Delta Green - [33]

“He’s using the grapplers,” Macklin said.

The forward bay in both the Mako and MakoShark contained remotely operated grappling arms used to capture and hold malfunctioning satellites that were too large to pull inside the bay. Secured by the arms to the underside of the space craft, the satellite could be moved into orbit with Themis and the sick satellite rejuvenated in the huge lab the personnel complement called Cosmos Clinic.

Delta Green paused directly over the rocket, and the grappling arms descended and hugged the rocket body. The rocket was too large to be pulled inside the cargo bay, of course, but with the two vehicles mated, the MakoShark could control both of their courses and velocities.

McKenna didn’t like the fact that Delta Green was aimed almost directly at Mako Three. The old fighter pilot’s instinct told him someone was on the verge of launching another missile. He punched Utility Two and keyed the microphone.

“Mako Three, get out of there.”

“Ah, Alpha, we could still…”

“Now, Ken! Full rocket throttles. Go for the Earth.”

They had about two more seconds’ view of the hijacked MakoShark before the camera lens abruptly dropped, found the Earth, and accelerated toward it.

“Mako Three, when you have four hundred miles distance, change course and return to Themis.”

“Roger that, Alpha”

McKenna was relieved to hear Autry’s voice. He talked to him several more times until he was certain that the Mako was out of range of the Wasp.

“Now what?” Pearson asked.

“Now I call the boss and complain about our working conditions,” McKenna said. “Sergeant Arguento, can you find me a secure channel to the Springs?”

“There’s bound to be one or two, Colonel.”

“And Joe,” McKenna said to Macklin, “that bird’s not so stealthy with a HoneyBee hung on her. Track them as far as you can.”

PENTAGON

Marvin Brackman was meeting with Admiral Hannibal Cross and General Harvey Mays in Cross’s second floor, firing office in the Pentagon when McKenna’s call caught up with him.

He picked up the secure phone on the credenza by the window and stood looking out at the Potomac as the connections were made. The sky was heavily overcast, a dull slate that absorbed joy and diminished the grandeur of the Washington Monument. The river moved sluggishly along, dragging winter and more than a few pollutants behind it.

His conversation with McKenna was brief, and after he ordered McKenna to suspend all HoneyBee launches, he hung up and turned back to his superiors.

Brackman thought of Harvey Mays, the Air Force Chief of Staff, as extremely capable, moving as effectively as he could to adapt the Air Force to new political and world realities. He knew, too, that a large number of senior commanders resented both Mays and the requirement to adapt the Air Force to new ways of thinking. An organization as large as the Air Force changed directions ponderously when it came to the obliteration of old traditions.

As an aircraft carrier skipper in the South China Sea, Hannibal Cross had probably appeared much the same then as he did now: lean and crisp. He was a fine image of the military, and he was politically astute. The boys in the back rooms knew about his decisions before he made them public. Cross believed firmly in the concept of never surprising anyone who counted, and it was a good philosophy, one that assured survivability.

“Well, Marvin?” Cross asked.

“We found Delta Green.”

“Hot damn!” Mays said.

“But she’s gone again.”

“Shit.”

“And she took a load of solid fuel pellets with her.”

“What the hell?” Cross said.

Brackman related McKenna’s report. “The MakoShark and the HoneyBee have both passed out of radar range now.”

“They must have known what they were after, didn’t they?” Mays said.

“I imagine so,” Brackman said. “The MakoShark isn’t of much use without propellent.”

“What does this give them?” Cross asked.

“Delta Green was fully fueled when she was hijacked, and she had a cargo pod of pellets. With the HoneyBee cargo, McKenna says they’ve got two hundred and nine minutes of rocket flight available.”

“Jesus,” Cross complained. “How many space trips is that?”

“It depends on the trajectories and a few other variables, but, into and out of orbit, they could manage maybe twelve flights. That doesn’t count using the motors in suborbital flight. Suborbital, too, the MakoShark’s extended glide characteristics give them a hell of a lot of time.”

“You’ve stopped resupply launches?” Mays asked.

“For the time being, yes. We may have to detail a MakoShark to accompany them if we need to make a launch or two. McKenna had already given orders to not ship ordnance. We don’t want to lose a shipment of Wasp II missiles.”

“But they could still utilize other missile types,” Mays said.

“True. Phoenix, Sidewinder, AMRAAM can all be mounted on the missile rack in the payload bay, though not on the pylons. Only our modified missiles like the Phoenix II and the Wasp II, with the heat shields, can be hung externally. And the standard missiles won’t fly in space, either. They won’t fly true, at any rate.”