Delta Green - [25]

“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.”

JACK ANDREWS AIR BASE

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.

To protect them from overflight surveillance, the MakoSharks were parked and serviced inside Hangar One. Three more hangars and a massive three-story residential building comprised the rest of the main base.

“Let’s have a picnic,” George Williams said.

“You’re shitting me,” Dimatta told him.

“It’s almost five o’clock.”

“And the damned temperature is ninety-five.”

“Be brave.”

“The hell with being brave,” Dimatta said.

But they got two box lunches from the kitchen (a huge chef’s salad for Williams and meatball heros for Dimatta) and a six-pack of iced beer. Williams selected the direction, and they walked west.

Dimatta spread a blanket at the foot of a small dune and they sat down. The sweat was pouring off his forehead. The sun was off in the west, reconsidering its impulsive decision to go down.