“I will have the picture enhanced and blown up to pass out to the air crews,” the commander said.
Zeigman looked through the windows at the runway. Two Eurofighters took off in formation, turbojets whining, the dark kerosene vapors trailing wispily behind them.
They were in the command quarters of the Zwanzigste Speziell Aeronautisch Gruppe, in what had originally been the standby facility for aircrews on 24-hour alert. Weismann liked having his headquarters this close to the runways, even if the scream of jet engines continually interrupted conversations. In the outer office, Zeigman could hear operations officers speaking on telephones and radios.
“Well, Mac, you’re one of the few who can say that you’ve seen it.”
“Truly a privilege, Colonel,” Zeigman said, the sarcasm heavy.
“And you say that you could not get either a radar or infrared lock?”
“Neither. I had to guide the missiles by hand. Then the bastard accelerated so quickly, I lost him.”
“Perhaps, Mac, if you had had your weapons officer with you, the result would have been different. Altogether different.”
Zeigman kept his silence. He was being chastised, and worse, he knew it was warranted. Had he attended to the flying, and had he had his weapons officer along to guide the missiles, the Luftwaffe might well have a downed MakoShark to examine. He had already lambasted himself. To be that close, and then to miss!
“When he went to active radar, chasing Tiger Three and Tiger Four, I did get a positive lock-on,” Zeigman said. “But then I lost it when the radar was switched to passive.”
Weismann leaned forward and planted his elbows on top of the old wooden desk. The chair squeaked again. He placed his fingertips together and studied them.
“It is going to require a change in tactics, Mac. We must put more faith in the weapons system operators.”
“Yes.”
“The Eurofighters will not stand a chance alone against them. Nor will the Tornados unless we concoct new methods.”
“Perhaps not,” Zeigman reluctantly agreed.
“Let us get Metzenbaum in here and devise a method of using the Eurofighters and the Tornados in combination. What would you think of that?”
Zeigman thought about it, about using the single-seat fighters as bait, and he liked it.
Mako Three, piloted by Maj. Kenneth Autry, was on space duty, retrieving dead or malfunctioning satellites and transporting them to Themis for repair and retrofit.
That program alone had enhanced the stature of the space station. Abandoning communication and reconnaissance satellites in space, then replacing them by boosting new satellites into orbit atop Titan rockets or in the bay of the Space Shuttle was extremely expensive. NASA and the Space Command estimated that the savings accrued from reconditioning existing satellites amounted to over four billion dollars in the current fiscal year.
McKenna was killing time until Headquarters, USAF Space Command responded to Pearson’s latest hot flash. He, Polly Tang, and T. Sgt. Benny Shalbot were in the module of Spoke twelve, which had several bays similar to the hangar cells of the hub, watching Ken Autry and two men on Extra-Vehicular Activity, EVA, through the bay window and the open hangar doors.
Autry had maneuvered the Mako to within fifty feet of the open hangar and parked it. The craft was on its side, in relation to McKenna, its opened payload doors facing him. Extending from the payload bay were four slender grappling devices, and they were lovingly clamped to the primary housing of a Teal Ruby satellite. The Teal Ruby could not be pulled into the Mako’s cargo bay, or for that matter, into the module’s repair bay, because its combination solar collector panels and antennas extended forty feet on each side of the satellite body.
The two crewmen were dressed in white environmental suits with all-purpose packs strapped to their backs. The packs contained the life-support system and the thrusters used for mobility outside the station. Both men were tethered by long life lines.
“Mako Three,” said one of the crewmen over the open radio, “You can release now.”
“Roger.”
The grappling hooks released their grip and withdrew into the bay.
“You’re clear, Mako. Do it slow, now.”
Three thrusters, on nose and wing tips, fired, and the Mako drifted away, then began to maneuver for docking in another hangar. The payload bay doors closed.
The crewmen moved in on the Teal Ruby and started dismantling the solar wings so that the three components could be brought inside for repair.
“Damned slow buggers, ain’t they?” Shalbot said, tapping his electronics diagnostic box. “I shoulda been done with this job by now, and back in my bunk.”
“We can’t all move at your speed, Benny.” McKenna said, taking Polly’s hand in his own and giving it a squeeze.
“Don’t I know it?” Shalbot said.
“What are you doing?” Tang asked him.
“Moving at my own speed,” McKenna said.
“Too fast for me,” she told him, gently withdrawing her hand. “I’ve got to go put Mako Three to bed.”
“Where did I go wrong?”
“I’ll think about it, then tell you,” she said.
McKenna went with her, jetting across the large open space of the interior half of the module. Affixed to its bulkheads were workbenches mounting the latest technology in electronic diagnostics and repair. Oscilloscopes, computers, monitors, digital measuring devices. McKenna was glad he didn’t have to understand them and amazed that Benny Shalbot knew the functions of each one.
They went down the spoke together and passed through the hatchway into Corridor 2, the main path around the perimeter of the hub.
“Bye-bye, Polly,” he said as she pushed gracefully off a bulkhead and sailed into Corridor 1B, which crossed the hub behind the hangars.
“Good-bye, Colonel. Don’t be depressed.”
“I am, dear, I am.”
McKenna crossed to Spoke thirteen and opened its orange door by tapping his code into the keypad. Locking the hatch behind him, he traversed the spoke quickly and unlocked the module door with the same code.
Spoke thirteen was used entirely for fuel storage. It was divided into subcompartments containing JP-7 jet fuel and solid fuel pellets. An intricate maze of piping accepted incoming fuel from HoneyBee rockets or, lately, from the solid fuel manufacturing plant in Spoke eleven, and transferred both types down the spoke to the various hangars. The safety precautions were as complete as they could be. Fire extinguisher nozzles protruded from all bulkheads. In the event of a leak or fire, automatic valves closed off the lines into the hub. If a fire was not containable, the entire spoke and module could be detached from the space station with exploding bolts and pushed off into space by heavy-duty thrusters attached to the outer housing.
The PA system coughed, then said, “HoneyBee inbound. Major Mitchell, could you cover?”
He didn’t hear Brad Mitchell’s response.
McKenna made his rounds, checking the tags on each fuel compartment. The fuel technicians and Brad Mitchell made regular inspections, dating, timing, and signing off on the tags. McKenna did the same, jotting the time, the date, and his initials as he checked each set of pressure and temperature indicators. He looked for leaks at all valve and fitting junctures.
When he left, he made sure each of the hatchways was fully secured.
He followed the perimeter corridor on around the hub, stopped and talked to Sergeant Embry for a moment, and directed Dr. Monte Washington back toward his own territory. Washington tended to explore.
“You see anything green around here, Doctor?”