“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 alclass="underline" 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.