“Roger that. Hit it again. Come to your right just a tad. Okay, Snake Eyes, that should do it. You want me to keep chatting you up?”
“No. Take a nap, Tiger.”
“Believe this or not, amigo, I don’t think I’m going to sleep today.”
The faraway horizon of the Earth had tilted up toward him, then steadied as he followed Munoz’s instructions. Ahead, he couldn’t see much of anything.
Soyuz Fifty was supposed to be there somewhere, and he hoped that Munoz had put him on the right street.
Frank Dimatta’s primary channel was Tac Three, but he knew Themis would be monitoring it also.
“Alpha, Delta Orange.”
“Go, Orange,” Pearson said.
“Any contacts on Delta Green?”
“Negative, Orange.”
“Roger. Okay, Alpha, we’re at angels one-two-oh, velocity Mach three-point-eight. That’s supposed to be China down there. You want to order out?”
“Copy, and we’re not hungry,” Pearson said.
“Give me one squawk, Cancha. I’m a few thousand above you,” Conover said.
Dimatta hit the IFF for a second.
“Okay, got you. Maintain course, and I’ll close.”
“Roger. Maintaining.”
Williams came up on the ICS. “And now we just coast.”
“In great big circles, Nitro.”
“I’ve been monitoring Tac Two,” Williams said.
“And?”
“Nothing. Nobody talks to us anymore.”
“We shouldn’t have lost the damned spacecraft,” Dimatta told him.
Pearson and Overton weren’t alone in the Command Center. Brad Mitchell, Polly Tang, Val Arguento, Don Curtis, Donna Amber, and Joe Macklin were hanging around or manning consoles, trying to look like they should be there.
Pearson had relented and let Benny Shalbot join them. It was, after all, his equipment and his plan that they were all relying on.
The tension was thick in the compartment. It was as if some of them were afraid to breathe, much less speak.
She depressed the transmit button on her console. “Blue Two, Alpha.”
“Blue.”
“Sitrep, please.”
“You just asked for one, amorcita.”
“Another, please.”
“You sure you ain’t sweet on the guy?”
“Tiger”
“Sitrep. Same as before. Snake Eyes is out of radio and radar range. I won’t try a radar sweep at longer range and get myself detected and inspected. Couldn’t see him on the video if I tried. No change in Blue or Red. No sign of Green on the video. It’s gettin’ lonely.”
Pearson couldn’t imagine what it would be like never to see McKenna again. To have him just float out into space and cease to exist.
Her chest constricted when she thought about it.
Her palms were sweaty.
She wished she hadn’t been so bitchy toward him the past few days.
She glanced upward at the clock. Far too many minutes had gone by.
They should have known something by now. Either the flare from McKenna or the SS-X-25’s rocket motor igniting, hurtling five hundred-kiloton warheads toward distant cities.
She looked over at Jim Overton, and he was wearing a fatherly expression. He winked at her.
She tried to wink back, but couldn’t bring it off. Damn McKenna for screwing up my life.
And for not being here.
The elongated tube of Soyuz Fifty had revealed itself to McKenna at around twenty miles of distance. The sun reflecting off the upper surfaces of the station made it look like a silver ballpoint pen dropped by God.
It appeared to be in the wrong place, and McKenna had had to overcome the urge to change his course. He had to rely on Tony Munoz, but that was fairly easy for him.
He checked the EVA pack’s fuel and oxy/nitro levels. They looked good, and unless he had to utilize the thrusters extensively to slow his momentum and to maneuver around the station, he probably wouldn’t need the second backpack.
Still, it was reassuring to have it, and he wouldn’t abandon it just yet.
At around fifteen miles out, he was able to see the modified intercontinental ballistic missile. It was still in the same position alongside the station, and he assumed the umbilical cable was still intact.
When his distance had closed to what he guessed was eight miles, he could see the second missile, still just a nose cone minus its booster stage. Delta Green had not yet returned, but he didn’t feel overconfident about how long he had.
After the first pangs of what he admitted to himself was nearly abject terror at being alone and possibly lost in space, he had concentrated on his breathing and on slowing his heart rate. With the slowly approaching space station to focus on, his fear had subsided. Now he had a singular objective in life, and he could think about the tasks he had to accomplish.
Maybe five miles.
He could see the station’s radar antenna turning. His radar cross section would be so small that he didn’t think they would paint him as Munoz had, simply because the Tiger was looking for him. There probably wasn’t anyone tending to the radar set anyway.
Four miles.
The video camera located forward of the antenna cluster was visible. As Munoz had noted, it wasn’t moving, and it was pointed away from him.
Even if he had been in its eye, his matte black camouflage would have prevented visual contact. He was a pretty small target against the stars.
Nothing he had ever done in his life before had so clearly made him aware of his microscopic significance.
Three miles?
He used the thrusters gingerly, first to turn himself feet-first toward the station, then to introduce short blasts of retro fire, slowing his momentum.
The maneuvers pushed him off course, toward the rear of the station, and he used the right thruster for correction.
The equipment box stayed With him, easily controllable as long as they were both headed in the same direction.
Another spurt of retro fire. The vapor produced by the nitrogen gas thrusters flared briefly in the vacuum.
Two miles. Maybe.
The station appeared to be coming up too fast, and he used the retro thrusters again.
Now, it crawled toward him, gradually assuming more mass and size.
He turned his body over again as he passed inside what he judged was the one-mile marker, heading toward the station headfirst. The radar antenna continued to rotate. The video camera hadn’t moved.
He reminded himself to thank Munoz for aiming him in the right direction.
Buy him a beer, maybe.
When he was a hundred yards away, he diverted toward the ICBM. Its umbilical cable snaked lazily to the space station. They were about thirty yards apart, enough to protect the station from exhaust blast when the rocket was fired.
McKenna slowed his closure rate once again.
He imagined a pulsing white fire radiating from those warheads, was certain he imagined it.
The rocket body was a dull gray, and stylized red letters descended along one side. CCCP. This one had never been relabeled from the old Central Committee of the Communist Party. Small access hatches also were stenciled with directions and warnings, all in the Cyrillic alphabet.
He glanced toward the station. The video camera was still stationary, aimed above him. The porthole wasn’t visible; it was on the lower side. Maybe they were asleep inside.
He hoped so.
He hoped they slept through it all.
Drifting toward the rocket, he twisted his body to keep Benny’s equipment package away from the metal hull. His hand brushed against the solid fuel rocket stage, and his momentum kept carrying him forward.