“And the crew,” Williams said, “is busy cleaning the decks.”
Milly Roget’s soft voice came over the intercom. “General, you have a call on direct line two.”
“Thank you, Milly.” Marvin Brackman punched the button on his oversized desk set and picked up the receiver. “Brackman.”
It would be Hannibal Cross or Harvey Mays. Line two was direct to the Pentagon.
It was Cross, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Marv, I just got back from State.”
“Were they diplomatic, Hannibal?”
“Oh, yes. And just as ineffective as usual.”
“The Germans wouldn’t respond?”
“They responded, but they didn’t. The oil fields are a private enterprise of Bremerhaven Petroleum, and certainly, the German Department of Foreign Affairs could not interfere in the workings of a private corporation. They know none of the details. They claim.”
“What about all the security the German High Command is providing?” Brackman asked.
“That’s only a normal precaution extended to any German national company. We ought to apply for citizenship, Marv.”
“Not damned likely, Hannibal. My grandmother on Mommy’s side was Jewish.”
“You hearing those rumors, too?” the chairman asked. “Are they rumors? I talked to Appleton over at DIA a couple weeks ago. He thinks the German military is quietly culling its ranks.”
“Maybe I’ll invite him up here for a chat.”
“Did our State people try Bremerhaven directly?” Brackman asked, to get back on track.
“Yes, but without success. The company professes to be utilizing new methods of exploration, and they’re restricting knowledge of their process. They say they’re afraid of industrial espionage.”
“Do we have anything out of the CIA on the oil company yet?”
“Hold on, Marv. I’ve got a sheet here somewhere. Yeah. The corporation itself is privately held, with some thirty shareholders. There are no public records, but the Agency estimates a total investment of close to twenty-five billion U.S. dollars. They have no idea of what the debt structure looks like. All of the officers of the corporation have clear records and histories.”
Brackman thought that over. “When it’s that clean, and that private, with that many bucks involved, Hannibal, I tend to suspect a facade.”
“The Agency does say something along the same lines. Here it is. Best estimate is that there are other investors, unnamed.”
“Uh-huh. So what do we do about it, Admiral?”
“Looking for a decision, are you?”
“If you’ve got one handy.”
“What’re your Themis people doing now?”
Brackman checked his watch. “Should be in the middle of another reconnaissance mission.”
“You find out what they learn, then get back to me. Personally, I think we ought to step up our surveillance.”
“I do, too, Hannibal.”
“They’re not oil wells, General Brackman.”
“You’re certain of that, Colonel Pearson?”
“I am, sir.”
“What are they?”
“That, I don’t know. But the heat generation is far too high for the typical drilling or pumping platform. I ran comparisons with data from offshore wells in the North Sea and off the California coast.”
On his end of the scrambled radio circuit, Brackman went silent.
In the Command Center, McKenna, Overton, and Pearson waited. T.Sgt. Donna Amber was tending the console in the communications space, monitoring the satellite system relays.
Brackman came back. “Kevin, you still there?”
From the look on her face, Amelia Pearson still didn’t think that full generals should be on a first-name basis with lowly squadron commanders. It only went one way in public, however.
“Still here, General.”
“I want a nightly surveillance on those wells. Continue taking infrared. Maybe we’ll catch a door open, and get better readings.”
Maybe, but McKenna didn’t think so. “Got it, sir.”
“And I want a full update on all military installations, forces, and equipment on the German mainland. Make whatever flights are required. Let’s drop some sonobuoys along that underwater pipe.”
McKenna did some hasty calculations. “General, I need a couple more pilots in order to stay under the maximum hours. I want to move Haggar and Olsen into the MakoSharks.”
That alerted Overton, and his face reddened. “No way, Kevin.”
“I don’t think so, either,” Brackman said.
Pearson had a smirk on her face. Whether she was happy that McKenna wasn’t getting his way again, or unhappy that a female colleague was running into opposition, McKenna couldn’t tell.
“Sir, we can’t get you the coverage you want and still meet the regulations.”
“To hell with the regulations,” Brackman said. “You manage to ignore them, McKenna, unless you can use them in your favor. You can go ten per cent over on flying hours. I’ll follow that up with a written directive.”
“Still… ”
“Besides, you’re going to get some additional help from the Fifth Interceptor Wing.”
McKenna struggled with the designation. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it, unless…
“The Soviets, General?”
“That’s it. Your contact will be the wing commander, a Colonel Pyotr Volontov.”
“No shit. Uh, no shit, General.”
“No shit, McKenna.”
Six
Pearson’s alarm chirped at six A.M., and she was instantly awake. She rubbed the grittiness out of her eyes, then turned on the small lamp in her sleeping cubicle. She freed herself from the Velcro straps that pinned her against the cushioned bulkhead. Opposite her by four feet was a communications panel for intercommunications aboard the station. It included a small television screen. Some people went to sleep by watching Casablanca instead of by reading. In an elastic-edged fabric pouch above the panel were the books by which Amy Pearson went to sleep. Currently, she was in the middle of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich and wondering why she had not read it before.
Below the communications panel was her personal locker, just about the only private area allowed her, or anyone, on board the station. Opening the twin doors, she retrieved a fresh jump suit, underwear, and her hygiene kit. She unzipped the curtain and pushed out into the corridor, then aimed herself toward the six hygiene stations. At six in the morning, only one was in use — identified by the amber light — and she let herself into a vacant stall.
Stripping out of the loose, baggy-legged sleeping garment that most of the enlisted men called a potato sack, she stuffed it into the dirty laundry hamper. Pearson used the vacuumized toilet, then gave herself a bath with a damp sponge. The only thing she really missed in her assignment on Themis was a long, steamy shower every morning. Floating in front of the sink, which was really a basin surrounding a vacuum nozzle, she brushed her teeth, rinsed her mouth with mouthwash, and spat into the vacuum port. None of the women on board worried about makeup. After combing out her hair, which took a while, she slipped the headband in place. She might have to have her hair cut, the next time she was earth side, she thought. She was beginning to look like something out of the ’60s San Francisco. The legs, too. She used an electric razor on them. After donning bra, panties, and jumpsuit, she repacked her hygiene kit and took it back to stow in her cubicle.
Pearson was assigned to the Spoke Sixteen residential module, the one limited to military personnel. The outer end of it was the dining/recreation space, and five people were present by the time she arrived. It was a busy place, usually, with people going on shift, coming off shift, or wiling away the time between sleep and work. Pearson’s days were intentionally long, and like the MakoShark pilots, she did not have a set work period.