TOP SECRET 10170935Z
TO: PEARL
FROM: AARDVARK
SUBJECT Y-l DEPARTED BAGHDAD 07/12 FOR TRIPOLI. RUMORED TO BE AERO CONSULTANT LAF. WANT MORE?
Pearson pondered the information. There were two ways to go with it. One, she could work up a theory which put Libya in the middle of a plot to steal the MakoShark and increase its share of power in the world. She wouldn’t put it past the madman to think he was capable of establishing a presence in space.
Or two, she could put it on the electronic spindle for the time being.
She favored the spindle since Yevstigneyev’s file had not contained cross-references to General Anatoly Shelepin, and she thought that following the trail of the general staff defector was a more promising direction.
Pearson wrote a quick memo to herself, then consigned it to her suspense file.
Then she called up the second cable to the screen:
TOP SECRET 10171421Z
TO: PEARL
FROM: MOSQUITO
PER WATCHLIST 10/16, POS ID EX-SOV SERGEI PAVEL THIS CAP CITY. FOLLOWED TO APPARENT RES W/ OTHER SOV EMIGRES. NOCONTACT MADE.
A note at the bottom, apparently entered by the processing analyst at Langley, identified MOSQUITO as resident in Phnom Penh.
Much more promising.
General Sheremetevo had identified Pavel as buddy-buddy with Shelepin and a fellow deserter.
She typed a quick memo to the Deputy Director of Operations at Langley requesting further detail on the other Soviet émigrés living in Phnom Penh, along with the location of their residences.
If nothing else, she could send McKenna on an overflight to get a few recon photos.
After spending six hours losing track of Delta Green, and since they were already in space, McKenna had ordered the three MakoSharks back to Themis for maintenance, refueling, and rearming.
Deltas Blue, Yellow, and Red were each docked in their own hangar cells since the MakoSharks were kept out of the view of satellite eyes and Earth-bound telescopes. Beyond the attempt to keep them from view, servicing the craft inside the mother ship was much easier than dancing around in clumsy space suits outside the space station.
Delta Blue floated in the middle of her hangar, secured by eight long bungee straps. The dark blue finish seemed to absorb light from the surface-mounted light fixtures in the gray-finished bay.
Technicians with vacuum hoses attempted to capture all traces of dirt or dust caught in the crannies of the MakoShark’s compartments. The space station’s recirculated atmosphere needed all of the help it could get, despite its complex filtration system.
During the refueling process, a low-toned chime kept sounding while a red strobe light pulsed at the same rate. The aural and visual alarms tended to make technicians concentrate while volatile fuels were transferred from the feeder outlets of the hub to the craft.
When the refueling of both the liquid JP-7 and the pelletized solid fuel was complete, McKenna floated into the cockpit, powered up the computer, and called up the MakoShark’s maintenance log which kept track of the hours used on all of the critical sub-systems. Future maintenance requirements were noted, but none were currently pressing. McKenna scrolled the log up the screen, but did not see anything that might affect safety or performance.
Tapping in the frequency for Themis’s maintenance office on the radio pad, McKenna said, “Beta Anyone, Delta Blue”
“Beta Two.”
“Polly, my dear. You want my log?”
“Why not, if it’ll keep you happy. Hang on a minute while I set up.”
He waited until she gave him the order to proceed, then tapped the command into his keyboard. All of the updated maintenance files were transferred immediately into Beta’s computer storage, which also contained data on the other MakoSharks, the Makos, and the HoneyBees.
With the maintenance requirements met, McKenna met with Tech Sergeant Bert Embry, whose tiny office in the hub guarded an orange-painted security hatch. The compartment was labeled A-61, and most visitors thought that it simply contained additional fuels.
In a way, it did, but the fuels were loaded in canisters attached to warheads. The ordnance section stored Wasp IIs, Phoenix IIs, laser-guided bombs, and other goodies that would only bother the consciences of some of the civilian scientists who lived aboard the station for a few weeks at a time.
“Mornin’, Colonel,” Embry said.
“Hi, Bert. I want you to re-rig all the birds.”
“Will do, sir. What’s the setup?”
“Short pylons outboard, each with two Phoenix, and long pylons inboard, each with four Wasp IIs.”
“Pull the Chain Guns?” Embry asked.
“Yeah. We’re not going to get close enough to use them. Let’s set up the forward bays with eight Wasp IIs also.”
Each of the two cargo bays on the MakoShark could accept a specially designed missile launcher which rotated, like the cylinder on a pistol, one missile after another into firing position.
“How about the aft bays, Colonel?”
“We’ll leave them empty for now. The way things are going, something else may come up.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Embry promised.
McKenna pulled himself out into the B-l corridor, which traversed the hub between the hangar side and the working and office spaces side. He headed down the corridor, away from the center of the hub.
“I’m afraid not, sir. You’ll have to turn around and go back.”
McKenna caught a grab bar and stopped himself at a cross corridor when he heard Benny Shalbot’s voice. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Shalbot speaking with such politeness. Looking down the well-lit passageway, he saw Shalbot’s squat body blocking access to one of the contract scientists, identifiable by the white jumpsuit the civilians wore.
“Not only are my taxes subsidizing your salary, Sergeant, but my company is being charged exorbitant fees for use of laboratories we already own as taxpayers. I’m entitled to see what we’re paying for.”
“Yes sir, I’m sure that’s right. However, sir, I’m not in the finance section, and you’ll have to talk to General Overton about that.”
“Sergeant…”
“They just pay me to do my part in national defense,” Shalbot said. “Right now, sir, that’s keeping classified information classified.”
McKenna glanced down the B-l corridor and saw that the window overlooking Delta Blue’s hangar was darkened, but the hatchway was open as technicians moved in and out.
He was about to go to Shalbot’s assistance when the civilian abruptly grabbed a handhold and pushed off in the opposite direction.
Shalbot put his toe against the same grab bar, flexed it, and came drifting back toward McKenna.
“That was an amazing display of diplomacy, Benny.” Shalbot jerked his head up. “Oh, Colonel. Didn’t know you were there.”
“You handled that very well,” McKenna said.
“What we need, we need signs posted that say, ‘Any egghead beyond this point gets his ass shot off.’”
“Less tactful, Benny, but it makes a point.”
“Or this chickenshit outfit could spring for some of those expanding gates, that keep kids from falling into the basement. Put’em up at the end of the corridor.”
“They would probably open them up anyway.”
“Only once, if I electrify ’em”
“Another good point, Benny.”
Shalbot shoved off up the B-l tunnel, and McKenna continued on down it, stopping to check on Haggar and Conover, who were overseeing the maintenance of their MakoSharks.
McKenna told them about the ordnance configuration he had ordered.
“New tactics, Kevin?” Haggar asked.