The noise of the rocket motor all but drowned out the sound of the turbojets now. He didn’t hear the shriek of rubber when the main gear tires touched down.
McKenna had to use the brakes to bring the nose down, and it hit hard and bounced. He pulled reverse thrust into both engines, but at different rates, and the MakoShark slewed from side to side as he sought the right adjustments.
Halfway down the runway, with the MakoShark still moving too fast, the emergency vehicles roared onto the runway alongside him, but quickly fell behind.
He was standing on the brakes now, the MakoShark’s path straightening as she slowed.
Easing off the reverse thrust of the right engine to maintain his line.
Drifting to the right side of the runway.
And rolling off the concrete onto the hard-baked soil of Borneo.
And slithering to a stop.
Dust boiled the air around them.
The scream of the left turbojet countering the thrust of the rocket motor threatened to deafen him. He killed the starboard jet engine.
“Come on, people,” Munoz urged.
Several seconds later, red foam trucks and blue pickups came sliding up beside them, spilling firemen and mechanics dressed in silver heat-resistant suits.
Vitaly Sheremetevo looked up from his desk when he heard the tap on the door frame.
Corporal Petrovsky, his secretary, said, “Colonel Volontov has arrived, General.”
“Send him in, Corporal.”
Sheremetevo took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes as Volontov entered the office and came to attention.
“At ease, Pyotr Mikhailovich. Please have a chair.”
Colonel Pyotr Mikhailovich Volontov was almost 180 centimeters tall, slim, blond, and blue-eyed. Hard angles in the planes of his face reflected the overhead fluorescent lights. He was an intelligent man, and he did not often concede to impetuous authority. He was based in St. Petersburg (once Leningrad) and commanded the 5th Interceptor Wing, comprised of Mikoyan MiG-29s and the two Mako aerospace craft. Sheremetevo had adopted the man early in his career and protected him occasionally when he had balked at ridiculous orders and had come close to insubordination.
“I came as soon as I could, General”
“I appreciate that,” Sheremetevo said. He considered taking a walk along the parade ground for this conversation, but reminded himself that his office had been swept for eavesdropping devices that morning. Electronic eavesdropping had been a constant under the old Soviet regime, but he had yet to discover similar tactics used by the Commonwealth members. The jockeying for power among republic presidents and politicians remained the focus of the political arena for the time being. The military chiefs were currently more concerned with walking the tightropes strung between the republics — and keeping the payrolls coming in — than with risking their own power bases within the air force and army.
He told Volontov about Colonel Pearson’s request.
“She wishes to have the names of the men who have trained in the Mako?”
“Yes.”
“For what purpose, General?”
“That was not revealed to me, and I have not bothered guessing at it. Our last report to the United Nations stated that the Makos were being utilized solely for support of the Soyuz Fifty space station, and that we retain one craft on the ground until the other has returned from space. Is that not so, Colonel?”
“That is correct, in addition to their training roles,” Volontov said. “In fact, both are on the ground now while we await a shipment of fuel pellets.”
“And the status of the space station?”
“Operations are going quite well, General. There are seventeen scientific experiments under way at the moment. We have three men permanently assigned, and next month, we will embark our first female member of the station crew.”
Sheremetevo nodded thoughtfully. He had not fully supported the training schedule for the woman, but Volontov had been impressed by some female pilot of McKenna’s squadron and had insisted upon a trial period for a woman.
“How many pilots have washed out of your program?” he asked the colonel.
Volontov closed his eyes, thinking. “Without the records available, I estimate that we have trained thirty-two or thirty-three. I know that nine have qualified. All excellent pilots, General.”
“That is above a twenty-five per cent qualification rate,” Sheremetevo said. “General Brackman would be impressed, I think, since the Americans only qualify twelve per cent of their pilot candidates”
“Our training development is always on-going. We can always be better than we are now.”
“I agree. Do you have any objection to providing the list of disqualified candidates to Colonel Pearson?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Volontov said, “No, although we should keep in mind that many of those men have returned to assignments in other fighter aircraft. They are still capable pilots, General, though not suited to the requirements of space flight.”
“I think the current state of affairs between the Commonwealth and the United States allows us to be a bit more candid than we have been in the past. You said, ‘many’ of the pilots, Pyotr Mikhailovich. What of the others?”
“During the unrest, five or six officers in my command defected. You have that report, General.”
“Yes. I had forgotten.”
There were many reasons for the high number of defections, Sheremetevo knew. Many men had not been paid for months. Many had assembled their families and fled to other sanctuaries for idealistic, religious, and ethnic protection. There had been no pattern to the desertions: conscripts, company, field, and general grade personnel had eventually been erased from the active duty rolls. The political instability had kept everyone scrambling, and no effort had been made toward seeking out the deserters and setting examples. An unstated policy of “let bygones be bygones” had prevailed.
Sheremetevo scrawled a quick, handwritten order and passed it across the desk to Volontov. “Very well. Send Colonel Pearson a complete listing of your pilots, and indicate the ones who have failed or who have defected. Except for your currently active pilots, send her the complete file on each man.”
“Should we provide that much information, General?”
“I think that she will not disseminate the data irrelevant to her purposes among the intelligence agencies,” Sheremetevo said. “Especially if I ask her not to do so.”
Volontov started to say something, then clamped his mouth shut.
“A comment, Pyotr Mikhailovich?”
“No, General.”
“Come, now.”
“How far are we going to trust our new allies?” Volontov asked.
“Would you fly wing for Colonel McKenna? Or trust him on your wing?”
“I… yes, General, I would.”
“As long as we are dealing with his command, I will expand my trust somewhat. Could you do the same?” Volontov nodded and allowed a grim smile. “I can do that, General.”
Koro Toro, the nearest village, was over a hundred miles away from Jack Andrews Air Base. “Hot Country” was located in the middle of Chad in Northeast Africa. It was forbidding territory, located on the southern edge of what was known as the Bodelo Depression. The clay and sand sediment of the landscape stretched for miles in every direction. The temperatures routinely climbed to 124 degrees. At night, the terrain surrounding the base had the appearance of a lunarscape. Wind-eroded rock and sand formations seemed to change daily. The air was clear, though, and the stars were brilliant without a layer of pollution to block their light.
Like Merlin Air Base in Borneo, the base in Chad was semi-covert. The MakoSharks could operate freely in the barren desert during daylight hours, and the base had been selected as the site for training and flight trial missions.