Delta Green - [41]

And though he checked in frequently with Semaphore (the code name for Space Command in Colorado Springs) and with Alpha, there had been no new or promising information on the whereabouts of one HoneyBee, one MakoShark, or any organization interested in either.

After the last pass over the lower tip of India, McKenna said, “Let’s go home, Tiger.”

“Which one, Snake Eyes?”

“The closest one.”

“Programmin’ for Wet Country. I could use a San Miguel.”

“Not this trip, I’m afraid. We’re flying again in about four hours.”

“You got some new ideas, compadre?”

“No, but Amy-baby’s bound to have some by then.”

“I been meanin’ to talk to you about Amy-baby.”

“No, you haven’t,” McKenna said.

“I thought so.”

NEW WORLD BASE

When General Anatoly Shelepin and General Sergei Pavel left New World Base at eight o’clock in the morning, it was only for a short hop. Their pilot took them north for a few hundred kilometers, turned back, and landed on the short strip at the hospital.

The hospital’s airstrip was less than a kilometer from that of New World Base, located directly west of the base.

Shelepin had founded the hospital with ten million American dollars, an amount that was quickly matched by the Kampuchean government.

As the old Dassault transport taxied toward a parking spot midway down the single asphalt strip, Pavel said, “It goes very well, Anatoly Guryanovich.”

“Yes, Sergei. I am pleased.”

“Maslov has but one more operation to complete before we make the final thrust.”

“We may count our blessings,” Shelepin said, “but not too loudly as yet.”

Shelepin’s handpicked hospital administrator, Dr. Geli Lemesh, met them with a white Land Rover when they deplaned. The Land Rover had a red cross painted on its hood.

They shared greetings, then crawled into the Land Rover for the monthly inspection visit that Shelepin liked to make. The hospital was, after all, his undertaking, and no one objected to his visits in the least.

The Khmer Hospital and Clinic boasted some of the finest laboratory and treatment equipment in the world. A medical staff of internationally trained doctors and nurses maintained an educational program intended to develop an eventual cadre of Khmer medical personnel.

The facility was situated in inhospitable jungle territory, a long distance from villages or more civilized cities, and that was one of its charms for the Kampuchean government. Since the hospital specialized in treating the diseases of almost hopelessly afflicted and abandoned children, the politicians preferred having the sightless, limbless, mentally-deficient wretches, most of them casualties of the war between Kampuchea and Vietnam, out of the view of tourists.

There was no main structure, unless one considered the administration building as a primary facility. The hospital was spread throughout the nearby jungle in specialized treatment clinics, small cottages, and slightly larger dormitories. Each building was simply constructed of wood painted white. The dark brown shingled roof of each building had a white circle with a red cross painted on it.

And three hundred yards through the jungle to the east, the buildings of New World Base that were visible through the jungle canopy were similarly painted.

It was a simple philosophy, worthy of a Ho Chi Minh. No aggressor would attack a hospital filled with children.

Anatoly Shelepin thought of his concept as brilliant.

Chapter Eight

DELTA ORANGE

“Okay, Cancha, there’s our window. Punch it.”

“Punched, Nitro.”

Dimatta keyed the “RKT THRST” button on the top row of the keyboard and let the computer take over.

On Tac Two, he said, “Delta Blue, Orange.”

“Go Orange,” McKenna said.

“We just hit the go button and crossed Nitro Fizz’s fingers.”

“We’re right beside you and igniting rockets,” McKenna told them.

Proximity was relative. Delta Blue, as trail plane, was over a mile away, to allow plenty of room for error on Delta Orange’s first excursion above 250,000 feet.

The nose came up by computer magic, nudged through the thin atmosphere by bursts of the Orbital Maneuvering System, and the rockets ignited.

The MakoShark had already been cruising at Mach 7, and the new acceleration gently pushed Dimatta back into his reclining seat. The gravitational pull, monitored on a HUD readout, rose to 3.5. The velocity increased rapidly and steadily: 9.2, 10.4, 12.7, 14.9, 16.2, 17.0.

The radar altimeter provided similar readings, switching at three hundred thousand feet to the simpler indication of miles: seventy-two, eighty-five, 120, 170, 190.

Mach 20.4.

There was no unusual vibration in the fuselage, in his seat, or under his hand, which Dimatta kept loosely fitted to the control stick.

The rocket motors shut down after an eight-minute burn, right on the computer’s schedule.

Though he knew the sensation was only in his mind, everything smelled new.

His environmental suit was new, and the collar ring felt stiff when he turned his head.

His and Williams’s well-worn and well-fitted suits and helmets, loved like his Uncle Albert’s funeral suit, had disappeared along with Delta Green. It had ticked him off to no end.