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  The base was one of three dedicated to support of the 1st Aerospace Squadron, and it was the largest by far. Most of its operations were overt, though flights of the MakoShark were generally accomplished at night.

  Located on the island of Borneo, on the coast north of Sangkulirang, the complex contained three massive hangars, dormitories, warehouses, a long finger-pier that accepted deep-draft freighters and tankers, a two-mile-long runway, and a launch complex. The local governments and the government of the Indonesian Archipelago didn’t interfere with their operations in the least. Conover assumed that the right palms were well greased.

  The coastline, a mile away, was freckled with palm trees. Around the complex, the rainforest had been cut back, but seemed to close back in on them daily, as if it were reluctant to give up territory rightfully its own. Orangutans and gibbons screamed at each other, or at the intruders, and occasionally, a leopard appeared at the jungle’s edge, sniffing the wind.

  Abrams had to take quick steps to keep up with Conover’s long strides.

  “What’s the damned hurry?” the WSO asked.

  “I thought you were thirsty”

  “I am.”

  “Well, I just want to find an air conditioner.”

  The recreation center was a single-storied frame building centered among the four dormitories. Behind it was the dining hall. The sign above the double-doored entrance identified it as the “Recreation Center,” but the residents called it “Heaven on Earth”, or more simply, “Heaven.”

  There wasn’t much else to do at Wet Country, except go down to the beach and swim with the sharks.

  Inside was a movie theater, a lounge, several television rooms able to pick up the world’s programming, a snack shop, and a large room full of pool tables, Ping-Pong tables, card tables, and electronic games. It was blessedly cool.

  Conover and Abrams bought four bottles of San Miguel at the bar and carried them into the rec room. At midday, there were only a half-dozen men and women with free time, and they didn’t have to wait for a Ping-Pong table.

  “You sure you want to do this, Jack?”

  “Damn right. I got me a system now.”

  “Never happen.”

  “You wait.” Abrams took a pair of glasses from the pocket of his flight suit and donned them.

  They had big clear lenses, with orange gunsights imprinted on them.

  He won the first six points because Conover couldn’t stop laughing.

  *

  Gen. Felix Eisenach, a resident of Berlin for most of his life, was in his mid-fifties, a bit pompous, and a bit broad. His hair was pure white, and the eyes in his beefy face were a strange silver/green, quite penetrating, he thought. Once, the hair had been blond and the figure much leaner, more closely resembling the photographs of his male Prussian forebears. Like Baron Otto von Eisenach, his aging father, he was accustomed to command.

  His command had been a long time coming, however, as had his promotion to his current rank. Eisenach’s advancement had been suppressed at the recommendation of various NATO advisors from British, French, and American services. He had been required to cool his heels in ineffective staff positions: supply, logistics, intelligence, military advisor to the Bundestag — the lower legislative house of the republic — for twenty-five years. Every promotion had come late, at the top end of his seniority on the promotion list.

  Just when his frustration had achieved its upper limits, his world shook itself like a wet hound, and everything changed. NATO forces — and his oppressors — withdrew from the fatherland, and the German military resurrected itself. And then his assignments baby-sitting legislators and bureaucrats paid off. He had gained powerful and influential friends.

  The hierarchy of the military — air force, navy, and army — was rapidly juggled. Those who had toadied to the occupation forces were summarily retired, and the professional soldiers — like Eisenach — were promoted to deserving ranks and assigned to appropriate commands. Eisenach’s expertise in logistics had gained him the VORMUND PROJEKT.

  The seat of government for the new Germany remained in Bonn, but Eisenach’s program was located at Templehof Air Force Base in Berlin. He could not have been happier.

  The GUARDIAN PROJECT was a unified command. Eisenach had air force, army, and navy units assigned to him. The units were deployed all over the country, and when he had first taken over, his headquarters had been composed of two offices at Templehof. In four years, however, he had successfully expanded the headquarters to include three office buildings, two hangars, several barracks buildings, and a number of other facilities. In microcosm, it represented similar expansions made throughout the German military.

  Eisenach’s driver picked him up at his home on Tiergartenstrasse. Overlooking the manicured and sprawling grounds of the massive Tiergarten, the three-story town house had been in his family for 200 years, the urban residence of a succession of barons. Now, the eighty-five-year-old Baron Frederick Otto von Eisenach was tended by a nurse on the third floor, and General und Frau Eisenach entertained on the first two floors.

  As his black Mercedes 500 SEL weaved its way through heavy traffic along Tempelhofer Damm, Eisenach sat in the back and studied the parks and shops and office buildings. He was immensely pleased with the progress taking place. The remnants of the Wall — several miles behind him — were all but gone. Berlin was returning to its former grandeur, as was the entire fatherland.

  And best of all, he would live to see it. He had once despaired of that goal.

  The sedan passed through the gates of Templehof, took two turns and approached his headquarters. It was a red brick, two-story building surrounded by well-kept green grass. The white sign with black letters in front read:

  16th Logistics Command

  F. Felix Eisenach, General

  Commanding

  Eisenach spoke to his driver, “We will go on to the Personnel Division.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A block farther down the street, the driver pulled the Mercedes to the curb and leaped out to open Eisenach’s door for him. He got out and strode up the walk toward an oberleutnant who stepped outside to hold the front door. He returned the officer’s salute, entered the building, and headed directly for the conference room.

  General Eisenach was a conscientious commander. He felt it imperative that he be aware of each of the 7,000 men in his command, and once a month, without fail, he and his adjutant, Oberst Maximillian Oberlin, met with personnel officers to go over the records of the men assigned to him.

  Oberlin and the major in charge of personnel were waiting for him. Eisenach returned the salutes, and all of them settled into chairs at the table. A stack of records folders was centered on the table.

  “Well, Max, what have we today?”

  “The noncommissioned officers of the 232nd Engineering Company, General.”

  They were now reviewing the unteroffiziers of each company. The review of officers had come first, naturally, and had been completed two years before.

  “Very well. Let us get started.”

  Major Adler began with the first folder. Opening it, he read the name and the pertinent facts, then passed the folder to the general so he could look at the picture stapled inside. Many were quickly scanned, and the folders restacked at the end of the table.

  On the fifth, Eisenach noted that the picture was that of a black man. A feldwebel.

  “Where is this man from?”

  Adler leaned over to read from the file. “Johannesburg, South Africa, General. The sergeant has been in the army for seven years, and with the 232nd for eighteen months. He has expertise in mining operations.”

  Eisenach mused, studying the file, then said, “I believe that a man with this background would be more beneficial to the republic with one of the civilian mining companies. Why don’t we see to his discharge from the service? With a letter of recommendation to, say, the Federal Geologic Company.”

  Oberlin made the note. “Of course,
General.”

  Bundesgeologisch Gesellschaft, of course, would not be interested in the man. Perhaps he would return to South Africa. The eleventh record was also of interest.

  “Sergeant Alexander Dubowski?”

  “From Gdansk originally, General.”

  And Jewish.

  “His specialty?”

  “Rotary-bit maintenance,” Adler said.

  “Do we not have an oversupply in that military occupational specialty?”

  “We do, General.”

  “We should reduce the number of personnel in over-supplied MOSs, so as to free up slots in specialties where we have need,” Eisenach noted.

  “As you wish, General,” Adler said, “however … ”

  “Yes?”

  “Dubowski has almost nineteen years of service. Another year and he could retire with a pension.”

  “Major, our concerns must lie with the fatherland, and not with individuals.”

  “Yes, of course, General. That is so.”

  *

  The tractor towed them out of the hangar, disconnected the tow bar from the nose wheel, and scurried out of sight. The blue flashlight signaled McKenna that it was safe to start his engines.

  Munoz called the checklist, and the turbofans were turning over within four minutes. McKenna let them warm for a minute.

  “How you doing down there, Amy?” he asked over the intercom.

  “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”

  “How about a movie, Amy?” Munoz asked. “I can give you Rio Bravo or Terms of Endearment.”

  “I’ll give you terms of endearment, Tony.” Her voice was icy, McKenna thought. Still in a snit because he wasn’t where she wanted him to be when she wanted him to be there. She acted as if their ranks were reversed.

  “This is your captain speaking,” McKenna said. “Close your visors and hold on to your valuables.”

  He lined up on the runway, guided by the infrared lights on the screen, then slapped the throttles forward. The rocket control panel was active, ready for instant use if he detected any faltering from the turbofans. When the MakoShark was fully laden, as it was now with the passenger module, a cargo module, four loaded pylons, and maximum fuel, the craft weighed almost 100 tons. Any hesitation from the jet engines meant meeting the arroyo-ridden, washboarded landscape east of Colorado Springs intimately. The rocket motors were kept on standby, just in case he needed a boost.

  The takeoff was uneventful, and by the time he passed over the Black Squirrel River, he had retracted the gear, trimmed out the controls, killed the rocket panel, and was holding 600 knots on 75 percent power. He went into a climbing turn to the right, headed for the Oklahoma panhandle.

  Over North Texas, Munoz gave him a heading of 175 degrees, and McKenna boosted on the rocket motors for three minutes, closing down the ramjets, and achieving Mach 6 at 130,000 feet.

  “Let’s cool it for a while, jefe.”

  “Problema, Tiger?”

  “Somebody saw the burn. My threat receiver is showin’ radar scans lookin’ for us. Probably an AWACS airborne outta Guantanamo, but I like to give those navy guys fits.”

  “Can you give me something to look at?” Pearson asked.

  “Comin’ up.”

  McKenna’s screen switched to direct visual, the image changing as Munoz depressed the lens and raised the magnification seven times. On the curved horizon to their left, daylight was breaking, lighting up cerulean oceans topped with fluffy white clouds.

  “How’s that, darlin’?”

  “Better.”

  “What’s our window, Tiger?”

  “I need two-one-point-five minutes, Snake Eyes.”

  For this leg of the flight, they had to match up with an access window that occurred only once every 3.6 hours. The computer, which kept the data in memory, was now busily calculating the NavStar position data and plotting the course.

  When his velocity dropped off to Mach 5.5, McKenna initiated another burst of two minutes which raised the speed to Mach 7 and took them up to 250,000 feet of altitude. The sky became blacker.

  Sixteen minutes later, Munoz said, “Comin’ up on the boost point.”

  “Lay back and enjoy it, Amy.”

  “Go to hell, McKenna.”

  McKenna tapped the commands into his keyboard, turning full control of the MakoShark over to the mass of silicon in the avionics compartment.

  Immediately, the computer activated the Orbital Maneuvering System, firing thrusters to shift the attitude of the craft. The nose tilted upward, the left wing dipped.

  Munoz aimed the camera head-on. The screen gave Pearson a picture of black velvet, with stars so sharp they looked like diamonds fresh out of twinkle.

  McKenna could not hear the burn when it began. There wasn’t enough atmosphere to carry the sound. He could feel the vibration shivering the structure.

  The HUD display gave him the numbers. He knew that Munoz was monitoring all systems on his CRT. It was the speed that always amazed him. He felt himself shoved back into his couch.

  The Mach readout flickered quickly: 9.5, 11.0, 14.6, 17.0.

  There was no ground controller to intone: “Passing through sixty miles altitude. Velocity now twelve thousand miles per hour.”

  Mach 18.2.

  Almost abruptly, the MakoShark rolled onto its back, the Earth directly above them. Blue of the seas prominent Ecru and gray land masses. Mother Earth glowed. Two hundred miles up. The nose of the craft pulled slightly downward — relative to McKenna — seeking a new path. The G-forces lessened considerably as the momentum of his body caught up with that of the vehicle.

  Mach 20.3.

  Mach 22.9.

  Eight minutes, forty-seven seconds into the burn, the rocket motors shut down.

  Mach 24.3.

  Mach 26.1.

  Over 18,000 miles per hour.

  Escape velocity.

  “Closin’ at two hundred feet per second,” Munoz said.

  “There’s home,” Pearson said. There was some awe in her voice, McKenna thought. It never went away. Not for her.

  It never went away for him, either.

  Home was still forty miles away, but on the magnified screen it seemed much closer.

  Floating there, with Mother Earth a multihued mass above it.

  Raggedy-looking.

  A huge hub sporting sixteen variable-length spokes, each with an odd-shaped, odd-sized fist on the outer end.

  Home.

  Themis.

  Three

  The Cessna Citation assigned to the commander, USAF Space Command, landed at Andrews Air Force Base in Washington a few minutes before ten o’clock in the morning.

  Marvin Brackman ducked for the low doorway and descended to the tarmac. Returning the salute of the driver holding the rear door for him, he tossed his briefcase into the rear seat, then followed it.

  The Chevy sedan took the Capital Beltway and the Woodrow Wilson Bridge across the Potomac, then turned north on Route 1. Maryland and Virginia both were in full dress, the foliage and the grass lush and damply green from an early morning shower. Brackman hadn’t checked the weather, but he assumed that by noon, the heat would be typically Washington, hot and wet.

  The driver let him out at the River Entrance to the Pentagon, and Brackman crossed the wide expanse of concrete to the doors. Inside, the concourse was packed with tourists and, Brackman figured, about half the 25,000 employees on a coffee break. The stars on his shoulders and the scowl on his face cleared a path for him, and he reached the second floor, E-ring office of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff at 1035 hours.

  He was ushered directly into the office overlooking the river by Marilyn Ackerman, the admiral’s longtime secretary.

  Adm. Hannibal Cross had been chairman for just over three years, and he was good in the job. A recruiting poster figure — lean and crisp, with a deep-water tan and weather wrinkles at his eyes, Cross also possessed the eagerness to attack politics with the same deft
ness he had utilized aboard carriers off Vietnam.

  Also present was Gen. Harvey Mays, the air force chief of staff. Mays was a veteran of Vietnam, also, where he had flown F-4 Phantoms. The shrapnel and burn scar on the left side of his face kept him off posters, but he was an adroit and capable commander.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Brackman said. “We had head winds.”

  “Or excess baggage,” Mays said, looking at Brackman’s waistline.

  “Jesus, Harv. You know how many calories I’m on, already? I lost two pounds.”

  “In the last month?” Mays laughed.

  The three flag officers shook hands and settled into the conversational grouping of couch and chairs in one corner of Cross’s office. Brackman opened his briefcase and placed it on the low oak cocktail table in front of him while Marilyn filled coffee cups and passed them around.

  After exchanging several routine updates, Cross said, “Okay, let’s get to it. You said something about Germany, Marvin.”

  “Yes, I did. My gal Pearson, who’s the intel officer aboard Themis, came up with it.”

  Brackman passed out printed copies of the maps Pearson had displayed at Cheyenne Mountain, then photos of the well, the aircraft, and the ships. He completed his briefing in less than five minutes.

  “This the only shot you have of the well?” Mays asked.

  “At the moment, yes. I don’t have a satellite in position for a better view, and won’t have for another nine days. If we change the orbit on a KH-11, we might well alert some people we don’t want alerted. However, I’ll have a close-up for you as soon as McKenna makes a run over the area.”

  “It’s difficult to judge the scale,” Cross said, “but this dome gives the impression of being larger than necessary.”

  “Yes, it does, in comparison with the size of the helo pad. And yet, given the weather conditions, it may be mostly insulation.”

  “Maybe,” Cross said.

  “We’re hoping to get a snapshot that includes a chopper on the deck or a man outside the dome, so we can do some measuring.”

  “You said this has been going on for three years?” Mays asked.