“You said the navy is going to send a sub in there?” Overton asked.
“Yes. I passed this information on to General Thorpe at NORAD. He is forwarding it to CINCSUBLANT.”
“Good.”
“All right, on to Delta Yellow’s flight. Overall, we didn’t find much changed in the industrial or military centers. New Amsterdam has enough parked aircraft to support the information that four wings are stationed there.” Pearson brought up a new picture, an enlarged photo of the runways at New Amsterdam. McKenna had landed there once, but it seemed like a long time ago.
With a collapsible pointer, she indicated the alert shack at the end of Runway 27. “This is the twenty-four-hour standby facility, with, as you’ll notice, revetments for two aircraft. There have been alterations since our last photos of New Amsterdam, which were about three months ago. Back to the bottom right, here, about two hundred yards from the alert shack, new revetments have been built, and nine house trailers have been moved into position. Judging from the number and type of equipment deployed — Tornadoes, Eurofighters, transports, and helicopters — we believe that this is the 20th Special Air Group.”
“From appearances,” Nitro Fizz Williams said, “you’re saying the whole damned wing is on twenty-four alert status, Amy?”
“It would appear that way, George,” Pearson told him. “There were two brand new ships, a destroyer and an amphibious landing craft, in the naval section of the harbor at Bremerton. Any questions, so far?”
There were none.
“All right. Delta Blue. This was the most interesting flight, from the standpoint of changes.”
A new series of pictures began to appear and disappear on the screen.
“There has been a lot of new construction in the industrial areas at Rostock, Halle, Leipzig, and Dresden. It’s rapid expansion, but still, something we might have expected, given the stated intention of expanding employment and developing the eastern economy. And, yet again, some of it is disturbing. Military units on the borders appear to have a full complement of equipment, most of it appearing new. Tanks, trucks, jeeps, artillery pieces. New, though, are large truck parks, identified by the tracks leading into them. We don’t know what is stored in the parks, however, because they have been hidden under camouflage netting.”
Pearson pointed to a photo on the screen, dim because of the low-light film used. It looked like a big, empty field next to a gravel road. Severed churned-up turn-ins from the road, crossing over culverts, provided the perspective.
“This one was taken a few miles east of Dresden. The camouflage nettings covers seven acres.”
“Jesus!” Munoz said. “That’s a lot of tanks.”
“Some of the markings on the road are from tracked vehicles, but it’s also a lot of howitzers, or fuel tankers, or ammunition storage or something else. We don’t know what.”
Another picture.
“Here, outside Leipzig, is a new tank farm. East Germany is expecting to sell its citizens a lot of automobiles, or it’s storing a great deal of fuel. We’re estimating a half billion gallons of liquid fuel stored here alone. At Rostock, there’s another tank farm.
“Last, but not least, Colonel McKenna and Major Munoz shot some pictures of an expanded installation west of Peenemünde. It is clearly a launch site, but we don’t know what kind of vehicle it is intended to launch.” McKenna studied the picture, much clearer than the tape he had reviewed on the return trip.
“It looks to me, Amy,” he said, “as if the shell of the launch facility is designed to be moved away from the gantry on tracks.”
“Exactly, Colonel.”
“Which would leave an exposed gantry at least as large as any on the pads at Canaveral.”
“Yes”
“Which means a vehicle designed for entry into space.”
“I would agree with that.”
“I wonder if it has a warhead,” he mused.
*
Gen. Marvin Brackman was cautious on the phone, still feeling out the relationship between himself and Vitaly Sheremetevo. Adm. Hannibal Cross had passed the Sheremetevo contact on to Brackman, and they had communicated by telephone several times. The last time they had talked, they had advanced to the use of first names, but the usage was still tentative.
“Is your government going to lodge a complaint against the Hamburg, Vitaly?”
There was a long pause. “No, Marvin, it is not. In fact, my government does not know about the strike attempt. I am keeping that information within the PVO Strany.”
“I see. Any particular reason?”
“For the moment, I wish to see if the strike was a rash move by an excitable commander. We will know more if it happens again.”
“Admiral Schmidt is not particularly excitable,” Brackman pointed out.
“No, he is not. But a subordinate may have been responsible.”
“That is possible,” Brackman said, though he felt as if something was being held back.
“And to tell you the truth, my airplane commander may have been a little rash, himself. His actions may have provoked the response he received.”
Which was the way David Thorpe had interpreted the radar tape from Themis.
“All right, then. Well leave it there for the time being. Did you learn anything of interest from the flight pictures, Vitaly?”
“Not very much. They are quite similar to the photographs you forwarded to me, and my analysts say the same as your analysts. There is too much heat being generated for them to be simply oil wells.”
“What do you suggest as our next step, then?” Brackman asked.
“I believe we have learned all that we are to learn from infrared pictures, Marvin. I am going to attempt to interest Admiral Michy in a subsurface excursion.”
Brackman considered the implications of American and Soviet submarines encountering the Black Forest in the Greenland Sea simultaneously.
“I have a suggestion, Vitaly. Call me back after you have talked to Admiral Michy, and I will arrange for him to communicate with Admiral Lorenzen, who is the commander in chief of submarines for our Atlantic fleet. We don’t want our boats bumping noses.”
“Ah, I understand. Yes, that is a good idea.”
“And then, if I may ask, has your Colonel Volontov ever been to Chad?”
“I do not believe so, Marvin, and I am quite certain that he would find no interest in such a trip. But I will convince him that he will enjoy it.”
“Good, Vitaly. Then, one last point. What are we going to do about that launch complex?”
“While I do not know for certain, it seems to me that the GRU will have persons in closer proximity to Peenemünde than will the CIA or the Defense Intelligence Agency.”
“That is probably true,” Brackman said, “though, like yourself, I couldn’t say for sure”
“I will make the first inquiries, then,” Sheremetevo told him.
*
McKenna put the MakoShark on the runway at Jack Andrews Air Force Base while it was still light out, just before seven o’clock. He taxied immediately into Hangar One and parked next to Delta Orange. The technicians working on final systems checks for the newest MakoShark abandoned their tasks to handle the after-flight inspection of Delta Blue.
They bitched about the hangar doors opening for Delta Blue’s entrance, also bringing in a heat wave and a cloud of hot dry sand from the desert.
“Damn, Colonel,” Tech Sergeant Prentiss said, “couldn’t you have come in a little later, like in November?”
“Is it any better in November, Sarge?” McKenna asked as he descended the curving ladder Prentiss had attached to the fuselage.
“No. But it sounds cooler.”
McKenna paced in a small circle. After several days in space, it always took him a while to reacquaint his leg muscles with gravity.
Munoz didn’t wait for his own ladder to be placed, but stood up on the rear cockpit coaming, slipped around the raised forward canopy, and slid down
McKenna’s ladder.
“Thirsty, Tony?”
“I’m gonna have just one Bloody Mary and two bottles of Dos Equis, jefe.”
“Sounds good to me, too, but you’ve got to wait.”
“No shit? I’ve been waitin’ days and days.”
“All in your mind, Tony. I want you to meet this guy, too.”
They changed into khakis in the pilots’ dressing room and waited until eight-fifteen in the control tower atop Hangar One, drinking Cokes with the air controller.
At eight-fifteen, the radar beeped.
The controller jumped up and ran for his console, pulling the headset over his head. He told McKenna, “I’ve got an inbound sixty miles out.”
The radio speaker overhead squawked.
“Andrews Air Control.”
“Andrews, this is Soviet MiG-29 eight six four seven.”
“Go ahead, four seven.”
“I am one hundred kilometers out, requesting permission to land.”
“Preapproved, four seven. You are cleared for straight-in on Runway 18 left. Temperature one-one-three, wind four knots from two-six-two. No other traffic in the area.”
“Thank you, Andrews Control. I will also require a remote parking space.”
“Also preapproved, four seven. When you are on the ground, I will direct you.”
McKenna and Munoz descended from the tower, pushed through the ground-level door onto the tarmac, and winced as the heat hit them.
“Hell, compadre, I might as well have stayed in Tucson all my life.”
“Chasing señoritas?”
“It is my dedicated vocation.”
McKenna slid behind the wheel of a golf cart painted air force blue and topped with a white, fringed sunshade.
“Does this Russian outrank me?” Munoz asked.
“By a couple grades.”
“I’ll ride in back.”
Munoz scrambled into one of the two narrow seats on the back of the cart.
They watched as the MiG-29 came in, gear and flaps extended. Reminiscent of a twin-ruddered Eagle. It was a smooth landing and a short runout. The airplane turned around and came back toward them. Half a mile away, it turned off the strip, rolled for a hundred yards, turned 180 degrees, and braked to a stop. The whine of its engines died away, and McKenna turned the key on the electric cart and pulled away from the hangar.
“He doesn’t want anyone taking a close look at that thing, does he, Snake Eyes?”
“Can’t say as I blame him. We don’t often park one of our top fighters on a Soviet air base. We’re going to station an air cop in a pickup for him. And he demanded that he be allowed to refuel it himself.”
“Paranoid SOB,” Munoz said.
McKenna stopped the cart twenty yards from the Fulcrum and watched as the pilot left his helmet in the cockpit, slid out of it, and worked his way to the ground, stabbing his toes into steps behind spring-loaded doors. He closed the canopy, bent to pick up a valise he had tossed out, then approached the cart in a stiff-legged walk.
McKenna and Munoz got out and saluted. The Soviet colonel returned the salute, then shook their hands when they were offered.
“Colonel Volontov, I’m Colonel Kevin McKenna. Kevin, if you prefer. This is Tony Munoz.”
Volontov had a handsome, somewhat angular face, and he smiled easily enough, but there was some rigidity in his eyes. “My superiors say we are being friendly, so, yes, let us try first names. Mine is Pyotr.”
McKenna grinned at him. “Good deal, Pyotr. You want to shed that pressure suit? Before you reach boiling point?”
“I will do it here,” he said and started unzipping zippers. He stripped to underwear, opened his small valise, and found a jumpsuit affair to don, then topped it with a service cap.
A blue Chevy pickup pulled up, and the air policeman driving opened his window. “Colonel McKenna, I was to report to you.”
“See that aircraft, Airman? This is as close as you get to it. And no one else on this base, no matter the rank, gets any closer than you are now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have any trouble with anyone, beep me.”
McKenna turned back to Volontov. “Is that satisfactory, Pyotr?”
“Quite satisfactory, Col … Kevin.”
Munoz climbed into the back of the cart. “How about a drink, Pyotr?”
The man smiled again, his eyes a little softer. “That would be welcome.”
On the ride back down the runway toward the dining hall, McKenna said, “You had a hell of a flight. Thirty-seven hundred miles.”
“Yes. It required two in-flight refuelings.”
“What time did you leave?”
“Late this afternoon.”
McKenna grinned. Volontov wasn’t going to reveal his time aloft or his speed, but McKenna figured it took him about two-and-a-half hours at around Mach 2.
The Soviet pilot openly examined the base as they left the runway and followed a ragged asphalt road. There wasn’t much to be seen in the open. A Honey Bee on a flatbed was en route to a launch pad.
“You are one of the MakoShark pilots, Kevin?” Volontov asked.
“I’ll have to respond ‘classified,’” McKenna said.
“Of course,” the pilot said. “I must admit to some envy. I have been attempting to transfer to our Rocket Forces for some years.”
“Someday, you get some time off, maybe we can arrange a ride in one of the Makos,” McKenna offered.
“I would like that.”
The dining hall was deserted, the off-duty personnel crowding the rec room. Rather than accept the available entrees from the cafeteria line, Munoz chased down a mess sergeant and had him grill three large T-bones. He introduced Volontov to Bloody Mary.
Volontov pulled the celery stalk out of his oversized glass. “What is this?”
“Don’t worry, Pete. It’s got vodka in it.”
After a tentative, short sip, Volontov said, “And so it does.”
Over dinner, they all got to know each other. McKenna briefed the Soviet wing commander on the data that Pearson had been accumulating, and Volontov provided the details of his single flight over the oil fields.
McKenna said, “Our people don’t really think they’re pumping oil up there, you know?”
“General Sheremetevo seems to have his doubts, also. He has said that the Germans imported twice as much oil from the rodina, the motherland, last year as they have in the past. I should think that Soviet oil imports would diminish with the discovery of new sources.”
McKenna made a mental note of that item to pass on to Pearson. “That’s a point, Pyotr.”
They were working on large chunks of warm apple pie when Lynn Marie Hagger entered the dining room to pick up a mug of coffee from the cafeteria line. When she spotted them, she walked over to the table.
McKenna noted Volontov’s appraisal of her slim figure, heart-shaped face, and silky dark hair. She was dressed in a flight suit. His blue eyes lightened and the corners of his mouth lifted a trifle.
Haggar spoke to McKenna as the men stood up. “Am I interrupting anything, Colonel?”
“I think we’ve covered it, Lynn. Would you like to join us?”
“I have an hour until flight time.”
“Have a seat,” McKenna said, then introduced her. “Colonel Pyotr Volontov, Major Lynn Haggar. Pyotr’s a wing commander, Lynn.”
“It is nice to meet you, Major Haggar.”
“Make it Lynn, would you?”
Volontov nodded toward the pilot’s wings embroidered over her left breast pocket. “You are a pilot, Lynn?”
She was sitting with her right side to Volontov, so he had not seen the left shoulder patch, a silver blue, blocky “1” on a black background, a miniature satellite and orbital line circling it. Haggar looked to McKenna for guidance in her response.
He said, “Lynn’s in my squadron, Pyotr. She flies the Mako.”
Volontov smiled widely, revealing good, even teet
h. “I am impressed. A cosmonaut.”
“When I get tired of McKenna,” Munoz said, “I’m gonna be Lynn’s systems officer. She needs the benefit of my experience.”
McKenna noted that Munoz left the “weapons” off the “systems officer” tag. The Arizonian could be subtle when he wanted to be.
Haggar smiled at him. “Tony, your experience is primarily with hot food and spicy women. Why would I need it?”
“What more is there?”
Even Volontov laughed at that.
Haggar asked him, “Do you have many women flying in your wing, Pyotr?”
“None, I’m afraid. And none in any unit of the PVO Strany. The generals at Stavko are reluctant to place women in combat roles.”
“The generals at Stavko are not alone,” Haggar said to him, but she gave the dirty look to McKenna.
Eight
General Overton was in his office cubicle, the curtain open. He was entering data in his computerized daily log for Themis.
Pearson pushed off the hatchway of the Radio Shack, sailed across the corridor, and stopped her flight by grabbing the bar outside Overton’s cubicle.
He looked up from his screen.
“Want to hear a harebrained idea, General?”
“No. But I’m going to anyway, right?”
“Right.”
“Tell me.”
“Everything we’ve got so far points in the direction of a military buildup in Germany. Fossil fuels being stored. Industrial output at peak. Equipment reserves. The wells have to be part of that, but we’re stymied as to new information.”
“Granted.”
“In reviewing my pictures of the wells, I’ve noted that wells twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four don’t show the same heat configurations as the others. I’m assuming that they’re currently drilling those three.”
“I’ll go with that,” Overton said. “The process seems to be one of constructing a platform and dome ahead of time, then moving the drilling equipment in later. More efficient that way, I suppose.”
“And they haven’t built a new platform in over a year.”
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