Crossing the runway in the gathering darkness, Maslov felt as if his senses were more acute, his awareness on the rise. The adrenaline was rushing through his veins, making his reality clearer, his grasp on life less certain, and his purpose stronger.
The infinite chasm of danger was close to his feet, and he loved it.
The sense of urgency aboard Themis had died away, if not the concern.
After consultations with Brackman and Overton, Kevin McKenna had reduced the patrol circling the station to one, currently alternating between Haggar and Conover. Delta Orange had been dispatched to Wet Country.
Conover and Abrams had been serving as guardian for the last five hours, staying within forty miles of the mother ship, but darting from one position to another with short bursts of the main rocket motors or small taps of the OMS.
Several times, they had cruised close to the station, where they could see white-suited men on Extra-Vehicular Activity mounting additional external video cameras on the modules. In the past, external vision had been limited to remote-controlled cameras primarily concerned with the arrival and departure of Mako craft and HoneyBee rockets. Now, they were setting up for visual defense, practically the only immediately available defense against a rogue MakoShark.
Ken Autry with Mako Three and Jerry Dahlgreen in Mako Six were also flying cover, but with orders to skedaddle if they spotted an intruder. They just weren’t equipped for confrontation with Delta Green.
Mako Five was on the ground at Jack Andrews for routine overhaul. The other Makos (One, Two, Four, and Seven) had returned to the standard chores of servicing satellites and transporting people and cargo between the station and Jack Andrews or Merlin.
“Hey, Do-Wop! You still awake?” Conover asked.
“Hell, yes. Quiet for a minute; I’m tuning in a new station.”
Peter, Paul, and Mary, relayed through a few communications satellites, came up in the background of Conover’s helmet phones, singing about magic dragons.
“There we go,” Abrams said, “right on!”
“I don’t mind it, as long as you don’t sing along.”
“Hum?”
“No.”
But Conover found himself on the verge of humming himself as he scanned the empty spaces surrounding them.
“Delta Yellow, Red.”
“Go Country Girl.”
“Swede took all my money at bridge, so we’re coming on a little early. You can come back and try Del O’Hara’s new entree.”
“What is it?” Abrams asked.
“Kentucky Fried Bites. No mess, no fuss, no chicken,” Haggar said.
“No chicken? Come on.”
“Honest,” she insisted. “It’s all made from peanuts, he says.”
“I’ll stick to hot dogs,” Abrams said. “You ready to go home, Con Man?”
“Why not?”
They passed Delta Red launching from her hangar cell as they were inbound, aimed for the yawning cell that belonged to Delta Yellow.
They were in the hangar with the doors closing before Conover realized he’d been snookered.
“Goddamn it!”
“What’s wrong, Con Man?”
“Damned Country Girl conned us.”
“What? How?”
“McKenna’s about to launch from Merlin. If he finds trouble and calls for help, she’s in position to go.”
“I tell you, Will, you just can’t trust a woman.”
The lift-off from Merlin Air Base was smooth, and McKenna retracted his gear and flaps, then went into an immediate right turn. The turbojets hummed behind him, and the altimeter readout steadily climbed.
“We want to boost soon as we’re feet wet, Snake Eyes?”
“Roger, Tiger.”
When they had cleared the Borneo coastline, they went quickly through the checklist and kicked in the rocket motors until they had achieved a velocity of Mach 4.5 with the turbojets shut down.
“Altitude angels thirty, jefe.”
“That should be good enough. We’re not going far.” Forty minutes into the flight, the Tac Two channel sounded off.
“Wet Country, this is Semaphore.”
McKenna recognized Brackman’s voice.
“Semaphore, Wet Country.”
“Find the CO for me,” Brackman said.
Four or five minutes went by before Milt Avery responded, and McKenna nearly cut in to talk to Brackman, but he didn’t. There was something in Brackman’s tone that said he wasn’t open to casual conversation.
“Semaphore, Wet Country One.”
“Yeah, One. Is Delta Blue One around?”
“Uh… not just now, Semaphore.”
“Well, damn. I guess I missed him.”
“I could…”
“Tell you what,” Brackman said, “when you see him again, tell him he and Major Munoz are wanted in Washington for talks with some important people. It’s urgent. Have him give me a call.”
“Roger that,” Avery said.
The channel went silent.
“That was strange,” Munoz said on the ICS.
“I think we want to maintain radio silence, Tiger.” Brackman could be awfully indirect when he wanted to be. He’d never normally use Tac Two for that kind of message.
“It sounds as if they haven’t grounded us anyway, amigo.”
“The brass and the Hill people probably reached a compromise position,” McKenna said.
“Yeah, like grill McKenna over a hot charcoal fire. Flip once for even brownin’. Thing I don’t like, Snake Eyes, is havin’ my name mentioned by generals and politicians. Munoz doesn’t grill well.”
“I don’t want to go to Washington.”
“Let’s go to Cambodia instead, Snake Eyes.”
“Kampuchea.”
“My history’s kinda slow.”
“Let’s have a map, Tiger.”
Munoz brought up a map of Southeast Asia on the screen, then overlaid it with a grid. He programmed the coordinates of the children’s hospital, and a small red circle appeared on the screen.
“See if you can find that, compadre.”
“Do my best.”
McKenna flipped a switch and brought up the screen image on the HUD. He eased into a slight left turn and the red circle swung to the top of the HUD. Squat blue lettering told him: 180M TO TARGET.
The velocity was down to Mach 2.2. McKenna pulled the nose up and bled off more speed while climbing to forty thousand feet. After he had it below the sonic barrier, he rolled inverted and pulled the nose toward him, diving in a shallow plane.
“I mean, I like it, jefe, but somehow I missed the warning.”
McKenna snapped the MakoShark upright with the hand controller.
“I’m returning to normal flight,” he warned.
“Muchas gracias.”
At twenty-five thousand feet and sixty miles from the target, McKenna restarted the turbojets and let them idle while the MakoShark continued to coast downward. He set up the rocket motor ignition checklist and went partially through it, so the rockets would be available if needed.
“All right,” Munoz said. “We don’t want the hospital.”
“Correct.”
“What I heard sounded like it was to the east of the hospital, Snake Eyes.”
“Sound is tough in the jungle, but that’s where I’d put it, Tiger.”
“So we make our first pass a mile east?”
“Good show, chappie.”
“Come right a couple points, and on my mark, go to three-four-five.”
“Going right.”
“Mark.”
McKenna eased into the new heading.
“Distance to target, six-one miles. Altitude, angels nine. Speed four-six-four knots. Let’s increase the glide, Snake Eyes.”