mr. Tompkins" identification onto the bureau. Before leaving his apartment he put on a windbreaker to cover the postal uniform shirt, then grabbed the valise and walked out to his car.
"Why, good morning, Mr. Tompkins," called his elderly neighbor.
"Ah, good morning, Mrs. Davis," he called back.
"Why are you wearing a jacket on such a nice warm morning?" asked the nosy old woman.
"You're quite right. It's only a windbreaker, but I'll take it off when I get to work. Must go. I'm already late."
Driving off, he gave his neighbor a smile as she waved from the sidewalk. Goodbye forever, Mrs. Davis, he thought.
He made his way through Orlando to the Tanglewood Apartments on the east side of the city, and cruised through the apartment parking lot until he found the Toyota sedan he was seeking — one with the Kennedy Space Center parking sticker on the bumper. That meant his subject was in the apartment. But was he alone?
' 'Mr. Tompkins" parked his car and got out. He took his time peeling off the windbreaker in order to survey the scene around him. Once satisfied that most of the residents of the singles complex had gone to work, he retrieved the cardboard box and inserted the P7 automatic through the false bottom. He walked upstairs to apartment 14B, looked around once more, and knocked lightly on the door. There was no answer, so he tried again, a bit more forcefully.
"Okay, okay, hang on a minute," came a sleepy voice from inside the apartment. The door opened, revealing a young man wearing a bathrobe and a handlebar mustache.
"Mr. Leland?" asked the postman.
"Yeah, that's me," replied the occupant.
"So sony to disturb you, Mr. Leland, but I have an Express Mail package for you."