Similarly, with the jet engines mounted well forward in the long nacelle, their exhaust was channeled slightly downward in another curving tunnel that was wrapped with tubing carrying freon gas. The refrigerant cooled the exhaust considerably, so that by the time it exited the tail pipe, its infrared signature was practically nonexistent at 70 percent throttle settings. Infrared tracking sensors just might pick up a small signal at 90 percent throttle, and would at 100 percent.
But they wouldn’t know what they had. An infrared signal with no radar return?
To further diminish the radar cross-section, the turbofan blades were not made of metal. They were plastic, combined with carbon fiber for strength. While some designers had experimented with engines made of ceramics — not detectable on radar, the MakoShark’s designers had elected to stay with the more reliable and higher output metal-encased engines, using plastic and carbon and polymer for weight-reduction and RCS-control wherever they could get away with it. The engines were, however, enclosed in a honeycombed structure that diffused and absorbed radar probes.
The rocket motors were mounted inboard of the jet engines, in the same nacelles, and were also protected from radar by the honeycomb layer. There was just enough metal in the MakoShark to give it a radar return about the size of a bald eagle when it was within five miles of the transmitter.
Because every ounce of thrust from the rocket motors was necessary for its mission, there was no way to disguise the infrared signature when the craft was flying on rocket power.
Usually, however, the burns did not last for more than four minutes. Nine minutes was the max. Shooting stars, way out in the stratosphere. Meteors burning up. Nothing to be concerned about.
The trailing edge of the delta wing was curved, again for antiradar purposes, and contained the oversized flaps, elevators, ailerons, and trim tabs. Every surface was ultra-smooth, finished in the deep midnight-blue paint that made the MakoShark disappear into the night a hundred yards from an observer. Placed in appropriate locations were the tiny exhaust nozzles of the thruster system. Where the air was rarified and the craft’s attitude unaffected by the movement of control surfaces, the thrusters were utilized. There were no rivets to be exposed; every joint was bonded. There were also no telltale insignia, no aircraft numbers.
The cockpit was located just behind the needle nose, behind the forward avionics bay. The canopies were flush with the lines of the fuselage. Directly aft of the cockpit was the technician-accessible compartment containing more avionics and the computers. Behind that compartment was the pay-load bay — twenty-two feet long by ten feet wide, and behind that, in the tapering fuselage, were the primary fuel tanks feeding the JP-7 aviation fuel to the jet engines.
The payload bay was multipurpose, accepting a variety of modules. A bomb rack module, a cargo module, and up to two passenger modules could all be jacked into place. The passenger modules weren’t very comfortable. Each of them was nine feet long, containing four airline-type seats, environmental control, and a large TV screen on the forward bulkhead. Passengers didn’t like to feel trapped in a windowless, plastic cocoon; they had to be given a view of something. Almost anything would do.
Additionally, four pylons could be fitted to the wing, just inside the engine nacelles. The pylons accepted external fuel tanks, cargo pods, electronics modules, and a variety of lethal weaponry.
Very beautiful in its sleekness and its functional utility, Wilbur Conover thought. And this was his very own. His Delta Yellow.
Capt. Jack Abrams entered the windowless hangar and walked up behind him, his shoes clicking loudly on the concrete floor. “How long are you going to moon over her, Con Man?”
Conover turned to grin at his WSO. “Hell, I don’t know. Couple more hours.”
Abrams shook his head, which reflected the fluorescent lights mounted high in the ceiling. He had gone bald long before he reached forty, and he compensated with a bushy mustache. His pate was smooth, but his face was heavily lined, mirroring a mind that worried about lots of things — equipment breakdowns and the health of his pilot among them.
Conover was three inches taller than Abrams’s five-ten, blond and blue-eyed, and his demeanor was almost the exact opposite of his WSO’s. He laughed a lot, got hung up in a romance whenever he could, devised pranks and practical jokes for many victims, and used the company’s computers to design elaborate scams. Fortunately, he had never attempted to put one of his cons into operation. Since little, unexpected glitches frequently occurred in his practical jokes, he might well have ended up in jail.
Conover had been born in Albany, then reared by an uncle and aunt in New York City when his parents were killed in a boating accident. He had blazed his way through Columbia University, then joined the air force.
Conversely, Jack Abrams had been born, raised, and schooled in New York, then immigrated to Sacramento with his parents. He attended the University of California at Berkeley before entering the air force.
The two of them had not met until they were recruited by Kevin McKenna, but since that time, two years before, had been almost inseparable.
“C’mon, Will. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. She’s fueled and ready to go. Let’s you and me find a San Miguel.”
The fueling crews had topped off Delta Yellow’s liquid and solid fuels half an hour before. The cargo module was loaded. There was nothing to do now but wait.
“Okay, couple beers.” Conover headed for the door, and Abrams fell in beside him.
“I’ll take you on at Ping-Pong.”
“Why do you put yourself through this, Do-Wop? I whip you every time.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
Conover took one last look at his MakoShark before stepping out into the oppressive heat.
The hangar was two stories tall, with administrative offices and storage space on the second floor. Abrams described the hangar as “humongous.” At the moment, it contained three C-123s, two business jets, a T-37 jet trainer, two Bell JetRangers, and a single Mako — the unarmed and un-stealthy version of the MakoShark, in addition to the MakoShark.
The two men mushed their way toward the residential areas under a very hot sun. The humidity was similar to a wet dishrag pressed against Conover’s face. He didn’t much care for layovers at Wet Country, the nickname for Merlin Air Force Base.
The base was one of three dedicated to support of the 1st Aerospace Squadron, and it was the largest by far. Most of its operations were overt, though flights of the MakoShark were generally accomplished at night.
Located on the island of Borneo, on the coast north of Sangkulirang, the complex contained three massive hangars, dormitories, warehouses, a long finger-pier that accepted deep-draft freighters and tankers, a two-mile-long runway, and a launch complex. The local governments and the government of the Indonesian Archipelago didn’t interfere with their operations in the least. Conover assumed that the right palms were well greased.
The coastline, a mile away, was freckled with palm trees. Around the complex, the rainforest had been cut back, but seemed to close back in on them daily, as if it were reluctant to give up territory rightfully its own. Orangutans and gibbons screamed at each other, or at the intruders, and occasionally, a leopard appeared at the jungle’s edge, sniffing the wind.