“Do we not have an oversupply in that military occupational specialty?”
“We do, General.”
“We should reduce the number of personnel in over-supplied MOSs, so as to free up slots in specialties where we have need,” Eisenach noted.
“As you wish, General,” Adler said, “however… ”
“Yes?”
“Dubowski has almost nineteen years of service. Another year and he could retire with a pension.”
“Major, our concerns must lie with the fatherland, and not with individuals.”
“Yes, of course, General. That is so.”
The tractor towed them out of the hangar, disconnected the tow bar from the nose wheel, and scurried out of sight. The blue flashlight signaled McKenna that it was safe to start his engines.
Munoz called the checklist, and the turbofans were turning over within four minutes. McKenna let them warm for a minute.
“How you doing down there, Amy?” he asked over the intercom.
“I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”
“How about a movie, Amy?” Munoz asked. “I can give you Rio Bravo or Terms of Endearment.”
“I’ll give you terms of endearment, Tony.” Her voice was icy, McKenna thought. Still in a snit because he wasn’t where she wanted him to be when she wanted him to be there. She acted as if their ranks were reversed.
“This is your captain speaking,” McKenna said. “Close your visors and hold on to your valuables.”
He lined up on the runway, guided by the infrared lights on the screen, then slapped the throttles forward. The rocket control panel was active, ready for instant use if he detected any faltering from the turbofans. When the MakoShark was fully laden, as it was now with the passenger module, a cargo module, four loaded pylons, and maximum fuel, the craft weighed almost 100 tons. Any hesitation from the jet engines meant meeting the arroyo-ridden, washboarded landscape east of Colorado Springs intimately. The rocket motors were kept on standby, just in case he needed a boost.
The takeoff was uneventful, and by the time he passed over the Black Squirrel River, he had retracted the gear, trimmed out the controls, killed the rocket panel, and was holding 600 knots on 75 percent power. He went into a climbing turn to the right, headed for the Oklahoma panhandle.
Over North Texas, Munoz gave him a heading of 175 degrees, and McKenna boosted on the rocket motors for three minutes, closing down the ramjets, and achieving Mach 6 at 130,000 feet.
“Let’s cool it for a while, jefe.”
“Problema, Tiger?”
“Somebody saw the burn. My threat receiver is showin’ radar scans lookin’ for us. Probably an AWACS airborne outta Guantanamo, but I like to give those navy guys fits.”
“Can you give me something to look at?” Pearson asked.
“Comin’ up.”
McKenna’s screen switched to direct visual, the image changing as Munoz depressed the lens and raised the magnification seven times. On the curved horizon to their left, daylight was breaking, lighting up cerulean oceans topped with fluffy white clouds.
“How’s that, darlin’?”
“Better.”
“What’s our window, Tiger?”
“I need two-one-point-five minutes, Snake Eyes.”
For this leg of the flight, they had to match up with an access window that occurred only once every 3.6 hours. The computer, which kept the data in memory, was now busily calculating the NavStar position data and plotting the course.
When his velocity dropped off to Mach 5.5, McKenna initiated another burst of two minutes which raised the speed to Mach 7 and took them up to 250,000 feet of altitude. The sky became blacker.
Sixteen minutes later, Munoz said, “Comin’ up on the boost point.”
“Lay back and enjoy it, Amy.”
“Go to hell, McKenna.”
McKenna tapped the commands into his keyboard, turning full control of the MakoShark over to the mass of silicon in the avionics compartment.
Immediately, the computer activated the Orbital Maneuvering System, firing thrusters to shift the attitude of the craft. The nose tilted upward, the left wing dipped.
Munoz aimed the camera head-on. The screen gave Pearson a picture of black velvet, with stars so sharp they looked like diamonds fresh out of twinkle.
McKenna could not hear the burn when it began. There wasn’t enough atmosphere to carry the sound. He could feel the vibration shivering the structure.
The HUD display gave him the numbers. He knew that Munoz was monitoring all systems on his CRT. It was the speed that always amazed him. He felt himself shoved back into his couch.
The Mach readout flickered quickly: 9.5, 11.0, 14.6, 17.0.
There was no ground controller to intone: “Passing through sixty miles altitude. Velocity now twelve thousand miles per hour.”
Mach 18.2.
Almost abruptly, the MakoShark rolled onto its back, the Earth directly above them. Blue of the seas prominent Ecru and gray land masses. Mother Earth glowed. Two hundred miles up. The nose of the craft pulled slightly downward — relative to McKenna — seeking a new path. The G-forces lessened considerably as the momentum of his body caught up with that of the vehicle.
Mach 20.3.
Mach 22.9.
Eight minutes, forty-seven seconds into the burn, the rocket motors shut down.
Mach 24.3.
Mach 26.1.
Over 18,000 miles per hour.
Escape velocity.
“Closin’ at two hundred feet per second,” Munoz said.
“There’s home,” Pearson said. There was some awe in her voice, McKenna thought. It never went away. Not for her.
It never went away for him, either.
Home was still forty miles away, but on the magnified screen it seemed much closer.
Floating there, with Mother Earth a multihued mass above it.
Raggedy-looking.
A huge hub sporting sixteen variable-length spokes, each with an odd-shaped, odd-sized fist on the outer end.
Home.
Themis.
Three
The Cessna Citation assigned to the commander, USAF Space Command, landed at Andrews Air Force Base in Washington a few minutes before ten o’clock in the morning.
Marvin Brackman ducked for the low doorway and descended to the tarmac. Returning the salute of the driver holding the rear door for him, he tossed his briefcase into the rear seat, then followed it.
The Chevy sedan took the Capital Beltway and the Woodrow Wilson Bridge across the Potomac, then turned north on Route 1. Maryland and Virginia both were in full dress, the foliage and the grass lush and damply green from an early morning shower. Brackman hadn’t checked the weather, but he assumed that by noon, the heat would be typically Washington, hot and wet.
The driver let him out at the River Entrance to the Pentagon, and Brackman crossed the wide expanse of concrete to the doors. Inside, the concourse was packed with tourists and, Brackman figured, about half the 25,000 employees on a coffee break. The stars on his shoulders and the scowl on his face cleared a path for him, and he reached the second floor, E-ring office of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff at 1035 hours.
He was ushered directly into the office overlooking the river by Marilyn Ackerman, the admiral’s longtime secretary.
Adm. Hannibal Cross had been chairman for just over three years, and he was good in the job. A recruiting poster figure — lean and crisp, with a deep-water tan and weather wrinkles at his eyes, Cross also possessed the eagerness to attack politics with the same deftness he had utilized aboard carriers off Vietnam.
Also present was Gen. Harvey Mays, the air force chief of staff. Mays was a veteran of Vietnam, also, where he had flown F-4 Phantoms. The shrapnel and burn scar on the left side of his face kept him off posters, but he was an adroit and capable commander.