Delta Blue

Thirteen

“You should talk to the widow,” Weismann said.

“Do not tell me what I should, or should not, do,” Eisenach said into the telephone.

“I have reviewed the radar tapes from the Tornado. Major Metzenbaum gave his life for Germany, willingly and with valor, General Eisenach. He was of the very best.”

“His wife is a Jew, is she not?”

There was a long pause on Weismann’s end of the telephone. “I do not know.”

“You should pay closer attention to the dossiers of your men, Colonel.”

“Pardon me, Herr General, but that does not negate his actions last night.”

“You are having a change of heart, Albert.”

“Not at all.”

“Then recommend him for a medal. I will honor it.”

“Thank you.”

Eisenach leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingertips on the top of his desk. Through the window, he saw a soldier mowing the lawn, and farther away, a transport taking off. The daily routine at Templehof had not changed. It was as if the battles taking place in the north had no effect whatsoever on the rest of Germany. But they did. They affected every true German’s right to his own destiny. And Felix Eisenach was privileged to assist in shaping that destiny.

He was not about to allow his vision to be blurred or obliterated.

“How many MakoSharks do the Americans have, Albert?”

“It is not known, Herr General. The treaty allows them six, but I believe that one or two have not been funded by their Congress.”

“So, we are being harassed by, perhaps, only four of these stealth airplanes?”

“It seems to be enough, Herr General. Spotting them is a fluke.”

“Then we need more eyes looking. I will see that you receive another eight pilots and Tornados from the Sixteenth Air Wing. Integrate them into your coverage.”

“Very well, General. And I am going to reduce the daytime flights to one aircraft every three hours. The stealth planes fly by night.”

Eisenach considered the move, then said, “I agree. And Peenemünde?”

“The scientists are fabricating a new collar for mating the nose cone to the third-stage body.”

“The software?”

“All but finished, I am told.”

“They may then begin programming the test flight?”

“I should think so,” Weismann said.

“The target for the test will be the American space station.”

“Herr General?”

“Perhaps we can deflate their resolve to interfere in German national interests, Albert. Along with removing that damnable aircraft carrier.”

The sun shone brightly today, for a change. The sea was smooth, much bluer than was normal. Off the starboard flank, the coast of Greenland was barely visible on the horizon. Ahead, as they turned to the east, the top of the dome of Bahnsteig Zehn was just peeking above the sea.

The two destroyer escorts trailed on either side, three kilometers off the stern, matching the turn. Their wakes appeared very white.

Gerhard Schmidt lowered his binoculars and returned to the bridge from the wing.

The brilliance of the day and the brisk, chilled salt air had given him hope, clarified his thinking.

Kapitän Rolf Froelich stood up from his chair, holding a steaming mug. “Coffee, Admiral?”

“Please, Captain.”

A steward appeared a few minutes later with a ceramic mug on a silver tray, and Schmidt accepted the mug. The hot liquid warmed him.

“Rolf, let us go to the CIC.”

The two men descended one deck and entered the Combat Information Center. Computer and radar consoles lined the bulkheads, and a large electronic plotting table occupied the center of the space. The duty officer was a young, smooth-faced leutnant.

Schmidt leaned on the edge of the table with one hand and studied the plot. The third battle group, recalled from their maneuvers off Iceland, was closing in to starboard. The second battle group had achieved its station, south of Svalbard Island and a few kilometers east of Bahnsteig Sechs. The fourth group, led by the Stuttgart, was still steaming off Norway.

The fifth battle group, given to him this morning on loan from the 1st Fleet, and composed of a new destroyer, an elderly destroyer escort, and a helicopter carrier, was only 250 kilometers into the North Sea, outbound from Bremerhaven.

“Tell me once again, Rolf, of the Black Forest’s report.”

“Simply, Admiral Schmidt, that they tracked four torpedoes early this morning. Mark 46s, they believe. At first, they thought that the Black Forest was under attack, but the torpedoes ran wild for several minutes and finally detonated on the seabed.”

“And the coordinates, again?”

The Kapitän signaled a plotter, and a yellow circle appeared on the plotting table.

“Depth?”

“Ninety-seven meters, sir,” the plotter said.

“They’re trying for the ca… the pipeline, Captain Froelich.” Occasionally, Schmidt forgot that most of the navy still thought they were oil wells.

Froelich leaned over to study the plot. “Outside of the approaches to the mainland, that would be where the pipeline is located in the shallowest waters. This is perplexing, Admiral. Why would the Americans want to sever the pipeline when the platforms are so exposed? Even the attack on Platform Nine was confined to the defensive batteries.”

At some point, the Hochkommandieren must include all of its commanders in the secret, Schmidt thought. He said, “All I am told, Rolf, is that the Americans and the Soviets appear to have entered a conspiracy to deprive Germany of new energy sources. The rationale, apparently, is to keep us subservient to the superpowers.”

That was the ordered, prevalent subterfuge, and Gerhard Schmidt did not think much of it.

Schmidt stood up. “All right, then. Signal the third battle group to turn north and take up station off Platform Ten. That will protect the southwest flank of the oil field. The second group has the southeast flank already. I want the Stuttgart under way on a course of three-four-five degrees as soon as possible. By late night, she and her group should be in position two kilometers east of those coordinates.”

The leutnant was writing quickly on a notepad.

“Then, signal the fifth battle group to make flank speed northward along the track of the pipeline. They will not achieve the objective yet tonight, but they might be able to protect the approaches, if the aircraft continue coming from the south.

“Captain Froelich, we will make flank speed toward that spot in the ocean.” Schmidt stuck out a finger and pointed at the yellow circle. “We want to be two kilometers southeast of it.”

“You think they will make another attempt, Admiral?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Very well, sir.” Froelich stepped to an intercom mounted on the bulkhead and passed the orders to the bridge. Within minutes, Schmidt felt the vibrations in the deck as the Hamburg increased revolutions.

It was a good feeling, this preparation for action, after so many months of ennui.

“Then, Captain, we want flare shells. If we do not have enough, radio Bremerhaven and have them flown out to all ships. We want every gun firing flares with every third shot.

“We are going to light up the bloody night.”

The HUD readouts were right on. Airspeed 400 knots. Altitude 1,200 feet. The screen displayed the night-vision image of flat landscape.

The orange bombsight bounced around the screen.

“You want to arm me, Con Man?”

Conover dialed “BOMB LOAD” on the selector, raised the protective flap, and thumbed the toggle switch upward.

“You’re armed, Do-Wop.”

“IP.”

“Noted”

“Bay doors.”

Conover flicked the flap out of the way and clicked the switch. The green LED illuminated.

“Doors clear.”

The complex slowly appeared in the top edge of the cathode ray terminal.

Conover glanced at the HUD, then to his left and upward. The Aeroflot passenger airliner was still heading west at 25,000 feet.

Back to the screen. The launch tower was now centered. The bombsight dropped below it, a thousand yards in real space.

The “LOCK-ON” signal appeared in orange letters in the upper-right corner.

“Committed,” Abrams said.

Five seconds later, the small parachute blossomed in the rearview screen.

“Left three degrees.”

Conover eased the controller over.

“LOCK-ON,” on the screen again.

“Committed.”

As soon as he saw the parachute flutter open, Conover retracted the payload bay doors, then tapped the throttles forward.

They were over water, climbing. The Pomeranian Bay had a few ships in it, dots of red and green running lights.

“I don’t think we alerted anyone important,” Abrams said. “I’m still showing that big damned J-Band operating, but he didn’t get us.”

“If he yelps, we’ll see if a torpedo works against a radar,” Conover said.

Going to Tac-1, he said, “Alpha One, Delta Yellow.”

“Go, Delta Yellow.” Pearson’s nice low tones on the other end.

“LP-12s are deployed. You now have ears in Peenemünde, Alpha Two.”

“Thank you, Yellow. Proceed with Phase Two.”

“On the way. Yellow out.”

“If McKenna doesn’t make a move on her soon,” Abrams said on the intercom, “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

“You’re already married.”

“Yeah, but my wife only rarely gets to see me in action. By now, Amy knows what I’m really like.”

“Yeah. A junior officer.”

Conover advanced his throttles to 80 percent power and achieved Mach 1.9 at 30,000 feet before easing them back to a cruise setting. Some people in Denmark probably heard the sonic boom, but Conover didn’t think they’d call the cops.

The lights of Copenhagen were spread below like a twinkling quilt. He thought it strange that he couldn’t spot a red light district among so many white lights.

“Let’s keep her steady on three-five-oh, Con Man.”

“Got it.”

Conover turned it over to the autopilot and settled back in his seat, working his arms to relieve some of the tension created by low-flying bomb runs.

Abrams played with his computer, lining up satellite relay stations, until he had KXKL out of Denver. It specialized in golden oldies, and was one of Abrams’s favorite stations.

Jody Reynolds, “Endless Sleep,” filled Conover’s headphones.

“Jesus, Do-Wop, can’t you find something a bit more upbeat?”

“Hey, it’s a good song. Anyway, it’ll be over in a minute.”

When he was growing up, Conover hadn’t paid much attention to music. He always had something better to do. But after a couple years with Abrams, he had learned to like most of the old stuff. He didn’t have much choice.

They listened to Buddy Holly, Elvis, the Temptations, Diana Ross, Guy Mitchell, and the muted thunder of the turbojets. No clouds tonight, and the stars were brilliant. The sea was so dark, it melted into the horizon. Occasionally, phosphorescent flashes could be seen. A group of three ships, turning out some knots. They had to be German navy, he decided, in formation as they were.

At two-twenty in the morning, Conover retarded throttles and began a slow descent.

“Delta Yellow, Hot Country.” McKenna still sounded pissed. The word floating around the base was that he’d been grounded, but no one on the continent of Africa was going to mention that out loud.

“Got you, Hot.”

“Con Man, see if you can’t make your drop at wave-top and three-five-zero knots. We may have been too high and too fast and screwed up the guidance on impact.”

“Copy that, Snake Eyes. We do it at wave-top and three-five-oh.”

“Luck. Hot Country out.”

Fifty miles from the target, Conover armed everything. They were carrying two Mark 46 torpedoes on the outer pylons, a gun pod on the port inner pylon, and four Wasps on the starboard inboard pylon. Two of the Wasps were warheaded for air-to-air and two for air-to-surface.

Abrams brought up the map on the screens and interfaced the Global Positioning Satellites. Delta Yellow was centered on the screen, and the target coordinates were dead ahead.

“Con Man?”

“Yo.”

“Something doesn’t feel right. Can I go active a couple sweeps?”

Conover felt a little itchy himself. The Germans had jumped all over McKenna the night before, but they had had the clouds working for them. He couldn’t see anything around him, but that didn’t mean much. Aircraft and, possibly, naval ships might be running dark.

Distance to target: twenty-five miles.

“Con Man?”

“Yeah?”

“You heard the question?”

“I’m thinking about it. Yeah, okay, two sweeps, but wait until we’re five miles from target. If we see something, I still want to get the fish dropped before we scoot.”

“Roger.”

The distance to target continued to shrink as Conover slowed the MakoShark to 350 knots and descended to twenty feet over the water. The fuel load was down a third. Low-level flight on turbojets in the Mach numbers consumed the JP-7 quickly.

At five miles, Abrams switched on.

The sweep didn’t make two complete revolutions before all hell broke loose.

Thump, thump, thump!

Magnesium flares erupted all around them, bursting at close to 3,000 feet, then drifting downward in their parachutes.

“Jesus Christ!” Abrams shouted. “There must be a hundred of them.”

Four miles. Conover felt like his portrait was being taken. There were hot lights everywhere.

“Steady on, Do-Wop. We’re going to dump the fish first thing.”

“Got it. Take her down a tad.”

Puffs of flak started to explode off their flanks. Conover took a quick scan through the windscreen. He could see the muzzle flashes of big guns and antiaircraft guns.

“I count six ships, Do-Wop. They’re even using the heavy stuff.”

“SAMs coming soon, then. Three miles.”

A detonation above them threatened to drive the MakoShark into the sea. Conover fought the turbulence and pulled up a few feet higher.

“Two miles.”

“LOCK-ON” hit the screen.

“One mile. Committed. Do whatever you want to do, Con Man.”

Conover shoved the throttles full forward as soon as the MakoShark jumped, losing the weight of the torpedoes.

At a hundred feet of altitude, he banked left.

Wham!

The airframe shook with the impact.

He was forced back into level flight.

“Took a piece of wing tip, I think,” Abrams said.

“Shit. Call Alpha.”

“Alpha, Delta Yellow.”

“Go Yellow.”

“We’ve got some structural damage, extent unknown… Jesus! Seven SAMs, Con Man… ”

Amy Pearson gripped the microphone stand to keep from floating away.

The screen on the console was blank. She felt deprived of necessary knowledge. They should have put the AWACS plane in the air.

“Yellow, Alpha. Repeat.”

“Wing tip damage maybe, Alpha. We’ve got SAMs. I’m going to be busy.”

“Copy, Yellow. Keep Tac-1 open.”

“Roger.”

She heard grunts from either Conover or Abrams. “Left, left, left… hard… now climb… chaff!.. dodged it!.. up, babe, up… punch a flare… shit!”

Then there was carrier wave.

Pearson hit the intercom. “Donna, did we lose the relay?”

“No, Colonel. We lost the transmitter.”

“Alpha Two to Hot Country.”

“Hot Country, go Alpha.”

“Is Snake Eyes there?”

“Yeah, just a… no. I don’t know where he’s gone.”

God. Every time he was needed.

“Send somebody to get him,” she ordered.

On Tac-2, the Jack Andrews air controller said, “Delta Blue, I don’t have authority for your takeoff.”

McKenna retracted the landing gear.

“Let’s go over, Tiger.”

“Already? You want to get us some altitude first, Snake Eyes?”

“We’ll get it fast enough.”

“Sure, but take it easy. We got those torps hangin’ out there, and they’re not all that streamlined.”

Delta Blue was armed in the same way as Delta Yellow had been.

“Delta Blue, this is Jack Andrews Control. Come back to me.”

“Jack Andrews, Semaphore.” General Brackman’s voice was unmistakable.

“Go ahead, Semaphore.”

“All restrictions are lifted. Delta Blue is now authorized for flight.”

“Roger, Semaphore, Jack Andrews Control out.”

“Delta Blue, Semaphore.”

McKenna depressed the stud. “Go ahead, Semaphore.”

“I want a plan, right now.”

“Search and rescue,” McKenna said.

“Approved. No search and destroy.”

McKenna thought about the Mark 46s on the pylons, how good it would feel to see one of them plow into the hull of a cruiser.

“Yes, sir. No destroy.”

Over the Mediterranean, Munoz scanned the sea with radar, then jettisoned the torpedoes. They went through the checklist, then ignited the rockets for a five-minute burst.

Delta Blue covered most of the distance at Mach 4.5 at 60,000 feet.

Periodically, Munoz tried the tactical channels, “Delta Yellow, Delta Blue.”

Nothing.

“Delta Blue, Alpha One” General Overton’s voice. “Delta Blue.”

“Let’s assume he’s still aloft.”

“Let’s,” McKenna said.

“The IO figures he’d try to make Hot Country, and she’s calculated a possible flight path.”

Pearson came on the air and gave the beginning and ending coordinates to Munoz.

“How do you figure that, Alpha?” With a quick mental picture, McKenna could tell the flight path was too far to the west.

“Because Con Man is left-handed,” Pearson said.

“Gotcha,” Munoz said. “He’d pull out to the west.”

McKenna rolled into a left bank.

“I’m figuring structural damage that’ll keep him below sonic speeds,” Munoz said on the intercom. “Do-Wop reported a wing tip, but he’s obviously lost his antennas.” The radio antennas were imbedded in the skin of the right wing. It was not a hopeful sign.

“Say six hundred knots at best,” the WSO said, “and figuring our speed and the time we left, we want to start looking hard over Sweden.”

“Suppose he can give us an IFF?” McKenna asked.

“That antenna is in the left wing, amigo. There’s a chance.”

“Go active.”

Waiting.

McKenna was accustomed to waiting after so many years in the military, but the practice didn’t make it any easier. Thinking about Conover and Abrams down in icy water didn’t help, either.

“You worried, jefe?”

“Yeah, Tony, I am.”

“So am I. Somebody was waiting for him.”

“Yes. Somebody figured it out. There were only ships involved, so it must have been that admiral.”

“Schmidt?”

“Right. Amy was right about him.”

“Let’s hope Amy-baby’s right about Con Man, too,” Munoz said.

She was.

Munoz found the IFF south of Stockholm.

“Hot shit! Got ’em, Snake Eyes.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. He’s shut it down now, so he’s only squawkin’ every once in a while. Three-two miles. Go to three-three-eight.”

McKenna turned to the new heading, backing off on the throttles.

A few minutes later, Munoz said, “We’re going to over shoot him. Bring it back to seven hundred knots, and make a wide three-sixty.”

McKenna went into a shallow bank to the right.

“There he is again! Take her down to two-two-thousand.”

As he put the nose over, McKenna checked the eastern horizon on his left. The sun was peeping, spreading opaque light at altitude. By the time they reached the Mediterranean, they’d be in full daylight. And if Delta Three couldn’t handle much more altitude, they would be in danger of being spotted by Greek or Italian aircraft.

To hell with it. If they were seen, they were seen. Conover’s IFF went off the screen again, but Munoz had his position, speed, and track in the computer.

They came up behind Delta Yellow almost silently. Abrams obviously wasn’t running active radar.

McKenna closed in at 620 knots, easing up close to the right wing. He was within a hundred feet before he could see clearly. The right wing tip skin was shredded, as were a couple of the spars under it. The right rudder was gone.

He slowed, pulled back on the controller, and rose to a position above and behind the damaged MakoShark. Looking down on it, he saw that a fifteen-foot-wide slice of skin had peeled away from the upper wing, taking the radio antennas with it. The ribs, spars, and fuel tanks were fully exposed.

“Goddamn,” Munoz said. “I don’t know how he’s making the speed he is.”

“Has to, to maintain lift, I expect. This is going to be one high-speed landing.”

McKenna touched the throttles, and Delta Blue advanced on her sister ship. He banked slightly outward to give Conover some room, then flashed his wing tip lights.

Delta Yellow jiggled a little at the shock of seeing them. Abrams turned on the cockpit lights so McKenna and Munoz could see that they were all right.

They waved, and Munoz switched on his own cockpit light and waved back.

With a flashlight, Abrams Morse-coded their damage estimate, which included a malfunctioning navigation computer. The backup wasn’t working, either.

The fuel supply was adequate for recovery in Chad. Conover wanted his aerospace craft repaired immediately, top goddamned priority. He had an appointment in the Greenland Sea.

McKenna depressed the Tac-2 button. “Alpha One, Delta Blue.”

“Go ahead, Delta Blue.”

“We’ve got them.”

“Son of a bitch!” Overton said.

“That’s pretty mild,” McKenna said, “compared to what I’m reading in Morse code.”