In all, they spent seventeen minutes coasting through the area, and McKenna felt certain they had not been seen. As soon as they had their close-ups of number one, he began a steady climb to the south, gradually adding on speed.
The MakoShark cracked through the sonic barrier at 20,000 feet, 200 miles off the coast of Norway.
“You keep this heading, Snake Eyes, we could put down at Jack Andrews for a couple beers.”
“Amy wants us right back. She’s going to develop these herself.”
“Shit. You didn’t promise her, did you?”
Munoz knew that McKenna kept his promises. He just avoided making promises wherever he could.
“No, but I told Overton we’d do a quick turnaround.”
“Ah, damn, amigo. I’m just real thirsty.”
No liquor or beer of any kind was allowed aboard the space station. Overton strictly enforced that rule.
“Next time, buddy,” McKenna told him.
The instrument panel screen was displaying the 200-mile radar sweep, and by the time they passed over Copenhagen at 50,000 feet, it was busy with commercial night flights between European cities. Most of those flights were at 20,000 feet or less. Some military flights were much higher, but McKenna wasn’t paying much attention to them.
“Hey, Snake Eyes.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been watchin’ New Amsterdam. A flight of two just took off from there.”
“Got a heading on them.”
“Goin’ north.”
“Suppose they have tail numbers?”
“Damn betcha.”
McKenna retarded the throttles, pulled back on the hand controller, and put the MakoShark into a vertical climb. As soon as the speed drained away, he went on over onto his back, then rolled upright. He put the nose down and began searching the screen for his bogies.
“Wish to hell-and-gone we were armed,” Munoz said.
Five
Col. Pyotr Volontov stood at attention in front of the general’s desk. He could have been a prototype for the ideal Soviet officer. Almost six feet tall, he was slim, blond, and blue-eyed. The planes of his face had hard angles that reflected the overhead fluorescent lights. More than that, he was an intelligent man, and a thinking one. He did not often bow to impetuous and blind authority. Volontov kept his eyes fixed firmly on the photograph of the President mounted on the wall behind Sheremetevo.
Though Gen. Vitaly Sheremetevo struggled to maintain the same image as his subordinate, his age of sixty-two was catching up with him. His hair was much thinner and graying rapidly. The waist was thicker, though still successfully disguised by his uniform jackets. Less well disguised was his biting commentary for incompetence whenever he came upon it. Unlike the younger man, Sheremetevo, as deputy commander in chief of the Soviet air forces, was allowed to make whatever comments he might like to make, as well as to expect immediate reform.
Among the general’s responsibilities was the PVO Strany. The START agreements had not detracted from his forces since they were so clearly defensive in nature. The PVO had over 5,000 early-warning radars, 2,500 interceptor aircraft, and 50,000 surface-to-air missiles at its disposal.
Colonel Volontov was also at Sheremetevo’s disposal. The colonel commanded the 5th Interceptor Wing, comprised of MiG-29s and located at Leningrad. Sheremetevo had followed Volontov’s career with greater than normal interest. More than once, he had quietly, and unknown to the man, intervened on Volontov’s behalf when the colonel had balked at ridiculous orders and come close to insubordination. Sheremetevo did not want such a promising officer shunted off into some oblivious air force job.
“You may stand at ease, Pyotr Mikhailovich.”
The use of the patronymic caused just a flicker of surprise in the colonel’s blue eyes. He relaxed only a trifle, locking his wrists behind his back.
“We have met but once before,” Sheremetevo said. “I gave you some decoration or another.”
“I remember, Comrade General. Very likely undeserved.”
“On the contrary. I do not pass out medals that are undeserved.” Sheremetevo himself was a Hero of the Soviet Union. He wore the honor with pride.
“Pyotr Mikhailovich,” the general continued, “what is the condition of the Fifth Interceptor Wing?”
“It is excellent, General. Of my twelve aircraft, eleven are currently airworthy. The morale and capability of my pilots is not surpassed by any unit in the air force.”
“Are you boasting, Colonel?”
“I am stating a fact, General Sheremetevo.”
The deputy commander suspected that that was true. “Your wing would be prepared, then, for a special exercise?”
The blue eyes enlarged by several millimeters. “In fact, Comrade General, my pilots would welcome a deviation in their routine.”
“And you?”
“And myself, General. I always support a need for training, but the current schedules are… boring and repetitious.”
“So you alter them?”
“Only in small ways, General.” Volontov offered a brief smile.
“Very well. The exercise is to be called “Arctic Waste.” The Fifth Interceptor Wing is temporarily assigned directly to my office. You will report only to me.”
Volontov nodded his acceptance and did not betray any curiosity, but Sheremetevo thought that the commander was pleased.
“I will see that an additional two MiG-29s are made available to your wing by tomorrow morning, so that you will be at full aircraft strength, with one reserve airplane. Two reserves, if your twelfth interceptor is repaired. Additionally, two Ilyushin II-76 tankers and two MiG-25 reconnaissance aircraft will be attached to your command.”
“This begins to sound quite interesting, General Sheremetevo.”
“But it will be interesting only to ourselves, Pyotr Mikhailovich. You are not to relate the details of the exercise to anyone. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely.”
“Air controllers in the affected area will also be under my command, and not fully aware of the objectives. Beyond them, no one is to know the nature of the exercise. Should anyone ask you, Colonel, it is simply training in combined aircraft operations.”
“As you wish, General.”
Volontov’s face was a bit more active now, a grim smile in place, the hard, reflective knobs of his cheekbones appearing a bit higher.
“In reality, we are doing a favor for someone.”
“For someone in the Politburo, General?”
“For Admiral Hannibal Cross.”
Sheremetevo saw the flicker of Volontov’s eyes once again as he tried to place the name.
“But General, he is the American chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff!”
“Exactly.”
Dr. Tracy Calvin floated underneath Mako Two, waiting while the technician opened the hatch into the passenger module. She hung onto one of the payload doors, and her face was radiant, showing no concern about the reentry flight. Her dark hair was cut short, but still drifted about her head, like an errant halo.
She wore the blue jumpsuit that would now become a souvenir of her two weeks in space, performing arcane experiments in the name of her employer, Lilly Pharmaceuticals. The jumpsuit was very well filled.
The technician backed out of the passenger module, holding an environmental suit, then helped her struggle into it. He slipped the helmet over her head and locked it into the suit collar.
When she looked back toward the hangar’s control station window, McKenna waved at her. She smiled and waved back, perhaps thinking about other experiments accomplished in zero gravity.