After well nineteen passed under, Munoz said, “Put her down, Snake Eyes.”
He bled off some speed and let the MakoShark descend to 400 feet. McKenna wanted some clearance over the domes, and he had noted that some of the pressure ridges had punched their way a couple hundred feet above the surface.
Well number twenty had floodlights blazing on the helicopter pad, and there was a small chopper sitting in the middle of the marked “X.” Fortunately, there were no people working outside on the pad to watch the silent intruder whisk over them.
McKenna retarded his throttles as they passed over, to further reduce the sound of the engines at the low altitude. As soon as the well appeared in the rearview screen, he advanced the throttles again.
They got the same low, slow shots of well number twenty-two, then McKenna banked into a tight, climbing turn and headed south toward well fifteen.
At 1,500 feet, they approached one of the red dots. McKenna felt a little easier over the dark waters of the Greenland Sea. A ship or an aircraft would have to be in a very good position to spot the MakoShark against the pale sky or the ice now behind them.
The red dot got closer.
“I’m gonna get him,” Munoz said.
The screen went to infrared for a moment, then to the night-vision mode, then back to the map projection.
“It’s a destroyer, Snake Eyes. Wish I had a data bank aboard.”
The U.S. naval commands had access to data bases that stored the unique sonar signatures of vessel propellers and could frequently identify exact ships by their sound. Occasionally, the infrared heat signatures could also be identified. The MakoSharks did have a limited data bank of radar and infrared signatures, but they were restricted to aircraft.
“Well number fifteen coming up,” McKenna said. “Well get all of them at a thousand feet, and take our close-up of number one.”
The circular flight path they followed in order to photograph each well took eleven minutes to cover. Munoz snapped hundreds of photos of the wells, and he took shots of four ships. One of them was the missile cruiser.
In all, they spent seventeen minutes coasting through the area, and McKenna felt certain they had not been seen. As soon as they had their close-ups of number one, he began a steady climb to the south, gradually adding on speed.
The MakoShark cracked through the sonic barrier at 20,000 feet, 200 miles off the coast of Norway.
“You keep this heading, Snake Eyes, we could put down at Jack Andrews for a couple beers.”
“Amy wants us right back. She’s going to develop these herself.”
“Shit. You didn’t promise her, did you?”
Munoz knew that McKenna kept his promises. He just avoided making promises wherever he could.
“No, but I told Overton we’d do a quick turnaround.”
“Ah, damn, amigo. I’m just real thirsty.”
No liquor or beer of any kind was allowed aboard the space station. Overton strictly enforced that rule.
“Next time, buddy,” McKenna told him.
The instrument panel screen was displaying the 200-mile radar sweep, and by the time they passed over Copenhagen at 50,000 feet, it was busy with commercial night flights between European cities. Most of those flights were at 20,000 feet or less. Some military flights were much higher, but McKenna wasn’t paying much attention to them.
“Hey, Snake Eyes.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been watchin’ New Amsterdam. A flight of two just took off from there.”
“Got a heading on them.”
“Goin’ north.”
“Suppose they have tail numbers?”
“Damn betcha.”
McKenna retarded the throttles, pulled back on the hand controller, and put the MakoShark into a vertical climb. As soon as the speed drained away, he went on over onto his back, then rolled upright. He put the nose down and began searching the screen for his bogies.
“Wish to hell-and-gone we were armed,” Munoz said.
Five
Col. Pyotr Volontov stood at attention in front of the general’s desk. He could have been a prototype for the ideal Soviet officer. Almost six feet tall, he was slim, blond, and blue-eyed. The planes of his face had hard angles that reflected the overhead fluorescent lights. More than that, he was an intelligent man, and a thinking one. He did not often bow to impetuous and blind authority. Volontov kept his eyes fixed firmly on the photograph of the President mounted on the wall behind Sheremetevo.
Though Gen. Vitaly Sheremetevo struggled to maintain the same image as his subordinate, his age of sixty-two was catching up with him. His hair was much thinner and graying rapidly. The waist was thicker, though still successfully disguised by his uniform jackets. Less well disguised was his biting commentary for incompetence whenever he came upon it. Unlike the younger man, Sheremetevo, as deputy commander in chief of the Soviet air forces, was allowed to make whatever comments he might like to make, as well as to expect immediate reform.
Among the general’s responsibilities was the PVO Strany. The START agreements had not detracted from his forces since they were so clearly defensive in nature. The PVO had over 5,000 early-warning radars, 2,500 interceptor aircraft, and 50,000 surface-to-air missiles at its disposal.
Colonel Volontov was also at Sheremetevo’s disposal. The colonel commanded the 5th Interceptor Wing, comprised of MiG-29s and located at Leningrad. Sheremetevo had followed Volontov’s career with greater than normal interest. More than once, he had quietly, and unknown to the man, intervened on Volontov’s behalf when the colonel had balked at ridiculous orders and come close to insubordination. Sheremetevo did not want such a promising officer shunted off into some oblivious air force job.
“You may stand at ease, Pyotr Mikhailovich.”
The use of the patronymic caused just a flicker of surprise in the colonel’s blue eyes. He relaxed only a trifle, locking his wrists behind his back.
“We have met but once before,” Sheremetevo said. “I gave you some decoration or another.”
“I remember, Comrade General. Very likely undeserved.”
“On the contrary. I do not pass out medals that are undeserved.” Sheremetevo himself was a Hero of the Soviet Union. He wore the honor with pride.
“Pyotr Mikhailovich,” the general continued, “what is the condition of the Fifth Interceptor Wing?”
“It is excellent, General. Of my twelve aircraft, eleven are currently airworthy. The morale and capability of my pilots is not surpassed by any unit in the air force.”
“Are you boasting, Colonel?”
“I am stating a fact, General Sheremetevo.”
The deputy commander suspected that that was true. “Your wing would be prepared, then, for a special exercise?”
The blue eyes enlarged by several millimeters. “In fact, Comrade General, my pilots would welcome a deviation in their routine.”
“And you?”
“And myself, General. I always support a need for training, but the current schedules are … boring and repetitious.”
“So you alter them?”
“Only in small ways, General.” Volontov offered a brief smile.
“Very well. The exercise is to be called “Arctic Waste.” The Fifth Interceptor Wing is temporarily assigned directly to my office. You will report only to me.”
Volontov nodded his acceptance and did not betray any curiosity, but Sheremetevo thought that the commander was pleased.
“I will see that an additional two MiG-29s are made available to your wing by tomorrow morning, so that you will be at full aircraft strength, with one reserve airplane. Two reserves, if your twelfth interceptor is repaired. Additionally, two Ilyushin II-76 tankers and two MiG-25 reconnaissance aircraft will be attached to your command.”
“This begins to sound quite interesting, General Sheremetevo.”
“But it will be interesting only to ourselves, Pyotr Mikhailovich. You are not to relate the details of the exercise
to anyone. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely.”
“Air controllers in the affected area will also be under my command, and not fully aware of the objectives. Beyond them, no one is to know the nature of the exercise. Should anyone ask you, Colonel, it is simply training in combined aircraft operations.”
“As you wish, General.”
Volontov’s face was a bit more active now, a grim smile in place, the hard, reflective knobs of his cheekbones appearing a bit higher.
“In reality, we are doing a favor for someone.”
“For someone in the Politburo, General?”
“For Admiral Hannibal Cross.”
Sheremetevo saw the flicker of Volontov’s eyes once again as he tried to place the name.
“But General, he is the American chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff!”
“Exactly.”
*
Dr. Tracy Calvin floated underneath Mako Two, waiting while the technician opened the hatch into the passenger module. She hung onto one of the payload doors, and her face was radiant, showing no concern about the reentry flight. Her dark hair was cut short, but still drifted about her head, like an errant halo.
She wore the blue jumpsuit that would now become a souvenir of her two weeks in space, performing arcane experiments in the name of her employer, Lilly Pharmaceuticals. The jumpsuit was very well filled.
The technician backed out of the passenger module, holding an environmental suit, then helped her struggle into it. He slipped the helmet over her head and locked it into the suit collar.
When she looked back toward the hangar’s control station window, McKenna waved at her. She smiled and waved back, perhaps thinking about other experiments accomplished in zero gravity.
McKenna thought he might miss her for a while. Or maybe even look her up the next time he was earth side.
The suit secured, the technician helped her slide inside the module, then followed her to make certain she was strapped in and all of the connections properly made. When he was done, the hatch closed and locked, he darted around the hangar, releasing the restraining straps from the Mako. The matte-white paint reflected the hangar lights, rather than absorbing them, like its sister. McKenna thought of the Mako as a virgin MakoShark. Pristine and sleek and naive.
Maj. Lynn Haggar and Capt. Ben Olsen, Mako Two’s crew, closed their canopies. McKenna figured that sometime in the next month or two, he would take Haggar and Olsen aside and explain the MakoShark to them. They were going to be a good team. McKenna also figured he might have a little trouble convincing generals Overton and Brackman of the wisdom of putting a female pilot in a position with combat potential. Brackman would make some comment about McKenna increasing the size of his harem, but despite his social reputation, McKenna could be very objective when professional competence was concerned. Lynn Marie Haggar was a hell of a pilot.
The payload doors closed.
First Lt. Polly Tang, the station operator tethered to the console beside McKenna, flipped a toggle to activate the speaker in the hangar. Punching a PA button, she said, “Willy, you want to clear the bay?”
The technician, Willy Dey, gave her a thumbs-up, shoved off the wing, and came zooming through the hatchway. Arresting his flight by grabbing the door frame, he tapped the red square, and the big door swung shut, rotated, and locked down. A green light above the door confirmed the seal.
“Locked and sealed, Lieutenant,” the tech called out.
She still double-checked the indicators on her console, then tapped a radio button. “Mako Two, how are your seals?”
“All green, Beta Two.”
Polly Tang was Brad Mitchell’s chief assistant.
On the console in front of her, a small screen showed a radar readout of the immediate space around Themis. The revolving scan lit up a dot on every sweep.
“Mako Two, you’ve got a HoneyBee inbound. Six-zero-zero miles and closing at two hundred feet per minute.”
“We’ll dodge it, Beta.”
“Ready to clear gas.”
“Go.”
Tang lifted a protective flap and switched a toggle. She concentrated on the readouts as the atmospheric gas in the hangar was pumped into holding tanks. Themis did not waste anything, especially something as precious as its atmosphere. Rather than bleeding the oxygen/nitrogen blend into space, it was pumped under pressure into reserve bladders and held until the next time the hangar was used. McKenna heard the snap of the safety deadbolts locking the hatchway door as the atmosphere went below the level of livability.
As soon as the readout indicated almost zero pressure and atmospheric content — it never reached zero and they lost some of it — Tang raised another guard flap and inserted her key. Turning the key allowed the circuit to go active. She snapped the toggle switch.
The hangar doors were segmented into eight polyhedrons, the outside edges matching the eight-sided hangar cell. From the center, they began to slowly open outward.
Dull thumps could be heard and felt in the structure when the doors reached their full open position.
“Mako Two, you are cleared for departure.”
“Bye-bye, Beta Two. See you in a couple days.”
The thrusters on the nose of the Mako flared brightly as the compressed nitrogen hit the vacuum. The craft began to move backward. The thrusters flared again, and Mako Two drifted out of the hangar, Haggar and Olsen both waving.
As soon as the craft cleared the bay, Tang closed the doors, cut the lights in the hangar, and secured her console. She pulled loose the Velcro tether at her belt.
McKenna grinned at her and said, “Now that you’ve got some free time, Polly … ”
Her almond eyes smiled at him. She said, “Go away, McKenna.”
“Well, hell. I have to keep trying.”
“And I appreciate it. I really do. But not in this lifetime, huh?”
“How about the next one?”
She smiled as she pushed off the console. “As soon as I get to it, I’ll think about it, okay? Right now, I’ve got to dock a HoneyBee. Go do whatever it is that you do.”
As she sailed down the corridor, toward the rocket-docking facilities nearer the rim, McKenna snagged a grab bar and launched himself in the opposite direction. His pursuit of Polly Tang was once again in limbo, but his reputation, and hers, were still intact. They had enjoyed the repartee for nearly two years, since she came aboard. Tang had two children and was married, her husband the chief HoneyBee engineer at Wet Country.
He reached Delta Blue’s hangar a minute later and found Shalbot and Sgt. Bert Embry, the ordnance specialist, already waiting for him.
“Goddamn, Colonel” Shalbot said, “this rinky-dink outfit can’t even get its pilots to a meeting on time.”
“Your watch must be fast,” McKenna told him.
“No way.” But he checked his wrist.
Embry checked the pressure and atmospheric readouts on the console, then opened the massive door. When the MakoSharks were hangared, the interior hatchways were kept closed and the control station windows were blacked out to keep the Mako crews and the contract visitors innocent of the MakoShark’s characteristics.
The three of them pulled themselves through the hatchway and floated below the MakoShark. The two camera pods were still mounted on the inboard pylons, but the access doors to the pods were open, ready for the insertion of new film cartridges.
“All right, Benny. I want to move those pylons and the camera pods to the outboard hard points, then mount two weapons pylons inboard. The long pylon on the starboard and a short pylon on the port side. Same setup on Delta Yellow and Delta Green.”
“Delta Red?” Shalbot asked.
“No. We’ll keep the reserve ship clean for now.”
“You got weapons clearance, Colonel?” Embry asked.
“We have part of it,” McKenna told him. Permission to mount weapons had to come from General Brackman at Space Command, and except for a training flight when missiles wer
e fired into the Chad desert or the Celebes Sea, the weapons approval request also followed a laborious route through the JCS and the Oval Office.
As soon as McKenna had returned from his recon flight over the ice, he had called Brackman’s office. “General Brackman is in conference.”
“Ah, Milly, my love, my beautiful … ”
“Can it, Colonel.”
“Please.”
“That’s better. Let me see if I can break in.”
Brackman came on the line a minute later. “What’s up, Kevin?”
“I want to install some ordnance for these recon flights, General.”
“Rationale?”
“I haven’t seen the photos yet, but I got a visual on a couple ships and two Tornados. Those people are armed to the teeth.”
“But they can’t see you.”
“We could debate that point,” McKenna said. “Summertime, there’s a lot of light in the area. Low on the ice, we’re vulnerable to overhead aircraft.”
Brackman was not afraid to make decisions, one of the reasons that McKenna respected him. “Okay, Kevin. You can mount defensive missiles. You can mount guns. Weapons release is not authorized, but I’ll get on the horn to Washington and see if I can get a Presidential directive. It’ll be ‘fire only if fired upon,’ if I get it.”
“That’s all I’m asking for, General.”
Now, McKenna told Embry, “On the left inboard, let’s install the gun pod. On the long pylon, I want one Phoenix, one Sidewinder, and two Wasps.”
“Nothing like wide-ranging preparation, Colonel.”
“Nothing like it, Bert.”
Embry pushed off for an intercom station, to order his assistant to start moving pylons and missiles from the storage lockers, and Shalbot began to remove the access panel to the right outboard hard point. Each hard point had a number of alternative electronic hookups, depending on which pylon, and which pod was to be utilized.
McKenna had selected the longer pylon for the missiles in order to have room for the thirteen-foot-long, fifteen-inch-diameter Phoenix, as well as the nine-foot-long Sidewinder and the shorter Wasps. On the shorter pylon, they could mount the gun pod, four Wasp, three Sidewinder, or two Phoenix missiles.
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