Out the wide windows of Launch Control the searchlight- illuminated spires of VX-1 and VX-2 gleamed through the early mist. Sabri Ramirez studied them, thinking about logistics. With all the scrambled radio traffic in the area, he had a sneaking suspicion—more than a suspicion—that a Special Forces assault was being set up. But that's what all the hostages were for.
Everything was on schedule, just as planned. According to Peretz, the last tests of the telemetry had been completed and the countdown was proceeding without a hold. Outside, in the vast bay that was Launch, technicians buzzed, a sea of white coats. Lines of workstations showed voltage and amperage values for the power buildup in the coil. Calculations of wind shear were being made, and preliminary tests were being run on the guidance system. The "orbops" team, orbital operations, was busy running up orbital and attitude numbers, readying their input commands. The irony was, they still didn't have a clue they were about to send up a nuclear device. American ingenuity turned on itself, in a fearsome symmetry. . . .
'Take a look at what I found."
Ramirez whirled, hearing the voice, and was startled to see Jean-Paul Moreau coming in through the doorway of Launch Control leading the old Jew professor, Isaac Mannheim. Where did he come from? The old man was supposed to be sedated and sequestered away for safekeeping in the living quarters. Guess it hadn't worked. Here he was, bumbling about.
On the other hand, maybe this was a stroke of timing. He was about to be needed again, and this saved the trouble of having to go and get him.
"Where was he?"
"Wandering around the loading docks," Jean-Paul said, still shoving Mannheim ahead of him. "I think there's a technical question we need to run by him."
"What?"
“That bastard Vance just claimed that the Cyclops laser may set off the device when it starts up. I didn't get it exactly. He wants to talk to Peretz. Something about plasma and stray radio frequencies."
"Sounds like an invention to me," Ramirez said, looking Mannheim over. The old man, his baseball cap askew, was clearly as mad as a loon. What would he know about anything? On the other hand, he was a scientist, so it wouldn't hurt to ask.