Delta Blue

Two

For a man approaching sixty, Gen. Marvin Brackman was fit, if a trifle overweight. He was five-feet, eleven-inches tall, and he weighed 180 pounds, almost all of the excess wrapped around his waist. Bordering on portly, some would say, though not directly to him. His hair was exceptionally thin and fully gray, topping an elongated face with sad brown eyes, a thin, aristocratic nose, and a straight, wide mouth that surprised people when it smiled as often as it did.

Brackman was commander, United States Air Force Space Command, which included the North American Aerospace Defense Command. His headquarters was located deep inside Cheyenne Mountain southwest of Colorado Springs, and the nearly five acres of space hollowed out of solid granite contained a maze of passages and facilities resting on a sea of steel springs. The springs were supposed to reduce the shock effects of a nuclear attack.

NORAD was one of the “C-cubed” systems — command, control, and communications — operated by the Department of Defense. Like the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon and the Alternate NMCC at Fort Richie, Maryland, NORAD handled normal crisis situations with ease, but would probably remain utilitarian only during the first stages of a nuclear war. All of the command centers were prime targets, and after they were obliterated, command and control would shift to airborne command posts, Boeing E-4Bs known as National Emergency Airborne Command Posts, or NEACPs, or “Kneecaps.”

Brackman had learned to live with his potential fate, but many visitors to the NORAD headquarters appeared to him to be overly nervous.

The heavily fortified antenna compound on the exterior of the mountain gathered signals from all over the world. The Ballistic Missile Early Warning System (BMEWS), with its over-the-horizon radars, the Defense Early Warning System (DEWLine), Teal Ruby and KH-8 and K-11 satellites in space, and submarines and ships at sea fed their intelligence pickings to NORAD. The results were filtered, combined, and stored in the computers, ready for instant display on one of the plotting screens. At any particular moment, NORAD and her sister command centers could pinpoint the location of most ballistic missiles, aircraft, and naval ships in the world.

The massive operations center controlled the flow of trillions of bits of information, the operators manning rows of complex consoles on the main floor. Brig. Gen. David Thorpe was in charge of the operations center, and he oversaw it, along with the shift duty officers, from an enclosed and windowed platform raised above the center floor. Through the windows, they had an unobstructed view of the massive screen mounted on the far wall of the center.

Brackman opened the door and entered Thorpe’s aerie. None of the three men and two women at the command consoles leaped to attention for the commander, and he didn’t expect it. Brackman didn’t believe in diverting attention from the task at hand.

Thorpe, a natty and meticulous man, checked his watch, climbed out of his upholstered chair, and met Brackman by the door.

“I hope you’re not running a search-and-destroy mission for me, Marv. I lost track of time.”

“No. I’m running late myself, David. I’ve been putting out congressional fires.”

“Bonfire?”

“More like an overheated toaster.”

The two generals slipped out into the corridor and headed for the conference room.

“Any anomalies?” Brackman asked.

“None. Red Banner Fleet is running a war game in the Baltic, but we were notified of that last month. The Persian Gulf is quiet.”

“Almost boring, huh?”

The intelligence officer laughed. “Damned boring.”

“I hope you’re not going to put me to sleep,” Brackman said.

“ ’Fraid so.”

The half-dozen officers waiting for them in the conference room came to attention as they entered, and Brackman told them, “As you were.”

He took a seat at the table and let Thorpe proceed with the meeting. The weekly Intelligence Briefing stayed on Brackman’s schedule whether or not there were noteworthy developments in the previous week. He needed to maintain a consistent overview at all times, just in case — like today — some senator called with a question.

David Thorpe went to the head of the room and stood at a lectern next to the wall-mounted screen. One by one, he introduced the series of intelligence professionals who reported on the status of hostile, or potentially hostile, armed forces in the world. Numbers, numbers, numbers. ICBMs, SAMs, strategic bombers, naval fleets and task forces, reconnaissance satellite tracks altered, the logistics of supply.

Thorpe was right. It was boring as hell.

Finally, the brigadier introduced the single woman in the room.

Brackman had met her on several occasions, but mostly knew her through her personnel file. Amelia Pearson was a tiny woman, four inches above the five-foot mark, and gave the impression of a small package of frenetic dynamite, instantly ready to detonate. She had dark red hair cut delightfully longer than air force expectations and pale green eyes. Even in a summer uniform, her figure invited exploration, but General Brackman had given up exploration at Pamela Brackman’s command thirty years before. At thirty-three, Pearson was unmarried and intensely devoted to her career. She held a doctorate in international affairs from the University of California at Los Angeles and had also read at Trinity College.

She also wore the silver oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel in the United States Air Force.

“Gentlemen,” Thorpe said, “Lieutenant Colonel Pearson, intelligence officer of the First Aerospace Squadron.”

Pearson got up and moved to the lectern. She moved with confidence and grace, Brackman thought, and maybe a trace of overconfidence. Her eyes surveyed her audience with unflinching calm.

Tapping a few keys on the lectern’s control panel, Pearson changed the screen from the last briefer’s view of Kuwait to an almost bare map. The eastern coast of Greenland was shown, along with the Greenland Sea, the island of Svalbard, which was Norwegian, and part of the Barents Sea. North to south, the map ran from the North Pole to the Arctic Circle.

As soon as the map was in place, Pearson entered another code, and twenty-four yellow dots appeared on the map. Nine of them were sprinkled in a rough line along the southern edge of the Arctic ice pack, and fifteen of them dotted the northern Greenland Sea.

“General Brackman, gentlemen, in yellow, you see the empire of the Bremerhaven Petroleum Corporation.”

Brackman looked over at Thorpe, but the intelligence chief was studying Pearson. Thorpe had told him last week, when Pearson requested a chance to present her case, that it might be a little off-the-wall, but was worth hearing.

“Bremerhaven Petroleum Corporation was formed in unified Germany three years ago, and the company went into operation almost immediately. The charter states that its primary business is the exploration for new oil sources and the transportation of that oil to the German mainland by way of subsea pipelines.

“The area of operations is approximately fifteen hundred miles north of discoveries in the North Sea, and the venture was scoffed at by many prominent geologists. And yet, while there has been no public acclaim, the company has apparently met with some success. There are twenty-four sites currently. Each site consists of a geodesic dome housing the operational equipment and living quarters, apparent storage tanks, and a helicopter landing pad.”

The screen changed to show a recon photo, probably taken from a Keyhole satellite. The well shown was ocean-based, the oversized dome supported on a three-legged platform. Brackman didn’t know the distance of the photo, which was fairly great, but the platform appeared to him to be larger than normal.

“The rate of expansion has been considerable,” Pearson went on. “Five platforms were moved into position in the first year, nine in the second year, and the balance, including the sites on the ice, within the last year. Support ships for the pipe-laying operation have been at work for the entire three years.”

The screen again reverted to the map, but this time, dotted lines indicated the paths of pipelines interconnecting all of the wells.

“Any questions about the physical layout, gentlemen?”

Brackman studied the map, then asked, “Is every drilling rig still in the same place in which it was first situated, Colonel?”

“Yes sir, it is. That is the first point that prompted my curiosity. I would have expected that some wells would have come in dry and the drilling equipment moved to another site.”

“So would I,” Brackman admitted. “But you have a second point to make?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

A series of photographs came up on the screen, each one held for viewing for about three seconds. There were flights of Panavia Tornados, Dornier 228s, and Eurofighters, usually in pairs. There were several patrol boats, a couple of missile frigates, two missile cruisers. All of them wore the markings of the reunified German air force and German navy.

Brackman wasn’t surprised at the photos. After the reunification of East and West Germany, there had ensued a long period of economic chaos. In an effort to create jobs and increase the standard of living for her citizens, the new Germany had opened dozens of industrial plants and shipyards in the east. Many of them produced military aircraft, ships, and other materiel under license from other manufacturers. The military men in countries belonging to a downsized NATO had voiced some alarm, but the politicians were certain that everything was under tight control. Germany needed an economic boost that didn’t require foreign aid from Britain, France, the Soviet Union, or the United States.

Germany was merely rebuilding her defensive capability to counteract the loss of NATO forces stationed within her borders. She still suffered some paranoia from a history of conflict with the Soviet Union.

And Brackman suffered, too, when he thought of Rhein Main, Wiesbaden, New Amsterdam, Hahn, Bitburg, Spangdahlem, Ramstein, Sembach, and Zweibrucken air bases, all built with American dollars. The German flag flew over them now, and the German Luftwaffe controlled their skies.

“These aircraft and ships,” Pearson said, “are patrolling the pipelines and wells of the Bremerhaven Petroleum Corporation.”

“No shit?” blurted General Thorpe.

“No lie, sir.”

“What’s the frequency?” Brackman asked.

Pearson didn’t even refer to notes. “So far, sir, we have tentative identification of eleven naval ships of three thousand tons displacement, or greater, continually on station. We don’t know the exact ships.”

A tap of the console brought eleven more dots to the screen, these in blue. Brackman noted that the ships were well positioned on the perimeter of the well-drilling operations.

“The ships are relieved about once a month,” Pearson said. “In the air, patrol flights originating primarily from New Amsterdam make a circuit four times a day, but the flights are staggered. There is no set routine.”

“How many nations patrol their oil fields, Colonel?” Thorpe asked.

“There are some, General Thorpe. Saudi Arabia, Iran, Iraq, for instance. British naval units pass frequently through the North Sea oil fields. However, most of these examples involve oil fields that are nationalized. Very few private oil companies rate security from their governments. And none receive security coverage at this volume or frequency.”

“That’s all that bothers you, Colonel Pearson?” Brackman asked.

She frowned. “I think it’s worth a closer look, sir.”

“Who should do the looking?”

Pearson smiled. “I think the First Aerospace can handle it, General.”

“Go for it, then, but let’s keep it damned quiet, Colonel.”

When Amy Pearson left Trinity College, she had been prepared to take on the world and make a name for herself.

She had come to realize that there were many ironies in her life. “Taking on the world” had become a reality, rather than an exaggeration. And she was not allowed to make a name for herself. She knew that her name would never achieve household recognition.

And the greatest irony of all: she didn’t care.

Not anymore.

Taking a direct commission in air force intelligence had been impulsive, but she had had good assignments, and she had mastered the technological requirements quickly. Better, her commanders had recognized her qualities, and she had advanced through the ranks faster than her contemporaries.

She was damned good at what she did, and the results were visible. That was the important part. Amy Pearson made things happen. Just look at the meeting with the commander-in-chief of the Space Command.

After the meeting with General Brackman, David Thorpe had taken her to dinner at the officers’ club, then summoned an air force sedan for her. The sergeant driving breezed his way through the southern environs of Colorado Springs, taking Lake Avenue, then the Hancock Freeway, out to Academy Boulevard. Still, by the time he turned onto Fountain Boulevard, it was almost nine o’clock.

She hated wasting time, and she was eager to get started on her new assignment.

After passing through the base’s main gate, the sergeant headed for the sequestered hangars that housed one of the ground-support groups for the 1st Aerospace Squadron. She got out of the car with her briefcase, thanked the driver, then approached the security control in the fence surrounding the hangars.

The air policeman on duty knew her by sight, but he still examined her identification with a critical eye and ran her briefcase through the X-ray machine before opening the gate.

Before she reached the small door set into the back of the hangar, it opened to reveal Maj. Calvin Orison. Known as High Cal because of his rotundity, Orison was the commander of the support detachment.

“Hi, there, Amy.”

“Cal. How are you?”

“Lonely.”

She grinned at him as she stepped over the threshold and into the hangar.

One MakoShark and two Bell JetRangers were parked inside. As soon as she saw that the Learjet assigned to the detachment was missing, she knew.

“Where’s McKenna?”

“Well, now, Amy… ”

“Damn it! He’s supposed to be here.”

“You ever known Kevin to be where he’s supposed to be?” Orison asked.

“That son of a bitch! I want a phone, right now.”

“Take it easy, Amy. Now and then, you got to give the man a little… ”

“Now, Cal.”

Amy Pearson wasn’t much good at letting other people finish their sentences.

The summer season in Aspen was the best season by far, Kevin McKenna thought. He preferred warm to cool, hot to frigid. He didn’t mind loafing around a swimming pool, and he absolutely hated loafing around the base of a mountain, trying to splice broken skis or legs together.

The only drawback to summer in Aspen was the lack of snow bunnies.

McKenna and Munoz had checked into separate rooms at the Aspen Inn at seven in the morning. McKenna slept until noon, and Munoz slept until three.

Then they idled around the swimming pool, absorbing the sun’s rays, watching the vacationing teachers, and drinking Bloody Marys. After two drinks, they switched to Bloody Marys that contained only the stalks of celery. In younger days, that weren’t too far behind him, McKenna had never counted his glasses or cans. Now, with unpredictable flying schedules, and especially with the MakoShark, he had fallen into a habit of moderation.

When they went out on the town like this, Maj. Tony Munoz stuck close to Col. Kevin McKenna because he didn’t have the same will power over Bloody Marys, Margaritas, and Johnny Walker.

Munoz was sitting in a canvas-webbed chair at a right angle to McKenna. The Arizonian was a tawny brown, with hard-ridged muscles lining his arms, legs, chest, and stomach. He had dark brown hair that matched his eyes and a smooth, almost round face that suggested that he did not have a care in the world. He didn’t.

The two of them had met when Capt. Anthony Munoz had been assigned for a year as a weapons system trainee in McKenna’s squadron. McKenna was a major then and had taken the WSO into the backseat of his F-4D. By the end of the year, the two of them took second place in their class in the Red Flag combat exercises out of Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada. With a little finagling, they managed to get Munoz’s temporary duty converted to a permanent assignment.

“It is dark. You realize that, jefe?”

The sun had indeed dropped beyond the western peaks, leaving a nice blush of orange and red on the horizon, and the quick cooling of the mountains was raising goosebumps on McKenna’s chest. A few yellow lamps were lit around the pool, and the surface of the pool itself was lit from below with a soft, bluish tint that wavered from the action of a couple becoming amorous.

McKenna had become so accustomed to rapid changes in temperature that he hadn’t paid attention to the night falling. He only watched for the important things, like unaccompanied vacationing female teachers and secretaries harboring some thought of adventure.

Usually, he was able to attract one or two. At thirty-eight, he was in excellent shape, the stomach flat and hard, the 175 pounds just right for his six-foot frame and heavy bones, the black hair full, a trifle long, and slightly unkempt. His eyes were listed as green on his driver’s license, but actually slipped over into a light shade of gray. His eyes were extremely sharp, not missing much, especially hostile aircraft in otherwise empty-appearing skies. It was one of the reasons he had picked up the nickname, “Snake Eyes.” Another reason was his willingness to take a gamble, now and then. McKenna was an Air Force Academy engineering graduate who had planned on becoming a general. One star, at least. That ambition had eroded slightly after he learned to fly and found out that he was pretty good at it. Not many generals were allowed to fly as much as they would have liked. McKenna had had one tour with the Thunderbirds demonstration team, had flown as a test pilot out of Edwards Air Force Base, and had served as an instructor/liaison pilot in F-15 Eagles and F-16 Fighting Falcons for the Saudi and Israeli air forces, in addition to standard assignments with USAF wings. A lot of it was boring, and a lot of it was exciting. It got more exciting on the morning, five years before, when Gen. Marvin Brackman called him at the Bachelor Officer Quarters at Edwards.

“McKenna, a couple people I know said you could fly anything with wings.”

“Even if it’s only got half a wing left, General.”

“Would you rather make full colonel or fly?”

“I’ll fly,” McKenna had said.

“Maybe you’ll do both. By the time you get down to the flight line, I’ll have an F-15 cleared for you. I want you at Peterson by ten o’clock.”

It had been a short interview, and McKenna had not returned to Edwards.

“Hey, Kev. I mention it was gettin’ dark?”

“Yeah, Tony. You did.”

“We gonna sit here all goddamned night, lookin’ for what ain’t gonna appear?”

“I saw a couple possibles,” McKenna said.

“So did I. Holdin’ hands with friendly types.”

“Reluctantly, I’ll say today was a bust.”

“Me, I saw one of those, too. Coveted by her husband.”

“That leaves dinner, I suppose.”

“I’ve been known to eat,” Munoz said.

“Almost anything,” McKenna agreed.

They went up to their rooms to change into sport shirts and jeans, and then met in the lobby. Paring down the list of restaurants by flipping quarters, they ended up with a yuppie place called the Eager Angus, and took a cab out to it. The place was hanging ferns and brass and used brick and cozy nooks, but they got a window booth with a view of Buttermilk Mountain — when it could be seen — and someone had said the prime rib was “really, really” prime.

It was. An inch thick, and juicily rare, and covering an oversized platter. The baked potato melted when McKenna looked at it.

Munoz dribbled black pepper over everything — beef, salad, and potato.

“You think that’s good for you?”

“Hey, amigo. It’s the only damned thing the surgeon general hasn’t banned.”

Halfway through the meal, two young ladies were escorted to a table across the room, on the other side of an unlit, round fireplace full of orange trees.

“Oh shit, oh dear,” Munoz said. “I’m in love.”

McKenna turned to look. “With the blonde or the brunette?”

“Doesn’t matter. You get your quarter out, we flip.”

“Don’t gulp your food, Tony.”

Just before McKenna was ready to call his dinner complete, a waiter showed up at his elbow.

He looked up.

“You wouldn’t happen to be Colonel McKenna?”

“If I said no?”

“I’ll tell the caller to try somewhere else.”

“Ah, hell. I’d better not.”

McKenna got up and followed the waiter into the foyer and picked up the phone.

“McKenna.”

“Damn you, McKenna. I’ve been calling all over Aspen. I’ve made nineteen calls. You’re always, always supposed to leave word.”

“I’m having dinner. It’s very good.”

“We have to take off in an hour.”

“Not good,” he told her. “We’re just about to meet two lovely young ladies. Or perhaps you’d like to join us, Amy? Could be fun.”

“We’re leaving in an hour,” she insisted.

“No hurry. I figure about three A.M.”

“We have an assignment”

“Oh. Well, that’s different.”

The MakoShark was absolutely the most beautiful thing Maj. Wilbur Conover had ever seen. Its heritage was SR-71 Blackbird, but the air force’s design team — from Lockheed, Martin Marietta, Boeing, Hughes, and Rockwell — had gone far beyond a design that was twenty-years’ advanced for 1964, when the Blackbird first flew.

Like the Blackbird, the MakoShark was delta-winged, with a long, long fuselage, and flattened. Chines along the side of the narrowing forward fuselage gave it a visual pancake appearance.

The resemblance stopped there. She did not have rudders. Rather, the wing tips canted upward at seventy-degree angles, leaning outward, to serve as rudders. She did not have the cylindrical nacelles protecting her propulsion systems. The housings were elongated rectangles with rounded edges, and the wing appeared to pass through them. Forward, at the bottom of the wing, the nacelle curved upward to its opening. Jutting out of the opening was the ramjet cone which was not actually a cone as on the SR-71s, but a very wide and flexible triangular piece now blocking the entire mouth of the nacelle. The turbofan engines were not in alignment with the intake, but raised above it, sucking their air supply from an upward-curving tunnel. The reason for that configuration was that spinning turbine blades were excellent radar reflectors. With the blades not directly behind the intake, the possibility for radar contact was reduced.

Similarly, with the jet engines mounted well forward in the long nacelle, their exhaust was channeled slightly downward in another curving tunnel that was wrapped with tubing carrying freon gas. The refrigerant cooled the exhaust considerably, so that by the time it exited the tail pipe, its infrared signature was practically nonexistent at 70 percent throttle settings. Infrared tracking sensors just might pick up a small signal at 90 percent throttle, and would at 100 percent.

But they wouldn’t know what they had. An infrared signal with no radar return?

To further diminish the radar cross-section, the turbofan blades were not made of metal. They were plastic, combined with carbon fiber for strength. While some designers had experimented with engines made of ceramics — not detectable on radar, the MakoShark’s designers had elected to stay with the more reliable and higher output metal-encased engines, using plastic and carbon and polymer for weight-reduction and RCS-control wherever they could get away with it. The engines were, however, enclosed in a honeycombed structure that diffused and absorbed radar probes.

The rocket motors were mounted inboard of the jet engines, in the same nacelles, and were also protected from radar by the honeycomb layer. There was just enough metal in the MakoShark to give it a radar return about the size of a bald eagle when it was within five miles of the transmitter.

Because every ounce of thrust from the rocket motors was necessary for its mission, there was no way to disguise the infrared signature when the craft was flying on rocket power.

Usually, however, the burns did not last for more than four minutes. Nine minutes was the max. Shooting stars, way out in the stratosphere. Meteors burning up. Nothing to be concerned about.

The trailing edge of the delta wing was curved, again for antiradar purposes, and contained the oversized flaps, elevators, ailerons, and trim tabs. Every surface was ultra-smooth, finished in the deep midnight-blue paint that made the MakoShark disappear into the night a hundred yards from an observer. Placed in appropriate locations were the tiny exhaust nozzles of the thruster system. Where the air was rarified and the craft’s attitude unaffected by the movement of control surfaces, the thrusters were utilized. There were no rivets to be exposed; every joint was bonded. There were also no telltale insignia, no aircraft numbers.

The cockpit was located just behind the needle nose, behind the forward avionics bay. The canopies were flush with the lines of the fuselage. Directly aft of the cockpit was the technician-accessible compartment containing more avionics and the computers. Behind that compartment was the pay-load bay — twenty-two feet long by ten feet wide, and behind that, in the tapering fuselage, were the primary fuel tanks feeding the JP-7 aviation fuel to the jet engines.

The payload bay was multipurpose, accepting a variety of modules. A bomb rack module, a cargo module, and up to two passenger modules could all be jacked into place. The passenger modules weren’t very comfortable. Each of them was nine feet long, containing four airline-type seats, environmental control, and a large TV screen on the forward bulkhead. Passengers didn’t like to feel trapped in a windowless, plastic cocoon; they had to be given a view of something. Almost anything would do.

Additionally, four pylons could be fitted to the wing, just inside the engine nacelles. The pylons accepted external fuel tanks, cargo pods, electronics modules, and a variety of lethal weaponry.

Very beautiful in its sleekness and its functional utility, Wilbur Conover thought. And this was his very own. His Delta Yellow.

Capt. Jack Abrams entered the windowless hangar and walked up behind him, his shoes clicking loudly on the concrete floor. “How long are you going to moon over her, Con Man?”

Conover turned to grin at his WSO. “Hell, I don’t know. Couple more hours.”

Abrams shook his head, which reflected the fluorescent lights mounted high in the ceiling. He had gone bald long before he reached forty, and he compensated with a bushy mustache. His pate was smooth, but his face was heavily lined, mirroring a mind that worried about lots of things — equipment breakdowns and the health of his pilot among them.

Conover was three inches taller than Abrams’s five-ten, blond and blue-eyed, and his demeanor was almost the exact opposite of his WSO’s. He laughed a lot, got hung up in a romance whenever he could, devised pranks and practical jokes for many victims, and used the company’s computers to design elaborate scams. Fortunately, he had never attempted to put one of his cons into operation. Since little, unexpected glitches frequently occurred in his practical jokes, he might well have ended up in jail.

Conover had been born in Albany, then reared by an uncle and aunt in New York City when his parents were killed in a boating accident. He had blazed his way through Columbia University, then joined the air force.

Conversely, Jack Abrams had been born, raised, and schooled in New York, then immigrated to Sacramento with his parents. He attended the University of California at Berkeley before entering the air force.

The two of them had not met until they were recruited by Kevin McKenna, but since that time, two years before, had been almost inseparable.

“C’mon, Will. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. She’s fueled and ready to go. Let’s you and me find a San Miguel.”

The fueling crews had topped off Delta Yellow’s liquid and solid fuels half an hour before. The cargo module was loaded. There was nothing to do now but wait.

“Okay, couple beers.” Conover headed for the door, and Abrams fell in beside him.

“I’ll take you on at Ping-Pong.”

“Why do you put yourself through this, Do-Wop? I whip you every time.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

Conover took one last look at his MakoShark before stepping out into the oppressive heat.

The hangar was two stories tall, with administrative offices and storage space on the second floor. Abrams described the hangar as “humongous.” At the moment, it contained three C-123s, two business jets, a T-37 jet trainer, two Bell JetRangers, and a single Mako — the unarmed and un-stealthy version of the MakoShark, in addition to the MakoShark.

The two men mushed their way toward the residential areas under a very hot sun. The humidity was similar to a wet dishrag pressed against Conover’s face. He didn’t much care for layovers at Wet Country, the nickname for Merlin Air Force Base.

The base was one of three dedicated to support of the 1st Aerospace Squadron, and it was the largest by far. Most of its operations were overt, though flights of the MakoShark were generally accomplished at night.

Located on the island of Borneo, on the coast north of Sangkulirang, the complex contained three massive hangars, dormitories, warehouses, a long finger-pier that accepted deep-draft freighters and tankers, a two-mile-long runway, and a launch complex. The local governments and the government of the Indonesian Archipelago didn’t interfere with their operations in the least. Conover assumed that the right palms were well greased.

The coastline, a mile away, was freckled with palm trees. Around the complex, the rainforest had been cut back, but seemed to close back in on them daily, as if it were reluctant to give up territory rightfully its own. Orangutans and gibbons screamed at each other, or at the intruders, and occasionally, a leopard appeared at the jungle’s edge, sniffing the wind.

Abrams had to take quick steps to keep up with Conover’s long strides.

“What’s the damned hurry?” the WSO asked.

“I thought you were thirsty”

“I am.”

“Well, I just want to find an air conditioner.”

The recreation center was a single-storied frame building centered among the four dormitories. Behind it was the dining hall. The sign above the double-doored entrance identified it as the “Recreation Center,” but the residents called it “Heaven on Earth”, or more simply, “Heaven.”

There wasn’t much else to do at Wet Country, except go down to the beach and swim with the sharks.

Inside was a movie theater, a lounge, several television rooms able to pick up the world’s programming, a snack shop, and a large room full of pool tables, Ping-Pong tables, card tables, and electronic games. It was blessedly cool.

Conover and Abrams bought four bottles of San Miguel at the bar and carried them into the rec room. At midday, there were only a half-dozen men and women with free time, and they didn’t have to wait for a Ping-Pong table.

“You sure you want to do this, Jack?”

“Damn right. I got me a system now.”

“Never happen.”

“You wait.” Abrams took a pair of glasses from the pocket of his flight suit and donned them.

They had big clear lenses, with orange gunsights imprinted on them.

He won the first six points because Conover couldn’t stop laughing.

Gen. Felix Eisenach, a resident of Berlin for most of his life, was in his mid-fifties, a bit pompous, and a bit broad. His hair was pure white, and the eyes in his beefy face were a strange silver/green, quite penetrating, he thought. Once, the hair had been blond and the figure much leaner, more closely resembling the photographs of his male Prussian forebears. Like Baron Otto von Eisenach, his aging father, he was accustomed to command.

His command had been a long time coming, however, as had his promotion to his current rank. Eisenach’s advancement had been suppressed at the recommendation of various NATO advisors from British, French, and American services. He had been required to cool his heels in ineffective staff positions: supply, logistics, intelligence, military advisor to the Bundestag — the lower legislative house of the republic — for twenty-five years. Every promotion had come late, at the top end of his seniority on the promotion list.

Just when his frustration had achieved its upper limits, his world shook itself like a wet hound, and everything changed. NATO forces — and his oppressors — withdrew from the fatherland, and the German military resurrected itself. And then his assignments baby-sitting legislators and bureaucrats paid off. He had gained powerful and influential friends.

The hierarchy of the military — air force, navy, and army — was rapidly juggled. Those who had toadied to the occupation forces were summarily retired, and the professional soldiers — like Eisenach — were promoted to deserving ranks and assigned to appropriate commands. Eisenach’s expertise in logistics had gained him the VORMUND PROJEKT.

The seat of government for the new Germany remained in Bonn, but Eisenach’s program was located at Templehof Air Force Base in Berlin. He could not have been happier.

The GUARDIAN PROJECT was a unified command. Eisenach had air force, army, and navy units assigned to him. The units were deployed all over the country, and when he had first taken over, his headquarters had been composed of two offices at Templehof. In four years, however, he had successfully expanded the headquarters to include three office buildings, two hangars, several barracks buildings, and a number of other facilities. In microcosm, it represented similar expansions made throughout the German military.

Eisenach’s driver picked him up at his home on Tiergartenstrasse. Overlooking the manicured and sprawling grounds of the massive Tiergarten, the three-story town house had been in his family for 200 years, the urban residence of a succession of barons. Now, the eighty-five-year-old Baron Frederick Otto von Eisenach was tended by a nurse on the third floor, and General und Frau Eisenach entertained on the first two floors.

As his black Mercedes 500 SEL weaved its way through heavy traffic along Tempelhofer Damm, Eisenach sat in the back and studied the parks and shops and office buildings. He was immensely pleased with the progress taking place. The remnants of the Wall — several miles behind him — were all but gone. Berlin was returning to its former grandeur, as was the entire fatherland.

And best of all, he would live to see it. He had once despaired of that goal.

The sedan passed through the gates of Templehof, took two turns and approached his headquarters. It was a red brick, two-story building surrounded by well-kept green grass. The white sign with black letters in front read:

Eisenach spoke to his driver, “We will go on to the Personnel Division.”

“Yes, sir.”

A block farther down the street, the driver pulled the Mercedes to the curb and leaped out to open Eisenach’s door for him. He got out and strode up the walk toward an oberleutnant who stepped outside to hold the front door. He returned the officer’s salute, entered the building, and headed directly for the conference room.

General Eisenach was a conscientious commander. He felt it imperative that he be aware of each of the 7,000 men in his command, and once a month, without fail, he and his adjutant, Oberst Maximillian Oberlin, met with personnel officers to go over the records of the men assigned to him.

Oberlin and the major in charge of personnel were waiting for him. Eisenach returned the salutes, and all of them settled into chairs at the table. A stack of records folders was centered on the table.

“Well, Max, what have we today?”

“The noncommissioned officers of the 232nd Engineering Company, General.”

They were now reviewing the unteroffiziers of each company. The review of officers had come first, naturally, and had been completed two years before.

“Very well. Let us get started.”

Major Adler began with the first folder. Opening it, he read the name and the pertinent facts, then passed the folder to the general so he could look at the picture stapled inside. Many were quickly scanned, and the folders restacked at the end of the table.

On the fifth, Eisenach noted that the picture was that of a black man. A feldwebel.

“Where is this man from?”

Adler leaned over to read from the file. “Johannesburg, South Africa, General. The sergeant has been in the army for seven years, and with the 232nd for eighteen months. He has expertise in mining operations.”

Eisenach mused, studying the file, then said, “I believe that a man with this background would be more beneficial to the republic with one of the civilian mining companies. Why don’t we see to his discharge from the service? With a letter of recommendation to, say, the Federal Geologic Company.”

Oberlin made the note. “Of course, General.”

Bundesgeologisch Gesellschaft, of course, would not be interested in the man. Perhaps he would return to South Africa. The eleventh record was also of interest.

“Sergeant Alexander Dubowski?”

“From Gdansk originally, General.”

And Jewish.

“His specialty?”

“Rotary-bit maintenance,” Adler said.

“Do we not have an oversupply in that military occupational specialty?”

“We do, General.”

“We should reduce the number of personnel in over-supplied MOSs, so as to free up slots in specialties where we have need,” Eisenach noted.

“As you wish, General,” Adler said, “however… ”

“Yes?”

“Dubowski has almost nineteen years of service. Another year and he could retire with a pension.”

“Major, our concerns must lie with the fatherland, and not with individuals.”

“Yes, of course, General. That is so.”

The tractor towed them out of the hangar, disconnected the tow bar from the nose wheel, and scurried out of sight. The blue flashlight signaled McKenna that it was safe to start his engines.

Munoz called the checklist, and the turbofans were turning over within four minutes. McKenna let them warm for a minute.

“How you doing down there, Amy?” he asked over the intercom.

“I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”

“How about a movie, Amy?” Munoz asked. “I can give you Rio Bravo or Terms of Endearment.”

“I’ll give you terms of endearment, Tony.” Her voice was icy, McKenna thought. Still in a snit because he wasn’t where she wanted him to be when she wanted him to be there. She acted as if their ranks were reversed.

“This is your captain speaking,” McKenna said. “Close your visors and hold on to your valuables.”

He lined up on the runway, guided by the infrared lights on the screen, then slapped the throttles forward. The rocket control panel was active, ready for instant use if he detected any faltering from the turbofans. When the MakoShark was fully laden, as it was now with the passenger module, a cargo module, four loaded pylons, and maximum fuel, the craft weighed almost 100 tons. Any hesitation from the jet engines meant meeting the arroyo-ridden, washboarded landscape east of Colorado Springs intimately. The rocket motors were kept on standby, just in case he needed a boost.

The takeoff was uneventful, and by the time he passed over the Black Squirrel River, he had retracted the gear, trimmed out the controls, killed the rocket panel, and was holding 600 knots on 75 percent power. He went into a climbing turn to the right, headed for the Oklahoma panhandle.

Over North Texas, Munoz gave him a heading of 175 degrees, and McKenna boosted on the rocket motors for three minutes, closing down the ramjets, and achieving Mach 6 at 130,000 feet.

“Let’s cool it for a while, jefe.”

“Problema, Tiger?”

“Somebody saw the burn. My threat receiver is showin’ radar scans lookin’ for us. Probably an AWACS airborne outta Guantanamo, but I like to give those navy guys fits.”

“Can you give me something to look at?” Pearson asked.

“Comin’ up.”

McKenna’s screen switched to direct visual, the image changing as Munoz depressed the lens and raised the magnification seven times. On the curved horizon to their left, daylight was breaking, lighting up cerulean oceans topped with fluffy white clouds.

“How’s that, darlin’?”

“Better.”

“What’s our window, Tiger?”

“I need two-one-point-five minutes, Snake Eyes.”

For this leg of the flight, they had to match up with an access window that occurred only once every 3.6 hours. The computer, which kept the data in memory, was now busily calculating the NavStar position data and plotting the course.

When his velocity dropped off to Mach 5.5, McKenna initiated another burst of two minutes which raised the speed to Mach 7 and took them up to 250,000 feet of altitude. The sky became blacker.

Sixteen minutes later, Munoz said, “Comin’ up on the boost point.”

“Lay back and enjoy it, Amy.”

“Go to hell, McKenna.”

McKenna tapped the commands into his keyboard, turning full control of the MakoShark over to the mass of silicon in the avionics compartment.

Immediately, the computer activated the Orbital Maneuvering System, firing thrusters to shift the attitude of the craft. The nose tilted upward, the left wing dipped.

Munoz aimed the camera head-on. The screen gave Pearson a picture of black velvet, with stars so sharp they looked like diamonds fresh out of twinkle.

McKenna could not hear the burn when it began. There wasn’t enough atmosphere to carry the sound. He could feel the vibration shivering the structure.

The HUD display gave him the numbers. He knew that Munoz was monitoring all systems on his CRT. It was the speed that always amazed him. He felt himself shoved back into his couch.

The Mach readout flickered quickly: 9.5, 11.0, 14.6, 17.0.

There was no ground controller to intone: “Passing through sixty miles altitude. Velocity now twelve thousand miles per hour.”

Mach 18.2.

Almost abruptly, the MakoShark rolled onto its back, the Earth directly above them. Blue of the seas prominent Ecru and gray land masses. Mother Earth glowed. Two hundred miles up. The nose of the craft pulled slightly downward — relative to McKenna — seeking a new path. The G-forces lessened considerably as the momentum of his body caught up with that of the vehicle.

Mach 20.3.

Mach 22.9.

Eight minutes, forty-seven seconds into the burn, the rocket motors shut down.

Mach 24.3.

Mach 26.1.

Over 18,000 miles per hour.

Escape velocity.

“Closin’ at two hundred feet per second,” Munoz said.

“There’s home,” Pearson said. There was some awe in her voice, McKenna thought. It never went away. Not for her.

It never went away for him, either.

Home was still forty miles away, but on the magnified screen it seemed much closer.

Floating there, with Mother Earth a multihued mass above it.

Raggedy-looking.

A huge hub sporting sixteen variable-length spokes, each with an odd-shaped, odd-sized fist on the outer end.

Home.

Themis.