Delta Green

Chapter Six

Comrades Shelepin and Pavel were late and arrived at the airfield just a few minutes before the encounter was to take place.

As the two generals deplaned from their civilian-marked Dassault MD.315, a thirty-year-old, twin-engined transport that could traverse Southeast Asia without raising eyebrows, the ground crews were already winching the camouflaged hills back into place over the pierced steel plank runway.

Oleg Druzhinin crossed the field to the runway’s edge to meet them.

Druzhinin always felt diminutive and colorless when confronted with the mass of Shelepin. He could have been obese, but his immaculately tailored gray suit made him a block of granite. His face was beefy, and his piercing blue eyes were magnified by the lens of his wire-rimmed spectacles. His hair was full, trimmed carefully over the ears, and barely tinged with gray.

Sergei Pavel was several centimeters shorter than the Chairman of the New World Politburo. The Deputy Chairman had watery, pale eyes and sunken cheeks, and he was almost completely bald. He favored dark fedoras, even in the sweltering heat of Kampuchea. He, too, was dressed in a suit, but one which was fitted loosely to his emaciated frame. Both men wore ties, which Druzhinin thought demonstrated their inability to adapt to the climate.

Druzhinin greeted them warmly, and with only a modicum of deference. As Commander of the New World Defense Force, he also served in the role of defense minister on the Politburo.

“Oleg Vladimirivich,” Shelepin said, “the days have slipped by so quickly.”

They had not met as a group for three weeks. “And still they seem to drag, Anatoly. I had hoped you would arrive earlier so that I could show you the most recent accomplishments we have made here.”

“Perhaps later,” Shelepin said.

Anatoly Shelepin was a man who cared little for the details. He dreamed in global proportions, and he expected others to take care of the minutia. He did not see MiG-25s and Su-24s; he saw air power.

He also did not acknowledge defeat. As a younger officer in command of ground troops in Afghanistan, he had never suffered a defeat. Rather, he had redirected his forces into new offensives. Perhaps that was why he had achieved his stars so early in his career.

While their Dassault was manhandled back into the cover of the jungle, Druzhinin led the two leaders back to the command center. Once inside, he observed the mild relief on their faces as they encountered the air-conditioning.

Deputy Chairman Pavel pointed to the cold air vent and said, “You have indeed made changes since my last visit. Welcome changes.”

“We try to bring a little civilization to our hideaway, Sergei.”

Two technicians manned the radar and the communications consoles in the center, and Druzhinin had arranged three chairs behind them. Additionally, a small table held tea glasses and pastries.

Sergeant Nikita Kasartskin stood in the corridor leading to the back. He said, “Comrade Chairman, it is good to see you again.”

Kasartskin had served on Shelepin’s support staff for twelve years.

Anatoly Shelepin smiled warmly at him, “And you, also, Sergeant.”

The computer specialist grinned happily and turned back to his cubicle.

Druzhinin knew that Shelepin did not recall Kasartskin’s name. The Chairman did not see soldiers; he saw manpower.

The three of them took seats, and Druzhinin poured the iced tea.

He asked the corporal at the communication console, “What is the latest report from Colonel Maslov, Corporal Fedorchuk?”

The corporal turned to face him, “Comrade General, he reports that he is seven hundred kilometers away and closing rapidly.”

When McKenna reached the Command Center, he deflected himself off a bulkhead to miss Val Arguento, who was suspended outside the radio shack. Arguento was an Army Master Sergeant who served as both a communications specialist and the security NCO, deputy to Pearson.

Overton, Pearson, and Sergeant Joe Macklin, the radar expert, were gathered around the main console. No one was paying attention to the serene view of South America scrolling upward in the porthole.

McKenna almost reached for Amy Pearson to stop his flight, decided quickly that that might be a mistake, and bypassed her for a grab bar on the side of the console.

The master screen, the largest in the console, displayed the radar mode. Themis’s powerful main radar antenna was housed in a fiberglass radome on the end of Spoke Fifteen. The ninety-foot-wide antenna radiated up to fifteen million watts of energy, enough to fry humans in its path. The range was four hundred miles, though it was normally set to 215 miles, about five miles above the Earth.

The radar was chiefly used for tracking incoming and outgoing HoneyBee rockets and Mako spacecraft, using I-Band for lateral tracking and G-Band for altitude determination. With its ability to scan and track up to 120 targets simultaneously, the Department of Defense utilized the system during combat war games or missile launches from Vandenberg and Kennedy. Additionally, the radar was incorporated into the Space Defense Initiative program.

Reading over Macklin’s shoulder and across the line of data at the top of the screen, McKenna noted the four hundred-mile range setting and the direction of the antenna — to the space station’s west, the normal inbound track for HoneyBees. The oscillating sweep left six blips behind as it flip-flopped back and forth. Each of the blips was identified in small white letters and numerals. He read them quickly.

“I see five satellites in lower orbit and one HoneyBee,” he said. “What’s the status, Joe?”

“She’s three hundred and sixty miles out, Colonel, altitude one-eighty, and closing on us at ten miles a minute. In sixteen minutes, she’s scheduled to reduce speed to a five-mile-a-minute closure rate.”

McKenna scanned the screen once again. “So where’s the bogie?”

“It’s not showing now, sir. I picked it up when it was radiating radar emissions.”

“So it’s got to be Delta Green.” The stealth aerospace fighters were only visible to other radars when they were utilizing their own radars.

“The pilot will be an ex-Soviet,” Pearson said.

McKenna glanced at her.

“Pyotr Volontov’s report said that six of the men he washed out of his Mako training program defected. It’ll be one of them,” she said.

“Good work, Amy.”

She blushed. She was beginning to take his compliments as compliments, rather than as cute ways to put her down.

“And,” McKenna went on, “we’re fresh out of MakoSharks. Damn it!”

“There!” Macklin said.

McKenna saw the radiation pattern appear on the screen, a pulsating “V” erupting out of nowhere, but capturing the resupply rocket in its path.

“Lock it in, Joe.”

Tapping the computer keyboard, Macklin said, “Position locked. The emissions are low, Colonel. About a ninety-mile scan. I put him eighty miles from intercept.”

“Where’s Autry?” McKenna asked.

“He was chasing down a Rhyolite satellite for service,” Overton said.

Macklin worked the controller that changed the direction of the radar antenna, raising it a fraction. Two more blips appeared. He tapped in a command, and the blips grew tags — the satellite was identified, as well as Mako Three.

“Altitude two-four-seven,” Macklin said. “Two hundred and seventy miles out.”

McKenna picked up the microphone stuck to the console top with Velcro.

“Give me a frequency, Val,” he ordered.

Arguento pulled himself into the radio shack, and a few seconds later, his voice came through the bulkhead speakers. “He’s on Utility Two, sir.”

Along the top of the console were keypads for selecting primary-use communications channels. McKenna poked his finger at Utility Two. “Mako Three, Alpha.”

“Alpha, Three.”

“Ken, this is McKenna. Kick your radar to one-twenty and see if you can pick up an in-coming HoneyBee.”

“Roger that, Alpha,” Dennis Bogard, Kenneth Autry’s backseater, replied.

McKenna waited.

“Alpha, the rocket’s about seventy miles below us. Total track from us is one-five-five miles.”

“Divert from your mission and close on the HoneyBee,” McKenna ordered. “Stay about forty miles away.”

“Roger, diverting,” Autry said. “What’s the problem, Alpha?”

“She may be under attack. Watch yourself, Ken. The unidentified hostile is probably armed.”

“And stealthy?” Bogard asked.

“And stealthy. Don’t take any chances, but see if you can get a visual”

“Roger, Alpha.”

McKenna punched Tac Two.

“Deltas, Alpha.”

“Delta Yellow,” Conover came back.

“Red,” Haggar said.

“Fuel status?”

“Yellow’s got one-six minutes on rockets, twenty minutes on turbojets,” Abrams reported.

“Red,” Ben Olsen said, “one-three on rockets, one-eight on the jets.”

He briefed them on the situation. “We don’t know what’s coming down, but I want you ready to take intercept positions if we can track Green on an Earth-bound course.”

“Yellow here. Any idea, Snake Eyes, of a destination?”

“None, Con Man. Take a general aim toward the Andaman Sea.”

“Roger, Delta Yellow out.”

“Red.”

McKenna had been watching the screen, and the radar emission had again ceased to display.

“Is that wise, Colonel McKenna?” Pearson asked. “To put Mako Three in jeopardy?”

McKenna felt good about Autry’s sense of judgment. He said, “Don’t second-guess me, Amy.”

Her pale green eyes darkened with fire.

“Please,” he added.

Aleksander Illiyich Maslov had been destined for stars. His grandfather had been a general during the Great Patriotic war, and his father surely would have attained the same status had he not been killed in an artillery accident when he was only a major.

His father left him the legacy of Colonel General Anatoly Shelepin, however. The two of them had attended, Schevchenko University together and entered the Red Army directly after graduation. After the elder Maslov died from the erupting shells inside a resupply trailer, then Major Shelepin had taken it upon himself to shepherd young Aleksander Illiyich, like a godson, through his academic training and his military career. Maslov had been posted to units where his abilities could shine. He had the proper staff schools as well as a combat stint with MiG-29s in Afghanistan listed in his dossier. When General Sheremetevo had obtained the Mako aerospace craft from the Americans, Shelepin had arranged Maslov’s transfer to the 5th Interceptor Wing’s training squadron. In a career path ever ascendant, Maslov had been stunned by two successive failures. The first came at the hands of Colonel Pyotr Mikhailovich Volontov, commander of the 5th Interceptor Wing, who had been assigned authority for the aerospace transport training program. Volontov, without allowance for excuse or a second chance, had terminated Maslov as unsuitable as a Mako command pilot. Though they shared the same ranks, Volontov was senior, and he had the full weight of General Vitaly Sheremetevo, Deputy Commander-in-Chief of the Red Air Force behind him. Even Shelepin’s intervention had not abrogated the orders.

His second failure, similar to the first as he perceived it, was also beyond his control. The Red Air Force had abruptly ceased to exist.

Maslov had been assigned to an interceptor wing near Sevastopol, on the tip of the Crimean peninsula when Anatoly Shelepin called him on the telephone: “If you value your life, Aleksander Illiyich, you must see that you are assigned to the next patrol flight. And when you are airborne, continue south to Aleppo in Syria. You will be allowed to land, and I will contact you later with instructions.”

He had known nothing of the coup attempt, but Maslov had learned long before to obey his adopted uncle. He and his friend, Major Boris Nikitin, also a failure of the Mako program, had taken off at midnight in their MiG-29s, and they had flown half their patrol, topping up their fuel bladders from an airborne tanker before diving below radar coverage. They had followed a low and straight course across the Black Sea, then illegally over Turkey before landing in Aleppo with only drops of jet fuel left in the tanks.

The minute he had made the decision to go, Maslov knew he had given up his arduous quest for a general’s stars.

He would not have them, but he had now proven Volontov wrong…

He had the stars!

They were all around him, starkly brilliant against the utter nothingness of space. Only twice before in the training program had he achieved orbit in space, and that was with another’s hands at the controls. This time, he was responsible, and it was exhilarating. Ecstasy beyond any he had ever known.

“Boris?”

Nikitin was in the rear seat of the MakoShark. He had been there almost around the clock since they had obtained the craft, learning the secret systems, voicing his amazement of the MakoShark advancements over the Mako subsystems practically on the hour.

“I still wish we had Cyrillic and metric equivalents for the instruments and computers, Aleks. My head spins from making constant translations.”

“You will become accustomed to it,” Maslov promised. Already, his own mind was accepting feet and miles and pounds without undue concern. Perhaps it was because he had had more training in English than Nikitin.

“Sixty-two miles from us, Aleks. Three minutes until contact.”

“I have armed the propulsion system of one of the Wasp II missiles for you.”

“No warhead?” Nikitin asked.

“The warhead is not to be armed. You must be delicate, Boris.”

“I will… Aleks! I have another contact.”

Maslov looked down at his cathode ray tube. There was another target painted.

“Shut off the radar, Boris.”

“But the—”

“It will be a Mako, since we can see it. It is unarmed and will not challenge us.”

“You are certain of this?” Nikitin asked, disbelief in his voice.

“I am certain. But I will arm the second Wasp on Pylon Four for you. If the Mako moves on us, you may shoot it.”

In space, nothing was shot down. It was simply shot.

Maslov lifted the plastic protective cover and armed the second missile.

“Now, Boris, carefully.”

He could hear Nikitin’s breath slowing over the open intercom as the man concentrated on his shot.

The cathode ray tube suddenly flashed as Nikitin activated the video lens. It portrayed stars that zoomed closer as the weapons officer advanced the magnification.

Then, out of the magnificent spectacle, Maslov saw the HoneyBee rocket emerge. It was very white, with the large blue letters, “USAF,” imprinted vertically on its side. He had been briefed once on the supply rocket, and he understood its systems in general.

An orange target rose appeared on the screen, danced a little jig, then moved over the rocket.

“Precisely on the nose cone, Boris.”

“I know, Aleks. I understand.”

The image of the rocket continued to expand on the screen as they closed on it, and the target rose slipped along the missile’s length and found the nose cone.

Nikitin locked it on, using the small radar in the nose of the Wasp. The radiation of the missile radar would be visible to the Mako.

The blue letters on the screen appeared in confirmation: LOCK-ON.

Immediately, Nikitin launched the Wasp II missile.

Maslov closed his eyes to protect his vision.

When he opened them again and peered through the windscreen, the missile was miles away, a tiny streak of white light.

“It is an amazing missile,” Nikitin said, “adaptable to space or atmospheric flight.”

That was true. The Wasp II had retractable fins for stabilization and directional control in dense atmosphere, but in its space role, the stabilization and control was accomplished by small jets spewing nitrogen gas.

Assisted by the magnification of the screen, he saw the impact.

The slim attack missile slammed into the side of the HoneyBee’s nose cone, penetrating the skin easily, and likely destroying all of the sensitive electronics contained within the cone, even without a detonation. It did not go clear through the rocket; nothing emerged from the other side.

And Maslov thought that the impact had not shaken the HoneyBee far off its course.

It would just no longer follow its programmed computer instructions or listen to instructions passed to it by remote control.

And the cargo was intact.

McKenna and the others in the control room had a clear picture of the interception.

Mako Three, standing off the action by forty miles and shooting it with her video camera at full zoom, transmitted the video image to Themis.

“No warhead detonation,” Overton said.

The intercom blared, “Command, Docking!”

It was Brad Mitchell’s voice. He would have been standing by to take control of the HoneyBee and dock it. His screen would be displaying the radar picture.

Overton pressed the correct keypad on the intercom. “Go ahead, Brad”

“We’ve lost control of the HoneyBee, sir.”

“Yes, I copy that. There’s been an interception, Brad. You can stand down.”

“Interception! Sir, may I come to the Command Center?”

“Certainly, Brad. But don’t bring a contingent of maintenance people with you. It’s starting to get crowded.”

“There it is!” Pearson said.

As McKenna watched the screen, he saw Delta Green ease into view, closing on the HoneyBee. The bomb bay doors (or payload bay doors, depending on the mission) on the underside of the fuselage were open.

“He’s using the grapplers,” Macklin said.

The forward bay in both the Mako and MakoShark contained remotely operated grappling arms used to capture and hold malfunctioning satellites that were too large to pull inside the bay. Secured by the arms to the underside of the space craft, the satellite could be moved into orbit with Themis and the sick satellite rejuvenated in the huge lab the personnel complement called Cosmos Clinic.

Delta Green paused directly over the rocket, and the grappling arms descended and hugged the rocket body. The rocket was too large to be pulled inside the cargo bay, of course, but with the two vehicles mated, the MakoShark could control both of their courses and velocities.

McKenna didn’t like the fact that Delta Green was aimed almost directly at Mako Three. The old fighter pilot’s instinct told him someone was on the verge of launching another missile. He punched Utility Two and keyed the microphone.

“Mako Three, get out of there.”

“Ah, Alpha, we could still…”

“Now, Ken! Full rocket throttles. Go for the Earth.”

They had about two more seconds’ view of the hijacked MakoShark before the camera lens abruptly dropped, found the Earth, and accelerated toward it.

“Mako Three, when you have four hundred miles distance, change course and return to Themis.”

“Roger that, Alpha”

McKenna was relieved to hear Autry’s voice. He talked to him several more times until he was certain that the Mako was out of range of the Wasp.

“Now what?” Pearson asked.

“Now I call the boss and complain about our working conditions,” McKenna said. “Sergeant Arguento, can you find me a secure channel to the Springs?”

“There’s bound to be one or two, Colonel.”

“And Joe,” McKenna said to Macklin, “that bird’s not so stealthy with a HoneyBee hung on her. Track them as far as you can.”

Marvin Brackman was meeting with Admiral Hannibal Cross and General Harvey Mays in Cross’s second floor, firing office in the Pentagon when McKenna’s call caught up with him.

He picked up the secure phone on the credenza by the window and stood looking out at the Potomac as the connections were made. The sky was heavily overcast, a dull slate that absorbed joy and diminished the grandeur of the Washington Monument. The river moved sluggishly along, dragging winter and more than a few pollutants behind it.

His conversation with McKenna was brief, and after he ordered McKenna to suspend all HoneyBee launches, he hung up and turned back to his superiors.

Brackman thought of Harvey Mays, the Air Force Chief of Staff, as extremely capable, moving as effectively as he could to adapt the Air Force to new political and world realities. He knew, too, that a large number of senior commanders resented both Mays and the requirement to adapt the Air Force to new ways of thinking. An organization as large as the Air Force changed directions ponderously when it came to the obliteration of old traditions.

As an aircraft carrier skipper in the South China Sea, Hannibal Cross had probably appeared much the same then as he did now: lean and crisp. He was a fine image of the military, and he was politically astute. The boys in the back rooms knew about his decisions before he made them public. Cross believed firmly in the concept of never surprising anyone who counted, and it was a good philosophy, one that assured survivability.

“Well, Marvin?” Cross asked.

“We found Delta Green.”

“Hot damn!” Mays said.

“But she’s gone again.”

“Shit.”

“And she took a load of solid fuel pellets with her.”

“What the hell?” Cross said.

Brackman related McKenna’s report. “The MakoShark and the HoneyBee have both passed out of radar range now.”

“They must have known what they were after, didn’t they?” Mays said.

“I imagine so,” Brackman said. “The MakoShark isn’t of much use without propellent.”

“What does this give them?” Cross asked.

“Delta Green was fully fueled when she was hijacked, and she had a cargo pod of pellets. With the HoneyBee cargo, McKenna says they’ve got two hundred and nine minutes of rocket flight available.”

“Jesus,” Cross complained. “How many space trips is that?”

“It depends on the trajectories and a few other variables, but, into and out of orbit, they could manage maybe twelve flights. That doesn’t count using the motors in suborbital flight. Suborbital, too, the MakoShark’s extended glide characteristics give them a hell of a lot of time.”

“You’ve stopped resupply launches?” Mays asked.

“For the time being, yes. We may have to detail a MakoShark to accompany them if we need to make a launch or two. McKenna had already given orders to not ship ordnance. We don’t want to lose a shipment of Wasp II missiles.”

“But they could still utilize other missile types,” Mays said.

“True. Phoenix, Sidewinder, AMRAAM can all be mounted on the missile rack in the payload bay, though not on the pylons. Only our modified missiles like the Phoenix II and the Wasp II, with the heat shields, can be hung externally. And the standard missiles won’t fly in space, either. They won’t fly true, at any rate.”

“So,” Cross said, “we have one advantage. Any engagement in space leaves Delta Green practically unarmed. They’ll only be able to rearm with atmospheric ordnance.”

“Eventually, maybe,” Brackman said. “She’s still got three Wasp IIs, two Phoenix IIs, and a Chain Gun.”

Brackman walked back to the small conference table and sat down. He refilled his coffee cup from the Thermos pitcher in the middle of the table.

“That’s all we know for now, then?” Cross asked.

“Yes sir. McKenna will let me know if anything else develops. He’s trying to set up for an intercept if she comes out of orbit, but he doesn’t have much hope for it.”

“All right, then, back to the agenda.”

The agenda was short, and they had already covered the first item. The next day, at one o’clock, the SecDef, with the President’s concurrence, was going to the armed services committees of both houses to report the hijacking. Though both Mays and Brackman wanted to hold off for another two or three days, they had been overruled by the Secretary.

“Number two,” the admiral said, “the identity of the aggressor.”

“David Thorpe has talked to Lieutenant Colonel Pearson several times,” Brackman said. “She has a theory that whoever stole the bird must have had prior experience in it. Or at least in the Mako. She’s got it pinned down to about thirty possible names, with six that are highly suspect.”

“And those six are out of the Russian training program?” Mays guessed.

“That’s right, Harv. I think she’s probably on the right track.”

“I don’t read this program as the work of one maniac pilot,” Cross said.

“No, Hannibal, I don’t think so, either. There’ll be an organization of some kind. And there’s got to be some big bucks involved.”

“Political considerations?” Cross asked.

“I’ve talked to the people at Langley and to Defense Intelligence,” Mays said, “but they haven’t heard anything out of the ordinary. They say they’ll refocus their efforts toward obtaining data about any maverick political or criminal organizations that might have the capability of pulling this off.”

“What’s the geography the agencies are talking about?” Brackman asked.

“Right now, just because it took place in Borneo, they’re concentrating on Southeast Asia, the subcontinent, Africa, and South America.”

“The whole damned southern hemisphere,” Cross said.

“We don’t have much to go on,” Mays said.

“Anyway,” Brackman said, “I believe Pearson will point us in the right direction soon.”

“Okay,” Cross said. “We’ve got about as much as we can get right now. The SecDef will meet the honchos on the Hill tomorrow and give them the facts we have as of noon tomorrow. McKenna and Overton are on top of a search program. We have one sighting, and McKenna’s taking a stab in the dark at an interception. Pearson and Thorpe are narrowing the suspects. That about it on the MakoShark, Marvin?”

“That’s it.”

Cross waved his copy of the agenda at them. “The rest of this got shoved back from our regular meeting. Any reason why we can’t delay it?”

Brackman said, “I’d like to deal with number six, and I’d like to add one item.”

“Six? That’s yours. Del Cartwright?”

“I want him off Merlin Air Base. Yesterday would have been a good time for it.”

“Now, hold on a second, Marvin,” Mays said. “He’s a good commander.”

“For a wing, maybe. You foisted him off on me, Harv, and he’s not working out. He wanted to make his imprint on the base right away, and he changed programs and systems to make that imprint. Without analyzing them.”

“Like security?” Cross said.

“Like security. He approached Merlin as if it were Homestead or Randolph. It isn’t.”

“Where do I send him?” Mays asked.

“Frankly, Scarlett—”

“Who do we put in there?” Cross interrupted.

“Milt Avery. He’s got two years aboard Themis, and I should rotate him Earth-side. He’s also on next month’s brigadier list, though he doesn’t yet know that.”

Mays looked to Cross, who nodded. “Ah, hell. Okay, Marvin. Do it”

“What’s your new item?” Cross asked.

“Now I’ve just created a vacancy for deputy commander of USSC-1.”

“And you know who you want to put in it, naturally?” Mays said.

“Amy Pearson.”

“Ahhh,” Mays said.

“She’s just a little light on rank, isn’t she?” Admiral Cross said.

“We, that is, the Air Force, moved her up on both the major list and the light colonel list because of her demonstrated abilities. She’s already ahead of her peers. That’s because she can do the jobs we give her and do them damned well.”

“I don’t know her file that well…” Mays started to say.

“She’s at least two years away from consideration for full bird,” Brackman said. “I’d like to have the SecDef recommend her to the President.”

“Now, damn, Marv…”

“We’ve never recognized her for her role in the New Germany crisis,” Brackman argued. “She saved us a hundred billion dollars’ worth of satellite, gentlemen. On her own initiative.”

“If we promote her on the basis of initiative, we’ll have to make McKenna a general,” Cross said. “That wouldn’t go over well with some people.”

“McKenna would turn it down, I’m afraid,” Brackman said. “He won’t risk losing a seat in a fighter aircraft. We gave him and his squadron Distinguished Flying Crosses (DFCs), which is about all any of them would accept.”

“You’ve worked this out, Marv. Do you have someone in mind for her current job?” Mays asked.

“No. She can handle both for the time being.”

“She reports to Jim Overton,” Cross said. “Do you have a recommendation from him?”

“I can have it in twenty minutes. Avery and McKenna will sign off on it also.”

“Get it,” the Air Force chief said, “and I’ll forward it to the Chairman.”

“Get it,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said, “and I’ll hand-carry it to the guys across the hall.”

Overton wrote the recommendation for promotion himself, keying it into the console in his tiny office. McKenna and Avery hung on to the hatchway jamb and watched him do it.

“Keep an eye on the hatch,” the general said. “We wouldn’t want her coming back and catching us.”

“You’re a pretty decent typist, Jim,” McKenna said. “You’ll be able to land any job you want once you leave here.”

“I wouldn’t want anything with a high stress-level.” Overton said as he finished his entry. “Okay, Milt, your turn.”

Avery switched places with the commander and added his comments, then McKenna keyed in his own. He wasn’t directly in line-of-command over Pearson, but he was happy that Brackman had asked for his input. He had gained a lot of respect for her in the last year, even though she could be humorless much of the time and didn’t take his teasing well.

“Anything else?” he asked Overton as he typed in his name and rank.

“That should do it.”

McKenna hit the “F-7” button which stored the document in station records and forwarded copies to all of the right offices. Independently, he sent a copy directly to the Office of the Chief of Staff of the Air Force as they had been directed.

“Brackman surprises the hell out of me sometimes.” McKenna said.

“You can’t say she doesn’t deserve it,” Overton said. “No, you can’t say that.”

McKenna hung around the Command Center the rest of the afternoon and evening, monitoring Delta Red’s and Delta Yellow’s search, but by nine o’clock, they hadn’t detected a reentry burn anywhere, even though they were utilizing many of the National Security Agency’s surveillance satellites. He ordered Conover and Haggar to put down at Wet Country for the night.

He checked with Dimatta at Hot Country. Delta Orange had taken her second flight, and the technicians were working overtime to correct a series of minor malfunctions and to complete fine-tuning.

The maintenance officer at Merlin told him that Delta Blue’s valve actuator had been replaced and was undergoing final testing. The orders came in at 9:30 P.M., and Don Curtis, the sergeant on the graveyard communications shift, printed them out and brought them into the Command Center.

“Hey, Colonel. Here’s something interesting.”

McKenna took the orders from him, scanned them, and whistled. “Damned interesting, Don. I’ll take care of it.”

The orders transferring Avery to command of Merlin Air Base were another surprise for the day. It meant Avery would get his star, and it meant that Cartwright was out. McKenna was glad he hadn’t complained directly to Brackman about the man. He had learned over time that Brackman could usually figure out things for himself.

He left the Command Center and scooted his way to Spoke Two, the residential spoke in which Overton was housed. He found the general engaged in a gin game with Brad Mitchell.

McKenna floated the papers in front of them.

“I’ll be damned,” Mitchell said.

“I’m happy for Milt,” Overton said, then looked at the other order. “Well. I get a new deputy at the same time.”

“Brackman didn’t bother consulting me on that.”

“Is that going to be a problem, Jim?” McKenna asked.

“Not for me. Probably why I wasn’t consulted.”

“Good. Okay if I tell her?”

Overton grinned at him, sharing knowledge that wasn’t supposed to be common. “Just this one time. Brad and I will go roust Avery.”

McKenna made his way through the locks to Spoke Sixteen. The lights in the spoke and in the corridor of the module were dimmed. A curtain had been drawn across the opposite end of the corridor, closing off the dining area, and he could hear subdued voices on the other side of it.

The space station observed Eastern Daylight Time, and quiet hours were enforced from ten at night until six in the morning. Still, operating the satellite was a twenty-four-hour chore and people were sleeping, eating, or working at all times of the day and night. McKenna and his squadron had the most irregular hours, dependent on their flight schedules.

McKenna bypassed the hygiene stations and his own cubicle: a four by four by eight foot compartment with his personal locker, a communications panel, a fabric pouch, and padded walls.

He arrested his flight next to Pearson’s cubicle.

“Amy, you awake?”

No response.

He pulled the curtain aside by a few inches.

“Amy?”

She was strapped against the padded wall opposite the communications panel. A Strauss waltz issued from the speaker. Her denim headband was missing, and her auburn hair floated lazily. She was dressed in the loosely fitting sleep suit that everyone called a potato sack, but one of the Velcro straps was cinched below her breasts, making them prominent.

“Amy?”

She opened one eye.

“Sorry to wake you.”

“Kevin?” she said, coming fully awake. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, smiling.

The pupils of her eyes enlarged in the dim light. “Kevin, not here!”

“Ah, honey…”

“Don’t honey me. There’s too many people around.”

“How about my place, then?”

“There’s nothing different about your place.”

“If you give me a kiss, I’ll give you a present,” he said.

She shook her head negatively, then released a strap and stuck her head out far enough to survey the corridor. When she saw they were apparently alone, she kissed him lightly on the lips.

They were soft and warm and slightly moist. They would have been more eager, he thought, if she weren’t so concerned about appearances.

“What’s the present?”

He gave her her promotion and reassignment order.

“What?”

She tried to read it in the darkness of her cubicle, squirming around to shift into the light from the corridor.

He reached across her to the control panel and turned on the interior light.

“My God! Really?”

“Really.”

“Come in here,” she ordered.

McKenna pulled himself into the compartment and zipped the curtain shut.