It was after eleven. McKenna and Munoz had put down at Peterson Air Force Base, Munoz headed for a cab and the city lights, and McKenna and General Brackman had commandeered an F-111 swing-wing bomber for the flight to Washington. Brackman flew, claiming that he rarely got the chance to get behind the controls anymore. It was the primary reason to avoid becoming a general, McKenna had thought. It was funny how that exalted goal of his — to get that star — had evaporated so easily. The house he had grown up in, with a World War II vet father, had instilled him with a sense of duty and responsibility, and somewhere along the line, he had come to the conclusion that his duty was best served right where he was at.
“Around here, Colonel, there aren’t any early or late hours. It’s always late.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sit.”
They were in the chairman’s sumptuous office, which overlooked the Potomac and the River Drive entrance to the Pentagon, and they all moved to a small round conference table in one corner. Cups had been set out, and a tray containing a Thermos pot of coffee, sugar, and cream rested in the middle of the table. There were yellow pads and pencils for everyone. A copy of McKenna’s two-page telex was in front of every padded chair.
Everyone included the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; General Mays of the air force; General Brackman; Adm. Carl Woldeman, the chief of Naval Operations; and Gen. Budge McAdams, the army chief of staff.
McKenna counted seventeen stars on five left shoulders and decided he was in company where he didn’t belong. Or did not want to belong. They all had experiences similar to his own, but they had adapted to the ultracomplex politics that flowed around the head of the military and the head of the government. McKenna had little faith in politics.
“Before we get into your proposal, Colonel McKenna, we’ve got one little item to take care of,” Cross said.
“Yes, sir, I suppose that we do.” McKenna knew what was coming.
“I’m referring to Major Lynn Haggar.”
He kept his silence.
“It is not the policy of the Department of Defense to put our female members in situations where they might be subjected to hostile fire. That’s the policy, Colonel, and you’ve subverted it.”
“No, sir, I have not.”
“You’d better explain that,” Harvey Nays said.
“Major Haggar is simply learning to fly the MakoShark. She’s capable and extremely competent. There is no intention of placing her in a combat situation. The MakoShark primarily flies reconnaissance missions, for which she is qualified. More qualified, gentlemen, than most of her peers. The number of people who are certified to fly either a Mako or a MakoShark is extremely limited. I take only the best pilots, and they are rare.”
“But with the situation we have in Germany… ”
“If it came to that, I’d fly on her wing,” McKenna said. He turned to look at McAdams. “We had women flying combat during the excursion to Panama. They did well.”
“That was inadvertent,” Budge McAdams said.
“If Major Haggar encounters combat, it will be inadvertent,” McKenna said.
“You don’t have anyone more prepared… ”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Inadvertent?” Nays asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Brackman said, “General Overton says she’s already flown the MakoShark.”
“And did quite well, General.”
Mays looked at Brackman, who shrugged, then at Cross and nodded.
Cross Said, “Keep her out of dangerous situations, Colonel. She is not to be scheduled for any flight over Germany or German interests. We’re not altering policy, but we’re allowing you to develop her as a recon pilot.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
He tapped the telex. “Now then, what you’re proposing is definitely a dangerous situation, isn’t it? And you’ve set it for three days from now. Why is that?”
“For the most part, it’s preparation time. I’ve got to get Delta Yellow checked out and airborne. I know that Admiral Woldeman is already accumulating a task force of specialized ships off the coast of England, but he will need a few more days. General Brackman said that the British are participating, and that the Soviet Union may do so. If you approve my operation, General McAdams will have to alert the Rapid Deployment Force and get them to England.
“From a more global point of view, which I admit is not my bailiwick, I understand that the Germans may have ICBM capability within the week. That would alter our position drastically, I think, and perhaps prevent our ever doing anything about the geothermal wells. I’m in favor of taking care of the problem now, before the Germans can stop us, and before there’s an accident.
“Therefore, I believe we need a ‘go’ or a ‘no go’ yet tonight.”
Hannibal Cross shook his head dejectedly. “We’d have to, at minimum, get the President out of bed.”
“The hours are long in this town, Admiral.”
Cross studied him. “Yes. I believe I mentioned that. What do you want to call this thing, Colonel?”
The flag ranks would want to discuss the details yet, and probably suggest a few thousand changes that McKenna might resist, but he had the feeling that everyone in that office had already made up his mind.
It would be a matter of convincing the White House and any other agencies the President felt should be involved.
“For the media, when they see the troops on the move, Admiral? I’d say it’s a training exercise, perhaps a joint exercise with the British and Soviets. Call it Operation Whale-Saver. That might get the environmentalists on our side for a change.”
Sixteen
Kapitän Rolf Froelich was nervous and trying not to show it, Schmidt thought, but then every man in Schmidt’s small fleet was nervous.
Three successive nights of maintaining battle stations, with no sight of the enemy, did terrible things to both morale and the state of readiness. Sleeplessness, inaction, boredom. It could lead to mistakes.
For all Schmidt knew, the American MakoSharks had been romping unseen through the offshore wells each night, shooting their pictures. The probe by submarines that he had convinced himself to expect had not occurred. Neither the Black Forest nor the Bohemian had had sonar contacts to report. The fifty sonobuoys deployed around the field only picked up the screw signatures of slowly cruising German naval vessels.
Maybe it was the spell of bad weather that was holding them off.
For the past three days, it had been overcast, the sun and its warmth blotted out. Frequent rain squalls passed through the region, drenching everything, including gun crews shivering throughout seemingly long nights. The weather was another morale-breaker.
Froelich waited until Schmidt finished brooding, staring out the window of his flag plot. When he turned back to the Hamburg’s commanding officer, he had not come up with any answers.
He did have an observation. “The weather is lifting, Rolf.”
“A little, Admiral. The meteorologist says that we will continue to be overcast, but that the rain should let up. None is forecast, anyway.”
“A small favor. Well, shall we get on with it?”
Froelich moved to the electronic plot on the bulkhead, and the leutnant operating it sat up at his console.
Not many of the symbols on the map had changed in the last days. The wells did not move, though they might if Eisenach’s stupid “fail-safe” plan were activated. The ships of the Dritte Marinecraft’s first four battle groups were now holding their stations. The fifth battle group was 200 kilometers away, approaching the wells. Schmidt had relieved them of their duty over the cable.