Delta Green - [35]

“You’ve worked this out, Marv. Do you have someone in mind for her current job?” Mays asked.

“No. She can handle both for the time being.”

“She reports to Jim Overton,” Cross said. “Do you have a recommendation from him?”

“I can have it in twenty minutes. Avery and McKenna will sign off on it also.”

“Get it,” the Air Force chief said, “and I’ll forward it to the Chairman.”

“Get it,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said, “and I’ll hand-carry it to the guys across the hall.”

USSC-1

Overton wrote the recommendation for promotion himself, keying it into the console in his tiny office. McKenna and Avery hung on to the hatchway jamb and watched him do it.

“Keep an eye on the hatch,” the general said. “We wouldn’t want her coming back and catching us.”

“You’re a pretty decent typist, Jim,” McKenna said. “You’ll be able to land any job you want once you leave here.”

“I wouldn’t want anything with a high stress-level.” Overton said as he finished his entry. “Okay, Milt, your turn.”

Avery switched places with the commander and added his comments, then McKenna keyed in his own. He wasn’t directly in line-of-command over Pearson, but he was happy that Brackman had asked for his input. He had gained a lot of respect for her in the last year, even though she could be humorless much of the time and didn’t take his teasing well.

“Anything else?” he asked Overton as he typed in his name and rank.

“That should do it.”

McKenna hit the “F-7” button which stored the document in station records and forwarded copies to all of the right offices. Independently, he sent a copy directly to the Office of the Chief of Staff of the Air Force as they had been directed.

“Brackman surprises the hell out of me sometimes.” McKenna said.

“You can’t say she doesn’t deserve it,” Overton said. “No, you can’t say that.”

McKenna hung around the Command Center the rest of the afternoon and evening, monitoring Delta Red’s and Delta Yellow’s search, but by nine o’clock, they hadn’t detected a reentry burn anywhere, even though they were utilizing many of the National Security Agency’s surveillance satellites. He ordered Conover and Haggar to put down at Wet Country for the night.

He checked with Dimatta at Hot Country. Delta Orange had taken her second flight, and the technicians were working overtime to correct a series of minor malfunctions and to complete fine-tuning.

The maintenance officer at Merlin told him that Delta Blue’s valve actuator had been replaced and was undergoing final testing. The orders came in at 9:30 P.M., and Don Curtis, the sergeant on the graveyard communications shift, printed them out and brought them into the Command Center.

“Hey, Colonel. Here’s something interesting.”

McKenna took the orders from him, scanned them, and whistled. “Damned interesting, Don. I’ll take care of it.”

The orders transferring Avery to command of Merlin Air Base were another surprise for the day. It meant Avery would get his star, and it meant that Cartwright was out. McKenna was glad he hadn’t complained directly to Brackman about the man. He had learned over time that Brackman could usually figure out things for himself.

He left the Command Center and scooted his way to Spoke Two, the residential spoke in which Overton was housed. He found the general engaged in a gin game with Brad Mitchell.

McKenna floated the papers in front of them.

“I’ll be damned,” Mitchell said.

“I’m happy for Milt,” Overton said, then looked at the other order. “Well. I get a new deputy at the same time.”

“Brackman didn’t bother consulting me on that.”

“Is that going to be a problem, Jim?” McKenna asked.

“Not for me. Probably why I wasn’t consulted.”

“Good. Okay if I tell her?”

Overton grinned at him, sharing knowledge that wasn’t supposed to be common. “Just this one time. Brad and I will go roust Avery.”

McKenna made his way through the locks to Spoke Sixteen. The lights in the spoke and in the corridor of the module were dimmed. A curtain had been drawn across the opposite end of the corridor, closing off the dining area, and he could hear subdued voices on the other side of it.

The space station observed Eastern Daylight Time, and quiet hours were enforced from ten at night until six in the morning. Still, operating the satellite was a twenty-four-hour chore and people were sleeping, eating, or working at all times of the day and night. McKenna and his squadron had the most irregular hours, dependent on their flight schedules.

McKenna bypassed the hygiene stations and his own cubicle: a four by four by eight foot compartment with his personal locker, a communications panel, a fabric pouch, and padded walls.

He arrested his flight next to Pearson’s cubicle.

“Amy, you awake?”

No response.

He pulled the curtain aside by a few inches.

“Amy?”

She was strapped against the padded wall opposite the communications panel. A Strauss waltz issued from the speaker. Her denim headband was missing, and her auburn hair floated lazily. She was dressed in the loosely fitting sleep suit that everyone called a potato sack, but one of the Velcro straps was cinched below her breasts, making them prominent.