“That’s twenty-four planes, Colonel.”
“I can count, Major. We want four of them armed with the Saab Rb05 air-to-surface missiles.”
“You are expecting a major offensive, Colonel?”
“The signs point toward it, Mac. Do not unduly alarm the squadrons, however. They will be suspicious, as it is, due to the number of planes.”
“All right. Why the A-to-S?”
“There are British, American, and Soviet surface ships gathering. We may need to dissuade them.”
“Yes. I saw them on last night’s patrol. Will you be flying?”
Weismann wished it were possible. “I am stuck here for the night. Good hunting, Mac.”
He hung up the telephone, scratched the side of his neck, and got up to open the door.
Goldstein waited stoically in the hallway, leaning against the wall.
“Let us see what you have accomplished, Herr Direktor-Assistent.”
They walked down the corridor together and emerged from the office complex in the back of the building onto the assembly floor. The second rocket in line was being fitted with one of the MIRV warheads. The technicians handled it as if it were hot, but Weismann knew that, until it was armed, it was quite safe. Not even a fire or explosion would detonate the nuclear charges. They were not finally armed until a barometric device assured that the warhead had reached at least 3,000 meters of altitude.
Gespenst I had its new collar installed, and Weismann stopped below and looked up at it. The collar was of bare metal and shiny next to the gray paint, but he was not looking for appearance, only for function.
The test warhead, loaded with 300 kilograms of high explosive, was suspended in the air from an overhead crane. He backed away and watched as the nose cone was lowered, then fitted back into place by six technicians. The men appeared exhausted, their lab coats grimy, their faces matching the coats.
“See, Herr Colonel? A perfect fit.”
“How long, Goldstein?” It was already getting dark outside.
“Perhaps a couple hours to secure it and complete the wiring. Then we will roll it out and mount it on the pad. If the weather holds, we will have our first launch at eight o’clock in the morning.” Goldstein tried to sound excited, but failed.
“We will have our first launch yet tonight, Goldstein.”
“But, Colonel! The men need rest!”
“They can rest tomorrow. The software?”
“Is ready,” Goldstein professed. “But, Colonel Weismann, it is unthinkable to actually target the American space station. We can change the program quickly.”
“Goldstein, you do not know the meaning of ‘quickly.” Weismann looked at his watch. “In half an hour, six air force specialists in ballistics and computers will be here to examine the software.”
The look of anguish that passed over Goldman’s face confirmed his suspicions.
“Right now, Goldman, General Eisenach wants to see you at his headquarters in Berlin.”
“Now? I am a mess. I must wash and change clothes.”
“It is all right. You will be coming right back.”
Weismann signaled to the two helicopter pilots.
He wondered if Goldstein would be surprised to find Maximillian Oberlin waiting at the helicopter for him.
Probably not.
McKenna was talking to Polly Tang at the hangar operations console when Pearson came sailing along the corridor.
He reached out a hand, she grabbed it, and he pulled her to a stop.
She seemed a little breathless. Her headband was slightly askew, and her face seemed subdued.
When she realized he was still holding her left hand, she used her right hand to extricate it from his grasp.
Polly Tang grinned.
“What’s up, Amy?”
“There’s a bit of a flap in Washington, D.C.”
“Oh?”
“Dr. Monte Washington went right to the press as soon as his company fired him. Told them that Themis was a battlestar, armed to the teeth.”
“It make the papers or TV yet?” McKenna asked.
“No. But there’s a mob of reporters that is all over the White House and the Pentagon, trying to get confirmations.”
She was worried, McKenna thought.
“You talked to Brackman?” he asked.
“Yes, along with Jim.”
“How long does he think Admiral Cross can hold them off?”
“A day. Two at the most.”
“That’s all the time we need. Cross can give them the whole story after tonight. I won’t mind being called in front of a Senate hearing panel after those wells are closed down.”
McKenna looked through the window. Munoz was supervising the installation of the final Wasp. The MakoShark appeared particularly lethal with all four pylons mounting missiles. Additionally, two retractable mounts had been installed in the payload bays, each armed with four Wasps. In total, there were twenty-four missiles loaded, half of them warheaded for air-to-surface and half for air-to-air. The three MakoSharks would depart with seventy-two missiles, and McKenna hoped to have at least sixty of them survive the blackout.
He was already in his environmental suit. It was augmented for this trip with thigh pouches containing emergency equipment, including an emergency locator beacon. A battery pack that could power the heating elements in the environmental suit was strapped to his side. If one of the MakoSharks went down in an icy sea, the heated environmental suit might keep a pilot and a WSO alive for around twenty-five minutes, enough time for the search-and-rescue planes that had been moved into Daneborg to reach them. The uninflated Mae West felt bulky around his neck. All of it made him feel clumsy, even in a weightless environment.
“What’s this?” Pearson asked, reaching out to pluck at the harness webbing he wore.
“You mean the parachute?”
“Yes. You guys never wear parachutes.”
“Too damned uncomfortable, Amy. We have to take the cushions out of the lounge seats.”
“So, why now?”
“Makes us feel better,” he said, not ready to get into involved explanations. “You all set?”
“Yes. The KH-11 is sending good pictures, but it’s mostly clouds.”
A KH-11 spy satellite had been moved into geostationary orbit over the Greenland Sea two days before. It had infrared and night sensors.
“What’s the cloud status?” he asked.
“Fairly solid between eight thousand and fifteen thousand feet. There are a few holes beginning to show, but not near the platforms. For anything under fifteen thousand, we’ll be relying on Cottonseed’s radar.”
McKenna checked his watch, which he had reset to German time. Ten o’clock. He looked back up the corridor and saw Conover and Dimatta hanging onto the consoles outside their hangars. Dimatta was talking to Lynn Haggar, who was handling the hangar controls for his launch. Ben Olsen was working with Conover. McKenna gave them a thumbs-up.
“Time to go.”
“Be careful,” she said, still looking worried.
“Tony’s keeping an eye on me.”
Tang blew him a kiss, and McKenna smiled at her, then pushed off the console, grabbed the hatchway, and pulled himself into the hangar.
Benny Shalbot helped him strap in.
“How’s the new stripe, Benny?”
He didn’t wear the insignia on his jumpsuit, of course. No one did.
“Shit,” he said. “They’re starting to call me ‘Sarge’ now. I feel like a lifer.”
He was a lifer.
“Just respect talking, Benny.”
“Sure, Colonel. But, anyway, the pay’s better.”
Once his straps were tight and all of the umbilicals connected, Shalbot shoved off.
Tang used her PA system. “Clear the bay, please.”
“You ready, Tiger?”
“I’ve been ready for two days, Snake Eyes. Got to a point, there, where I was havin’ trouble fallin’ asleep.”