Delta Green - [11]

Williams groaned.

“The general, however, read me a minor riot act which included items such as cost-per-bird, public relations, and congressional thumbs which might be turned down on our whole act.”

“So Brackman’s kicking it upstairs for a decision?” Abrams asked.

Abrams’s bushy mustache had grown even longer, now covering his upper lip, and just then, it seemed to quiver. The mustache was compensation for the hair which had disappeared before he reached the age of forty. His pate was smooth, but his face was lined with the worry he devoted to almost any issue. He was chronic about worrying, and it was reflected in his sharp hazel eyes. Originally a New Yorker, Abrams had graduated from the University of California at Berkeley prior to entering the Air Force. Conover thought that Berkeley had been the root of his worrying. The only thing that took his mind off his imagined troubles was outdated music, the source of his nickname, “Do-Wop.”

“Let’s just say, Jack, that my recommendation, along with General Brackman’s observations, will be considered by the appropriate commands.”

“He kicked it upstairs,” Abrams concluded. “We can figure on somebody making a political decision”

“Which will likely be the wrong one, amigos.” Munoz added. The Arizonian was slouched in a corner chair, missing his normally ready grin.

“Our current mission is purely location,” McKenna said. “Tony, why don’t you go make sure Delta Blue is getting her service? And hot weaponry.”

McKenna was definitely in a bad mood, Conover thought.

“Will, you get your ordnance changed out, then stand by for an operational plan from Pearson. I’ll call Country Girl and brief her. Frank, head for Hot Country.”

The group broke up, more glum than they had been in a long time. Generally, they were a happy-go-lucky bunch, which Abrams worried about, of course. One of the great things about working for 1st Aerospace, outside of flying the best damned bird ever built, was flying with the best damned pilots and backseaters around. They had come to know each other so well that they had learned to anticipate the actions and reactions of one another.

Conover knew exactly what Dimatta and Williams were feeling.

Trailed by Abrams, he wandered out to the hangar proper, found the ordnance specialist, and ordered the missiles and pods changed out on Delta Yellow. Communications technicians had the access doors to the avionics bays open on both Delta Yellow and Delta Blue and were installing the radio frequency encryption boxes with the new electronics.

Abrams got Cokes from the machine in the corner and brought him one.

“What do you think, Will?”

Conover took a long drag from the can and let his eyes trail over the graceful lines of his — his! — MakoShark. “I think we got a damned nearly impossible task, Jack. How’re we going to find something that disappears so easily?”

“Yeah”

The depression of the others was settling on him. Conover was by nature a happy man. He loved to laugh and to design practical jokes which always seemed to backfire on him, but were nevertheless worth the effort. His nickname, “Con Man,” arose from his hobby of using Air Force computers to design elaborate and fiscally rewarding scams that he never put into operation. He feared that, like his practical jokes, they would misfire, and he would end up viewing Kansas from within Leavenworth. He couldn’t imagine anything more dismal than Kansas, unless it was Leavenworth.

He had been raised in New York City by an aunt and uncle after his parents had been killed in a boating accident near their home in Albany. His Air Force ROTC program helped him through Columbia University, then into the fixed wing course at Randolph Air Force Base. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, Conover thought of himself as at least presentable to the many women he chased whenever he had a chance, but he always wore long-sleeved shirts to cover the scars on his arms. He had mangled them getting out of the flaming cockpit of an F-16 when its landing gear collapsed on landing at Edwards.

As the live Wasp missiles were rolled under the MakoShark on a dolly, Abrams said, “You want to sit in the ready room or go over to Heaven and get a sandwich?”

“Let’s go to Heaven and eat something more than a sandwich,” Conover told his WSO. “It may be a while before we get another chance.”

They turned away from the activity under Delta Yellow, circumnavigated am introspective Tony Munoz and Delta Blue, and headed for the door.

Conover was acutely aware of the blood stains in the concrete near the door. Someone had done some scrubbing, but not enough.

Stan Vrdlka’s blood.

Abrams pulled the door open and nearly ran into General Cartwright.

“Where’s McKenna?” the general asked.

Conover came to attention, something he did for generals he didn’t like. This one had been in the command less than five weeks. And already blown it. His head was on the line for a three-quarter billion dollar craft.

“He may have gone up to the control tower, sir,” Conover said.

“He had some calls to make,” Abrams added. “Probably doesn’t want to be interrupted, sir.”