“Another excuse?”
Weismann was at least twenty-five centimeters taller than the scientist. He looked down on a shaggy mop of gray hair that made him feel much cleaner with his own close-cropped blond hair. The scientist’s face sagged at the jowls, making Weismann feel less than his fifty-two years.
Weismann was in uniform. He was always in uniform because he was proud of it. The Jew wore baggy brown slacks covered with a dirty gray lab smock. There was never a display of pride.
“The warhead, Goldstein?”
“Is operational, also. It is not, of course, a nuclear warhead. We have five Multiple Individually Retargeted Vehicles stored in the bunker a half kilometer from here. The MIRVs are composed of eight separate twenty-mega-ton nuclear warheads. Ghost One is armed only with high explosive, for the test flight.”
Gespenst I was almost a year behind its scheduled test flight. The High Command had been frustrated in its desire to publicize a successful intercontinental/space orbital vehicle capable of delivering Germans into space or destruction to the other side of the world. Like his superiors in Bonn and Berlin, Weismann also wanted to put Moscow and Washington and London and Paris on notice, notice that those capital cities fell under the shadow of yet another nuclear threat. Notice that their interference in German national matters was subject to extreme reaction.
The Gespenst program had been considered essential to the German reemergence as a power to be reckoned with, and Albert Weismann was very gratified that the program had been placed under his command, an adjunct to the 20 S.A.G. The constant delays had naturally brought pressure upon himself, but now, now he was nearly ready.
“How long, Goldstein, until we are ready for a test flight?”
“Herr Colonel, it only requires some four hours to transport the rocket to the launch pad, to raise it in place, and to fuel it. In a crisis, the countdown could be shortened, perhaps, to an hour.”
“How long?”
“There is the matter of the nose-cone mating, of course, Herr Colonel.”
“The no… what now?”
“For the test flight, we have had to fabricate a nose cone not designed for the Ghost. At the moment, it does not mate properly with the third stage. A matter only of days, Herr Colonel.”
Maximillian Oberlin was correct. This Jew was more a bottleneck than an asset. It was quite possible the man was sabotaging the project in subtle ways. Oberlin had wanted to get rid of him immediately and let Direktor Schumacher assume the tasks of final preparation. Weismann had had to explain that Schumacher was not a scientist, merely the son of a banker who was a major underwriter of the VORMUND PROJEKT. The son was in dire need of a respectable job title.
“And of course, Colonel Weismann, we have yet to complete the debugging of the flight software.”
Weismann’s shoulders slumped. Mein Gott!
The intrusion of the Russians. The destruction of the dome on Bahnsteig Acht. The platforms seemed suddenly vulnerable, and the supreme weapon was not available to protect them.
“As of this moment, Goldstein, the Ghost Project is on sixteen-hour shifts. If I do not see sufficient progress within the next few days, we will increase that to twenty hours.”
“That seems unduly harsh, Herr Colonel.”
Weismann drilled the stubby scientist with his eyes. “Not as harsh as it could be.”
Spinning on his heel, he marched to the office built into the corner of the building, ignored the secretary who looked up to him, and picked up her telephone. He dialed the number of the Zwanzigste Speziell Aeronautisch Gruppe operations office.
When the officer on duty answered, he said, “Get me Major Zeigman.”
A five-minute, intolerable wait.
“Zeigman.”
“Major, your squadron has tonight’s patrols?”
“That is correct, Colonel.”
“From midnight on, I want four aircraft on each patrol. Do not group them. One pair at two thousand meters, one pair deployed at ten thousand meters above the first pair. The higher aircraft are to separate by five kilometers. Reverse the direction of the patrol circuit.”
“Understood, Colonel. Are we to anticipate hostile aircraft?”
“Expect the American stealth planes.”
The Themis Command Center felt deserted. Everyone except McKenna and Sergeant Arguento, who was manning the Radio Shack, had gone to their dining compartments for dinner.
The intercom buzzed.
McKenna pulled himself close to the main console and pressed the keypad. “Command.”
“Radar, Command. I’ve got Mako Two one-five-zero out, closing at one-seven-five feet per second.”
“Copy that, Radar.”
Mako Three was docked aboard Themis, and Mako One was at Peterson Air Force Base.
McKenna punched the general public address system. “Lieutenant Polly Tang. Lieutenant Tang to hangar bays for docking.”
On the Tactical 1 frequency, the primary frequency used by the MakoSharks, Dimatta said, “I’ve got her here, Colonel, pushing me out. You want me to hold?”
McKenna thought about it, but only for two seconds. The orbit of Themis had been calculated into this mission. “No, Cancha. Proceed as planned.”
On the intercom to the hangars, he said, “Lieutenant Tang, Command. Mako Two inbound.”
“Roger, Command. I’ve got it.”
He switched to Tac-3, the chief frequency utilized by the Makos. “Mako Two, Alpha One.”
“Go ahead, Alpha.”
“What’s your manifest, Mako?”
“In order of importance, Alpha?” Lynn Haggar asked.
“Why not?”
“Foodstuffs, solid fuel pellets, circuit boards for Honeywell, chemicals, Colonel Avery.”
“Hey, damn,” the deputy commander of Themis said. “I’m gone for a week, and get shoved to the bottom of the list?”
Haggar laughed.
“Mako, reduce velocity to one-six-zero FPS.”
“Complying, Alpha.”
McKenna searched the monitor selector board and found the key for the camera mounted on the exterior of the pod of Spoke Fifteen. He tapped it, and the screen gave him an exterior view of the hangar side of the hub. He moved the image to a secondary screen and brought up the radar image on the main screen.
On the visual monitor, one set of hangar doors were open, and Delta Green slowly emerged from her bay. As he watched, another set of doors opened as Polly Tang had an assistant prepare for Mako Two’s arrival.
Tac-1. “Delta Green, you’ve got a Mako inbound.”
“We’ll keep our eyes wide open, Alpha. You think this is wise?”
“Had to happen some time, Cancha.”
“Command, Radar. Mako Two six-five miles out.”
“Copy, Radar.”
Tac-3. “Mako Two, stay alert for an outbound vehicle.”
“Roger, Alpha. We’ve got it on radar.”
McKenna found the remote camera adjustment stick, keyed if for the right camera, and aimed the Spoke Fifteen camera outward, following Delta Green.
Dimatta was turning the MakoShark stern-forward, when the Mako drifted past him. The MakoShark was already becoming invisible against the blackness of space. The white Mako was a complete study in contrast.
Haggar hit her transmit button, “That’s it, Kevin!”
“Let’s maintain radio protocol,” McKenna said into his microphone.
“Roger that, Alpha,” Haggar said.
Twenty-five minutes later, just after Delta Green ignited her rockets for the reentry sequence, Lynn Haggar and Ben Olsen, her WSO, shot into the Command Center. Both of them were still in pressure suits, and McKenna figured she was making about fifteen miles an hour when she grabbed onto Val Arguento to halt her flight.