Delta Green - [32]

The minute he had made the decision to go, Maslov knew he had given up his arduous quest for a general’s stars.

He would not have them, but he had now proven Volontov wrong…

He had the stars!

They were all around him, starkly brilliant against the utter nothingness of space. Only twice before in the training program had he achieved orbit in space, and that was with another’s hands at the controls. This time, he was responsible, and it was exhilarating. Ecstasy beyond any he had ever known.

“Boris?”

Nikitin was in the rear seat of the MakoShark. He had been there almost around the clock since they had obtained the craft, learning the secret systems, voicing his amazement of the MakoShark advancements over the Mako subsystems practically on the hour.

“I still wish we had Cyrillic and metric equivalents for the instruments and computers, Aleks. My head spins from making constant translations.”

“You will become accustomed to it,” Maslov promised. Already, his own mind was accepting feet and miles and pounds without undue concern. Perhaps it was because he had had more training in English than Nikitin.

“Sixty-two miles from us, Aleks. Three minutes until contact.”

“I have armed the propulsion system of one of the Wasp II missiles for you.”

“No warhead?” Nikitin asked.

“The warhead is not to be armed. You must be delicate, Boris.”

“I will… Aleks! I have another contact.”

Maslov looked down at his cathode ray tube. There was another target painted.

“Shut off the radar, Boris.”

“But the—”

“It will be a Mako, since we can see it. It is unarmed and will not challenge us.”

“You are certain of this?” Nikitin asked, disbelief in his voice.

“I am certain. But I will arm the second Wasp on Pylon Four for you. If the Mako moves on us, you may shoot it.”

In space, nothing was shot down. It was simply shot.

Maslov lifted the plastic protective cover and armed the second missile.

“Now, Boris, carefully.”

He could hear Nikitin’s breath slowing over the open intercom as the man concentrated on his shot.

The cathode ray tube suddenly flashed as Nikitin activated the video lens. It portrayed stars that zoomed closer as the weapons officer advanced the magnification.

Then, out of the magnificent spectacle, Maslov saw the HoneyBee rocket emerge. It was very white, with the large blue letters, “USAF,” imprinted vertically on its side. He had been briefed once on the supply rocket, and he understood its systems in general.

An orange target rose appeared on the screen, danced a little jig, then moved over the rocket.

“Precisely on the nose cone, Boris.”

“I know, Aleks. I understand.”

The image of the rocket continued to expand on the screen as they closed on it, and the target rose slipped along the missile’s length and found the nose cone.

Nikitin locked it on, using the small radar in the nose of the Wasp. The radiation of the missile radar would be visible to the Mako.

The blue letters on the screen appeared in confirmation: LOCK-ON.

Immediately, Nikitin launched the Wasp II missile.

Maslov closed his eyes to protect his vision.

When he opened them again and peered through the windscreen, the missile was miles away, a tiny streak of white light.

“It is an amazing missile,” Nikitin said, “adaptable to space or atmospheric flight.”

That was true. The Wasp II had retractable fins for stabilization and directional control in dense atmosphere, but in its space role, the stabilization and control was accomplished by small jets spewing nitrogen gas.

Assisted by the magnification of the screen, he saw the impact.

The slim attack missile slammed into the side of the HoneyBee’s nose cone, penetrating the skin easily, and likely destroying all of the sensitive electronics contained within the cone, even without a detonation. It did not go clear through the rocket; nothing emerged from the other side.

And Maslov thought that the impact had not shaken the HoneyBee far off its course.

It would just no longer follow its programmed computer instructions or listen to instructions passed to it by remote control.

And the cargo was intact.

USSC-1

McKenna and the others in the control room had a clear picture of the interception.

Mako Three, standing off the action by forty miles and shooting it with her video camera at full zoom, transmitted the video image to Themis.

“No warhead detonation,” Overton said.

The intercom blared, “Command, Docking!”

It was Brad Mitchell’s voice. He would have been standing by to take control of the HoneyBee and dock it. His screen would be displaying the radar picture.

Overton pressed the correct keypad on the intercom. “Go ahead, Brad”

“We’ve lost control of the HoneyBee, sir.”

“Yes, I copy that. There’s been an interception, Brad. You can stand down.”

“Interception! Sir, may I come to the Command Center?”

“Certainly, Brad. But don’t bring a contingent of maintenance people with you. It’s starting to get crowded.”

“There it is!” Pearson said.

As McKenna watched the screen, he saw Delta Green ease into view, closing on the HoneyBee. The bomb bay doors (or payload bay doors, depending on the mission) on the underside of the fuselage were open.