His contemplation was interrupted by the Buster Keaton-deadpan face of Master Sergeant Joe Burns, the flight engineer, peering around the cabin door. “All buttoned up and ready for the wild blue yonder, Major.”

Vylander nodded without taking his eyes off the sinister-looking canisters. “Okay, let’s put this chamber of horrors on the road.”

The first engine turned over and sputtered to life, followed quickly by

the other three. Then the auxiliary-power unit was unplugged, the chocks holding the wheels were pulled, and Vylander began taxiing the overburdened aircraft toward the end of the main runway. The security guards and the maintenance crew turned away and scurried for the warmth of a nearby hangar as the prop wash lashed their backs.

Admiral Bass stood in the Buckley control tower and watched the Stratocruiser crawl like a pregnant bug across the snow-swept field. A phone was clutched in his hand and he spoke quietly into the receiver.

“You may inform the President that Vixen 03 is preparing for takeoff.”

“When do you figure its estimated time of arrival?” asked the stern voice of Charles Wilson, Secretary of Defense, through the earpiece.

“Allowing for a fuel stop at Hickam Field, in Hawaii, Vixen 03 should touch down in the test area approximately 1400 hours Washington time.”

“Ike has scheduled us for 0800 hours tomorrow. He insists on a detailed briefing of the upcoming experiments and a running report on Vixen O3’s flight progress.”

“I’ll take off for Washington immediately.”

“I don’t have to paint you a picture, Admiral, of what would happen if that plane crashed in or near a major city.”

Bass hesitated in what seemed a long and terrible silence. “Yes, Mr. Secretary, it would indeed be a nightmare none of us could live with.”

“The manifold pressure and the torque read a shade low across the board,” announced Sergeant Burns. He watched over the engineer’s panel with the intensity of a ferret.

“Enough to abort?” Gold asked hopefully.

“Sorry, Lieutenant. Internal-combustion engines won’t perform in the thin mountain air of Denver like they will at sea level. Considering the altitude, the gauge readings are par for the course.”

Vylander gazed at the strip of asphalt ahead. The snowfall had lightened, and he could almost see the halfway marker. His heart began to throb a little faster, keeping time with the rapid beat of the windshield wipers. God, he thought to himself, it looks no bigger than a shuffleboard court. As if in a trance, he reached over and picked up his hand mike.

“Buckley Control, this is Vixen 03. Ready to roll. Over.”

“She’s all yours, Vixen 03,” the fomiliar voice of Admiral Bass scratched through the headphones. “Save a big-chested native girl for me.”

Vylander simply signed off, released the brakes, and shoved the four throttles against their stops.