Pearson knew he was waiting — had been waiting for months — for her to say something about her dislike for McKenna. And then, boom, she would be on the next Mako flight to Peterson.
She wasn’t going to give Overton the chance, or McKenna the satisfaction, of getting rid of her. In every position she had ever held, she had had to stand her ground, fight for her rights, and she wasn’t giving up, now.
She had analyzed her reaction to the squadron commander before. It wasn’t that McKenna was unattractive. The lines in his face, the pilot’s squint of his eyes, gave him the appearance of maturity and made him rather ruggedly handsome. His dark hair, though too long, seemed to always stay in place, even in the zero-gravity environment. And yet, there were other things that bothered her. His playful attitude in serious situations jangled her nerves and contradicted the maturity she expected him to display. She knew he was a highly competent pilot, and that competence was sometimes reflected in the deadly slate gray of his eyes. There was a subtle arrogance to the man, as if he knew too well his own capability. He expected things to happen as he planned, just because he was in control.
And the men in his squadron thought he was god. They would do anything, legal or illegal, for him. That was what irritated her most, his loyal following. She was also expected to be a fan. Besides herself, no one else seemed to recognize that he was just a man.
A man who was supposed to be a professional, just as she was a professional. Recognizing her contribution. Staying at arm’s length, maintaining the professional distance. Not patting her on the fanny when he felt like it.
“Are you all right, Amy?”
She looked up from the blank screen. I’m fine, General. Just getting organized.”
Pearson smiled at him, then pushed off from the console, floated across the center, and entered the communications compartment, the “Radio Shack.”
T. Sgt. Donna Amber, one of the three women on board, had the shift, and she was anchored before the primary console, monitoring the circuits in use aboard the station. Amber was a mousy woman — brown hair clipped short, brown eyes, tiny. She was also amazingly proficient at the complex radio, video, radar, and computer console.
From one speaker issued the sounds of some hard rock group.
“Do you want to kill that, Donna?”
“Sure thing, Colonel.” She depressed a keypad, and the high-pitched guitar was silenced. “We have work to do?”
“Yes. First, we want to tap into NATO.”
“Comm net, or data base?”
“The data base,” Pearson told her.
Amber checked the readout mounted on the wall that gave her the station’s celestial coordinates. “Okay, I can get there through a Rhyolite II channel.”
Themis had access to a wide variety of communications networks and computer data bases, utilizing microwave, VHF, and UHF relays in several satellite systems. Commonly, they used the Air Force Satellite Communications System (AFSATCOM) or the Critical Communications Net (CRITICOM), but frequently, because of their orbit characteristics, they could lose contact with those systems. Then, the station linked up through other satellites, such as the Rhyolite. This particular link, though Pearson no longer thought about the details, went through the Rhyolite at 22,300 miles above the earth, to an American DSCS III at 500 miles, to a NATO IIIB, then to the microwave antenna complex outside Brussels, Belgium.
Although Themis — 1st Aerospace Wing, and its 1st Aerospace Squadron operated under the Space Command of the U.S. Air Force, the role of Themis was multipurpose, responding to the needs of many agencies, and the station had access to NATO, CIA, National Security Agency, Defense Intelligence Agency, FBI, Treasury, and State data bases. Almost everyone aboard the station had cryptographic security clearances of the highest order.
While the sergeant set up the communication links, Pearson pulled herself into position in front of a secondary computer screen.
When the screen told her she was connected to the North Atlantic Treaty Organization Military Data Base, she entered an access code that brought up a menu:
1) GENERAL INFORMATION
2) PERSONNEL INFORMATION (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
3) MILITARY INFORMATION (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
She tapped “3.”
1) PUBLIC RELATIONS OFFICE
2) NATO INFORMATION (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
3) WARSAW PACT INFORMATION (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
4) COMMUNICATIONS CONTROL (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
5) NUCLEAR CONTROL (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
6) AIR CONTROL (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
7) NAVAL FORCES (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
8) GROUND FORCES (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
9) INTELLIGENCE OFFICE (RESTRICTED ACCESS)
She keyed the number “2.” Pearson was still somewhat amazed at the fact that unified Germany was still a member of NATO, but knew that it was primarily because of the German distrust of the Soviet Union. And though NATO had been dramatically downsized in forces, influence, and role, it still operated an extensive intelligence collection function.
And here she was, snooping in the confidential data of a supposed ally.
She entered two more seven-digit codes, allowing her access to all but the most highly classified data files. Using the Hamburg as her key, she called up all of the available data on the ship, its current assignment, and its primary officers. When she saw that it had been designated as the flagship of Adm. Gerhard Schmidt, she called up his file, also.
She stored the information in the Themis mainframe computer, cleared the screen, and went searching for data on New Amsterdam Air Force Base. She called up the files concerning the base’s air units, commanders, and role and mission, then stored that in her own machine.
Pearson checked for a file on Bremerhaven Petroleum Corporation, but there was nothing there.
“All right, Donna, let’s go to the CIA, then the DIA.”
“Coming up, Colonel.”
From both agencies, Pearson extracted similar information, though again, nothing on Bremerhaven. She supposed that General Brackman was requesting an investigation. Later, she would run a comparison program against all of her files, eliminate duplicate information, and come up with comprehensive files. After she culled those, she would print out a short, but complete briefing report.
“Is that it, Colonel?”
Pearson thought for a moment. “Do you suppose, Donna, that you could get into the German Defense Command’s computer?”
“I doubt it,” Amber said, “but it’d sure be fun to try.”
Pearson wondered why everything had to be fun.
Felix Eisenach’s helicopter landed at the Bremerhaven naval facility at four o’clock, half an hour past its scheduled arrival time. The Messerschmitt-Bolkow-Blohm B0105 was olive drab, marked only with the blue, red, and yellow German flag and, below it, the yellow flag with two stars denoting a general-major. The slate-gray MBB B0105 parked next to it carried the single-starred flag of a navy admiral.
Bremerhaven was a lively, buzzing port, swarming with civilian shipping. Panamanian, Norwegian, Kuwaiti, British, and Soviet freighters and tankers lined the docks and crept slowly in and out of the mouth of the Weser River. A Japanese ship disgorged multihued little cars at one of the large piers.
In the naval yards, thirty-four ships were moored out or made fast to the quays, side by side, four and five deep. Launches and supply tenders poked among them like hungry water beetles. Shore-based cranes waddled back and forth on their rails, trundling cargo nets filled to capacity with crates and boxes. Sailors and civilian workers scurried about on important errands. Eisenach noted with some satisfaction that many of the ships displayed fresh gray paint, sharp edges, the newest radar antennas. In some report he had read, the German High Command had boasted of a 30 percent increase in naval units over the past five years. Most of the new vessels fell into medium-displacement ranges — assault transports, helicopter ships, destroyers, and small missile frigates. There were two new missile cruisers, the Hamburg and the Stuttgart, and two new submarines. The cruisers and the submarines were powered by nuclear reactors.