All of the control surfaces felt too smooth, too unaccustomed to his touch. There were supposed to be sensitivities that he was missing, a grainy feel to the throttle handles, a pebbled surface for the hand controller. “Rotate,” Munoz said.
He eased the controller back and felt the MakoShark depart the ground. The wheels quit rumbling, and he retracted the gear, then pulled in the flaps.
“Off at oh-two-three-two hours, Snake Eyes.”
The hand controller was too soft, responses had a hairs-breadth of delay. As the MakoShark climbed, McKenna tapped the keyboard, trying new settings for the hand controller. They were at 30,000 feet and Mach 2.2 by the time it felt right.
“Okay, jefe. Got us a course for Germany.”
“Delta Red, Delta Blue, Alpha Two. We have launch! I repeat, the rocket has launched.”
“Shit!” McKenna said. “Let’s go over, Tiger.”
“First time for everythin’. Checklist Comin’ up. Let’s do this one carefully, Snake Eyes.”
As they went through the procedure of checking pressures and loads and preparing the rocket motors, McKenna called Haggar.
“Delta Red, Delta Blue.”
“Go ahead, Blue.”
“How’s your intercept?”
“Be… Swede’s checking now. Hold one.”
The rocket motors ignited, and McKenna pulled the controller back, taking the MakoShark vertical.
“Sweet, sweet music,” Munoz said.
Thrust coming up, eighty, ninety, a hundred percent. “Kill the jets, Snake Eyes.”
He shut them down going through 50,000 feet.
“Delta Blue, we’re going to miss an intercept by two hundred miles. The rocket is on a southeast track, but we’re short.”
McKenna could hear the disappointment in her voice, and knew it was as much the result of her inability to protect Themis as it was the missed chance of proving herself.
“Country Girl, you remember the pictures of Peenemünde?”
“Roger, Snake Eyes.”
“Munitions bunker to the east, with the nukes?”
“Right.”
“The two big assembly buildings?”
“Right.”
“Avoid the bunker, but dump your load into the buildings. They’ve got four or five more of those rockets that they shouldn’t have.”
“Roger that, Delta Blue.”
McKenna waited for Brackman to intervene concerning an attack on the mainland, and when he didn’t, said, “Semaphore?”
“This is Semaphore, Delta Blue.”
“Will you confirm that order?”
“Confirm what? We must have missed it.”
Brackman never missed anything.
“Alpha One, did you hear an order?” Brackman asked. “Negative,” Overton responded. “You want to repeat, Delta Blue?”
“Oh, let’s skip it,” McKenna said, knowing it was his skin that would fry if anyone raised hell.
“By the way, Delta Blue,” Brackman said, “we need an IFF on you for the satellites.”
McKenna turned on the IFF and all of his running lights.
Four minutes later, two minutes after he had shut down his rocket motors, Thorpe called, “Delta Blue?”
“Go Semaphore.”
“We have tracks. Themis is now over Antarctica. The rocket will achieve an orbit of one-nine-zero miles at seventeen-sixteen hours, Eastern Standard. We’re assuming a booster burn that will aim it for an orbit of two-two-zero miles, but it will be pursuing the station, coming up from behind at closure rate of around three hundred miles per hour. Impact estimated for seventeen-forty-one hours.”
“I’m getting this down and input,” Munoz said.
“We show you at two-three-zero-thousand feet, Mach one-four. You will need another rocket burn for six-point-four-five minutes, and you will need to alter course to the following coordinates.”
Munoz keyed the celestial coordinates in to the computer as Thorpe read them off and immediately tapped the commit button.
The readout on the CRT read: ACCEPTED.
Then: EXECUTING.
The MakoShark’s nose leaned toward the northern horizon.
It was the first time they had exited the atmosphere toward the north. Most launches of rockets attempted a southeastern trajectory, using the earth’s spin to their advantage.
“Executing new course, Semaphore. What will that do for us?”
“You will be approaching Themis head-on, at a combined closure velocity of four-one-thousand miles per hour.”
“Will we be in time?”
Brackman’s hesitation was ominous. “No, Delta Blue. You’re going to be about one minute short. We’re working on the problem.”
More ominous was Brackman’s order to Overton. “Prepare your lifeboats, Alpha One. Civilian contract personnel are to be loaded first. At seventeen-twenty hours, we will want you to disengage the reactor and fuel module spokes.”
At 0242 hours, German time, Haggar called. “Alpha One, Delta Red.”
“Go Red.”
“Departing Peenemünde for Hot Country. We’re reporting heavy damage to two buildings and an apparent launch control bunker at Peenemünde. The launch gantry is severely damaged. There are fires raging out of control in both buildings, and six storage tanks, probably hydrogen and oxygen, have exploded.”
“Copy, Delta Red.”
“I hope she fried the people who launched this bastard,” Munoz said on the intercom.
“Nice going, Country Girl, Swede,” McKenna said. “Welcome to the team.”
Pearson was feeding the mainframe computer with every bit of data she could find, but only three symbols appeared on the Command Center’s main console screen. Over a graphic arc depicting part of the station’s orbit line was placed a large white circle.
That was Themis. Her home.
Don’t threaten my home, you bastards.
Down to the right, a red circle had steadily been gaining on them, rising into their orbit.
Up to the left was Delta Blue, also below the orbit, but soon to be on it.
On the screen, Delta Blue looked to be the same distance from Themis as was the red circle.
But there was a difference.
A fraction in time.
Fifty-two seconds.
NORAD and the JPL had not come up with an answer.
Any increase in Delta Blue’s speed would boost her into another orbit.
At 1727 hours, after the radar compartment reported the warhead on its scope, Overton said, “Milt, blow the explosive bolts on Spokes Nine and Thirteen, then order everyone into lifeboats.”
Pearson looked at the screen again. The rocket was some thirty miles below the orbital path of the space station and seventy miles behind them. The closure rate was about three hundred miles an hour.
Closing five miles every minute.
Fourteen minutes to go.
Quickly, she fingered the keyboard, ordering the computer to overlay the projected trajectory of the rocket.
The line appeared on the screen, intersecting with the station’s orbit ahead of where the station was currently shown.
“General,” she said. “Can we hold off?”
“Amy. We’re under orders.”
“I need the reactor.”
“For what.”
“To power the radar. We want to shut down all unnecessary systems, and give everything we’ve got to the radar.” A pale Donna Amber was hanging onto the Radio Shack doorway. Her face brightened immediately. “I read you, Colonel. I’ll start calling everyone and tell them to close down anything still drawing power.”
Overton looked at the secondary screen showing personnel gathering in the spokes near the lifeboat stations. He said, “It’s a hell of a risk, Amy.”
“Are we going to just stand aside and watch while some asshole blows away all we’ve worked for?”