Delta Green

Chapter Eighteen

Pearson and Overton were in the Command Center with Amber and Arguento, listening to the cryptic messages voiced on the tactical channels.

Intelligence specialists were supposed to be able to read between the lines, and this situation wasn’t difficult to decipher.

They were stalemated.

McKenna wouldn’t have broken off the attack unless he was certain the New World Order nuclear warheads were capable of being launched.

Don Curtis reported from the radio shack. “The National Security Agency and NORAD haven’t detected any launches from space.”

Pearson realized she had been holding her breath, and she let it out slowly.

“Alpha Two, Semaphore.”

It took her a second to remember that she was Alpha Two now, then she pulled herself close to the microphone.

“Semaphore, Alpha Two.”

“What’s your reading?” Brackman asked.

“Impasse, sir. I don’t have a report from Delta Blue yet, but I think we can assume they have at least one SS-X-25 on-line.”

“That’s affirmative” McKenna broke in. “One complete and apparently ready to go, and there’s now another warhead, less propulsion stage, anchored nearby.”

“Semaphore Two here,” David Thorpe said. “Delta Blue, is that second warhead on an umbilical?”

“Negative, as far as I could tell,” McKenna said. “We’ll try to get a closer look on the video replay.”

“So they can only prepare one vehicle for launch at a time?” Thorpe asked.

“Hold on,” Pearson said.

She turned to an auxiliary console and called up the video of McKenna’s first run on Soyuz Fifty, when he had severed the umbilical cable. When she found it, she ran it forward until the camera picked up the best and closest view of both the station and the SS-X-25.

“Semaphore Two,” she said, “on the video of the last run, I see only one receptacle for an umbilical. I cannot, however, see the other side of the station.”

“Fifty-fifty odds, then,” Thorpe said, “that they can launch more than ten MIRVs at a time.”

“Which means,” Brackman added, “that the threat is quartered. We lose ten cities instead of forty because we can take out the station before another rocket is in place.” “Correct,” Thorpe said.

“Are we actually talking about taking the risk on ten cities?” McKenna asked.

“Call it five,” Brackman said. “I think the 1st Aero can intercept at least half of the MIRVs while they’re en route. You think you can do better than that, Blue?”

“Maybe six,” McKenna said.

“The problem, if we wait,” Brackman said, “is that they may actually get all forty warheads on-line. Then we’ve got a larger problem.”

“Agreed,” McKenna said.

“Well, we’re not making the decision. Blue, you get on back and stand by, in case we come up with one. Alpha Two, you have any more on the Kampuchea base yet?”

“We’re waiting on photos,” Pearson said.

“Delta Red, Blue. You listening in?”

“Roger that, Blue. Red here.”

“Country Girl, what’s your status?” McKenna asked.

“Six minutes from the recon run.”

“Red, Semaphore. Take absolutely no chances. Go high the first time, and don’t rile any tempers.”

“Roger, sir,” Haggar said.

“Semaphore out.”

Pearson closed the circuit and looked over at Jim Overton.

He shook his head. “Doesn’t look good, Amy.”

She didn’t think so, either.

Lynn Haggar leveled out at thirty-five thousand feet and scanned the HUD. Everything was in the green.

“Swede?”

“One sweep?”

“Go.”

She waited while he scanned the area on radar.

“Jumbo jet to the south,” he said. “A pair to the west, probably Thai Royal Air Force. That’s it.”

“Roger. Set it up.”

“Angels thirty would be best.”

“When?” she asked.

“Your choice from now until a minute from now.”

“Thanks.”

Haggar eased the nose down and idled the throttles. They had been on the turbojets for the last four minutes.

She checked the rocket panel. All switches were set for an immediate rocket boost if it was necessary. She tapped the ignition information into the keyboard, then pressed the standby pad.

At thirty thousand feet, she leveled out and checked her heading. The readout displayed 005 degrees.

“Want to monitor, Country?”

“Of course.”

The copy of the video from the reconnaissance pod appeared on her screen.

Lots of green jungle, some craggy peaks, a stream.

Nothing to get excited about.

“One minute,” Olsen said.

She had the speed down to four hundred knots. At this altitude and velocity, the pictures they got would be steady and sharp.

She was checking the HUD when Olsen said, “My God!”

She glanced down at the screen.

The New World Order’s clandestine air base was no longer covert.

The camouflage hills had disappeared, and the two-mile-long airstrip, though painted to blend into the landscape, was clearly visible on the screen, along with nine or ten aircraft parked along its length. A fighter was taking off.

“They feel secure now,” Haggar guessed.

“I’d think so. I see MiG-27s and Sukhoi Su-24s. There’s an Antonov An-72, also.”

The picture changed to jungle once again.

“One more pass?” Olsen asked.

“One more, then we’ll get back to Wet Country and get these shipped to Amy.”

“This is kind of scary, Country. Why would they show their strength now?”

“Maybe to keep a suddenly reluctant host country at bay. I don’t imagine Phnom Penh is happy about the recent revelations”

“Or maybe they’re just showing their arrogance, having blocked McKenna?”

“That may be, Swede. Damn it, I wish we could take out those MiGs.”

“If we have to wait on a UN resolution,” Olsen said, “we could be waiting for a year.”

General Oleg Druzhinin stood out in front of his control center and watched the activity on the field. For the first time, it appeared to be bustling and real. Fuel crews moved their tankers in close to the MiGs and Sukhois. Ordnance specialists rolled dollies of AA-6 and AA-8 air-to-air missiles beneath the wings. He felt as if he had a true command once again.

Another MiG rolled down the runway and took to the air with a high-pitched scream of its afterburners. He had stepped up the training schedule this morning since the restricted night training had allowed the skills of many of his pilots to become dulled.

There had not yet been a complaint from Kampuchean air controllers about the unauthorized flights in central Kampuchea. He did not expect one to be voiced.

According to Pavel, who had read the major newspapers, and to Nikita Kasartskin, who had copied many of the radio and television broadcasts, the existence of the New World Order was now widely known.

They should have gone to the media in the first place, Druzhinin reflected.

Now, there was apparent activity around the world. The United Nations Security Council was meeting in emergency session. Most governmental leaders appeared to be closeted with their close advisors, according to their spokesmen.

They would be evaluating the threat, and they would turn to the United States for information, and they would learn that the American MakoSharks had been turned away from Soyuz Fifty, sent home with their tails between their legs.

With Shelepin’s concurrence, Druzhinin had opened New World Base to the world’s scrutiny. There was no longer anything, or anyone, to fear.

The Kampucheans had, naturally, recognized Shelepin as soon as they saw the video replayed on television, and they had put two and two and the hospital together. Twenty minutes before, a flight of two Kampuchean Chinese-made F-6s had flown over the base, probably taking pictures.

The Kampuchean air force consisted of six or seven operable F-6s, which were versions of the MiG-19, a few AC-47 gunships, and some UH-1H helicopters. They were the remnants of the former Khmer forces, and they had been dormant for many years before their resurrection. The New World Air Force could eradicate them in half an hour.

Druzhinin did not think it would be necessary, but he was happy that Phnom Penh now knew what it could be up against if the government did not submit to the threat from the skies.

Hot though it was, the sun felt good on his face. He no longer had to slink through life. Anatoly Shelepin and Sergei Pavel and their vision had made it possible for Druzhinin to hold his head high.

He turned and went back inside the control room. A lieutenant smiled at him.

“Comrade General, Captain reports that he will be landing in two hours.”

“Very good, Lieutenant. He has instructions?”

“The jet engines will have to be refueled, and he would like to have the propulsion stage of the second rocket loaded while he and Major Nikitin sleep.”

“You make certain that Colonel Maslov gets what he wants, Lieutenant.”

He would have to discuss with Shelepin the possibility of striking a medal for Hero of the New World Order. Maslov certainly deserved it.

Shelepin and Pavel had been sitting for most of the day in Shelepin’s office watching the television news programs picked up from all over the world by the satellite antenna.

CNN appeared to have the most comprehensive coverage, but Shelepin was put off by the tone of the anchorpersons and the reporters. There was an undercurrent of skepticism in their reports, as if they thought that Shelepin and his colleagues, and their New World Order, were insane.

Bob: Well, Sally, when do you think we’ll hear from this bunch again?

Sally: It’s difficult to tell, Bob, from what our sources tell us. Here in Britain, we understand that Foreign Office officials are still trying to verify that Soyuz Fifty has fallen into, for want of a better word, terrorist hands.

Bob: That’s as good a word as any, Sally. For those of you just joining us, we will shortly rerun the video tape delivered to many news services this morning. On it, a man named Anatoly Shelepin, who we understand was a defector from the old Soviet Union, has proclaimed his leadership of a communist sect to be called the New World Order.

“Idiots!” Shelepin exclaimed.

“These people think,” Pavel said, “that because the Soviet Union folded her hands and died, so must the premier social order.”

“These people do not think, Sergei. They react. They react to what they think is the popular fad of the moment. They cannot understand that communism has not died. It has been forced into retrenchment, perhaps, but our followers are everywhere in the world, and they only seek leadership. We will give them that. The world will soon know.”

“That is true, Anatoly. They may scoff now, but we are a power.”

“Wait until the U.S., French, and British leaders emerge from their secret meetings and tell the world that we must be accommodated.” Shelepin laughed. “I expect an invitation to address the United Nations.”

“What they won’t understand, Anatoly, is that we will not lay claim to a geography, as the Palestinians do. We only wish to exist, and that cannot be denied.”

“We take our lessons from Jesus Christ and Mohammed and Buddha,” Shelepin smiled. “Each came to own a large portion of men’s minds without owning chattels.”

Pavel raised his vodka glass high in toast. “To a better world.”

“Even if we are required to destroy part of it,” Shelepin agreed.

“Do we want this asshole to have parity in the world?” Brackman asked.

Admiral Hannibal Cross stood by his office window looking down on the street. The weather was making a valiant attempt at changing from a snowstorm to a blizzard. The wind had been increasing throughout the night, and to Brackman, the snow beyond the window appeared to be moving as much horizontally as vertically.

“There must be fifty TV vans down there.” Cross said. “These guys will brave desert heat or tropical monsoons or arctic temperatures in order to be the first to manipulate the story.”

“The hijacking of Delta Green has become a media footnote, anyway,” Harvey Mays said. “And in response to your question, Marv, no. Comrade Anatoly Shelepin is not my idea of a friendly force.”

“Nor mine,” Cross said, turning back to the room. “However, the politicos may have to decide otherwise.”

He moved back to his desk and sat down heavily.

The Chairman wasn’t sleeping too well either, Brackman decided.

“Do we have anything recent out of Phnom Penh?” Brackman asked.

“Nothing,” the Chairman said. “The State Department has sent strongly worded messages demanding that Shelepin and his associates be expelled, but the government’s either stonewalling or they’re well-bribed, or they’re scared of him.”

“Or all three,” Mays said.

“That end is up to the diplomats,” Cross said. “The UN is meeting, too, but I expect a lot of word-slinging there for awhile.”

“They’ll chat about it, while we seem to have a more pressing need,” Brackman said.

“We’re getting down to the wire, Marv” Cross said. “In three hours, the National Security Council wants a plan of action. What are we going to give them?”

“It has to be two-pronged,” Brackman said. “Something we can give to the press, to settle them down, and something we can give to McKenna and his people.”

“The President has the Strategic Planning Group working on a theory,” Mays said.

“We aren’t going to be bound to whatever they come up with, are we?” Brackman asked.

“Not if we’ve got something better.”

“Hell, we don’t even have a clear executive directive,” Brackman said. “There’s too many people hemming and hawing around. They don’t know whether to believe us about Shelepin’s takeover of Soyuz Fifty or to continue praying for a more peaceful world.”

“There’s also a lot of people leaving town,” Mays said. “The radio stations are reporting clogged highways all over hell.”

After the Shelepin video had hit the television outlets, the commentators had been speculating on which large cities might be targeted by an unstable madman. The mass population excursions from New York, Washington, and Chicago had begun immediately thereafter. Reports coming in from the embassies indicated similar reactions in London, Paris, and Bonn.

“I hope Alvin Worth is stranded in the middle of the Arlington Memorial Bridge,” Brackman said. “He can test the first five-hundred KT shock wave for us.”

Worth had held a press conference, blaming the current world instability on the Air Force’s inability to protect its supersecret spacecraft. Because of the fervor over Shelepin’s announcement, Worth hadn’t gotten a lot of coverage. Still, it indicated to Brackman the man’s state of mind and how he might be influencing others on the armed services committees. Worth and those like him wanted a scapegoat because they couldn’t dream of a solution.

Marian Anderson, on the other hand, had been uncharacteristically quiet. Maybe she was realizing that, Soviet Union or not, there were still others in the world to warn about, people who required the U.S. to maintain some semblance of military readiness.

“You guys are engaging in hope,” Cross said. “What the hell are we doing?”

“The Air Force strategists are in session,” Mays said “They’re looking at the capabilities of the SS-X-25 and the ways in which we might counter it. Marv said it was possible that we might have to let them launch the first one and try to intercept the MIRVs on the way down. It’d be a damned sight easier if we knew the targets.”

“In what way?”

“Washington is a likely priority, Hannibal. I’d put up a hundred fighters. We see it coming in, we counterattack with four hundred air-to-air missiles. At least one of them’s going to hit it. With luck, it might still be high enough that the altimeter switch hasn’t armed the warhead.”

“That leaves nine cities unprotected,” Brackman said.

“Yeah, unless we can spook Shelepin into revealing the targets. Anyway, that’s one scenario. The strategists are also looking at ways to attack both the space station and the base in Kampuchea.”

“When are they going to have something for us?” Cross asked.

“Soon. All they’ve said so far is that we don’t want to put a missile into either the space station or the SS-X-25.”

“Why?”

“They’re likely to be booby-trapped. Try to hit one or the other, the sensors detect the incoming threat, and the ICBM takes off.”

“Shit. What would you do, Marvin?”

“Since the Oval Office hasn’t yet told us to lay off and let the diplomats work it out, I’d turn McKenna loose. First, we all know the 1st Aero is the only unit we have that can handle a space offensive. Second, most of us trust McKenna. Third, he and his people have the experience. Fourth, they have common sense. On top of all that, when or if we get offensive strategies, I think we’re going to get plans loaded with qualifications and restrictions and limitations from the Strategic Planning Group and from the Air Force people who will be covering their asses, just in case their plans don’t work out.”

“Why?” Cross asked.

“Not one of the members of those groups has been in space and understands the specialized environment for conducting warfare.”

Mays nodded his agreement.

Cross said, “Ask McKenna for a strategy. He’s not to implement anything without our say-so.”

“What if McKenna comes up with something we can believe in and the power brokers in the Security Council turn us down, Hannibal?”

“We’ll do our best to blow up that bridge when we come to it, Marv.”

Brackman got up and crossed the room to the telephone on the credenza.

McKenna had napped in his office cubicle, upside down for variety, for several hours while Delta Blue was undergoing her maintenance. Benny Shalbot had cussed a black-and-blue streak for twenty minutes after he saw what McKenna had done to his wing. Brad Mitchell had thought it could be fixed in a couple of hours, if Shalbot would divert his energy into the proper machine tools.

He took his microwave-relayed telephone call from General Brackman upside down, also.

“McKenna.”

“Marv Brackman, Kevin. They said you were actually sleeping, and I halfway hate to disturb you.”

“Only halfway?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to pamper you.”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“The reason I’m calling, I want you to know what’s going on here.”

“I’m all ears,” McKenna said.

“The UN is demanding that Kampuchea expel the New World Order, but no one believes that’s likely to happen. The State Department is picking up pre-message vibrations that a number of countries will ask the United States not to be precipitate in mounting an attack. They don’t want to test Shelepin’s resolve on their capital cities.”

“Can’t say as I blame them, General.”

“The President is back-stopping all of the diplomatic efforts by having the Strategic Planning Committee and the Air Force Planning Group prepare offense scenarios.”

“That’s wonderful. I don’t—”

“Don’t jump to any conclusions, Kevin. They might come up with something we can use. In the meantime, Admiral Cross has given his approval to your developing a plan of your own. Have you been thinking about something?”

“Hell, I’ve been dreaming about it, Marv. Nothing clicks, right off, though.”

“You want to put something together for me?”

“By yesterday, no doubt?”

“Oh, hell, no. You’ve got an hour, give or take fifteen minutes.”

“Jesus, Marv! You’re not kidding.”

“I’m afraid not. The Security Council is already scheduled.”

“Okay. I’ll get back to you.”

McKenna cut off the connection, then called the radio shack. Don Curtis was on the console.

“Don, track down Munoz, Conover, and Abrams for me.”

“Delta Yellow went on patrol, Colonel. Orange is back, though.”

“Fine. Wake up Dimatta and Williams instead. We’ll meet in the exercise room.”

McKenna unstrapped and pushed out of his cubicle, got a hot coffee from the radio shack, then headed for the hatch. Sailing down the spoke, he rubbed his cheeks, judging the growth of beard. He decided he should shave, but after the meeting.

Halfway to the exercise room, he met Benny Shalbot, who gave him a dirty look.

“I said I was sorry, Benny.”

“Yeah, but don’t let it happen again, Colonel.”

“Come with me, Benny. I may need your expertise.”

“You bet, Colonel.” Shalbot executed a half-flip, bounced off a grab bar, and reversed his course.

Eight minutes after Brackman’s call, his three available squadron members were gathered in the exercise room.

“We’ve got fifty-two minutes to decide how we’re going to take out the New World Order, gentlemen. I suspect the people who count want us to do it without prompting the launch of a multiple warhead.”

“We aren’t in a jokin’ situation then, compadre?”

“No, Tony, we’re not. Let’s start with known weaknesses. George, you want to list them on something.”

“Will do, Kevin,” Williams said, digging in his pocket for a pen and notebook.

“First,” Conover said, “if we’re dealing with the space station, they’re vulnerable when Delta Green isn’t in attendance.”

“That’s one, and it’s probably the primary item. What else?”

“They may have some blind spots on the station,” Munoz said. “They’ve got one porthole aimed at Earth, and they’ve only got one video camera that I saw, though there may be another on the bottom side. When reviewin’ the tapes, I noticed that the one I saw doesn’t automatically scan. The automatic mode is either shut down, or the camera’s got to be aimed by someone from the interior.”

“Good point, Tony.”

Shalbot stuck up his hand.

“Benny”

“I’ve been thinking about it some, Colonel. In a command and control sort of way, because that means electronics, and I know electronics. If I can get a couple pieces of equipment, I can stop the fuckers.”

“We want to hear this, Benny.”

“I don’t mean I can do it, but I can give you the means to do it.”

The Delta Blue and Orange crews listened intently as Benny Shalbot went over the technological details of his plan.

“Goddamn, Benny. That’s good.”

“I mean, Colonel, you still got to figure out how to get there, but it’ll work.”

“Damned right,” Munoz said. “If we put all the vulnerable aspects together, we can make it work.”

“Tony,” McKenna said, “get on a secure channel to Wet Country. Tell Lynn and Ben to load up a couple electromagnetic generators and every battery they can find and hustle back here. I’ve got a call to make”

McKenna went back to Spoke One and his office. He placed his call to the Office of the Chairman on a scrambled phone circuit.

The duty officer put him right through, and the Chairman himself answered.

“Cross.”

“Admiral, this is Colonel McKenna. Is General Brackman there?”

“He’s in the can. Maybe it’s something I can answer for you?”

“We don’t need answers, Admiral. I’ve got an attack plan for you.”

“Jesus, McKenna. Already?”

“We spent nearly twenty minutes on it,” McKenna said.

“Sorry. I thought maybe you’d rushed through it. Tell me about it.”

McKenna told him.

“Son of a bitch. You’re sure it’ll work?”

“I’m sure.”

“It requires a volunteer,” Cross said.

“Already taken care of, sir.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

“Shit. We don’t want to lose you, Colonel.”

“You won’t. Promise.”

“Go ahead and get your stuff together. But no go until I personally give you the word.”

“How soon could that be, Admiral?”

“Another two, three hours, anyway. We’ve got to push it through the committees. You understand that, don’t you?”

“All too well, Admiral.”

Until he stepped from the ladder to the steel matting, Aleksander Maslov had not realized how tired he was.

He and Nikitin had been getting their rest in short spurts, frequently in the confines of their environmental suits, and he knew it was inadequate. Fatigue would creep up on him at the most inopportune moment.

But there was so much yet to be done, and there was no one else to do it. Maslov stood at the bottom of the ladder and worked his helmet loose.

General Druzhinin was walking across the runway toward him, beaming.

“Aleksander Illiyich!”

“Comrade General.”

“You and Boris are wonderful! Look around us! We are a viable and a visible force, and it is because of your magnificent efforts.”

“I admit that I was surprised to see such a welcoming runway, Comrade General,” Nikitin said.

“And it gets better from here on, Major. Our position is secure.”

“It will be more secure,” Maslov said, “when we get the next propulsion unit into space. I believe, also, that we should add a second umbilical cable. The more I think about it, we could be vulnerable for nearly an hour after a launch, while the next rocket is being prepared.”

“But, Aleksander, we shall never have to launch the first,” Druzhinin said.

“I am not so certain, General.”

Druzhinin peered intently at Maslov’s eyes and apparently read his sincerity.

“You need a long rest, Aleksander. How would it be if you and Boris took an airplane and flew to Phnom Penh for twenty-four hours of recreation?”

“Perhaps, Comrade General, after we have the second rocket in place. That is essential, I believe.”

Druzhinin nodded slowly.

“We will sleep for… for six hours while the spacecraft is serviced and the rocket segment loaded aboard.”

“If you think that best, Aleksander.”

“We have a toehold on the beach, General, but we need to have both feet firmly planted.”

Pearson received a call from her friend at the National Security Agency, a civilian analyst named Walt MacDonald. She had never met him in person, but the two of them had worked together on several projects.

“I understand there’s been a change,” he said.

“What’s that, Walt?”

“Am I supposed to address you as ‘Full Bird,’ now?”

She laughed. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Congratulations, anyway. You owe me a beer.”

“Come on up and get it.”

“Ah, well, we’ll wait until you’re down sometime. Look, Amy, my section’s been monitoring a piece of Southeast Asia at your request, particularly a brand-new airfield that showed up today.”

“Right.”

“We’ve got a Teal Ruby in geostationary orbit for that task, and we just picked up something interesting.”

“How interesting, Walt?”

“One of your MakoSharks just landed on this airstrip. In broad daylight. Didn’t give a damn who saw it. I suppose it’s the one that went AWOL.”

“Damn. You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Pretty arrogant, as far as I’m concerned. We ought to complain to the UN.”

“They don’t belong to the UN,” she said.

“There’s always a hitch, isn’t there?”