“Shit! Kevin, you know the position on that.”
“I had a close call with Conover and Abrams, Jim. I want backup. As soon as we get them oriented, I’m going to give them Delta Red to practice in.”
“Why not Autry and Chamberlain?”
“They’re nowhere near as ready as Haggar and Olsen, that’s why. Damn it, I’m the squadron commander.”
“You may have to put Conover and Abrams in Delta Red,” the general said.
“Their buggy is going to be fine,” he insisted.
“I’m going to have to talk to Brackman.”
“Please do.”
Overton stared him down for a minute, then let it go. McKenna was assured that the station commander would be having a very long conversation with General Brackman, and that Brackman would be tracking him down soon thereafter.
Pearson watched them carefully, but McKenna thought that his decision about Haggar had taken some of the fire out of her eyes. There was a mellow quality present when she looked at him. The green had paled a bit.
Finally, she broke the silence with a question. “I assume you have a new strategy?”
“We may have to call in the navy. We use Volontov’s MiGs and the MakoSharks to create a diversion, then slip a couple subs under the platforms.”
“To run blindly into an anchor cable or well casing?”
“I admit that it’s going to take a little thought. I’ll need some help.”
“What do you need?” she asked.
“I need to sleep for a few hours. You want to help me with that?”
That got the fire back in her eyes.
Gen. Marvin Brackman was in Washington. He had been called to testify before the Senate Appropriations Committee in regard to Space Command appropriations for the next fiscal year. He didn’t bother mentioning the practical applications of the MakoShark and Themis currently under way, and no one on the panel brought up the matter, either.
So far, only the Village Voice and a deep page in the New York Times had mentioned the complaint of Malcolm Nichols, captain of the Greenpeace boat Walden. And Nichols had not mentioned potential oil spillage, only that a German air force pilot had fired a missile at him. That charge had been denied by the German Foreign Ministry, further increasing Nichols’s rage. He was trying to find a German lawyer to sue the Luftwaffe.
After his testimony, Brackman had been driven to the Pentagon in an air force staff car to have lunch with Harvey Mays and Hannibal Cross. They ate late and alone in the flag dining room, all of them opting for the day’s promoted special of veal.
“My aide says you did a nice job with the committee, Marvin.”
“You never know how well you did until the appropriations are announced, Hannibal. The feedback in Washington is damned slow.”
“The feedback,” Mays said, “would be a lot snappier if any of those senators knew about what we’re doing in the Greenland Sea.”
“True. I don’t know why it’s still under wraps.”
“I think we can thank the Germans for that,” Cross said. “At this point, I don’t believe there’s any question but that they don’t want the world to know about those geothermal taps, or the environmental hazard they pose.”
“Or the military buildup,” Mays said.
“That worries me,” Brackman said. “What I’d really like to do is hit a few of those equipment parks and fuel dumps with some thousand-pounders. We could at least set back their plans a few years.”
“That would have every congressman and reporter in town involved in the brouhaha in nothing flat,” Cross said. “No, we can get away with what we’re doing in the north because the Germans aren’t going to complain. That’s the President’s opinion. He believes we can stave off German ambition by shutting down those wells.”
“The hell of it is,” Brackman said, “we’re not having any success. When I talked to McKenna early this morning, before he went back to Themis, he was ready to give up on the cables. Of course, he’d damned nearly lost a MakoShark and two crewmen.”
“He’s too close to his squadron members,” Mays said. “As a commander, he should have a little more distance.”
“Maybe, but it’s a unique squadron, Harv. It has to be run differently.”
“Getting back to the immediate problem,” the chairman said, “does McKenna have something in mind?”
“Nothing solid yet. He may want to involve the navy, but he’s supposed to get back to me later today.”
“Not that I mistrust the navy, Admiral,” Mays said to Cross, “but I’m leery of doing very much underneath those platforms.”
Cross harumphed.
Brackman said, “One thing McKenna did point out, that we should have done some time ago. We ought to set up a couple naval task forces, maybe one out of England with the Brits involved, and one out of the Soviet Union. They should be outfitted with submersibles, salvage ships, the right kinds of equipment, and all of the experts we can find.”
“In case a well blows out, Marv?” Mays asked.
“Or in case they all blow out. If the Germans let us, we’re going to have to make an attempt to cap them.” Cross chewed his veal with vigor, then said, “Christ! We’re going to have to put McKenna in a staff job and make him a general.”
“He’ll resist all the way, Hannibal.”
“I know, and that’s good. But damn it, we should have been covering that base.”
“You’ll look into it?”
“Yes. It’ll take telephone calls from the President, I suppose, but we’ll put something together. And we’ll do it damned quickly. I’ll have the CNO find out where his specialized ships are located, and figure out how soon he can get them into the area.”
“Not too close, just yet,” Brackman said.
“We may need some troops,” the air force chief of staff said, “to secure the platforms if we make a move on them.”
The JCS chairman’s face sagged. “This may escalate way beyond what we want, gentlemen.”
It was nearly ten o’clock at night before Brackman called him back. Sheremetevo was at home, a spacious, nine-room apartment that was far too large for his needs since the children — young adults — had moved out. He had been widowed for three years, and he still felt the loss. The empty rooms seemed to echo.
The general sipped his second brandy and stood at the living room window, looking down on the lights of Moscow. From his eighth-floor vantage point, he could see the dark bend of the Moskva River where it passed under the Borodino Bridge. The foliage was thick this time of year. In the distance were the flood-lighted mosques and spires of the Kremlin, shining like new gold in the night.
The telephone rang, and he crossed to the end table to pick it up, settling back onto the flowered sofa.
“Vitaly, I’m sorry to be so late getting back to you, but it’s been something of a hectic day.”
“It is all right, Marvin.”
“Let me bring you up to speed.” Sheremetevo listened while Brackman detailed the trap that Schmidt had set for the MakoShark, the damage to the craft, and the failure to sever the cable.
Brackman also told him of the plan, to come through the U.S. President, to prepare a crisis task force.
“That is an excellent idea, Marvin. I shall support it with the Politburo on my end.”
“Great. It may require a few of your Spetznatz troops, to secure platforms if we have to make a frontal assault in order to cap the wells.”
That was dismaying. “That may be difficult. It will involve the army and the entire Politburo. Is the United States also prepared to commit troops?”